After Prison, I Went to Miami to Reacquaint Myself With Freedom

Gabriele Cracolici

This essay is the first in a series about traveling after confinement. Look for the next one this summer.

The day after leaving prison, I inhaled ocean air for the first time in eight years.

I’d decided to take a barefoot walk down Ocean Drive in Miami, passing vendors selling handmade wooden bead bracelets and blown-glass bowls. Bikers and roller skaters were cruising the beachside promenade. Reggae music from a nearby bar floated in the air. Carrying an oversized mojito in one hand and a churrasco skewer in the other, I gazed past the strip of white sand, dotted with umbrellas and sunbathers, towards the Atlantic—the same water I’d grown up swimming in during family vacations at the Jersey Shore. The ocean’s edge has been a sanctuary for me since childhood, always drawing me in to splay my toes across the gritty, cool surface strewn with black-stained jingle shells, tan whelks, and chips of horseshoe crab shells. I need the sand and the ocean like I need air and food.

But it didn’t seem real to me now, being completely free in nature.

When I was arrested for property crimes in 2014, I was living in north Florida. Before that I lived in Philadelphia, my hometown. But my prison, Everglades Correctional Institution, rested 30 miles west of Miami—a city I had never visited. The yachts and nightclubs of the coastal metropolis had felt a million miles away, but somehow the stories I heard about fresh mango juice and the Latin Quarter always made it seem welcoming.

In this way, traces of Miami had reached my prison. I would watch the Miami Dolphins play on Sundays. Through the window next to my prison bunk, I could see the fireworks shows on holidays. And Miami locals would tell me of their favorite restaurants, the music scene, and the city’s celebrities. Juan talked about his Uncle’s Cuban coffee shop on 6th Street. Garcia loved the way the bay smelled after a storm came through—“like a fishy heaven,” he’d say.

During my eight-year prison sentence, I dreamed of visiting this vibrant, multicultural city. And on New Year’s Eve 2022—one day after I was set free—I finally did.

***

My last day at Everglades started like every other during my roughly 3,000 days of incarceration. I was startled awake by a loudspeaker and siren at 4 a.m. and told to prepare for chow. Impatient prisoners lined up for food and gang gossip. Fights broke out. I felt the stress of living in a constant state of heightened situational awareness. Beige concrete walls and steel bars had colored my life for so long. I was anxious to return to things I barely remembered: the sounds of a violin, the smell of fresh laundry, the taste of Dr. Pepper. But six hours away from being released, I felt unsure of how I was going to re-acclimate to the world.

Writer Danielle Pointdujour on the homecoming she waited decades to make.

I sat on a metal bench in the prison’s TV room watching TMZ and thought about the decisions that had brought me here. When my pain pill abuse was at its worst, I committed property crimes to support my addiction. I never realized how much it would cost: freedom, dignity, respect, love. I hadn’t seen my family in a decade, but I was excited, and nervous, to be seeing them soon—and I knew I was the only one going home that day. Through the barred window were glimpses of the Everglades swamp, with myna birds and snapping turtles feeding just outside the prison gate. I waited to hear my name and Department of Corrections number called to signal my release.

When I stepped out of the concertina razor-wire fence, guarded by armed officers, my mentor Alex stood waiting for me on the other side. For four years, I led a men’s group he had created inside my prison, and we had become friends. Tall and gregarious—a retired restaurateur committed to helping men inside prison—he was a father-figure to me when my own dad and stepdad couldn’t be. He looked like an elder statesman with graying hair as he greeted me, throwing a pair of khaki shorts and a polo into my hands and telling me to get changed in his Lexus. When people leave prison, it is often described as “coming home.” But Alex was not only figuratively welcoming me home, he was hosting me at his house in Kendall, a town just outside of central Miami, for the week.

“How does it feel to look back at that fence and know you’re never going back?” he asked me.

I was so overwhelmed I couldn't respond.

***

Even though I had left prison, I still felt like someone was watching my every move. Inside, the guards were ever present and in your face—a reminder every day that I was temporarily the property of the state, and they took the custody of that property very seriously. On the beach, I had to remind myself there were no corrections officers waiting to catch me breaking a rule—the bike cops cruising around South Beach didn’t even glance at me walking by. I was not an imposter. No one was waiting to send me back to prison. I had served my time. I belonged out here.

As twilight arrived on New Year’s Eve, laughter and revelry echoed from bars. Lamborghinis and Porches, crammed bumper to bumper, blasted electronic dance music as they crawled down Ocean Drive. Neon lights illuminated the strip’s Art Deco architecture. I washed the sand off my feet and caught an Uber downtown to the Hard Rock Cafe to meet Alex and his wife.

For months, the couple had boasted about the restaurants in Miami, telling me over the phone how proud they were of me and how excited they were to show off their city. Dinner was fresh salmon and asparagus at a table overlooking Biscayne Bay. I leaned back in my chair and marveled at how the fish melted in my mouth. The greens were so crisp that they crunched with a snap. I tasted the plum sauce and avocado spread with my bread, and thought about the mystery meat I’d eaten for eight years—how I’d never again stand in a crowded chow line and have to choose between being malnourished or eating food that regularly got men sick with food poisoning.

We had even bigger plans for the rest of the night. After dinner, we walked to the ampitheather at Bayfront Park where we would ring in the New Year at a concert by Pitbull—just about as Miami as you can get. Subwoofers pounded as we neared the show. Though I could barely see the stage from our spot on the grass, I was buzzing with happiness. There were so many people around me that at first Alex was worried about me getting anxious, but I felt comfortable and warm, like I was surrounded by a new family.

Half way through the show, fireworks blasted up into the air and the inebriated crowd screamed and whistled. The large Orange Bowl clock by Biscayne Bay counted down: Three minutes and ten seconds… Three minutes and nine seconds… I had waited years for a clock to run out. But now, I was content in the present.

“Isn’t tonight special?” a German tourist turned and asked me. “You can just start over.”

I thought of the times I had wished I could start over: during my addiction, my marriage, my relationship with my kids, my career, my conviction, my loss of freedom. “You’re right,” I said. “It is special.”

The fireworks crescendoed as it got closer to midnight. Colorful bombs exploded above the heart of Miami. Yellow and blue sparks criss-crossed the sky. I pulled out my new smartphone to take a picture, but cellphones had changed drastically while I was gone and I fumbled. I looked at Alan with tears in my eyes, as the final 10 seconds of the year disappeared and I left behind the mistakes from the past.

It was officially the dawn of 2023 when we got back to Alex's condo in a highrise along the Biscayne Bay. I smoked a cigar on the balcony and looked over the railing at the water lapping against the wooden piers, processing the culture shock of leaving one world and entering another—grateful for another chance at peace. Palm trees swayed as a pair of white ibis grazed in the shallows. Boat lights sprinkled the rippling water under a waning moon and laughter echoed across the bay from a late-night soiree. I drifted to sleep in a hammock right on the balcony and felt safe for the first time in years.

***

Over the course of the next week I was met with raw emotions and fresh experiences: tacos in Little Havana while Cuban salsa music played; graffitied buildings in the Wynwood art district; sips of coffee at a bistro overlooking the bay. On my last day in Miami, I borrowed Alex’s car and drove to the beach at dawn to rent a bike and ride the path along the ocean. The sky was an eerie bruised purple, except for a speck of amber on the horizon. I started my ride at 30th Street and pedaled south as Vance Joy’s “Missing Piece” played from my phone, zipping by the venerable Fontainebleau Hotel. The beach was empty and for the first time in many years, I was completely alone with my thoughts.

At 8th Street, I locked my bike and walked toward the surf, making sure to squeeze my toes deep into the sand. A cruise ship blew its foghorn in the distance. I sat on the beach watching the crimson sun rise up through peach-colored clouds to be born with indescribable beauty. I wept softly for all of the years I had lost, for making it out alive, for being able to soon reunite with my family. I felt sanguine and was hopeful for the future, having spent my first week out experiencing the joys and wonders that life has to offer through the lens of this magical town: like friendship and trying new food, or talking to my sister on the phone while smelling the salt in the air. It all reminded me of what there is to lose if I make a bad decision.

I breathed deeply. There's never been a night dark enough that the light of a sunrise cannot defeat, and I was thankful for that.

This article was published in partnership with the Prison Journalism Project, a nonprofit journalism organization that trains incarcerated writers in journalism and publishes their work. You can read more work by PJP writers here.

Originally Appeared on Condé Nast Traveler