Baywatch Nights

On a recent night off Newport Harbor, two uniformed men are officiating over a burial at sea.

Carlos Contreras looks somber as he unwinds the yellow cord wrapped around the still body on the deck of the boat. John Luderman raises his hand to his forehead in a salute. Then the two harbor patrol officers send a small black seal to its final destination.

“He’ll be fish food out here in the ocean,” says Luderman, 37. “We just don’t want him washing up on the beach.”

Says Contreras, 36: “Out here at sea there are big predators that will chew him up in an hour.”

Contreras and Luderman are working the night shift for Orange County’s Harbor Patrol, a team of 42 sheriff’s deputies responsible for law enforcement and disaster control in the county’s three harbors: Huntington, Dana Point and Newport, which is operation headquarters.

Working aboard the 30-foot Fireboat II, Contreras and Luderman prowl the waters from midnight to 7 a.m. Sometimes they encounter the carcasses of sea animals. Other times they have to deal with boat fires, storms, drug smugglers or drunken yachtsmen. Most often, the men say, nothing happens at all.

“I would describe it as hours of boredom and minutes of sheer terror,” Luderman says.

This night begins quietly.

“We’ve got a boat rental out late,” Sgt. Frank Sheets tells them during the briefing that begins their shift. And a small dinghy reported missing the night before still hasn’t been accounted for, he says.

The two officers board their cruiser, crank it up and guide it into the sea on this starlit night. Running without lights, they slip through the black water, the wind in their faces.

“It’s real peaceful out here at night,” Luderman says. “It’s cool and quiet. You get baked during the day.”

Says Contreras, “I’d rather be out here in a storm than in the office when it’s nice.”

Near a rock jetty, he suddenly flips on a powerful spotlight. A group of fishermen look up startled, blinded by the beam.

“We shine lights on them to make sure that it’s not a bunch of gangbangers painting graffiti on the rocks,” Luderman explains as they move on.

They recall nights when they have come upon less innocent activities. On one occasion their suspicions were raised by a boat running dark in the water. A search revealed a cargo of methamphetamines and stolen credit cards. The boat owner was arrested and charged.

Another time, they found a boat outfitted with a complete setup for forging documents. Another arrest, more charges filed.

Police work is not Contreras and Luderman’s only job. They are trained marine firefighters too. And, perhaps most important, the two experienced boaters are familiar figures, sources of help for a marine community whose harbor shelters more than 10,000 vessels.

“This is one of the few places where people wave at the police officers and it’s not a one-fingered wave,” Luderman says. “When they call you, it’s usually because they need you.”

At 2 a.m. this night, the two officers see a light aboard a small yacht in the marina. They approach to investigate. A well-dressed man emerges from below deck, shouts and waves a greeting.

“Obviously not a boat thief,” Luderman says.

Fifteen minutes later, they spot a group of young men fishing from a dock near the Balboa Fun Zone. “Bring in your lines, guys,” Luderman shouts to them. “There’s no fishing on the docks from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m.”

Next, he gives a stern lecture to a group of teens fishing from a boat with no lights. Out of earshot, Luderman says with a smile, “That’s my ‘dad’ act. I don’t like writing tickets.”

The nearest they come to a moment of terror is when they hear a high-pitched blast of sound in a small marina. It’s a boat alarm--maybe a bilge alert warning that the vessel is sinking, maybe a signal that gas is leaking from an engine. If the latter, then an explosion could be imminent.

Tension builds because the officers can’t pinpoint the source of the sound. Contreras jumps to the dock and moves from boat to boat until he finds the right one. He gingerly climbs aboard as Luderman watches intently from the deck of Fireboat II.

Contreras disappears into the cabin of the boat. An eternity passes, then he reappears. “It’s a gasoline alarm,” he yells, “but I don’t smell any gas.”

All he can do is turn off the alarm and move on. In the morning, the patrol team will notify the vessel’s owner.

As dawn approaches, Luderman and Contreras stop to chat with John Cunningham, the proprietor of a small barge that sells bait to fishermen. He talks about the harbor: “It’s a small neighborhood. Everybody knows each other.” And the patrol team: “These guys are way cool. They’ve helped me a bunch of times.”

On this visit they help by hosing off the deck of his barge and consoling him over the loss of $1,200 worth of bait stolen in the night by a gang of seals. “Hey, do you want us to file a police report on that?” Luderman quips. “Did you get a description of those seals?”

Their good deed done, the patrol officers return to headquarters. It’s 7:30 a.m. when they dock, and Contreras is beat. He’s got a house in Riverside County, but his boat here at the harbor is where he’ll be sleeping today.

“I’m too tired to drive home,” he says.

In truth, he’s already there.