3 Weeks...

...and 3 blogs!

Not that I have a whole lot to write about this week. Well, that's not true. There's always something to write about, I just don't feel like talking about some of it, and the rest I'm contractually obliged not to mention. 

That's right, I started working again. Finished my first week back after fourteen months of not working and not getting paid. Haven't been paid yet, but it's going to be nice to see a bank account balance go up instead of down. 

But it's funny, I took a year off, finished my career, wanted to move on to other things, and I find myself doing the same things on the same show, and nothing's really changed. Not even me, at least as far as the job is concerned. Fourteen months, and it's like we loaded out one city last week and loaded in to a new on this week. Sure, there's new faces, but there were always new faces last time around. The show is the same, the cues are the same, and the things that have a tendency to cause problems are still the same. Rectifier faults are awesome. 

This time around, I still have a definite end date, but it's what comes after that is new. Sort of. I'll be finishing out another contract, but this time I don't have any structure. I don't have trainings to finish up, and a boat to race. This time, I have to motivate myself to do this whole writing thing. Chances are, I'm going to be doing that in Las Vegas, because it's the easiest place to go back to and have the sort of lifestyle that will encourage it. And in the meantime, I get to go to a couple more places I've never been. Currently in Nottingham, we head to London, Paris, Oslo, Malmo, Stockholm, Hamburg, Rotterdam, Barcelona, Zagreb, Milan, Birmingham, Glasgow, Belfast, Sheffield, and Manchester. And funnily enough, while I've been to Zagreb, Milan, and Barcelona, I've never been to Nottingham, Sheffield, or Manchester. It's similar to the yer I spent living in Salzburg, where I had to leave the area (Europe then, the UK this time) in order to travel around it. 

And next week, I promise I'm going to start writing writing, and my blog will be all about those trials and tribulations. Probably. 

Barely

Tomorrow would have been the end of the week, and no blog from me. Went to Rome. Y'know, as you do. 

I'd been to Rome before, as part of my study abroad year in Salzburg, and it was just as good as I remember it being. It's a pleasure to wander down the streets, sometimes squeezing past the tables out front of the cafes, sometimes randomly discovering an ornate building that you weren't even looking for. The feeling of age I get when I wander round there is so much more pronounced than when I walk around London, or Salisbury, and maybe that's familiarity with the latter? Or maybe it's because in general the stuff you see in Rome is older than most everything that remains in Salisbury or London. You be the judge. But it definitely deserves the moniker 'The eternal city.' 

And one thing that will probably never change is the people selling you crap on the streets. I remember them from last time, selling souvenirs, cheap plastic trinkets, and all manner of shit nobody needs. One difference, however, is the guys selling selfie sticks. Those didn't exist last time I was in Rome. Selfies weren't a thing, last time I was in Rome, and I kinda wish they still weren't a thing. Sightseeing is a much more tedious affair now that people have a simple and easy way to record their narcissism. Simple and easy, but not quick. It's a bloody selfie, it's going to look at the very least mildly crap no matter how you angle it or pose, so don't obscure the thing you're trying to show you stood in front of, and especially don't take ten shots of you, then four of your friend, then another five of the two of you when other people are trying to take a look at whatever ancient bloody artefact is being obscured by your head.

Rant over. I'm sure I was annoying at some points with my camera, but you know what I don't need? A selfie stick for the DSLR that is held in my hand, thank you very much Mr. street briq-a-brac seller....

So much for the cons of digital photography. I wish I'd have had a digital camera all those years ago on my first trip through Italy. We took a day trip down to Pompeii as well, and while I was there one of the thoughts I had about the place is that it's one of the clearest memories I have of Greg while we were over there. (I wrote about Greg March 2012). And part of the memory is one of the few undamaged photos I have of my time over there is of him, stood hands in his jacket pockets, looking into the camera wit some columns behind him. At least I think it is. Because the nice thing about digital, is that once the photos are taken and saved on your computer (and backed up somewhere), they can't get scratched or torn. And you don't have to go through a stack of pictures that are wrapped in a paper bag inside a plastic container somewhere at your parents house while you work out where you're going to set up your life next. 

So this time around I took the photos, and at some point I'll go through them, and in the back of my mind are the memories of the last time I was there, and thoughts of the people I was there with, most of whom I don't see nearly as often enough as I'd like, and I'm glad I went back to a place, and was able to go with someone special.

Even if she does take bloody selfies with me in them.....

New Beginnings

Is there anything as intimidating as a blank page?

When you’re young, a blank page is something to be filled. And blank pages can be found in the unlikeliest of places; your own skin, the clean shirt your mum dressed you in that morning, and on one occasion, the wall going up the stairs.

But you get older, and the bollockings maybe sink in, and you refine your medium. If I’d have picked any of the others, I’d have been a tattooist, fashion designer, or interior decorator maybe. But I went with a literal blank page, and now I sit here on a computer, a virtual literal blank page in front of me, and I have to start filling it. 

At this point, I’ve been saying I’m going to be a writer for years. Actually done a fair bit of writing (a novel and 3/4 of the sequel, 2 complete (but unfinished) screenplays, several shorts, three tv episodes, two pantomimes, short stories, blog posts, and thousands of Facebook statuses (those count, right?). But it’s all been dabbling. There’s always been an excuse. I’m too busy at work, I’m enjoying a new relationship, I’m sad because the relationship didn’t work out, my laptop got stolen, I’m just not feeling it, I’m sailing round the world. 

That last one has been a pretty decent excuse, to tell the truth. That and the laptop getting stolen are really the only reasons that are valid. The laptop, because, well, nothing to write on, and the sailing, it does tend to get in the way of sitting down and putting pen to paper, or finger to keyboard. And that’s not to say I haven’t been writing while experiencing the wet bits of the world. I’ve written more than eighteen thousand words for the team blog since leaving London last August. It just hasn’t been mine, not really. It’s been a brilliant exercise in discipline, subtlety, and self restraint, but hasn’t necessarily been what I would have written for this site. Not being allowed to use the words ‘shit’ or ‘twat’ definitely limits my vocabulary, and also cuts down on the number of words I could have written by a couple of thousand.

But the race is over; I’ve sailed round the world, forty five thousand miles plus under the keel, and I have my laptop. So while it might take a little while to adjust to being back on land and a somewhat functioning member of society again, and while I’ll actually be starting a job before the end of the month (instead of taking time off to only write, as was the original plan), no more excuses. A blog (of my own) a week, a bit of spit and polish on the completed (but unfinished) screenplays, and come next year, when the tour is done I’ll be comfortably in the swing of this whole writing malarkey that I’ll be able to seamlessly transition into being an unemployed twat with a laptop. 

And use it to maybe write shit that people might find worth reading.

Rio

Today we leave Rio, and begin Race, and Leg, 2. We got here on September 27th, after taking 28 days and a couple of hours to sail from the east coast of the UK. At some point, I'll post the crew blogs I wrote during the crossing on here, but not just yet.

Rio has been an amazing stopover. From the first, catching sight of sugarloaf mountain-- and then catching sight of the real one, because there's a mountain that kinda looks similar when you sail in form the north-- it's surpassed my expectations. Truth be told, I didn't really know what to expect. I know some people from Brazil, but none of them come from Rio and it's only really been on my radar because the race came here. And the touristy things were great, from Jesus with his head in the clouds, to the real Sugarloaf mountain, to the meat... oh the meat! So much meat, and so good too.

But the highlights have been the Samba School, and catching up with a friend from tour. The Samba School was about an hour outside of Rio, in a large building where one of the Samba crews were practicing for Carnaval. They're still in the process of picking dancers and songs and costumes, but it was incredible to see the life and movement and enjoyment even at this early stage. I'm definitely going to have to come back to see Carnaval if that's the rehearsal. 

And then a few nights later, I found out Johnny, one of the blokes I met on Marvel, happened to be in town. He left the show back in December and is usually based in Tennessee, but just so happened to be here and having a grill with his wife's family, and none of them hesitated to make me welcome and feed me beer and meat and tequila. It's amazing to be so welcomed even when language is a barrier and no one really knows what anyone else is saying. I'm definitely going to have to come back.

The hardest part of Rio has been saying goodbye to the crew that are leaving the boat after Leg 1. You spend 28 days in quite close quarters with people, you get close to them. Even having a day off and not seeing anyone from the boat, has been strange. Today we sail away, and those that are still left will watch us leave, other people in their places, and I can't imagine having to do that. I know I'll spend the next few days thinking about them, even as we bond with the new leggers, and get on with the job of sailing as fast and safe to Cape Town, where I get to see my parents and Amy. I can't wait! Just the small matter of the southern Atlantic Ocean to cross...

None

It's here. Today's the day.

Three-plus years on, and it's here. We slip ropes just after 1400, and start our race by passing under one of the most iconic landmarks in London, not to see it again for 11 months and after travelling more than 40000 miles of the world's oceans.

Boat prep is done, both Gosport and London editions. I wrote a London edition blog, but didn't get it posted because time just slipped away. Time filled with so many little things. Hank pulls on foresails. AISs fitted to lifejackets. Leaks hunted down and patched. Bunk assigments, lockers packed, water tanks filled, gear in zip lock bags in dry bags in dry bags.  

Foulies hung up, boots labelled, batteries charged, toilet paper stowed, and all the apples, oranges, and bananas you could want to eat squirreled away. 

Crew brief and Team Garmin brief and crew party. Emergency procedures gone through. The days schedule, and the race schedule, looked at. Racing rules.  

I'm sure there's a thousand things I've forgotten, and a hundred things o haven't said, and tens of things I've packed that I don't need.  

And for all of you been following along with me, thank you. I know in some cases it's been a long bloody time coming, but now it's here. And this time next year it'll all be over, and you won't have to hear about the boat race any more. At least, the prep. You'll just have to put up with the stories. 

You can follow the race at clippers website, clipperroundtheworld.com. Read team Garmin's blog, also on the website. And see you in Rio.

Ten

I chose not to deliver the boat to London. I wanted to go through things one last time, the bag I've got ready of replacement stuff that my folks will hopefully get out to CapeTown, the other bag of stuff that I'm not going to see for a year, and maybe enjoy one last definite sleep in a bed, decent Internet connection, and scalding, needle - jetted shower. 

Instead, I took photos as the boats left Gosport. They've been such a familiar sight in and around the Silent for the last few months, but seeing them all lined up, mains hoisted, was something different. Team Garmin isn't the only boat, and the people I've started building relationships with are not the only people. There's 690 of us. 

But she's my boat, and they're my people. She's pretty to me; I suppose in much the same way that no parent finds their own baby ugly (and there are ugly babies out there), but her lines, her colours, even the crew I suppose....

Wednesday, a day of rest. Last one for the foreseeable future. And just as well, from about noon onwards it rained. Real rain, not the typical wet sky that England spends about a third of the time afflicted by. Netflix was watched, and bags were packed. 

Took the train up from Gosport this morning. It's a journey I've become so used to in the past three years, to the point that I didn't even glance up as we passed battersea power station. And now I'm sitting in St. Katherine's docks, starting point for the fleet. There's flags up, and bunting, and info points and a tent. A stage is going up behind me. And there's berths for twelve yachts, currently empty, soon to be filled, and to quote my favourite line from Braveheart (please read out loud in your best Scots accent): "Sure as shite we didnae get dressed up for nothin'".

Prep Week Gosport Edition

How do you get ready to sail a 70’ boat around the world?

Organised chaos.

To be more precise, how do you get a 70’ boat ready to sail round the world?

Answer’s still the same. There’s ropes to replace, fittings to check, winches to service, more ropes to replace, leaks to patch, fans to fit, sail ties to make out of the old ropes you’ve replaced, sails to bring aboard, things to clean, heads to fix, computers to update, and a hundred other little jobs.

And the food. Oh, the food. Food enough for 21 people, burning on average 5000 calories a day, for 28-35 days. All parcelled up in bags within bags within dry bags. Once it’s packed, it’s got to go somewhere. Under the floorboards, in cubby holes, and all with a plan as to what you’re going to use which days, and where it is so you can actually get to it.

Don't forget, if you're taking that much food, you need a certain other supply that's almost as important. And they take up room. Along with kitchen towels, and cleaning supplies, and medical supplies, and spare parts for the boat, we probably sit several inches lower in the water than we did at the beginning of the week. 

But she's ours now. Getting to know her like that, fixing and maintaining and replacing and cleaning, and you start to have a connection to the boat, CV 20, Team Garmin, that will only get stronger in the coming year as we sail her, and she takes us, forty thousand miles round the world. 

31

Where has the time gone? Looking back through my posts, the first numerical headline I had was 999. 999 days until the day I'd picked to finish work, up and move back the the UK, and get ready for the clipper race. 

Technically those 999 days were up back in mid-June, because that's when I planned to quit and we didn't know the race start date. But 999 days is quite a long time apparently, and things can change quite a bit in that time. I changed jobs, twice. I didn't beg anyone for any money to pay for the thing, because along with those job changed came pay increases and bill decreases. 

But 31 days. One month. 

Shit. 

It's really real now. Three levels of training under my belt, one more to go, couple weeks of boat prep, and apparently I'm helping deliver our boat up to London ready for the race. 

Our boat. Garmin. If we get lost, we're probably not doing our sponsor justice.....

I get to meet her on Monday. CV20, Tram Garmin, Team Ash. Spend a week bonding with her and some of the team, and then I'm ready to sail around the world. For a certain amount of ready.

Because now it's here, I'm starting to realize there's no such thing as ready. Not really. Do I have enough gear? Do I have the right gear? Did I change my mailing address? Did I give mum all the access to the accounts she might need? Did I say hi and bye to the people I needed to?

Did I buy enough merino wool??

Well, we'll see. And you'll see too, because I'm signed up as one of the media crew members on board Team Garmin, so if I can't coerce anyone else on board to write up a blog, I'll be responsible for getting that out. Probably won't be posting it here, but links and things to follow for sure.

Thirty One. Bloody hell.

Unemployed

I'm unemployed for the first time since May 2004. It's deliberate, and I've been planning on it for three years, but it's a strange feeling. 

I'm not going to earn a paycheck for a year. I haven't gone that long since 1999, when I was studying in Europe. It's a weird thought. I know I'm luckier than some, people who have lost their jobs, or can't work, and in my case it's purely by choice, but somehow it feels like I'm not being a proper adult, walking away from all my responsibilities.

Except I don't have any. No responsibilities. No car payments, no mortgage, no student loans or credit card debt or alimony. No Clipper payments. Only my cell-- sorry, mobile phone, bill, and $7.99 a month for netflix. The mobile is going away in July (so if you want to chat before then and get your mid-atlantic accent fix, do it before 15th July), and I doubt the boats have decent enough wifi for me to stream any more episodes of Spartacus, so those'll be gone too before long.

84ish

84 days 'til the boat sails. More or less. The race itself starts the following day downriver, because 12 70' sailboats starting a race at Tower Bridge is a little impractical. And it's 83 days if I were in the UK right now. 

So 83 days. A count that started at four figures is down to two. And of course I'm leaving everything til the last minute. Wouldn't get it done otherwise. Signed up for a lasik exam with weeks left on my health insurance. Got to get yellow fever jab yet. Decided today, with the scripts I've been 'working on' stalled, that I'm going to revisit a short I wrote a couple years back and rewrite it as a feature length movie. Only 90 pages to go! Completely doable if I write a page and three lines every day for the next 83 days! On top of which I have friends to see in Vancouver, BC, Portland, Seattle, and if time and funds allow, Vegas. 

Funds. 15 days left of earning those. Fifteen days of being able to buy all the merino wool I want, of not worrying about the cost of food, or amazon shipments, or my cell phone plan.

Cell phone. Five weeks of having a cell phone. I mean an actual permanent number. Five weeks of calling it a cell phone, it's a mobile back home.

Back home. Five weeks til I move back home. One way ticket. First time since 1995. And while it'll only be six weeks of being back home before the boat sails, it'll be so busy with training and visiting family and being cheap and not travelling cos what happened to train prices since 1995?

Anyway, wasting time. I've got a bloody script to write!

Sleep.

"You'll sleep when you're dead," some people say.

"You'll sleep when you're dead tired," is more accurate.

i've always had a problem with sleeping. From when I was young and would hide under the covers with a book and a torch (eventually mum and dad worked out why none of the torches ever had charged batteries), to University working a job from 1am-7am and only sleeping for a few hours a day, it's never come easy to me. 

And then the internet happened, and took the place of the books and torches of yesteryear. Six hours of sleep a night, if lucky. Reading articles that would be there in the morning but just had to be read now cos the page was already loaded, damnit.

And now, clipper is happening. If the conditions are anything like last week on my level 2 training, there won't be much reading. There's no internet. Some days I'll be working 1am, and some days I'll be trying to sleep. Trying being the operative word. Maybe I'm afraid I'll miss something. Maybe I'll get used to the rocking of the boat and the sound of the wind and the sails and the waves and the crew members. And maybe I'll just sleep when I'm dead tired. Either way, it's closer now, and sleep is more precious, so if I choose to sleep instead of hanging out, it's nothing personal, it's a small attempt to get ahead of the game and not die of exhaustion too early in the race....

Crazy

Nuts. Awesome. Jealous. Insane. Brave. Stupid.

I've been called all of these things in the past three years. In the three years since I applied, interviewed, and was granted a berth on the Clipper 15-16 Race. I've been asked why I'm doing it, if there's room on the boat, what we get for winning, if there's women on board, do we stop, where do we sleep, and other questions I don't remember or have blocked for my own sanity. 

I've questioned myself. Am I doing the right thing? Should I be doing it? Do I want to? What could I do with the money instead of running away for a year? The level one training was brilliant, and tough, and definitely put me out of my comfort zone, and all of a sudden I actually knew what I was asking for. 

But that was so long ago. Eighteen months. I met three other people doing various legs of the race, and a Facebook group was started, but in those eighteen months things have been surreal. I quit my job, moved to Russia for four months and worked on one of the biggest shows in the world. I came back and went straight on tour, living out of a suitcase and in various hotel rooms, all the while with the race in the back of my mind.

Did I still want to do it? I was out of my rut, and no mistake. So did I need something life-changing, something to force me into living again? Going on tour showed me I could still go out and learn something new and meet new people. It got me out from behind a desk, and made me aware that I might not be the cold emotionless bastard I suspect myself to be. Am I just doing the race now because I've been talking about it for so long and could never live it down at this point if I pulled out?

And then this past Saturday, I found out the Skipper and met some of the crew I'll be working with, living with, eating and arguing and laughing and crying with, and it makes sense. I met a bunch of people who have been going through the same things I have, answering the same questions (asked by other people and themselves), ready to take time out from their lives and do something incredible and challenging and way beyond their comfort zones, and it makes sense. There are people out there like me. 

And six hundred plus are with me on this, and fifty of them are literally on the same boat. And for the next year, and possibly for a long time after that, those fifty are my crew, and my friends and family, and they're all just as crazy as I am.

Terry Pratchett, Doorman.

How do you put in words what someone means to you, someone who has been a part of your life since you were 12, but you've only met once and only exchanged a few words with?

There are tears in my eyes. The world is a different place today. It's been a while coming, longer than any of us could have hoped, but Terry Pratchett died today. Everyone knew it was coming...well, everyone knows death is coming eventually for us all. But since his diagnosis of early onset Alzheimers it was tangible. It was an inevitability that made me wonder "is this his last book?" every time a new one was released.

I couldn't tell you the first time I picked up one of his books. I can tell you which one though. It was Mort, and I was hooked. I went through every single thing I could find at Salisbury library, until there weren't any others. He'd only written fifteen Discworld novels at this point, the slacker. And then I found out he was releasing a new book, the first since I'd started reading him. And he was coming to Salisbury for a book signing. 

I walked down to the bookshop on Fisherton St, just past the bridge, with a £20 note clutched in my hand. I don't remember the name of the bookstore, but it's gone now, a vodka bar inhabiting the space. But back then, it was small rooms linked together with smaller staircases, and books and the smell of books everywhere. As I neared the shop, I see someone who looks familiar coming from the opposite direction. We got to the shop at the same time, and he held the door open. I thanked him, and went in, thinking 'nah, that couldn't be him.' I spent several minutes trying to decide which books to buy with my riches. Reaper Man of course, it was my favorite at the time. But 3 more paperbacks, or the new release in hardback?

I went with the hardback. Soul Music. Stilld doubting my choices, I went to where Terry Pratchett was sitting.

And it was the same person who held the door for me.

Immediately, I was embarrassed. Who was I that he held a door open for me? I stammered my name, he signed them both, stamped them, and then I hurried back to my grandfather's just down the street. 

I've read and reread both of them so much they're like old friends. The dust jacket is long gone from Soul Music, and the  pages of Reaper Man are as soft as feathers from repeated thumbing. 

Those books, and indeed all his his satire, was a gateway drug. An addiction I couldn't, didn't want to shake. He got me hooked on Fantasy. The Classics. Myth. Critical Thinking. The Power of Words and their importance. And Writing.

The second thing I wrote was a conversation between Death and an unnamed person. His fault. But when I forgot about it for years, rediscovered it, and after cringing through the terribly clumsy thing, it made me think about going further. Anthropomorphically personifying maybe a bunch of other things. My first real short story, The Undiscovered Country, was an actual attempt. And it led to others, most of which haven't seen the light of day, and probably never will, but they're getting me to where I want to be so that's okay. One of them became a short story became a trilogy (which is actually almost two thirds written, but crap and needs work). One is a short screenplay, and I like to think he'd appreciate it. 

But he's gone, and I lament my laziness, my assumption that I've got all the time in the world to get my arse in gear. There's no way to let him know I appreciate everything he wrote and shared. There's no way to say "Here, Sir. Terry, I wrote this and, well, once you held a door open for me and it's crap, but, well, here."

It's his writing. I'd have been a fan regardless of him holding the door open for me in 1994 or not. But there is that one moment, forever etched into my mind, and gods I'm going to miss him.

In Which The Almost Author Laments Time Lost

When it comes to writing, what is it?

What is it that makes me stare at a started document for all of five minutes, then open a video game but, and this is the important part, not close the document, just in case I get some sort of random inspiration gleaned from taking over another continent in Civ IV? 

If it's minimized and not closed, then I'm not done writing for the day. If I'm not done writing for the day, it's not a waste. 

And what is it some days a page, two pages, or five, just comes and sits there, black on white, asking 'why is this so bloody hard the rest of the time?'

While my laptop getting stolen in Brooklyn last August was a traumatic experience, in that I lost so many photos and things I'd been working on, I'm beginning to think it wasn't necessarily so bad. Now, that's not to say I'd like another occurrence, because it really does suck, but because of it, I've had to scramble. Scramble to find what I have saved elsewhere, what I can still remember or work on or re-write. 

And it's depressing, in a good way. See, I have tonnes of stuff. But time has become misleading, and what seemed a few years ago is actually 2008. That's not a few, as least as far as a human lifespan is concerned. But rooting around my scattered hard drives, reading those accusing 'created in 2008' timestamps, I can't think of where the time has gone. Is it because I lost inters in writing? Is it because other things took priority? 

No clue. All I know is this entry is part of an attempt to kick my own arse into gear (again; I'm sure I've written more than one entry attempting same). This entry is reminding me that I have a bunch of short stories that are too short, characters that deserve to finish their narratives, and fewer years to do it in than I did in 2008. 

But maybe the intervening years were necessary. Looking back on some of it, the intent is good but the writing needs work. The ideas are there, the.... the.... y'know, the thing that means you use words lots.... isn't. I'm a different person now than I was then, and obviously that guy from several years ago just wasn't committed enough to follow through. 

Am I now? We'll see. I gave commitment a go. Was pretty okay with it. I committed to leaving everything behind for a year and sailing round the world, and that's still on the books. So maybe I'm over the fear of commitment, and I can finally commit to the Godwinsons, Mike and Sarah, the villagers of Hamlin, Saelle and Jenner and Bryan and that bottle of Louis and Sophie and Inspector Perratt and Brokes and his team. And myself.

That said, this is it for this entry. It'll be posted, and I'll open up a half-finished document and stare at the screen and slowly creep through one of the above characters life, letter by letter and word by word and page by page, until I have nothing more to say and they can be introduced to the world. 

182 Days. Half a year. And so much more.

Unlocking my phone for international travel. Eating (slightly) better. 

Hydration. Showering less. Buying more merino wool (I might have an addiction).

Looking at myself and thinking I should really start working about fitness, but the bed is just so warm and comfortable this week, and gods know THAT'LL go away soon.

Should I buy my nephew a map or a globe to keep track of where I am?

Hair needs to be cut. Chopped off. Shaved, but not too soon because I like having hair, and not too late because I'd burn my scalp.

Unsubscribing from emails. 

Shots shots shots. Of the tetanus, yellow fever variety. And I need to get my eyes did.

Taxes for this year, taxes somewhat prepped for next year.

And goodbyes. Not yet, but they're coming. And soon. In person hopefully, although with such a scattering of friends across six continents (could one of you PLEASE move to Antarctica?), it won't be as noticeable that I'm gone. I don't get to see people as regularly as I'd like. And waiting a year or more between visits is what constitutes normal for me. 

Before all that, it's luggage truck day. I drop my luggage off and say hello to it next city. Phoenix. And more luggage and more comforts than I'll be taking with me in 182 days. 

What a difference....

....a year makes. This year for my birthday, I was lazy. And hung over. I was forced to go out the night before, against my will, and made to consume copious amounts of several different types of beverage. So yeah, nothing much happened. 

The year before, for my birthday, I got a root canal from a Russian dentist in Sochi. 

But now, a decade? That makes a hell of a difference. Ten years before the root canal, I rented a 42' Catalina sailboat with a 11 friends, and pottered around the British Virgin Islands just outside of Tortola. It was a brilliant day, we were all young (except for Captain Jurgen, whom I suspect was born at 50), and nobody gave a shit about anything but enjoying ourselves and enjoying the perks that life has to offer when you're 24, getting paid, and in quite nice places. Snorkelling, jumping overboard at full motor to freak the crap out of my girlfriend at the time (she made me pay for it later), sunbathing, drinking and eating (but mostly drinking), and thinking about the sailboat "I could get used to this."

A year later, I was living in Las Vegas, didn't have many friends, didn't have a girlfriend. I think I probably went to PT's on Silverado Ranch with Scott. So quite a bit of a difference there. 

And then Sochi. And then This year.

But next year. Next year. 

I don't know where I'll be next year. I don't know if we'll be at sea, or in port, but I'll be on another sailboat, I'll be with friends again (unless the work pool comes true and I get hoofed overboard at some point before then), and I'm really looking forward to the huge difference that this year is going to bring. 

It's starting to feel more real now. I sent off my last payment cheque over the weekend, so assuming the exchange rate doesn't do any obscene gymnastics (which it's started doing, thanks Greek election), I'm paid up and official. I've got my flight for crew allocation day, I can air miles my flight for race start, and I'm trying to decide if I need a dry suit that I can buy for a discount until the end of this month. I know some of the ports, and I'm talking to my parents about where they're going to meet me and when (South Africa, and when I leave and we work hard to cross the Southern Ocean, they're going to go on Safari. Bastards). I'm starting to coordinate with friends who are scattered across the planet and see if I go close enough to meet up with them. I'm looking at travel visas, and shots for yellow fever and tetanus and a couple others. I'm seriously thinking that at some point soon I really swear it this time guys, I'm going to start getting in shape......

So I guess this post is stupid. Yeah, a year makes a difference. And obviously twelve will make a difference (twelve being the jump from sailboat birthday to sailboat birthday). But it's just worth being aware that things will inevitably change. People get old, people move on, and that's as it should be. Because I'd hate to still be stuck in a fucking dentist in Russia getting a root canal. 

And for those of you wondering about my birthday, yeah, it was last week sometime.

Friends

Deciding to leave a place you've lived for a while is quite a choice. Living in Vegas I'd made some pretty good friends over the years, and saying goodbye to them was the hardest part of leaving. Well, them and maybe the kitchen and pool. But hey, why have a kitchen or a pool if not to have friends over.

Anyway. I miss them. Some nights all I want to do is meet up with them, talk a bunch of shit, devour a bucket of gold fever wings, or shoot some darts. 

But the thing about friends, real friends, no matter how close is that they never really go away. And the thing about coming on tour is that I'm reminded of that more than ever, as I have an opportunity to reconnect with friends I haven't seen in years because of geography and life happening. 

It's an amazing thing to meet up after however many years, and talk a bunch of shit, devour some country fried ribs or Chicago style ribs. Catch up with what's gone on in their lives, and brag about your own (sorry. One of my resolutions would be to be more humble, but I'm too immodest for resolutions). It's good to see that you're not the only one who hasn't figured out this whole adulthood thing out just yet, and also you're not the only one who somehow in the years between then and now got a little fatter and greyer and wrinkled and responsible. Those things are missed if you always see the same people, as you grow old together. The secret is we all grow old together, just sometimes it's together apart. 

This next year is going to be an interesting one. A strange one. I'm going to disappear more than I ever have before, and if you ask around that'll be the constant theme in a lot of my friendships, that one day I'm just not there (physically, I like to think. I'm always there in my head and my heart). But this next year it'll be a real disconnect as there won't be much of an electronic leash as I've had the last few years. It'll be impossible to go out for an evening, talk a bunch of shit, devour some anything, and I reckon darts are way out (can't afford the weight allowance).

So we'll just have to save that for after. And in the meantime, you know what? Friends are pretty fucking awesome, and cheers for being my fucking awesome bunch of friends.

And also reading the bollocks I write when I'm drinking 

Oops

So when I said every week, of course I meant fortnightly. Or just didn't have much to write about last week.

Which of course is bullshit. I'm travelling around the US, a different city every week, working on a live show. There's always something to write about. It's just whether I'm allowed to write about it.

I've been pretty good at censoring myself when it comes to the shit I post online. Not when it comes to swearing, obviously. But I mean keeping work out of it, and the older I get keeping my private life out of it. Problem is, that doesn't leave much else to write about, especially when the work takes up 70 or so hours a week, and my private life takes place mostly online (read into that what you will...)

And speaking of private life online, there used to be this thing called adult friend finder (and hello spambots in the comments). It still existed, but I remember when everyone I knew who knew about it thought it was a skeezy way to meet and hook up with people. So it's basically tinder but a website. But as soon as there's an app for it, it becomes socially acceptable? I don't understand. 

I've been up since earlier than I go to bed half the time. 16 hour work day, no biggie, but I'm probably just a bit delirious and definitely a bit 'get off my lawn.'

Night.

Every week. Promise. The ten pages, I might have to take that one back. How does ten lines sound?

Not Much To See Here

For now. But might be that'll change. I was putzing around, adding some photos, and realized the last thing I actually posted was back in June. But if you could see the drafts, oh, you would... actually only see two half-finished word fumblings.

But I need to try and make a commitment. To myself. To stop sodding around and actually write. Here and on the myriad projects I keep talking about but never seem to get to the position to share or sell or stash away so my ancestors (meaning the offspring of my sister so far) can be wealthy decades from now. 

So here it is. One blog post a week. This will be more or less possible depending on the accessibility of internet at the various hotels and arenas I now spend the majority of my time in.

And words. A word count a week. Now this is trickier depending on what I'm working on, cos the formatting of a script means you can accomplish much more with fewer words. Maybe pages would be a better count. Ten pages a week? Five? 

Sod it. Ten. If I don't push myself, I'll be a hundred talking about all the writing that I used to do, while technology will have passed me by (as it so nearly recently did) and I won't be able to access any of it.

Of course, Starting next week. It's Friday already.

Some Days

A week and a half ago, I woke up in a bit of a mood. Just one of those meh mornings, when you're apathetic about getting out of bed. But I'd been thinking about going to a lake and looking for gators, so after grumbling to the pillows for a while, I headed out.

Went to a place called Myakka River State Park. It's only 25 minutes away from where we're staying, and I timed it so I'd get there half an hour before the guided airboat ride. Ticket bought, waiting in line, ended up sitting next to a Scottish couple when we finally got on one of the "oldest and largest airboats in the world." 

There were three seats right in the front of the boat, so that's where we ended up. And brilliant seats they were. instead of having to look through the boat from side to side to see anything, it was all there for us to see. The alligators doing their celebrated 'floating log of death' impressions (apparently there's between 500 and 1000 of the buggers in the lake). Anyway, between the chatting and the gators and a Bald Eagle trying to steal an Osprey's fish, it was a good hour.

After the boat, a couple more gators - one on the river bank about 20' from me, and another in the water trying to steal fish from a fisherman. 

And then to a 'birdwalk.' It's basically a walkway, like a pier, just not over the water cos the level of the lake is a little low. Not much going on, until two elderly gentlemen asked me if there was anything going on (it's amazing to me the number of people assume I'm a professional photographer based on the size of my lens....). 

Eddie and Dan. Eddie is from Jersey, in his sixties, tanned and sun-beaten. He's been retired ten years, but occasionally drives coaches for visiting pro sports teams. He told me about the time he saw two guys killed on some dock in Brooklyn, 45 years ago, with .25's behind the ear. Dan is from Wisconsin, was in the merchant marines, and made a concerted effort to lay his way around the world. Likes to sail, and was wearing the same type of Tilley hat I was. 

We must have talked out there for an hour. Talked about travel, and watched the Ospreys dive for fish, and I learned about how easy it was to steal shit from dockyards before container shipping was invented. Just complete randomness, three random stories coming together for the blink of an eye.

Episode two was forty miles away. Driving along Longboat Key, a random stop for something to eat. First meal of the day, I realized as I looked for somewhere to park. The only space I found was designated for the Bridge Street Bistro, so that's where I ended up eating. 

Half price drinks and appetizers, and a conversation with Dan about how he ended up working there (his own business didn't do well), how much he enjoyed it (loves the area but misses his wife and kid, who live in Montana as she has benefits with her company and his kid just graduated high school), and how long he plans to be there (until he can have his own restaurant). Talked to a couple who were there on vacation, convinced them to go diving and not worry about sharks (because sharks are one of the coolest things about diving). Another couple who own and run a different restaurant around the corner (and I think it says a lot about the place that other restaurant owners go there for happy hour). We bullshitted long enough to get through happy hour and for the kitchen to open proper, and the main course was gorgeous. I'd eat there again if we were here longer.

After food, I figured I should probably head back, get to a mirror, see how badly I was burned from all the outsideness of earlier in the day. But on the way back I got distracted by a movie theatre, and got there just as the movie I wanted to see was starting previews. So I saw Tom Cruise get schooled on how to be a badass by Emily Blunt. And after that, made it back just in time for the opening credits of Game of Thrones, Caste Black Battle Edition. 

And I wasn't even burned. 

Here's the thing. At first I was a little bummed that no one really seemed interested in going with me to the park. And about the time I got there I realized it was okay. And as the day progressed, it was better than okay. I wouldn't have had the day I had if I'd been with someone I knew. The random meetings, the conversations of the day, the perfect pace that was just enough to relax and experience everything, and make it back in time to see Edge of Tomorrow AND Game of Thrones. 

So sometimes, if I don't want to hang out and do anything with you, it's personal. Personal from my point of view. I need a personal day, a day to just go out and remember why I like to travel, and why I'm going on tour, and why I'm looking forward to being in a different city each week. Because now I'm looking forward at some of the cities, and thinking about what I should do there, and which places I want to go out and do something on my own without seeing a single bugger I've ever met before or will ever see again. And I won't take it personally if you do the same. Get out there, meet some random people, have conversations, share stories, and remember that despite all the horrible shit going on in the world, strangers don't necessarily hate strangers. Some days it's hard to remember that, so it's up to us to remind ourselves.