Since, as ECOs, we were on the road at odd hours of the night and were always poking our noses into strange places, it should be no surprise that we encountered things other than EnCon Law violations. We did get a lot of driving while intoxicated cases.
My first one was about 3 AM while coming home from a long night of working campgrounds in my neighboring sector with Jim Harnish. We had been dealing with problems in a campground that was a hundred miles from my home and were finally headed home. As we came through the sleepy town of Wells, we got behind a car that was weaving from guardrail to guardrail. We lit him up to pull him over and the driver slowed the car, pulled to the right--still weaving--and motioned for us to pass him. That's NOT what it means when the red lights come on.
Though not going fast, the driver continued his non-compliance and finally decided to get away from us. He pulled into the parking lot of a restaurant and tried to drive around behind it. However, the owners of the restaurant lived on the same property and the back yard was filled with lawn items. Next thing you know, the car had met a rather substantial swing set and the hood was up in the air, the radiator steaming and the driver trying to restart his now stalled car. While Jim called in the stop and a request for assistance from the State Police, I ran up to the car and pulled the driver out of the seat, swung him over the trunk deck of his car and put the cuffs on him all in one slick motion--after all, it's got to work right once in a while, right? The problem was that as I swung him onto the trunk deck, his abdomen struck the top of the fender and there was a sudden loud noise followed by a foul smell permeating the air; all accompanied by large stain on our drunk's pants. You guessed, he'd lost control of his bowels.
Since this was not an EnCon case, we did the only "right" thing: we turned it over to the Troopers. They wrapped him in an emergency blanket, stuffed him in their car and headed off to process him. Fortunately, this was a time before smoking in state owned vehicles was prohibited and both the Troopers were pipe smokers. You can bet that they fired up the pipes for that trip to the station.
Returning from a similar long night in the campgrounds, I was driven off the road by a car coming right at me. I managed to avoid being hit, got the car stopped and made another DWI arrest. The driver in this case had just had his license revoked for a previous DWI. The revocation had taken effect at midnight and here it was the wee hours of the following morning. I processed him at Gloversville Police and went on about my business. Though I expected a trial, the entire booking process had been recorded and the driver's attorney had asked to see the tape...he took a plea bargain as he didn't want a jury to watch the tape.
I hadn't thought much of that case until years later a young man came into a convenience store where I was drinking a cup of coffee. He asked if he could join me and speak with me a minute. I allowed him to do so. "You don't remember me, do you...?" began the story. He was the man who had run me off the road that early morning. He thanked me for saving his life, he was sober now and had been since dealing with that arrest. I'd like to think I'll run into him again some time and he still will be.
Monday, October 21, 2013
Game Warden Files--State Campgrounds
Among the many duties I assumed upon becoming the new guy in Fulton County was policing the state campsites. I had one in my own sector and several more in adjoining sectors. Policing campgrounds was nothing new to me as I'd served as as seasonal officer with the NY State Park Police, Taconic Region from 1977 until 1980. However, in my work with the Park Police I'd never seen the intensity of problems and extent of disorder I'd come to see within the campgrounds under DEC's authority.
In the course of my first weekend working (which was July 4th weekend) I spent the better part of my time answering complaints and quelling noise problems in the two closest campgrounds. In the first few years working in my sector, my neighboring officers and I spent countless hours and wrote innumerable tickets in those sites. That would continue through most of my career.
Some of the events are specifically memorable:
Prom weekends were nearly always problems. The kids from some bigger schools near Saratoga Springs would rent many campsites (Actually, in most cases their parents reserved the sites for them, but that's a problem we couldn't deal with.) and the kids would start arriving for the post prom activities sometime around 11 PM. One night, I found a party building up and called neighboring officer Ray VanAnden to come over and assist me. We started rounding up kids, most of them by now drinking heavily--and remember these are high-school kids.
One young man was trying sneak away from Ray while holding a very large mug of beer, more like a pitcher of beer. The event is burned into my mind in cartoon-like fashion. He was tiptoeing among some small evergreen trees trying to get to his tent without being observed. The trouble was that I was standing beside his tent. He started to run, still on tiptoes, and then made a flying dive for his tent--still holding the beer. In one of the best timed moves I'd ever made, I reached out and grabbed him by the ankles as he was airborne. His body stopped in mid-dive, the beer sloshed out of the mug onto the floor of his tent and when gravity took over, he landed in a beer-soaked sleeping bag. Then he got a ticket for his effort. We rounded up about 20 kids in that sweep, wrote at least most, if not all of them tickets for some campground offense, then called their parents and got them out of our campground. I saw this played out many times over the course of the years and was always amazed that the parents sponsored this activity and were upset with us for wrecking their kids' good times--and their own free weekends. Only once did we find a group that was partying alcohol and drug free. They even pointed out a group from another school prom that was not sober and told us where the keg was hidden in the woods.
Memorial Day weekends were a big problem in the Caroga Lake campground above all others. It seemed like all of our local high schools would be there, some of them skipping school on Thursday of the weekend to get a head start. It wasn't just the troubled kids who were the problems; it was more often those who were from decent and well known families, were reasonable students and often were among the star athletes. We'd find them drunk or in violation of other laws, usually relating to not being permitted in the campground after day use closed. One Memorial Day Weekend night as I walked through the darkened campsite, I saw a young man pick up a bottle of beer and take a big drink. I took the bottle from his had and told him that he was going with me. "You can't arrest me, I'm Pete -----." He invoked the well known family name. Just then, two other officers, Larry Johnson and Bruce Perry, came by in a patrol car. I handed the beer to Bruce and put Pete in the back seat. Oh yes we can arrest you. His dad was NOT happy when we called him to come get his drunken son.
One weekend we had a problem with a young man who would sneak in without paying, get drunk and then get loud. We caught him twice in about an hour, ticketed him and tossed him out of the campground. Not long after that, as I was hiding in a patch of woods keeping watch on a group of campers, I noticed a Sheriff's patrol car driving slowly through the campground. Out of a group of people stepped our now twice-arrested young man who, beer in hand, greeted the deputy with with "Hi Mr. Gisondi! Ha, Ha, I'm not supposed to be here!" Before he could say another word, he was in the back seat of the Sheriff's car and on his way to get his third ticket of the night. This time, instead of sending him out, we sent him right to the local judge who sent him to jail. He didn't get bailed out until the weekend was over--end of problem.
Interestingly, the following year he was back, a changed young man. He spent his time trying to keep kids quiet and sober.
In the course of my first weekend working (which was July 4th weekend) I spent the better part of my time answering complaints and quelling noise problems in the two closest campgrounds. In the first few years working in my sector, my neighboring officers and I spent countless hours and wrote innumerable tickets in those sites. That would continue through most of my career.
Some of the events are specifically memorable:
Prom weekends were nearly always problems. The kids from some bigger schools near Saratoga Springs would rent many campsites (Actually, in most cases their parents reserved the sites for them, but that's a problem we couldn't deal with.) and the kids would start arriving for the post prom activities sometime around 11 PM. One night, I found a party building up and called neighboring officer Ray VanAnden to come over and assist me. We started rounding up kids, most of them by now drinking heavily--and remember these are high-school kids.
One young man was trying sneak away from Ray while holding a very large mug of beer, more like a pitcher of beer. The event is burned into my mind in cartoon-like fashion. He was tiptoeing among some small evergreen trees trying to get to his tent without being observed. The trouble was that I was standing beside his tent. He started to run, still on tiptoes, and then made a flying dive for his tent--still holding the beer. In one of the best timed moves I'd ever made, I reached out and grabbed him by the ankles as he was airborne. His body stopped in mid-dive, the beer sloshed out of the mug onto the floor of his tent and when gravity took over, he landed in a beer-soaked sleeping bag. Then he got a ticket for his effort. We rounded up about 20 kids in that sweep, wrote at least most, if not all of them tickets for some campground offense, then called their parents and got them out of our campground. I saw this played out many times over the course of the years and was always amazed that the parents sponsored this activity and were upset with us for wrecking their kids' good times--and their own free weekends. Only once did we find a group that was partying alcohol and drug free. They even pointed out a group from another school prom that was not sober and told us where the keg was hidden in the woods.
Memorial Day weekends were a big problem in the Caroga Lake campground above all others. It seemed like all of our local high schools would be there, some of them skipping school on Thursday of the weekend to get a head start. It wasn't just the troubled kids who were the problems; it was more often those who were from decent and well known families, were reasonable students and often were among the star athletes. We'd find them drunk or in violation of other laws, usually relating to not being permitted in the campground after day use closed. One Memorial Day Weekend night as I walked through the darkened campsite, I saw a young man pick up a bottle of beer and take a big drink. I took the bottle from his had and told him that he was going with me. "You can't arrest me, I'm Pete -----." He invoked the well known family name. Just then, two other officers, Larry Johnson and Bruce Perry, came by in a patrol car. I handed the beer to Bruce and put Pete in the back seat. Oh yes we can arrest you. His dad was NOT happy when we called him to come get his drunken son.
One weekend we had a problem with a young man who would sneak in without paying, get drunk and then get loud. We caught him twice in about an hour, ticketed him and tossed him out of the campground. Not long after that, as I was hiding in a patch of woods keeping watch on a group of campers, I noticed a Sheriff's patrol car driving slowly through the campground. Out of a group of people stepped our now twice-arrested young man who, beer in hand, greeted the deputy with with "Hi Mr. Gisondi! Ha, Ha, I'm not supposed to be here!" Before he could say another word, he was in the back seat of the Sheriff's car and on his way to get his third ticket of the night. This time, instead of sending him out, we sent him right to the local judge who sent him to jail. He didn't get bailed out until the weekend was over--end of problem.
Interestingly, the following year he was back, a changed young man. He spent his time trying to keep kids quiet and sober.
Sunday, October 20, 2013
Game Warden Files--Time to Leave All That Behind
It was in the spring of 1986 that we had been upstate to visit my family. Though spring had already come to Staten Island, it was sweeter yet in Columbia County. One afternoon Lt. Molinelli stopped by the house after he'd had occasion to drive the Taconic Parkway down through our home area the day before. "You've got to be crazy wanting to stay here" was his comment, "It's beautiful up where you're from." But we did love Staten Island. We were happy in home, work and church; our kids were doing well in school. We were so comfortable that we'd had another baby and were now a family of five. And then it happened. As the department was starting to fill another academy class they opted to open up some additional transfer opportunities. Two of them fell within that now smaller magic circle we'd drawn on the map. Fulton and Saratoga Counties would be open and I was on the transfer list for both of them, was I really interested?
After agreeing that I was interested, we spent several uncertain days waiting for the transfer process to be completed. At last I got the call, or Peggy did anyway. We were moving to Fulton County. We set the plan in motion, bought a house and arrived in the City of Johnstown in time for me to go to work over the July 4th weekend.
You might think that being a couple country kids, both having grown up in the mid-Hudson Valley, we'd have fallen back into the role quickly. We found, however that the culture shock of moving back upstate was greater than that of moving to the city. The four years we had spent within the New York City area had forever changed us. We remain convinced that those years were very well spent, and now we were off on a new adventure. I was now the country game warden, the job I'd been after for all those years.
After agreeing that I was interested, we spent several uncertain days waiting for the transfer process to be completed. At last I got the call, or Peggy did anyway. We were moving to Fulton County. We set the plan in motion, bought a house and arrived in the City of Johnstown in time for me to go to work over the July 4th weekend.
You might think that being a couple country kids, both having grown up in the mid-Hudson Valley, we'd have fallen back into the role quickly. We found, however that the culture shock of moving back upstate was greater than that of moving to the city. The four years we had spent within the New York City area had forever changed us. We remain convinced that those years were very well spent, and now we were off on a new adventure. I was now the country game warden, the job I'd been after for all those years.
Game Warden Files--Boat Chases
The Clam Wars of the Great South Bay had been fought from boats and we employed boats in a lot of our work also. We make some great partnerships with the Hempstead Bay Constables and spent many nights in the upper reaches of Jamaica Bay. We also teamed with the highly skilled operators with the US Park Police Marine Unit working the large expanse of the bay that was under federal control. They knew all the little channels of the bay better than any of us did and that make the work much easier. The other player was the Nassau County Marine Police who would occasionally come into the very end of the bay which was in the Town of Hempstead, Nassau County. We had a pretty good team and put a cramp on the clamming; but some still tried it--and some of them still got away.
One night I got a call from the Nassau County Marine Police. They had just come into the area, had a boat under surveillance and had one of their boats being trailered to a nearby launch. Lt. Molinelli and I headed over from Staten Island hooked up with them and while I got in the boat with the two county officers, Lt. Mollinelli worked his way to an observation point.
We came quickly around a small peninsula approached the clammers and caught them totally by surprise. One of them went to start the engine and I could hear sound of a dying battery trying to start a badly tuned engine. This was going to be a triumphant night! Then I heard the county's boat throttle back, and the unmistakable sound of an engine failing--badly--like a piston through the side of the block. I was on the bow of the now-dying police boat headed directly at the violators' boat and ready to board it when suddenly the previously dead engine on it sputtered and came to life. Though it was coughing and sputtering, the violator's boat pulled away just out of my reach--or ability to jump into it. It disappeared into the night not to be seen again...and we paddled into shore. Not a happy night.
Though there was a good deal of adrenaline generated by that, it was nothing compared to a night working with the Hempstead Bay Constables. We'd been getting complaints almost every night and had two boats and crews staged in the area of Head of Bay, just south of Kennedy Airport. When the call came in, we headed to the location. The plan was to keep hitting them with spotlights, effectively killing their night vision and force them to shore where other units would locate them. It was a sold plan since they were clamming in an area with a very narrow outlet at low tide and we thought we could keep them blinded long enough. The plan worked as well as it could have, except they had more determination than we ever expected. They tossed all their equipment, clam rakes and baskets overboard forcing us to maneuver around them and ultimately got out of our lights. They then acquired enough vision to find the channel out of there and headed west to open water. I had the faster boat, but within a couple miles had lost any sight of them.
Though we only caught a few of the boat diggers, the two close calls they had with us pretty well shut them down. I think we only had one other incident where one of our guys just lucked into a guy heading out with clamming equipment in a boat. He called me and we waited him out, catching him as he loaded is truck. Not nearly as exciting as chasing down a boat; but a good catch.
One night I got a call from the Nassau County Marine Police. They had just come into the area, had a boat under surveillance and had one of their boats being trailered to a nearby launch. Lt. Molinelli and I headed over from Staten Island hooked up with them and while I got in the boat with the two county officers, Lt. Mollinelli worked his way to an observation point.
We came quickly around a small peninsula approached the clammers and caught them totally by surprise. One of them went to start the engine and I could hear sound of a dying battery trying to start a badly tuned engine. This was going to be a triumphant night! Then I heard the county's boat throttle back, and the unmistakable sound of an engine failing--badly--like a piston through the side of the block. I was on the bow of the now-dying police boat headed directly at the violators' boat and ready to board it when suddenly the previously dead engine on it sputtered and came to life. Though it was coughing and sputtering, the violator's boat pulled away just out of my reach--or ability to jump into it. It disappeared into the night not to be seen again...and we paddled into shore. Not a happy night.
Though there was a good deal of adrenaline generated by that, it was nothing compared to a night working with the Hempstead Bay Constables. We'd been getting complaints almost every night and had two boats and crews staged in the area of Head of Bay, just south of Kennedy Airport. When the call came in, we headed to the location. The plan was to keep hitting them with spotlights, effectively killing their night vision and force them to shore where other units would locate them. It was a sold plan since they were clamming in an area with a very narrow outlet at low tide and we thought we could keep them blinded long enough. The plan worked as well as it could have, except they had more determination than we ever expected. They tossed all their equipment, clam rakes and baskets overboard forcing us to maneuver around them and ultimately got out of our lights. They then acquired enough vision to find the channel out of there and headed west to open water. I had the faster boat, but within a couple miles had lost any sight of them.
Though we only caught a few of the boat diggers, the two close calls they had with us pretty well shut them down. I think we only had one other incident where one of our guys just lucked into a guy heading out with clamming equipment in a boat. He called me and we waited him out, catching him as he loaded is truck. Not nearly as exciting as chasing down a boat; but a good catch.
Game Warden Files--More Clam Wars
The Great Clam Wars were fought on Long Island's Great South Bay in the late 1970's; but we had a smaller war in Jamaica Bay throughout the 1980's. The one episode I recounted earlier was but one of many. We often dealt with what we called "mess diggers," folks who just went out and dug a mess of clams for personal use. The problem was that when we watched them, we couldn't tell if they were just taking one mess or if they were filling bags in their cars and then selling them at local restaurants. Though taking any shellfish in the bay was illegal, we didn't spend a lot of time on the mess diggers unless we got a complaint or thought they might be doing it on a large enough scale to be selling them.
One complaint was about a particular area of Rockaway where at low tide the mud flats would have a dozen or so diggers--nearly every day. The neighborhood there was dominantly black and since we had just hired a few black officers we had them go in shorts and sneakers down to blend in with the locals. We had no idea how well that would work. Our officers took a large boom box, a cooler of drinks and a couple chairs and went to sit for a while along the shore as the tide went out. A couple other officers and I watched from a distance. As the tide went out, a number of folks started to make their way out onto the flats and begin the process of working their feet into the mud and finding the clams. After a while they made their way to shore with 5 gallon plastic pails well filled with the clams. Our guys identified themselves and the rest of of arrived to back them up. We cited about 5 folks for taking shellfish from uncertified waters that day. One of them turned out to be wanted for criminal sale of a controlled substance, so after we dealt with him, we turned him over to Nassau County for his charges. We caught a few others in the area over the following months and all seemed to be connected to that first group in some way. As a matter of fact, it would turn out that the guy who'd had the warrant was pretty much the ringleader of the bunch.
It was a cold day in February or March and we found a few diggers working the flats in that area again. We hid our cars and worked our way through the shoreline vegetation and caught with a couple buckets of clams. As we walked to our vehicles one of them dropped his bucket and ran through a fence and into a small oil terminal. He jumped from the dock into the bay and swam across the bay--fully clothed! We did the paperwork on the ones we had and then went after our swimmer. We'd seen where he'd exited the water and followed wet footprints to the home of guy we'd caught only a few nights earlier. We called for NYPD for some backup, went into the house and found him hiding under a couch. He went into the system at Central Booking in Queens.
One complaint was about a particular area of Rockaway where at low tide the mud flats would have a dozen or so diggers--nearly every day. The neighborhood there was dominantly black and since we had just hired a few black officers we had them go in shorts and sneakers down to blend in with the locals. We had no idea how well that would work. Our officers took a large boom box, a cooler of drinks and a couple chairs and went to sit for a while along the shore as the tide went out. A couple other officers and I watched from a distance. As the tide went out, a number of folks started to make their way out onto the flats and begin the process of working their feet into the mud and finding the clams. After a while they made their way to shore with 5 gallon plastic pails well filled with the clams. Our guys identified themselves and the rest of of arrived to back them up. We cited about 5 folks for taking shellfish from uncertified waters that day. One of them turned out to be wanted for criminal sale of a controlled substance, so after we dealt with him, we turned him over to Nassau County for his charges. We caught a few others in the area over the following months and all seemed to be connected to that first group in some way. As a matter of fact, it would turn out that the guy who'd had the warrant was pretty much the ringleader of the bunch.
It was a cold day in February or March and we found a few diggers working the flats in that area again. We hid our cars and worked our way through the shoreline vegetation and caught with a couple buckets of clams. As we walked to our vehicles one of them dropped his bucket and ran through a fence and into a small oil terminal. He jumped from the dock into the bay and swam across the bay--fully clothed! We did the paperwork on the ones we had and then went after our swimmer. We'd seen where he'd exited the water and followed wet footprints to the home of guy we'd caught only a few nights earlier. We called for NYPD for some backup, went into the house and found him hiding under a couch. He went into the system at Central Booking in Queens.
Game Warden Files--More Hunter Safety Interviews
Once I had the file--or maybe the right word is pile--of Hunter Safety Instructor applications down to a manageable size, I started to do things the way they was supposed to be done. I'd pick an area of Brooklyn where I had several applicants and make phone calls until I had three or four appointments set up for an afternoon and/or evening. I quickly found myself getting to know some the of the subcultures and and ethnic traits of some of the most enjoyable folks I'd ever met. I found, for instance, that if I would be doing interviews in the Italian neighborhoods, I'd better not eat anything before I started--I'd be well over-stuffed before I got home. Never did I go to an Italian home for one of these interviews when food and coffee was not only offered, but expected to be consumed--generally in rather large quantities.
It was in a Cuban home where got my very first cup of espresso coffee. It was beautiful home in Brooklyn Heights, that looked like the neighborhood where Cliff Huxtable home in The Cosby Show was situated. Though I'm now a pretty well-seasoned coffee drinker, that was the day I found what strong coffee was all about. Not content to drink one cup, I innocently accepted a second one before the first one had achieved its full effect--and buzzed the rest of the day. Even with all the Latin American coffee I've now consumed in many places, there has never been coffee that has hit me like that did.
One afternoon I had an interview scheduled in a large apartment complex in the Northern part of the borough which was a pretty rough part of town. In the course of trying to find a suitable parking place for what was obviously a police car, I got into a series of one-way streets and ended up at what I remain convinced was four streets all ending at the same point with no way out. A very tall, thin NYPD officer appeared, walked over to me with a smile and, bending almost completely over to see into my car, asked me "Sir, what are you doing HERE?" He knew what the green uniform was, but had no idea what brought one into that neighborhood. He got me to a safe parking place and I completed my assigned there.
These afternoons and evenings helped me learn my way around Brooklyn. It was while doing these interviews that I developed and honed the many people skills that have helped to make me an effective communicator in the many directions my life has taken me. I also give credit--or blame, depending on the point of view--to my many conversations within the Italian culture to the fact that I often talk with my hand. No one in my family recalls that I had done that so much before the days of those interviews.
Overall, I met some wonderful sportsmen doing these interviews, and a few folks whose applications would be marked DENIED in red ink. One interview still disturbs me. It was a guy who didn't want me to come to his home, had no place to conduct the classes and had never had a hunting license or any experience in the outdoors. Most disturbing: He wanted to work with young kids. I passed that information along through channels to the proper authorities so that he could be looked at.
It was in a Cuban home where got my very first cup of espresso coffee. It was beautiful home in Brooklyn Heights, that looked like the neighborhood where Cliff Huxtable home in The Cosby Show was situated. Though I'm now a pretty well-seasoned coffee drinker, that was the day I found what strong coffee was all about. Not content to drink one cup, I innocently accepted a second one before the first one had achieved its full effect--and buzzed the rest of the day. Even with all the Latin American coffee I've now consumed in many places, there has never been coffee that has hit me like that did.
One afternoon I had an interview scheduled in a large apartment complex in the Northern part of the borough which was a pretty rough part of town. In the course of trying to find a suitable parking place for what was obviously a police car, I got into a series of one-way streets and ended up at what I remain convinced was four streets all ending at the same point with no way out. A very tall, thin NYPD officer appeared, walked over to me with a smile and, bending almost completely over to see into my car, asked me "Sir, what are you doing HERE?" He knew what the green uniform was, but had no idea what brought one into that neighborhood. He got me to a safe parking place and I completed my assigned there.
These afternoons and evenings helped me learn my way around Brooklyn. It was while doing these interviews that I developed and honed the many people skills that have helped to make me an effective communicator in the many directions my life has taken me. I also give credit--or blame, depending on the point of view--to my many conversations within the Italian culture to the fact that I often talk with my hand. No one in my family recalls that I had done that so much before the days of those interviews.
Overall, I met some wonderful sportsmen doing these interviews, and a few folks whose applications would be marked DENIED in red ink. One interview still disturbs me. It was a guy who didn't want me to come to his home, had no place to conduct the classes and had never had a hunting license or any experience in the outdoors. Most disturbing: He wanted to work with young kids. I passed that information along through channels to the proper authorities so that he could be looked at.
Game Warden Files--Hunter Safety Interviews
Of the many things I did in New York City, one of the things that occupied much of my time in the early days there was interviewing applicants to become Hunter Safety (now called Sportsmen Education) Instructors. Overall, I found that to be very rewarding, but it was an overwhelming experience for a while. When I first arrived in Brooklyn, I was handed a stack of applications over an inch thick, many of which were well over a year old. Being something of an outside the box thinker, I arranged to get an interview room at a New York Police Department station that was in the middle of Brooklyn close to public transportation and with a fair amount of available parking during the daytime. I then developed a form letter to send to all the applicants whose applications were among the oldest ones. I gave them the location of the station, times and dates I'd be there, and told them that if I didn't hear from them, their applications would be taken out of consideration. That was designed to give me a reasonable number of newer applications to work on in the traditional manner--home visits--and it eliminated well over half of the backlog.
The appointed day arrived to start my precinct house interviews and quite a few of the applicants showed up. One still comes to mind, though I can't recall his name. There was the normal buzz of conversation in the lobby of the station and when a man entered the door, all eyes turned toward him, and conversation stopped. It was a man walking with two canes and a great deal of determination. When the conversation resumed, there was a rush of officers toward this man, all with smiles and outstretched hands.
Seems that this man was a legend among police officers in Brooklyn. A cop's cop, he had a reputation as a tough, hard working and very effective officer and then he'd been injured in an on-duty motor vehicle accident and not expected to survive. He survived, but was not expected to walk again, then he was walking. While still recuperating and awaiting retirement, he'd come out of a Te Amo--a chain of small convenience-type stores--and seen a small, young female police officer taking a physical beating from someone over a parking ticket she'd given him. Though still convalescing and walking with the aid of two canes, he employed those canes to stop the attack on the officer and put her assailant into submission until the guys in the blue suits arrived. If I recall right, he'd pretty well beaten the snot out the the "poip" as the local vernacular would have it. If he hadn't been a hero before, he was then.
I got a lesson in NYPD culture in a conversation with this hero and a young sergeant. In introducing himself, the young sergeant asked "You remember (name of another officer) who got shot?" "Well, I'm the guy who shot the guy who shot him!" This was normal police culture here--I had to get used to it.
The appointed day arrived to start my precinct house interviews and quite a few of the applicants showed up. One still comes to mind, though I can't recall his name. There was the normal buzz of conversation in the lobby of the station and when a man entered the door, all eyes turned toward him, and conversation stopped. It was a man walking with two canes and a great deal of determination. When the conversation resumed, there was a rush of officers toward this man, all with smiles and outstretched hands.
Seems that this man was a legend among police officers in Brooklyn. A cop's cop, he had a reputation as a tough, hard working and very effective officer and then he'd been injured in an on-duty motor vehicle accident and not expected to survive. He survived, but was not expected to walk again, then he was walking. While still recuperating and awaiting retirement, he'd come out of a Te Amo--a chain of small convenience-type stores--and seen a small, young female police officer taking a physical beating from someone over a parking ticket she'd given him. Though still convalescing and walking with the aid of two canes, he employed those canes to stop the attack on the officer and put her assailant into submission until the guys in the blue suits arrived. If I recall right, he'd pretty well beaten the snot out the the "poip" as the local vernacular would have it. If he hadn't been a hero before, he was then.
I got a lesson in NYPD culture in a conversation with this hero and a young sergeant. In introducing himself, the young sergeant asked "You remember (name of another officer) who got shot?" "Well, I'm the guy who shot the guy who shot him!" This was normal police culture here--I had to get used to it.
Game Warden Files--More on the Water
One of the wars continually fought by the ECOs in New York City was the war over short lobsters. A lobster needs to be a certain size to be lawfully taken, and the lobstermen of the New York Harbor area were always inventing new ways to get their illegal catch to shore. One of the men we chased often was better at it than others. He didn't come in with 20 or 30, it was more like 300 shorts. He had a large work platform built off the stern of his boat and built it into a drop box. He put all his undersized lobsters there and when he saw an enforcement boat coming, he'd turn his boat away, dump the contents, close the box and continue on--appearing to be just a legal fisherman.
One day we were coming in to Sheepshead Bay in Brookly for gas and realized that we were coming up behind him. He was oblivious to our presence as we prepared to board him, but we couldn't safely board him at the 10-15 knots at which we were travelling. When we signaled him to stop, he forced the boat into a hard turn and, as he turned away from us, released the drop box and dumped what we saw as several burlap bags, all roped together. We held our position and radioed the Coast Guard at Rockaway Station to come and assist us. The US Park Police Marine unit was closer and they came right over, dropped a grapple hook and came up with the rope on the first try.
We started pulling up bags of lobsters and ended up with two small boats full of bags. After we finished with our bad guy, signing him up for an appearance before an administrative law judge to talk about whether or not he could keep his lobster harvesting permit, we went over to the Coast Guard station and began the long process of gauging and counting lobsters. All told, he had something over 900 undersized lobsters. Since they had come from New York Waters, we dumped them out into the boat basin at the Coast Guard Station and seeded the population of lobsters in that part of Jamaica Bay.
One day we were coming in to Sheepshead Bay in Brookly for gas and realized that we were coming up behind him. He was oblivious to our presence as we prepared to board him, but we couldn't safely board him at the 10-15 knots at which we were travelling. When we signaled him to stop, he forced the boat into a hard turn and, as he turned away from us, released the drop box and dumped what we saw as several burlap bags, all roped together. We held our position and radioed the Coast Guard at Rockaway Station to come and assist us. The US Park Police Marine unit was closer and they came right over, dropped a grapple hook and came up with the rope on the first try.
We started pulling up bags of lobsters and ended up with two small boats full of bags. After we finished with our bad guy, signing him up for an appearance before an administrative law judge to talk about whether or not he could keep his lobster harvesting permit, we went over to the Coast Guard station and began the long process of gauging and counting lobsters. All told, he had something over 900 undersized lobsters. Since they had come from New York Waters, we dumped them out into the boat basin at the Coast Guard Station and seeded the population of lobsters in that part of Jamaica Bay.
Tuesday, October 15, 2013
Home From Vacation
Yes, it has again been a while since I posted anything. Time just keeps slipping by. This post is actually going to have something to do with ammo! After all, it's part of the title.
While on vacation, I got a chance to shoot a muzzle loading bench rifle. I was at the annual encampment of the Christian Game Warden Support Group held near Centerville TN, and one of our participants brought along a couple of really interesting, hand-built rifles. His creations weigh in at about 25 pounds or so, seems that there is weight that fits "regulation" for the the type of competition he shoots them in. The shooting process is long, and to a non-enthusiast, tedious; but the owner of the piece was truly in his element. It took about a half hour just to unload the truck and set everything in place; but when it comes to the shooting, it really performs!
This rifle sits in a mount and the shooter snuggles up to it wearing a special padded glove to support the butt stock. The sights are interesting--an aperture within another aperture, and the settle easily onto the target. The trigger is magic. It's pretty easy to get the feel of it and my shot hit the mark. As a matter of fact, one target shot by several shooters didn't look half bad.
I also shot a couple of .45 pistols and found them to be quite to my liking. As much as I like Glocks, I must admit the Springfield 1911 was sweet to shoot.
That's about all the shooting I did at the get-together this year. I didn't bring any guns of my own, except the .380 I carried--and I couldn't pick up an ammo on the trip out there.
While on vacation, I got a chance to shoot a muzzle loading bench rifle. I was at the annual encampment of the Christian Game Warden Support Group held near Centerville TN, and one of our participants brought along a couple of really interesting, hand-built rifles. His creations weigh in at about 25 pounds or so, seems that there is weight that fits "regulation" for the the type of competition he shoots them in. The shooting process is long, and to a non-enthusiast, tedious; but the owner of the piece was truly in his element. It took about a half hour just to unload the truck and set everything in place; but when it comes to the shooting, it really performs!
This rifle sits in a mount and the shooter snuggles up to it wearing a special padded glove to support the butt stock. The sights are interesting--an aperture within another aperture, and the settle easily onto the target. The trigger is magic. It's pretty easy to get the feel of it and my shot hit the mark. As a matter of fact, one target shot by several shooters didn't look half bad.
I also shot a couple of .45 pistols and found them to be quite to my liking. As much as I like Glocks, I must admit the Springfield 1911 was sweet to shoot.
That's about all the shooting I did at the get-together this year. I didn't bring any guns of my own, except the .380 I carried--and I couldn't pick up an ammo on the trip out there.
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