This is it, for now.

I've been meaning to sit down for a while now and delve into some meaty reflection about my time here at YMCA Wainui.  The nature of this job seems to move the grains of sand at a much faster rate, and I'm constantly making excuses for my lack of writing when I drift off into sleep with my eyelids all but glued shut.  So here I am again with one week left in my work contract.  In all honesty, my work contract should've extended to May of next year... but I find myself inexorably caught up on the gravitational pull of that place called home.  I have no regrets though; here are a few reasons why I'm ecstatic to have Wainui for another home away from home.

Every day is different and unexpected; the dynamic you create with a group of kids is unique for those couple of hours.  You might be kayaking or singing campfire songs, but it's special.  My favorite part is seeing and relating to those budding senses of humor.  Kids can be so disarming and hilarious, and it's a real treat to bring that out of them in any moment.  It's reciprocal and liberating, too.  I don't think people will be able to handle me if I go back into a desk job; I've regressed to the maturity level of a ten year old.  Well, there's some sophisticated nuance: there's nothing like a well-timed fart.  I'm getting really good at this in my months of experience.

In truth, there is some sadness underlining all of these special moments.  The nature of the job is ephemeral; kids come and go, faces quickly forgotten, names replaced by the incoming campers each week.  Of course, the sheer number is impossible to remember.  The whole experience is memorably, but the details dissipate quickly, leaving only a general feeling of sorts.  Some weeks I wish I could relish those memories a little longer.  At any rate, if all I can remember is laughing and giving people an awesome experience I must be doing something right.

Another thing I relish is becoming an instant role model for these kids.  The red staff T-shirts and baseball caps with YMCA logos abound.  Not to mention, something I forget is that having a foreign accent gives you a bit of exotic allure.  But first impressions aside, the crux of it all comes down to how I talk to kids on a level they can relate to.  Camp might be all about care-free fun in a lot of ways, but the kids are also faced with new challenges.  In some small way, I am framing their experience with life: things might seem frightening, but don't forget how it feels to conquer it.  I get a lot of little ones who have a tough time going into the ocean or dealing with heights.  It brings me back to that time when the world seemed so damned big.  Even now I am grappling with eventualities that seem so insurmountable, but I know I'll have the support to get through it.  Encouraging these kids to do their best and work together might sound cheesy, but it's somewhat crucial that they get that stuff down before they have to face something big.  It also breaks my heart to think that some kids have a hard time with developing this trust, and it's a crying shame that these sorts of camp experiences aren't more prevalent to rekindle that light.  I concede I live in a pretty affluent part of the world, and it would be nice to bring these sorts of life lessons abroad to those not so fortunate.

I don't know what I'll do next, but I know that this experience was paramount in my own personal development as a human.  It has inspired a sort of comfort in the midst of the unknown.  Going through it all with a handful of other young volunteers made it even more beneficial.  Being able to reflect on those challenges with each other, whether in comisery or glee, makes some lasting friendships.  We might gripe a lot or occasionally rub each other the wrong way, but we've all sort of emerged as new people throughout our months here.  I can still remember the anxiety and trepidation I felt when I moved here, not really sure what I was doing or who these people are.  But as I might tell my campers, we're going to have an awesome time and do great things.  I certainly think I am sometimes talking to myself a little bit when I try to inspire confidence in these little ones; I have certainly found new promise in my own abilities.

The only trouble I face now is how to say goodbye.  I've been brooding lately, caught in that internal swell of memories and expectations for the future.  I think of Cape Three Points and how I tell the kids how special it is: the thunderous volcanic activity, millions of years of erosion, the power of the tides, the thriving life in such a chaotic place, seeming to last forever but in reality disappearing someday.  It's coming sooner for me.  The refreshing sadness of a new chapter.  I'll be sure to leave some good vibes in my wake.

Feel big, feel small, feel like a boss, feel like an ant. Get your feelers out around the world.

"Welcome to the world," nobody ever said to me.  I had to say hello for myself.

When I was a kid the world seemed so unfathomably immense.  In fact, I hardly even had a concept of how big my hometown was.  I still remember getting lost on the way home from school in the first grade.

Growing into adulthood, I started to get a feel for bigger things, spatial and otherwise.  I was sort of getting a handle on this responsibility stuff they'd been drilling into my head for years.  But even when I thought I was master of the universe, I would often miss the mark.  I was misjudging things, either letting people down or getting caught up in fruitless pursuits.  Fickle, flaky, faltering, and whatever other F words I can think of.  Bad habits.  Self centered motives.  Impulses.  These things were (and some still are) the driving forces of my life.  But what's bad and what's good?

Sometimes I follow a random thread or idea and it turns into something of value.  Ideas might fail or fall short of your goal, but if you have many ideas to pursue you'll never be bored.

So where am I going with this?  I've been ruminating on all the traveling I've done in the last six or so months, and I wanted to express my happiness with the notion of throwing yourself into the unknown.  The idea is simple: get lost somewhere in the world, and see what happens.  I didn't fully realize it at the outset, but the cliché is true: you've got to lose yourself to find something better.  New and improved Human Being v2.0.

I've been building a mental list of my condensed travel highlights over the past few weeks, but they're just starting to pour out.  Here are some darned good reasons to travel:

Experience more language barriers.

Surmounting language barriers in any given place is an incredible challenge.  This will activate all sorts of dusty, tangled regions in your brain, but it's time for some Spring cleaning.

Meeting your basic needs hinges largely on the people you meet while traveling abroad.  We rely greatly on people to help us find things in a new place.  This requires getting comfortable with approaching strangers you can't verbally understand.  The process can be exhausting, but also exhilarating when everything comes together.  Some days might feel like everything is working against you, but part of the experience is learning how to accept those defeats and move on to new solutions.

With a little luck and persistence, those neurons will be firing like a turbocharged V8 Hemi with all the high-octane jargon you can throw into this metaphor.  You'll develop a system for each place, researching the crucial bits ahead of time without over-saturating your brains.  Basically you will be a boss at life after traveling abroad for a while.  You will know how to take initiative, create simple plans, and carry them out expertly.  Life will start to feel like a game.  It's like unlocking the next island in GTA, and soon enough you'll know it like the back (and front) of your hand.

Make up your own mind about a place or a people.

The predominant views of any given place as portrayed by the media are wildly inaccurate.  Even your own experience will not be so easy to generalize.  Travel consists of many chance encounters: you will meet heaps of people, locals and foreigners alike, and these meetings will color your entire experience.

Back home, you might be able to go for days without any social interaction.  (Talking to your cat doesn't count, as much as I might hope). When you're on the go from country to country, however, some days might consist of hundreds of small exchanges.  Walking down a busy street in one place might make you lend itself to anonymity, a fly on the wall.  Enter a different space and you might find yourself in a sort of confrontation of cultures.  You might feel like you're on the spot to deliver some sort of accurate representation of what it means to be a part of your nation, or culture.

But traveling is a biased experience, and this is all the more reason to get out there and do it yourself.  It becomes something personal, and you get to decide what it all means to you.

Or maybe you'll find that the jury is always out on such a thing.  Your mind simplifies things, but you will meet people who challenge those notions, creating more subtle ideas about what makes a new culture so interesting.  Peel back the layers.

Assert yourself.

Going hand in hand with learning about new cultures, don't forget to stand up for yourself.  In some ways you're a guest in another country, but being a guest doesn't mean you have to sacrifice your values to fit in with others.  People will often try to squeeze you into their stereotypes of what they see externally, but you can help them out by putting in your two cents.  It's an exchange, after all.  You learn something from them, and they do the same.

Sometimes the discourse can get heated, but I like to imagine that we are all just trying to share our stories and move past the trivial externalities.  Nationality starts to matter less and less; you can find commonality with most people.

The ten percent.

This is a vague number, but I gravitate to childishly simplistic things.  You will meet so many people in such a compressed amount of time, but you might find that most people aren't really your cup of tea.  You might find yourself in social situations you're not entirely comfortable with.  You might even go an entire week without having what ever it is you consider to be good conversation.  People find stimulation from different things, and it was the case for me that only about ten percent of people I encountered were people I wanted to continue hanging out with.  Many were simply on other trains of thought and passed me by.  You've got to keep meeting people to find the gems, which brings me to number five.

Single serving friends.

It's one of the most elating things to meet a potential best friend while traveling, but also a bit heartbreaking when you realize that you're moving along divergent paths.  You will likely never see this person again in your life.  The best you can do is throw away inhibition and make the most of that time together.  Throw down all your cards, and you might just get a hugely refreshing and life-affirming experience out of these fleeting moments.  If you're lucky, you might be heading in the same direction for a time.

Discomfort.

This one is a bit of a hard sell, but if you can find the humor in being squashed into the back of a tiny truck, or go days without showering, or endure food poisoning, and so on, you'll emerge from the other side with a sense of accomplishment.  Learning to accept and embrace these wacky situations will build your resilience.  You'll start to notice how easy it is to get preoccupied with being comfortable at all times (as well as how expensive it is), and this will free up your mind to think about more important things.

Like what you're having for dinner.

Food.

Food.  Seriously.  You'll eat so many new and unusual things.  You'll also find some familiar dishes done better for a fraction of the cost.

Minimize your belongings.

*Let It Go begins playing somewhere in the distance*

We don't need a lot to get by in this world.  It may be difficult to trim down the stuff you've been accumulating over the years, but the weeks leading to any big trip allow you to really consider what's necessary and what's just going to be covered in dust.  You'll make goodbyes to books and clothes, but they pale in comparison to the goodbyes you'll share with your friends.  These are happysad moments, but you'll remember how nice it is to be so connected with people.

Make the world smaller.

It's really big, and you'll never see it all.  But as you meet people from around the world, you'll find that you have friends spanning around the globe.  Your sense of community no longer terminates at the end of the street, or the city line, or the ocean.  You'll find yourself caring about the world's current events because you can associate a face with the place.  You'll gather your stories as you go and the stories of those you met, people leading drastically different lives.  Some things are mundane, but the profound moments are illuminating.

Don't miss out.

Home will be there, but your idea of home may change along the way.  Your friends and family might move, or pass away, regardless of where you are the world.  So go get lost now while you can.  Make some stories and share them with your friends.  You won't regret it.

That's it.

That's all I've got for now.  I've been thinking for months about how I would even begin to condense my travel experience into digestible nuggets.  I wanted to think about how these things might begin to translate into the life I build when I return home.  I want to share how rewarding the whole experience is.  But it occurs to me that this process is just that: a beginning.  It's an ongoing thing, and it doesn't really end when you end up at home, where ever that might be.  You just have to keep on pondering and see what sticks.

Y-Camp

Up until now we've been doing a lot of training, but also running activities for small schools that come through for a few days at a time.  We would typically do two or three activities in a day and leave the kids to do kid things like play run around like a chicken or eat dirt or whatever kids do.  We are pretty much only on the line for activities and then part ways for the evening, dumping them back on the doorsteps where the parentals take over.  I would then have plenty of time to make dinner, read a book, mindlessly scan Facebook, and so on.  Not too bad, right?  I learn heaps of new stuff, and I get to balance all the things I like to do.  I'm starting to get comfortable, but not so much as to be bored.  Sweet, let's keep this up!

Nope, says reality.  You forgot about Y-Camp.

Um, what's that?

Y-Camp is a seven day resident camp for kids ages eight to sixteen.  During that week we spend pretty much all of our waking moments with the kids.  There are no parent helpers, but rather a handful of youth volunteers (previously veteran campers themselves) that come along for the ride.  In this week, we will eat all of our meals with our kids.  We will wake up before them to have our daily meeting and set up the activites, and go to bad after they are asleep.  (Or as "asleep" as any hyperactive kids hopped up on sugar and excitement can be.)

The kids are assigned into four age groups:

Fantails: 8 to 10 years old
Penguins: 11 to 12
Dolphins: 13 to 14
Orcas: 15 and up

The groups receive a proportional amount of instructors to work with them.  Myself and two of my fellow instructors, Meg and Olivia, were assigned to the 31 Dolphins we'd be sharing our lives with for the next week.  My preference would have been for either the youngest or oldest age group, but I don't mind the challenge.  I figured it would be difficult regardless, not really knowing the nuances of each age range.

This week would become of the most challenging obstacles I've ever faced.  Or endured.  I'm not really sure how I feel about it yet.  This position demanded a lot from me, and I'm still processing all of it.  I've never had to be such an adult before: a disciplinarian, a role model, a teacher, a counselor.  The hats are many, and apart from running the usual sessions, I didn't really know what the hell I was doing.  I may have thrown myself into the deep end by signing on for this job, but just how deep I would not realize until Y-Camp was under way.

Here's how it went.

Day One.  Holy hell, that's a lot of kids.

90 or so children arrive by bus.  We greet our age group after lunch and run a few basic icebreaker activities.  The first thing I notice about 13-14 year olds is that everything is stupid to them.  The games I normally run with even a slightly younger crowd are much better received, but I am not yet sure how to bump it up to the next level.  Nonetheless, the kids are stoked to be at camp.  No parents, no rules.  Or so they'd like to think.

(I am in charge of "contraband" for the week.  Some kids willingly give up their candy and cell phones, but I end up having to take away a few as the week goes on.  Admittedly I start to derive pleasure from saying no when they for their stuff back.)

The first two days were full of trepidation for me.  Thirteen year olds are more clever than I thought.  They also know how to get under your skin.  They conspire.  They lie.  They commit themselves to being bored, thinking themselves above any activity.  Fortunately we have Meg in our ranks.

Meg is awesome.  She's experienced, levelheaded, firm but fair, and knows how to relate to the campers.  She could easily manage the entire group, but she also realizes this is a time of growth for the new instructors as well as the kids.  She pushes me to get more involved with running activities, but not so much that I buckle under pressure.  The momentum starts to put me at ease.  Once I'm committed to doing any one thing, it's not so bad.  It's the mental preamble that wears me down.

But maybe I shouldn't have relaxed so soon, as I'll quickly learn.  I've always been a bit of a pushover, a nice guy, keen on going last or whatever so long as everybody's happy.

That credo doesn't fly here.  Being at camp is about confidence, being assertive, telling people to cut that bullshit out (in much nicer words).  It's about running the show.  And as someone who defaults to a follower, this is wholly new territory.

Day 2.  This is shit.

My first challenge (don't worry—I'll lose count soon enough) was Monday morning.  We split the groups by gender.  The girls went with Meg and Olivia to build friendship bracelets while the boys accompanied me for some shelter building and firemaking.  It wasn't exactly my forté, but at this point I'm just going with the flow to feel things out.  I want to get to know my campers and see what they're like.  I have so many ideas swimming around that I want to bring to reality.

We hiked up into the pine forest at the top of camp.  This takes about ten minutes from Powell Village, but any thirteen year old will quickly make it known how excruciating this is.

"Why do we have to do this gay shit while the girls get to chill out and make bracelets?"

A wonderful question, Kieran.  I'm so glad you asked.

About half of the kids get into the activity while the others mope around.  While I'm busy trying to keep Sam from throwing sticks at Luke, Kieran and Tomo shuffle to the outskirts to carry out their super clandestine operations: being lazy and texting their friends.

"Hey, do you guys want to put your phones away so I don't have to take them, and, y'know, maybe help out with the shelter?"

Cue a mouthful of inane, pithy excuses about not actually texting anyone (which I never accused them of doing) and how they just wanted to write notes so such and such couldn't overhear.

"I don't care.  Go help your team."

Cue melodramatic groans.  This is going to be fun.

Now that I have my "flock" back I start to engage with the kids a bit more.  I add on to their existing shelter but I don't really know what I'm doing myself.  I hope that faking it is enough.  But alas, it doesn't take long before Sam has pissed everyone off from throwing sticks, and now he's moping down the hill about how he feels excluded.  I begin to explain to him that throwing large sticks doesn't help you fit in, and in a roundabout way he's sort of excluding himself by not cooperating.  But halfway through this I realize that kids don't understand reason, and he's probably starting to see turds fall out of my mouth as I lecture him on the finer points of teenage social dynamics.  I resort to simple language that any boy can understand.

"Find me the biggest stick you can."

At this point Tomo and Kieran are back to their recalcitrant fuckery.  I wrap up the activity and the kids are so relieved!  They were so bored up there, and now we get to sit around and... do nothing.  Somehow doing nothing while sitting is preferable to doing nothing while other people do stuff.  Or at least these are the terms I imagine they're thinking in.  Tomo has his phone out again and makes some limp excuse about calling his mom or dad or girlfriend.  It somehow changes mid-sentence.  I ask him to put it away.

Also, could you stop being such a little fucker?  That last thought doesn't get expressed in words, but rather a heavy sigh.

Cam, my youth leader/helper, gets a fire going at the campfire circle.  At this point I'm just trying to kill time until Meg is done.  I already want to crawl back into my hole.  It's not that these kids bother me or get under my skin, but not being able to get them enthused makes me feel like I'm just wasting time, theirs and mine.  I guess I'm just somewhat disconnected from what thirteen year olds want.  In my best old man voice:  Back when I was their age I didn't give a shit about anything, either.  I'd probably be playing computer games.  Maybe they should send these kids to computer/cell phone camp.

In actuality some of the kids had fun, but I had trouble noticing the good while I had to deal with the bad.  That was an important first lesson.

Tomo and Kieran go missing during the fire.  Cool, I thought.  My first runaways.  Of course they wouldn't go far, but I wasn't happy about the idea of having to hunt them down.  (I forgot to mention the cold virus that is afflicting my lungs, making any quick movement quite the trigger for a hack-fest.)  They casually roll back up to the fire circle in new attire.

"We had to go change.  It's getting hot out."

Cue riveting explanation about how you can't just run off without saying anything.  I'm sure I've reached these kids!  Or, I imagine they're calling me a gay fag in their heads, or whatever it is the kids are saying these days.  I don't even bother going into a tirade about how offensive they are being, given how sharp their mental faculties are at this tender age.

For the umpteenth time, Tomo skulks into a corner and pulls out his phone.  I finally have the balls to take it away, and laugh to myself when all the puerile excuses come out of his mouth.  The amateur that I am—still wanting to be cool and hip and dope and whatnot—I tell him I'll give the phone back.  Maybe later.

"When's later?"

I can't fault him.  These kids are good at backing you into a corner.  They listen (sometimes) and they scrutinize.

And I'm learning.  Heaps.

Sadly I don't have much of an impression of the other kids at this point.  With my energy being invested into discipline, I don't get to engage with the kids who are actually being respectful and awesome little dudes.  I wish I could cut through the bullshit, but it's also on me for not really knowing how to draw the marginal ones in.  Sure, they're stubborn.  But it's also a failure on my part.  Camp is about making the experience for them, and surely they wouldn't keep coming back unless cool things happened.  I need to make cool things happen!

It's okay.  I still have five more days of this to hit my stride.  Oh-my-gosh-I-still-have-five-more-days-of-this-shoot-me-now.

The afternoon activity goes a bit better, and I recuperate a bit of energy now that we've got all the instructors together.  It's a team effort.

Then the shit hits the fan.  Before our evening camp fire, a handful of Dolphins approach me with some disturbing reports.  Allegedly, Kieran urinated in another kid's water bottle and poured the contents on his sleeping bag.

What.  Please tell me this didn't happen.  This is a joke, right?  Like something out of a movie.  Nobody would be stupid enough to—oh-my-gosh-yes-these-kids--totally-would-be that stupid.

I confront Kieran about this and surprisingly he fesses up to it.  I can't tell if it's not a big deal to him or if he's just used to getting away with things if he's honest.  I have him wash Alec's sleeping bag and apologize at camp fire that evening.  Despite the stern talking to, I suspect that nothing is really reaching this kid.  In fact, it seems that anyone he buddies up with is exhibiting more and more negative behavior.  This little demonic ball is bullies is growing, festering, and I can't handle it alone.  I inform my superiors and everything, but further scoldings aren't improving things much.

At camp fire, Meg lays down the law regarding the increasing disrespect going on in our group.  I can't remember the last time I've been in the presence of such palpable shame and guilt-tripping.  It was an awesome speech, one to strike fear in the hearts of children.  I'm glad I wasn't on the receiving end.

While I think it got through to some, I suspected the words failed to meet Kieran's deaf ears.  Having seen how our camp director, Andy, talks to him, and given his background (parents out of the picture, foster care, etc), it's hard to fault him for his behavior.  In these moments you really see him as a troubled little boy.  All of the acting out is a cry of desperation.  He is hurting badly, but the snowball of his emotions is picking up nails and tar and getting thrown into the faces of other kids.  The friction levels surrounding Kieran are unlike anything I've seen before.

It's late.  I go to bed, blink, and suddenly it's 6:30am.  Time to face the music.

Day 3.  Tuesday.

Andy talks to Kieran again.  It appears to be successful.  Kieran makes eye contact with me for once.  I don't want to hate his guts.  So I don't.  As much as this child can elicit painful sighs from me, I want to give him a chance to shape up.

Hours later, a boy named Sebastian stumbles toward the dining hall, holding his stomach and mouth.  As it turns out, somebody sprayed aerosol deodorant into his water bottle.  Given the talk we had at camp fire, I am not ready to tolerate any shit today.  But I'm so shocked that I just shut down.  A bunch of people are helping Seb flush the poison out, and I just stand around, shaking my head in disbelief.  A few kids approach and confirm my suspicion: Kieran did it.  Of course he did, as much as I want it to be somebody else.  The general feeling is now this: why is he still here?  I don't know what to do, so I wait for Andy to handle it.

I go into my session (Archery) and try to get everyone's mind off of it for now.  What better way to blow off steam than to shoot stuff?  Surprisingly, I have a blast with the kids.  A lot of the borderline ones (in terms of behavior) have come around a bit, and mostly everyone gets into it. We play some games, make jokes, and I finally get to see some personalities come out.  It was a clutch moment, finding some sort of meaningful connection in lieu of all the calamity.  I am relieved for the moment.  Kieran will be dealt with later, and I can focus on my job for the time being.

Meg and Olivia keep me sane.  We all manage to find something to laugh about at the end of the day.  At a certain point the clamor reaches a threshold and it becomes absurd.  It shouldn't be like this, Meg says, referring to the unusually high levels of resistance.  Normally there isn't one kid detracting so heavily from the experience.  As our most experienced and self-professed Y-Camp enthusiast, she loves having the Dolphins.  They have a lot of personality.

It's just hard to see when you're on high alert.

Day 4 thousand.  Wednesday.

I wish I had a copy of the page Andy produced this morning.  Having another sit down with Kieran, together they compiled a full page of his recent transgressions.  It was an astounding list.  We talked extensively, but as we were making additions to the list the notion sunk in that this has already been going on far too long.  It was unanimous: Kieran must go.

Andy would make the calls, and Kieran's foster parents would arrive the following afternoon.  Until then I carry on looking for the good things.  He was no better behaved at camp fire that night.  The litany grows, but I put it all in one corner of my mind.  I don't want thus entire experience to be about that one kid who ruined it for everybody else.  There are heaps of good things too.  And great kids.

Jackson.  This dude is awesome.  He can be loud when he wants, but he only uses his powerful voice when getting others in line.  He's got a sense of humor.  He trades hats with me one night.  He can also sing really well, and gets into the planning for their camp concert at the end of the week.

Judith and Charlotte.  An adorable pair, and never a source of frustration.  At this point it's not very hard to be in my good graces, but these two are stellar.  I can always count on them to partake in activities and share cool stories.  While playing at the beach they invite another kid, Hartley, into their tight little circle.  Hartley goes by Steve because he thinks people will think his name is gay, but Charlotte says she would be friends with him no matter what his name is.  It's a touching moment.  Sometimes it's okay to express those cliché sentiments usually found in movies.  The words feel scripted, but the feeling behind them isn't any less genuine.  These are the times when I see little adults emerging from the chrysalis.

Jade and Hana.  I love listening to them play guitar and sing.  They are the cornerstone of the campfire concert plans, and their talent brings everyone in.  They are goofy, fun kids, and the source of many laughs all week.

Alistair delivers an epic motivational speech before a game of capture the flag.  He is also one of the primary catalysts for the campfire concert preparation.  Like Jackson, he can lead kids without much effort.  It's cool to watch him flourish.
 

There are many others who make me smile, and not just within my age group but the other kids.  Despite all of the negativity floating around Kieran's midst, I'm finding time to appreciate these cool, fledgeling personalities.  They will do many cool things, mundane things, whatever—but I will only see this smattering of a glimpse into their lives.  I will probably never see them again, but I like to think I am having a positive impact.

They will forget me almost entirely, much like the counselor I had back at Walden West, that now-nameless man who once told us a story about the moon.  But more importantly, he took me into his cabin when things were overwhelming me.  Kids need to feel like they have a home.

Day 5.  Thursday.

An interesting morning.  Kieran's parents are on the way, but we have time to kill.  He doesn't yet know he's leaving camp, but we assume that giving him any prior warning might lead to an explosion that would disrupt the whole group.

We go into our activities.  This morning we are running our bird-man challenge, which basically means people jump off the wharf holding the goofy cardboard costumes they designed a few days prior.  I get into the idea, and fortunately it's positively infectious.  A bunch of kids who professed they wouldn't jump eventually got sucked in, and we dove repeatedly into the 10°C water.  Refreshing!

During this time, Kieran snuck into my bag and stole some biscuits I was planning to distribute to everybody afterwards.  I didn't catch him in the act, but rather a bunch of people reported it to me.  Even some of his closer buddies.  It's clear that they're sick of his nonsense, further galvanizing the decision we made.

We meet Sharon and Steve while Kieran is having lunch.  They're really sweet folks, and they seem to have a good handle on Kieran's psychological needs.  We sit down and reflect on our week with them, and then it's time.  Kieran shows up with Andy and his face contorts with a mixture of confusion and ire.  He knows what's happening, but he doesn't want it to.

"Get fucked.  I'm not going home."

Just back away slowly.  Its vision is based on movement.

We walk down and start packing his things.  Kieran storms in, denying all the accusations.  I don't know what to say to this kid.  I muster out some nonsense about thinking about mistakes and not being the bad kid that gets blamed for everything.  But nothing matters at this point; I'm just waiting for it to be over.

And he's gone.  A sigh comes out of me, but I don't actually feel the relief I thought I would.  It wasn't supposed to be like this.

Things improve dramatically after Kieran's departure.  I take the kids to work on a landscaping projecting which involves making a path through some woods.  Nothing too bonkers, but the kids humor me.  I think they're a little sympathetic to the gray hairs that seem to be emerging on my face.

We have a fun time digging up the earth and getting messy.  Even the most stubborn kids get into it for a little while.  Oh, and I'm able to have conversations with everyone without being distracted by somebody acting out.  That's a nice touch!

The evening is spent making cookies, playing gaga-ball, and letting the kids work on their camp concert stuff.  We've just barely hit our stride, some sort of unity, and now there's only one full day left.

Day 6.  Friday.

A rainy morning keeps us indoors.  Some of the kids miss out on the giant swing and they are visibly bummed.  The rain brings down the mood, but it doesn't last long.  I always wonder why rainy days are considered bad weather, yet they are so beneficial to us.  By afternoon the sky clears, revealing snow up on the mountains.  Ah, now the weather is good and nice and cooperative!

The day flies by, and before long it's the formal dinner and camp concert.  A bunch of kids do silly skits, sing, and then we hand out awards to the exemplary campers.  The beginning of the week was so daunting, but now everything just slips through the hourglass.  It's nice to have that bit of ceremony at the end of a long week.  Seven days away from home is a long time for these kids.  I would even say that held true for me until my college years.  We sometimes drift away more often and for longer each time.  

Of course some people never leave their hometown, perhaps because they can't afford to.  They might have other obligations.  Travel is a luxury.

It's important to acknowledge the kids' patience and struggle.  I had numerous campers approach me saying they were over it and wanted to go home.  And these weren't just casual statements but often fervent pleas.  This is very real to them.

But that migh've been on day two.  I'd see the same kids later in the week and they were completely absorbed in new social groups and activities.  I'd see Tom running around with his friends (who he says annoys him, yet there he is), his daily requests to leave now forgotten.

It's nice to see how much things can change in a short time.  I can't help but project a little; the changes I witness aren't necessarily lessons the kids are aware of.  You can only bring so much to their attention, and I was so frantically absorbed in other thoughts that I never really got to make the experience as meaningful as possible for them.  I'm happy with how I did on my first camp as an instructor, but I'm also fully aware of how things might've gone better.

Day 7.  Saturday.  Get off my lawn.

I've been looking forward to this moment all week.  The kids spend the morning cleaning and then we see them off by 10:30.  I exchange a few hugs with some of my campers, and they tell me I'd better be back for the next camp in January.  It seems that I didn't only emerge unscathed from this, but rather in pretty good standing.  Mentally ravaged, yes, but somehow victorious.  We dealt with some serious challenges and still managed to create a good time for the younglings.  So that's the fabled "reward" everybody keeps raving about.  Things may have seemed chaotic and dismal from my perspective, but it's not my perspective that necessarily matters here.  I wish I could've had more time to just hang out with my campers and see what they got out of it.  I can see some things for myself: tears rolling down faces, heartfelt goodbyes, that eerie sound of kids holding a conversation (or 90 kids not screaming).  They like it here.  Wainui is a good thing for them.

Then the buses roll away, and everything is silent.  We clean and do our weekly equipment checks before finally sitting down.  My ass is confused as to why it's not getting up every minute to do something.  It's wary of the false sense of security.  Delirium sets in early.  I don't even know what to do with myself at this point.  I try to pick up a book, but the words become garbled as I try to read sentence good.  Me fail English?  That's unpossible!

I end up going to Akaroa with the crew but I feel like a zombie, if zombies could laugh hysterically at nothing in particular.  I just wish I could sleep, but the embers won't die out for the evening.  Of all the nights I just wanted to go to escape to my bed at 8pm, it's now that my body decides to stay up late.  No problem, I'll sleep in if that's the case, right?  Just kidding!  Now I'm used to being up at 6:30am.

But enough sleep happened.  Everything is better.  It always gets better again.  Some day it won't, but for now I'll delude myself with blind optimism.  I want to move around.  I go for a long hike up the ridge, but the frigid wind blows me back down before I can reach Bossu.  There will be other days here, and in a few months I'll be home.

For a little while, at least.

The Adventures of Pistol Paul and his Little White Pony.

Like any new role, being good at your job starts with learning some sort of script.  Four weeks in and I feel like I'm just getting a grasp on the fundamentals.  Each session is a bit of a performance.  Having good models to copy lets you get the flow going, and as your comfort level goes up you can start making those scripts suit your personality, picking and choosing based on the next group's vibe.

One of the first icebreaker type games we played was the alliteration name game.  It's pretty simple, and it can help you learn names quickly.  Playing this amongst instructors was an effective way to let a little personality shine through, and the nicknames even continue to work their magic as the weeks pass.

In our actual sessions, some of the kids have trouble picking out a name.  It's a pretty big deal to have a cool nickname.  Little do they know it doesn't really matter what they pick, as long as I, the instructor, remember it.  Kids love it when you know their names!  And if we have enough time in a session, I have the kids create a gesture to go with their name.  By the end we have a silly song and dance, and it's disarming for everybody to get a little movement going.  Body language isn't only an expression of what a person is feeling inside; it can create a feedback response in the other direction as well.  I especially enjoy seeing the more reserved kids come out of their shells with any game or activity.  By the end of the week it seems like a world of difference, and then they're off before you can even really comprehend the speed of things.

The weekly rotation is breaking ice, getting to know names, strengths, and weaknesses, and seeing the kids push themselves along.  And what they'll remember probably has nothing to do with me, and more about hanging out with friends, eating food, and having consecutive sleepovers.

So even if I screw up a little bit, they probably won't remember.  Or even notice all that much.

I've been getting more time to explore on the weekends, so I do something to help me decompress and do some thinking, listen to podcasts, etc.  On Saturday I hiked up to the ridgeline above Wainui and made my way over to Mount Bossu.  I couldn't actually reach the peak due to the thick vegetation, but it made for a nice five hour loop around the mountain.  Along the way I spotted some distant beaches with overnight trip potential, too.  It felt great to get out there and see what's around the bend, then to wrap up my day with some binge reading.  Not a bad way to spend a day off!

After a steady two hour ascent I could see into the neighboring valley.

Freshly sheered.  Eat, repeat.

Looking out to the ocean from a nice vantage point.

Cape Three Points tip-toes out into center stage.

Feed us, human.

Some unsual roadkill to be seen: Subsonic the Hedgehog.  Neither fast nor blue enough.

Discovery, Adventure, Nature, Knowledge

I don't even know where to begin, so I'll begin with the usual inane rambling until it snowballs into something else.  Kind of a copout for a beginning, but I like to set expectations low.

At the start of the contract here at Wainui Park, our camp director encouraged us to set some expectations for ourselves, as well as explore some of our fears and apprehensions.  Considering the flurry of events that got me from Auckland to Akaroa, it was nice to have someone else hit the proverbial pause button and create a space for reflection.  I admire Andrew greatly for his ability to conduct us along in our various trains of thought.

The exercise was simple.  We all got together on the floor of Gloria (our common house) and drew a large tree on poster sized paper.  On the top we would paste a sticky note with 3 of our fears, the things that seem to loom over us.  And as for the roots, we tack on our hopes, watching them grow into a new tree as time goes on.  And in that time, the fears wilt and fall to the ground.

But wait!  This metaphor can be problematic.  What happens when the leaves decompose into new soil?  Does a tree really change?  Don't the layers just accumulate on the outside, leaving the core essentially unchanged?  It's difficult to accept that these anxieties, embodied by the little voice of doubt, will be ingrained in you over the course of your life.  Maybe they won't always be so prominent, but you never know what triggers will bring them back to the surface.

In some ways I like the problems that come with this childishly simplistic tree metaphor.  If anything doesn't have its downsides, it's likely an empty consolation.  And as for the childish part, it's not a bad way to get kids engaged in some sort of reflection—something I might be doing a fair amount of in the future.

Or maybe I'll just play video games forever.  Can I just do that one instead?

Anyway, it's hard not to turn to clichés when you can only fit a feeling onto a Post-It note.  So here are a few of mine, and how I feel about them now.

Anxiety #1: Losing my drive.

Burning out is a big one for me.  I don't know what dimly lit flame brought me here, be it a mixture of chance or pulling a reluctant trigger, but some nights and mornings I feel a strong wind come through and threaten to blow me over.

There's a lot of information to absorb.  It's exhausting, and my mind often runs in circles when it would be better off sleeping.  It's hard to describe the frenzied stream of consciousness that pours through my mind in the wee hours.  The thoughts aren't entirely baseless, but often the fantasies that ensue are a far cry from the reality that eventually comes the next day.  The trouble is having excess time to think.  Or rather, thinking about all the potential challenges as happening all at once.

And in those moments, I am on my own.  It might be something as trivial as entertaining kids during a campfire session.  I don't know how to sing the songs, do the skits, or make people laugh.  Not on command, anyway.  It seems that the brunt of the responsibility is going to be on me, but when the day comes everything seems to align.  Maybe because I work with a team of people who communicate and all of that adult stuff.

But nonetheless, the me in my head is a helpless child at times.  I like to think that I'm proving myself wrong every day, but even after four weeks I still keep myself awake with the periodic mini freak-out.  It's easy to convince myself that going home would put an end to the uncertainty.

If I had to put a number on it, I'd say I'm 80% sure I'll see this contract through, but it has certainly made my avoidant tendencies more apparent.  There's a part of me that actually wants to burn out, and that's sometimes a little scary to think about.  Am I really prone to self-sabotage?  I'm not so sure I always know when that little voice is whispering.

Anxiety #2: Making mistakes.

As a totally rational human being (hah), I acknowledge that mistakes are inevitable.  But sometimes understanding an eventuality doesn't necessarily diminish the emotional blow.  There were a few incidents in the last few weeks when I floundered a bit, unsure of what to do with all these kids looking at me, but I remind myself that those feelings will eventually dissipate.

Anxiety #3: Being boring.

I like to read.  I'm somewhat introverted, especially in a new environment.  I've had some rare moments when I feel like a social butterfly, but otherwise I am lost in my thoughts.  As a result I can be seen as a bit of a recluse.  The common house is far more comfortable than my tiny bedroom with its concrete bed and pillows, but often too noisy to really focus on what I'm doing while in the company of others.  I like being around people, certainly, but I'm not always in the mood to chat.  People might ask me if I'm alright, if I'm upset.  While I appreciate their concern, it's often misplaced.

It must be my resting bitchface.  I think I'm more inclined to accept this apprehension than the others; maybe the hermit life suits me.  "To live well you must live unseen."

Though I wouldn't want to be pigeon-holed into purely one or the other.  If only I could vacillate between the two so freely, but I have little influence on the matter, both in my mood and people's expectations.

As for my aspirations, they can easily be combined into a few hasty catchphrases: to be inspired, challenge myself, and gain confidence in leading people.  Some of these are obvious inversions of my misgivings.  If I don't find inspiration or some sort of purpose I will easily burn out.  Even if I do see the contract through, it would be regrettable to spend such a duration with no sense of accomplishment at the other end.  I have to get something out of it, too.

And it certainly isn't monetary compensation.  So what might it be?  A roof over my head for the next few months?  Tacking something onto my résumé?

If I had to synthesize all of the elements, it starts to sound pretty obvious: I'm subjecting myself to a difficult experience in order to make it easy, to make myself better.  The scary stuff is also the good stuff.  Being embarrassed, feeling foolish—it's all stuff I should've been embracing years ago.  I want to be able to speak to people with confidence, to express myself freely, but that just couldn't happen overnight for me.  I have to test the waters for a little bit first.

I have to somehow hope that I get a little beat up in the process, otherwise I won't grow from it.  And that's hard to swallow.  It's also hard to witness.  What if I have kids someday?  Everything instinctual nerve in my body is going to reach out a hand and save the day, but I'll have to learn to let that fledgeling person-creature make their own mistakes, too.  How does one decide when to intervene?  Now that sounds like a challenge.

I can already tell I'm the softie that runs over for every scraped knee while the Dads are telling their kids to shut it or else they're not getting ice cream.  Good thing I can practice my parenting skills on the hordes of kids that come through every week.

And if they're awful, devil-children, I get the pleasure of never seeing them again!

I beg to differ!  I haven't done a single camp-out yet.  Too cold... but soon!

Ben and Olivia man the campfire before the kids show up.  Soon after: much singing.

Our camp director's dog, Chelsea.  She is full of energy!  Probably from the heaps of treats from all the kids passing through.

Little Akaroa across the bay.

Don't move a muscle.  Downtown Akaroa.

Welcome to Wainui Park!

"The process of writing was important.  Even though the finished product is completely meaningless." —Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore.

And I'll be damned—what a luxury this life is!  For some people it is do or die.  For myself it is merely do or do not, the latter choice simply being a version of myself that represents immaturity, stagnation.  Isn't it bizarre to envy those who became better people by some external force?  Perhaps they had horrible, toxic parents that pushed them to be more responsible and independent.  Usually it's some awful thing that, if you can overcome it, it makes you a stronger individual.  And here I was, not a care in the world.  Loving parents, lucrative job, comfortable routine.  If I'm so lucky, why would I upset that balance?  I somehow got through the system relatively unscathed, so what use am I now?  Sure, I have my own small stories to tell, triumph over evil and all that jazz.  But having acknowledged that my first world male whiteness has given me all the opportunity I could ever dream of, I'm now at that crossroads where I realize it's not just about me, but I don't fully know how to direct my efforts.  If I have any agency at all, shouldn't I be doing something about all of the shit out there?  Shouldn't I be elevating the voices of others who feel so downtrodden that they can no longer speak?  I've always prided myself in taking the time to listen to people's problems and offer what little advice and comfort I can, but there are so many people out there with a host of difficulties I can't even fathom.  I feel obligated to do something about it, to pay back the world that raised me, but the path to that is still unknown.  In the meantime, all I can hope to do is help people in some small way.  It may never be big, but that's the aim.  Even if the effort falls short, it's still further than it would've been had I stayed home.

Vague language aside, all of these thoughts swirling in my head have a lot to do with what I want to give and take from the next several months in New Zealand.  On the surface, it doesn't look like the Kiwis are struggling with any grave circumstances like poverty, disease, famine, or the like.  But nonetheless, we all have struggles.  Even in the week that I've been at camp, I've met plenty of kids that surprise me.  It's a cool thing to witness those personal victories and changes.  The activities might be pretty trivial to an adult, but I can remember a time in my life when everything seemed so damned big.  Honestly, I mostly hated any camp I went to.  At space camp, I refused to shower for the whole week.  I hated sleeping in a big room full of rowdy boys.  I missed my parents, and I had no idea where I was.  This place was a fifteen minute drive from my house, but as a ten year old I couldn't make sense of that, having the spatial awareness of a frightened dog running down the street.  I might as well have been on the other side of the planet.  I couldn't get into any of the activities, and I counted the minutes until we'd be free to go home.  I couldn't even appreciate the fact that Buzz Aldrin came to speak to us, something that would make the current me totally enthralled.

Upon coming home, I took a huge shit.  I believe I was constipated for all five days, but I can't fully trust my memory; it might've been that I simply loathed anything related to the bathrooms.  After that glorious defecation, I ate two slices of pizza and promptly threw them up.  I was ecstatic to be home, but something about the whole experience threw my body into disarray.

I imagine most of us have had those retrospective moments where we wish we could go back, if only to tell ourselves that it'll all be okay.  Those bouts of homesickness as a little boy felt like the most threatening thing a kid could feel, simply because we haven't really developed enough experience or a strong sense of empathy, of wandering outside your own subjectivity.  Extravagance.  Extra

At science camp, the eleven year old me had a similarly tough time.  I recall getting involved in a rather intense pillow fight on the first evening, resulting in my bawling for hours and wanting to get the hell out of this fucked up place.  I can't remember the details, but I made up my mind to hate everything as much as possible.  I think my bowel movements weren't so adversely affected this time around (I just know you're wondering), but what I do recall is the face of the counselor who took me into his cabin and talked with me.  I can't remember what was said, but I do remember coming out of it feeling much better the next day.  He told us a story about the moon and I fell asleep.  Having somebody acknowledge me was so reaffirming, and I was able to enjoy the rest of camp a bit more.  I vaguely recall campfire skits, nature walks, cleaning our plates in the cafeteria, and so on.  Those little things don't really stand out, but what was tremendous was dealing with the emotional outpours.

But once again, the relief that washed over me when I came home was the best.  If I could've told myself that seventeen years later I'd leave home for a year, that would've changed things.  Yet here I am, wondering if future me would want to come back and tell me the same thing, that all of this will make my homecoming that much sweeter.  Maybe I won't have a home to go back to.  There are so many possibilities, and I can't predict how I'll feel about it when it's over.

I imagine there will be relief.  I don't have a camp counselor to guide me through this, but I do have a bunch of new friends in the same boat.  Admittedly I operate on a different wavelength most of the time (read: I'm old!), but this whole camp thing is a pretty interesting experiment.  It's interesting to approach it from the other side, and also kind of funny that I still harbor similar apprehensions to camp.  But I intend to use that as my strength.  I can relate, and maybe I'll be that nameless counselor that a kid needs to get through the whole experience.

Maybe he or she will loath it that much less because of me.  Look at me getting involved with kids!  Hah!

I spent my first weekend off doing nothing of import, but it felt so damned good to have meaningful time off again.  I cooked, I ate, I did other domestic things.  I read all day (Cosmos by Sagan) and listened to Pale Communion long enough to get it cemented into my head.  Nothing like indulging in a day off!  Now if only I could rekindle my will to exercise...  Maybe I should be working at a fat camp.

 

Bring it on!

Boisterous Ben in all his bearded glory.

I haven't had coffee in a while, but these slogans are pretty inviting.

Olivia takes charge on the Giant Swing.  And to think that a week ago she was reluctant to go cliff jumping into the ocean.  Now she's a leading example!

Paul Chakerian contemplates his future as a shepherd.

Hagley Park and Botanical Garden.  New Zealand isn't skimping on the flora.

Inside Banks Peninsula, looking out past Cape Three Points to the open ocean.

Majestic raven watches over the car park.

Warwick ascends to the heavens.

Athough not kind to the man-parts

Team building!  This stuff actually works!

Crispian gets fancy for the staff.

This is actually the release mechanism for the Giant Swing.  The "subject" has to be the one to yank it out.  There is no spoon!

Inside Banks Peninsula from the Hilltop Tavern.  This is the first thing I got to see coming over the hill from Christchurch.  Welcome to your new home!

This place sure has a lot of sheep.

Well hello, Auckland.

Aimee warned me that it would feel pretty absurd and overwhelming to come back to a developed nation.  Bangkok and Manila certainly had their large pockets of decadence, but somehow the wedge drives deeper here in New Zealand.  Department stores, supermarkets, loads of restaurants.  But the biggest difference is that everybody is speaking English.  I'm not used to being able to approach anybody with virtually no language barrier.  My habit of simplifying speech into child-like, terse phrases is a thing of the past.  I can eavesdrop on conversations.  I can talk to people freely and they can talk to me.  I guess the key word is *can*.  Even though the potential is there, it's not like we're all breaking into song about the marvels of communication and how great it is to speak English.  As nice as it is, the other side of the coin is that everything feels a bit too homogenous and too familiar.  While the population in New Zealand is predominantly European, the people seem to embrace the local Māori roots and history.  This adds a cool spin to the whitewashing that usually occurs in any given former colony.  It seems like more of a cohesive equilibrium rather than an overwrite.

Nicole and I spent almost two weeks with our friends Lianne, Brendon, and their parrot, Albie.  I used to live with L&B in Santa Barbara, back when I had the easy life of a college student for the second time around.  Brendon landed a job teaching statistics at Auckland University, sparking their move to NZ over two years ago, around the time I graduated.

As with most things in my life, coming to Auckland signified yet another bittersweet moment.  It's a bit of a relief to no longer be on the road, but this also means I'm inclined to stagnation.  I need a plan of action, but being a homebody for a while looked pretty dammed good.  I suddenly had so much more free time, especially while Lianne and Brendon were at work during the week.  I filled this with nothing particularly interesting: walks around the city, copious video gaming, cooking.  Well, that last one was more of a revelation.  Having a kitchen kicks ass.  I made so many smoothies and veggie stir fries.  Glorious!  There was something strangely appealing about living out that domestic routine again.  I even enjoyed washing the dishes, stacking them back in their homes.  I even noted a few familiar plates from our previously shared home.  Warm thoughts!  Also, they took my old bed to Auckland after we all moved out.  Talk about a familiar place.

Over the weekend we took a trip together to the Coromandel peninsula.  This place has some pretty cool volcanic activity going on, which seems to be the theme for New Zealand.  Being the end of winter season, it's still pretty cold outside.  But we lucked out with some clear weather while visiting the beaches.  One of the beaches we visited happens to be situated 2 kilometers above a cooling vein of magma.  The water seeping down gets heated to about 170° Celsius by the vein, then being forced upward and reaching the surface at a temperature of about 64° Celsius.  That's about 147° Fahrenheit.  The Hot Water Beach makes for quite a spectacle; many visitors dig out their own hot tub sized holes in the sand to guide the hot spring water to various collecting pools, mixing them with cold ocean water to find that perfect temperature for lounging around.  I wonder if the houses nearby tap into this heat source at all.

Our time in Coromandel is short but sweet.  We have a few late nights of answering intriguing hypotheticals from the Book of Questions, as well as watching Mrs. Doubtfire for some Robin Williams nostalgia.  I was delighted to find so many raunchy jokes this time around that went over my head as a kid.  I'll never forget his performance on James Lipton's Inside the Actor's Studio.  The crazy, silly caricatures he generates on the fly are so unusual and compelling.

Coming back to Auckland, things kick into gear with a potential lead on a job.  I accepted a position as a volunteer instructor at YMCA Wainui Park.  (Staff training started as I write this, but I'll get to that later.)  I was suddenly stricken with all sorts of new feelings, mostly in the form of debilitating anxiety and excitement.  Having only heard about the camp in passing, not to mention never having worked with kids, I had only the slightest vague impression of what this commitment would entail.  I was suddenly afflicted with a frenzy of self doubt, and a host of other complicated emotions that I can't really figure out.  A lot of the trepidation also stemmed from the impending reality that I was to part ways with my comfort zone.  That comfort zone came with me everywhere I went, and reciprocally I followed it everywhere it went.  And that zone was my friend Nicole.

Over the last few months I fantasized often about what traveling solo might be like.  There were times that my mind had trouble getting over any trivial spats and tensions that arose out of living with a person, day in, day out, all while dealing with a gamut of challenges from painstaking discomfort to mind-numbing boredom.  There were times that I thought I'd be better off doing my own thing.  I'd be able to seek out things I wanted to do, and nobody could stop me!

But after a while, I realized that Nicole wasn't holding me back at all.  She was just an easy scapegoat for me to pick out, a seemingly simple explanation for why I wasn't getting what I wanted out of traveling.  But once this devilish little thought made itself known, I was able to slowly combat it with a more sensible outlook.  In actuality, I myself am the only thing holding me back from getting what I want out of this experience.  Part of it stems from my tendency to exalt expectations, romanticizing how much I can actually accomplish.  I idealized the notion that traveling alone would enable full agency, complete autonomy.  It would certainly have new challenges, but it would also mean starting over in some sense.  I'd have to figure out how to pick up the slack I'd inevitably create, no longer able to divide the tough stuff between two heads.  And that day will come eventually, but I'd also quickly realize how great it was to be sharing this whole thing with someone first hand.  Our minds are often in different worlds, but the moments when they come back together are what it's all about.  Hitting a stride, being dorks, making each other laugh.  Even as just a thought experiment, it makes me pretty sad to imagine having all of these stellar, irreproducible moments with nobody next to me to turn to, to say, "Did you see that shit?!", to howl like fools—to make our own comical universe as seen from our little vessel.  Usually that's the sort of idealized relationship people save for somebody they're going to marry, but I'm pretty lucky to have it with one of my friends.

To distill that, I'd say that any thoughts of preemptively parting ways were quickly snuffed out with this realization: it's going to feel like it's moving too fast, and then I'll wish it never had to end.

And that's where I am now.  Of course it's not an ending in any dramatic sense.  Nicole is still sending me pictures of all the good California things: climbing with Julian, eating nachos with Jeff, consequently filling me with a fierce, envious rage (that I shall take out on her next year).

But leading up to that inevitable goodbye, I found myself strangely inert.  I pulled the trigger but couldn't fathom the consequence.

It's not always the case that the emotions well up in a timely, efficient matter, let out all at once then neatly contained thereafter.  And being the sorts that we are, different wavelengths and all, Nicole would muster out something sentimental only to have me draw a blank in response.

I can imagine it like a tsunami.  When a seismic event is triggered offshore, the impending oceanic waves can sometimes be very deceptive.  It's like I came down to the beach to find the tidal recess way below its usual mark.  In fact, the shore now stretches out for hundreds of feet before touching water again.  A host of life that never touches the stuff is feeling the atmosphere for the first time.  The world looks alien, out of place, but compelling all the same.  I'm tempted to go out and explore this anomaly, to see all these things that have now come to light.  I don't know how long it'll be like this, so I just watch for a while.

While that's going on below the surface, the examination of the ocean/emotion, I have nothing I can really say in those moments, nothing that comes out in this shared reality.  Mouth agape, I'm in a fringe world.

But days later, without warning, the tidal wave comes, submerging me in a heap of murky water.  Shit I still can't comprehend.  But luckily my friend is still there to put her hand on my knee.  "There, there."  I don't remember if anyone said it, or if I just thought it, but this makes me sputter out a laugh.  It's moments like these in which I truly feel like my mother's son.  I may not cry at the drop of a hat, but I can identify the same tendencies bubbling beneath the surface.

This was a hard good-bye.  My body was clenched tight with tears and headaches and all.  But this friend is my lifeline, and I take a few desperate hits from her backup regulator.  I'm swimming in the tsunami, submerged in all my fears of whatever this upheaval is going to bring.  It's too much to handle alone, I keep thinking.  I avoid eye contact, thinking it might send me over the edge.  I'm still breathing somehow.

And it's gone for now.  I'm back on shore, and the damage isn't as bad as I imagined it.  Meaning, I've been away for a week now and I think I can manage the separation anxiety.  With global communication, we're not even that far apart.  Imagine what people had to endure back in the day when it would take weeks for just a letter to go through, or weeks to cross the ocean.

So what next?  Well, this blog has always served as an outlet for my ramblings, a way to make sense of things.  I'm glad it could also serve as a place to cope with some difficulties, too.  If there's any goal I want to set going forward, it's to use all of the informal knowledge I gained while traveling and put it to use in new ways.  I want to surprise myself, and the first step was saying, "Guess what?  You're not going home just yet!"  Oh how I wanted to come back, to see everyone, to do all those things I said I would do: drink beers with my buds, play all the video games, hike every day.  It hurts a little not to give in, but the mentality I want to cultivate will help me to deal with that pain.  This longing is self inflicted, but in a good way.

Nicole befriends Albie within a matter of seconds.

North shore explore.

Baby ducks at the Auckland Botanical Garden.

Wandering into the cold, misty rains.  Much brooding.

 

Cyclops.

Botanical Garden at Auckland Domain.

The Mount Eden volcanic cone.

Buzz cut.

Always the charmer.

Finding that perfect spa temperature at Hot Water Beach.

Massive obelisk of a rock.

Exploring around the old railway site through Coromandel

Found it.  You can leave me here for a while.

Some impressive erosion from the tide.

Out with the old, in with the new.

Claimed in the name of the king, Nicole wards off the trespassers.

Arsenic tanks at the old depot.  The corrosion is kind of beautiful.  Take a deep breath.

Light at the end of the tunnel.

And it does wonders for the skin!

We've got loads of energy.

Resting just above neutral.  A rare occurence.

The sandal tan lives on!

Enough with the impressive erosion, already.

Reluctantly departing from Nicole's Heaven on Earth.

Coromandel Peninsula.

Chickens!  These clever girls had us surrounded, but fortunately they prefer grain over human flesh.