Carrying

"Carrying weight". 

Those two words appeal to the inner secret smuggler in me. I have never moved any real amount of cannabis in my time but I have read about or known enough people who have that have made partaking in herb a very privileged thing.

There have always been folks around who will supply you with the things you crave the most. I think of one of our history’s most patriotic times, World War II. One should have been a stand up red,white and blue kind of guy and worked within the guidelines of the rationing system, right? Give till it hurts, for the troops doing their best to protect democracy overseas and all that? But in my readings I have found that there were plenty of black-marketeers working in those factories, business and communities who were willing, for a price, to get you that extra pound of sugar for your honey’s cake, some nylons needed for a night on the town or the extra gallon of gasoline to get you there. Smuggling undermined Prohibition in the 20s, has helped get guns and weapons into the hands of all sorts of rebels the world over and has helped keep our bongs loaded for more than 70 years. I am a libertarian at heart. I tend to look the other way when it comes to things like that. So long as your enjoyment of life doesn’t impact mine or the lives of my peeps, we’re all good.

So, the good libertarian in me didn’t think too much about scoring a pound with a shipmate of mine back in the winter of ’78. Every week or so we found ourselves out on the streets buying bags of weed and those efforts didn’t always pay off. We had more than our share of mishaps and ripoffs and so buying quantity seemed like the way to avoid having to prowl the streets and beaches of San Diego for a while. We had a pal who had recently rented an apartment in El Cajon so we knew we would be far outside and away from the eyes and ears of Naval Intelligence there in National City. We kept our profile low, we had no big stereos to blaze away on and we were well mannered as all sailors tend to be when they are on the beach. All those things tipped buying a pound in our favor.

We met a guy at a bar who had a warehouse full of Mexican and Colombian bricks to unload and the pricem 500 bucks, was right. What made the purchase even better was that I had a trip planned to Colorado for the holidays and a load of dope would always be welcomed. I know, for those out there more jaded breaking up a pound must be a ho-hum kind of affair, but for a guy who was just used to handling ounces or less it was a mighty wonderful thing to experience. So we made a late night run to Imperial Beach, and, right out of some old noir film, met the guy on the beach, exchanged cash and product and we went on our merry way with a brick of Colombian Gold stashed in a seabag. 

We got back to the apartment, set up a table and tarp, put on some tunes and proceeded to break down that pound. It was important to know that the grass we bought was high quality so we spent as much time smoking as we did dividing up that dope that night. The thing that stands out in my mind the most is that we played, seemingly endlessly, Quicksilver Messenger Service, and that none of us seemed to mind. 

The night wore on, the half-ounce baggies were filled and by sunrise we had our project done and out of the way. I was granted space in a closet for my stash, a good thing because taking it back to base, getting it past the Marine guards then walking on it board ship and clearing not on the officer of the watch but the watchful eye of the Master at Arms was not my idea of a good time.

Once we got a few sea trials out of the way I purchased my airplane ticket and got ready for a trip back east. I took my dope and secured it in an oversized coffee can and wrapped it up like a Christmas present. That, along with a half dozen other gifts, completed my Trojan Horse. The mid-70’s were security lite at airports and so I didn’t worry too much about checked baggage. But I committed a radical error that almost cost me my dope and my trip: prior to leaving the apartment I rolled a half dozen joints and put them into a small leather pencil case. The pencil case went right into my pocket. Two White Russians under my belt at the airport lounge left my street smarts at the bottom of my glass. Being too happy is a way to get noticed and so I was pulled aside by airport security. I was frisked.The gal in charge pulled out my pencil case, popped it open and looked inside, gave me a stern look, then a smirk, then, a beat or two later, let me hit the boarding ramp.

I didn't think that carrying a half pound of cannabis was a big deal,apparently, but for one brief and terrifying moment that night all I could see, from the inside of my head. was a jail cell and wrecked navy career. Somehow the holiday spirit that lived inside that gal’s head felt it was a better thing to let me go than to deal out punitive measures. My flight to Colorado Springs went okay and I landed in a snow storm. My pals drove all the way out from Ordway to pick me and we drove back in heavy weather. For the record, that way my first time every seeing snow. So betwixt a wild San Diego send off and a safe trip back to town, I had a very great and happy New Years. And so did everyone else in town who got a half ounce or more of that very spirited and smokable pound of Colombian Gold.

These days, whenever I go into the local rec shops, I look about me and know that there has to be pounds of marijuana just sitting there, scattered among those glass sample jars. I know that there has to be pounds more behind the scene and then hundreds or many thousands of plants in warehouses out back. I think of that old sailor pal of mine back in the day who was so proud to introduce me to his connection, to be able to help us secure that wonderful pound. Somehow the romance and drama of securing that dope brought a whole different air to the transaction and, just maybe, helped make that weed taste that much better, made the high that much higher.

Don’t get me wrong, I like to buy my dope legally. I like the lack of paranoia, the absence of fear that I experience when I go out and about purchasing my weed. But somehow I wish that I could do that run just one more time. Go home with a one-pound brick in the bottom of a sea bag and bust it up on the kitchen table, roll up numbers till the sun comes up and spin that ragged old Quicksilver record till the lyrics and the jangling guitars make me crazy.

Or, maybe, I can just get lucky someday and find that long lost landrace at a dispensary, load a bong and close my eyes and pretend I'm back there on snowbound I-25, grooving with my long lost pals, knowing my kit bag in the trunk had their merry holidays gifts ready and willing to be rolled. That would be one hell of lot easier.

But, not nearly as much fun.

Salud!

The seemingly endless definitions of carry!
http://www.thefreedictionary.com/carry