....over the clear blue ocean the jet came down at an intense speed.  Then out of nowhere a short runway appeared.  Landing in Montego Bay, Jamaica, I was expecting to be met by my associates.  Nobody was there.  Obviously, something happened to our plans which is not unusual in the drug trade.  I thought it would be easy to catch a cab from Montego Bay to Negril in the flurry of desperate cabs, but to my amazement Negril was a place that even cab drivers didn’t like to go. After an hour or so I managed to strike up a deal and was on my way to the other side of the Island over the pot hole filled roads (which is their form of speed limits).  That night as we boiled Jamaican weed in ether to make hash oil, two policemen appeared at our dealer’s bush home.  It didn’t bother us though because $600 and two rings later, we were never  bothered again.   After two weeks, I was on my way home direct to Vancouver, BC with my female carriers going through the States making it home “No Problem.”


I lived the good life, no problems, never hurt anyone (at least most of the time, I thought), more than enough friends and money. Yet it seemed like something was missing.  I had a good job in construction (which was mostly a front for the money I had) and  a great party life with never a dull moment.  So what was missing?

I thought that I was a good person.  Others would tend to differ with me once in a while, but I didn’t care what they thought. They were wrong and I was right; they went their way and I went mine.  Yes, I was constantly concerned that the police were after me.  I was always making sure no one ripped meRoad off and got  away with it.  I drove while drunk and/or stoned,  swore with every other word,  triedevery conceiv-able drug (except heroin and coffee, because I had a conscience). The stories about the condition of my life are endless. The reality I had to face was that I had really made a mess out of my life and I was not as good a person as I believed myself to be. 

I was 24 years old when I finally decided that there was more to life than just “SEX, DRUGS AND ROCK & ROLL.”   Actually, I  had felt this way for a couple years, but couldn’t find an answer.  So, I just kept doing the same old, same old, you know the old story. 

It was a hot summer day when a friend who had been a heroin addict asked me to go to church.  She was clean now and living a healthy life as a Christian. I figured, “Why not?  It can’t hurt.  I’ll go as long as I can still get drunk after church.”  I do not remember what was spoken by the Pastor nor anyone else.  All I know is that when I stepped into the back of that church, I felt someone say “This is your home.”  I can’t remember anything spectacular happening which would make me consider going back again. 

Afterward, I got into my van and drove to the White Rock Sand Castle contest where I was to meet a bunch of friends and raise hell.  Surprisingly, no one showed up, except me.  Even though I had a van full of drugs and alcohol, I didn’t feel like touching them.  This was unusual for me because I