130- Seven Hours to Freedom

You, finding life, rather dull, dreaming again of exotic places, wishing you were somewhere else. We offer you escape. Escape, designed to free you from the four walls of today for a half hour of high adventure.

Escape with us now to a small fishing boat off the California coast at a night of terror and death at the hands of a brilliant madman, as Bud A. Nelson tells it in his exciting story, seven hours to freedom.

The Pacific Ocean off the coast of Southern California usually thought of as calm and peaceful with his very little danger. But don't take the Pacific for granted, or you'll be writing your name in foam and throwing it into the wind.

There can be trouble out there. All kinds of trouble. The winter months are the lean ones along the coast. Lou and I scrape the bottom of the barrel to make fuel and stores for my boat to marry widow.

Rigging for mackerelers fishing the hard way. You've seen the mackerel fleet sneak up on the coast. Those ghostly cities of lights offshore. Guys like Lou and myself trying to make a payload with lights and stinking chum.

Mashed marinated muck, your torso forebored with your bare hands to attract the fish. We were anchored alone west to point doom whistle boy about a mile out. It was dark except for the spot we flashed on the water and the flashing of headlights on highway 101 where it dips down to the shore to get a run for Zuma Grade.

There were mackerel around and they were ready. Baby, you come. And a boy, Lou, keep comin', I'll move the charm out into the light. I, uh, I, uh, come on, kid, sweet, charl, good, juicy, chowie paste comin', get in?