A Long Strange Trip

at his house in northern California. This is our first recording session, and he's a little uncomfortable being recorded, and for good reason, because while my dad was an amazing father who made sure I grew up with a storybook childhood, this is the first time he is telling me about his double life, because for twenty plus years, from the late sixties to the late nineteen eighties, my dad was

a pot smuggler of considerable proportions. Do you want to just tell us about what the bond of outlaws is to not talk about anything ever? Do you mean? Is that what you're speaking of? That? It's that's what we're not supposed to do is talk about it. So getting me in a whole bunch of my crazy friends to

be talking about staff is a little fucking crazy. For the past year, I've been interviewing my parents and all these people in my life who I've learned we're part of the smuggling network, and hearing these stories has truly changed my life. I'm Rainbow Valentine, and this is disorganized crime smuggler's daughter, young, free and groovy making it up. We roll along country even brain making it up. So

here's what I tell people about this podcast. Like most kids in the nineteen eighties, I was obsessed with Indiana Jones movies. I would dig for treasure in my backyard all the time. Well, actually, during one of my digging bouts in the mid eighties, when I was about eight or nine, there was in fact half a million dollars buried in my backyard. Well it wasn't like you'd find that.

You would have discovered a big steel box which would have appeared to be a pirate treasure chest, which would have been a treasures like So, this is my dad. He's just finished telling me about one of his biggest smuggles, helping some of his old smuggling pals distribute sixty thousand pounds of Lebanese hash. He ended up smuggling four thousand pounds.

Oh you know, just four thousand pounds of hash. No big deal or the equivalent of two hundred and fifty thousand dollars, which at the time was over one point three million dollars in today's money, and my dad needed to keep that money safe until the Pounds who initially smuggled the hash into the country from Lebanon could come and collect. But my dad had a problem. He didn't know where to put that much cash in my snug childhood home, so he decided to bury the money in

the yard. I got a big steel box, and I put it all in this steel box, and then I went out to our gardens, which were all at that time BlackBerry bushes. The whole acreage was all BlackBerry so you couldn't really see much of anything. And I went from this bush to this bush to whatever and found the spot to bury it. And I buried the ship. Finally, a long time later, it could be six months, did I get a call saying, yo, bro, we want to come over. We're gonna come out next week and pick

it up. Cool, No problem, okay, So I had to go out there and find it. However, by the time that had happened, we had already worked on our land and got rid of all of the blackberries and I mean I had hired these two guys to not only get rid of the blackberries, but to dig up the roots and sift them, sift through them with it, so we wouldn't have so it would become gardens. All my idiot landmarks were destroyed. And it have been so long

since I put the fucking thing in the ground. I couldn't initially find it, and I started to freak out, and then I freaked out thinking, oh fuck, did these guys do in the garden find it and just take it? Oh my god. The yard of my childhood home was three fourths of an acre on a steep hill. It's huge, precarious, and it always took a ton of work. My mom garden constantly planting massive bamboo groves with huge shovels, not

dinky hand spades. I was probably there for the frantic search, but I blocked it out because nothing stresses me out like my dad's stress, which is huge, theatrical, and like a frazzled, angry cabby in Manhattan traffic, super New Yorky. I'm sure my parents frantic search was full of blood, sweat and tears. Where the fuck is it? Oh? Crust spoiler he finds it buried now near the pear tree. But in this moment, my dad learns an important smuggling lesson.

If you're going to bury treasure in the backyard, remember where the fuck you put it? Did you ever bury stuff in the yard again? No? Anyway, Hi, I'm Rainbow Valentine. So Rainbow Valentine is not my real name, although I did start calling myself Rainbow Valentine when I was five because I thought that rainbows and Valentines were the two most beautiful things in the world, so together it would

be the most beautiful thing in the universe. So I've spent the last year on a midlife reckoning, as my BFF says, opening Pandora's box and learning about what my parents and most of the adults in my childhood were up to. While I endeavored to get cast as Annie or Dorothy. Now that never happened, but I have learned all about the grown ups in my life smuggling thousands of pounds of pot quilst I willingly humiliated myself by building out somewhere over the rainbow at the Senior Citizens Center.

I'm using this alias of Rainbow Valentine because most of the people i'm talking to, former smugglers, that is, are not comfortable having their names revealed. My parents have finally settled on Walter and Taffy Lemur. We cycled through Kimmy Whitefish, various other ridiculous names. To be clear, I've known my

dad was a pot smuggler since I was fourteen. I remember my older sister, Verdicu, who was in college at the time, sat me down one summer day and in a hushed voice, told me the family secret that our dad was a big time pot smuggler in California. Then she said to never tell anyone that I knew this information,

and definitely don't mention it to our parents. Well. Being a bit of a loudmouth, I did mention it a few times, and in return received a deadly serious warning to never speak of this to anyone from my dad. Before this year. The last time I even tried to bring up the whole being a smuggler for twenty two years thing was when I came home from college in the mid nineteen nineties, more than five years after my

dad was out of the smuggling business. My dad was driving me home from the airport, and I remember him slamming on the brakes, and he said, well, I'll just let him tell you what he told me. I remember very much stopping the car and to you, it is critical that you never speak of this to anyone ever, because more than anything, Bruce lips singing ships. Ah. But times they are a changing. All over California, you'll see billboards advertising pot delivery and dispensaries. There are apps where

you can get pot legally dropped off right at your doorstep. Also, statutes of limitations on my dad's smuggling days have long run out, and as they age, my dad and mom are feeling a little more comfortable with the idea of sharing their secret stories. Good morning Vietnam, is Mom, there too are okay? Hi? I called my parents on their anniversary. They've been together since nineteen seventy but only married in

two thousand and two. They wanted to make sure they really liked each other, and I asked them to introduce themselves and their aliases, Taffy and Walter Lemur. Hi, this is taf Lemur and my husband, Walter Lemer. Walter and I are in our seventies and I'm under my life seven days and we came from the fifties, from the sixties and stepped into the revolution of the Hippie revolution

when the sixties happened, and then we never left. And can you tell us a little bit about your husband, Walter Lemur my dad if he's a connoisseur of art and decorations and food, and he likes to talk. He's a schmoozer. It's from New York. And Dad, can you introduce your wife? Hi there, Walter here. I came out from the East Coast in nineteen seventy from New York.

I landed on the porch of two of the grateful Dad's roadies, and within a couple of months being in the center of that she I was introduced through them to your lovely mother, with whom I've been for forty nine years, the great and famous Kaffi Leaner. With my eccentric, Bohemian, artsy intellectual parents at the helm, I had an idyllic childhood.

When I was a toddler, our family, me, my mom, my dad, and my six year old sister, Vertica, moved just north of the Golden Gate Bridge in Saclito to Mill Valley, a redwood beetreed valley, nestled below Mount Tamil Pious, named for its eighteen hundred sawmill, which still stands in Old Mill Park. It was where families from all over

the Bay Area summerd in the eighteen hundreds. After the Golden Gate Bridge was constructed in nineteen thirty seven, real estate boomed in Mill Valley and it hasn't stopped since. In the nineteen seventies, Mill Valley became an area associated with great wealth, with so many people making their millions in San Francisco and moving north to raise kids. Nineteen seventies, Mill Valley had a quiet, low key, home spun hippie

wealth vibe. It was charming, rural, a funky town full of small businesses and young counterculture families, progressive intellectuals, rock stars, nature lovers, and old California gold Rush moneyed families. I remember singing this song about Mill Valley as a kid. It's by Rita Abrahams, a Mill Valley resident, and it perfectly illustrates the feel good hippie vibe of my childhood in Northern California. People at a Fridges spa and stop and talk with you, walk and you can be as

friendly as you want to. Be talking about love. Those flutes drive on nostal drum just feels good and just feels right. Anyway, among the rolling landscapes and redwoods was my house, stucked among the trees, BlackBerry bushes and roses that adorned our driveway, which to me as a kid

seemed like the longest dirt driveway in the world. Our family was close, always together, cooking and eating, hanging out in the main part of the house, which was an open kitchen, dining room, living room with giant windows and sliding glass doors to the deck, quoi pond, and massive gardens full of fruit trees, play structures, the trampoline, and more so much more I've since learned. Our house was usually full of laughter, delicious food, original art, and it

was a center of social activity. My parents' friends constantly dropped by and stayed for dinner, and every weekend my friends visited for slumber parties, spending multiple nights. My friends and I would concoct stories that we would theatrically record into my cassette player, with me always taking center stage. Guys coming for Then I shall cook my specialty brain a lah noodle. What shall you cook? I shall hook my specialty rive allah I bill yuh me yum, It's

so delicious. Every night, my parents would read to me in my treehouse loft bed wall papered with snow white in the Seven Dwarves. I went to an artsy, holistic progressive school where each day started with an hour of music. When I was eight, my sister thirteen. In the early eighties, our little brother was born and I became the middle child.

My memories of childhood are joyful, full of abundance, both the material like playing legos at our Tahoe house, and the immaterial like community, magical, spiritual, connected to the earthedness, friends, family, and a lot of absurdities. When I look back now, I feel ridiculous for not realizing that something was going on behind the scenes in our family home. Our house was pretty different from TV houses like The Brady Bunch,

my favorite show. For instance, we had a second parking lot on the property for all the extra oversized vehicles my family owned. The Brady Bunch only had that one wood paneled station wagon. Our car part had a clutch of outdoor storage closets packed with camping gear, ski gear, and dozens of hardback seventies sampsonite burnt sianta suit cases with combo locks. Okay, sure, we were a family of five,

but we never seemed to use the suitcases. They were foemy inside and large enough for me to fit in, and I loved playing with them, pretending I was stowaway or hidden refugee, climbing inside and shutting the lid. Now I get it. These amazing large suitcases were for transporting weed. I also have fond memories of going to these weekly

baseball games with my dad. I'd run around and play in the crisp marine air around a glossy green baseball field, enjoying myself, maybe batting a ball or two, and my dad would play with all these guys I've known my whole life, the coach Baseball Bob, the Philly Boys, the French hippie tal Joe, Peach Blossom, Loose Larry, the Vietnam Vet.

And I'm now discovering that all of these people who are essentially like my surrogate ants and uncles, all of them were also smugglers or growers or somehow in the pot industry big time. And here's how oblivious I was as a kid, slash amazed I didn't realize what was going on. They're always garbage bags of pot in my dad's office. Garbage bags, you guys. But this just seemed

normal to me. My parents seemed normal. I mean, they weren't straight that as, they weren't the typical nine to five suburban parents with zero interest in Tibetan Tonka's karmas aadelic poster art. But they also weren't living on a hippie bus and wearing tide like lots of my friends parents. And plus, pott was everywhere in Marin County in northern California. Everyone's family had pot around, just maybe not garbage bags full.

So when my sister told me the shocking news that our parents were drug dealers when I was fourteen, I was mortified. These are the Nancy Reagan just say no, this is your brain on Drugs TV campaign years in the nineteen eighties. Drug dealers are the worst, according to TV and the rest of the world. Do I have your permission to record? Yes? Okay, awesome, Okay, So this is Petunia, one of my best friends growing up in an honorary member of our family. She knew me and

my parents really well. Yeah. So my bff Petunia spent so much time, you spent so much time at our house. I wanted to get your stories of what you thought was going on in my house and if you ever had any what did you think of my house and my parents? What did you did you have any inkling of what they did for a job? And yeah, well, I mean, of course I knew that your mom was a painter and a mother, and that was very clear, transparent, obvious and made a lot of sense, you know, you

could see. And with your dad, it wasn't clear what he was doing. I feel like we talked about it even as children, and and said that he was a businessman. He knew that he was a businessman, but definitely not like a nine to five, not a suit. But we knew that he made deals. I knew that he made deals because he would like this. I feel like this must have been part of his conversation. That it was like, oh, I'm working on a deal or whatever, but some kind

of deal that it involved talking on the phone. And so your dad was around and doing business and and that's that's all I knew. Really, yeah, me too, And I didn't care, like that's all that was all the business man that was. It was an answer that was answer enough for me. Yeah, and I could perceive that your your family was well off. Your house was like an oasis of plenitude. Do you remember my dad being super high strung, Yeah, so stressed out. Yeah yeah, me too.

Oh yeah, yeah. It's sort of interesting, but like I don't know, like a lot of other people's dads just weren't really around, so like who knows what those dads were, Like, who else's dad was around as much as your dad, Like nobody's. I love hearing Petunia talk about my dad like this, because he really was around a lot. There's something special about how my dad subverts the good old

dad role. Clad in a far side T shirt, my dad would pad around in his office and his socks, yelling into the phone, stealing our Halloween candy, schooling us on opera and art history. Oh and he was also smuggling. After I found out the family secret in my teens, Petunia was the only person I confided in. Yeah, I remember you telling me in this tone of like I

just found out, how can you believe it? And I was like, yeah, I can't believe it actually, Like yeah, like it was not at all surprising, but I didn't know, which is funny because I was shocked. I grew up in this world where there was it was. Pot was everywhere in my household. Yeah, it wasn't hidden, I mean it wasn't. It was just part of the furniture. Yeah, and I was totally uninterested in it. Yeah, it was boring. I thought pot was uncool. I thought it was lame.

I thought it was what grown ups did. I thought it was like totally lame. And it blows my mind think that literally, at any moment, my parents could have been busted and we could have been foster children. Yeah, well, this is something that's interesting to me. So my mom is thinks of herself as a very overprotective person. So I'm curious what she knew about your dad's livelihood because I know that she did the books for your dad for a while, and I wonder what she knew because

she thinks of herself as an overprotective parent. But then she was allowing me to spend vast amounts of time in this household that like, like what if your dad was busted or what if some professional enemy. I don't know how likely that this would be. I really have no idea, but like, did he know people who were dangerous? Possibly he did? Coming up, my dad loses all of his money and a smuggling trip gone wrong, which just happened to be the night I was born. I'm Rainbow

Valentine and this is disorganized crime. We'll be right back. The origin of the word pot is from pataguaya, a wine or brandy that has been steeped in cannabis buds. Pataguaya is short for potassion duguaya, which means the drink of grief. It does seem this job brought its fair share of grief with it. If a deal went wrong, you could lose everything. Can Dad stop clinking around in the back, We can hear him and bail? Yeah? Yeah,

Dad is not able to be quiet. Good job. Enjoy your oatmeal, dad, So mom, can you talk about how critical it was that your jobs were see a secret? Talk about the high stakes of this job. The high stakes were that we was the ego and everybody thought it was the devil. And if you got caught with even an ounce who went to jail and could lose your kids. It was super high stakes. So you could you have to be really careful about not talking about your business to any of your friends or parents of

the other children, or the soccer parents. You just have to conduct your life like it was really normal, just like everybody else. Dad finished his oatmeal and chimed in. I mean, my job was to do it right and stay under the radar and be this schizophrenic living two lives basically didn't bother me. It was either do it right for begad. It was similar to war. You stick your head above the foxhole and it gets blown off. People are getting busted for less than an ounce of pot.

Now that wasn't real big time staff, but when you got into what we were doing, it would cost a fortunate attorneys even if you did get off, you know. I mean, I was living sort of in two worlds. Now. Both of my parents talk about leading a double life. On one hand, the parents, I know, they're devoted, involved, adoring parents and upstanding citizens who participate, to my embarrassment

in my school in life almost too enthusiastically. And on the other hand, their counterculture outlaws smuggling up to several thousands of pounds of pot across a god fearing country swarming with law enforcement and full of hippie and drug

fearing Americans. My dad's career as a smuggler coincided with the inception of the War on Drugs, when the country was focused on sending drug dealers and users to prison, and more and more dangerous drugs were entering the transcontinental smuggling trade like heroin and cocaine drugs were If you got caught up in those smuggling networks, could lead to a bullet through the head. You've mentioned feeling like you

led a devil life, Can you speak about that? But yeah, well then I had I had my friends, which were all my old friends. We trusted everybody from their word, and they were separate from all the people that lived in the community, you know, and the people at the stores, and even your doctor didn't know who else was going on, you know. Very stressful to lead two loves, I remember, ba Yeah, but they were just coming and going. Those were I mean, I'm talking about room full of pot

where we stabshed at the garbage bags. Pot were just samples. So the garbage bag is a pot I remember from when I was a kid, were just the tip of the pot iceberg of how much pot my dad was moving. They were samples. Really, At any given point in my childhood, my dad was storing up to four or five thousand pounds of pot in our garage or the family storage unit a few miles away from our house. The true and complete story of my birth is the perfect saga

to show this double life that my parents led. I was born in nineteen seventy four on a dark and stormy night in West Marin, California. We're gonna start. It was a dark and stormy night. Well, but yeah, the arm and hit. Yeah, it was just daring and raining and raining and dark and mary. Well it was dark and stormy. Yes, it was quite a storm. And that night my young parents, my dad and his twenties, my mom in her early thirties, lost their life savings in

a smuggling trip gone wrong. Now, their life savings was about thirty six thousand dollars in nineteen seventy four, which is one hundred and ninety five thousand dollars today. I just figured that's what you cost. So in nineteen seventy four, my parents were living in a handmaid hippie hobbit house in West Merin, California. It had a long winding staircase up to the circular door. My very pregnant mom would tend to my sister the Japanese gardens and her herd

of animals. She hated the goose. My dad was enjoying the country life of chickens and his first chainsaw for firewood in this tiny rural town in westmore in California, near Point Raise National Seashore. But among the hanging plants hippi embroidery and art that adorned the inside of the house. My parents had a custom built secret room which at any given point could stash up to four thousand pounds

of pot. They couldn't the movies. It was. Yeah, there's a real sacred room where if you picked out a book, when you took out a screwdriver, and then there was a bookshelf, and you had to remove the bookshelf first, and then the book the books you took the books off in the bookshelf off, and then the things that held up the shelf had screws into the wall, and one of those screws was a key to open the door. Right before I was born, my dad was at the tail end of a big trip smugglers lingo a trip

is a business deal from start to finish. The entire deal is a trip for our purposes. Trips are pot deals from risk saving the load to delivering it to the next location. Slash buyer trips last anywhere from a few weeks to months to a year. Trips include the journey of the product from its point of origin places like Mexico, Columbia, Thailand, Lebanon, to its final destination, in my dad's case, northern California, or his hometown, New York City.

My dad's entire career in pot smuggling was as a middleman. He was a pot distributor. He's never a small time street dealer in a sketchy alleyway. He never sold ounces. He actually laughed in my face when I asked if he ever sold just one pound at a time. He would get hundreds or thousands of pounds a pot from the smugglers who took it off the boats that came into San Francisco Bay. This pot would go to my

dad's secure location. He would then transport the pot to a few of his trusted associates, who would in turn sell it in smaller and smaller amounts down the smuggling food chain. If the pot came into San Francisco Bay usually from South America or South Asia, my dad would transport or to his guy in New York City. Alternatively, if my dad's supplier in New York City his code name is Blondie, had a load come into the New York City Harbor, usually from the Middle East, my dad

would get a ton or more. By the way, a ton is two thousand pounds, and he would move it across country and distribute it to the people in San Francisco Bay area. However, it wasn't organized. Remember this is disorganized crime. Loads just sort of came in and people found out, and it was very loose. Now, my dad didn't work with groups, just a handful of lifelong trusted friends who are still lifelong trusted friends. The relationships formed were similar to the bonds formed by soldiers in war.

My dad and his associates trusted each other implicitly, and integrity was everything. You were as good as your word. Now. On the night of my birth, my dad made three big mistakes. On this trip, known as the Second Panama Red Trip. My dad handed off the pot he had that he had stored in the secret room in the hippie Hobbit House to three drivers known as the Brooklyn Boys, who moved it from were In County to New York City.

That was the first mistake. Just you stupid kids from Yeah, young stupid kids from Brooklyn, who vegetarians, who like getting high, and we're real psychedelicized vegetarian kids. Okay, it's fine that they're vegetarians, but what we're getting at is that these were young, inexperienced kids who didn't take extra precautions when hauling loads of pot across the country. Like when my dad was more established, he would never get high while working.

That was reserved for after if the trip was successful. Well, these kids, they wanted to have fun on the job. The next mistake was the flashy spank a new vehicle my dad provided for transporting the loads across the country. That was really a stupid of errors because the truck I bought to do this, we decided we got a new the fanciest big four wheels h GMC pickup. It was like right off the lot, remember that white and yellow orange? Yet what was it? White and gold? Oh?

I remember it very clearly. The way I looked at things you wanted to have the best of everything the bed. But that was really part of the stupid thing, because we had right, We had kids who looked like hippies, smoking pot all through it, and the whole fucking bed was filled. That we built a bed, and we put in three hundred and fifty pounds under this bed that we had built in the U in the back of the truck, in the pick in the pickup bed. It

shouldn't have been a new truck. It was too flashy a truck for these scrunky looking twice four year olds. I shouldn't have done that, and I shouldn't have given him my profit. I should have just taken my profit, kept it safe, and sold it off as I would sell it. The third mistake, and the most critical, was that my dad fronted all of his profits in this

last truck load. Basically, the Brooklyn Boys had already transported several loads of pot from arine New York City, but all of my dad's profits from this trip were dependent on that last truck load. I let these guys talk me into fronting all of my profits in their last truck, which was about his damastic instead of just taking our winnings and packing up and going, and greed is right. I mean I wanted however more, I wanted more. It wasn't enough that we've made like fifty grand in in

two months. My dad thought that fronting his money would increase his profits, but in fact, good old fashioned greed reared its ugly head and bit my dad in the ass. Because that dark, stormy night that the Brooklyn boys set off with this last potload, they get busted. But before my dad hears anything about this, my very pregnant mom goes into libor and all the focus goes from the trip to having a baby, and then off goes to the truck and she goes into labor and just mind on,

I lost my mind. I was born at home and my dad, always a camera enthusiast, videotaped the event with a brand new camera, one of the first of its kind for home video. We got the tape digitized. My poor mother. My mom is surrounded by my dad, the midwife of some family friends, my five year old sister, Vertica, the cats, our family dog. Is we're paying us the

picture of what mom's upstairs. No, we're well, there are several level No, we're down in the in the middle section in a water bed, a water bed by the fireplace at two thirty. I mean, after this this incredibly intense storm for twenty four hours or more, the storm breaks and boom out you pop, girl, girl. So I swaped you up, and then the doctor combs, and so we gave we gave an instant replay because we had video taped the whole thing. Well, you know, so we're

the first of instant replay and a home birth. Then I get the news. I mean, so we've been up for forever, for two days or whatever it is, because how long labors are the wasted wasted. The next morning, one of the guys comes by and says, oh, the truck I busted in Indiana. So apparently the Brooklyn Boys got pulled over in Indiana and being young stoned in a fancy new truck with California plates. The cop suspected

something was amiss, so busted. The Brooklyn Boys call my dad with bad news the next day, which is also the first morning I spent outside the womb on planet Earth. So my dad leaves town and heads to New York City to try and get some of his money back

from the Brooklyn Boys. My dad finds the Brooklyn Boys peeps and he gets a little bit of money back, a couple of thousand dollars, but to this day he regrets not being bolsy enough to demand the entire amount thirty six thousand dollars, which is roughly one hundred and

ninety five thousand dollars in today's money. My dad returns to California with a fraction of the money he lost, and then he and my mom and my sister and me, just a few days old, moved to another house in West Morin And then after doing that, we split from that house because we were concerned, oh, because we thought that's when the battalion chief came to be my bodyguard, because we thought they would send people after us, So

we had to leave and moved abruptly. My parents are scared that someone might come for them, someone from the Brooklyn Boys network who might want revenge or retaliation in some form or another. Luckily that never happened, but the trip definitely had gone wrong and my parents' money was gone. Tensions were running high, and my fledgling smuggler parents were scared. My parents have two daughters. They need to protect themselves from arrest from losing their kids and the cedier parts

of the industry. So after moving, my parents put their heads down and try to leave the smuggling business. Try being the keyword. I'm Rambo Valentine. You're listening to disorganized Crime. We'll be right back. One thing that blows me away with my parents is that they always see the glass

is half full. Their work was critically dangerous. But when my parents were telling me my birth story after he found out they lost all their money, my dad went into the backyard to think, I'm wandering in the garden and I'm looking at our fruit trees and I'm just philosophica because I remember the same thoughts, you know, And it was like, well, I guess it's a pruning because that's that's how I always looked at it. And I

mean that's the only way I could look at it. Yeah, that is always how fuld of you guys, which I love me too, But that's us. That's who we are, you know. Like my dad's trips smuggling pot across the country, I've been on a long, strange trip myself. Thank you Robert Hunter for that iconic sentence, unraveling a web of secrets.

This long, strange journey is a first hand look at the extraordinary, unique, disorganized drug smuggling industry in Marine County, California, which, while today is home to tech billionaires, was once home to the rock stars drug smugglers of San Francisco's nineteen sixties counterculture. They risked their lives to smuggle pot in

the most dangerous time for pot in history. I was born in a unique location and situation, right in the middle of the battle between the counterculture, psychedelic smugglers and the War on drugs, which would ultimately end my dad's smuggling career forever. Dad made and lost millions of dollars more than once. And I, Rainbow Valentine, of tax paying, regularish job having non pot smoker but total hippie at heart,

was there obliviously in the middle of it all. I wanted to find out what in the world was going on at home while I was playing Smurfs under the olive tree. Listener, you and I are both going back in time to find out how did my dad smuggle thousands of pounds upot across the country for over twenty two years. Some people I will talk to spent years in prison. Some lost all their money, some lost their minds,

a few flew under the radar. But for all of them, this podcast is the first time they have told their stories, allowed to anyone ever. So now it is time for the smugglers to speak and we get to listen. I'm Rainbow Valentine and this is Disorganized Crime. Disorganized Crime. Smuggler's Daughter is written and recorded by Me, Rainbow Valentine. Our

producers are Gabby Watts and Taylor Church. Executive producers are Brandon Barr, Brian Lavin, Elsie Crowley and Me at School of Humans and Connell Burn and Charles Bryant at iHeartRadio. Our music is by Gabby Lala and Claire Campbell, with original them by Mark, Karen and Me. You can find us online at iHeart dot com slash Podcasts Right novel the story Do It as with Me tamble by Steeping Princess of the red Wood Dreams. She helps us keep

it real. Handshake seals the deal, Wrap the stack, sealed, meal, Road up these all breads, rolling a Doobe, young, rich and groovy, making it up. We roll along, Rolling along, Far Country, Roll Rolling along Far Country, Roll Rolling low Floria Country low