Untethered

An excerpt from a journal entry I wrote a few months ago:

“The boat I’m on leans to the side in the choppy, semi-salty water of the bay, and rolls over again taking my insides with it. I grew up a desert rat, far away from any real body of water, so being on a boat (yet alone being the coxswain of one) is pretty much on the hairy edge of my comfort level. Coupled by the fact that I have an irrational (personally I think it’s totally rational) fear of drowning, and you can see why I’m a little tense. I can hear the RPM of the engine whine sporadically as the waves create pockets of negative water pressure like tires spinning to get traction, and my thighs begin to ache from pressing my legs to the inner walls of the boat, bracing myself for the constant roll of the chop.

“Calm seas never make a skilled sailor,” the quote my old co-worker once told me many years ago rings in my head. “I’d like to see your ass on this boat right now..” I mutter internally and vow to kick him in the ankle next time I see him.

The boat yaws underneath my rear end as it’s bullied by the ever increasing current.

I tell myself, just like flying a plane, to find a point on the distant horizon and aim my nose at it. And I do, for the most part… until a wall of rain falls, obscuring the horizon. And by a wall, I mean a literal wall of rain… like you can visually watch it erase the distance with haze and disturb the water like static as it moves towards you. It zaps any last remaining warmth you have left once it drenches you. I tell myself that I have to press forward and that it’s up to me to get back on dry land. I remind myself that this isn’t an IMPOSSIBLE task and remind myself that yeah, this will definitely put my skills, risk management, and nerves to the test but this will give me the experience I need. It’s going to suck, I tell myself, but it’s necessary for growth.

In time the storm passes, much like the metaphor of life. And I go back out there again on the water, untethered.

As night rolls in, I found myself standing on an island with abandoned houses on it. I know, you guys are probably all reading this and wondering what in the world I’m even doing, but why I’m out here isn’t super relevant to the point I’m trying to make.

In between the thoughts of my tasks and objectives (a quick moment of respite from the cold, wet, and blustery night), I take a moment as I hop back into my boat to appreciate the sights before me and contemplate my life. I don’t get a lot of time to ponder life during such times, but it’s at the end of these days where I am heading back in I get a little moment to decompress.

I don’t really know how these houses ended up on this little sliver of land, just a few hundreds of meters away from the mainland. They have that quintessential “swamp house” look to them: on stilts with large porches and panel siding. I can picture Mardi Gras celebratory cookout there back in it’s hay day, complete with those green/yellow/purple flags with a big, fat fleur-de-lis plastered on it. Like me, these houses are untethered from the mainland. Now it’s just bones of a building, slowly being eaten away by the sea, and I too will slowly be erased away with time. The lights of the city and refineries reflect off the low level clouds and swirling smoke stacks. It’s pretty beautiful when you stop to appreciate the present, and not focus so much on the future you can’t control.

Embarking out on your own, or as the captain of your own excursion, can be extremely daunting at first. It’s these moments that get unerving. It’s the same feeling I get the first time, and nearly every time, I take off into a plane solo. The sense of enormity of trekking out beyond your comfort zone… it’s the vastness of the space around you, wether it’s the skies above and below you or the depth of the waters surrounding you. You’re surrounded by certain death… but isn’t death certain no matter where you are?

This isn’t like going on a long car ride for the first time. Cars travel on two planes (forward/back and left/right). Boats do too… until you sink them. Planes of course have up and down you have to contend with also. Cars you can pull over to collect yourself… boats you can’t unless you want to drift away for a little bit. Airplanes you DEFINITELY can’t pull over for a breather. The anxiety stems from the fact that you have to be all in. Fully committed to the journey with no help around you. Nobody is going to save you out there or up there, except yourself.

I call it “be your own ****ing hero” but I talk a big game about it. Sometimes it’s easy to do that… when you’re comfortable… when you have something to fall back on. It’s easy to risk it for the biscuit when you know you’ve got a parachute…

*****

My parents bought a house in Kentucky. I’m immensely happy for them… it’s a hundred year old house that’s been remodeled into a Pinterest-worthy dream house. For my whole 35 years on this earth, my parents have lived in California. I knew they longed to leave our small town, but I never thought I’d see them leave so soon. I never thought them moving back east would stir something inside me… something I couldn’t quite put a finger on for the longest time: a really somber feeling.

When I had left California to start a new life in Texas, I did so with the slight comfort in knowing I always had a safety net behind me. I always had a place to stay in California when I would come back to work on flights, in case work required me to be back for an extended time period. Although it’s been since I was 22 that I depended on my parents financially (and I actually don’t think I’ve ever borrowed money from them since that time), there was always that “bailout plan” if I got into a rough spot. Even when my life took an unexpected turn and imploded two years ago, I didn’t return to my parents house all except maybe 1.5 weeks out of that whole ordeal and only because I had become so physically ill that I had to wave the white flag of surrender.

With them slowly leaving California I realize that I have no connections back to that place anymore (save for some friends). I have no need to go back for Thanksgivings or Christmases… There are no roots there anymore.

I think the other reason why it makes me feel so somber is that I get to see my parents live separately as we wait for my dad to retire and fix the house for sale. It’s like I get a glimpse into what life would be like without one of my parents and the thought makes my chest weigh four times heavier than it did seconds before.

I think there is a turning point in our lives where we take care of our parents. It’s an insidious, gradual change that creeps up on you when suddenly you become the care taker. It’s truly our time being untethered… going solo. Sailing the ship into the bay as the captain of life. Nobody is there to bail you out anymore. True independence is terrifying… true independence is being untethered. Yet it’s all we think we want, until we’re faced with the daunting realization that you alone are responsible for EVERYTHING. Your success… your failures…

You landing the aircraft.

You sailing your boat back to land.

You putting food on your table.

You keeping the lights on.

You making the business work.

Some people will go their entire lives never knowing how to truly be untethered. You gotta be fully committed in your actions, which is difficult for people who live their world in comfort and the temporary feelings of life. Instead of seeing it as something so daunting, you should lean into it:

Love that person like jumping off a cliff… untethered because you don’t have a “back up plan” of a person.

Throw your bonus at the business you always wanted to start… because living in regret is much worse.

Get in that boat and motor it across the stormy seas.

Be all in, before you’re all gone.”