Captain Bill and the Lobster boat ¨Bahama Mama¨.

There are shades of my meeting and marrying with a Miskito Indian Princess in Nicaragua in this story, which I will get into later in this book.

Next to my father Captain Wayne, Capt. Bill, brings back some of the fondest memories of my younger days, when ships were wood and the men on them, were made of Iron.

There are other Captains I worked with in my youth, which I will talk about later, but for now this is my story about Capitan Bill.

I know everyone likes to put a face along with the written word, so let me start my stories with this introduction.

My Facebook picture here.

This story begins in the late 60´s and then goes back to the early 60´s before reemerging into this day and time.

I got involved in the fishery full time in the late 60´s working out of Marathon Florida in the Florida Keys, commercial fishing for Lobsters across the Gulf Stream on Cay Sal bank and Cochinos Bank on the south end of the Grand Bahama Bank.

Now I got this story only from Bill’s side of it, as I worked with him.

Capt. Bill was my fathers age and they were good friends, and as things sometimes happen to fishermen and sailors who go to sea in search of a livelihood.

Bill found himself with a young son of about my own age at the time, and an unfaithful wife, when he had just turned 40 years old.

This happened in the middle 60´s, the early 60´s of his story I will get into later.

Bill divorced her, she went to live with her younger man, who eventually went to prison for smuggling, and she stayed with custody of the son, till he got old enough to leave.

In his life óle Bill had been shot at and hit a couple of times, (I will tell about later in this story) and shit at and hit as well, by his wife.

Capt. Bill did not turn to drink as some weaker men are prone to do in this situation, but he did want to make a change in his life.

He got to talking to another owner operator in the fishery and they decided to load up their boats and go on an exploration trip down to the Dutch Antilles searching for the elusive mother lode of warm water Lobsters, high dollar meat.

He went and told the manager of the company we all worked for in those days, if my ex needs some money, give it to her, you know I am good for it.

So him and óle Capt. Jack Casey threw the lines off the dock and headed out on their trip.

They were partner boats, the two of them going together, they were not big boats but they were slightly bigger than the Queen of Spain gave Columbus, but they were diesel powered.

Referred to as an Oil Screw on the ships papers, is that anything like Mud wrestling, or Golden showers?

So they went and fished around St. Martin and several of the other Islands for a while, making a fair buck, but not finding the Mother lode.

Capt. Jack decided to take his boat on to the westward to the Cayman Islands, but Capt. Bill wanted to look around elsewhere.

Bill wound up to the Dutch Antilles Island of Saba, population of about 1000 residents of Dutch and African descendants.

It was there that Capt. Bill met, and fell in love, with a fair haired, and fair skinned Lass of 16 years of age, named Liz.

It wasn’t long, that the whole Island turned out for their wedding, celebrating Island style, and wishing them well, in their new life together.

Amore verdad, no save edad….True love knows no age.

And then comes the bad news.

On a trip to St. Martin, in communications with the seafood company, Bill finds out his ex has taken advances in money to the tune of $18,000 dollars.

Now in those days you could buy a Plain Jane Chevy pickup for about $1900, Gasoline was .29.9 and we were paying .14 for diesel without road taxes.

This was a ridiculous amount of money the ex should have drawn for the support of the one teenager in the year or so that Bill had been gone.

Some, but not all gringas think, All for me, and the hell with you, and she had been the unfaithful one in the relationship; Oh, I got so lonely with you gone, as if he did not.

Bill, out on the open ocean, at the mercy of the elements, bustin´ass to live well, and a lowlife treat him with this disrespect.

Musica Vieja para los Marineros, (and I am not talking about no song and dance group here) an old song for mariners.

¨John, (the manager of the seafood company) don’t give her another dime, I’m coming home¨ Bill said.

Bill and Liz provisioned out the boat, and the two of them after many sad and yet joyful goodbyes, put the Island of Saba on the stern of the vessel Bahama Mama, and headed for the USA, just the two of them, in which they still, to this day, refer to it, as their ¨Honeymoon Trip¨

They sailed on up thru the Windward Passage on the eastern end of Cuba and then to the west in the Old Bahama Channel that runs on the north side of the Island, till they got to Cochinos Bank on the southern most point of the Hurricane Flats of the Grand Bahama Bank.

Ok going totally on memory here, don’t hold it against me for not going to my chart table for details.

There, just the two of them started to fish Bills boat, with the intention of going into Marathon with enough Lobsters to pay out what Bills ex had charged against him, and some for themselves.

98 days, they lived, loved, and worked on that fishing boat to pay out of debt, just the two of them.

Now the life Liz was used to on the Island of Saba was hard.

Everyone worked, there was no aristocracy, it was just Island people trying to make a meager living off of the land and the fishing the surrounding area would provide.

She was tough, but also good looking as I remember.

I remember being a deck ape on my dad’s trap boat at that time, and we gave them food, water, and fuel before returning to the dock at the end of our 18 day trip, and carried some of their lobsters back to the fish house for them.

We were still an ice boat in them days, and an 18 day trip from dock to dock, was all we could manage to keep the lobsters in good shape on our return.

All of the American fishermen, (really it was not many of us, perhaps 4 or 5) and those from Spanish Wells Bahamas, (2 or 3) helped them on their trip.

Capt. Bill had fished all over that area from the early 60´s and knew everybody, and was well liked by all, including the Bahama people.

Ahh, things were different then, than now.

After the 98 days of working the boat, they figured it was time to go ashore and straighten out a few things.

They had enough lobsters in the hold.

Bill was the first to adapt a diesel powered Thermo King Truck Transport unit on his boat, and was able to freeze his product at sea, only space was a factor.

Bill was a hell of a smart man and he taught me plenty in the over two years I worked with him and Liz on the Bahama Mama, a little later in this story.

Unknown to them at this time, Liz had a bun in the oven.

And what a bun she turned out to be, Faith, named after Capt. Bills late sister.

They sailed back to Marathon, which was a 36 to 42 hour journey and took care of their business.

Getting proper documents for Liz was not nearly the hassle then, as it is today.

And so, they worked the boat with the help of one of Bills nephews till Liz and Bill had to stay home for the delivery of Faith.

When Faith got to be about 6 months old, Liz and Bill started back working together and with the baby aboard and the help of Bill’s nephew they continued to work the boat.

Faith learned to walk on the deck of the old Bahama Mama.

I at this time was getting real tired of handling those 100 to 120 pound lobster traps on the deck of my dad’s boat.

I would work 2 or 3 trips, and take one or two off, putting my bed roll on the back of a motorcycle and just traveling, I won’t no long haired hippy in them days and I never had any trouble.

Other than being called redneck by some turned on, tuned in, dropout dopy, course I was a dropout too, but from a different era I guess.

The cannons don’t thunder, there’s nothing to plunder, Born, 200 years to late, and yes I like Jimmy Buffet.

And then my dad put a freezer on his boat, and for economic reasons (read this, increased proceeds) stretched his fishing trips to 30 to 45 days in length.

One time we stayed out 52 days, now this was a bore for a youth of 17 years….

I can still hear the óle man clanging his spoon in his coffee cup intentionally making noise, stirring sugar in it as a roll out call at 4:00 AM.

The coffee in the morning so strong, you could stand a spoon up in it.

The putrid smell of the thawing bait of fish heads left out the night before on the fore deck, waiting to be wired thru the eyes before breakfast, to be used in the traps for that days fishing.

Woofing down a fast breakfast, and the call from the ´ole man, up on the Flying bridge, as he fired up the Detroit Diesel engine.

Saddle up boy’s, time to clanker the anchor, let’s get this spud outta the mud, Daylight comin´ and we need to be on the first one, traps, God, I grew to hate them.

But I had made my choice not to stay in school at 16 and for the time being, I had to suffer with it being a deck ape.

My dad had offered me and my brothers and sister any education we wanted, in fact insisted on it, always pointing out, more money was made with a pencil than with your back.

And while on his boat, cut us no slack, as a matter of fact was harder on us boy’s than the rest of the crew.

Because we were his, he expected more out of us than the other deck apes.

Back to Capt. Bill, and Liz, and now Faith their baby.

Capt. Bill had also grown weary of trapping the lobsters, and so being a very inventive man, he built a hookah diving rig after doing some extensive research on the subject.

Now believe it or not, Bill couldn’t swim a lick on the surface, but he could put on his diving gear and jump overboard and go down and catch lobsters.

You’d be surprised at how many men I worked with in my life on the water that could not swim.

He, they, made two or three experimental trips over on the Banks diving, and was very excited about the results.

But his nephew, was freaked out about piling his butt overboard in the open sea, and going down the 60 feet or less to catch the lobsters.

His nephew quit.

I and my brothers had been going down with scuba tanks from the time we were 12 or 14 years old, and so I asked Capt. Bill, if I could go to work with him.

He told me, if it was ok with my dad, sure.

Even though I was about 18 at this time, it was frowned on in the fishing community of Marathon, before it became a tourist trap, for one Capt. to take another’s crew without consent.

So now we are coming to the early 1960´s story of Capt. Bill and the Bahama Mama, and their scrape with Capt. Ray and the vessel Trojan, working out of Key West that occurred on Cay Sal Bank.

When tempers flared and bullets flew.

Ok, I signed on with Capt. Bill, after getting the go ahead from my dad.

Bill talked with me straight up about the settlement, and conditions.

I was to get half of everything I caught, and he would pay all expenses including groceries, my smokes were my problem.

Liz was to be chief cook and bottle washer, and diving hose tender, and Faith, at two years old at the time, handed out all the toothpicks at the end of a meal.

Plus they had a little óle poodle dog, that right now, I can’t remember her name, It’ll come to me later I am sure.

The Bahama Mama was a vessel of 46 feet in length overall and about 16 feet wide.

I was given the captain’s quarters up on the Flying Bridge where the steering was done, and they occupied the two bunk crews quarters down below, aft of the galley, with Faith, and the dog.

Bill and I were to do all the steering and diving, which I turned out to be the blood hound, don’t get me wrong here, I loved it, took to it, like a duck to water.

Down and up, down and up, on coral formations looking for the targeted lobsters, all over the Grand Bahama Bank.

One day Bill counted, I went down and up over 70 times in 45 feet of water looking.

Sure beat the hell out of handling them blasted traps, and sleeping till 6:30 in the morning, and not piling my butt overboard till about 8:00 AM, man, I had a regular office job, and the pay?

I made more money than any of my friends, including my dads crew, I had more toys in them days than the law allowed.

Imagine, some óle skilled numbskull making $5.00 dollars an hour laying bricks, and there I was, still in my teens, knocking down $100. Dollars a day more or less, for the days I piled my sorry butt in the water.

I am going to get into Bills story about the assault on him, his crew, and vessel, by Capt. Ray from Key West, in the early 60´s…

Being Capt. Ray fired the first shot; I refer to it in this manner…

I had heard all the scuttlebutt about the fight, and legal proceedings that happened afterward about the altercation that happened between Bill and Ray.

As I made my first trip on the óle Bahama Mama, I noticed a gouge in the side of the apartment sized galley stove and another one right next to the glass door front on it.

And other pencil holes in the cabinets, and walls of the vessel.

Bill, what happened to your cook stove?, I questioned him.

I’ll tell you a little later he said.

We had sailed the 18 hours across the Gulf Stream to an anchorage behind the coral rocks to the Elbow Cay on the northwest end of Cay Sal bank.

There was an old lighthouse there from centuries past, that the British maintained for navigation, but long since abandoned.

We had left out of Marathon 8:00 in the night, so that we could navigate the rocks in daylight to the anchorage in the leeward of the Cay just about 100 yards off shore of it.

We had gotten there late afternoon.

John, come on with me, and grab your sneakers, throwing me a plastic 30 pound freezer bag to put them in.

In a loud voice he hollered, ¨Stern, on the foredeck¨

A warning to Liz that we would be donning our wet suit’s, this was a warning of privacy they had worked out for all concerned.

Stern on the Stern, or Stern on the foredeck, meant to be left alone, as the boat had no head. (bathroom)

Ahhh what a beautiful afternoon, and I had an idea why Bill said to carry sneakers for going on the Cay, but for a 100 yard swim ashore, the wet suits?

I had no idea at the time, Bill could not swim on the surface.

So we sat on the rail of the boat, put on our US Divers ¨Rocket Fins¨ and piled overboard to swim ashore.

When we reached the rock, we changed our fins for the sneakers, and walked up the worn but overgrown path, covered with its scrub plants and seabirds attacking us, in defense of their nesting grounds.

It reminded me of the horror movie ¨Birds¨, I think was produced by Alfred Hitchcock.

The winding walk up to the top of the rock when we reached the base of the lighthouse was about 30 feet above sea level.

And as we entered the base of the lighthouse which was about 20 feet in diameter, with its spiral staircase going up from right to left.

I noticed not only a dried and salted Warsaw Grouper on the iron hand rail, left by others that had been there before us.

And painted letters, on the interior wall proclaiming, ALFA 66, and also old Campfires as evidence of people not to long ago, camped out in the place, and brass shell casings scattered about from modern weapons.

I smelled, sensed, and felt, plenty had spilt blood in this place.

As we went up the staircase to the top, which was about 40 feet above ground level and narrowing as we went, we came to the top of the lighthouse which was covered with a cage made of copper rods at that time.

As I looked out over the rocks and sea with Bill, I thought, this place brings back memories.

To a time, where cannons still thundered, and there was plenty to plunder, preying on Galleons, passing the Straits of Floridia.

I was looking down on the óle Bahama Mama anchored up in the cove to the south, that brought me here to this place at this time and thinking.

What a set up for a privateer with a letter of marquee, free to take prizes.

The lighthouse giving out signals to marine traffic unless signals from the ship signaled they were friendly, could have been made deceptive.

Looking down at the place, I saw half mooned cannon positions placed in strategic locations for defense, grown over with brush, but there.

John, Bill said, bringing me back to the present, in this cove, I nearly met my maker, but lets go from here, I have more to show and tell you.

We walked on back down the ancient stair case leaving behind the dried Grouper, and the remnants of the campfires and walked towards the seaward side of the facility.

Walls of the brig, a dead giveaway from the small vent holes with mortared in iron bars, and partly below ground level did I see.

And the living quarters of the men stationed there, were 4 feet thick with the local corral rock, capable of swallowing a cannonball fired in aggression with little or no damage to its people inside.

The cannon turrets also built to withstand a terrible assault.

Wow, this place would have been an up hill battle for anyone to take it, I don’t think anyone ever did.

And those dammed seabirds, I was sure the men posted there, ate them for fresh meat, as Capt. Bligh and his crew did, on their infamous return to England, after the mutineers had condemned them to a sure fate in a long boat set adrift on the open sea, even to drinking the blood of those captured sea birds, with the will to survive.

BTW, the presence of seabirds is a sure sign of land of some nature being near.

As we got out of the brush going down to the pocked corral rocks on the seaward side of the rock, (I can’t call it an island) we were no longer a threat to the birds, and they left us alone.

There, with the light sea crashing onto the age old corral, were thousands, upon thousands, of what I refer to as snails, about the size of a baseball in diameter, and about an inch or so thick.

Come on John, Bill said, you think I got you to bring your sneakers over here in a bag to keep ém dry?

So we started in, picking up and throwing them snails, what Liz referred to as ¨Whelks¨, (Latin name I don’t know) up against the rocks busting ém, to retrieve the meats from them.

The son of a guns had thick shells, like those of the Caribbean Queen Conch, (Gigus Strombus) and took some effort to bust ém to get at the meats.

We did this for a good while, and as the sun was setting, Bill looked over at me and said, you know, I bet those birds wish they could get at these meats as easy as we are doing.

We had about half of a plastic bag each of meats, and it was getting dark, so we headed on back across the rock, donned our fins and swam back to the boat.

It was dark good when we hailed to Liz to put the boarding ladder down for us to get back on the boat.

Boy, she had fixed up a fine meal for us knowing we were to bring back one of her favorite things to eat, those whelks.

Those we had the next night, anchored up near Cay Lobos, which is only a dry rock at low tide.

After crossing the Santerian Channel to the Hurricane Flats of the Grand Bahama Bank, and running down the edge of it along the Old Bahama Channel that runs along the northern coast of Cuba as well.

It was dark when we came close to it, and Bill sensed it’s presence because of the calming and direction change of the seas, and the smell of the air around such dangers, that between the corral and salt in the air give off, as the sea crashes on to it.

In those days we had no fancy GPS´s and video depth recorders or radars; it was dead reckoning, and the 5 senses.

That night Bill told me about the galley cook stove.

As we finished up the meal Liz had made from the whelks, laying there at anchor in the leeward of Cay Lobos, and Faith had passed out tooth picks to everyone, I feel I must comment briefly on the food.

Oh man, it was just some fine chewin´ cooked up Saba Island style with even some of those ripe plantains to go along with it.

Ahh, the ripe plantains, I had never in life eaten them before, but one time, tried a green one.

I had seen them first in the Winn Dixie when we were grubbing up my Dads boat as a kid in Marathon and had wanted to get some of those huge bananas.

Son, my dad said, those are ´ole horse bananas, they ain´t fit to eat, they like those óle horse conch’s home in North Carolina.

But I snuck one in anyway, in one of the 12 or so grocery carts we used to put all the things for the boat in.

As we went along the isles filling the carts with galley supplies, if we did not leave one of the crew with the parked filled carts as we filled others, other customers would start to pilfer thru them thinking it was something on special and take things out of our carts.

The óle man, as he was affectionately referred to by the crew, had the Budweiser truck deliver 25 or 30 cases of beer delivered directly to the boat for a month or more trip.

The óle man´s pickup was loaded when we checked out and loaded all the galley supplies into it.

When we got to the boat and was stowing away all the stores, I got out that huge green banana.

Damn, I could not peel it, I had to get a knife and skin the sucker.

I skinned it, but when I bit into it, Pllluuuttt, over the side it went with the peeling.

Yea, it was surely a horse banana, and I had no idea why the Winn Dixie would even stock such a thing.

So here we are back a Cay Lobos, and I had noticed Liz, when she did the shopping for the grub for the boat had brought quite a bit of those horse bananas, some of them green and some of them all yellow and black, looking rotten.

This was my first real taste of true Caribbean Island food, and little did I know until later, when spending 7 or 8 hours a day diving, what energy those plantains have in them for the human diet.

John, Bill said, those two gashes in the galley stove, was made by a single bullet fired from an M1 Grand, tumbling after it passed thru the side of the cabin and entered and exited the stove.

Holding up his lower right arm and showing me a scar just below the elbow about the size of a 50 cent piece, he said, that same bullet entered me here, and traveled up my arm stopping here, pointing just below his wrist.

I had heard the scuttle butt about the shootout years ago involving the Bahama Mama and the Trojan, but now I was getting Bills side of the story first hand.

Ok I am going to tell it like it is, and am not going to give the Readers Digest version of it, to a bunch of little óle ladies just waiting to die.

And if I get a little long winded, enjoy it, or put me on ignore.

In the early 60´s, I can’t remember which year exactly Bill told me, but I am sure if one looked in the annals of National Geographic Magazine, who did an article on the fight at Cay Sal Bank.

And the legal proceedings that took place in Key West, between the Bahama Mama, and the Trojan, one would find out perhaps more about this story than I remember Bill telling me.

I never did read it, even though friend had the whole volume on CD´s and we were going to look it up, but never did get around to it.

Capt. Bill lived on Big Pine Key and worked out of Marathon (Vaca Key) Florida.

He was a transplant from Michigan with his parents when young, and grew up on Big Pine, and was always looked at by the locals as being a Damn Yankee.

Not who he was, but what he was.

Capt. Ray was from an old family of Key West people that had been there for generations.

They refer to themselves as Conchs, I guess from the days of defending themselves using the Caribbean Queen conch shells as gloves in fights.

This information about the name conch, and how it came about, was told to me by one of my dads crew members named Joe Felton, whose family had also lived in the Keys for generations.

Quite a wild bunch in those days, and Joe was quite a tough nut as well, and had done his share of fishing and smuggling whiskey.

Tourism was just about nonexistent, just fishing villages, and isolated coves that were used to smuggle whiskey from the Bahamas.

From Key Largo to Key West that was all there was.

Jumping to the 70´s a bit now.

I drank beer with the guy’s that worked these jobs on the boats, from the Caribbean Club in Key Largo, to Sloppy Joes in Key West…

Because I too, had become one of them, in my young adulthood.

But the roughest of all of these Honkey Tonks, was a place I cannot for the life of me remember the name of right now, was on Stock Island.

Stock Island is separated from Key West by just a 75 yard wide channel called Cow Key channel.

This bar was within walking distance of the Singleton shrimp docks where boats landed their catch from shrimping as far away as Campeche Banks, off of the Yucatan Peninsula, Honduras, both Spanish and British, and Nicaragua.

My dad had a cousin that worked out of there (Stock Island) named Capt. Alton Dickerson and his shrimp boat was named ¨Guiding Light¨

Alton was quite a scrapper and had the reputation of fighting a circle saw with little or no reason when ingesting a few beers.

These guy’s that frequented the place, had often been at sea for one or two months, and had a pocket full of money.

They hadn’t had a drink during the fishing time at sea and often fell in love after a few beers with the painted ladies that worked there.

For the most part, these women had blue veins showing on their upper torsos from that kind of life, and really looked like death warmed over in the light of day.

Ahh, but after a few cold ones, and in the dark smoky interior of the bar, with the Rockola playing some of that good óle tear jerking music, and the balls scattering and rattling on the pool tables.

The women became all 9´s.

And fights, mostly over chicken crap.

One crew was envious of another boats crew, or even a bull$hit vendetta among the crew of it’s own boat.

Quite frequently knives or Saturday night special pistols were pulled and a trip to the hospital for sewing up or digging out a bullet happened.

Fatalities happened occasionally with this type of horse manure.

I bet an electronic calculator could not figure the times the Monroe County Sheriff’s office dispatched deputies to the bar.

Now back to the Bahama Mama and the Trojan in the early 60´s.

Capt. Ray had joined the US Marines as a youth of 17 years, and was sent to Paris Island in South Carolina and there, learned to shoot.

He was later given a medical discharge for psychiatric reasons.

Capt. Bill, Capt. Ray and Capt. Bruce (MV Southern Cross) had been fishing traps for lobsters on the central southern area of Cay Sal bank.

And during a bit of weather would anchor up in the protected cove of the Elbow Cay that I talked about earlier.

Capt. Ray would watch Bill doing his fishing, and if Bill threw his traps back over in the same area he had been fishing, it was a sure sign Bill was on the meat.

And Ray would then throw his traps all amongst Bill’s traps making it not only hard for Bill to pull his own, but using him for a scout to find the lobsters.

Two or three times Bill moved his traps to another area, for it to happen again.

Bill ran up to within hailing distance of Ray and told him, Ray look, there is plenty of bottom on this bank for us to fish, don’t wrap me up with your traps in the middle of mine.

Ray’s reply was, I’ll put my God Dam traps anywhere, I like.

Bill said, if you put your f*ckin traps in the middle of mine again, I will cut the buoys off of them.

Ray threw one overboard right in the middle of Bill’s in defiance.

And Bill, a man true to his word, cut off the buoy.

Ray hauled a$$ to Key West then with that.

To return 3 days later.

Capt. Ray was one pissed off Conch, he ran the 18 or so hours back to Key West and prepared the vessel Trojan for an assault against the vessel Bahama Mama.

Ooops to the late 60´s again.

Now as a youth working with my dad when school was out on his lobster boat, I only met Capt. Ray one brief time at sea when he needed to borrow a air cooled gasoline engine used to power the wench heads we used for pulling the traps, from my dad.

The óle man, (my dad) always kept a new, but tested extra engine and also a new gasoline powered water pump on the boat as a backup.

Being the distance we worked from land/home was far, and these were old wooden boats, it just did not make sense not to.

So therefore in all fairness I cannot comment on Capt. Rays side of the story, only what was told to me by Capt. Bill, and being I worked with him, and Liz on his boat for over two years of my life, I have all reason to believe he told me close to right, his side of it anyway.

John, he said, my brother in law and I was fishing the boat two handed in them days.

I had decided to let the traps set another night and do some work on the boat, so we were anchored up still long after daylight along with another lobster boat which was about 50 or so yards away.

We saw what looked like the Trojan coming up on us from the south, and really thought nothing of it, till he got close to us, and started shooting at us.

Now John, shooting a semi automatic rifle like the M1 Grand Ray was using, from the deck of a rolling and pitching boat is not an easy task.

One must stand strattle legged with the knees slightly bent and use the whole body to stabilize the weapon with the boat jumping up and down under you, for a shot when the sights are on the target.

And of course the target is jumping up and down as well.

There is going to be some misses, as well as hits, firing one shot at the time.

I told my brother in law, we got to get the hell out of here, go aft down in the engine room and fire up the main engine, and I am going out on the foredeck and cut the anchor rope.

I reached over and turned on the Wood Freeman automatic pilot knowing it took a minute or so for it to settle in before it could be engaged.

When I went into the galley for a knife to cut the rope with, that was when a projectile slammed thru the cabin wall, entering the side of the galley stove, exiting the front door of it, and tore into my forearm.

John, my adrenalin was pumping, and all I felt was numb, but I saw the arm was still there, and grabbed the knife and ran to the bow to cut the rope.

Ray was taking his time and the fire he was laying down was close, as I cut the anchor rope and ran back for the wheel house to get the boat moving.

My brother in law had fired up the engine before I got to the wheel (steering wheel) and as I was engaging the marine transmission and shoving the throttle forward to full fuel.

Ray in a lucky shot, pencil holed my left thigh with a searing hot ball of copper jacketed lead.

I nearly $hit with that one, John.

But it had passed clean thru and struck no bone or major artery.

NOTE: these boats were of a displacement type hull, having a hull speed of about 8-10 nautical miles an hour, but rugged, for open ocean use.

So now the Bahama Mama was running away from the Trojan under full power, being steered by the auto pilot, while Capt. Ray on the bow of his boat was still firing shots into her from behind.

He was under full power on the Trojan in pursuit only about 100 yards behind, being steered by the mate evidently, because no two auto pilots are going to hold the same course.

At that moment the other boat that had been laying at anchor beside the Bahama Mama, and having nothing to do with the problem, was putting out a MAYDAY to the US Coast Guard, that they had a dead crew member aboard as a result of the assault.

One of Capt. Rays misses had killed a man that had four children and a wife back at home.

Bill said, I took the time to snatch a sheet from the bunk and was tying strips around my wounds and occasionally a bullet would pierce the after wall of the cabin and whiz by.

My brother in law grabbed an old .30 caliber bolt action deer rifle I kept on the boat and told me he was going to kill that crazy mother f*cker….

I have no idea why, but at the time I got tickled at that, I guess that is the way the mind works under stress.

I knew he could not hit a Bull in the A$$ with the gun, let alone one in the eye.

I let him go, while I started gathering some tools together to go down in the engine room and open the governor on the engine to gain more distance…..

I only had a box or so of bullets for the old rifle on the boat, about 20 or 30 and my brother in law had taken them back on the stern of the boat and had started returning fire…

The engine room access was back there behind the cabin.

And as I came back there to go down it, bullets were flying in both directions, single shots, both trying for well placed shots.

Ray was on the bow and having a harder time because of it jumping up and down.

The stern of my boat was more relaxed in the seas and my brother in law scored a few hits on the Trojan, but did not hit Ray or the mate.

After my brother in law had expended all of his ammunition he had gone back in the bunk room tearing out all of the drawers looking for more.

When a shot from Ray’s rifle, hit the control compass, for the automatic pilot.

The little electric motor on the pilot put the rudder of the boat in a hard turn to port causing the Bahama Mama to go in a circle.

In the heat of the moment John, neither one of us noticed the boat going in circles.

He in the bunk room, and I, down in the engine room working on the governor to get a few more RPM´s out of the engine.

Ray had come with the intention of burning the Bahama Mama to the waterline by having various 5 gallon cans of gasoline ready to toss on us.

Why he didn’t do it to this day I’ll never know, instead when he caught up to us going in a circle.

He put down the rifle and had a holstered .45 pistol and had his mate come alongside with the Trojan and he boarded my boat.

Perhaps this was to be the prelude to burning the boat in his plan?

He knew where I was, and came straight down to the engine room.

And stuck the .45 right to my head and said.

You son of a b*tchin´ God dam Yankee, what you got to say now before I kill your sorry a$$?

John, at this time, neither he nor I knew that another man had been killed on the other boat.

I looked him in the eye and said, Ray, you are one hell of a man, I want to shake your hand, and held mine out.

I saw the expression on his face change; he took the pistol from my head and uncocked and holstered it.

We shook hands and then went up on deck.

Bill, you got any cigarettes on this boat Ray said.

We went in the galley and I got out a pack and some matches, he gave me one and even lit it for me as if nothing at all had happened.

After we had smoked, Ray said, we got to go to the dock and get you to a doctor.

Now back to being anchored up behind Cay Lobos and on my first professional diving trip with Capt. Bill and his wife Liz and their baby Faith in the 70´s on the Bahama Mama.

John, Bill said, we need to go to bed now because we are going to catch lobsters tomorrow, I will tell you the conclusion another time….

So we had started in on an end of a day routine that was to continue for over 2 years.

After supper and talking about anything, including the life Liz came from and her Island People.

Which she struck me funny one time, when she called me a Yank.

I raised my eyebrows on that one, and Bill laughed, telling me that they all, where she was from referred to anybody from the States as a Yank.

Bill going down in the engine room, checking the packing gland to the propeller shaft and the rudder post.

Lifting up the RULE bilge float switch to hear the car horn above my bunk sound off, in a warning the boat was taking on water…

Later both of us, toasting the day, drinking a big glass of water, to insure we would get up later in the night, to look around and check the boat.

Liz, squaring away the galley, and laying out what was to be prepared for breakfast the following morning.

And Faith, already knocked out in a bunk.

BTW she did the wake up call in the mornings too, at daylight, no more of that having coffee way before dawn.

We won’t trapping, I had moved up to a VIP office job, with a Dam good window view, no more cubicle for me. (as if I ever did)

Actually my view was thru a diving mask with a hookah air hose attached to my weight belt and a single stage regulator coupled to it stuck in my mouth.

The next morning we got up and had coffee and about a 15 minute chat.

BTW Liz made better coffee than my dad did.

And while Liz was fixin´ breakfast, Bill and I started getting the hoses and other things all squared away on the fore deck to start our diving.

Now taking into consideration this was only Bill’s 3rd or 4th trip at doing this and me the first one, we started out doing plenty things wrong, and had to go thru a learning curve.

Learning curve my butt we were, the cutting edge of the method of capture of diving lobsters commercially.

Bill had two anchor chutes on the bow, one for a 40 pound storm anchor we used in the nights anchored out in the flat sandy bottom.

And another one that held a stout rock anchor we used for the diving on the corral formations.

Believe it or not Liz and I pulled those anchors by hand; she was as strong as she was a good looking woman.

Bill running up slow on the anchor and she and I taking up the rope till we got over the top of it, and then I dogged off the rope on the bow post to snatch it loose from the bottom.

And then pulling the anchor and chain up into the chute, by hand.

It doesn´t sound like much, but the weight of the rope and the chain and the conditions?

Ha, I would not want to do it now.

At first when we got onto a large area of corral and dropped the rock anchor, and once it held we would pile overboard and search it as far as the 300 foot long hoses would allow around the boat.

Capturing what lobsters were there within our reach, and then moving the boat as Bill had started out doing, using the buddy system.

The water was 45 to 60 feet deep.

Liz was doing the hose and compressor tending for us.

Now lobsters are a lot like buffalo, safety in numbers.

We had more unproductive dives, just a handful here and there, than when we got onto a bunch, say 50 or 60 pounds of tails.

And it was taking us a while to move from one place to the next.

After two or three days of this, one evening Bill said to me, John how do you feel about me going up to a formation and taking the boat out of gear and going down alone for a quick look around?

Bill, I got no problems with this, hell it might make less work for me and Liz pulling that anchor, it had got to be a pain in the proverbial Arse.

And so started what we then referred to as ¨Hose Diving¨ me being the blood hound.

This increased our coverage 10 fold, only thing was, me picking up 2 or 3 or 4 on each dive, and when hitting a bunch of about 20 to 60 pounds and I would come up and give the thumbs up for the anchor….

Liz would throw it in the water and I would make sure it hung good and go on back to capturing.

By that time Bill would be in the water, most of the time before the rope even came tight.

Needless to say we wore the wet suits all day long.

I started catching more than Bill at the end of the day.

Ahh, but then were the days I found a rock that yielded 200 to 300 pounds, Bill would beat me on catching the lobsters.

He was naturally fast with this.

Bill and I soon became the top producers working for Pinellas Seafood Company.

Surpassing even my father’s production with his traps, and money, like I said before, I had more toys than the law allowed.

One evening I asked Bill, what would happen if we got into a scrape like you did with Capt. Ray?

He laughed, and went back aft and when he returned had a gun case and laid it out on the galley table.

Opening it, there laid 2 well oiled .30 caliber carbines.

The reason I am touching on this is because it leads into two other chapters in my stories.

John if you’ll look, one was made by the Singer sewing machine company, and the other was produced by GM under government contracts.

All the goodie’s are gone, but they are in perfect condition, and zeroed in at 100 yards.

Goodies ? I said….all I ever knew about was deer and squirrel hunting with the óle man with a shotgun back in NC on vacations down in the swamps.

At that time I had never shot a rifle, other than a .22.

Yes John, it is illegal for a civilian to own a machine gun, and these have been modified to be semi automatic, and legal, and with the 30 round clips these things will lay down quite a return fire as fast as a man can aim and pull the trigger.

John, under that galley seat right there, that you have been sitting on is 100, 30 round magazines loaded with every 5th round a tracer, and 1000 more rounds in sealed boxes.

I will never get caught with my pants down again.

Chuck got me these years ago, after mine and Rays problem, you know Capt. Chuck?

I had met Capt. Chuck and his beautiful wife Paula who had bought an old boat and was fixing it up to go diving.

Charles A. Johnson, ex Marine, decorated combat veteran, ex POW having spent 36 months in a camp in North Korea.

Placed in 1968 shooting for the North Carolina National Guard, 5th in the nation with a handgun, and 3rd with a rifle.

Paula, an ex Playboy Bunnie from Chicago.

I made a trip diving with them that I will tell about later.

The waist or the rail, of the Bahama Mama, Ahh, the gunnels, were about 2 feet high from the deck.

And as we were running along, waves and spray from the bow would roll and wash up the sides and splash in the scuppers and up the sides of the boat.

Faith loved to stand on tippy toes and put her hand out over the rail for the water to splash on her hands.

This made Bill nervous steering the boat from the bridge where he could plainly see everything going on, on the fore deck.

Time and time again he called the youngin down, afraid she would slip and fall overboard.

One time we were running along and once again Faith started this playful mischief.

I was up on the bridge with Bill and he said, watch this John, I am going to cure this.

He snuck up on the youngin, grabbed her, and holding her by the feet, dunked her head into the sea.

Boy did she squall, and I laughed, and Bill when he came back up on the bridge was laughing too.

Looked over at me and grinned and said, bet she don’t do that again.

I had no hard time working in a family situation on the boat, because it had been that way all my young life.

The óle man would let his crew go on vacation during the summer months and me and my two brothers and our youngest sister, Cindy would go as crew for him.

Me, Jimbo, and Old Joe, (the youngest of us boys but nicknamed that by the óle man) would do the heavy work pulling the traps and stacking them on the deck, and resetting them.

Cindy would catch the buoys and do the cooking.

Getting a little emotional here right now, but I will continue.

Boy did Cindy burn a few things and served some things a bit raw at times.

But what the hell, she was learning.

I am going ahead and say it now so I can continue with this story.

One Saturday in 1975 Cindy at 15, and her friend Tracy at 13, got together at our home and was to go to a friends birthday party about 4 blocks away.

They vanished, from the face of Gods Green earth, neither to be heard from again, it pains me to think a preditor got them, but there is no other explaination.

It has been a terrible blow to our families, not knowing.

Now back to the Bahama Mama.

Faith was full of fun and mischief.

Bill and Liz had her one of them ole big galvanized wash tubs and would put her bathing suit on and with the deck hose running fresh sea water on the foredeck.

She and the little poodle dog would play in it, and with the deck hose for hours.

One day Bill and I came up from a dive for lunch, and I noticed Faith was not around.

I asked Liz what happened to the baby?

Ahh, Liz laughed, she in the bunk knock out, got clyde (full) with beer, and knock out.

That was one of Liz´s sayings…Clyde, meaning full, after a good meal.

I is clyde.

Or to the neck with a problem, I clyde with that thing.

Bill always brought a case of beer on the boat for us to celebrate special occasions with a couple of them.

Catching the first 1000 pounds on the trip, or an exceptionally good day, or, the last day on the way home.

That day Faith had found out that the cans would go ppuuussshhhh if she pulled up on the pop tops.

She did that to the whole case, one by one ppuuuuusssshhh.

And then got one of them out and drank it, Hot.

Rat on the boat.

Miss Betty Russell done the housekeeping for Pinellas Seafood Company in Marathon and had a mobile home on the grounds in which she lived.

Now Miss Betty not only liked to drink a few beer’s up at the IOOB (International Order of Old Bastards) club that was held at ¨Herbie´s Raw Bar, in the evenings.

But she was a cat lover too.

Herbie´s Raw Bar featured oysters and clams on the half shell and draft beer.

And was a favored watering hole for many of the people who worked in the fishing industry.

Unknown to Miss Betty, the guy’s would make bets with each other, to see who could drink beer for beer with her, and not go pee before she did.

Anyway Miss Betty must have had a hundred cats that would show up at her mobile home for breakfast in the mornings.

These cats would prowl all over the docks and fishing boats during the nights, and we never had a rat problem.

There was a little óle bar and grill right across the street from the fish house that had its living quarters and had changed owners many times.

One new owner absolutely hated cats for one reason or another; they got into his trash cans, cried in the nights, whatever.

So him being a creative entrepreneur, decided to put a bounty of $1.00 a dead cat on them.

There were always a few men waiting around in hopes of getting a position on one of the boats that needed cigarettes, a meal, or just a few beers.

Miss Betty’s cat population was soon on the decline….

With the drastic decline of predators, there came an increase of prey…

And we all started having problems with rats on the boats.

One trip with my dad, we had several that had to be dealt with.

I took a 12 quart water bucket and stretched across the top of it a plastic sheet from a 30 pound freezer bag and tied it like a drum top.

Cut a 3 inch X in the center of it and half filled the bucket with seawater.

Under the flaps of the plastic X, I put peanut butter, and on top greased her up with cooking oil.

You ever tried to jump in neck deep water?

The next morning I looked in the bucket, and that nice crystal clear Caribbean seawater was muddy, with a rat’s nose and eyes just above the surface.

My dad thought I was nuts building that trap, but it had worked.

When we took the plastic drum top off, we saw that it was actually 2 young rats I had caught.

They were not big enough to touch bottom and had been taking turns standing on each others shoulders thru the night to breathe.

Rat on the Bahama Mama.

Bill and I were out on the fore deck one evening, taking the mud veins out of the lobster tails we had caught that day.

Mud veins, the colon, the part that conducts the excrement of the crustation to the anus to be purged from the body.

Getting a little graphic here but it is necessary.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Panulirus_argus

We always on the last dive brought up with us a couple of antennae from the heads to de vein the tails with.

We twisted off the tails right there in the water, as we caught them with the hook stick, and discarded the heads on the ocean floor, the tails we put in a belly bag attached around our waist.

These bags would hold about 25 pounds of tails when full.

Yellowtail snapper, grunts, brightly colored Day-Glo blue and yellow queen trigger fish, grouper, and my favorite to eat, the Hog snapper, following us around like pigs at feedin´time.

One time I watched a bright green moray eel swallow a lobster head whole almost the size of a quart jar.

The eel must have been 5 feet long and almost the size of a football in diameter, and teeth? Like a freaking barracuda.

Which they were there to, but did not feed on lobsters, they were just curious, and never bothered us at all.

One time one of them eels was a worrying me as I was killing the lobsters and so I put my hook stick beside the hole where it was living.

And when he stuck his head out, I nailed him, caught him right in the gills, I had him hooked.

He came out and wrapped his entire body around the business end of the stick and tightening around it, and broke it like it was nothing.

Jez, what a powerful piece of muscle that eel was.

But he did not want no part of that big black animal discharging bubbles that had hurt him, he got off and hauled his butt back to his lair.

Had to swim back up to the boat and get another one.

Now these hook sticks were black Fiberglas fishing pole blanks 5 feet long and 5/8 of an inch on the handle end and 3/8 of an inch where we attached the shark hook.

The black ones did not scare the lobsters or the fish, but the white ones did.

If a lobster was in a position in the rocks to not hook him well, to do no damage to the tail, you could calmly, take the stick and tickle him a bit from behind and maneuver him for the kill.

Ahh, the Hog Snapper, Liz cooked up a dam fine one, baked up over a bed of taters n onions with a couple of bacon strips in a roasting pan…getting´ hungry now just talking about it.

If there was some real nice ones on a formation, Bill or I would kill a lobster and take the head and place it on the sand and lay the hook stick down beside it and just lay there on the bottom and wait a minute or so.

With the head still making dieing noises, it would attract the hog snapper, and bam.

A nice 8 to 10 pounder for the baking pan.

The antennae of the spiny rock lobster are similar to a rose bush, full of spines or thorns, but hundreds of them, small but sharp and according to size of the animal about 18 inches long.

Used in self defense against its natural predators.

We would take these and break them off to the stout part and shove them in the rectum tearing the gut loose and removing it from the tail.

We were washing them and filling the 30 pound plastic bags and hog ringing them shut to be put down in the freezer hold.

AAAAHHHHH, and Liz came out on deck, I clyde with that rat.

She had been finishing up supper for us and needed something out of one of the overhead storage cabinets.

As she opened it the dam rat jumped on her, it was just as startled as she was.

Now this was not your ordinary rat, it was a woof rat (in North Carolina talk).

Just about as big as a young adult squirrel.

Now Liz was not the type of woman to get freaked out over something like this but she was one pissed off Island Girl over the rat.

And what it had done to our galley stores.

That thing had chewed into the rice, the jello, and even got into the Grits.

I guess looking to keep a balanced diet, never know about ém rats.

I will come back to the rat and Liz in a minute, but talking about food, got me to thinking about the following.

Ya´ll know what grits are?

Grits and Grunts are one popular breakfast food of the Island people….

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haemulidae

Claimed, to have originated in Key West in the early 1900´s, and spread thru out the Islands.

Ahh, with a side of fried ripe Plantains, it will keep ya going till midday.

I would guess the way I talk about food, some will think I am big as a house, but that is not the case.

I am still 5´11¨ and 165 pounds.

I now use my Dad’s diet to control my weight.

I eat all I want for breakfast and lunch, whatever, and rum and water, the old pirate drink in the evenings, NO food, well sometimes but not often, plus I am quite active.

Ok back to the misadventure.

Also, one of the main sources of protein of not only the Island people, but also here on the Caribbean coast of Nicaragua is the sea turtle; it has been from before Columbus.

And Liz knew what to do with one, both on deck in the butchering of it and in the galley cooking it as well.

Now whether you know it or not, in a properly divided sea turtle, you have meat that is like chicken, like pork, and as well as beef…..

When I first ate some that Liz had cooked, I asked her…what happened to the turtle?

This is like good chicken fried steak with gravy and mashed potatoes….

She laughed….you never eat turtle Island style?….

What Bill and I had caught, she referred to as a ¨Chicken Turtle¨

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Loggerhead_Sea_Turtle

Now some of you are going to condemn me but you must take into consideration that I am the last of a dying breed, and I am just putting on paper what used to be, and just how it was…..

We never took more than we could eat.

Bill and I had decided to go down on, and into, one of the many ¨Blue Holes¨ that we encountered on Cochinos Bank, I think we dove everyone we did encounter.

Now picture this in your minds eye, corral formations for miles around averaging about 30 feet deep from the surface, dark patches of them, with white sandy strips of 45 to 60 feet deep water in between them, visibility had to be about 100 feet

These formations were absolutely bursting with life of every color and shape I have ever had the pleasure of feasting my eyes upon.

I know there are colors there that man don’t even have a name for.

Brain corrals the size of a small car, patches of antler corral by the acre, some dead and black, some brown and dying and the new growth coming white and glittery like a Christmas tree with the tensile and multicolored lights.

Sponges of every shape and color, with Purple and tan sea fans gently waving back and forth with the gentle surging of the sea on a calm day, bad days I’ll tell about later.

And there, in the middle of a beautiful sea of green…..

Was a perfectly round, deep blue, spot of water, perhaps 100 yards across the top of it, some of them as much as 300 yards across.

Viewed from the surface, sea water changes colors with depth.

We anchored the ole Bahama Mama, using the storm anchor, to place the boat right over the hole.

We didn’t want the boat breaking loose and pulling us up from the hole by our diving hoses.

We used the buddy system on these dives, and by now had worked out a system of communicating with hand signals, so we knew what the other intended.

Bill went into the cabin and got out his ¨Bang Stick¨.

Now this bang stick is similar to the hook sticks we used for catching the lobsters, except it has an explosive head on the end of it instead of a shark hook, and on a much stouter stick.

Capt. Chuck had made it for Bill in a local machine shop, you put in a sealed water proof 12 gauge shotgun shell in it.

And when you need to use it, just pull a specially designed safety pin like on a hand grenade and shove it against the threat to you.

Boom …… massive tissue damage, with twice the lead and gasses than a .44 Magnum bang stick often used on a spear gun in those days by the sport divers.

It was to ungainly to use on a spear gun, but close in, it proved to be quite deadly.

Dirk Pitt was only a gleam in Clive Cusslers eye in these days.

On bad weather days, when the sea was to nasty to work, we anchored up, we read the Travis Magee series by John D. McDonald, I loved them.

The vessel ¨Busted Flush¨ moored in a Fort Lauderdale marina, with a fellow adventurer for an owner.

And Clive’s adventures fictional, as well as Travis´ I worked with the men that perhaps inspired these fantasies in real life.

Capt. Chuck, and his pretty wife Paula, with who I did make a diving trip with later, on their boat.

They had bought a sunken 60 foot wooden shrimp boat that they completely rebuilt named the Darlene Kaye, and after refurbishing it renamed it ¨Hustler¨

I will get to it soon, but of mention, Capt. Chuck was a bit like Gonzo on the Muppets Show I saw years later with my daughter, that did not exist at the time…

In these days I had just met, my future daughter’s mother.

Bill and I had had a close one, on one of the other Blue Holes we had dived.

Hence we always carried the bang stick on such dives.

We had gone down into the hole, and searched around its vertical walls to the bottom of it, which was about some 100 feet in depth or a little more.

We never did find more than perhaps a dozen or so lobsters in any of these Blue Holes, but what ones we did find were huge.

I bet some of them would have been world records for the species.

We had come back up to the 45 foot level on the rim of the blue hole, and swam over to the anchor and would wait about 30 minutes or so to decompress, letting the nitrogen level in our blood streams stabilize, to avoid the ¨Bends¨

Now we were still in the learning phase of this work, and I made close to a fatal mistake, for the both of us.

Around these Blue Holes always lived huge Barracuda, Sting Ray’s like the one that nailed Steve Erwin, the Australian Adventurer, Black Tip and Hammer Head sharks.

Hey, danger goes with the chosen territory.

But there is such a thing as pushing your luck, be it stupidity, or by accident, $hit happens.

Bill was in the cautious stage of his life and me?

I was in the invulnerable stage of mine, I mean $hit, I was young and strong, and felt nothing could do me harm, kind of like Steve I guess.

When killing the lobsters, they sprayed a clear watery blood when wringing the tails from the heads.

And the sharks and barracudas paid this no attention, it was not their prey.

But a fin fish that was red blooded and a natural food for them, it got their attention, and I mean fast.

Sharks are known to go into a frenzy or freakin´ nuts, when the smell of red blood is in the water.

There we were, hanging on to the anchor rope right at the chain that connects it to the anchor and decompressing, when along comes a Dog Snapper.

The dog snapper I guess was named for his K9 looking teeth and the fish is quite large in it’s adult stage.

This one was somewhere around 40 to 50 pounds.

Usually when Bill or I encountered one bigger than this, and even the Jew Fish, renamed now Gargantuan Grouper so as to not offend anyone, which can get up to 1200 pounds, we would use the bang stick to kill it.

But one this size we would both just hook it in the head with the hook sticks and swim it up to the boat where Liz would take it aboard with a gaff.

The big stuff, we would get it up to the boat and get a rope on it somewhere and pull it aboard with a triple purchase block and tackle.

As the dog snapper was swimming by, I lunged out at it with my hook stick, as our decompression time was about up.

I missed the head and nailed it in the stomach.

Son of a gun tore a big hole in itself with the fight and went under a rock into a small cave, and Bill and I could not get him out.

But it was hurt and bleeding.

Here comes Mr. Hammerhead Shark enthusiastically looking what to eat.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hammerhead_shark

Now these sharks are known to be quite aggressive, and he didn’t ask a lot of questions.

On his first pass by us with our backs to the rocks, I could have literally spit in his eye; he took us quite by surprise.

When he had gone on by and by now had both of our undivided attention, he evidently out ran out of the blood line of the dog snapper, and did a U turn back in our direction.

When he came back on the second run on his hunt for the wounded fish, Bill had the bang stick ready.

He shoved the point into the shark around the gill section.

Boom.

That Remington Express load of birdshot opened up about a 1 ½ inch hole in him, and like one of them movies you see.

With the airplane getting shot down and trailing a stream of smoke behind, it was blood he was trailing, he glided to the bottom and laid there like a log.

Bill reloaded the bang stick and we went over and he gave him another shot in the top of the head.

We swam on up the anchor rope and got Liz to throw us a trap rope and went back down to get him.

After the three of us had gotten the shark on deck, and sharpened our knives for the butchering, Liz had gone on to the galley to fix our lunch.

I looked over at Bill and said, I nearly $hit my wet suit on this one.

Now Bill had a sly smile, and he gave me one and said, don’t tell Liz, but I think I did.

The shark was 13 feet 4 inches from his head to the fork in his tail, and Bill got the jaws and we divided the meat to give away to our friends.

Back to the chicken turtle before I forget, and then, on to the half way conclusion of Liz and the rat on the boat.

Sea turtles often sleep on the bottom, some right out in the open sandy or grassy bottom and others wedged themselves under an overhanging formation.

There was no commercial market for them in Florida and so we just took what we wanted to eat.

The Island people took them for sale in those days for their local markets because it was a staple in most households, as it still is here in Nicaragua.

I could handle one if it was not over 300 pounds, by grabbing it behind the head on the shell with my left hand and with my right hand the bottom back of the shell.

In this manner I could use him for the power, because he did want to get away, and swam like a bat outta hell when I grabbed him.

All I had to do was hang on, and just steer him on up to the boat where Bill and Liz would get a rope noose around one of his front flippers to take him on board.

On one trip Bill and I took one that weighed way over 600 pounds, but had to use the bang stick on his head to get him.

Now back to Liz and the rat on the boat.

Bill and I tried many ways to catch that rascal, from the drum topped deck bucket baited, and with water in it, to a baited piece of PVC pipe 1 ¼ inches in diameter mounted vertically and the inside greased up a bit.

This rat was making a$$es of both of us.

Liz got the bright idea of dipping a piece of raw meat in diesel fuel and putting it in the overhead cabinet where it liked to pilfer.

As she placed the diesel coated meat in the cabinet, she said, two big men like yourselves, who can catch thousands of pounds of lobsters, all the Chicken Turtle we could want, bad Sharks that could have killed you two.

And you are letting this rat bother me?

Hey, I do the cooking on this boat, and this is one meal that rat ain´t going to forget.

What could Bill or I say?

The meat disappeared and the problem with the rat getting into the galley stores for the remainder of that trip ceased.

We never did smell anything like a dead rat which often occurs in a case of poisoning.

And Liz did rub it in a bit afterwards.

When the trip ended and we went on back to the dock and packed out, and shared up, Bill said to me.

Liz is going to miss this next trip, she is going to do some fixing up of the house and spend time with my mother, so we need to find someone to replace her taking care of the diving compressor and tending the hoses.

Bill hired a feller about my own age, but was one of those long haired muscle boys that loved and was addicted to the Beach Boys music and he was from California.

Blonde haired and blue eyed.

He did not drink or do drugs, but was a little slow naturally.

Actually he made us a dam good deck ape.

It wasn’t long I gave him the Nick name.

Doof.

Now Doof, is Food spelled backwards.

That rascal could eat, and had no idea what to do in the galley, so Bill and I did the cooking, and Doof had no problems doing the bottle washing.

BTW everything was washed in sea water and JOY dish soap, it was the only thing in them days that would mix with the salt water, we even took a bath with JOY.

Followed by about a quart of fresh water to rinse the salt off, felt dam good.

As we fueled up the boat getting ready for another trip, Bill went in the house of the oil dock and wasn’t long came out with a empty 55 gallon steel oil drum and put it on the stern

As we fueled up the boat getting ready for another trip, Bill went in the house of the oil dock and wasn’t long came out with a empty 55 gallon steel oil drum and put it on the stern of the boat.

What is that for? I asked.

We going to start this trip off with a bang he told me, just wait and see.

Once again we left out of Marathon, sailed across Sombrero Reef to the eastward of the light tower there, and headed 123 degrees by the compass toward the Elbow Cay, across the Gulf Stream.

Doof and I went this time and got the whelks for the trip, this had by now become a tradition on our diving trips to Cochinos Bank.

Now when we arrived at Cochinos Bank, it was too late in the afternoon to do any diving, so we just spudded her down with the storm anchor on some sandy bottom.

Loaded up the speckled oval shaped porcelain coated baking pan and shoved it in the oven, this was how Bill and I did most of our cooking.

Come on guy’s Bill said, I have wanted to do this since Capt. Chuck told me about it.

I know Liz would have a fit, but she ain´t here right now.

We went back on the stern and Bill got out his oxygen acetylene torch for emergency repairs.

Took the bung out of the barrel, lit the torch and adjusted the flame to a perfect mix of the gasses.

Snuffed out the fire on the torch on the rail of the boat, and with the mixed gasses still coming out of the tip, filled the barrel for quite a bit with them.

He turned off the gasses to the torch and put the bung back in the drum and threw it overboard.

As Doof and I watched the barrel slowly drift away from the boat, Bill went in the cabin and got out one of his carbine rifles.

When the barrel had drifted about 100 yards away from the boat, Bill shot it with a tracer bullet.

Man, I saw both ends of that barrel fly off in a violent nature and skip the water and balls of fire come out the barrel after them.

Jez, and the boom, delayed a bit getting to us, but it was outrageous.

We all laughed like kids, so it IS true, the only difference between Men and boy’s, is the price of their toys.

Some 36 hours later we found evidence of another fricking rat on the boat.

Dam that SOB that had put the bounty on Miss Betty Russell’s cats.

Bill had reclaimed the bunk up on the flying bridge and now Doof and I shared the two bunk crew’s quarters that Liz and Bill and the baby had shared when Liz was on the boat.

Course I grabbed the top bunk being senior crew on the boat and all.

Now all three of the bunks on the ole Bahama Mama were built head to toe, side to side of the boat, not running the length of the boat.

And when the boat got a slight list on her, it was just a matter of throwing the pillow to the other side to keep your head on the highest side.

Now Bill, and Doof, and I, tried every way to get that rat, even using Liz’s method of the raw meat coated with the diesel fuel.

But that rat was one of them Smart Rats, and I still believe to this day, it was the same rat that Liz had only made sick with the coated meat the previous trip, and now knew to leave it alone.

Scientific laboratory tests prove that they are very smart animals; I mean I have watched all those animal shows.

Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom, Disney movies, and The Muppets later on.

They are smart animals.

We were about half way thru the trip and Bill had transferred some fuel from one tank to the other, and caused the boat to list a little the other way.

Simple, I just changed my pillow to the other side where I had my feet before.

We had gone to bed and I pulled the sheet up over me and just about gone to sleep when the rat jumped in the bed with me and was scratching outside my sheet.

Thru the sheet I knocked that SOB all the way across the cabin, jumped up and screwed on the light.

All the lights on the Bahama Mama in the cabin used this on and off system.

Boy I was cussing that rat and it got Bill and Doof up.

I had not hit it hard enough to kill it, so it got away.

Both Bill and Doof laughed about it, but I did not think it was so dam funny.

We all agreed that I had scared the $hit outta that rat, and it would not be back again that night.

But anyway Bill prepared for the rat with his gun.

Bill got out a rifle bullet took some pliers and pulled the projectile out of it, dumped about half of the powder out of it, and using toilet paper and epoxy glue made a special bullet for the rat, just in case he got chance to use it.

We had all gone back to bed and just as I was about to really drift away, that Freakin´ rat jumped on my back and using me for a spring board, jumped up behind the stereo speaker that was above my bunk.

I jumped up again, and screwed the light back on and saw his tail hanging down outside of the speaker, he thought he was hid.

But by now I was one pissed off young man with that rat.

Bill, get you’re a$$ down here with that gun, I hollered.

Shoot the SOB, Shoot the SOB, boy was I egging him on, being by now very tired and pissed off with this freakin´ rat.

I mean really, two times in one night, jumping in the bed with me, how would you feel?

John, Bill said, I don’t want to shoot the speaker, reach under your mattress on this side and get out one of those brass brazing rods.

Now here we were, Bill, Doof, and I in the tight quarters, Bill poised with the rifle, and tells me to take the brazing rod about three feet long and poke the speaker with it.

When I did, that rat came out of there, and came right at us like Teddy Roosevelt charging up San Juan Hill on a mule.

Bill didn’t shoot and the three of us started dancing and a prancing to either stomp him or kick him.

After the rat was gone, I asked Bill why didn’t you shoot?

John, I didn’t want to blow the back glass window out of the cabin….

Piss on that rifle I said, and stomped out on the foredeck.

There I found me a piece of 1x2x18 trap frame of cypress and came back in the cabin with it.

Bill said what you going to do with that?

If that rat jumps back up in the bunk with me again, it is only going to be me and him, and I am going to kill him, if I have to beat this boat to pieces to do it.

I put the stick in the bunk with me where I could reach it just in case, but needless to say, I could not sleep that night waiting for the vile little f**ker to show back up.

It did not come back that night and I was a little grouchy that day not having a nights rest, till we hit a place that had a good amount of lobsters.

We did so well, Bill called for a couple of beers apiece to be put on the ice to celebrate.

I was really ready for good nights sleep that night, a good meal under my belt, a couple of beers and a exceptionaly successful day’s work.

Still in the back of my mind was that rat.

I bundled up in the top sheet and was out like a light in no time.

Sure as $hit, I later felt that frigging rat in the bunk with me, and I flung the sheet and jumped up and screwed on the light.

Oh happy day.

The rat had gotten caught under the top sheet and was jumping up and down trying to get out.

Hahaha, I got out my stick and I worked his a$$ over good with it.

By the time I had stripped the bed of the bloody sheets with the rat in them, Bill and Doof had gotten up.

I checked to make doggone well sure that rat was graveyard dead.

Bill said let me see that rat.

When he looked at it good he said, this is a nursing female, she’s got a litter of ratlets somewhere on this boat.

Evidently this was why she was so aggressive looking food, and she had been crossing your feet the whole time and you never knew it till you changed ends on the bunk.

I said, just what I need, more rats on this boat to deal with.

John, don’t be worried, they are nursing ratlets, more than likely we’ll smell the stink of them later on.

And so I gathered up the sheets and the rat and threw all of it into the sea.

Clean sheets and a dead rat later, I slept like a log.

Several days later, I made just another near fatal mistake, (seems like my life has been full of this type of conduct on my part) stupidity, arn´t all accidents that way in the long run?

I was hose diving from formation to formation and looking, playing real well, my part in being the blood hound.

Bill would put me off on the up current side of the rocks and I would go down and look around while he circled around me with the boat.

Doof or Liz, which ever was on the boat, would pay out hose so it was not to be pulling on me.

If there were only a few lobsters I would get ém and come on back up.

When near the boat, I would unsnap the diving hose with the single stage regulator on it from the ring attached to my weight belt and Doof would pull it on the boat getting it ready for the next dive.

When I got to the boarding ladder, I would take off my fins and belly bag and hand them up to Doof, and climb on up it and then sit there waiting for the next dive.

The boarding ladder was amidships, not on the stern, but where Bill could see everything going on.

While reattaching the hose and putting my fins back on, Bill would run to the next one, Doof would empty the bag of what few lobster tails I had caught, and return it to me.

Liz did this same thing when she was on the boat, as many as 70 times for the day, Bill kept a count one day.

Alright back to my stupidity and me almost getting drowned.

I had come up off of a formation and turned loose of the hose and had taken off the fins and belly bag and climbed up and was standing on the bottom rung of the boarding ladder.

As I handed up the fins and belly bag to Doof, one of the lobster tails fell out of it and started its plummet to the bottom.

Uh uh…I was not going to lose that tail, as I looked up at Bill on the flying bridge steering the boat, and taking a couple of deep breaths to saturate my blood with oxygen.

I said wait a minute Bill, I’ll be right back.

I pulled the mask down on my face and taking a last deep breath to the maximum of my lungs capacity, fell back into the water off of the ladder.

Couple of things I need to touch on here, one, I needed to shave every day to keep from clearing the mask to dam much.

Those little tiny hairs under my nose and around the sealing area of my face caused the thing to leak.

Pain in the a$$ to have to continually reach up and press the top of it and blow out your nose to get the water out of it.

Let alone having to replace the mask every 2 or 3 months due to beard burn on the sealing surface.

Ahh, and after doing a back flip into the sea off of the ladder to protect the visual mode of diving, and getting reoriented for the trip down.

Clearing the ears for the changes in pressure.

I had been down and up so many times having every 8 or 10 feet in depth to clear my ears, it had become so easy it was just a matter of moving my jaw, I no longer had to pinch my nose and blow pressure to the ears.

Now this ain´t like going up in no airplane and people telling you to chew Chiclets and everything will be alright.

As I glided down with the aid of the 14 pounds of lead around my waist on the weight belt, I had no problem locating the lone lobster tail on the white sandy bottom and getting to it.

I stood up on the bottom and unzipped the wet suit jacket and put the tail inside, but when I started back up, I realized I had no fins on my feet, and couldn’t go anywhere.

I tried two or three times to go up, only to settle back on the bottom and really needed a bit of air bad due to my exertion.

The air I took in on the surface had been compressed to the point I had the irresistible urge to breathe in.

I started seeing stars or dots in my vision, and said to myself Oh $hit, what have I done?

Now this wasn’t like free diving in 15 to 20 feet of water around the supports of the Seven Mile Bridge back home in Marathon.

Capturing lobsters with my brothers, and staying down for two minutes in those shallows during slack tide.

This was 50 feet…..

By the time I thought to hit the quick release on my weight belt, I was nearly out of my mind with desire to breathe in.

After releasing the weight belt.

I laid back spread eagle and forced myself to relax as the buoyancy of the wet suit took me toward the surface.

As I rose closer to the surface, the desire to inhale subsided, and before reaching the surface.

I started to slowly exhale the stale used up air that had been compressed in my lungs on the bottom, and now starting to expand.

When I bobbed to the surface, I blew like a whale and just laid there catching my breath.

Bill circled the boat around, smiled down at me and asked, did you get the tail?

I unzipped my jacket and waved it around.

Doof said, FAR OUT, (all the hippies were saying that in them days), He got him Bill.

I climbed back up the boarding ladder a bit tired and somewhat a little slower than normal and asked Bill to circle around again so I could go back down for my weight belt.

Bill said, you alright?

Yea Bill, just feel like I ran a 200 yard dash is all, I’m Ok.

I took his weight belt and the hose, put my fins on, went back down and recovered my leads.

Never, did I go back overboard without those fins where they belonged, on my feet.

That night after supper, Bill told me, John, you were down there a good while and I had put my gear on to go after you till we saw you rising to the surface, don’t do that again son.

Next the lobster boat Hustler, with Capt. Chuck and his wife Paula.

The rest of the trip passed uneventfully, and Bill and I got to talking, on the way back to the dock.

John, I am going to put the boat on dry dock on Stock Island and do some repairs on her, and I feel like it will take about three or four weeks to do what I want to do to her.

You need me to help you do anything Bill?

No, take you some time off; go on one of your motorcycle adventures or something.

So I had my bike all ready to go and was going to haul a$$ up US 1 the next morning, when Capt. Chuck pulled up in my dads driveway.

I had met Capt. Chuck and his wife Paula several times and they had bought an old boat and fixed it up to go diving.

They had bought a sunken 60 foot wooden shrimp boat that they completely rebuilt named the Darlene Kaye, and after refurbishing it renamed it ¨Hustler¨

Charles Johnson, 6´8´´ex Marine, decorated combat veteran, ex POW having spent 36 months in a camp in North Korea.

Chuck’s father had been a judge in Randolph County North Carolina for centuries.

He placed in 1968 shooting for the North Carolina National Guard, 5th in the nation with a handgun, and 3rd with a rifle.

Paula, an ex Playboy Bunnie from Chicago 6´2´´and just as good looking as she was strong, tall, and witty.

Chuck and Paula had been working their boat for about 8 or 10 months by this time, and had not made any real good trips as yet, as far as production goes, just fair to middlin´.

John, Paula and I have got the boat ready to leave, and we had to fire a diver that had been working with us, would you like to make one trip with us?

Chuck, I was ready to go on a trip up to North Carolina in the morning.

John, we need somebody bad to go with us, won’t you consider delaying your plans for about 18 days to make a trip with us?

I know you just bought a new rifle because Bill told me you did, tell you what, bring it and I will teach you how to shoot it the right way.

He got my attention there, Chuck, I don’t have time to go buy any amount of bullets for it.

Don’t worry about the ammo, it’s a .30 .06 ain´t it? (There was nothing that went on in that close knit community that everybody didn’t know about in those days)

Chuck had done talked to Bill about needing me to go with them and Bill told him to go for it and catch me before I left on my trip.

Alright Chuck, how are we going to share?

Like I always do 1/3 of what you catch is yours.

No, no, no, Chuck, I get half of what I catch, or I don’t pile my sorry butt overboard.

Dam John, you drive a hard bargain.

That is because I catch lobsters, and you know it, other wise you wouldn’t be here.

At this time I had well over a year doing this under my belt.

We shook hands on the deal.

I went in the house and got my sea bag, diving gear, and of course my new rifle and piled in the truck with Capt. Chuck and we went on down to the boat Hustler waiting at the dock to leave.

So here we go to Cochinos Bank to dive lobsters, Capt. Chuck, Paula, myself and two Siamese cats they had for pets on the Vessel Hustler .

One cat named Grandma, and the other named A$$hole…….

HUSTLER

Now one cat was a male and one was a female and I swear to God I don’t remember which was which, and could not tell them apart.

But Chuck had appropriately named one a$$hole and this cat was always into doing crazy $hit.

Paula had named the female Grandma.

Never did worry about rats on the boat though.

We left out that evening and as not to put a burden on each other, Capt. Chuck and I shared the watches running across the Gulf Stream during the night just like Bill and I did.

Even in those days the marine traffic in the Straits of Florida with merchantmen and tankers was very active.

Sometimes in my thoughts while alone on wheel watch at night.

Dam those Iron Clads, and the size of them Mothers, even unarmed, what a formidable prize.

But I will still get one once in a while.

While mortals chalk it up to the superstitions of being in the Devils Triangle.

In my mind the cannons still Thunder, and there is plenty to plunder.

Were YOU born, 200 years to late?

Are you with me on what took place back in time?

Are you following my messages?

They were messages to a few of you, it is a calling, and a remembrance ….YOU was there, and did your part, as well as I.

Cannons raised to knock out the masts, and not to hole her.

Later the grape to sweep the decks, and then the grapnel hooks to lash us together.

And the pistols and swords, to finally take the prize.

Let me tell you something right now, when you got lights inside of ¼ of a mile from you, as in a green one on the left, a red one on the right, and two white lights in the middle, one above the other in a vertical line.

You got a BIG FRICKIN problem being on a wooden $hitpot.

You had better put that boat in the Do Lets go, and hope that upper white light follows you away on either side of the lower white one, and the red or the green light disappears.

And you cannot just knock the boat out of gear and swear you were dead in the water.

Because you will be DEAD, in the water, pushed, to the bottom of the Sea.

Davy Jones welcomes you ignorant greenhorns, just as he welcomes the skilled and quite unlucky.

I am going to get away from Chuck and Paula for just a minute here to elaborate on one of the seasoned commercial fishermen’s favorite subjects to talk about.

Greenhorns.

Talk crap, these are war stories of those who either lived thru the stupidity of them, and can now laugh at the irony of them.

Or those that have had friends cross the bar, (died) because of one of them.

Now this subject can pop up anywhere, in a smoky bar tossing down a few cold ones, or out on the deck anchored down and doing a bit of hand line fishing for the hell of it, or sewing up a net because of a malfunction.

Basically there are two types.

Smart-a$$ Greenhorns, and Brain-dead Greenhorns.

Now a Greenhorn for those of you that don’t know, are generally the adventurous type, all bubbly and full of enthusiasium, kind of like a young inexperienced puppy on the band wagon of one of them new fads that don’t make any common sense.

In these days they could be male or female, Arnold Icantspellhislastname coined the phrase of Girlie Men for some of them, thinking of the glamour by going to sea and not knowing jack $hit about it.

Bull Dike for the females that want to wear foul weather gear, and drink beer and roughhouse with the guy´s, up in the Alaska fisheries they call them Klon-Dikes.

I think they use the same terms in those cowboy places where they raise cattle.

The most dangerous type of Greenhorn, male or female, is the ¨Sexual Intellectual Greenhorn¨ or commonly known as the ¨Frickin Know-it-alls ¨

These are the Smart A$$ Greenhorn’s.

They have usually read Chapman’s book about boat handling and marlinspikemanship from cover to cover and tried to memorize it.

These are the type, who in a doubtful situation, want to take care of things themselves and not call anyone, and perhaps win a big Ättaboy¨ from everyone.

This type of conduct has caused more loss of life, property, and damage to the environment, than the Brain Dead Greenhorn ever will.

Now the óle Brain Dead Greenhorn will do as instructed by the Capt.

If a ship comes into range that a red or green running light is visible, he will call the Capt.

Especially when crossing a major shipping lane like the Straits of Florida.

If the engine water temperature changes or the oil pressure changes, he will call the Capt.

If anything out of the ordinary is observed, again, he will call the Capt.

What brought all this to mind was what happened to the infamous Capt. Ray with his brand new steel hulled boat he had named the ¨Patty¨

For those of you that happen to be following this story of mine, here is the next chapter in what happened to Capt. Bill and Capt. Ray after their shoot out on Cay Sal Bank.

As I was told it.

When the Trojan and the Bahama Mama arrived at the Key West sea buoy they were met by the US Coast Guard and escorted to their dock.

The FBI waiting there then proceeded with their investigation into the incidence being it took place on the high seas and involved a fatality.

Capt. Bill was taken to the hospital to have his wounds treated and was there for several days for observation.

The Bahama Mama was hit 97 times from Capt. Ray’s M1, and the Trojan suffered 14 hits by Capt. Bill’s old deer rifle.

To make it a Federal offence, Capt. Ray was charged with piracy and manslaughter.

And trial was to be held in the Federal Courthouse in Key West, the first jury trial they had in ages.

Hell 4 on, and 4 off (hours), just drinking coffee and eating sandwiches or cookies…I could go around the world on watches like that….

DAYLIGHT COME, AND ME WANNA GO HOME………

This is Radio,oooo Bahamas,sss, brought to you, by the Great Bahamian Shoe sale….

And Doan’s Pills, good for what ails you AND, they Stop Wind….