Page 20 of From Wink to Kink

As I'm contemplating whether this waste of paper would make good kindling for a bonfire, my phone buzzes with a text from Vince Vincent. I consider ignoring him, but I know better. It’s time for contrition, not my usual intractable smart-assed self.

Hello Chuck. Enjoying paradise?

I roll my eyes, typing out a reply.

Paradise? More like Gilligan's Island meets Woodstock. No electricity, no A/C, and I'm pretty sure my 'bungalow' is one stiff breeze away from becoming a kite.

His response is immediate and infuriating.

Exactly what you need. Enjoy! It’s chilly and foggy today here in SF.

What I wouldn’t do for some San Francisco fog at this moment. In an attempt to cool off, I strip down to boxers and throw my sweaty jeans and collared shirt into a pile for laundry service.

They do have laundry service, don’t they?

I toss my phone onto the bed with a grunt.

As I finish unpacking, I can't help but feel a little... discombobulated. What am I supposed to do now? It’s just me, a bunch of trees, and the promise of group harmony and love.

I step onto the balcony attached to my bungalow and am happy to see a nice-sized hot tub at the far end. I lean my elbows on the railing. The view, I have to admit, is spectacular. The ocean stretches out to the horizon, a deep, endless blue. The beach in the distance is pristine and empty, save for a few seabirds. And the air—while it’s thick with humidity, smells clean in a way I don’t think I’ve ever experienced. No car exhaust, no city grime. Just salt and fresh dirt and flowers and something green I can't quite name.

Jungle, maybe?

For a moment—just a moment—I feel something... I’m not sure what to name it. Maybe a loosening of a knot I didn't know was there. Maybe... maybe this won't be so bad.

Then another mosquito lands on my arm, and the moment shatters.

"Give me a fucking break.” I swat at it, and it seems about as fazed by my attack as our last game’s defense was when they whooped our ass. Is this part of the 'authentic jungle experience' too?

Retreating back inside to what I hope is a mosquito-free zone, I check the time. 3:30 p.m. Thirty minutes until I have to pretend I'm excited about sitting in a circle and talking about my feelings or whatever it is they do at these things.

I eye the pile of self-help books skeptically. Maybe I should at least crack one open so I have something to say when I’m inevitably asked what I hope to gain from this retreat. Instead, I open my phone and pull up ChatGPT, the perfect place to find the right thing to say. The AI app does not disappoint and I arm myself with several catchphrases that will make my life easier in the coming days.

I’m hoping to gain some valuable insights on how to pretend I’m more balanced and emotionally intelligent than I really am.

I’m excited to discover the magic of group therapy—because nothing says relaxation like forced emotional intimacy with strangers.

I’m really tempted to use this one, but it might be going too far:

I’m hoping this retreat will teach me how to smile and nod convincingly during meetings that I never wanted to attend in the first place.

I pick up one of my books and flip it open to a random page.

"Chapter 7: Penalty Minutes and Mindfulness – Two Sides of the Same Coin"

No fucking way. Not happening. I slam the book shut.

Instead, I dig through my suitcase until I find what I'm really looking for—a battered paperback copy ofThe Old Man and the SeaI've had since high school. It's the only book I've read more than once. There’s something about the man's determination in the face of impossible odds that resonates with me in a way I've never been able to explain.

As I settle onto the bed with Hemingway, I can't help but chuckle at the irony. Here I am, surrounded by books about finding inner peace and self-improvement, and the only thing I want to read is a story about a guy fighting a fish.

But hey, maybe that's my version of serenity, calm, and balance, like the sign said at the check-in desk. And if anyone at this granola factory has a problem with that, well... they can take it up with my penalty minutes.

With a sigh, I set an alarm on my phone for the blissful hour when there's actually electricity to charge it and lose myself in the familiar words of Hemingway with the intention of dozing off for a mini-nap. The welcome circle and all its tree-hugging glory can wait. For now, I'm content to be adrift in my own little sea, even if it's in a tent masquerading as a bungalow.

Either way, it's going to be one hell of a week.

10

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