THE AMAZING JOURNEY

True Story of a Father and Son’s Odyssey Around the World

Copyright © 2015 Grady Hicks

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cover and Interior design by Ted Ruybal

Manufactured in the United States of America

For more information, please contact:

Wisdom House Books

www.wisdomhousebooks.com

Paperback ISBN 13: 978-0-9864208-0-1

Hard Case ISBN 13: 978-0-9864208-1-8

ISBN: 9780986420832

LCCN: 2015902410

BIO026000 BIOGRAPHY & AUTOBIOGRAPHY / Personal Memoirs

TRV011000 TRAVEL / Special Interest / Family

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

www.theamazingjourneybooks.com

Dedication

To Belinda, my wife & best friend.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Introduction

Day 1:
Phileas Fogg and Passepartout Set About

Day 2:
The Highs Are High; The Lows Are Low

Day 3:
Time Sure Flies When You’re Having Fun

Day 4:
But It Was Just Yesterday

Day 5:
Wide Open Spaces in Far Away Places

Day 6:
A Good Workout Is Good for the Soul

Day 7:
Save the Kingdom

Day 8:
Planes, Trains and Automobiles

Day 9:
You Leave Me Breathless

Day 10:
A Lost World Soon Discovered

Day 11:
Will You Go the Distance?

Day 12:
Occam’s Razor

Day 13:
Testing Pre-Trip Work Outs

Day 14:
The Other Side of the World Is No Place for Homesickness

Day 15:
What Goes Up Must Come Down

Day 16:
A Bad Day to Have Acrophobia

Day 17:
A Chance to Give Back

Day 18:
Land of the Living Museum

Day 19:
Touch a World Removed

Day 20:
Walk Among an Ancient Culture

Day 21:
An Economic Engine for Future Children

Day 22:
A Side Journey within the Trip

Day 23:
What’s Your Statement of Love?

Day 24:
A History of the World

Day 25:
Slingshot the Gap

Day 26:
A Day of Enlightenment

Day 27:
Mickey or Remy?

Day 28:
All Good Things Must Come to an End

Epilogue

About the Author

Acknowledgments

Crafting this book was the legwork of many, all of whom I owe a debt of gratitude far beyond this simple thank you. For now, though, let me introduce the editing masters, those grasping my vision and the supportive family who allowed this whole odyssey to take place.

The Real Pro’s

Bringing our “Days” from rough draft to polished form was made possible by four accomplished writers, each with talents different than the other.

First was Kath Lockett, who demanded expressive writing and “More detail!” Then came Kristine M. Smith, connecting with me in a Zen sort of way, further refining my often scrambled dialogue. Bill Greenleaf expected a more simplistic, conversational style; and finally the ever-so-patient Carmen Goldwaith, who coached technique while schooling me on the writing industry. I could write a chapter on each.

Superlative Guides & Route

The bulk of our trip was planned alongside Asia TransPacific Travels, specifically Rebecca Marzarro. After one email Rebecca understood following tour bus routes was out of the question. Unusual moments were made possible through her long-standing relationships throughout Asia. Top-notch guides fluent in western language and customs gained us access into places rarely observed by visitors. These connections allowed many of the journey’s grandest moments to develop.

A Family’s Unconditional Love

Without our family support, this story would have been about camping around Texas instead of the Himalayas. As mentioned throughout, my wife Belinda’s selfless compassion allowed her son to gain real-world insights which he is sure to carry for a lifetime. My brother Hunter coordinated hundreds of technical details absorbing months of planning and countless hours behind the scenes all without uttering a single complaint.

My grandmother, Thelma (Suzi) Arendale (affectionally known as “Mimi” throughout the family and to all friends) introduced me to travel at the age of twelve. During my teenage years, we would take seven major trips together, exploring eighteen countries, culminating with a 23-day European graduation trip of my own (which included my girlfriend and now wife, Belinda). Even though she passed away in 2005, those perspectives introduced to me early now ripple far and wide throughout her great-grandchildren.

The Silent Traveler

I’d be remiss omitting the Journey itself–that mystical unknown which seemed to guide our travels into wondrous situations. Known by many names for a variety of reasons, passage through several life-alternating moments impossible to plan happened almost daily. With such introductions, I suppose the decision is now ours on the best usage of these new understandings.

A True Companion

Finally, a special thanks to my son Austin. Many times teenagers would rather hang out with friends all summer than be stuck with a parent twenty-eight straight days. Not this eighteen year-old. He never flinched or carried-on about early mornings or long travel days; his manner remained thankful and appreciative. The thought of traveling still further with him–side by side throughout my coming years–excites me far beyond any business accomplishment I once believed as life’s greatest reward.

Introduction

During the summer of 2011, I wondered what type of family trip to plan before our oldest son Austin went off to college the following year. My wife Belinda, in the most unselfish way, came up with a unique idea. Instead of suggesting that the five of us go somewhere, why not just have the two of us, father and son, set off and have a really great adventure.

So Austin and I sat in the backyard discussing where he might want to go or see. Ever humble and appreciative, he never asked for anything expensive or specific, or even stated clearly what his dream trip would be. Even after some prompts, Austin remainained satisfied with any gift. Knowing I would need to take the lead, I began to think.

As a family, one of our favorite TV shows has been CBS’s The Amazing Race. Whenever we watched, everyone played along, wondering how we would cope while attempting the different challenges faced by each competitive team as they raced around the world. Then it dawned on me: in preparation for college and life beyond we would make up our own trip full of adventure–really see the world; seeking authenticity as we walked among as many cultures as possible. After all, my son would certainly continue to grow up with other countries’ influence as the world becomes increasingly connected.

Over the next couple of months he and I planned our own ‘round-the-world tour naming ours The Amazing Journey. Only the two of us knew the route. We told no one. Not even our family. Instead, we set up a website for family and friends to follow. At 6 a.m. each morning the site would reveal our secret locations and what had to be accomplished for the day.

With the around the world odyssey now complete, Austin and I have had time to examine our adventures and lessons learned, adding personal notes and observations written during the trip. We wanted to share our incredible moments, along with countless interesting characters, while including the choices made and the hustle it took to get everything done.

Our Journey Approach

The places we traveled to are real, with real people and events that actually occurred. I have changed the names of some people to protect their innocence, and the candid insights we shared. Some of these moments exposed strong opinions to either side, and while we only traveled through areas a short time, first-impression feelings are valid, and therefore important to share. These poignant, thought-provoking perspectives broadened our voyage.

Eight legs connected our major destinations or stopovers where we performed a number of self-imposed assignments called Journey Tasks and Journey Challenges. Instead of writing points of interests down in some boring site-seeing laundry list, we created a game making choices between two options at each given stop. Some were relatively simple, like choosing between two unique restaurants. Others tested our athleticism and nerves daring the other into deeply hidden fears. All were in good fun designed to authentically explore an area away from the beaten path while creating an interesting road map within each city or region.

A few foreign names and places were often spelled differently. Sometimes our local guides would call an area something unfamiliar using an older language or dialect. I tried to settle on the most commonly accepted diction, but some may differ slightly compared to others’ research. A great deal of time went into the journey’s planning, management and reporting mechanisms. Since I was accompanied by Austin, the military-strict house parliamentarian, qualities much desired on international adventures, everyone who followed was assured that all Tasks were strenuously and rigorously attempted, or in the case of a failed undertaking, the explanation of what happened. Many of theses Tasks are stated in the text; others must be understood by the actions we engaged at the moment.

While a gamesmanship element was added for those following, the true quest was enlightenment. The race blog was for our family and friends’ enjoyment. Face to face interaction with different people and understanding their viewpoints was the trip’s real purpose. Our hearts must have been pure to this reasoning, because shortly after beginning Day One, the Journey itself stepped in, taking over as guide. What we believed as coincidence or plain old luck turned into something far deeper–we were being escorted through life scenes and occurrences impossible to plan. Once we discovered the results of spontanaity, we relaxed control of the strict path, resigning ourselves to becoming the Journey’s students.

How We Prepared for Such a Journey

Before setting foot out the door, Austin and I (well, mostly I) hit the gym so we would be in the best physical condition possible. Many Tasks and Challenges required an activity level beyond a normal vacation. Skill, dexterity and endurance were a handful of prerequisites called upon each day of our trip. The mental game was just as important. Constantly changing sleeping patterns through all twenty-four time zones tested rational decision-making.

We allowed ourselves to take whatever each felt important, so long as it fit in a single oversized backpack. This included all medications, technology, trip documents, toiletries and cameras. For example, we packed four changes of clothing for all twenty-eight days. Locating washing machines along the way would be up to us. This required resourcefulness, while remaining alert to the Tasks and Challenges waiting completion.

Months were spent on the phone with different airlines, creating a workable route and schedule. Sometimes direct flights were unavailable the days we needed so the entire trip had to be shifted backwards (or forwards) to fit within the preset 28-day window. Other times the plane tickets were too expensive, so we shuttled to our final destination via neighboring cities close by. Precious time was lost here, but allowed a bonus stop if we dared exploration into the layover city chancing our departing international flight.

Travelers know that the most intricately planned trip can be altered in a moment’s notice. It’s part of traveling. Hiccups happened several times because our blueprint was set up months in advance. However, each instance in which our travel plan went off the rails, the most memorable and interesting stories emerged. Some of the best happenstances were stumbled upon.

All major destinations were researched well. State Department advisories, foreign ministries and consulate warnings were carefully considered. Protests, civil disobedience, political coups, military border disputes, ethnic uprisings were on the short list of visible issues to our well-being. These disruptive events, should one occur, could play out in a completely different level than what we were used to. Our approach had to be vigilant and guarded using a thorough knowledge of a particular region’s ways and current stability.

Many times a guide joined us since stopover time was short. Guides were mandated by the government some places we traveled. However, several undertakings were after hours, therefore guide-less, adding another degree of chance in non-English speaking countries. Finding places where locals gathered was our best opportunity to observe a region’s authentic behavior. These sidebar excursions were not uncommon. Austin and I often tweaked the agenda on a moment’s notice because we were curious, giving everyone heart palpitations. Our guides understood our spirit and tried to abide though they warned caution. In government-controlled cultures half-witted shenanigans could send both our guides and us who knows where. Our guides knew, and we could only guess. But we poked and prodded every opportunity possible, coloring outside the lines to better experience a place or moment.

If we could overcome these obstacles, we still had to deal with a whole other enemy which lay hidden anywhere attacking us blindly: the Virus. Health standards vary greatly in foreign countries. Each of us received a battery of injections six months prior to traveling. Shots for Hepatitis, Tetanus, Diphtheria, Yellow Fever preventative, Smallpox and, believe it or not, a Polio boost all were required by the U.S. Centers of Disease Control and Prevention (CDC).

So many threats, but none would deter a great father-son adventure. Excuses are often plentiful, and when procrastination overtakes opportunity, regret follows. I refused to tell stories from my rocker of what could have been done, had I only tried. There are roles and stances a father must and should take. A simple one is time, and our time was now. The challenge wasn’t so much the risk but the determination to turn away from being average.

In our case, we dared to dream big. What would we discover about each other, or ourselves? Would I credit him as something other than a boy? Would he extend to me a new relationship needed for his next twenty years? Might we discover how much in common we really were? What impact would little-known cultural gems have once discovered? Would we stumble upon some obscure event that would forever change us? What would strangers teach us? Would other nations willingly accept us? And the twists and turns–those times when it all goes wrong–would we find everything is really so right? I do not know if we can determine our own fate, but we sure can influence it. And that’s what we did.

With that, the adventure began–for 28 days we explored a route chock full of enterprise and decision. We made new friends; learned and considered other perspectives. We engaged our curiosities, blending immersive insight within thirteen foreign cultures and beliefs, all the while letting “chance have a chance.”

Day 1.

Phileas Fogg and Passepartout Set About

Wednesday, June 8

It was 3 a.m., and so far all was good, I thought. Pacing in my head, I wondered, were we truly ready for all of this? I rattled a half full glass carafe loose from the coffee base. Another cup was needed. The reality of a year’s planning had ticked down to this moment.

For a final few minutes I was alone in our kitchen. I stared around at papers neatly organized on the island, and then a single coil-bound booklet holding the journey’s master plan. I reviewed everything for the hundredth time.

Itinerary? Check. Passports? Check. Shot records, prescription meds and emergency phone numbers? Check. Phones, iPad and all documents backed-up to email? Check. Four changes of clothes, protein bars, binoculars and literature about our hometown? Check.

It was the small things too, like did we pack enough socks? The first of almost 100 self-imposed Tasks and Challenges would begin in forty-five minutes.

I took a deep breath. Decent sleep had been impossible for weeks due to anxiety over this trip. A camouflaged opponent named Unpredictability lay hidden in our travel’s idle, mundane moments. Anticipation of the unimaginable, the unplanned, the unforeseen battled my exhilaration with apprehension.

Did I have all travel legs coordinated correctly?

Was all the paperwork in order for such a journey?

What obvious piece have I overlooked?

Would this odyssey truly be immersive and authentic, enlightening us with new perspectives?

What would happen if we deviate from the trip’s strict schedule?

Was I ready to leave the office for a month?

Was Belinda ready to run the company while I’m gone?

What (if any) insights would my son gain from others a world away?

Would we be able to live side-by-side for 28 straight days?

Austin, our oldest, accompanied me. He is an 18-year old varsity football and track athlete, who tends not to understand why people should fear anything. Reserved by nature, he is a quick, rational thinker using his left-handed, right-brain methodology like another developed muscle. I predicted his confident, street-mart thinking would be useful, and often.

He had just returned from college orientation with Belinda, his mother, and my wife, the night before. To have her tell it, he partied with new friends until 5 a.m. during dorm night. Now back home, Austin tells me he is “slightly tired.” Considering what’s ahead, he just thinks he is tired.

Nevertheless, my number one priority and responsibility was to introduce Austin to the world he was stepping into. After all, parenting doesn’t stop at eighteen; it begins again. My hope is that he and I, as father and son, would have countless memorable moments along the way retold over and over as I counsel him through the coming decades.

In fact, the more I thought about that, and my own dedication to the spirit dwelling in all things, I was reminded how insignificant incidentals become, and that family alone is irreplaceable.

So I was settled.

Head West Young Man

“You ready?” I asked.

“Yup.”

“Once we start there will be no turning back. An unknown abyss lies ahead, changing forms, daring us to explore …”

“Are you going to talk like that the whole time?”

“I’m trying to prepare you for something deeper than a long weekend in Jamaica.”

“I know the route; the stops and the agenda. It’s going to be fun. We’ll see some cool stuff.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

We kept walking towards the gate, weaving through passengers either walking too slow or determined to run over our toes with wheeled bags. Austin cut his eyes towards me, serious about his stance, and previous question.

“Are you going to talk like Zelda for a month?”

“Who?”

“What?”

“… Is that your version of Frasier Crane?” I continued.

“Who?”

“Ehh, nevermind. It’s time to board. Let’s go.”

Adrenaline time-warped our arrival much faster than the 10 ½ scheduled flight hours. A gentle bounce on the runway was our trumpet; the cabin-door was the starting gates of Pimlico. Honolulu, Hawai’i was three left turns and a straight-away across an airport parking lot.

We passed hundreds appearing as robotic conventioneers waiting for baggage. Our pace was adventure. For the next twenty-eight days, all we would need was bundled on our back. Only a rental car agency blocked our access into paradise.

“How ‘bout a free upgrade sir?”

Barely ten hours into a month long trip and the journey’s tone had been set. At this point such a revelation was simply known to us as “luck” because we had yet to recognize the other traveler who had joined us.

“Seriously?” I said while she searched for keys.

“We have a convertible Mustang … will that work?”

“Yes, yes it will.” I peeked over at Austin, reminded of Mustangs I drove during my own high school days.

We headed onto the parking lot to find space H-216. “If it has a five-liter engine, I’m driving,” he said.

“I doubt it, but it’s a convertible in Hawai’i. Not bad considering I planned for an econo-box.”

While Austin stuffed our over-sized backpacks into the trunk, I flipped the switch to fold the top back, basking in the perfect eighty-two degrees. An early tanning option appeared. We rolled away from the airport with energized smiles in search of Task number one.

Understanding “Black Tears”

With dozens more Tasks and Challenges to come, I wondered if each was certain to enlighten so deeply. That was the journey’s greater purpose, and I was banking on such awareness. But for me, and so personally, right off the bat? I had pictured myself as the wise adult, pointing him towards monuments while explaining their historical meaning. After all, I have walked Pearl Harbor’s hallowed grounds before; however, not as a parent. And the difference was tremendous.

We strolled around so Austin could take in the place. I suppose my view of WWII has been through a romantic haze that movies and television tend to portray. Then we crossed through the turnstile, and war’s tragic depth of loss became very real. My own call to service came to mind. To be a parent is such a gift; a fortune not to be taken lightly. Pride swept over me while I thought of my lifetime duty. I looked around again, attempting to comprehend the reality that families of war have endured.

We headed towards a walking tour within the museum area. Once inside, I was awe struck. Taken aback by 70-year old black and white photographs of young men, I turned to look at my own son.

“Those are your friends.”

He looked at me strangely. I’m a father. My perspective is not Austin’s; it can’t be, he’s a teenager with a whole wide-open world in front of him. I then clarified my point.

“I mean, those men are kids your age. Had you lived at the start of this war, those nameless faces would have been your friends, dying right here where we are standing.”

I paused. He considered my statement, then looked at them again.

The exhibition drew us along. Through closer examination of the items on display we learned how the war started. I really didn’t know, or maybe just forgot, but was shocked to learn about Japan’s all-out drive for natural raw materials along the Pacific Rim. This thirst for more land and resources of that generation’s leaders started the aggressive path which led to war. Then it dawned on me; the strategically wiser path of green power such as wind and solar which are free to all, counteracts the lust of aggressors. What a thought; sharing through conflict-free energy, while historic death surrounded us.

We moved back outside. The tender’s launch toward the Memorial was across the old wharf’s promenade. The sunken USS Arizona wasn’t far. On the way out we passed the docked USS Carl Vinson. The mighty ship had just returned from the Indian Ocean, where, among thousands of gallant missions, it may become best known for disposing of Osama Bin Laden’s body. My stomach still turns to write his name, a stark reminder that war marches on. Cameras flashed while we passed by in silence.

Aboard the USS Arizona Memorial, we milled around with a hundred other visitors. Of the 1,177 fallen soldiers, only 229 bodies were ever recovered from the ship. Oil leakage, or “Black Tears” as Pearl Harbor survivors call them, still seeps form the Arizona some 70 years after that infamous day, December 7, 1941.

I caught up with Austin who was leaning on the railing, staring down at the sunken ship.

“I feel like I’m right there,” he said.

“How so?”

“I don’t know. It’s like being in a trance or something–like being there that day when it all happened.”

He stood facing me, awaiting a response while I sized up the depth of his perception.

“What?” he said, fearing his guard was left down too long.

“Nothing.” I left him, hoping he would re-engage his thoughts a while longer.

The visit’s emotional impact continued, heightened for me when I recognized several brothers killed aboard the great battleship. Each was memorialized together on the cold, white marble wall inside the Memorial. One pair was named Hicks. Shivers filled me. I can only imagine those parents’ anguish; a sudden perspective certain to be carried all my life.

Amazing, how a simple academic tour can awaken feelings that have been fast asleep. And it was just the afternoon of Day One.

Pay Respects to the King

The journey’s spirit surprised me early, but our step would always be quick, so we left Pearl Harbor and headed toward the Honolulu capitol grounds. We zipped along the Lunalilo Freeway attempting to locate King Kamehameha’s statue somewhere in downtown. Since we would miss Kamehameha Day by 24 hours, our task was simple: leave behind a traditional Hawaiian Lei at the King’s feet as a tribute honoring this revered state holiday. Of course, we had to find it first.

Austin drove for about ten minutes, and that was it. Perhaps the liability coverage concerned him (it should’ve concerned me) or he wanted to take a closer look at the euphoric surroundings of paradise. Whatever the case, Austin became the navigator from that point. Every team needs one.

As day-dreamingly beautiful as Oahu is, Honolulu’s traffic seemed magnified beyond other cities’. Maybe it was the claustrophobic sense of being squeezed between the mountains and the shore, or knowing we were on a tiny island surrounded by three thousand miles of ocean in every direction. Mobile people were jammed everywhere, and it was only 3 p.m. Every few feet we would grind to a stop. At least the lowered convertible top distracted our attention. Cool tropical breezes and the occasional waft of nearby pineapple trucks reminded us we were not stranded within the doldrums of Main Street, USA. Eventually, wild hibiscus was replaced by exhaust and big-city street scenes as we wound around one-way streets into downtown. The capitol area, we thought, would be the King’s appropriate landmark placement.

The tree-covered grounds created hundreds of shady spots making it nearly impossible to see anything clearly. After twenty minutes we finally identified him. The King, at least eight feet of black onyx adorned with contrasting yellow tribal-wear, appeared every inch the regal Hawaiian leader of 1800s folklore. The beloved memorial stands atop a ten foot tiered white marble stand welcoming visitors to his land with an outstretched hand.

“Ok, go put this lei at his feet,” I said while I searched for the hotel on our iPhone’s GPS map.

“I don’t want to.”

“Why not?”

“All those people are standing around. I’ll look stupid just walking up putting this thing next to it and walking off.”

“Oh my gosh. Nobody cares. They’ll just shrug it off, if they look at all. Maybe you’ll inspire them to go find their own lei.”

“I’m not too sure about that,” he said with a shy grin.

Mildly exasperated, I grabbed the yellow-flowered necklace.

“At least walk up there with me.”

With Austin too embarrassed to “lei the King,” I placed one at his feet. He stood at my side while I finished the two-second ceremony. Task accomplished.

Finding the Hotel Prince Waikiki was next. A six-story rectangle with an appearance of 1962 would be our home for two nights. We made a right hand turn, then left into a tiny parking garage designed to fit seven compact cars, as long as the Rubik’s Cube method of arrangement was employed. In downtown Honolulu, space of any kind is a premium. The hotel was basic and moderately clean but came standard with an exceptional location; only two blocks off Waikiki.

We slung our packs on the floor. Two double beds were just past a moderate kitchenette. Our accommodations were less that of a family resort and more the back-packer’s suite which was more than okay for us. The surrounding neighborhood was a collective mix of other informal hotels and old homes that had survived the conversion into small restaurants or convenience stores. Our window view peered down onto an entrepreneur’s rental car agency. We didn’t care. This was a place to sleep for eight hours, not to lounge around pontificating economic theories. We had things to do and resting rarely fit our schedule anyway.

Hungry, tired and both dehydrated with scorching headaches, we bravely set back out. It had to be the continuation of first-day adrenaline, or maybe it was the teasing carrot still to come at day’s end. In either case, we were determined to complete our self-imposed journey Tasks, further risks to our health and energy or not.

Down three blocks, then a left-turn and up two more blocks. Suddenly foot traffic had increased. We walked as I attempted to gain my bearings. This would be my fourth visit here and still my eyes wandered a bit. A familiar entrance finally appeared. Inside was a deviation into something I wanted Austin to wander through before moving on.

Next door to every brand-name store the planet has to offer was the International Market. A little touristy, yes, but this market enjoyed the edge, because entering is a step back to the island’s old way of trade. Covered by huge banyan trees which have lived hundreds of years are stalls operated by local craftsman, jewelers and wheeler-dealers making a living one fifteen dollar purchase at a time. Before millions vacationing by the week discovered paradise, the International Market was the trade and barter of Oahu. In this sense, the International Market was its own hidden authentic gem among the high-dollar brand name boutiques.

We hunted among countless vendor stalls for a single item representing Hawaiian culture, but found nothing. I guess we just needed to eat because that was more a dream sequence than anything. Partial victory was claimed for attempting to support local merchants. I pulled the Route Map for the entire 28-day journey from my pocket. My weary eyes tried to focus as I scrolled down finding our next Task, and we set off.

Entering “The House without a Key”

Delirious from traveling all day by air, then Pearl Harbor by sea, we left the International Market by land in search of nourishment skipped over for hours. We passed street entertainers playing some familiar and some unrecognizable instruments. Artists displayed hundreds of diverse visions. My favorites were the fine works of multi-hued chalk art along busy sidewalks. But it’s the mimes; their oddly curious display of entertainment that I just didn’t understand, maybe because they are near clowns on the evolutionary chart. I’ve longed to push one off their box just to see what would happen. I let the temptation go, though my irrational starvation would have made the action acceptable, and enjoyable to most, I believe.

Using only a map and street signs, I charged Austin with navigating us through this idyllic yet modern metropolis toward our next destination. Soon, the entertainers faded and my old, well-remembered friend appeared down a long, narrow street; the Halekulani. This five star hotel was the scene of a starry-eyed dinner shared by his mother and I on our honeymoon in 1988.

In the spirit of symbolism we walked about browsing the grounds but our interests really lay elsewhere: we both needed food and a relaxing state of mind.

“The House without a Key” restaurant was placed on the hotel’s back lawn, between the pool and crashing ocean. Our open-air patio table captured one cool tropical breeze after another flowing off the Pacific twenty feet away. Hawaiian musicians played as we absorbed a spectacular sunset among the Halekulani’s colonial Hawaiian architecture. While winds whispered through palm trees, ukuleles strummed old Hawaiian standards, lulling our Day One tensions as if Benedictine Monks massaged our shoulders. Slow-motion hula from the island’s flower-dressed beauties swayed feet from our table. Five-star dining, quiet, calm.

“What are you getting?” I asked.

“I don’t know, a hamburger I guess.”

“I’m getting the sage chicken with spinach and mashed potatoes.”

“That sounds weird,” Austin said while gobbling the assortment of table breads as if they were candy.

“Anything here will be prepared above the ordinary. The Halekulani is one of the world’s top resorts. This is where your mother and I spent our honeymoon.”

“What about our budget?”

“We need to eat well. The last thing we want is to be burned out the first day. Eat up.”

Now re-inflated and re-energized, we were good to carry on. For a while, though, we sat out and listened to the music, enjoying a couple more glasses of refreshing iced tea.

Once dark, we walked back toward the hotel along Waikiki Beach. Along the way, a memory brought a grin to my face. I retold Austin the story of his mother and I dragging suitcases across these very sands in search of a lunch spot and drinks years earlier …

Eleven years ago Belinda and I were in Honolulu revisiting our old honeymoon sight. Our quick trip came to a close far too soon. At the airport we were thrilled to be offered a later flight. This afforded us seven extra hours in one of our favorite places anywhere.

“Let’s go back to town and wait. There’s no reason to hang around the airport,” I said, excited about our bonus layover.

“Ok.” Belinda’s eyes lit up as if restarting our vacation from the first day.

Out of money, we wedged ourselves onto a crowded city transit bus that we were assured would deliver us directly back to luxury hotel row. Naturally, we were dressed for a cold airplane, and airports do not store luggage, so carting four heavy, souvenir-infested bags about town was unromantic.

In a mad search for something that reminded us of our vacation, we jumped off at some unrecognizable bus stop searching for a Mai Tai. We landed near the hotels, but not at the hotels.

“I wonder how far a walk it is from here,” Belinda asked, holding a carry-on in one hand, her heavy beach-bag purse in the other.

“Oh, I bet it’s not far. We’ll find our old hotel and cut through to the beach, then walk to The Royal Hawaiian … how ‘bout that?” Somehow my excitement still lived after a beat-down city bus ride.

“Yeah, and we’ll have a late lunch then hang out and watch the surfers.”

Walking hand in hand, luggage in tow, dressed for an eight-hour chilly plane ride, we spotted the Pink Palace, a legendary Honolulu hotel down the way. If only the sidewalk had thought to continue. Like air dropped tourists on a desolate beach, we rolled up our pant legs, suitcases close behind, and drug ourselves five hundred yards across midday beach and sun.

Remembering this memorable escape made me laugh while retelling Austin about that trip. He and I now stammered across the very sands on a different adventure.

I turned to him and said, “You were just seven. In fact, you scored your first touchdown in flag football while your mother and I were on that trip. Now here you are, about to head off to college. Crazy how that is.”

Poignant to me of course, yet Austin, taking in the pulsing night-life of a grand, world-famous beach, returned my whimsical story of years past with, “What were you saying?”

Though moderately early, we collapsed on our beds and ended up staying at our modest hotel all night. It was 3 a.m. Dallas time, awake now for twenty-four hours straight. Adjusting to local time would be of epic importance. Nineteen more time zones remained ahead, and tomorrow’s agenda would bring us face to face with our greatest fears. We needed rest. As we fell asleep, and still unknown to us, the Journey itself recessed quietly back into the shadows, waiting for a new day.

Day 2.

The Highs Are High; The Lows Are Low

Thursday, June 9

I slept well, but woke often if that makes any sense. Finally at 4:30 a.m., I gave in and left in search of coffee. Mac 24-7 at the Hilton Hotel was three blocks away. This would be our breakfast spot tomorrow before flying towards stopover number two, so I headed there.

Sitting undisturbed in the lobby, I made some calls checking with the office while I had the chance. Needs continued whether I was on a worldwide adventure or not, and growth had been on the upswing during the first quarter.

Belinda was doing well running the business. As a mother, she is a saint. The role of company president intern was new for her and is a daunting task for anyone, especially after a three-month crash course. Thankfully, she’s smart, and a quick learner. I guess schoolteachers are just born hard-wired differently from the rest of us. Even though we were only a day in, I was relieved. Soon the time zones would not align for daytime calling. More troubling, sometimes we would be out of phone range altogether. Since our itinerary was a secret, she (and everyone else) had no idea where we would be each day.

I pushed the thought of future communication hassles aside, and headed towards Waikiki. Surfers and outfitters were getting rigs set for the day. That was expected, but I found others; couples, joggers, leashed dogs–all just moving about as if heading to brunch. Why were all these people wandering around before sunrise? Maybe it’s a Honolulu thing; or I was being joined in some inconvenient, jet-lagged, zombie walk. Whatever the case, I soon became bored and returned to get Austin moving.

A Breakfast “Top Ten” Is Discovered

On a journey, even the routine must be allowed to become a stand-alone moment, like breakfast. Why settle on any detail, even those considered so trivial? A local, storied bakery would work just fine. The challenge was to find one and I refused intimidation when it came to baked goods. Diets? Forget it. The overwhelming and intoxicating fragrance of a bakery equals childhood Christmas mornings.

Leonard’s Bakery, a Honolulu staple for over five decades, fit perfectly. They are the creator of Malasadas, the house specialty. Malasadas were sort of like Mexican sweet bread; round like a palm-sized Nerf ball and topped with sugar then stuffed full of assorted fillings. All types of creamy combinations were available. Cherry and strawberry, sure; but we were in Hawai’i, so coconut and banana made it to the car.

Not necessarily sharing my bakery fervor, Austin browsed the glass cabinets for five soon-to-be morning favorites. Protein shakes usually start his mornings.

“This one tastes like Gran’s banana pudding,” he said, taking a large bite while holding another.

“Oh yeah, these are outstanding. It’s like biting into a soft pillow ball of goodness. I could eat a dozen.” I stuffed another into my mouth.

“Probably should before this next little escapade.”

“You think so, huh?”

“Yeah–you’re going to need as much sugar as possible,” Austin said quite confidently.

They’ve Blown It All Sky High

The drive across the island was beautiful once outside Honolulu’s constant, tunnel-visioned highways where road signs drew the attention. We seemed to coast right into the northern edge, never quite noticing how we had worked our way into the upper stratosphere of this island paradise.

Our first true Journey Challenge neared. A specialty aircraft company located at Dillingham Airfield was a mile ahead. There, at precisely 8:30 a.m. we would climb aboard for a sightseeing trip from 14,000 feet. Once at the proper altitude over the Pacific Ocean, a choice had to be made.

With the help of one of the professional flyers, we would make our way to the aircraft’s door, and jump out. This free fall, by way of a tandem skydive, was two and a half miles to the beach below. Or we could take option two: curl up into a fetal position latched to a well-secured seat support calling out “Mommy!” As tempting (and perhaps acceptable) as the second choice was, enduring severe ridicule for the next thirty-five years for failing to jump was not inviting either.

The airfield looked abandoned. Two or three businesses in small shacks waited along its single runway. These were the Skydive offices–casual, but professional, as is the style of the islands. I had hoped for a more corporate look, but would happily accept safety over the visual first impression.

We settled in for our 30-minute video instructions, then questions and answers. Still no butterflies, I was so proud of myself. I peeked over at Austin who sported a “bring it on” smile. Fantastic, I thought–there would be no calling his bluff for the remaining twenty-eight days.

Chutes were lying on the ground outside; neat and orderly, waiting for correct re-stuffing. A young man was working hard, smiling, re-telling stories of the night before. His technique assured me he had performed this a thousand times. Manual packing was how it was done, but I was still searching for the fail-safe, mechanized assembly line preparation for my chute.

Outfitting and personalized instructions were quick and to the point, maybe five to ten minutes. I’m a visionary; I get the big picture. The important little things? Well, I trusted my tandem partner fully understood those.

The Harbor’s Lingering Message

We would go in groups at scheduled times. Three other random people joined us. Coincidentally, our jump team included a military girl. Not the stereotypical one; she was shy, slender built, maybe twenty-five. She wanted to speak up taking part with the instructors’ flamboyant personalities. Being the most senior jumper in our group, I recognized her enthusiasm, and coaxed conversation along.

“Have you ever done this before?”

“No,” she said with a quiet grin, happy to be included.

“Well, neither have I. These things always look so easy on TV.”

“Yeah, really,” she said with a small laugh. “Are you here long?”

“We leave tomorrow morning. My son and I are traveling around the world for his high school graduation. We have many exciting things planned, but learning the ways of others is the real goal.”

“Wow–well, there’s a lot to see out there.”

“What about you?”

“Only today … but I enjoy seeing the world too.”

While speaking, we came to find out that “Jane” was on leave from the same USS Carl Vinson we witnessed at Pearl Harbor yesterday. I wanted to interview her like a good field reporter but relented to introductory conversation–after all, this was her vacation too. She confirmed their vessel disposed of Bin Laden’s body into the Indian Ocean a few weeks previous. Details ended there.

Her job? “Jane” would take the final instructions from superiors to push the launch button for Tomahawk missiles. Timid, shy, humble, twenty-something–Jane. Sweet Jane. Her finger rested on the trigger that could begin World War III.

Our group was next. One by one each of us climbed aboard.

As it turns out, 14,000 feet is a lot higher than I thought. Truth be told, jumping into the clouds two and half miles above the safety of planet Earth was Austin’s idea of adventure, not mine. As the plane ascended ever-upwards, I still didn’t feel any anxiety, which I thought strange. No second thoughts for this adult chicken. So far.

“We’re third out,” shouted my tandem partner over the plane’s propellers spinning furiously outside the open door. He continued to work straps pulling me tight against his chest. “Do you remember your instructions?”

“Yeah, chin down … feet up … your tapping my shoulder, something–”

Then I became distracted. Austin was making his way to the door. The son I witnessed being born, was to jump first. My heartbeat accelerated from mildly stable to a rate of desperate fear. Realization swept over, turning my face pale and my insides yellow. Managing a safer decision had been traded away for excitement. Everything was out of my control. Questions kept circulating as to why I dared put him in such danger. My oddly absent friend Anxiety appeared.

It was quite the feeling watching my son step out the door of a perfectly safe aircraft and disappear into a cloud. For eighteen years I had taken such good care of him; yet in an instant, he dropped 500 feet shrinking to the size of a bb, then plummeted out of sight. What did I just do?

“Ok Grady, let’s go.” The same technique was employed: a crouched duck walk to the door, the quick instructions still fresh. I stood there precariously looking at wide-open sky. No trees or people walking their dogs. Only endless, empty space.

“Remember, just do as I showed you. Any questions?”

Now also shouting over wind and plane noise, “Uh, the order … how important …”

“All right–here we go!”

With barely a second to think, my co-pilot and I were out the door.

The first step off gave the most sensation of free fall, the only time I was ever fully aware of it. Had I the luxury of thinking it through I may have been able to anticipate the sharp chill in the air and the fierce winds blowing past my ears. I was now traveling at 120 miles an hour, straight down.

My next instructions came from a tap on my shoulder, where I attempted to lift my head and look around. It was here that the fun stopped. I couldn’t figure out how to breathe properly; was it through my mouth like normal, or my nose? But my nose was being pummeled by wind forced in and upward at an ungodly rate, so that was beyond difficult. I had to collect myself and focus on a steady, slow pattern, but was still confused as to how this now-complicated skill known as breathing eluded me.

To make matters worse, my forehead was killing me. I thought it was the protective eyewear pressing a cut into my skin, so I adjusted, which seemed to help briefly but the pain never stopped. My sinuses were in complete shock from the dramatic temperature and altitude changes. Or was it the wind being blasted through my nose?

The free fall was sixty seconds, the longest minute of my life thus far. I couldn’t wait for the chute to open and for this so-called “joy ride” to end. Getting my feet back on terra firma was now a must-do.

Once the chute opened, the brakes were on, symbolically at least, and mild psychological relief set in. Around me, calm and distinctly warmer, muggy temperatures embraced us as we approached the cloud line. My tandem jump instructor clearly thought that this wasn’t exciting enough so he angled our chute like a dive-bomber.

“Let me get us through these clouds right quick.”

Well, ok.

While it was beautiful up there, I put most of my efforts on making it down without passing out. The airborne ballet of fun movements winding towards the ground were apparently part of the unnerving carnival ride, but I was approaching airsickness rather than entertainment. I never uttered a word (too prideful) so small talk of Hawai’i’s beauty from up high became my distraction as the waves of nausea increased.

Finally, and with great relief, I spotted Austin on the ground, full of the same constant smiles he had on the plane ride up.

“That was so awesome!”

“Yeah, it was–great fun.”

“You didn’t like that–how could you not like that?” Austin laughed at my peril now with both feet back on the ground. “What was so bad?”

“I couldn’t figure out how to breathe, for one.”

Austin smiled and shook his head. “You’re such a lightweight.”

Fearless elsewhere, maybe, but I’ve had a hard time disguising my aversion to daredevil stunts now that the kids have graduated elementary school.

Dust kicked up when I turned onto the main road. “You really could just go right back up?”

“Yeah … I’m ready to go right now.”

“There is no way I’m doing that again.”

“Are you going to be able to handle the rest of the trip? We have a lot of exciting things ahead. You’re not going to embarrass me, are you?”

“Relax, I’ll be just fine,” I said while my eyes grabbed onto stable things, and my internal stablizers spun like a haunted tilt-o-whirl.

He shook his head, still grinning while texting everyone he knew. A father’s work is never complete. His exuberant response made my adventure worth every fright-felt second. Well, sort of. I’ll get him back; I’ve got a few surprises for him along the way.

So I jumped. Check mark by that, and I’ll never return to a plane with an open door again.

Play Like a Man or Play in the Sand

Within the wild waters of Oahu’s famed North Shore I secretly planned what Austin believed would be a simple, mundane boating excursion. What he didn’t know was that he would take an active role in the mysterious waters around him. This time, Austin would stare down his greatest fear. Before leaving the dock, it was his turn to choose.

First, he had to search the North Shore beaches for a specially marked boat. Then, he would take a three-hour charter two miles off shore. At that point the boat’s engine would shut off and drop anchor. Next, he would dive into open water while swimming inside a cage … surrounded by sharks. Lots of them.

Paybacks.

His second option? To remain on shore and play in the kiddie water park across the street. There, the scariest thing is being out-numbered by 75 pre-k children who regularly confuse a big swimming pool with a restroom.