Travel Blog

On Ocean Time (By Land): A Captain's Log (World Cup Edition) July 6, 2026

July 6, 2026

We turned the MGB back north, leaving the palm trees of Florida behind to head toward the towering skyline of New York. Driving instead of sailing has allowed us to glide effortlessly across state lines, catching matches up and down the coast with an ease that a sailboat simply couldn't offer. By Monday afternoon, we had parked the convertible near a lively waterfront boardwalk on the edge of the harbor, where the crisp ocean breeze carried the high-octane energy of a city caught up in a historic global tournament.

The local bars and pubs were a beautiful, crowded tapestry of international fans, but tonight the visual landscape belonged to two heavyweights: the iconic yellow-and-green jerseys of Brazil and the sea of red and blue flags carried by the passionate traveling supporters of Norway. Squeezing into a crowded, rustic wood tavern built right on the pilings over the water, Sweet Pea and I claimed a small table near the windows. We ordered a massive bucket of steamed blue crabs and garlic butter, paired with a few ice-cold local lagers, keeping our eyes glued to the massive screen for Brazil vs Norway.

What unfolded on the pitch was an absolute heavyweight knockout masterpiece. Brazil played with their signature samba flair, painting beautiful lines across the pitch with their attacking chemistry. But the Norwegians brought an unbelievable layer of grit, anchoring down like ancient oaks and neutralizing the Brazilian firepower with pure tactical physicality. Norway caught the favorites off guard with two brilliant, devastating counter-attacks that shook the tavern to its very foundations, locking in an unbelievable 1-2 upset victory over Brazil.

The establishment erupted into absolute madness as the final whistle blew, with local fans and traveling Europeans hoisting glasses together to toast an iconic display of sportsmanship. Walking back down the boardwalk under a dark sky punctuated by twinkling stars, I held Sweet Pea’s hand, listening to the soothing rhythm of harbor waves striking the wooden beams below. This land transportation experiment has given us a front-row seat to paradise and a tournament I will never forget. One choice keeps me in paradise, and the other, well, keeps me in paradise. Until next time, I'm going to sit right here and get back to doing what I do best... absolutely nothing.

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On Ocean Time (By Land): A Captain's Log (World Cup Edition) July 3, 2026

July 3, 2026

We spent the last few days pointing the MG due south, retracing our path down the long asphalt ribbon of the eastern United States to catch a highly anticipated Round of 16 thriller. The sports car didn't let us down, humming perfectly as the cooler northern air slowly vanished, replaced once more by the thick, familiar embrace of tropical heat. By Friday afternoon, we rolled right into the heart of Miami, Florida, parking right along the waterfront where the Atlantic waters ripple against the docks under a high, brilliant sun.

The city was an absolute cauldron of noise and color. Fans from every corner of the hemisphere had descended on the coastal bars, but two groups completely dominated the scene: the passionate, sky-blue-and-white-clad supporters of Argentina, and the beautiful, singing fans representing the tiny island nation of Cabo Verde, who had defied every mathematical odd to reach the final sixteen. The open-air taverns along the marina were overflowing, vibrating with the competing rhythms of South American drums and West African island music.

Sweet Pea and I claimed a couple of stools at a weathered wood bar right on the water's edge, ordering a massive platter of grilled mahi-mahi and fried plantains paired with a couple of ice-cold local brews. Everyone under the thatched roof was glued to the screen for Argentina vs Cabo Verde. What unfolded on the pitch was pure, unadulterated drama. Cabo Verde fought like absolute pirates, using their blistering pace and fearless spirit to push the tournament heavyweights to the absolute limit. They traded spectacular attacking blows back and forth in a relentless showcase of global football. But in the end, Argentina's tactical class and clinical execution allowed them to barely edge out the islanders, locking in a thrilling 3-2 victory.

The bar erupted into a beautiful, respectful celebration, with both sides hoisting glasses together to honor a match played with absolute heart. Sitting there, watching the stars begin to spark into existence over the dark Miami horizon, I listened to the steady sound of the surf mixing with the laughter of strangers who had just become fast friends. This land journey has given us a front-row seat to a historic global carnival, and there's nowhere else I'd rather be. As the warm sea breeze covers the deck, removing every last trace of road wear from my body, I raise my glass to the tropical night. One choice keeps me in paradise, and the other, well, keeps me in paradise. Until next time, I’m going to sit right here and get back to doing what I do best... absolutely nothing.

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On Ocean Time (By Land): A Captain's Log (World Cup Edition) June 30, 2026

June 30, 2026

We woke up early and turned the MG east, racing down the interstate as the crisp northern morning air slowly gave way to a bright, warm summer day. Our highway navigation brought us down into the historic, coastal city of Boston, Massachusetts. The city sits proudly on the edge of the harbor, a place where the smell of saltwater blends perfectly with the rich history embedded in the brick buildings and cobblestone streets. Since we chose land transportation over sails, we rolled right into the heart of the city, parked the convertible by the waterfront, and set off to see how New England handles a massive knockout tournament match.

The entire harbor area was buzzing with international electricity. Fans from all over the world were pouring into local taverns, their national colors draped over their shoulders. We found a lively, open-air pub right on the end of a bustling wooden pier that looked out onto the harbor where a fleet of modern yachts and historic schooners sat quietly at their moorings. The big screen above the bar was tuned in to a massive Round of 32 clash: France vs Sweden.

The contrast in styles on the pitch was spectacular, but the European powerhouses proved to be entirely too formidable. France put on an absolute masterclass of fast-paced, clinical football. They completely dismantled the Swedish defensive lines, moving the ball with a beautiful fluidity that left the crowd in the pub gasping. The French squad dominated the match from start to finish, locking in a decisive 3-0 shutout victory that sent their traveling supporters into an absolute frenzy of singing and waving tricolor flags.

We celebrated a magnificent day of sports by ordering a couple of cold local ales and a massive plate of fresh steamed clams and lobster rolls. Sitting out on the deck, listening to the chatter of multiple languages intermingling with the familiar rhythm of harbor waves striking the heavy wooden pilings, I looked over at Sweet Pea and smiled. Our land journey has allowed us to see twice as many matches as we ever could have on the water, proving that trading the open sea for the open road was the right choice. As night begins to fall and the stars slowly claim the sky over the Atlantic, the serene harbor breeze completely removes any remaining ounce of tension from my sun-drenched body. One choice keeps me in paradise, and the other, well, keeps me in paradise. Until next time, I’m going to sit right here and get back to doing what I do best... absolutely nothing.

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On Ocean Time (By Land): A Captain's Log (World Cup Edition) June 29, 2026

June 29, 2026

We drove further north today, skirting the beautiful Atlantic coast through the eastern states until the afternoon air grew a bit crisper and cooler, finally pulling into a quiet waterfront town near the northern border. It’s quite a bit cooler up here in these northern latitudes than my usual warm tropical latitudes, so I reached into my backpack and borrowed an old hoodie from the bag to keep the evening chill away from my skin.

Sweet Pea and I found a casual, wonderfully simple little hole-in-the-wall place along the busy waterfront that came highly recommended to us by some local commercial fishermen we chatted with at a gas station down the road. They told us the place served the freshest food around, and they certainly didn't lie. They were serving a massive, steaming bowl of hot seafood chowder, packed to the brim with the fresh local catch-of-the-day and paired with warm, fresh-baked rolls.

The restaurant was absolutely packed to the gills with locals and traveling fans alike. Up on the big television screen over the counter, Germany was locked in a fierce knockout battle against Paraguay. The Germans played with their signature clinical precision, moving the ball effortlessly across the pitch, while the Paraguayan side defended with an unbelievable amount of heart and sudden, dangerous counter-attacks. The crowd in the seafood shack was completely divided, shouting and cheering as the dramatic match unfolded. At the end of regular and extra time, the teams were locked in a 1-1 tie, sending the game to a nail-biting penalty shootout where Paraguay pulled off the ultimate upset to win on PKs.

The shack erupted into absolute chaos as the deciding penalty hit the back of the net. As the night finally cleared up and we stepped outside, the heavy clouds parted completely to reveal a beautiful, cloudless sky filled with a million twinkling stars overhead. We walked slowly back down the wooden boardwalk toward our beachside motel, holding hands tightly like newlyweds enjoying a permanent honeymoon. Tomorrow morning, our car tires will undoubtedly carry us to a brand-new destination further along the scenic coast. But for tonight, the serene, repetitive sound of the waves breaking on the shore has completely removed any remaining semblance of tension left in my body. One travel choice keeps me in paradise, and the other choice, well, keeps me in paradise.

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On Ocean Time (By Land): A Captain's Log (World Cup Edition) June 27, 2026

June 27, 2026

We spent the last forty-eight hours pushing hard toward the north, leaving the heavy southern humidity behind as we raced up the scenic coast toward New Jersey. The MG ran beautifully the entire way, its vintage engine humming a perfectly rhythmic soundtrack against the constant backdrop of the rolling Atlantic waves crashing on the shore. By Saturday evening, we had made it all the way to a lively, bustling beachside boardwalk, located just a stone's throw away from the massive stadium where the eyes of the world have officially descended.

The energy in this town was purely electric, radiating through every alley and street corner. The group stages are wrapping up, and every pub, tavern, and cafe along the boardwalk had its doors flung wide open to the night air, letting the cool ocean breeze mix seamlessly with the thunderous roar of fans. We squeezed our way into a packed tavern positioned right over the open water to watch Colombia take on Portugal.

The atmosphere was an unbelievable carnival of color. Supporters clad in bright yellow shirts intermingled with European fans waving flags and singing at the top of their lungs. The game on the screen was pure tactical artistry—the technical brilliance of Portugal clashing head-on with the joyful, rhythmic defensive flair of the Colombian side. Every pass was executed with razor-sharp precision, and the crowd inside the tavern was living and dying with every single touch of the ball.

Despite numerous near-misses and stunning saves from both world-class goalkeepers, neither side could break the deadlock. The match concluded in a tense, strategic 0-0 draw. The boardwalk outside seemed to hum with shared relief and excitement as fans from completely different corners of the earth hoisted glasses of sugarcane rum, laughing right along and celebrating life together. Sitting there in the middle of that crowd, watching people from all walks of life raising toasts under the exact same roof, you quickly realize that it doesn't matter what coast or country you call home. Everyone on this stone tumbling through the universe is ultimately just looking for their own small pocket of peace, a beautiful view, and a good game to celebrate with fast friends.

June 27, 2026

We spent the last forty-eight hours pushing hard toward the north, leaving the heavy southern humidity behind as we raced up the scenic coast toward New Jersey. The MG ran beautifully the entire way, its vintage engine humming a perfectly rhythmic soundtrack against the constant backdrop of the rolling Atlantic waves crashing on the shore. By Saturday evening, we had made it all the way to a lively, bustling beachside boardwalk, located just a stone's throw away from the massive stadium where the eyes of the world have officially descended.

The energy in this town was purely electric, radiating through every alley and street corner. The group stages are wrapping up, and every pub, tavern, and cafe along the boardwalk had its doors flung wide open to the night air, letting the cool ocean breeze mix seamlessly with the thunderous roar of fans. We squeezed our way into a packed tavern positioned right over the open water to watch Colombia take on Portugal.

The atmosphere was an unbelievable carnival of color. Supporters clad in bright yellow shirts intermingled with European fans waving flags and singing at the top of their lungs. The game on the screen was pure tactical artistry—the technical brilliance of Portugal clashing head-on with the joyful, rhythmic defensive flair of the Colombian side. Every pass was executed with razor-sharp precision, and the crowd inside the tavern was living and dying with every single touch of the ball.

Despite numerous near-misses and stunning saves from both world-class goalkeepers, neither side could break the deadlock. The match concluded in a tense, strategic 0-0 draw. The boardwalk outside seemed to hum with shared relief and excitement as fans from completely different corners of the earth hoisted glasses of sugarcane rum, laughing right along and celebrating life together. Sitting there in the middle of that crowd, watching people from all walks of life raising toasts under the exact same roof, you quickly realize that it doesn't matter what coast or country you call home. Everyone on this stone tumbling through the universe is ultimately just looking for their own small pocket of peace, a beautiful view, and a good game to celebrate with fast friends.

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On Ocean Time (By Land): A Captain's Log (World Cup Edition) June 24, 2026

June 24, 2026

We’ve been living happily out of the back of the MG for nearly two weeks now, letting the coastal highways point our direction as the tournament matches completely heat up. We pushed further up the eastern seaboard, navigating the beautiful coastal routes of the Carolinas where the fresh sea breeze carries the sweet scent of maritime forests and sandy dunes. We pulled into a lively little fishing village right on the edge of the sound, a place where the local docks are buzzing with charter captains readying their vessels for the day's work.

Yesterday, the ultimate football drama unfolded right before our eyes on a television screen at a local beachside tavern where we stopped to grab some lunch. The entire open-air place was completely crowded to the doors with travelers and local fishermen taking a long, relaxed break from the baking afternoon sun. We ordered a massive plate of fresh boiled shrimp, raw veggies, and a couple of cold local beers while watching Scotland take on the absolute heavyweights of Brazil.

The Tartan Army was back in full force, having migrated up the coast, and they brought their signature loud, joyful energy into the bar. The tension under the tavern's thatched roof was incredible. Scotland fought with an immense amount of heart, matching the samba kings stride for stride in terms of sheer grit and determination during the opening minutes. However, the South American giants proved to be entirely too overwhelming on the pitch. Brazil put on a clinic of beautiful, fluid attacking football, slicing through the Scottish lines to hand Scotland a decisive 0-3 loss. Every time the Brazilian squad launched a counter-attack, the room held its breath, and by the final whistle, the sheer class of the match was undeniable.

The volume of matches and unique cultures you can absorb when you're moving by asphalt is absolutely staggering. You don't have to wait out rough weather or navigate treacherous tides; you just turn the key in the ignition, step on the gas, and find the very next beachside tavern with a television and a roaring crowd waiting to welcome you in. Watching a proud nation like Scotland battle against the giants of world football while sitting on a sun-drenched dock surrounded by ocean water is a memory I won't be forgetting anytime soon.

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On Ocean Time (By Land): A Captain's Log (World Cup Edition) June 22, 2026

June 22, 2026

We packed our backpacks early this morning and turned the MGB back toward the coastal highways, leaving the entirely empty beer coolers of Miami far behind us. We drove north along the Atlantic coast, the ocean keeping us company on our right side as the summer sun beat down on the open highway. There is a magnificent simplicity to land travel that I am really starting to grow fond of. When you are under sail, your mind is constantly working—worrying about weather cells, studying charts, and listening to the creak of the rigging. On the highway, you just point the nose of the car forward and let the asphalt do the thinking.

By late afternoon, we pulled into a quiet, heavily forested coastal inlet along the Georgia border. The air here is thick with the scent of salt marshes and old oak trees dripping with Spanish moss. We found a small, simple lodge right on the water's edge that felt entirely cut off from the mainstream world. The owner had a television set up out on a screened-in back porch overlooking the water, and we settled in just in time to watch Norway square off against Senegal.

The match was an absolute classic battle of contrasting climates and styles. You had the physical, highly disciplined structure of the Norwegians playing against the explosive, breathtaking speed and artistic rhythm of the African side. The patrons on the porch were completely captivated, nursing their drinks and swapping tales of their own travels between halves. Senegal pushed forward with a relentless attacking flair, scoring twice, but Norway's bruising frontline anchored down like an old oak tree and struck back with fury. It was a thrilling, high-energy match that kept everyone on the absolute edge of their seats until the final whistle confirmed a spectacular 3-2 victory for Norway.

After the game concluded, Sweet Pea and I walked down to a small wooden dock to watch the sunset. The eastern sky gave way to brilliant shades of deep red and orange as the sun fought to hang on to the day. We sat there with our feet dangling over the water, listening to the natural symphony of the coastal birds and the gentle lapping of the marsh tide against the pilings. It’s hard to believe the world is caught up in such a massive sporting event when you can find pockets of total peace like this along the coast. It’s exactly the kind of paradise I strive for—the kind that lives in your heart and your mind when you choose to slow down and enjoy the moment.

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On Ocean Time (By Land): A Captain's Log (World Cup Edition) June 19, 2026

June 19, 2026

We spent the last few days traveling extremely lightly, moving exactly where our whims and desires dictate, trading the open sea lanes for the open lanes of Highway 1. We cut through the hot asphalt of the southern states until we finally pulled into a beautiful, sun-drenched small coastal town just outside of Miami, Florida. Choosing to drive a sports car instead of sailing a boat through these waters means we aren't at the mercy of shifting winds or sudden tropical squalls, allowing us to easily hop from venue to venue and catch the exact fixtures we want. We are completely on our own time, working within our lack of planning to absorb as much of the tournament's energy as possible.

Tonight, a real storm hit the eastern coast early because Scotland was playing Morocco, and the legendary Tartan Army had descended on the Florida beaches in droves. My own heritage has a thread that leads straight back to Scotland, so I’ve always felt a bit of a kindred connection there, but nothing could have prepared this beach town for what happened next. By mid-afternoon, these incredibly thirsty, kilt-wearing Scots had quite literally drunk every single drop of beer in the entire town. They completely emptied every keg, bottle, and can on the pier before the sun even started to go down, replacing the typical classic rock soundtrack of the beach with the roaring sound of bagpipes and football chants.

I walked into a small tavern located right at the very end of a long wooden pier earlier this afternoon to grab some necessities for our evening—mainly fresh fruit, ice, and whatever cold beverages were left to keep us company. The crowd packed inside the establishment was a spectacular, sprawling cross-section of world humanity. You had Scottish fans sharing stories with local football fans, travelers, and Canadian snowbirds, all of them playfully arguing, waving flags, and laughing over the global game.

On the screen, Morocco put up an unbelievable, spirited fight, matching the Scottish physical style note for note. The Scots fought like absolute pirates, but they simply couldn't find the back of the net against a relentless Moroccan backline. When the final whistle blew, Morocco walked away with a hard-fought 0-1 victory, leaving the Tartan Army devastated but still singing proudly through their tears. I managed to claim a small table near the back windows and ordered a plate of fresh grilled fish and sweet fried plantains, sitting back to listen to the steady, serene rhythm of the waves striking the heavy pilings beneath the floorboards. Whether you find yourself standing on the rugged coast of California or sitting by the sugary sand beaches of the Gulf, this entire country is fundamentally bound and defined by the sea. As night falls, I look out past our parked car toward the darkening water, watching the small fishing crafts motor past the pier, completely at peace.

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On Ocean Time (By Land): A Captain's Log (World Cup Edition) June 16, 2026

June 16, 2026

We spent the last forty-eight hours pushing hard toward the Texas border, driving with the top completely down as the cool coastal breezes kept us perfectly comfortable despite the intense heat. There is an incredible sense of freedom in watching the landscape change from the seat of an open convertible, watching the palms sway in the breeze while the blue waters of the Gulf keep you company on your right side. By Tuesday afternoon, we had officially crossed back into the United States and pulled into a weathered, friendly beachside tavern on the historic shores of Galveston. It’s a town with an immense amount of local history—and a place known for having some of the rowdiest, most welcoming patrons inside its bars.

The atmosphere inside the tavern was thick with pure excitement because the matches were rapidly reaching a boiling point. The venue was a spectacular, beautiful mix of world humanity. Squeezed along the bar rail were offshore oil workers with sun-reddened skin, coastal retirees sporting loose-fitting shirts, and traveling football fans from all over the world who had journeyed to the coast to take in the games. Everyone was gathered tightly around the big screen over the bar to watch Argentina take on Algeria.

The tension in the air was so thick it was palpable; you could hear a pin drop every time the ball neared the box. Argentina played with their signature fiery passion, threading impossible passes through the Algerian defensive wall. The South American giants put on an absolute masterclass of fluid, clinical football, completely dominating the pitch from the opening whistle to lock in a commanding 3-0 shutout victory. When the final goal hit the back of the net, the entire tavern absolutely erupted.

Old guys who had been slamming dominoes on a table by the corner jumped out of their seats, shouting and cheering as bones scattered across the floor. Strangers were hoisting glasses of tequila, rum, and cold beer, toasting to a beautiful game and celebrating life. By the time the television screens finally went dark, Sweet Pea and I grabbed a couple of cold beverages and wandered back out to the quiet beach for a long walk in the surf. The moon was illuminating the rolling waves so clearly that our eyes didn't even need to adjust to see the water breaking over our feet. Sitting there on the sugary sand, listening to the faint island music drifting out from the open doors of the tavern behind us, I couldn't help but reflect on how beautiful this free-spirit life is when you let go of strict schedules and just live day-by-day, enjoying every breath you take.

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