Message in a bottle

On this, my 1,335th day since I threw the lines, Left Los Angeles and my old life behind, I had a thought that made me laugh out loud: my original timeline for this trip. What I thought would be a small piece of my story turned into a saga stretching toward forever, and somehow that makes perfect sense. The daydreaming plan was simple: blast around the world nonstop — a “fast lap,” a one-and-done adventure I could tuck neatly onto my life résumé — and call it finished. Not careless, not clueless — just focused on the horizon like a horse with blinders, convinced the only prize was at the finish line. Six months to a year at sea, ignorant to any of the logistics. The charm of it was in its audacity — like deciding to sprint a marathon in flip-flops just to prove you could. Once I started digging into the details, though, my "fast lap” plan collapsed faster than a cheap beach chair. I wanted to actually see a bit of the world along the way — but like most humans my world geography skills were about as sharp as a soggy paper map. Fortunately, I stumbled into a pack of weather-worn, grinning sailors who’d already unlocked the secrets. They whipped out photos like smug magicians pulling rabbits out of hats — turquoise lagoons, volcano silhouettes, waterfalls draped like lace curtains. "I want to go there!" I shouted, jaw unhinged with envy. "Where is there?" And just like that, my world geography improved ten fold and my tidy six-month lap stretched into “two, maybe two and a half years,” and I couldn’t have been happier about it. Cut to Fiji six months later: I’d blasted through Mexico, French Polynesia, American Samoa, and Samoa, chest puffed with progress, with so many experiences behind me and beauty in the rearview, certain I was crushing it. But the chorus from every cockpit and anchorage I zipped through was deafening: slow down, this isn’t a race. I have since learned that “race” is a very subjective word out here. You’re skipping so much good stuff! So my plan mutated again, this time from my “augmented fast lap” to the more common “visa-burner plan.” Stay as long as the stamps allow. Wait for the right weather window. Dance between hurricane seasons like a kid dodging jump ropes on the playground. At three to four years, all of those factors somehow line up quite well. It keeps the boat moving at a good pace but with a ton of amazing stops along the way — like a playlist where every track is a hit. Now, after 28 countries and over 40,000 miles, about four years at sea, three oceans, and one big detour around Africa, I’ve collected a treasure chest of moments — some terrifying, most astonishing, all unforgettable. And here in Panama, I can see it clearly: there was never a finish-line race. This is the Lifetime Plan. The point is, some race it, some rally it, some drift into decades — and four years later, with a beard smelling like diesel and coconuts, I can tell you: it’s not just a journey, it’s a whole world within a world — and the absurdity of chasing it is exactly what makes it worth doing. If I were to give any advice to anyone plotting their own grand escape, it’d be this: plan the technical side like your life depends on it — because it does. Have your redundancies, your tools, your life jackets, your life rafts. That stuff matters. But when it comes to the trip itself? Let it breathe. Let it happen. Don’t strangle it with a schedule or script. Go here, go there, follow the wind, follow your gut. The magic of this whole thing isn’t in checking boxes — it’s in watching the story unfold in ways you could never have planned. Cheers, Brian