This Ship Ain't Sailing

There's a hurricane a blowing outside as we speak
But the walls in here aint moving and the bars, they don't creak.
I was smiling in the Islands, Now I'm cryin' from a second tier.
Once a sailor and pirate, Now its 5 to 40 years.
It was slow boats, big tokes, Warm breeze and palm trees,
Now its mandatories, indictments, Co-defendants and conspiracies.
I've been set up, knocked out, beat down, rolled on, lied to,
Whats a boy gonna do? Make a million, spend two?
I got them concrete and cold steel, bad meal, memories of you.
This ship aint sailin' blues!

What readers said

Don’t take my word, see my reviews

Few things in life are more exhilarating than sailing the turquoise waters of the Caribbean. One might wonder how a clean-cut boy from Montgomery, Alabama found himself carrying six hundred pounds of marijuana on a sailboat from the Caribbean island of Jamaica. In Soul of a Pirate, Glynn Jones details his evolution from a long-haired teenager in a conservative southern town to a member of the vibrant hippy scene of Haight-Ashbury, and finally to a drug smuggler in South Florida during the height of America’s War on Drugs.

Looking to get away from the damaging effects of drug addiction, sailing launched Glynn into a new life of tranquility and self-sufficiency. It wasn’t long, however, before the slide back into hard drugs led him into illegal drug trafficking.

The constant danger of apprehension by authorities and the peril of being lost at sea are ever-present in Glynn’s accounts of adventure in some of the world’s most beautiful destinations. He vividly describes how he got caught up in the Cuban boatlift of 1980, and how he ended up as a prisoner in one of Canada’s world-class ski resorts.

Soul of a Pirate is a fast-paced tale of drugs, wealth, love, and loss. This memoir will leave readers with a bittersweet aftertaste as they are confronted with the lure of great wealth, the elation of the party scene, and the cost one must pay for the privilege. — Ashley Williams

Soul of a Pirate is a fast-paced tale of drugs, wealth, love, and loss.

My father gave me a copy of ”Soul of a Pirate”, said it was a must-read. I read the book twice, then ordered five copies for friends. I was truly excited about this book. The author has lived a life on the edge, sometimes going over the edge, getting by on common sense, street-savvy, and wits. Growing up in the south during the times of integration, becoming a longhaired hippie at fifteen, traveling the country, and winding up in San Francisco for the ”Summer of Love” in 1967. Spending years on drugs, drinking, and addiction before getting clean and moving to the Florida Keys. The author learned to dive, spearfish, work on boats, sail, and navigate the ocean.  Glynn Jones goes into great detail about eight marijuana drug smuggling sailboat trips. Breakdowns, bad weather, Coast Guard boarding, so much adventure. It’s all in this book and I highly recommend Soul of a Pirate. — Sherri Gillem, from Greenville S.C

So much adventure – Soul of a Pirate

See What's Inside

Want to read a sample?

Chapter 1
Rocked in the Cradle of the Confederacy

MY NAME IS GLYNN JONES. I have been told many times over the years by those who knew me, “Man, you should write a book.” Well here it is. I was originally going to tell about my many different marijuana smuggling trips, going into explicit details on every facet of the business, which I will; but I am also going to tell my whole life story, what I experienced growing up in the ‘60s, everything I saw happen, some things I am sorry for, and wish they never did. There is much I should have done differently but I didn’t. I can’t change any of that, but I can just tell the story, my story.
Back in the late ‘70s and into the ‘80s, most of the marijuana that came into the Florida Keys as well as the southeastern U.S. was from Colombia. On the water, it was brought in by freighters, fishing boats and shrimp boats. Some was off-loaded to smaller go-fast boats at sea. Some came right into the docks and marinas and was unloaded, many times in broad daylight.
By air, it was flown into remote air strips in Georgia, Florida, and Alabama. Some was dropped out of planes into the Everglades and other designated areas, where it was picked up by boats and airboats. If no one was at the designated area, it was dropped anyway. Nothing went back. That’s why so many bales were found floating or washed up on shore. Most of this pot sold for three hundred to five hundred dollars a pound at that time.

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