Leaving hotel calafornix

I’d neglected to perform my “Chinese laundry” trick and my fishing clothes were covered in offal, I’ve even got a hole punched in the back seat of my foul weather gear from the monofilament cutters, so my underwear is brown, red, green, and black (from blood) where one would think it shouldn’t be. They pulled every one of my stinkin fouled underwear out and held it up for the audience (the rest of the departure crowd) to gaze at. I was supposed to be embarrassed by this but I thought it was hilarious. You wanna look through my stuff? Go ahead. One would think that after an airport shutdown for a couple of days the plane would be loaded with people eager to get to their destinations, but American’ts are terrified (the fools who took the bait, hook, line and sinker) so the flight was not crowded, there was hardly anyone on the plane.

If the situation that supposedly occurred was on my flight I’d a stood up, walked towards the clowns, explaining I was an expert with a cuchillio. Come here suckers! Ripped the blouse and bra off the hottest chick (wrapping em around my hands) pushin her up in front of me. This is the last thing your ever gonna see! Push her to the side or even towards them and take em out. Know your opponents weak spot.

When we began to land in South Florida the passengers spontaneously burst into “God bless America, from sea to shining sea” (Screeeeeeech), touchdown. I actually got tears in my eyes cause these fools are so sad, as if god blessed us with this? Wrong song to sing for this occasion, obviously. I sang along though, of course I changed the words… Doooom doom doom doom da doom, doom doom doom doom doom doom.

The “terrorists” lived in S. Delray, basically my hometown. As every town does my hometown had a gang of “good ole boys”. We went to school together, we knew each other. As you might imagine in my area, Delray (of the sun), and here I am for real, it is a real surreal gang. We’ve even got a “G man”. “G” or “G man” is a lifeguard/fire department surfer type of man, very handsome. As life would present it, especially in my town, our “G man” which was actually his nickname, lived right next door to the “terrorists”. It was a thin walled town house esque apartment building and “G” lived dierectly next to them, go figure. Did they tell you that on T.V.? Kinda makes ya wonder don’t it?

So right off the bat I’m talking to the man who lived next door to em. “G man” said often, not every night, but sometimes all night long they were “Tink, tink, tink, tink, tink… tink, tink, tink…” This was what he heard, they were up all night, often tinkering with something. I told “G” they were either chopping up nutmeg with razor blades to sprinkle on their eggnog, choppin up pharmoresuetokill pills to snort up their noses, working on machinery that could even have been part of themselves, or perhaps communicating in code. What do you think? “G” didn’t know. Did ya see anything else about them at all that would arouse suspicion or anything different? “No.”

My brother in law James Craige, had his sign shop in the area and often bought his cigarettes across the street at the “Stop and Shop”. James said the “terrorists” were often there having coffee and danish with the proprietor. This is where the “terrorists” had their little “coffee klatch” thing. My brother in law was basically having coffee and donuts with em every few days. For me this in itself is the clue, other than that James claims nothing in particular caught his attention at all.

I called up Amanda Blackshire my “old girlfriend” who worked up towards the top (second from the top floor) of the World Trade Center. She answered the phone. You’re still alive! “Yes.” How’d you make out? Amanda deadpanned, “Morgan Stanley moved out the month before”. Hmmm. The nearby “National Enquirer” where “my gang” had another insider was closed amidst a supposed “Anthrax attack”. The “National Enquirer” as we knew it, was the last legitimate newspaper in the country. So much for finding out the trueth. Huh? I have an inquiring mind though, and I want to know. Just what I’d figured out in a few days since the dust settled (seemingly NY’s world trade position y Boca de la Raton anthrax and all) … and this was just the “prelims” of my investigation.

As usual, be focused on what happens next. “We” supposedly the U.S.A. get control of Afghanistan’s dam and ditch poppy operation and “lithium mountain” for all those new Chinese made toys. Take control of Iraq’s largely German interest oil fields and just about surround the Saudi’s oil and the last of the Sunni’s with Shiites, their hated enemy. The gangs of New York and the NY M.O.B. flee Manhattan. The F.B.I. gets purged and replaced with Homeland security. The firefighters, what I call the “backbone of the local good ole boy and girl gang” in America’s biggest town, NYC (the Southside, the most powerful influential part) are basically completely purged and “the replacements” step in. Keep your eye on “the ball”, the big one you’re standing on. It’s up for grabs you know.

I was sharpening my knife when the rubber band snapped. When I got to the rod and reel the rod tip was bent over towards the horizon. As the fish hounded it became apparent she was a 400 lb. wahoo. It was a real monster. The rod and reel was skipper’s biggest home crafted bent butt rod and doublewide 120 reel, and I’d never heard a reel scream like that. When I touched the rod I could feel the beast. Without thought I pushed the drag down and locked it up. The stainless steel cable attaching the second hook to the first separated. It hounded once more. Now keep in mind here, the skipper had set a trap, where, if a bonehead like me had stepped up and fu(&ed it all to hell, the beast might not even know we’d seen her. Skipper chuckled and said, “Wad ya do that for?” I don’t know. I think that wahoo would have spooled us before we could slow down the big fat girl. Plus, she’d have killed me reeling her in.

On the second pass we hooked into a smaller fish about 15 lbs., that looked exactly like a wahoo until we leadered him and he turned out to be an extremely rare short billed Atlantic spearfish. So beautiful, a spearfish running with monster hoo’s. We caught several more wahoos to 90 lbs. The last fish a 50 pounder, I missed on the strike. I knew to keep the reel turning and the bait skipping. The hoo hounded the bait for twenty fathoms until the leader reached the rod tip. I grabbed the leader and continued pulling. When the bait hit the transom the hoo hounded once more, looked me in the eye flashed a toothy smile and disappeared below the transom. He smiled at the Dominiquin, too.

In the pass, fishing alone, on the big Christmas holiday, within sight of the Punta de Maisi lighthouse. The rest of the fleet was at home for the holiday’s week. We were working hard to feed rich people and stuff our pockets full of money. We were fortunate to be fishing the biggest Caribbean Queen (what we called the big female swordfish) run that anyone on the boat had ever seen. We probably had the most experienced crew on the western Atlantic. I was the butcher. On Christmas day we could smell smoke from Haiti. By midmorning on Christmas day, the skipper gave up the leadering job to the crew because his hands were tired. The first big dead queen I pulled to the boat had a giant follower. The Dominiquin readied the harpoon in hopes of getting a live shot on what look like her mourning boyfriend. Turned out to be a pale, pygmy, or baby humpback whale that rose to three fathoms, turned on its side, winked, and descended back to the depths. We never saw that whale surface for air. We were looking, I was, frantically.

The next day was the biggest swordfish slaughter the “Southern Lady” had ever seen. The deck was stacked with queens. Some fish were so big, I crawled inside of them to clean out their bellies. The last fish we hooked was very late in the day. The sky was magical. The skipper leadered it, and it rose above the surface. It was a huge, live, broad shouldered, golden silver Xiphius gladious that stood on its tail, straight above the water for its heroic struggle to the door, where it calmly laid down.
The skipper coolly worked the line as I looked for a brain shot with my gaff. Just as my tip touched the upper forward part of the eye the Domineqan’s gaff came down on mine upsetting my lethal shot. He was late, but stronger and faster. The fish rose up with two gaffs in his head, leaned in the door, and nearly cut both our fu(&ing heads off.

It was quick action by the Skipper (time traveler, master swordsman) that saved us, he came out of nowhere with the 3’ stainless steel hydraulic hook. Joe Valintino stood there slack jawed from the moment the Skipper touched the leader till he killed the fish. Actually, Joe froze with his hands together in front of him. Also, I think Joe might have known from the morning, in the very least, that something was going on. When I talked to the skipper on the phone from Montana, where I was trying to repair my diesel truck that I blew up in front of the smoke jumper’s place, he said, “It would be the trip of a lifetime”, or something like that. That was three weeks before. Skipper knew something. Me, I’ve known for at least 24 years. There’s something going on, man. Right now Joe’s doing time for tax evasion. Really, I think we all are.

It took the whole boat to get the fish on the deck. I was spellbound myself as the Skipper cut off his head. I was in shock, I think we all were. Skipper was giggling about Jesus Christ, holy shit, or something. When I pulled the guts, we discovered a King! Over 600 lbs. It was the biggest male we’d ever heard of. I cut off his sword and slid it under the icemaker. The next day was all sharks, the cleanup crew. The following day there was nothing, but a few small males, and the U.S. Coast Guard.

They were completely cloaked and enshrouded in the darkness of snotty rough predawn windward pass, as I got the tools ready alone in the back deck squid shack. I’d just finished a one hitter of herbs in a cigarette camouflaged pipe (the only time I ever brought this pipe) with my back to the stern, fortunately suripitously, and was having a smoke when the Skipper came out and said, “Get ready”. Huh? “It looks like we are about to get boarded.” What? He pointed astern into the darkness, and I’ll be durned if they weren’t 50 yards away. I didn’t even know. It was a 200’ white ship with helicopters and everything. How’d they do that? As soon as the sky lightened they started lowering the boarding crafts. As we watched, one of the cables parted, and they spent the next two hours following, basically sideways, with their bow into the sea, using a bow thruster or something, while a boarding craft dangled from their side. We pulled one empty trap in after another. A few rats.

The wind had been picking up and it was getting rougher. They fixed their cable and lowered two boarding craft. I had to use the restroom. The skipper called for the lobsters, deflecting them out the scupper with his foot, heck Joe could’ve washed them out the tuna door with the deck hose for all I know. The coasties had interrupted my morning routine and when the craft hit the water I had to go. First stop was my pillow case to move my medication to my knee pad pocket.

The first coastie misjudged his jump and came flying in the tuna door horizontal and could have landed perfectly but the “Southern Lady’s” deck had dropped 8’. I caught him by his holstered pistol and set him on the fish box. He looked at me with the most terrified eyes and said, “You fish out here, on this boat?” Yep. “For how many days?” May be twenty. “Oh my god.” He went in the corner and got sick as the rest of the gang slid on board followed by the chief, who was the only coastie, along with the Lieutenant who was on Dramamine, that wasn’t sick.

They found cocaine residue everywhere, twice. The old girl was built near Laforce, Louisiana. The Skipper bought her used. They questioned me, and I recommended running a control test using the money in their pocket. The lieutenant said they didn’t have any money. I told him to go back on his ship and find some. He radioed this to the Captain of the coast guard cutter. They swarmed the old southern gal and disassembled the whole boat. At this they were experts. They actually lunched on board but they didn’t eat much. They swam the hull just before finishing the picnic. Before they left, they said we were in Cuban water and we weren’t supposed to fish here. It’s the biggest pass in the Caribbean. Americans apparently have been fishing here for years. It was the last time we went I think.

The last coastie to step off the boat was the chief. This is an extremely tough maneuver, and he slipped, down between the two craft he headed. I got two arms on him cause I was standing by, just before he hit the water. He was a double marker. The skipper got an arm on him, and we pulled his belly back over the rail.

We hit the dock in Florida with the mother lode two days before New Year’s Eve at the height of the market for the year. Seventeen tons of stolen Cuban queens and a King. I took my share and it was a lot but the fishmonger got nearly half. However, I got the Kings sword as the Skipper, Joe, and “the Dominikan” wanted nothing to do with it.

With the money scored from Christmass in the Windward Pass I invested in a rebuilt engine which I blew up in front of the Smokejumper’s place again in Missoula, Montana. The first attempt to replace the 6.2 liter diesel ended right back in front of the smokejumpers place. This actually is the spot I blew up the first engine, making for an unlikely repeat of the first experience. This was very strange or the usual. My dad always said he wished he’d paddled a canoe down the Mississippi River and advised I should be a Smoke Jumper. I tried to explain that I was the biggest “Smoke Jumper” ever but thought the “Danner” English paratrooper boot to be the appropriate footwear (if you want to fall from the heavens and surface on a dam, ditch, and dike mud resivwhore project). Plus, why would I want to “fight” a fire largely caused by improper dam (the roads) forestry technique, clear cutting. I did take his river recommendation though. I showed my traveling companion/dad just how cold it is in Missoula when I jogged a couple of miles to a service station in the freezing rain. My dad took shelter in the back of the truck with a dozen blankets. I showed up an hour later with a tow truck and my dad said he was freezing. This was funny, he actually looked like a Popsicle, as he was getting kind of blue and looked stiff.

We towed the truck back to “Brian’s Hot Rod” service in town. Preliminary investigations led us to suspect it had “sucked in a valve”. This canceled my Alaskan road trip dream, again. It was a largely uneventful trip back with my dad. I sued “the nice salvage man” from Georgia and won. This is a letter I wrote to a lawman in Georgia.

Nov.7, 2002

Magistrate Court of Washington County
Sandersville, GA

RE: Case Number 02-1229

Nothing was wrong with the original oil cooler, as evidenced by the original engines (81,100 miles) flawless operation up until water pump failure. This water pump failure caused the heads to crack, the weak point of this particular engine. However, this did not contaminate the separate oil cooling system. When I took the heads off and Mr. Avant dropped the oil pan from the original engine there was no evidence of contamination of the original oil system. “It is clean”, Mr. Avant’s employee remarked. Mr. Avant said, “Lower end is in good condition.”
When I overheated the original engine the first thing I did was have the cooling system checked. This included the oil cooler, which is attached to the radiator. I removed the original engine’s radiator, oil cooler, and lines and had them cleaned and checked by “Reynolds Radiator” on Dec.7, 2001 in Missoula, Montana. The original oil cooler had not been run until the rebuilt engine was installed.
The mechanic who installed the engine claims to have replaced the original oil cooler. In addition, the oil was still crystal clear after the rebuilt engine failed. With this evidence it seems next to impossible that the oil cooler and lines caused the rebuilt engine failure.

I was looking for a job guiding salmon and trout river trips in the Idaho/Montana area, when my water pump failed in early December 2001. I overheated my original 6.2L diesel engine and cracked the heads. I immediately removed the complete cooling system and took it in to “Reynolds Radiator” on Dec.7, 2001 and had it professionally cleaned and checked. Dave Reynolds, the proprietor said, “The radiator was blackened but the oil cooler was fine.” This was important as it helped me diagnose the condition of my original engine. Basically, the lower oil cooling end was fine, while the upper water cooled heads were damaged.

The outcome of this case was basically decided when the judge asked what I did for a living and I said I was a fisherman as I slid him a photo of me sitting on a 700 lb. Bluefin Tuna. The judge smiled as I casually pulled the picture from my notebook, talk about having your ducks in a row. The salvage yard guy looked down and raised his hands over his eyes. The judge was with my line of work as he was a fisherman himself and ordered the warranty made good. We’d split the transportation cost of $500 to Missoula. This sounded fair to me, and the salvage yard guy reluctantly agreed. The judge also ordered the guy to set the motor up, get it running and call him so he could come by and make sure it was good. This would be a major pain in the ass for the salvage guy but he had to agree. Four or five months later, in the middle of January, the Missoula repair guy was completed with the second installation.

I flew out to Chicago to save myself the “eternal” bus trip through the south. Here I boarded a Greyhound bus to Missoula. If you don’t know it’s more expensive to fly to Missoula than Japan. It was a frozen bus to Missoula and we took a smoke break in Fargo one lonely night and I learned what cold as shit really is. The next day, part way to Helena I encountered some German tourists who had blown up their rent a truck. They told me a fantastic story about their Canadian buddy who’d rode a bicycle around Cuba. They told me this Canadian guy had the time of his life and it was the most beautiful island in the world. I’d heard this before about Cuba being the most beautiful island in the world and realized it was a shame to travel the world and not see the #1 island 200 miles south of me. I decided right there on an icecycle dog between Fargo and Helena to make the trip myself. Good lord I’m nuts! By now this was becoming extremely apparent. Ha Ha. Beware of making travel plans with German tourists touting Canadian recommendations aboard Greyhounds in the middle of a Great Plains winter!

Now I’d asked the mechanic to run the truck around to break in all the seals, gaskets, and lines. He must have been afraid to do this cause when I took off for the Green River continental divide pass every single thing that could have possibly leaked did. Every 15 minutes I pulled over to the icy side of the road and spent 15 minutes tightening up some kind of leak. I must have done this 40 or 50 times before she was tight. Just in time for the frozen pass where the diesel fuel gelled into margarine and quit running. It was 10 degrees Fahrenheit. I slept in the back of the truck with the same 20 blankets my dad nearly froze in a few months past and 20 degrees warmer. It’s cold back there. I ended up pushing the burban a few miles in the ice, this is tricky, to a fortunately somewhat nearby station where they defrosted the trucks fuel with a gas turbo blower heater. Fifty bucks back on the road. It warmed up down from the pass and the rest of the trip was easy.

I got back to Fairhaven, Mass and Capt. Andy “Don’t eat much” Pratt was taking the “Southern Lady” on a trip. For some reason we were fishing a lot of hooks. I always kinda goaded him into this cause he wasn’t as good as the Skipper at putting them in the hot spot, but then again nobody in the whole fleet was. We seemed to be in some kind of extra rush to haul back the gear and as soon as we pulled the last hook we headed back up the stream (to the west) with black smoke pouring out the stacks. Andy had the throttle “in the corner” which is 100% full throttle. We never do this as the boat doesn’t go that much faster than it does at 9/10^th. It sure does vibrate though. After a few days of this I asked Joe what was going on. “You didn’t look at the GPS, Johnny?” Huh? No Joe, I never look at the GPS. Do You? Joe got kinda quiet and kinda gritted his teeth together, “We’re fishing over the Hague Line!” What do ya mean? “We’re fishing in Canadian waters and Andy’s got it in the corner. We’re fightin the stream and trying to get out of it.” What for? “I don’t know, it’s bizarre we’re catching nothing, and we could all get arrested and go to jail, felony fishing!” What the? You gotta be kiddin me.

When we got back to Fairhaven I prepared a platter of bigeye tuna sashimi and headed to the “The Bridge Street Station”. This is the bar where back in the whaling days if you drank too much dam rice paddy, dam and ditch desert barley and hop be’er they smacked ya in the back of the head, dragged ya down the hidden tunnel that led out under the bar and ya woke up headin around the Horn for Shanghai.