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Cannabis Cowboy
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It was a hot Michigan morning and I was dreading another uncomfortable day in the heat. I was wearing a “turtle” - a sophisticated, immobilizing back-brace - due to a serious car accident in July. The silence of the farm was disturbed by the sound of a Triumph GT6 coming up the gravel driveway. It was Herby. As he got out of the car, I greeted him with a monster joint soaked in “honey oil.” As he took a hit, he handed me “the envelope.” Inside was the usual: a plane ticket, hotel reservation, and $5,000 U.S. Someone had arranged a meeting.
I realized immediately that something had gone wrong. I was supposed to have six months to recuperate from the accident, as I could hardly get around with four fused vertebrae, a dislocated neck and a shattered left foot. I couldn’t even see straight from the trauma of the impact.
In spite of my physical condition, I had Herby take me to the airport, and I headed for New Orleans to find out what was going on. At a minimum, I could provide some advice. After all, my crew was off doing who knows what, and we wouldn’t contact each other until after the Christmas holidays.
When I arrived at “LE’BOOZE” bar on Bourbon Street in the French Quarter, I was greeted by Ray and Dan. It was like a family reunion. The joy of the moment soon subsided and the atmosphere became very somber. They informed me that the last load did not “hook up,” Chris was missing and another load was ready. We were “backed up.”
They asked me if I was well enough to run down to “Del Diablo” near Riohacha with another boat and pick up both loads. I asked them where would I find my crew on such short notice? They didn’t even know their whereabouts, but said Capt. Larry’s crew would load both boats and they would provide me with two deckhands to help me handle my boat.
I chartered a twin-engine Cessna to fly me to Marathon Key, Florida, where I kept the “Joe Louis” stashed at Pinnella Sea Foods - the perfect place to hide a 65’ DESCO lobster boat, like the one on the front cover of the famous Jimmy Buffet album. She had a V-1710 Cummins diesel, and was built for speed and endurance. I could carry enough fuel to cruise 6,000 miles at 275 miles a day in any weather conditions.
Two days later I met Hal and Mark, who were sent by Ray and Dan to help me run my boat by taking wheel watches when I slept. It all sounded like it could work, so I agreed to lead the trip. We fueled and provisioned the Joe Louis, and got ready to set out.
Capt. Larry’s boat, the “Dudley,” was a Carolina boat about 95’ in length. They are huge and built for the seas of Cape Hatteras, the “graveyard of the Atlantic.” He had a crew of 7 men and could distance about the same as my boat. We agreed to meet at Latitude 25 degrees and Longitude 80 degrees, which put us due east of Marathon, Florida - about 70 miles offshore. It was a tricky feat of navigation, but a common practice of smugglers to ensure a covert rendezvous.
We then headed southwest for the Yucatan Channel, and after two days we headed southeast towards the Rosalind Banks and onward to Colombia. During this time, to my dismay, I learned that the sea-faring skills of Mark and Hal only amounted to some ski-boats on Lake Michigan! Nevertheless, they were learning quite quickly and knew the basics of boating, and not to fall overboard. They had enough skills to take a wheel watch and enough common sense to wake me if there was a problem.
Two days after we changed course in the Yucatan Straits, the barometer began to fall like a Japanese Zero during the “Marianas Turkey Shoot.” In all my years at sea, I have never seen mercury drop that fast without breaking glass. Hurricane Clara was in full swing near the Windward Passage, and we were being whipped by her spin-off.
The waves were around 40’ tall from the bottom of the trough to the crest. I loved this kind of weather because the least of our worries was the Coast Guard. Hurricanes were an excellent way for smugglers to use cover if they were equipped and experienced enough to dance with them. One does not “drive” through these conditions, but rather finesses one’s boat in a way to work with Mother Nature. Waves hit at about 7 pounds per gallon of water, and an average wave consists of tens of thousands of gallons. A boat could be crushed under these conditions, should there be a lapse in judgment or reflex.
My boat, a DESCO, has round bilges and she likes to roll around in the seas like a duck. Waves would crash over her, roll her on her sides, and we would pop up shedding water off our back. To some it is like a roller-coaster ride at an amusement park. To others, it can be a terrifying experience…and this was to be the case with Mark and Hal, as they had never seen a wave over 4 feet before.
Meanwhile, Capt. Larry and the Dudley were running flat and stable, and his crew was experiencing a much more stable ride. Mark and Hal were no use to me, as they were very sick, dehydrated from throwing up and fatigued from going without sleep. Larry and I agreed to transfer them to his boat for a while. This was a very dangerous maneuver in these conditions. If the boats hit each other during the transfer of crew, we could both sink. I decided we would bring the boats nose-to-nose and let them jump across on the rise of a wave. It worked quite well.
Now that we had completed that circus act, I resumed course to Colombia. Larry stayed about 8 miles behind me, following and tracking me on his radar. We were in communication by radio, as we had “split crystals” and only we could hear our conversations. On low range, we were broadcasting on less than one watt and our transmitting range was only 15 nautical miles.
This all seemed to be working well until nightfall, when Hal and Mark were to come back aboard my boat. There was a full moon and the waves had increased in height due to the lunar effect. It was not going to be possible to bring the boats together under these conditions. Prudent judgment led Larry and I to agree to abandon the option. We would try again at dawn.
I settled in for a wild ride that night, as the waves had exceeded 40’, with an occasional rogue wave of going over 65’, which was the entire length of the Joe Louis! Around 2300 hours (11pm) I was taking lists and rolls that were exceeding the capabilities of my antique auto-pilot. A couple of times I had to over-ride it, since my boat, during the surf down the wave fronts, was listing over so badly that her rudder was ineffective and she would try to spin-out. It was like riding a 65’ surfboard in a tsunami. My heart was pounding from the adrenalin rush while Tchaikovsky’s “Nutcracker Suite” blasted out of the stereo speakers in a complete synchronous pattern with the waves and spray. It was outrageous, but it gave my grave situation some surrealistic comic relief.
Then it happened. I was hit by a rogue wave from astern that lifted the Joe Louis almost perpendicular, and we were surfing down a wave at such a steep angle that we were exceeding our hull speed and she was pushing water from the bow like a large moustache. The autopilot jammed, she spun out and buried her starboard rail into the trough, tipping her into a barrel roll. I was pitched out of the captain’s chair, flew across the pilothouse and crashed through the wooden door, slamming into her bulwarks on deck and held there by my back brace. That stupid “turtle” saved my life! The next thing I knew, we were upright and cruising along in the trough like nothing was wrong. That was just an illusion from the shock. I freed myself, ran into the pilothouse, disengaged the autopilot and tried to visually assess the damage.
The Joe Louis and I were in serious trouble -- everything was torn loose helter-skelter. Every drawer had flown open, emptying its contents all over. Every cupboard and compartment was emptied out onto the floor. Canned goods, mattresses, ship’s stores and all my electronics were in a tangled mess in every direction. I had taken on a lot of water, but the main engine was still humming away like nothing had happened. I was still underway. No radios, no navigation aids, no lights…yet I was still running. I grabbed a chart and started to form a plan. Capt. Larry and I were now separated, and I was on my own.
I was about 500 miles from Kingston, Jamaica, so I set a course due east, knowing that I could make repairs there with minimal or no questions asked. Just two and a half more days under these conditions, and then I could get some rest.
Hurricane Clara was winding down now. The sun was out, the winds moderate and the seas were no longer dark monsters -- just large, gradual swells. The Joe Louis had a good feel about her, so I just sat back and ate crackers and drank Kool-Aid for two and a half days while steering with my feet. I was in no hurry. The damage was done, and all I had to do was pace myself to Jamaica and think of a good story for the authorities.
After a couple of days, I entered the harbor at Kingston at around 1 am. I proceeded to the Customs dock and maneuvered the Joe Louis up to the wharf. As I was tying her up, truckloads of Jamaican police and military came screeching up and jumped on board with automatic weapons pointing at me. I immediately informed them that they had jumped onto a boat that was actually sinking. When they saw how much water there was in the engine room, they abandoned the boat even faster than they had jumped onto it. Although I was still holding my hands up at gunpoint, I couldn’t help laughing out loud. In fact, it broke the tension. When the inspector asked why I was laughing, I explained that I found it ironic that after all I had survived over the last couple of days, I was about to sink at the dock in a safe harbor at gunpoint. The inspector holstered his pistol and said I could put my arms down. He offered me a Dunhill cigarette and asked if I needed a drink. I accepted his offer, and began to explain why and how I was in his harbor.
His officers searched the boat and found nothing illegal, but they were wondering where my crew was - they had found Mark and Hal’s passports in their cabin. I told them about the seas and putting them on Capt. Larry’s boat. It was a little too fantastic to believe, until one of his officers asked us to go down into the engine room. From the oil and grease streaks on the ceiling, it was confirmed that the Joe Louis had, in fact, rolled 360 degrees.
In spite of this, I was under “house arrest.” My passport was seized until I could confirm the whereabouts of Mark and Hal, but I was free to roam about the island. I took the Joe Louis across the harbor to Port Royal in Morgan’s Harbor and rented a suite at the Port Royal hotel. I called Ray’s girlfriend and told her what happened, and then fell sleep on the bed. I was tired and drunk and hurting.
I am not sure how long I was asleep, but it was quite a while. The next thing I knew, someone was trying to wake me up - it was Dan and Ray! They said Larry had contacted them by radio and had given me up for lost. They were so relieved when Ray’s girlfriend had relayed my message to him. Larry and the Dudley were on their way to Port Royal and would be there in a few days. Repairs were already started on the Joe Louis. There was nothing for me to do but burn some Ganja spliffs and drink Jamaican rum...and get some rest.
Soon the Dudley arrived, Mark and Hal confirmed my story to the inspector. Ray paid off a few officials to satisfy any inquiries about my boat, me, why and for what. That’s the way it was back in the day. For ten thousand dollars here and there, you could buy silence and fix things. A few pounds of money and a handshake were a binding agreement in the Caribbean, and everyone was happy.
Within a fortnight, all the repairs were done and both boats were re -provisioned. We all set sail again for Del Diablo, bound together by a common goal, mutual reward, and a new-found respect for each other, based on endurance under trial.
To be continued…
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Cannabis Yields And Dosage
Cannabis Yields And Dosage is the authoritative study of the science and legalities of calculating medical marijuana. By Chris Conrad
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