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I write to serve, not to impress; it’s the same way I live my life. Simple, humble and always to the point. I drink the water everywhere I go, I’m sure I have more parasites than capital hill. All I can Say is thank god for my Terry thermal kilt. At the edge of the woods on my hands and knees in the cold sand with smoke wafting through the air. The kilt pulled up around my waist while I projectile vomited all night long from both ends while trying to defend my tent from the raccoons. Those little rat bastards are relentless and gave me a run for my money trying to steal my fruity snacks. On this night it was from smoke poisoning.

Sailing into Panama was the second sickest I’ve ever been in my life. If it wasn’t for the worst case of montezumas revenge it surely would have been sea sickness from the passage from hell. I spent 36 hours Straight near death at the helm because knock on wood I don’t get sea sick, my crew would have had to die to get any better. As soon as the boat was secure I announced that I would never sail again and was leaving. I’ve said it before, sailors have the shortest memories.

Back in the tent curled in my down western mountaineering bag my body was in uncontrollable convulsions. My dexterity was so far gone I couldn’t zip the tent. This may sound like hell but it beats the shit out of the snow blowing sideways past my deck while I’m not on the Baja divide. I should be pedaling across the border today.

My feet are burning from running around barefoot in the snow, the wind is blowing, it’s a tempest. I am the eye of the storm, the calm, potential energy ready to go kinetic in a nuclear fission with the flip of a switch. It’s cold as hell but I’m warm in my wool onesie now soaked from making snow angels. My long hair frozen and caked with frost swims with the wind fanning like kelp in a running tide, feral, wild, free…

I get a text from my brother “do you have enough red wine?” My plate is full, I may not be where I was heading but it feels weird to be living after all the drama of the fire. It was a close call but they all are. The life of a nomad is a dangerous journey yet far safer from the stress of rush hour traffic and the zombies of the cities. I’m feeling pretty fortunate these days but also restless, I won’t be working though the winter. The only question is where and when.

I’m willing to push my bike through every inch if I have to. The divide is all I can think about, sailing season is months away but it’s perfect cycling weather south of the border. I need a few new stories, they are all out there I just have walk out my door, although I am ordering bottom paint before I close my eyes just in case…

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