The only marijuana magazine bringing you the stories of other pot smokers and smugglers.

Growin' Our Own (page 3)

Delivery Boy

By: Pugsley

There are times in a person's life when being at the right place at the right time can really pay off. It happened to me back in 1970 and lasted through 1972. If, by chance, my former employer is reading this allow me to say thank you. The money was great.

I was living in a town just a few miles north of San Clemente, California in 1970. The fact is I still do. At that time I was working in the construction business as a framer. The company I was working for had a contract on the huge Marine base called Camp Pendleton, which is located just south of San Clemente and north of San Diego. The entire area is military. We were upgrading World War II buildings. Let me tell you some of those buildings were in God-awful condition.

The main freeway running north and south in that area is Interstate 5. This multi-lane monster goes from the California-Mexico border all the way to Canada. It is a perfect road for running drugs and illegal aliens into the U.S. from Mexico. The Border Patrol knows this. So did basically every law enforcement organization in California. And, wouldn't you know it, the Border Patrol built a second check point just north of the Camp Pendleton "San Clemente" gate. This gate is about two or three miles south of the town of San Clemente itself. Thus anybody heading in a north-bound direction from Mexico would end up going through 2 check points. One at the California-Mexico border and the other just south of San Clemente.

Busts were in the local papers all the time. Both for drugs, pot being the biggie, and for illegal aliens. It seemed like our government had the border all sewn up. Nothing could get through. How wrong they were.

I really enjoyed the bullfights which were a weekly occurrence in Tijuana. Each and every Sunday you could drive on into TJ and for a very reasonable price, under $30.00 U.S. (including gas money), park your car, have it watched, watch the bull fights, get blown, get stoned and finally drive home. I'm telling you it was a great way of life. Where else can all that happen for the price? Nowhere. Anyway, I used to travel down to TJ almost, if not, every Sunday. I owned a 1968 VW bus with a 140 horse power Corvair engine and 4 speed transmission. That thing would fly and it got decent gas mileage to boot. Further, it could carry quite a load. My tools that I used on the job were not at all light. It would come in handy for other things as you will shortly read.

Doing a round tripper to TJ almost every Sunday held some advantages for me. The real biggie was that I became known. Not just to the guy in the arena parking lot who hawked Dos Equis (XX) beer, pot and girls, but to agents of the government on both sides of the border. You see people tend to look for patterns and I fit into a pattern. I would head to Mexico every Sunday, leaving my house at about 9:30 am and leave TJ about 4:30 - 5:30 pm. Doing this for months on end got the border guards into a pattern as well. They almost never stopped and searched my bus. They did on a few occasions, but very few. Also I, at the time, did not have the look of someone who was smuggling illegals or drugs into the country. I was about five feet, nine inches tall, with short brown hair, neatly trimmed mustache and weighed about 140 pounds. God, how I would love to get back that weight today! Plus the windows of my bus, which had curtains, were always open and there was no tint on the windows either. I had removed the middle seat and built a custom wooden tool box with drawers and so on for my tools. The few times my bus was searched the border folks did not even bother to open up the drawers. They were looking for illegals, not pot, and they realized that a person would not fit into the drawers unless I had cut them up into very small pieces. So I was cool. They just waved me through and I was on my way.

I had been attending my weekly ritual for about 2 or 3 months when one time the parking lot vendor, I'll just call him Jose, who sold me my weekly supply of various items asked me where I lived. I told him and he in turn wanted to know if I knew where a certain street was. I answered that I did and passed it every day on my way to work and back home. He appeared to give this tidbit of information quite serious thought for several minutes. Jose then asked me if I would like to make some additional tax free money. It was now my turn to think for several minutes. I decided that I would not smuggle either guns or illegals, if that was what he had in mind, into the country or out of it. I told him that and he grinned and slapped me on the shoulder said and not to worry, it would not be either of those things. He then bid me good afternoon and left. I didn't pay any attention to this rather odd behavior as it was time to head home.

A couple of Sundays went by just as they always had and then one bright, rather hot Sunday afternoon just before I needed to leave, Jose wanted a word with me. He wanted to know if I was still interested in making some additional cash? I replied that sure, I could always use money as long as it did not involve guns or illegals. Again Jose stated that would not be a problem. He then gave some rather simple but detailed instructions and said that I should commit them to memory. Basically if I saw a white Ford Econoline van parked on the street I went by twice a day, then the same Sunday when I went to TJ, I was to remove my tools from the first two drawers and leave the sliding side door on my bus unlocked. I was further to leave the door unlocked when I arrived back home. The transaction would be completed some time Sunday night and I would know this because the sliding side door would locked and there would be a manila envelope containing $500.00 U.S. cash money in the first drawer of my custom tool box. I was further instructed not to look in the drawers upon leaving the bullfight arena. Lastly was what I called the 'bow out' clause. If I wanted to quit, just not show up to a bullfight on a non-pickup Sunday.

Hell, I could and did remember those simple instructions no problem. Jose and I continued to chat for a few minutes and then I said I had to be on my way. I headed home wondering if and when I would see a parked white Ford van.

I didn't have to wait long. The following Tuesday on my way home from work there it was. At that time I got a lump in my throat. It is now for real. There is no turning back. In a way I was scared. I had no idea what I would be smuggling and I did not want to know either. If I went through with it, the worst that could happen was I'd be busted, lose my ride and end up in prison. The worse that could happen if I did not go through with it ... I did not want to think about.

Friday evening I unloaded the first two drawers of the tool box I had built in the bus. The time between that Friday evening and Sunday, looking back on it, seemed to take forever. I had never done anything like this before. Oh well, Sunday morning finally arrived. I fueled up the bus in the town of Oceanside, which is located directly across I-5 from Camp Pendleton and headed on toward the border. I doubled checked the sliding side door to make damn sure it was unlocked. I was now really anxious and scared.

I arrived at the California-Mexico and was waved right on through by the Mexican border guards. So far, so good. It caused me to relax and think that I had done this trip many, many times with basically no problems. A few minutes later I arrived at the arena gates, paid my entrance money and drove to my usual parking area. I parked the bus and waited for Jose. I normally bought a beer, two joints and got blown before watching the fights. This way I could have a great time and be straight when I headed back home.

Jose never showed. Instead it was a complete stranger. Oh shit, I thought. I'm going to be busted and end up in a Mexican prison forever. This stranger was quite friendly and told me Jose had moved elsewhere. He then wanted to know if I would like a beer. He also hinted that he had other things available as well. I asked what he had and he said pot and women. I ended up buying one of each.

When I had finished, I made my way to the arena. It was getting full of tourists from the states. It always does. I sat and watched the fights and don't remember any of it. My mind was preoccupied with what was suppose to happen sometime during the afternoon. The fights ended at about 4:00 - 5:00 pm. I, along with the several thousand other visitors headed for our vehicles or the public transportation buses which would drop people at the border. I hopped into my bus, fired it up and headed out wondering if this drive was to be my last for a very long time. Traffic getting back to the Cal-Mex border was, as usual, the pits. Stop and go. Actually it more stop than go. But I finally could see the first check point. As I crept toward the flashing red and green lights I could make out the border patrol agent in his little booth pointing his hand at drivers and either waving them through or pointing drivers toward a side road where the 'suspicious' vehicle or driver would be searched.

My turn was finally coming. Three cars to go, then two, then one. I approach the agent moving at about 1 - 2 miles per hour. He points his hand towards me and my stomach turned into instant knots. The agent then hit the green light and waved me through.

Hallelujah! I had made it. One down. One to go. Oh shit oh dear was I happy and relieved at the same time.

Once past the first check point I was 'north bound and down' on I-5. The trip to the second check point was about 60 plus miles which gave me just under an hour to think about what had transpired that day. When you consider it, whoever set this operation in motion had done a masterful job. I could identify no one. Not one single person. Hell, I didn't even know what I was carrying. The only person I knew, Jose, was gone. Therefore, I was not a threat to the operation. Not in the least. Lastly, if anybody ended up getting busted, it was me. Not a very comforting thought, but it was the truth. At least I was going to be paid for my effort. $500.00 may not sound like a whole lot for the risk, but remember this happened between 1970 and 1972 and that I was driving a VW bus which could not carry as much as an airplane. Besides, I wasn't greedy. $500.00 non-taxable dollars went along way 30 years ago.

As I entered the city limits of Oceanside, I knew I had 17 miles to the next and last check point. Inter-state 5 split Oceanside in two. I just stayed on the freeway, hoping my luck held. I saw the freeway sign warning of the check point in three miles. Getting closer. My stomach is starting to knot up again. The second freeway warning sign loomed into view. One mile to go. Traffic is starting to slow down and so am I. There it is. Red and green lights flashing away. I am down to about 20 miles per hour and pick a lane. The cars in front of me are moving through without any delay. I was hoping the same would hold true for me. My turn at the check point is fast approaching. The guard sees me from a distance of about 20 - 50 feet and waves me through.

Yahooo! I'm through. I never got below about 5mph. Time to pick it back up and head home.

I got home and parked my bus about 30 minutes later. The sun was setting and all I wanted to do was relax and vegetate. It had been one hell of a day for me. I drank a couple of beers, watched some T.V. and probably no later than 10 pm went to bed and to sleep.

My alarm clock went off at 5:30 am the following morning. I hate Mondays. I got up and went through my regular weekday morning rituals to get ready for work. Wait a minute. I have to reload my tools and see if I was left an envelope. After I dressed I took my keys and tools, (which took several trips) and went out to my bus. The sliding side door I had left unlocked the night before was locked. So far, so good. I unlocked and opened the door. I was shaking like a leaf. Would there be an envelope with $500.00 in it or had I been burnt. I picked up some of my tools which would normally be placed in the first drawer, set them on the floorboard and opened the first drawer. There it was. A manila number 10 envelope. It had been sealed and just by looking at it one could see there was something in it. I removed the envelope from the drawer, put it in my left front pocket of my bibs and then started placing my tools of the trade in their appropriate drawers.

After loading my tools back into the bus, my heart pounding like mad, I went back inside my place, got another cup of coffee, sat down at the table and opened the envelope. Inside were 10 beautiful $50.00 bills. They were good for their word and I was good for mine.

This process was repeated, quite often, over the next three years. Though never, and I do mean never, two weeks or more in a row. In fact it seemed to be at random. I became more at ease running the stuff the more times I did it.

The worst I was ever searched, and this was not when I was carrying, was one time the uniformed U.S. Border Patrol agent stopped me, asked me to roll down my window and asked where I had been, what did I do and what was I carrying. I responded by telling him the complete truth. He accepted that, apparently at face value, sent me on my way.

Over the next three years I made quite a bit of money. Most of the time it was, as agreed upon, $500.00 U.S. dollars. Once in a while it was more. My best haul was $2,000.00. All in greenbacks. It was never less than the agreed price. Everybody played by the agreed to rules and the operation ran like clockwork. No glitches whatsoever.

All good things must come to an end and 1973 was the year it ended. It was a problem year. Congress was passing more punitive laws on drugs. The DEA was becoming formidable and there were starting to be violent problems on the TJ side of the border. I decided to exercise the 'bow out' clause.

After exercising the clause, I never again saw the white Ford van.

Today, once in a great while, I still make a trip to TJ and watch the bullfights. The money I made carrying - I invested about 80% of it. I also invested about 40% of my earnings from my real job. I am fully retired and live, nicely, off my investments. Today, all I drink is coffee and all I smoke is cigarettes. As for getting blown, not in TJ. I'll wait till I get home. The vendors are still there and offer just about whatever a person could want ... for a price. Lastly, I never once, not once, during those three fun years looked to see what I was carrying.

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