When I was 22 years old, I sold all of my stuff and took a train from my hometown in Doylestown, Pennsylvania to San Diego, California. The reasons at the time were many, the timing was right, and away I went, chugging across the continent in search of the promised land.

It wasn’t long after I arrived when I realized that the guy I sold my stuff to was a scoundrel. All of my possessions were gone forever, and I was never going to get paid for them. Other important revelations at the time, were that three hundred bucks won’t get you very far, I couldn’t eat my guitar, and I really didn’t want to admit to my mother that she was right. I was alone, in a strange place, with no money and the stubbornness of a mule. I couldn’t go home. I couldn’t live on the beach. I hadn’t even gotten started in the world, and I was already a failure. Who was I? What was I meant to do with my life? Could I shelve my childhood dreams of adventure in return for a desk and a salary? Then one morning, right around rock bottom, I was sitting in a cove on Sunset Cliffs and the answer came. A little sailing boat, with tanbark sails, came bobbing into view from the edge of the cove.

“That’s it!” I thought. “Why stop here? I grew up sailing on the Barnegat Bay as a kid, why not try the Pacific Ocean?”

Quite inspired by my vision, I cleaned myself up and headed down to the nearest docks in Point Loma. I talked to anyone who would listen to me.