The Reagan/Bush administration was totally out of control with their plans for an all out War on Drugs. Rumors of new prison sentencing guidelines were being heard in certain circles of smugglers. We never heard anything about the new sentences from the media. The double, and triple amounts of time from the old sentencing laws sounded down right outrageous. The times were changing fast. This was now a totally new game with no rules.

The Minneapolis morning rush hour was history. the trendy Southside streets were slowly filling with joggers, and bicyclists. The warm June morning gave us hearty Minnesotans a reason to live, after the brutal winter months. The Minneapolis business day had begun. I stopped the BMW for a city worker directing traffic around a road repair project. I remembered when I used to do that same grueling work so long ago. The workers looked tired, and aged, under those yellow hardhats. I drove on never looking back.

My 34 years were soon to be 35 on October 8th. I liked to think I was aging gracefully. My short brown hair, and brown eyes, contrasted well with my six foot two inch frame, and two hundred pounds of weight. Life is good today, I thought as I looked for a parking space near the downtown government center. Three years of federal parole should go by fairly fast. I entered the government center. Off to my left as I exited the escalator was the passport office, and vital records. Yes, a passport would be nice, I thought. With my past crime being importing marijuana by sea, from foreign countries. I really wondered if the Feds would issue me a passport. "Fourth floor," I said as I walked into the crowded elevator.

The federal parole office was painted gray, and gave me a drab feeling. "I'm here to see Ms. Gashman," I said to the middle aged receptionist.

"She is expecting you," she pointed toward a door to my right.

The others waiting to see parole officer's didn't even look up from their reading materials. Seasoned convicts can read anything, anytime, anywhere.

Good morning, I'm the Doctor," I said as I walked into the beige walled office.

I'm Ms. Gashman, your parole officer," she said setting her coffee cup on the desk. "I have your records from the Bureau of Prisons. I have read every detail. You will report to me on the 15th of every month. You will have random urine tests for drug use. I will visit your home, and job without notice. If I can violate your parole, I will and send you back to prison. Here is a personal list of what I think is a violation other than federal laws," she said sneering at me, and lighting a cigarette.

I left her office with a stale smell surrounding me. Ms. Gashman was middle aged, about five foot six. Her shoulder length brown hair needed attention, but had potential to be stylish. She only needed to put about six weeks into a workout program, change her negative attitude, and she would be a homerun.

My mind raced toward being on the west coast. The thoughts of an ocean breeze overwhelmed me. I pictured my last sailboat 'Thunder,' a 46 foot yawl, gliding effortlessly through the Pacific ocean. Remembering Thunder was a nice memory. The bad memory was U.S. Customs had confiscated Thunder years ago in St. Pete, Florida. I wondered what my old pal Sunny was up to in Long Beach, California? I took a breath of the refreshing exhaust filled air of downtown as I stepped outside. The exhaust was a reminder of Ms. Gashman's smoke filled office. I had met Sunny in Tallahassee, FCI prison years ago. We had both been marijuana importers. Sunny was a red haired surfer. We were the same age and just clicked on the same lifestyle. I remembered his phone number as I opened the door to the BMW.