Wanderlust and Drip

There was a time—not all that long ago—when weekends meant neon lights, questionable decisions, and enough cheap beer to make a pirate blush. I was young, bulletproof, and convinced sleep was for people who lacked ambition.

These days, “wild weekend” has taken on an entirely different meaning.

Now, you’ll find me tucked away in my study—dark walls, cedar shelves, and relics of my travels displayed like artifacts from another life. My companions are my two English Springer Spaniels, my loyal “girls,” who guard me like fuzzy Secret Service agents while I wage late-night war against emails and case files.

My line of work has a way of carving scars—some visible, many not. You learn to stay sharp, stay ahead, stay armored. That grit doesn’t come from comfort; it’s forged in fire. But sometimes, when the inbox quiets and the house settles, memories come knocking—those absurd, unhinged moments that remind you how you became who you are.

And oh, do I have one of those.

Operation Swipe Left

Enter my friend “Erick.” Brilliant. Unpredictable. Plays chess in a world of checkers. When he came to me with a plan that required me to “go undercover,” I didn’t ask for details. Loyalty works like that.

The mission was simple: I’d pose as a government contractor visiting town, looking for company. We set up in two adjoining hotel rooms—mine for the sting, the other packed with Erick, our guy “Mac,” and a team of case agents monitoring everything through cameras and audio.

The takedown phrase?

“Let’s get this party started.”

A unanimous, if not deeply inspired, choice.

The night rolled smoothly—targets came in, made the deal, I said the magic words, and the takedown team swooped in like a budget-friendly SEAL Team Six. Efficient. Clean. Textbook.

Then Erick threw a curveball only Erick could.

“You’re Gonna Need to Answer the Door Naked.”

I’m 6’5”. Broad-shouldered. Comfortable with confidence—but a “naked greeter” was not in my professional skill set.

But trust is trust.

The Naked Greeter Incident: A Masterclass in Bad Decisions

You ever find yourself in one of those moments where you’re too far in to back out, but every logical part of your brain is screaming, “Abort mission!”

Yeah. That was me.

There I was—standing in that room, towel in hand, praying the air conditioning didn’t turn me into a Greek tragedy. The knock came. Showtime. I dropped the towel and opened the door with the misplaced swagger of a man about to regret everything.

The door swings open.

And there stands…

Not the woman I was expecting.

A very feminine man. But—a man nonetheless.

Every muscle in my body seized. I was suddenly a marble statue—except this statue was desperately trying to cover the family jewels. Meanwhile, I could practically hear Erick and Mac on the other side of the wall, losing their minds in laughter.

The visitor—screen name Tiny Dancer—glides in like he’s headlining a Vegas residency. Goes for a kiss. I sidestep like a drunk ballerina. Crisis temporarily averted.

Then he reaches into his bag…

And pulls out a Costco-sized bottle of lube.

Then another.

And another.

I’m standing there, underwear halfway up one leg, thinking, “Bro, are you building a slip and slide?”

I try to play it cool. Toss $300 in twenties his way like I’ve done this before.

“Let’s get this party started,” I say, praying he’ll take the money and the take down team will do their thing. 

He doesn’t.

He just stares.

So I say it again, louder this time—trying to sound like a man in control instead of a man in crisis.

He smiles.

And then… he starts taking his shirt off.

That’s when I discovered a new species of panic.

My fight-or-flight response broke the sound barrier.

I dove onto the bed—ironically—wrapped myself in the comforter like a human burrito, and pressed into the corner like the wall was going to open a secret escape tunnel. Before I can even blink, Tiny Dancer climbs onto the bed.

At first, it’s just a knee.

Then a leg.

Then he’s fully in—on all fours—crawling toward me.

And I swear to you, this man starts purring.

My heart’s racing, I’m sweating like a politician on polygraph day, and Tiny D’s still crawling closer.

At this point, I’ve said the takedown phrase multiple times. No response. Desperation sets in.

So I go for broke.

“LET’S GET THIS FUCKING PARTY STARTED!”

Boom.

The door bursts open.

The cavalry storms in like divine intervention.

Tiny Dancer is promptly whisked away—still meowing like a housecat that’s seen things.

I stumble through the adjoining door, wrapped in a comforter and trauma, where I find Erick and Mac on the floor, crying with laughter.

They knew.

They absolutely knew.

The Lesson Buried in the Madness

This past weekend found Erick and me back in my study—another case unfolding, another bold idea taking shape, and another late-night stretch of strategy and silence. Different circumstances, yes, but the trust between us remains unchanged:

Life’s chaos is survivable when you have people who stand with you.

People who have your back.

People who will challenge you, fight beside you, save your ass…

…and occasionally set you up to answer the door naked for their own amusement.

Friendship is forged in shared insanity.

So here’s to the grind, the grit, and the ones who carry us through it—

Even when they leave us questioning our life choices.

Stay wandering.

Stay refining.

And always—always—check who’s at the door before you open it. 

Yours in chaos and camaraderie,

The Refined Wanderer 

As I sit here tonight, the warmth of the hot tub swirling around me and the familiar cadence of Frasier echoing from the TV, I found myself caught in a memory — one of those unexpected flashbacks that sneaks up on you when life slows down.

It was the early 2000s in South Texas — a humid October evening, and I was a young sailor living with two of my best friends. Back then, life revolved around the next adventure, the next laugh, and the next weekend off duty. Halloween was approaching, and like any group of early-twenties sailors with more enthusiasm than cash, we decided to find the cheapest costumes that would make the biggest impression.

I walked out of the store with a full-body banana suit.

My buddy Big Norm chose a penguin.

Together, we were chaos wrapped in polyester.

The plan was simple: win a few costume contests, hit the bars, and make some memories. But as the Navy often reminds you — the best-laid plans don’t mean much when Uncle Sam has other ideas. A last-minute “training exercise” popped up, and Halloween was canceled for us.

I was furious.

At the time, it felt like the end of the world — my golden debut as the world’s most charismatic banana was over before it began.

But with time (and a few years of perspective), I realize now that our Senior Chief — Steve — was doing us a favor. He knew exactly what kind of trouble a pack of overconfident, twenty-something sailors in costume could stir up. So thanks, Senior. You were right, as usual.

A year passed, a deployment came and went, and those costumes sat in the closet — reminders of a missed opportunity. Until one day, Norm looked at me and said,

“What’s the next best thing to Halloween?”

Spring Break.

And just like that, we were back in business.

Four 30-packs of Lone Star beer, two ridiculous costumes, and the open road to Padre Island. We arrived lean, tan, and already laughing at our own idiocy. Within an hour, the banana and penguin were out in full glory.

If you’ve never worn a banana costume to a beach party, I highly recommend it — once. We couldn’t go five feet without someone cheering, handing us a beer, or inviting us to the next party. By the second day, we were local celebrities. Somewhere between the bar hopping and beer pong, a “reporter” asked for an interview for the local paper.

We laughed, posed, and didn’t think much of it. After all, it was just a beach town story. No way Senior Chief Steve would ever see it.

You already know where this is going.

Monday morning, we strolled into the office — sunburned, exhausted, and smelling faintly of regret — only to see the newspaper sitting on Senior’s desk. There we were, front and center, headline blazing:

“Banana and Penguin Bring the Party to Padre.”

He didn’t yell. Didn’t even smile. Just looked up and said,

“I told you not to make the paper.”

And that was that. Lesson learned.

Looking back now, I can laugh. It’s one of those memories that makes you shake your head and smile — a snapshot of youth, freedom, and the kind of innocence you don’t recognize until it’s long gone.

I’ve traded cheap beer for Moscow mules, wild nights for quiet ones, and a banana suit for a tailored jacket. But that same spirit — that hunger for adventure and laughter — still lingers. Maybe that’s the lesson. The uniforms, jobs, and years change, but the stories stay with you.

And Senior Chief Steve? He was always right!!

Sincerely,

The Refined Wanderer