#goadventuring

To start, I visited Biscayne National Park. The park has a single trail, which makes for less debating when deciding where to hike. The trail is also gorgeous. Here’s your fun fact you probably didn’t care about—Biscayne is one of a tiny handful of places in the U.S. that is a truly tropical environment, due to how wind currents float around the Atlantic. While I didn’t snorkel here, I assume that means the snorkeling is particularly incredible.

From there, Seth and I drove down to south Florida. By south Florida, I mean very south Florida.

Past Miami.

Past the edge of the Floridian peninsula.

Past the very edge of Key West.

Seth and I visited Dry Tortuga National Park.

If you haven’t had a chance to visit this tiny U.S. park near the edge of Cuba, you definitely need to. It’ll welcome you to a tiny club of travelers known as the tru hipsters. The snorkeling is incredible, the history is phenomenal, and the journey is worth it. It’s the most remote park in the contiguous US, and it will not disappoint. Expect to learn a lot, make some new friends, and get burnt.

After a brief stop at the Southernmost Point In The Union, we drove up to Seth’s neck of the woods—West Palm Beach. After missing a bus and getting a generous ride from a friend, we visited some killer beaches and made a brief rolling stop as we drove past Trump’s house. As one of the richest areas in Florida—and the US, most likely, the views are incredible. Well worth the visit.

If you and I are ever going to connect to our hearts, we have to turn down the overwhelming volume of the world around us, and an empty car with no friends, no music, no sounds is a good place to start.

Which is good, because it was an “everything that can go wrong, will go wrong” kind of start.

6:30am, I’m rolling out of bed to catch the bright, beautiful edges of a sunrise in a place called Cherokee Rock Village, just outside of Center, Alabama. The belt on my car snapped on the way there, so that was a fun start.

It was beautiful, wasn’t it? Even in the clouds, that long, winding road up the mountain to catch the view promises a quiet space to think, to plan, to be. To connect to myself.

I dropped in at the 411 Drive-In, because if you ever visit Alabama, that needs to be a part of your quintessential understanding of the state.

From there, I planned to drive back to Georgia, but shoot, why not make a day of it. I drove to Birmingham from there, and got the belt on my car fixed. After a short stint at the repair shop, I grabbed some high quality barbecue and mildly-local joint nearby. There, I locked my keys in my car. I waited again for the locksmith to show up. Double win.

In a world where adventure has always meant fun, two-second sound bits that look good on YouTube, I spent my afternoon swimming in the depths of history at Birmingham’s Civil Rights Institute. Every statue, every monument was utterly captivating.

There were two water fountains, one still new & gleaming, the other falling apart at every join. It’s good to be somber. 

It’s good to be the only white man in a sea of young black parents trying to explain the brutality to their children. It’s good to be shocked, to be in the minority, to gain perspective. It’s good to feel uncomfortable in my “Black Sheep” ballcap, and it’s good to rest in the uncomfortable stillness. I left eyes red with tears and wanting to apologize deeply on behalf of my race; I don’t care what side or non-side of the political aisles you stand on, it is good to empathize deeply.

If I am going to embrace, understand, and engage with the people around me—if I am going to connect with myself, or understand people around me without the fog of social media’s quips and insincere images, I am going to need history. Alabama taught me that.