A First Look At Abrupt Unhinged Time
It's easy to find a peaceful state of mind with time, a book in your hands, and the magic of water.
The Teardown
Thursday :: May 30th, 2024 :: Approx. 7 min read
👋 Hi, this is Chris with another issue of The Teardown. In every issue, I cover how we evolve in concert with the technology that enables our day-to-day lives. If you’d like to get emails like this in your inbox every week, hit the subscribe button at end of the post.
I’m trying something new in this post. The undertone of the post is about the lack of technology. And, there is a story and narrative here - with chapters - that you aren’t used to seeing from me. Hope you enjoy.
I.
After some formalities, I’m officially absent from the trenches of a nine-to-five role. My pivot two years ago to a start-up, tangential to my existing career, boosted my job insecurity level. Start-ups are unstable creatures, sometimes bouncing from one idea to the next, from one contract to another, and from a maligned process to something better, you hope. But, the reality is simple: money arriving at the stoop of the business must overtake the money whisked away by expenses, taxes, and employees - at some point.
Often, that last cohort succumbs to macro-level pressure and shrinks in size. People are fired, and people are laid-off, and the founder or CEO - whoever actually leads - sings a song about how great everything is in spite of the shuffle.
Being part of that unlucky or fortuitous group, dependent on your circumstance, thrusts you into a period of freedom, in contrast to a day bombarded with emails, calls, productivity software, and other professional nuisances.
My version of events happened in an early morning early-week meeting. There was no poetry in the moment. The time had come for reasons that, of course, weren’t discussed during that call. The call ended almost as quickly as it began and I proceeded to stare at my computer screen in equal parts shock, annoyance, happiness, and apathy. My entire day was free. My entire week was free.
Now what?
II.
This experience wasn’t my first. In 2016, I parted ways with a company after a lack of substantial common ground over how I might structure how to work remotely. There was no technical problem, of course. VPN and virtual desktop software existed then, just like it does now. Laptops worked too. The challenge was, instead, reconciling the lack of face-to-face contact, the then uncomfortable home-work environment, a complete lack of indoor direct sunlight, and more. There was a constant stomach churn, a gut reaction against this possible arrangement despite my employment with a top-notch firm in my industry (insurance).
To pass time, I contacted industry friends, catalyzed new connections, and hosted or was hosted in as many conversations as possible. I also enjoyed a brief productive stint as the insurance expert of a technology start-up effort. That project fizzled, as one member of the group was distracted by his own unrelated ideas, and I could not achieve comfort with the risk of an idea that would need to unblock numerous complex roads.
I also spent a lot of time working out. And running. Through those activities, I reached a previously unattained level of fitness. Oh, and by the way, I started this newsletter - or whatever it is today - then.
The entire experience spanned five-ish months, and in early January 2017, I was back to the structure, joy, and bowels of the insurance industry corporate world.
In retrospect, it’s clear that I did not explore what else I might do with my time. There was more insecurity and fear of being excluded from the job market than there is now. I was unconvinced - in part due to imposter syndrome - that I had the palette of experience, skills, and will to construct a business. I stayed safe, without losing the itch to try something different, at some point.
III.
My last career experience (start-up) and my prior time away from the corporate world convinced me to approach my newfound free time with a different lens.
The stage was set on April 1st, 2024. Two months until summer. Sixty days or so until I could wander shoeless through the town beach littered with shell parts shaped like daggers, and jump into the mid-sixty-degree salt water of Long Island Sound.
Early in that first unhinged week, I went on a long walk through the trails and neighborhoods of my town. I traversed something like five miles, a distance more aligned with my running history than any prior daily walks. My dress was early spring in composition, with a long-sleeve hoodless sweatshirt, casual seven-inch inseam shorts (my brand), worn gray baseball hat, and those On Running shoes that everyone wears. My AirPods were in my pocket if or when the audible environment in my proximity ceased to please me.
I never fetched them out. My ears were instead filled with the crunch of the trail under my feet, the grinding of those same feet gripping rocks, chirping birds, and most desired - running water. All of the walk spanned two areas that surround or run parallel to reservoirs, brooks, and other nature-y sounding water features.
There’s something about moving water that, as an adult, sets my soul and mental state on the most concrete relaxed path possible for a day. I’ve sat on countless beaches, music absent from my ears, listening to waves crash into the sand, or roll over themselves - too gentle to generate a distracting outcome. And, I spent my childhood in the woods and trails in my town and in New Hampshire, listening to water find its natural downslope path in gulleys formed by the benefit of time.
IV.
This week, I was able to recreate all of the magic and peace of that childhood exploration and adult relaxation: I went to the beach.
In short historical timelines, I’m nearly two months graduated into this period of unhinged time. The beach opened last weekend, finally, with all of the umbrellas, sun-block, chairs, and coolers you expect to see dotting the coastline during Northeastern U.S. summer months.
My time at the beach is purposely misaligned with other people. It is key to hear the water, the sometimes gentle and sometimes aggressive wind, and boats close and far away. A clear day on the Sound provides me with a view of Long Island stretching from Kings Point to Bayville, and perhaps farther east, all jutting out from the northern edge of Long Island.
I walk through a turnstile that sounds and looks like it was built a century ago, when beachgoers of all ages would frolic through its passage without electronic distractions, and beach membership cards memorialized in pen in hand. There are multiple installations of Adirondack chairs, sometimes politely aligned by pass holders or employees. But, other times, you see the remnants of the previous social gathering, with the chairs strewn haphazardly around the property.
My preferred chair set sits out of the sun, in a stained concrete deck farther away from the beach. This placement guarantees fewer intrusions by beach-bum kids of all ages - a quieter setting in total. A momentary view of the setting settles my mind and installs a calm quite unlike any other:
Though it is obscured in part by the fence that protects people from falling to the rocky water below, the silhouette of Long Island is there, just below the black top fence railing. Boats from nearby clubs - all private as is common here - dot the water, bobbing up and down in concert with the oscillations of the waves. An occasional chant, scream, or babble from kids on the beach or toddlers strolling nearby breaks the silence, but doesn’t disrupt the picture. Wind whips the tree-tops.
V.
With that view and concert surrounding me, I pop open a book - a nine-hundred fiction behemoth titled Winds of War, to delve back into a story that’s not my own. The history and characters develop as I subconsciously scratch sand on my toes, and peek up at what the view might look or look like it sounds at a particular moment in time.
And, nowhere does the verbose old language from fifty-three years ago sink farther into my brain than here. The sun kisses my feet on the chair and face when I head to the railing for a break.
At any given moment, I think I can taste the salt in the air, and more importantly, taste the tranquility.
Go to the beach.