TTT 10 - "capital doesn't mean a thing." Whitewater rafting. Missing passport.
Triple Threat Thursday. Photos. Story. Songs. Traveling in Maine. Offered a lot of money. Turned back at the border. My moms dog was shot.
Greetings from New Hampshire. These photos are from my weekend travels in Maine.
1 - Photos
2 - Story: Canada is a no-go
Truth is
What there is
The truth is
I am that I am
Instead of packing I lie on the couch and inspect my arm hair.
The plan was for me to be driving by now, but nothing is in the car yet. I suppose I don’t want to go. Well, I already invested money into this and I have an unopened text that says “eta?”
Ninety minutes goes by. I get off the couch, throw a bunch of shit in the car and start driving.
I have way too much food that requires refrigeration. I don’t have a fancy cooler either.
The plan has three parts: visit family on an island in Maine, then go white water rafting on the Penobscot and then drive into Canada for a party hosted by a friend who I have never met in real life.
I get to the marina before dinner. On the boat to the island, my mom tells me that a certain extended family member wants to have a private one-on-one conversation.
Cool.
We’ll do that.
Simone Collins
messaged me “Enjoyed reading that” after reading Anyone know how to recycle a billion houses? commented “This was great!” on my Kripalu essay.I’d rather have those two comments than a million unborns pay me $10 for a self-help book that they fake read.
I’d rather have those two comments than 100,000 shmucks pay me $5 each for “ten AI tools to increase productivity.”
I can say that because I don’t depend on this writing thing to eat. I'm all set in the food department.
“I’ve come to realize capital means nothing.”
This guy, an extended family member, owns a boat, a waterfront cottage on an island, and a beach on the same island. He owns a private beach. Like, a really nice one. Nobody knows he owns it because he lets anyone use it and there's no signage. He's mostly blind and mostly deaf. He had a stroke that affected his speaking. Frankly, it's impressive that he's still going. He’s still boating out to his island.
My mother tells me that he wants to have a private conversation with me. Here I am.
"I never really did the job thing," he tells me.
He inherited some money, made some lucrative investment decisions, and didn't squander the fortune. Sounds easier than it is.
"I mean, I worked here and there over the years but nothing long-term."
He finds his bearings.
"I don't care what your mother says, you don't need a job."
"I'm curious to learn more about your work in finance," I inquire.
"I met this guy and he showed me the ropes. I stayed at his house and took a bath in what he told me was John Kennedy's bathtub."
He gets to the point.
"I can't manage my stocks anymore. I can't keep up with all this. I'm looking for a fund manager. I want that person to be you."
He’s telling me he wants to give me a half a million dollar stock portfolio to manage and then keep.
"If it doesn’t go well, I don’t give a damn. I’m dead."
“Well, you’re not dead yet, but I know what you mean” . . . “My question is, what’s the purpose of growing this capital? What’s the money for?”
Silence.
He doesn’t really know. He says, "I've come to realize, capital doesn't mean a thing."
“I like what you did with your money. You collected art and built this cottage.”
He is simultaneously bamboozled and elated.
I can fail to serve the market because my status and money-seeking have been exhausted. It doesn’t make me nuts like it once did. Truth be told, I’d be lying if I said this stocks thing doesn’t make me smirk and tickled, but it’s a ghost self.
Half a million dollars for free! The prospect of internet fame!
I’d rather be buried in dirt with just my eyes showing.
If the choice is $20 billion or two hours in a drum circle I’d take the $20 billion, buy bongos and drum lessons and burn the other 19.99 billion.
Dollar holders around the world would benefit and so would the drum circle.
Enough is enough. Good health, active relationships, a flowing mind and a few years of resources at your disposal in case there’s a time of idleness. More is too much sugar. I speak for myself. Don’t take my word for it. Go find out.
I don’t serve the market. The market is dumb anyways. I serve what I think is great work.
AT Hostel
I’m at this hostel at the end of the Appalachian Trail, or the beginning. There are two people who just walked two thousand miles to get here.
As I’m loading the fridge with my goods, a tall, fit, bearded young man walks up and says, “Hey!” like we’re close roommates. Which I guess we kinda are for tonight.
“What are you up to?” He asks.
“Going rafting tomorrow.”
“Oh, nice. Is there good rafting around here?”
“Yeah, on the Penobscot. Did you just finish hiking the AT?”
“Yeah.”
“All two thousand miles?”
“Yeah,” he laughs. “I can’t believe I just did that.”
"What's your trail name?"
"Mountain Goat.”
“Nice. Mountain Goat.”
“Do river runners have trail names?"
"I dunno. I just got into this rafting thing. My trail name is Dudesauce."
That's the first thing that came to mind.
“Dune sauce?”
"Yeah, Dunesauce."
Even better.
"You're a thru-hiker?"
“Aspiring thru-hiker. I'm doing the math; if you walk twenty miles a day, the AT still takes over 100 days.”
“I averaged tweny-two miles a day for 100 days”
“Holy smokes... I do ten miles and I'm exhausted."
"After twenty mile days for a few weeks your body becomes indestructible."
"That supports the Goggins idea that just going hard as fuck all the time is actually easier than not doing that."
"That’s a good way of putting it."
"100 days ... so what's next?"
He smiles. "Eat some food for a couple weeks. Go to the beach."
"Ever tried a medium boiled duck egg?"
Rafting the West Branch of the Penobscot
“Repeat after me: Aggressive self rescue,” says the owner of the rafting outfitter, on the one hour dirt-road drive up river.
“This is an extreme sport!” he yells over the bumps and roar of the school bus engine.
Our raft guide adds, “If we flip the raft, and you abandon your paddle, who do think I’m going to pull in first?”
“That’s a joke, but something to consider.”
Shit, that’s a good line.
I have to remember all this in my head ‘til I get back to my phone. Nine hours later. Writers today are playing on easy mode with a computer in their pocket.
This is class 5 rapids, at the highest water level which companies are allowed to run trips.
The raft flips. Total yardsale in the whitewater. All instruction goes out the window.
“No is a perfectly acceptable answer,” someone said at one point during the NINE FUCKING HOURS.
I’m reminded of the name of this blog. Subscribe and share with a friend if you haven’t already.
The rafting journey is coming to an end and I’m thinking about what’s next. Cross the border into Canada. Go through the gate and show my… passport… that I don’t have with me. It’s 6 hours south.
AT Hostel, again
I go back to the hostel where my food is stashed in the fridge. I walk past the smelliest dudes I've ever smelled. In the kitchen I say hi to a young lady as I pack my cooler. I don’t actually know where I’m going but it’s not here because the beds suck and there’s no AC and it’s past check in time.
She asked me where I'm heading. I said “it’s funny, I was heading to Canada but now I’m not, I think I'm heading south.”
She doesn’t have much to say to that.
“Did you just finish the AT?” I inquire.
“I did the 100 mile wilderness.”
I guess that’s an option on the menu.
“How long did that take?”
“About a week.”
“So about fifteen miles per day.”
“Yeah some were ten, some were eighteen.”
“I was talking to a guy last night who averaged 22 miles a day for 100 days.”
“Yeah, I met him a few days ago.”
“Mountain goat?”
“Yeah, that won’t be me.”
I finish loading my cooler.
“I was going to sleep here again but the mattresses are super soft, which probably feels great after the forest floor, but I’m used to a firm mattress so I think I’ll sleep in my car.”
“Yeah, that’ll be good, enjoy your trip.”
And there's no AC in the hostel.
I pull up AllTrails and find the closest trailhead. It’s a park by a lake that’s 6 minutes from town. I’m there now, typing this in offline Google Docs, camping in the Tesla, which as opposed to the hostel, has AC and a memory foam mattress.
My crappy cooler is full and my raw-milk yogurt and wild Maine blueberries are still in the hostel fridge, waiting for the morning.
Why did this happen? Why is my authentic desire not to go to Canada? Maybe because I don’t like Trudeau. Maybe I want more time in Maine, after all, the 100 mile girl has got me thinking. The reason for the passport thing is not immediately obvious but it’ll show itself in due time. Or not. Doesn’t matter.
My left foot hurts from sciatica - pinched nerves in the lower back. I sat in that boat for 7 hrs. Sat in vehicles. Sat at the bar. Sat in the car. Sat at the hostel and sitting in the car, typing now.
It’s high time I walk a hundred miles and sleep on the ground.
Writing that sentence alleviated some pain.
Authentic desire is a whisper.
Time to see how much yoga I can do in this Tesla.
Island, again
I’m back on the island after the rafting experience.
My Mom and I hiked out to the secret family beach.
My Mom's adopted dog from Korea, a husky-jindo, saw me swim, which is the first time she's seen anyone swim. She went nuts on the beach and barked for the first time.
I’ve come to realize capital doesn’t mean a thing.
The bullets were removed from the dog’s body before she came to America.
A story for another time.
3 - Songs
Thank you for reading
I’m focused on creating truthful, authentic and useful media. The result is comedic stories with insights.
I co-host the Weird and Worthwhile podcast on Spotify and YouTube.
I have a book coming out soon, so stay tuned.
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With that, have a great rest of your day.
wait so are you managing 500k now?!