Chapter 1: The Cape | Day 1, Departure

“I have pussy feet”.

“It’s true. He does, you guys!”

“I have pussy feet”, Scott repeats, seriously. “I had to crawl into the water when we were in Hawaii.”

Tara’s face wavers between embarrassment and amusement. I can’t help but smile, swallowing another bite of scrambled eggs. This is what we signed up for.

We’re sitting in the United Lounge at DIA, crowded around a miniature cocktail table, scarfing down breakfast.

“Is that hot sauce on your eggs, Roycey?” Tricia asks, amused.

“It’s called Jerk me off sauce or something, Trishee. I couldn’t resist.”

She laughs. I grin. We have two weeks of travel ahead of us, and everyone is giddy. We’re vacillating between guilt over leaving the children, and curious wonderment and anticipation. We’re awaiting the first flight of the day, whisking us off to beautiful Newark, New Jersey where we’ll hop a connection for a quick 15-hour jaunt around the globe to…Cape Town, South Africa.

“How in the hell does a plane of that size stay aloft for that long?” I ask the group.

“Who will take care of your children if we crash today” Tricia asks, pivoting to a grim topic with complete ease and genuine curiosity.

“Jamie”. (Tara’s sister) I reply. “But I suppose Avery could step in, after she finishes college.”

“Jackson is in charge of our kids once he turns 21” Scott volunteers. “But maybe that was a bad idea.”

Does he have pussy feet too, I wonder. Like us, they have four kids. In the event of a “water landing” I’m not sure their 17 year-old thespian will be in a position to manage the chaos of their children. He wouldn’t be my first choice.

I’ll share my opinion with them later. No topic is off-limits with those two. Such is our friendship. But, our flight to Newark is boarding, and someone needs to be responsible for this band of baboons.

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It’s 12:30 am. Most of the plane is asleep. Although the roaring engines carrying this metal coffin across the Atlantic create a soothing white noise, I can’t sleep. It’s 6am, South African time, which I’ve been instructed to begin following. But it’s probably dinner time back in Denver. Who the hell knows. I’m caught in the twilight zone of international travel, and the vodka tonics from the airport have worn off, as well as the Melatonin. It’s high time I brought you all up to speed…

Hello. I’m Royce. You non-AI Bots probably knew that. You’ve discovered my sailing blog. How you stumbled here via Only Fans is a mystery, but I won’t judge - you’re safe now. Also, we’re not going sailing. Log off now if you were looking for an adventure on the high seas, or a tick tock of a guy-next-door shedding his clothes for a $3/month subscription.

If you’re new to this, it’s become my habit in recent years to journal the goings-ons of my aforementioned sailing adventures. They’ve all been bucket-list trips, so I’ve tried to memorialize the experiences for my aging brain, my disinterested children, and my raving fan. My mother. Some of you have hung in there during the lengthy prose, and remarked kindly, so I’ve kept the habit.

These adventures have been with the family. Or alone. Always on the high seas. This time around, we’ll be sampling the Surf and Turf. My 15 year’s long sexual companion, mother of my children, and love of my life is accompanying us. Her name is Tara. My bride. If we’re both lucky, there may well be some Only Fans-esque moments. Probably not after she reads this entry. What I won’t sacrifice for my fandom.

This trip came together over a year ago. Our dear friends, Scott and Tricia, who you’ve already met bid on a trip to South Africa at their church auction. In what’s obvious to all an effort to evangelize their Jewish friends, we were asked to accompany them. After much pleading, hand wringing, and discussions with a higher power, we agreed to tag along.

“You guys want to go to Africa with us?” The Arthur’s asked the Zimmermans with mild disinterest.

“Ah. Sure.” We agreed.

Our itinerary, despite its religious origin, does not include any missionary work. Not that I’m opposed to brushing up on the New Testament, and spreading the gospel in the Bush. Rather, this will be a bacchanalian adventure, surely to please all involved, save Jesus. There will be mountains, vineyards, and oceans. River cruises, plane rides, locomotives. We’ll find ourselves in the middle of millions of acres of African wilderness, living amongst the largest predators that roam this earth. We’ll visit the largest waterfall on the planet, and live alongside the gargantuan river who feeds it. The sun, the stars, the penguins. They’ll all be there.

No, we won’t be beating against the trade winds, sailing under the stars. But I couldn’t be more excited. Nor should you be. We’re embarking on one of the greatest adventures that thrill seekers of the early 1900’s coveted. From Teddy Roosevelt to the most notorious explorers of British fame. Grab your safari hat, don your loin clothe, and retrain those binoculars from your neighbor’s window…we’re headed to Africa!

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