The Catalina Connection

By Dan Feltham

An Ensenada Mexican cartel employs a new narcotics smuggling method through Santa Catalina Island into the Southern California lucrative drug market. High-speed luxury power boats are used to move the drugs across the border. A strong Santa Ana wind plays a role in the plot's discovery and two ols CIA/DEA friends form a partnership to identify the smugglers and capture the gang. A beautiful Mexican detective involves herself in the scheme and aids the friends. The story is set against the backdrop of coastal Southern and Baja California, and at times is both sensitive and humorous. A love story develops that tickles the readers intimate imagination. Come join the fun, chase, intrigue, loving and adventure.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Nov 30, 2011
• ISBN: 9781618427724

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Chapter 1 – Little Harbor

Catalina Island’s Avalon Harbor is not the place you want to be with a strong wind blowing from the northeast. Perhaps tucked into a tight corner right behind the breakwater (near the gas dock and Casino) would be okay, but several times each year the rest of Avalon is wide open to heavy winds and building seas. These abnormal winds are known as Santa Ana’s (also sometimes known in Southern California as Devil Winds) and are born out of a high-pressure area that develops over Nevada, generally between October and April. Hot dry air sweeps down from the slopes of Southern California’s coastal ranges and roars out to sea. These are the winds associated with the almost yearly devastating fires that attack dry brush covered hillsides and residential areas. By the time the winds reach Catalina’s exposed northeast coastal areas they can be blowing a full gale. Avalon Harbor’s normally placid waters can change to turbulent big waves that attack moored yachts and the city’s sandy shoreline.

My crew and I had raced Spindrift to the Long Point finish line on Saturday as a part of the Long Beach Yacht Club’s Summer Island Series. I elected to take the following week and spend it at Avalon rather than race back to Long Beach on Sunday. The race series uses a best seven out of ten finishes to determine overall winners and we had already done well enough to win a year-end trophy. Late that Saturday afternoon, Spindrift was lucky to be assigned a mooring by the Avalon Harbor Master. In retrospect, I figured that many other skippers had checked the weather forecast, perhaps better than I, or raced back to Long Beach on Sunday and skipped Avalon, thus leaving space for us. After folding and furling the sails and cleaning up the boat, we six caught the shore boat into town and enjoyed a fine dinner at the El Galleon Restaurant. We all enjoyed a good calm night’s sleep and peaceful mooring that night and most of the next day. Several of my crew, including Jack’s wife and my lady Cindy, took the Sunday morning high speed Channel Cat back to the mainland. Jack, Cary and I remained on board. That Sunday afternoon it started to blow hard and from the east, the wrong direction! We decided to ride it out for the night and see what would happen.

By Monday morning’s dawn, Avalon Harbor was a frothy mess with large breakers crashing on the town’s beach and harbor walk. Seawall spray, near the Tuna Club and Catalina Yacht Club, was being tossed twenty feet in the air and green water was running a foot deep along Crescent and Casino Way. The bars, hotels, restaurants and gift shops along those two waterfront streets were in danger of all being flooded. Boats like my Cal39, can suffer damage or even beaching in such conditions. I wouldn’t have believed that this normally placid, beautifully calm harbor could be so angry if I hadn’t seen photos of past years’ storms displayed in the little museum under the casino. I let those photos be a warning, as things looked like they were getting worse. We were now experiencing a strong Santa Ana wind condition.

The previous night had grown more and more uncomfortable, and the wind was still rising – and fast. The anemometer, reading the wind speed at the top of our mast, showed 30 knots, gusting to 35. We were on a solid double buoy hookup but exposed to the open ocean in the middle of the harbor. The bow was tossing up and down through an arc of maybe 7 or 8 feet. It was definitely time to leave.

I spoke what was on all three of our minds. Let’s get out of here guys. This is not going to get any better and I don’t want us to end up on the beach if this mooring drags or gives way. About half of the boats that were here last night have already left.

Where do you want to go? asked Jack. It’s a long haul back to Long Beach in this blow! I don’t relish a five hour rough water bash direct to windward.

Well, we are on vacation, right? And we were planning to check out a few of the other harbors and anchorages this week anyway, right? The whole northeast coast of Catalina is under siege by wind and waves, so I propose we power out of here, turn right instead of left and head for Little Harbor or Cat Harbor on the new safe side of the island. We’ll just change sides of the island. Nothing too exciting can be happening over there. What a naive remark that turned out to be.

The other two agreed and we set about dropping the mooring lines – stern line first, engine running and ready to engage, then bow line and power forward into the heavy waves and wind. A few nearby boats were doing the same. The 46 footer two moorings over almost blew it when the crew dropped both bow and stern lines at the same time and the wind caught the boat broadsides. Their skipper really had to gun his engine to avoid smashing into several other yachts, including ours. Meanwhile, our 50 horsepower Perkins diesel moved Spindrift out through the harbor entrance, but not without taking a few large waves over the bow that soaked all three of us with cold salt water showers.

Spindrift is a good-looking blue-hulled Cal39 sloop that displaced around 17,500 pounds, so she packed enough wallop at 2800 rpm to handle the rough going. I had owned her for many years and kept her in top racing condition, and that included regular overhauls on the big Perkins inboard. Spindrift is what is referred to as a racer/cruiser – very comfortable below decks yet capable of good speed and winning her fair share of coastal races, if sailed well. I looked back at Avalon Harbor as we turned south, and saw a few small workboats already being tossed on the flooded beach near the big green wooden pier. They would be a total loss in no time. I gave Jack the wheel and went below to figure out a course, but it was really simple – just hug the coast past the scarred cliffs of the Connolly-Pacific rock quarry, avoid two of the huge orange rock barges moored near the quarry and get into the lee past the east end of the island, as safe and efficiently as possible. Little Harbor was about two hours away – somewhat less than 16 miles. It was still blowing 25 plus, so we hoisted only the mainsail, but with a deep reef and sail flattener pre-set. We definitely didn’t need a jib and were power sailing under shortened main at 7 1/2 knots.

As soon as we rounded the true east end of the island the seas moderated and the wind suddenly dropped to 5 or 6 knots. I could see the churned up wind line receding to port as we changed course to more of a westerly direction. The surface of the sea changed from tossing white caps to sparkling diamond reflections of the morning sun. Jack’s work at the wheel eased considerably. What relief. We remained about a quarter mile off the island shore – past the Palisade slide area and outside Church Rocks along this rugged unfriendly coast. I didn’t see any other boats following in our wake. I asked Jack to cut back on the throttle and Cary shook the reef out of the mainsail. Amazing! Suddenly, it was a nice, almost hot, morning on the new leeside of Catalina. (see map).

Rough Sketch of Catalina Island

Little Harbor is a natural double u-shaped cove - a cove within a cove. There would be space enough for maybe a dozen small yachts - maximum. I hoped that most of the boats bailing out of Avalon had already left the island and were returning to the California mainland. Maybe we would have the harbor all to ourselves. I hadn’t been in the cove for at least twenty years but had heard that there were now good camping facilities, piped in running water – a scarce commodity on Catalina - picnic tables, outhouse-style toilets, and fire pits on shore. With the change in plans, I was looking forward to hanging out there for a day or two, doing some reading, hiking and exploring ashore – maybe even see some buffalo? I had read recently that an overly curious camper had been gored nearby the area in 2007 – so, maybe no hiking. Over the years, Catalina had become a camper’s paradise. I was almost correct about the cove being unoccupied.

We soon passed the widest part of the island and headed more northerly until we could turn into the smaller cove entrance to where I wanted to anchor. In spite of the wildness we had left behind at Avalon, this little sanctuary was as calm as a backyard swimming pool – hardly a ripple. We dropped the mainsail and Cary went forward to the bow to prepare for lowering the big Danforth anchor. We passed a couple workboats anchored on the right hand side of the larger part of the double cove. No one was aboard. They were probably hiking into the interior of the island. Straight ahead was a smooth white sandy beach with a grassy rise behind, plus a few trees, picnic tables and fire pits. But, surprise! To the left were two large sleek looking and very expensive powerboats – the larger at least 50 feet in length and the smaller a few feet shorter but still considerably larger than Spindrift. They were pulled up with their bows resting on the smooth sand and almost touching each other broadside to broadside. Neither yacht had identifying names, homeport lettering or flags. Their transoms had been covered over with white canvass. I thought that very strange since a homeport must be displayed on every boat’s stern. It looked like two men talking – maybe arguing – face to face on the beach. Spindrift was almost stopped near my chosen anchorage spot and my crew and I were busy getting ready to drop the hook.

All of a sudden, two others – a man and a woman – came sprinting out from behind the two powerboats. They were yelling something at us and running hard along the wet sand near the water’s edge. The woman – perhaps a girl – was 10 yards in the lead. Two shots rang out and echoed off the cliffs behind the coves. The man fell to the sand and the girl charged into the water at full speed and without looking back began to swim toward Spindrift. What was going on? Two or three more shots were fired and I saw the splash of bullets near the swimmer, but she kept coming. She was good! A strong swimmer! A rescue was definitely in order.

Cary, I yelled, forget the anchor and get aft. We need to put the stern ladder down and grab that girl. Jack, get the boat hook from the locker to give her a helping hand up the ladder. We’re outa here as soon as she’s safely on board!

More shots rang out and this time they were being aimed our way by one of the two men that I had first seen by the powerboats. I had geared to neutral but still had some way on and turned Spindrift so that our stern was closest to the swimmer. I yelled at Jack and Cary to grab her but for heaven’s sakes keep down. The girl had gone under water to dodge the gunshots and surfaced again near our stern ladder. Several more shots were fired in our direction, but they went wild although I heard one splinter the thick fiberglass hull near Spindrift’s starboard waterline. As soon as my crew grabbed the girl’s arms and pulled her safely on board half way up the ladder, I pushed hard on both the forward gear lever and then the throttle. With a roar and in spite of her heavy displacement, Spindrift almost leaped forward toward the cove’s opening, as if she too wanted to get away from the cause of her being shot. I looked back and the wounded man on the beach was up again and grappling with the gunman. Certainly not the quiet anchorage I had anticipated.

The panting girl was trembling and mumbling over and over in her native language, Gracias amigos, gracias, gracias. And then looking back, Oh, mi Dios. Pobre Lorenzo. Pobre Lorenzo!

More shots, but we were well out of range. The bullets were spent and fell harmlessly into the deepening ocean behind us. Jack got a beach towel from below and handed it over to our shivering strange new passenger.

What’s your name? Do you speak English? What happened there? Are you okay? Who are those guys? were a few of our questions as she dried off and settled on a cushioned cockpit seat.

Whoa! I said. One question at a time!

I excitedly spoke my thoughts to the others, I’m heading for Catalina Harbor as fast as possible and I hope those guys don’t try to chase us. Those sports fishers can do 30 plus and our max is only 8 or 9 knots. However, it looked like they had their hands full wrestling with Lorenzo, or whoever he is. Cat Harbor is only six miles away.

Mil gracias again gentlemen. Yes, I speak English and my name is Socorro, Socorro Castillo and I am from Ensenada. I think you saved my life and I am so very grateful. I don’t know what will happen to my friend.

She was wearing a yellow bikini and a still soaked flimsy white blouse that hadn’t seemed to slow her any in the water. Her ebony black hair dripped seawater and hung almost to her slender waist. She was still trembling with remnant fear, but began studying us three who had plucked her from a possible watery grave. I noticed a few drops of blood on the cockpit floor and when she turned there was a thin surface wound behind her right shoulder.

That was very close! Cary, get the first aid kit. You know where it is. We need to stop that bleeding and treat her shoulder wound.

Socorro was chilled from the 60-degree ocean water or was still shaking out of fear or both, but had recovered somewhat. She got herself dry and I noticed when she turned her head back that she also dried off a few tears. Her gunshot wound was soon carefully treated by an interested Cary - they were close to the same ages – the girl looked about 20, I guessed, and my son was 23. We waited for her to open up about her wild run along the beach and why she had wanted to escape from the two motor yachts. While she was gathering an explanation, we took the time to calmly introduce ourselves.

I’m John Osborne, recently retired, boat owner and I live in Seal Beach near Long Beach. This is my son Cary, who is in his senior year at college and this is Jack Loften, an old friend and also recently retired. I think you were very lucky we came along when we did!

Socorro took all this in and the first thing she asked us was, Please gentlemen, don’t make me go back to Mexico. Those men will have me kidnapped or killed for what I know. I need to stay with you until I can get help from my people and figure out where to hide. My English is pretty good. My parents are well off and I attended a private finishing school near Pasadena. I know your country and have a US passport, but it is back there on that powerboat along with all my clothes, money and my cell phone. There was hardly an accent as she rattled off all this information.

What is going on back there and why are you in danger, asked Jack. You were almost killed swimming out to the boat.

Who was the man that you were running with along the beach, I asked. And who were the guys shooting at you and at us – and why?

She haltingly but calmly replied, I’ll try to explain. Lorenzo and I were invited to join what I thought would be a pleasure cruise for a few days – a fun vacation to Catalina. Lorenzo is just a close friend I grew up with in Ensenada, but he is probably in serious trouble if he was trying to escape with me. I don’t know for sure, or who he works for, but I can now guess.

Her next answer shocked us. Those men are drug runners. They’re doing business on the beach for a well-known Mexican cartel. Please don’t turn me into the authorities. I hate drugs. Can’t you just pretend that I am with your party? My shoulder feels fine. It is just a scratch.

Oh, oh. I wondered where this was going to lead, but was curious and wanted to help this beautiful girl. I briefly thought of my old friend – the 45 caliber Glock 21 - quietly resting in a sock drawer at home. Would I have used it to return fire as in my CIA days? No, we were sitting ducks and my responsibility was the safety of my crew and the girl. There might come another day. Anyway, I had never believed that hand guns had a place on sailboats. Perhaps, in these days of piracy in international waters, a good automatic rifle might come in handy, or a bazooka. And at very close range with a one-on-one situation, a flare gun to a boarder’s midsection can pretty much settle an argument. A Mossberg 12 gauge works pretty well too. I dropped these violent thoughts and steered Spindrift northwest. That part of my life lay behind me. I kept telling myself, I’m retired, I am retired!

Forty-five minutes later we were turning between the two rocky headlands into the narrow entrance and protection of Catalina Harbor. Spindrift and I had been here many times over the years. It is a wonderful anchorage in almost any kind of weather. If it were located in the Caribbean, it would be considered an excellent hurricane hole.

Jack got on our VHF radio’s channel 12 to notify the harbormaster that we needed a mooring, if available, and that we might need to file a report with the police.

Hey Jack, I called, Can it! Don’t say anything more about what just happened. We need to figure out what we’re going to do first.

There were probably forty or fifty other boats and yachts either anchored or moored to fixed buoys in the center of the long narrow harbor. A few belonged to year-around live-aboards, but that was more than usual for October. I figured that a number of the yachts had come around the west end of Catalina from the Isthmus Harbor, also seeking safety from the Santa Ana winds. I didn’t think that either of the two sports boats at Little Harbor would try to pursue us here in such a populous setting – especially if we would be able to anchor or pick up a mooring at the shallower end of the harbor. There was safety in numbers.

An assistant harbormaster escorted us in his launch to a near shore anchoring area surrounded by other yachts. Cary finally dropped our oversized anchor overboard in about 20 feet of water. I slowly backed Spindrift and ‘set the hook’. The operator moved his launch alongside to collect an overnight fee. We got Socorro dressed in a big dry colorful beach towel, plus one of our old grey sailboat sweatshirts with Spindrift lettering on the back. She wrapped the towel like a sarong and got her hair combed. Amazingly, she looked great, almost glamorous, and suddenly appeared to be part of our salty crew. Right or wrong, I had decided to go along with her request. I was retired secret service and needed something to do that might become involved with the law again – at least for a while. My curiosity about the girl and the drug smuggling was very much aroused. We sat around on the boat cushions in Spindrift’s cockpit. It was just turning noon and the Santa Ana wind was funneling through the Two Harbor’s low lying isthmus, but the harbor waters were flat as a pancake. I was somewhat pissed that my beloved Cal 39 also had a gun shot wound.

I took charge of the conversation with the launch operator and told a short vanilla version of what really happened – two powerboats on the beach in Little Harbor that looked like they were transferring contraband of some sort, but I couldn’t be sure. I wanted to downplay it so this launch operator wouldn’t be spreading rumors all over the anchorage. I did not mention the gunshots and did not show him the bullet hole near Spindrift’s waterline. We were on vacation and would stay in Cat Harbor for a few days. I told him I had friends on the LA County Police Force and would file a report with them later – and to not worry about us and not to go blabbing to everyone he met in Two Harbors. He was a young kid, doing his harbor job and probably couldn’t care less about some new island druggies he didn’t already know about.

This is a private matter for the law, so keep your mouth shut so you won’t get involved. Thanks for the escort and safe anchorage. Maybe it was nothing? We’ll be okay now.

He agreed and powered away to other duties. I