Wander, Wonder, Write: Part Two
The journey truly begins the moment we stop trying to control it.
About this series
Wander, Wonder, Write is a two-week daily travel journal documenting a homeschoolers’ adventure across east Asia—just me and my 13-year-old daughter. From Space-A flights and Korean street food to shared songs and unexpected detours, this series is about more than just seeing new places. It’s about staying present, asking better questions, and finding meaning in motion. New posts every day as we explore the world, learn from it, and try to write our way through it—together.
This is part two of the series. Part one is available below.
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The Journey Begins
It’s hard to know when a journey actually begins. Was it this morning, when we hauled suitcases into the back of the car at 3:00 a.m., yawning and bleary-eyed, triple-checking for passports and paperwork? Was it last night, when Rebecca and I stayed up too late, too excited to sleep, staring at the contents of our suitcases strewn across the living room floor and kitchen table like we were planning an invasion? Or maybe it began months ago, when I first recognized that her fascination with Korean culture wasn’t just a passing phase—and instead of resisting it, I chose to embrace it, to walk with her into that interest with open hands and an open heart.
Technically, the journey began today. But emotionally, it began long before.
We arrived at the airport terminal by 4:15 a.m. for a 6:00 a.m. departure. Spirit, my service dog, trotted at my side—head up, tail steady, alert and calm. A traveling pro. She’d done this before. She knew the drill. Her posture was confident, composed, even cheerful in her own quiet way. She’d be with us only as far as San Francisco, where her trainer would meet us for a two-week boarding stay while Rebecca and I continued on. It was a temporary goodbye, I reminded myself. But even in that early hour, before the world had fully woken up, I felt the ache rising.
Rebecca watched everything with her usual quiet intensity. She doesn’t speak often in moments like these—just observes. Takes it all in. She’s seen me in airports before, hurrying off to deployments, conferences, cross-country relocations. But this trip is different. It’s not about duty. It’s not about fulfilling anyone else’s mission. This trip is about us. About presence. About giving her something I never had at her age: a father who showed up not just in body, but in spirit.
(Also… let’s be honest. This is a pretty epic homeschool flex.)
Our first leg took us to Chicago, where we ducked into the lounge for breakfast and coffee. I snagged a few minutes of sleep while Rebecca read quietly beside me, content and unhurried. There’s a comfort in her company, a sense of rhythm that has developed between us over this past year of travel and shared space. Then we boarded our flight to San Francisco. The plane was packed, but Spirit nestled under the seat without a fuss. Not a single twitch or shuffle. Just quiet readiness. She made it look easy.
A few hours into the flight, I took her for a short walk down the aisle. Heads turned. Smiles bloomed. She was an instant celebrity. “Is she working?” someone asked. “Always,” I replied. But you wouldn’t know it by how gracefully she carried herself—tail soft, eyes forward, completely attuned.
Later, I got up to use the restroom and left Spirit at our seat by herself. I was stopped at the restroom by a few fellow passengers curious about her. What kind of training does she have? How long have you had her? What does she do for you? We chatted, and before I knew it, thirty minutes had passed. The entire time, I could see Spirit’s legs stretched out just past the seat, her head poking slightly into the aisle, eyes locked on me.
We landed at SFO mid-afternoon, made our way back into the lounge for a bite to eat, and then slipped through security to meet her trainer. The handoff was smooth. Cordial. Professional. We exchanged notes, reviewed feeding and medication routines, talked through expectations. But beneath the surface, I could feel my own resistance. My reluctance.
I knelt beside her and whispered something just for her. Words of thanks. Of promise. Of love.
And then—I let her go.
Rebecca and I exited the terminal and made our way to the BART station. We boarded the train bound for Richmond, shoulder to shoulder with Bay Area commuters ending their workday. The train hummed and lurched forward, dipping under the channel and surfacing through towns with names I couldn’t recall. I looked over at her—face tilted toward the window, eyes open to the world, lost in thought. A quiet traveler.
We took turns doing pull-ups on the subway handrails, laughing at silly inside jokes and forgotten song lyrics. There’s an ease between us now. Rebecca has been my wingman for the better part of a full year. She’s joined me on work trips before, handled tight timelines and delayed flights with remarkable composure. But this trip will be different. More open-ended. Less certain.
We’re good travel companions, but this journey will test our compatibility in new ways. This isn’t just a hop to Chicago. or a weekend in New York. This is space-available travel across the Pacific, with no guarantees, no itineraries, no return tickets. It’s the kind of adventure that requires equal parts planning and surrender.
I glance over again. She hasn’t moved. Still watching the world rush past her reflection in the glass. There’s a new confidence in her posture—one that wasn’t there a year ago. I see myself in her sometimes. The curiosity. The inner restlessness. The willingness to be surprised.
We reached Richmond and hustled to make the Amtrak transfer. Just a few minutes to spare. We found a table together and settled in. Rebecca broke out her cup of ramen noodles; I pulled open my laptop and began typing. Outside the windows, spring has transformed the landscape—rolling green hills, open waterways, sunlight dripping across the San Joaquin Valley like liquid gold. I glance up. She’s barefoot, legs tucked under her like a cat, a book in her lap and steam rising from her meal.
I want to bottle this moment. Not just the image, but the feeling.
We’re not chasing a destination, I remind myself. We’re chasing a rhythm. A sense of presence. Something that was lost for a time—and now, slowly, is being rediscovered.
And so the journey unfolds.
But the journey is not without its bumps.
Our First Unexpected Challenge
When we arrive in Fairfield, I checked the military flight schedule. That’s when the shoe dropped: the flight we’d been counting on for tomorrow—cancelled. No alternate options for at least two days. Maybe more. The Air Force only publishes its schedules 72 hours out. And just like that, we’re grounded in central California.
Without thinking, I slipped into fix-it mode. With my phone in my face, my fingers flew across my the screen. Searching routes to Anchorage. Maybe Seattle. Checking ticket prices, train departures, rental cars, hotel rates. Cross-referencing bases. Trying to stay one step ahead of uncertainty.
“Hey Dad,” Rebecca interrupts, dancing circles around the depot bench. “Wanna play World’s Greatest Sandwich with me?”
I blinked. She’s still smiling. Still light. Still completely unaffected by the disruption. I hesitated, phone still in hand. She hasn’t noticed.
She just wants to play—a ridiculous, meaningless, memory game involving sandwiches with increasingly absurd ingredients.
She’s not worried. So why am I?
I take a breath. I’ve been here before—trying to force outcomes, mistaking motion for progress. Trying to make things happen instead of letting them unfold.
I put away my phone.
We invented a sandwich with thirteen ingredients, each more preposterous than the last. Sushi and jellybeans. Pickles and frosting. Pineapple, mustard, and peanut butter. We laugh until we can’t breathe. And in that moment, it became clear.
We don’t need to be anywhere else just yet. We’re already exactly where we’re supposed to be.
A Welcome Acceptance
Eventually, we caught an Uber headed toward Travis Air Force Base—our target for potential overseas flights. The driver dropped us just outside the gate; no civilians allowed past the perimeter. So we hiked. Backpacks slung low. Feet aching. Sun dipping behind the hills.
A junior airman greeted us with a crisp salute at the checkpoint—a professional courtesy and custom I will soon miss when I take off the uniform in a few short months.
Half a mile in, a man in a base vehicle pulled over and offered us a lift the rest of the way. I didn’t hesitate. We gratefully climbed in, saving our feet another half-mile of work.
At the lodging desk, we were offered two options: a single room with one bed for $95, or a family suite for $105.
Rebecca and I didn’t even have to look at each other. In perfect unison, we said:
“We’ll take the family suite.”
We were escorted to what turned out to be a full apartment—three bedrooms, a spacious living room, a kitchen with a gas range and real cookware, and a bathroom bigger than some hotel rooms I’ve stayed in. It was clean, quiet, and somehow nicer than my first apartment.
The Air Force doesn’t mess around with lodging.
We talked about meal plans for the next few days and made a grocery list. “I love this,” she says with a grin. “It’s like playing house!”
As the sun began to set, we ditched our shoes and wandered barefoot through the spongy green lawns that stretched between the buildings. The quiet was astounding—no cars, no city buzz, just wind and warmth and stillness. Sixty-six degrees. No humidity. Golden light everywhere.
Every few minutes, one of us murmured to the other, “Slow down.”
And we did.
We found some tree stumps and decided to sit and talk for a bit, to reflect on the day.
“I was kind of worried when the flight got cancelled,” Rebecca says. “But honestly… if we don’t even make it to Korea or Japan, I’ll be okay. As long as I have fun with you, that’s all that matters.”
Her words stop me cold. A few years ago, I wouldn’t have known how to receive that kind of love. I was too wrapped up in my own pain, my own failures, too busy trying to outrun the past to see what was right in front of me.
But here I am. Barefoot in the grass. Watching my daughter glow in the last light of day, content to just enjoy the moment with me.
We walked slowly home amidst the blue hour settling over the hills like a blanket. The sky was fading to dusk. Our apartment waited—warm, quiet, still.
We settled in for the night, each of us tucked into our own armchair in the wide stillness of our temporary living room. The day has stretched us in all the right ways, and now we retreated into quiet, each of us scribbling thoughts into notebooks—her words, mine—lost in the gentle rhythms of reflection. No screens. No noise. Just the hush of evening wrapping around us like a soft blanket.
And then, from somewhere outside, the sound of Taps began.
A solitary trumpet carried the melody through the twilight—slow, solemn, unmistakably sacred. The long, aching notes rose and fell with melancholy grace, echoing across the base like a farewell to the day.
We listened in silence.
No one spoke. There was nothing to say. Just the music, and the hush, and the fullness of being there together, still.
The sun had set. The day was done. And in that moment—graced by reverence, by rest, by stillness—we were home.
About the Author
About the Author
ES Vorm writes about parenting, meaning, and the quiet work of becoming. After 20 years in the military, he’s learning—slowly—that presence is more powerful than control. Scribbling notes in the margins of things that matter. This series is his attempt to pay attention and tell the truth, one day at a time.
"This trip is about us. About presence. About giving her something I never had at her age: a father who showed up not just in body, but in spirit.
(Also… let’s be honest. This is a pretty epic homeschool flex.)"