I’ve done a number of boat deliveries in the past – some of them repossessions.  The most unusual started out looking like it was going to be quite normal.  It wasn’t even a repo although the boat had been repossessed from the previous owner.  The new owner simply wanted me to move it from the repair yard in Redwood City to San Francisco where he intended to live on it.  Getting the boat to San Francisco wasn’t a problem… the real trouble came after getting there. 

There was a little snag when I was driven by the Spinnaker manager to the repair yard to pick up the boat and was informed the key wasn’t there.  The owner, Mr. K. had the key and he wasn’t there, either.  After calling, we learned he was in a motel in Redwood City, and we could stop by and pick up the key from him.  This would only be a short delay.  When we got there Mr. K. asked if he could come along.  “Sure, it’s your boat.” I replied.  What he neglected to tell me was that he was wanted by the police – reported armed and dangerous.

We drove back to the boat yard and finally got underway.  Mr. K. wasn’t much interested in steering the boat, so I drove while he explored his new possession.  He opened every locker down below and when finding something he didn’t recognize, would ask, “Hey Bob, what’s this?”

I answered, “That’s a flopper stopper.”

“What’s that for?”

“You hang it over the side when anchored if there are waves and it dampens the rocking of the boat.”

“What’s this?”

“It’s a radar reflector.”

This went on and on.  At one point he opened the countertop icebox lid and slammed it shut saying, “Don’t open that… It stinks in there.”

I believed him having repossessed a number of boats in the past and in the process learned never to open the icebox.  Stuff would be left in there for who knows how long.

We finally got to South Beach Harbor in San Francisco and had to tie up the boat temporarily so we could go into the harbor office and find out which slip was his.  Nobody was there but a diagram of the marina was on the wall and we found his slip number.  Just as we were leaving the office the assistant harbormaster came back and insisted she help us identify the correct slip.  It was the one we thought.  She offered to get us help moving the boat to the slip, but I declined.  It would be faster to move it by our selves.

After securing the boat, the owner and I were leaving the marina at the northern most gate at Pier 40.  The security gate is at the bottom of the ramp.  The top of the ramp is at the corner where Pier 40 meets The Embarcadero. The Java House Restaurant is on one side of the ramp and the parking lot to Pier 40 on the other.  Just as the gate shut there was a lot of yelling at the top of the ramp.  With Mr. K. behind me, I looked up and there were six police officers at the top of the ramp all aiming guns down at us.  Six more popped up behind the wall that used to be along the parking lot of Pier 40 and six more popped up next to The Java House.  They all had guns and they were all aiming them at us.  They were young, sounded scared and had their fingers on the triggers, I’m sure. A few were yelling at us to put our hands up.

Mr. K. was behind me saying, “What’s the matter fellas?”  I didn’t think this was a good time to strike up a conversation.  Apparently, he finally did what they wanted, and they stopped yelling at us to put our hands up but there were more orders.

“Lay down face down… put your hands out in front of you… put your palms up… put your palms down.”  When the police were satisfied, a few of them came down the ramp and put us each in handcuffs behind our backs.  Then we were led to a police van and Mr. K was locked into the front compartment and I was locked into the back… handcuffs still in place.

Eventually one of the police came to me and asked, “Who are you?”

“I’m a delivery skipper.”

“You got any I.D.?” 

I was able to get my wallet out of my back pocket and poke it through the bars of the van despite the handcuffs.  He took the wallet to his superior and came back saying if it checked out they would let me go.  That would be nice.  In a few minutes they were unlocking me and I had to sign a statement acknowledging I had been detained.  (That means no arrest for those who don’t go through this sort of thing all the time.)  As soon as I finished signing the statement I stepped away and a TV newswoman came up to me with a film crew behind her and a microphone in her hand.  I think it was Wendy Tokuda.  “What’s going?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”  That was about all I could think of saying.

She turned around to the film crew.  “No story here boys… Let’s go.” And that was the last I saw of them.

I realized I hadn’t been paid for the job yet and they were about to take Mr. K. away for who knows how long.  One of the officers took me to see him at the front of the van and allowed me to get the money from him. 

Then the sergeant asked me what the name of the boat was.  I couldn’t remember. 

“Which slip is it in?” 

I couldn’t remember that either.  I think at that point I would be lucky to remember my own name. 

“Can you show us to the boat? I’ll give you a ride to the train station after we look it over.” offered the sergeant. 

Apparently, they had permission to search the boat and even had the keys.  Most of the officers went on to other duties and the sergeant and two other officers and I went down to the boat.  On the way to the boat one of the officers was kind enough to fill me in on why Mr. K. was getting so much attention from the police.

He told me Mr. K. had been drunk and disorderly at a restaurant in Sausalito but that wasn’t what got him into such deep trouble. When the police came to restore order, one of them put his hand on Mr. K’s shoulder and Mr. K. turned around and punched the policeman in the face.  That didn’t do it either.  Then Mr. K. got on one of the police motorcycles and drove it down the stairs at the restaurant.  That didn’t do it either.  After that, Mr. K. failed to make his court appearance.  That didn’t even do it.  Finally, his ex-wife called the police and told them he had purchased a .44 magnum pistol, and he was going to go after the policeman who arrested him in Sausalito.  That did it.

I reflected on all this while sitting in the cockpit of the boat and the three policemen were searching the inside of the boat.  I didn’t think they would find anything because I didn’t remember him bringing anything.  Eventually one of them came out of the cabin with a drawstring bag.  There was a sweater in it and two boxes of .44 rounds with six missing from one box.  It was a good thing I was sitting when they showed me that. 

When the search was over, the sergeant drove me to the train station as promised and while waiting for the train to leave I realized the police had never looked in the icebox.  The flush top counter lid wouldn’t be obvious to someone not familiar with older cruising boats.  At the time I was still too shaken up to make any suggestions but have always wondered since; what was in that icebox?