By the time college rolled around, I’d already proven I could survive bad decisions. But Volume 4? This is where I tested that theory against something less forgiving than dorm walls and dares. Nature. And let me tell you—nature doesn’t negotiate.
It started in Port Aransas, Texas. Sun, salt water, and a few fraternity brothers who, like me, viewed "caution" as a suggestion rather than a rule. At some point, we found ourselves in the surf with several "long, skinny fish." They moved with a precision we didn't possess—fast, clean, and rhythmic.
We didn't panic. Panic requires awareness, and awareness was in short supply that day. We swam, we laughed, and we carried on like we owned the ocean. It wasn't until we were driving away—salty and satisfied—that the radio report hit: Sharks. Plural. Close to shore.
I don't remember how long the silence lasted in that car. But I remember the shift. Everyone became very reflective, very quickly. It’s amazing how brave you can be when you’re functionally oblivious.
Then there was the sailing incident. Calling it an "incident" is generous; it was a maritime disaster waiting to happen. A Texas storm rolled in—the kind that doesn't ask permission, just turns the sky to charcoal and the water to chaos in minutes. A couple had wandered off from camp on the water, and the timing was treacherous.
Our rescue vessel? A Sunfish. For the uninitiated, a Sunfish is less "boat" and more "floating suggestion." Two of us—full-grown men—were hiked out as far as we could, bodies perpendicular to the water, legs straining to keep the mast from snapping. There was no discussion. No weighing of options. Just: They’re out there. Let’s go. Adrenaline doesn't ask for your certifications. It just shows up and takes the wheel.
The wild part? That wasn't even my first questionable sailing decision. A few years earlier, I had talked my way into being a camp Sailing Director. Minor detail: I didn’t actually know how to sail.
The previous director figured this out five minutes into our first outing. He gave me a "crash course"—basically pointing at the rudder and the sheet—and then, without ceremony, he jumped overboard. He swam back to the dock, leaving me alone in the middle of the lake, 2 miles from land, with just enough information to either figure it out or become a local legend for all the wrong reasons.
I docked that boat clean. To this day, I don’t know if that was instinct or just God protecting the foolish.
Looking back, these weren't just "funny stories." They were close calls. The margin between a "good story" and a "tragedy" was thinner than the fiberglass on that Sunfish. When you’re young, you don’t measure risk; you just... go. And sometimes, "going" works out.
I look at those moments differently now. Not with regret, but with a healthy respect for the "what ifs." Nature doesn’t care if you’re bold. It doesn’t care if you have a blog.
I made it through the sharks, the storms, and the jobs I wasn't qualified for. I'm still standing. Still tilted. But these days, I have a much deeper appreciation for dry land... and knowing when to stay on it.
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