When I land on the beach, the boat makes a harsh scraping. This beach is made from the spines of dead tilapia; some fish-heads still have flesh. Others, near the shore, are still alive, but barely. By now, the thin line of white pre-dawn allows me to see my way up off the shore. Some time ago, my landlord spotted me walking out the door. He looked both ways and whispered,

"Hey, I got something to show you." He walked me into the back room of his apartment.

"They're six feet tall," I said. "Yup." "But you just planted them three weeks ago?"

"Yup."

"So what exactly are you going to do with six foot hemp plants?" "Give them to my family. You know I don't smoke marijuana anymore."

Of course I knew that. Landlord was raised the son of a mining expeditioneer, who taught him how to scout in the mountains of Canada. By age twenty, Landlord was leading gold expeditions in West Africa, a prospect that would allow him to retire at age twenty-three, and merited two cases of malaria.

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