Letters: a man named Bob

Some days, I have words in the form of sentences which run through my mind faster than I can type – let alone write. If I am quick enough, perhaps I can jot down the essence of the message passing briefly through the cavity behind my eyes.

But other days, there is a reinforced concrete wall of an opening sentence which I must overcome if I am to have any hope of conveying any thing to any one --

especially you.

So let me instead paint you a picture:

I was swaying in a rocking chair at the entrance of Sewee Outpost: a well regarded establishment on the edge of the National Forest a few minutes north of Charleston.

I had a fresh baked sugar cookie in my lap and a glass bottle of Cheerwine – unopened and sweating, the cap not being a twist-off – in my hand.

In front of me was my wife of 3 weeks and our friends Nick & Zoe.

We had just gone for a brief two hour walk through Lowcountry forest and we were, having meandered alongside the marsh and following a creek which was, once again, attempting to resist the incoming tide, quite thirsty.

The single thought dominating my mind at this moment was that my bottle opener (the front bumper of my truck) was just beyond the automatic sliding doors.

But before the conversation between the 4 of us could drift outside, those doors opened. And in came an older man – about seventy or so, wearing an athletic top, extremely short shorts, and standing on top dress shoes – who sat on a pallet of 10lb corn bags, even after Nick had offered him a rocking chair.

"All good," he said, "I've just done well over 10,000 steps."

I thought my wedding day would be a turning point. Not in maturity, as much as in time. I haven't even really had time to process that day – we just got some photos back, and have been on the move for 3 weeks in a row. But I thought the run-up to my wedding was a period of chaos.

What I now see though, is that chaos is not necessarily a temporary state to be experienced before or after a marriage, child, or new job. It is, in not so many words, the order of the fallen world – which is where I find myself both today and 5 years ago, married and not-yet.

Since Grace and I married, we have not spent more than a week in a single place (or bed), and it seems as though that will remain a way of life! through the end of the year as we navigate the visa process.

That has taken a toll on us.

We are currently staying with some friends in town, who are wonderful hosts.

But as I learned from my many nights spent on the road, it does not matter how comfortable a space is, nor how well stocked the fridge, nor how many hours of sleep you enjoy ... nor, unfortunately how good of friends you are.

Because there is a deep relaxation that comes from being in your own space – where you can anticipate what each following barefoot step should feel like; where the sun rises in one of her 365 fixed positions each morning; where you know the summer breeze is best welcomed through that specific window.

Or so I imagine that to be the case.

Nick and Zoe made it into the store well before Grace and I, as I ran into one of those people that doesn't quite fit any single word.

Her name is Cacky, and her husband, Angelo, ran the surf shop in town which employed me at 19 years old. Combined, the couple exists somewhere in-between the Venn diagram of highly-expectant employer, deeply loving mentors, and people who encourage risk taking.

Angelo and Cacky hold much of the responsibility for angling me towards the path I am now on; for turning me away from wearing Sperrys, pastel polo shirts, and khakis, and towards being barefoot, with no shirt, and black board shorts.

As our brief catch-up came to a close, Cacky and Grace exchanged a hug. And in that moment, under the imposing awning of Sewee Outpost, I saw the continuation of a life that a younger Bryce could never conceive of.

Nick's conversation with the man seated on the bags of corn taunted me with an accent that intrigued – heard only through background noise of the Outpost. But before more words could be exchanged, another gentleman approached – this one, familiar looking, yet unimpeded on his way to the now open rocking chair which I once sat in.

"Weren't you guys on the trail earlier? We had the white dog."

Perhaps, on its own, a full circle moment. But only once the first man rose and asked for guidance on where the chilled Starbucks coffees were, did our day become ever more revealed.

Nick is tall. And he is welcoming. There is a genuineness that exudes every time he nods his head or speaks a word. And that, I think, inspires conversations like the one Nick had just entered after shaking hands and trading introductions with Bob.

But before any further ground could be covered, Bob's friend returned with a most impressive speed. Then, Bob introduced his friend —

Bryce.

Grace and I immediately looked at each other, slightly bewildered. Soon enough, Nick asked where Bryce was from. He took a deep breath, and began rocking his chair.

“Do you guys know where Melbourne is?" He said.

"It’s the furthest away you can get from the rest of the world. Down far south on the east coast,” He explained as he raised his hands to draw a diagram of Australia in the space between us all.

Charleston was an interesting place to grow up in. Back in the youth before my current youth, life seemed to gently move along. If there was traffic at the beach, it was an odd occasion. And if the water was packed with boats on Memorial Day Weekend, you took note of the occasion.

But now, Charleston brings a crowd. Apparently, it is the #1 wedding destination in the country. And I guess it's gained a fair amount of popularity on Instagram – despite my 1,100 attempts via Instagram posts to paint the rest of the country as far more desirable.

Growing up in a place where the population doubled in your teens brings trouble.

I can count on my hand the people I know, who are from Charleston and still live here. Literally everyone at my wedding, except for my best man and my family, was from some far off land.

Though the issue isn't with residency, per se – moreso with the way of life that comes with an existence dominated solely by breezes which blow in from West Africa and find themselves nestled between surrounding palm fronds and your face.

Some people are born that way, others can pick it up, but for most ... a slow pace (much like this letter) is wasteful, not comforting.

I guess for Australians, that pace is closer to home than elsewhere in the States. Because as it turns out, Bob – the code switcher that he is, whose accent I mistakenly placed as somewhat Southern – is also from Australia.

In 1976, Bob received a job offer in New York. The only hiccup – he was in Melbourne. It would be awfully difficult to be Australian and be scared of long flights, though, so after consulting his wife, Bob & Mrs. Bob got on a plane and headed for America.

But as life would have it after uprooting everything, the job in New York fell through. So Bob spent the following years moving around from city to city –

Los Angeles, Cleveland, Chicago... notably, none of which are Australian ...

but eventually, Charleston. Which is where he & his wife raised their 3 children. Later in life, he actually polled his family on the prospect of moving "home" (wherever that is, for a man like Bob).

The single condition was that it had to be unanimous approval to leave the States.

The family voted 4 yeas and 1 nay – the nay being his middle son, who had a girlfriend.

Soon, because of reasons yet to be named, Bob ended up in Arizona. His daughter stayed behind. And when she got divorced, Bob & his wife returned to be near her.

Thus, they remain embedded — an Australian outpost in what was once a crucial British colony.

I began to form a wry smile when Bryce noted that Melbourne was "...the furthest away you can get from the rest of the world." Raising my head, I said,

“Well, I’ll raise you one better. My wife is from Wellington.”

The conversation went silent for a moment... until Bob looked up from his rocking chair towards Grace and said, "what the hell are you doing here?!"

My beautiful wife blamed me – "I married him a few weeks ago!"

To which Bob laughingly replied, "Why the hell would you marry an American?! AND you followed him here?!"

Grace briefly explained her justifications — most of which I found valid and occasionally flattering. Bob asked if I liked New Zealand – "Absolutely!" – and if we would ever live there. But New Zealand, being a sort of backwards step brother to Australia, gets bullied quite a bit.

So Bob shared with Grace how impressed he was that Wellington had recently gotten electricity! I joked and said,

"Sure, they have power — but they still don’t have running sewage..."

Bob, aware of how Wellington's sewage treatment plant backed up a few months ago, promptly replied —

“Oh, they have flowing sewage. They just don't control where it flows.”

Nick, ever aware and present, returned to (other)Bryce and asked him why he was here. He shared that he was on a long trip across the States — his 30th overseas since his wife passed away in 2022. First, Epcot. Then Charleston. And in the coming 2 weeks, a lakehouse in Pennsylvania, visiting some friends in Cleveland, and then a flight to LA, from which, after 24 hours in the air, he would land not in the most distant country on earth – but the second most.

With our time coming to a close, their chairs still rocking, and my Cheerwine still unopened, Nick went in for a handshake. Following his lead, so did I – soon introducing myself to Bob, as Bryce.

"Bryce?!" He said.

Bryce looked at me, and I looked at him, replying "Bryce."

I shook Bryce's hand and asked him how he spelled his name (evidently the right way), and I gave them both Bryce C Travels stickers.

Bryce said he'd check out my website.

I hope he does. And I hope he emails me sometime.

Because I can’t help but feel as though in the chaos of it all, in the deluge of information and emotion that I — and maybe you — face every day, I was at once reminded that there is Someone weaving all things together.

But had I not entertained that hot, humid, mosquito-ridden morning walk along the creek which continually fights the tide, I would never have known that there was a man named Bryce, 45 years older than me, who himself had successfully faced, and survived, the very world I now find overwhelming.

That —

a message I have now received.

See you out there,

Bryce C