Come July 15th, it had been 62 days since we crossed over the Floridian
border. At the time, we were only supposed to be here for two nights. We had
sold most of our things in New York, said a tear-filled good-bye to our family and
friends, and set sail for a fresh and sunny start in the Bahamas. Mere hours
before we were scheduled to dig our toes in tropical sand, we received a call that due to a company dispute, our Visa’s had been put on hold and we could not
continue travel to the Bahamas. For the next three long weeks, we had no new
news on the conflict that was keeping us stateside. While anxiously waiting for
the corporate cat-fight to be resolved, we truly did not think it was possible
that we may never live in the pink house that had so serendipitously picked
us. There was just no way that Bob was
never going to swim in the crystal clear ocean every day after previously conceding
to city life for so long.
It seemed far too cruel of a joke that we had left every
part of our former lives in New York, under the promise of a once-in-a-lifetime
opportunity, just to be led down a disastrous path, steps from our final
destination. While certainly cruel, it was not a joke.
With no anchor, our life resembled a boat in open water,
braving the perfect storm. With each day that followed that fateful call, our
struggles, like relentless waves, constantly threatened to capsize us. All
while watching our Bahamian dream die a slow and painful death. We reluctantly
let go of our Bahamian house with its white picket fence, without ever holding
the keys or crossing the threshold. We had chosen to sell our belongings while
still in New York because everything we brought to the Bahamas would be charged
an exorbitant tax. In the end, we’re
happy to not have paid the International duty tax on our goods, but are missing
the many things we could have kept. We had been counting on the $97,000 per
year tax break for being an expat in the Bahamas. Instead, we were now in a
daily battle to be reimbursed for the $30,000 in expenses this move had cost us so far.
Worse than being castaways so far from home, Travis’s
company revealed themselves to be well-dressed pirates, looting our lives
without conscience. They were the reason we had taken this journey, under the
promised protection of their sails. But when the seas got rough, they never offered to throw
us a life-raft. Just a white flag with a severance package attached; which we
accepted and gladly walked the plank. We’ll eventually get our sea legs back,
but they will always be a sinking ship.
We’re in Daytona now, as it’s where we were when we got the
dreaded call that all of this was over. We have every line imaginable in the
water, looking to hook the next big fish of opportunity, wherever that may
be.
I search daily for a reason, or the smallest of open doors.
I fight feelings every moment of abandonment as I pray for His plan to be
revealed.
We now have the freedom to make a new fresh start. We have a
10'x10' storage unit in Daytona, only ½ full; four suitcases, and a Golden
Retriever. It’s a rare opportunity and a bit overwhelming. Where can we live out our endless summer and make the most of this salt life?
I don’t have the answer to that yet, but like the Fountain
of Youth, it’s worth searching for.
Trying to navigate life's newest and sharpest turn, we're ready for the next chapter of this journey. As we seek salt life, maybe we'll find home along the way.
1st stop: Miami
Read Next: #18-Bienvenidos a Miami, August 1
