I next chopped up the chili and jalapeno pepper, then added the crushed garlic, freshly squeezed lime juice, salt, pepper and a hint of sugar. I didn’t add cilantro. Cilantro tastes like mummy wrappings. I mixed it all together with the avocado, and I think I might have drooled a little on my shirt.
We ate on my balcony. Me with a beer, and Cindy with her second glass of wine.
Below us was bustling Main Street in Huntington Beach, alive on a Friday night. Laughter and voices reached us from below, and with our knees touching, I told Cindy about my day and she told me about hers, and we scooped and ate and drank and laughed and talked the night away...
Chapter Seventeen
I’m not a sailor. Or a seaman. Or a boatsman.
I’m more comfortable on the football field than on the open water. My idea of a good time is bashing helmets. Not charging through choppy waves, or dropping from crests and plunging into deep troughs.
It was enough to make anyone’s stomach turn.
Anyone, that is, except me.
I was on a Department of Fish and Game police boat, a massive 65-foot monohull that cut over the water at a surprising clip. The boat had three levels and enough electronic equipment to make anyone dizzy.
And I was most certainly not dizzy due to any sort of sea sickness.
The afternoon was bright and cool, but I found myself sweating through my tee shirt and the life jacket they made me wear. The young game warden who had fitted me with the jacket had to adjust it to nearly twice its normal chest size.
And still it was tight.
Too damn tight.
Breathe, Jim.
The boat bounced and splashed and hurled seemingly recklessly deeper out to sea. A Knighthorse did not belong on the open ocean.
“You okay there, partner?” asked Warden Joe Fossil, who appeared from the bridgedeck, or navigation room. The warden’s age was hard to nail down. Months and no doubt years out on the ocean had dried out his skin and sunburned it to a permanent reddish tan. He wore a narrow life vest and a shirt that said Game Warden in big letters and Department of Fish and Game in much smaller letters. He had on a typical cop utility belt, with a .40 caliber Glock holstered at his hip.
“Fine,” I said. “Except I might have, you know, eaten some bad eggs this morning.”
“Bad eggs,” he asked, shaking his head, grinning easily. “That’s a new one. Look, if you upchuck, just do it over the railing. I hate cleaning up upchuck.”
“I won’t upchuck,” I said. “It’ll pass.”
“Sure it will,” he said.
“I’m not seasick,” I said.
“Of course not,” he said. “Anyway, we don’t normally allow ride-alongs.”
“I feel special.”
“You don’t look special. You look green. Anyway, the captain said to show you what we do. In particular, to keep an eye out for shark finners.”
“I’ve got friends in high places,” I said. Actually, Hansen arranged for the ride-along, although he thought it was a big waste of time.
“Sure you do. Anyway, we’ve got a few ships out there to inspect, and after that we head south.”
“What’s south?”
“The Mexican border...and shark hunters.”
Someone on the bridge was speaking seriously into a radio. He turned and called Warden Fossil over. They pointed at a navigation screen propped up on the helm, near the big wooden wheel that looked far too antiquated to guide such a fine, new ship. But then again, what the hell did I know?
When Joe Fossil came back, he said, “We’ve got a commercial trawler coming up. You can watch us in action. Should be exciting for you; that is, if you aren’t too busy puking up your guts.”
“Tough words for someone whose name sounds like it belongs on my underwear.”
“That’s Joe Boxer,” he said, much too quickly. He must have heard it before. Damn, I hate when I’m not original.
“Close enough.”
“No, it ain’t. If anything, my name sounds like one of those watches.”
“I’m sticking with underwear.”
He shook his head. “Get ready, Knighthorse.” He was about to turn back to the bridge. “And what the fuck kind of name is Knighthorse?”
“A good name. A valiant name. A fitting name.”
“Fitting?” he asked, but then he thought about it. “Never mind. Just be ready, Horse Shit.” He grinned, pleased with himself.
Ah, policemen. They were always the same, be it on sea or land. Cockiness. Attitude. Egos. Funny how well I got along with them.
The fishing vessel was a big one, with what appeared to my inexpert eyes to have rear-trawling capabilities, meaning, the nets were dropped from behind and dragged through the water, thus catching anything and everything in its wake.
The warden’s ship pulled up alongside the trawler. The vessel’s captain immediately met Joe Fossil, and permitted him and his crew to board. I just so happened to be part of the crew.
The trawler’s captain handed over what I assumed were various permits and certificates. As Fossil looked them over, I scanned the deck. The crew was composed of about seven or eight people, all men, and all watching us with what appeared to be mild hostility. The Department of Fish and Game were, apparently, the enemy. Most of the crew were wearing yellow slickers, just like the dude on all the frozen fish boxes in the freezer aisle. The ship itself was quite a bit bigger than the warden’s ship...and a good deal filthier. There was no denying the stink in the air. Rotting fish, fresh fish, it was all here, mixed together in a heady potpourri of fishy stink.
I fought a nearly overwhelming need to wretch. The bad eggs, the sway of the boat, the rotting carcasses, it was all too much.
For most people.
I powered through, sweating and taking big gulps of air. I followed Fossil down into the refrigerated hold, staying back while he examined the contents. He pulled out samples of leopard shark, with their fins still intact. From where I stood, the creature looked beautiful. Too beautiful to be destroyed, but that was just my opinion. The creature was measured, noted on a clipboard and given back.
Fossil did this with various other fish and sharks, some of which were held in storage drawers and all were packed with flakes of saltwater ice, which was apparently far gentler on tender fish skin. Fresh-water ice had, apparently, sharper edges, which could potentially cut delicate skin.
Everything checked out. The captain and his crew were, apparently, adhering to state and federal laws.
We did this with a half dozen other trawlers and smaller commercial vessels. We even stopped two sports fishermen and checked licenses. Most vessels complied. One trawler had too many allotted tuna and was fined.