The Mayor of O.B.

By Mark Stephen Clifton

Ocean Beach, San Diego, better known as OB, is located on Point Loma. Nothing stops the summer influx of tourists, fugitives, and gypsies from coming nearly as far southwest in the continental US as one can go. On any given day, you will see the unofficial mayor of OB holding court on the seawall by the pier. Paul “Pops” O’Hagen tells the tale of his life before and after prison as he encourages the younger surfers to not do what he did. Pops’s troubles are not in the past, though. The person who used to be his best friend but betrayed him by lying in court still poses a threat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Page Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 17, 2022
• ISBN: 9781662465857

Book preview

Chapter 1

Not Long Ago

Ocean Beach. Nearly an island. Just enough land to cover Mission Bay between the San Diego River and Point Loma to call it a peninsula. As the bumper sticker says, Ocean Beach, It’s Beside the Point. Interstate 8 dead-ends in OB. So do many lives. Nothing stops the summer influx of tourists, fugitives, and gypsies from coming nearly as far southwest in the continental US as one can go. At the end of the rainbow, they find half-dressed nymphs, a Mediterranean climate, and ready access to a very real pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Gold that comes in long buds from the heart of Mexico.

Pygmy date palms greet you when Interstate 8 morphs into Sunset Cliffs Blvd. Downtown OB is Newport Avenue, where giant palms permanently bend west toward the pier in obeisance to the strong southeasterly winds, called Santa Ana’s, that howl in the fall.

Ocean Beach was always different, even before the sixties and the invasion of Haight-Ashbury hippies who migrated from the cold northern California port cities. The sport of free diving was advanced by local watermen during the 1930s. In those days, free divers had no scuba tanks or wet suits. One of them, Jack Prodanovich, invented the underwater camera and spear gun, among other things. He never patented any of his inventions, so his ideas were ripped off. Jack dived well into his nineties. Today, Jack’s son makes the famous Prodanovich surfboards.

The town council still works hard to keep the twenty-first century out of its borders. It is not hard to find license plate frames that say US out of OB or The People’s Republic of Ocean Beach. T-shirts proclaim, Ocean Beach: A Sunny Place for Shady People. The proposed Starbucks in the heart of town caused riots in the street. Starbucks eventually won. Money talks; idealism walks. Nevertheless, one gets the feeling that this is the last authentic beach town on the west coast. As every old bungalow gets leveled and replaced with the new lot condos, a little history disappears.

One relic would not be changed. Paul Pops O’Hagen, the unofficial mayor of OB, held court daily on the seawall by the pier. His once-long brown locks had disappeared. His formerly long red beard had turned white. But the sparkle in his sky-blue Irish eyes remained. Those eyes had witnessed many mysteries, some that were not meant to be seen. There were still some who would like to take a hot poker to those eyes, and for no extra costs, remove his tongue.

Chapter 2

January 2000

Get it in gear! We’ve got another twenty loads to go! shouted Captain Alfonso Marutas to his crew of eight. His black beard and long raven hair made him look like Long John Silver minus the eye patch, peg leg, and shoulder parrot. The loads were gunnysacks filled with kilo packages of Peruvian flake—uncut cocaine from that country which, like Columbia, the US has declared an enemy in the war on drugs, Nancy Reagan’s choice for her mission as first lady.

Before the coke would even hit the streets, three million dollars would be paid to Captain Marutas, who, just hours prior, paid $250,000 on Todo Santos, an uninhabited island seven miles west of Ensenada. The east side of the island was easily accessible by boat or kayak, for the isle hardly ever saw a storm come from land. But the northwest side of the island produced sixty-foot waves that were surfable only by death-defying pros who got towed out of the south by jet skis. Some of them lived to talk about it.

Marutas had picked up the contraband near the island called Todos Santos. As always, he had anchored his ship, a tuna clipper brazenly called The High C, a mile off shore, and signaled his connection with sky rockets purchased in Ensenada. It has been said that the naked eye can see a lit match on a moonless night up to ten miles. No problem for fireworks. The Mexican Connection would have his men power out in small panga boats full of white gold. The captain never left his quarters while conducting operations and was never to be seen while conducting business, except by his first mate Raul who delivered samples to Marutas. If the product was of quality, the captain would give Raul the money for enough coke to produce a six-month snowstorm well beyond OB’s borders.

During the day, the good captain was a tuna fisherman, as was his father and father’s father. But the troubled tuna industry, the high cost of living in southern California, and greed—mostly the latter—propelled his moonlighting activities.

From Todos Santos, Marutas would sail north and anchor ten miles off Point Loma, which rose from the coastal plain just south of OB. On the way, three small motorized Zodiacs in the hold of the ship would get loaded with the catch of the day. The veteran fishermen/smugglers knew where to go from here.

One crewman would power past the OB Jetty, which separated the beach from the Mission Bay Channel, which had once been the outlet for the San Diego River, before the Spanish padres and their conquistador pals began the southern California march toward civilization.

The first Zodiac would dock at Quivira Basin, a fairly secluded marina. The second Zodiac would aim for Point Loma and a favorite surf spot called Garbage Beach. A century ago, Madam Tingley and her Theosophical Society owned the land and buildings now occupied by a college. The cult practiced nudism, astrology, and vegetarianism, much like the hippies in the sixties. In Tingley’s time, there were no trash services, so she would make a daily run to the cliffs that overlook the Pacific Ocean, and dumped the trash into the water. Tonight, the tide was low, the moon full, and enough beach would be exposed to make for a safe landing. The third Zodiac would go toward the south end of Point Loma to the beach beneath the Cabrillo Lighthouse, an uninhabited tourist attraction. In the lighthouse parking log lot, a van would be waiting.

The three Zodiacs would make their way to the slips waiting for them at Shelter Island. The captain rented several slips for the Zodiacs. The High C would anchor next to them so they could be hoisted back on board for the next delivery. By now, the drugs would already be delivered to three safe houses for preparation and distribution.

The cocaine would be at the respective destinations by 2:00 a.m. Each of the three dealers would meet Captain Marutas at the storefront on top of the Strand Theater. The three men, all middle-aged, two in business suits and one in leathers, stood outside the office door. It was three in the morning and the midnight movies downstairs had been over for an hour. The cleanup crew was finishing up and had paid no attention to the men walking up the outside stairwell, as they had done so often for the last five years.

Come in! shouted Captain Marutas. Gentlemen, please sit down. Three auditorium chairs sat in front of the large desk. Each man put his briefcase on top of it. Thank you for your promptness. My men have phoned me and have made their drops. The quality is the same, as you will soon find out from your safe house connections. Is all the money here?

Yes, captain. All in unmarked bills, as usual, said the skinny man in the middle. The other two nodded. The meeting was over in five minutes. The men knew never to short-change the captain. If they did, consequences would be swift and deadly.

* * *

Captain Marutas paid off the Mexican Coast Guard once a month. It helped to be married to the former Señorita Gloria Barona, sister of Admiral Santo Mario Barona, who was in charge of the Mexican Federal Coast Guard. Marutas had fishing rights in Mexico and the US. The captain often thought he should have named his floating mistress The Untouchable. No man would touch either of his ladies.

* * *

One early night, after a very good week of fishing and trafficking, Captain Marutas was making the Jack Daniels disappear at Kate’s on Voltaire, northwest OB, not far from the San Diego river channel. As an in your face to the local authorities, he would openly snort coke with bar patrons, drawing out long lines on the bar. He usually drank alone, but tonight he called Gloria and told her to meet him at Kate’s. He loved his wife as much as a man of his nature could while he still hadn’t let go of the jealous passion that separated him from his best friend years ago.

Marutas was early, so he sat at the bar. Some outlaw bikers were hanging around the entrance and grabbing tail as it strolled in. Gloria saw the captain and waved. One of the tattooed men grabbed her rear. Before his stinging jaw had a chance to recover from Gloria’s right-hand slap, the captain put a half-emptied quart of Jack’s over his head. The fool didn’t go down. The second biker attempted to grab Marutas, but some locals grabbed him and shoved him against the wall. The first biker went for the hunting knife in a belt-scabbard, screaming You’re dead, mother—— while lunging at Marutas. The captain stepped to the left while tripping biker one, whose head crashed against the wall. He got up slowly from the floor, holding his knife downward in a non-threatening manner. Marutas ignored the fact that this guy had enough. He grabbed his own Buck knife from its scabbard and plunged it into the biker’s side.

The captain was like royalty in OB. People only saw what they wanted: self-defense. Marutas would walk. He was the Teflon captain long before Clinton or Gotti got their titles.

The local underground economy flourished in cocaine money, and the bars got their share. The local cops took the report as the EMT worked on the wounded biker. The ambulance hauled him away. The biker’s friend got on his Pan Head as fast as he could. He did not want to deal with the cops or his friend’s Sportster. A quick background check and he would be hauled away as well, but not to the hospital. They had more than enough witnesses to tell how Captain Marutas was just protecting himself and had to stab the biker in self-defense. The cops knew the loyalty to OB royalty could not be shaken. All they said to Marutas was, Don’t leave town until we’re done with the investigation.

The next day, Marutas set sail for his Baja retreat.

Chapter 3

April 1967

Al Marutas and Paul O’Hagen had known each other all of their seventeen years. They were born just days apart and were buddies before they uttered their first words. Both families lived on Abbot St., which ran north-south along the beach and ended by the OB. Pier at the foot of Sunset Cliffs, the name of the western edge of Point Loma.

Paul’s family owned the Abbot St. Market and lived above the store. Alfonso lived one house south of the market. They were