The Stillness Before Departure

Entry No. 28
Dear Faithful Companion,

There’s a peculiar sort of stillness that precedes departure. It isn’t true quiet—there’s far too much zipping, stacking, checking, and re-checking for that—but it is stillness of another kind. A pause of the mind. A breath taken before the gate opens.

It is in this liminal hour that a gentleman begins his quiet rituals—not merely packing his bags, but steadying his posture. For to leave home well is to prepare not just his belongings, but his spirit.

This morning, that stillness was broken at 3:00 a.m., as the alarms closed throughout the house went off. The early rise was swift and subdued—four travellers waking not with complaint, but with anticipation. Jesse and I, joined by our good friends Jeff and Gary, gathered our bags in the darkness, climbing into the car with far too many suitcases and the quiet excitement that only a winter escape can bring. The skies above were still cold and black, but we knew: warmth and sun were already waiting just over the horizon.

There is a certain comfort in embarking not alone but beside friends who understand the rhythm of a proper escape—each bringing their own ease to the journey. The banter, the shared glances over coffee, the mutual silence in early morning light—these, too, are part of the ritual.

Our preparation, as always, was a study in equal parts method and mild chaos. Lists had been made, and throughout the week, items were slowly laid out in the spare room as we thought of them—swimwear, sandals, half-forgotten chargers, and the ever-hopeful vacation books. And yet inevitably, I find myself the night before, facing two open suitcases, half-packed, trying on every shirt and pair of shorts I own, and wondering if I’ve remembered everything. I never have. But I always bring too much.

Jesse, more composed, makes sure the home will fare just fine without us—ensuring plants are positioned to survive a week of inattention, the home automation set to simulate occupancy, and the environment left in good order. I focus on climate transitions—what to wear in an airplane cabin chilled like an icebox, and what will still make sense when we step into that heavy Cuban heat. The books are packed too, of course—spines full of promise and ambition, though I’ll likely return them unread, with only grains of beach sand tucked between the pages.

The process of packing is, if I’m honest, stressful. I manage not just my things but consider Jesse’s too, ticking boxes and fighting the creeping fear of forgetting something important. But emotionally? I’m gone long before the bags are zipped. I count down the days like a child awaiting Christmas, imagining the salt in the air and the sand beneath my feet before we’ve even left the driveway.

In these moments, I’m reminded of something Steinbeck once wrote:

“A journey is like marriage. The certain way to be wrong is to think you control it.”

It’s true—no matter how many lists you prepare or items you double-check, travel resists perfection. It asks us to trade control for presence. To let the itinerary breathe. To surrender, just a little, to the unexpected joys and rhythms that no checklist can predict. That, I think, is the quiet genius of it all.

We have no elaborate traditions for departure, save our customary “boarding photo,” snapped hastily near the gate and shared like a lighthouse flash: proof that we’re off on another campaign of sun and slowness.

Verbum Ultimum

There is a certain art to leaving well. It is not found in the symmetry of packed cubes or the absence of forgotten chargers. It’s in the pause before the door closes, the look exchanged across a dark kitchen, the quiet certainty that rest is not earned through exhaustion alone—but through intention.

This year’s journey began long before the plane lifted off—etched in friendship, shared excitement, and the discipline of readiness. The body travelled today. But the soul, I think, had already set sail.

And so begins the campaign for rest.

Warmth-bound and onward.
JCB