J.D. IN HEAVEN

 One could say the Almighty had gotten out his digital camera and snapped this photo of JD Spohn lounging behind the Pearly Gates, showing everybody how it's done. Anyone  that had the pleasure of having JD for a friend knows it's true. 

 This is surely how he would have wanted it. Cowboy hat, boots, camper, BBQ, and toddy in hand. And those trousers look like he may've not had time to get completely out of uniform before it was party time. 
 Not enough guns for JD Spohn, you say? Just one on the right hip. Better check them there boots. And his pockets. And under that hat. 

 Miss you every day, old Poddner. You were a true original and I don't expect to encounter your like again. 
 "Wait a minute," some of you may say, "what makes you so damn sure JD's even in Heaven?"
 Oh, he's there all right. Talked his way in.

 This photo courtesy of ace photographer and archiver Chester Keene

A HORROR STORY

  The recent hullabaloo in the news of late about the deficiencies in our education system caused me to ponder. And that's always a dangerous thing, usually resulting in a rant. Here it is.

 Back in the 80's the State of Florida decided that every police applicant must pass the TABE test. That's Test of Adult Basic Education. The test had been developed in the 60's to see if you'd learned enough in high school to meet the standard of what a graduate should know. Passing score on the test was 12th Grade Level. By the time it got to the 80's the failure rate was so high, the passing high school equivalence had eroded down to 9th Grade. That's a Freshman in high school.

 When we began giving the test we were astounded. There was one group who consistently passed it and another who couldn't get past 7th grade. The successful group was usually folks in their late 40's and up. The group that couldn't buy a passing grade were recent college graduates.

 That's what I said, recent college graduates. And not from these dubious towers of learning like Edison State College and the their ilk. These were people with sheepskins from state  universities.

 The situation got so bad that when one of these scholars applied we'd tell them to go to the book store, buy a study manual for the GED test, and concentrate on English and Math--the two killer areas for college grads. Most were glad for the help after they'd taken the test. It's been so long I've forgotten all that stuff. Right! Four years.

 So we started slippin' and slidin' on this slope a long time ago. And I'm not blaming the teachers, which is the popular thing to do. I'm wondering who's providing the curriculum they are required to teach. And, worst of all, how any teacher can deal with the chaos that's allowed to go on in classrooms today.

 We'd better make some changes. Our education level is in the bottom tier worldwide.   

THE POLICEMAN'S BALL

  Although I joke about Naples in the old days, and some of the funny things that happened, most of the time we got it right. And, in the process, built a great place to live. I wouldn't live anywhere else, and I've been around and seen what others have to offer. One of the things the NPD got right every year was The Policeman's Ball.

 We started it as a way to raise money for the kid's program, PAL. And, because a Policeman's Ball is a traditional get-together. We'd hire one of the old dance bands: Glenn Miller, Tommy Dorsey, Harry James, big names like that. Course, Glenn and Tommy and Harry were long gone but the music had been inherited by one of the band members.

 The first time I was involved in the hiring, the night of the ball one man showed up. He said he was the "Glenn Miller Band." Had been a actual member and owned the "charts", the original arrangements. I was terrified at the aspect of waltzing this dude out and claiming he was the band.

 He laughted. "The band will be here directly," he said. "I hire union musicians out of the Miami local for shows in South Florida."

 "But, can they play like Glenn Miller?" I asked.

 He smiled again, "I have the charts. If you have the charts a pro can play them. I could sound like The New Ashmolean Marching Society and Student's Conservatory Band if I had the Charts."
 And they did. Any band, every year. 
 The first time we held the dance, we had our officers carry tickets around and sell them. One officer was particularly effective. He was out-selling everyone. A big, intimidating man named Jerry, he'd go into a business, fan out a fistful of cards, and ask, "How many?" We had to tone his tactics down. 
 But, after the first dance, ticket sales were no problem. There was just no dance comparable to it in Naples. In fact, we had to limit the number of tickets so folks could fit in the venue. 

 Wonder why they don't still have them?

MORE MARCO MYSTERY

 We would car pool for the trip to Marco Island each day. About twice a week, when we drove through Naples, Fred Scott, an NPD cop, would pull us over. "Where you boy's say you were goin'?" he'd ask. Fred's cop's nose told him there was something about our Project Mercury story that stunk.

 When I got in the cop business, Fred and I became good friends. He'd still ask me about the tracking station job but, he died before I was allowed to tell him the truth.

 There were seven tracking stations like ours stretched from Eglin Air Force base to Key West. We all did track the Mercury capsule with our giant radars, locking on it when it cleared the coast of California and losing it in the mid-Atlantic. We also tracked the U-2 that secretly flew over Cuba, checking on what type of installations they were building. Like the ones that eventually led to the Cuban Missile Crisis. 

 But what we did most was called electronic counter-measures. This was new technology at the time and involved trying to avoid missiles that were trying to shoot down our missiles. And we're talking about missiles not carrying astronauts but nuclear warheads.

 The company we worked for was called Vitro. But we really worked for the Air Force. Had to have a high-level secret clearance to work there. 

 The Air Force would launch a rocket from Eglin and we'd try to track it. It wasn't always possible, since the missiles had on-board electronics that put out signals to deceive any tracking radars. We'd usually end up tracking a ghost image while the missile went on it deadly way.

 Actually, the missiles dropped harmlessly into the Gulf south of Key West. And the warheads were dummies.

 The two radars we used for tracking were impressive. They put out a million watts, each. The computers that guided them were contained in fifty floor-to-ceiling cabinets. This was before transistors and glass diode tubes were used. Thousands of them. To make a repair, you got a schematic book-there were forty of them--found the likely cabinet, then the defective tube in the racks. Not easy. This early computer had less computing power than the little Radio Shack Color Computer I later owned.

 So there it is, the Marco Mystery solved. If you even knew there was one.

MARCO MYSTERY

  I once had a job that didn't allow me to tell folks what I did. Had to lie about it. When it ended, I had to sign a paper swearing I'd continue to lie about the work for 15 years. Under penalty of prison.

 The job was on Marco Island. Back then--the early 60's-- there was no bridge by the Isles of Capri. You drove down US 41 to Royal Palm Hammock, turned right on CR 92, and went over the swing bridge at Goodland to get to Marco Island. A long haul.
 At the bridge there was an entire frame house roosting in the trees on a small island. It had been blown over there by Hurricane Donna. Took it years to rot and disintegrate.
 On the other side of the bridge was a small blue and white motel where tourist fisher-people stayed. Johnny Unitas and other Baltimore Colts loved to stay there. Some said Johnny actually owned the motel. I don't know but he sure spent a lotta time there.
 The fishing then was like no where else on earth. It was impossible not to catch something--many times one worth sending to the taxidermist. There was a 10' wide channel next to Caxambas that, each spring, was the highway for tarpon heading further north along the Gulf coast. They went by for several days, a solid silver highway. We used to wade out to the center--it was only about 4' deep--and stand in the middle of the stream. The tarpon ignored us, just making a wider path to get around. They would neither stop or eat. There were thousands. An old Cracker who'd lived on Marco all his life (he'd never been further North than Ft. Myers) said they'd done it each year for as long as he could remember.
 To finally get to work, we'd drive to the Caxambas Pass where the government had bought the entire point and fenced it in. There was a guard at the gate. Several buildings had been constructed, one with two huge radar dishes on the roof. And there was a 300' communications tower. We'd go inside the buildings and prepare for our day's work.
 We were working on the first man-space program, Project Mercury. The one where they put Sam Shepard and all those brave folks into orbit in an Atlas missile. That's what we told folks, anyway. And it was partially true, we did do that--about every 90 days. It was what we did the other 89 days we had to lie about.
 Since it's not a secret now, we'll talk about it next time.

DOUBLE TROUBLE, TOO.

RAY BARNETT

 Here are two more cops who worked for both the Naples Police and the Collier Sheriff's Office: Ray Barnett and Richard Cooper. There were many more that migrated from the PD to the SO than taking the reverse path. Probably with good reason.

 The NPD was notoriously strict and would fire you in second. That applied to the Chief right on down. The SO had a much more forgiving nature. Hell, you'd have be caught red-handed holding up the Bank of Naples to get a reprimand. There was a reason for that. Disgruntled Deputies were bad politics. Their grumbling could cause  the loss of many votes.

 Also, the CCSO was larger and growing. There was much more opportunity. And there was the other thing.

 At the time, the SO had a deal with the current Chief that neither would hire the other's officers. Before an officer would be interviewed, they must have notified their boss they intended to apply. This scared many off. What if I'm not hired? The Sheriff/Chief will fire me for being a traitor.

RICHARD COOPER

 The city kept the agreement. The SO did not. Not even close. Unless it was someone they didn't want anyway. Then it was We can't process you until you tell the Chief you're applying. We knew of several cops they actively recruited. If it was a prime candidate, we found they had already been guaranteed a job before they came and told the Chief.

 Ray Barnett, photo at the top, had been a cop in State College, Pa. before the NPD. He was one of my first Detective partners and is still a close friend. Ray, smart, smooth and a great cop, rocketed to the top at the CCSO, finishing off as a Chief. He later went into the private sector. Our loss.

 Dick Cooper is one of my favorite people, also a good friend. I hired Coop to work in the jail after I went to the CCSO. He was a great street cop but he figured the chances for advancement were greater in the rapidly growing jail section. 
 One sad day, a cowardly scumbag inmate, who should have been in state prison, attacked Coop and his smashed head into a heavy steel table. Coop nearly died.
 When his body healed he had to rehabilitate his mind. He'd lost the ability to read, and count, his memory destroyed. But, Dick, one of the toughest out there, pulled it off. Besides his tenacity he had another asset: his wife Josie.


Photos courtesy Chester Keene

GEORGE

  Knew a kid once named George. Knew him from the time he was about six until he graduated high school. George played for the PAL Gators football team and he was one of the best running backs I ever coached. Almost impossible to take down.

 Since George was the same age as some of our kids, he used to, occasionally, come up and stay at our house in Pine Ridge over the weekends.

 Getting permission from his parents wasn't necessary. George didn't have any. George was raised under the system that has evolved in many Black communities where a kind-hearted lady will take in children who have been abandoned. Cast aside. Forgotten in favor of booze, dope, and trips to The Clubbb. They are usually called Grandmas or Aunties. May God love them.

 George, being black, lived in the Naples' shameful hellhole called McDonald Quarters. A ghetto. One of the few places Blacks were allowed to live in paradise. George survived this meager existence with amazing resilience. He was healthy as a horse. His sense of humor fine-honed and ready.

 Once when George was staying with us, I noticed that he wouldn't jump off the diving board into our pool. I asked if he would like me to show him how to dive. George said, "Oh, I can dive just fine. Just don't think I should."

 When I asked why he said, "When I starts bouncin' on that board and I bounces higher than that fence around the pool, your neighbors gonna see my black ass. Then they gonna say 'Uh-oh, lookit what's bobbin' up over there' and you gonna be in big trouble."

 George once told me something that caused me to re-think many things I took for granted. He seemed to like staying with us so much that Sandy and I had discussed trying to get custody of him. I asked him if he liked visiting us. "Oh, yeah," he said, "an' you know what I like best? I love sleepin' in a bed on Friday and Saturday nights?"

 "What do you mean?" I asked, confused.

 "In the Quarters you can't sleep in a bed on Friday or Saturday nights. They gets drunk and starts shootin', you best be sleepin' on the floor so them bullets pass right over you."

 Being a cop I knew he was right. But I'd never thought about it. Why should a kid have to worry about things like that? And not just him, every kid over there. But, it was just a fact of life to them. After that, we tried to make life  there safer.

 We finally lost George. One of his Aunties found a relative up in Mississippi and George moved there. Did well, I understand. Went on to play college football. A big running back that couldn't be stopped.

YOU WANNA BE A WHAT? PART 2

 The parade of applicants that should've shunned police agencies like politicians avoid common sense continued. Some of these clowns must've thought that law enforcement experience preferred--in the advertisement--meant having a criminal rap sheet.
 Once, when the CCSO was hiring a load of Deputies, there was such an influx of folks with warrants pending that a special system had to be set up to process them. Criminal histories were run before any testing or interviews were conducted. When those with a confirmed warrant popped up, they were notified to report to the Duty Officer Desk and ask for a certain Sergeant. This Sergeant was a Warrants Deputy who would welcome them  to the agency--so to speak.

 Sexual activity gets a lot of us in trouble. But, the extent to which some of our applicants were involved, boggles the mind.

 Several applicants admitted to having sex with animals, dogs being the unlucky preference. One minimized the act. It was just oral sex. And the dog didn't mind, he liked peanut butter.

 Then there were the more prosaic--among applicants--acts of sexual abuse: sex with minors, rape, date rape using drugs, child porn. When these was admitted by locals, an investigation was conducted and when the crimes were confirmed a warrant was prepared and, you guessed it Welcome To The CCSO.

 For out-of-towners an information letter, with the admissions, was sent to their local law enforcement agency. 

 Ex-cops weren't exempt from the stupid list. One Chief of Police from a small town admitted to stealing over $20K from a drug bust scene. And he was proud that he hadn't been greedy, having shared the tainted proceeds with the rest of the 5-man force.
 This resulted in a phone call to the jurisdiction involved, where an investigation caused the entire police department to be shut down.
 Then, there were the imbeciles who told the Polygraph Examiner, when asked if they'd ever smoked dope, Not usually, but I did take a couple hits in the parking lot to level myself out for the lie detector test. (Yours truly is a polygraph examiner and I heard that one more than any other)
 One of the champions in the weirdness poll had to be a couple from Miami. The man admitted to being a tranny who had been arrested for prostitution while being dressed as a woman and using a woman's name. His girlfriend, I suppose to kinda balance things out, had a male identity.

 We decided to let them continue to reside in Miami where that lifestyle fit right in.

THE MYSTERIOUS SAFE

  For many years the offices of Smith-Lesher Insurance occupied the corner of 5th Ave So and 8th St, kitty-corner from the 5th Ave Rexall. A reputable, respected company, it was remarkable to us in only one respect. The huge safe within. And what was in it.

 Judge Harold Smith was the cause of this wonder. He'd left orders that in the event of any criminal attack on the property he was to be notified immediately. Burglary, armed-robbery, larceny, anything. Particularly, if it involved the safe. He would never tell us why he had this vested interest. (He wasn't the "Smith" in the agency name, that being the ex-mayor Roy Smith family.) 
 Once we had occasion to call the Judge. There was a B&E and the office had been ransacked to some degree. There was no indication the safe had been violated. And being built like a Sherman tank, we would've been surprised if it had. It was a monster, of superior quality, and would've tested the talents of Willie Sutton. These burglars were of the smash and grab variety, not possessing such talent. But we called Judge Smith quickly and he promptly arrived on the scene.

 Judge Smith told me: "I'm going to open that safe. I want you to stand behind me, with your back to me. I want you to insure that no one looks into the safe, including yourself." He than went to work, from the sound of it shuffling papers for about 15 minutes. Then it was over. "We're okay, here," he told me. Then turned to leave. "Oh," he added, "leave this part out of your report." And we did.

 We did know that Judge Smith had had some ties to military intelligence. And that he was on the list of folks to contact in case of a national emergency. But, if this was some high level government intelligence material he was guarding, would he put it in an insurance office safe in the Elephant's Graveyard?
 The secret died with Judge Smith. And whomever else had the combination to that safe.
 Thanks to Dave Dampier for additional facts.

YOU WANNA BE A WHAT?

  When Dave Johnson, Sarah Creamer, and I were the Personnel Section at the CCSO, we interviewed and tested countless applicants. And we encountered some strange ducks.  Folks that made you wonder why they came anywhere near a cop shop.

 While we were doing the background investigation on one such buffoon, we found there was an outstanding felony warrant for his arrest. So, the next time he came in, we made him a offer he couldn't refuse. A position in our jail. Behind bars.

 We discovered another, a cop in Denver, who'd also been one in Hawaii. Using another name. This genius was bagged when he got confused and provided us with training certificates under the second name from Hawaii instead of the ones from Colorado.

 Then there were the "disabled" cops from up north. Most of these were from New York, with an occasional thief from New Jersey. Now, don't get me wrong, we hired many cops from the NYDP. Great cops, take all of them we could get. But, the NYPD has to be the bogus disability retirement champ. Especially, the PD and the Sanitation Department. 

 We'd regularly interview dudes who said they were retired on the "disabled" list. Some would give us a wink, like we were in on the scam. Then, when we'd explain that we couldn't hire a disabled person to be a street cop, they couldn't understand. But, I'm not really disabled. Some demanded to take the physical fitness test to prove it. They just didn't seem to understand that they were criminals and we arrested crooks, we didn't hire them.

 We caught several in related scams. Perhaps the worst was a NYPD cop who, when off-duty, slipped on a curb at his home and broke his leg. Not wanting to miss a chance that it might be a career ending injury--and eligible for a disability pension--he nursed the broke flipper until the next morning, drove to work, then "tripped" getting into his patrol car, breaking his leg. And, need I say it? It was New York and he collected.

 Didn't I read recently that the New York retirement system was broke? Wonder why?

DOUBLE TROUBLE

   Many of the officers at the Naples PD had so much fun in the cop business that, after they retired, they went to work for the Collier County Sheriff's Office. They were, after all, still young and could work long enough at the CCSO to get another retirement.

 It was a good deal for both. The cops got an easy transition into an agency they already knew and the Sheriff got Deputies who were experienced, trained, and proven veterans.

 A few Deputies, went the other way: from the CCSO to the NPD. We'll feature a few of these Double Trouble cops from time to time.

   

At the top right is Chester Keene. Chester, after doing the two hitches, still had enough energy left over to give me considerable assistance with this blog and write an occasional article in the Naples Daily News.

 

Next is Ken Ferrell. Ken did his time and now, never tired of risking his life, climbs mountains. Or runs up them. Pike's Peak, stuff like that. He also works at The Phil.

Third down is Richard Davidson. Richard went from NPD to CCSO to security at Naples Community Hospital. I heard he was still working there.

 

Then we have this poor, young, innocent soul. He climbed through the ranks to Chief of Police, then Naples City Manager, then moved on to the CCSO. I understand he's still there. What was his name? Oh yeah, Rambosk. Kevin Rambosk. Sheriff Kevin Rambosk.

Photos 1985, from Chester.

THE NEW YORK SECOND

  The famous New York Second memo shows how Sheriff Hendry solved a personnel problem in 1975. Doug didn't even allow them the famous New York Minute--a second was enough.

 Dave Johnson says: I remember the day the NY Memo came out. Everybody messed their drawers. Those were the days when Doug could still manage to make the earth tremble. Not one bit of grumbling was heard after that memo. Not even whispers. All those that were griping shut the hell up and stayed out of Doug's line of sight.

 Double click on memo to make it larger.

  The phrase New York Minute originated in Texas where folks said life was so fast paced in New York that they do in a instant what a Texan would take a whole minute to do.
Thanks to Tom Smith for the memo copy.

MORE WIND

 Chester Keene reminded me of another attempt we made to burn our giant marijuana evidence holdings that went awry. 
  Since way too many folks were enjoying whiffing the yellow-green clouds, at the dump, and our cops were getting as stoned as gooney birds trying to burn the stuff and keep the crowd away, we decided that if we could burn it faster the problem might be solved.

 So at our next bond fire we soused the pile with diesel fuel. The diesel should accelerate the blaze and take half the time to turn the evil weed into harmless ashes. Plus, there was the added benefit that the diesel would ruin the smell the "heads" so enjoyed. That being the plan, a five-gallon  can of diesel fuel was emptied over the pile and then it was ignited.

 A ball of flame like a mini Hiroshima boiled skyward and soon the MJ was fully ablaze. We thought.

 The disappointed crowd had moved on, the pile seemed on its way to extinction, so our cops went home. We found out later that as soon as we left the premises, some of the dump workers doused the fire and hauled off the considerable remainder to attempt to restore it to its former stupefying glory. And they did. Kinda.

 For weeks after, the air in certain car interiors, bars, and bedrooms was tainted with  the familiar wet-weed stink of burning "grass."  And the gas station aroma of Number 2 Diesel. 
 Strangely, most tokers liked it. One doobie-puffer said it got you just as high as the unadulterated version, plus you got an extra ten miles per gallon.   

AN ILL WIND

  Read in the Naples Daily News about Paris Hilton being tripped up by the pungent odor of marijuana trailing from her limo. This caused me to remember problems the NPD and CCSO had with the stinky locoweed.

 We first encounter difficulties after a drug bust, by the NPD, had yielded a substantial cannabis haul. Back then the courts required you to keep all that was seized, not just photographs and a representative sample. 

 It's aways difficult to find a suitable place to store the stuff. Because of its odor, even when sealed in plastic, the evidence locker can become fouled by the stink quickly--especially in large quantities. If you store it off campus, you have a security problem. Once the CCSO had a rented warehouse broken into and several bales swiped. So, we tried to get rid of the grass as soon as possible.

 The best way to do that is to burn it. And there are those doobyphiles in the community that readily agree. The first time we burned a big load, we notified the Naples Daily News and other media sources so the public could see how productive our drug enforcement efforts had been. Told them we were going to burn the contraband at the City Dump. Even listed when. Bad mistake.

 On the day scheduled for our pungent pyrotechnics, the dump was unusually busy. Every "head" and hippie in town was waiting, hoping to get downwind and a free high. And they did!

 After that we tried to keep our burns secret but forgot there was normal dumping traffic at the site and word spread quickly. Even some of the workers there seemed to, coincidently, find their duties took them downwind of the yellow-green cloud. When the cops working the burn started getting all mellowed out, and calling dispatch after the burn with, "Hey, dude, I'll be 10-8ish" we knew a change was in order.

 That's when we started hauling it by the truckload to the Tampa incinerator. Don't know it they still do that but when returning  from Tampa recently, I could see the incinerator's stack to the West, puffing a peculiar yellow cloud. And the inordinately large flock of birds around it seemed to be flying upside down.  

VOLUNTEER DESTRUCTION TEAM

  Although the Naples Airport was not contiguous to other City property, it was owned by the City of Naples. Accordingly, it was patrolled by the NPD. We'd take a long loop around, well into the County, to get to the distant cousin of Amenityville.
 One late night I was taking the tour and on arriving at the airport noticed a glow in the window of the small terminal building. (At the time it wasn't much larger than a residence) Looking through the jalousie door I could see flames. Not having a key, I pried up a jalousie and, in my best burglar fashion, pushed in the screen and turned the knob from the inside.
 Once in, I could see flames coming from a waste basket. I extinguished the fire with a couple cups of water from a nearby cooler. There being no apparent cause for the fire, I called dispatch and told them to make the Naples Fire Department aware of the blaze in case they wanted to investigate. But,  that as far as I could tell the danger was over. About five minutes later bedlam broke out.
 Then, there was only one full-time fire department in Collier County: the Naples Fire Department. The other communities were serviced by volunteer fire departments. The volunteers did a good job considering they had little training and inferior equipment. But there are always some clowns out there.
 One such circus-on-wheels had been monitoring our dispatches, heard the incendiary word Fire, and had decided to, well, volunteer. They blasted into the parking lot, siren screaming and emergency lights painting the scenery red. After skidding the dilapidated wagon up to the door, a crew of two men charged the door with a fire ax and began shucking the jalousies from the door frame. Then they uncoiled a hose and began spraying the inside of the building. I hastened to end this debacle.
 "Why the hell did you bust out the jalousies?" I asked. "The door was unlocked. And why are you spraying? There is no fire."
 One volunteer looked at me, then at the building. Then back at me, then at the hose. "SOP" he said. 
 Soon I convinced them to get the hell out of there and they  rolled up their hose and departed.
 The fire caused no damage. The volunteers caused thousands of dollars worth with their water and fire ax assault.
 And for some time after, whenever I lit a cigarette I looked around to make sure these buffoons weren't in the area.

A NEW DANCE: THE ANCHOR FANDANGO

  A CVS Pharmacy has replaced the old Anchor Lounge on the corner of 3rd Avenue South and 9th Street (US 41). A logical choice--with their aspirins and bandages and all--considering the problems the Anchor caused the NPD. Of course, if you frequented the bar in the late afternoon, you'd noticed that several of the patrons wore a uniform of sorts: spit-shined black shoes, dark blue trousers, and a Hawaiian shirt. These were NPD cops who'd just gotten off duty and had exchanged their uniform shirt for a sporty one so they weren't officially in uniform. But, many times their afterwork toddy was interrupted by the fisticuffs that were a featured attraction at the dive.

 When we had only two cars on duty, and it was late on a Friday or Saturday night, you dreaded to get a dispatch to the Anchor. You knew it was a bar brawl and, more times than not, the other unit on patrol was out on a call and you were IT. Cops, to stay in one piece, become resourceful and learn to take their time going to a bar fight. If you can stretch your arrival five-minutes or so chances are when you do get there you'll find the combatants all "fought out"--puffing and blowing, and no longer interested in being a bare-knuckles champ.

 That was most of the time. Sometimes that trick didn't work. One night, on arrival, we found a unique pugilist. A slight little man, he was on top of one of the tables doing a flamenco of sorts like a drunken Jose Greco. A crowd of rabid drunks circled the table, taunting the terpsichorean and trying to grab him. When one swiped too close, Jose'd  add a step to his repertoire whereby his foot smacked against his attacker's jaw--knocking him cross-eyed. 
 My associate and I were so intrigued that we stood by and watched for some time, enjoying the show. We finally decided we probably should restore law and order before our dancer sent all the patrons to the hospital. When we approached the table, he pointed at us with his foot indicating "you're next."
 The cop who was with me was large and ill-tempered when taunted. And he carried a huge leather slap-jack that could've been used in the World Series. He took it out and brought it down on a table, producing a sound like a pine being hit by lightening.
 The erstwhile Greco immediately changed his mind and gave us a smile signaling "just kidding of course" and jumped off the table. We hustled him outside, took him to the cruiser, then gave him a lecture and had his friends take him home. Jail? No way. He'd been too much fun.  And we might need him again to clean out another rowdy crowd at the Anchor.

WATERLOGGED

   Like the CCSO, the NPD has a long history of marine operations. In the early 60's, the boats were supplied by Outboard Marine Corporation (OMC), who had a test facility on the bay, just down from the NPD headquarters. The vessels were models OMC wanted to test and they figured the PD could put miles on them under all conditions. And we did.
 OMC was a generous outfit. If you knew who to ask, you could buy boats, lawnmowers, and motor scooters--OMC owned Lawn Boy and Cushman--that had been lightly tested, for pennies on the dollar.

 An additional benefit to the officers was that we were encouraged to use the boats for private excursions, family outings and the like. All that was required was that we paid for the gas. Most were reluctant to borrow them, knowing it's takes experience to pilot a boat and even pro's could get into trouble. Once a Game Commission officer ran over the legs of swimmers near the pier. . .it was alleged.

 After OMC, other builders donated watercraft to the NPD. The photo above shows Chief Paul Rebel and a sleek boat built and donated by Chincoteague Boat Builders.

Photo by Chester Keene

WET WORK

  The Collier County Sheriff's Office has a huge expanse of water to patrol and respond to rescue calls. A Marine Unit has been a longtime wing of the agency. 

 The photo to the right shows Sheriff Aubrey Rogers, and Collier County's second Marine Deputy Grady Johnson. With his back to the camera in marina owner Tommy Turner.

 Below, is Deputy Bert Morris. Bert was Sheriff Doug Hendry's first Marine Deputy. Bert was a veteran member of the agency. His last assignment was the Commander of the Marco Island Sub-Station.

There is an excellent article about Bert, written by Tom Smith, on the agency's Alumni site.    http://www.ccsoalumni.org/

Photos courtesy Chester Keene