The boat rides below

The crests of the waves,

Lunar light on the needle prow

Slipping out from mangrove caves.

The radio cracks infrequent,

And the hull is charcoal grey,

Lest lurking hunters catch the scent

Of their luxuriant prey.

Easy on the throttle stick,

Softly through the Passage go;

Traffic’s thin and the clouds are thick –

Prime for shipping summer snow.

Keep the course to eastward:

The Guard’s swarming in the Gulf;

Over guns to port and starboard,

The eyes of a starving wolf.

A hundred miles off Cuba,

At the bit begin to chomp;

Straight as a barracuda

Lies the peninsular swamp.

The coast is black and clear;

The go-fast’s engines scream;

Flying high on greed and fear

And dizzy as a Dream

Of Morgan, Drake and Teach,

Scudding to the vaunted beach

With a salt-kissed smile, roll the dice, For none’s the man who can roll it twice.