A recent incident has raised some questions in my mind about what the Coast Guard’s role is—and what it should be—with regard to international law enforcement. Debating the legality of these issues is not my intent. Rather, I wish to focus on the broader issue: Should we even be there?
At 0500 on 9 March 1996, the boatswain’s mate of the watch awakened me for a possible law-enforcement boarding. Upon arriving on the bridge of the Valiant (WMEC-621), I saw the Marlin, a 69-foot Dominican fishing vessel. Our operations officer queried the Marlin by radio, with no response. Because of its course, speed, and position—together with prior intelligence on a similar vessel—we suspected a migrant-smuggling operation.
I led a six-man Coast Guard boarding team, accompanied by a Royal Bahamian Defence Force (RBDF) ship- rider, in my cutter’s launch and approached the vessel for a consensual boarding. When we got us within shouting distance, we requested—and received—permission from the master for us to come aboard. The master claimed to be fishing and produced documentation from the Dominican government. He also had enough small skiffs, air compressors, and dive gear to support at least 14 spear-fisherman. After switching to a “fisheries” mode, we began to explore a different set of priorities. Although we were not within the Bahamian territorial seas (three nautical miles), the RBDF rider determined that both this vessel and the areas where the master claimed to have caught the fish were within the Bahamian 200-mile exclusive economic zone (EEZ). He recommended seizure of the vessel and its catch. His government concurred, and we were directed to assist.
The decision-making process—conducted by radio—took several hours. As our stay on board lengthened, the crew began to suspect that this was more than a routine inspection. They began to complain and to swear that they were not going to a Bahamian jail. After the Valiant sent three more Spanish interpreters to the Marlin, the situation stabilized, and the crew seemed content just to talk.
Within an hour, however, the crew worked themselves back into a frenzy that burst into open rebellion, as they directed their hostility toward the RBDF rider. They claimed to have been arrested by the Bahamians before and had suffered beatings and broken legs while in custody. They said they would rather die than go back to a Bahamian jail. They attempted to launch their skiffs, and started pouring gasoline on the deck of the fishing vessel, threatening to ignite it. We removed the RBDF rider from the Marlin, both to ensure his safety and to reduce tension. Evidently, the Dominicans considered this a victory, and shifted their attention to the Coast Guard boarding team. One crew member brandished a board with a nail driven through it. Seeing that we were losing control of the situation, I drew my pepper spray, and sprayed the board holder and one of the men who was splashing gasoline on the deck. They dropped immediately, and most of the other crew bolted from the fantail. One Dominican reached into a skiff and drew a spear gun. Several members of the boarding team drew their sidearms—but because the spear was not cocked, they held fire. Seeing overwhelming firepower, the man dropped the spear gun and fled to the crew’s quarters.
After this, more Coast Guard personnel were dispatched, and control was regained. The Dominican crew was transferred to the Valiant, and the vessel and crew were turned over to the RBDF the following day. The catch was impounded and the owners of the vessel faced a $50,000 fine from the Bahamian government. The crew members were released from custody.
There were several times during the Marlin incident when Coast Guard personnel could have been killed or injured. Fortunately, this did not happen, but if it had, it would have attracted high level—and media—attention.
Why is the U.S. Coast Guard operating in the Caribbean Sea, well outside of U.S. waters? The Coast Guard is the lead agency in enforcing U.S. laws on the seas, and is recognized as the world’s premier maritime law-enforcement agency. Such respect and trust gives us the freedom to work effectively with many national law-enforcement agencies in the region. In addition to narcotics trafficking, illegal migrants also have become a smuggling concern in this area. To ship drugs or migrants from South America or the islands to the United States, smugglers must cross the Caribbean. The most effective way to prevent smuggling into the United States is to patrol such Caribbean choke points as the Yucatan Strait, the Windward Passage, the Old Bahama Channel and the Straits of Florida.
Many of these choke points, however, lie partially or entirely within a sovereign country’s waters. There are few places where law enforcement can be executed effectively without entering at least one country’s territorial seas. It is therefore imperative—if we wish to stop smuggling into the United States—that we enter into agreements with a number of Caribbean nations, to permit us to operate in their waters.
Another issue concerns international joint operations: the operation of a West Indies Guard (WIG) ship. The WIG ship is one of various ships representing NATO nations with interests in the Caribbean area. Seven- or eight- man teams, called Law Enforcement Detachments (LeDets), often operate from these ships as a force-multiplier. Although this expands the Coast Guard’s resources and fosters good working relationships with other countries, some problems can arise. Imagine the difficulties involved if a U.S. Coast Guard LeDet enforces British law from a British ship, on a Venezuelan freighter, in British territorial seas. Legality is not the issue here, but the question is: “Do we have the moral and ethical right to risk U.S. servicemen in such a venture?” This is similar to issues raised in the Department of Defense about whether a U.S. serviceman should serve under a non-U.S. United Nations commander. Just how far should we go in joint international operations, and how much of the load should U.S. personnel carry?
The Marlin incident brought up another issue. Our standards of due process, speedy and fair trial, and humane treatment of prisoners are not always observed by other countries. If we enforce another country’s laws and prisoners are taken, have we just subjected them to what would be a civil- rights violation in the United States? Do we have a moral obligation to ensure they receive the same treatment that they would in a U.S. jail? Is each country’s civil-rights record considered before we enter into agreements, and should we pressure them to comply with our civil rights laws? If so, where do we draw the line in interfering with another country’s legal system?
The question I find most difficult to answer is: “Whose—or which—laws should we enforce?” I swore an oath to support and defend the Constitution, and any other laws passed by competent authority. I cannot find fault in enforcing laws that benefit the United States, such as U.S. fisheries or immigration laws, or humanity in general, such as drug interdiction, but the Marlin incident raised a tough question: Does the oath I took clearly place upon me the obligation to die protecting a few lousy Bahamian fish?
Lieutenant (j.g.) Koshulsky was graduated from the U.S. Coast Guard Academy in 1994. He served as a deck watch officer in USCGC Valiant (WMEC-621), and is assigned to LeDet 5.