THE VERDICT -- Robert Gardner

At the conclusion of World War II, a new crop of community leaders came

into town. Oh, much of the old guard remained -- Paul Palmer, Theo

Robins, Lancy Sherman, Walter Spicer, Harry Welch, A.B. Rouselle, Lew

Wallace, Lloyd Claire -- a truly remarkable group that had dragged our

town through the Great Depression and a World War, and had changed that

town from a honky-tonk summer resort plus a small fishing village into a

highly desirable community surrounding the foremost yachting harbor on

the Pacific coast.

Then, at the conclusion of World War II, the new group arrived, people

like Dean Bradford, Moose Lagerlof, Ralph Hoyle, Van Hayes, Les

Blakeslee, Harlan Erickson, Bill Lester, Ralph Holden ... and Joe

Collins. Joe, and his partner Bob Ingraham, built more than 300 fine

houses on Lido Isle. They put together the Jamaica Inn complex --

restaurant, bar and motel.

Joe and I were friends and neighbors. Also, we were both into skin

diving. We heard that a new road had just been put into San Felipe, a

village in Baja heretofore accessible only by boat. Joe and I and Bill

Silzle together with wives and children decided to be the first people to

dive in San Felipe. It was a long drive, and when we got there we

discovered that if there is something smaller than a village, this was

it. We drove through the cluster of houses to camp on the beach. On our

way we noticed a small cantina perched on the edge of the bay. Joe and I

decided to go back to the cantina after everyone else was bedded down on

the beach.

We have all seen in the movies a group of Mexican bandidos -- dirty,

unshaven, with crossed bandoleros. In the cantina was a group of guys who

only needed crossed bandoleros to be bandidos. Instead they all carried

machetes. Big difference.

As we entered, it was obvious we were not welcome. They began to push us

around yelling, “Rojo! Rojo!”

This was a word I knew because my daughter had a horse named Rojo. Joe

Collins is a redhead. I told him they were talking about his red hair. He

asked, “What do I do?” I said, “Agree with them.” He said, “How?” I said,

“Just say, ‘Si.’ That’s yes in Spanish. That will show you agree with

them.”’

Not one of my more brilliant ideas. The bandidos, who had been just

pushing us around, now began to beat up on us, particularly Joe. We made

a run for it, the group followed. We got to my car. They tried to turn it

over, but we finally got away.

We went back to our camp on the beach and spent a sleepless night waiting

for the mob, but no one came.

The next day we discovered that our trip was a waste of time, anyway. San

Felipe is too close to the Colorado River, and the water had the

visibility of a chocolate milk shake.

On our way through town we passed a shrimp dock and stopped to buy some

shrimp. An American ran to the dock. He said, “Are you the guys that

caused the riot at the cantina last night?” We had to admit we were an

involuntary part of it, but were in the dark as to the reason.

The man laughed. He said that right then Mexico was having some kind of

trouble with Russia. He said there was a rumor to the effect that a

Russian submarine had landed a Russian spy in the area. The locals were

all wary of the Russians, whom they called “reds.”

As the man was telling his story, Joe’s head slowly turned toward me. He

turned to the man. “And if someone mistakenly said he was ‘red’ that

meant he was a Russian and presumably a Russian spy?” The man agreed.

So much for my feeble efforts at being bilingual. Joe and I did quite a

bit of skin diving in Baja after that, but he never again asked me to

interpret for him.

JUDGE GARDNER is a Corona del Mar resident and former judge. His column

runs Tuesdays.