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

by Terry Grosz

  I am here to tell you, there is nothing worse than being a prey to motion sickness. In fact, when I got home after my sea duty, if I got into a high-speed chase after a poacher in my patrol car, say that evening, many times I had to stop and puke if I swung around the turns too fast. Often the malady would last up to three days after my last turn at the wheel on sea duty. When one gets that sick, one will try anything. Looking back today, Lord knows I wish I had not tried that chili idea. But as I said, a drowning man will...

  Ken had called and informed me that we had a sea detail the next day assisting Warden Devine. I thought, Oh no, but it was my job and both men were close friends, so, closing my mind to the seasickness that would come, I said, “When and where?”

  “Meet me tomorrow, three in the morning, at the office, and we’ll take it from there,” Ken replied. With that, he hung up, and I went to my home and prepared a sea bag full of gear for the detail. Hell, I was already starting to get seasick! The next morning, after I transferred my sea gear to Ken’s patrol vehicle, we stopped off at a twenty-four-hour restaurant in Eureka for breakfast. Ken decided he was going to order ham, eggs, and potatoes. I, with Hank’s words of wisdom ringing in my ears, surveyed the menu, and sure enough, there it was: chili. When the waiter returned I ordered a big bowl of chili without a moment’s hesitation, and Ken looked at me with eyes raising the question of seasickness. I told him about my conversation with Hank, but I could tell he wasn’t convinced. Well, a little doubt wasn’t going to stop me: the fellow soon to be dying at sea unless he found the miracle cure was me!

  While we waited for our breakfast to arrive, Ken discussed our current assignment. It seemed that a drag boat (a type of commercial fishing boat that drags a large net, shaped like a sleeve, along the bottom behind it, scooping up every fish within the width of the net’s opening) operated by one of Eureka’s finest outlaws was fishing within the two-mile-closure limit imposed by the Fish and Game Commission. This two-mile limit extended seaward from the shore and had been established to protect the stocks of bottom fish from being entirely depleted by shortsighted members of the commercial fishing industry, of whom there were many. Our target’s method of operation was to wait until it got damn good and foggy, then sneak into the two-mile-closure area and drag his net until he had a load of fish. He would then lift his net and run back out to sea, past the limit, before the fog lifted as if he had been there all the time and no one would be the wiser, especially Fish and Game enforcers.

  Because of the danger of running aground in the fog or hitting one of the many large rock outcroppings prevalent along the north coast, radar had to be used during any drag-boat fishing activity. The radar served two purposes: first, the obvious one of staying off the rocks. The second purpose was to help the poacher spot any other boats that might be approaching. Poachers running outlaw boats didn’t want other commercial fishing boats to see what they were doing; they kept the secret of their success close to the vest so they could continue to make high profits. In addition, if Fish and Game wardens didn’t actually see the outlaws poaching, then they couldn’t write citations for violations of the law or suspend fishing licenses.

  However, in cases involving greed or ego, someone is always watching. Commercial fishermen tend to watch each other like a bunch of feeding vultures. If someone is making a killing, they all want in, and away they go to the fishing grounds of the fisherman who is successful. Soon the area is fished out, and they start watching each other’s movements again. In this particular case, several honest fishermen had noticed this suspected drag-boat skipper consistently coming in with full loads of high-quality bottom fish while everyone else was doing just so-so, no matter where and how they fished. Suspecting something a little fishy, a group of fishermen supplied a fair amount of booze and soon had members of the successful boat’s crew spilling the beans. Even with the story out in the open, the commercial fishermen getting stiffed refused to talk to the Fish and Game authorities. It took a paid informant working in a cannery to supply the information we were currently relying upon. Our plan was simple. We would take the Rainbow and work up along the northern part of Humboldt County, seaside, and attempt to trap our illegal fisherman as he fished within the boundaries of the closed zone. The Rainbow was a small vessel, and with the right amount of fog and a little luck we were hoping we could get close enough to catch him with his nets down. If so, there was no way for him to escape without pulling up his nets or leaving them. Either way, the speed of our boat made catching this lad a sure thing. To assist us in this endeavor, Joe Devine, the Areata game warden, would sit high up on the surrounding cliffs and let us know when the drag boat entered the closed area. This combination of forces is fairly easy when you have high ground and an informant. Sometimes when one is above the fog, as Joe would be, one can see downward better than those in the fog can see around them. Nothing could go wrong with the plan—unless of course you threw in the chili factor.

  Speaking of chili, here came our breakfasts. The waiter gave me a look of disdain as he delivered my bowl of chili and crackers. However, when one is big enough to eat hay, it is amazing how little those of lesser size will say about their innermost thoughts. Remembering what Hank had said about “the hotter the better,” I ordered some hot sauce to go with my food. The waiter gave me the “genuine nut” look for eating chili that early in the morning, but he complied. The chili smelled great, and it was. I like to cook and consider myself a fair one. But let me tell you, whoever cooked up this homemade chili had the world’s best recipe. It was full of the best darn meat, and plenty of it. The chili sauce was perfectly thick as well as tasty, and the beans were done just right. It was so damn good I ordered another serving and added the last of the bottle of hot sauce to my second bowl. Ken finished his breakfast and said, “Terry, that smelled so damned good. How was it?”

  “Ken,” I said, “it was the best I have ever eaten.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, I’ll have a bowl,” said Ken as he gestured the waiter over to our table. “Bring me a small bowl of that chili, if you please,” he said. The waiter gave both of us the “goofier than thou” look and headed for the kitchen. Ken relished his chili as much as I had. He was going to order another bowl, but our time was getting short, so off we went to the marina, the Rainbow, and our trip north for a hoped-for successful meeting with our illegal drag boat.

  At the marina I began preparing for our sea detail. As I worked on the boat, I waited for the telltale sweating, crappy feeling in my stomach, and clammy hands. Nothing happened. I felt fine for the first time in over six months of sea duty. Casting off the vessel, I stood ready to assist as Ken deftly maneuvered out into the channel. By now I had usually felt really terrible in times past. Today I felt fine. Damn, for once I really felt pretty good. Out the channel toward the buoy marking the sandbar at the mouth of Humboldt Bay we went, and still no bad feeling. Ken looked at me with the “how do you feel” look, and I just grinned and gave him a thumbs- up. Ken gave me that “wait until we really put to sea and then we will judge just how you feel” look. I had that same worry, but maybe this time, I thought, I had the bull by the horns. Turning into the wind as I had in times past to avoid getting sick, I thought maybe just once Ken would have a shipmate who wasn’t deathly sick all the time. Swinging past the bar and out of Humboldt Bay, Ken turned the Rainbow north, advanced the throttle until she was up on step, and then handed me the helm so I could get more boat-driving experience.

  For an hour or more we swiftly moved to the north, slicing through the wave troughs with the bow and surfing the crests. Boy, was life nice when you could enjoy it from the vertical position instead of lying horizontal on the stern of the boat! The sun was beginning to rise, and what a sight it was. The ocean was flatter than a flounder, with only slight swells. There was a slight offshore wind, and when the sun’s rays hit the water at a slight angle it was like sliding through a pond of liquid gold. We spooked several bunches of sea ducks, mostly scoters, fr
om their resting places, and it was fun to watch the heavy-bodied birds fly gracefully above the swells. The air to the north of us began to fill with swarms of feeding gulls, and the sun began to warm our right sides and faces. Man, this is what real sea duty is all about, I thought. Then a crab-trap marker buoy loomed ahead, breaking into my daydreaming, indicating a crab pot had been set in the closed zone. Ken took the helm as I moved forward with a bow hook to retrieve the float. Ken pulled alongside the marker, and I hooked it cleanly with the bow hook on the first pass. Walking the float to the stern of the boat, I hooked the crab-trap rope to the windlass and attempted to raise it so we could confiscate it. But the trap was sanded in and wouldn’t come up. Ken gave me the finger-across-the-throat signal, so I took out my Buck knife and cut the rope.

  As the rope settled out of sight beneath the waves, I tossed the float into a basket belowdecks and Ken resumed our travel to the north and, we hoped, our drag-boat “friend.” Then it dawned on me. We had sat there for several moments, rolling back and forth while retrieving the float, and I had not gotten seasick. That realization must have hit Ken at the same time because he looked at me and said, “Love that damn Hank and his chili suggestion.” I just grinned and logged in the annals of my mind that I owed Hank a good bottle of whiskey for his suggestion. It not only had saved my life, as far as I was concerned, but would make me a better boarding officer. Bad guys, better grab your last parts over the fence because here comes a real boarding officer who is big enough to eat not only hay but chili at three o’clock in the morning and do all the above before sea duty on the North Pacific! I thought.

  Ken again handed me the helm as we headed north toward our hoped-for meeting with the drag boat. Life was good. We had our fog bank way to the north, the boat was running like a Swiss watch, and I felt like the world was finally a great place to live, especially at sea. Then it happened! Way down in my guts, I heard a faint rumbling. Not bad, mind you, but definitely there. Just a little gas from the beans, I thought, attempting to disregard the feeling. Then more rumbling. I still felt pretty damn good, so I continued to ignore the noise from beneath my “engine room.” Suddenly the rumbling took on the authority of a Mack truck. It was now very apparent that I was going to have to take a dump or suffer the shame of a badly messed pair of pants. I called over to Ken and asked him to take the helm while I went below. He appeared to be lost in thought, and I called again. Snapping out of his preoccupation, Ken responded and walked over to take the helm. Damn, I thought, it was not like Ken to be lost in his own world like that. He usually was right on top of things when at sea. But the rumbling in my guts told me to hurry or suffer the consequences, so belowdecks to the bathroom I went. The bathroom on the Rainbow was nothing more than a narrow slot, maybe four feet in length and two feet wide at the most, with a small toilet at the end. Well, picture me, a six-foot-four 320- pounder with a three-foot-wide stern section trying to squeeze into a two-foot-wide entrance to a toilet. Oh yes, the toilet. It was a real jewel as well. The toilet seat was ten inches wide at the most, with a handle alongside that was used to manually pump the waste out the side of the vessel and into the sea.

  Well, how in the hell was I going to push a three-foot-wide fanny through a two-foot-wide slot and place that fanny on a ten-inch toilet seat in a pitching and yawing boat? Easy. By now the rumbling in my guts had taken on a life of its own, and if I didn’t let it out, I was a goner. In I went, wedging my tail end onto that seat, and with relief let go a load of the worst case of gas and diarrhea I’d ever had. Instant relief. Then it dawned on me. If I stayed there with the smell and loss of horizon, I would get seasick. In fact, some of the telltale signs were already starting to manifest themselves.

  Not wasting any time, knowing what might be coming next, I pumped the waste over the side (or so I thought) with the toilet handle, squeezed out of the toilet chute, pulled up my pants, and started back up on deck. On the walkway I met Ken, who was coming down in a hurry as if he had a Mack truck problem as well.

  “Gangway,” he mumbled as he brushed by me, obviously en route to the same place I had just vacated. With my usual graveyard humor, I told Ken, “I already warmed up the seat for you.” Scrambling up on deck, I took the helm in the absence of the skipper and checked all the gauges. I could hear Ken’s efforts clear up where I was, even over the sound of the twin engines steadily churning our way northward. Before I could enjoy the moment of Ken’s dismay, my guts started rumbling again, this time with a vengeance greater than before. As Ken came back up on deck, still pulling his pants up, I passed him on the way back to the toilet again. When I hit the seat that time, the force of the gas and semisolids leaving my body damn near lifted me clear up off that toilet. Brother, something was wrong here!

  About that time, Ken shouted, “Terry, get a move on, here I come again.” I got up off the seat and hurried out of the bathroom. Ken passed me going into the toilet before I even had a chance to get my pants up. Meanwhile, the Rainbow continued merrily on her way north at twenty knots without anyone at the helm. I ran up on deck and grabbed the helm. My guts again told me to head for the toilet and that to miss a step would bring dire consequences. Heading down the steps, I met Ken coming out of the toilet, still pulling his pants up. He had apparently heard me coming and knew the consequences of trying to sit on that ten-inch toilet seat while I tried to plant my tail end there as well. He had abandoned the toilet to avoid a messy collision. “Ken,” I said, “we caught something at that goddamned restaurant.”

  “No shit,” he said. “No pun intended, but I think we got a bad case of salmonella.” Now I knew why he had been lost in thought earlier. Like me, he had been trying to figure out the rumbling deep in his guts. For the next forty or so minutes we both made liberal use of the toilet, passing each other many more times in that two-foot-wide entrance. Or as close to passing as we could come in a space that narrow!

  Finally, after cleaning ourselves out entirely, we both stood at the helm with our pants unzipped and unbelted in case we had to run for the toilet. There was absolutely no body control. Once the urge started, you had better be moving. As if we needed any more problems, I was now starting to get seasick. I looked over at Ken and through greening lips told him, “Your crap really stinks.” He laughed a strained, weak laugh and told me I wasn’t a bed of roses either.

  “Thank God that stuff was pumped overboard. Man, that stuff was really terrible,” he said. I agreed as I headed for the radio, which had come to life with Devine’s voice. Joe advised us that our lad was where we thought he would be and wanted to know how far we were from contact. I told him we were just a few miles away and would switch from the tower to car-to-car on the radio in about ten minutes. Joe was smart in not giving out any information over the Fish and Game radio as long as he was transmitting over the tower. Many of the fishermen had radios that could receive our transmissions, so we had to be careful. However, the outlaws could not receive our car-to-car transmissions; hence the switch once we got within line of sight of each other.

  Joe agreed, and as we began to approach the fog bank to our north, Ken switched on the radar. There, as pretty as you please, was a blip on the screen in addition to the known rocks identified on our navigation charts. Our target was clearly only about one-half mile offshore and, given his speed, had his nets down and was fishing. Ken headed as close as he could get into shore in order to confuse our target’s radar with the shore background and reduced our speed to that of a stalk. Then he went below to map out the coordinates of our fisherman for later use in court, while I took the helm.

  My seasickness was in check, but I felt like crap. I knew I wasn’t far from being the only hay burner soon to be puking his guts out into the North Pacific. I knew that once we stopped moving I would be puking for the first five minutes until I was cleaned out, then stuck with the dry heaves for the rest of the day. Oh well, I puked up my liver and gizzard the last trip, there couldn’t be much left to feed to the fish, I thought darkly. Conta
cting Devine on our car-to-car frequency, I let him know our location, and after a brief moment of silence he announced that he could just barely see us down through the fog bank. He told me, “Your target is just about three-eighths of a mile ahead of you and to the westward.” This confirmed our location of the target on our radar, and seasickness or not, we had this chap. The only problem was that I had forgotten the chili factor.

  The fog swirled around us as we moved slowly northward toward our prey. The crash of the surf could still be heard, reminding us of the danger as we slowly moved around the rocky outcroppings in our quest to apprehend this chap and his crew. Ken came back up on deck. The next thing I knew, I felt a rumbling under my feet, heard a soft boom-whoosh, and turned in time to see our hatch cover land on the end of the stern. Smoke began to pour from the engine-room compartment and out the open hatch! Our eyes simultaneously swept the gauges to see that the starboard engine was dead and the last temperature reading was in the red zone. Something had gone badly wrong. We still had one engine functioning, but for how long we didn’t know. Ken and I looked at the radar and confirmed that we were dangerously close to the rocks and the surf’s edge. That was no place to lose the helm or the engines. Ken had to stay on the radar and wheel or we would be on the rocks for sure. I grabbed a fire extinguisher and jumped through the open hatch into the engine- room compartment. Jesus, what a sight. First of all, during our episode with the trots, Ken had forgotten to pump the bilges. I was standing in water deeper than the ten-inch tops of my Wellington boots. Furthermore, that water had a brown scum floating on it that was none other than our earlier attempts to rid ourselves of what troubled our guts.