Travel

There has been a belief, held by many civilizations through the eons, in the spiritual significance of high places. Those words were from my good friend Carl Campbell, upon hearing of my plans to hike Nepal’s Annapurna Circuit. Once I arrived in Kathmandu, I realized how right he was.

I had already encountered this essence of spirituality at high altitude, having cycled over the Rockies at Monarch Pass, and hiked the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu in Peru. But my visit to Kathmandu and Nepal brought the indeterminate theory to a whole other level.

Before heading eastwards, I had briefly flirted with the idea of hiking the Pacific Crest Trail, made famous by Cheryl Strayed’s book Wild, or the Snowman Trek through Bhutan, but both require a significant time commitment. More pertinently, neither trail appealed to me in a spiritual sense, so for a time I was in a state of trekking limbo. Then, quite by chance, I stumbled upon a travel memoir by a Canadian man called Andrew Stevenson, who flew to Kathmandu and hiked the Annapurna Circuit back in the early 1990’s. The more I read, the more fascinated I became with the Annapurna region of Nepal. The mountains had finally called to me, and I had to go. So, on a cold and overcast first day of December, I left New York City on a Qatar Airways flight out of JFK, heading to a far off land, with expectations of a tough adventure challenge, and the opportunity to further explore mindfulness and meditation for personal development and peak performance.

The twelve and a half hour flight to Doha afforded ample opportunity to read about, and mentally prepare for what would be an epic trek. After a brief layover in Qatar, I was in the air again for the final leg of the long journey to Nepal. For most New Yorkers, travel represents an opportunity to escape the congestion and intensity of living in one of the world’s busiest cities. It was therefore something of a disappointment to discover that Kathmandu is even more chaotic, and certainly a lot smoggier, than the Big Apple.

All manner of decrepit, smoke-belching vehicles, jostle for position on narrow dusty streets which are shared with motorcyclists, pedestrians, cyclists, and scores of cows, goats, chickens and dogs. Truth be told, given the hectic street life in the city, I was counting down the hours until I could escape Nepal’s capital for the high ledges and trails of the Annapurna Circuit. But one spot of sightseeing unexpectedly changed my experience and perception of Kathmandu.

On a single afternoon, I visited all of the noteworthy temples, stupas and spiritually significant sites that the city has to offer. The ‘Monkey Temple’, Boudhanath Stupa and Durbar Square at what was once the royal palace of the Kingdom of Nepal, were all interesting. Then, I arrived somewhat blindly at Pashupatinath Temple. It was simply another stop on the tourist trail to me; a way of passing the time before my trek could begin. But once I had paid my admission and entered the large site, I quickly realized that I had stumbled upon a very interesting place.

Unsure of where to begin to explore the site, I approached a long wall, rested my arms on it, and peered over to survey the surroundings. On the other side of the wall, a terrace of concrete steps ran down to Bagmati River which the entire temple complex straddles for a stretch of about four hundred meters. But my view was still slightly obscured, by what I thought was yet more of Kathmandu’s infamous smog. On closer examination, I discovered that the haze was in fact smoke.

A concrete plinth in the foreground, supported a neatly stacked pile of bamboo and kindling, which was burning slowly but surely, while being stoked periodically by an attendant. At the center of the fire, I could see a solid object, and when my eyes had focused sufficiently, I discovered that what I was looking at was a head. A human head! It transpired that I was no more than ten feet away from where a cremation was taking place.

“This particular man went to work this morning”, a guide told me. “He died suddenly, and by two o’clock his body was brought here, to be cleansed and cremated. By six o’clock, he will be in ashes, which will then be swept into the river.”   

This very public funeral pyre, sitting aside the sacred Bagmati River, which in turn flows into the even more sacred Ganges, serves as a poignant reminder of the often close relationship between life and death in Nepal. In total there were perhaps six or seven pyres in a line along the river; those further upstream reserved for the upper echelons of society. Hindus believe that the river’s origin is in the footsteps of Lord Shiva, high above Kathmandu in the Himalayas, therefore anywhere upstream is more sacred.

To see a body burned in full public gaze, while locals and visitors shuffle through the temple complex taking pictures, is perhaps a shock to westerners. It certainly was to me initially. But it perfectly represents how Hindus and Buddhists view life and death, and the relationship between them.

I later asked my guide if he would be cremated in this public manner at Pashupatinath, and if he was happy about this arrangement. “Yes. And we absolutely need to see and accept the cremation – and the creation. Without death, there can be no life.”

And therein lies the key as to why Hindu’s in particular seem to have a higher acceptance of death. Their belief in reincarnation is such, that the burning of the human body is simply the destruction of the physical vessel that the soul has last occupied. A death is merely seen as the liberation of the soul, allowing it to continue it’s journey through life.

The quality of life which the Hindu soul passes into next, depends upon the righteousness of the life they have most recently lived. In Hinduism, a soulful being must live through many incarnations, some in the form of animals, before the soul can be said to be of sufficient wisdom and purity to be sent forth to meet Yama, the God of death and final decider on the destination of souls. Perhaps it is this transient nature of the soul which brings a greater acceptance of death in the east. It is also interesting to note that Hindu’s have 33 million Gods and deities, which have very specific roles to play throughout the many incarnations of a soul.

As I watched the burning man who had shown up to work just a few hours previously, I briefly contemplated the deep and complex subjects of life and death, before deciding that life, in whatever form it takes, is precious, and so every second of it should be enjoyed.

Later, I crossed a low bridge over the Bagmati river, to the far bank which is used primarily for prayer and reflection. I then looked back to where I had come from with a new perspective. A little further upstream from where I had stood by the cremation, a terraced hospice served as another link between life and death. Terminally ill patients arrive into wards on the higher steps, and as their condition inevitably deteriorates, they are moved down a tier, until they eventually lay in a bed next to the river awaiting their fate. At least in a physical sense. Further upstream still, caves cut into the rocky river bank are used as meditation retreats by holy men. As I continued to explore the temple, I met some of those holy men, which in turn brought about an unexpected treat.

In the courtyard of a nearby ashram, I met a trio of sadhu gurus – men who give up their worldly possessions and devote their life to the pursuit of spiritual wisdom. After posing for obligatory tourist photographs, I fell into conversation with one of the sadhus. Key to this lengthier than usual audience was the fact that I had asked the guru about the relationship between meditation, karma and wisdom. “Do you meditate?” the sadhu asked. When I told him I use mantra-based meditation twice daily, he led me into a room in the ashram, for a meeting which lasted over two hours.

While the guru matter of factly answered all of my questions about Shiva, the lord of life who has mastered all levels of incarnation, and for whom the temple serves as a shrine, it was only when I pressed him on his own personal beliefs that the conversation became extra special. The smiling, agreeable holy man only once interrupted my questioning. Having spent almost thirty years in devotion at Pashupatinath, I assumed he would have some pearls of wisdom to share in terms of his beliefs.

“I believe in nothing”, he told me assuredly. “Beliefs are dangerous. They are opinions, and opinions often have a volatile and incompatible relationship with truth. We cannot fully know. We can only be.”

After processing this unique insight, I then asked the guru how long he would remain at the temple. “I am here now”, he answered, smiling and nodding. “And so are you. We are here now, and only now.  But to answer the question you would like answered, I will probably be here for the rest of my lives.”

Rather ignorantly, I again pushed for what knowledge or wisdom he would have gained at the end of his lives of devotion at Pashupatinath. “If we seek more, we have less. Often, when we stop looking for things, we find them. Wisdom is incorrectly associated with knowledge, but knowledge is thought; and this can mean we are thinking too much. This is distracting. All good karma, wisdom and beauty exists only in the now. Would you like to experience it?”

“Yes”, I replied immediately and definitely.

“Ok, so let’s meditate together”, the sadhu told me with a warm smile.

And that’s exactly what we did. Right there, amid the burning corpses and the hoards of tourists and plumes of smoke and fumes, we sat facing each other and meditated for thirty blissful minutes.

When hugging me to say goodbye, the sadhu whispered in my ear: “You already know everything you need to know. Now I give you good karma and a happy life to enjoy it.”

As I crossed back over the bridge to leave Pashupatinath, I took a mini tour of the remaining buildings of significance; one of which was a small square room with an open doorway on each side, the cornerstones of which were stained with dried blood, and the dye from flower petals. “Animal sacrifice”, the guide told me. “Mostly water buffalo.” (The cow is revered in the Hindu world, but it’s poor cousin, the water buffalo, often exists only to be slain sacrificially.) There are also strong rumors of children having been sacrificed in the past, which only adds to the legend of a temple which is shrouded in mystery and controversy.

Many of the buildings at Pashupatinath date back to the 4th century, putting them at 1,600 years old. Some studies go further, estimating that Pashupatinath has been active since pre-vedic times; meaning the site has had spiritual significance for over 8,000 years, particularly as a shrine to the lingam of Lord Shiva.

As I left Pashupatinath and Kathmandu to begin the arduous bus journey to Besisahar to begin my trek on the Annapurna Circuit, I did so with much to contemplate about life, death, devotion and varying belief systems.

Growing up in the north of Ireland, I have seen first hand how two very similar Christian religions can differ so greatly. Now living in New York, I have a good understanding of Judaism. When I cycled across America, I met and conversed with people from many different faiths, including Native Americans, Mormons, Amish and a range of smaller new age religions. My local supermarket in Queens New York is Sikh owned. And the further into the Annapurna range I trekked, the more Tibetan influence I encountered, which mostly revolved around strong Buddhist traditions.

What I have taken away from all of this, is that we as people of the world have hugely different interpretations of where we have come from, why we are here, and where we are going (if anywhere) when we die. But I cannot help but draw the conclusion that my friend the sadhguru is right – we just don’t know. We have beliefs, and our trust in what we believe in is built on faith as opposed to knowledge. Maybe it is better that we do not know for sure.

But one thing is for certain: we are here right now, in this present moment. That is the only certainty. Our existence can come to an end at any point in the future, when life and death collide. Visiting Nepal brought this fragility of existence into sharp focus, particularly while watching a man burn who had been at work just a few hours earlier. This served as a poignant reminder of just how important it is to live fully in each individual moment. What comes next is beyond our comprehension and control. But we can certainly learn to live in the now. My sadhguru friend may have claimed to know and believe in nothing, but by encouraging me to enjoy the now, he demonstrated all the wisdom we will ever need.

The Gringo Killer

Dead Woman’s Pass on Day 2 of the Inca Trail had been extreme. I had suffered altitude sickness near the summit at 14,000 feet, so to sleep that night at the ‘lower’ elevation of 11,000 feet was such a relief.

I had been unable to eat either lunch or dinner, which bizarrely, had been served within an hour of each other after we had arrived into camp. Our guide, Margot, was instead plying me with coca tea, to ward off further sickness. All I really wanted to do was to rest and recover. Sleep would come, but like everything else on the Inca Trail, it would come on the mountain’s terms.

A huge thunderstorm erupted shortly after we climbed into our tents, unleashing torrents of rain which pelted the flysheet. Shaun tossed and turned on his yellow inflatable mattress; each small movement causing a series of plasticy squeaks. Between the cracks of lightening, thunder, torrential rain, the squeaks, and eventually the snores, it was difficult to fall asleep. A little meditation finally nudged me off towards dreamland.

Clouds lingering on the morning of day 3 on the Inca Trail.

Day 3 on the Inca Trail dawned in much the same way as the previous day. The rain had stopped, but a thick blanket of cloud hung over camp. My appetite had returned with vigor, so I devoured all that was set in front of me at breakfast. Thirty minutes later, we were once again setting out on the trail. It came as very little surprise that our trajectory was upwards.

A misty start to day 3 on the Inca Trail.

Narrow stone steps once again snaked uphill, flanked on one side by the Andean grass of the mountainside, and on the other by huge vertical drop-offs. Down in the depths of the valley, the overnight cloud was lingering. But as the temperature rose, a strange phenomenon began to unfold. Rivers of cloud began flowing upwards out of the valleys, clinging to the mountainside as they rose up and over the trail in a display of misty mysticism.

While pausing in search of breath, I turned to look back out over the rising clouds and the trail. Far in the distance, Dead Woman’s Pass hauntingly reemerged from the clouds. It was surreal to think that I had hiked over such a monstrosity just a day beforehand. When I turned to resume climbing, I saw that Margot had stopped up ahead, and had our group gathered around her. We had reached Runkurakay; the first of several Inca ruins we would encounter on day three.

Runkurakay was used in Incan times in much the same way that we used it in 2018, albeit without the roof. The small circular structure which overlooked the valley far below (or in our case the shifting clouds), provided  sanctuary for those hiking the Inca Trail. Margot gave an in-depth lecture on the ruins, but I was distracted. I slipped off to the periphery of the group, where I could find a little space to breathe.

Runkurakay Ruins nestled into the hillside.

With altitude sickness still on my mind, I now looked up with some trepidation toward Runkurakay Pass; the latest mountain of the Urubamba range to stand in our way. Although Runkurakay is around 850 feet lower than Dead Woman’s Pass, the 13,123 feet summit is still cause for concern to a hiker with altitude sickness. But when I did my little self-check, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that I felt reasonably well.

With the history lesson complete, and my mindful moment giving me newfound confidence, we once again set off on the never-ending stone steps of the Inca Trail. We hiked up and around two little lakes, which looked pretty but wafted of rotting vegetation and stale water. With each step now, I was mindful to focus on that particular moment, and to become consciously aware of all the sensory inputs. I cast all other thoughts off to oblivion with the rising clouds. In time the stone staircase flattened back to trail. Without much noticeable effort, I had reached the summit of Runkurakay, where all of the rising cloud now seemed to have gathered. Visibility was at less that twenty feet, adding a heavenly feel to the mountain top.

Pretty lakes – but also pretty stinky!

The group paused on the summit to snack, talk and reorganize our packs. Margot then broke the uplifting news that we had scaled the last major climb of the entire trail. This perked us all up no end. The descent, while initially very steep, was ultimately more gradual and less demanding than Dead Woman’s Pass. As the trail narrowed and sheer drops opened up to our right hand side, we filtered into single file. I was in a trio with Davide and Andreh, to whom who I had given one of my hiking poles. This gifting served a dual purpose. Andreh really appreciated the pole on the descent and I was happy to have only one pole for myself. Hiking with both poles had been counter-intuitive I learned. With no free hands, I had to stop every time I wanted to take my camera out of my pocket or to have a drink or snack.

We discussed soccer. Davide was an avid Hoffenheim supporter. Andreh enjoyed the watching English Premier League without partisanship. And I of course shared my love for Tottenham. We chatted for around a mile, until it occurred to me that I had more energy than I was using. Furthermore, talking in single file too often involved turning around to face the other guys. So, not wanting to waste my new found energy, I broke away from the conversation and steamed ahead on the trail. Pretty soon I had overtaken Tanya and was then hiking behind Shaun.

After several miles of enjoyable hiking, we came to a fork; one set of steps led upwards into the clouds, the other dropped off into jungle. Neither Shaun nor I knew which path to take, so we sat on the steps and waited for the others. It transpired (from the knowledgeable Margot of course) that the upper trail was the entrance to another Inca ruins. Given the option of exploring or continuing, we all opted to see the ruins. So we proceeded to clamber up 98 very steep and slippery steps.

Sayacmarca Ruins. Not very photogenic in the mist.

Arriving at Sayacmarca on the Inca Trail is like rising up through the floors of the world, crawling into the attic space, and then climbing out through a skylight to sit on the ridge tiles. It felt as if we had reached the roof of South America itself. The tightly clustered buildings huddled together on a rocky outcrop, bordered on all sides by sheer drops and offered a panoramic view out over the entire Urubamba range. Shaun and I had been resting just yards away from the foundations of this archeological marvel, but had no idea what lay above the mists. I wondered if this served as a metaphor for how many experiences in life we are so close to enjoying, but cannot see due to the foggy thinking.

After descended the steps onto the trail once again, I was the first to set out on the trail. For two days I had lagged behind the others, mostly due to sickness. But now I felt completely reinvigorated, and had developed an unquenchable thirst for exploring on what was an increasingly interesting hike.

The further into day 3 I hiked, the more the landscaped turned to tropical cloud forest.

Sayacmarca had been strategically placed. It is perhaps the point where one Peru meets another; a frontier which experts think may have inspired the Inca’s to build Machu Picchu where they did. As I carefully hiked on the narrow trail which now seemed to traverse a jagged and exposed mountain ridge, I noticed that the surroundings were changing dramatically. The barren windswept and sun-dried mountainsides of Warmiwañusca were now but a distant memory, as the evergreen fauna of the tropical cloud forest now predominated. As I edged ever closer to Machu Picchu, I was crossing the frontier between Peru’s arid upland and it’s more exotic Amazonian jungle. Some say Machu Picchu was to be used as an outpost for the Cusco-based Inca’s to venture into and conquer the Amazon.

Alas, the spread of the Inca Empire would be halted not by the lush vegetation and tropical species of the Amazon, but by the arrival of Europeans on South America’s north eastern shores. Who knows, if the Inca’s had spanned the Andes into the Amazon basin and beyond, the native people of South America may well have united, and been able to resist the European invasion. All such theories are now but mysteries of conjecture, left for the guides of Machu Picchu to unravel.

Feeling good, and enjoying day 3 on the Inca Trail.

Staying true to it’s climatic classification, the trail now edged through a thick cloud, which became increasingly menacing the further I ventured. I could tell that on either side now, great drops of thousands of feet lay in wait for any errant footstep. But the full repercussions of any theoretical falls remained concealed beneath the clouds. It was now also incredibly quiet; the thick moist air dampening the sounds of nature. After hiking solo for around a mile, the moisture in the air turned to rain, slowing my progress as the stones had become even more slippery. And then a sudden noise stopped me in my sodden tracks. I knew instantly what it was, but it was what it meant that startled me. The beacon was from the trains which run between Ollantaytambo and Agaus Calientes, the base town for Machu Picchu. I looked out over the edge of the trail in the hopes of seeing Machu Picchu, but it was hopelessly lost in the clouds. But I now knew we were close. Somewhere, below those clouds, was the lost city of the Inca’s. While contemplating this geographic revelation, I sat on a rock to wait for the others. Had I hiked for two minutes more, I would have been waiting for them in the shelter of camp. But I wasn’t to know.

The trail was now going through tropical cloud forest.

Lunch on that third day was a real treat. The heaviest rain fell while we were under the cover of the dining tent, sampling all manner of local energy-producing foods. After reemerging to drizzle, we watched several llama’s wander through camp, and then struggled to put on our rain ponchos. Tanya and Davide had the strangest technique. Davide, not wanting to wear his poncho, but needing shelter from the drizzle until we were ready to set off, took cover under Tanya’s poncho. The pair of them looked like a German-Swiss pantomime costume that was putting the cart before the horse.

Tanya and Davide performing their Swiss-German back-to-front pantomime horse trick

One of several llama to wander through our lunch camp!

While setting off again, I spoke with Andreh, and told him about how magical Machu Picchu was going to be. I shared with him the memory of the day, three years previously when I had climbed Machu Picchu with Yesi, then got on one knee and proposed when we had returned to the ruins. Andreh had a smirk on his face throughout my recollection of the event.

“Actually”, he said with his Australian twang, “I’m going to ask Carolina’s father for his blessing to marry his daughter once we get back to Lima.”

Carolina and Andreh.

This of course gave Andreh and I much to discuss, as we were both from other continents and proposing to Peruvian ladies in their homeland. Andreh shared the words he had planned for his future father-in-law, and I have to say, I rated his chances of a positive response at almost perfect. With Andreh and I chit-chatting about proposals, an hour passed on the trail. We remained blanketed in cloud through this time, hugging the jagged mountain ridge. Then, the trail literally plunged into a black hole.

“This can’t be the trail can it?”, I asked as I ventured into the unknown.

It was the Inca Tunnel, yet another marvel of ancient engineering. We slithered down into a dark passageway, which cut right through the rock, before reemerging about 25 yards further ahead. The gradient and jaggedness of the ridge had become so extreme that there was no other way of continuing the trail other than to cut through the mountain. Those Inca’s certainly were determined, ingenious and resourceful.

And then, as Andreh and I discussed how difficult it must have been to cut through rock all of six hundred years ago, quite suddenly, we arrived at probably the most spectacular view either of us had ever seen. We arrived on a bald rocky mountain top just as the heavy cloud was moving off, revealing a magnificent view of the Urubamba peaks, most of them clad in snow. Cloud lingered in the valleys, but the mountain peak panorama was breath-taking.

Ruins and beautiful views on day 3 of the Inca Trail.

View from the Inca Trail on day 3.

My phone pictures just don’t do the panoramas the justice they deserve.

Something else caught my eye. A cell phone tower! I took out my phone, called Yesi, and was delighted to hear the ringtone in New York. I had not had coverage for almost 50 hours, and I knew she would be worried. With Yesi pacified, I then called my mother in Ireland. And finally, I was able to see that Christian Eriksen had just scored a last-minute goal as Tottenham kept up their title push. An altogether productive and satisfying few minutes. But then, after taking some pictures and videos, I put my phone away and consciously breathed in the fresh mountain air as I savored the spectacular views. I really am a lucky man to have seen these wonders.

Shaun, who was disinterested in scenery throughout, had already set off on the final section of the trail. It was a decision he would later regret. As the clouds continued to roll back, revealing yet more wondrous views, Margot, Carolina, Andreh and I remained on the mountain top.

One of the many ruins on day 3 of the Inca Trail.

Once we started hiking onwards, we discovered that very quickly, the trail suddenly fell away down the mountainside in a series of spiraling steps. Vertigo raised it’s head, and I had a job keeping him at bay. A more tangible problem was the strain these incredibly steep steps were putting on the knees and hips.

“Meet the Gringo Killer”, Margot said with a sly grin. “Two more hours of steps.”

Carolina immediately struggled with the downward staircase. Myself and Adreh were not fairing much better. The couple and I had by now become good friends, and even if I had been able to descend faster, I would have stayed with Andreh to help and support Carolina. Flight after flight of sharply falling steps came into view below our feet. Thankfully, the lush vegetation which now included beautifully colored orchids, distracted us while we stopped to rest. At one particular spot, where the trail fell deeply around to the right, I made the mistake of looking into the drop. The closest relatively flat terrain was an estimated three thousand feet beneath us. It was enough to take a man’s breath away – if he had any breath!

As treacherous as the Gringo Killer steps were, the experience was quite enjoyable. We were literally descending into the jungle, on the last leg of our adventure on the Inca Trail. Day 4 promised to be a short day, when we would hike a short distance to the Sun Gate overlooking Machu Picchu. But day three wasn’t done with it’s revelations just yet. An hour into the Gringo Killer, the trail leveled out to cross one of the dozens of terraces on Into Pata (Sunny Slope); an Inca ruin of gigantic proportions, which cascaded down the steep mountainside. From the terrace we could once again pick out the Urubamba River, and the trains puffing alongside it as they hauled the less adventurous Machu Picchu explorers to and from the ancient city. Again, the views were spectacular.

Groups hiking the Inca Trail normally pose here for a group photo. But most of our group had already hiked ahead!

Andreh admiring the mountain scenery.

The last ruin we encountered that day was Wiñay Wayna. When Margot translated the Quechua name as ‘Forever Young’ I was delighted with it’s symbolism. Arrival at this complex settlement from the Inca days heralded the end of the third day – a hike of 24km through the Andes on difficult terrain. Reaching the end of the day was effectively completing the most challenging sections of the Inca Trail. As the oldest member of our group, the satisfaction brought by treading through Wiñay Wayna was immense. The difference with this ruin was that we had to like down through the terraces to get to our overnight camp. I led the way on what was without doubt the longest flight of steeps I have ever descended.

So many ruins on day 3 of the Inca Trail.

The final ruins of the day. It may not look it, but the steps down through those terraces were very long and very steep!

At the bottom, we regrouped and rested, before hiking through one final section of jungle and arriving into camp. We were greeted by Shaun, who was in an even more neurotically cranky mood than usual. His mission to get to camp quickly had worked. In fact, it had worked so well that he had arrived before camp had been set up, and had to stand waiting in the rain for our tent to be erected. He was wet, cold and hungry. Somehow, I was the brunt of his displeasure.

“Well,” he blurted out, “as long as you got to talk to your wife and mother that totally helps me to dry my clothes!”

It was bizarre. My phone calls had little to do with his plight. Had he remained with us longer on the mountain top, not only could he have got to experience the best of the views when the clouds had rolled back, but he would also have arrived into a dry camp. There was little point in trying to explain this to him.

Shaun stomped around camp, muttering to himself, throwing dirty glances at the rest of the group, and generally being a disruption to what had been a wonderful day. For a moment I wanted to slap, and tell him to grow up. Then I glanced over towards Davide and Tanya, who had also hiked ahead to camp, and who were also wet and cold. But they were still smiling. In that moment, I realized the futility of allowing Shaun’s neuroticism to affect my own mood. Wherever we go, whether it be on the subway at Times Square, on a flight, at the movies or even to the top of the Andes, there will always be people like Shaun. I took a breath and made a conscious effort to ignore him, and to concentrate on enjoying the remainder of my Inca Trail experience.

Our excellent guide Margot – guide, medic, motivator and even peacekeeper!

With Shauns tantrum continuing and threatening to cast a thorny atmosphere over dinner, Margot stepped in to nullify the situation. In time, Shaun saw the error of his own ways, and so we all sat down to enjoy our meal with unity restored. As this was our last meal together, we chipped in money to a kitty to be presented to the porters as a tip to show our gratitude for their efforts. Those men are the heroes of the mountain; carrying tents, chairs, tables and cooking equipment on their backs for hours on end. Sometimes their burden weighs up to fifty pounds, but they charge ahead without complaining.

When dinner had ended, the porters introduced themselves one by one, thanking us for our generous tips. It was a nice way to round of the day, even though we all agreed that we felt a tinge of guilt. Our relatively small offering (by 1st world standards) of $50 each had meant so much to these local men and their families. We all speculated how much of the price we had paid to hike the Inca Trail would filter down to these men as wages. It seemed as though the tips constituted the majority of their income. I wished I had been able to give more.

After dinner, we quickly headed off to bed. Day 4, our final day on the Inca Trail, would begin with a 3am alarm call. But what a day it promised to be! We would complete the trail by hiking to the Sun Gate for a dawn entry, and then enter the lost city of Machu Picchu.

Pushing Limits Beyond the Comfort Zone

August 14th 2015 is a date I will never forget. After climbing Machu Picchu Mountain, I proposed to my now wife Yesi at the lost city of the Inca’s. But earlier, at the top of the mountain, I became stuck on a narrow stone ledge, while Yesi climbed up a near vertical stairway to the summit. Fear prevented me from going further. That day, as I huddled against the rock face waiting for Yesi to come back down from the summit, I stared out over Machu Picchu, to the high snowy peaks of the Urubamba Mountains beyond. There was so much to see and explore. Yet I thought I could never overcome my fear of heights.

Three years later, by pushing limits and going beyond my comfort zone, I scaled those very peaks by hiking the 4-day Classic Inca Trail. By doing so, I learned that obstacles can be overcome, and goals, no matter how far away they seem, can be reached.

I was stuck on a ledge on Machu Picchu mountain, unable to get to the summit.

The snowy peaks of the Urubamba Mountains reaching for the clouds. They represented a non-achievable goal in 2015.

The fear that gripped me on that narrow ledge on Machu Picchu Mountain was rooted in a lack of self-confidence and awareness; the result of a life spent looking down not up. The fear was born out of negativity. Pushing limits at that time was not on my agenda. I was in a comfort zone, telling myself I was not capable of going beyond.

Pushing Limits on the Inca Trail

But on December 14th 2018, I scaled ‘Dead Woman’s Pass‘ on the Inca Trail. In doing so, I got to 14.000 feet – over six thousand feet above that ledge where I had been stuck. It was an absolutely unforgettable experience to be so high above the clouds, and so far above the point where I previously felt so much fear.

High above the clouds, at 14,000 feet on the Inca Trail

Seeing beauty which I previously thought I would not get to see

Seeing such beauty, and knowing that I had challenged my fears and worked hard to get there was a magical moment. The only thing that has changed since being stuck on that ledge is my attitude. In 2015, I was looking down, to where I had come from. Now, my natural inclination is to look up. The things that have made all the difference are meditation, and the use of mindfulness to stay in the present moment, where fear cannot penetrate.

Meditation allows me (or anyone else) to set about pushing limits by muting the many negative thoughts which give rise to self doubt and fear. Our natural state of being is not based on negativity and fear. We place these obstacles in front of ourselves due to a lack of awareness. Meditation allows us to see that we have an innate ability (hence my business name In8 Motivation) to achieve great things.

Pushing Limits With Mindfulness

When we learn to use mindfulness to stay in the present moment, we see the world in a completely different way. It’s the same world, the same mountain, the same ledge, the same drop; but we see it through different eyes. This applies to adventures, our careers, relationships, health and so much more. This forms the basis of the Mindfulness and Motivation workshops I deliver in New York City.

Fear lives in the past and the future. When we position ourselves in the present, we can naturally measure our ability, and see that we can achieve much more than our negative self would allow us to believe. Dead woman’s pass is not Everest, but it is 6,000 feet above the point where I sat crippled by fear just three years earlier. That is tangible progress. I’m proud of what I achieved on the Inca Trail, with its high passes, steep rugged steps and many narrow ledges. But I am especially happy to discover once again that meditation is the fuel for motivation to grow as a person and achieve goals. Pushing limits allows us to see the world in a different way. Fear loses it’s potency when challenged by a fully motivated, fully positive mindset.

Pushing Limits With Shared Positivity

Over 4 years ago I embarked on a process of self improvement through meditation and positive thinking. I am inspired by many things and many people. In 2016, after I cycled on Trans-Atlantic Cycle across America, Liam Porter penned a motivational poem inspired by myself and Jason Black called Life Cycle.

‘Life Cycle’ – An inspirational poem by Liam Porter

The funny thing is, that poem, which I have stuck to the refrigerator in our apartment in New York, inspires me every day. Liam followed it up in 2018 with another poem called Magic, which speaks of goal setting, pushing limits and the rewards that come with being proactively engaged in personal development. There is an important message revealed in those poems. Positivity towards goal setting and pushing limits is a phenomenal force when shared. Liam said I inspired him, yet he also inspires me. That is the power of shared positivity. Try it!

‘Magic’ – A poem about motivation and perseverance towards achieving goals, by Liam Porter

Pushing Limits And A More Fulfilling Life

Dwelling in negativity and accepting less than what we are capable of is a toxic quagmire. By pushing limits in terms of our thinking and our willingness to share positivity, we can not only feel better about ourselves and others, but we can achieve so many great things. Shared positivity, meditation and pushing limits can propel us towards new levels, where life becomes so much more fulfilling. I am going to keep looking up with a positive mindful attitude – who knows what will come next. Well, I already know, but Im not telling you yet!

The modus operandi for a cargo voyage is to get freight to it’s destination as quickly and cheaply as possible. But as a passenger on a container ship, the journey is of much greater interest. That was certainly the case for me, as I sailed from New York to Liverpool, via Baltimore, Portsmouth and Nova Scotia.

This is the second of a two-part post, recalling my voyage across the Atlantic Ocean on a container ship.

Trans-Atlantic Cargo Voyage

Watching the last slither of Nova Scotia sink beneath the horizon conjured up a little nervous excitement. The enormity of the voyage was now revealed in its entirety. Under darkening skies, the North Atlantic Ocean loomed large. It would be, weather permitting, an eight day crossing to Liverpool.

That feeling of anxiety, and learning to overcome it, was exactly why I was riding a cargo ship across the Atlantic Ocean. The challenge was to experience how it felt to completely relinquish control for a prolonged period of time, and learn how to cope with that. Heading out into a vast ocean was as good a way as any of creating those conditions. You cannot turn back when riding a cargo ship.

Mother nature sent her first oceanic phenomenon on that first night. Just off the coast of Newfoundland, Canada, is an infamous body of water named The Grand Banks; so called because of what lies beneath. Great underwater plateaus rise to around 300 feet beneath the ocean’s surface, resulting in a compression of water. This occurs just at the point where the cold Labrador Current from the north meets the much warmer Gulf Stream from the south. The result is often messy sea conditions and a reputation as the foggiest place on the planet. The Grand Banks are also infamous because they are adjacent to where the Titanic went down. Eighty years later, the Andrea Gale, the fishing trawler which inspired the movie The Perfect Storm, also floundered in these waters. So, for the first three days out of of Nova Scotia, we sailed on a heavy swell, through fog so dense that it was impossible to see the front of the ship. It was so surreal (and a little worrying) to see the front starboard corner of the ship drop into a foggy abyss; not knowing how far it would sink before correcting itself.  Even at midday, it was darkish, silent and a little eerie. Only the periodic lament from the huge fog horn on the bow broke the silence. And still we sailed onwards.

Looking forward, but the ship’s bow is lost in the fog

In the absence of sea views, internet or phone connection, cabin fever and boredom are unrelenting foes which must be kept at bay. But boredom, I learned, is a perception. The down time aboard the ship offered ample opportunities to write, and more importantly, to meditate. When I felt boredom nipping at my consciousness, I immediately called to mind the frenetic lifestyle in New York City. This gave a better perspective, and led to an appreciation of the silent nothingness aboard the Atlantic Star.

Cargo ship travel consists of skeletal routine, and little else. Three hearty meals a day provide some structure, but the remaining time is free time. For those so inclined, the opportunity to completely switch off, including digital detox, is the main attraction of traveling on a container ship. For those who need to be entertained and kept busy, a voyage might seem like slow torture. Thankfully, I am the former.

Voyage Through the Dead Zone

On the third night at sea, Jim (a fellow passenger from Montana) and I made our now nightly visit out onto deck to take in the fresh sea air. As we climbed the external stairway to the upper deck, for the first time on our voyage the fog rolled back, revealing the most spectacular night sky. Away from the artificial light of towns and cities, our vantage point revealed thousands of extremely bright stars. They speckled the entire sky from one horizon to the other. It felt like we might be at the bottom of a recently shaken snow globe. The star filled sky was dissected by the The Milky Way, which formed an arc right over the ship. I watched shooting stars and even got to see the International Space Station pass overhead. It was tranquil beauty on a grand scale; a demonstration of how vast the earth is, but yet, how minuscule that vastness is in comparison to the infinity of the universe.

In most graphical representations of the night the Titanic went down in the North Atlantic, the scene is presented under an unusually bright starry sky. It is particularly apparent in James Cameron’s 1999 movie Titanic. I was always of the opinion that this night sky was greatly over exaggerated. Maybe it is to a certain extent. But there is no doubt that in this part of the Atlantic, if the fog clears, the stars shine brighter, and are visible right the way down to the horizon in all directions.

A depiction of a bright night sky, under which the Titanic floundered in the early hours of April 15th 1912. Image Source: Ultimate Titanic.

Stimulated by the magnitude of the night sky, I paid a visit to the bridge to talk with the chief officer about our location. At that point, we were in what is known as ‘The Dead Zone’. We were between 700-800 miles from the nearest land, ship or communications. Even the satellite communications system was down at that point. We were beyond the point where the coastguard could swoop down and save us. In an emergency situation, even the closest ship would take the most of two days to reach us.

Beneath the hull was 20,000 feet of ocean water; vast mountain ranges and valleys which man has yet to see, other than on computer screens. Those who bemoan the fact that the entire planet has been explored, would do well to take a slow voyage across the ocean. Again, the magnitude of the voyage, the expansiveness of the ocean and the infinite mysteries of the universe brought on a strangely calm feeling when combined with meditation. There is a relationship between meditation and the ocean which is incredibly strong, beautifully natural, and quite unexplainable.

With the fog now behind us, every walk out onto the deck revealed a beautiful seascape. Broken low cloud provided a polka dotted filter for the sun, which cut through at different intensities in different places. As it did so, the sunbeams cast a wonderful pattern across the surface of the water. Mirroring the sky above, some patches were grey and dull, while others sparkled brightly against the light from our closest star. The three days spent sailing through the eastern reaches of the north Atlantic Ocean were peaceful in a way that words simply cannot convey.

Brighter skies were more frequent on the eastern section of our north Atlantic voyage.

To see nothing but water against a 360 degree horizon is as difficult to process as it is serene. The magnitude of the ocean is impossible to grasp, even when crossing it on a large ship. One day as I stood in thoughtless contemplation, I noticed a lone bird sitting on the surface of the ocean. How it got there, where it nests, and how it survives in the dead zone is a quandary I have yet to solve.

The ocean swell remained moderate right the way across the Atlantic. By night it rocked me to sleep. By day, being so high above the center of the ship on the upper deck, it was a little disorienting to be out of earshot of the engine to the stern and the crashing of the large Atlantic waves against the bow. Disorienting, but nice. Thankfully my sea legs held up well. I later learned from the captain, that we had weaved a narrow passageway between two large storms right the way across the ocean. We got lucky. In silence I would stand, hand on rail, as the huge ship pitched and rolled, heading steadily eastwards towards the coast of Ireland.

One Last Onward Voyage!

After six thoroughly enjoyable days and nights at sea, I awoke two hours before dawn to again go out on deck. This time, the mission was not to admire the enormity of the Atlantic Ocean. On the port side, I stood staring toward the horizon. Finally I saw what I was hoping to see. Just barely visible between the blackness of the ocean depths and the cloudy night sky were the unmistakable beams from several lighthouse; each with their own distinctive pattern. The lights of Ireland were calling me home! It had been 10 long months since I had seen the beautiful Wild Atlantic Way on the western coast of Ireland.

By far the most impressive of the light beams, and indeed the first to pierce the dark horizon, was that of Fastnet. Often referred to as Ireland’s tear drop, because it was the last point on the homeland that many immigrants saw en route to America, Fastnet stands mightily strong against the many Atlantic storms bound for Ireland. Content that I had finally laid eyes on Ireland, I returned to bed. When I woke for breakfast at 6:45, daybreak revealed the southern Irish coast in all of it’s splendor. But I was to pass by my homeland. Getting there would require another shorter voyage.

After breakfast, I was treated to a tour of the ship, first to the stern, where we watched up to twenty dolphins playfully surf in the ship’s wake, and then to the bow, where I leaned out through a mooring porthole to peer down to where the ship was cutting through the water. Both perspectives were thoroughly enjoyable. I was even given a tour through the engine room, and some of the cargo holds below deck, where trucks and diggers and enormous machines were tied to the deck. Through the afternoon, we edged further along on the Celtic Sea, before rounding Carnsore Point and entering the surprisingly calm Irish Sea. By sundown, the Atlantic Star was anchored off the mouth of the River Dee, waiting for the Mersey pilot to guide us into Liverpool.

The following morning I woke early, and upon looking out through my cabin window, saw thousands of shipping containers. We had arrived in Liverpool. That night I completed my journey to Ireland by taking a taxi out of Liverpool docks, a train to Chester, a connecting train to Hollyhead, and finally a ferry to Dublin. I had a date to keep; my wife Yesi was arriving by plane from New York, into Dublin Airport. How strange that she had made a journey in six hours that had taken me 8 days.

Thousands of shipping containers greeted our arrival in Liverpool docks.

But while I was disembarking in Liverpool, the crew, many of whom are Filipino, were busy trying to connect to the internet to make Skype calls to their wives and children on the other side of the world. Hearing the children excitement at seeing their fathers on the computer screens would bring a tear to even the coldest eye. I had taken a two week cargo cruise for fun, but these brave men were preparing to turn around and do it all over again. They are at sea for around 9 months at a time. Every time I now see products shipped from one part of the world to the other, I think on those hard-working men and the sacrifice they make to put goods in our stores. They really are the heroes of the seas.

A Filipino crewman passes a sleepless night on the ocean by watching a DVD in the mess-room.

Traveling on a cargo ship is by no means efficient, but it certainly is enjoyable. In a world which is now constantly connected, constantly buzzing with activity, generating stress and little time to reflect, hitching a ride on a cargo ship offers a throwback to the days when travel took time, and involved disconnecting from both origin and destination, with little choice but to sit back and enjoy the journey.

Would I travel on a cargo ship again? Absolutely! But I will probably do it in summer, and pick a different route next time. There is a line from south eastern Australia up through Asia and into the Indian Ocean. It then passes through the Suez Canal to the Mediterranean, and after rounding the Iberian peninsula, terminates at Southampton on the south coast of England.

But the voyage which is really calling my attention is the trans-Pacific from California to Japan. Were I to take that voyage, and then connect to China by ferry, I could then ride the trans-Siberian, or trans-Manchurian railroad all the way to Moscow, and then connect via St Petersburg to Paris. From there, the channel tunnel train would take me to London, from where I could ride one last train to Liverpool. Having cycled across America in 2016, and crossed the Atlantic Ocean in 2018, the Pacific voyage and trans-Siberian railroad would complete a circumnavigation of the northern hemisphere without having taken a plane. I’ll keep you posted!

Part One of this post is available here.

The modus operandi on a cargo voyage is to get freight to it’s destination as quickly and cheaply as possible. But as a passenger on a container ship, the journey is of much greater interest. That was certainly the case for me, as I sailed from New York to Liverpool, via Baltimore, Portsmouth and Nova Scotia. This is the first of a two-part post, recalling my voyage across the Atlantic Ocean on a container ship.

Planning the Voyage

When I announced that I would be making a 4,200 nautical mile Atlantic voyage on a cargo ship, it was greeted with a tepid response. Freighter travel certainly isn’t conventional. But traveling on a container ship differs only from cruising in that it demands that you must your own entertainment. There are many hours to be wiled away while rolling on the ocean waves. That is exactly what attracted me to freighter travel. There are no lines, no steadfast rules, restricted areas, crowded decks or noisy night-clubs. What is lost in terms of organized entertainment during cargo travel, is regained ten-fold by tranquility.

Growing up in Donegal, I was always fascinated by the ocean. Watching sunsets over the Atlantic, I often wondered what lay beyond the horizon. In my thirties, I surfed (badly!) on Donegal’s Atlantic coast, and was again drawn by the mystery of just how far those waves had traveled across the ocean to wash up on Ireland’s Wild Atlantic Way. In 2014, I found meditation while sitting on a clifftop high above the ghost fishing village of Port, in south west Donegal. Once again I felt lured by the great watery beyond.

Sunset over the Atlantic, in Donegal Ireland.

But the moment when I really decided to take a voyage across the ocean came thousands of miles from Donegal – and far from the ocean. I was in Utah; the third state on my solo bike ride across America on Trans-Atlantic Cycle. It was over 100 degrees in the Great Basin Desert and the Canyon-Lands, and I was in serious trouble. Dehydration and sickness had slowed my progress, yet somehow I had to keep going. To distract myself, I visualized the Atlantic Ocean. My body was suffering, but I hydrated the mind by meditating and visualizing the ocean. Later, while recovering in Moab, where the temperature hit 110 degrees, I had a dream about crossing the ocean to Ireland. And that is how the notion of taking a freighter ship first took hold.

After a little bit of searching, I found a company in New Zealand called Freighter Travel (NZ). The owner, a Scot named Hamish, hooked me up with passage aboard the Atlantic Star. What had started out as a visualization was now becoming a reality.

Setting out on the Voyage

On the day of departure, New York City gave me one final reminder as to why I was heading out into the ocean. Traffic, public transport delays and weather conditions all threatened to sabotage my embarkation. Somehow though, I made it to the dock on time, and hauled my suitcase up the five-story gangway.The Atlantic Star sits dockside like one of the many co-op apartment buildings where I live in Jackson Heights, Queens. Indeed, at three times the length of a football pitch, the large container ship is comparable in size to an entire New York City block.

At 100,000 tonnes and capable of carrying 3,800 containers and 1,300 automobiles, the Atlantic Star is about the length of a New York City block!

Exhausted, I made it to my spacious en-suite cabin, and was then shown to the ‘Mess Room’ where ‘Messman’ Lucio, and the ships cook, ‘Jose Castillo Jr’, had lunch ready and awaiting my arrival. I was then free to wander out onto the deck at my leisure, from where I watched the sunset. Finally, I could relax.

My spacious en suite cabin on the Atlantic Star

The only other passenger to board was Jim from the state of Montana. He had recently returned from a two year Peace Corp post in Mongolia. Before settling back into a political administration job in Washington DC, Jim was setting off to travel the world. Or at least as much of it as he could see before his money would run out. That would not be for some time if continuing to travel on a container ship.

The captain of the Atlantic Star and two of his officers were from Bulgaria. There was a single Russian officer on board. His only communications offering was to wish everyone a “good appetite” upon entering the Mess Room. The remaining two officers and crew were Filipino. Coupled with the English registered ship operated by an American company on behalf of an Italian family, it was quite the international affair. Especially since the Atlantic Star would be calling in Canada, Belgium, Germany and Sweden.

Leaving New York City to begin the Atlantic voyage

After the sun had set over New Jersey, the ship was slowly cajoled from her berth by a pair of hard-working little tug boats. She was nudged around in situ, and then under her own steam, began to weave her way past Staten Island, and out into New York harbor. As  darkness fell, the Manhattan skyline came out to wish us a bon voyage. Several minutes later, the Atlantic Star passed under Verrazano Narrows Bridge. In silence, and against the reflected colorful lights of Coney Island, we left New York behind and sailed into the night.

Voyage to Chesapeake Bay

Freighter travel is far removed from other forms of transportation. Container ships have dynamic schedules, based on where they can do business. Cargo takes precedence over people, so you just have to kick back and roll with the random stops. With port calls, weather and sea conditions in a state of flux, one or two things remain constant. There is always rolling and pitching on the ocean swells, and there are always three meals a day; breakfast at 7am, lunch at noon and dinner at 6pm. Everything else is subject to change at short notice. In the case of my voyage on the Atlantic Star, we first had to sail southwards along the Jersey shore. Two stops awaited in Chesapeake Bay, before once again calling in New York, and then onwards to Nova Scotia. Only then could I finally cross the Atlantic Ocean. I had been disappointed to hear about this improvised itinerary, but the ocean has no tolerance for impatience. As it transpired, the voyage along the eastern seaboard was one which was very well worth taking.

Taking it easy on the deck of the Atlantic Star container ship

View from the top deck of the Atlantic Star ship

On our first day at sea we sailed under a beautiful late summer sun. I pulled out a deck chair and basked in the golden warmth until I fell asleep. In the moments before I drifted off to sleep, a feeling of complete relaxation and serenity submerged any lingering New York stressors. Meditating while rolling on the ocean waves certainly had a magically transformative effect. While my sleep may have been short, it eclipsed the majority of sleeps I have had on land. That is exactly the essence and beauty of freighter travel – the world is a world away.

I awoke when the sun careered along on it’s arc at an usual rate, casting a sudden shadow on my bliss. While I had dozed peacefully on deck, the ship’s big propellor had come to a standstill. We were now drifting, which explained why the sun had switched sides! Was it now on the port or starboard? Alas I was not yet fluent in ship-speak. The Atlantic Star now lay in wait at the mouth of Chesapeake Bay, slowly rising and falling over the swell. Later in the evening, a pilot climbed aboard, and guided the ship up through Chesapeake Bay. Watching the pilot boats arrive alongside the huge ship, and seeing the brave pilot step onto a vertical rope ladder to climb up the outside of several decks was one of the most amazing sights of the entire voyage. Quite remarkably, these brave men have been steering ships into the Chesapeake in one form or another since 1640.

Surprisingly, while at the busy Dundalk Marine Terminal in the port of Baltimore, the Atlantic Star was officially christened, despite having already been at sea for over two years. I took this as a good omen ahead of my epic voyage! During the ceremony I rubbed shoulders with senior figures from the local shipping industry. I also exchanged pleasantries with the owner of the ship, a Mr Grimaldi from Naples, Italy. This little party on the bridge afforded me the opportunity to learn a great deal more about the Atlantic Star, and her role within the shipping industry. Over canapés, my Irish accent was the cause of some hilarities. When asked by a freight forwarder what my role was on the ship for the christening, I replied that I was a passenger. Somehow, my Donegal twang caused a kink in communications, and for some time a group of people thought I was the pastor!

Moving containers around like playing Lego or Tetris!

As a crewman swept up the broken glass from the champagne bottle on the deck of the ship, several huge gantry cranes, aided by an assortment of trucks and machines on Baltimore’s spacious docks, loaded and unloaded hundreds of containers. It was quite a show. The ships ramp was also lowered onto the dock, to accommodate loose freight on trailers, and an small yet eclectic mix of vehicles. It was at this point that I learned we would be sailing across the Atlantic at about half capacity. America’s import/export imbalance with Europe was laid bare on that dock in Maryland.

Cat diggers sitting on the dock at Baltimore, dwarfed by the size of the Atlantic Star.

Containers, Containers, Containers!

The following morning, we set sail back down the bay and passed through (over?) Chesapeake Bay Bridge/Tunnel. An engineering masterpiece, the bridge spans eighteen miles of water, twice dipping into mile-long tunnels in the middle of the bay. For many, the unique challenge of making such a bay crossing develops into a phobia. Amazingly, many people pay a premium toll charge to have an driver take their car across. Presumably these paying customers then close their eyes while crossing the bridge. How strange it was to look on both sides to see the bridge and highway suddenly plunge into the Chesapeake depths, and to know that cars and trucks were busy crossing beneath the waters that the ship passed over.

The Chesapeake Bay Bridge plunging into one of two mile long tunnels under the bay

Changing weather on Chesepeake Bay. As it turned out, this was also summer giving way to fall.

Later, under a blanket of heavy grey cloud, we slipped through the major US Naval base at Norfolk, Virginia, to an overnight berth at Portsmouth docks. Here, just as in Baltimore, cargo was loaded/unloaded by giant gantry cranes. Watching the 40 foot containers being lifted up and moved around was like witnessing a giant game of Tetris.

Before dawn we left the Chesapeake behind, returning to the Atlantic and sailing back up along the US coast, this time through inclement weather. A first taste of ocean conditions was revealed, due to the large swell coming in against the starboard side. I was no up to speed with ship-speak, having had the first of many interesting conversations with the ships officers. I was welcome on the bridge at any time and made full use of the invite to ask a plethora of questions about the ship, the seascapes and the shipping industry. It was interesting to hear the officers reveal that they did not know what was being transported in each of the thousands of containers stacked up on the decks. Presumably someone in the shipping company would know, but it was irrelevant to the crew. Whether it was three pick-up trucks stacked one with its front wheels resting on the others bed, a priceless art collection on route to a new museum, or a bunch of heavy parts for machinery mattered little at sea. On the ocean wave they are all but containers.

ACL has the admirable record of not having lost a container at sea for over 30 years. This is not the case for other companies. My friend Johnathan, who has worked for a yacht delivery company, and in the process sailed around the world, told me before my departure from New York that floating containers in the ocean represent a serious danger to yachts. I even heard of cases where valuable BMW motorcycles had once washed ashore in shipping containers on the south eastern coast of England. Apparently there wasn’t a farmer on that twenty mile stretch of coastline but who was now the proud owner of a touring motorbike. I was later told by a fellow passenger that almost none of the many and frequent shipping accidents make it into the news. With few eyewitnesses and insurance provided by a sole insurance company (Lloyds of London), containers slip silently into he depths, or worse still, lurk semi-submerged in the pathway of other ships.

A lost shipping container floating on the ocean surface

The ten degree rolls off the Jersey shore served as a marine lullaby, rocking me to sleep like a baby in a crib. An experiment with a drug called dramamine, which prevents motion sickness had caused drowsiness, so I abandoned the dose at that point. My sea legs were holding up just fine anyway, despite the increasing swell and the stories of unreported shipping accidents.

When docked once again in New York, Jim and I joined several crew members on a trip ashore. It felt so strange to be in the New York metropolitan area as a passing visitor. The weather had really taken a turn for the worse now, with non-stop torrential rain and high winds. No one as much, but I think we all wondered what lay in store on our Atlantic voyage. Onwards the Atlantic Star ventured though. After clearing Montauk on the eastern end of Long Island, and sailing north east off the coast of Cape Cod and Martha’s Vinyard, the ship docked in Halifax, Nova Scotia. Again, the weather was foul. I did manage to venture ashore though, motivated by what would be a brief first visit to Canada.

Nova Scotia and the Titanic Graves

The main attraction in Halifax, apart of course from the beautiful city and harbor panoramas, is Fairview Lawn Cemetery. This leafy graveyard serves as final resting place for the majority of those lost during the sinking of the Titanic. Among the many graves is a headstone with the inscription “J. Dawson”. There is a distinctly worn patch of lawn right in front of the stone. Apparently, many visitors stop by the grave, assuming it to be that of Jack Dawson – the character played by Leonardo diCaprio in the 1997 blockbuster movie Titanic. Alas, the J. Dawson in Fairview Lawn Cemetery was but a 23-year old crewman, who had shoveled coal to the furnace men deep in the bowels of the Titanic, as she sailed towards her fatal collision with an ice-berg. The Jack Dawson from the silver screen is entirely fictitious, despite what thousands of romantic movie-loving visitors to Nova Scotia would like to believe. The irony of visiting graves from a famous shipwreck just hours before setting off to cross the Atlantic Ocean was not lost on me, particularly given the stormy weather conditions.

Titanic Grave Site at Fairview Lawn Cemetery in Halifax, Nova Scotia

Five More Passengers!

The terrible weather had caused a pair of Canadians, who had been due to board the Atlantic Star in Halifax, to abort their voyage before it had even begun. Five more passengers did board though. A likable 82 year old German man (who Jim from Montana and I secretly called “Helmut”) was joined by French and Italian couples. Michele and Robert Gailleton, from near Lyon, were returning to Europe having just finished touring the Americas and Canada. They had arrived in Uruguay via Senegal with their 1995 Land Rover camper van two years previously. Unsurprisingly they had many tales to share about their epic journey. Their adventure can be tracked here.

The 1995 Land Rover Discover, used by Michele and Robert Gailleton on their tour of the Americas.

Giuesspe Altinier and Sandra Verzola from Venice, were also returning home after having clocked up 40,000 Km’s in six months of touring across the United States and Canada, again by camper van. They had focused primarily on visiting America’s great national parks. “Helmut” was by far the veteran old man of the sea though. He had spent his entire life exploring the worlds oceans. Born and raised on Germany’s North Sea coastline, he started out as a young trawler fisherman, venturing as far north as the east coast of Greenland. He then spent time in the Merchant Navy before moving on to work on oil tankers and managing refineries. He spends his retirement taking voyages around the world on container ships, to relax and reminisce about his life at sea.

Atlantic Star passengers (L-R): Giuseppe Altinier (Italy), Jim Frisk (USA), Sergia Verzola (Italy) and Michele and Robert Gailleton (France). Missing from the picture is “Helmut” from Germany.

As darkness fell we left our sheltered berth in Nova Scotia. Slowly the tree covered islands which dot the entrance to the harbor slipped by, as we set out to cross the Atlantic Ocean on the world’s largest ro-ro container ship. Watching the ever weaker lighthouse beam from Nova Scotia slip beneath the blackened horizon, served to throw up a few moments of anxiety regarding the enormity of the voyage that lay ahead. These brief thoughts were soon quelled by mindful meditation. A cargo voyage is about enjoying whatever unexpected sights and experiences might rise up from the horizon up ahead, so I fully committed to sit back and enjoy the ride. I had little choice in the matter, given that I was now finally in the Atlantic Ocean.

Part two of this post is coming soon!

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to cross the ocean in a cargo ship? Me too! That is why I am sailing(?) across the Atlantic Ocean out of New York City. I am hitching a ride on the worlds largest roll-on/roll-off container ship – the Atlantic Star. It will be what is referred to as a cargo cruise. Not only will I be traveling towards home, but it will also be a digital detox, and a chance to meditate.

What is a Cargo Cruise?

A cargo cruise is when someone travels overseas on board a cargo ship. It is very different from a traditional cruise in that it is generally longer, and does not come with all of the trappings of a cruise ship. Passenger numbers generally do not go over 12, because that is the magically number beyond which a cargo ship would need to provide a doctor and medical facilities onboard. The adventurous passenger must make their own entertainment on board, but can wander around the ship and even go up onto the bridge. Meals are shared with the officers at the captains table.

Who Goes on a Cargo Cruise?

A very good question! First and foremost, the passenger will need a sense of adventure, and must really like the ocean. Passengers also need to have a flexible schedule, and be content in their own company for long stretches. They are generally people who write or like to read, and want to experience travel without busy airport check-ins.

My Cargo Cruise

Growing up in beautiful Donegal, Ireland, which has over 700 miles of Atlantic coastline, I was always fascinated by the ocean. Voted ‘Coolest Place to visit on the planet’ by National Geographic Traveler in 2017, Donegal has a spectacular coastline, with many untouched golden beaches. I was raised on a farm along Lough Swilly, the longest inlet on that coastline. Our family would often “walk down to the water”, stand on the banks, and watch cargo ships slowly edging up the Swilly at high tide. Most were carrying coal or timber, and were unloaded at ‘the port’, where Polestar Roundabout now stands on the outskirts of Letterkenny.

Over the years, I have enjoyed surfing and swimming in the Atlantic waters around Donegal. Mostly though, I liked to walk along the beaches and clifftops, stopping to look out over the waves to the Atlantic horizon.

It was on one such visit, while perched on a clifftop near the beautifully traditional village of Glencolmcille, that I meditated for the first time. That moment changed everything. From always wanting to be somewhere else, but never going anywhere, I realized that if I embraced the present moment, I could work towards being anywhere I really wanted to be. Soon after, I met my wife Yesi, and set off out over those western horizons for a new life in New York.

Amid the frenetic lifestyle of New York City, I often think of the Atlantic coastline in Donegal. The images have stayed with me. Sometimes while meditating, I visualize that coastline and can almost spell the fresh air, and hear the sound of the big waves. This visualization helped me to deal with the homesickness I felt when I first left Donegal.

My love for the Atlantic Ocean around Donegal, and the idea to sail towards it became most apparent in a vastly different environment. While cycling through the Great Basin Desert of Nevada and Utah, on a previous adventure called Trans-Atlantic Cycle, the temperature reached a dangerous 110 degrees. Water and freshness were rare commodities as I cycled alone through the lonely desert. I often took my mind of the heat by meditating and recalling the beauty of Donegal’s Atlantic coastline. Once I finished my cycle ride from San Francisco to New York, I started thinking about how I could cross the Atlantic by boat. After doing a little searching online, I found Hamish, a shipping agent from New Zealand. He owns a company called Freighter Travel (NZ), and was able to book my passage aboard the Atlantic Star.

Cargo Cruise Expectations

After discussing the schedules and options, I eventually settled on a rather roundabout way of crossing the Atlantic on my cargo cruise. After leaving Newark port in New York harbor, I sail south, calling at Baltimore Maryland and Portsmouth Virginia. A few nervy days of tracking Hurricane Florence threatened to derail my adventure plans. But thankfully the big storm weakened as it made landfall in the Carolina’s.

I am expecting peace, tranquility, lots of reading time, the opportunity to write and to meditate, while enjoying the swell of the Atlantic ocean. The entire cargo cruise from New York to Liverpool will take 14 days.

Cargo Cruise Digital Detox

One of the main attractions of a cargo cruise is that it offers the opportunity to undertake a digital detox. With our lives becoming busier and ever more reliant upon our digital gadgets, there are times when it feels as though the vast majority of our time is spent staring into a screen. I have often wondered what it would be like to totally detach from that activity for a period of time, and embark on a digital detox combined with meditation.

A cargo cruise is the ideal chance to disconnect on a digital detox, as there are no cellular networks available just a little bit off the coast, and most ships do not have wifi. In case of emergency, I will be able to send an email from the bridge, but it costs money, as the connection is data based via satellite. I intend documenting my experiences of spending 2 weeks without digital communications while on my cargo cruise.

Cargo Cruise Meditation

By far the biggest attraction on a cargo cruise is the chance it affords the adventurous traveler to kick back, relax and meditate. This is something which I feel the busy digital work (especially in New York) does not normally offer us. As well as having abundant time and a clear schedule, the cargo cruise also offer the chance to enjoy the healing and transformative effects of the ocean. Just as the salt water heals or skin, we get a greater mental benefit from meditating in or near the ocean. The vat expanses of water, which make up 71% of the earths total surface, is quite literally older than the hills. Perhaps the reminder about how brief our flirtation with this earth is by comparison to long it has been here, and will continue to be here after we are gone, is enough to jolt us into enjoying the present moment more.

I am really looking forward to sitting on the deck in meditation, while enjoying the sound of the passing waves and the invigorating freshness of the ocean air. All being well there should be a little sunshine too. But even if there isn’t, having a clear line of sight to the horizon to enjoy sunrise and sunset each day is something which I am really looking forward to. Cargo cruising is quite unique in that it allows the passenger a long stretch of time to relax, while also traveling over a great distance. That seems like a great metaphor for meditation to me.

One of the most productive things that we can do, is to do nothing. ‘The pause’ is sometimes the best option amid the many response choices we need to make in our busy lives.

The pause refers to a moment of mindfulness, which if used wisely and regularly, can be key to becoming happier, more content, and ultimately more productive.

Few people like to admit this, and it is something of an elephant in the room, but it can be reasonably assumed that our lives can all be a little too busy and stressful at times. Even if fear of being labeled prevents us from attributing such things to stress or anxiety, we can all identify with worrying about money, job security, health, our children’s welfare, relationships, family affairs etc. Regardless of what it is that gets us flustered, the pause can help.

Of all the things that we spend time stressing about, very few of them are actually happening right at this very moment. Right at this very moment, we are immune from the past and safe from the future. The present moment could be thought of as the eye of the storm. In the eye of the storm, conditions can be completely calm, despite all of the craziness going on all around it.

The pause is literally a moment where we stop, and enjoy what is going on at that very moment, regardless of what that may be. It is a moment of clarity, and generally where there is clarity there is greatly reduced stress and anxiety. The pause may be accompanied by a few deliberate and mindful breaths which can further calm our thoughts.

On a recent road trip to New England, in the north east of the United States, I practiced the pause many times throughout the three day vacation. The feeling of ease which the pause brings is a thing of real beauty. There were many times while journeying through Connecticut, Rhode Island, Massachusetts, New Hampshire, Vermont and upstate New York, that the pause allowed me to fully appreciate the beauty all around me, while I may have otherwise been fussing about the GPS, phone battery level, the next gas station or diner.

Sometimes on the trip, the pause allowed me to fully appreciate the fall foliage in the trees, the cool calm waters of the lakes, the beauty of the silence, and it added an overall level of enjoyment to the entire experience. How many times on what is meant to be a relaxing trip, do we end up feeling stressed by the journey? The pause can fix that, and keep you focused on enjoying every moment of a much needed break.

Meditation to those who do not meditate, can seem complicated or out of reach. The difficulty with learning to meditate can seem counter intuitive. But anyone can pause. Anyone.

The pause can range from a few seconds to around a minute, and has an instant affect. Try it! Just stop for a moment, take a deep breath, and feel the weight lifting from your shoulders. If you are able to do that, you are able to meditate, and meditation can bring so much contentment that it will make you wonder why you didn’t try it long before now.

The most profound pause came at Lake George, New York. We are just about to leave to drive back to New York City, where the sirens, airplanes, traffic, subway crowds and busy streets would be waiting. I took a last look across the lake and just paused. I paused all movement and thoughts, and focused on the beauty of the view. It was a final last look at the beauty of nature before going back to the city. These are the moments we so often miss. The pause allows us to capture that moment.

Train Across America Part 2: Chicago – Reno, on the California Zephyr

This is the second part of a series of blog posts which chronicle the adventure of riding the train across America. Click here for part 1, which recounts the journey from New York City to Chicago on the Cardinal Line.

I boarded the iconic California Zephyr and found to my dismay that I had a seating partner. When riding coach class on the Amtrak lines out of season, you will probably have a double seat all to yourself. I had enjoyed that luxury on the Cardinal line from New York City to Chicago. But now I had a bulky Mexican in the seat next to me. His first action was to take the window seat, close the curtain, and curl up in search of sleep. A 52 hour westward journey lay ahead of us. I lasted around ten minutes before getting up and seeking a better view or better company. I found both in the lounge car.

The beautiful sightseeing car on Amtrak’s California Zephyr

The lounge on the Zephyr is actually a sight-seeing car. The diverse seating arrangements include booth-style seats, fixed seats facing the passing scenery and swivel seats. The car has larger windows, which are supplemented by further overhead panes which curve around onto the roof of the carriage for increased light and visibility. I went downstairs to the little cafe and ordered my now Amtrak staple lunch of cheeseburger and pepsi. Upon returning upstairs, I found that there were no vacant individual seats, so I found a table with just one occupant, and asked if I could join him. The middle-aged man’s name was John, and he was deep in concentration over a crossword puzzle.

John opened our conversation by asking if I was Irish, and when I confirmed that I was, he told me: “I hate Irish men.” Charming. Thankfully, he then laughed and explained himself. John owned a bed and breakfast right on the Husdon River, around an hour north of New York City in a nice little town called Nayak. He had been dating a girl for a few years and had plans to marry her, only for her to suddenly ditch him and take up with an Irishman! We instantly hit it off despite the humorous inappropriateness of my nationality. I only broke off our conversation to walk through several cars to the back of the Zephyr to make a video as we crossed the Mississippi River, and watched as we rolled in to another new state for me – Iowa.

A postcard advertising John’s Bed and Breakfast at Nayak, New York

Evening turned to night, and Iowa turned to Nebraska, but John and I remained deep in conversation at our table in the sightseeing car long after the passing scenery had been swallowed by the darkness. He was such an interesting man. Holding his hands up in admission, John confessed that the relationship breakdown had led him to question the direction his life was going in. So he hired his nephew to manage the bed and breakfast, and had taken to the road. Hawaii aside, he had since seen every state. His experiences were incredible.

John’s primary residence was now his old van, which he had modified to include what he assured me were very comfortable living quarters. It was waiting for him in Denver; their onward destination as yet unknown. “Id say, wherever the wind takes me” John had stated philosophically, “but the wind would then be a factor. I like to be free from any choice factors. I just decide at the spur of the moment and take off.” We both pondered this for a second before I asked, “So you’re freer than the wind?”, to which John replied “Yeah. I like nothing to guide me but momentary intuition.”

John’s wanderlust had seen him stay on farms, in cities, on riverboats, with naturists in the Arizona deserts, with bikers in California, on his own on a Colorado mountain and partake in more spontaneous outdoor parties than a hundred men would encounter in a lifetime. “I want to know America; my home. Only then can I know myself.” John’s final philosophical offering was profound. “I had to travel tens of thousands of miles, through every state in America, to find what was already with me when I set out. Im happy and Im free.”

While contemplating this, I noticed a group of Amish teenagers playing cards at a nearby table. “They are on their Rumspringa John told me, explaining that many Amish and Mennonite communities send their young adults out into the world for a year. When the year is up, they can either return and be baptized into their church, or decide to remain out in the outside world. The vast majority return for baptism. John then laughed before saying, “I guess my Rumspringa is lasting a little longer than a year!”

During this time, another group of conversationalists had taken up residence at a nearby table in the lounge. Their common denominator was alcohol. When the cafe/bar had stopped serving at 11pm, they had remained for a short time before returning to the now silent coach cars to settle in for the night. Around that time, one of the conductors who John and I had greeted when he had been doing his rounds, now came and sat with us as his shift had finished. Soon the three of us were alone in the lounge. It was incredibly relaxing. We had just been considering going back to our respective seats, when a highly animated man came into the lounge, looked around and then told the conductor “You have to do something! My children have just been verbally abused!”

John, the conductor and I looked at each other in disbelief. The train had seemed so peaceful! I felt very sorry for the conductor. Of course, he simply had to take some sort of action given the brevity of the allegations, so he straightened his cap, stood up, and followed the man back to the coach cars. It transpired that one of the drinkers who had been in the lounge – a scruffy looking guitarist (he had bizzarely kept his acoustic guitar draped over his shoulder all the way from Chicago) – had gone back to his seat and obviously taken some more liquor or drugs. He had then allegedly proceeded to walk through the train, stopping at each seat, and randomly asking for sexual favors. As impossible as this was to imagine, it appeared following some hastily arranged investigations that the man was indeed guilty as charged.

Ten minutes later the train had rolled to a stop in a tiny  Nebraska town, and the man was ejected. There wasn’t even a platform. The train had stopped right on a railroad crossing, so he was literally dropped off, complete with his acoustic guitar, on the street. I watched from the window as he staggered around by the side of train, still remonstrating with the conductors, before the street behind him lit up with the flashing lights of a police car. He was immediately taken away by the police, and the train was free to continue. John and I were left to wonder how his fate would pan out, and how the evidence would be relayed to the judge.

It was now time for sleep. Before saying goodbye, John told me “Set your alarm. We get into Denver at around 7am. You will get moving again around 8. Trust me, you will want to be in the sight-seeing car for the first three or four hours out of Denver.”

I returned to my seat, where my Mexican comrade was now completely passed out, and made myself comfortable. Surprisingly, despite being in a car with around two dozen other passengers, all of whom seemed to be emiting one odor or another and in the midst of sounds ranging from talking/snoring while in mid sleep, to coughs and gas, I managed to get a solid five hours sleep.

The traditionally styled, but newly refurbished Union Station in Denver, Colorado

I awoke at six thirty, and had freshened up and sipped some coffee in time to witness the Zephyr arriving into Denver. We were told that Denver’s Union station was a ‘one way in – one way out’ station, so it would be over 30 minutes before the train would finally settle by the platform. I used this time to find a quiet corner of the train, and started my morning meditation. At that point I had been practicing Transcendental Meditation for around a month, having been given the training in midtown Manhattan. It has been one of the best decisions of my life to date. I have felt clarity of decision making, increased ambition, a greater sense of creativity, more patience and an all-round better enjoyment of life since I started using TM twice a day.

Arriving into Denver at dawn

I had finished meditating just as the announcer informed all passengers that we were now permitted to leave the train for up to forty five minutes. I spent the time stretching my legs on the platform, enjoying the fresh morning air coming off the still snow-capped Rocky Mountains, and taking some pictures of the beautifully refurbished Union Station in the mile-high city.

The newly refurbished Union Station in Denver, Colorado

For some, the forty five minute layover was just enough time to walk the few blocks to the nearest herbal  supply store, AKA weed dispensary. Colorado has of course legalized marijuana, and several passengers on the Zephyr were keen to avail of this opportunity. Weed tourism is quite the contributor to Colorado’s coffers, but it is a case of ‘caveat emptor’, as there is definitely some information asymmetry.

Under Colorado law, the herbal store is perfectly entitled to sell a certain quantity of marijuana products to anyone who meets the qualifying criteria. However, it is illegal to take the product out of state. Road-trippers and Zephyr riders often sidestep this little misdemeanor by purchasing and consuming edible marijuana products while still within the state.

A beautiful little house sits all alone, near the top of the Rocky Mountains at Winter Park Ski Resort

After stepping back onto the Zephyr, I heeded John’s advice regarding the sightseeing car, and while many other passengers were still stepping around on the platform, I snagged a great swivel chair by a large window. For several miles out of Denver the morning views were pleasant, but then we gradually started climbing into the ‘Front Range’ of the Rocky Mountains, and I found myself with a front row seat for one of the greatest displays I have ever seen.

The California Zephyr slowly climbing into the frontal range of the Rocky Mountains, Colorado

Slowly the Zephyr climbed into the forested mountains, weaving one way then the other, sometimes revealing a magnificent view of one or more of the ‘Fourteeners’, sometimes clinging tightly to the rails, right on the edge of a vertical drop into a river valley. Sometimes sheer rock walls passed by, and sometimes complete darkness descended as we passed right through a mountain. The longest tunnel on the Zephyr route is Moffat Tunnel, which is 24 feet tall, 18 feet wide and 6.2 miles in length. It cuts right through the upper peaks of the Frontal Range, so when we re-emerged, we were well and truly in the middle of the Rocky’s.

Approaching the highest point of the California Zephyr line through the Rocky Mountains

There were gasps and wows from all and sundry in the sightseeing car as we climbed through one final valley to Frazer – one of the highest towns in Colorado, and home to Winter Park Ski Resort. The snow was a little worn out looking, but the panorama’s were amazing.

A couple relax while admiring the beautiful Rocky Mountain scenery

After departing the mountain town, we continued along a large upland valley where surprisingly, the locals existed by ranching. The tracks followed the Fraser River northwestwards, and after a few miles there were calls to look out the left side of the train. On the far bank of the river was a solitary and very hungry looking moose. I had never before seen one of these great animals.

Rocky Mountain National Park, as seen from the California Zephyr

From the center of the valley, just past the town of Granby, we were surrounded by the large snowy peaks of Rocky Mountain National Park. The size and scale of the United States comes into particular focus in places such as this. I had seen it before, while cycling through the great valleys of northern Nevada. Sometimes the valley is of such proportions that despite moving, it looks as if the surrounding mountains are still no closer or further away. The view up there was beautiful, and having the mostly glass-sided sightseeing car of the California Zephyr to enjoy it from was just such a privelage.

A mountain top delta on the Colorado River

In Granby we picked up the trail of the legendary Colorado River; water source to so much of the American south west, and followed it out of the valley and into the most spectacular gorge canyon which we followed for around an hour. The steep walls of the canyon are so close together in places that there is just enough room for the river, the railroad and the i70 freeway (which sometimes has to go double-decker through here). This section of i70 is said to be the most expensive road construction project ever undertaken.

The sightseeing car of the California Zephyr offers plenty of photo opportunities while passing through Rocky Mountain National Park in Colorado

As the steep canyon gave way to a more traditional river valley at Glenwood Springs, I suddenly became aware that I was seated right in the center of 6 or 7 people who had struck up a conversation. All had been traveling alone, and all had been sitting in silence for the previous hours admiring the scenery. But now, as we headed for the Colorado/Utah state line, a spark had lit the conversation. This conversation, between a uniquely eclectic mix of people, would last for several hours, and was as surreal as it was stimulating.

To my immediate left was Sarah, a PhD student from Devon, England, who was on vacation from her English Literature studentship position at Northwestern University, Chicago. To my right was Mike; a high-school history teacher who was on his way to Las Vegas. Then there was Peter; an IT worker in the financial district of Lower Manhattan, who was on a cross-country trip to visit his son in San Francisco, and his sister in San Jose.

Stephanie, who was sitting behind me was a self-proclaimed (or self-confessed) clairvoyant, who was a keen proponent of the notion that we are all somehow connected via some sort of energy. Beside Stephanie was without doubt the most intriguing member of the party. Benjamin was a twenty-something year old nuclear physicist, who did not speak too often, but when he did, it was intellectually profound. And lastly, there was Laura, a friendly and attractive young lady whose interest in the conversation quickly subsided, and who retired to her coach seat after around thirty minutes. It was at around this time that the conversation had started to simmer.

Someone had mentioned Trump. There were two immediate responses. Benjamin, the nuclear physicist had declared the president to be “without doubt the biggest fucking asshole in American political history.” James, the high-school history teacher was not amused. While leaving us in no doubt that he had voted for Trump, I think he parked his ideas of pledging further allegiance, having realized that he was in the company of two democrats, and two tourists who had absolutely no intention of becoming embroiled in a heated debate. It was only then that I became aware that yet another passenger was listening in on the conversation, but who at this point had not introduced herself or contributed.

A new kind of trading post in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado

When the train stopped at Grand Junction for an extended break, almost everyone took the chance to wander through the local stores at the small station (some in search of more marijuana). I made sure I was walking next to our observer. There was something about her. She was interested in the conversation, but had no interest in talking. After breaking the ice and introducing myself, I discovered why.

Sarah was the British television network Channel 4’s news correspondent for the US presidential election, and was finally getting some vacation time now that the election and inauguration were old news. She had spent the previous two years following the Donald Trump presidential campaign, the election, and his inauguration. I was fascinated, and asked her as many questions as I could, without being overly pushy. She freely recounted how she had been to all of Trump’s campaign rallies, and relayed some of the funnier and more harrowing stories of journalists jostling to get their questions on the list.

Back on the train, Sarah slipped back into anonymity, and the conversation continued among the others. With seemingly no apparent intro (we had been talking about the election), Benjamin suddenly launched into a verbal account of detailed designs for a perpetual motion magnetic tool for generating electricity. He hoped to patent the design. Im not sure about anyone else, but he was in no danger of me stealing his idea, because he had lost me after about two sentences.

I really enjoyed meeting the unusual mix of people. One of the marvelous things about traveling across America by train is that you get to meet some really diverse and interesting fellow passengers. People you simply would not get to converse with if you were to fly or drive across America.

Beautiful Ruby Canyon reflecting the evening sunlight as we left Colorado and entered Utah

As afternoon turned to late evening, we resumed our silent appreciation of the passing scenery. We crossed the state line into Utah and had a brief stop at Green River. I needed no reminding about how barren Utah can be, having cycled through there. But if anything, it seemed even more desolate from the train. As the day ended, the rock formations caught the low sunbeams and we got first hand evidence of how Ruby Canyon got its name. It was absolutely beautiful.

One by one the eclectic conversationalists returned to their coach seats, and I sat on my own in the sightseeing car. I practiced my transcendental meditation for twenty minutes, before having supper and settling in to write for a while. Taking the train across America offers so much opportunity for relaxation and reflection, and I found it to be a really great environment. Somewhere on the tracks over the Great Salt Lake, I brushed my teeth and settled in to my seat for the night, feeling as content as I have ever felt. The gentle rolling of the carriage soon rocked me into a peaceful sleep.

Early morning sunshine while passing through the deserts of northern Utah

I awoke to bright sunshine coming through the gap in the curtains beside my seat. We had crossed the remainder of Utah and most of the desert in northern Nevada. We were now in Fernley, which acts as a major distribution center, and were soon following Trukee River. I washed, had breakfast and got my things together. My epic 3000+ mile train ride across America was coming to an end. I would get off at Reno Nevada, just before the Zephyr started its climb into the Sierra Nevada, passing by the town of Truckee and Donner Lake, before descending into California.

The reason for my trans-american train ride, was to visit two ladies who I call the Desert Angels. These ladies had given me so much help and encouragement as I had cycled through Nevada on my charity cycle across America.

I would spend a few very enjoyable weeks in their home, before once again riding the train all the way across America to New York City.

Train Across America Part 1: New York – Philadelphia – Washington DC – Cincinnati – Indianapolis – Chicago

Taking the train across America is a great way to test the theory that a journey can be enjoyed as much as the destination. You get an experience on a train that just cannot be replicated on a stressful flight or road trip on the same route. From the train, you are offered a unique glimpse into America’s soul. It is so much more than just a journey from A to B. Taking the train across America unearths a way of life which is somewhat lost in this convenience driven, fast paced world, but which is still hugely enjoyable.

The snow was piled so high in Queens New York, that I struggled to haul my baggage from the apartment building to the waiting Uber car. New York at five on a winters morning is ridiculously cold, but at least the combination of the snowstorm and the early hour on a Sunday morning meant that the streets were a little quieter. Javier the driver, was amazed that I was taking the train across America. He was even more bewildered when I told him I had cycled all the way across America the previous summer. “I suppose you’ll be walking back?” he asked me through the rear view mirror with a grin. Well, who knows!

A blurry image of a departures sign, seen through blurry eyes, at 6.30AM in Penn Station, New York City.

I arrived at Pennsylvania Station in Manhattan long before the scheduled 6.45am departure. Boarding the Amtrak Cardinal train in darkness, it was really nice not to feel pressurized by the process or the staff. There were no lines. No security checks. No need for shoe removal, except of course by choice, should you want even greater comfort. A few minutes after choosing a seat by the window, the train began to roll, and soon we were snaking our way through the underground tunnels of New York City.

The Amtrak Cardinal would take me through 10 states, on the first leg of my journey by train across America.

We reemerged above ground in New Jersey, just as dawn was breaking. I took a final look back at Freedom Tower, and settled in to enjoy the start of an adventure. Once out of New York, the train eased to it’s upper speed limit of 79mph, and I watched as the passing New Jersey snowscapes reflected the almost horizontal rays from the rising winter sun. As I do every morning, I then closed my eyes and practiced Transcendental Meditation for around twenty minutes. The gentle rocking of the train on its tracks seemed to make it even easier to get to that beautiful quiet place. I took a deep breath and a stretch to finish, and then pondered the theory that no journey is too long if you are in the right company. Well, I was alone, but comfortable with my own company, so I was feeling good! Taking a train across America really does provide an ideal environment in which to meditate and relax.

The slogan on the Amtrak coffee cup suggested we ‘Change How We See the World’. I couldn’t agree more!

The Cardinal service offers great comfort for the long-distance rail passenger. There is ample legroom (much more than on the average aircraft) on chairs which recline to about forty degrees. There is a footrest that can be extended, charging points, wifi, personal lights, air vents, curtains, and so all told, the coach seats are perfectly fine to relax and sleep on. The next carriage back had a cafeteria, serving hot and cold snacks. If you are feeling flush, you could book a sleeper or roomette, but I was interested in more than comfort. I not only wanted to see how I enjoyed the trip, but I wanted to see how others enjoyed it too. For that reason, I had chosen the more sociable coach class.

Amtrak’s Cardinal line operates on a southern arc between New York City and Chicago

The impressive Philadelphia skyline soon came into view. The city is steeped in history, and was actually the first capital of the United States of America. George Washington and John Adams lived as presidents at the mansion on 6th and Market Streets, while the federal capital was being constructed in Washington DC from 1790 until 1800.

The train slipped through the Philadelphia suburbs, while most of her inhabitants were still asleep. I sent my Irish cousins a message to say that I was in Philadelphia. In the few minutes it took for them to reply, I had already crossed over another state line. I was now in Delaware for the first time.

Crossing the Susquehanna River on Chesapeake Bay, between Philadelphia and Washington DC

We followed the northern bank of the Delaware River for a few miles near highly industrialized Wilmington, before cutting across the head of Delmarva Peninsula. This unusual landmass, which is technically an island following the excavation of the Chesapeake and Delaware Canal, comprises almost all of Delaware state, and the eastern shores of Maryland and Virginia. We quickly traversed the head of the peninsula, going over the Susquehanna River, and onwards along the northern shores of Chesapeake Bay, which we followed through Baltimore and towards Washington DC.

Passengers were encouraged to step out onto the Washington DC platform to stretch their legs and get some fresh air. In just a few hours, I had traveled two hundred and twenty five miles down the eastern seaboard, and in doing so had traveled through four states and entered the District of Columbia at Washington. The land for the administrative and symbolic modern day capital of the United States, had been ceded by the states of Virginia and Maryland in 1790. By the start of the nineteenth century the capital and its houses had been constructed, and so, Philadelphia was honorably succeeded as the nations capital.

Having boarded the train in one of the original colonies, crossed the Delaware River, passed through Philadelphia and then onwards to Washington Dc, the journey to that point almost felt like a train ride through a United States history lesson. I couldn’t help but glance at a map of North America, and find my eyes wandering westwards, where I would cut through fur-trapping country, follow covered wagon trails and eventually find the golden treasure of the Pacific coast.

The elongated stop in Washington was welcome, and so I marched back and forth on the DC platform in military fashion, both as a means of stretching my legs and keeping warm. During this time, the train was cleaned and supplies were restocked. Our departure was powered by a diesel engine, as opposed to the electric unit which had taken us from New York City. I wondered if the electric unit was required by law while traveling along the highly populated eastern seaboard.

The passing scenery as we left Washington was just fantastic. The tracks followed yet another river, this time the Potomac, which flows through the heart of DC. By now the sun was well up in the sky, and it was a beautiful clear sky day. Passing by the town of Alexandria, I suddenly noticed that the snow had gone. It had either melted, or had not been so deep here in the first place. It seemed as though spring had suddenly arrived.

The Amtrak Cardinal cuts through beautiful countryside in Virginia and West Virginia.

Once again, the train veered inland; this time permanently away from the Atlantic coast. We had now come as far down the east coast as this route would take us, and were heading for another new state – Virginia. Slowly but surely, the urban sprawl of DC gave way to the forests and agricultural lands of Virginia. At around this time, the man who had been sitting behind me since we had left New York City, began to snore. At first it was not so bad, but the deeper he got into his sleep, the louder his snoring became. After twenty or thirty minutes, he was to be heard by everyone in the carraige.

We approached the foothills of the Appalachian mountains; passing through little villages and farmland. The train made several short stops while crossing the state, picking up passengers and supplies. At Staunton, around a dozen people came aboard, four of whom were notable by their demeanor and attire. Having previously cycled across America, including a leisurely day spent passing through Lancaster County Pennsylvania, which is known as ‘Amish Country‘, I knew that these folks were Mennonites.

A group of Mennonite folks, in their traditional and plain attire.

One of the Mennonite men asked the conductor if he and his traveling party could be seated together, so in an extremely fortunate turn of events, my snoring friend was asked to relocate. The two Mennonite men took his place, and their wives sat just across the aisle. As the agreeable snorer gathered his belongings and shuffled out of his seat, one of the Mennonite men conveyed his gratitude by saying, “Mighty Bliged Sir.”

As we weaved our way through Buffalo Gap in the Appalachians, I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation between the Mennonite men behind me.

“Now’s it any wonder we’re having trouble when it costs one point six cents to mint a penny? So, every time we make a new penny we’re going another point six cents further down the hole. Even Mr Trump can’t be expected to make those kinds of figures work.”

A short time later, after a lengthy silence during which I presumed both men had been contemplating matters of economics, one man’s attention suddenly turned towards his stomach.

“Im hungry” he announced.

“Well, you got your sand witches don’t you?” replied his friend.

“Yes I do, but I don’t care much for the cucumber ones they packed. Specially since I’m on the train – if you catch my drift.”

“Well”, said his friend defiantly, but with more than a hint of humor, “not meaning to cause you any offense nor nothing, but I’ve caught a few of your drifts in my time and I sure don’t want to catch any now that we’re on the train!” Cue deep laughter from both men, and concealed giggles from myself and the Mennonite ladies.

A little further down the line, we slowed in one of the many narrow river valleys of West Virginia, to safely pass an oncomming freighter train. Approximately ten open-topped cars containing very finely crushed coal, passed by before I decided to start counting. By the time the last car had passed, my count had reached fifty two. This, I considered, was becoming a more and more unusual sight, as the major coal mines were now in a state of decline. The many rivers we followed through the West Virginian Appalachians all had the same appearance; sporadic signs of greater mining activity from yester-year, wild white water rapids, lost villages with moonshine-making credentials, and trees. Lots of trees.

As the light faded, I couldn’t help but think that we had just gone through what many American city-slickers would refer to as ‘Hill-Billy Country’. My eyelids began to fall with the setting sun, and for an hour or so, I fell into a deep sleep. I dreamed of dueling banjos, white-water rafting, hard-drinking coal miners and of Mennonite economics.

The conductors announcement of an extended stop at Huntington West Virginia called me back in to the real world. Before I was even fully awake, I found myself yawning and stretching on the busy platform. Fresh air breaks were not to be missed.

Having left New York City just that morning, where temperatures had hovered in the mid twenties , I now felt uncomfortably over-dressed in relatively balmy Kentucky. Some people took the opportunity to smoke. Others hurried to beat the line for the toilets in the station building. The train staff unloaded trash bags and picked up fresh supplies. The Mennonite wives, who were sporting long flowery-patterned dresses and white bonnets, held hands as they skipped and ran around a little patch of grass in the parking lot. Their husbands stood shoulder to shoulder in silence. I tried to figure out which one was secretly letting go of his long-held ‘drifts’.

A welcome stop and a chance to stretch the legs at Huntington, West Virginia.

Once back on the train, I walked back to the next carriage, where I knew the cafe/shop would now be fully stocked (TIP #1: Always coincide your dining and bathroom breaks with the immediate aftermath of major stops, as you will find the train facilities freshly cleaned and restocked). I ordered a cheeseburger and a Pepsi (“a classic American” as the friendly Amtrak server described it), and sat down at a nearby table to dine alone. After I had taken a few bites and then paused for digestion, a voice from behind me asked: “Pardon me sir, but I was wondering what part you’re from?” I turned to see that it was one of the Mennonite men, who also happened to be sitting alone.

Now I must admit, I had been looking for the opportunity to speak to an Amish or Mennonite since I had cycled across America in the summer of 2016. There really is no easy way to instigate conversation with these curiously simple and withdrawn people, without risking the danger of making them feel uncomfortable. So many tourists come out of the cities on the east coast to Lancaster County in particular, and are quite intrusive in how they approach the locals. This has resulted in the Amish becoming even more withdrawn, like spooked deer in hunting season. I took this unexpected opportunity for communication by asking the man if I could join him.”It’d be a pleasure sir.”

(TIP #2: Embrace the social aspect of travel in the coach class. You can meet some really interesting people)

‘Erik’ and I talked about a range of subjects, including a very interesting discussion about how he was of the opinion that agricultural co-operatives are not necessarily acting in small farmers best interests anymore. To my surprise, upon hearing that I was Irish, Erik asked me if Irish dairy farmers were well off financially. I silently noted that he appended the word ‘financially’ to the term ‘well-off’. To me, this gave an insight into the first notable difference (aside from attire) between his world and mine. His people would consider themselves ‘well-off’ in many ways other than financial. I made a mental note to remember that.

As a dairy farmer who milked ninety cows, and who did not have access to the internet and newspapers as a means of gauging market trends, Erik based the value of his stock on the prices of similar products in the supermarkets. This, I considered, was a simple yet highly effective strategy. Maybe it was a micro-example how how the Mennonite approach to life may be slightly more insular and simplistic, but enjoyable and comfortable none the less.

The product which Erik was referring to was KerryGold, a very tasty Irish butter which is now widely available in the United States. It is generally stocked in small supplies, and at over ten dollars a pound, is perhaps twice the price of other butters. I saw that this had led to Eriks question, and had perhaps spurred his willingness to engage with me in the first place. Erik’s mystery shopping may have given him an indication of market value, but his more paraochial existence deprived him of a more in-depth understanding of pricing factors other than net payment to the producer. I explained that the cost was so high given the addition of international taxes, the federal requirement to comprehensively test overseas farm produce, the inclusion of additional preservatives and shipping costs. There was also scope in the figures to make room for one or possibly two American importers cut. Although he had little way of knowing this prior to our chat, he immediately understood. Mennonites may not be worldly, but they certainly aren’t slow – especially when it comes to food production.

To my greater surprise, Erik then talked about the emergence of driverless cars and drones. It was a very unexpected and surreal twist to a conversation with a man who had no watch, smartphone, newspapers or any other modern ‘conveniences’. Yet, I immediately understood the practical relevance to his curiosity. Neither of us needed to implicitly reference why this new mode of transport should be familiar to me and not to him, but we did discuss it at length. The concept of driverless cars has been known and explored by me for well over a decade, given my background and interest in technology, but Erik’s musings on the matter were owing to more recent and populous developments. Mennonites and Amish may like to live traditionally, but yet, when something new emerges, they will consider it. So long as it does not pose a threat to their way of life, they are open to using it.

Amish and Monnonites will ride in a car provided someone else drives it, and provided the journey is for business purposes and not pleasure. They do not fly. Given that a horse and carriage can only take them so far, and that they regularly meet and visit other similar groups right across the country, they have been perhaps Amtrak’s most regular customers for decades. For the more forward thinking (not to mention business-minded) Mennonite man, which Erik most certainly was, this new form of transport was of interest. It transpired that he was making what was a regular trip between his dairy farm in Virginia and his crop farm in Kentucky. The train worked well, but there was still the matter of getting to and from his farms and the nearest stations.

I found myself reassuring Erik that self-drive cars might indeed be of interest to him. “The mechanics are the same. The appearance is the same. In fact, standing on the sidewalk, you wouldn’t be able to differentiate between a passing driverless car and a manually operated car. The only difference is, you express your desired destination beforehand, much like you do when you buy a train ticket. After that, you simply sit back and relax – just as you do when taking the train.” Again, without confirming that he was Mennonite and I was not, Erik thanked me, and concluded by saying “Well, it certainly seems like it is worth looking in to – when the time comes.” And therein, I decided, lay the main difference between my cultural upbringing and Erik’s.

Regarding the driverless car, he would look in to it – when the time would come. In my world, people spend so much time and energy speculating, disagreeing, and talking about what the future might or might not bring. So much so that we often miss the present. In Erik’s world, he may soon have to face a difficult decision, but he had an entirely different outlook. Easing the burden of travel between his farms, while running the risk of incurring the wrath of his elders for breaking tradition, would be an ethical dilemma. (Actually, I had already decided that Erik was himself an elder. A decision maker. So his decision carried greater responsibility). But, Erik wasn’t going to waste time worrying about this matter. At least not until ‘the time comes’. Brilliant. My mother always offers a piece of advice which says ‘Don’t meet trouble half way’. I smiled to myself as I wondered if she was secretly a part-time Mennonite!

The drone question was addressed full on by Erik. “I’ve nothing against them, but some folks have been flying them over their neighbors properties and invading their privacies. Do you think thats right?” he asked me. I had to agree with him that it was not ‘right’ and that drone intrusiveness was a problem. I pondered what morale code drone users adhere to, and how they decided (if at all) what was ‘right’ and not right. I also felt empathy towards the Amish and Mennonite people, when I considered what it must feel like to see a strange flying machine with a camera right above their yards. Part of me felt ashamed of the outside world.

Erik had a kindly, calm and open personality, and I treasured the opportunity to talk with him. Too often we recoil from communicating with people who are different in some from ourselves, and this non-communication can alienate us and others. I felt so happy to have broken through a boundary, and for the conversation to have been so amicable and enlightening. All too quickly though, we arrived at Erik’s station. We shook hands, wished each other well, and I watched as he departed with his wife and friends. I looked through the window as they stood by their old-fashioned suitcases on the platform, perhaps waiting for local horses and carriages to come to pick them up. Their clothing looked so different, so primitive, yet so clean, smart and tidy. I sat back in my seat as the train rolled along on the banks of the Ohio River, and tried to comprehend how my way of life and Erik’s coexisted. The term ‘purpose over pleasure’ seemed to stick in my mind. I certainly admired the ability of the Amish and Monnonite communities to sustain their place in the world, using such a modest set of guidelines and ethics.

In the shadows of Cincinnati train station, at one forty five in the morning, I slipped off my shoes, reclined the seat, and snuggled up under Jaime’s Magic Blanket. This black and charcoal, intricately patterned blanket, had been a gift to my wife Yesi, from her father Jaime, when she had left Peru to come and live in New York City. After our wedding, when I had arrived from Ireland to experience my first New York winter, Yesi and I would regularly cozy up under this Andean treasure. The comfort of the Llama wool, combined with the sentimental value, meant that within minutes we would be warm, content and sleepy. Hence I had named it ‘Jaime’s Magic Blanket’. It had the same effect on me right there on the train in Cincinnati, even though Yesi wasn’t there with me. She was however with me in my thoughts. Within a few minutes I was content and had fallen asleep. (TIP #3: When traveling on a train across America, consider bringing a blanket and/or pillow for added comfort).

I woke briefly around an hour later, to the sound of low chattering and the wonderful smell of spices. I leaned sideways in my seat to see that a little further up the carriage, a Chinese family of three generations, were huddled around a series of pots and flasks, and were enjoying a midnight feast in the amber glow of a travel lamp. For a time I studied how happy they looked as they dined as a family. The gorgeous aroma had made me feel quite hungry, so I rectified this by munching on some peanuts. (TIP #4: Always have snacks on hand when on a long train ride, but try not to overdo it, as you could get sick with the motion of the train). My semi-conscious food cravings held at bay, I quickly drifted back to sleep and did not stir again until we were in Illinois, around an hour out of Chicago.

I was pleasantly surprised by how well I had managed to sleep. The view now out through y window was dramatically different than it had been when it was last daylight in West Virgina. The landscape was no longer mountainous and wooded, but perfectly flat, and as it was early spring, it looked a little barren. After having a coffee and a cinnamon roll for breakfast in the dining car, I made my way to the downstairs bathroom, and took a wet-wipes shower. (TIP #5: Wet wipes are an absolute must when traveling overnight in the coach class of a train across America). I then changed my clothes and generally freshened up. I got my things together and a short time afterwards we began to weave a pathway through the suburbs of Chicago.

The beautiful architecture of the Great Hall at Union Station, in central Chicago.

When the Amtrak Cardinal finally drew to a stop in the bowels of Union Station, the first leg of my marathon journey by train across America had come to an end. I thanked the friendly Amtrak staff, picked up my bags, and stepped off the train. Before setting out, I had designs on a little walkabout tour of downtown Chicago. I had a four-hour layover before heading further west on a connecting train. However those plans were dashed upon hearing that the lockers in which passengers could store their luggage before boarding their connecting trains, were no longer available (presumably due to terrorism fears). Had I been more clued in to this situation, I could have switched around my bags so that I could have checked most of my luggage onto the next train in advance of its departure, and possibly kept one backpack which could have contained everything I needed on the onward journey. This would have enabled me to leave Union Station and go for a walk. (TIP #6: Organize your luggage by separating the items you might need while on the train ride, from the items intended for use at your destination).

It was not an especially good day for a walkabout in downtown Chicago anyway. The skies were overcast, and a wave of drizzle was creeping in from the shores of Lake Michigan. Whistle-stop sightseeing in Chicago would have to wait for another time. Instead, I made my way to the Great Hall of Union Station, and after having some lunch (Chinese food!), I sat in peace, relaxing and people watching. There is nothing like a train ride to help you work on your levels of patience and on the acceptance of each moment of the journey, whatever it is that each moment may bring.

I could think of a lot worse places to be left guarding my belongings. Union Station in Chicago, and it’s Great Hall in particular, are of great architectural beauty. It is a classic old-style railway station, and so the surroundings really accentuated the authenticity of traveling by train across America. I was happy with my experience so far. But a much longer ride lay ahead, on board the iconic California Zephyr, which would bring me over the Rocky Mountains, and out into the American wild west.

Click here for Part Two: The California Zephyr, from Chicago to Reno Nevada

Wild Atlantic Meditation brings me home. It brings me to myself. Something magically transformative occurs when meditation is combined with  the power and serenity of the Atlantic Ocean meeting the Donegal coastline on Ireland’s Wild Atlantic Way.

I meditated for the first time high on a clifftop, overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, at Port and Glenlough in Donegal. The seascape views from up there are simply stunning. That initial experience inspired me to create this blog, and embark on a journey of self-improvement and discovery. Id like to share a little of that Wild Atlantic Meditation experience with you.

After crossing the Atlantic over and back for two years while Yesi and I dated, following our October 2016 wedding in Donegal, I moved to New York City and we eventually decided to set up our home from home in the city that never sleeps. That move hasn’t been easy. There are times when I feel like a bird in a cage. When you go from wandering on remote coastlines, enjoying the fresh Donegal sea air, to living in an apartment in Queens, New York, you need to have something to ground you. I miss home, I miss family and friends, and I miss the powerful healing affect of those winter storms as they roll in from the Atlantic. But Wild Atlantic Meditation brings me back almost every day – back home and back to myself.

I often close my eyes and imagine that I am in the ocean, watching as the winter swells in the Atlantic send perfect waves rolling towards one of Donegal’s many beautiful beaches. In what I have come to call Wild Atlantic Meditation, I play the scene in slow-motion within my mind. As a wall of water starts to build to create a wave, I breath in, feeling the power generated by the wave standing up against a stiff offshore wind. I feel the power behind that breath as it fills not just my lungs, but my whole body and mind. I imagine the ocean smells and the unique freshness of the air on the Donegal coastline.

As the wave reaches the point of no return, I pause the scene, and hold my breath for just a second, right as the first white tips are appearing at the top of the wave. And then…aware of the power that it has created within itself, I let go. The images play slightly faster now, as the wave crashes forward under its own weight and momentum. As this happens, I breath out. Often, as I imagine the white horses galloping forward towards the coastline, I mimic the sound of the cascading water by blowing out through my lips. I maintain that breath and sound until the white foam has washed up on the sandy beach. I imagine how refreshing that wash up onto the beach is.

There is then a moment of complete serenity, before the water eventually succumbs to the back rip, and I again imagine that I am out beyond the break point, watching another wave building in tandem with my breath. Waves in a good swell often come in sets of seven, with the middle five being the most intense. I normally never make it to number five. After three or four deep breaths in tandem with imagining the waves breaking on the Donegal coastline, I am able to reach a meditative state. And it is pure bliss.

One of the interesting findings from oceanology is that waves do not actually move any matter most of the time. The water mostly remains in situ, and it is the energy which is transferred from one place to another. Perhaps only at the top of the wave as it breaks, and as the last foam reaches the high point on the shore, does the water actually move. I find that interesting when I think about the theory behind Wild Atlantic Meditation. The energy crosses the ocean, even if the matter does not. I like to compare the harmonic motion and oscillation created by energy moving across water, to the transformative affect it has regarding meditation.

I arrived in New York City as winter was taking its grip, and Donald Trump had just been elected to the office of president. As the winter wore on, and Yesi and I decided that I would file for a green card so that we could stay together in New York, there was a serious air of uncertainty creeping in. There was (and still is) much talk of stricter immigration policy. It would have been so easy to get down about it, especially since I am sitting around in an apartment most of the time, as I do not yet have permission to work. But Wild Atlantic Meditation has eased that intense feeling of uncertainty, and made the transition and the waiting manageable.

I don’t think it is coincidence that I draw solace from Wild Atlantic Meditation. For tens of thousands of years, water has played a pivotal role in human development and improvement, especially in a spiritual capacity. Water rituals are used in just about every organized religion. We flock to the ocean to get away from our busy lives, be it on vacation or on a day trip. We sit by it, walk in it, swim in it and sail on it. The salt water is one of the best natural healing aids for a variety of dermatological conditions. But I believe the ocean can also cleanse and heal our minds in the same way or better than it heals our skin.

We don’t know what the future will hold. We don’t know if I will be allowed to stay in New York. But while waiting for news, and while unable to physically travel home for a visit, I do a ‘Spancil Hill’ or ‘Lake Isle of Inishfree’ by sitting down peacefully in Queens, New York, and using Wild Atlantic Meditation to take me home to Donegal. Perhaps not in body, but certainly in mind. But unlike the homesick rhetoric in ‘Spancill Hill’ or the Lake Isle of Inishfree’, I am not hankering to travel home alone at some undetermined point in the future. It is very much in the now. I am there while I am here. And I am here while I am there.