One hundred and fifty years ago, Mark Twain, yet to make a name for himself—his nom de plume was fresh at that point and he had yet to publish any of his celebrated novels—was on assignment in Hawaii. He had set off to explore the culture and history of the archipelago, submit copy to papers like the Sacramento Union, and document other experiences for eventual compilation in his humorous and informative travelogue, Roughing It. Continue reading
I had come to South Walton for the rare lakes and the good beer. The plan was to experience them separately. But plans aren’t of much use in a place like South Walton. And liquid travels the path of one who can’t resist, (or something like that).
It was a calm morning at Gwang-An Beach when I launched my paddleboard into the absence of surf. Since the winds were down and swells small, I paddled away from the beach, which was enclosed by skyscrapers and mountains now blocked by the buildings. The long bridge across Busan straddled the bay and I made the twenty-minute trip to one of the concrete blocks serving as a support. Continue reading
Eight meters of kite was tethered from my waist and I watched as it surfed the zenith. I punched left and maneuvered the kite toward nine o’clock, where palm fronds grabbed for my lines. So I punched right and brought the parachute back toward nine, just over the turquoise seas that ran toward Cape Moule a Chique and the pair of protected Maria Islands off the southern edge of St. Lucia.
My day began with a bad hotel breakfast in the city. Runny eggs, tasteless pancakes, and pulverized fruit. I got into my car and drove east to the mountains, just a 45-minute drive from downtown Quebec City. The St. Lawrence River on my right; its chop was frozen in the surface like glassed swells. Continue reading