Seeing from Sky

As the Wright Brothers illustrated, reaching sky is an adventure in itself.


The hours before flight were, what one calls, a ‘mad badger scramble.’

The last slumber (party) ran into the night. After naan bread, much wine and a full belly, the realisation dawned: It’s 4am, and you still need to pack. 

This time frame created a rather odd outcome and I emerged into dawn looking like a slapdash alpaca. ‘Would these rusty beads be handy? There’s no time, just pack!’

So, come midday in Glasgow’s one and only terminal 1 (literally) the London commute arrived. Pride in vigilance was running high and a tide of black Tetris trollies ebbed and flowed. Ryan air would be proud.

Whether I met this standard was debatable as toothbrushes, pens and plastic cutlery spilled from every pocket foreseeable – from both backpacks. Kudos to my sun hat, which cradled the overflow happily.

I stuck out like a lizard in Alaska, but slipped through, like a fish.  


The calamity continued at Heathrow.

Having an ESTA means the US can’t say Hasta la vista, mista. The catch was, I didn’t have one. So, praising mobile data, with five minutes before the flight closed, I took the dive. This caused much hilarity and the application was followed with zeal. On leaving, whispers of bets lost and won on whether the alpaca would make it quivered through the air.

I was of course the last one on the plane, sweaty from the sprint and the several layers of polyester I’d cling filmed myself inside. Visions emerged of having to squeeze apologetically next to a raw Chicagoan – Frank Sullivan – silently exclaiming that only he could land next to Niagara Falls, quipping himself for the fact he didn’t pack his window wiper. However relief flooded to find around only 40 people on board.  Everyone – including Frank – was spared the shower.

This flight, London to Chicago, was an incredibly beautiful experience.

We chased dusk across the Atlantic, soaring into sunset that bled colour sublime, whispering of and painting possibilities of other worldly realms and realities.

What clarity and champagne perspective, to zoom out above and beyond. The heavens blended: cloud now sea, scrapers now capers, sky now space, wing now diving board – you could jump into the lucid sea of sky, light, star and sun!


Greenland enchanted with ice cream mountain made of marble, alabaster, and, eh, polystyrene. In addition, when night fell, the stars emerged, dancing in parallel with the plane – Boeing 667 a.k.a. space odyssey 3000.


The Chicagoan dissent was awesome. Fields of light made from golden thread and lava gleamed beneath. On ground, an air of ‘tough love’ flowed from a city that is raw, real, cold, and beautiful. This was strangely refreshing.


This 12 hour lay-over was spent on sofa, floor then over tea and coffee with a Cali-man named Andrew. This was truly wonderful encounter and made the time pass wonderfully. Good luck with everything dude.

This time, at check in, a lady spoke of possible refused entry in Mexico. People with no return are treated like seagulls by chip shops – with much suspicion . Regardless, we took off from snow into the sun.


Mid flight, eyes closed, face on window, listening to in-flight shuffle, a pilot interruption occurred. We were used to ol’ pete the pilot talking about the weather or the snacks on offer, however, this was different – talk of malfunction surfaced.

Just on the cusp of reaction, Beyonce’s thunder emerged, and like waking from a nightmare, reality kicked in – IT’S JUST A SONG, IT’S JUST A SONG!

I found out this song was ‘Beyonce’s XO.’ If you wish to listen to the intro sample and envision reacting in the air, do go ahead.

After landing (safely!) MC alpaca clomped through customs into loving arms. The car Richard and Katya used had broken down, so we got a taxi to the beautiful and aptly named cruiser town, La Cruz.


All in all, this journey yielded no sleep, just purely love, inspiration, euphoria and the soulful opening to physical, mental and spiritual height.

It must be mentioned that the staff were wonderful – a bunch of true American Airline Angels. Monty you are awesome – keep letting that soul shine!

All of the love,

May you be as light as the air that surrounds,

Hawky Joe, x

Mexico is go-go.

The journey is officially in motion.

Flights are booked, flippers purchased, but most tellingly, the fridge has been cleaned.

All aboard, Puerto Villarta here we come.

It is here my beloved uncle, aunt and cousin (sister) are docked. They’re professional nomads and beautiful human beings/professional human beings and beautiful nomads. Potato patato, tamato tomato. Bottom line is; they’re awesome.

At some point in March, depending on our friend The Weather, we shall set sail for Sydney on Sarita – 9,000 miles across the pacific. That leaves 27 days before take off: poco time, grande to-do list.

To clarify, Sarita is the fourth loved one in La Cruz. Poseidon’s best friend. Aquarius’s counsellor. Neptune’s nanny. Sarita is her name, surf and seaweed is her game.

We shall be spending ten months upon Sarita in Pacific waters.

But speaking of water chariots, let’s consider the boat. A deeply symbolic entity, for a deeply symbolic journey. Our life times are oceans. We learn to swim, embrace the flow and sometimes, by divine wind, catch the big waves. It is then we learn to surf.

It’s time to surf.

This is a chance to be purely in motion. Alive, present and free in divine, regenerating wind (and sun!). A time and space, in peace and patience, to delve inside and out.

My dear, dear family, friends and Glasgow in general shall be missed like an absolute chicken, but it is a lesson in honouring aspiration, gratifying opportunity and celebrating divine timing.

Also, Love live Skype. 

Peace, strength and light upon each and every one of your oceans. Just know you can only float. Fear nothing, as you are the water itself.

Eternal Love and Arm Bands,

Nomad Jim, x