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.