Here we are back on Mystic in the Pacific Northwest. We arrive in Roche Harbor, Washington, to clear back into the U.S. from Canada. The sun is shining and there are lots of people on lots of boats enjoying the Independence Day weekend.
For some reason I am always the one goes to the customs office to clear Mystic in. David stays on board, I suppose he's the smart one. I walk in with our passports and vessel documentation in hand and take a seat to wait my turn. The man ahead of me hands over his Canadian passports and starts answering the questions posed to him by Officer Jim who keys the responses into his computer. It's going along just fine until the agent asks him if he has any alcohol on board. "Yes, we have alcohol.", the man answers. "Do you have any rum on board", questions Officer Jim. Then me, being who I am, pipes up, "What's so special about rum?" The female agent at the next computer lifts her head and gives me a sharp look. I don't know what she hopes to achieve by that -- it certainly isn't going to silence me. But before I have a chance to bother her further, Officer Jim saves me with, "It could be Cuban rum."
"Oh.", I mumble. Now I understand. This guy on his tiny sailboat might be a rum runner. Who knows? He might be carrying a liter of illegal rum. And of course he would call in at Roche Harbor to announce himself .
I like Officer Jim. We have a history together. (See "We just wanted to have lunch", 9-7-07, post.) But sometimes I think parts of his job are just plain dumb. And I think there are far better ways of spending taxpayer money than chasing down the odd bottle of Cuban rum.
Care for a cigar?
