Bringing you the stories of smokers and smugglers.

Growin' Our Own (page 4)

A Five Year Party

By: Randy L.

Back in the days when I had absolutely no common sense, the 1970's for me, was such a time. I had recently graduated from high school and had no intention of continuing my education, what could college teach me that I didn't already know anyway? See what I mean about no common sense? Hey, I was young and feeling adventurous. I was working at a Phillips 66 fillin' station in a town named Soquel, California. The money I was making there did not quench my appetite for good living and good times - or, I never had enough bucks.

One day I got a call from the local Marine recruiter. Yeah, I fell for his recruiting tale hook, line and sinker. Within a month I was in Marine boot camp in San Diego, California wondering just what the hell I had got myself into. My long hair was gone. I mean gone, as in not there anymore. People yelling and screaming at me and any other recruit for that matter. At that point in my life, life for me was not going all that well. However, I made it. Three months of pure hell but I graduated as a real live U.S. Marine.

From boot camp I was sent to Tennessee. I was at a school learning how to become a helicopter engine mechanic. I was also introduced to some of the finer things Memphis had to offer: wine, women, weed and song. Yes sir, I partook in all of it. Looking back on that experience I wonder how in the world I ever passed the A and P courses. They were not at all for the weak of heart. But I did pass, though not nearly at the top of my class.

One thing about the Corps at that time was that there were no piss tests for drugs. I was very grateful for that and I do believe that most of my fellow A and P classmates were grateful as well. It was weird. The Corps was always telling us what would happen if we got busted for drugs but really didn't do anything. No tests. No searches. No nothing.

'Nam was over and there were lots of problems with all the services. Race wars at bases, hard drugs everywhere, weapons being stolen and sold, ships unable to get underway, aircraft not safe to fly. It was a mess. Altogether, we could not fight our way out of a wet paper bag. Doesn't that make you feel all warm, safe and secure?

Part way through school a wonder occured -- I got promoted. I was now a Private First Class! A whopping E-2 with enlisted pay grades going from E-1 to E-9. But at least I was no longer at the bottom of the totem pole. The best part of the promotion was that I also received a pay raise commensurate with the promotion. I think the raise amounted to $20.00 a month more. But hey, it was more money with which to party.

Upon graduation from A and P school I was authorized to take no more than 15 days of leave before reporting to my new and very first squadron, a Marine "Light" helicopter squadron, located at the not so beautiful Camp Pendleton, California. Well, I took my leave and partied my ass off in Santa Cruz, Monterey and, naturally, San Francisco. Oops, I almost forgot Berkeley. Super Grateful Dead show -- what I remember of it. Fifteen days of great parties, great music and great weed. Hell, I almost forgot I was in the Corps.

All really good things do come to an end and so did my leave. I drove my 1973 Ford F-100 pick up down Interstate 5 to Pendleton and checked in about 1 hour before my leave would have been up and I would have been in big trouble. The Corps tends to frown on Marines who are late. I spent the next week checking into the unit and finding out how little I really knew about slicks (UH-1). Yeah, I could find the front end, the tail rotor and the engine but other than that, I didn't know jack shit. Apparently, school taught us just enough to become dangerous.

So over the next few months I learned the actual inner workings of the slick. I worked, partied, worked, stood duty, worked, partied, worked ... I think you get the general idea. And, hey, hey, hey, I got promoted again. I was now an E-3 or Lance Corporal (coolie). Pay raise and all. I was also in the process of earning my Air Crew (AC) wings. I mean if I gotta fix the damn things - and helo's always break - I might as well have some fun at the same time and get to fly in 'em. Besides, I would get additional money for being flight crew.

Now outside the main gate of Pendleton is the town of Oceanside. Most of the folks who lived there did not like us, at least at the time and frankly, we did not like them. But one thing Oceanside (or Ozone) had, as all military towns have, is bars, bands, pussy and weed. Not necessarily in that order. I spent every spare moment and dollar I had 'out in the ville'. Drinking, chasing tail, listening to music and getting stoned. Now I think you understand why I needed those promotions.

Weed in Ozone was expensive. Most of the damn dealers knew we jarheads didn't have a lot of cash and really could not grow our own - though a very, very few did - Pendleton is a huge place. So they charged us a bunch of cash for not very much weed. Yeah it was good but at the same time, for the money we would spend, that three finger bag should have come with four wheels and a horn.

We, the squadron that is, would also deploy aboard ships for exercises and what not. That is when we had the money for parts and the ships were not entirely broken down. You never knew until after you landed on board. One time, just off the coast of San Diego, the damn ship basically quit. Something had gone real wrong with its boiler system. So there we sat, at anchor, for a week. Flight operations continued unabated but it was not at all fun and games. We could see the lights and buildings of San Dog but could not touch them. We were only five miles, if that, off shore. Well funny how for reasons unknown beer, booze and weed started just magically appearing. Of course this happened late at night when there was nothing going on. And no, we just did not waltz down the corridors, hanger deck or flight deck with a beer or a bong in our hands. Covert was the word all who partook lived by. Smoking in the fan rooms became a way of getting stoned without taking a big risk of getting caught. Being caught on a ship with weed, booze or any drug was an instant court martial and a one way trip to the brig. Not good. God were we glad to get back to Pendleton.

Just short of the 30 month mark of my Marine career I was promoted to Corporal! Hot damn! Big pay raise and I became a Non-Commissioned Officer (NCO) to boot. Received my blood stripes and everything. I also was warmly received by fellow NCO's. They proceeded to initiate me into their ranks. Those who have served in the Corps know exactly what I am talking about. I could not walk for about 10 days. I had bruises you would not believe ... well some of you would. After that I was treated to beer and bud at the apartment of one of the guys. He lived in Vista. Great little place, I have to tell you. Had a really cool bar called "Big Daddys." Good beer, good food, good pool tables, good looking women and all the weed you could smoke. Further, the prices were not that bad compared to Ozone. Myself and a friend rented a room at a duplex for $75.00 a month. Yeah. It was good. In fact, it was great.

When we were not working on the birds, flying or doing some other happy horse shit, it was party time. As I write this I can remember the driveway and the front lawn of the place, but nothing else.

We smoked what we could afford which was normally Mexican Regular or Mex-reg. Our neighbor, Giz, which was his nick-name, had a much better job and would regularly score on gold or Thai. It was a good 'pipe dream' to be able to smoke some of that righteous shit but it was not to be. Giz guarded that stuff big time. He was good people but gold and Thai commanded a premium price and sometimes the stuff was hard to come by. On the other hand, if I or my friend were short on cash -- which meant short on weed, Giz would front us some bucks so we could score on some reg. It was harsh but it got you stoned. I could not really complain.

My 48 month contract with Uncle Sam was coming quickly to a close when our squadron re-enlistment NCO got a hold of me and told me that I had been a good boy (how little he knew) and that if I re-enlisted for just four more years he would get me the school of my choice and the duty station of my choice. I looked at him as if he were nuts, which he was if he actually thought I was going to stay in. No way. But if I extended my current enlistment for just one year, I would be promoted to Sergeant on my four year mark. I talked it over with my buds, over buds, and did it. One additional year, big promotion, big raise and I would be gone.

I continued with my work, flying and parties. Just this time I finally started saving money. What an idea. I knew that pretty soon I would be out of steady employment and money. Hello Giz to the rescue. Giz knew a guy who worked at a machine shop which had revolving contracts with different airplane manufacturers. He introduced me to Mike over the three 'B's', barbecue, beer and bud. Mike told me to bring copies of certain paperwork and we would talk later. I brought him the paperwork, he had me fill out employment forms till I thought my hand would fall off from lack of blood and that was it. I did not hear back from him about a J. O. B. for months. I'd see him occasionally and all he would say was "be patient."

I started checking out of the squadron four days before my discharge date. That was more than enough time to get everything done which needed to be done. I also sold my 30 days of leave. That was a life saver. It gave me a cushion of cash. On my discharge date I signed for and received my DD-214 and honorable discharge certificate. Five years of undetected crime. Not one disciplinary incident on my record. I was free. However, I was also without a job and my stash was somewhere between low and empty.

What was truly amazing was that four days, count them 1-2-3-4, after I got out the squadron had their first random piss test. My buddy who was still sharing a room with me along with about 20 others, both officers and enlisted, were busted. Busted in rank and kicked out of the Corps. My friend went by Greyhound bus back home to North Carolina. I have not heard from him since - or any of the others for that matter.

Mike, about 3 weeks after my discharge, shows up with a bunch of papers -- again, tells me if I want a job, sign here, here, here and here. Be at the main entrance of the shop at 7:30 a.m. tomorrow for a tour and work.

To wrap things up, I have been at that same place now for just slightly over 25 years. I live just up the street from Giz, when he is around. Giz has a nice motor home and spends the majority of his time traveling with his fourth or fifth wife. Mike and his wife moved to Long Beach, California about 12 years ago. The last word I heard from a very reliable source was that Mike was doing Ok but his wife was in prison for muling cocaine.

As for myself, my hair ain't short or brown, it is kind of long and very gray. I've gained about 40 pounds over time as well. I still party - just not nearly as often or as hard. But, all things considered, I can not complain.

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