What’s Next?

There always seems to be a letdown after an adventure.  In most cases, the air in the balloon begins to escape before the end of the journey.  Such is the case in my trip to Antarctica.  That deflated feeling begins to creep into the final days and hours as I anticipate the dream, converted to an experience, become a memory. 

It took 7 years for the idea of going to Antarctica to become a reality.  It was conceived in the waning moments of the trip I took with my dear friend, Carson Pue, around the world in 2012.  We were in New Zealand, the end of the trip and splitting up to travel different directions after together.  We had visited 17 countries, experiencing more adventures than we could count.  We found ourselves asking, “What’s next?”  We had visited all seven continents except one, so it seemed logical to answer that question with ”Antarctica”, despite knowing nothing about what was involved nor having any appreciation for what challenges would become part of our lives in the following years.  I won’t recount the circumstances, except to say it has been a difficult series of events since we naively agreed that the next big adventure would be Antarctica.

Now, the journey to Antarctica is over, as well as our visit to Buenos Aries, Ushuaia and Puerto Madryn, all in Argentina, the Falkland Islands (under Great Britain’s flag) and Montevideo, Uruguay.  Our venture to the last continent, the most southerly place we will ever experience, is behind us.  The memories of this extraordinary expedition are already indelibly etched by the synapses into our minds (if that is what synapses do, physiologically speaking).  We are not likely to forget being bundled in layers of clothes to stand on deck staring in disbelief at the brilliant white and blue icebergs, and the countless glaciers with sheer faces intersecting the frigid waters.  There were innumerable sightings of playful penguins racing our ship as well as too many whale sightings to recall.  Though uninhabited by humans, other than the few itinerant occupants of small scientific stations scattered around the perimeters of this frozen continent, it is much bigger than I ever imagined (5.5 million square miles, 14.4 million square kilometers – the size of the continental USA and Mexico combined and 1.5 times larger than Canada).  It is difficult to believe that, while much of the earth’s surface has been occupied, or at least discovered, for millennia, Antarctica was only discovered in 1820, a mere 200 years ago, and is far from being fully explored.

Still, despite my age and decreasing mobility, energy and time, I find myself searching my bucket list for the next adventure; asking the same question, “What’s next?  Because it is never too soon to plan the next adventure.

I have learned something about adventures over the years. They represent more of an attitude than an action or activity. They are not so much an idea as the experience realized when circumstances dictate or provide opportunity. It doesn’t take a trip to Antarctica to have an adventure. But it does take a willingness to engage and embrace uncertainty and risk, to step outside of the comfort zone we so readily occupy. The recipe for adventure needs a dash of courage, a sprinkle of faith, and a measure of patience as one waits for the unique taste of significance to fill one’s senses.

Whether challenging the unfamiliar elements, grappling with fear, disease, failure, loss or insecurity, when an adventure reaches the time when it’s almost over, or there is a new chapter, there are three things to do.  First, plant the memories in your garden of adventures, where you can stroll through the variegated colors, moods, characters, significance and impact.  I need to remember the things I learned along the way, not just ‘move on’.  Second, do not let melancholy, disappointment or resentment taint the final hours or days.  Drink it to completion.  I am often prone to miss the special or surprising endings waiting for me unless I am looking for them.  Third, begin in earnest to imagine the next adventure before the current one is fully spent.  Big or small, commit yourself to live on purpose, embrace the known and unknown.  Dream again.  Plan again.  

We are made for adventure.

Overwhelmed by the Vastness - Antarctica

Buenos Aires is a long ways from Vancouver, even at the speed of a state-of-the-art Boeing 777. Including connections, the air portion of the journey took approximately 24 hours to cover the 12,300 km we traveled.

Add to that more than three full days of steaming southward 2700 km on board the Celebrity Eclipse from the capital of Argentina to our first port of call, the city of Ushuaia, labelled “the end of the world”; the distance seems immense.  Still, it is more than 1000 km to Antarctica.

Far from land, during the full days at sea, the South Atlantic Ocean offered no points of reference, except perhaps the stars that struggled to be noticed during the few, short hours of night. Increasingly, as we journeyed southward, we were replacing the familiar with the unknown, and in the process experiencing a deep and overwhelming sense of the vastness of distance, time and space.

While the passage has been smooth to date, and the weather almost warm despite patches of rain and a little snow, there seems to be a shared sense that the waves may not continue to be limited to 10-foot rollers. And the increasingly sharp bite of the wind on deck seems to foreshadow a colder climate would soon be upon us. Indeed, it is the uncertainty, the mystery and the adventure that seems to have drawn many of the other passengers to this most southern of all itineraries, a far different crowd from those occupying the sizzling beaches of the Caribbean.

Why travel all this way when the scenery, weather and water are all so severe, so unwelcoming, so far from the familiar?  Maybe because such a place; the coldest, driest, most isolated place on earth, where simply surviving for more than a short time defies our pride, scorns our self-sufficiency, and reduces our self-proclaimed conquests into short-lived tales of arrogance.

Rounding Cape Horn lighthouse, I can only imagine the incredible fear and feeling of disconnection from the rest of the world felt by the mariners of 200 years ago, or now the Chilean lighthouse-keeper and his family.  The waves in the Drake Passage jostle among themselves as if to rub shoulders in a vain attempt to get warmer.  Standing on deck 15, far above the grey-cold sea, I feel the icy wind cutting into my down-lined jacket.  As it reaches through the layers and touches my skin I have images in my head of sailors of old clambering over icy decks, while fighting bare-handed with frozen lines and heavy, clumsy sails in an attempt to keep the ship from being caught and crushed by the relentless ice.  Such a mental picture seems light-years away from the comfort of our luxury cruise-liner. 

 But the starkness of this snow and ice bound continent presents itself, as it always has to all who get caught in its unforgiving stare; powerful, uninviting, even threatening to those of us who become spellbound at the abruptness of its jagged peaks and towering icebergs that stab the grey-blue frigid water.

Life today is a long way from where it once was, just as Antarctica is a great distance from Canada’s West Coast.  But, at times, I feel lost, abandoned without bearings, snow-blind in a white-out, left to be swallowed by the vastness; my own Antarctica.  Thank you to those who courageously give hope when all seems hopeless, who choose to challenge the formidable, and lead those of us who are sometimes lost in the immensity of living to a place of purpose and peace.

Parkinson's Disease: An Unexpected Journey

It was pure fantasy.  Old, almost classical, make-believe worlds populated by strange characters with even stranger names.  And yet it was stuffed full to overflowing with significance, like a stocking hung by the fireplace on Christmas morning.

The story is about an unassuming fellow, who enjoys his books, a warm fire, good food and casual times with friends.  He had lived what we would call a simple, comfortable life in which, apart from a celebration now and then, each day was predictable.  But the unpredictable happened.  Shock, frustration, denial and confusion flooded into this unsuspecting character’s life, and in the process swept away his innocence and uncomplicated existence. 

“The Hobbit” was written by J.R.R. Tolkien 75 years ago.  It has taken Hollywood that long to do justice to its imaginary tale.  Its story is both simple and complex, suitable for children (except the very young or overprotected) and challenging for adults.  It portrays both evil and good, but recognizes the shadow of one in the other.  It shows the wizardly wisdom of Gandalf happily coexisting with simplistic naïveté of Bilbo Baggins, the hobbit.  Courage and camaraderie combine to thwart the seemingly insurmountable destructive powers of darkness and despair.  But it was its subtitle, “An Unexpected Journey”, which led me to conclude this story could be an allegory for life with Parkinson’s disease.

Seven years ago my life was pretty simple.  Staring into the future as far as I could see it all looked predictable, even comfortable.  Little did I know then that my life was about to be figuratively and literally shaken to its very core.  I was totally unprepared and left reeling from the January 19, 2006 diagnosis of Parkinson’s disease.  Life would never be the same.  The path ahead became unpredictable, leading through fields of false hope, black nights of fear and into narrow tracks in the unknown.  At times I found myself lost and alone in what seemed like a maze of caverns. 

But the truth is that, like Bilbo Baggins, I would never exchange the unexpected journey, with its challenges, friendships and adventure, for a predictable, comfortable, stay-at-home life.  No, despite the many setbacks, I would not give up the invaluable lessons I have learned along the way.  Like Gandalf said when questioned about allowing Bilbo Baggins to come along on such a dangerous journey to challenge such a formidable foe.  Some believe, he said, that “it is only great power that can hold evil in check, but that is not what I have found. I found it is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay. Small acts of kindness and love. Why Bilbo Baggins? Perhaps because I am afraid, and he gives me courage.” 

Indeed, “it is the small everyday deeds of ordinary folk that keep the darkness at bay.  Small acts of kindness and love.”  The power of Parkinson’s disease in my life has been held in check by the small, everyday deeds of my friends and family.  Their reassuring words and simple acts of kindness and love give me courage to continue fighting. 

Whatever your views about Christmas (whether you are the “Happy Holiday” type or something else), there is something compelling about the story.  A baby, gifted to humanity by God yet born to ordinary peasant parents, he was destined to hold evil in check and keep the darkness at bay through sacrificial acts of kindness and love.  Why?  Perhaps because when we are afraid he gives us courage. 

Perhaps you’re a little like me as I anticipate with some trepidation the New Year, 2013.  If you are, maybe reciting words of Bilbo Baggins will give each of us courage as we embark upon the path ahead.  “I am going on an adventure” makes more sense to me than “Auld Lang Syne”.

                      

Speed on Snow and Ice Leaves Parkinson's Behind

Fifty-five miles an hour (90 kph) uphill on a logging road in the middle of winter, sliding around corners on the powerful snow sled at that breakneck speed seemed like an activity reserved for younger people without the impediment of Parkinson's disease. So too did careening around corners on the ice surface of a lake, trying to avoid flipping the oversized ATV while clipping the rampaging Rhino (see photo) next to you as you scream full speed from one race course pylon to the next. These are activities normally reserved to those who casually convince themselves that they are invincible and immortal. Instead, I found myself in a group of men trying desperately to ignore their aches and pains, as well as their age, as they sought to out do each other in stunts and speed.

What made it slightly more dangerous was that it was warm for a mid-February day up in the mountains more than 300 kilometres (190 miles) from Vancouver. As a result, no one knew how thin the ice was on Otter Lake. Clearly, there were slushy spots on the otherwise snow-covered surface, each discolored patch silently threatening to swallow one of our unsuspecting boy toy. Winter was prematurely, or perhaps temporarily, losing its grip on the shoreline and surrounding hills as well. What should have been a monochrome mid-winter mantle of snow had far too many patches of gravel and greenery, making it appear more like a late Spring scene.

But we were here for some adventure, so the risk of sinking down 70-feet to the floor of the lake or unexpectedly slamming into exposed sticks and stones on the trails seemed quite acceptable.

This was the second "24 hour adventure" that I had experienced at Tulameen (an Indian word meaning "red earth"). The last trip had me and others laughing uproariously as I learned to survive off-road motor-biking in the surrounding hills. And despite being launched over my handlebars on a few occasions, I managed to escape with only a few bruises and increased familiarity with my aging body and resulting humility.

Adventure, for me at least, is a way of feeling fully human and only minimally impaired by my PD. The speed and risk of riding a powerful rocket on skis, all the while wiping away the snow thrown in your face by the snowmobile in front of you, is an exhilarating exercise. Amid the roar of the high revving engine and the need for complete concentration, the tremor, if it exists at all, is forgotten, and the stiffness temporarily ceases and your instinctive movements take over.

And just when I thought exhaustion had gotten the better of me, with my body insisting, "it is time for a nap", the boasting began about which team of two would prevail in the rhino racing. The challenge was too much to forgo. No giving in. No crying "uncle". No wimping out. There will be time later to deal with any banged up body parts. So off we went like drunken drivers intent on using destruction derby tactics if necessary to win. We were like speed skaters on the mostly frozen surface, seeking advantage at every corner to either pass or prevent being passed, missing by inches (mostly) the corner posts on the twisting lake top racetrack.

Drained from the day’s demands I remembered with a smile that life truly is an adventure. The advent of each day presents potential for the unexpected, the challenging, and the entirely new. And maybe, even at the age of 57, and even pursued by the relentless foe of Parkinson's disease, maybe it is not too late to know that childlike sense of anticipation. After all, who can answer the question, "What will today bring?"

To quote the line made famous by Robin Williams in "The Dead Poets’ Society", shall we not shout encouragement to each other, "Carpe Diem - Seize the Day!"

Bucket List - 2010

What are you looking forward to?

Although it is raining outside tonight, the weather in this brand-new year has not been excessively rainy. And the snow has managed to make only the briefest of appearances. Despite the gloom and gray of threatening skies, there must be a reason why this time of year causes me to think about my "bucket list". While it seems a strange and somewhat morbid fascination, or even addiction, I find a growing excitement when contemplating what might be struck from that list in the year ahead.

If you remember the Jack Nicholson and Morgan Freeman movie (The Bucket List), the 2 main characters recognized their mortality and realized that time was inevitably running out. What does one do when one faces that reality? Some would sigh and bemoan the fact that they cannot do everything they would like before they "kick the bucket". Others would simply ignore the reality of the clock winding down, effectively denying the inevitable, and continue to live life in the same fashion as it had been lived before. But, recognizing the value of the time we have to live, some of us make a "bucket list".

Whatever "kick the bucket" originally meant, and whatever one believes about the afterlife, there is certainly merit in those of us with Parkinson's disease asking the question, "what do I want to do now that I may not be able to do in the future?" In my experience, and I expect and that of others, there are a multitude of rather phenomenal benefits that occur from answering this question and then working on the resulting list.

The first benefit is that one's priorities are committed to writing.  In many cases the real important things in life are not written down. This is what triggers the imagination of the characters in the movie. The really important stuff of living is often subverted to the urgent or obligatory demands that confront us daily. Somehow it seems selfish to answer the question, "What is really important to me?"  But what could be more important than asking and answering that question?

Secondly, making and pursuing a bucket list gives one focus, a sense of priority, something to look forward to.  Rather than simply anticipating the inevitable deterioration of our physical and mental functioning, we can concentrate on living life to the fullest, as may to some extent be defined by our circumstances, but is often most limited by our choices. This exercise gives purpose beyond the daily regime we often fall into, rather than choose.

Thirdly, you can take it from me, and others who have pursued marking items off their own bucket lists, that the enjoyment and sense of achievement is thrilling. It leaves a legacy of stories to tell and encouragement for others to reach beyond their comfort zone into a land of hopes and dreams that can come true. I have found that my list has grown even as I have checked off items each year. And with it my desire to seize the day. Carpe diem! Some of my friends with Parkinson's have grasped this rallying cry, making it their solemn commitment in the fight against the corrosive effects of the disease. Every goal accomplished is a strike against the our opponent.

Fourthly, but not finally as there are too many results to discuss here, by listing the items our hearts desire we can begin to see how very much there is that we can do, instead of focusing on what we cannot do. It is in this way that we can defeat the enemy of hopelessness that so often hides in the shadows of this disease that seeks to take from us the life we had, and thought we would have.

Go around the world. Visit friends or relatives or the home you have not seen since you were a child. Write a book. Skydive or scuba dive. Go to Antarctica. Get a degree. Learn a new art, hobby, skill or language. Climb a mountain (not me!).  What are you really looking forward to this year?

Parkinson's Under the Sea

Flipping off the small boat backwards into the turquoise Caribbean water I entered a world that rendered Parkinson's disease momentarily meaningless. While the air and the water had similarities, both being approximately 80° Fahrenheit, and the 97% humidity only 3% below 100% liquidity, they had many more differences. The silence and serenity of the underwater environment has kept me coming back since gaining certification in 1997. Granted, I have chosen to limit my scuba diving to warm waters, which in turn restricts these experiences to no more than once or twice a year on average. But the freedom and freshness of these adventures remain inspiring.

After battling back from the virtually lifeless existence that had resulted from my cold, when we docked at Grand Turk (the Turks and Caicos Islands), while not 100%, I was ready for my last chance for an underwater adventure. It was too late to join the scuba tour arranged by the cruise ship, so my brother-in-law and I took the first available taxi to an island dive shop I had contacted through the Internet. Two thoughts ran through my mind as we drove the short distance to the address I was given, viewing hurricane damage and a definite lack of commercial sophistication along the way. First, would this be a reputable establishment or a literal one-way voyage to the bottom of the sea? Second, as we only had a few hours before our ship left the tiny island, how could we be assured of getting back on time?

What we saw upon arriving can only be described as "under construction". We were silently acknowledged by what appeared to be a "construction crew" of 4 or 5 native island dwellers who simply stared at us as they went about some indiscernible task that was apparently not pressing. We entered through the low doorway crudely marked with a hand-painted sign, "DIVE SHOP", only to find the converted beach shack apparently deserted of any occupants. The little voices inside me began competing in volume and urgency, with one shouting, "it will be fine", while the other sounded a full alarm, "danger, danger". But the inner screaming match ceased when we heard a toilet flush and saw a door creak open to disclose a blonde woman in her early 40s, who, obviously embarrassed, welcomed us in a refined but cheery English accent. What followed was reassuring as we were fitted with top quality diving equipment and introduced to our dive master, Smitty, who appeared quiet but confident, having been a dive master around this island for his whole life. Additional comfort was given as the dive shop owner assured us that Smitty would deliver us directly to the cruise ship dock in plenty of time, and that the best diving was less than a 15 minute boat ride away.

The lead weights buckled around my waist, the heavy life-sustaining canister of air strapped to my back, the incredibly awkward fins that extended my feet some 3 times their normal length, and the opaque vision through the diving mask all seem incredibly cumbersome before I hit the water. But this discomfort was erased by even a short-lived existence under the waves; the stuff of surreal science fiction. All the gear that distracted me moments before becomes weightless as I slowly submerged, descending 30 feet to the crushed coral sand and a world far away from normal life. Every 20 feet or so my eardrums remind me of my too recently clogged nasal passages, but by persistently grasping my nose and puffing up my cheeks with captured air I was able to equalize the pressure and descended without further pain. Our small party soon dove down the face of the nearby coral wall, stopping at our maximum depth of 90 feet, although the precipice continued precipitously into pitch dark down a further 7500 feet we were told. I am reminded that I am a stranger here as my mask squeezed onto my face under the increased pressure, forcing me to blow air out through my nose. After a few anxious moments of drawing air through my mouthpiece, I relaxed, breathed deeply and with long intervals, like the swells of the sea above me.

Adjusting the amount of air in the buoyancy control device to keep from plummeting down the “cliff” I began a leisurely horizontal swim, drifting and rocking with the tidal underwater current. It was really more like a slow drunken stroll in a giant aquarium filled with coral, white sandy expanses and marine life of every description. There were immense sea turtles (okay, one sea turtle) swimming effortlessly in complete contradiction to their earthly maneuvering, large lobsters scuttling from one clump of coral to another to escape our presence, and innumerable multicolored tropical fish hanging and turning slowly like neon lures of every size, reflecting the sunlight that stabbed in shafts through the sea, each one playing unashamedly as they proudly promoted their own particular patterns and shapes.

Parkinson's was forgotten as I took in the watery wonderland. Except for clearing my mask of unwanted seawater from time to time, it was an uninterrupted experience where tremor and stiffness seemed to disappear. It was if during those 55 minutes I had been transported to a disease-free heaven filled with beauty and potential for discovery around every coral corner, totally unencumbered by any serious physical limitations.

Of course, as in life, the reminders of my earthly challenges are never far away. The reality of my Parkinson's disease was brought home with a vengeance as I reluctantly drew myself out of the water and crawled aboard the dive boat. The late afternoon sun had hidden behind clouds hugging the western skyline, and the wind that whipped through the open boat came in cold gusts that cut through my warm water dive suit. The uncontrollable shivering due to the cold accentuated the uncontrollable shaking that I normally displayed. I felt conspicuous but was helpless at explaining my dilemma. It seemed too awkward to even attempt.

Upon reflecting later that evening I replayed the effortless and symptomless submarine experience and smiled with satisfaction. I was reminded yet again that Parkinson's couldn’t rob us of everything. We can find places of freedom, like on motorcycle missions, jumping out of planes or slipping into the sea. The open water frees even the sea turtle from its tortured struggles to glide easily among more elegant members of marine society.