Run for the Border
By John Hurwitz
Our Mexican fishing license arrived in the mail just as we were finishing up the live bait tank for the boat. We scanned it carefully making sure we understood the conditions under which we would be allowed to participate in the winter Albacore fishery. It specified latitudes and longitudes that were open to us and one constant was repeated several times in the literature. American fishing vessels could not operate inside 12 miles of any Mexican land, including islands. That permitted us to fish from 12-200 miles out, period.
We had been fishing the traditional Albacore season along the western coast of the U. S. and by late October were in Morro Bay, California. We had not had a good salmon season and the northern tuna had been scarce as well. A friend told us that a fisherman could scratch out a living in Mexico catching maybe forty or fifty large albacore a day, and if you stayed long enough it began to add up to a payday. That sounded good to us, besides, warm weather for the winter? We decided to try our luck in Mexico to keep eating and pay the bills. We left Morro Bay and arrived at the Mexican fishing grounds about 4 days later.
The American boats were fishing around two hundred miles below San Diego, and a hundred and thirty miles west of the Mexican coast, just above Guadalupe Island. We found the fleet and immediately set the gear to see if the rumors were true. Our friend was right.
We averaged forty to fifty nice fish a day and drifted at night. There were probably twenty American boats on the spot at any one time and for survival we stayed close together in the event Mexican gun boats showed up to inspect. One persistent rumor was not to get caught alone out there. Stories of American boats found adrift with no one aboard persisted. The boats were said to have been taken in tow to San Martin, Mexico and sold at auction. Just a rumor, mind you, but being seamen, we were superstitious enough.
Our trips generally lasted twenty-five days and then we would make the trek north to San Diego, usually thirty-six hours, to deliver at either Star-Kist or Bumblebee. It was customary to announce to the fleet that you were running for San Diego in a day or two, allowing deals to pick up needed parts and often picking up a running partner for the trip. My wife, Irene and I had made the trip a couple times alone, and worried about everything the entire time. What if we break down? What if the gun boats show up? What if... So after the second of these solo journeys we decided to not do this solo again.
On our next trip, we ran down with another boat, the Lena from Ft. Bragg, California. Dick, who was Owner/Capt. of the Lena was a jovial sort and we had known him a long time. It was nice to have the company on the trip down.
The American boats almost never cheated on the 12-200 mile rule until they got close to the United States border at San Diego. Staying twelve miles off shore just before the line added hours to your trip and nearly everyone would cheat a little on these last few miles. The Mexican authorities noticed this and stationed a couple of their gun boats just behind the Coronado Islands about six miles short of the line. These vessels were radar proof until they came out from behind the island. Once spotted, then the race was on. It really wasn't worth it; but we did it anyway, we were young, and foolish.
When our trip with the Lena ended, we ran back towards San Diego together. Dick was a good guy; but, he was inclined to take chance a little further than most of us. As we neared the U.S. border he started to cut in a little early. I called him on it and he said, "There's no way those gun boats could get to us before we're in U.S. waters. I did some calculating, seemed he was right, so we followed along.
About a mile short of the line I noticed Dick was slowing down. I could see both gun boats on my radar at about four miles and closing. I said to Dick, "Hey, what's up, we're not in US waters yet." He came back, "I think I just blew my tranny!!" "Oh shit, what now", I thought. I looked again at the radar: three miles and closing. I picked up the mike, "Coast Guard San Diego, this is fishing vessel WA5629, come back please." They responded immediately. I explained our situation with a little distress in my voice. "Standby 1," said the Coast Guard. Two miles and closing, maybe I should just leave Dick and run for the line. Even as I thought that I knew I wouldn't do it. My radio boomed with a different voice "Vessel Lena, this is CG Cutter, Pt. Loma, Over." Dick replied, "Lena back." "Pt. Loma, are you in US waters, Capt.?" "Lena back, I'm not sure sir, I think so." "Cutter Pt. Loma, Roger, Stand by 16." "Roger..."
I had all the coast guard channels on my scanner and on 83 I picked up this transmission: "Cutter Pt. Loma to base, over." "Pt. Loma station back." "Permission to load the guns sir!" " Standby captain." I looked in my radar: a half mile. Hell, I can see them visually. "Pt. Loma station back, permission granted." I was so grateful for the Coast Guard at that moment it was indescribable. I looked in my radar: three quarters of a mile and retreating.
The coast guard towed Dick into San Diego. I remember as we tied up at Star-Kist, we agreed we would not "run for the border" again.....