On Chazy Beach

It's Thursday morning and I'm out on the beach, gazing out over Lake Champlain, just a few steps across the lawn from our cabin. I could bug Mom to figure out the precise number of years we've been coming here and, more specifically, how many years I've actually made it, but to do so would mean leaving the beach and this brilliant sunrise that keeps pulling my eyes from the screen.

Whatever the actual tally it feels as though I always spend the annual week in Chazy thinking about what has changed and what never changes. As familiar as I find the seeking, biting cold of the lake water or the quiet obsession we all get with the jigsaw puzzles, I find myself just as surprised to see the bloated bag of cans we produce now that all the boys can drink and the diligence with which Colin and Sean have studied for their CPA exams. In fact, I'll need to pack up on the beach here soon and take this show to Conroy's Organics, where Colin and I spent two hours working yesterday.

As comforting as it is to take up my net after missing two years, either the fish are too fast or I'm too slow and I've watched a few ghostly sheepsheads dart away while my breath bubbles a roared curse back up to the surface. Still, there are a few days left and I will get one of the bastards if I have to hunt on Saturday before we leave. The hunt still soothes, though, with the chill of the lake and the focus on movement wiping every other thought from my mind. I think its effect on my healing meniscus may be a wash though; whatever bonus the cold water brings may be undone by several unbroken minutes trying to keep up with whatever fish I've got in target lock.

Thankfully, this moment is familiar. My alarm woke me quietly, I hope, not disturbing my three cousins in the room we all still insist on sleeping in together despite being men grown. I dressed, creaked down the narrow staircase to the single great room of the ground floor, and slipped on my flipflops while peering through the wall of windows to see that the sky already glowed pink. Then came the dewy walk through the same lawn we'd taken to just seven hours before to crane up our necks and guess at the stars (or cheat with iPhone apps). Finally, the ever-changing stony stairs down to the beach, which is actually long rock slabs scattered with plastic Adirondack chairs. I rescued a few the wind had carried off down the shore and plopped myself down in one, setting my eyes over Isle la Motte where the sun soon came glowing through the trees.

While I was working, there were times that I chafed at this trip. When you're in your twenties and have a set allotment of vacation, it can be hard to prioritize a trip so familiar when there are so many new things in the world to see. But now, tagged and released into the wild as a creative experiment, I find myself sharing my Uncle Kevin's tradition of feeling the end of the trip days before it happens. There are two more sunrises, two more days, probably less than ten expeditions into the lake. And while I'm lucky enough, when I leave, to follow the sunsets into the West on my way to Lake Tahoe, I will still miss starting the day alone with the sunrise and closing it out sitting in plastic Adirondack chairs with laughter, canned IPAs, and our feet in the water.



But now, it's time to wake up Col and get to work.

I'll Have What They're Having

This throwback blog entry comes from Conroy's Organics, a market and diner in West Chazy, NY, a few short minutes away from the puzzle table, my fishing net, and the other various facets of the Lake Champlain experience. My cousin Colin needed a break to study for a CPA exam and I wanted to mentally scrapbook my last full day in New York last week before the images fade.

I woke up Wednesday surprisingly well put-together considering the previous night's celebration, which was lucky considering Hanley and William had composed a schedule of authentic New York experiences ranging from tourist favorites to supernatural surprises. Before adventuring, however, Han popped over to the gym and I took some time to work, which translated into me trading frustrations with the Maryland Vehicle Administration and my auto loan company. I also learned that Tom Armstrong was in New York for the day himself, possibly summoned by Sarah Krokey's fond exhalations of his name the night before. I passed Tom the vague sketches of the day that Hanley had allowed me and he said that he'd tried to catch up after work, which marked once again an instance of me forgetting that not everyone is a jobless drifter.

Finally, it was time for the adventure to start! Hanley and I made our way downtown and found ourselves on Houston, where our first stop revealed itself: Katz's Deli, home of the famous scene from When Harry Met Sally. Anxious for what was sure to be a life-changing pastrami sandwich, I sprang through the doors and ran right into William, who'd been waiting to meet us. While pumped to be taken through a grand tour of the city, I was also thrilled to be spending the day with Hanley's fiancé. We'd met twice, once at a wedding and once for dinner after seeing Hanley and William in a show, so both times there were grander plans afoot and more folks to split our attention. Now, after placing our orders, getting a tender slice of pastrami to taste, and being presented with thick sandwiches slathered with mustard, I found myself sitting back across from the man himself and catching up casually.

William always reminds me of old Hollywood for some reason, probably because he carries Robert Redford features and an Errol Flynn smile. In conversation, he balances a sagacity (especially being a native New Yorker) with an encouraging mania; in short, he was a perfect person to talk with about my big leap. We first discussed the earlier part of his week, spent playing a Russian tough in a primetime TV drama. Then, he and Hanley asked about the book and I gave them my pitch, starting with Owen's small town life and expanding into the world he didn't know he lived in. They responded with enthusiasm and we returned to the story a few times throughout the rest of the day. It was also nice to see their relationship in its natural habitat, an adorable little world carved out of the madness of the city. They had been apart for a few days and clearly felt grateful for time together even while playing fine hosts.

After Katz's came an even bigger secret stop. Hanley and William walked me through Alphabet City in the East Village while William asked me odd questions like "Do you believe in magic?" and "Do you like candles?" Now that I know he was trying to drop vague hints, it's doubly funny that my programming kept trying to find a common ground with the weirdness: "Totally! I love magic! I went to the Magic Castle in LA once!" Our meanderings took us at last down into a below-ground shop run by honest-to-goodness wiccans, where my tour guides told me they wanted to give me an authentic underground New York experience by getting me a special candle to bless my endeavors. Apparently, William's sister had tried one to positive results, while William himself did it and wound up with more auditions than he could handle. Once the surprise was sprung, the two of them seemed worried that I might find it hokey, but I assured them that the guiding principle of the next six months is openness and that there's nothing hokey about generous intentions and concentrating positive thought. I spoke with the shopkeeper about leaving work, starting my book, and generally leaving myself exposed to the world for the time being, as well as giving my name and my sign. She told me she'd be making me the Emperor candle, which, according to the website, has the following properties:

EMPEROR

Jupiterian in nature, this candle brings recognition, builds confidence and helps to present opportunities. Calls on divine guidance and intervention to lead you in the right direction.

Can't ask for better than that, I say. The candles take about thirty minutes, so we spent the time leaving through astrology books and, at least in my case, petting the handful of cats given free reign of the store. The store itself was a mystical haven, with books lining the left wall, spices and ingredients lining the right, and a back workshop where the candles were made. They also carried assorted Day of the Dead skulls, nordic runestones, and candles shaped like male and female genitalia. At last, the shopkeeper returned with my big purple candle, thankfully candle-shaped and inscribed with my name and sign. It was a sweet and specific gift for William and Hanley to get for me and I'm excited to bring it along and find a good time to focus my energy and light 'er up.

Emerging from the magical lair, we continued our wanderings to McSorley's Old Ale House, the oldest Irish pub in New York. The floors were sawdusted, the lighting was dim, and as we entered, William order the only things they carried, light and dark beer. Not brands of light and dark. We literally ordered "Two light beers and one dark." We then sat in the cozy window table and chatted some more. I spoke about my relationship with work and about the catch-as-catch-can freelancing energy Hanley and William have to live with. As I learned when my friend Donny looped me in on some film extra work in Atlanta during my last week at Towers, never the twain shall meet. It was a comfortable few drinks and a nice, wandering conversation, fitting of the entire energy of the day.

We continued on through the Ukrainian village, with William pointing out several landmarks given his own Ukrainian heritage. We passed through NYU and entered Washington Square Park, from which we could see the Freedom Tower and Empire State building. Hanley pointed out the famous arch while William briefly joined the amorphous cloud of jugglers, regaling us with a quick routine before leaving it to the kids. I pointed out that I was fairly sure the Impractical Jokers had done some bits there, finally understanding how it is that they aren't recognizable at this point; the city is just so damn big. The energy in the park was lively and relaxed all at once, a vibe we felt even as we walked out beneath the trees on Washington Place.

My hosts led me next to White Horse Tavern, where Dylan Thomas, among other writers, threw back many's the drink. In fact, there was this haunting painting of Thomas in one of the side rooms:

We sat outside on the street through several rounds of drinks, now discussing taking chances, both in vocation and romance. I believe the topic came up when William bought another round of drinks; when I tried to pay him, he smiled, pointed to me and said, "You pay me back by going out and DOING IT!" His excitement was contagious and so followed many proclamations of artistic enthusiasm at that sidewalk table. Then, as we got up to leave (William having sneakily paid the bill inside), I met William out by the street where he professed how much he loved Hanley and that she was so good, both in general and for him. I laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, assuring him he was good for her too and that he made her very happy. Adorable booziness all around.

Our further travels come a little hazier, as we drank more than we ate, but as night fell, we found ourselves at Wilfie and Nell's, where we split an order of scotch eggs and shouted over the rowdy post-work crowd. Then came Vol de Nuit, a bar lit in deep reds and specializing in intense Belgian beer, where I finally convinced William to let me cover a round. At this point, we began winding down, as Hanley had her audition, William needed rest from the busy shooting schedule, and I had a bus to wake for. We were not too tired, however, for a late stop for artichoke pizza, which we scarfed down on the street while people-watching. I felt comfortable out and about by that point, with the night around me feeling just like an evening out in Adams Morgan back in DC. My unspoken hope for New York was realized as it no longer felt like a place I'd only seen a few blocks of at a time. I have the bug now, having seen so much and knowing it to be so little of the whole. In fact, the next day, after a quick morning chat with Hanley and a fond farewell, as we rolled away on the bus headed southbound, I felt something I'd never felt for New York, but knew very well from its usual association with Atlanta, DC, and LA: the deep, thrumming gravity of a city you know you're not done with. 

Don't Care If It's Chinatown Or On Riverside

It feels strange to recount the remainder of my trip to New York City after having left the state entirely and then returning to Chazy, NY on the shores of Lake Champlain, about as far upstate as one can get. Instead of the glow of the streetlights, the roar of the subway, and the chattering of a thousand passing conversations, I have a dark blue evening, the murmuring chop of the lake, and my family's long knives of good-natured sarcasm slipping between each others ribs. They are different worlds, and yet as I sit here, in one of my favorite spots on earth, I must say I miss the city. 

After Monday's entry from an Upper West Side coffee shop, Hanley and I met back at her apartment for ecstatic hugs and a brief change before she led me back out onto the streets and down to Riverside Park. Strolling through the park, we caught each other up on recent months and discussed, as we often do, Atlanta versus not-Atlanta, home versus not-home. This chat led us all the way down to the Boat Basin Cafe, where we sat on a large open porch overlooking the Hudson and toasted ketchup and mustard bottles to seeing each other. Appropriate to passing the site of the final scene in You've Got Mail, the conversation meandered towards relationships and specifically to how Hanley and William first met (a beautiful show-mance story). After we finished, it was the subway back to her apartment and an evening of preparation for her auditions the next day. Going over the scripts was a familiar thrill with Han's TV-specific training providing just enough curveballs to teach me a little something about the high wire act a theatre/onscreen actor has to go through.

On Tuesday morning, after sharing the walk to the subway, Hanley and I parted ways, her to a day on the job of auditions and me to meandering the city from that point until I met my friend Laura in the afternoon. I gathered my thoughts in Birch coffee shop, where, just the afternoon before, I had delighted in iced coffee growlers and conversation starting table signs to encourage shared space. Feeling restless, however, I pulled stakes quickly and took the train down to the New York Public Library. Han had mentioned that the reading room was closed for renovations, but the exterior still loomed sufficiently and I briefly walked the lobby feeling, for all the marble and security, like I was back at the Smithsonian.

From NYPL, I began strolling south down 5th Avenue, simply to enjoy the rhythm of the traffic lights and the flow of people getting about their days. When I noticed the avenue's circulation blocking up with tourists (thinking, of course, that I didn't count), I caught on to my surroundings and crossed the street to gaze up at the Empire State Building, where Meg Ryan was held in the clutches of King Kong, only to be rescued by Joe Kavalier and Sammy Clay.

My stroll continued down past the Flatiron Building, where I peeled off onto Broadway and followed that down to my newly-determined goal, the Strand bookstore. Despite pinching my pennies of late, I wanted to buy a book at this bibliophile's mecca and so, after an unfortunately short perusal, I shamelessly picked up Slouching Towards Bethlehem from a display table close to the check-out and more shamelessly accepted the nodding approval of the cashier who said he had it on his list as well. I wonder if his interest also stems from a Buzzfeed list of What Men's Favorite Books Say About Them. Most shameless of all.

At this point, I should mention that the August heat in the city had me feeling disgusted by my own sweat, so once I got to DUMBO (after briefly stopping down at the new Freedom Tower), I decided I would have to further splurge on a new T-shirt so as not to meet a friend after 12 years as some sort of sweat elemental. So fixated was I on my quest for that clean feeling that I walked by David Cross and his dog without once thinking I should say hello.

With a new T-shirt on my back and bluebirds of relief singing around my head, I sat down at One Girl Cookies with a cold brew to engage with my new friend Joan and wait for my old friend Laura. A short time later, the latter walked in bearing the shining smile I remembered from high school and an easy, big city glamour that I did not.

For all of the valid questions floating around about what the internet is doing to social interactions, I find it hard to assign demerits when Laura and I legitimately only got together because Facebook kept us in touch. There's a degree to which Facebook actually educated us in our similarities more and more over the years, having taken the torch from the great blogging boom of Milton High School. Given that, seeing Laura was in some ways the greatest experiment of this Find the Creatives northeastern tour and our conversation did not disappoint. I felt a little maudlin catching her up on my whole artist-escaped-from-perfectly-reasonable-profession tale, but as with so many of these visits, listening to Laura speak of her relentless pursuit of interesting and challenging work and  vibrant, inspiring surroundings made me feel charged up by osmosis. After these long years crunching numbers, I feel as these last few months have been creative rehab.

Of course, our conversation was much more than what-have-you-validated-for-me-lately. It was genuinely a treat to catch up, share stories, and laugh with someone whose voice I hadn't heard in over a decade. Laura led me down along the water beneath the Brooklyn Bridge and showed me some incredibly views of the city, complete with the Statue of Liberty, just beyond the reach of the muggy, overcast haze of the city, lit by some fortuitous pocket of sunlight. With Laura's generously-given free time drawing to a close, we walked back to a subway stop where we parted unceremoniously with a rushed hug as I jumped onto a recently arrived C train. Our last in-person interaction, therefore, was a hilarious mimed exchange through the train windows as Laura realized and communicated to me that I was heading in the wrong direction.

One stop and adjustment later, I actually found myself on a more direct train back to Hanley's neck of the woods (a surprisingly capable bit of NY navigation I will be crowing about for a while). Reunited in her apartment, Han and I ordered thai and chatted briefly prior to my Georgetown get-together. As I told her more than once, I'm happy that Hanley didn't mind us going about separate paths those first few days. In fact, I think one of the reasons this was my favorite trip to New York was due to the time to myself, navigating the subway on my own without being led around by the nose as on past trips. I reached a comfort level that provided a strong base for the next day's excursion and many future visits.

But first, there was a Georgetown gathering! Unfortunately, I am not the best at knowing who is where at this point in their post-Hilltop lives (see also: my friend Cora not even being IN New York anymore) and while we thankfully picked up Liz (Vinci) Sisti last-minute, those who gathered in Chris Hadjuk's Hudson Heights apartment were able to come up with some New Yorkers I'd left out. I hope to catch those folks on a future visit.

Nonetheless, the company that made it resulted in a delightful evening. The night began, as did my entire adult drinking career, with a delicious gin and tonic prepared by Chris Hadjuk, while stories tumbled up and down the Jacob's Ladder of GU theatre history (thirteen years of which were represented by those in attendance). Gathered in the warmth of Chris's living room, we were transported to Burleigh parties (in now insanely priced houses) and backstage antics (including who hooked up on which stages and which stages were lit on fire), with brief time-outs to report on our respective lives since last we met. Time flew, and after a spirited round of Cards Against Humanity (or rather Crabs Adjust Humidity), coaches turned to pumpkins as we hugged goodbye and promised not to let as many years fly by before seeing each other. Marjory Collado treated Jason and I to a cab home, which led to me closing out an epic New York day by hopping out right on Hanley's doorstep and collapsing onto her couch with contented exhaustion.

Still to come: Ten Thousand Villages

Gotham City

This entry comes from the Filicori Zecchini coffee shop at the corner of 95^th and Broadway on the Upper West Side of New York. I’m one of half a dozen patrons united by one long cushioned booth running opposite the chocolate browns and dulled bronze of the counter itself. I’m also trying to keep my attention on the cursor instead of making eyes at the rows of tiny chocolates in the display case, but it may be a losing battle, especially as my iced cappuccino is now a collapsed igloo of foamy ice at the bottom of my cup.

This little snippet of an afternoon comes on the heels of two delicious slices of pizza from Two Boots pizzeria just down the block. I sat with my chosen pies, the Dude and the Tony Clifton, sipping a ginger ale and thinking that Jeff Bridges and Andy Kaufman would be proud. 

It feels nice to have spent the last few hours at a slightly slower pace. Seven-thirty this morning found me boarding a Megabus in White Marsh, MD, my duffel stowed in the rear compartment and my legs bowed around my backpack. I’d chosen a table seat to potentially get work done and because it was the last of the available reserved seats, but upon boarding, I thought I’d made a bit of a mistake. Four people had been allotted maybe two people’s worth of personal space. As the bus started off, however, my seatmate turned away from me to sleep, which left plenty of room, as long as I accessed each of my pants pockets with the opposite hand. I read through to the end of Stephen King’s On Writing, borrowed from Jon Littauer, tearing up at his description of being hit by the car in Maine. Here's a man who has made a career out of suspense and fear, and yet this was a raw, vulnerable account of how the two came into his life in a very real way.

As I hit the last page, New York filled the long, flat bus windows in panorama.  It was a clearer day than it had been when I drove to Boston, and it drew the city in sharper lines and brighter colors. It was postcard-perfect, but instead of “Wish you were here,” the view said “Almost there.”

I must admit, at the risk of offending my Gotham-dwelling friends, I was looking forward to the people much more than the city itself, being one of those people who has written New York off as “too much” time and time again. I’ve loved living in cities, but NYC feels like a city times a city and perhaps it’s that additional geometric layer that stretches my comfort level. Still, you see that skyline and this inspired feeling flows through you. Say what you want about New York, and it surely plays home to some moochers and dilettantes, but it was built and continues to run off of the hardest-working people in just about every profession we as a species have ever thought of.

Of course, as I stared out the bus window composing those thoughts, I inadvertently witnessed to a man grappling a woman to the ground and ripping a bag off her shoulder. It was probably one of the most violent things I’ve ever seen, which speaks more to my experience than anything else. I knew people who were mugged in college and several, including my roommate, who didn’t even get the courtesy of a request before the violence began. But I was never present for it as I felt now, if only through a window. The bus was in motion and people on the street closed in on the situation, but there was still a helplessness, or worse, a complicity, that I carried with me all the way off the bus, through the subway, and up to my friend Hanley’s apartment.  I think I spent the first hour or two up in her cozy nest rebooting, handling some GA to MD business to try and regain my silly sense of control.

But after a few minutes of writing at Hanley’s kitchen table, the sounds and motion beyond the windows called me back out, and now, after some great pizza and strong coffee (and all from one block), I feel like I’ve processed what I saw and am once again open-hearted to this big, mad metropolis. I’m excited to see my friends who call this home, some of whom I haven’t seen in over a decade, and hopeful that surrounding myself with the merry mania of creatives will be as fruitful as it was in Boston.

A Whale of a Tale

I woke up in Somerville, MA after a surprisingly good night's sleep on a futon in a room with no A/C. My hosts, Jon and Dan, milled about the kitchen, the former spooning out yogurt for us while the latter blended himself up a killer-looking smoothie. Jon was preparing for a workday, so I ate quickly and got out of their hair to take away that Guest Vibe.

Google Maps led me on a winding path out of the city and I missed a turn or two along the way. While I'd enjoyed my time in the area so far, it is a tight city for CJ to navigate and I was happy to get her back on the highway. Only about an hour later, I pulled into the low-profile, relaxed city of Gloucester. I found the Seven Seas Whale Watch office and parked in a big open lot beside it. The bay peeked through the scattered buildings and played host to actual fishing boats, while a thick, briny smell washed back over the docks and into town. It struck me as a mixture of Cobh and Stone Harbor, especially once I'd collected my ticket and walked further into town to find hobby shops, used bookstores, and a coffee shop called The Lone Gull that the whale watch receptionist had recommended.

It was about 10 am and I had until 1, so I spent a few good hours in the coffee shop reading Jon's book and people-watching.

Finally, the time neared to set off on the expedition. I returned to the lot, doused myself with sunscreen, unpacked and repacked my bag, and joined the growing line of whale watchers at the dock. I kept to myself in line, feeling a simmering glee that I wanted to preserve. When they let us on, however, I grinned at each crew member before bolting to the empty bowsprit. It was about four feet wide, larger than I expected, but even as the line filed into the boat, I had it to myself except for an older photographer.

I missed the opening announcements due to a call from my new healthcare system (Huzzah!) but tapped back in to hear that we'd potentially be going 26 miles out to sea to look for the whales. It dawned on me that I would actually lose sight of the land for the first time ever. Then, a kind older woman on the crew came up and asked me to briefly step back while she cast off the bow. Despite seeming like someone who, if she worked in an office, would have a candy dish on her cube, her smile turned serious and when the call came, she whipped the thick rope off the dock with just a flick of her wrists and then wound it around two posts before I could tell what had happened. She then smiled again and retreated into the cabin to sell snacks. Baller.

The ride out of Gloucester Harbor was bracing, with the water slashed by the bow and the wind picking up. Our guide Jodi pointed out landmarks on the shore, but I had my eyes set beyond the the Dog Bar Breakwater, waiting to get out onto the unbridled sea for the first time.

As we continued, people began meandering forward, unsurprisingly. The attraction of the bow lies in the open ocean before you, the ability to blank out the world behind, and the feeling of being on the sharpest point of this motorized blade cutting through the water. Leo said it best, I'm King of the World. Hear that, five to ten people who quoted that line that day? LEO SAID IT BEST.

After a significant ride out, perhaps 45 minutes, we had our first sightings. Two Minke whales, one on each side, were spotting swimming quite a ways away from our path. Jodi told us we'd continue on, as the Minkes would avoid the ship and didn't really breach or otherwise surface that often. Still, it was an exhilarating sight to catch such a large wild animal making its way along.

We then settled in for a fairly long period of inactivity. A mother and daughter pair who had spotted the Minkes manned the front of the bowsprit while a tall, pudgy teenager and I split either side. There was no discussion of the division of duty, but it arranged itself silently, as though we'd all received our orders when handed our tickets. By this point, we were far out of sight of land, which turned out to be less of an overwhelming feeling than I expected. There was simply ocean in all directions with only the wake of our boat and the specks of others to break up the natural surface of the water.

Jodi pointed out that another whale watch boat in the distance had found a few whales and said we'd follow up with them later if we couldn't find anything else. Shortly after, we happened upon two whales who were drifting on the surface of the water, their backs like black islands bobbing in the waves. Jodi informed us that they were doing what is called "logging," a form of resting where whales rest half of their brains at a time. These two had formed a temporary association for the purpose as, to my surprise, baleen whales do not actually swim in pods.

We watched the whales, identified as Perseid and Storm, bob and spout for a while before they dove and resurfaced on the other side of the boat. We could see their fins underwater, their tails when they dove, and once one stirred enough to tip his lip up into the air beside us, but never a full breach to get a sense of the full length of them. The size was still very impressive, however, easily the largest animals I've ever seen.

After those two, we switched with the other whale tour and caught up with some much more active whales. Three of them swam through the water, diving deep for fish and returning to the surface. We all ooh'd and aah'd with the spouts and flukes and waited impatiently during each dive until the whales popped up several dozen yards away. It was truly a thrill.

At last, it was time to return, but not before checking one final spot, where we found two more whales. By that point, my brain felt stuffed with the experience and I wanted to be back on shore, so I tucked myself up on a bench on the starboard side, shaded from the now-blaring sun, and read a bit before calling my friend Sophie to finalize plans for the next day's brunch.





Once back in the harbor, we filed off the boat, where I thanked all of the crew for the excellent experience, specifically appreciating the bow crew member who had shown such aplomb in her duties.

The road back to Boston found me a little tired, but I still managed to stop for some dinner at Kelly's Roast Beef, a quick spot with a robust menu. Back in the city, I also grabbed some beers for Jon and I to have that night.

As we had the night before, we spent Tuesday night chatting about life, writing, relationships, and everything else we could think off, this time with cigars and beers in the backyard under a broad-branched tree that protected us from an evening shower.

"I went Skyyyyyydiving"

I decided to include this entry I wrote on a private journal about my first time jumping out of a perfectly good airplane...I was just planning to include it for the experience, but it was fun finding some of the earliest trickles of the raging personal river I find myself on now.

--------------------

December 14, 2014

Today I went skydiving.

It was a long drive down to Thomaston, but music took me down the road well. In fact, with my Maui Jim shades on, Scythian on Pandora, and a date with the sky up ahead, it was one of the more restorative drives I’ve had in a while. 

I got to Skydive Atlanta about half an hour early and, after patiently waiting while a new registration girl learned the ropes, I was ushered into the hangar to wait. The building was buzzing with activity: a muscly dude repacked chutes with occasional grunts along a broad mat stretched across the floor; two jumpers lay on little trolleys discussing formation technique; there were even two or three dogs wandering around snuffling at palms and nudging at helmeted heads. The scattered staff appeared to carry the joie de vivre I'd expected, all adrenaline and “dude” and complicated handshakes.

I watched quietly as a young girl and guy get suited up and have an opening shot to the video of their impending jump. Then they and about half the hangar cleared out to the tarmac, where they filled the small but formidable-looking plane just beyond the open hangar doors. 

When the time came for my training, I expected it to be me and a bunch of others, but my tandem instructor, Noah, simply grabbed me into the preparation room and started giving me the basics one-on-one.

I should say that at no point in the process was I ever truly afraid or doubtful. I hope it doesn’t speak to some deep-seated death wish that I didn’t worry at all about the prospect of disaster. On the contrary, I felt like I spent the training trying with every expression to convince Noah I didn’t need him to reassure me. But still, I listened carefully and when Noah told me the few things I’d have to do (kneel at the airplane door, arch my back when we left, hold my hands up as we fell, and lift my knees as we landed), those responsibilities became the only things I actually felt some stress about. Not "would I die?" but "would I get it wrong?" Noah himself was a delightful skydiving elf, about a foot shorter than me with a surfer’s blonde hair and a great attitude. If I HAD been freaked out, I think he’d have dispelled it rather quickly.

Once geared up, I have to say I felt like quite the bad ass. Whether it’s the full-body jumpsuit or the tightened harnesses (no comment), it just feels like some badass shit is going down. Noah checked the chute and then, quick as you please, led me out to be the first to climb into the now returned and empty plane. The rest of our flight filled out behind me, all single jumpers. The ones near me were particularly kind and reassuring about my first trip and matched my enthusiasm when I told them how excited I was. 

Then, in a surprise thrill I hadn’t considered, we took off while facing backwards, only nominally belted to the plane. I watched as the airfield disappeared below and smiled back at Noah whenever he shouted forward facts and encouragement. 

The first of our fellow jumpers got off super early in an effort to qualify for a certain higher level of certification. Noah said he essentially had enough time to right himself and rip. That was a little terrifying to think about, and I was thankful when he soon afterward clipped himself to me and cinched us together. 

We climbed and climbed until, at last, the door opened again. At this moment, I got to be a part of something cool. Each of the jumpers in front of me turned to each other and started giving a quick handshake, a slip and pound, before turning to another person to do the same. And shortly after I realized what was happening, the four jumpers nearest me offered a hand to do the same. I’m sure it’s all commonplace for them, but it felt like a true bonding gesture, whether it’s meant to convey a shared sense of awesomeness or a tacit recognition that, in a rare, rare instance, we could be the last people someone sees. I don’t mean to be a worrier with the latter…I actually find that explanation more comforting. 

Of course, my pulse did climb as the others started dropping out and Noah pushed us closer to the open door. After everyone else had left, I knelt with him behind me, my knees at the lip of the opening, with only open air beneath us. Then, as he told me he would, Noah rocked me back, forward, back, and then out. I arched back as instructed, while my brain tried to take in the fact that we were flipping through the air at 14,000 feet and looking up at the plane we’d just left. 

The free fall once we righted was thrilling, but also a little intense. It's nothing that would deter me from doing it again, but I definitely felt the air ripping past my neck. All the more reason to shed some pounds perhaps. 

Soon, though, Noah pulled our chute and we came to a slow glide above the world. It was gorgeous beneath us, all green fields and water, blue sky and sun. It was a strange delight to be drifting so high above the world and to be having a conversation with another person.

Noah spun us a few times around, then circled us over the airstrip. My friend Amber had told me to prepare for some deep thinking, and sure enough, I thought, "If I'm not scared of jumping out of a plane, then why the hell should I be afraid of any of the other choices I want to make in life?" I will figure everything out in time. If anything, the drive today made me think about spending my sabbatical out on the road, traveling the highways for days at a time, staying with friends, just making my way through this country. I’m thrilled to try it. 

We came in for an exciting landing back at the airfield, drifting over the plane that had taken us up. As we were climbing, Noah and the others had discussed the fact that I could no longer say I landed in every airplane I ever took off in. That thought charmed me and I almost wanted to stick my tongue out at it as it taxied in…as though it hadn’t intended to release me out the side. 

A few clips and de-gearing later and Noah presented me with my jump certificate…even now I have no idea where it is. I didn’t get a video either. I just waved at him as I left the hangar and got in my car. The purpose of jumping today wasn’t to document it, to prove it to anyone, or to do something with friends. The point was for me to go out into my world and experience it myself. To show myself I could do something. If I learned anything today, it’s that I don’t have a lot of fear in my heart. And that is truly something interesting to find out.

Thanks to Noah Slagle and everyone at Skydive Atlanta!

A Familiar Road

A week and a day after leaving my job of eight years, I pointed my packed up Hyundai Azera (named CJ) northward to make my way to Havre de Grace, where my mother has lived for nearly ten years.

I've been driving between the Mid-Atlantic and Atlanta for a decade, since I spent my sophomore year Spring Break carving a long arc through my friends' schools in the Southeast. That trip was broken up into six hour chunks, so nothing too heinous to do in a day, but it was then that I began to notice my indifference to long car rides. I think I spend enough time mulling things over in my head that having uninterrupted miles before me is like designating the time for thinking, all the while closing the distance between me and people I love.

As I tested my love of the road, those six-hour chunks became a two-day drive to Atlanta after graduation, which then became a one-day drive with my roommate Tom to keep me company, until ultimately I was getting up in Washington and going to bed in Atlanta all by myself. In fact, I even added two extra hours to some trips by cruising out I-66 in the dark hours of the morning to drive along Skyline Drive at sunrise. In summer and in winter, that tradition made for some stunning experiences.

This time, Tuesday, July 14, I got a later start than I have in the past, thanks to some last-minute packing to fill out every inch of the interior besides my seat. The sun was up, if a little shy, and I hit a decent chunk of traffic making my way around Atlanta to I-85N. Soon, though, I was coasting along towards South Carolina with podcasts, my Loaded Questions cards, and a barrage of Diplomacy-related e-mails to keep me company.

As before, the thrumming of the road beneath me sparked my thoughts and, for the first time since I'd left work, I was able to contemplate the notion of being done with a job I'd had for nearly eight years. The vacant space in my mind yawned and echoed; what would I put in the place of daily task lists and interest rate movement? Would I be stress-free or would the open-ended plan of mine keep me up at night?

Thankfully, the blue sky and cottony clouds pulled me back into the present and I took in the trees whipping by with a contented sigh. Regardless of what comes next, I am done with that stage of my life for now and the scenery that had often soothed me from the troubles of work now created a Zen-like calm. 

I had planned to camp overnight shortly after crossing into Virginia to break up the ride into its former six-hour chunks, but reaching that area at 1:30 in the afternoon, I still felt invincible and so decided to soldier on to make it all in one go. I-81 through Virginia can be a bit of a gauntlet, but the weather was gorgeous and one would have to be pretty hardened not to enjoy the farmland and hillsides backed by the strains of Carbon Leaf (which I always load up for these drives).

The last few hours between DC and Havre de Grace proved the toughest, but thankfully the Nerdist podcast got me through, so at about 8pm, I backed up my mother's driveway and pushed down the parking break. I smiled as her garage door opened for her to come out and greet me. On the verge of this big American adventure, it's nice to know that I can still crush 734 miles in a day and add six hours on a whim. This is going to be a fun few months.