There are many lessons one obtains by surviving over six decades of an active life; such as, a tennis ball rolls off a roof better than a frisbee.
One tag for this post might be travel insurance, but before you tune out, let me assure you, I am not talking about the type of insurance that—excuse the non sequitur—some television lizard is hawking.
You are in the wrong place if you want a detailed description of the best monetary travel expense coverage; for that, I suggest you go read the renowned travel advice dude, Christopher Elliot for guidance in that arena.
No, I’m thinking more about how to ensure your return from your travel adventures, and specifically, who you travel with may be the most powerful protection.
Along with some good fortune, of course.
I have had a (relatively) long life, apparently by being blessed with more than my fair share of blind-ass luck.
As I am about to briefly recount some of my karmatic chapters of travails survived, I wonder what they add up to.
Let’s see, the first I-could-have-died instance was flying out of the backseat of a moving car and landing on my head. This was while riding in the family Hudson along the shores of Lake Merritt in Oakland.
Oh, should I mention I was on my mother’s lap at the time? Hmmm.
Some years later, there was my stuck-at-sea adventure on a too-short-for-me windsurfer in the middle of the Sea of Cortez, off the coast of Baja.
And then, almost drowning myself, along with a couple of family members, while non-whitewater rafting on the Green River in southern Utah.
O.K. I think I am going to fast-forward to my most recent event, so I do not get even more paranoid than I already am. Hey, even cats have their limited number of lives.
Earlier this year, I was on the far side of Panama for a few weeks of sailing, snorkeling, and scuba, when the heartache I began to experience was well beyond my natural missing of the wonderful wife-person.
Three and a half days later, I was back home, heart issue shockingly resolved, but informed of a totally unrelated superfluous protuberance perched on an internal organ, which I was told required removal.
Ironically, this was discovered by a “cat” scan, although no cats were found therein.
In a number of those tales, part of my luck was having travel companions willing and able to offer a timely hand.
Maybe that factor is the best form of travel insurance there is.
Just ask my travel writing mentor, and sometimes—O.K., just one time—travel companion, Tim Cahill about that. Tim recently died (not a hyperbole), but thanks to the proximity, skill, and immediate action of his whitewater raft mates, to be forever known as the “Colorado River Miracle Team,” he lived again to tell the story.
You just never know where and when your time is up, or, apparently, for some of us, when our nine lives have been fully accounted.
In Cahill’s account of his Grand Canyon reawakening, he does not get all philosophical about life’s kismet. No, he realized how much he enjoys playing “roof ball” with his dog, Dexter.
After my latest (perceived?) near-death experience, once again I attempted to emulate my longtime, one-way, literary bromance with Tim Cahill by taking the dog outside and flinging the frisbee on to the roof.
As Foxley the dog eagerly anticipated retrieving his favorite toy as it rolled off the roof, alas, I was reminded of yet one more thing I don’t do as good as Tim.
As the dog looked upward, I hunted for a long pole to retrieve the frisbee, which lay flat on the roof.