CHAPTER 3
An annoying ringing phone in my hotel room blasted me from my booze-clouded sleep. Following a daylong meeting at the Breakers Hotel in Palm Beach, Florida, I had partied with business associates. The bedside clock told me it was just past midnight. “Hello—who? Yes, go ahead. Matt, it’s after midnight. Where are you? How’d you find me?”
Matt Lerner, a good friend, and fine local yacht broker was calling from California. Awakening more fully, I sensed trouble.
“Skip,” Matt said, and hesitated, like someone delivering bad news. “What I’m about to say is serious stuff. Better you sit, Skip. Are you sitting down, my friend?”
“I’m in bed, for Christ‘s sakes, Matt. I’m not sure I could get up if I wanted to.”
“I went by your house this evening. Skip—your boat isn’t there.” My heart skipped a beat.
“I knew you were away,” Matt continued, “so I tracked you down. I think I know you well enough to believe you didn’t loan out your boat.”
“No, of course not.”
“So, is it in the shipyard?” Matt asked with a twinge of sarcasm. My thoughts raced. This wasn’t making sense. Did the marina staff, for any reason, move Love Story? A safety reason, perhaps?
Hopefully? Had I paid my taxes?
“Listen—I’m sorry for being a jerk when you woke me up, Matt. It’s supposed to be at my dock, in front of my house. Volvo mechanics are working on that crappy engine, but no one else should be aboard. Are you telling me my slip is empty, Love Story isn’t there?”
“Yes—I am. Now, listen carefully.” Matt, always the levelheaded one, had a plan.
“Here’s what we will do, Skip. I’ll go to the marine police and report the boat missing. They know me and will know I’m not the owner, so they’ll need to speak with you. Give me 10 minutes from our hang up, and then you call this number (which he gave me). Tell them I have your power of attorney, in case I need to act for you. I’m wearing a brown shirt with Naples Yacht Sales on the pocket, and blue trousers, if you need to describe me.”
As the minutes flew by, I felt rising panic about my yacht but a sense of calm about Matt. I was fortunate to have an observant friend, willing to get involved. There were not many like him. I dialed the marine police.
“Alamitos Bay Marine Patrol, Officer Cunningham speaking.” “Officer, are you in command tonight, or may I speak with whomever might be?”
“I can handle it, whatever it is,” he said, sounding a little offended. “Matt Lerner should be standing in your office, he’s wearing . . .”
“Yes, I know Matt. He’s here. What about him?”
“My name is Skip Rowland. I live in Naples at . . .’
“Yeah,” the officer interrupted, “I think I know you—aren’t you the guy I caught ripping down the 5 mile an hour channel about a year ago in some sort of cigarette boat? That’s you, right?”
“Guilty, Sir,” I replied, “and I apologize again. You know I paid a hefty fine. Anyway, I’m calling from Florida. Matt’s acting on my behalf to report my boat missing.”
“Same boat, that fast one?”
“No, it’s a 48-foot white ketch, with black spars (masts), named Love Story. I’m requesting Matt Lerner, as my agent, file a missing boat report, and your office notify the Coast Guard immediately. He’ll also contact Travelers, my insurance company.”
“We can do that,” agreed Officer Cunningham, saying, “Mr. Lerner will need to fill out some papers. You can sign them when you get back. And Rowland, in spite of our past differences, I’m sorry to hear this.”
Hanging up I lay in bed once more but couldn’t sleep. The hotel room phone again shattered my reverie. Half dazed, I rolled over and picked it up.
“This is Ryan O’Dell speaking. I’m the insurance investigator assigned to your case, Mr. Rowland. I need to ask a few questions.”
“Good heavens,” I said, “It’s 7:00 a.m. here. Where are you?”
“California,” he told me, “it’s about 4:00 a.m. and I’ve been working on this most of the night . . . since the Marine Department called in the missing yacht report. You were wise to handle it that way. You get faster results when it’s official rather than a member of the public.”
“Makes sense to me,” I said.
“Here’s the good part. We have an informant network, a damned good one, which runs from Vancouver, British Columbia to the southern border of Mexico. If your boat is anywhere between those two points, we will find it.”
His voice resonated authority. I felt better. Ryan O’Dell wanted to know exactly the day and time I left home, to help determine the greatest distance the yacht could have travelled. He asked permission to look around my property and encouraged me to go about my regular business and not to worry, that he would be there to help. That was a tall order.
Before hanging up, Ryan said, “I notice your boat’s insured for $75,000, but your tax rate is based on $180,000, so I assume this is not an insurance fraud case?”
“Jesus, your kinda blunt aren’t you? The reason,” I told Ryan, “is because I seldom use the boat now, except to go to Catalina, so yeah, I suppose I’m a dope for underinsuring, but I never thought the whole yacht would be a claim.”
“It isn’t yet, so don’t worry right now, Mr. Rowland. There’s a chance it won’t even cost your deductible.”
He was mistaken.
Following Ryan O’Dell’s suggestion, I stayed at the meeting in Boca Raton, but I was morose and inattentive. Mid-afternoon of the following day, I was paged to a phone. Investigator O’Dell informed me, “There is bad news, Skip. Love Story has been located on the Mexican coast. There’s been a fire. I’m afraid there isn’t much left.” “What do you mean—not much?” I was shocked. Tears began to form.
“Probably not enough to salvage anything. Your Love Story is gone—dead.”
“What? Jesus, no, that’s impossible!” I was hyperventilating.
“We figure, your Love Story was stolen from your residence, probably by the two Volvo mechanics—maybe trying to take it to Australia. We’ve heard worse.”
“Bastards. Really think it was those pricks? Why?”
“They left their truck parked behind your garage, and the Volvo dealer said they hadn’t reported for work in a week. Those clues plus an empty slip at your house, it’s not rocket science. This morning our plane flew over a vessel matching Love Story’s description on the rocks, near the blowhole at La Bufadora, a fishing village about thirty miles south of Ensenada.”
“I know the place. Go on.”
“After the sighting, the pilot flew on for a few minutes, then returned for another look. On his second pass, the boat was ablaze. Our pilot figures diesel fuel had been spread below and above decks, and ignited to torch the vessel. He also reported seeing two men jumping to shore from the boat.”
“The mechanics?”
“Don’t know. He said they sat on a rock and watched the fire—hardly glanced at his plane. People are nuts!”
“Should I go there?” I asked, knowing immediately it was a dumb question.
“No—at least not now. I’m told the boat burned intensely until it was light enough to float off the rocks and drift to the beach where it burned to the waterline and is now awash in the tide.”
“So it was intentional. Arson?”
“Looks like it.”
“The two guys, what about them? Did they get away?” I asked.
“I’m sorry Skip, I don’t know more, except that when they were watching the fire, one had a large bag, probably of clothing, maybe a sail bag, so we assume they are the same guys first seen aboard.”
“Did the pilot get pictures?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Damn, I’ve seen these pricks—one of them was at my house. Not a guy I’d invite to dinner. How about a description? Did the pilot say anything more?”
“Again, Skip,” the investigator, sounded uncertain, “I doubt it. The pass was probably too fast and he was flying solo. All he said was that it was two guys.”
“I’m coming home next flight!” I said.
“Won’t do you any good.”
“I’m coming anyway.”
After catching the next flight west, I met with Ryan O’Dell in Long Beach. He was a movie screen detective, built like a fireplug, rock hard, self-confident, and missing two fingers, I assumed from some incident long ago. He summarized his findings. The suspect’s names, provided by their employer, had been searched. Both had criminal records, one including boat theft in San Diego. I found that odd. I had requested anyone working aboard Love Story be bonded, and I had been assured they were. Their photos were being circulated along the border and with the San Diego police—but no sightings so far.
Back in my office, I told my secretary Rhonda what had happened, concluding; “I’m outta here. Get Jimmy Mitchell on the phone for me please—and may I borrow your car?”
“My car? Why?”
“Rhonda, I’ve gotta see this. I’m going to La Bufadora. Your Honda will be less conspicuous than my Jaguar. I can’t draw any attention, so enjoy the Jag. The tank’s full and you know I’m good for anything that happens to your car—right?”
She said, “Yes” and I handed her the keys to the Jag.
“Take your time,” she added.
Jimmy, my gun collector friend, was less cooperative. “What the hell—you crazy, Skip? I am not lending you my firepower ‘cause, the mood you’re in, you’ll blow somebody apart, and my sorry ass will be hanging with a weapons charge.”
But Jimmy was sympathetic. A bit more coaxing and assurance he would not end up in the Graybar Hotel, and I was off to Mexico driving a plain black sedan, armed with a .45 caliber pistol and several dozen rounds. I had qualified with the 45 while serving in the Marine Corps.
I was a determined, angry man, on a mission, with no idea what to expect—and no plan.
My first objective was to cross the international border with a gun in my sports bag. Driving south, I did deep-breathing exercises and rehearsed my story of revisiting Ensenada after the last Cinco-De-Mayo yacht race. I was lucky—no questions asked and an easy crossing. Now in Mexico, I concentrated to recall details about the mechanics. The one I remembered most was scruffy looking, in his mid-twenties, skinny but physically fit. He had abundant facial acne, as if he had repeatedly wiped his sweaty face with a greasy hand and never washed. I wasn’t likely to run into him—but you never know. Under the circumstances, I hoped I would and I hoped I wouldn’t. I thought about the consequences of my actions and strangely, the more I wrestled with them, the less I cared. I would follow my instincts.
The small picturesque fishing village of La Bufadora would make a good place to kick back had I been coming for vacation. The rugged shoreline and roads without guardrails were unnerving, but the blowhole, yet undiscovered by tourism, was the area’s focal point. I would miss it this trip.
Navigating the rutted dusty road to town, I entered the village about noontime. It was hot and dusty under an unmerciful sun. Not a soul was visible, but these folks didn’t need both hands pointing to providence to dial up a siesta in a scorcher day like that one.
Small stores fronted the street, along with several cantinas, from which came the only sound, loud recorded mariachi music. I parked in front of one. A steep hill on my right led down to the beach. At the top of the hill was a pile of rubble. I spotted a heat-seared spinnaker pole and yacht fittings I knew had come from Love Story and fought off a strong urge to pick through the pile. On the beach below the hill I saw the charred remains of a hull, horribly blackened by intense fire. My Love Story looked like a gigantic dead whale lying on the beach. Cautiously and trembling, I worked my way down the rocky hillside, overcome with tears and despair.
Everything I had worked for, dreamed about, and planned for a future had been burned beyond recognition. I felt so alone—so violated—so depressed. A vision of that lucky US coin flashed through my mind. Yeah. Sure. I thought about the doghouse and the man with one leg whose Vince Lombardi effort built Love Story. Despair became rising anger.
Locals gathered quietly to watch me poke again where they had already scavenged.
After an hour on the beach, thinking, weeping, poking, and prodding in the remains—I knew there was nothing, absolutely nothing, worth salvaging.
Charred remains of Love Story
I climbed from the beach and headed for the nearest cantina for a cold beer (a Mexican oxymoron). I felt tired and defeated, and inwardly my anger boiled. A small cluster of youngsters that followed me dropped back—I figured they were not allowed inside, but maybe my expression frightened them. As my eyes adjusted walking through the door-less cantina entry, I felt my heart thump and my hair bristle and broke into a spooky cold sweat.
Two gringos sat backs to me, nursing drinks at the bar—my thieves. The sorry bastards hadn’t left the scene. My blood thumped in my temples.
Turning slowly I dashed to Rhonda’s car and threw open the trunk with trembling fingers. Opening my bag, I drew a-slow-deep breath to get into my two-foot zone, then headed purposefully back into the cantina, the .45 in hand—safety off. I’d never been so nervous, or so pissed off. This calm, normally rational businessman had gone maniac. I charged through the cantina entrance.
“Freeze! Hit the deck –everybody—I mean every fuckin’ one of you, everybody—you too lady—this is no drill.”
The few patrons may not have understood English, but they understood angry, and did as they were told. A man of about fifty and his younger lady friend actually knelt down, knees on the ground, hands on the floor in front of them. Confusing thoughts raced through my mind: That’s pretty cool. They did what I told them, but then—I have the gun. Am I going to shoot someone? That would be bad. Holy crap—I’m in a mess now. What’s next?
The thieves had turned toward me. “Surprise!”
They were startled, but hadn’t put together who I was, what I was doing. My eyes drilled through them. I recognized the acne-pocked, grimy Volvo mechanic and reveled in his scared shitless expression. My intentions were obvious. I was at the point of no return.
“You two fuckers especially—don’t move a finger. Hands up high, both of you. Put ‘em where I can see ‘em, and don’t think for a bloody second I won’t shoot you, ‘cause I will.”
“Are you crazy?” one of them asked.
“Yeah—I am, asshole, and you are my target.”
“Oh shit!” acne face uttered to his partner—realizing who I was. “Hold ‘em up, asshole, high up!” I said again. They were looking for an escape route, maybe a fight. Keeping my cold, somber eyes on his, I moved menacingly toward him, the pistol pointed at his gut, and demanded, “Somebody get the police. You—you own this place?”
The bartender nodded. He had one of the few village phones. “Call the police.”
Everybody was still, the cantina deadly silent. I could hear my breathing and wondered if they could see my heart pounding. This was different stuff, exciting, but new territory for me. I had to remain calm.
An older woman began to cry. I told her to leave. She did.
Twenty nerve-wracking minutes later, the police arrived. Two ancient squad cars, red lights suction cupped to the roof, sirens wailing and covered in dust, screeched to a head-jarring halt, spewing more dust into the cantina. The car doors flew open, but only one officer jumped from his vehicle. It was almost humorous. Not knowing the potential danger, they chose to exercise more caution than I had.
One lower grade cop speaking reasonable English entered the cantina first and was barraged by excited patrons, each with their own version. The bartender/owner pointed to me and to the thieving gringos, still in my gun sights. I had lowered my weapon so as not to pose a threat to the incoming officers.
“Drop the gun,” ordered the officer.
I didn’t. Instead, I turned it slowly in my palm; barrel down, until it was pointed at me. A second officer took it from me. I later learned the cop first through the door was a custodian for the San Diego School District before returning to his native Mexico to join the Wyatt Earp’s of Ensenada.
With my weapon surrendered, the Federales took control. I was clearly being detained, but breathed easier when the crooks were cuffed, and I was allowed an explanation. Two elderly men, known to the police, had seen Love Story on fire and verified, “Dos Americanos had jumped from the fiery boat to drink and dance with us.”
They would dance no more. Maybe I wouldn’t either.
With the thieves packed off to jail in Ensenada, the Federal District Attorney grilled me for having a gun—demanding I prove ownership of the yacht carcass decorating their beach.
“OK Señor . . . Now show me about the boat,” commanded the cop with the braided hat, obviously in charge.
I produced my insurance papers and U.S. documentation, patting myself on the back for thinking to bring them. There followed a great study of my papers. I suspect they couldn’t read them.
“Okay Señor, you must pay to clean up La Playa (beach). You must remove the burned remains from La Playa.”
I tried, “No es possible, mucho problemo y no tenga dinero.” “You must go then, to my jail,” the officer said firmly but without pressure or threat. We sat like old friends, finishing our beers. I paid for theirs, and a round for the house, before being led without cuffs to one of the broken-down squad cars. The driver, the former San Diego janitor, explained at this point I was not being formally arrested.
“Tu tenga mordida,” he explained, meaning I would pay a substantial fine. Another officer followed in Rhonda’s car. We parked side by side in front of the Ensenada police station. The policemen were civil. I could have liked them.
Although I played dumb, this was not a place unfamiliar to me. Years ago I had spent a night here for inebriated conduct unbecoming a yachtsman following a Newport Beach to Ensenada yacht race.
“You stay there.” An officer pointed to a first floor office. The thieves had been locked in squalid basement cells.
I sat, waited and thought about my situation. Not so good.
Two hours later an incoming call created visible excitement. The Federal District Attorney had lingered over beers at the cantina, then gone off the road driving back to Ensenada, and was discovered in a ditch, unharmed but shaken.
The squad room was thrown into pandemonium. I recalled a lesson from my USMC training: “If taken prisoner a Marine must always attempt escape, especially early in capture when the enemy is not yet organized” (or something like that).
There was no organization. Rhonda’s car keys lay on a counter close to me. I scooped them up and vamoosed out the front door, maintaining a steady but quick gait. Shortly they would notice my absence and alert authorities, maybe even at the border.
I drove 200 miles that night, south, away from the border. At a small dingy motel I parked around the corner and checked in as John Dillinger. No shit. I waited nearly a week before daring to return to the States. Were they looking for me? They had no pictures of me, but what about a description? Was Rhonda’s car targeted? How would I act? What story would slide from my lips? It was a worrisome drive.
Re-entering the States was a snap. I wasn’t challenged or suspected of anything. I returned to Long Beach, a delighted secretary, and an unhappy buddy Jim, whose gun collection was now a pistol short of an arsenal. But I repaid him.