The Art of Breathing Underwater

Chapter 14

Although Yuletide wasn't officially due to start for under a month, we experienced something of a Christmas miracle. Roley made good on his word. Robbie and I finally scored some hash.

Given the enormous weight of significance we had attached to this moment, we elected not to squander the experience by sitting on our asses in a stuffy house watching movies. Which wasn't an option as, with Christmas coming, our parents had taken to staying in and saving the few pence they had. So we conceived a plan to celebrate the occasion by taking an excursion. We didn't have anywhere particular in mind. So long as it was away from the concrete gloom of Dublin. And relatively inexpensive.

We settled on Blessington Lakes. It boasted some of the most magnificent scenery the Emerald Isle offers. And you could bus it for a couple of quid.

To further ease the financial costs—and increase the sense of adventure—we decided to camp out. We didn't have a tent, but we had two old—unused—sleeping bags my brother had left at home. None of which served as a selling point for our wary parents.

However, after much silver-tongued persuasion, hours of endless pleading, and a faithful promise not to get in any bother, they granted us leeway.

We met up at nine on a chilly November morning on O'Connell street. Our torsos swaddled in more fabric than a mountain-climber and wearing smiles that were warmer than the layers of clothing our parents had insisted on.

We walked through the cluttered city streets clutching oversized plastic carrier bags containing our rolled-up sleeping bags. Christmas lights and decorations glittered and twinkled in shop-fronts, and the department stores were already filling. We traded loud observations on the cynical exploitation of the holiday season, attracting the odd sharp look from passers-by, but nothing could puncture our buoyant mood.

We arrived at the bus terminus on Poolbeg street twenty minutes early. A green double-decker with engine idling parked up by the kerb, driver reclined back in his seat, peaked cap obscuring his face.

When continuously checking our watches didn't force time to pass any quicker, we had a brainwave. Robbie reached into the inside pocket of his coat and retrieved the slim rolled—now slightly crumpled—jay Roley had pre-prepared for our convenience. And to prove to us, he had earned his dubious moniker for his expertise in the joint-rolling department. "Should we?"

"You spark it up," I said, eyes glancing manically up and down the street, mind fuelled by feverish excitement, "I'll keep sketch.". Images of Val Kilmer as Jim Morrison in The Doors film flipped through my head. No more living vicariously through film, I was about to unlock the doors of perception. To celebrate this moment, I'd specifically worn my blue tie-dye tee with the iconic image of a bare-chested Morrison. Arms outstretched as if he's sacrificing himself. A martyr. The ultimate rebel.

Break on through to the other side.

With a great deal of coughing and no less trepidation, we toked on the spliff, eyes watering from the strong aromatic smoke burning our virgin throats.

A callow man wearing a dark tracksuit and a baseball cap ambled past. He clocked the joint and smirked.

Moments later, he did an about-turn and came at us at pace. "If that's a bifter yiz are smokin' boys, best put it away. There's a copper comin'." I thanked him, while Robbie flicked the lighted evidence onto the road.

It rolled back to the kerb as the uniformed policeman approached. "What are ye up to, lads?"

"Waiting on the bus," I said, panicking and pointing to the stationary bus as irrefutable proof I was truthful. "To Blessington. Officer."