Murdoch Fortuna and the navy whaler

         There was a time when an investor bought up 3 wooden old navy boats at auction and rounded up some divers he knew, threw together lots of urchin gear Cargo nets,floaters clips and lots of it, and his mission was to provide the processors with sufficient tonnage so he could make some money.
       Jim Stewart was a shrewd business man.  When he recognized an opportunity to make some money, he would act, especially if it involved an aspect that was near and dear to his heart. For instance, Southern California, the ocean , Channel Islands, and fishing.  The Murdoch was a 40 foot plus beast of an old wooden boat.  Another bow-loader and a steering station that had a hatch in the overhead, that the helmsman could poke his head out for better visibility. Now Jim was well into middle-age when he devised this scheme, but he thought it would be a good revenue source for his son, who was having a little trouble finding direction in life. So Jim Jr would skipper the Murdoch which acted as a pick-up boat for the Fortuna and the Navy Whaler. We never really named her, and we really could not put any urchins onboard.  She was only about 26 ft and about 4 ft across but we did rig a compressor with hoses and cargo nets with float balls and a couple anchors.  She had a little three cylinder diesel that ran, we could do about 7 or 8 knots.  Me and little Billy Williams (son of the late Bill Williams that we lost in an earlier story) would fill the cargo nets and then float them on an anchor and the Murdoch would come and pick them up.  In theory...within a day or 2....Sometimes it worked out
      .This is a what the boat looked like before the compressor, hoses, net bags and floaters. Several anchors were necessary for the bags. We did not want to risk tipping it over, so we actually did not load urchins  on her, and she was tippy. Could make about 7 knots
     

       Pat McCallion is a family man, an Irishman and a beast of an urchin diver. He was among the1^st generation pioneers that created the fishery, in California and I learned the two handed picking technique from him that increased my productivity, in a significant way. In his youth he told me a story of how he barely missed making the 1972 Olympic track team as a 880 runner. By the way he picked urchins, one could tell there was a real athlete at his core. He is a generous soul who would always be ready to share a meal and or his home. He was also a skilled poker player, as I found out the hard way while anchored in Pyramid cove San Clemente Island. We were working the pick-up boat, and Pat more times than not cleaned me and the other divers out.

       Pat was an easy going skipper, when he was operating the Fortuna for Jim. Pat led by example, which was refreshing, since I had experienced many up-tight, ego driven skippers, that tended to demotivate me.

      I remember losing a string of net bags, while anchored on the Fortuna. I dont remember how long he was on the wheel searching for them the next day, but it was way longer than I would have lasted. He finally found them and he was my hero from then on. I only was able to pick more weight than Pat one time, when I kicked it into high gear, after snapping out of a love sick depression that kept me on deck of the Fortuna for a week.

      The Fortuna was the main work boat and most of the time she was towing the Navy whaler around untill we anchored up, and then me and little Billy would take off and find our own little spot.  More times than not we would end up just towing our net bags back to the Fortuna so they could load them.  I was ok with that until we started losing nets. The Fortuna was another old Navy, double planked wooden beast of a boat and Jim had the idea to make about 6 diving stations.  There was a nearly rusted out hand railing around the 40ft + vessel, and no anchor winch.  It was a nightmare pulling that hook, we had to have 3 of us up there, and still it was no joke but pull it we did. So 6 divers at times would crowd each other with elbows and assholes jockeying for position to get on the best picking spot. As time went on 5 4 even 3 divers would be left after the rust settled, but Jim always had a spot for any wayward diver that might drift by and he kept the boat full of cheap canned food and beer.  Pat insisted on that. So the operation kept afloat as long as there was supplies and fuel.
      So one day we were exploring the coast in and around Dana pt, and we found a few decent spots but mostly we surveyed for miles before we found any thing and it could get frustrating, but the weather was not always cooperative for the outer islands so we had to do some thing, anyway Billy and I ventured with the Whaler up toward San Clemente Pier and we found a really decent spot we had about 12 net bags and floaters and we filled them up pretty quickly.  It was a classic summer day and the surf was pretty good, threw us around a little on the bottom but at least the visibility stayed ok in the heavy sand and rock bottom.  Well we anchored the whaler with a couple of anchors to be safe, and tied our string of net bag s behind that and decided to swim in for a six pack.  The beach was packed with bikini girls surfers frisbees and dogs, sun burned kids, you name it.  So when 2 divers come swimming in the Lifeguards completely freaked out. They had no idea what we were doing or why.  They cried and said we were too close to the pier and they were worried we might drag anchor, or something. I told them we had two anchors out and I had $1000 dollars worth of sea urchins that I had to call the processor to send the pick up boat because our radio was out. Which was only half true, but sounded good.  I said we would not be long and we were not after I stripped off my top and walked to the liquor store for that 6 pack.  We swam back out. and anchored the nets and headed back toward where we had last seen the Fortuna..  I think the Murdoch finally showed up about 2 days later after the urchins, were almost spoiled in that warm surface water with nothing to eat.
      The climax of the Fortuna saga began outside Pyramid anchorage on the southern and furthest side of San Clemente Island.  The water being so clear it was fairly easy to drop down to 100 + feet, without really realizing it.  The old decompression meters we used back then, were not the best instrument to rely on, to keep track of how saturated with nitrogen a diver would get on deep repetitive dives, but it was all we had back then, and we made the best of it. Generally most divers tried to stay out of decompression diving but inevitably when the money was good, the risks became more "acceptable" There was an older diver aboard the Fortuna, Scott Siebert.  He was a former boat owner and a nice enough fellow, but he pushed the limits, chasing after an old anchor he spotted down in a hole about 125 ft, he said later.  He floated up his prize and climbed aboard,  Well no sooner had he stood up when "WHAM" down he went to the deck.  We assisted him and when we realized he was probably suffering from a cns gas bubble that rendered him numb for a moment.  We told him to go back down immediately and hang off for at least 30 minutes.  He would have none of it.  He ripped off his suit as fast as he could and started drinking, and taking asprin, as he must have had some pain as well.  We all shook are heads, but you cant force someone to accept treatment. We finished up the day unloaded on the pick -up boat and just before we headed to our night anchorage Pat asked Scott if he wanted to go in on the pick-up boat or have us call the Coast Guard.  We could not raise them on the radio way down in that anchorage.  Scott said no he was fine and we anchored up ate dinner, and just before we all started heading for the sack Scott blurts out"I cant pee!!" Well most divers know that that is a classic symptom of decompression sickness.  We were all a bit perturbed at Scott for being so stupid, in the face of permanent injury or worse, and now we had to pull that hook and head out to the point where we could raise the Coast Guard on the radio.

      We finally reached the Coast Guard, and they sent a helicopter out and dropped a rescue swimmer on the Fortuna and the Scot was med-evaced off into the night. but not before he gave me a Billy something that would of been a little embarrassing to explain to the rescue and medical personell, since it was not exactly legal to posses. We made short work of that.
    Fast forward about 1 year.  I was in Pt. Arena at Rollerville campground.  One of only 2 public campgrounds close by.  When Pat  and Jim rolled up on me, while I was cooking at my site with my 65 International  Pick-up ..Stepside.  Equipped with my first Alaskan Camper.  Pat exited Jims Vehicle and he did not appear too happy, as he said I have been looking all over for you.  Then he drove almost 400 miles to hand me a subpoena , compelling me to appear as a witness at a deposition  Scott had sued Jim for negligence  for not making the necessary  repairs and maintenance.
      I felt so sorry for Jim, though his operation did have some substandard equipment, it was totally Scotts fault, what happen to him.  Anyway Jim flew me from San Fransico Airport to LAX and paid for my Hotel and a couple hundred bucks I negotiated, to say just that.  It did no good however Scotts lawyer, twisted the scenario and there was a settlement in Scotts Favor.  Needless to say that was the end of that operation.

Avalon

Avalon      

      Now I always felt from time to time, that it was necessary to expand my horizons, especially when it came to diving for sea urchins.  Now I admit there were several schools of thought on the most efficient, profitable way to go about harvesting sea urchins. Now it seems that individual personal situation, influenced which school you belonged to. For me it was always more exciting to explore new territory. It was also more risky, the further you go the more fuel costs. Fortunately for me I was able to branch out, sometimes not by choice, but of circumstance. Which leads me to the summer I spent in Avalon. Catalina Island.
      The closest port to San Clemente Island, was Dana point. There was not much infrastructure there for off loading and commercial fishing in general.  It was more of a pleasure yacht harbor.  So San Pedro, or more specifically Fish Harbor, Terminal Island. The arm pit of harbors, with its abandon tuna canneries, dilapidated docking facilities, rotton old fishing boats of every description, not to mention all the drug addicts and thieves that wandered the area. This was only surpassed by the Federal Prison and the pet food cannery that gave the place an awful stench, was the next closest harbor to the southern Islands of the Channel Islands.  This was not what I had in mind when I wanted to expand my horizons.
      The Pick-up boat Tommi Si and later The Boss was working San Clemente Island, and that gave me the opportunity for adventure, and make some money.  San Clemente Island was a beautiful place to dive.  Up to 100 ft visibility, warm water and large sea urchins, which filled the cargo nets fast.  It was fun seeing your whole day in front of you when you first put your face mask in the water.  Mostly deeper diving from 50 to 90 ft and deeper if you dared, it gave us extra deck time to breath off the nitrogen.  Off loading to the pick- up boat and then anchoring up for the beer and barbecue, was better than taking a helm watch for the 50 mile voyage back to fish harbor. Then back out the next day, so we took advantage of this, though it did not do much for the health of the urchin beds, we justified it by rationalizing we would just have to leave it alone a little longer.
     Now Avalon, in dramatic  contrast to Fish harbor was, a destination for the cruise ship lines wayward sailors and tourists of all kinds. Movie stars and potentates would vacation at the quaint little playground of the rich and famous.  It had high end shops for fashion, jewelry...you name it. Restaurants, and night clubs, horseback riding and 4 wheeling in the hills, and a herd of Buffalo that supplied the buffalo burger stand on the pier. The Wrigley chewing gum clan built up the place in the middle of the last century, mostly for big game sport fishing swordfish..and sometimes Marlin if the conditions were right. The commercial fisherman were a little out of place in that crowd, but we managed to gain a little niche for ourselves, on the island, as we rubbed elbows with the upper class.
    We would normally stop for fuel or food, or just a pit stop before heading out to San Clemente which was an austere military base, that would send security vessels out to keep us at a safe distance when there was operations going on. In fact, one night on the Fortuna, voices woke us up and when we came out on deck, we could barely see the outline of some figures in black face and black uniforms, as they sternly but kindly ordered us out of the harbor.We assumed our night visitors were the seal team in training and we were either part of the training or in the way of it, so we pulled the anchor and headed out to, we did not know, because there was no proper anchorage in the immediate area,  Eventually ended up in Seal cove which could pass for an anchorage some days.  The following day back to Northwest we went, because we actually found a hot spot right in the anchorage.  When all the other boats left the anchorage in the morning we waited for everyone to leave then we would suit up and go to work.  At the end of the day the boats would all return and when the pick up boat was loading in Northwest, they would unload.  They had no idea that we had been there all day and that's the way we liked it. Well that next morning, it looked clear as no security vessels or radio announcements bared our entrance, we anchored up on our spot and after I was on the bottom for 15 minutes or so  KER-BLAM . it was more a feeling than a sound because i was in a state of shock and my stomach was churned and my butt hole puckered up.  The Seal team or some other military personell were setting off charges that caused me to surface immediately and get on deck before they set another one off.  I was done for the day, some of the other divers, trying to be macho kept diving, and that was fine with me.
      So one day on the way back from about a week of diving at San Clemente we stopped in Avalon and purchased a mooring as there were no docking facilities.  I had a $900 dollar check I was itching to cash, so when the shore boat pulled up to the Fortuna I climbed aboard and and while on the way to the pier I asked the captain if he knew where I could cash it.  The shore boat captain was very cooperative and suggested that I meet him when his shift was over and he would see what he could do.  His name was Ron Curry and he not only had a captains license he owned a beautiful old ketch, the Tradewinds.  This was a museum piece of a sailboat with an old fashioned crows nest, Teak and mahogany everywhere and kerosene lanterns.  Built in the 30s this vessel was a throwback and Ron was very particular and proud of it. Turns out Ron had formerly been the captain of the yacht owned by Bob Voit, of sporting goods fame. The story went, Ron was fired after a altercation with a native in South America, where Mr Voit was vacationing, at the time. This was a touchy subject, because Ron had a real good thing going, and he was trying to repair that relationship, as Mr Voit was present in Avalon at that time and was invited over for dinner, so it was Ron's hope they could patch things up and he could resume his former position. At ant rate Ron overheard us divers talking and since the Tradewinds was in dire need of a bottom cleaning, he invited me to his boat for a barbecue while we negotiated for my services cleaning his bottom.   Ron turned out to be very friendly and real popular with the locals and several of them showed up for the barbecue as well.  I must say it was a pretty epic barbecue, with Avalon surrounding us and the vacation attitude most seem to have here.  Someone had a guitar and knew a lot of popular songs, but not all the lyrics, and as he made his way down his song list one or more of us would pick it up with the lyrics they knew and it was quite fun.
     Well Ron confided in me that he had several offers to share his sailboat and living space with one of his fellow "locals" Apparently living space was a premium and in short supply for those who maintained a residence on the island. He went on to explain most of those who lived there maintained two jobs to be able to afford a rental. He said he would never allow anyone to stay on his boat, because he was very particular how it was maintained and most did not appreciate the classical nature of his beloved Tradewinds, but he knew I did.  I agreed to do his bottom and then he offered me a spot on his boat when I was not out at San Clemente working.  It was am ideal set up for me that lasted most of the summer that year.  The Fortuna would stop by the Tradewinds on the way out to San Clemente, I would jump aboard and work the pick up boat for a week or so then on the way in they would drop me off in Avalon. It was a classic set up and I never had more fun than that summer.
   The Tradewinds was moored close enough to the breakwater it was only like a 20 ft swim if I didn't want to hassle with the shoreboat, or it stopped running for the night. One day I was walking out the breakwater to do just that and then I heard the screams  "HELP!!"  HELP!!!"   "Im drowning" A gaggle of sport divers were doing there thing, on the other side of the breakwater when one of the females surfaced and got caught up in the kelp.  Her head and shoulders were above the water and she had a buoyancy compensator inflated,I could she she was fine she just needed to untangle herself from the kelp,, so I tried to talk he through it.  I instructed her to calm down she had plenty of air to breath, I said" just push the kelp in front of you out of the way" she would have none of my suggestion to go underneath the kelp which is what I would have done.  Finally frustrated I jumped in and towed her through the kelp towards shore, just so she would stop screaming.  I was received with way more gratitude and thank yous than my little effort deserved, but I was satisfied I did my good deed for the day.
     The rest was the standard hardworking and hard partying and the realization that Avalon was sucking my money up as fast as I could make it. Exit stage left

cabo san lucas

Cabo San Lucas

    I had just finished up with boat operator boot camp on the Spirit 1, when an opportunity presented itself that I could not pass up.  The Houser brothers' Howard and Kenny were just celebrating getting Howards bail money back.  Apparently Howard was supplying  much of the poison of choice around the harbor and he was detained for that offense.  The Housers were the sons of a very successful fisherman father. Mr Houser was one of the high line tuna fisherman in Southern California.  Kenny learned how to be a master fiberglasser and had some boat building talents. He also owned a giant 40 ft something bow loader.  Painted deep blue with big black lettering on the bow, Easy Rider.  Kenny was infamous around the harbor as a rabble rouser and partier that spent more time altering his biochemistry than actually fishing, but I was not fully aware of his status when they invited me to go with them to Mexico. Kenny's 1979 yellow Ford Bronco came equipped with a detachable roof, so a convertible of sorts.  It was 4 wheel drive as well and perfect for the trip..
      The price of urchins took a dive and the storms were rolling in. Howard and Kenny offered to pay for my trip, I had no money but they said I could pay them back, because they knew I was good for it..  We Originally set out for Rosarita Beach, sleeping wherever on the beach, on cushions I grabbed from the trailer I was living in. Then Kenny has the idea "lets go to Cabo!!!!!" Howard and Kenny argued over it until Kenny said 'you'll tell your grand kids about this.'  Kenny had been down there with his dad before, and was familiar with some of the towns on the way.  I said hell yes why not, when was this ever going to happen again.
     The big thing was we could buy narcotics over the counter and Kenny went ape-shit buying all the percodans he could.  I tried it a little bit, bur I was content with just drinking Pacifico and throwing the bottles out of the truck.  We did that only till we realized the bottles were worth more than the beer. I did not even start liking Mexico till we got about halfway down the 1000 mile trip.a
After about 400 miles of flat desert all of a sudden wham a row of 50 ft high palm trees loomed over the horizon, and I thought now this is the Mexico I came to see. Mulege was beautiful, cobblestone streets and a turquoise colored sea, in the little bay with bleached out white sandy beach. Kenny went looking for a girl he met there 10 years before Not likely I thought. We traveled through Loreto and La Paz, which were quaint little fishing villages.  Cabo was our destination and I was along for the ride'
     We finally hit Cabo as our water pump failed and Kenny had to learn to pronounce pumpa de agua to order a new one.  The Housers knew some people that were living there working construction and living in a shack with no glass in the windows and a dirt floor.  The Mexican ladies would take out their wash every morning and use that strong lye soap and a big cement water trough with some ridges in it for scrubbing. Then they would hang them on a clothes line, and they would dry quickly in the hot wind.  Then I decided to give it a go, since I had only 1 pair of filthy Levis, I scrubbed the hell out of those jeans, but after I hung them up the old Mexican ladies were giggling and pointing what a lousy job I did, but I was happy with a pair of legit stone washed jeans and they looked it.
      It was quite a feast we had on the Marlin the rich fisherman would catch, just to get there picture taken with their trophy fish. The pelicans would fight each other for the best pieces of Marlin, the fishermen discarded. We were invited to procure some of the marlin for ourselves.  We cut steaks of them and wrapped them in foil with onions and whatever other vegetables and buried it in the coals of our fires on the beach. It was delicious. After we ate we would bury the fire in the sand and lay our sleeping bags over the warm sand for the cool nights.
     The road builders of Cabo reminded me of the Aztecs as I watched them get up at the crack of dawn and using mostly hand tools cut into the rock cliffs and place the carefully shaped rock into the road and after about a month they made it quite a ways up into the multi million dollar homes.  They would work till about 10 30 disappear for a few hours on a siesta and then come back work till dark...amazing.
       As the Housers were spending money like drunken sailors, we ran out of money with no water pump and it looked like we were stranded. Fortunately they knew some fisherman from Santa Barbara and on one visit to the 40 ft sport fisher Sea Bear, I met this 13 year old kid who was selling contraband to  the fisherman, who needed alternative medication.  He rode around on a little inflatable with a 25 horse outboard.  I kind of hooked up with him and he became my guide/interpreter.  He spoke fluent Spanish as he grew up there, but he identified with the Americans who came down to fish and surf. His appearance was Caucasian, and his father was an old smuggler who skippered his trimaran across the gulf of California to Mazatlan and brought back pot.  He spoke to me out of a pipe, because he had throat cancer and that was the way he communicated.  Quite a character, he must of been in his 70s with a 40 year old wife.  Jason would have me tow him with the inflatable and he would ride along the shore in his knee board jumping off the waves, until one time the motor almost fell into the water ,but I held on to it and we manged to secure it back to the inflatable.  Jason carried around a wad of bills, marks, franc, pesos,dollars he would buy me drinks and when some kids stole my tennis shoes he bought me a pair of those leather sirachis. I had a interlude with a green eyed light skin seniority from mexico city,  I even wrote her a letter someone translated for me, but the good catholic girl she was I was getting nothing other than a kiss unless I was serious about matrimony.
      Before the water pump went out Kenny entertained himself by taxiing all the Americans between the nightclubs and restaurants.  That big yellow bronco with the top down stuck out in that town then, but there were only 6 cops and they all drove around in the same car, so Kenny felt pretty safe, though we found out later we escaped just in time because those cops were out to get Kennys bronco.  I used to go to the pool at the various hotels, although I had no money nobody questioned a young american lounging by the pool.  One day I was lounging by the pool at the Hacienda hotel when I overheard some girls talking about Santa Barbara, so I chimed in and said ' hi I am from Santa Barbara too" so we started talking about what part and so forth.  Now earlier I had heard that George Thourogood the singer guitarist was around and I actually identified from his voice at the bar.  He was going on how he was going to catch a black Marlin, complaining how much money he had to pay his band, just being like he is in his songs obnoxious, but not overly  so.  I am not really star struck, even though I liked some of his songs so I just continued on my way.  Well as I was talking to those Santa Barbara girls George got up from the bar and then one of the girls said "oh this is my husband George" he just kind of growled at me. Not sure what he was thinking, but I am sure he did not appreciate giving his wife my attention.
      Well now it was close to the end of the Marlin season, and I found out from Jason and others that the rich fishing yacht owners would be looking for crews to motor their boats back to San Diego and Los Angeles, since it was an up hill run, and mostly miserable, the rich people would fly home and pay a crew to bring there boat back. A rough voyage but it was looking like that would be my only way home and I started making some inquiries when the Housers came up with 300 bucks from a friend of theirs that was vacationing in Cabo. A fellow urchin diver Brian Daily, no less. A stroke of luck.  At least that what I thought then.  I said goodbye to Jason and piled in the back of the bronco for the return trip.
      Howard just could not let the old whore house in La Paz, which was more like a ranch, pass by without partaking in the services provided.  He offered to pay for me I went thru the motions, but I was not really interested, especially after the hordes of flys that descended on the place, gave me a bad taste in my mouth, and I just paid the girl and tried to talk to her in broken Spanish.  By this time Kenny was fully hooked on the percodans, he was getting more and more demanding, and impatient when we could not find a farmacia.  Kenny was one of those Americans who think if they talk in English , with a few Spanish words mixed in, really loud and slow that he will be understood. Then he was so rude and obnoxious they finally told him no, and he threw a fit in Santa Rosalia.  I was waiting in the truck when, one of the village locals noticed Howard and Kenny arguing in the middle of the intersection, then Kenny pulled the distributor off the truck to prevent Howard from taking off, before kenny  could get his fix.  That villager spoke no English put it was clear what he was saying...get the hell out of here before the federalis or local law enforcement showed up, because it would be nothing nice in a Mexican jail 500 miles away from home.  Finally I had enough and I popped Kenny in the mouth, so he might come to his senses.  Instead he thru me out of the truck with little but flip flops shorts and sunglasses.  500 miles of Mexican desert in front of me with no money was not what I had in mind, when I came on this trip.  It was bad enough seeing the crosses on the side of the road where they buried the victims of a car wreck, since emergency services were not readily available.  After a bout an hour Howard convinced Kenny to come back and get me.  We were almost to the border when a freeze plug failed, and Howard had to fix it on the side of the road.  This of course was after the brothers arguing , which was pretty much routine by this point.  Of course Howard was a master mechanic, and he had to jack the motor up to get to the freeze plug which was no easy affair, especially on the side of the road in the desert heat.  Of , course the Federales had to stop and see what they could get from us, as they fingered through the ash trays, looking for roaches, Marijuana cigarettes butts, which if they found any would give them an excuse to impound the truck for there own uses, I would imagine.  They left dissapointed, and Howard finished the job.
      We finally made it across the border, but we ended up with some people Kenny met, in his opportunistic way.  He offered Howards mechanical services, to this guy who was a carpet layer, so Kenny could have his truck carpeted.  We had to have more money wired to us, by Wes Carpenter, the unloading /broker/ go to guy when you are in trouble.  We stayed there about a week and I worked on an old outboard motor, that was in the yard, while Howard did his magic fixing this guys truck. Hallaluja.. God Bless America.  I never did pay Howard back for that trip.  He dissapeared, and ended up in Wenatchee Washington, where his dad bought a house on Country Cub drive in East Wenatchee, where it just so happen was right down the street from my grandparents.  How crazy is that.

Robin Brown at Johnsons Lee

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               Johnsons Lee                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                   The name of the vessel escapes me at the moment, however my week long adventure aboard this unconventional 40 ft wooden bow loader, would be the first and last time I would see her.  All I considered at the time, was it was work, and the way Robin Brown proposed it, come hell or high water we were going to fill that slow boat to China with sea urchins.
           Robin Brown was a second generation diver whose father Duane was an old timer when I first entered the business.  Very congenial and tough as nails. He was the original owner of the Spirit 1, which is a vessel with a special place in my heart because of the saga of my experience with her, which we will save for another day. I was accompanied by Kevin Sears, who I liked, mostly because he stood up for me when some patched up Biker convict, masquerading as a sea urchin diver.  Walt McHale refused to allow me retrieve my dive gear from the Bottom Bandit. He sucker punched me, because I had the audacity to cook breakfast on the boat, while I was waiting for him to bring me my check, which  he owed me for far longer than I was comfortable.                          .        This 2 time loser wound up a hay maker and sucker punched me so hard my teeth rattled.  He then started picking up oilcans and anything else he could throw at me as I went over the side in fear of my life. Inmate Walt Mchale never lost his prison persona, as his attempt at commercial diving was a joke. He could not handle the fact that I was not interested in sitting in the anchorage and listening to prison stories.. There is no doubt in my mind he never mad a profit. Anyway after I told Kevin what happen, he marched right up to Walt, with absolutely no fear  and insisted he let me collect my gear.
          Kevin was a natural water man and a known surfer who also second generation diver though his father was a chiropractor, but loved the sport. Kevin was very attractive to women when he was sober which was not much of the time, at least when I knew him.  He also was involved with Treasure Salvors, a rival company of Mel Fisher who famously found the Etosha after a 20 year search. The Etosha was a Spanish Galleon full of Gold and Silver that went aground during a storm in the Caribbean. She was returning to Spain with a fleet of other galleons when the storm hit in the 1500s.
                   I used to love to listen to Kevins Sea  sea stories, he just had a way of spinning the yarn that kept my attention, which was a good thing since we would be working together, on the old Tub.       
        Robin had a little 19 foot Radon that he decided to tow behind the larger slower vessel. Named the Dancer he thought he could unload his urchins on the larger vessel in the anchorage at Johnsons Lee, and just keep working.  Not a problem for me, just gave us more options.  The weather was terrible has we got the crap beat out of us on the way out.  Once we got through the Potato Patch, so named because all the white water looked like potatoes in a field, it laid down and was like a mill pond on the back side of Santa Rosa.  What a relief I thought, now all we had to deal with was the very strong currents that were present.
     Once we motored our way into the Lee and set our anchor, it was break out the barbecue and crack a beer. There was plenty of pot and hash so after a good night sleep, we were rip roaring and ready to go.  .  The deep current spot was holding some pretty large healthy urchins, but one really had to be on your toes, as that current was unrelenting until it turned around and went the other way.  The wind picked up to on the outside which did not help matters.  We decided to quit a little early the first day...and we tied up to another urchin boat.. Little Wing, inside the cabin there was a poker game going on, The Lenny the skipper was a mellow friendly sort, but as abalone diver, it was beneath him to pick sea urchins, but his choices were limited, so here he was socializing with sea urchin divers from Oxnard.
     After about the third day,it was time to head home, but when Robin tried to start the beast of Burden  NOTHING.  after several tries it was agreed that the starter had failed.  Robin directly removed the monster of a starter, and announced he would head in on the Dancer, retrieve a starter and return in two days hence. I did not mind, there was plenty of food on the boat and some smoking material that was illegal at the time, but was a great cure for boredom which we were anticipating, while we were waiting for the Dancer to return, which was much longer than the estimated time of Arrival.

     For a day and a half  Kevin just laid in his bunk and read books, which I did for a while, but that ghost town of an Air Force Base located up onshore, or what was left of it was calling to me. 
     After several attempts of failing to convince Kevin that we should swim in and go exploring, I switched tactics as he seemed content to read his books and just relax.  I started attacking his manhood and suggested that all those sea stories were just stories as he did not appear to be the person he was describing with an adventurous spirit, willing to leave his comfort zone for discovering the unknown. He finally relented and not without some disgusted looks my direction, no doubt related to the persistence and decidedly uncouth methods to light a fire under him I employed, with success lets not forget.  The end justified the means.
     It was nice to get in the water as it was rather too warm for me on the boat.  After a short swim we wandered around the base, wondering why the military just abandon all this construction and equipment.  There were animals living in some of the buildings.  We guessed at some of the functions of the different buildings and it was kind of creepy, hearing the creaking doors the wind caused and the emptiness of a place where 1000s of people worked, ate, and lived.
     After satisfying ourselves that we had completed exploratory of the base proper, we decided to take on the hill that rose up behind the base, and we noticed it looked like a road leading up to some buildings and towers.  It looked a lot closer than it was, I realized as we began the ascent.  Kevin took the lead as he seemed to be getting more enthusiastic about our little episode, all the while looking over our shoulders, as the view became better and better, for the Dancer, in the hope Robin was returning with the starter.
     The summit of our hill proved to be interesting, mysterious, and a little frightening.  There was complicated, what may have been machinery for some purpose we were not quite sure.  We had heard stories about how the base served as an early warning facility, in case the cold war turned hot and Russian missiles were on their way.  There were these huge concrete silos that we deduced may have housed missiles.  We climbed down one, as there was a built in ladder.  There was also these slots, that looked like some kind of monorail, except in reverse winding around the place, with signs warning of radiation.  We decided not to linger, as we headed off down the hill and up another with similar if not as elaborate construction and equipment. We then sighted a creature that was acting very curious about our presence. It was out in the open intently following us with its eyes, and at one point it appeared it was trying to approach us.  I read later that this was typical behavior for the Island Fox. Apparently the Chumash Indians that had resided on the islands in the past centuries, had treated the Fox almost like a pet, resulting in this very trusting behavior, not typical of a wild animal.
    By this point Kevin had totally taken over leadership of this expedition. He had more knowledge of the geography and history of the island, but I don't think he ever penetrated very far into the interior. His attitude turned curious, as he explained about discoveries of mastodon fossils, and mammoth tusks.  In fact a few years after this, on the other side of the island a complete pygmy mammoth fossilized skeleton was excavated, by archaeologists.  I thought pygmy mammoth? Isn't that an oxymoron? Kind of like "Military intelligence" and "Jumbo shrimp" as George Carlin once famously pointed out. I understand a replica of that pygmy mammoth can be viewed by the public at the Channel Islands National Monument facility in Ventura Harbor.  (A little plug for the tourist industry)
     Now we knew that there was a hunting club, active on the island, and they had  seeded Santa Rosa island with elk and mule deer, non native species but ideal for the hunting club.  Remote and not under the scrutiny of their critics. Having said that, Nothing could have prepared us for what happen next. Kevin decided we could head toward the north pt light station, a shack really, housing the automatic light that strobed at night, indicating to mariners,  navigating these waters where they were.(in case all other aids to navigation failed)As we approached a slight rise that obstructed the topography beyond, 5 or 6 1 ton Bull elks, all displaying there multiple point trophy racks thundered toward us at deceptive speed. The fear that rose in me was like no other, as they came to a stop 20 or 30 feet away snorting and kicking the ground up with their hooves.  Clearly we were an unwanted intrusion into their domain, which we had no argument with as we turned and fled as fast as our human legs could carry us. When we stopped we found ourselves at the banks of a stream where some spots of the vegetation was matted down flat, in random positions around the area.  Kevin pointed out that this is where the elk laid down to sleep at night. I began wondering how much of a "sport" it would be "hunting" these magnificent animals.  Not that i am against hunting.  I eat slaughtered cattle, pigs and chicken, nearly daily and if someone likes the elk meat, so be it, I just would not consider " hunting "this particular population a sport.

      At this point Kevin totally made a 180, I thought, as he suggested we follow the creek, and just take it where it led us.  I was a little apprehensive, because the prospect of navigating this wilderness area at night, did not seem wise, especially with that herd of elk upstream, that could have stampeded our heads into oblivion. However Kevin seemed fairly confident, and that rubbed off on me and down the creek we went, it was fairly easy going, which was a relief from the rugged terrain we had been hiking on, causing us to keep our eyes on our feet to avoid tripping or falling. We came upon an area about 30 feet long, not quite a cave, but an overhang that was littered with broken abalone shells and various other apparently discarded brick a brac.  Kevin immediately recognized it as a Midden, which is a kind of Indian trash heap, that remained in evidence of the Indians presence, at least until Europeans arrived, when their populations were decimated by disease and war. Archaeologists highly value these middens, as a record of the cultures diet and lifestyle, and I found that interesting, but not enough to linger as the shadows were becoming longer, and I had no idea how far the sea was, or at what location we would emerge.  As it turned out, we rounded a change in direction of the creek, and wah la, the sight before me, increased my visibility 10 fold, as I looked out at the sea, and in the foreground the landmark that indicated to me exactly where we were.  The stark contrast to the steep valley of the creek bed, to the rusty wreck of the freighter Chickasaw, was dramatic. It immediately reminded me of the original feature film Planet of the Apes. The end of the film shows Charton Heston making his way across the deserted sand beach.  It appears he had been traveling a long time, and all of the sudden the arm of the Statue of Liberty appears jutting out of the sand clutching the torch, symbolizing the light giver as Heston realizes that he had been on Earth,only in the future. The whole time he thought he was on a planet in some distant galaxy where the apes were the masters of the humans.

      The trip back was treacherous as we climbed the embankment and wound  our way up to the north point light., and then back down to the base spotting a mule deer on the way.  We swam back out to the boat and a day or so later here comes Robin on the Dancer with a big old grin on his face, and a starter in his hand.  He got the starter in and back home we went with a story I will never forget.