My Backstory

Strap in, my friend, and welcome to the wild, wacky ride that is my life. Hold onto your hat, because an avalanche of information is about to come crashing your way.

Picture a spindly, curious me in kindergarten, dabbling in the realm of wrestling. To be precise, it was a smattering of weekend lessons followed by a tournament. The outcome of which, my mother noted on the certificate with parental candor: a proud scorecard of zero wins, three losses. My fleeting wrestling career ended there, in all its glory.

I switched gears and found myself drawn to the charm of soccer, in its pure, uncompetitive splendor. It kicked off with indoor games in my elementary school, which, after draining a swamp and crafting a soccer field out of it, transitioned into an outdoor summer league.

Growing up, I joined the ranks of many kids donning braces. Though they were generally bearable, there were occasions when they felt like a tormenting prank by the universe. One unforgettable moment was during a soccer match, when my own teammate, aiming for the ball, booted me square in the mouth. My upper lip became an unwilling prisoner of my braces. Resorting to survival instincts, I grabbed my lip and tugged it free, an experience much akin to the classic folly of touching your tongue to a frozen flagpole.

My high school days found me giving football a shot. Despite all my blood, sweat, and tears in practice, I rarely saw action in the actual games. So, I quit. Well, not formally. I simply stopped showing up to practice and games. It appeared that my vanishing act went unnoticed because no one bothered to ask for my gear back. I did, however, dutifully return it at the end of my senior year.

When I landed in college, I pledged to a local fraternity. Our frat house, accommodating about four souls at any given time, was far from a glamorous retreat. It sported fashionable holes in the walls, and a water mishap led to a collapse of my bedroom ceiling. Unfazed, we dealt with it in style: a kiddie pool to catch the leak and the damaged room repurposed to store trash bags brimming with beer cans destined for recycling. It certainly was... unique.

The "Sunken Room" was our beloved chill-out space, slightly recessed and usually flanked by couches on three sides. Depending on the party, it could either be a serene escape or a lively dance floor. At times, it transformed into an arena for slightly inebriated wrestling. The rules were as constant as the northern lights, depending on the combatants and their levels of sobriety. Often, the victor was the one who managed to topple their adversary onto a couch first. My brief kindergarten training came in handy, and I excelled, usually.

However, my wrestling reign ended abruptly when a seasoned high school wrestler joined the fold. I stood no chance. He deflected every move effortlessly, turning my attempts into a comedy show. It was a humbling reality check: I was decent against novices but, against seasoned wrestlers, I was out of my depth.

Consequently, I turned my focus to pursuits that didn't require combat skills. I ran a marathon, joined an adult rec soccer league (where I broke my nose on someone's forehead during a proper header), and later in the season, tore my ACL. A few years down the line, I took up rowing on an erg. Today, I hold a US indoor rowing record for the marathon row, although, to be honest, it's only because I was the only one to submit a time. Just for the record, it's a Concept2 marathon row on slides, heavyweight male category, ages 30 to 39. It's a bit of a niche area. I’ve also bowled in multiple leagues and occasionally try my hand at disc golf.

At the age of 32, I enlisted in the Alaska Army National Guard and attended basic training at Fort Jackson in South Carolina. I was pumped for the combat training and the prospect of using pugil sticks. Instead, I found myself clocking in countless miles of running, doing a never-ending number of push-ups, and experiencing a meager three hours of actual combat training. To my dismay, I didn't get to so much as touch a pugil stick.

And that, my friend, gives you a window into my life, especially my sports journey, with an emphasis on those vaguely resembling combat sports. I once photographed a Judo tournament and would often muse about learning jiu-jitsu. I even dropped by a gym to check out their schedule, but never quite got around to training.

When I was 39, my buddy Josh jokingly suggested we should attend a Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu camp in the Faroe Islands. He didn't realize that my wife had been yearning to visit the Faroe Islands ever since I first met her, so selling the idea to her was a cinch. As soon as she heard "Faroe Islands," she was on board.

That was in the crisp beginnings of January 2023, and the camp was set for July. I had ample time to hit the gym and prep. This website is a chronicle of my journey towards that camp and my subsequent adventures with Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu.

Keep your shell hard and your roll steady. Oss, turtles!