Tomato Farmers’ Expansion Plans Leave Neighbors Fearful, Upset

When Alex Censor stands atop the wind-swept mesa near his home and gazes down on tractors rolling across the fertile valley below, he sees trouble being tilled.

Like his neighbors in the rustic enclave known as Del Mar Mesa, Censor came to the area seeking solitude and an isolated way of life. Now, residents of the remote neighborhood fear that a massive farming operation under way at their doorstep will spoil the tranquil ambiance they so cherish.

Ukegawa Brothers, a Carlsbad-based company that is one of the largest tomato growers in Southern California, has graded 300 acres across the belly of the valley and plans to plant an array of vegetables beginning in June. An additional 470 acres could be in cultivation by August.

“We have two basic concerns,” said Censor, 44, a microcomputer consultant who settled on the rugged mesa east of Interstate 5 and south of Carmel Valley Road in 1976. “We’re worried that the wind will push the pesticides (Ukegawa Brothers) uses up the canyons and into our homes and we’re afraid of the security problems caused by the hundreds of illegal workers in his fields.”

Censor, a bearded, soft-spoken vegetarian, points to the past as proof that he and his neighbors have reason to be uneasy.

Two years ago, the Ukegawas began a similar farming venture on several hundred acres south and west of the mesa. Their arrival, residents maintain, unleashed an avalanche of problems, from pesticide poisonings to thefts and harassment the locals blame on illegal aliens who till the land and live in the brush nearby.

The farmers say the neighborhood’s fears are unfounded. They deny that their employees are perpetrators of crime and say that any pesticide-related sicknesses were brought on when residents trespassed across fields that had recently been sprayed.

Moreover, Ukegawa Brothers’ General Manager Peter Mackauf said he had “gone the extra distance” to ensure that his business had no negative impact on neighboring homeowners in the past and would do so this time around as well. But Mackauf added that he believes his “good-faith efforts” are a lost cause.

“I get the feeling that these people, who prize a certain wildness in their life style, see no redeeming value whatsoever in the kind of intensive, irrigated agriculture we’re conducting,” Mackauf said. “They view us as an intrusion . . . I think it’s the same old argument: Sure we support farming, but not in our back yard.”

The squabble between the Ukegawas and Del Mar Mesa residents is by no means unique. Indeed, county agricultural officials say it is but one example of a trend that has swept into San Diego County in recent years: as development and population growth continue at a dizzying rate, local farmers are finding it increasingly tough to find affordable land and sympathetic neighbors.

“Most people don’t realize that we’re 19th in the U.S. in terms of gross agricultural production (among counties),” said county agricultural commissioner Kathleen Thuner. “What we have is an expanding population that is moving out into areas where farming has traditionally been dominant. There is bound to be tension given that encroachment.”

As it did in 1984 and 1985, the feud between Ukegawa Brothers and residents surrounding their fields in the eastern reaches of Carmel Valley has attracted the attention of San Diego city officials.

Last time, complaints from neighbors brought former City Councilman Bill Mitchell into the fray and ultimately prompted the passage of a law requiring growers to obtain permits to farm land that has been out of cultivation for more than five years. Previously, land farmed at any time in the past was exempt from the permit requirement.

In addition, the new law gave city officials the authority to impose certain conditions on the permit--such as requiring that farming take place at least a quarter of a mile from residential neighborhoods. As part of the permit process, inspectors now conduct an environmental review to determine whether agriculture threatens any endangered plant or animal species or water sources in the area.

According to city engineer Carl Steffens, Ukegawa Brothers violated the agricultural permit ordinance three weeks ago when they deployed their fleet of tractors on the 300-acre parcel, which is leased from Pardee Construction Co., a developer of North City West, the community of 40,000 that is emerging to the west.

Steffens, alerted to the grading work by Censor, said he believes that the land had lain fallow for five years and that the Ukegawas should have obtained a permit before grading began. Last Monday, Steffens cited Mackauf for the violation and ordered that he cease all work and apply for a permit.

But on Thursday, Mackauf and Steffens met with Deputy City Atty. Joe Schilling. After hearing arguments in the dispute, Schilling decided he needed more information before determining whether the ordinance had been violated.

“We have to talk to people out there and sort out the facts regarding when farming activity ceased on the parcel in question,” said Schilling, who heads the city’s land use enforcement division. “There’s a chance that he may need a permit for part of the land but not for all of it. We should have a verdict within a week.”

Even if the Ukegawas are found in violation of the ordinance, the possible penalties awaiting them are relatively light. Under one route the city may take, the farmers could be slapped with a court injunction and barred from proceeding until a permit is issued, a process that could take six to eight weeks. If a criminal penalty is pursued, the Ukegawas face a fine of no more than $100 for a first-time violation of the law, Schilling said.

Furthermore, the issue of environmental review mandated under the permit law has become something of a moot point because the 300 acres have already been graded and any endangered plants--like mesa mint--have been obliterated, Schilling said.

“The laws are relatively toothless when it comes to ag permits,” he conceded. “They need to be strengthened if they are to serve as a deterrent.”

Meanwhile, Steffens said he has “partially retracted” the citation he issued last week. The Ukegawas have been allowed to “proceed cautiously” with preparations on a portion of the land that may not require a permit.

“If he wants to proceed with putting in water lines and preparing for planting, that’s OK,” Steffens said, “because I don’t see any reason the city won’t issue him a permit to farm.”

He added that the penalties “are so minimal” that he does not expect that any will be levied if the Ukegawas are found in violation of the ordinance.

To hear Del Mar Mesa residents tell it, their life was bliss before the Ukegawas arrived on the scene in early 1984. The idyllic valley, which winds eastward toward Rancho Penasquitos from Interstate 5 and splinters into lush finger canyons, is home to horse ranches and nurseries and has remained virtually untouched by development for decades.

Even North City West, the giant network of subdivisions sprouting on its northwestern rim, has largely failed to alter the bucolic appeal of the valley, much of which is in the city’s future urbanizing zone.

But according to mesa residents, whose homes lie at the end of a bumpy dirt road and command vistas for miles in all directions, that all changed when the tomato growers moved in. Although the valley had been farmed for years, past growers had been small-time, lacking the large work force, irrigation systems and high-volume pesticide program used by the Ukegawas.

First there were the noise and dust generated by the army of tractors that readied the land for planting. Then the workers arrived, causing what mesa residents describe as harassment and unprecedented security problems.

“I was robbed twice--my car was stolen in one instance--and virtually everyone on the mesa suffered some sort of loss,” Censor said. “We had never had a crime problem before. Suddenly, there were illegals living in our backyard. We were sitting ducks. . . . Many of us installed alarm systems.”

Melody Spencer, a stable manager and mesa dweller, said she and her husband, Pete, spotted one thief on their property and tracked him back to an encampment near the Ukegawa farm off Black Mountain Road. There, they held him at gunpoint while waiting for sheriff’s deputies to arrive.

The Spencers recovered some of their goods at the camp and the man was arrested and later convicted.

“It was kind of frightening,” Melody Spencer said. “We felt surrounded and they wouldn’t even admit their workers were causing the problem.”

For Lillian and Lawrence Justice, who live in a century-old house in Shaw Valley, an offshoot of the larger Carmel Valley, the problem was pesticides. The Ukegawa fields straddle an access road that the Justices used to reach their home, and tomato stakes were only a few feet from their property.

Lillian Justice said she was poisoned by the herbicides and insecticides used by the Ukegawas. She said she felt listless and nauseous and eventually suffered a seizure that landed her in the hospital in May, 1984.

According to a blood test report prepared by Scripps Memorial Hospital in Encinitas, her blood was low in an enzyme known as “cholinesterase”--a known symptom of pesticide poisoning. Fearful of further effects, the Justices moved out of their home and lived in a friend’s garage for five months.

“I’m still sick, because those chemicals linger in your system for years and years,” said Justice, who relied on an oxygen tank for help with respiratory problems for more than a year. “I was naive enough to believe they’d let us know, or post a warning if the were going to be spraying dangerous stuff.”

A lawsuit against the Ukegawas on grounds that Lillian Justice’s illness resulted from the improper use of the pesticides is pending.

Mackauf did not deny that his workers applied pesticides--including Lannate, Nudrin and several others on the state’s restricted materials list--to fields next to the Justices home.

“But we secure a permit to use them and there are certain restrictions we follow as to how and when and under what conditions we apply them,” Mackauf said. “We realize it is our obligation to keep the pesticides from leaving the premises.”

To prevent the chemicals from drifting, workers add an encapsulating agent that forms large droplets that fall to the ground rather than carry in the air.

As for Lillian Justice’s medical problems, Mackauf said: “I won’t take responsibility because I believe she brought it upon herself by trespassing across our fields. She had no business being there.”

Justice, however, said she merely walked along the access road to her mailbox, “just like I’ve done every day for the past 17 years. I saw no signs that warned me I shouldn’t be doing that.”

Mackauf also denied allegations that his workers are responsible for crime problems. He said the valley has “for years and years been a drop-off point for illegal alien smugglers, and it’s those guys, not gainfully employed people, who have a motive to steal.”

Such statements offer little comfort to Censor and his neighbors on the mesa. They are bracing for the onslaught of workers and crime problems they believe will come. And while the farming will take place on the valley floor well below them, they fear that the stiff coastal breezes may blow chemicals up the feeder canyons, which act like funnels, and may send the materials right through their windows.

Bill Stella, who retired in a modest home amid the mesa-top chaparral five years ago, is particularly concerned. He has emphysema, and fears that any chemical irritation may damage his condition--even shorten his life.

“Anything that makes it harder to breathe naturally is going to hurt my ability to fight the disease,” said Stella, manager of the Del Mar Mesa Homeowners Assn. “I felt some irritation when he sprayed last time, and since then I’ve gotten worse. Now I’m on medication, but after awhile you get immune to that.”

Censor and the Spencers are also worried about the chemicals’ effects and plan to obtain blood tests as evidence in the event that any pesticide poisoning should occur.

Mackauf, meanwhile, defends his company’s record in the area and says the residents have no cause for concern. He also said that he met with them many times in the past and tried o address their concerns, “but they always wanted something more from me.”

“I really don’t see why we’re having trouble coexisting here,” Mackauf said. “There are numerous instances throughout the county where houses and agricultural fields are right on top of each other, and they’re using the same chemicals we are. I think both sides’ rights need to be protected.”

Censor, who said he had no trouble coexisting with past farmers who worked the valley, couldn’t agree more.

“All we’re asking is that he address our concerns about pesticides and take responsibility for his workers’ conduct and the threat they pose to our safety,” Censor said.

“We’ve been around this route before and it was like living in a state of siege. We don’t want to go through it again.”