Where is Royce? Click to sail along! ⛵

It’s 12:23, local time.  I’m finishing up what Londoners must consider breakfast - the Avocado on Sour Dough was edible, but I can’t make sense of the baked beans and “chips” (French fries). My stomach is still reeling from the week’s long abuse caused by Passover.  It seems us Jews are in a battle for last place with the English over unappetizing cuisine.  Certainly Spain will be an upgrade on that front.

I’m now awaiting my flight in the London-Gatwick airport, departing in a few hours to the town of Las Palmas on the Gran Canaries.  Upon landing at Heathrow, I flew through customs - it pays to be an American (or Canadien), when visiting England.  Apparently, much has been forgiven since our little uprising back in the 1700’s.  Putin might take note of the opportunities that blossom from friendship, rather than colonization, of your historical kin.  I digress.
 
After collecting my bags, I was met by Boris, clearly an immigrant of Russian descent, who helped me with my duffel and pleasantly escorted me to his German car.  I was instantly reminded of the culturally-diverse soup which defines Europe.  Even the two small dogs I passed eyed me in a foreign accent.
 
It was during the 50-minute drive, half asleep, that I had some quiet time to contemplate my journey and the lessons it might impart.  The word “patience” came to mind. 
 
Before leaving Denver, Tara and I took the girls out of school to have lunch before taking daddy to the airport.  They were borderline nightmares.  Fighting, roughhousing (am I my parents?), and ignoring our repeated attempts at encouraging “dining out” behavior.  I finished my lunch, excused myself from the table, and waited outside.  I lost my patience.
 
In the car ride, there was more fighting, crying, apologizing and again, losing my patience but unable to leave the situation, I turned up the music attempting to drown out the chaos.
 
In the airport, I felt impatience when the hugs wouldn’t end so I could get on with my journey. 
 
Now, as I reflect on the last 24 hours (what time is it?), I’m reminded that perhaps a trip across the ocean on the slowest mode of transportation, short of swimming, will break me of my impatience.  What took 7 hours to fly over, will exceed two weeks to sail back.
 
The fault doesn’t lie with my kids, although they would do well to figure out how to get along better and land more food in their mouths than on the floor.  The impatience is on me.  I miss them already.  They would liven up this dull cafe, and were those hugs really long enough?
 
Sitting in the unpleasantness or finding the bright spot in any situation, rather than speeding it along to the good stuff, doesn’t come naturally.  I’m going to work on that.   I hope this trip puts me where my feet are.  Relaxes my “what’s next” anxiety, and strengthens my patience. 
 
In the interim, I’d really love another cappuccino.  Where the F&ck is that waitress?!  :)

Where is Royce? Click to sail along!⛵

It’s 2:32 on a Tuesday, April 18th, 2023. Nothing unique about today. Denver finally found spring - it’s 70 and sunny, but I know better to let down my defenses. Mother Nature always finds a way to bitch-slap you when least expected, this close to the Rockies. So, other than cautiously optimistic over approaching summer, there isn’t anything of special significance to this month, or this season, but then...

I am sitting in the United Airlines Club lounge at DIA. I’m a few hours early to my red-eye flight to London- Heathrow. If you spent time with me 18 months ago, you might ask why I’m returning to the lion’s den. After that high-seas, polar-vortex adventure, one would be assured that a trip back to the North Atlantic surely is last on my list. Thankfully, my connection in London will fly me directly south to the Spanish-flagged islands known as the Canaries. Specifically, I’ll be landing in Las Palmas. On Google Earth, you’ll notice this archipelago just off the northwest coast of Africa. 

Las Palmas will be the point of departure for the latest episode in satisfying what must either be a mid-life crisis or an inability to squelch a child-like disposition for adventure.  Aboard the 65 foot sailboat, “Falken”, myself and dear sailing friend, Alejandro, along with 9 unknown crew mates will pilot a course 3,000 miles west across the Atlantic, making landfall after ~15+ days in the Island of Antigua - western Caribbean.  Just a small crew of thrill-seeking sailors, recreating a passage of so many.  From the original, and now less-than-revered Columbus to the thousands of unfortunate captives who made this “middle passage” from Africa, this is an ocean crossing of much historical significance. 
 
That history, and the enormity of the task at hand is not lost on me.  I’m not sure I can possibly appreciate yet what this all means.  I hope over the next several days I can find meaning in this passage, well beyond the enjoyment and abject fear I’m sure to encounter.  And via this journal, I intend to share it all with you. 

I’m reminded of a favorite quote from notorious mountain climber, Sir Edmond Hillary - the first to summit Everest. When asked why he climbed the Earth’s tallest peak, he famously responded: “Because it’s there”. Well, Atlantic, I see you.

Yes, I will include pictures, but the written word is still my favored canvas to retell what I saw, or felt, or heard.  I hope you enjoy.  If not, Instagram always has a funny way of grabbing your attention, and selling you something in the process.  

But for now...those sandwiches and free coffee are calling my name. Long journey ahead and this anticipation works up quite an appetite.

If all goes according to plan, I’ll be in London tomorrow morning, travel by car to her sister airport, London-Gatwick, and hop on a flight run by Easy Jet to Las Palmas around 2pm. Arrival to 70-degree weather and a cool Atlantic breeze around 8pm, local. God only knows what time zone I’ll be in, but at that point, does it really matter?
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See you over there.