4 — Wednesday, January 15, 1992 - North Shore News Paint it black: Readying for the showdown with Columbus THE NEIGHBORHOOD around Pier 8, the crumbling San Juan wharf where the Sea Shepherd and her crew had been confined on orders from a Puerto Rico Immigration Department inspector, was about as rough a neighborhood as you aze likely to find anywhere. A lot of drugs, we were told. Prostitution. Gang violence. We had arrived in time for the 500th shooting death of the year in a city of not much more than a million souls. (Five hundred fatalities per year, 500 years since Columbus — any kind of a message?) The surrounding low-income apartment walls were cratered from gunfire, with smashed win- dows and barricaded doors. Trepical weeds pushed up be- tweer the cracks in the pavement. Sickly palm trees sagged against torn and rusting hurricane fences. Garbage overflowed from battered dumpsters. Cops armed with teargas can- nisters and snub-nosed machine guns prowled around wearing flak jackets. The front door of the police station a couple of blocks from Pier 8 was pockmarked with bullet holes. One of the native guys on board, Lloyd Austin, from around Hazleton, a cheerful, moustachoed fellow wearing large loosely-tied Adidas and a baseball cap, had been off at a grocery store buying smokes when im- migration arrived at the boat. He hadn't come back im- mediately because two gunmen had roared into the store and ordered everyone to lie down on the floor. They were yelling in Spanish, but Lloyd got the idea. Coming from a matriarchial society, he laid down next to a pleasant mid- dle-aged woman, figuring he’d be safer there. On top of all that, several U.S. Coast Guard guys had shown up, promising to come back the next day for a ‘‘full inspection.’’ Somebody from the agriculture - department likewise made a brief appearance, vowing to return in force. . Shortly after supper, while under orders not to leave the ship, we looked out the portholes to see a dozen army types in fatigues. show up on the dock to look us over. The paranoia levels on the Sea Shepherd that night were matched only by the outrage at having to stay on board and eat the vegetarian food again — while watching the neon lights of the Sailor’s Bar dancing in the inky harbor waters, just beyond reach. Somewhere out there, we Knew, there had to be a McDonald's or a Burger King or a Wendy’s. Better yet, a restaurant with T-bone steaks and French wine ... How quickly the heavy fantasizing starts when you’re 2 prisoner! The paranoia was trenchant. There were quite a few hardcore ecological activists on board who had never denied scuttling and ramming various whaling, tuna- fishing and driftnetting vesseis, along with a dozen ‘‘militant’’ British Columbia natives deter- mined to interfere with the plan- ned celebrations of the anniver- sary of Coiumbus’ original voyage to the so-called New World (which was looking like a very old run-down world at the moment). Of the natives, at least half of them had been arrested at various times during road blocks pro- testing fogging in B.C., from Bob Hunter STRICTLY PERSONAL Mount Currie to the Queen Charlottes. It is hardly possible to be a native activist in Canada without having a record. Ditto for most of the Sea Shepherd’s regular crew, most certainly including the cap- tain, Paul Watson. AS a group profile, it didn’t look too good. Pirates, or what? And why is your ship painted black? Almost all from Canada, eh? Some of the native guys didn’t even have passports, just their Status Indian cards. When Inspector Garcia of im- migration saw the Status Indian cards the next day he turned pur- ple. It finally dawned on him that all the people he was threatening with fines were natives. By that time, a story had gone out on the Associated Press wire service to the effect that a group of Canadian Indians was being harassed by authorities in San Juan. Why hadn’t the rest of the crew or the media on board the Sea Shepherd been charged? This was the question being asked. It looked like racism. Never mind the details (such as that it was just coincidence). San Juan hoped to reap some- thing of a tourism bonanza from the arrival of the Columbus ships in a couple of weeks. The last thing the hard-nosed tourism department people wanted was any negative publicity. Somewhere in the upper eche- lons of the overlapping bureaucracies, a message flashed on. Even though I did not personal- ly see this message, I know it must have said something to the effect of: DO NOT CAUSE PUBLIC RELATIONS NIGHTMARE JUST BEFORE THE ARRIVAL OF THE COLUMBUS SHIPS. RELEASE CANUCK INDIANS IMMEDIATELY. We were out of there in hours. As we steamed past the old fort guarding (uselessly, it turned out) the mouth of the San Juan har- bor, hereditary Gitksan chief Wii Seeks climbed to the bow, and for the benefit of all our video cam- eras uttered the battle cry: ‘‘Col- umbus, make my day!”’ And this time, Wii Seeks did not throw up over the side. We were ready. CATO $1 50, OCd | The Financial impact s A one evening seminar exploring some "tricks" to stretch your family income. 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