Wildlife Wars: The Life and Times of a Fish and Game Warden Page 12

  I said, “Judge, I wasn’t able to confirm the man’s story about the sick wife until just recently, and would you, well, please be lenient in this matter.”

  Those steel-blue eyes turned cobalt blue and she said, “You are out of line to ask me that, and I resent what you just did! If you weren’t like a son to me I would blast your ass into the county jail so fast that, even as large as you are, the jailers wouldn’t see you go by! These goddamned people know better, and he will just have to pay the price.”

  I responded, “Yes, ma’am,” realizing that to go any further was sheer folly. I left the judge to her thoughts and walked out the door of her chambers into the cold sunlight. Damn, what a hard woman she could be, I thought.

  Feeling even worse, I went to Hoopa and bought a fresh salmon from the grocery store. It was a nice big chinook, and I had the merchant wrap it well. Opening up the citation book, I retrieved the man’s address and drove to his house. The man saw me drive up and walked off the porch and over to my truck. “Yes, sir,” he said, and then his voice trailed off. I had lifted the big salmon in its identifiable package out the window and into his arms. Tears came to his eyes as I said, “Enjoy, see you,” and drove off. At least I saw to it that the man had a fish for his wife’s dinner. Damn dust in my eyes, it is making them water. I guess I will have to vacuum the floor in this truck, I thought.

  A week later, with a lot of trepidation, I appeared in court with my snagger. The judge’s usual practice was to open the investigative file, read it, and then ask the defendant to step forward and enter his or her plea. My fellow, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders, stepped forward and with downcast eyes full of shame pleaded guilty. Her courtroom practice also was to ask the arresting officer if he or she had anything to offer. I stood up, with the full ass-chewing she had given me earlier still fresh in my mind, and had started to provide support for my snagger when, to my surprise, the judge abruptly waved me back to my seat. I stood my ground and was starting once more to speak when a look at my judge’s eyes told me that to do so would put me in harm’s way.

  I slowly sat down. Without further ado, she fined my chap $500 for each of his two offenses, gave him a year in the county jail, forfeited all his fishing gear, and revoked his fishing license for three years. I was sick. This poor guy had just had the world collapse around his ears. He had tried the best way he knew how to show love for his wife and for that was being reamed in a court of law. That was more than I was going to put up with, I said to myself. I stood up again, determined to have my say in court and to hell with “six days in the county jail.” This time the judge put her finger to her lips in a gesture for me to remain silent. Standing there and sensing a surprise move, I did. She then suspended the $1,000 fine, suspended the jail sentence, suspended the revocation of fishing rights, and returned his fishing gear. Instead she put my lad on one year’s probation for his offenses.

  She then told him that if he ever appeared before her court again she would throw him into the county jail for one year. She finished by telling him to get his fishing gear and get out of her court, which he did in all due haste. Then, with a look and tone in her voice that told me to pay attention, she said, “Officer Grosz, will you meet me in chambers when court is over?” I nodded and sat through the rest of her courtroom activities, waiting for the proceedings to end so I might see what she wanted.

  When she entered her chambers she took off her robe, sat down, looked at me, and then motioned for me to sit down. We sat there for a few seconds, and then she commenced to chew my ass clear off in language that would have made any sailor proud. All I could say was, “Yes, ma’am,” to each of her charges. Looking back on this event, I think it had to be quite a sight. A 105-pound female (albeit a judge) chewing the hind end clear off a six-foot-four-inch, 320-pound game warden. All I could do was hang my head because I knew I had crossed her lines of judicial procedure and ethics, and this was her way of getting her point across. She plain and simply wanted no part of anything regarding any incident in question until the day of court. She felt so strongly about the fair-and-objective principle that she in no way wanted to compromise her objective decision and treatment of all in her charge and really meant what she said about prior knowledge of a case.

  When she finished, which seemed to me to take forever, she said, “Now, come here.”

  I got up out of my chair and walked around the desk to her chair.

  She said, “Bend down.”

  I said, “What?”

  She repeated, “Bend down,” and I did. She then gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, “Don’t ever bring me a case like that one without letting me know the circumstances in advance. I appreciate what you did very much.” With that, she rose and left the room, leaving one very large and confused game warden to himself and his thoughts. I was surprised, to say the least, at what had occurred that morning. I also came to the realization that I could walk her line, but I had better walk it very carefully.

  A lesson that I learned at that moment is that everyone is a human being, no matter what they may have done. Treat them like human beings and you will find that your life, when you get near the end of that gift, will be a little brighter for your efforts.

  I bet that fellow never snagged another salmon as long as he lived. Thirteen days later his wife died, but not before she had had several good salmon dinners courtesy of a young officer who had learned something on the Klamath River that day.

  Chapter Eight

  A Case of Crabs

  It was the fifth day of Dungeness crab season off the north coast of California. I was standing on the bow of the Rainbow, a thirty- five-foot Fish and Game patrol boat, as it knifed its way north from Eureka to a section of Dungeness crabbing grounds off the Pacific coast. The Rainbow passed many fishing boats as it sped through the waves, plowing through the troughs and surfboarding down the backs of the crests. It was a typical stunning north coast day of brilliant blue sky, warm sun, and fairly smooth water with just high swells. The usual fog bank lay thirty or so miles to the west, and I gave thanks to God because I wasn’t seasick yet. At the helm was Lieutenant Ken Brown, a close friend, excellent boat driver, and California State Fish and Game warden of twenty-plus years. I was his boarding officer (when I wasn’t too seasick), a rookie game warden with just about one year of experience. At the time I loved sea duty and relished my interaction with the commercial fishing fleet, especially the work associated with boarding fishing vessels while at sea to make sure they were complying with state Fish and Game regulations. There was always an element of danger that added to the excitement when boarding at sea like pirates of old, especially if the person boarding fell between the vessels into the open sea during the transfer.

  When we planned a boarding operation, Ken would approach the commercial fishing vessel from amidships and form a T with the two boats. Standing in the bow holding a short nylon rope attached to a stanchion for support, I would wait until the decks of both boats, pitching up and down, were level and then would jump from the Rainbow to the fishing vessel to be checked. Once aboard, I would check to make sure all of the fishermen (including the cook) had valid commercial fishing licenses, that their fishing gear (depending on the species pursued) was legal, and that their catch was legal and within the limits established by the Fish and Game Commission. It was a great duty in spite of the danger and, for the most part, obstinate fishing boat skippers and crews. Reboarding the Rainbow was a repeat of the initial boarding process except that I had a smaller deck to land on. However, the foredeck of the Rainbow had been sanded when painted, and when one’s feet hit that deck they “stuck,” so reboarding, though somewhat of a challenge, was not too bad unless the action was taking place on a high, rolling sea. Then things got a little dicey, to say the least.

  Forgetting my job for a moment as we sped along at about twenty-five knots, I stood on the Rainbow’s bow and drank in the sights and smells as well as the forward motion of our boat meeting each s
well. The pungent smell of saltwater, occasionally mixed with faint diesel fumes as we crossed the numerous wakes of fishing vessels, kept me in the world of reality. Standing on the plunging bow of a speeding vessel while it navigates through twenty-foot rollers is an experience one does not soon forget. The bow on which I was standing would drop into the water until the sea was just inches from my feet. Then the Rainbow would spring back up, crest a wave, surf for fifty to sixty feet down the back of the wave, and repeat the process time after time. It was easy to find yourself transported back in time by the wind on your face, the warmth of the sun at your back, and the water all around.

  Ken’s voice brought me back to reality with the words, “Let’s board that one.” Ken was pointing to the Ella D, out of San Francisco, off our port beam (left side). The Ella D had a reputation for being a little greedy and prone to push the limits of the law. Ken and I had cited the whole crew several times before for commercial fishing violations, and the boat was always a good bet.

  Ken drove the Rainbow alongside where the skipper could see us and then hailed the Ella D with the outside speaker. He informed the skipper that we wished to board the boat and asked him to please come to. You would never have guessed that Ken’s instructions had been heard. The Ella D’s skipper kept looking straight ahead and just ignored the Fish and Game patrol boat cruising alongside. Ken looked at me and then, with a determined expression, brought the Rainbow right up next to the speeding commercial fishing vessel, probably fifteen to twenty feet off, and again hailed the Ella D. This time the Ella D, in response to Ken’s closing action, made a ninety-degree turn to port, forcing us to quickly adjust and pursue again from a new angle. That maneuver pissed Ken off, and he flew the Rainbow (a much faster boat) right alongside the Ella D and turned on our siren. The skipper knew that the next move on our part was to cite him for failure to allow us to board the boat for an inspection. To prohibit an inspection would automatically cost him his commercial fishing license, so he slowed down to a quick stop, which again mandated that we make a quick adjustment.

  By now Ken was steaming! “Tiny,” he said, “if that bastard has anything wrong, anything, you issue him a citation.”

  I nodded as I got set to do my job. This was the fun part. One misstep and I was in the drink, with the possibility of being crushed between the two pitching boats. With that incentive, I always jumped hard onto the other vessel just in case. Jumping back onto the smaller Rainbow, as I said earlier, was also a challenge but not quite as dangerous.

  The timing of my jump was critical, but Ken was a great boat man and I had a lot of confidence in his boat-handling abilities. He maneuvered the Rainbow in at the standard T boarding angle, bringing it to within a few feet of the pitching vessel to be boarded. When the decks swung more or less even, I jumped onto the Ella D as Ken quickly backed the Rainbow away to avoid a collision. Ken would wait just a few feet away from the commercial fishing vessel, which was now allowed to proceed toward its original destination, watching me as I ran the routine Fish and Game checks.

  Verner, the Ella D’s skipper, was pissed, to say the least. Being six-foot-four and “touching bottom” at about 320 pounds, I was not too concerned. He was always in a bad temper, so I just kept a close eye on him and his activities and we usually got along just fine. Today was different. Verner grabbed a fish pew (an instrument like a pitchfork with one tine, used to rapidly sort fish after they have been dragged up from the depths by a drag net and dumped on deck) and waved it in my face. Wrong thing to do. Possession of a fish pew on a drag boat was a violation of state law because the user, in order to use the pew properly, had to spear each unwanted fish in the catch and toss it overboard. That meant the speared fish would die, thereby wasting a bottom-fish resource. Nonetheless, commercial fishermen often just “pewed” the unwanted or illegal fish overboard instead of sorting them by hand because it was the fastest way to sort out a catch.

  I walked over to Verner and said, “Verner, hand me the pew and your fishing license.”

  He said, “The hell I will,” and overboard the pew went.

  I said, “That move will make no difference other than to change it from one ticket for possession of an illegal device on a drag boat to two charges. The second charge will now be for not exhibiting a fishing device upon demand, and that will run you another $250!” Verner exploded and after many choice words about the Fish and Game department stormed back to the wheelhouse. That was fine with me—now I would have time to check the rest of the crew for compliance with state law, and I did. The only violations I discovered were those associated with Verner, which I addressed with two citations. Upon receiving the tickets, Verner quickly crumpled them in his large, raw hands and threw them overboard. No matter; I had the originals, and he would show up for court or I would come looking for him at a later date.

  Ken brought the Rainbow alongside after seeing my hand signal, and my exit from Verner’s vessel was made without further incident. Ken waved to Verner as we passed the Ella D and received the “high one” for his efforts. Standing beside Ken in the wheelhouse, I said, “I don’t think that chap will ever change. He hates any kind of authority, and I think you and I are going to remain a target of hatred as long as he is fishing in these waters.”

  Ken looked over to me with a smile and said, “Yes, and you will give him reason to hate us even more with every ticket we will write him in the future.” We both laughed as the Rainbow continued its journey into the world of the commercial fisherman.

  I noticed the fog bank was beginning to move landward as Ken and I continued to work the commercial fishing fleet through four more boat inspections. The lads had done right well, and no one suffered any citations. However, my well-being was another matter.

  Having boarded several ships, all the while breathing diesel fumes and looking down at fishing licenses with collateral loss of horizon, I was fast becoming seasick. Damn, there is no worse feeling in the world than that affliction. Being a boarding officer for the Fish and Game department and being seasick was doubly not good. Try jumping from ship to ship at sea with the rubber legs brought on by that impairment. Additionally, I had to put up with a lot of crap from the fishermen when I puked over the side or on their boats. Jesus, I used to get tired of being offered a greasy sandwich by a fishing boat crew member just after puking. They always thought it was funny. I wonder if they would have thought it was funny that I was burning the images of their faces into my memory for later citations, with no mercy shown because of the joke.

  Moving north through portions of the crab fleet, Ken looked intently at the various members of the commercial fishing fleet as if looking for the one his gut feeling told him was wrong. The fog had moved in, and it was now misting very heavily. Ken and I put on our rain gear and continued boarding vessels as the day progressed. The fleet was doing very well, and the catch of the day for the fishermen appeared to be better than average.

  Several of the skippers whose boats we boarded gave Ken and me Dungeness crabs freshly cooked in sea water. Normally the crabs would have been a treat, but to a lad with borderline seasickness they were pure poison. But I never turned down food in my life, and there was nothing finer than the sweet meat of a freshly caught Dungeness crab. I partook of the feast and, needless to say, paid the price some thirty minutes later. Boy, did I ever get sick. I failed to enjoy Ken’s graveyard humor as he maneuvered the Rainbow downwind so I could safely puke out of the wind and told me, “Hey, it’s illegal to chum for crabs.”

  That damn knothead, making fun of me like that. Of course, maybe I was the knothead for eating the fresh-caught crab in the first place. For the rest of the afternoon I didn’t care if I lived or died. All I wanted to do was get home and off that damn boat. We had a job to do, so seasick or not, we did it. Being as sick as I was, I had to be extra careful when I jumped from ship to ship. As I said earlier, I jumped hard to make sure I arrived in the middle of the deck of the ship to be inspected. Being sick with a bad case of
rubber legs made the leap that much more difficult, so I put even more effort into my launches to make sure I didn’t miss.

  In between boardings, trying to take my mind off the uneasy feeling in my guts, I scanned all our instruments, checking the operation of the ship. My eyes stopped on our new CB set, or part of one. Ken had requested a CB for the Rainbow earlier in the year so we could listen to the fishermen on their CBs while at sea. In typical state-operation fashion, we got the receiver but no transmitting equipment. So we used to listen to the fishermen talk as we patrolled the commercial fishing lanes and many times made cases we didn’t even know existed because once they saw us, they couldn’t keep their mouths shut. Since they didn’t know we had a CB, they would yak about the “fish cops” and who should hide the illegal gear or catches. In due course, trying not to make it too obvious so as not to give away our CB secret, Ken and I would grab them. It was great fun, and made the California state coffers much richer than the cost of CB transmitting equipment, I might add.

  Heading back to Eureka before I puked up my gizzard again, Ken ran across the Garibaldi out of San Pablo Bay, near San Francisco. It was staffed by an all-Italian crew, and Ken and I had caught it many times with illegal catches aboard. Ken looked at me with eyes that asked, “Do you have one more jump in you?” Without responding, I walked to the bow, grabbed my support rope, and said, “Let’s get on with it before I die.” Ken turned the Rainbow toward the Garibaldi. I noticed through the light rain now falling that this jump would be a little more difficult than usual. My legs were really rubbery, and I felt crappy. In addition, the seas were now running with steep thirty- foot swells and the Garibaldi had a higher deck railing than most. That meant I would have to wait for exactly the right moment to launch myself, or I would hit the side of the other boat and go into the drink between the two vessels. As Ken moved closer, the danger of the high, dangerous swells became readily apparent. Both boats were pitching and yawing, and I began to have second thoughts about boarding. Then a hurried conversation between the skipper and one of the Garibaldi’s deckmates caught my eye, making me forget my seasickness. They had worried looks on their faces and kept looking at us to see whether I could successfully board their vessel.