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Bay 11 Seeds. Man, where do I even start?
This strain—this damn strain—has a reputation that kind of precedes it. Like, you hear the name and it already sounds like something cooked up in a lab somewhere in the Bay Area, which, I mean, it kind of was. Granddaddy Purp genetics, some mystery sativa tossed in there like a wildcard. It’s not clean-cut. It’s not polite. It’s loud, citrusy as hell, and hits like a freight train if you’re not paying attention.
First time I grew it? Disaster. Plants got too tall, lanky bastards reaching for the ceiling like they had something to prove. I didn’t top them early enough—rookie mistake—and they stretched out like they were trying to escape the tent. But the smell. Jesus. Even in veg, it had this sharp, lemon-fuel funk that made my whole garage smell like someone spilled Pine-Sol on a diesel engine. Not subtle. Not even close.
But then—flower hits. And it’s like, okay, now we’re talking. Dense nugs, sticky like melted candy, and this weird golden hue that almost glows under the right light. Trichomes everywhere. Like it snowed inside the buds. You break one open and it punches you in the face with this sweet-spicy citrus thing that’s hard to pin down. Not orange. Not lemon. Just… Bay 11.
It’s a sativa, technically. But it doesn’t behave like one. You smoke it and yeah, your brain lights up like a pinball machine—thoughts bouncing all over the place, ideas firing off like popcorn. But your body? It doesn’t get left behind. There’s this weird, creeping calm that settles in your limbs. Not couchlock, but like, “Hey, maybe sit down for a sec.”
And the high lasts. Not in that annoying, overstayed-its-welcome way. More like a long conversation with an old friend you didn’t realize you missed. You look up and it’s been three hours and you’ve reorganized your entire kitchen and written half a screenplay. Or maybe just stared at your cat for 45 minutes. Both are valid.
Now, growing it—Bay 11 isn’t for lazy growers. It’s not plug-and-play. You gotta train it, feed it right, keep the humidity in check or you’ll get mold in those fat colas. But if you dial it in? She rewards you. Big time. Yields are solid, not record-breaking, but the quality? Chef’s kiss. Bag appeal for days. People see it and they want it. They don’t even ask what it is—they just point and go, “That one.”
I’ve tried other strains since. Some stronger, some prettier, some easier to grow. But Bay 11 keeps pulling me back. There’s something about it. Maybe it’s nostalgia. Maybe it’s just damn good weed. Either way, it’s earned its spot in my garden—and my heart, I guess, if I’m being dramatic.
Anyway. If you’re thinking about running it—do it. Just don’t half-ass it. Bay 11 doesn’t like being ignored. She’ll let you know.