The Gig the Warlord and the Bottom Bandit

The Gig the Warlord and the Bottom Bandit

        When I first started in the urchin business, I was not aware of this at the time, but the divers I was taught by, and worked for, were the pioneers of the fishery.

      They were the ones that took the risks, and went thru the early chaos and confusion, that the not yet established and unstable markets, that existed in the early days of the fishery. The processors wanted a quality product, but the only way they were going to get that, was by buying up the “old Growth” that the original urchin divers were bringing in. (The “old Growth” being the big old urchins that survived, due to the sea otter harvesting of the last century. The sea otters would eat the sea urchins which limited the destruction of the kelp the urchins would cause by eating it. The kelp of course being a very important part of the food chain, without it many species suffer.) Some of it would be of some quality, but the regrowth that followed would be of the kind of quality the Japanese consumer expected. So there was a lot of turmoil as the divers and processors were jockeying around for the best position in that early mess that existed in the fishery at that time.

        So when I came on the scene, that situation had mostly settled down. Processors checks were not bouncing as much and the boats and divers, that could not sustain a viable operation were falling by the wayside, for the most part. I was lucky, I started out with a steady professional with a brand new boat and a lot of patience and tolerance for me, 40 years later he is still going. I found out he was an exception, as I made way thru the fleet.

        At that time there was no special permit to harvest sea urchins. All you needed was a 45 dollar commercial fishing license. Fish and Game were happy to get rid of the pests, as they were considered at the time. So anybody with the wherewithal, could slap an air compressor on the boat, some hoses, net bags and a davit or boom to lift the bags, some dive gear and they were good to go. Only when they found out that to make any money at 6 cent or even 16 cents a pound which was the price when I started. You had to pick a whole hell of a lot of sea urchins, and that was a lot of work. Just staying in the water all day by itself was physically draining, let alone the effort to fill the net bags required a dedicated or hard headed diver with the fortitude, stamina, and work ethic to maintain a consistent pace, to be profitable. Oh but they tried, they were enticed by the “get rich quick” schemes that were prevalent, at the time. By word of mouth and even some published ads from processors needing urchins, boat owners needing divers etc. caused a lot of fly by night operations on some converted yachts, sport fishing, and all kinds of different barely sea worthy boats with divers barley worthy of the title, trying their luck harvesting the urchins.

      Interestingly enough there happen to be  a commercial diving school at one of the prisons in Chino California. They were mostly geared for the hardhat offshore oil rig diver. Some urchin divers came from that field, but once they realized that though it was good money, the oil companies had little regard for human life when they needed a job done. The full saturation mixed gas diving was a lot more dangerous than urchin diving, which mostly stayed out of decompression diving. I guess someone thought prison inmates might be brave enough for that kind of diving and there was a diver pool the oil companies could go to when they needed divers.

        That scenario existed in the world I was about to enter, as I was to find out the hard way. One day, when the last boat I was on The Vanilla, a 24 foot Wilson, had her 454 marine mercruiser  torn apart at the unloading dock.  I walked away and I needed a job. There was a boat named the Gig. The Gig was a big ugly wooden sometime fishing boat that was at the end of its life. I was desperate and figured I would make a trip and see if I could make enough money to get me through until I found some thing else. Well the owner was a hardcore biker with the Warlords patch tattooed on his back. He was short but thick as a fire hydrant. I think someone just gave him the boat. He was one of those who attended the prison diving school. Walt McHale was a con man, but I was young and he convinced me we would do well. He had all this gear on the boat, but I soon discovered it was a fiasco. He passed as a mechanic but every other aspect of the operation was a complete joke. He did not even get into the water. He did not know what he was doing, which I would not of held against him if he would be open to input, but he wouldn't listen to anyone either. I got the hell out of there as soon as I could. Of , course I did not dare let him know of my displeasure and I soon found something else. He kept on bothering me about a Hansen fitting I needed to hook up to the end of the hose he had. He tracked me down and I returned it, but he still wanted me to work on the boat, and he wouldn't take no for an answer. I did my best to avoid him and pretty much forgot about him.

          Fast forward a few years later. It was October 1985 at night I was alone in the water about 2 or 3 miles out of Santa Barbara Harbor. I had on a pair of Levis and nothing else. . ( if you haven't already see Sinking of the Fat City ) I was eventually rescued, when a spotlight hit me and I saw a Harbor Patrol Boston Whaler on top of me. I reached up and who should yank me out of the water? No one other than Walt Mchale. I started shivering violently as the cold fall air hit me. Walt matter of factly said, ' looks like your going to need a job or , do you need a job?' Something like that. I had not thought that far ahead,I was mostly concerned if Bill was still alive. Mchale made some crude remark how he was not sorry Bill might be gone, because he supposedly jumped on one of McHale spots. I did not believe it.

         McHale had a newer urchin boat that was built for sea urchin diving. A 26 foot Wilson the Bottom Bandit. It was not really his, he had conned a well off lady into buying it for him. She soon regretted that decision because he really did not have it in him to make it work. I was fooled (again) into making a trip with him. I should have learned my lesson, but he had a legitimate sea urchin vessel this time He had little Billy Williams on the boat. Billy was Bill seniors son and he made up his mind to continue his fathers legacy and succeed in the urchin business , except he wanted to learn how to dive. I had to admire him, because he was not a natural water-man.  But, he was determined and he had the mechanic in him like his father.  Bill senior, I know could tear a diesel motor down and put it back together. and little Billy was not far behind.
          I was reluctant to jump on the boat immediately, but after a while I relented and we made a trip. I found a good spot, and was loading up the boat when McHale, who again never even suited up started to rant and rave about the quality  I couldn't believe it, the quality was fine he had just never experienced a real diver picking urchins at a pace that could have loaded the boat in one day. In the anchorage that night McHale went on and on about prison stories and in the morning, he seemed reluctant to get going. My impression was he would rather stay in the anchorage, drink beer and tell prison stories than work.

       We finally arrived at Santa |Barbara Harbor, unloaded and rented a guest slip for the night.  The weather was fine , so I suggested we do a  turn around, I was shocked when Mchale actually wanted to make another trip. I had not been paid and was broke so I was waiting for him in the slip at Santa Barbara Harbor. He was to cash the check from the processor so we could fuel and he could pay me. He showed up way late I decided to cook some breakfast with what food he had on the boat while I was waiting . When he finally did return he flew of the handle , that I had made breakfast. I said if he would pay me I could get my own breakfast he then he threw the money in the water, while little Billy tried to retrieve it. All of a sudden  WHAM!!  CRACK!! I felt the blow to my face, it took me a second for my vision to focus, and then I realized McHale sucker punched  me, which was later described by little Billy as a haymaker.  I think that was the hardest I had ever been hit. It rattled and chipped my teeth and I was in a daze. I managed to jump in the water as he proceeded  throwing oil cans at me. I managed to swim far enough away so I could climb out of the water. I called the police, and told them the story. I don't know what he told them, but the officer ended up taking me to the station and checking me out for drug use. I could not believe it. Apparently he intimidated little Billy into backing up his story.  It must of been a good one, as he conned that rookie cop into not arresting him for assault.  The following day I attempted to get my dive gear but he would not let me. I ended up getting some help from Kevin Sears of all people. He went straight up to McHale and demanded he let me have my gear. I got my gear, but I can tell you I was going to shoot McHale with a spear gun if he tried to stop me from getting my gear, the night before, but I thought better of it and I always have gratitude that Keven helped me out. I got a chance to pay him back, but that's another story.

The Longfin

    This is not the Longfin, but it is a good representation in one shot of a sea urchin harvesting operation

Longfin

         I had now been in the business of harvesting sea urchins for over 20 years. My sole occupation and income came from diving for sea urchins. I had nearly 80 boats on my resume, which I am pretty sure the second place diver on that record is not even close. A dubious record some would say. Gary Wolloman, who broke me in the business joked that record is a sign of instability. That may be true, and a reflection of my personality as well. It was just ironic and convenient that, there were 80 boats willing to let me aboard. A handful of those boats were only for 1 day. Circumstances were such that sometimes that happens for a variety of reasons. I know on more than a few, I was not happy with the operation, for safety or personality reasons, and I had a better offer somewhere else. Some were seasonal boats that participated in other fisheries. Not more than a few, I was fired, or replaced with a more suitable diver, and many of those I was hired back. Divers, especially later after the fishery closed, permit holding divers, became more and more in high demand, Percentages were going up. When I started I would get 50% of my catch and that was after a penny was taken off the top. After awhile divers were getting 60, 65 and sometimes 70%. This gave the divers incentive to stay with the operation, they might otherwise, shop around for a better situation.

That arrangement was clear, to me that yea the boat owner made more money, but had to do a lot more work and take on a lot more responsibility. Then as the competition increased, and regulations were established, some boat owners would sell there boats and go back to being a walk-on. My attitude changed when my experience with so many operations, exposed me to more efficient ways of harvesting sea urchins, As I got older that was critical to my health , mental and physical. I was also exposed to an ever increasing list of favorable fishing grounds. Which became a bargaining chip, with the skippers who were overly protective of their secret spots. Treat me right, or your secret spot, would be visited upon by some hungry divers. I hate to say it, I never did that flagrantly, but it was always in the back of my mind, as I became more “set in my ways” Some skippers would reap havoc upon the crew, demanding, intolerant, selfish, etc. As time went on I would not accept the pressure to perform. I had my pace, and that was that.. I finally got to the point where my attitude was,.. I would contract boat owners to transport me out to the fishing grounds, and if they did not do a good job I would terminate the contract. Somehow boat owners were not to thrilled by that analysis of the diver boat owner relationship. It started becoming clearer to me, as sometimes I may go weeks or even a month or 2 between boats, that my choices were decreasing in the later years, as the preferable boats had crews that would not go anywhere, and the less than desirable had openings, but that eventual led to unhappiness. I became more and more particular about which boats had favorable conditions for me, and some of the boats were not available to me for personality reasons. I was sort of just filing in, for a trip here a trip there, but no commitments. I came into some money when my father passed, so I finally broke down and bought a boat. Not to make more money necessarily, but to have my own operation that ran smooth, and as stress less as possible.

         I was thinking of a break even proposition. I had completed a tour as an able bodied seaman, with the Merchant Marines, and I considered that my future, but I still loved the ocean and the Channel Islands. I thought that I would just make a few trips, to defray the cost of the boat and fuel, while I was between merchant vessels. The tours last only 4 to 6 month's in the merchant service for various reasons. One of them I think is crew familiarity can lead to conflict, and so fresh crews were routinely rotated thru any single vessel.

        I was also leaning toward buying a boat and converting it into a sea urchin/commercial dive boat. That had more appeal to me than just buying a “turn Key operation”. It also would be a lot cheaper initial investment. As, well as increasing the value of the vessel after conversion. After all I knew many of the people in the marine business, and relying on a John Gill euphemism. 'You do not personally have to know everything, about what you are trying to accomplish,as long as you knew somebody that did know how.

Little did I know those same people, knew how to get away with the bare minimum and I was left having to do a lot more work than I intended.

I also wanted something that would go to the outer islands comfortably and that I could live on. I found a 33 ft crystaliner. She was built in 1977 but she was sturdy and had a Detroit diesel power plant.  8 tons without a load and documented.  Marine surveyed at about $100,000 replacement value, my cost $20,000 original investment.  She could make 12 -13 knots 14 if the bottom was clean. She could go into a sea real sweet and the chines on her bow got her surfin pretty good going downhill. She held about $200 gallons of fuel which was plenty for the long haul.  I kept the name Longfin. She was sport fisher, so all I had to do is install a swim step, davit, compressor. With hoses and net bags, then I could go to work.

        So I tracked down old Whitney, he was living on his Urchin boat in Santa Barbara. He spent all that time and money building that boat, but ended up just living on it.. He had a whole yard full of equipment net bags, hoses everything I needed. I knew two people that used to dive urchins that owned marine businesses, at the same location. I needed the to have the mountings welded on the davit for the winch. I also purchased a beefy diesel compressor, I was not about to worry about getting enough air, I also had to have a swim step fabricated and mounted. Guess who had to mount it? When I paid for it I thought I was paying for that as well. I had to back the boat down at the launch ramp and get knee deep in the water while I drilled the holes. Pounded the mounting bolts thru the transom. 5200 marine sealant..now I could actually get up on the boat from the water. The Longfin was officially a dive boat.

         The only thing I did not have was a hydraulic anchor winch. After making a few trips pulling that anchor by hand, which was a pain and after doing that a few times I just wanted to quit I decided Whitney had to follow thru and install the Hydraulic pump. He finally did and gave me his winch off the boat. I ran the lines and drilled the holes. He installed a switch on the dash that let me activated the anchor winch, so I could pull the anchor easier when I was by myself..

  It was official I had viable operation and I was proud of what I created. Stay tuned

Over the Golden Gate

GOLDEN GATE HERE WE COME

       So after I rescued the International dually pick up, in Bodega Bay, I decided that it would be a good idea to go 4x4 in in the mud,cause I was young and bored and it was my first 4x4. Well I succeeded in blowing the cylinder head. Luckily the harbor master  was a good natured friendly sort of guy,and I heard he had a tractor so I asked him and he did so..  One of the tenders offered to help me, so I pulled the cylinder head off the motor and we ran it out to the junk yard, found one I thought was like it, pulled it off the motor and when I went to bolt it down, the bolt pattern did not match, because I had neglected to notice it had tilt valves. After all that work I just about just gave up I had it towed to the Gas station, and there it sat for 3 weeks or so while I was waiting on a check from the processor. That particular gas station was famous for blowing up in the motion picture The Birds,directed by Alfred Hitchcock. I was

reminded of that,when a couple of guys came up to me when I was hanging around there, and asked me If I remembered that particular scene.  I said that I did, and they asked me to describe the scene while they videotaped me. So I said OK...'Well there was all these birds and a guy started lighting a cigarette......The Ka boom!!!!' They said that was great could I do it one more time....Really? so I did and they said they were students and to check the video stores for my performance. That was my 15 seconds of fame I suppose...I was thinking when I noticed there was a note on my truck. The note said that, the author was an international mechanic and that he had a truck similar to mine , but he had dropped a V8 in his. He went on to say that he could probably help me out to get the thing running. Well ya !!! OK called him up and he came out after work and tinkered around with it and wallah!! He said that the rings were a bit worn and one piston was a little loose but I could probably get some good use out of it till the motor wore out. Then he only charged me like $400 bucks, I was stoked.

       Meanwhile I was eyeballing this 1965 step side International that had a for sale sign on it $400. I talked with the suffering Salmon fisherman who was having a lousy couple of seasons. The motor looked identical to the one in my truck. So I bought the 65 International thinking I would take the Motor out for my dually. Well I did not have to, and now I was the Proud owner of 2 Intentional pick-ups.

       I proudly towed the 65 behind my dually and headed back to Santa Barbara for the winter. I ran into Glen Dexter on the docks, and hit him up for a job,because I heard he bought his own boat, he said grab your gear, and that operation was a money making machine. I was making enough money I decided to paint that rusty bed at the Radon yard, of course Radon blue . I hired a guy to help me a local yard rat Tony. He was good natured and I had seen him doing odd jobs for the fisherman, and he was happy for the work. We unbolted the fenders, which was a nightmare and the I rented a sandblaster and we sandblasted the rust away. Well that left some holes along the top of the fenders so we fiber glassed them and sprayed them blue. It was a rush job. I just wanted the truck covered. I think I got a coat of dirt along with the paint. I did not care the truck was blue.

       Shortly there after, I noticed some smoke coming out of the exhaust, and was getting worse. Oh it still ran..started right up but the rings were toast so I had the motor rebuilt.. for about $5000. It looked beautiful. Fire engine red. and a simple straight 6 long stroke....45 mile and hour with a load or not

       It was decided that I was going to tow this big ass house trailer up to Bodega Bay and eventually Pt Arena and then finally Manchester KOA. I just drilled a hole thru the heavy duty diamond plate bumper with about ¾ of an inch to spare and mounted a trailer ball, and called it good. I was too young and dumb to be scared it might break, but I added a couple of safety chains just in case.

       I looked at the fan belt and it had a little notch that might cause it to fail, so I tried to find a replacement, I never did find one as thick as that original but it seemed to do the trick and it was brand new so I thought I was being cautious. This trailer had an old fashioned flush toilet, inlaid glass doors in the Bar, beautiful hardwood paneling, and a big picture glass window. There were some rough spots around the vent wear there was some leakage but no too bad.

        Off we went, me and my wife and the dog, Shadow was a beautiful Golden Retriever more about him later. It was a mistake having that Alaskan camper on the truck while I was towing the trailer. If I had to make any sharp turns, the corner of the trailer would hit the camper. Fortunately, we did not have too much damage. Then I decided I better give her an oil change. That old truck had the old screw in housing, for the filter which would have been fine, if every time I replaced the gasket, the housing would not seat properly, and consequently there would invariably be a leak. I was determined to not have an oil leak with a rebuilt motor. I was greasy and oily from head to toe. On my back, I was apoplectic. My wife Linda was aghast at my colorful language. I finally gave up and did not install the gasket. No leak, I figured out the old gasket was so set up in the groove, I could barely see it. Once I realized it was there, it stayed that way for the next 6 years I owned the truck..problem solved.
        The journey was slow and steady. I set in behind a big rig when I could, and drafted away. When we arrived in San Francisco and Van Ness, it got to be a little hair raising, as there was not much clearance on either side. Turning those corners got to be an exercise in anxiety if we were going to make it. What seemed like an eternity passed, until we entered the Golden Gate bridge. Some how Frisco did not have the allure that it once did. We were just happy to get thru it. So we are on the Bridge and my temp gauge began climbing, and climbing, I sure as hell was not going to stop on the bridge. If I could just make it across , I thought, then I could pull over and check it out 190 ,192 193, I was in panic mode, my $5000 dollar rebuild burning up. We just barely made it to the Marin county side and I found a little gravel turnout. I skidded nearly jackknifed the rig and finally skidded to a stop. I jumped out of the truck and open the hood,only to find the fan belt I had replaced, to be safe, broke with all that strain on the water pump thru San Francisco. My wife Linda was in a fret, but trying not to get me more worked up than I already was. I kept the old belt and was replacing it when sure as shit a highway patrol car pulls up next to us. The patrolman did not even get out of the car, he was too busy taking a long skeptical look at my rig. I frantically explained to him what happen and he, kind of just smiled and waved, then drove off. His attitude seemed to signal that if I could get that rig here then I should be able to get it out. He did not even ask our names or anything.

       I started wondering where in the hell were we going to get some water to put back in the radiator, starting to freak, when Linda earned her keep that day when she said. ' We have a flush toilet, we can use the toilet water' and that's just what we did. The saga continues, because I still had this old fan belt that had a little cut in it, and I was not sure how long it would last, though I did know that it would probably last longer than the new one I bought. We start winding our way up Highway one, not much of a shoulder, and Linda was chain smoking cigarettes in her nervousness looking to see how much clearance we had. We happen along this small coastal town called Stewarts
Pt. There was a gas station, general store, post office and whatever else you could think of this all purpose complex could provide. I was noticing a few old farm type pick up trucks around and a few scattered parts in the store. So I asked the proprietor if would happen to have a fan belt for my old International. He thought about it scratched his head and made a gesture that appeared to be in the affirmative. He walked over and grabbed this long pole, with a hook on the end. He snaked it clear up into the rafters and unhooked this old fan belt with yellowed packaging, as if it had been up there for ever. It looked identical to my old one, nice and thick. I was astonished. Then I asked how much? There was an ancient price tag on it that read $5.00 He said that if that's what is said, then that's what it is, much to my delight.. Lesson learned “if it aint broke dont fix it” On ward to Bodega Bay.

PUGET SOUND SEA CUCUMBERS

            I had heard about the sea cucumber harvest, up in the Puget Sound, and since I was original from the area, and took my basic scuba class there (which cost all of $50 bucks and I had to haul my gear on the bus, from the U district in Seattle to Edmonds twice a week....i think.) it seemed a good place to start.  I had not really had any other income, for almost 20 years, when my permit to dive sea urchins in California was suspended for 3 years.  At the time it seemed like a death sentence.  I felt I was unemployable in any other occupation, but I was in need of a job.  The shot gun quota system, they used in Washington allowed the season about 6 weeks.  The Fish and Game, mapped out sections of ocean bottom. Then they would designate which section that was to be harvested, and came up with a number, allowable catch.  This number was based on the observational scientific studies of the marine ecosystem and its sustainable yield.  The "shotgun" was a representation of the starting signal, as with a track race. In actuality it was just a date, and time to start the season.  Then the following year, they would designate another section and so on. Sort of like crop rotation as in farming, or leaving a field to go fallow for a season, to regenerate. A different way to manage the fishery, but prohibitive for the kind of specialized career I enjoyed in California.
     
          In between vehicles at this point,  my plan was to stay in the campground closest to Anacortas. unloading dock,plant my gear in the most conspicuously visible spot and stick out my thumb, metaphorically speaking.
       Anacortas was known as the gateway to the San Juan Islands  I had been there once or twice, and had some fond memories of my early sport diving trips in my 1959 Volkswagon van camper. The first vehicle I owned, it was equipped with a closet with a mirror on the door , bunk water tank and hand pump.  A nifty hatch on the roof that opened like a door,with enough room to set my Coleman stove on top, allowing the roof of my Van to double as a galley.  Did not come equipped with a gas guage however.  I was obliged to "do the math" after my 10 gallon tank was filled, I knew I could go about 220 miles before I ran out. My 1400cc 40 horsepower motor completed the package, top speed about 65 miles an hour down hill. The dealership salesman at Bjorkland Volkswagon that sold it to me, neglected however to understand that knob with the twist handle on it, underneath the drivers seat, was in fact an emergency reserve, for those who were not great at math. He told me it was the way to channel the heat to the back of the van.  I found all this out the hard way, when being the sympathetic soul that I am, I picked up some hitchhikers, and I wanted them to be comfortable so I twisted that handle, only to shut off the supply of gas to the motor,  Shortly coming to a complete stop, and being towed to the gas station when they actually had mechanics that worked there.  I was notified of my ignorance, and off I went.  Did I mention that the Van was painted yellow with a couple trees painted on the side.? My friends used to call it my hippie van or just "Tree House" Eventually the motor did fail. I had a friend at my place of employment (Domani, Italian cuisine downtown Bellevue), volunteer to help me out.  I was number 1 and only dishwasher, and he was a prep cook.  Bob owned a Karmen Ghia and told me that replacing the motor was not that difficult and we could do it in an afternoon. We found a used rebuilt motor for $250. I was able to use the money I was awarded in the small claims case I brought against Bjorkland Volkswagon for selling me the vehicle with a burnt out motor.  Much to my surprise and delight the judge read the affidavit  from the mechanic,  who broke down the motor  and agreed with his assessment. The amount of STP in the the crankcase and motor, indicated that was a typical trick to keep the smoke and noise down long enough to sell it, and in his opinion that is what happen here. Bod basically did everything else in a couple hours and I was On the Road Again.
      Now without a vehicle my plan was to greyhound bus, transfer to a city bus to the campground closest to the docks, which there happen to be one available, though it was going to be tight to make the last one.
         I will never greyhound bus from L.A. to Seattle again, rest assured, unless I am heavily medicated.  Trying to sleep in the first class back, 3 person seat, was a miserable experience. My fellow passenger and I worked out a system, 2 hours on the floor, 2 hours on the seat,  I don't recommend it.  When I finally arrived in Seattle that medication I was talking about, found me in the form of a couple 16 oz cans of Steel Reserve. 8.1% booze, with a little barley malt and hops.  I had a layover of a couple hours before the bus heading north departed.  I was being fairly discreet about drinking in public, I thought, until some security guard spotted me and the refused to let me board my bus.  I was apoplectic. On the train you can drink all you want, as long as your willing to get gouged at he cash register.  I could barely contain my anger as I waited for the next one and prayed I was going to make my connection in Anacortas.  I missed the last city bus going to the campground, so I had to stash most of my dive gear in the bushes, then hike the mile and a half, set up my tent and with a sigh of relief, was asleep before my head hit the pillow, if I had one.
       The next morning, I collected my gear and went grocery shopping.  When I returned to my campsite, I laid the groceries on the picnic bench and headed to the showers.  When I returned, a flock of crows had raided my groceries.  There is not a word to describe the emotional hurricane I was suffering, as I chased the crows off, and salvaged what I could, hoping my limited budget would hold out.
        The following day, I managed to get my gear down to the unloading dock.  The locals were giving me the stink eye, but I expected that, and was prepared with my claim, that I was not a newcomer to these waters.  Most of the boats were large converted fishing boats. They used Dry suits and many of them were rigged for communications. I was building up my courage to approach this unfriendly grizzly lot.  When down the channel comes a 26 ft Radon with wet suits on the deck. I greeted the skipper and when he said he was from Santa Barbara, I unashamedly named dropped

ed my heart out, made the connection I was looking for, and after about 15 minutes I had a boat for the season.
      The diving conditions were cold deep rip currents.  3 man crew. 1 diver in the water at a time, 1 man steering the boat, 1 man cutting the cucumbers.  The driver had to pay attention as to not get too much of a a loop in the hose, as the affect on the diver, in that current is drastic. On the bottom is was like a river,, and the body position adjustments one had to make to slow down once some cucumbers were identified were comical. I was learning to squint my eyes, to help see the cucumbers through that murky green water. Just dark spots in the bottom clay like muck bottom that seemed to be our best chance of finding them. I figured out how to squeeze 2 fingers around the end of one, that left 2 more for the next before they went in the bag. We took turns in the water, the tender traded off driving and cutting.
       When we unloaded the catch at the end of the day, we were paid in cash which was sweet. Off to the campsite, and as a bonus the boat would pick me up at the boat launch ramp, in the morning so I did not have to go into town.  We must of circumnavigated every San Juan Island in the search for these cucumbers. We worked 3 days a week for about 6 weeks.  I did not get rich, but I had a little cushion till i figured out what in the hell was I going to do next.