Another Version of the End
How I named my Substack, and a lost essay on completing my walk across America
When I walked across America, a fruit vendor I met around mile 200 told me to make sure I finish the walk the same way I started it—with a good heart. His words became the title of my book and this Substack. Why? Because this phrase, with a good heart, sums up the sort of life I aspire to live.
I believe that to live with a good heart is to be honest, introspective, and open. It’s to be curious, of service, and always aware that this life is not about me. That vendor’s words resonated strongly in the moment, and they continue to do so long beyond the journey that inspired him to share them.
Walking across America was a big feat. It’s a journey I reflect back on with great admiration for a younger me who willingly chose to disrupt the basic comforts of life, which back then included a budding business, a long term relationship, and financial stability. I was well aware of the countless possible obstacles, and yet I gave myself over to the unknown, trusting that actively loving myself and others would be enough to see things though. It was. And now, more than ever, I stand behind love and living with a good heart as the foundation for participating in the fullest life.
I anticipate my Substack essays will reflect my conscious efforts to live with a good heart. Which means I’ll regularly share instances of purposeful vulnerability, my commitment to discovery, and low-down brutal honesty about who I am and endeavor to become. I trust that this journey, like my long walk, will afford continuous bewilderment. That’s how I’ll know I’m doing it right.
The piece below describes the final day of my walk from Santa Monica to Coney Island. I wrote it some time ago. And though I found it in my manuscript’s folder, the book’s final draft left out some of these poignant details. I hope you enjoy it.
The gray ocean seethes. Uneven swells boulder toward the coastline. Onshore winds blast each crest and hurl whitecap spray at the beach. Our hands do little to protect our faces against sandblast. Eyes squint behind useless sunglasses. Someone says, “Watch this,” then leans into a gust as an invisible wall holds them upright.
Everything is enormous. The beach, the sky, the sea. We shout to hear each other. Hands are in pockets. Elbows locked. Shoulders raised. We mostly face the ocean, then laugh when we make occasional eye contact. None of us have context for this. None of us are quite sure what to do.
Someone asks if I am ready. I first need to use the bathroom. So I run away from these people who’ve joined me for the final day, then enter the men’s room and am struck by a burst of silence. I can’t muster up anything as I stand before the shiny urinal. Whistling wind sneaks beneath the warped door. It’s a drafty chill and only prolongs my paralysis. “Come on, man. You got this,” I say aloud, bouncing on my tiptoes. I laugh, and it reverberates on the fluorescent tile. Echoes like an audience. When the sound quiets, I fill my lungs then scream until I’m lightheaded. I stop only because someone might hear. Or worse, walk in. I zip up, walk to the sink like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t be doing. I wash my hands even though I didn’t go.
The mirror above the basin is so scratched up I can barely make out my face. I swivel my head like an owl until I lock onto a clear glimpse of someone I don’t recognize. Ruddy wrinkles carve my cheeks, blowsy bags hang beneath my eyes. My teeth glow in the harsh light, kernels of waxy corn. I comb my beard with thick fingers, dirty nails. I gaze into my hazel eyes and feel more connected to myself than ever before. I nod and say, “It’s time.” My throat clenches. I repeat my words. Then follow it with a loud yet restrained, “Fuck yeah, let’s do this.” Then I leave to rejoin the group.
Though it’s mid-July, high season for east coast beachgoers, Brighton Beach is empty. It resembles January 2nd in Santa Monica, the day I began this walk across America. I remember, on that first day, thinking about the end. If it came, it would arrive in a blink as all ends do. So I promised myself I’d pay attention, savor all the details and maybe, if I was lucky, slow down time. Sometimes I was successful, sometimes not. But it doesn’t matter because the result is the same—I’m now at the end wondering where all that time went. Where all the miles went. Life is crowded and fast, desolate and prolonged. It’s everything.
A storm has been in the forecast all day, but it keeps getting pushed back. It will rain at 9:00, then at noon, then in an hour at 3:00. Only just now did it start sprinkling. As dark clouds thicken and reflect the churning ocean, I joke that the sky’s waiting for me to be done before it unleashes. I consider my comment—of course I’d think the sky was waiting for me. I’ve always been selfish. Someone tells me to stop stalling and I snap out of it. “OK, OK,” I say. “Let’s put a cork in this thing.”
I grab Katie’s hand, and together we start down a row of planks that make it easier to walk atop the sand. I pick up the pace, heel-toe my lengthening strides and increase the cadence. My steps are faster and wider than Katie’s, and soon our hands pull apart and a gap forms between us. The metaphor isn’t lost on me. This is the end. Of the walk and our relationship. I can’t claim to be ready for either.
At the end of the walkway, I wait for Katie to catch up. I give her my wallet and phone then walk to the water’s edge. I hesitate. Look back at my people as they wave and holler. I faintly hear them over the roar of breaking waves. I turn back to face the water and can no longer wait.
Suddenly I’m running, as if being yanked into the frothy surf. My feet hit the water. I’m knee deep, then waist deep. I clear a wave and dive into the mushy break where it’s deep enough to hold me weightless. I surface, aim my face to the sky and howl until I am out of sound. Saltwater covers my cheeks. Stings my eyes. I outstretch my arms like wings and free fall, face first into the surge. It rolls me on the sea floor then spits me up closer to shore.
It’s over. After 205 days and 14 states, my walk across America comes to a suddenly halt. A thought crosses my mind—“I did it. Holy cow I did it…But so what? Why does it even matter?” But it’s a fleeting thought, because as I turn to look at the beach and see all my people jumping up and down in the cold, and now wet, sand, shouting cheers and pumping fists, all can think about it all that love waiting for me on that beach. Waves slap my back as I retrace my steps to where everyone is waiting. “We did it,” someone shouts. “We really freakin’ did it!”
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Thanks for hanging out!