High in scuba class
Some of us gentleman go to the depths for knowledge, money, or possibly to save another life. I went scuba diving because I was high as shit and we had nothing better to do. I wish we had something to do because I almost died for this story. It all started one Christmas right after my Dad died and my big sister didn’t want me to be alone. Being an eighties family we have different dads. My sister and her Dad live in the Rockies and I’m prone to cigs and sea level, but I decided to make an exception under one condition. Yes, I will come out for a week, but I will not go a week without weed being the insensitive addict I am. She agreed to have a quarter of weed waiting for me at the air port because I am prone to drink heavily as I go five hundred miles an hour, two miles off the ground. Mixing some turbulence and a belly fully of Kahlua for breakfast, rum for lunch, and scotch for dinner I was one sick puppy. I didn’t boot on the plane, I just drank more as I fluctuated hundreds of feet in altitude, as the jet stream played beer pong with my balls. I hate turbulence. Also people take a duffel on the plane. The rack popped open and this huge rolling luggage hit this dude in the head. Marlboro may kill my lungs, but when my Marlboro duffel hits me in the head, at sixty miles an hour, I’m glad I smoke Marlboro. Are we really carrying our bags so far we need wheels? Try running through an airport with those rolling pieces of shit. So I get off the plane, sick as shit, find my sister only to discover she has no bud. Some bullshit about snow stopping her from picking it up. Obviously she was not understanding how painful its going to be to see her family and have a white Christmas without drugs. I will say this for the Rockies I like how you get drunk quick, but hate how when you take three steps you hyperventilate, and need an oxygen tank to smoke a cig. Which is very unsafe it turns out. So four days of no weed. I’m not your standard pot head. Weed is my food and water. I wake up in the middle of the night and have a bowl. So four days no weed and its Christmas morning and oh yeah a fucking blizzard. I’m in the Rockies. Seriously I would have sold there Christmas tree and presents for a dime bag. I guess I have a problem. So I say Kate fuck you we are going out to find weed. She tries to explain how her Honda civic has no chance in this blizzard, to no avail. I’m getting weed if I have to rob a distributionary, but luckily it was easier then that. If cops are reading this your incompetence knows no bounds. Please don’t arrest me. I found weed 2,000 miles from anyone I knew, except for a sister who does less illegal activity then a baptist priest. Not those catholic mother fuckers they break all kinds of laws held by man and God.
My plan is this. Its Christmas and some pot head is going to use his stocking money to get a new bong. We go to one head shop and I balls out ask the owners for weed and of course they throw me out. Or at least as a pot head would without raising a hand, his voice, or his ass out of the chair. Why is this stuff illegal? Head shop number two. We stake out waiting for some kid to show up for his Christmas bong. Twenty minutes later and three inches of snow someone pulls up in his mom’s van. PERFECT. He goes in and I go in a few minutes later. We start talking about bowls I give him some advice and we both get a piece. Leaving the store I state my case. I pledge that I’m on vacation, I showed him my east coast ID (thought I’d say the state huh) and finally he sells me an eighth of the skunkiest shit. I get back to the car and dive into the bag and am overcome by righteous highness; so much so that my big sister doesn’t want to take me home to her catholic lawyer dad. Even though he is very cool. I mean come on, he dealt with me living in his house for a week, four days during which I had no weed. Seriously people I was climbing the fucking walls. She comes up with the brilliant idea that if I’m too high for a conversation with her father then I’m definitely not too high to deal with scuba diving. Not like that’s dangerous or anything. I’m so high I would have given the OK with lighting me on fire but I was clear headed enough to realize scuba diving during a blizzard in the Rockies raises a few eye brows. Before I know it I’m at one of the deepest indoor swimming pools in America signing my rights over to a corporation with a really dorky name. Next stoned flash I have all kinds of papers in front of me and this guy is talking about something that involves bubbles in your blood but I think of bubbles laugh and zone out. Then I have a tank on my back I’m in a pool and something called a regulator is in my mouth. I’m under the water, breathing and this is cool. Swimming, swimming, hey lets go to the bottom of the pool. OK, high voice in my head lower, lower, lower, o my fucking God the PAIN! Suddenly my ears are ringing and it feels like two nails are being driven into my ears. Panic, surface, and the fun begins. Suddenly I can’t breath I can’t hear and o shit is that blood coming out of my mouth and ears. Now my high ass is on the side of the pool with the instructor shouting at me that I may have air in my blood and it may hit my brain or heart and I may die. Did I mention I’m on vacation. Undaunted, high, and to far away from a decompression chamber to do anything I determined to get my moneys worth. I rejoin the group in the pool who after seeing my near death are having serious reconsideration of learning to scuba.
The lesson hear is don’t swim down to fast and don’t be high during important instruction.