“Huh”, I thought to myself, “so that’s Canada”.

I sat and watched the submerging sun begin to streak the sky in dim yellows, burnt oranges, fading into cool turquoises, and calm violets. It reminded me of so many of the beautiful, transcendent paintings that I often would gaze upon in art museums. I always wondered how the artist managed to capture that elusive, natural beauty. It seems quite obvious now. They must have been looking at this. While I was enraptured in my own swirling thoughts, my more marine minded compatriots scurried over the nearby rocks looking for all manner of biodiversity that might be nestled between the shoreline’s stones.

Early that morning, I had begun my excursion by climbing aboard a litany of buses that carried me through northern Seattle to Mt. Vernon, followed by Skagit station, until finally depositing me at Anacortes to await my aquatic transport to my final destination: Friday Harbor, San Juan Island.

I have been “working” very “hard” over the last two weeks and thought it was high time that I saw a little more of the Evergreen State. And what better way to do so than go to a remote island that is close enough to Canada to smell the poutine. A friend of mine, working at the Friday Harbor marine biology lab, invited me to come up for an island getaway. How could I possibly refuse?

The morning slowly drifted past, fir tree after fir passing by my window as if on an endless conveyor belt. The burden of travel was easily lifted by my phone’s music library and some special caramel chews I picked up specifically for the trip. Before I knew it, I was waiting at the ferry dock in the Cheesecake Cafe which, lo and behold, sold cheesecake.

One short inhalation of cheesecake later, I found myself on a metal behemoth chugging its way towards my intended destination. Small craggy island coastlines blended into one another as I absentmindedly gazed out the window. Before I knew it, the PA system was announcing our impending arrival at the harbor. I joined the rest of the throng heading towards the vehicle deck, waiting to disembark. As I stood among that mass of people, I suddenly thought back to my ancestors arriving at Ellis Island. Heading to a new world, with little understanding of what awaited them on the other side of the voyage, a single familiar face waiting for them at the dock. I felt at one with my roots. But, hey, maybe that was the weed talking.

The gangway was lowered and, as one, we surged forward onto new land. Before I had time to begin searching, I heard my name cried out over the crowd. I turned and saw my friend moving against the tidal wave of bodies towards me. On a trip where I spend most of my time alone or talking with strangers, seeing a familiar face is quite the happy sight. As we walked towards the labs, I got a quick tour of the town of Friday Harbor. I’ll describe it to you as it was described to me: a place that cannot decide if it is a small town or a tourist local.

The rest of my evening was spent wandering around Friday Harbor Labs. I was introduced to “The Squad” and their various marine projects. Within the span of a single hour, I saw more species of aquatic life than I knew existed. I was a theatre major out of water, which, I have to admit, was quite refreshing. The rest of the evening was absorbed by the sunset hike, observing the social behavior of college marine biologists, swapping of stories, and the spinning of yarns.

The next morning, I was left to my own devices as my friend has some egg sacks that needed to be counted. Being a Northwestern student, I am very unaccustomed to this thing called “unstructured free time”. But, here I was, with several hours of it. I used this very rare and valuable time to have my own private dance party on the shore of San Juan and to start reading a book…for pleasure. What a wild concept. The rest of the afternoon was absorbed by a free tasting at a cider and gin distillery. Lavender and Rose Liqueur=a slice of heaven.

We returned to Friday Harbor and meandered around, awaiting my ferry to dock. We perused some used book stores and I somehow managed to restrain myself from taking half their play sections along with me. Once the ferry arrived, we said our goodbyes, parted ways, and I headed for the mainland.

Disembarking the ferry, I hastened to my bus stop for I knew that, due to circumstances completely out of my control, I was lagging behind schedule. Upon arriving at the station, I discovered that the bus had left without me. The final Saturday bus. Actually, the final bus for the entire weekend. Fighting the feeling of panic beginning to well up inside me, I examined my plan to get home. If I could just find my way to Skagit station, I could resume my intended route. Whipping out my phone, I tried using Lyft. “There is no service in your area”. Well, shit.

I was going to have to go old school. I dialed up the nearest taxi service, Mert’s Taxi. A frazzled dispatcher took down my ride request and said that they would have to call me back. I found the most comfortable bench that I could and began to ponder what I would do if I ended up being stranded in northern Washington for the rest of the weekend.

Thankfully, I did not have to ponder for too long. Dispatch called me back, informing me that a cab was on its way. Shortly thereafter, a car with Mert’s Taxi emblazoned across the side pulled up with none other than Mert himself behind the wheel. A father and his two young children approached the car with me, for they had also called Mert for a ride. Although the car was for me, I didn’t want the little ones to have to wait around so I offered to share.

That was how I met Briton, father of two, returning to his car bound for, you guessed it, Seattle. Instead of my hodgepodge assortment of buses and trains, my generosity landed me a free, and expedient, ride back to my homely attic.

This trip has been primarily comprised of me stumbling into adventures. What’s one more.

Your well-rested playwright,

Noah

It was a sunny, blue skied Thursday afternoon. Having some time to kill, I smoked a joint as I meandered down the street towards the D Line. I had a long drive ahead of me and I wanted to make it as relaxing as possible, for I knew that the rest of my day would not be as chill. I made my way to a small cafe in Fremont. I was rendezvousing with an old friend. They had set up the meeting. Also, they had the car.

The highway took us south out of Seattle. The cement and steel edifices quickly gave way to towering pines and rolling hills. Every mile seemed to solidify the anxious feeling that had started to well up in my stomach earlier that morning. We soon reached REDACTED and the roads started to become smaller, more winding, and the trees began to press in on us. I began to wonder if this pot inquiry had taken me too far, if this was the step that would take me into the deep end. Fairy tales as old as dust always warn you: “don’t stray off the beaten path”. It wasn’t until we turned off a small side road that it hit me. We were going off the grid.

I had been warned about NAME REDACTED. I had heard a few stories about what they were like, more cautionary tales than anything else. My contact had agreed to the meeting on the condition that they would receive complete anonymity. No names would be used. No personal details released. The conversation would not be recorded.

I couldn’t even call what we were driving on a road. It was a tunnel through the forest, with branches only an arm’s reach above the car. It was as if I was slowly rolling down the wood’s gullet and was waiting for the moment that I would be swallowed whole. We reached a gate with a very bold NO TRESPASSING sign prominently displayed. My compatriot said that she thought this looked right and began to drive through. I didn’t want to take any unnecessary chances but before I could speak up we were already on the property.

Mountain man, as I’ve begun to call him, welcomed us into his home, offering us some water before leading us into his office on the second floor. He pulled a black curtain across the windows before sitting down behind his desk. He asked some questions about the purpose behind my project and what I hoped to get out of it. Before we began, he asked us “Are you guys weed-heads?”.

As many of you know, I am a truthful man and, unless I have a good reason, I do not stray into the realm of falsehoods. Upon my response, mountain man procured a small glass bong, along with a couple nugs, and offered it to me. Not wanting to offend my host, I graciously accepted. After the smoke dissipated into the surrounding air, the interview began.

Perhaps, interview is the wrong word. Rambling lecture with unusual tangents occasionally punctuated by one of my questions would be a more apt description. You see, mountain man has been in the weed business for a long time. Long before the 502 recreational ballot had passed. Long before medical cannabis has been legal in Washington State. They’ve been growing for a long time and they had some strong opinions on the matter. I was talking with a cannabis outlaw.

Mountain man described himself as a soldier in the war on drugs, except he was fighting on the right side, the just side. He sacrificed a lot over the years but his faith in the cause always remained strong. He knew that one day the world would recognize all that he had done. He played a necessary role. For, without his efforts, we would not be where we are today. Weed was going to be a great boon for our society and mountain man helped get us there.

Mountain man started growing when he was young. In trying to get me to understand, he asked if I had ever seen the movie Goodfellas. The growers of his day were like that, minus the violence. They had money, they had power. They were gangsters.

The rest of the afternoon was taken up by talks of The Man and cannabis’ future. The phrase “hypocrisy of the police” came up quite a few times. I left the remote location with a bag of free weed, mountain man’s self published novel, and a lot to think about. While I would love to enumerate the topics we discussed and delve into their details, I unfortunately cannot. I have my promises to keep.

In other, completely unrelated news, I know what my play is going to be about.

Your inspired playwright,

Noah