Pistol-Packing Poop-Decker

Pistol-Packing Poop-Decker

One might think that because of ole Pete's hobby that this might be a story about killing. But once we know the caliber of the fish-net protector's eyesight, stability of arm, acuteness of aim, and his intention, we soon see that this is really about an old geezer having funscaring. And birds at that!

Peter Hollingsworth had been around the fishing industry for decades, even quarters of centuries: three, to round it off. And if you count his father and grandfather, the Hollingsworths had entertained commercial fishing for over two hundred years.

Now Pete's sons, Marvin and Spencer, manned the nets. And the old-timer putted around in an inboard dory going through the motions of an active participant. The truth was that the most he could do was scare off the birds and, though rarely, by being present physically to deter fish poachers from robbing the nets. But had the pirates put their minds to it, they could have taken all they liked -- robbed the old man blind -- because his long-distance vision was so bad he couldn't see past his bow.

And the pistol he carried -- that ancient twenty-five caliber semi-automatic he called Slug Butt -- in his hands, anyway, would come close to winning the bet that he couldn't hit the broadside of a barn if he was leaning against it. For that old twenty-five, much like Pete himself, was more for show than anything.

Son Marvin said it this way: "That gun is so weak, the bullets fall limp soon as they leave the barrel."

Now, Peter Holllingsworth loved the sea. And, of course, boats. Add to that fishing, so it's no surprise that the octogenarian spent his days putting around the family nets. If you asked what he was doing he'd say, "Just pooping around." That's because he called every place he sat in the boat the Poop Deck. It might better be called the fantail or bow, stern or midship, but he so liked the term that even if he was hanging over the gunwale he'd call her the Poop Deck.

After he putted around the fishing area he would turn off his motor, moor on a net buoy, and eat peanut butter and onion sandwiches. And

when he heard, "Them God-awful birds are coming," he'd pull out his very untrustworthy Slug Butt and send lead all over the bay. His sons had learned not to set or pull nets when their father was "pooping around." They also warned other fishermen that no one could guarantee what the lead might hit, so ole Pete did act as a deterrent.

Since his eyesight was so wanting, the old man relied on his hearing. Which, clinically, was not much better. But he had a thousand-dollar aid in each ear and he swore he could hear anything from loon calls to porpoise shrieking and that was good enough for him. So while he bobbed and putted about, he'd periodically pull out Slug Butt and blast away, swearing he'd heard loons or gulls or terns or falcons, eagles, osprey -- he didn't much care what -- trying to rob the nets. As long as it sounded like a bird of prey he'd blast. Sometimes even at the waves if they didn't speak the tongue he was accustomed to.

When Alex, Marvin's son, was old enough, which occurred about the time Grandpa's eyesight couldn't be relied on, he'd accompany ole Pete.

"Gives the boy a chance to be on the water. Get used to boats and the like," said Marvin. "Besides, Dad has a lot of knowledge of fishing and the sea. He's bound to pass some of it to the next generation." So the old man tutored the young one while the grandson kept an eye out for live targets. He also learned to stay on the handle side of Slug Butt, not the muzzle end.

Now, the Howard brothers, three of them in all, were an ornery bunch. Didn't much care where they got fish as long as they were the ones that delivered it to the cannery. They were especially bold when tanked up on cheap whiskey.

"So an eighty year-old geezer and a kid not out of grade school are going to stop the likes of us?"

"But ole Pete, he's got a gun. And it'sreal."

"Real, schmiel," said Frank, the eldest and heaviest drinker. "That pea shooter derringer couldn't get past the bow without bouncing off it first!"

So the Howard brothers, Frank, Seth, and Jakey, they poured themselves into a dingy and, between slugs of Dead Eye, oar-splashed their way to the Hollingsworth nets.

"What's that?" asked Grandfather Pete.

"What's what?" returned young Alex, who preferred to read his Super Hero comics than stare at the sea.

"Rowing. Sure as I'm sit'n on a Poop Deck, someone's rowing out there. Fish poachers, that's what. Come'n to rob us for sure. By gum, I'll

show 'em who owns them nets!" The old man pointed Slug Butt in the general direction of the noise.

When young Alex heard the first round, he stared into the fog. "You're right, Grandpa, itisa boat."

That's all it took for the Protector of the Nets to go into full action. He cranked off a whole clip of twenty-five calibers not knowing where they were going but hoping they would hitsomething.

When the Howard boys heard the report, they double-backed as fast as their oars could take them.

While ole Pete fumbled filling the clip, he yelled like an old Sea Captain at his First Mate. "Man the engine! By gum, we'll run the pirates out of the very water!"

So Alex, enlivened by the volley, the scurrying boat, and a chance to run a real motor, poked a button and threw a lever. At seven, he didn't know what he was doing any more than his aged grandfather; he threw the motor into Reverse.

But the errant roar and misguided shots all sounded the same to the Howard brothers. They abandoned ship - all ten feet of the plywood dingy -- and swam for their lives. It would have been a miracle had one of those randomly fired bullets hit within a hundred yards of the flailing drunks, but they didn't know that.

After the incident, the seaport saloons were adrift with stories about Coast Guard cruisers firing Gattling Guns at net robbers, chasing them down in high-powered boats. Ole Pete's trigger finger and young Alex's driving ineptness went a long way.

But local net robbers weren't the only threat off the cost of Southern California that season: two others posed danger to anyone caught in their wake: illegal immigrants and serious drug runners. The Mexicans who dared to come by boat were a stalwart bunch. They not only dared the sea, but helicopter reconnaissance and government cruisers as well. They pretended to be fishermen or tourists when persued, but they were desperate enough to hold their own if a small party tried to deter their entry. Marvin and Spencer hoped their aged father and young Alexander would never come in contact with the aliens. Of course, the immigrants shied away from contact as much as possible, but, still, those Gringosmighttry to stop them.

The drug runners presented the greater threat. They didn't care who got in their way. With millions of dollars of merchandise or as much in

paper money, they were well equipped to defend their contraband. And if an old fisherman and a seven year-old got in their way, they wouldn't hesitate to leave no witnesses. Marvin and Spencer so dreaded these men that they installed a pager hooked up to shore-to-shore so they could dash to their rescue if needed.

But as luck would have it, a boat load of cocaine smugglers did come ole Pete's way, and in a scenario worse than Marvin and Spencer ever nightmared. A Coast Guard cutter persued the smugglers at full speed. Cops and robbers zoomed into the bay where the old dory bobbed innocently. When Juan Pedro eyed Pete and Alex, the desperate man saw his chance. "Hostages!" He gunned toward the dory.

Alex poked the pager the same instant trigger-happy Pete opened fire.

"Net robbers! Why, I'll learn them pirates, I'll learn 'em good!"

Within minutes the drug runners were triangled: Pete blasting indiscriminately with Slug Butt, Marvin and Spencer booming out from shore with ten-gauge shotguns, and the Coast Guard with machine guns at the ready.

When the maritime desperadoes saw the three-against-one odds, they figured their time had come. They couldn't even make a dash for shore since the Hollingsworth men were bearing down with guns pointed. The Coast Guard got their men and a boatload of cocaine; Marvin saved his father and son, and ole Pete got a chance to blast at real bad guys, and Alex had a real show-and-tell with pictures as proof.

The only casualty to the daring enterprise was a bullet hole in the Coast Guard windshield. Though no one took the time to find that a twenty-five caliber slug fitted it perfectly; everyone chose to blame it on the criminals. They also attributed half the holes in the drug runner's hull to the sharp shooting of one Peter "Dead Eye" Hollingsworth, though they were actually fired from high-powered, Government-owned weapons. The old man got his picture in the paper, a badge, and was made an Honorary Deputy. It enlivened his spirits knowing he had contributed.

Now, two years later, ole Pete still patrols the nets. His doctor told him to quit eating peanut butter and switch to tofu. Alex is in the Fourth Grade and knows the difference between Forward and Reverse. The authorities decided the old man would have to switch from live rounds to blanks.

Ole Pete was so furious that Marvin and Spencer offered an alternative.

"Wooden bullets. They couldn't hurt a flea out there on the Pacific. You

gotta give the old fella somedignity, gentlemen."

So the Coast Guard acquiesced. But no one told the net robbers, aliens, and desperadoes. To them, the Government had planted a sharp-shooting member of some SWAT group in a dory just waiting to take target practice on all and any criminals. That's right, no one told them it was just an eighty year-old spraying wooden bullets from impotent Slug Butt.

And so ole Pete, as harmless as a eunuch amongst nuns, stood guard over the family nets as often as little Alex could play hooky. Because the old man really couldn't be trusted with a motor anymore. Nor for that matter, with a twenty-five caliber all by himself, wooden bullets or not. But he was an expert at pooping around.