LONG-FORGOTTEN FINE LEAVES COLUMNIST STRANDED

George W. Bush may want to call off the war on drugs now that border
patrols have intercepted a notorious drug desperado trying to cross
into the U.S.

Two weeks ago we were gunning for Hawaii on a WestJet itinerary, bags
bloated with tubs of sunscreen and numerous sleeveless frocks,
boarding passes and documentation in hand, hotels and a getaway car
awaiting us in Kona.

I had vacationed south of the border at least twice in the last two
decades but my 79-year-old mother-in-law was realizing her dream to
explore the famous volcanoes and ancient temples on the island of
aloha for the first time.

The diminutive senior sailed through the U.S. immigration checkpoint
but things took a decidedly tense turn when a Homeland Security
official briskly handed me over to a guard in a sealed-off area who
steadily tapped-tapped info from my passport into a computer, pausing
now and then to examine the details the screen divulged.

"Upon arriving in the U.S. in 1982, did you pay a fine to American
authorities?" he asked finally.

My gawd, I had.

Vague recall of a flight to the U.S. 26 years ago with a boyfriend
long forgotten who, when guards saw he had a minor conviction in his
past, picked apart each item in his bag.

Luck was never Norman's strong suit; he had overlooked a tiny,
stained pot pipe tucked into the pockets of a pair of worn shorts.

U.S. officials seized on the smoker to bully him about the real
reason for his visit. Freaked at their aggression and fearing
immediate arrest, even jail, he quietly asked if I would take the
heat for the pipe.

I recall paying a fine, $75 US I think, and was given the option of
staying on or accompanying this "undesirable" home.

The incident lay buried for 21/2 decades; I never heard from U.S.
authorities again nor was I given a scrap of documentation.

But the U.S. takes no prisoners: entry is denied those with a
checkered past, no matter how long the time or petty the crime -- due
in part to a 1996 law there making entry for many of us more difficult.

"This is not my decision," the handsome border guy said kindly, in a
near whisper, after twice checking the decision with a supervisor
lurking behind him, obscured by a cloudy-glass partition.

"We practise zero tolerance here; no exceptions are allowed."

Having nothing to hide, I gave a statement and consented to being
fingerprinted and photographed.

In U.S. parlance, I am now one of roughly five million undesirable
aliens. Every year, America rejects about 40,000 Canadians, a
statistic some lawyers claim is on the rise.

At the same time, the U.S. administration grants waivers to about
4,000 Canadians annually. The considerate guard had slipped an
application form into my hand while escorting me back to my agitated
but patient travel buddy but the process takes time and can be
costly, more so because entry-waiver applicants must shell out $545
US to Homeland Security as well.

Pardon Services Canada provides help with pardons and waivers at its
Vancouver office: 604-685-7899.

And Bush can sleep soundly, knowing that while the war on drugs
hasn't made the slightest dent in the $400-billion drug trade, it did
stop me and an old-age pensioner from tripping the light fantastic in Hawaii.