The first day of my fortieth trip around the sun began in darkness. No, this isn’t a metaphor, it’s 3am. Vick woke me with a kiss. “Happy birthday, it’s your watch,” she said through her smile.
I’m 39. This is one of those birthdays that should feel insignificant in comparison to it’s immediate neighbor, but I actually feel sorry for 40. I mean how could forty compare to a year that starts with stars, salty kisses, sea air, and phosphorescents.
This year will be filled with travel, by sea, by air, and by land. We will visit one of the most amazing natural treasures of our planet, and see our kids eyes and minds bulge with wonder.
As I type this, the coast of Fraser Island slips by sideways through the night. Before the sun sets we will be further north than we have ever been in Australia, at the threshold of a new chapter in this adventure. There is so much to look forward to.
If adult birthdays are supposed to bear some poignant mortal significance, I am happy to report that this one feels like a re-affirmation of my commitment to live each day fully, with as few regrets as possible.