My name is Christopher Buell.

What happened happened when you could have called me a spoiled rich kid.

I guess I have no defense for that.

It was the early 90s and I was 29, puttering around Spain,

ferrying tourists around the Balearic islands and the long stretches between Ibiza, Fauencia, Barcelona.

It wasn't even my boat, it was my father's.

That was adrift.

My gambling thing really took hold around 88.

And then Hurricane Diana scared a lot of tourists away from the area in 1990.

And suddenly I had to entertain the notion of carrying other things from place to place on the sea.

I only did it three times, and I hated myself for it.

But I had let my world become completely about the scramble for money.

The last time I took contraband was May 1992,

and that is what I'm remembering now.

The job began the same way the last one had, with a casino acquaintance,

sending me a message asking if I wanted to deliver some milk chocolate on my next run out toward

Alecante. That was the phrase Padra liked to use, milk chocolate.

He thought that was real funny. I never asked what I'd be caring specifically, never wanted to know.

Except I made it clear I wouldn't have anything to do with drugs or guns.

Just property.

I went through the usual couple of hours of trying to talk myself out of agreeing, but then

of course I did.

...