CHAPTER 4
There was catching up to do when I got back to Long Beach including work and some beach volleyball with a polyglot mixture of friends keen to hear of my Mexican adventures—old, young, professional and a few unemployed characters who enjoyed a good game.
After matches we gathered for brews at the Sail Inn, a beachside dump beloved by locals. Terry Bailey and Mike Wilcox had heard of the theft. They were Long Beach policemen.
“You’re one lucky hombre Skip.” Terry summed it up, “You squeezed between the slats of a dock, getting away like that. I’d turn you in myself, if there was a reward’.
“He’s kidding you of course,” chimed Mike, “what’s with the mechanics”?
“I’m clueless,” I admitted, “I suspect they’re still in Mexico, possibly waiting repatriation. I’m told the police in San Diego will bring them back.”
“Better chance they let them go,” said Terry. “With proposition 13 none of the services have any extra money—not us, the fire department, or even the courts. Tax cuts are great for property owners but suck for maintaining community services—I’m hoping I don’t have to take a pay cut”.
“Anyway” chimed Mike, “much as Terry bitches, me and a couple of other friendlies might be able to help.”
“How?”
“Like, suppose you supply the gas—we’ll check out a squad car, go down there and bring the scum bags back, plant them on your lap.”
“Not from Mexico.” said Terry.
“Well maybe they’re already in San Diego,” Mike paused, “my cousin owes me. He’s on the force in San Diego. I’ll give him a shout. Doesn’t hurt to try.”
I offered to check with the district attorney, who showed little interest, telling me, “So some fat cat has his boat swiped. You won’t get much sympathy.”
He got my vote for jerk of the year but we continued to speak. He finally agreed to a grand theft criminal trial, if they were returned to Long Beach.
Mike and Terry, coordinating with San Diego police arranged for a prisoner pick up at the border. The mechanics got a free ride, and I suspect a sound thumping en route north. In jail in Long Beach neither could make the $10,000 bail—a trial was set.
Ryan O’Dell phoned me with a remarkable story about a guy in a jeep who had taken pictures of Love Story in flames. Ryan said the jeep driver was showing slides to friends in Laguna Beach a few nights ago and reported he spoke with the guys who jumped from the boat claiming they were delivering it from Honolulu to Los Angeles, when they went on the rocks and the yacht accidentally caught fire.
An experienced sailor at the slide show said, “That makes no sense—going from Hawaii to L.A. via Mexico. Boats traditionally favor wind, waves, current, and a great northern circle route, heading for San Francisco before diving south to Los Angeles.”
The experienced sailor thought something was fishy. Examining the slides it was evident the yachts name had been wiped from the hull but the CF numbers (California numbers for taxing) remained. There followed a call to authorities, which notified Ryan O’Dell, who notified me—the photographer would sell the slides.
But there was a hitch.
The photographer was a drug dealer, both nervous and hesitant.
Ryan offered to negotiate, saying, “Listen Rowland, I deal with every garden variety of low life. I’ll make it happen.”
And he did. A week later at precisely midnight, I parked behind a specified building on Bluebird Canyon Road in Laguna Beach. A man approached with a box of slides. Not a word was spoken. I handed him $200.00 and he handed me evidence.
The District Attorney was delighted “Now we have a case.”
Indeed he did.
The trial lasted only a day. Following the recess to find the missing bullet (with which we started this yarn) the prosecution was victorious, finding both mechanics guilty of grand theft. They had intended to sail the yacht to Australia, sell it and live ‘the life’—but they couldn’t navigate, had no charts, no skills, no food and no God to guide them. They were sentenced to ten years incarceration, plus fines they couldn’t possibly pay. I never saw or heard of them again.
Travellers insurance paid my claim and invited me to enjoin a suit against the Volvo dealer who hadn’t bonded his employees. I would receive a portion of any award. However, the employer passed away several months later. I dropped out. It wasn’t in my heart to continue a suit against his wife, children, or heirs. They, after all, were as innocent as I.