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Faith

Just like the fairy tales, this story's catalyst was a masquerade ball. In the summer of 2014, I turned 27. I sold everything that didn't fit into a duffle bag, including my car. I quit my job, and walked away from my entire life. Why? Why not. I felt stuck. I booked a flight to Ft. Lauderdale and the taxi dropped me off at a crew-house situated right next to a sex shop... at night, in the rain. A good, strong start. What's a crew-house? Think The Real World, only thankfully, nobody was broadcasting. The house was a stop-over for potential crew—kids trying to get jobs in the world of private yachting. I remember walking into the house. It didn't look like much from the outside. I had to call a few times to get the owner on the line, I went to meet her around back and entered into the next—truly bizarre—phase of my life. The hallway was lined with refrigerators, the black-tiled floor led to an open concept kitchen and living space with a spiral staircase winding up to a hall of dorms. I was the first to arrive for the season—anxious to have something new in my world—and the emptiness of the house kicked off what would be an extremely long waiting period.