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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