Wander, Wonder, Write: Part Four
Today, it gets real
About This Series
Wander, Wonder, Write is a travel journal, a parenting chronicle, and a personal meditation—all rolled into one. It follows our two-week journey across the Pacific as I explore the world with my 13-year-old daughter, one unexpected detour at a time. Part reflection, part adventure. Always real.
This is part four of the series. You can read earlier portions of our travels using links below:
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Introduction
We arrived in California three days ago, expecting to be gone the next day—wheels up, mission underway. But that didn’t happen. Space-A travel operates on its own rhythm, and sometimes that rhythm slows to a crawl. Instead, we recalibrated. We adjusted our expectations and leaned into the unexpected pause, filling the past two days in the Central Valley with local grocery runs, long walks, quiet conversations, and laughter in small moments.
But today, everything feels different.
Today, if all goes well, we will be boarding a C-5 Galaxy and hopping across the Pacific Ocean—first to Hawaii, then to Guam, and finally to Korea.
There’s a quiet intensity to departure mornings. We cooked a light breakfast using the last of the groceries. Eggs, toast, coffee. My daughter baked off the rest of the cookie dough she made earlier in the week, filling the apartment with a scent that felt like home—warm sugar, vanilla, something nostalgic. We decided to save the cookies for later. We gently packed them into a plastic bag like treasures.
We did one final load of laundry. The little washer rumbled quietly as we folded and rolled our clothes into tight bundles. There’s an art to minimalist travel. We’ve gotten pretty good at it—packing cubes, vacuum seals, and strategic layering. Space and weight are precious on these flights. We’ve learned to pack light and live light. When we need something, we’ll find it on the road. Especially in Asia, where the unexpected always finds you first.
We tidied up the apartment slowly, almost reverently, as if reluctant to let it go. It’s strange how quickly a place can become familiar. The routine of a few days becomes a kind of rhythm. The scent of our meals still lingered in the kitchen. Her towel was draped over the chair. My notebook, dog-eared, sat on the coffee table. We moved through the small suite with care, wiping counters, folding blankets, gathering cords. It felt more like saying goodbye to a friend than checking out of temporary lodging.
Before we walked out the door, I took one last look around. It’s not that it was beautiful—it wasn’t. Beige walls, outdated furniture, utilitarian design. But something about it held the softness of this in-between time. A place we shared stories, made plans, and leaned into the simplicity of being together. I left our key cards on the table and closed the door gently behind us.
At the passenger terminal, the machinery of military travel came to life. Paperwork. Identification. Briefings. Space-A travel isn’t difficult, but it’s not linear either. It’s not like buying a ticket and waiting for your group to board. It’s like joining a lottery where the rules are based on a hierarchy of categories: Category 1 means you’re deploying. Category 3—our group—means you're active duty on leave. Retirees looking for adventure fall under Category 6. I aspire to be a Category 6 someday, floating around the world in my abundant free time.
Even within the same category, time on leave determines priority. The longer you’ve been on leave, the higher you rank. We found our names second on the list. A good sign. There were 73 seats available. Unless a disaster strikes, we are going.
Still, nothing is guaranteed until you’re on board and airborne.
We waited. We walked around the small complex. She did gymnastics on the grass, cartwheels and roundoffs that made strangers smile. I was eventually coaxed into doing one myself, which earned more laughter than praise. We shared a granola bar and people-watched. I scribbled a few notes. She scrolled through a dance app, earbuds dangling.
There’s a calm that comes from not being in control. It used to make me anxious. These days, I find it strangely freeing... at least when it comes to traveling. I wait. I trust. I let go. If we make it on the plane, we fly. If not, we make new plans. This is how I want to live more of my life—rooted in the present, flexible in spirit, open to what comes. One day, I hope these experiences translate to how I manage other aspects of my life and its uncertainty.
When the time came for roll call, our names were called. We were “manifested” onto the flight. A quiet exhale escaped me. At least one thing was certain today. Unless the wings fell off the plane, or a Pacific hurricane blew in, this plane was going to Hawaii, and we were going to be on it.
We were issued boarding passes. Our suitcase was tagged and checked. Security was brisk but unburdened—no shoes off, no laptops out. We boarded a bus and rode across the tarmac, past rows of grounded giants, until we reached our aircraft: a C-5 Galaxy, gleaming in the afternoon sun.
The C-5 is… massive. Standing beneath it is like standing beneath a three-story building with wings. The entire nose section lifts vertically, allowing cargo to roll through nose to tail. Its cavernous body was being loaded with trucks, generators, and pallets. This beast doesn’t just move cargo. It swallows it.
But the real marvel, especially for travelers like us, is upstairs: a dedicated passenger deck. It’s not luxurious, but it is surprisingly comfortable. The seats are like commercial airline seats but with more legroom. Once airborne, you can stretch out, lie down across multiple seats, or even curl up on the floor. No beverage service. No in-flight movie. But also, no stress.
Once on board, we settled in for the 5.5-hour flight to Hawaii. Our seats were next to each other, but not confined—we each had plenty of space to ourselves. She pulled out her games. I opened my journal. We shared a single pair of earbuds and watched an episode of our favorite show, one bud in each ear. We’ve mastered this choreography. It’s how we travel—together, apart, together again.
I eventually stretched out and closed my eyes. I don’t remember falling asleep, but when I woke, we were already descending into Pearl Harbor. A soft landing, in more ways than one.
It was around 7:30 p.m. local time—10:30 in California, 1:30 a.m. in D.C. Our circadian rhythms were starting to dissolve. And they’ll dissolve even more in the days ahead.
Then came the surprise: the next flight to Guam wouldn’t depart until 5 p.m. tomorrow.
Suddenly, we had 20 unexpected hours in Honolulu.
We didn’t complain.
I booked us a room at the Navy Lodge on board Joint Base Pearl Harbor-Hickam, and we decided to walk the mile to get there rather than call a cab. We slipped into our backpacks, adjusted the straps, and started walking beneath the dimming sky. The air was warm and wet. Palm trees swayed in the breeze. The scent of plumeria and salt drifted in from unseen corners. Everything familiar and unfamiliar at once.
We visited here last summer for a family vacation. The sounds and smells of the island brought back a flood of memories. I remembered the beaches, the sunsets, the long stretches of uninterrupted conversation. I remembered how alive I had felt lying beneath these very trees. How wide open the world had seemed, a beginning of a wonderful season of connection and renewal.
Now I am here again, with my daughter beside me. A different chapter. A different version of me. But echoes remain. And I let them echo.
We walked slowly, savoring the warm wind on our faces. Our steps quiet. Neither of us said much. It didn’t feel like silence—it felt like peace.
We checked in, dropped our bags, and readied ourselves for a proper night’s rest.
“What are we going to do tomorrow?” she asked, stifling a yawn.
I shrugged. “No idea.” Then gave her a hug.
She shrugged in response. The answer felt perfect.
Maybe we’ll wake up late. Maybe we’ll find a beach and let the day drift by. Maybe we’ll get lost on purpose. Or maybe we’ll just sit in the shade, sip cold drinks, and watch the breeze move through the trees.
Whatever we do… it will be enough.
We’re here. We’re together.
The rest will unfold as it’s meant to.