In the middle of the dusty Arizona desert somewhere near Mexico, I was stuck in a dank motel room. It was the mid-1990s, and I was waiting on a large load of weed from across the border. My job was to inspect the cannabis, provide the down payment upon approval and organize the logistics with the drivers for transportation. My constant companion in this underground enterprise: about $75,000, stashed in a black Samsonite hard-case rollie with a built-in lock. It was enough money for the down payment but not so much that I wanted to pay a courier to babysit it. My Mexican contacts told me the delivery was imminent and that I would be in and out quickly. I believed them. I needed the weed.

It was the time of year in Tucson when college students were going back to school. All the hotels were booked, and I was forced to stay out in the border towns where I had to inspect the load. This convergence of events made me feel uneasy. I couldn’t leave my room. I was afraid of being seen. I was short on supplies. It felt like something very bad could be lurking just around the corner, and all I could do was wait.

And wait.

And wait.

In those days it could take a long time for product to be safely delivered. In this case, it took about five weeks. What I had no way of knowing at that time was just how many pandemic survival skills I would learn over the course of that tense motel stay.

I was young, and it was before the internet, before cell phones. I left the relative safety of the motel only rarely, and only for the most essential supplies. There was one fast food restaurant and one gas station/convenience store in the entire town. A few times I drove to another town to load up on food, drink and softcore porno magazines. I needed some entertainment, and the motel had no cable television. It did have a pay phone, which I used on the regular. Other than that it was just me, the cash, a couple books, a pad of paper, a pen, an ounce of weed and a jar of Vaseline.

That was it. For weeks, I had to sit there and babysit a pile of cash and do my best to avoid everyone.

I had to learn to manage a certain amount of stress as I was engaged in criminal activity. Meditation became an essential tool of the trade, as did push-ups and sit-ups. Copious cannabis consumption was a constant, followed by a mix of soothing euphoria and utter paranoia. Whenever I ventured out, I felt a deep sense of fear. Every person seemed like an undercover cop or a federal agent—my mind raced to think of every contingency, every possible outcome and every escape route.

In the situation I had placed myself in, I had planned redundancies to infinity and beyond. Most of these were just in my head. The truth was that I was stuck and vulnerable. I had to live with very little over an extended period of time in the same location. I was in unfamiliar surroundings. It was hot. There was no air conditioning. I ate the food that was available. And I tried not to drive myself insane. I spent my time managing my paranoia and fear, reading and writing, watching network television, and wondering why the hell I was in the weed business in the first place. There must be something else I can do to make a living.

As it turns out, there wasn’t. I still sell weed for a living. But I get to do it legally now, which is a big relief.

If I survive the coronavirus pandemic, I will look back at cannabis prohibition as something I could control and even trust. It may not have been a picnic, but you can predict cops’ behavior much easier than you can predict the behavior of a virus.

Nevertheless, as I sit here in self-quarantine, I am grateful for the survival skills I learned while stranded in the desert for five weeks waiting on a load of weed. I never thought they would come in handy, but I can sit here for a long time without losing my shit, and right now that matters. I have no regrets.