It was a brisk summer day in Bellingham, Washington. My friend Addie and I decided to go crabbing in Blaine, a beautiful seaside town just south of the Canadian border. A quick 15-minute drive for what was supposed to be a relaxing day, soaking in the seldom seen sun and waiting for hoards of moronic crabs to crawl into our traps. That’s all we wanted.
Lost in the summer daze, we blew right past the last offramp to Blaine. The last exit to America.
The interstate narrowed, the signs got aggressive, and we realized we were in the long, creeping line toward the Canadian border. We were crawling toward bureaucratic hell.
“Is there anywhere to turn around?!” we groveled, the panic setting in fast. We had brought along 12 ounces of marijuana to smoke as we crabbed… nothing crazy, just a stoner’s picnic. But now it felt like a brick of heroin under a spotlight.
This was the summer of 2017, and the Canadians were on edge. Some nasty drug murders had recently occurred near the border, and security was tight. There was no way to turn around. We were locked into this nightmare.
After what felt like an eternity, we rolled up to the immigration booth.
"We just missed our exit, we just want to turn around," we tried to explain to the stone faced man.
His hand twitched towards his pistol. “Pull the car over there,” he said, gesturing towards a concrete government building.
We obeyed, now fully spiraling. We pleaded with anyone who would listen as they guided us into the austere facility. They separated us, funneling me into a side room humming with fluorescent lights.
At the time my hair was long and voluptuous. I was also rocking a tie-dye t-shirt for some reason and carried my water in an empty jug of orange juice. I looked like a walking stereotype.
“Have you ever smoked marijuana?” one officer asked.
"Fuck no!" I said, extremely offended by the question. (I had in fact never smoked marijuana in my life).
“And what’s your relationship with the girl?” they continued.
“Well,” I started, “she’s my ex-girlfriend’s old roommate, and she (the ex) is actually pretty upset that we’ve remained friends.” I launched into the details of the breakup. The officer listened intently for five or six minutes before cutting me off like a bored therapist: “That’s great. Back to the drugs.” I denied him again.
Finally they finished searching the car and brought us back to it. Addie was weeping as we reunited. The Canadians had really done a number on her. But apparently they had found nothing.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “Let’s get out of this filthy country and go catch some crabs.”
As we climbed back into the car we both saw it: a massive nug of marijuana sitting right on the center console. Out in the open in plain sight. A fuzzy green middle finger to the entire concept of competent law enforcement.
We exchanged a bemused wordless glance. We paid God our respects for the cosmic absurdity of it all.
Then we drove to the Blaine pier, caught 12 crabs in record time, and returned to Bellingham triumphant.
For a week, the entire friend group was eating good.
Canada can keep their poutine and politeness… I’ve seen their dark side. And needless to say, I’ll be crabbing south of the border from now on.
