Richard Severtson has dealt with members of a dangerous crime family. He
has been at the center of international intrigue. He's been shot at,
punched, shoved and kicked. He's fully capable of striking back.
If you guessed that he is part of an elite group of enforcement agents,
you're right. But did you guess this elite group is part of the National
Marine Fisheries Service?
If you think that working as a federal fisheries officer means tranquil
days on the water, think again.
Not only do federal fisheries enforcement agents protect and conserve the
nation's marine resources, they often deal with the worst kind of felons:
smugglers, conspirators and even murderers.
"Our job is said to be eight times more dangerous than that of a uniformed
New York City police officer," says Severtson.
Indeed, Severtson has rubbed shoulders with the infamous Gambini crime
family. While working undercover, he was once offered $5,000 to break someone's
legs.
He spent time in the Far East, working under an alias and using a phony
passport as part of a covert operation that could have had dire consequences.
Although endorsed by the agency, Severtson was told by his bosses that should
his cover be blown, he would be on his own.
Despite all these dangers, Severtson, who works out of Seattle, has never
had a day of regret about his work. "It has been the most exciting job and
more rewarding than I could have ever imagined. I have looked forward to getting
up and going to work every day."
Severtson says he grew up wanting to be a fish and wildlife officer. But
he got his start in enforcement as a Green Beret and then as an Oregon state
police officer. He finally went to work for the state fish and wildlife service
and found happiness. "I couldn't believe they actually paid me money
to do something I loved."
When he jumped to the federal level, the scope and complexity of the work
changed dramatically. "As a federal agent, I have watched someone write out
a check for $48 million to buy illegal fish and wildlife! As a state officer,
I got excited when I caught somebody buying an illegal trout for five bucks!"
Severtson has received medals for his efforts, but it is the difference
that he and his fellow agents have made that is the most rewarding. For example,
their work has brought an end to high-seas gill netting, which for years was
responsible for the senseless deaths of whales, dolphins and turtles. "That
fleet does not exist anymore because of us," he says proudly.
Fisheries officer Herb Redekopp says it's the diversity of his work
that he loves the most. One day, he may be watching a summer sunset from a
boat skimming across the open water. The next, Redekopp might be the only
person between an angry mob of commercial fishermen and a band of native fishers.
"It's an excellent job. You never know what you're going to be doing
the next day," he says.
From shrouds of fog to blowing gales, Judy Dwyer has survived some very
nasty weather patrolling the waters off the Grand Banks. She's also weathered
international disputes over fishing rights and quotas.
"There's lots to do," she says. "And you're not tied to an office
every day."
Redekopp is charged with protecting salmon stocks and enforcing shellfish
closures. His job has more to do with managing people than fish. "We're
managing conflicts that arise when different user groups battle over who gets
how much of the resource."
For example, a court decision sparked a protest outside Redekopp's
office. The court ruled that two area native bands didn't have an aboriginal
right to sell fish. That ruling didn't automatically change laws that
give those bands the opportunity to catch and sell fish -- laws Redekopp's
office is committed to uphold.
Non-native fishermen felt Redekopp's office was siding with natives.
There were tons of cameras and reporters outside the office covering the protest
and asking for comment. "We couldn't really comment," Redekopp confides.
"We enforce fishing equally."
Dwyer's duties often involve a crisis of international proportions
-- for example, the "turbot war" of 1995. Overfishing has been a big problem
on the Grand Banks. Cod has all but disappeared, and in 1995 it looked like
the turbot stocks were next.
Some countries were refusing to stay within quotas established by the North
Atlantic Fisheries Organization. The problem came to a head when Redekopp's
office arrested and towed a Spanish boat called the Estai. "That was our unit
that was involved," says Dwyer.
A search of the boat found a hidden hold full of turbot, two sets of fishing
logs and a net with an illegally small mesh and liner. The seizure forced
negotiators to sit down and talk about enforceable quotas.
They reached a decision that observers would be posted on every vessel
fishing the Grand Banks. "Everyone in this unit is very happy," says Dwyer.
"It was very rewarding for all the officers involved." The agreement ended
months of frustration for fisheries officers, who were watching fishing numbers
decline and couldn't do anything about it.
Dwyer is particularly happy to see foreign ships forced to use observers.
Observers work on contract to her office, reporting the size of catches and
ensuring proper fishing gear is used. Before she joined the office five years
ago, Dwyer worked as a fishery observer. "It's very difficult to be overfishing
if you have people recording details of every catch."
Redekopp was hired after graduating from a two-year program in resource
management. His job has evolved over the last five years. "We used to be a
lot more involved in fisheries management. Now we're almost exclusively
enforcement."
The change means Redekopp no longer walks by streams and counts fish to
submit data. That work is done by technicians or biologists. Redekopp gets
to concentrate on enforcement.
"It's an exciting job. The general public really appreciates the natural
resource. People enjoy fishing, and it's a good feeling to be able to
protect that special commodity."