Abalone

Here’s another story from Welton’s book, The Bird is on the Wing.

Article by Welton Rotz

The hot mug of coffee and warm plate of pie feels good on my cold hands. I set them on the table and slide across the worn vinyl seat.

A voice says, “May I join you? All the other booths arefull.” An old man with a white beard like mine, also carrying coffee and pie, stands by my table.

“Of course,” I say, even though I had hoped to have this time by myself, reminiscing about my life in Sausalito years ago. The weather is miserable, the coffee shop, near the fish dock, had seemed the perfect place to pamper myself and my daydreams.

“Thanks. Name’s Bill,” he says, sliding into the seat opposite me.

“Pie’s good here,” I say. “What pie you got?”

“Apple. Can’t say much for the coffee though.” Bill stirs sugar into the heavy mug.

Two old men sitting, talking about the weather, which was getting nastier. The coffee shop was clearing out, people off to work or whatever.

“You look familiar,” Bill says. “Where have we met before?”

We explore possibilities, sailing, construction work, junior college classes, but no connection.

“I like your style,” interrupts the waitress. “Desert first. What can I get for you all?”

“I got a hunger for an abalone steak,” says Bill.

“Not on your life, Dreamer. What’s your second wish?”

Bill looks up at her with a big grin on his face.

“That’s not on the menu,” she says, “What’s your third wish…for lunch?”

“I’ll have a burger ’n fries.”

“Me too,” I say. “Make mine a cheeseburger.”

After the waitress leaves, Bill comments on how attractive she is, and adds, “If I were younger…”

“Yea right, about 25 years younger,” I say.

We both laugh, remembering those times.

“Speaking of abalone,” says Bill. “Have you ever gone diving for them?”

“A few times,” I say. “Up along the Mendocino coast. We were free diving using snorkels. Air tanks and scuba were illegal.”

“Why did you stop?”

I begin telling my story. How far it was to drive. Trying to find a diving buddy. The unpredictable water conditions, often rough or murky. I stop, and stare out the window at the Sausalito waterfront, my mind filled with those memories.

The waitress sets our orders on the table, pulling a bottle of ketchup from her apron pocket. It’s a welcome break for me. My stomach is churning, and there’s a bad taste in my mouth. Bill dives into his lunch. I take a sip of coffee…it’s bad, bitter. I try some of my lunch. We eat in silence. It helps.

After a few minutes, Bill asks what happened up there.

“It’s hard to talk about,” I say, “Even though it happened a long time ago.” With difficulty, I continue.

“The waves were breaking over the rocks farther out, but there was still a lot of surge where we were, in eight or nine feet of water. Visibility was hampered from silt and branches of kelp, so we stayed close together, maybe twelve feet apart. I needed to go up for air but saw my partner was thrashing about.

Forcing my way through the current, I saw him struggling with his dive knife. Swimming closer, I could see he had the blade against his finger. The finger was clamped against a rock by an abalone. A wave broke overhead. The surge twisted his body, he dropped the knife.

I was out of air. I had to get to the surface. But so did my dive partner. I jammed my dive blade between the rock and the shell of the abalone and, remembering not to pry, twisted with both hands. The finger came free. My knife dropped, and with a hard shove I sent my buddy to the surface.

“Oh shit!” Bill mumbled through a bite of burger. “What was he thinking?”

“He told me when he came around the rock, there was a beautiful, huge ab. In his excitement, he dropped his pry tool, didn’t have the wrist strap on. He needed air but was afraid he wouldn’t find the prize again. So, since the abalone was standing well above the rock, he just grabbed it and pulled.”

I felt sick to my stomach, reliving the horror of the last few minutes of the dive.

“So, the abalone lost; didn’t get a finger,” said Bill. “You know, when a group of ab divers get together, there’s usually two or three fingers missing. You’d think people would learn.”

We sat in silence, each with his own thoughts.

“I want to tell you something…” Bill said in a low voice. “Something I’ve never told anyone. I don’t know the statute of limitations for this crime, but I think I’m okay.” He began, slowly at first, searching for the right words.

“The idea of being a commercial fisherman came to me in my mid 20s. Hanging out on the fish dock here in Sausalito, where many boats were tied, I met a fisherman named Hugh who was willing to take me on as crew because I knew about boating. I had a sailboat.

We left the next morning, under the bridge, through the Golden Gate, and turned North entering the Bonita small boat channel. Hugh, the fisherman, liked the way I handled the small boat. He told me to follow the channel, then head up the coast staying close to the Marin shore. Hugh went below to get some sleep. The boat was an old thirty-foot Monterey with the beautiful Clipper bow. Its rounded hull made it very seaworthy. I knew almost nothing about commercial fishing, but it did seem strange that there weren’t any nets, crab pots, or even fishing tackle to be seen on board the boat.

The ocean was very rough. The waves were so tall you couldn’t see the channel markers unless we were both on a wave crest. I was thankful I didn’t get seasick. Finally, we pulled into a sheltered cove. The cliffs above the rocky shoreline were very steep. No sign of a foot path down to the water. Hugh said it was the perfect spot, no recreational fishing. We dropped anchor just outside huge rocks with waves breaking over them.

Once we were anchored, Hugh explained what we were fishing for. Abalone! Of course it was illegal, it was poaching. But there was good money to be made. The catch would be divided three ways; one for the boat’s share, one for Hugh, and one for me.

Hugh would do the diving, gathering the abalone into getter bags. I would stay on the boat, tending the long air hose from the compressor down to Hugh, pull up the full bags, and dump the catch into the fish hold. I also had to make sure there were no loops or kinks in the air hose.

‘Most important. I’ll make sure to watch for your air bubbles,’ I said.

Hugh laughed. ‘Just watch the hose, Worrywart. If there’s trouble I can drop my weight belt and come up for air.’

Forty-five minutes after starting, Hugh came up and said we had to move in closer to shore to find more abs. I pulled up the anchor and let the boat drift in, right up to the rocks. The song of waves breaking nearby sounded like thunder.

Hugh returned to diving for another hour. The boat’s deck was rolling severely, making it difficult to pull up the bags. Hugh came up, saying he was tired and wanted to come aboard to rest. He was surprised to see the size of the catch in the fish hold. It must have been four or five hundred pounds, or more.

‘Let’s go in,’ he said. ‘I think we have enough. Don’t want to overload the boat.’

I navigated the boat back to Sausalito while Hugh slept. He said we had a long drive ahead of us. It was almost dark by the time we tied up at the fish dock. Hugh drove his Econo Van out on the dock, right up to his boat. We transferred our catch, almost overloading the old van.

Picking up some burgers ’n fries to go, we shared the driving to Monterey. Why Monterey? It’s legal to fish for abalone down there, and the fish buyers don’t ask questions. We arrived late at night, slept in the van until we could sell the catch in the morning.

It was a long ride back to Sausalito. I wondered how much we had made from selling the catch. Hugh didn’t even seem to know, but he was happy. Walking to my pickup, he counted out the cash. Almost $5,000! My share was more than I could make in two weeks, or even three. And in just two long days! ‘When can we go again?’ I asked Hugh.”

Bill stopped his story telling.

“I need to take a break,” he said. “There’s more if you’re interested. And it gets better.” He was smiling as he went to the men’s room. I think he was enjoying telling his story as much as I was listening.

Bill continued his story with the second time he went out with Hugh.

“We were giddy with anticipation after the great success from the first trip. However, we got off to a bad start. Hugh was late getting to the boat in Sausalito. Turned out his old van wouldn’t start, so he took his wife’s car which caused a fight. We faced a flood tide, so it took longer to go through the Golden Gate and out to the ocean.

Arriving at the dive site, we set the anchor and began preparing the equipment. Hugh had bought three new fifty-foot coils of water hose from a garden supply store. This would be his air line, to replace the single fifty-foot hose we had used before. He hoped, with the longer air hose, we wouldn’t have to relocate the boat to a new dive site.

I was apprehensive about using the water hose. It wasn’t designed to carry air pressure. Also, the new hose hadn’t been stretched out to release the coils; they could cause a kink in the air line. Hugh finally agreed to uncoil the 150 feet of hose even though it would take time from the dive.

The air compressor ran off a drive pulley on the front of the boat’s diesel engine. This worked well when the engine was at idle. But when the boat was under way and the engine speeded up, the rubber belt driving the compressor had to be disconnected from the drive pulley. An easy enough job, but it required going below and creeping forward in the engine room.

As we were rolled out the air hose, I realized the boat was drifting into the rocks, the anchor was dragging. Hugh ran to the controls, shouting to me to pull up the anchor. It came up easily, its flukes buried in a tangled ball of seaweed. We relocated to a new spot, not so close to the rocks. The anchor cleared, cleaned, and set.

I gathered the air hose ready to feed it out to the diver. All the while I worried whether the compressor was powerful enough to pump air through 150 feet of water hose. Hugh wasn’t concerned, he just wanted to start diving. Overweight with a big belly, he struggled to squeeze himself into his neoprene dive suit. Putting on the weight belt was next, all fifty pounds of lead attached to an old military ammunition belt which barely fit around Hugh’s ample middle. He sucked up and with difficulty got the belt’s hook and eyes to catch. I asked him how he could release and drop the weights if an emergency happened. Hugh just laughed, attached the air hose to his dive mask, and jumped overboard, sinking very fast with all the weight.

I was busy playing out the air hose, making sure it didn’t kink, and pulling up getter bags of catch. Gazing out over the water after stowing the second bag, I wondered if Hugh had reached the end of the air line. With a shock, I realized there weren’t any air bubbles coming up.

Oh shit! I had to get Hugh up to the surface for air immediately.

I glanced down into the engine room…the drive belt for the compressor was off. Decision! Creep down and reattach the belt to the compressor? But the belt might be damaged. Or the problem may be a kink in the air line. Pulling on the air hose would not work. It might be damaged or wrapped around a rock. The water hose fittings were minimal and not meant to be pulled on. Both getter bags were up on deck. The only option left was the lightweight signal rope the diver used to call for a getter bag to be pulled up.

I pulled gently, my mind racing. How fast and hard to pull? Too hard and the small rope might break. Too slow and Hugh might drown…if he was still alive.

Slowly, hand over hand I pulled up the line. Hugh’s body appeared, underwater, not moving. The small rope was attached to his diver’s belt. My heart pounding in my ears, I reached over the side of the boat and turned the body over so the face was above the surface. Hugh was hardly recognizable, his face so bloated and purple. How was I supposed to get him into the boat?

The body moved, sounds came from the face, Hugh was alive! Somehow, to this day I have no idea how, I got Hugh on deck.

Then I got busy preparing to leave. I emptied the two getter bags into the fish hold. Only a dozen. I tied Hugh to the deck so he wouldn’t roll overboard. I raised the anchor, letting 150 feet of hose trail out behind to work out the last kinks.

Hugh was feeling sick, threw up on the deck where he lay. I set the course south for home. I began shaking, a bad stomach taste filled my mouth. Too much adrenaline. I lost control of my bladder. Hugh slept all the way through the small boat channel. Passing under the Golden Gate Bridge, Hugh woke up, and struggled to unfasten the weight belt. It took both of us to get it off. I told Hugh that I wouldn’t dive with him again until he had a new, quick-release weight belt.

Arriving at the fish dock, Hugh was feeling better. Looking in the fish hold, he decided there were too few to drive to Monterey. He said we could sell them in Chinatown.

Parked on a side street in the heart of San Francisco’s Chinatown, Hugh stood by his car with an abalone in his hand. Pedestrians stopped and asked, ‘How much?’ but didn’t buy any, so Hugh began lowering the price. My job was to watch out for police, on foot or in patrol cars. Street selling was illegal without a permit. We were about ready to leave when another van pulled up and parked in front of us. They had puppy dogs for sale. Soon a small crowd gathered. The buyers were not petting the dogs, they were feeling the legs. We sold our catch to people accustomed to buying illegal sources of protein. It had been a long, tough day, a hard way to make $20.”

Bill lifts his mug of coffee, puts it down and takes a sip of water. “So, that’s the end of that chapter. There’s more if you want.”

“Oh yes!” I say. “It’s fascinating. I can see why you understood when I told the story about my buddy’s finger.”

“Yep, been there, done that. I gotta take a leak, be right back. That’s the trouble with getting old.”

I think I see tears in his eyes before he wipes them with a napkin. Is it reliving the near drowning? Or what? The waitress comes over and clears the lunch dishes. I ask her if it’s okay for us to sit here longer.

She studies the pelting rain out the window. “No more customers coming in on a day like this,” she says, “Would you like dessert? We have one slice of pie left.”

“Yes, please. Would you divide it on two plates.”

“Sure. Do you want to know the flavor?”

“Nope. You surprise me. It’ll be good whatever.”

Bill returns and continues his story.

“It was three weeks until I heard from Hugh. I’d been wondering if I ever would. Hugh said he had done a lot of work on the boat and dive equipment. Proudly, he announced the purchase of a new (to him) dive air hose, and a new weight belt. A week later we went out again at first light. The weather was good and the sea was calm.

Arriving at the dive site, we made sure the anchor was well set. We checked out the new equipment, including a stronger signal rope, one that could pull him up if needed. Understandably, Hugh was in no hurry to dive. After checking the quick release on his weight belt, he jumped overboard. Before long, he sent up the first getter bag with a nice catch.

I was just starting to dump the abalone in the fish hold when I heard gun shots. Looking up, I saw two men standing on the edge of the bluff above us. One had a rifle, the other was looking through binoculars. As I watched, the rifleman took aim and shot at us! I admit I was more frightened than I could imagine. He missed, but I could see the bullet hit the water near the boat with a loud ‘shoop!’ sound. Dropping the getter bag on the deck, I grabbed the new signal rope and pulled.

Hugh came up, wondering what was going on. As I explained, another shot rang out, the bullet hitting the water even closer. ‘Shoop!’

Hugh came aboard, dropped his weight belt, air hose, and partly filled getter on the deck. I ran forward and pulled up the anchor. Hugh was in the pilot house trying to shift the engine from neutral into forward. The shift lever was stuck! The boat was drifting back into the rocks. Hugh hoisted himself up and kicked the shift lever with both feet. It broke! I felt spray from the waves breaking over the rock just next to us. Hugh dove into the engine room, and with a pipe wrench forced the transmission into forward. We headed out to sea. Back on the bluff, the man with the rifle raised it in the air with a pumping gesture.

Clearing the north end of our cove, we saw a vessel belching black diesel smoke coming at us full speed down the coast. Hugh swore, saying it was the Fish and Game boat. We couldn’t outrun them. Slowing down, we released and swung out both of the long salmon fishing poles on each side of our boat. It looked like we were trolling for fish. Setting our engine speed, we headed out to sea away from the coastal abalone diving area. Much of our course took us out of sight in the troughs of waves. The Fish and Game boat passed behind us, continuing their search for abalone poachers along the shore. Hugh slipped out of his dive suit. We pulled in and stowed the air hose and getter bags we’d been towing. If we had come close to being apprehended, we could have cut everything loose. With no evidence on board, we would go free.

We were both pretty down when we made it back to Sausalito. It was too late to take the few abalone we had to Chinatown. Hugh knew a bar near his home that bought and sold illegal items through their back door. He invited me to come along as lookout. Hugh was very paranoid after the close call. He said we could then go to his home for supper.

His wife made us the most delicious omelet I have ever eaten. She called it the Abalone Diver’s Omelet. Perfect for quick meals since she never knew when Hugh would come home from fishing. I still make it for myself with eggs, browned onions, fresh green onions, chopped tomatoes, garlic croutons, ground sage, and lots of cheese.

It was another three weeks before I heard from Hugh. He had a sure-fire idea for abalone diving. I told him I wasn’t interested. Even with the delicious omelet, the $10 earned was not worth the day out there. Hugh convinced me to come to his place, hear him out, and enjoy another Diver’s Omelet.

Hugh’s idea was simple. Since I lived in west Marin, I could drive out to the Seashore Headlands, set up and watch for the Fish and Game boat. Hugh had acquired two ship-toshore radio telephones. This was well before cell phones. They each came in a wooden crate, larger than a shoe box. We set up a date and time, mid-week. Less chance of Park Rangers. Hugh had another fisherman to crew on the dive boat. This meant the catch would be divided four ways, not three. But the potential was there.”

Bill paused, fidgeted with a cold French fry, then turned to me. “There’s one more chapter…are you game?”

“Oh, yes!” I said, “I’m intrigued. What happen?”

A grim look crossed Bill’s face. He took a sip of tepid coffee.

“You okay?” I asked. You don’t have—”

“No,” he said. “I have to tell it out loud. It’s very personal, and I’ve never told anyone. You’re a good listener. So, here goes…” He took a breath and began.

“I drove out to the vast, uninhabited Headlands. Maneuvering my pickup off the road and hiding it behind some bushes, I carried the radio box, a small stool, binoculars, and a knapsack with food and water to the bluff above the ocean. It was near the spot the shooter had stood. In fact, I found some empty rifle shell casings. This was a good location to watch both up and down the coast.

Hugh’s boat was just coming into view. We made radio contact. ‘Are you there? Yes, are YOU there? Yes. Good view? The best.’

That was the last radio contact.

I watched the dive equipment being set-up below for a few minutes. Relocating a few yards back up the slope to a higher spot, I had a better coastal view all the way south to the Golden Gate, and to the north until the coast disappeared in the mist. I laughed thinking of the phrase ‘The coast is clear.’ Hoped it would stay that way.

The day was beautiful, sun shining with a gentle ocean breeze. My little bench was comfortable. I’d taken a beginning meditation class, had been uncomfortable sitting, so I’d built this portable bench. Facing the ocean gave me an easy view both up and down the coast.

A deer slowly walked up to me. I sat very still. Coming closer, the deer cautiously stretched out her nose, touching my outstretched hand.

“Why,” asked the deer, in a loud clear voice, “Are you doing this?”

I started to choke up, feeling the awe of the moment, I hugged myself. The deer and I looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, lost in space and time. As the deer slowly moved away, nibbling on shoots of grass, I felt myself also moving.

My body was changing, filling out, expanding. I could still see all the way up and down the coast. Everything was merging, shifting, unfolding. Everything blended into shades of blue; the sky and ocean, and the rocks and bushes.

Everything became…everything. And one. I could no longer see my body. I was dissolved into the whole, I WAS the sky, the ocean, the rocks, the All. A feeling of joy surrounded me.

The new feeling was accepted, not questioned. Time stood still. There would have been a grin on my face, if I had a face. Images flashed through my mind, too fast to be held…to be questioned…to be examined. I liked where I was. After an hour, a minute, or an eon, my body reemerged, sitting on my meditation bench. I wished I was a dancer…I’d dance. Or a singer…and sing. Or a poet, or an artist.

I stood up, stretched, and walked down to the edge of the bluff. Hugh’s boat was gone. Looking south, I thought I could just see a small gray fishing boat turning into the Golden Gate. The radio telephone didn’t work. Maybe I’d left the power switch on and the battery was drained? Nope, still plenty of power. A storm was building out to sea. It was time to go home.”

Having finished his story, Bill sat quietly across from me, hands folded on the table, head bent.

“That must’ve been awesome,” I said.

He just nodded.

I reached over and touched his hand. “Then what happened, or was that the end of the story?”

“I didn’t hear from Hugh, and his phone was no longer in service. Maybe he couldn’t pay his phone bill. A month later, I drove to Hugh’s home, taking the radio telephone. He was there, said he was sorry, no Diver’s Omelet, the chickens weren’t laying.

I returned the telephone, saying that it hadn’t worked. Hugh responded with a shrug, didn’t seem to care. He’d left the dive site when there were no abalone to be found, and his radio didn’t work either. When I asked if he was still diving, Hugh shrugged again. ‘Nope.’ I asked what happened.

Returning from the dive, they tied up to the fish dock and left. The storm was just breaking. Somehow, that night, the boat broke loose and was driven under the dock. The rising tide and the storm waves smashed the boat. It sank. Hugh was not concerned. It wasn’t his boat, he’d borrowed it. Since then, Hugh had been repairing VW bugs for hippy customers who had very little money.”

“That’s quite a story!” I say, “What about you?”

“Things worked out for me,” Bill said. “I started meditating regularly. At first focusing on a deer, but then on a large disk of light.”

The waitress came, cleared the lunch dishes, and left a bill. I put down some cash, and urgently headed to the restroom. I told Bill I’d be right back.

It took longer than expected. I don’t like being an old man. Returning, the restaurant was filled with a glow; the storm had passed. Light streamed in through the open door, so bright I had to blink. Bill was not at the table. There was just one coffee mug on the table, and some change. I grabbed the jacket I’d left on the old vinyl seat, and ran to the door, not picking up the change. Outside, it took a minute for my eyes to adjust to the bright light.

Bill was nowhere to be seen. •SCA•