Decompression Diving

Decompression Diving

      Commercial sea urchin diving in California, in the early years was risky, competitive, and one hell of a good time when it was not miserable The urchins were plentiful at the shallower depths, so mostly divers stayed within the dive time limits, that would keep them from having to decompress at a slower rate than 60 feet a minute, which was considered the universal standard for a safe ascent, and no decompression required, while ascending to the surface.

       Rule of thumb for bottom time limits to stay in a “no decompression profile. 60 ft for 60 minutes, 70 feet for 50 minutes, 80 ft for 40 minutes, and so on. These times were valid On the first dive of the day, after that each successive dive would allow less and less bottom time. The formula to compute those times was taught in just about every basic scuba class. There were fancy slide rule like contraptions, that aided the diver to compute those times.

       It is interesting to note that decompression sickness first became a problem during the time of the construction of the Brooklyn bridge. Workers began coming down with paralysis pain and much of the symptoms associated with Decompression sickness. Workers were located under the riverbed, after the construction allowed air to be trapped for there use. However it was compressed air at depth. The partial pressure of nitrogen in the air was increased at depth and thus if the body was not allowed to dispose of the increased nitrogen , bubbles of the nitrogen would form in the body with devastating consequences as with deep sea divers.

       By this time the urchin business was maturing to a point where a decompression meter was available, for those who would rather not have to do all that math. The model available for most all divers was basically a gauge with a dial face and a needle that rotated threw a graph measuring the bottom times and decompression “hang off “ times required, if the no decompression times were exceeded. Inside the gauge was a bag that filled up as nitrogen levels were increased,as the needle reflected that.

       This equipment was really targeting sport divers. It was not meant for repetitive dives and said so right on the gauge It did , however make commercial sea urchin divers a little more comfortable .

       As far as I utilized the added assurance of the decompression meter, which by the way had to be re calibrated from time to time, at almost half the cost of the meter new, it was just an added safety feature that I would use in situations where I ran into a hot spot at near the end of my bottom time limits. I would go ahead and finish off filling my net bag and then slowly surface being careful to remain underneath my bag as I swam back to the boat and then maybe go hang off on the anchor line at ten feet as required for a few minutes, or until I was out of the red , as the meter indicated.

After I survived the sinking of the Fat City, I was able to land a spot on the Dusky. Now the owner Tom Craiger was a no nonsense very successful fisherman. He generally switched to the fishery that was the most profitable at any given time...some of those were also seasonal. In the summertime he would gear up for Albacore, and the divers had to find a boat since urchins were a year round fishery. He ran a tight ship, midnight to midnight to San Nicolas Island about 60 miles due south of Channel Island harbor. Only a 12 knot boat, she was 40 something ft well maintained. He was in direct competition with Mike Milman on the Triggerfish. A Highline Fisherman in his own right. Mike had invited Tom up from LA and allowed him to duplicate his operation. Depart at midnight, arrive at sunup

after coffee and breakfast was served to 3 divers. This was so the surveyor could be suited up and ready to splash in the water as soon as the boat settled in the kelp beds. It was a crap shoot when to head home, because if we arrived behind more than a couple boats, by the time we got unloaded, we would not arrive at the island until almost noon. That would screw up the schedule for the rest of the week and cut into Toms precious bottom line.

        Along with this operation was the culture and the attitude, cultivated by none other than Ron Rector, at the encouragement of none other than Tom Craiger. Somehow they got it into there greedy little heads that it would be perfectly profitable...I mean safe to push those decompression meters beyond any reasonable limits that they were not designed for.

       First jump 90 minutes at 60 ft. Hang off 10 ft 20 minutes. Deck time barely over an hour. Second jump another 10 ft hang off 25 minutes. An hour and a half deck time. Third jump 30 minute hang off at 10 ft. Hanging off the anchor line was miserable. If you were not cold enough from the dive, hanging off and not active would remind you of where you were. Cold Ass San Nicolas Island in the middle of the winter.

I was not too keen on maintaining this routine, even though I was making some real money. I went along to get along, not yet experienced enough to object to Toms antics on deck, as he was so impatient for us to get back in the water, it reminded me of a kid about to erupt in a temper tantrum.

      I had met Ron Rector once before about 5 years previous. I was interested in the Sorcerer, that was for sale and I maintained I was interested. The 30 ft Radon had a cabin that was a pilot house for one. Interesting design. Lief the owner suggested we make a trip and I could see for myself how the boat operated. The morning of our voyage, a long haired kid,only a few years younger than me showed up and I was introduced as the half owner of the Sorcerer. OK no problem, Ron would not shut up the whole way out. He was trying to impress me how good of a diver he was and that he was also a cocaine dealer with customers that included some of the Hollywood elite. I could care less, even if he was telling the truth, which I had my doubts.

        We got in really shallow to some wash rocks that were just plugged with big heavy urchins. the swell was throwing me around pretty good, but I did not care. I ended up with about a ton. After all that bluster Ron did not even get in the water.

So as you might expect I was not really anticipating having to witness Ron having his nose buried so far up Tom Craigers ass

it made me sick. There combined knowledge and experience insisted that , “fudging the meter would do no harm since a safety factor error of 5% was built into those meters...blah blah blah blah blah.

        I mostly accepted my situation since I was making some healthy bank, until one day on the way in, I started having some pain in my knee. Oh I must have bumped it on a reef or against the boat..I thought. Not to be, the pain would not go away and it was getting worse. I knew I was bent. I was surprised because our last jump was only in about 40 ft of water. I had so much nitrogen built up in me, even a 40 ft dive put me over the edge I must of got a little careless on my final ascent, anxious to get home.

I tried to sleep when I got home...No freakin way. The throbbing deep down pain, would not stop. Finally I called my brother who had made his way down here from Washington for a short visit. He stayed a year, but he had a car. I knew the CB base in Port Hueneme had a recompression chamber, because I did my discharge physical there and I took note of it. The stories I had heard..the next closest one was in Northridge, more than an hour away. My brother drove me to the guard shack on the base entrance. At first they were not going to let me in, since I was no longer active duty. But Matt started screaming 'HES DYEING” That did the trick, I was in.

        When I approached the chamber there were 3 or 4 Navy personal standing around getting coffeecup finger. I explained to them, about the fourth day on the profile I was maintaining. They did not hesitate. they pressurized the chamber to 120 ft and began slowly to bring me up. I was kept company and fed oxygen every 20 minutes or so. They gave me all the water I could stand. Then encouraged me to urinate as much as possible. Something about a good indicator, After about 8 hours in that tiny chamber I was more than ready to escape. They kept asking about my pain level. I finally had to lie just to get the hell out of there.

       I reported for duty aboard the Dusky the following day. I ruefully continued the same routine, and even agreed with Tom that it is probably the best thing for my injury, to carry on diving. I believe a week or 2 went by. Tom decided to give one of his pep talks. Like a football coach he would attempt to motivate us to do well and have a “Bonanza season” This time though he encouraged all of us to give input. He said he felt that it was important for his crew to feel part of a team and having a say in the operation would support that, and go a long way in creating the success he expected to have. So each diver said a few words, Nothing earth shattering, really just to humor Tom. I declined to give any input. Inside I knew if I got started he may not like what I would say, so I just kept silent. After he would not quit with the input thing, I explained to him that , it could get ugly if I said anything. Finally I relented....I dont think anyone has ever talked to him like that before. ON his face was utter shock and surprise. He kept on me so I finally agreed. I dressed him down and tore him up as only I can do. I shamed him for his juvenile behavior, I was merciless in my verbal attack. He finally asked me if I was finished. When I said I was he immediately ordered me to remove all my gear off the boat when we got in. I said I did not have my car and I could pick up my gear later. He would have none of that....He would drive me home, and he did in complete silence.

        I probably should not have blamed him for, me getting bent. I should have stood my ground when I was taking extra deck time, so I would have more bottom time. He would just stomp around the deck, and suggest he take a nap while waiting for me to get in the water. As if that wait would be so long to justify a nap.

       I survived the experience a little wiser and more determined to not allow outside influence to determine the safety protocols I practiced. The boat owner sure as hell would not pay for my medical treatment. 
      A few years later I was having a few too many at the Beachcomber.  A tiny little dive bar at the far end of Silver Strand Beach.  I suddenly found myself being approached by hillbilly looking guy with long hair and a straggly beard.  He asked me if I remembered him.  I did not and then he informed me that spending 8 hours together in a tiny little re compression chamber should leave an indelible memory, as it did with him.  I apologized and referred to his appearance being slightly different than when we first met.  He then told me he had worked there for about 3 years and of all the divers they treated, I was the only one they KNEW beyond any doubt that I was bent.  Most all the others was a precautionary treatment...just in case.  I was rather pleased with myself, hearing that and I said my farewell as I headed out to the beach to check out the surf

       As it was they came out with a state of the art dive computer that left little doubt of its accuracy and reliability.  It ended the controversy surrounding decompression diving with the old Bendo matic.  Funny thing is, the fleet did not adopt that decompression hang off routine, even with the new dive computers. I noted that a diver breaths more nitrogen off on deck than he does at 10 feet,  So as far as I was concerned, it made no real sense to push the limits and endanger your life and health for not even that much more bottom time.

      Later some boats went with Nitrox gas mixes...but thats another story 

Bodega Bay

                                Bodega Bay

          Bodega Bay was a beautiful place,surrounded by green rolling hills and the smell of cow manure. Farmers would say that was the smell of money. However the roads around the bay were not meant for pedestrians, at least not the young, carefree urchin diver types from southern California, living on a Landing Craft that may be responsible for taking quite of bit of wealth off the bottom. There was some not so subtle resentments held by some locals , notably the fisherman I purchased my truck from.  To him, one of the little bays that were numerous in the area, represented a sea urchin population that may last him a month or so, working by himself.  He would watch as one of these hot shot urchin boats would show up  from Southern California with 2 or 3 divers, and take the same population out in less than half that time.  Then they would go out and blow the money they made in the bars and chasing the local girls. I could confirm that walking on the roads around Bodega Bay, I felt that resentment 1st hand as I nearly was run over several times. It is a good thing I had a little Zodiac inflatable with a 25 horse Evinrude outboard to get around in, courtesy of the Integrity, which was now in Dry dock awaiting repairs

              The Integrity was a 40+something ft landing craft was the brain child of 3 high line Urchin Boat Owners Glen Huebner, Quinten Quider ,Joe Burke and the son of a local restaurant owner Mike Lucas. They formed a partnership and purchased the Integrity. They thought they could use it to offload urchins from the shore in Shelter Cove since there was no pier or off loading facilities, locally.
       Quiten Quider was an understated unassuming, mild mannered sort of guy.  I made a few trips on his boat the Avril Q.  He was a highly motivated ambitious diver and could and would stay in the water past dusk and way after many other divers had enough, including me.  He even gave me a back handed compliment suggesting that I would be a good diver if I stayed in the water.
       Joe Burke was gregarious, outspoken, and had an easy way about him, as well as a joke and a Big smile that could make girls melt.  He worked his boat the Hot Pursuit by himself with a tender. and filled his boat with about 5000 pounds, nearly  every  trip.  One morning while his boat was in the shop, he jumped on the Avril Q with me and another diver. We planned on heading out to the Farallon Islands. Conditions were favorable and I was able to pick about 3000 pounds in about 5 hours I froze  my ass off, and my hand retained the shape of my picker for several hours later.  I suited out, then Joe swam to the boat with his full net bag and then yelled at the tender   "1 MORE!"   I lost track of how many times he said that, but I do know he weighed in at 11,000  pounds!!!   What a beast.  Conversely the  next trip, Joe jumped in the water for a survey.  He immediately jumped back out, and explained  "LETS GO HOME   WATERS TOO WARM"  We all knew what that meant.  These waters surrounding the Farrallons are notorious for the number of Great White shark sightings.  Apparently it is a breeding ground for the Great Whites.  I only vaguely heard these stories, and I said to Joe that we came a long way just to turn around and go home. I also needed the money.  Joe was way kool with it if I wanted to survey. You see that's when they get you , when your unattached to the boat and on the surface.  When the boat has anchored , not a good idea to spend to much time on the surface or descending and ascending.  When your on the bottom you can use the reefs for protection and hide. Now I am not saying I am Mr Machismo or brave, but I wanted to at least make an effort, otherwise I would not feel good about myself.  So I jumped in and scootered around for a few minutes then decided I should be smart and listen to Joes advice, homeward bound we went. 
       Now the driving force behind this venture was Glen Huebner. Quinten and Joe both were waiting on delivery of 36 ft Wilson/Heubners and this project was not getting there full attention. Additionally once the Integrity was in Northern Ca . Glens attention was focused on completing the finishing touches on the boats he was building. All 3 of the partners had been waiting way too long for their Wilson hulls to be delivered and finally they decided to investigate the progress. They soon discovered that Wilson boats was about to go into chapter 11 bankruptcy proceedings. They acted quickly and seized the 36 ft Wilson mold used for manufacturing a fiberglass from the Wilson yard.  So Glen having outfitted several boats by then decided to get into boat building, and became very successful at it.   That was my impression of Glen. He came from the LA County Lifeguard culture that sprang up in the urchin business, mostly out of Channel Islands Harbor , at first.   These guys were all quality people,good watermen. Clean -cut well-mannered and educated, most had college degrees. This was a breath of fresh air for me, having, up to that point been dealing with some very difficult people.  Glen was an innovator and a motivator, and a competitor.  He had the movie star good looks and majored in Business Administration at Cal State Northridge.  It had always been my impression that Glen would have been successful at whatever he chose to do.  He was one of the first to use float balls to lift the bags of urchins, 600 ft hose was standard per diver, when before Huebner, the fleet was using  old inner tubes 300 ft hoses.  those are just a few.  Glen also instituted rotating crews. He groomed maybe 10 or 15 lifeguards to be divers.  He rotated them on and off the boats he owned.  This would ensure fresh crews, and keep the boat working as the weather dictated. Ultimately being the first and so far only Channel Islands diver to work for the lifeguards, I maintained a schedule that kept me from rotating off the boat.  I did not have  lifeguard duty.  I was ridiculed by the old timers,  because of territorial jealousy mostly, but that did not last too long.  They were a different breed.  Craig Maddox used to swim to the beach when we worked down the beach and go do laps at the pool at Pepperdine  U.
        Now Mike Lucas was the odd man out.  He was the overweight son of a successful restaurateur. Lucas Wharf restaurant also provided unloading facilities for those boats that sold there urchins to the processor they did business.  He would act as our tender when we were working the Integrity in the Channel Island before we left.
              Glen talked me into help take the Integrity up to Bodega Bay I  from Ventura, only to be abandoned by the skipper and his mate in Half moon bay. Which would not have been so bad had not the hull been leaking from some ill advised attempts to run the vessel up on shore at the concrete boat launch. I needed to make some money, since I was not getting paid for delivering the Integrity, even though it was the most miserable voyage, I ever imagined. The square flat bow and flat bottom with no keel, along with the steel construction, created a bone crushing result when passing thru Pt Conception and Pt Arguello .The seas were churning with marine fury, witch was there usual intensity. The sound was like being on the inside of a drum.  Anchored in Halfmoon bay and satisfied that the bilge pumps were keeping up with the leak, I decided I had to make some money, because Glen certainly was not paying me for boat delivery. I started trolling the docks for a boat.I managed to discover the Homeboy. I was familiar with the boat from Santa Barbara, as well as the owner who was one of the only African American urchin divers in the fleet. Tyrone was real cool. He had dreadlocks and always had a ready smile. I found out Tyrone had sold the Homeboy to the gentlemen I approached standing on the deck. Glen Brisendien had a regular diver he was to meet, but he was tardy so he said  I could work until he showed up.  So off we went, to the Farallones. Upon my return, the Integrity was on the way to Bodega bay, as Joe Burke came down, while I was diving and I ended up hitching a ride to catch up with the leaky Landing Craft. I was staying on the boat, until I was able to make enough money to buy my International Pick-up and Alaskan camper, which became my new residence. Until then it was me and the Zodiac, as it happen it was a great way to get around the bay.
      Ironically the Integrity never did see another sea urchin.  After she was repaired she was sold to an outfit that contracted out to assist in the clean up in Alaska from the Exxon Valdez.

       There was a population of Salmon fishermen in Bodega Bay at that time that experienced two consecutive bad years. Some of the fishermen were of family tradition, generations of young fishermen had come up behind there fathers and it was an institution. Many of these fishermen did not really take kindly to the southern California urchin divers migrating into there town and offshore waters making and spending and sometime squandering the increasing profits from the harvesting of sea urchins. The urchin beds were carpeting the bottom since there had not been a commercial urchin fishery in the northern California waters, until recently. Many of the divers were snobs and flaunted there success, without much consideration how the locals felt. I was not one of those. I appreciated the hard working salmon fishermen and sympathized with them for having some down years, although I took advantage of the economic opportunities that presented some real bargains on a couple International pick-up trucks that I purchased. I overheard some envious fishermen who wanted to buy the truck I did, because it was a proven heavy duty commercial work vehicle.

        While I was speeding around the bay in the Zodiac I began to notice another inflatable speeding around as well. A little smaller and a smaller motor as well, we could speed around about the same pace, as I was being challenged to a little racing, by the skippers darting glances as he approached , and opened the throttle. We became acquainted and that was Eric. A big blond haired viking looking fisherman minus the beard, but that came later. He was a few years younger than me, very jovial and most of the information I received about the plight of the locals, and other local lore, was from him. Thru Eric I met a couple other young guys, and when they learned I was friendly and not trying to stick my nose up in the air, they were very hospitable and let me in on some dos and don't s around the harbor. They showed me the old wooden salmon boats they were gearing up for the season, and shared there fishing techniques from trolling with live bait...to mooching or rather floating. I made a couple salmon trips just for fun though we never caught anything. They let me in there circle, and I reciprocated the hospitality, showing them around the Integrity and sharing the urchin fishery with them. Eric actually became an urchin diver, a very good one as it turns out, a path not many of the locals would admit would pay off.

         Other than the fishermen Bodega Bay was mostly a tourist destination, Seafood restaurants , Salt Water taffy signs, sport fishing and of course Bird Watching. I could see why Alfred Hitchcock chose this place for the setting of his motion picture titled The Birds. There was always a gaggle of birdwatchers with there telescopes and cameras camped on the North side of the bay. The town of Bodega proper was about 5 miles down an old country road, and there was the old school house that was featured prominently in the movie,right in the middle of town. Tad lived right across the street. Tad owned a small urchin boat he affectionately called The Blob. Tad was on the other end of the high line operations I experienced, but he was easy going and had that Berkley new age thing going on, and was not as money hungry as the other guys. I made a few trips with him and he let me stay at his place and after I bought my camper, he let me park it in his yard. So I was fortunate enough to drive by the old school house regularly.

        The diving was quite a contrast from the Channel Islands. The water was colder. The Bull Kelp was prevalent on the surface. Most of the Bull kelp down south was mostly down deep and rarely grew to the surface. It was also tough as rope. A kelp knife was mandatory. The kelp I was used to could be cut with a fingernail or as some divers preferred there teeth. The bottom rarely had a consistent reef pattern, mostly humbly boulders, and cliffs in the bays and there was a myriad of little bays. Abalone were everywhere, sometimes 4 or 5 on top of each other, especially out past 40 ft, where the sport divers could not get them. Abalone had not been harvested commercially in Northern California, and the sport divers had to free dive for them and were allowed only 4 a day. Fish and Game were on a constant vigil enforcing Abalone regulations as poachers were common. Abalone could bring a pretty penny on the commercial market. I think when they closed the commercial abalone harvest in southern California they were getting almost $500 dollars a dozen. It was like going thru a gold mine and picking just the silver out.

         I eventually got acclimated to the conditions, and did OK, though I was not the gung ho type, I was satisfied with what I made at a slightly slower pace than many of the big boys, though I could turn on the afterburners when I felt the need.

       One of the locals who I befriended took me up to Star Mountain above Bodega Bay. There was a commune like community up there and some of the people he knew were quite the characters. Independent self made entrepreneurs. It was a long windy road that led up there, about 10 15 miles or so , no shoulder and barely enough room for 2 vehicles. I made my way up there on my own one evening in my 1965 step-side international pick-up, my Pop-up Alaskan camper, nestled in the bed of the truck was comforting knowing I could stop and sleep or eat, or just kick it if I needed to.

It was getting late, and there were not many lights to find my way around the area, so I decided to abort my trip. The road was too narrow to turn around on so I went off the road on to some grass. When I attempted to get back on the road, my tires would just spin on the moist grass and the moisture in the evening air was making it worse. Attempt after attempt I could not get that truck back on the road. So I got out and walked down the hill a ways to see if there was alternate route, if I cut down into the ravine, that seemed the only way out of my predicament. I was not quite sure but I had to try something. So down the Ravine I went, swerving this way and that trying to avoid the trees that were in my line of sight blocking the direct route to the road as it wound down below. I gained a bit of speed as I did not want to get stuck again. I lost some control, and then WHACK! I plowed into a tree and the truck came to a standstill slightly askew and listing about 30 degrees to one side. It was just about completely dark with no moon. I climbed out, and decide to head on foot up the mountain to find help or a phone or something. It seemed like hours passed, I thought I walked many miles and was exhausted cold, and a bit on edge, not quite fear, but apprehensive. Finally I spotted a dim light up ahead and I headed toward that for what seemed like an eternity. When I reached a spot overlooking the ranch house, I hesitated but then I knocked on the door. A minute passed and a bearded gruff looking man in his 30s I would say asked me what the hell I could possibly want. I explained to him what had happen, and he looked at me and said “I can help you get your truck out, but not till the morning so go back and sleep in your camper and come back in the morning. Not what I had in mind walking all the way back, only to repeat the trip in the morning.

        I climbed in the back of the camper with its starboard list and eventually fell asleep. In the morning back to the ranch. Turns out this guy is a Shepard. He watches after his sheep, and he was about to demonstrate to me how he went about that. I can tell you I received a lesson in how to 4x4 thru the hills and the valleys, the meadows and the ravines. He was very deliberate and did not mince words. He observed that he had been on the ranch 15 years and he had seen plenty of people get stuck on the mountain, but he had never seen anyone as far off the road as me. I was in a deep gully and I was yet to have to climb over steep incline before I would have reached the road. Then he climbed into the drivers seat of an International scout. There was about a dozen vehicles on the ranch some operable, some parts and none of them very new At least I had the manufacturer right. He told me to hop in, and he motored over and thru that mountainous terrain, half sideways, and I always thought we were about to roll over. He was not stingy with the throttle either, and I was scared half out of my wits, which I believe was his intention. He said the Scouts were the best for this terrain, low center of gravity, and the axles were not too far apart, which gave the Scout better maneuverability. After he was satisfied I was appropriately humbled. He explained that he had to switch vehicles because the other one was equipped with a PTO. Power Take Off. A direct adapter from the motor that was more efficient and more powerful than a hydraulic winch, which he would need to get my truck over the hump at 100 feet up. When we arrived he said that I was going to have to hump that chain up the hill and connect it to the axle of my camper. No easy task, but I completed the task. Then as instructed I got behind the wheel and started the motor. He began a slow steady pull that squeaked and stretched the limits of its strength. Over the hump I was and then I was able to put it in low gear and idle slowly down to the road. I was eternally grateful and I asked him how much did I owe? $200 he said. I begged off with a promise to pay. I ended up giving him $100 bucks. I just could not justify anymore because I only paid $400 for the truck.

          I had another notable adventure with my ¾ ton dually International pick-up, that solidified my education on how to 4x4 on the sand. After the motor was repaired, I received a request to go rescue someones skiff that had washed up on the beach. They came to me I learned,because the previous owner of the truck regularly was seen assisting others on the beach. I was all in and good thing I brought along one of Erics friends who was also a volunteer fireman when he was not trying to be a salmon fisherman. Of course I got way out on the sand before I got stuck. I was so frustrated. I walked away from the truck, and just gave up and resigned to the fact my truck was to be buried in the sand. Well Greg just laughed and said “calm down, I know how to get that truck out of there.” I was skeptical, but willing to follow his instructions. First he said to let all but 5 pounds of air out of the tires. OK I said doubtfully. Now dig down so the axle is clear and throw some boards under the tires. He told me put it in gear and throttle up slowly, when lo and behold, when I got out of the hole I created the truck just went along on the top of that sand no problemo. I was ecstatic. When we reached the parking lot Greg said I should invest in a 12 volt air compressor I could plug into my cigarette lighter and fill the tires with air so I could drive on the road As it was, we had to take the tires off and he would through them in his pick-up and run the to the gas station pump them up bring em back, and we were back in business. Well I reamed so hard on the lug bolts, I thought I would break my arm, and then my leg. They would no budge. Again I was furious. Righty tighty Lefty Loosy I repeated to myself. Then again I was embarrassed that I did not realize on the end of the stud that the wheel was mounted on, there was a letter L or R, indicating which way too break down the bolt. Some old timer pointed that out to me after he got done laughing his ass off watching me go apoplectic. Apparently it was a safety feature International included in the design, so the lug bolts would not come off, as with that feature the tires would be turning the opposite way the bolts would have to for them to loosen up.

Even with my vehicles, I still loved to run around in the Zodiac especially one epic day when the swell was about 10 ft. I had Joe Burkes tender and his Chesapeake retriever on the zodiac. The dog loved posting up on the bow, snout twitching in the wind. I went out to seal rock and was able to get in the slot on a couple of killer waves, surfing dodging the sea lions who were freaking out I was so close to there colony, with the dog of course.

        Lastly, Dominique Rice was a fairly well known surfer,a while back. He was from Silver Strand. He knew I was an urchin diver and so were some of his surfer buddies, notably Mike Fair and Bob Rhodes. Ya Bob I mentioned you imagine that! He also knew I was a Coast Guard veteran. He came over and asked me about it, and I explained some of the cool things, and I kind of downplayed the military aspect, since I was not really thrilled about the military part of the Coast Guard, but I wanted to encourage him to enlist. So after he enlisted he moved up fairly quickly, made second class petty officer and was up for first class. He served an 8 year stint, as the life suited him. He was stationed at the small Boat Station in Bodega Bay. when the winter storm swell hit and although he was on duty, he just had to go out and surf those swells outside Bodega Bay. Well it just so happen a sport fishing boat heading out that morning, capsized in that swell, leaving the passengers and crew in the water. Well Dominic did his duty and started picking up the survivors on his surf board and ferrying them to shore. He may have rescued 10 or more victims. Hypothermia in that cold water sets in real fast, so it was a good thing he was out there, only problem since he was suppose to be on duty, he thought he would get in big trouble because he was not suppose to be surfing, while on duty. He was suppose to be standing by at the station for any rescue calls coming in, so he would be ready to board the rescue boats at a moments notice. He need not have worried. In there infinite wisdom Coast Guard Brass flew an Admiral in to pin a medal on him, and he was a local hero for his life saving efforts, and I dont believe anyone mentioned the fact he was absent from his duty station that day.

BOAT TRAILER FROM HELL

              The Boat Trailer From Hell

         The Longfin was a big boat. 33'x 11",  8 tons empty, but by the time I got the davit, swim step, air compressor, anchor winch, net bags and hoses, and fuel, closer to 9 tons. The good part is I had plenty of room, for when I was staying on the boat and she could take some heavy seas pretty comfortably. The bad part was whenever I had to take the boat out of the water it cost me $500 for the boat mover. After I did that a few times, my anger boiled up, because the Harbor Patrol in Channel Islands refused to give me a commercial slip. I admit I could of handled the situation better, during the escapade that led me to blow up in their office a couple years before. I just lost my patience when I recognized they had no intention of being fair and reasonable when it came to commercial fishermen/divers. Especially struggling ones who they just assume go away, and leave the harbor to the rich yachties The private marinas were starting to run credit checks before they would rent you a slip, something I neglected to establish. So I was left with a guest slip, which was only good for a week or 2 before you had to vacate the slip and not return for a week. I will save my diatribe on the Channel Islands Harbor Patrol for another time.

         Santa Barbara Harbor was more user friendly, at least there was a free anchorage for back-up, trouble was all the thieves and lowlife scumbags living in the anchorage on anything that would float would raid your boat as soon as you were gone. Found that out the hard way.

So one day I am browsing thru the trade express when there was a boat trailer with movable axles for sale at a reasonable price. It was rated at 12 tons. When I saw it I realized it had to be built up from the frame to accommodate my boat. But who other than my go to fabricator and welder Keith Whitney, perfect man for the job. He said he could do it, so he was hired. I was paying him gouged out prices for his old beat up hoses and torn up net bags and I am sure he will try and rake me over the coals for this job, as well. Of course he dragged his feet and insisted that the axle be positioned more toward the rear of the trailer. Like the other trailers he had seen with the towing most of the boats WITH OUTDRIVES. I tried to explain to him that with my straight shaft, I would have to have the axle more toward the center, so my prop would clear when I pulled up the boat ramp. That stubborn old goat would not listen to me, even though I proved to be right. Though he would never admit it. He eventually did a half assed job, welding the railings on to the frame and when it came time to pull the boat he was nowhere to be found. Neither was my Diver. Keith explained to me that I should get some old tires to build up the rear of trailer, So I would have clearance for my prop and shaft,since he failed to build the trailer properly.

            So I was by myself, well I had Jamie, she was a very attractive, but wild, young girl, that I had been spending time with, and she liked working on boats. It took a while, and a lot of turmoil before I could trust her, but we finally reached a detente of sorts. It was hot and crowded the summer Saturday I needed the boat ramp for this operation. I had purchased a Ford F250 4x4 pick-up, because I was not sure my F150 would do the trick with the 6 cylinder. I backed the trailer down and there was kids running around and sunburned weekender's and tourists staring at me I was not in the mood. I was dirty from working on the boat, hot sweaty and pissed off. I was barking orders to Jamie, bless her heart, she was such a good sport and so tolerant of my loud foul mouth, on the edge of apoplexy. Of course when I was inching the boat up and checking the clearance waist deep in the water with a diving mask on so I could see. It was a night mare, drive up a foot .. stop get in the water, check the clearance...like that several times, before I determined it was going to take 3 or 4 tires stacked on the rear of the trailer to keep the stern high enough to clear my prop.. I was so mad at Keith and Johnny my diver for being absent, I was determined to make this work. Well sure enough someone called the Harbor Patrol and the officer approached me and asked me to watch my language around the kids. I explained to him that I had $100,000 worth of boat in jeopardy and I am sorry there ears were exposed to my foul mouth, but I said they are going to have to hear it sometime. Those Harbor Patrolman would of loved to arrest me, or at least cited me, but I was not doing anything illegal, just yelling and swearing.

          After I tied the tires down, I finally got the boat out of the water, scraping my prop ever so slightly. It became clear that I was going to have to go very slow on the way to the boat yard, and I was barely going to clear the parking kiosk, was not sure about all the overhead wires, but I had to put my antennae down. I did not want to have to pull my davit out of its sleeve. I waited until about 2 in the morning when there was the least traffic. Thank God I only had to go about a mile to the yard. I inched about 5 miles an hour,barely clearing the telephone wires, but I made it to the yard. Now I was going to have to trust Keith that his forklift could pick up my boat and that he could maneuver it into the tiny spot he finally cleared for me after months of bickering at him to get it done so I would not have it to wait when the boat was ready. I just needed some boat jacks.

100 bucks a whack for 4 boat jacks, but I needed more. Keith got the boat in the yard. I was hoping putting it back in the water would be easier.

          I ended up parking that trailer in the street by the old Radon yard. One morning I noticed it had been hit by a car and there was a license plate on the ground, apparently left by the driver. The trailer was thrashed and I never was able to find the guilty driver.

I thought the trailer was a good idea, I just should have been more careful of Keith who got so greedy, especially when I gave him a free hand to charge me a king's ransom for crappy work and lousy materials.

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.