Business travel is something I have become quite accustomed to over the years. Working in franchising means a lot of networking, so attending conferences, tradeshows and Meet the Team Days is a natural part of the gig.  

When I was asked to attend a small regional event in Tampa, FL in January, I decided to load up my paddleboard and drive my converted camper van, Forrest, with the intention of paddleboarding and camping on my way home. I had been waiting for the perfect opportunity to paddle Silver Springs, which was rumored to be home to a troop of invasive monkeys that I was dying to meet. The weather forecast looked perfect, so I eagerly packed a mix of blazers and boardshorts and hit the road.

About an hour into the trip my check engine light came on and I sighed. Stupid sensors! I had sunk a ton of money into Forrest recently and I couldn’t fathom that anything else could possibly be wrong. I ignored the warning light and continued my trek, vowing to buy some fun stickers to put over all of my malfunctioning sensor lights when I returned home.  

Just north of the small town of Wakulla, I stopped at a gas station to use the facilities and purchase a Red Bull, the road trip drink of champions. As I sat in my van, scrolling through my playlist to find the perfect song, a police officer approached my vehicle. I rolled down the rickety window with the broken motor “chunkchunkchunkchunk” and he asked me if there was any good surfing nearby. At first, I was confused by his question but quickly realized that he thought my paddleboard was a surfboard. We spoke for several minutes about springs in the area and rivers to paddle, however the conversation felt awkward and forced. At first, I thought “is this cop hitting on me?” but then noticed his wedding band and chalked it up to him just being friendly. I eventually excused myself and got back on the road. As I adjusted myself in the seat, I looked down at the floorboard and realized my gun case with Shelly, my 9mm, was laying in plain sight. I turned over my right shoulder to check behind me and saw the giant machete sticking out of the back seat pocket. I had completely forgotten it was there! A friend of mine had passed away the previous Spring, the machete had been his and his wife had given it to me after a long day spent cleaning out their shed of his belongings. I began laughing to myself…. what I had assumed was an overly friendly exchange with the officer was actually him sizing me up to make sure I was not a serial killer. I hoped Rickey was there in spirit, laughing along with me.  

Continuing on, traffic became unbearably slow as I neared Tampa five hours later. My coworker had reached out, asking me to pick up brochures that were being printed at a FedEx store down the street from the hotel. I updated my navigation system, exasperated when I realized I was entering downtown Tampa right at the peak of rush hour.  

Darkness settled over Tampa as I wound my way through downtown, crawling with traffic toward a parking garage entrance next to the FedEx store. As I entered the garage, I saw a sign directing oversized and commercial vehicles to a lower level. I shrugged and began winding my way up, my Chevy Astro with the paddleboard on top surely didn’t fit the profile for an oversized vehicle.  

As I ascended, the ceiling, which was lined with water and what I assumed were gas pipes, became uncomfortably close. I found myself ducking, as if it would help, while I inched my way into a parking spot. Upon exiting Forrest I saw that I had less than an inch of clearance. I snapped a quick photo and texted it to a friend, marveling over how closely I had come to causing complete mayhem in the parking garage. I rode the elevator down, retrieved the brochures and returned, anxious to get to the hotel after almost 7 hours on the road. I backed out of my parking spot and realized right away that there was another lower set of pipes and cross beams I would have to navigate under. I got out to assess the situation and realized there was no way I was going to make it out of the parking garage without taking the paddleboard off the van. Friggen great!  

With absolutely no clearance, it was an interesting endeavor, however I was able to maneuver my paddleboard off of the van and lean it up against a support beam. I drove the van through the garage and began the descent back down toward the street, gritting my teeth the entire time with anxiety that even without the board I was still painfully close to ripping out the piping and causing a complete catastrophe. Once the ceiling began to offer more clearance, I parked to the side and marched back up into the belly of the garage to retrieve my board, then load it back on top of my van. A car pulled up behind me as I was adjusting the straps. I waved them past, but they insisted on parking behind me and impatiently staring at me as I ensured the board was properly attached. With the other car inches from my bumper, I fumbled clumsily at the garage exit, momentarily fighting with the ticket scanner, but eventually made it out and onto the road, heading towards the hotel.  

The Westin was less than two miles from the dreaded parking garage and as I pulled up, I marveled at how fancy the place was. The hotel offered valet parking only and I shook my head in frustration. Wasn’t there somewhere I could simply park without all the fuss? There I was driving a beat up 2002 Astro Van with a Goonies Never Say Die tire cover and a paddleboard strapped to the top; I could not have looked more out of place. The valet gentleman approached me and the broken window motor made its signature “chunkchunkchunkchunk” sound as I lowered it. I asked for a moment to gather my belongings; grabbing my gun, shoving it in my backpack and collecting my suitcase from the back. What in the hell was I doing there? Swear words ran through my head and I felt with every fiber of my being that I did not belong here alongside the Porches and Maseratis.  

After checking in and taking a quick shower, I made my way down to the hotel restaurant. I was absolutely famished, and a glass of wine sounded divine. I sat at the bar, sipping cabernet and scrolling through my phone, when suddenly a gentleman faceplanted on the ground beside me, beer spilling everywhere. Another man came to help him up and I jumped up, offering the seat beside me and wiping the beer off with a napkin. Collectively we were able to convince the drunkard to sit down and I offered him my untouched glass of water, which he chugged thirstily. “I’m going to my room!” the drunkard announced, and we watched him stagger off, then turn right towards the escalator to the conference rooms.  

A man sitting adjacent to me at the bar began chatting me up, and we quickly realized we were there for the same event. Moments later, my coworker arrived and the rest of the evening was spent sipping wine and engaging in good conversation. Approximately every twenty minutes we’d see the drunkard wander by, still looking for his hotel room. If I were a man, I likely would have offered to help him find it, however it felt glaringly inappropriate, as a woman, to consider accompanying a drunk man to his hotel room. I shrugged it off and figured he would find his way eventually. Either that or someone working at the hotel would find him passed out in a corner somewhere.

The next morning, I was a bundle of nerves. I have never been a fan of public speaking and I had two presentations to give. After breakfast and catching up on some emails, I made my way to the conference room. The room was full of consultants, who I was pitching to, and other franchise development people who were also presenting their brands. For 2.5 hours in the morning and 2.5 hours again in the afternoon, these consultants were listening to back-to-back seven-minute presentations. I needed to do something different. Something memorable. As my name was called, I felt the shaking, sweating and tunnel vision begin. In protest against my own anxiety-ridden body, I turned on my Bluetooth speaker and began blasting the song Sexyback as I made my way to the front of the room. “You want to talk about a sexy brand?” I questioned loudly as I turned off the music, “let’s talk about drywall!” and I launched into my seven-minute presentation about PatchMaster, a drywall patch and repair franchise.  

Somehow my presentation went off without a hitch and I even managed to generate a few laughs. I was one of the last speakers for the sessions and shortly after we headed to lunch. I was chatting with a small group when the drunkard approached, and I was introduced. “Oh, we met last night” I said, and he looked at me curiously, clearly not remembering.  

By the afternoon session I was feeling much more confident and my second seven-minute presentation flew by quickly. I asked a volunteer to hand out the brochures I had painstakingly acquired the day prior, and announced to the audience that I went through a lot to get those brochures and to find me at the bar later for the story. That evening as we mingled in a private outdoor section of a local restaurant on the bay, I found myself telling the parking garage story multiple times and discovering a shared love of outdoor adventures with several others. It occurred to me that 24 hours prior I had felt like a fish out of water, like I didn’t belong in the fancy hotel or possibly even the business professional world, and yet here I was making friends with people who were a lot like me. I gave away a lot of hugs and handshakes that evening and made loose plans to meet up and paddleboard with several impressive women I had met. My heart was full and I was reinvigorated. I had been feeling a bit professionally deflated recently, however this intimate event with good people had put wind back in my sails and reminded me that we were in the business of helping people.  

I woke up the next morning with a foggy brain and a slight headache. I had definitely stayed out past my bedtime but the enjoyable conversations and laughs from the evening prior came rushing back and I conceded that the headache was worth it. I packed up my belongings and prepared to hit the road. It was an approximate two-hour drive to Silver Springs and I was eager to see the monkeys. 

The sky was a cloudless blue and the sun warmed my skin as I waited for valet to pull up with Forrest. As soon as I planted myself in the driver’s seat, I realized how horrifically dirty and bug spattered the windshield was and remembered that I was out of washer fluid. I vowed to stop and clean it as soon as I got safely outside of the mayhem of downtown. Squinting through the bug guts I merged onto I-75 North and began to smell something burning. I convinced myself that it must either be from another vehicle or the roadwork. As I continued, I noticed what appeared to be smoke coming from the rear of the vehicle. Repeatedly checking the rearview mirror, I tried to determine if it was truly smoke or just disgustingly dirty windows. Definitely smoke. Shit.  

With no exit in sight, I continued for several miles, praying my beloved Forrest wouldn’t let me down. I took the off ramp in Wesley Chapel and made my way to a gas station where I rigorously cleaned the windshield, knowing it was probably the only thing I was going to be capable of fixing. When I reluctantly popped the hood, the problem was immediately apparent. Smoke billowed from where the oil fill cap should have been. I had just had some work done on the van and the mechanic had clearly forgotten to put my oil cap back on. I was incredibly thankful that the issue was minor and fixable, but bewildered at the entire situation. The alternator and belts had been changed, but why in the hell had the mechanic removed the oil cap in the first place? Suddenly the check engine light that had come on 300 miles prior made so much sense. Perhaps I shouldn’t cover that particular dash light with a sticker.  

“Hey! I really like your tire cover” someone off to my left announced and snapped me back to reality. An overtly good-looking man, probably a few years my junior and dressed like a banker stood at the next gas pump, filling up his BMW. “Uh, thank you” I stammered awkwardly. 

“Is that an Elovaters shirt?” he asked. I began grinning from ear to ear, glad that someone recognized my favorite band. “Yes, it is!” I replied. The simple exchange giving me confidence that I was in good surroundings, and everything was going to be just fine.  

I made my way to Advanced Auto Parts assuming the oil cap would be a quick fix and I’d be on my way in no time. It never dawned on me that parts for a 2002 Astro were not going to be easy to come by. The salesman abruptly let me know that not only did he not have the part in stock, but he couldn’t even order one. I sighed and made my way out to the parking lot to call other auto part stores. The man at Napa told me to go eat lunch and he could have the part within in an hour, so I made my way to a poke bowl restaurant, gorged myself on tuna poke and pineapple Dole whip, then made my way to Napa. With two quarts of oil and one quick turn of the oil cap, Forrest was as good as new. I merged back onto I-75 and felt extreme exhaustion take over me. I needed a nap desperately but I chugged the 16oz Red Bull I had just bought instead and kept going. A nap would have to wait, I had a date with some monkeys.  

I pulled into the parking lot at Silver Springs around 3:30pm and people milled about. After paying the launch fee I paddled my way down river, annoyed by the volume of other paddlers. Several paddlers had stopped to point and stare at a monkey, but after scanning the trees and not seeing anything I paddled past them, anxious to have some personal space. Once I made it out onto the wider part of the river, tour boats cruised past me and I could hear the captain pointing out gators and a manatee to the passengers. I kept my distance but followed the boat, thankful to have someone pointing out areas of interest. The river was remarkably beautiful. Most people think of Orlando or Miami when they think of Florida, however most of the state is forest, rivers and springs just like this, and I am in love with authentic and wild Florida.  

I made my way a couple of miles downriver. The crowd had thinned out and disappeared, I was ecstatic to have the entire river to myself. I turned around at a boardwalk observation point and began paddling back upstream, stopping several times to take pictures of the gators and paddle alongside the manatee that the tour boat had pointed out earlier. A peaceful feeling came over me. A feeling that nothing except being on the water seems to provide.

Instead of retracing my original route on the main river, I turned left to take a narrow waterway for non-motorized vessels that weaved through the forest and back to the boat launch. As I rounded a corner, I sat down on my board to respond to a few work emails, the sting of disappointment set in. While I was thrilled to have seen the gators and manatee, I had not seen a single monkey. My plan had been to paddle a different river the following day, but I began to contemplate if I should return to Silver Springs in the morning, in the hopes that I’d have better luck.  

Rounding one of the last bends before reaching the boat launch, I heard rustling in the bushes and noticed the trees along the shoreline shaking. I quickly made my way over to the disturbance. I’d found the monkeys! I had heard rumor that they could be aggressive, and I kept that in mind as I drifted towards shore. The monkeys didn’t even acknowledge my presence, so I stood silently on my board in awe, watching more than a dozen of them swing playfully from the trees and chase each other. Looking up I saw the sun sinking low in the sky and realized I better get back before the parking lot gate closed at 6pm.  

After loading up my board, I headed to a local restaurant named Mojo’s and enjoyed one of my favorite meals, vaca frita, sweet plantains and a large beer that I couldn’t finish. While I ate, I sat watching a table of five ladies chatting and laughing, clearly old friends. One of them who appeared to be in her late 50s was covered with tattoos and had some fun piercings while several of the others appeared much more conservative. The tattooed lady looked like fun and I wondered how she ended up so outwardly different from the others. I wondered if I too was that way and decided perhaps it was a good thing to be different. 

After eating, I headed north to a small private campsite I had booked for the night, settled in, responded to work emails, then using my mobile hotspot I watched a Netflix crime documentary on my laptop. The documentary followed the story of a woman who had been kidnapped and raped, but no one believed her until her assailant was caught trying to rape another woman years later. I gingerly locked the van doors, then removed my gun from its lockbox and set it on the stand next to my bed, mentally daring anyone to mess with me. I always found it ironic that nature doesn’t frighten me, people do.

As I began drifting off and was adjusting to get comfortable, I felt my right big toenail finally releasing itself. It had been more than two months since I had hiked the Grand Canyon’s Hopi Salt Trail, a nightmare of a trail that I was proud to have conquered, but a brutal hike that had battered my feet and destroyed my toenails. Pulling the toenail off felt like a badge of honor somehow, like I had EARNED my new deformity. Who needs toenails anyway?  

I rose the next morning feeling relatively rested. After changing clothes, I hit the road and headed for Rainbow River. I have an unwritten rule that the car doesn’t operate without music and this morning was no different. I listened to reggae music loudly enough that everyone around me was blessed with it too, and sang at the top of my lungs as I drove. It dawned on me as I drove that my estranged grandmother lived about five minutes from Rainbow River and I was a complete asshole if I didn’t reach out to her. I paused the music long enough to call my mom and have her text me the phone number, then continued to jam for the remainder of the 45-minute drive.  

Rainbow river was beautiful but crowded. I put in at KP Hole Park and paddled upriver to Rainbow Springs, passing several other paddleboarders on the way and marveling at two kayakers who were racing one another. Rainbow river is a unique place with brilliant blue spring water, river plants and an abundance of fish. As I made my way upriver, I noticed a small side-river trail that had a few kayakers blocking the entry and made a note to scope it out on my way back. Slightly further upriver an otter poked his head out of the water, staring at me momentarily before diving under and weaving his way through the seagrass.  

I made it to the head of the river and didn’t find the springs all that impressive, the river and the paddle itself was much more enjoyable. I quickly turned around, avoiding the large group of people, and began the paddle back. One lady was sitting idly on her paddleboard blasting country music and watching her two children who shared a separate board. I groaned internally. While I can’t stand country music, the poor paddle etiquette was just downright cringy. I began paddling faster, trying to get past her, and encountered another couple in kayaks with their young children blasting reggae music. It had clearly become a competition over whose speaker was louder. The cacophony of competing sounds was overwhelming and I couldn’t get out of there quickly enough. I was relieved to get far enough ahead that the sound of the music died down and I found the entrance to my intriguing little side river paddle. Entering the waterway was like stepping into another world. I followed the shallow creek for about 1/3 mile encountering very few people. The sun shone brilliantly through the trees. Crystal clear water and dense foliage made the rest of the bustling world feel light years away. I navigated as deep into the forest as I could before it narrowed to a trickle, then turned around. As I made my way back to the main river, it became evident that the wind had picked up considerably. The rest of the paddle back challenged my muscles and definitely elevated my heart rate.  

Arriving back at the launch, I loaded up my gear and headed for my grandmother’s house, completely unsure of what to expect. The last time I had seen my grandmother was at my grandfather’s funeral two years ago, prior to that it had been about a decade. We had never been particularly close. I was hoping she would meet me somewhere for lunch, a neutral place that would put us on equal ground, but she insisted I go to her house and she would make us ruben sandwiches with french fries. Stomach growling, I trepidatiously wound my way through the upscale neighborhood and into her domain.  

The visit was strangely uneventful. My grandmother told me about all of her unfortunate mishaps with home repairs and shared her thoughts on the ongoing orgy taking place in The Villages. She reminisced about traveling with my grandfather and walked uncomfortably close to the line on certain political topics. I was catching her up to speed on the basic happenings in my own life when a friend texted to alert me that a nasty line of thunderstorms was brewing along my route home. I began pulling up the weather map and my grandmother insisted that I stay the night, but I politely declined. She also tried to offer me lamps, perfume and other random things that while greatly appreciated, I did not need. I asked her to follow me outside so I could show her Forrest. As we meandered down her walkway she exclaimed “oh I like it!” and I almost began laughing, knowing how much she appreciates the finer things in life and how juxtaposed my decrepit my van was to her own expensive taste. “No grandma, you need to see the INSIDE. It’s an old and completely unremarkable vehicle on the outside and that’s part of what makes it so cool”. She stared in awe when I opened the door and revealed the cedar wood paneling, sink and bed in the back of my van. She ran inside to get a camera, asking if she could take a picture, and noting that my grandfather would have loved it. We embraced and I disembarked, heading for home.  

As predicted, I hit an intense line of storms in Wakula, the same little town where I’d met the overly friendly police officer four days ago. I slowed to a crawl as the intense wind and rain hit, then accelerated once the worst was past.  

In Blountstown I made my last pit stop. A black lab mix loitered in the parking lot, approaching me as I was walking but ducking out of reach when I tried to pet him. He wore a collar with no tag and was soaking wet, clearly cold and looking for food. After asking the gas station employee about him and finding out that he was neglected by his owner who lived down the road, I bought a can of overpriced and rancid smelling dog food, fed it to him and tearfully left. I wanted to bring him home with me but with two cats and as much as I travel, there was no practical way I could properly care for him. I remained somber for the rest of the drive, feeling like a failure for not doing more to help. 

After pulling into my driveway, I unloaded my van, changed clothes, then made my way over to my best friend’s house, five doors down. We mingled outside around their fire pit, telling stories late into the evening, which lifted my spirits tremendously. I live in a small neighborhood a block from the Gulf of Mexico and I have made friends with all of the full-time residents, lovingly naming our group Tribe 95 after our local beach access. As is the case after every crazy trip, I am reminded how blessed of a life I lead and how thankful I am to have such a wonderful place to call home.