Ghost Wave - Chris Dixon [39]
As November arrived, Kirkwood’s plans had become newspaper fodder, and they drew the attention of the city of San Diego, the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, and U.S. Attorney Edwin Miller. There were valid concerns. What if Kirkwood was a communist sympathizer? What if the Abalonians decided to restrict fishermen in their newly claimed territorial waters? What if LA’s garbage started washing ashore? What if the mafia wanted the island for a casino? Kirkwood claimed to have already refused such an offer.
Kirkwood became impatient, and then frantic, waiting for answers to questions that never came and fearful that the U.S. attorney or someone else in the government would order him to cease and desist. He phoned Houtz at the start of the second week of November. How was Rainbow’s End? How was the weather? McMahan’s rocks were ready. Jalisco was ready. It was time for action.
Houtz had just dropped a brand-new pair of Chrysler Hemi V8 engines into Rainbow’s End. They needed at least fifty hours of break-in time before a long trip out to the Bank. But Kirkwood wanted to get this going now. Houtz studied the weather. A gale had wound up and pulled out to sea off Japan, but its wind and rain were many days out. His best guess was that the storm would track to the north, leaving a strong dome of calm high pressure anchored over Southern California. He reluctantly granted Kirkwood’s request.
The team assembled at the Balboa Bay Club on the afternoon of Sunday, November 13, 1966. Kirkwood arrived regally clad: pleated khaki trousers, a nice sweater Houtz suspected was cashmere, and a pair of fur après-ski boots, which Kirkwood thought might keep his feet warm. Houtz clucks at the memory of the boots, their image permanently seared into his brain. “Everybody at the club had been looking at the boots and looking at me, and asking, who is this guy?”
The royal entourage included Houtz’s navigator, a man whose name he has forgotten, and a fellow diver and employee he today only remembers as “Dan.” Kirkwood brought along a pair of young men Houtz had never met—William “Many Horses” Lesslie, a short, muscular man of Native American descent, and a young assistant named John O’Malley.
With the King of Abalonia safely aboard, Houtz slid the throttles forward on the Rainbow’s End and set a course for Cortes Bank. Somewhere off Catalina Island, an agitated Kirkwood asked Houtz to speed up. Houtz refused, saying, “Joe, look, we set up a plan…You know the exact RPMs of the engine and the speed of the boat. That’s how you know where you’re going.” As Houtz explained later, “It had been made clear on an earlier trip—this is my boat. I’m the captain. Stay out of the way.”
An hour or so later, one engine emitted an earsplitting clatter. A flabbergasted Houtz ordered it shut down. He wanted to yell I told you so to Kirkwood, but bit his lip. The decision to make the run had, after all, been his. They would continue on minus an engine.
Houtz wondered why Kirkwood was in such a hurry, not realizing that a race between Kirkwood and the U.S. attorney had already commenced.
Rainbow’s End reached Bishop Rock just after dawn on Monday morning. The weather was a California dream, the water as calm as a pond. Houtz took a bearing on the Bishop Rock buoy and located the spot for the first of his orange markers. “Everything was already charted,” he said to me. “We had the lengths of line attached to the buoys with all the weights. All we had to do was drop one, stay on course, drop two, stay on course, drop three, stay on course.”
A call came from the tug E. Whitney Olsen, which was hauling the Jalisco down from San Francisco. They would be visible on the horizon soon. Shortly thereafter, Bruce McMahan would reach Bishop