The Great Shark Hunt Part 29

3) The third reason for the bad way I feel about this "article" is that I used to have tremendous faith in this magazine called The Police Chief. The Police Chief. I read it cover-to-cover every month, like some people read the Bible, and I read it cover-to-cover every month, like some people read the Bible, and the city paid for my subscription. the city paid for my subscription. Because they knew I was valuable to them, and Because they knew I was valuable to them, and The Police Chief The Police Chief was valuable to me. I was valuable to me. I loved loved that G.o.dd.a.m.n magazine. It that G.o.dd.a.m.n magazine. It taught taught me things. It kept me ahead of the game. me things. It kept me ahead of the game.

But no more. Things are different now -- and not just for me either. As a respected law enforcement official for 20 years in the West, and now as a weapons consultant to a political candidate in Colorado, I can say from long and tremendous experience that The Police Chief The Police Chief has turned to cheap jelly. As a publication it no longer excites me, and as a phony Voice of the Brotherhood it makes me sick with rage. One night in Oakland, about a dozen years ago, I actually got my rocks off from reading the advertis.e.m.e.nts. . . I hate to admit such a thing, but it's true. has turned to cheap jelly. As a publication it no longer excites me, and as a phony Voice of the Brotherhood it makes me sick with rage. One night in Oakland, about a dozen years ago, I actually got my rocks off from reading the advertis.e.m.e.nts. . . I hate to admit such a thing, but it's true.

I remember one ad from Smith & Wesson when they first came out with their double-action .44 Magnum revolver: 240 grains of hot lead, exploding out of a big pipe in your hand at 1200 feet per second. . . and super-accurate, even on a running target.

Up until that time we'd all thought the .357 Magnum was just about the bee's nuts. FBI-filed tests had proved what the .357 could do: in one case, with FBI agents giving fire-pursuit to a carload of fleeing suspects, an agent in the pursuing car brought the whole chase to an end with a single shot from his .357 revolver. His slug penetrated the trunk of the fleeing car, then the back seat, then the upper torso of a back seat pa.s.senger, then the front seat, then the neck of the driver, then the dashboard, and finally imbedded itself in the engine block. Indeed, the .357 was such a terrifying weapon that for ten years only qualified marksmen were allowed to carry them.

So it just about drove me crazy when -- just after I'd qualified to carry a .357 -- I picked up a new issue of The Police Chief The Police Chief and saw an ad for the .44 Magnum, a brand-new revolver with and saw an ad for the .44 Magnum, a brand-new revolver with twice twice the velocity and the velocity and twice twice the striking power of the "old" .357. the striking power of the "old" .357.

One of the first real-life stories I heard about the .44 Magnum was from a Tennessee sheriff whom I met one spring at a law enforcement conference in St. Louis. "Most men can't handle the G.o.dd.a.m.n thing," he said. "It kicks worse than a G.o.dd.a.m.n bazooka, and it hits like a G.o.dd.a.m.n A-bomb. Last week I had to chase a n.i.g.g.e.r downtown, and when he got so far away that he couldn't even hear my warning yell, I just pulled down on the b.a.s.t.a.r.d with this .44 Magnum and blew the head clean off his body with one shot. All we found were some teeth and one eyeball. The rest was all mush and bone splinters."

Well. . . let's face it; that man was a bigot. We've learned a lot about racial problems since then. . . but even a n.i.g.g.e.r could read The Police Chief The Police Chief in 1970 and see that we haven't learned much about weapons. Today's beat cop in any large city is a sitting duck for snipers, rapers, dope addicts, bomb-throwers and communist fruits. These sc.u.m are well-armed -- with U.S. Army weapons -- and that's why I finally quit official police work. in 1970 and see that we haven't learned much about weapons. Today's beat cop in any large city is a sitting duck for snipers, rapers, dope addicts, bomb-throwers and communist fruits. These sc.u.m are well-armed -- with U.S. Army weapons -- and that's why I finally quit official police work.

As a weapons specialist I saw clearly -- in the years between 1960 and 1969 -- that the Army's weapons-testing program on the Indo-Chinese peninsula was making huge strides. In that active decade the basic military cartridge developed from the ancient 30.06 to the neuter .308 to a rapid-fire .223. That lame old chestnut about "sharpshooters" was finally muscled aside by the proven value of sustained-firescreens. The hand-thrown grenade was replaced, at long last, by the portable grenade launcher, the Claymore mine and the fiery missile-cl.u.s.ter. In the simplest of technical terms, the kill-potential of the individual soldier was increased from 1.6 per second to 26.4-per second -- or nearly five KP points higher than Pentagon figures indicate we would need to prevail in a land war with China.

So the reason for this nation's dismal failure on the Indo-Chinese peninsula lies not not in our weapons technology, but in a in our weapons technology, but in a failure of will. failure of will. Yes. Our G.I.'s are doomed in Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, Thailand, Burma, etc. for the same insane reason that our law enforcement agents are doomed in Los Angeles, New York and Chicago. They have been Yes. Our G.I.'s are doomed in Vietnam, Cambodia, Laos, Thailand, Burma, etc. for the same insane reason that our law enforcement agents are doomed in Los Angeles, New York and Chicago. They have been shackled, shackled, for years, by cowardly f.a.ggots and spies. Not all were conscious traitors; some were morally weak, others were victims of drugs, and many were simply crazy. . . for years, by cowardly f.a.ggots and spies. Not all were conscious traitors; some were morally weak, others were victims of drugs, and many were simply crazy. . .

Let's face it. The majority of people in this country are mentally ill. . . and this illness unfortunately extends into all walks of life, including law enforcement. The illness is manifest in our National Stance from Bangkok to Bangor, to coin a phrase, but to those of us still dying on our feet in the dry rot of middle America there is no worse pain -- and no more hideous proof of the plague that afflicts us all -- than the knowledge of what has happened to The Police Chief, The Police Chief, a magazine we once loved because it was a magazine we once loved because it was great. great.

But let's take a look at it now. The editor-in-chief is an FBI dropout by the name of Quinn Tamm, a middle-aged career cop who ruined his whole life one day by accidentally walking on the fighting side of J. Edgar Hoover's wiretap fetish. Tamm is legally sane -- by "liberal" standards -- but in gra.s.s-roots police circles he is primarily known as the model for Mitch Greenhill's famous song "Pig in the Stash." The real editor of the magazine is a woman named Pitcher. I knew her in the old days, but Tamm's son does most of the work, anyway. . .

One of the most frightening things about The Police Chief The Police Chief is that it calls itself "The Professional Voice of Law Enforcement." But all it really is, is a house-organ for a gang of high-salaried pansies who call themselves the "International a.s.sociation of Chiefs of Police, Inc." is that it calls itself "The Professional Voice of Law Enforcement." But all it really is, is a house-organ for a gang of high-salaried pansies who call themselves the "International a.s.sociation of Chiefs of Police, Inc."

How about that? Here's a crowd of suck-a.s.ses putting out this magazine that says it's the voice of cops. Which is bulls.h.i.+t. All you have to do is look at the G.o.dd.a.m.n thing to see what it is. Look at the advertising; f.a.g tools! Breathalysers, "paralyzers," gas masks, sirens, funny little car radios with voice scramblers so the sc.u.m can't listen in. . . but no ATTACK WEAPONS!!! Not one! The last really functional weapon that got mentioned in The Police Chief The Police Chief was the "Nutcracker Flail," a combination club and pincers about three feet long that can cripple almost anybody. It works like a huge pair of pliers: the officer first flails the living s.h.i.+t out of anybody he can reach. . . and then, when a suspect falls, he swiftly applies the "nutcracker" action, gripping the victim's neck, extremities or genitals with the powerful pincers at the "reaching" end of the tool, then squeezing until all resistance ceases. was the "Nutcracker Flail," a combination club and pincers about three feet long that can cripple almost anybody. It works like a huge pair of pliers: the officer first flails the living s.h.i.+t out of anybody he can reach. . . and then, when a suspect falls, he swiftly applies the "nutcracker" action, gripping the victim's neck, extremities or genitals with the powerful pincers at the "reaching" end of the tool, then squeezing until all resistance ceases.

Believe me, our city streets would be a lot safer if every beat cop in the nation carried a Nutcracker Flail. . . So why is this fine weapon no longer advertised in PC? PC? I'll tell you why: for the same reason they no longer advertise the .44 Magnum or the fantastically efficient Stoner rifle that can shoot through brick walls and make hash of the rabble inside. Yes. . . and also for the same reason they won't advertise The Growler, a mobile sound unit that emits such unholy shrieks and roars that every human being within a radius of ten city blocks is paralyzed with unbearable pain: they collapse in their tracks and curl up like worms, losing all control of their bowels and bleeding from the ears. I'll tell you why: for the same reason they no longer advertise the .44 Magnum or the fantastically efficient Stoner rifle that can shoot through brick walls and make hash of the rabble inside. Yes. . . and also for the same reason they won't advertise The Growler, a mobile sound unit that emits such unholy shrieks and roars that every human being within a radius of ten city blocks is paralyzed with unbearable pain: they collapse in their tracks and curl up like worms, losing all control of their bowels and bleeding from the ears.

Every PD in the country should have a Growler, but the PC won't advertise it because they're afraid of hurting their image. hurting their image. They want to be They want to be LOVED. LOVED. In this critical hour we don't need love, we need WEAPONS -- the newest and best and most efficient weapons we can get our hands on. This is a time of extreme In this critical hour we don't need love, we need WEAPONS -- the newest and best and most efficient weapons we can get our hands on. This is a time of extreme peril. peril. The rising tide is almost on us. . . but you'd never know it from reading The rising tide is almost on us. . . but you'd never know it from reading The Police Chief. The Police Chief. Let's look at the June 1970 issue: Let's look at the June 1970 issue: The first thing we get is a bunch of gibberish written by the police chief of Miami, Florida, saying "the law enforcement system [in the U.S.A.] is doomed to failure." Facing this is a full-page ad for the Smith & Wesson "Street Cleaner," described as a "Pepper Fog tear smoke generator. . . loaded with a new Super Strength Type CS [gas] just developed by Gen. Ordnance." The "Street Cleaner" with Super CS "not only sends the meanest troublemakers running. It convinces them not to come back. . . You can trigger anything from a 1-second puff to a 10 minute deluge. . . Do you you have a Street Cleaner yet?" have a Street Cleaner yet?"

In all fairness, the Pepper Fogger is not a bad tool, tool, but it's hardly a weapon. It may convince trouble-makers not to come back in ten minutes, but wait a few but it's hardly a weapon. It may convince trouble-makers not to come back in ten minutes, but wait a few hours hours and the sc.u.m will be back in your face like wild rats. The obvious solution to this problem is to abandon our obsession with tear gas and fill the Street Cleaner with a nerve agent. CS only slaps at the problem: nerve gas solves it. and the sc.u.m will be back in your face like wild rats. The obvious solution to this problem is to abandon our obsession with tear gas and fill the Street Cleaner with a nerve agent. CS only slaps at the problem: nerve gas solves it.

Yet the bulk of all advertising in the PC PC is devoted to tear gas weapons: Federal Laboratories offers the 201-Z gun, along with the Fed 233 Emergency Kit, featuring "Speed-heat" grenades and gas projectiles guaranteed to "pierce barricades." The AAI Corporation offers a "multi-purpose grenade that can't be thrown back." And, from Lake Erie Chemical, we have a new kind of gas mask that "protects against CS." (This difference is crucial; the ad explains that army surplus gas masks do well enough against the now-obsolete CN gas, but they're virtually useless against CS -- "the powerful irritant agent that more and more departments are turning to and that's now 'standard' with the National Guard.") is devoted to tear gas weapons: Federal Laboratories offers the 201-Z gun, along with the Fed 233 Emergency Kit, featuring "Speed-heat" grenades and gas projectiles guaranteed to "pierce barricades." The AAI Corporation offers a "multi-purpose grenade that can't be thrown back." And, from Lake Erie Chemical, we have a new kind of gas mask that "protects against CS." (This difference is crucial; the ad explains that army surplus gas masks do well enough against the now-obsolete CN gas, but they're virtually useless against CS -- "the powerful irritant agent that more and more departments are turning to and that's now 'standard' with the National Guard.") Unfortunately, this is about as far as The Police Chief The Police Chief goes, in terms of weapons (or tools) information. One of the few interesting items in the non-weapons category is a "scrambler " for "police-band" car radios -- so "the enemy" can't listen in. With the "scrambler," everything will sound like Donald Duck. goes, in terms of weapons (or tools) information. One of the few interesting items in the non-weapons category is a "scrambler " for "police-band" car radios -- so "the enemy" can't listen in. With the "scrambler," everything will sound like Donald Duck.

The only consistently useful function of the PC PC is the old faithful "Positions Open" section. For instance: Charlotte, N.C., needs a "firearms identification expert" for the new city-county crime lab. Ellenville, N.Y. is looking for a new chief of police, salary "10,500 with liberal fringe benefits." Indeed. And the U.S. Department of Justice is "now recruiting Special Agents for the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs." The ad says they need "a sizeable number" of new agents, to start at $8098 per annum, "with opportunity for premium overtime pay to gross up to $10,000." is the old faithful "Positions Open" section. For instance: Charlotte, N.C., needs a "firearms identification expert" for the new city-county crime lab. Ellenville, N.Y. is looking for a new chief of police, salary "10,500 with liberal fringe benefits." Indeed. And the U.S. Department of Justice is "now recruiting Special Agents for the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs." The ad says they need "a sizeable number" of new agents, to start at $8098 per annum, "with opportunity for premium overtime pay to gross up to $10,000."

(In my opinion, only a lunatic or a dope addict would do narc-work for that kind of money. The hours are brutal and the risks are worse: I once had a friend who went to work as a drug agent for the feds and lost both of his legs. A girl he was trusting put LSD in his beer, then took him to a party where a gang of vicious freaks snapped his femurs with a meat-ax.) Let's face it: we live in savage times. Not only are "cops" called pigs -- they are treated like swine and eat worse than hogs. Yet the PC PC still carries advertising for "P.I.G." tie-clasps! What kind of two-legged sc.u.msucker would wear a thing like that? still carries advertising for "P.I.G." tie-clasps! What kind of two-legged sc.u.msucker would wear a thing like that?

WHY ARE WE GROVELING? This is the rootnut question! Why has the once great Police Chief Police Chief turned on its rank and file? turned on its rank and file?

Are we dupes? dupes? Do the Red Pansies want to Do the Red Pansies want to destroy destroy us? If not, why do they mock all we believe in? us? If not, why do they mock all we believe in?

So it should come as no surprise -- to the self-proclaimed pigs who put out The Police Chief The Police Chief -- that most of us no longer turn to that soggy-pink magazine when we're looking for serious information. Personally, I prefer the -- that most of us no longer turn to that soggy-pink magazine when we're looking for serious information. Personally, I prefer the Shooting Times, Shooting Times, or or Guns & Ammo. Guns & Ammo. Their editorials on "gun control" are pure b.a.l.l.s of fire, and their cla.s.sfied ads offer every conceivable kind of beastly weapon from bra.s.s knuckles and blowguns to 20 mm. cannons. Their editorials on "gun control" are pure b.a.l.l.s of fire, and their cla.s.sfied ads offer every conceivable kind of beastly weapon from bra.s.s knuckles and blowguns to 20 mm. cannons.

Another fine source of weapons info -- particularly for the private citizen -- is a little known book t.i.tled, How to Defend Yourself, Your Family, and Your Home How to Defend Yourself, Your Family, and Your Home -- -- a Complete Guide to Self-Protection. a Complete Guide to Self-Protection. Now here is a book with real cla.s.s! It explains, in 307 pages of fine detail, how to set b.o.o.by traps in your home so that "midnight intruders" will destroy themselves upon entry; it tells which type of shotgun is best for rapid-fire work in narrow hallways (a sawed-off double-barreled 12-gauge; one barrel loaded with a huge tear gas slug, the other with Double-O buckshot). This book is invaluable to anyone who fears that his home might be invaded, at any moment, by rioters, rapers, looters, dope addicts, n.i.g.g.e.rs, Reds or any other group. No detail has been spared: dogs, alarm wiring, screens, bars, poisons, knives, guns. . . ah yes, this is a wonderful book and highly recommended by the National Police Officers a.s.sociation of America. This is a very different group from the police chiefs. Very different. Now here is a book with real cla.s.s! It explains, in 307 pages of fine detail, how to set b.o.o.by traps in your home so that "midnight intruders" will destroy themselves upon entry; it tells which type of shotgun is best for rapid-fire work in narrow hallways (a sawed-off double-barreled 12-gauge; one barrel loaded with a huge tear gas slug, the other with Double-O buckshot). This book is invaluable to anyone who fears that his home might be invaded, at any moment, by rioters, rapers, looters, dope addicts, n.i.g.g.e.rs, Reds or any other group. No detail has been spared: dogs, alarm wiring, screens, bars, poisons, knives, guns. . . ah yes, this is a wonderful book and highly recommended by the National Police Officers a.s.sociation of America. This is a very different group from the police chiefs. Very different.

But why grapple now with a book of such ma.s.sive stature? I need time to ponder it and to run tests on the many weapons and devices that appear in the text. No professional would attempt to deal lightly with this book. It is a rare combination of sociology and stone craziness, laced with weapons technology on a level that is rarely encountered.

You will want want this book. But I want you to this book. But I want you to know know it first. And for that, I need it first. And for that, I need time. . . time. . . to deal smartly with the b.u.g.g.e.r on its own terms. No pro would settle for less. to deal smartly with the b.u.g.g.e.r on its own terms. No pro would settle for less.

-- Raoul Duke (Master of Weaponry) Scanlan's Monthly, vol. 1, no. 7, J vol. 1, no. 7, JUNE 1970 1970

PART 4.

The Great Shark Hunt

Four-thirty in Cozumel now; dawn is coming up on these gentle white beaches looking west at the Yucatan Channel. Thirty yards from my patio here at Cabanas del Caribe, the surf is rolling up, very softly, on the beach out there in the darkness beyond the palm trees.

Many vicious mosquitoes and sand fleas out here tonight. There are 60 units in this rambling beach-front hotel, but my room -- -- number 129 number 129 -- -- is the only one full of light and music and movement. is the only one full of light and music and movement.

I have both my doors and all four windows propped open -- -- a huge bright magnet for every bug on the island. . . But I am not being bitten. Every inch of my body a huge bright magnet for every bug on the island. . . But I am not being bitten. Every inch of my body -- -- from the soles of my bleeding bandaged feet to the top of my sun-scorched head from the soles of my bleeding bandaged feet to the top of my sun-scorched head -- -- is covered with 6-12 Insect Repellent, a cheap foul-smelling oil with no redeeming social or aesthetic characteristics except that it works. is covered with 6-12 Insect Repellent, a cheap foul-smelling oil with no redeeming social or aesthetic characteristics except that it works.

These G.o.dd.a.m.n bugs are all around -- -- settling on the notebook, my wrist, my arms, circling the rim of my tall gla.s.s of Bacardi A settling on the notebook, my wrist, my arms, circling the rim of my tall gla.s.s of Bacardi Anejo and ice. . . but no bites. It has taken about six days to solve this h.e.l.lish bug problem. . . which is excellent news on the one level, but, as always, the solution to one problem just peels back another layer and exposes some new and more sensitive area.

At this stage of the gig, things like mosquitoes and sand fleas are the least of our worries. . . because in about two hours and 22 minutes I have to get out of this hotel without paying an unnaturally ma.s.sive bill, drive about three miles down the coast in a rented VW Safari that can't be paid for, either, and which may not even make it into town, due to serious mechanical problems -- -- and then get my technical advisor Yail Bloor out of the Mes and then get my technical advisor Yail Bloor out of the Meson San Miguel without paying his his bill, either, and then drive us both out to the airport in that G.o.dd.a.m.n junk Safari to catch the 7:50 Aeromexico flight to M bill, either, and then drive us both out to the airport in that G.o.dd.a.m.n junk Safari to catch the 7:50 Aeromexico flight to Merida and Monterrey, where we'll change planes for San Antonio and Denver.

So we are looking at a very heavy day. . . 2000 miles between here and home, no cash at all, ten brutally expensive days in three hotels on the Striker Aluminum Yachts credit tab, which just got jerked out from under us when the local PR team decided we were acting too weird to be what we claim to be -- -- and so now we are down to about $44 extra between us and so now we are down to about $44 extra between us -- -- with my bill at the Caba with my bill at the Cabanas hovering around $650 and Bloor's at the San Miguel not much less -- -- plus 11 days for that wretched car from the local Avis dealer who already hit me for $40 cash for a broken winds.h.i.+eld, and G.o.d only knows how much he'll demand when he sees what condition his car is in now. . . plus about $400 worth of black coral that we ordered up from China: doubled-thumbed fist, c.o.ke spoons, sharks' teeth, etc. . . and that $120 18-kt.-gold chain at the market. . . also Sandy's black-coral necklace. We will need all available cash for the black-coral deal plus 11 days for that wretched car from the local Avis dealer who already hit me for $40 cash for a broken winds.h.i.+eld, and G.o.d only knows how much he'll demand when he sees what condition his car is in now. . . plus about $400 worth of black coral that we ordered up from China: doubled-thumbed fist, c.o.ke spoons, sharks' teeth, etc. . . and that $120 18-kt.-gold chain at the market. . . also Sandy's black-coral necklace. We will need all available cash for the black-coral deal -- -- so things like hotel bills and car rentals will have to be put off and paid by check, if anybody will take one. . . so things like hotel bills and car rentals will have to be put off and paid by check, if anybody will take one. . . or charged to Striker Aluminum Yachts, which got me into this G.o.dd.a.m.n twisted scene in the first place. But the Striker people are no longer with us; extreme out-front hostility. Bruce, Joyce or charged to Striker Aluminum Yachts, which got me into this G.o.dd.a.m.n twisted scene in the first place. But the Striker people are no longer with us; extreme out-front hostility. Bruce, Joyce -- -- even the bogus lecher Eduardo. How did we blow the image? even the bogus lecher Eduardo. How did we blow the image?

"Dear Mr. Thompson. . . Here's some background information on the Cozumel cruise and international fis.h.i.+ng tournament. . . Regarding the cruise schedule, about 14 Strikers will leave Fort Lauderdale on April 23, arriving iin Key West that night, leaving Key West midday on the 25th, to a.s.sure skirting the Cuban coast in the daytime, and arriving in Cozumel midafternoon on the 27th or 28th. In addition to the proven sailfis.h.i.+ng, there will be a Marlin Only Day on Sat.u.r.day May sixth, in the initial attempt on any volume basis to determine how good the blue-marlin fis.h.i.+ng is. . . Each night during the tournament, there are c.o.c.ktail parties with over 250 people attending, mariachi and island music, etc. . . We are happy you can make the trip. . . Flights leave Miami daily for Cozumel at 2:45 P.M. P.M. You will need a Mexican tourist card, which you can pick up at the Mexican Tourism Department, 100 Biscayne Boulevard, Room 612 Miami. There are no shots required. You will need a Mexican tourist card, which you can pick up at the Mexican Tourism Department, 100 Biscayne Boulevard, Room 612 Miami. There are no shots required.

Sincerely, Terence J.Byrne

Public Relations Representative.

Striker Aluminum Yachts.

Fort Lauderdale, Florida.

Indeed. . . no shots: just a tourist card, plenty of Coppertone, a new pair of Top-siders and a fine gringo smile for the customs officers. The letter called up visions of heavy sport on the high seas, mono a mono mono a mono with giant sailfish and world-record marlin. . . Reeling the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in, fighting off sharks with big gaffs, strapped into a soft white-Naugahyde fighting chair in the c.o.c.kpit of a big power cruiser. . . then back to the harbor at dusk for a brace of gin and tonics, tall drinks in the sunset, lounging around in cool deck chairs while the crew chops up bait and a strolling mariachi band roams on the pier, wailing mournful Olmec love songs. .. . with giant sailfish and world-record marlin. . . Reeling the b.a.s.t.a.r.ds in, fighting off sharks with big gaffs, strapped into a soft white-Naugahyde fighting chair in the c.o.c.kpit of a big power cruiser. . . then back to the harbor at dusk for a brace of gin and tonics, tall drinks in the sunset, lounging around in cool deck chairs while the crew chops up bait and a strolling mariachi band roams on the pier, wailing mournful Olmec love songs. .. .

Ah, yes, I was definitely ready for it. Sixteen months of straight politics had left me reeling around on the brink of a nervous breakdown. I needed a change, something totally different from my normal line of work. Covering politics is a vicious, health-ripping ordeal that often requires eight or nine shots at once -- twice or three times a week in the peak season -- so this unexpected a.s.signment to "cover" a deep-sea-fis.h.i.+ng tournament off the Yucatan coast of Mexico was a welcome relief from the horrors of the campaign trail in 1972.

Right. Things would be different now: hot sun, salt air, early to bed and early to rise. . . This one had all the signs of a high-style bag job: Fly off to the Caribbean as a guest of the idle rich, hang around on their boats for a week or so, then crank out a left-handed story to cover expenses and pay for a new motorcycle back in the Rockies. The story itself was a bit on the hazy side, but the editor at P PLAYBOY said not to worry. Almost everybody unfortunate enough to have had any dealings with me since the campaign ended seemed convinced that I was in serious need of a vacation -- a cooling-out period, a chance to back off -- and this fis.h.i.+ng tournament in Cozumel looked just about perfect. It would pry my head out of politics, they said, and force me off in a new direction -- out of the valley of death and back toward the land of the living. said not to worry. Almost everybody unfortunate enough to have had any dealings with me since the campaign ended seemed convinced that I was in serious need of a vacation -- a cooling-out period, a chance to back off -- and this fis.h.i.+ng tournament in Cozumel looked just about perfect. It would pry my head out of politics, they said, and force me off in a new direction -- out of the valley of death and back toward the land of the living.

There was, however, a kink: I had just come back back from "vacation." It was the first one I'd ever attempted, or at least the first one I'd tried since I was fired from my last regular job on Christmas Day in 1958, when the production manager at from "vacation." It was the first one I'd ever attempted, or at least the first one I'd tried since I was fired from my last regular job on Christmas Day in 1958, when the production manager at Time Time magazine ripped up my punch card in a stuttering rage and told me to get the f.u.c.k out of the building. Since then I had been unemployed -- in the formal sense of that word -- and when you've been out of work for 14 years, it's almost impossible to relate to a word like vacation. magazine ripped up my punch card in a stuttering rage and told me to get the f.u.c.k out of the building. Since then I had been unemployed -- in the formal sense of that word -- and when you've been out of work for 14 years, it's almost impossible to relate to a word like vacation.

So I was extremely nervous when circ.u.mstances compelled me, in the late winter of '72, to fly to Cozumel with my wife, Sandy, in order to do nothing at all.

Three days later I ran out of air in a rip tide, 90 feet down on Palancar Reef, and I came so close to drowning that they said, later, I was lucky to get off with a serious case of the bends. The nearest decompression chamber was in Miami, so they chartered a plane and flew me there that same night.

I spent the next 19 days in a pressurized sphere somewhere in downtown Miami, and when I finally came out, the bill was $3000. My wife finally located my attorney in a drug commune on the outskirts of Mazatlan. He flew immediately to Florida and had the courts declare me a pauper so I was able to leave without legal problems.

I went back to Colorado with the idea of resting for at least six months. But three days after I got home, this a.s.signment came in to cover the fis.h.i.+ng tournament. It was a natural, they said, because I was already familiar with the island. And besides, I needed a change from politics.

Which was true, in a way -- but I had my own reasons for wanting to go back to Cozumel. On the evening before my near-fatal scuba dive on Palancar Reef, I had stashed 50 units of pure MDA in the adobe wall of the shark pool at the local aquarium next to the Hotel Barracuda -- and this stash had been much on my mind while I was recovering from the bends in the Miami hospital.

So when the Cozumel a.s.signment came through, I drove immediately into town to consult with my old friend and drug crony Yail Bloor. I explained the circ.u.mstances in detail, then asked his advice.

"It's clear as a f.u.c.king bell," he snapped. "We'll have to go down there at once. You'll handle the fishermen while I get the drugs."

These were the circ.u.mstances that sent me back to Cozumel in late April. Neither the editor nor the high-powered sport-fis.h.i.+ng crowd we'd be dealing with had any notion of my real reason for making the trip. Bloor knew, but he had a vested interest in maintaining the cover because I was pa.s.sing him off, on the tab, as my "technical advisor." It made perfect sense, I felt: In order to cover a highly compet.i.tive situation, you need plenty of trustworthy help.

When I got to Cozumel, on Monday afternoon, everybody on the island with any clout in the tourism business was half-mad with excitement at the idea of having a genuwine, real-life " "PLAYBOY writer" in their midst for a week or ten days. When I slumped off the plane from Miami, I was greeted like Buffalo Bill on his first trip to Chicago -- a whole gaggle of public-relations specialists met the plane, and at least three of them were waiting for writer" in their midst for a week or ten days. When I slumped off the plane from Miami, I was greeted like Buffalo Bill on his first trip to Chicago -- a whole gaggle of public-relations specialists met the plane, and at least three of them were waiting for me: me: What could they do for me? What did I What could they do for me? What did I want? want? How could they make my life pleasant? How could they make my life pleasant?

Carry my bags?

Well. . . why not?

To where Well. . . I paused, sensing an unexpected opening that could lead almost anywhere. . . "I think I'm supposed to go to the Cabanas," I said. "But --"

"No," said one of the handlers, "you have a press suite at Cozumeleno."

I shrugged. "Whatever's right," I muttered. "Let's roll."

I'd asked the travel agent in Colorado to get me one of those VW Safari jeeps -- the same kind I'd had on my last trip to Cozumel -- but the PR crowd at the airport insisted on taking me straight to the hotel. My jeep they said, would be delivered within the hour, and in the meantime, I was treated like some kind of high-style dignitary: A few people actually addressed me as "Mr. Playboy" and the others kept calling me "sir." I was hustled into a waiting car and whisked off along the two-lane blacktop highway through the palm jungle and out in the general direction of the American Strip, a cl.u.s.ter of beach-front hotels on the northeast end of the island.

Despite my lame protests, they took me to the newest, biggest and most expensive hotel on the island -- a huge, stark-white concrete hulk that reminded me of the Oakland city jail. We were met at the desk by the manager, the owner and several hired heavies who explained that the terrible hammering noise I heard was merely the workmen putting the finis.h.i.+ng touches on the third floor of what would eventually be a five-story colossus. "We have just ninety rooms now," the manager explained, "but by Christmas we will have three hundred."

"Jesus G.o.d!" I muttered.

"What?"

"Never mind," I said. "This is a h.e.l.l of a thing you're building here: No doubt about that -- it's extremely impressive in every way -- but the odd fact is that I thought I had reservations down the beach at the Cabanas." I flashed a nice shrug and a smile, ignoring the awkward chill that was already settling on us.

The manager coughed up a brittle laugh. "The Cabanas? No, Se Senor Playboy. The Cozumeleno is very Playboy. The Cozumeleno is very different different from the Caba from the Cabanas."

"Yeah," I said. "I can see that right off." The Mayan bellboy had already disappeared with my bags.

"We saved a Junior suite for you," said the manager. "I think you'll be satisfied." His English was very precise, his smile was unnaturally thick. . . and it was clear, from a glance at my high-powered welcoming committee, that I was going to be their guest for at least one night. . . And as soon as they forgot about me, I would flee this huge concrete morgue and sneak off to the comfortable run-down palm-shaded peace of the Cabanas, where I felt more at home.

On the drive out from the airport, the PR man, who was wearing a blue baseball cap and a stylish blue-and-white T-s.h.i.+rt, both emblazoned with the lightning-flash STRIKER logo, had told me that the owner of this new, huge Cozumeleno hotel was a member of the island's ruling family. "They own about half of it," he said with a grin, "and what they don't own they control absolutely, with their fuel license." logo, had told me that the owner of this new, huge Cozumeleno hotel was a member of the island's ruling family. "They own about half of it," he said with a grin, "and what they don't own they control absolutely, with their fuel license."

"Fuel license?"

"Yeah," said the PR man. "They control every gallon of fuel that's sold here -- from the gasoline we're driving on right now in this jeep to the gas in every stove in all the hotel restaurants and even the G.o.dd.a.m.n jet fuel at the airport.

I didn't pay much attention to that talk, at the time. It seemed like the same kind of sleazy, power-wors.h.i.+ping bulls.h.i.+t you'd expect to hear from any any PR man, anywhere, on any subject in any situation. . . PR man, anywhere, on any subject in any situation. . .

My problem was clear from the start. I had come down to Cozumel -- officially, at least -- to cover not just a fis.h.i.+ng tournament but a scene: scene: I'd explained to the editor that big-time sport fis.h.i.+ng attracts a certain kind of people and it was the behavior of these people -- not the fis.h.i.+ng -- that interested me. On my first visit to Cozumel, I'd discovered the fis.h.i.+ng harbor completely by accident one night when Sandy and I were driving around the island more or less naked, finely twisted on MDA, and the only reason we located the yacht basin was that I took a wrong turn around midnight and tried -- without realizing where I was going -- to run a roadblock manned by three Mexican soldiers with submachine guns at the entrance to the island's only airport. I'd explained to the editor that big-time sport fis.h.i.+ng attracts a certain kind of people and it was the behavior of these people -- not the fis.h.i.+ng -- that interested me. On my first visit to Cozumel, I'd discovered the fis.h.i.+ng harbor completely by accident one night when Sandy and I were driving around the island more or less naked, finely twisted on MDA, and the only reason we located the yacht basin was that I took a wrong turn around midnight and tried -- without realizing where I was going -- to run a roadblock manned by three Mexican soldiers with submachine guns at the entrance to the island's only airport.

It was a hard scene to cope with, as I recall, and now that I look back on it, I suspect that moldy white powder we'd eaten was probably some kind of animal tranquilizer instead of true MDA. There is a lot of PCP on the drug market these days; anybody who wants to put a horse into a coma can buy it pretty easily from. . . well. . . why blow that, eh?

In any case, we were bent -- and after being driven away from the airport by armed guards, I took the next available open road and we would up in the yacht basin, where there was a party going on. I could hear it about a half mile off, so I homed in on the music and drove across the highway and about 200 yards down a steep gra.s.sy embankment to get to the dock. Sandy refused to get out of the jeep, saying that these weren't the kind of people she felt ready to mix with, under the circ.u.mstances. . . so I left her huddled under a blanket on the front seat and walked out onto the dock by myself. It was exactly the kind of scene I'd been looking for -- about 35 stone-drunk rich honkies from places like Jacksonville and Pompano Beach, reeling around in this midnight Mexican port on their $200,000 power cruisers and cursing the natives for not providing enough teenage wh.o.r.es to go with the mariachi music. It was a scene of total decadence and I felt right at home in it. I began mixing with the crowd and trying to hire a boat for the next morning -- which proved to be very difficult, because n.o.body could understand what I was saying.

What's wrong here? I wondered. Is there speed in this drug? Why can't these people understand me?

One of the people I was talking to was the owner of a 60-foot Chris-Craft from Milwaukee. He'd just arrived from Key West that afternoon, he said, and all he seemed to have any real interest in at the moment was the "Argentine maid" he was grappling with in the c.o.c.kpit of his boat. She was about 15 years old, had dark-blonde hair and red eyes, but it was hard to get a good look at her, because "Cap'n Tom" -- as he introduced himself -- was bending her over a Styrofoam bait box full of dolphin heads and trying to suck on her collarbone while he talked to me.

Finally I gave up on him and found a local fis.h.i.+ng merchant called Fernando Murphy, whose drunkenness was so crude and extreme that we were able to communicate perfectly, even though he spoke little English. "No fis.h.i.+ng at night," he said. "Come to my shop downtown by the plaza tomorrow and I rent you a nice boat."

"Wonderful," I said. "How much?"

He laughed and fell against a pasty blonde woman from New Orleans who was too drunk to talk. "For you," he said, "a hundred and forty dollars a day -- and I guarantee guarantee fish." fish."

"Why not?" I said. "I'll be there at dawn. Have the boat ready."

"Chingado!" he screamed. He dropped his drink on the dock and began grappling with his own shoulder blades. I was taken aback at his outburst, not understanding for a moment. . . until I saw that a laughing 300-pound man wearing Levis and a red baseball hat in the c.o.c.kpit of a nearby boat called Black Snapper had hooked the back of Murphy's s.h.i.+rt with a 30-pound marlin rod and was trying to reel him in. he screamed. He dropped his drink on the dock and began grappling with his own shoulder blades. I was taken aback at his outburst, not understanding for a moment. . . until I saw that a laughing 300-pound man wearing Levis and a red baseball hat in the c.o.c.kpit of a nearby boat called Black Snapper had hooked the back of Murphy's s.h.i.+rt with a 30-pound marlin rod and was trying to reel him in.

Murphy staggered backward, screaming " "Chingado!" once again as he fell sideways on the dock and ripped his s.h.i.+rt open. Well, I thought, no point trying to do business with this crowd tonight and, in fact, I never fished on that trip. But the general low tone of that party had stayed with me -- a living caricature of white trash run amuck on foreign sh.o.r.es; an appalling kind of story, but not without a certain human-interest quotient. once again as he fell sideways on the dock and ripped his s.h.i.+rt open. Well, I thought, no point trying to do business with this crowd tonight and, in fact, I never fished on that trip. But the general low tone of that party had stayed with me -- a living caricature of white trash run amuck on foreign sh.o.r.es; an appalling kind of story, but not without a certain human-interest quotient.

On the first day of the tournament, I spent eight hours at sea aboard the eventual winner -- a 54-foot Striker called Sun Dancer, owned by a wealthy middle-aged industrialist named Frank Oliver from Palatka, Florida.

Oliver ran a fleet of barges on the Inland Waterway out of Jacksonville, he said, and Sun Dancer was the only boat in the Cozumel Harbor flying a Confederate flag. He had "about three hundred and twenty-five thousand in it" -- including a network of built-in vacuum-cleaner wall plugs for the deep-pile carpets -- and although he said he spent "maybe five weeks out of the year" on the boat, he was a very serious angler and he meant to win this tournament.

To this end, he had hired one of the world's top fis.h.i.+ng captains -- a speedy little cracker named Cliff North -- and turned Sun Dancer over to him on a year-round basis. North is a living legend in the sport-fis.h.i.+ng world and the idea that Oliver would hire him as his personal captain was not entirely acceptable to the other anglers. One of them explained that it was like some rich weekend duffer hiring Arnold Palmer to shoot the final round of the Greater Cleveland Elks golf tourney for him. North lives on the boat, with his wife and two young "mates," who do all the menial work, and during the ten months of the year when Oliver's not around, he charters Sun Dancer out to anybody who can pay the rate. All Cuff has to do -- in return for this sinecure -- is make sure Oliver wins the three or four fis.h.i.+ng tournaments he finds time to enter each year.

Thanks to North and his expert boat handling, Frank Oliver is now listed in the sport-fis.h.i.+ng record books as one of the world's top anglers. Whether or not Oliver would win any tournaments without North and Sun Dancer is a subject of widespread disagreement and occasional rude opinion among sport-fis.h.i.+ng pros. Not even the most egotistical anglers will deny that a good boat and a hot-rod captain to handle it are crucial factors in ocean fis.h.i.+ng -- but there is a definite division of opinion between anglers (who are mainly rich amateurs) and pros (the boat captain and the crews) about the relative value of skills.

Most of the pros I talked to in Cozumel were reluctant, at first, to speak on this subject -- at least for the record -- but after the third or fourth drink, they would invariably come around to suggesting that anglers were more of a hazard than a help and, as a general rule of thumb, you could catch more fish by just jamming the rod into a holder on the rear end of the boat and letting the fish do the work. After two or three days on the boats, the most generous consensus I could get from the pros was that even the best angler is worth about a ten percent advantage in a tournament, and that most are seen as handicaps.

"Jesus G.o.d Almighty," said a veteran captain from Fort Lauderdale one night in a local hotel bar, "you wouldn't believe the things I've seen these fools do!" He laughed, but the sound was nervous and his body seemed to shudder as the memories came back on him. "One of the people I work for," he said, "has a wife who's just flat-out crazy." He shook his head wearily. "I don't want you to get me wrong, now -- I love her dearly, as a person -- but when it comes to fis.h.i.+ng, G.o.dd.a.m.n it, I'd like to chop her up and toss her out for the sharks." He took a long hit on his rum and c.o.ke. "Yeah, I hate to say it, but that's all she's good for -- shark bait and nothin else. Jesus, the other day she almost killed herself! We hooked a big sailfish, and when that happens, you have to move pretty fast, you know -- but all of a sudden, I heard her screaming like crazy, and when I looked down from the bridge, she had her hair all tangled up in the reel!" He laughed. "G.o.dd.a.m.n! Can you believe that? She almost got scalped! I had to jump jump down, about fifteen feet onto a wet deck in a bad sea, we were wallowing all around -- and cut the whole line loose with my knife. She came within about ten seconds of having all her hair pulled out!" down, about fifteen feet onto a wet deck in a bad sea, we were wallowing all around -- and cut the whole line loose with my knife. She came within about ten seconds of having all her hair pulled out!"

Few anglers -- and especially winners like Frank Oliver -- agree with the pros' 90-10 split. "It's basically a teamwork teamwork situation," says Oliver, "like a chain with no weak links. The angler, the captain, the mates, the boat -- they're all critical, they work like gears with each other." situation," says Oliver, "like a chain with no weak links. The angler, the captain, the mates, the boat -- they're all critical, they work like gears with each other."

Well. . . maybe so. Oliver won the tournament with 28 sailfish in the three days that counted. But he was fis.h.i.+ng alone alone on Sun Dancer -- a boat so lavishly outfitted it could have pa.s.sed for the nautical den in Nelson Rockefeller's Fifth Avenue apartment -- and with the Arnold Palmer of sport fis.h.i.+ng up on the bridge. Most of his compet.i.tion was fis.h.i.+ng in twos and threes on charter boats they were a.s.signed to at random, with wild-tempered, contemptuous captains they'd never even met before yesterday morning. on Sun Dancer -- a boat so lavishly outfitted it could have pa.s.sed for the nautical den in Nelson Rockefeller's Fifth Avenue apartment -- and with the Arnold Palmer of sport fis.h.i.+ng up on the bridge. Most of his compet.i.tion was fis.h.i.+ng in twos and threes on charter boats they were a.s.signed to at random, with wild-tempered, contemptuous captains they'd never even met before yesterday morning.

"Fis.h.i.+ng against Cliff North is bad enough," said Jerry Haugen, captain of a stripped-down hulk of a boat called Lucky Striker, "but when you have to go against North and only one one angler, with everything set up exactly the way angler, with everything set up exactly the way he he wants it, that's just about impossible." wants it, that's just about impossible."

Which is neither here nor there, in the rules of big-time sport fis.h.i.+ng. If Bebe Rebozo decided to borrow a half-million dollars from the Pentagon at no interest and enter the Cozumel tournament with the best boat he could buy and a crew of specially trained U.S. Marines, he would compete on the same basis with me, me, if I entered the thing with a 110 year-old Colorado Riverboat and a crew of drug-crazed politicos from the Meat Possum Athletic Club. According to the rules, we'd be equal. . . And while Bebe could fish alone on his boat, the tournament directors could a.s.sign me a nightmarish trio of anglers like Sam Brown, John Mitch.e.l.l and Baby Huey. if I entered the thing with a 110 year-old Colorado Riverboat and a crew of drug-crazed politicos from the Meat Possum Athletic Club. According to the rules, we'd be equal. . . And while Bebe could fish alone on his boat, the tournament directors could a.s.sign me a nightmarish trio of anglers like Sam Brown, John Mitch.e.l.l and Baby Huey.

Could we win? Never in h.e.l.l. But n.o.body connected with that tournament would ever forget the experience. . . which is almost what happened anyway, for different reasons. By the third day of the tournament, or maybe it was the fourth, I had lost all control of my coverage. At one point, when Bloor ran amuck and disappeared for 30 hours, I was forced to jerk a dope addict out of the island's only night club and press him into service as a "special observer" for P PLAYBOY. He spent the final day of the tournament aboard Sun Dancer, snorting c.o.ke in the head and jabbering wildly at North while poor Oliver struggled desperately to maintain his one-fish lead over Haugen's manic crew on Lucky Striker. He spent the final day of the tournament aboard Sun Dancer, snorting c.o.ke in the head and jabbering wildly at North while poor Oliver struggled desperately to maintain his one-fish lead over Haugen's manic crew on Lucky Striker.

Thursday night was definitely the turning point. Whatever rapport Bloor and I had developed with the Striker people was wearing very thin after three days of increasingly strange behavior and the antisocial att.i.tude we apparently manifested at the big Striker c.o.c.ktail party at the Punta Morena beach bar was clearly unacceptable. Almost everybody there was staggering drunk by nightfall and the ugliness threshold was low. Here were all these heavy anglers -- prosperous Florida businessmen, for the most part -- snarling and snapping at one another like East Harlem street fighters on the eve of a long-awaited rumble: "You potbellied a.s.shole! You couldn't catch a fish in a G.o.dd.a.m.n barrel!"

"Watch your stupid lip, fella: That's my wife wife you just stepped on!" you just stepped on!"

"Whose wife, fatface? Keep your f.u.c.kin' hands to yourself." wife, fatface? Keep your f.u.c.kin' hands to yourself."

"Where's the G.o.dd.a.m.n waiter? Boy! Boy! Boy! Over here! Get me another drink, will ya?" Over here! Get me another drink, will ya?"