Chapter 1: Let’s Go to Hawaii

“What would you do if you knew you could not fail?” —Robert Schuller

What are you doing tomorrow? A text flashed across my phone screen. It was Rob Jones.

Probably nothing, why? I replied to his text. I was relaxing at home on summer break.

Come to Hawaii.

For anyone other than Rob Jones (and yes, it’s always his full name . . . sounds like he should be president or something, right?), this request would have sounded insane. Rob Jones and I met in 2007 during my freshman year at East Chapel Hill High School, and he’s always been up for a spontaneous adventure. We ended up being roommates at the University of North Carolina, and we both moved across the country to California after graduation.

I can’t just go to Hawaii, I have . . . stuff.

The next morning at 4:00 a.m., I found myself sitting on an airplane on the first flight out to Honolulu. This was the beginning of a three-day adventure across the exotic island of Oahu.

Rob Jones had already been there for a few weeks doing volunteer work with a nonprofit, so I texted him and asked where he was staying. He mentioned that he had a connection with someone on Ohai Street—but no specific address. Broad details and no concrete plan: this was typical for Rob Jones but frustrating to someone like me, who was raised by a retired Army major for a father and taught that everything should have a well thought out plan.

I landed, grabbed my backpack, and asked the front desk how to get to Ohai Street. The two airport employees looked at each other, frowned, and said, “You don’t want to go there. You must have the wrong address.”

Ironically, Rob Jones showed me how to use Google Maps at the end of this trip, and it would prove to be indispensable during future adventures. If I’d had it when I arrived at the airport, I would have known why the employees were convinced I got the address wrong. What Rob Jones never mentioned was that he had a place reserved in the most gang- and drug-active location in the state. It’s good that I blended in as a 6’2” skinny white boy.

For now, I followed the airport employees’ directions, which they reluctantly gave me after their warning. I took a bus across town and arrived at a hot and humid apartment building filled with about sixty other kids my age who were as eager to explore the surrounding area as I was. They were divided into rooms of four, with clothes and bags scattered across the floors. The apartment complex, owned by the nonprofit, was just a few miles down the street from Pearl Harbor.

“Hey, man, glad you made it. Really quick, try some of this coconut water I have,” Rob Jones insisted, handing the can to me.

“Um, okay.” I took a sip. Purely disgusting. “This tastes great!” I lied, handing the water back over.

“We should go climb a mountain tomorrow and watch the sunrise.” Rob Jones is notorious for starting conversations with overwhelming ideas. But I was used to it by now.

“I’m in.”

That night, I slept for a whopping two hours before Rob Jones woke me up with his goofy enthusiasm.

“Shhhhh,” he whispered, nudging me awake. “Let’s go!”

I fumbled for my phone and checked the time. “Bro, it’s 2:00 a.m. Why now?”

“It’s a while away. We have to go now. Grab your GoPro and follow me.”

Carrying only my GoPro and a water bottle, I followed Rob Jones out of the room and walked down to the parking lot. A car immediately pulled up, and seated inside were two guys Rob Jones already knew as part of the volunteer program. I wasn’t aware of the plan or anyone involved—I just trusted Rob Jones. However, based on how rough of shape the car was in, I wasn’t sure we would make it out of the parking lot.

“Whose car is this?” I asked the driver as we were getting in, wanting to find out if we could depend on this ride.

“We just borrowed it from a friend,” he said.

We were off to a brilliant start.

We drove straight to a 7-Eleven to get fuel. Rob Jones walked inside the convenience store while I sat in the back of the car and our driver pumped gas. Suddenly, someone stepped out of the shadows behind the convenience store and started to approach us.

“Hey, where the hell is my money?” the man shouted angrily at our driver.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” our driver replied, looking confused but sounding as concerned as an uninterested girl at a bar.

I tried to get Rob Jones’s attention as he was purchasing more coconut water from the cashier. The angry man was now right beside the car, still yelling phrases at our driver that made little sense. I finally made eye contact with Rob Jones with a terrified look on my face and tried to wave him over so we could leave. But he just waved back, smiled like a moron, and continued to chat with the sales clerk. Because the car was a piece of junk, the back doors locked from the outside. I was trapped.

At this point, the angry man placed his hands on his waist. He lifted his shirt just enough for me to see a concealed Beretta M9 tucked into his pants. Now I knew our lives were in danger, especially since our driver had no idea what this guy was talking about, couldn’t see the weapon, and was responding in a half-sarcastic tone.

“I want to know when you’re going to get me my money!” the man yelled.

“I’m sure we’ll figure it out at some point, bro,” our driver apathetically responded.

“I’m tired of waiting!” the man kept yelling.

Rob Jones finally wrapped up his conversation and walked outside. Unaware of the newly discovered weapon, he offered the stranger some of his coconut water.

“Hey, bro! You all right? Want a sip of some coco?” he said with an inviting smile.

The man took some and calmed down. Everyone politely exchanged handshakes, and then he walked back behind the convenience store. I was sitting in shock in the back of the car, still unable to communicate with anyone.

After everyone got back into the vehicle, we learned from our driver that the man, Jerry, was a recovering meth addict who sometimes showed up at the apartment complex we were staying at to panhandle.

“Did anyone else notice that guy had a gun?” I asked, with plenty of emphasis on the word “gun.”

Our driver turned his head back toward me. “Jerry had a gun! What the hell?” he said with a surprised face.

“Trust me, man, we used the same ones at field training,” I said confidently. “The dude was packing a Beretta.”

“Well, damn, that guy is nuts! He totally could have just snapped and shot someone!”

I looked at Rob Jones in the passenger’s seat. “Maybe next time you should pay attention to when I’m trying to give the signal to leave, Rob Jones,” I said sarcastically. Rob Jones just slurped his coconut water in silence.

Welcome to Ohai Street.

* * *

Our journey continued as we made our way to the mountain. Still well before sunrise, we parked the car on a side street and met a small group of people in a nearby neighborhood. They were friends of Rob Jones, and he had arranged for us to meet them for this hike. We approached a few faces I couldn’t make out in the dark, and then one of them spoke—the leader. Akela. She was the quintessential Hawaiian girl: tall, in shape, dressed in pastel with a bright yellow flower resting over her ear, and full of an exploratory spirit. She was absolutely beautiful.

“You guys ready? Follow me under this fence,” she whispered.

Without any sort of introduction, Rob Jones, this newly formed group of adventure seekers, and I slid under the barbed wire gate and began the most difficult hike of my life.

There was no conversation. All that was present were our footsteps as we walked single-file through the moonlit bamboo forest. I felt like we were a special ops group about to take down a Colombian drug lord.

We approached a staircase and Akela led the way up, followed by Rob Jones, me, and maybe five other people. The fog that morning was so thick that we had about five feet of visibility. After nearly an hour of uphill stairs, I finally asked what kind of hike we were on—I had not prepared enough for this type of physical challenge.

Akela turned around and said, “It’s called the Stairway To Heaven.”

If you’re unfamiliar with it, the Stairway To Heaven is a 4,000-step hike with a 2,000-plus-foot elevation. Not to mention it was closed down, very dangerous, and illegal to hike because of the many deaths associated with its lack of maintenance. And here I was thinking we were going to drive up to some parking lot to view the sunrise.

Fog surrounded us like a large blanket as we scaled the unforgiving Hawaiian terrain. With scenes you’d expect in a Jurassic Park movie, the trail was nothing like what we’d find in our hometown of Chapel Hill, North Carolina.

We eventually made it to the top, where the wind howled and temperatures couldn’t have been more than 50 degrees. With only shorts and T-shirts on, we huddled and waited for the sun to show its golden warmth.

But after an hour of waiting in the cold, we gave up and started our hike back down. Almost as soon as we made progress on our decent, the fog started to clear. Eventually, the sun broke the horizon over the Pacific Ocean and cast majesty across the now purple-and-red Hawaiian landscape. The water reflected sunlight across the city we could see in the valley, and I remember looking at Rob Jones as he dissected the scene with such elegant language:

“Wow.”

In that moment, I felt alive. I’m not talking about those scripted moments in a movie when the main character finally makes a move on the girl. I’m talking about one of those moments where your past makes sense, your future looks hopeful, and the present freezes in time. That’s living.

I could see why they called it the “Stairway To Heaven”: I was walking with God in paradise. And it’s moments like this that I spend my life trying to chase—where there’s an idea, plenty of unpredictability, some trouble, and a big leap of faith to take you to something great.

Whether it’s an adventure, a new job, or something else, this experience of feeling alive almost always follows the same formula:

Idea > Problem > Leap of Faith > Experience

For example, here’s a brilliant idea: throw a party.

And here’s a magnificent problem: you must dress like the opposite sex.

* * *

The night after our Stairway To Heaven adventure, the group we were staying with at the apartments decided to throw a cross-dress party in their clublike ballroom. They were part of a humanitarian nonprofit called “Surfing The Nations,” where people fly from all over the world to Hawaii and spend a few months using their talents to give back and share a message of love and hope.

Shortly before the party, I remember approaching a man who lived near the apartment complex and commenting on his beautiful Mustang. The Surfing The Nations staff couldn’t believe I casually approached him to start a conversation.

“We think that guy you just met is one of the major drug dealers in Hawaii!” one of my friends told me. “We’ve always avoided talking to him for our own safety!”

Boy, I was on a winning streak in Hawaii.

“Why does no one tell me anything?” I asked sarcastically.

But aside from the surfing and drug dealer interactions, that evening was just about our party.

“Does this outfit make me look fat?” Rob Jones asked as he squeezed a tiny dress over his 6’5” frame. We were in a local thrift shop searching in the little girls’ clothing section.

“I dunno, man, how is this?” I asked of my peach-colored spaghetti strap top.

“Yo, dawg, check this fresh gear out,” one of the girls from our group said in her manliest voice. She turned the corner sporting baggy jeans, a tank top, and a snapback. Clearly, no one had any experience dressing as the opposite sex.

“Dude, can I get a hell, yeah?” Rob Jones said as he put on a toddler’s set of white-and-blue sunshades. We were an atrocious sight.

Everyone eventually picked out his or her exotic outfit for the evening, and we made our way back to the apartment complex. That night, I remember showing up to the dance floor with my guys behind me, feeling uncomfortable and coming face-to-face with the girls who looked equally as uncomfortable. Once the tension died down, everyone just owned the fact that we looked ridiculous, and we all had a good time dancing. We even let the party overflow outside the front door.

What we didn’t know was that a few years before, the building was a very popular strip club. Since we had music going and were dancing outside, passing cars thought the club had reopened. Guys pulled up in nice cars, got out, came face-to-face with a dress-wearing skinny white boy and an extra-small-dress-wearing Rob Jones, did a double take, and then promptly returned to their vehicles to speed off. The shock factor was real.

People honked their horns as they passed to encourage our dancing, and some even catcalled. If you don’t know what it’s like to wear a little girl’s dress as a grown man and get catcalled in the third most dangerous part of the country, you haven’t fully lived.

* * *

Even though roller coasters are terrifying, people will still pay to get on them. That’s because fun is usually derived from fear. You experience something unsettling, gain some confidence, and then realize what you did was actually fun. Roller coasters are a good way for you to experience controlled fear. You think you’re in danger, but you’re really not. So the product of fun is still there, just without the risk. I can tell you that in Hawaii, there was a lot of uncontrolled fear. And with it, a lot of fun.

* * *

“Today was amazing,” Rob Jones said as we shared a sunset on the beaches of Waikiki. We were very tired after our day of hiking The Stairway To Heaven, and the sunset was refreshing. The sky was pink and yellow as the sun drifted goodnight over the volcano at the end of the beach. It was the perfect finish to a full day.

“Dude, anyone can do stuff like this,” I said. “Can you believe some people never go on any adventures in their whole life?”

“I think they’re afraid to take that leap of faith.”

I gave Rob Jones a nod as we both stood up and made our way to the bus stop. Our volunteer chauffeur for the day decided to bail, so we were on our own to get back to the apartment complex. We waited for the last bus to pick us up around 10:00 p.m., and we took seats together in the back. The bus was nearly full.

“Man, I’m so tired,” I said to Rob Jones. My eyes closed and opened slowly until I drifted off to sleep.

Time passed as we were carried across the tropical island to our temporary home. Even at night, there’s a certain aurora about Hawaii that reminds you you’re where most people in the world wish they were through their computer screens. (Even today, when someone looks at pictures and tells me, “I want to go to Hawaii,” I always say back, “Yeah? Well, why not tomorrow?”)

Suddenly, I was jolted awake from a large bump the bus hit. I was lifted out of my seat in the back of the bus and bounced back down. Fully awake, I looked around the now-empty bus and saw Rob Jones sitting at the very front.

“Whoa. What are you doing up there?” I asked from the back of the bus.

Rob Jones looked guiltily at the ground, then back up at me.

“Yeah. So, this guy got on the bus almost as soon as you fell asleep,” he replied, starting to smile like a moron, “and he sat right next to you. Then he just pulls out this machete from his coat and started looking at it. People started to move, but you were asleep.”

“What!” I shouted. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“What did you want me to say?” Rob Jones said, still smiling. “‘Hey, bro, you should probably move because there’s a sketchy guy sitting next to you with a big-ass machete?’”

“Oh, great, glad you’re looking out for yourself, bro.”

“My bad, dude. We’re almost home, this is our stop anyway.” Rob Jones pulled the cord to stop the bus. I couldn’t believe everything that had already happened that day. It was like a movie.

We stepped off the bus and into the night. Standing on the sidewalk of the divided highway, I looked up at Rob Jones and smiled. He smiled back at me. We knew this day was worth it. We’d squeezed every bit of experience out of it. Nothing else could have possibly happened to add more to the day. Then, as we prepared to cross the street while the bus pulled away, we noticed something on the other side of the street that made us freeze.

Jerry.

In an unbelievable misfortune of timing, the man who had us nearly at gunpoint this morning was standing right across the street from us in the middle of the night. We were doomed.

“Easy, easy,” Rob Jones said quietly as he turned his head down and walked quickly down the street. “We don’t want him to recognize us.”

“Dude, he totally saw us, he keeps looking at us. We gotta go!”

“Hey! Stop!” Jerry yelled from across the street. “Where’s my money?”

“Run!” Rob Jones said as we both took off down the street at full speed.

Jerry immediately started to run in the same direction, shouting angrily to get our attention.

“Dude, I can’t believe it’s Jerry! How did he find us?” Rob Jones yelled as he tried to keep up with his breath.

“I don’t know, man!” I yelled back. “Which way is home?”

“Down this alley—follow me!” We took a quick turn in an effort to lose Jerry, but I felt like at any moment he could pop out of a shadow and take one of us down. I didn’t want to find out. We made a few turns down different alleys, stumbling over trash cans in the pathways.

“Where did he go?” Rob Jones shouted.

“I don’t know. Get your key out. We gotta be quick!”

We approached the gate to the apartment complex, and Rob Jones’s hands shook as he tried to find the right key to open the gate. I had so much adrenaline I nearly attempted to climb over the twelve-foot wall.

“Rob Jones, I swear. Hurry, man, he could be anywhere!” I was shaking.

“I’m trying! This mother—”

Click.

The tumbler on the lock broke free, and the gate swung open as we bumped into each other and squeezed through at the same time.

“Jerry’s here! Jerry’s here!” we both yelled as we locked the gate behind us and went running into the apartments.

“Dude. He can’t get in, right?” I asked Rob Jones.

“I hope not!” He formed his classic smile. “Dude, that was ridiculous! Fucking Jerry!”

“Fucking Jerry,” I echoed Rob Jones, saying the F word for maybe the fourth time in my life. I never used swear words until I turned twenty-one. Even then, it was limited mostly to watching ballgames.

We high-fived each other. We had escaped death once more in this seemingly endless Hawaiian adventure. I couldn’t believe both the odds of timing and my luck. But I didn’t need to ask any questions. Roller coasters, right? I was just along for the ride.

* * *

Hawaii was full of new experiences. It taught me to try new things. A simple experience like tasting coconut water was terrible at first. Now, I can say I drink nearly a liter every day—it’s my favorite.

Hawaii also reminded me that you don’t always have to have a plan. Don’t make excuses like I tried to do—just say yes and buy the ticket. After all, an adventure is something you don’t plan. It’s also something you have doubts about, and something that helps you grow either spiritually or emotionally. Merriam-Webster’s defines adventure as “an undertaking usually involving danger and unknown risks.” Your planned family vacation to Disney World is not an adventure. I don’t see the words “planned,” “hotel,” “safe,” or “expected” anywhere in that definition. Sure, you might have fun. But if you’re not afraid, it’s not an adventure.

You might not see where your path is going. And even when everything around you seems beautiful, you might be tired and just want to stop or turn around. In this case, press on. Let your fear and experiences all come together as one amazing masterpiece in the end. Take time to soak in each experience with every sense so you can remember how it feels. Then, when you’ve had enough, start on to the next Stairway To Heaven adventure. There will be plenty in your lifetime, so how many mountains will you climb?

Major Keys [CR3]:

��Most people get stuck right before the leap of faith. Don’t be afraid to take it.

��Fear = fun.

��You don’t always need a plan; you just need to say “yes.”

The most incredible setting for a sunrise is from the top of the Haiku Stairs, also known as the “Stairway To Heaven.”

Challenge: Go to the airport one weekend and fly to a destination you haven’t visited before. Drive somewhere if you can’t fly. Make sure you camp or stay in a hostel (hotels ruin the fear . . . I mean, fun). Try to find the hidden gem of that location—a hike, restaurant, secret lookout, or person to meet that you could find only by talking to enough locals. And stay the hell away from anyone named Jerry.

Chapter 2: The Crucible

“The people who are crazy enough to think they can change the world are the ones that do.” —Steve Jobs

It was the beginning of my second year in the Air Force, a year since I’d graduated college. I was holding up my phone taking yet another Snap video of me singing along to Ariana Grande when a call came in. It was from Rob Jones.

“Hey, man, what’s up?” I said.

“Dude, I just finished this amazing leadership conference in San Francisco,” he said excitedly, “and I have an idea for a chapter you need to write.”

“I’m about 15,000 words short. I hope it’s a good idea.”

“Of course it is. Listen, I’ve been surrounded by so many amazing people here. They all dream big. They all think outside the box.”

“I guess so.”

“So the one thing we all have in common is a crucible moment.”

“A what?”

“A crucible moment is a moment in your life when you understand that something happened or something changed in your life that made you think differently or go in another direction.”

“Okay, I sort of understand.”

“No one is just born and is able to dream big from the start, right?” he asked.

“I guess not.”

“So think back—when is that moment you realized you were going to change the world? You might not remember. Sometimes it happens over time, just food for thought.”

“I know exactly when, Rob Jones,” I said immediately.

“When?”

“The first night of college.” I smiled, thinking back to that night five years before this phone call, right before I stopped doing everything the “safe way” and started taking risks all the time.

“Dude. I actually remember what you’re talking about. Write about that!” Rob Jones exclaimed as both of us turned our surfboards to catch this creative wave.

“I gotta go, man, ideas are flowing everywhere,” I said as I pulled out my laptop.

“Tell the world how it started, man!”

* * *

“Dude, you’ve gotta see this YouTube video I found,” Rob Jones said as we walked through the halls of our dorm.

“Okay, in a minute. I’ve gotta do laundry and get some food.” It was the first night of college, and I had plenty of things to take care of.

“Trust me, dude, it’ll take like five minutes.”

I was losing patience. “Let me get these things done, and I’ll take a look!” I said.

“Dude. Now,” he insisted.

“Bro!” I said.

“Bro,” he replied, smugly.

“Fine!”

“Yes.” Rob Jones ran to grab his laptop.

He led me downstairs into our dorm main lobby, where he could deliver a full experience on the 50” flat screen. Since it was the first night of college, I could see students already rushing out into the streets to make their way downtown. Walking fast, faces passed, and we were homebound. As in, stuck in our dorm, because we were lame college kids.

Until he pressed play.

“There was a young man, you know, who wanted to make a lot of money and so he went to this guru, right?” The words of motivational speaker Eric Thomas filled the small dorm lobby. I casually watched while Rob Jones sat next to me, waiting to see my reaction.

“And he told the guru, ‘You know, I wanna be on the same level you are.’ And the guru said, ‘If you wanna be on the same level I’m on, I’ll meet you tomorrow at the beach.’”

“So the young man got there at 4 a.m. The old man grabs his hand and said: ‘How bad do you wanna be successful?’ He said, ‘Real bad.’ The guru said, ‘Walk on out in the water.’ So he walks out into the water. When he walks out to the water, he goes waist deep and goes like, ‘This guy’s crazy.’”

I looked over at Rob Jones, thinking, This guy is crazy.

Eric Thomas went on: “‘Hey, I wanna make money and he got me out here swimming. I didn’t ask to be a lifeguard.’ So he said, ‘Come on a little further’; he walked out a little further. Then he had it right around this area, the shoulder area. Said, ‘This old man crazy. He making money, but he crazy.’”

I started to take in the image of what was unfolding. A struggle, an unexpected event. Not knowing the outcome. I listened closer.

“So he said, ‘Come on out a little further.’ Came out a little further. It was right at his mouth. And the old man said, ‘I thought you said you wanted to be successful?’ He said, ‘I do.’ The old man said, ‘Then walk a little further.’”

Rob Jones and I were completely tuned in to what was happening. Eager to see what point the guru was trying to make with the ocean.

“He came, dropped his head in, held him down. My man kept scratching. He had him held down. Just before my man was about to pass out, he raised him up. He said, ‘I got a question for you.’

“He told the guy: ‘When you want to succeed as bad as you wanna breathe, then you will be successful.’”

Boom. Crucible moment.

I froze. I was listening so carefully I could hear the air moving in the room.

Eric Thomas brought it home: “I don’t know how many of you all got asthma here today. If you ever had an asthma attack before, you’re short of breath. You wheezing. The only thing you trying to do is get some air. You don’t care about no basketball game, you don’t care about what’s on TV, you don’t care about nobody calling you, you don’t care about a party. The only thing you care about when you trying to breathe is to get some fresh air. That’s it! And when you get to the point where all you wanna do is be successful as bad as you wanna breathe, then you will be successful.”

Parties? I was already skipping out on that. I didn’t own a TV, so that was out. I didn’t know any girls, or have any distractions, so the stage was set. I just needed something to want as badly as I wanted to breathe.

“And I’m here to tell you today,” Eric Thomas said, his voice at max volume, “if you’re going to be successful, you gotta be willing to give up sleep. You gotta be willing to work with three hours of sleep; two hours of sleep. If you really wanna be successful, some days you’re gonna have to stay up three days in a row. Because if you go to sleep, you might miss the opportunity to be successful.”

I looked at Rob Jones as Eric Thomas laid the last mold of clay on my crucible, “That’s how bad you gotta want it.”

And I remember this quote from Rob Jones exactly, because it was the most defining moment of my entire life.

“Dude, we’re going to change the world.”

We both stared at the television screen.

I don’t remember exactly what I said to Rob Jones, but I remember what it felt like for the first time to have a massive fire lit inside of me. What it felt like to feel my first huge wave of motivation and creative energy. It was like the first time you drive a car, mixed with a first kiss, topped with a high five from God.

Chilling. Unnerving. And awesome.

I think we overuse the word awesome. The Bible uses the word to describe people’s reaction to works of God. And to experience the truest form of “awe,” you must be able to contemplate with a sober mind and submit humbly to the moment. The other element of “awe” is to experience fear.

So if I had to describe exactly what my crucible moment felt like, it would consist of fear, sobriety, humility, and awe.

And that’s exactly how we set our stage to change the world. Those were our core values.

According to Daniel Pink’s book Drive: The Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us, you can’t ever fully master anything. So if you asked me when we would know for sure we had changed the world, we’d never have an answer for you. That’s because the journey we started that night will never come to an end.

It’s an asymptote. We can get closer and closer, but never actually reach it.

It’s a little annoying to step into a world that demands an endless pursuit of mastery, isn’t it? But that’s the beauty of it.

Our goals are limitless, and the way we go about achieving them is driven by free will. We can think or do anything we passionately pursue. We just “gotta want it as bad as we wanna breathe.”

I wonder sometimes if my life would be different if I didn’t watch that video on the first night of college. If instead, I decided to run into the night with my other friends off to a house party. Or if I didn’t have Rob Jones, would I have stumbled onto a similar idea on my own? I’ll never know.

But for some reason I think that we were supposed to be in that dorm together on the first impressionable night of our college careers. Where we were sculptors for very delicate crucibles that would eternally spin in circles as we shaped them into something great with experiences of fear and leaps of faith.

Even at a young age, UNC basketball head coach Roy Williams took leaps of faith to pursue his passion. When he was eleven, he would climb into the window of his elementary school gym to play basketball under the light of the exit signs. Even though he was caught a few times, he didn’t stop practicing until the principal gave him a key.

In college, I wanted to learn how to make music videos so badly that I would sneak into UNC’s football stadium, stay late editing football highlights until everyone cleared out—usually around 10 p.m.—and then start uploading and editing my own footage. Using YouTube as a guide for new effects and techniques, I spent my birthday, Thanksgiving, Easter, and sometimes Christmas hidden in Kenan Memorial Stadium learning the ins and outs of video editing. I have to give credit to the football team’s video coordinator, Chris Luke, who saw my early potential as an editor and provided the resources for me to learn everything I still use in Hollywood today. It’s important to always have at least one mentor to help keep the momentum going.

Sometimes when you’re passionate enough about something, you enter a trance-like state where you forget where you are and concentrate completely on the task at hand.

Hungarian psychologist and professor Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi explored this mental state in his book Flow. Csikszentmihalyi began to develop an interest in the pursuit of happiness when he was imprisoned as a child during World War II. After moving to the United States, he noticed that oftentimes, the act of creating was more valuable than the finished product. This highly focused mental state of creation was named “flow.” He explains: “The best moments in our lives are not the passive, receptive relaxing times. . . . The best moments usually occur if a person’s body or mind is stretched to its limits in a voluntary effort to accomplish something difficult and worthwhile.”[1] In other words, when we decide to do something that is just barely beyond our limits, we’re forced to focus and grow to accomplish the goal.

In addition to a highly focused mental state, habits are also a powerful way to help you reach your goals. For me, every day starts before the sun comes up. Every day ends with reflection. And everything I commit to is tattooed onto my existence until it is completed. Enough habits together form a culture. And culture will run circles around a good strategy any day.

Another thing to keep in mind after you experience your crucible moment is that the most worthwhile goals will almost always take a lot of time to accomplish. I spent four years piecing together the perfect TED Talk before I delivered it. Five years perfecting my craft of filming and editing before my team filed for an LLC. A decade to become an Air Force lieutenant. Nine years to save enough money for my Mustang. Sixteen years to finally apply and get accepted into my dream school. And seventeen years before I kissed a girl—but I’m not sure that’s the same thing.

The best things in life do not usually happen in a small window of time. Relentless consistency and time are key ingredients to reaching long-term goals. As Will Smith once said, “You don’t set out to build a wall. You don’t say, ‘I’m going to build the biggest, baddest, greatest wall that’s ever been built.’ You say, ‘I’m going to lay this brick as perfectly as a brick can be laid.’ You do that every single day. And soon you have a wall.”

A Toyota is assembled in thirteen hours. A Rolls Royce, however, takes six months to build. It’s carefully constructed and planned out to be the world’s most pristine automobile—second to a Ford Mustang.

Knowing that, which car do you want to drive? The Toyota, or the Rolls?

* * *

So, how much have Rob Jones and I accomplished since that first night in college? Have we changed the world yet? I still don’t know for sure. I know I barely sleep anymore. But one thing is for sure: I’m a whole lot closer to the dreams I had back then, and I’ve accomplished many since then. Because together, Rob Jones and I decided that we would lay a brick every day and stay consistent in our pursuit of changing the world.

Author Karen Lamb speaks on the urgency of pursuing a goal, stating that “a year from now you will wish you had started today.”

So why delay? Put clay on the wheel and shape your crucible. Search through YouTube videos, listen to music, talk with friends who have experienced their own crucible moment. Do whatever it takes to grab hold of that motivational wave, and then ride it in your state of flow—forever pursuing mastery. Before you know it, your crucible will start to take shape, your wall will get taller, and you’ll be singing “A Thousand Miles” from behind the wheel of your Rolls Royce.

Major Keys:

��You can’t ever fully master something, but you can indefinitely

approach it.

��“Flow” is a highly focused mental state. Seek this feeling when

pursuing a passion.

��Positive habits build a sustainable culture. You may choose a culture of unpredictability or something that speaks more to you.

Eric Thomas inspired me to begin filming with his “How Bad Do You Want It” speech, and everything came full circle when Rob Jones and I filmed an interview with him at UNC.

Challenge: Write down a list of every dream you have, big or small. Then cross off each item as you accomplish it. Physically seeing your progress will help motivate you to take on more than you originally thought was possible. Here’s some of my list:

Change the world.

Own a Shelby Cobra convertible. Drive it on the Pacific Coast Highway.

Meet Ariana Grande. Tell her she’s gorgeous, and then get rejected.

Become an influencer for those seeking a passion.

Drive my Mustang to the absolute max speed (160+ mph). Only on a track.

Film a Jay Z performance. Allow him to reintroduce himself to me.

Film a Coldplay performance and give Chris Martin a hug.

Get paid more than my first year’s salary ($2,500) to do a single project. Then give all that money away.

Write a $1 million check to the church that showed me Jesus, OUMC.

Write a bestseller, and dedicate it to my mother.

Live in L.A., and watch the sunset excessively.

Make the cover of Forbes. Wear anything but a suit.

Find the love of my life. Make the decision that she’s perfect, and own that decision.

Chapter 3: That’s My Son

“There’s nineteen thousand fans in the stands and they can’t do what you’re doing, and they’re all cheering for one thing, they’re cheering for you. Man, that’s a high no drug or booze or woman can give you.” —Friday Night Lights

Those who know anything about me know I’m the opposite of my dad. He’s the second coming of John Wayne, and I’m just Mr. Unpredictable. He’s quiet and keeps to himself, and I’ve . . . written a book full of my life stories. He doesn’t show emotion, and I cry every time I hear “Fix You” by Coldplay. We’re different, but it’s because of this balance that he has been such a great dad to me.

When I was growing up, I didn’t have most of the freedoms my friends had. I was in bed at 10:00 p.m. every night through high school. I didn’t go to parties. I didn’t get a car on my sixteenth birthday. I didn’t drink, couldn’t get close to drugs, didn’t swear, and was always on time for everything. This was because Pops valued other people’s time and his reputation as a respectable and dependable person. The result was a son who kept high standards for himself and worked hard to make his dad proud.

With this in mind, you can imagine it was a shock to him when I decided to drop my dream of being a pilot like him and pursue making music videos. Especially since I decided to do this only a year after I had accepted a full ride from the Air Force in college.

My dad was always focused on my grades. He would ask what my GPA was, what classes I was taking, and how well I was preparing myself for college and eventually the Air Force. It’s because he went through college and worked his behind off to be successful. The guy never takes breaks! But I had a vision for a future that was a little different from the clear-cut path: one that included stages, music artists, and Hollywood. None of which really stemmed from my GPA but more from my level of ambition and creativity. Unfortunately, these aren’t measurable values for him. So it made it difficult to show him how much progress I was making without a GPA to prove it. This became especially evident in college. I’d tell him I got a video deal with Big Sean, and he’d immediately remind me how that would torpedo my sleep schedule for Monday’s classes. Which is understandable, because he was right.

This was the case for a long time. I’d achieve something in the video world, but my dad wanted to see something happen in the classroom. I can assure you Bs and Cs in classes were not helping me get the family car when I needed to travel to shows, or any kind of support to take on more projects.

Until a white rapper with a funny haircut made it out of Seattle. Yes, I’m referring to everyone’s favorite thrift shopper: Macklemore.

Macklemore’s music was played over the radio so often that when “The Heist” came out, my dad had to know who he was. And who doesn’t like the catchy beat from “Thrift Shop”? This song was played in stadiums, airports, shopping centers, and restaurants. It was unavoidable. Eventually, my dad found his first favorite twenty-first-century music artist—and of all possible types, a hip-hop artist. Until now, my dad cared only about Johnny Cash and The Beach Boys—two artists I didn’t think I’d be filming any time soon. But I knew I could get Macklemore.

Macklemore was set to perform in Raleigh, North Carolina’s biggest arena, the PNC. I was able to get in touch with Jon Jon Augustavo, Macklemore’s director, who was generous enough to help loop me in to the tour’s team. Talib Kweli and Big K.R.I.T. were also on the tour and wanted video footage as well. This was happening.

I set up a video deal with Talib to include cameos with Macklemore and Big K.R.I.T., as well as shots in 9th Wonder’s studio. As cool as this lineup was for a junior in college, I was more concerned about getting my father involved with one of my video projects. So I requested front-section seating for my whole family.

The day of the concert, I was shaking. We were expecting around 12,000 people to show up, and this would be my biggest show to film yet. My team included my cousin, Alex, and one of my friends from college, Clint. We were hanging backstage with Talib’s crew and some members of Macklemore’s band. The walls were vibrating from the bass of K.R.I.T.’s opening act. I felt like we were all about to go out to battle—the room was almost completely silent.

Everyone was preparing for the show in their own way. Going over lyrics, humming and listening to music, checking Twitter. Our team was clearly much younger than anyone in the room, especially compared to a legend like Talib. It was hard not to show unfiltered excitement around these music artists. In my opinion, Talib had the power to organize a movement if he wanted to. I couldn’t even get girls to talk to me.

I anxiously stood on stage as the crowd built in volume and awaited Talib to walk out from behind the curtain. The stadium glowed with deep red lighting, and at the peak of the crowd’s anticipation levels, he stepped out to put on an amazing show. The bass thumped loud, and he commanded the vast crowd as one vibing group of fans. Everyone was bobbing their heads in unison, while Talib sent lyrics charged with wisdom into their ears. It was dope.

Then there was me, the whitest kid in America following this musical legend across the stage. I may not have looked like it, but I studied hip-hop religiously. I read about the lives of the best artists, listened to the classic albums, and followed the underground names. Hip-hop is more of a culture than it is a music genre. It’s about the people, a struggle, a way of life, overcoming obstacles, and achieving greatness. Talib, Macklemore, and many others stand for that culture. I just wanted to be a part of it.

Talib wrapped up his performance and was sent off by a roar of applause. The lights went out and the stage was dormant. I stood behind a trestle, not to distract from this perfect scene of exuberant energy. I looked for my dad in the crowd. I could see him waiting. Still not approving of what he just saw. I was hoping the main act would be able to put a smile on his face, or at least make him stand up.

“What what. What. What what what. What what. What.”

Opening with one of his biggest singles, “Thrift Shop,” Macklemore rode onto the stage on a skateboard, wearing an obnoxiously large mink jacket. The kind that smells like piss.

The crowd erupted in cheers. Everyone was excited to see this performance. A full band ran out behind Macklemore with trumpets and drums and dancers. Ryan Lewis took his DJ spot on top of a massive mountain of jungle-like props. And the famous rapper spun around the arena’s stage under a shower of confetti while I stood right on the edge of the stage with my camera to capture it all. Incredible.

I remember leaving the stage halfway through his show to join my family in the crowd. I danced next to my father to “Can’t Hold Us” as more confetti fell from the sky and lasers lit up the audience.

The show was unforgettable. I almost felt like I wasn’t there because of all the adrenaline rushing after this surreal experience. I felt like I had done something significant. But more importantly, this was a measurable value to all the dreaming and talking I’d been doing about video production.

When I returned backstage to collect the rest of my camera gear, a text came in from my mom:

I haven’t seen your dad smile that big since we got married.

I had done it. Approval.

That skateboard-riding, thrift-shopping music artist from Washington was influential enough that working with him was all it took to convince my dad that video production actually mattered. And that just maybe, I could be successful with my passion one day.

* * *

If you’re in pursuit of a dream that isn’t the popular decision, continue to pursue it at all costs. That means that even if friends or family don’t see it as a possibility, you’ve got to buy into the idea whole-heartedly. Make every aspect of your life circle tightly around that vision, and don’t let go until you’re filming someone riding a skateboard in your grandma’s coat.

Major Keys:

��Goals don’t need to be measured with numbers to matter.

��The most unlikely person to achieve a goal can become the most likely person if they just have the right mindset.

��Even if someone doesn’t believe in your dream, keep following it. The only person who needs to believe in your dream is you [CR4].

Even though he is tough, Pops is always a role model. Don’t forget that even your parents can be sources of badass inspiration. This is my dad about to take Michael Jordan on a flight in his Army Chopper.

Challenge: Is there someone you know who doesn’t approve of your dream? First, decide whether it’s worth the time to win their support. If it is, find something that matters to them, and use that to bridge the gap between what you love and what they love.

Chapter 4: Born in the UK

“The most beautiful thing you can wear is confidence.” —Blake Lively

Rules don’t exist.

Now before you take off as a real-life Grand Theft Auto character, know that I’m talking about dogma, specifically. Merriam-Webster defines dogma as “something held as an established opinion.” Established opinion sounds like something that can be challenged. Now imagine a floor littered with keys and an established opinion as a locked door. You know that the right key for any door you wish to open is somewhere in front of you. All you need to do is pause, look around, and find the right key. You might fail, but if you keep digging through keys, eventually one of them will fit.

James Dyson, the founder of the Dyson company, mentioned in an article with Forbes that “the enthusiasm and lack of fear is important. Not taking notice of experts and plowing on because you believe in something is important. It’s much easier to do when you’re young.”[2]

Not taking notice and challenging the rules—that’s how I ended up dancing under confetti stars in the front section of Coldplay’s sold-out Rose Bowl concert.

* * *

My friends and I had just completed a ten-mile hike in Angeles National Forest, which included a 4 a.m. wake-up, a three-hour drive to L.A., and bungee jumping off a bridge. Twice. Humans are born with only two natural fears: loud noises and falling. All the others are learned. So of course, we had to challenge at least the latter.

After our jumps, I left my friends and went to Santa Monica to fall asleep on the beach. It was time to relax and reflect on my day. I don’t know how I could have squeezed more out of a weekend; I was exhausted. Until my friend Shivam Kashiwala gave me a call.

“Hey, broski.” I don’t know who says that anymore. Shivam does. “I just found out Coldplay is in Pasadena tonight, you want to go?”

I considered it for a second. “No way, man, it’s a Sunday night, and I’ll get back to the Air Force base super late and I don’t . . .” I started remembering all the times Rob Jones used to ask me to go on adventures, and my natural response was usually to weigh the costs and reasons why it might not be a good idea. Then I just learned to let go and start saying yes.

I knew if I didn’t say yes now, I’d build the habit of making excuses not to see Coldplay.

“Actually, I’m in.”

See, Coldplay is special. They were my second CD in the ’90s, and I had been listening to them for more than a decade. They were there for my track meets in high school, my first date, the best weekends in college, my Air Force commissioning ceremony, graduation, church services—Coldplay was literally the soundtrack to my life up to this point. They weren’t my favorite band at the time (The Chainsmokers stole the limelight with a song called “Roses,” a whole other story by itself), but they were certainly sentimental. Not to mention I had heard from many sources that Coldplay is the best live show you can attend outside of U2.

So only three hours before showtime, we logged on to StubHub and purchased three of the remaining eight tickets to Coldplay for $90 each. One apiece for me, Shivam, and our friend Winston. Winston helped me make one of my first videos in high school five years prior and ended up moving out to L.A. to work for Snapchat. Winston is the kind of genius who, in high school, would hack into your Facebook account and have a conversation with you using your own messenger. He was also exceptional at magic tricks—which made him one amazing friend.

Ninety bucks was a little more than what I’d normally pay for a ticket, but this was about being spontaneous, not thrifty.

Shivam and I drove from Santa Monica to Pasadena and waited in hours of traffic. Winston would come from Venice Beach and catch up with us later.

Eventually the two of us made it inside the bowl and searched for our seats. We were way in the back. So far back that I could cover the whole stage with my thumbnail.

I didn’t accept this.

“Shiv, I will always regret it if we don’t try to move closer. Look at the security guards—there’s too many people for them to track all at once. I bet if we’re smooth, we can slide by the lower-level guards.”

I felt like we were planning to sneak into an enemy base.

Shiv agreed that it was worth a shot. We walked down the aisles toward the field-level seats and tried to slide past a guard, and he immediately yelled at us to stop.

“This is an exit! You can’t go through here! Gate 15A is the VIP entrance tunnel.”

“Thank you!” I responded. “I’ll head that way!”

As we were walking, I told Shivam the plan I had just come up with.

“Here’s the deal. You and I just flew into LAX from England. We have an uncle who lives in Anaheim, and we got an early flight in. We weren’t expecting to meet him just yet, so we bought these tickets an hour ago and want to go surprise him. Our goal is to take a picture in the lower section by the stage before the band goes on. When they let us through, we just won’t come back. We’ll find seats that someone didn’t show up for. Oh, and do this with a fake British accent.”

“Are you serious?” he asked.

“This is Coldplay, dude,” I said. “Look at where you’re at. Now get ready.”

We approached Gate 15A, and there was a wall of eight security guards checking wristbands and electronically scanning additional tickets to get to the lower level. We had an uphill battle ahead of us.

I approached the supervisor and calmly explained my intercontinental travels and how I wanted a photo with my Californian uncle. My British accent needed work. He wasn’t buying it.

“I feel like we’ve come so close, mate!” I maintained character. “There isn’t anything you can do to help us out?”

“I’m sorry. Maybe you can check with guest services to upgrade your ticket, sir.”

“Righto. Cheers, mate!” I said as we stepped away.

We made our way to the guest services tent, and I approached them with the same story. I made it seem like money wasn’t an issue. I mean, I really wanted to surprise my uncle. Unfortunately, guest services didn’t have any lower-level ticket upgrades, and I was out of luck.

Most people would have given up here, but I was prepared to stretch the limits of this story to see what I could get out of it. Coldplay wasn’t on for another thirty minutes, and I couldn’t live with the FOMO of sitting in our terrible seats while people were in a lower section. We returned to the guard at the security line.

“Okay, mate, so the guest services bloke didn’t have any upgrades left,” I explained in my terrible accent. “Could you escort us down to the section for the photo?”

“I can’t do that, man, I’ve got to stay here.”

“What if we gave you our wallets as collateral, and we returned in five minutes?” I asked.

“I can’t do that either, because it will look like I’m taking a bribe,” he explained.

“Well, I feel like we’re very close, and I came all the way from England. I’m sure there’s a way we can work something out.”

He paused. Then, to my surprise, he said, “Hang on, just follow me.”

We followed him through the tunnel. I asked him what his name was, where he was from, and how long he worked there. I commented a lot on how great California was compared to England’s gloomy weather. Eventually, he stopped, held out his hand for a handshake, and said, “Enjoy the show.”

I was shocked.

I didn’t ask any questions, I just shook it, said “Thank you!” politely in my accent, and took off to the floor level.

We kept our hands in our pockets not to spoil the fact that we didn’t have the appropriate wristbands or tickets for any assigned seats. I decided to take out my phone and held it to my ear to talk to Siri.

“I think we see you! Yes, over in section H? We’re coming!” I pretended like I was looking for someone.

Shiv and I found an open row and sat down. I tried to call Winston, who had just arrived at the stadium, to tell him our plan. Within minutes of me texting him our section, he had found us.

“I didn’t realize there was a plan, so I just walked past the guards. No one questioned anything,” he said with a wink.

I felt silly for crafting our elaborate English backstory.

Then, out of curiosity, I turned and asked the gentleman next to me, “How much did you pay for your ticket?”

“About $2,000,” he said. I smiled.

We knew that if the actual ticket holders showed up, we needed a backup plan. So we scoped out a fallback position to scatter toward if security tried to question where our real seats were. It was a nervous game of waiting. I hadn’t been this nervous since my high school dance, which was an awkward mess.

Then I had the idea of winning over the crowd around us, so they’d hopefully lobby for us to move to another empty seat if we were discovered by security. That’s when Winston pulled out his deck of cards and started doing magic tricks for the nearby audience. They loved it.

We shared stories about England and made small talk with the (apparently rich) people around us. Then three girls showed up.

“I think you’re in our seats.” The news we did not want to hear.

So without hesitation, we jumped up and scattered in three different directions, regrouped at the fallback position, and sat down like we were playing an advanced game of musical chairs.

Ten minutes until showtime. We had almost made it. I knew if we saw at least one song before getting kicked out, it would be worth it. Just one.

Then, all the lights went out, and the crowd roared in darkness. My anticipation levels had never been higher in my life.

Oh, I think I landed,

In a world I hadn’t seen!

When I’m feeling ordinary,

When I don’t know what I mean!

Chris Martin, the lead singer for Coldplay, shouted these lyrics as he sprinted down the center stage and jumped into the air. As soon as he hit the ground, a massive amount of confetti shot ten stories into the air, followed by a stream of rainbow fireworks, fireballs, and a completely illuminated stage.

I was blown away.

More than 50,000 people shouted the lyrics all together, our glowing wristbands blinking in unison. I was surrounded by joy. Never before had I experienced so much life in the same day. I just remember looking at all the falling confetti around me, at the bright blue-and-yellow stage between my outstretched hands, thinking, “Today, I lived.”

“You guys are going to remember this day for the rest of your life,” I said to my friends, getting annoyingly inspirational like I do sometimes. “Just soak it in. All five senses. Make sure you take this feeling to your deathbed. So you always remember that one time you couldn’t have had a more perfect day; and you strive for that kind of day every day, for the rest of your life.”

As the concert came to a close, we waited for an encore. That’s when Shivam noticed the band walking to an open area behind us. We rushed in their direction, possibly losing our seats in the process, and surrounded a small stage set up for a special acoustic performance. We were within ten feet of the band. Under the eyes of the entire Rose Bowl, we were right by the action.

* * *

It’s feelings like this that I try to seek out. The best part about them is usually how simple it is to get there, how creative the process is to make it happen, and how easily it could have fallen apart. But when it comes together, it’s a sky full of stars. A heavenly view.

Our front-section seats at the Coldplay concert wasn’t the first time we pushed the envelope on asking for something seemingly impossible. We’ve also scored free parking on numerous occasions, free meals, VIP accommodations in hotels, an invite to an exclusive party in Paramount Studios, VIP entry to clubs, a free hot air balloon ride at the world’s largest festival in Albuquerque, and entry into Drake’s neighborhood. We even managed to get on a nonexistent press list to secure backstage passes at a Chainsmokers concert. Enough random name-dropping and confidence confused security enough to eventually let us into that concert to film. We gave the video to the venue’s sponsor and made friends with everyone who organized the show, and we finally met The Chainsmokers.

Each scenario involves a different backstory, but I add the British accent to make things interesting and loosen people up when I’m asking for something as grand as a $2,000 Coldplay seat. The interesting thing I’ve learned from all of this is that you’ll never know unless you ask.

The key here is to come up with such an elaborate story with such a convincing attitude that the listener can’t think of a rational response, so the easy way out is for them to just approve of what you’re doing. Alternatively, you can even ask politely for exactly what you want. If it’s within someone’s power to grant you what you’re asking for, it’s very possible for them to say yes! Oftentimes, the biggest hurdle to getting somewhere we want to be is merely asking the question.

Either way, being calm and adding personal value are essential. Ask the person where they’re from, what their name is, and what they think about their job. This has even gotten me out of six different traffic tickets (all six I 100 percent deserved). Yes, it’s true we embellish a bit to work around restrictions, but we never do it with malicious intent. And we’ve never lied to the police or any figure of authority. There’s never a good time for that. However, I can tell you that with most of these situations, we’ve returned to the person and explained who we really were and what we were doing (usually filming a video). We’ve always shared a laugh and true friendship. Just make sure you don’t push the envelope anywhere that might land you in actual trouble. In every situation I’ve talked my way into, being asked to leave would be the worst-case scenario.

Life has rules, but some of them can be bent a little bit. Try to figure out which rules can be stretched and where you can find loopholes in a situation. And if you get caught, brutal honesty and cooperation will keep you out of trouble. But oftentimes, a bit of charm and on-the-fly thinking can take you to places you’d never thought you’d see yourself. Call it the “Adventure of a Lifetime.”

Major Keys:

��Don’t settle for average. Go for the front row.

��View your journey as a series of locked doors, and imagine that the path is littered with keys. One of them is guaranteed to open the door you want to enter—you just need to keep searching for the right key.

��Seek the rules in life that can be bent, and then bend them.

My friend, Shivam Kashiwala, convinced me to attend a Coldplay concert only hours after jumping off this bridge.

The view from $2,000 Coldplay seats.

Challenge: Pick an event or activity you’ve always said you’d do. Whether it’s cliché like skydiving or just seeing a band perform, go ahead and sign up for it or buy your tickets. Do it this weekend. Because if you don’t, you’ll always say “next weekend” until you don’t have any left. There’s always time if you make it.

Chapter 5: Just Get In

“Life is not the amount of breaths you take, it’s the moments that take your breath away.” —Will Smith, Hitch

“Do you think they have cameras, Rob Jones?” I frantically asked, hoping for reassurance.

“Of course they do—let’s get out of here before the police come!” We fled the scene, running faster than we ever had in our lives.

* * *

It was a typical Friday night at UNC. I went out with friends—okay, by myself—to the famed dive bar He’s Not Here and enjoyed a classic Blue Cup, a $5 two-pint plastic cup of low-quality tap beer. In other words, nectar from the gods. Just like any other college kid, I wanted an epic night. Every night. For my whole life. Sadly, this was another predictable and disappointing night for the books. I called it quits at 11:00 p.m. and hopped on the bus home. I had just arrived at my dorm and was swimming in a pool of my own disappointment when my phone rang.

“BillCooooooOOOoOooOo!”

It was Rob Jones, dragging out the syllables of my college nickname, and later the name of my startup.

“Come to He’s Noooooot,” he jubilantly demanded.

“I just left there, man, not trying to come back,” I said dismally. “Plus it’s dead tonight.”

“Naw, bro. It’s packed. Come share my Blue Cup.”

So, I walked back to the bus stop and apathetically waited for another city bus to scoop me up and carry me back to the Friday night lights of downtown Chapel Hill’s Franklin Street. I met with Rob Jones, and he and I enjoyed a classic night at He’s Not. Upon completion of our Blue Cups, we made moves for late-night food. Any college kid will tell you that no Friday night is complete without nutritional regret stacked on top of alcoholic rage. In shorter terms, at either Sup Dogs, or [B]SKI’S, depending on which franchise you remain loyal to.

We waited in a line longer than a Disney ride’s and ordered our many hot dogs. We grabbed a seat in the crowded restaurant and started to eat the wieners like Nathan’s was leading a hot dog eating contest. Suddenly, our meal was interrupted by Matt Jones, younger brother and protégé of the one and only Rob Jones. Matt Jones, who went by the name Mattatus, had walked straight into the restaurant to find us. Rob Jones must have told him that we were there.

“We got you guys a ride home, come outside right now,” he insisted frantically.

“Bro, we just sat down, and hello, by the way,” Rob Jones sassed back.

“No, you don’t understand,” he said, eyes wide, “you have to come right now.”

“All right, all right, man, I guess we’ll just leave all these hibatchers.”[3] Rob dropped his dogs, and all three of us walked out the front door, high-fiving most of the patrons we passed on our way out, because when it’s Friday night on Franklin Street, everyone is your best friend.

As soon as we stepped onto the street, I had a difficult decision to make. Do I take the bus home, or . . . just get in with them?

“Dude, sweet wheels, amirite?” said a familiar face from the driver’s seat of a UNC basketball golf cart. Matt Johnson, or Johnson, as we called him, was known for leading an epic night. Not to be confused with Rob Jones’s younger brother, Mattatus. Nearly every time Johnson visited UNC from Georgia, something got broken, someone got hurt, or someone narrowly dodged real trouble.

In other words, he was essential to an epic night.

As I stood by the cart, I saw that sitting next to Johnson in the (possibly stolen?) vehicle was Karli, a visiting friend from Wisconsin. They had already been stopped by the police once, who asked them to return the cart to the basketball stadium. They decided instead to proceed down Franklin Street and pick up Rob Jones and me first. With that kind of bold dedication, I had no choice but to just get in.

“How did you get this?” I asked, settling in the cart with Mattatus and Rob Jones.

“Don’t worry about it,” Mattatus replied.

I looked at the ignition, and a bungee cord hook was bent into the socket. I still have no idea how that worked. I’ll just commend Mattatus and Johnson on their resourcefulness.

Johnson wasted no time leveling the gas pedal and turning through the intersection. We zipped through a red light, past frat court, and into the main quad.

As we were cruising, we noticed a tall, familiar stud walking his girl home from a night out on Franklin Street.

“Yo, Guerrazzi!” Rob Jones shouted to his buddy as we approached him. It was Andrew Guerrazzi, the missing element of our squad of spontaneity. “Hop in!”

Without hesitation or even a word of explanation, Guerrazzi dropped the girl’s hand and hopped on the back of the golf cart. He high-fived Rob Jones and we sped off. (To this day, I don’t think that girl ever understood what happened, but there’s nothing she could have done to be more interesting than a stolen golf cart full of best friends on a Friday night.)

When we reached speeds of at least 35 mph, I started to film everything. If you know me, you know I’m never caught without at least a GoPro. I laughed like a king being chauffeured around his kingdom as other college kids ambled home to their dorms. Life was good—so good, in fact, that when Johnson thought he saw a cop, I laughed so hard that I almost threw up.

After crossing the entire college campus, we approached the biggest hill in the city, the one that led us past the freshmen dorms and straight to the basketball stadium. However, there was one slight problem: we were dangerously low on golf cart battery power. In a genius effort to conserve energy, Johnson turned the cart off, threw it into neutral, and let it ease over the top of the hill.

If you’ve ever driven a car or even a bicycle, you know that having said vehicle in a low gear while traveling downhill naturally slows the momentum. This is a safety feature put in place to keep you, the driver, from executing a scene out of The Blues Brothers, where your vehicle is falling infinitely into the abyss because you careened off a steep ledge. Most people might even advocate that certain features, such as brake usage and power steering, are also helpful when operating a large vehicle. Most people also know that these features are no longer in service when a vehicle’s engine stops, since hydraulics are needed to apply great pressure to the operating system of the vehicle in motion.

Now in neutral, our golf cart began to pick up speed. And with the help of six passengers, we were gaining momentum at an alarming rate. Most people would decide that this would be the time to activate some brake pressure. But with the nature of our group, or at least Mattatus, we wanted to see what we could race traveling at this speed.

So, cart still in motion, Mattatus detached the golf cart’s spare tire from the front hood and rolled it beside the cart. We were now racing our own spare tire, and we were only getting faster. Rob Jones was so surprised that when he saw an identical wheel traveling down the hill next to us, he screamed in panic, “We lost a wheel and we’re only balancing on three!” (We all finished with a bachelor’s degree in something, so save your judgment for later.) Everyone erupted in laughter.

Until the spare tire lost control.

And nearly took out the front windshield of an oncoming car.

We threw the cart into drive and powered it around the side of the stadium at breakneck speed.

Crack.

Everyone looked back, silent as we realized in a stupor of shock what had just happened. We had driven straight through a parking gate for a security checkpoint.

I was the first to break silence.

“Dude,” I said calmly, “you just drove through a security gate.”

“I drove through a what? I didn’t see anything.”

How could someone possibly miss the massive yellow reflective arm blocking the parking lot?

After processing what just happened, Johnson decided to stop and park the cart in the middle of the lot, just beside the basketball stadium. Everyone decided they had had enough and jumped out. We ran in different directions, covering our faces in a mess of laughter and fear as we ditched the golf cart—lights still on.

“Do you think they have cameras, Rob Jones?” I frantically asked, hoping for reassurance.

“Of course they do—let’s get out of here before the police come!” We fled the scene, running faster than we ever had in our lives.

Luckily, Mattatus had a van parked nearby, and we all jumped in. Everyone made it to the van . . . except Guerrazzi.

“Where’s Guerrazzi? No one gets left behind!” Rob Jones shouted.

“Guerrazzi! Guerraaaazziiiii!” we all yelled outside the car windows.

Then, like a hero out of a movie, we saw him appear over the hill.

“Guerrazzi! I see him!” Johnson yelled. “He’s running over the hill!”

Sprinting for his life, Guerrazzi ran toward the getaway car. But he didn’t come empty-handed.

“Where the heck do I put this spare tire?” Guerrazzi asked as he jumped into the back seat of the van, carrying the golf cart tire we raced down the hill.

He had done it. Somehow, Guerrazzi found the spare and rushed it back to the team as a reminder to us all what we had accomplished that day.

But it wasn’t over that quickly.

* * *

The next day, I woke up on a mattress in the hallway of my dorm room.

I looked over at Rob Jones on the mattress beside me, as if to confirm that last night had actually happened.

“Whattup, BillCo?” he said.

“Dude, are we in trouble? You think they found out by now?” I asked, indifferent to the fact that we were sleeping in the middle of the hallway (beds are too mainstream).

“Probably not,” he reassured me. “Stop worrying, dude.”

I was still paranoid. “I’m going to check the police reports and see if anything is listed for last night.”

I pulled up Chapel Hill’s police crime reports on my phone and started scrolling. “Let’s see . . . last night’s reports on campus . . . I’m seeing graffiti, noise complaints, underage drinking . . . no, I think we’re not listed!”

“Dude,” Rob Jones pointed, spotting a report. “Vandalism.”

We clicked on it.

I don’t remember the exact wording, but it was somewhere along the lines of: “Six hibatchers stole a golf cart and drove it through a security gate like a bunch of morons and then fled the scene.”

My heart sank, my throat tightened, and I began to sweat. I had one of those hot flashes you get when the teacher calls on you in class but you’ve been refreshing your Twitter feed so you have no idea how to answer. Caught. Cornered. No way out.

“Dude, I could get kicked out of ROTC for this. Do you think they’ll press any charges?” I asked my new attorney, Rob Jones.

“No, dude, you’re fine,” he replied calmly. “College kids do this stuff all the time. Just be cool, it will blow over.”

But I couldn’t. I knew we had to confess because we were sure to get caught. Considering we were both employed by campus athletics, too many people from the staff already knew who Rob Jones and I were. A confession would at least lighten the sentence—right?

“We have to confess,” I said.

“Hell, no,” Johnson chimed in as he woke up beside us. “Are you insane? We’re done if they find out.”

“Rob Jones and I work for the athletic department,” I explained. “They’ll find out. It will be better if we confess and ask for a less severe punishment.”

“He’s right, dude,” Rob Jones agreed, “we should probably tell the campus police and offer to fix it.”

We called the rest of our accomplices to make sure everyone was in agreement that we were going to bring this to the police. After a lot of consideration and visions of prison, we decided to come clean first thing Monday morning when the security office opened.

With an entire weekend left to mull over the possible outcomes of this situation, I decided the best thing to do was to get some legal advice.

I had to call Hannah.

“Hey, dude! What can I do for you?” my friend said over the phone. Hannah was only halfway through law school at the time, but she was the best I could get.

“Yeah, so, I might be in some trouble,” I said softly, “and the cops don’t know yet. Wanted to see what I might be facing if this comes to light.”

“Tell me what you’ve got going on,” Hannah said reassuringly.

I spilled all the beans. From the stolen cart to speeding, racing the tire, and busting through the gate, I gave every detail. Hannah couldn’t believe it.

“Well, buddy, I’m not sure about this one. I’d guess they could pin you for grand theft auto for the cart, running the red lights near frat court, destruction of public and private property, too many passengers in a vehicle, trespassing—the list goes on.”

“Oh my gosh.” Now I was really stressed.

“Yeah, not sure what I’d do if I were you. Hope this all works out!”

She hung up.

I told the rest of the team what we might be facing. I think we all knew at this point we had royally screwed up. Everything I worked for until now: my job in athletics, my degree, my Air Force scholarship . . . everything was in jeopardy.

The entire weekend all I thought about was what I would do once the Air Force kicked me out, or when the university banned me from campus. I was thinking worst-case scenario. Of course, Rob Jones seemed unfazed—typical. But I definitely didn’t sleep.

* * *

Monday morning arrived, and I finished the 6:00 a.m. workout with the Air Force. Could be my last, I thought gloomily. I walked back to the dorm to pick up Rob Jones, and we walked together down to the security office.

The sliding doors whooshed open as we approached the uniformed officer at the main desk.

“Hi, ma’am, we have some information regarding a report that was filed over the weekend,” Rob Jones explained in his charming voice.

“Please wait here.” The officer went to the back room.

Two more uniformed officers came out, both double my size, with notepads and pencils.

“All right, what do you guys know?” one of the officers asked us in a commanding voice.

“Uhhh, he’ll tell you!” Rob Jones said as he pointed to me.

I cleared my throat and let my eyes wander to the ground. This was it. However I presented this story was going to dictate literally the rest of my future.

“So, it started when two of my friends stole a golf cart. . . . ” I continued my story, eyes never leaving the ground, until I reached “and we drove away with the stolen wheel.”

I started to look up from the ground. The two officers looked at each other, their faces very stern and still. Not a single word had been written on the pad the entire time. I had given them everything. It was over.

Then, they broke out in hysterical laughter.

I quizzically turned toward Rob Jones, who had his mouth wide open in confusion.

“You guys did all that? That’s insane!” one of the officers said to me.

“No one got hurt, right?” the other one asked.

“No, sir,” I replied, still standing in confusion.

“Well, as long as you learned your lesson, I’d say you’re free to go. Thanks for the information!” the officer said through his laughter.

“I’m sorry. What?” I asked.

“Dude, shut up,” Rob Jones whispered. “Let’s leave.” He looked like he wanted to vomit.

“Wait, don’t you want us to pay you back for the gate at least?” I asked.

“Pay us back?” The officer was still laughing. “That thing cost $80. It would be more difficult to fill out all of the paperwork. These things happen. As long as everyone is okay and you don’t do it again, we’re done here.”

“Oh, wow, thank you, officer!” Rob Jones wiped the sweat off his forehead and grabbed my arm to pull me away.

As we walked back out, the sliding doors once again whooshed away, and with them, all of our worries.

“Dude!” Rob Jones shouted. “I can’t believe they just let that slide!”

“Shhh!” I said. “We’re still in the parking lot, chill out!”

“No one is ever going to believe this,” he said.

“Yeah, well, I got it all on tape.” I held up my phone. “Let’s make a deal to never let this leave my phone, and we can show it to anyone who doesn’t believe us.”

“Dude. Craziest night ever.” Rob Jones shook his head.

I looked up at him. “Can I get a hell, yeah?”

* * *

To this day, we still have the golf cart wheel.

Major Keys:

��Never write off a day as a loss. Circumstances can change in an instant.

��It’s always best to admit mistakes early and offer a solution to fix the problem.

��Even when it seems like your life is a mess, there’s probably one simple fix to put everything back on track.

From our “borrowed” UNC golf cart, the spare wheel that we still have to this day. Thanks, Guerrazzi!

Challenge: Don’t ever do what we did.

Chapter 6: What You Can Buy with $2

“Adventure is what you make it. And whether it’s the travel, the discovery, or just the feeling of letting go, the only way we’ll ever find out is to get out there and do it. Enjoy the ride.” —Travis Rice

It was the summer after my senior year of college, and Rob Jones had just launched a nonprofit called “The Bus,” where he took a bus full of college kids around the country (totaling 18,500 miles) and stopped in nearly every state to complete a service project. The goal was to use travel and community service to make a positive social impact and help college students find meaning and clarity through new experiences. Of course, this wasn’t fully funded or planned when Rob Jones left for the trip, but he somehow managed to secure lodging, gas money, and travel routes for the entire eleven weeks as he was crossing the country. Go figure.

Rob Jones started to talk about launching this project during our senior year, and honestly, I had about four percent faith that this would actually happen. He needed something like $10,000 in a few months to follow through, and he probably would have had an easier time trying to nail Jell-O to a wall. Rob Jones brings a lot of ambitious plans to the table, and it would take me a while to learn that most of the time, he would at least try until he failed to make every one of them happen. So without hesitation, I told him that I’d fly out to Vegas to help with his homeless outreach event if he managed to get the project off the ground. And a few weeks later, I watched him leave Chapel Hill in a bus full of college kids.

As he made his way across the country, I blocked out a couple days for my flight to Las Vegas, not knowing exactly when he’d arrive. This would be my first time in Sin City.

About halfway through the summer, I got a text:

Hey, bro, we’re crossing through Texas, we can pick you up at the airport in a few days.

It was happening. And I always follow through with a commitment, so he knew I would be there.

A few days later, I was on a flight to Vegas with only a backpack of clothes and camera equipment. Ready for a day of volunteering in the Nevada desert.

As soon as I arrived, he picked me up in the bus I had been hearing about for months, and we rode into town to get supplies. Hot pizzas, cinnamon rolls, cold water, and socks filled our trunk and back seats. (Socks are a key item for homeless people, if you didn’t know. Next time you’re in Walmart, grab a pair and help someone out.) Then we cruised through the streets of Vegas with the sliding door wide open, stopping for anyone who looked like they needed help. Rob Jones played EDM at full volume while I hung out by my seat belt in the wind, singing along to our favorite tracks by Cash Cash and 3LAU.

Any time we saw a homeless person, Rob Jones would slam on the brakes (sometimes in the middle of traffic), and I would hop out of the bus, hand off some food and water, shake their hand, and sprint back to the bus as it was pulling away. (I wouldn’t recommend this, but it happened.)

We made our way to the outskirts of Vegas and into a neighborhood of tents and shacks that lined the sidewalks. We parked the bus and started approaching people on the street to hand out food. Before I knew it, dozens of people were surrounding us to receive food and socks. I stood in the middle of the street with Rob Jones at my back as we split up the last pizza into slices to hand out to a crowd of at least 70 people. So many outstretched hands, and I had only one pizza left. The disappointed faces of those who didn’t get a share looked down and dispersed slowly. No one was aggressive or angry, just grateful that someone was out there trying to help.

It was a humbling experience. To live comfortably enough that I could spontaneously jet across the country to be with my friend in Vegas, and then face people who were just like me but struggling to find a meal. What I loved most about this was that everyone we interacted with on the streets was so polite. When I spoke with people on my flight over, such as gate agents, flight attendants, and airport security, everyone seemed to be having a miserable day. When I spoke with people who had nothing and lived on the streets, a pair of socks was the highlight of their week. To the untrained eye, they had nothing. But from their perspective, they had more with the little we gave them than most of the elite businessmen I saw on my plane ride over.

I thought about how happiness could be drawn from the right perspective. Happiness isn’t about who has the most things, but who makes the most out of the things they have. Perspective is an amazing lens that can add value to even the ugliest of situations. At least for me, reaching out to people who were happy to hold a slice of pizza added a lot of value to my life. In a city of fast-paced action, raging parties, and money, a priceless transaction between those people, Rob Jones, and me was arguably the best thing to happen in Vegas that day.

* * *

That evening, I was sitting next to Rob Jones in the house we were staying in for the night, watching Snapchat stories. We were about to call it a night. So far, my flight was covered by my mother’s ties with Delta, the ride was from the bus, and the home was from a best friend’s fiancé’s sister—or something like that. She also provided a full Greek dinner, which made me fall in love with my now favorite cuisine. So I hadn’t spent any money yet.

Suddenly, a featured story on Snapchat caught my eye: the “Electric Daisy Carnival.” I had never heard of it, but it looked like fun. I learned quickly from the Snaps that this festival hosts 400,000 people a year, with a lineup of over 200 music artists. I noticed one snap that had Krewella in it. Krewella is a DJ duo of two wonderful Persian girls I had met in North Carolina years before. So I texted their manager, asking if they wanted someone to film that night.

He immediately responded: The girls performed last night, and we’re all exhausted. I can put you on the guest list if you’d like.

It was so simple. I went from about to fall asleep at 8:00 p.m. to getting an invite to the largest EDM festival in the world. I screamed and covered my mouth and kept saying, “ohmygoshohmygosh,” like a 15-year-old girl who got asked to prom by her crush. It was pathetic.

After sprinting up and down the hallways, I told Rob Jones that I needed a ride.

“I got you, bro,” he said, fulfilling his professional calling as bus driver. I grabbed my phone and we jumped into the bus.

Three years prior, Krewella performed in North Carolina. I’d been setting up a team to film their concert, and it was nearing approval. But last minute, my email request was denied. I was so upset that I posted a long rant on Facebook about what happened. Within a minute of the post, Rob Jones called me and said, “You’ve gotta take that down, man.”

“Why?” I demanded.

“What if this comes back around? You never know what the future holds, dude. I would take it down.”

Even though I was frustrated, I took it down right away. I understood what Rob Jones was trying to say. Good thing, too—moments after Krewella canceled my request, their manager emailed me back, inviting me backstage for the show so I could meet the girls. Rob Jones owed me a few I told you so’s. And of course, I was able to meet them, and the show was an amazing night of fist pumping and dancing.

Rob Jones and I drove through Vegas on our way to the MGM to pick up the pass from that same manager, Jake Udell. He’s someone I definitely look up to—he’s been on Forbes’ 30 Under 30 list and founded TH3RD BRAIN talent management agency in addition to many other accomplishments—and I will forever be in debt to him. I thanked him for the pass and asked if he ever wanted anything in return. He just said something to the tune of “pay it forward.”

I was on my way to EDC.

We made it within five miles of the Las Vegas Motor Speedway where the event was being held and got stuck in standstill traffic. Adrenaline running, I jumped out of the bus, waved goodbye to Rob Jones, and sprinted the entire way to the racetrack. I arrived covered in sweat, my shoes trashed, and needing water. I waited in the VIP line to go in when someone stopped me. Security. I prepared my best British accent.

“This isn’t your line, sir,” she said. “With that wristband, it means you’re on a separate guest list. You’ll need to go around to the tunnel entrance.”

Tunnel entrance?

I decided it wasn’t worth arguing. “R ighto!” I shouted in my terrible accent and scooted off.

I walked around the stadium and noticed the tunnel where NASCAR drivers would typically roll through before a big race. Above the tunnel read the sign artist entrance.

Oh, boy. I was on a very special list. The wristband Jake gave me wasn’t a regular pass—it was Krewella’s.

To my right were several helipads with running helicopters shuttling the world’s best DJs to and from the Vegas Strip. The artists were being picked up by golf carts outside the track and driven straight to their stages for each set. EDC has eight main stages, so artists are constantly flying around all night. I could feel the thump of the bass through the tall walls of the racetrack, and neon lights lit up the desert sky. I felt like I had finally made it. That my connections and hard work with video production had led me to this moment. I was about to walk through the same gate that Diplo, Skrillex, Avicii, and many of our generation’s other biggest music artists would walk through.

“You need a ride, bro?” a gentleman sitting in a golf cart said over the thumping bass.

“Sure! I guess,” I said, momentarily forgetting that I had the credentials for artist treatment.

The golf cart driver took me to the VIP section of the largest stage I had ever seen.

I pulled out my phone and started to film. Everything. I couldn’t capture all the energy. Shaking with excitement, I couldn’t process everything in this one place and film at the same time. And to think that just two hours ago I was about to fall asleep on the world.

The scene I was looking at was called the circuitGROUNDS. It hosted around 80,000 people, with its stage housed under a massive temporary aircraft hangar. The roof’s neon panels and strobe lights kept the crowd lit—both literally and figuratively. Confetti cannons bordered the stage, and exotic dancers dressed like fairy tale characters even Dr. Seuss couldn’t imagine were doing backflips on trampolines. Attendees dressed in costumes as elaborate as Deadmau5 outfits or as minimal as a piece of duct tape surrounded me in one unified, head-bobbing mob, pulsing to the same beat. Every color in God’s created spectrum was painted across the many walls of the circuitGROUNDS, and speakers stacked three times my height pumped brain-rattling volumes into the desert. It was a spectacle I had never seen before.

Ironically, I would be the official videographer at this same stage a year later. During my first visit, I spoke with anyone who worked for Insomniac, the company that runs the festival, determined to meet the person in charge of the film crew. Eventually, I did, and after months of email pestering, they hired me as part of their film crew for the following year. I guess persistence—and a little bit of hustle—paid off. And it was worth it, because my favorite moment during my second year at EDC was filming right behind Afrojack and Ty Dolla $ign as they released their new single, Gone, to the crowd of 80,000 for the first time ever. Together, we watched the best sunrise I had seen since Hawaii.

I made my way around the inside of the racetrack, taken aback as I witnessed one stage after another. Like something out of Willy Wonka’s factory, each stage had its own unique environment. Costumes were carefully crafted to match the style of music coming from the stage, and the music slowly crossfaded from one genre to another as I wandered around under the electric sky.

Then, I saw the main stage.

Spanning more than 400 yards wide and multiple stories tall, this stage—kineticFIELD main stage—was capable of hosting more people than Madison Square Garden, Dodger Stadium, Yankee Stadium, and the Staples Center combined. I made my way to the front and stood on top of the barricade while hundreds of thousands of people from around the world experienced the best party of their lives all together. Fireworks went off at stages all over the track, fireballs lit up the stage behind me, and faces from every possible culture, religion, and race smiled together as we all tried to just take in what was happening.

“Thank you, Las Vegas!” shouted the artist on the main stage behind me. “Here is my final song!” The stage was so large I couldn’t even see who was performing. Then a familiar song covered the raging crowd in front of me.

I need your love

I need your time

When everything’s wrong

You make it right

The voice of Ellie Goulding, and the music of . . . Calvin Harris. The world’s highest-paid DJ was performing right behind me. I opened a couple water bottles from my backpack and showered the waving hands in the crowd.

Calvin finished his set and was followed by a short break of silence. I stood in the front, still shaking with energy, trying to just appreciate everything I was seeing and hearing. Then the next artist took the stage.

It was Alesso.

Alesso had just released a very popular song that year, and I was about to witness it live.

“We could be heroes, oooooooo. We could be!” I heard every voice in the crowd sing to “Heroes” as Alesso cut the beat and let the world take the chorus. The sound gave me chills. Because at that moment, my real life didn’t matter. All the hate, politics, and problems in the world were put aside as thousands of fans were focused only on being happy together. Singing lyrics to a song with such a simple message: do what you love, no matter what.

That night, I was doing exactly that. I looked up into the fireworks and knew there was no place I would rather be. I had truly found my passion with music, and I vowed to make every effort to revisit this feeling of meaning as often as possible before I died. Life is about finding that feeling and going after it with everything you have. It’s a high unmatched by any drug, a feeling of love that makes you whole, and a sense of gratification that can quench any thirst. Discovering a passion—you can’t pick that up at Walmart.

* * *

This night was followed by many more like it. Every time I film an incredible experience with another amazing music artist, I try to stand still and take it in. Remembering how many hours I sacrifice to get on whatever stage I’m standing on, I wrote this down when I was at a Newsboys concert:

Praying behind stage, I thanked God for allowing me to make it this far. I looked up and could make out the banner above that said “God’s Not Dead.” Well, He surely isn’t.

There’s no way I could get my awkward self and rinky-dink cameras into these arenas if God wasn’t working His master plan from above the rafters. I just think it’s funny that God’s plan involved me with Calvin Harris in Vegas. You never know what’s in store next, and you surely can’t control it.

James 4:13–15 says:

Now listen, you who say, “Today or tomorrow we will go to this or that city, spend a year there, carry on business and make money.” Why, you do not even know what will happen tomorrow. What is your life? You are a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. Instead, you ought to say, “If it is the Lord’s will, we will live and do this or that.”

Even though you can’t control everything life, if you want to fulfill your plan, whether for today or long-term, you must be willing to get out there and live. It’s amazing how quickly life can take a turn of events, and you can end up somewhere you never would have expected. We often forget how fast life can throw in some surprises. Whether good or bad surprises, we need this sense of unpredictability. If you can predict the outcome of a day, you’re not living life on the edge. And that means you can miss out on some important lessons along the way, too.

Aside from my unexpected adventure at EDC, I learned another lesson in Vegas: that everyone has a story. Whether it’s a big-time music artist with an unbelievable journey around the world or someone literally sleeping under a bridge, everyone has an amazing perspective to share and deserves to be heard.

So, what can you buy with $2? After flying across the country to a desert, doing homeless outreach, and then filming a massive music festival until 6:00 a.m., I needed some kind of recharge. So I bought two apples from a juice bar at EDC for $1 each. And that was all the money I spent on that trip. As a college kid, that was a little over budget for what I could spend on an adventure, but I was willing to make the sacrifice.

Major Keys:

��Everyone has a unique story. Never underestimate what someone has done with their life based on where they currently are.

��Money isn’t a source of comfort. Appreciation for what you already have and intangibles like faith, meaning, and fun are the real sources of contentment.

��Spreading negative energy on social media only perpetuates more negative energy. The same goes for positive energy.

The famed Bus, along with Rob Jones (far left), Mattatus (second from left) and the squad moments before they left for an unpredictable journey.

Hanging out of The Bus in Santa Monica, CA. Probably blasting tunes I heard the day before at EDC in Las Vegas.

Taken from the main stage of EDC 2015, Alesso is performing “Heroes (We Could Be)” while I stood in the front row. If you look closely, I’m in front on the barricade on the right side, in a white shirt, above Alesso’s left hand. Photo taken by James Coletta

Taken by Shivam, this was EDC 2016 right as The Chainsmokers dropped “Roses” on the same main stage Alesso performed on in 2015.

Challenge: Take $2 and see what you can spend it on. Even if it’s on a pair of socks to help someone out in need, use it (and maybe a good British accent) to see what you can accomplish with close friends, a little flexibility, and a lot of creativity. Bonus points if it lands you in Vegas.

Chapter 7: “Say You’ll Never Let Me Go”

“Crashing, hit a wall. Right now I need a miracle. Hurry up now, I need a miracle.” —Daya, “Don’t Let Me Down” by The Chainsmokers

I looked around the inside of the car, my vision blurred. The windshield was shattered. Dylan had blood on his face, and the airbags were deflating in front of us. Smoke started to fill the floorboards, and I could hear bells ringing in my head. I also heard the lyrics from my favorite Chainsmokers song, “Roses,” still playing faintly over the radio:

Deep in my bones, I can feel you

Take me back to a time only we knew

Hideaway

I cracked open my crumbled driver’s side door and looked over my shoulder down the street. Three other cars were nose first in the freeway median just like we were.

I had no clue how totaling four cars would land me front row with some of the biggest DJs in the world only hours later.

* * *

“Hey, dude, you want to take my car or yours?” Dylan asked before we headed off for TomorrowWorld.

Dylan Moore was no doubt the wildest friend I had in college. Without any sort of moral or spiritual compass, the guy was willing to do anything. The one thing I respected most about him, though, was that he never cared what anyone thought. Fearless expression and confidence in everything was a trait I had to improve on, but for Dylan, it was part of his DNA.

In fact, Dylan was behind one of the greatest pranks ever pulled at UNC. So much so that it grabbed the attention of the Huffington Post, local news channels, totalfratmove.com, and MTV. His plan was to strip in the middle of the largest lecture hall on campus (400 people strong) and blow a whistle as he belly danced his way down the aisles. Naturally, I was looped into filming the stunt, and I regret nothing. It was just one more example of “Will this get me killed? Nope? Then let’s do it.” Dylan later landed a spot on MTV’s Real World and continued to break down social barriers with his heavy Boston accent and irresistible looks.

For a year, I had been heckling TomorrowWorld for a press pass, and my persistence finally paid off. In fact, I had to email several people nearly every week until they answered with the “confirmed VIP ticket” email. I was beyond stoked. TomorrowWorld was the flagship EDM music festival in the States until 2015, now outshined by EDC Las Vegas. Hundreds of thousands of people flocked to the hills of Chattahoochee Hills, Georgia, to experience three days of face-melting bass, massive midnight raves, and the most popular DJs. It was literally a fantasy world, where everything was mocked up to look like a fairy tale out of a Grimm brother’s story. Its dreamlike, mysterious aura was even reflected on the marked arches stretched over the paths between stages: yesterday is history. today is a gift. tomorrow is mystery.

Not only was I able to get a ticket from a few connections I had made from filming shows the past four years, but they ended up granting me two. Dylan was a perfect fit for ticket no. 2, and it let me pay Jake Udell’s grace forward after he helped me get into EDC Las Vegas.

I somehow knew this weekend would turn out to be full of unpredictable chaos. And for some reason, that’s what I wanted.

“Let’s take your car, only because the Mustang doesn’t do well in the rain, and we might have to park in a dirt lot,” I answered Dylan.

So we packed Dylan’s old Nissan with all of our camera gear for the weekend. We filled up the trunk and backseat with a cooler full of raw steaks, camping supplies, and all kinds of unnecessary items, including a beer funnel (property of Dylan), soccer cleats (property of Dylan), and Lunchables (that’d be me). We would later regret bringing all this after we had to walk nearly two miles to our campsite.

Since Dylan was up the entire previous night with an admittedly beautiful girl, I was first in line to drive us from Charlotte, North Carolina, to Atlanta, Georgia. Though we didn’t know it at the time, we were on our way to what would be the last TomorrowWorld in the States, since they went bankrupt the following year.

It was also three days before I had to leave for active duty, so this was my last chance to be a carefree college kid before a rigid life of responsibility. And trust me, we hit carefree right on the bull’s-eye.

As we were driving down I-40, it started to rain. Not too much, but just enough to make the road slippery. About two hours into the drive, I decided to start getting hyped for that night’s show. I hit play on the track “Roses” by The Chainsmokers, and the familiar sounds filled the car. We had no idea they’d blow up—we just loved that song. At that point, no one knew who The Chainsmokers were, but they would serve to be the soundtrack of many adventures to follow later that year.

As the song built and led into the drop, I was ready to ball out as hard as an awkward white boy can dance. Then I noticed the cars in front of me hitting their brakes. There was another accident far up the road, and we had approached the traffic buildup. I tapped my brakes, but the car didn’t slow down. So I hit them full force . . . and we just kept rolling.

I had seconds to think. I couldn’t go into the emergency lane, because someone had already swerved into it. And all five lanes of traffic were taken. I couldn’t pull over to the right, because our distance was closing fast, and I’d take out the cars next to me trying to switch lanes.

So I slapped Dylan awake, said, “We’re about to crash, I’m going to shoot this gap,” and braced myself for a Fast & Furious–like maneuver to save the car. The world slipped into bullet time as I channeled my inner Vin Diesel. I decided I would drive in between the SUV parked in the far left lane and the eighteen-wheeler parked to the right. If I could create more distance between us and the first car we’d hit, the impact wouldn’t be as bad.

In only four seconds, I maneuvered the runaway car into the left lane and plowed into the back right corner of that SUV at 60 mph. The SUV spun into the median, but not before taking two more cars with it. Our windshield shattered, and I couldn’t see anything. We were at the mercy of wherever our momentum would carry us.

We slammed into the median. The airbags deployed, busting Dylan’s lip, tongue, and nose. We halted to an abrupt stop, and within seconds, I pulled out my GoPro and started to film.

“We’re still going to TomorrowWorld, right?” I asked Dylan, documenting the scene.

“Hell, yeah,” Dylan responded through his busted mouth.

And as long as we were still going to TomorrowWorld, I knew we just needed to sort things out on the freeway and be on our merry way.

But once I took a look over my shoulder and saw what kind of damage I had caused, I realized that we might have lost that opportunity. I jumped out into the rain and checked on all the other drivers. No one was seriously hurt, but it was going to take a few tow trucks and a large insurance deductible to clear this one up.

We waited for the police to arrive. Minutes later, they showed up and asked me what happened.

“It’s real simple, sir,” I told the officer, “I hit the brakes and the car just didn’t stop.”

“You know why it didn’t stop?” he said. “It’s because you don’t have any brake fluid. We checked the car, and your tank is empty. So I’m writing you a ticket for failure to maintain a vehicle.”

No brake fluid?

I looked at Dylan.

“Well,” he said in his Boston accent, “the light came on this week so I just reset it. I forgot to fill it back up.”

I understand life can get busy. People forget. But now we were on the side of the road in the rain with three other totaled cars talking to a police officer. It’s amazing how quickly a simple choice can lead to so much chaos. Like the time I decided to date my first girlfriend. We won’t go into details.

The police officer also explained that if we had run into the eighteen-wheeler instead of the SUV, it would have put our engine in the trunk . . . and us with it.

We had literally cheated death on an accident that 99/100 times would have been fatal based on a split-second decision of which target to hit. I picked the SUV only because I thought it might be cheaper to replace. It was a miracle of odds.

“Bro, if I was driving,” Dylan said as I got chills, “I definitely would have hit the truck in front of us.”

Tow trucks arrived, pulled our car from the concrete wall, and drove us to a rental car place. We had to transfer every piece of camera equipment known to man from Dylan’s car to the rental while the rain poured on us. I was sure the weekend was ruined.

* * *

We arrived at the check-in at TomorrowWorld several hours late. The officials at the press pass booth scolded us for our tardiness, especially since they were throwing us a bone with the press passes in the first place. So, to explain our excuse for being late, we each lifted our shirts to show the imprint of seatbelts burned into our chests.

Once they picked their jaws up off the ground, they granted us the highest level of access to all VIP suites and parties at the festival. I didn’t even need a British accent. And just like that, we walked into a fantasy world of amazingly lit stages with confetti rainstorms, massive crowds of energized college kids, and the best DJs the world has to offer.

We managed to sneak into the artists’ party house outside of the festival and mingled with the DJs. Just before The Chainsmokers went on, we told our story to the guys from Tritonal and how much we had sacrificed just to make it to the show. Little did we know, The Chainsmokers were standing right behind them. What we did know is that these two artists went out onto the stage and performed like the world was ending. We shot our most popular video to date, a live recap of “Roses,” which became an online sensation only a month later.

* * *

The silver lining of VIP passes was quickly overshadowed by more rain-related trouble. The festival flooded, creating a public relations disaster. Attendees were trapped inside the festival without a place to stay and on the roads leading into the isolated Chattahoochee Hills fields. Pictures of festivalgoers sleeping on pizza boxes and police cars appeared all over the Internet.

Dylan’s and my accommodations weren’t much better. My tent flooded, soaking my gear and laptop. The lock I bought to secure my tent malfunctioned and wouldn’t unlock, so I had to cut my way into the front. Then, on the last day, my phone was pickpocketed while I was filming Hardwell, so I couldn’t even alert my family that I was still alive. When I ran to the press tent hoping to track it with Wi-Fi, everyone had already left because of the flooding. All press passes were revoked (this didn’t stop us from filming), and it initially appeared that we wouldn’t have a chance to film The Chainsmokers.

I’d spent that entire summer working to earn money before I left for the Air Force. Since I was leaving in a few months, it was very difficult to find a decent job. My options were working for Outback Steakhouse as a busboy, 4:00 a.m. morning deliveries with Red Bull, producing videos for an insurance company, or selling Cutco knives. This was hard to accept after four years of military training and a college degree. Pretty soon, I found myself working two jobs, one for the insurance company and the other for Red Bull, while painting mailboxes on the weekends to earn extra cash—all at around $5 to $10 an hour. (I am living proof that a college degree does not guarantee anything. You may still need to start at the very bottom.) I spent everything I earned to replace the laptop and phone I lost at TomorrowWorld. By the time I moved to my Air Force base, I had $300 in my bank account and no money left to pay rent, buy furniture, or maintain my obnoxious muscle car. Not to mention paying half the value of Dylan’s car after totaling it.

But for some reason I knew it would work out. Our weekend at the festival was an unbelievable, quick succession of unexpected events, but Dylan summed it up best while we finally watched The Chainsmokers perform:

“Dude, we’re alive. This feels amazing.”

As I stood in the crowd of that set, I remember looking up into the sky at the butterfly-shaped confetti and coming to terms with the fact that I had just been a moment away from being killed in a car wreck. This time, we cheated death without Jerry’s Hawaiian hospitality. I was not only lucky to be alive, but I was once again at the front of the action of an unforgettable experience. Despite needing to replace a few possessions, we once again pulled off a monumental adventure for free.

* * *

This life is amazing if you can learn to balance the things you should hustle with the things you should just let go. Take advantage of every opportunity, and don’t be afraid to create one if one doesn’t exist. Email relentlessly, and if your car gets destroyed, just hop into another one and hit the gas. We shouldn’t want to arrive at death safely on a bed of prepared sheets and lining. We should want to come in screaming, “Get drunk on the good life, I’ll take you to paradise. Say you’ll never let me go.”

* * *

How would you respond to any of the unpredictable events that happened to Dylan and me at TomorrowWorld? What feelings would be most predictable? Fear? Anger? I bet I know a guy who could take a guess.

Sigmund Freud built on the concept of determinism. Determinism says that as long as we know all the possible causes of an event, we can predict the outcome. In other words: the art of predictability. Freud decided that this applies to free will: that humans do not make choices—we’re simply at the mercy of unconscious forces.

Sounds terrible, doesn’t it? That you can theoretically know the outcome of any event as long as you know every cause? That free will is just an illusion?

Freud does have a valid point in that most things can be predicted if you know the causes. If you don’t pay attention in class, you’ll probably fail the test. If you go to work after watching Netflix all night, you’ll probably be hella tired and want to fall asleep. My counterargument is that there is always room for unpredictability.

Viktor Frankl had his own concept of determinism based on life experience. Viktor was once a professor at the University of Vienna, the same place Freud went to school. Having once been a firm believer of the concept of determinism, Viktor changed his view after he was imprisoned in a concentration camp during World War II for being Jewish.

From his book Man’s Search for Meaning, he mentions that “Man is ultimately self-determining. What he becomes—within the limits of endowment and environment—he has made out of himself.”[4]

Hunger was the factor that made everyone react in different ways. How each person responded to hunger was not due to predictable causes but instead to how each person chose to react as an individual. Bottom line: we create our own outcomes based on decisions, not conditions.

So when you’re having that terrible day you complain about on Facebook, make some decisions to change it instead of blaming your mood on particular circumstances. Alice Morse Earle once said, “Every day may not be good, but there’s something good in every day.”

The only prediction you can guarantee in life is death. The rest is left to your freedom of unpredictable choice.

For every cause that might contribute to a particular outcome, I’ll argue that there are endless more unpredictable decisions that we can make as individuals to fly in the face of Freud’s theory. If Freud wants to prove his argument to me, he needs to predict every game’s winner for the next NCAA tournament. If he even comes close, I’ll consider the art of determinism possible. Until then, the art of unpredictability sounds much more fun.

Major Keys:

��If it won’t get you killed, give it a shot. We often regret the things we don’t do more than the things we actually do.

��External factors are not valid objects for blame. Your perspective is the one thing you can either blame or change.

��Just because you’ve worked hard or earned a degree does not mean that the world owes you anything. Prepare to start at the bottom if necessary. Drake did, and now he’s “here.”

Only seconds after Dylan and I crashed his car on our way to TomorrowWorld, I started filming.

Dylan Moore unleashing a fog cannon we borrowed at TomorrowWorld.

Challenge: The next time you have a setback in life (and you will), find something to rally around to push you to the next level in your journey. For us, it was a video for the song “Roses.” There’s a time to mourn over a loss, whether it’s a loved one or a beat-up Nissan, but there’s also a time to move forward shortly after. Something as simple as a song by The Chainsmokers inspired me enough to let go of a massive amount of stress, accept that we had faced death (and some insurance deductibles), and move forward with a new appreciation of the life we still had. I encourage you to find your roses.

Chapter 8: I’d Walk a Thousand Miles

“Go ahead and switch your style up, and if they hate, then let ’em hate, and watch the money pile up.” —50 Cent

We’ve all seen the movie White Chicks. And if you haven’t, you’ve definitely heard Vanessa Carlton’s song featured in it, “A Thousand Miles.” The harmonious melody of the piano coupled with the passion to cross a ridiculous distance for someone is relatable to anybody. It was this song that unexpectedly brought me and a friend more attention than we could have imagined possible.

* * *

I was a senior in college and on vacation in Los Angeles to explore California before the Air Force stationed me on the central coast. I was with one of my close friends, Elliott Pratt, in Santa Monica for a night out. After smooth-talking the rental car company employees, we convinced them to upgrade our base-level car rental to a brand-new Camaro. Naturally, I decided to be the DD for the night. If I was going to take an L, at least I’d get to whip around all that horsepower on the streets of L.A.

We walked up and down the main street of Santa Monica, desperate to meet at least one girl. It was Elliott’s birthday, and the dude was striking out harder than a three-year-old playing T-ball while blindfolded. I can’t really blame it on him, since my wingman skills needed serious work. You’d think a Marine and an Air Force officer would have better luck with all the muscles and war stories (neither—we had neither).

As the night came to a close, we both decided to give up and take the Camaro back to the hotel. I felt bad for Elliott since we tried so hard to get a girl’s attention but succeeded only in turning everyone away. We tried pickup lines, fake accents, elaborate stories about our world travels, and even pretending we had a mutual friend. Nothing could get any of the girls to open up to a conversation further than “I have a boyfriend.” Apparently everyone is taken in Los Angeles. Or at least named “I Have A Boyfriend” since that was a go-to response for, “Hi, what’s your name?” Even the creepy gothic girl on the street corner we asked to take to a late-night food joint wasn’t interested. That’s when we knew we had hit the bottom.

So we hopped in the red muscle car, and I plugged in my iPod. Since the car’s default setting is to play iTunes in alphabetical order, “A Thousand Miles” always played first. We had been on this trip for a few days, so the piano intro was getting annoying. However, this time, Elliott looked at me and said, “Just let it play.”

“Okay, dude, it’s your birthday. But this is weird,” I responded, as Vanessa’s voice started to fill the car’s cabin.

Making my way downtown

Walking fast

Faces pass

And I’m home bound

We pulled up to a traffic circle and I whipped around it so fast I almost had a burnout going. That’s when I looked over at Elliott, smiling mischievously, and he knew exactly what I was thinking. We turned the windows down, blasted the song, and revved into high RPMs to do donuts around the traffic circle. It was the dumbest thing two bros could possibly do together. But I couldn’t stop laughing.

The shock value was enough to get a few people to stop on the street and cheer us on. That’s when Elliott and I knew we just had to own it. Flexing our hotshot personas earlier didn’t work to get us attention, so might as well go with this. So I pulled out of the traffic circle and cruised down the Santa Monica main street. Its sidewalks were packed with people, all noticing our Camaro—the only car rolling at 10 mph, playing “A Thousand Miles” so loud with us singing along so passionately that the club music was being overshadowed by Ms. Carlton’s piano.

At first, we got some confused looks, so Elliott turned it down and quickly tried to find another song while we waited at a traffic light. Then, some guy who resembled Terry Crews and who clearly got his money’s worth from his gym membership yelled from the crosswalk,

“Hey! Turn that back up! That’s my shit.”

When a 300-pound man standing five feet from your stopped vehicle yells at you to do something, you do it.

And sure enough, he started singing along:

“’Cause you know I’d walk a thousand miles if I could just see you—”

And all three of us together—

“Tonight.”

It was a scene that deserved a spot in White Chicks. Or a Disney movie. Or The Real World—I don’t know. But whatever it was, it was unexpected. At that moment, I learned that being myself was the best face I could put on if I wanted to get people’s attention—specifically a girl’s. Because the more we owned that song as we cruised down the street, the more attention we got.

People walking by would sing along, play their air pianos, or hold their pretend microphones. Short men, tall girls, black, white, green, old, young—it didn’t matter. Everyone could get behind this song. As they saw us putting ourselves out there, they wanted to be a part of it.

Elliott and I drove up and down that street more than four times. It was the highlight of our night. I had played my pretend piano so passionately that the nonexistent strings came off. After we had heard the song over six times, we decided to head back to the hotel—the night was finally a win.

We made it to the outskirts of Santa Monica and pulled up to a stoplight. There wasn’t a car in sight that late, except for a Honda full of six girls next to us. Their windows were down, and every face, including the driver’s, was on a phone. If someone had been holding a Starbucks coffee, it might have been the most basic thing I’ve ever seen.

I looked over at Elliott.

He looked back at me.

We looked at the iPod.

This was our time.

As the first keys of Vanessa’s piano started to break the midnight silence, we slipped on sunglasses and sang the words to the opening line. Our car shook as we danced to the strumming violin. We revved the engine and sang like it was the last day on Earth. We had every girl’s attention. Waving our hands out the windows, pointing at our now adoring fans, and me playing the most amazing piano while Elliott held the microphone put us directly into each girl’s Snapchat feed. The girls were laughing so hard they didn’t even notice the light had turned green.

We had found our move. Girls love “A Thousand Miles”—and a guy who’s man enough to sing the lyrics.

From that point on, I used this move in many different places. Late nights in North Carolina driving friends around, waiting at a stoplight with some tough guy parked next to me, sitting in L.A. traffic surrounded by unhappy passengers, even a cop at an intersection; I usually get most of them to sing along, but if not, I always get smiles.

Most of us are too afraid to come out of that comfort zone we build around ourselves. We want to keep our commute predictable, and something like “A Thousand Miles” throws a curveball in every situation. Even the most intimidating of drivers have let their wall down to join me in the chorus if I have the song turned up enough. This song is just one example of something I have found that can reach almost anyone’s inner child, allowing them to either join in the fun or feel awkward watching me enjoy myself. Another example involves a ridiculous getup worn at all the wrong places.

* * *

I was invited to shoot video footage of runway models at a high-end rooftop fashion show in downtown L.A. I had a team of three videographers from my company, BillCo Productions: Dave White, Shivam Kashiwala, and Dannie Frank. I’d met Dannie through Tinder in L.A., and she helped take photos for the company (that’s what Tinder is for, right?). Dave was a nuclear missile operator I met at my first Air Force base. We called him Dad since he was usually the voice of reason when the squad attempted far too ambitious plans in Hollywood.

All three were dressed in stunning outfits. I also had a sharp-looking suit. But because UNC had won the Final Four game that night and was set to go to the National Championship, I had to adjust my wardrobe.

“Dude, you cannot [CR5] wear that basketball jersey over your suit,” Dave said. “I love you, man, but that looks silly.”

“Of course I’m going to wear it. We won, dude. I gotta represent.”

“This is a rooftop fashion show,” Dannie said condescendingly. “You can’t show up looking so immature.”

“I’m working for my company. Representing only me. I’m doing this, and I’m owning it,” I replied confidently.

“Whatever, dude. It’s your company,” Shivam said as Dave nodded in agreement.

So I owned it—and people noticed.

“Hey, did the Tar Heels win today?” a fashion show guest asked me as I took my place by the runway.

“Hell, yeah, we did!” I said, looking down proudly at my Marcus Paige jersey.

“I love it, man! Heels are looking good this year!” he said as we shook hands.

I met tons of new people—celebrities, the fashion label owners, and plenty of new friends. Why? Because in the fashion industry, bold authenticity stands out. And as dumb as a bright blue basketball jersey looked, you can’t argue that I didn’t make waves. A jersey snugly wrapped around a dark suit was a fashion statement of its own kind.

Dannie, on the other hand, was so upset with my lack of “class” that she quit the company right after that event.

That event wasn’t the only one in which I influenced others with my apparel choice. I showed up to an exotic car shoot in Malibu in a Gumby suit. Lamborghini owners suddenly weren’t the center of attention, and I think this bothered them. I also arrived at a red carpet shoot in San Diego soaking wet with flip-flops on, since I wanted to play in the ocean first. I just told everyone that I had flown in from England, my bags were lost, and I didn’t have another outfit to change into. I was welcomed with Californian hospitality and connected with several models and talent agencies. Both instances earned me new friends and interesting conversations I never would have had if I had looked professional and blended in.

I think this innate sense of authenticity is why kids are so great, and why I’ll be Peter Pan my whole life. Singing along with Vanessa Carlton or dressing funny were just ways I could act like a kid. But that stuff is not about maintaining a level of immaturity; it’s something more.

In his book about intrinsic motivation, Drive: The Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us, Daniel Pink observes, “Children careen from one flow moment to another, animated by a sense of joy, equipped with a mindset of possibility, and working with the dedication of a West Point cadet.”[5]

It’s like one day everyone decides, “I’m growing up—time to be predictable and lose my curiosity.” I imagine growing up looks something like this:

Step 1: Balance checkbook

Step 2: Watch CNN

Step 3: Sell Pokémon card collection

Step 4: Complain about the NASDAQ

Obviously it’s not that straightforward, but how many adults do you know who would still publicly sing “A Thousand Miles” of their own accord? “You start to get ashamed that what you’re doing is childish,” explains psychologist Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi.[6]

Ashamed? You mean, let your soul die?

When we attempt to fit into a larger mold of what society accepts, we lose our authenticity. People are simultaneously drawn to authenticity but afraid to express it.

In an article written by Steve Hawk, Dr. Glenn Carroll, Professor of Organizations at Stanford Graduate School of Business, explains why we’re drawn to authenticity. “Part of it is an attempt to individuate ourselves and find something that’s different and more appealing to us than it is to the masses.”[7]

It’s like that special feeling you get when you listen to your favorite song after it comes out and no one knows about it yet. Once it’s on the radio and your dad is singing it, you all of a sudden hate it. That’s because your love for the song is no longer unique to your individuality.

While we can’t always control how mainstream our interests might be, we can always control our own story. The concept that’s tied to our beliefs and choices is known as our moral authenticity.

“When people are attracted to your moral authenticity,” Carroll explains, “it gives them a unique attachment to your product, because your identity is inalienable. Nobody else has your story.”

Say you were aiming to purchase one of two identical Shelby Cobras, but one was built and owned by Carroll Shelby himself. You’d probably choose Carroll’s, right? That’s because despite being the exact same car, one of them has a one-of-a-kind story, and its value increases with its level of authenticity.

Think about this for a second. If your life story is unique, and you have your own beliefs and choices, how would you describe your own picture of moral authenticity? What makes you as unique as a car built by Carroll Shelby vs. all the other Cobras out there? What does your story look like? What are your values? What choices would only you make?

Back when I had a conversation with a friend who was on the verge of committing suicide, I reminded them of this concept. Except in simpler terms. I said, “Did you know that you are the only version of you that will ever exist in history, forever in both directions of time? And that no one will ever be better at being you than you are?”

Authenticity is a priceless feature, and everyone is equipped with it. The question is, how willing are you to share it with others? See, authenticity is in both high supply and demand—everyone has it. But only some of us are willing to put it out on the shelf.

When I was twenty-three, I finally caught up with my high school crush in California. I hadn’t seen her in years, but I remember having a conversation about life and how much I had been doing to be like a kid and explore the world every day. I was excited to adventure, and unafraid of what others thought about me.

She mentioned that I was probably a late bloomer, that I was getting out that “crazy side” we all go through in high school and that eventually it would wear off. Instead of being honest with herself, I think she was just embarrassed to try anything other than her planned professional career. She had a reputation to protect and a self-conscious bubble that wouldn’t burst. To quote J. M. Barrie’s Peter Pan, “You need not be sorry for her. She was one of the kind that likes to grow up.” As for me, I was always off in Neverland being myself.

Being yourself doesn’t have to mean singing along to “A Thousand Miles,” but it might mean getting out of that comfort zone and showing people who you really are without reservation, without caring what they think. I know you’ve heard this before, but when is the last time you really tried it?

So the next time you’re in a place of predictability, maybe at your boring office job or even sitting in traffic, remember that you have an authentic identity, own it, and let everyone around you know that you’d walk a thousand miles, maybe all the way to Neverland, if you can just see them tonight.

Major Keys:

��There is power in confidence. Owning a situation instead of showing embarrassment can convince others to do the same.

��Never be ashamed that what you’re doing appears childish. Struggling to fit in and acting like everyone else is the most immature action there is—that’s what middle schoolers do to win friends.

��Your story is the most authentic gift you will ever have. No one will ever be just like you.

The sexy red Camaro Elliott and I rented for our trip in L.A. Elliott is driving, and he’s probably playing “A Thousand Miles.” We could only afford to rent a Prius but with casual conversation, convinced the dealer to upgrade us to the new muscle car.

Wear your team’s colors to fashion shows, and own it. Shivam Kashiwala is on the left and Dave White on the right

Challenge: Find something you can do to express who you really are. Never be embarrassed of unapologetic expression—be a kid and explore what the world has to offer, and put yourself out there for people to see. It can be as simple as singing in public, dressing funny, drawing a picture, or writing a story. Expression is how you share your authentic personality with others. Who knows? You might even find someone willing to sing “A Thousand Miles” with you, too.

Chapter 9: Swipe Right

“If I have any particular appeal to women, maybe it’s because I listen more than other guys do and appreciate how they think and feel about things.” —Ryan Gosling

Tinder. Bumble. OkCupid. Bars. Concerts. Class. Wherever your go-to spot is, we all have our ways of finding someone to date. But today, dating can have so many complicated questions that we may not be ready to answer. Are you going exclusive? Just in it for hookups? Long-term? Is it an open relationship? Are you gay? Does it matter? While we can sit here and open a can of politically charged worms, I’d rather focus on one thing I’ve learned personally: most guys don’t treat girls like they deserve to be treated.

See, leading up to college, I hadn’t even held a girl’s hand. I kept all of my crushes a secret and didn’t express any sort of attraction to anyone. This made me wish I just had a girlfriend more than anything. Once I made it to college, I fell for the first girl who liked me (which was a mistake) and bounced from that relationship to another without a cool-down period (also a mistake), never really taking the time to explore what it would be like to meet new people and go on casual dates.

After college, I moved from North Carolina to Lompoc, California. You’ve never heard of Lompoc because it’s in the middle of nowhere. (Comes with the territory of working with a space and missile wing.) Lompoc was a land of geographical isolation and social interactions only with my fellow Airmen. Thus began the start of my Tinder career. Tinder is where I learned a lot about girls pretty quickly. And I still don’t know a fraction of a percent of everything I could know.

Tinder: the go-to hookup site for shallow millennials, right? Well, usually, yes. This is why I am able to I swing quite a few dates.

Most guys are trying to get the hookup as fast as possible, with as little effort as needed. Opening lines, whether it be at a bar or through a Tinder message, usually focus on the girl’s looks or appearance. They might even include a corny pickup line. Basically, we’re working with surface-level communication.

I like to embrace unpredictability and find ways to stand out, so I created a game where the girl gets to be in control. I tell her I have an idea she might like, and to choose a number between one and ten. Then I give her a question based on the number she chooses. One will be surface level, while ten will be deep.

The mystery of not knowing what question I’ll ask but also the control of steering the course of the game keeps most girls interested. While this isn’t failproof, this is my initial way of standing out. Then when it finally comes to asking the girl out on a date, I call her. You know, like a man. To keep things simple, I usually ask her out on an ice cream date or to get dessert. Then the rest of the date will be completely spontaneous.

The first thing I’ll do is compliment her shoes, hair, or nails, since girls usually spend time on those things and guys rarely notice. I’ll walk to her door and back to my car, where I will open the door for her.

If you’re still with me, you’re ahead of most guys already.

When we eat ice cream or ice skate (whatever she agrees to do), I talk as much about her as possible, being very careful to listen and make eye contact. I build the conversation around everything she says, using my own experiences as a platform to inspire her.

Here’s where I will add in a signature move: I ask her if she can sing well. Always, the girl gets nervous. Before she can refuse, I suggest that we get back into the Mustang, and make her promise to sing. I play 90s music that everyone knows, like “All Star” or “All The Small Things” to break the ice even more. Then I drive her to an empty parking lot and make her stand in front of the car. By now, she’s a little more comfortable because I have just tried to sing Smash Mouth lyrics out loud. I turn on Michael Bublé and teach her to swing dance under the stars by the headlights of the car. From this point, everything else I do will be completely spontaneous and unpredictable based on the things she tells me she likes earlier in the date. I am never in it for a hookup—just to inspire the girl I’ve had the privilege of taking out and have a fun night to share with someone.

“You’re not like most guys,” most girls will say.

Honestly, I’m not anything special. I am just willing to do a lot of the things most guys are forgetting because they have other motives.

What I’ve learned is that every girl is completely different. Some hate dancing. Some hate singing. Some love to sit and talk. Some would rather have an activity to do. This is a challenge to sort out on the first date, but the common ground is that each one is usually surprised when I treated her with respect. When I expressed a genuine belief in her dreams and am authentic without any sort of mask or fear of judgment. I always sing my hardest, dance awkwardly, and am just myself the entire time. I am surprised to hear how many girls have never experienced a date where someone holds the door for them, or respects them for no reason other than the fact that they deserve it.

Still, it’s usually an uphill battle for me to even get a date, and not every one of them goes perfectly. I’m a pretty old-school and normal guy. But I think I can speak for all girls when I say that respect, listening, and manners take you to the next level as a guy, and most guys either don’t know that or choose not to care.

I love you. Guys: we like to throw this one around when we’re dating someone. Or when we’re obsessed with a sports team. Or a car. Or whatever we’re into (Taylor Swift?). Girls: I’m sure he’s used this one too early. Guys: stop using this unless you really mean it.

Did you know the English dictionary defines love as a form of attraction, or a score of zero in tennis? Our language doesn’t really do the word justice for what it truly means.

The Greek language defines love in four different ways using the words eros, storge, philos, and agape. Eros is affection derived from feelings of physical attraction. Storge is affection existing between family members. Philos refers to reciprocal or brotherly love. And agape is unconditional love, the form of affection most closely related to how God loves humans, and what we should aim for with our significant other. That means even when she puts her feet on the dash of the Mustang, or tapes over this weekend’s NFL game, or leaves out dirty dishes, or picks a restaurant and still complains about it, we continue to love her unconditionally.

It’s perfectly fine to not like someone. Liking someone is just a feeling. And feelings are fleeting and fickle; they can change based on a circumstance. Love is a behavior and should remain constant as a commitment. That means I might not like the Tar Heels when they lose to unranked NC State, but I still love them because I am unconditionally committed to supporting my team no matter what. Replace your own team with a person to really understand agape love. If you really love her, there is nothing she can do to change that. It’s unconditional and does not change over time.

I think the respected hip-hop artist, Lecrae, says it best: “Men, enrich your woman’s life. Give her experiences she’ll cherish for a lifetime. Challenge her mind and guard her heart.”

I’ll continue to take different girls out until I find one who resembles Ariana Grande, and I’ll do my best to show the one I choose unconditional and agape love. But until then, I’ll stick with my plan of showing nothing but respect and my true self.

(Note: This chapter is shorter than others because, let’s face it, that’s pretty much all I know about girls.)

Major Keys:

��Guys: Take a hard look at your motives for being with a girl. If you’re in it for the wrong reasons, it’s almost sure to fall apart.

��Girls: Don’t settle for a guy who isn’t willing to go the extra mile to treat you the way you should be treated. Don’t lower your standards for a guy. Make him raise his.

��Liking someone and loving someone are two different things. Liking is a feeling, while love is a behavior.

Challenge: Take a girl (or your current girl) out on a date. Do all the clichés like holding the door open or telling her that you love her hair. Just show some general respect. If you’re a girl, show your guy this chapter or force him to watch The Notebook with you. He might be forgetting some things and just needs a gentle reminder for what you deserve.

Chapter 10: That Thin Blue Line

“Every man is entitled to make a darn fool of himself at least once in a lifetime.” —Henry Ford

I’m that guy. You know, the one who drives fast and obnoxiously down the street and zips in between slow drivers. I hate slow drivers. Despite the jokes that “I could have had a V8,” my Mustang’s 365 hp V6 serves me well. Your girlfriend likes it.

Either way, I learned quickly that a blacked-out custom ride with light blue racing stripes is like a bull’s-eye to police. I’d wanted this ride ever since I was nine years old and saved for it since. By my junior year in college, I had enough money to pay for it in full off the lot. This was the beginning of many hard lessons in driving. If you’ve ever driven a Mustang, you understand how impossible it is to drive like a law-abiding citizen. The allure of speed and burnouts tempts you every time you sit behind the steering wheel. It’s an American classic, full of heritage and nostalgic memories to make anyone smile. It even transcends wealth. You can make six figures or six dollars an hour and still appreciate American muscle when you see it. (Obviously I don’t have a girlfriend, and this is my pride and joy.)

I was driving “The Dark Horse” one night with Rob Jones riding shotgun. We were on our way back from Cook Out, a North Carolina version of In-N-Out or Whataburger. Rob Jones and I had two wonderful girls in the back seats, Karli (also involved in the golf car incident) and Jenna Hess. Jenna took a stab at uncertainty when she moved from La Crosse, Wisconsin, to Chapel Hill based on a BuzzFeed top ten list. She didn’t know anyone or have a job. She just packed her things and drove to North Carolina. Her funny, Midwestern way of saying “bag” and “sad” made me love her instantly. Any angel as sweet as Jenna deserved the world and all the friends in it. Rob Jones and I were gasoline to her fire of unpredictability, so naturally before we returned to campus, Rob Jones asked, “Can we do a burnout?”

If you’re driving a Mustang, burnouts aren’t a request; they’re a requirement. So I started to look for an open parking lot. I took it to a church I knew that was always empty that close to midnight. I had done burnouts almost five consecutive nights in a row. I just bought the Mustang, and it had Michelins on it, so I was good for plenty of smoke shows. Plus, I wasn’t buying tires. (Sorry, Pops.)

But as we pulled into the lot, we noticed an unmarked police car sitting in the back of the lot. I guess they noticed all the tire tracks from previous nights and decided to post some security. This site was no good. We dipped and continued our search for a new place to turn and burn.

After driving around for an hour in the darkness, blasting classic essentials like “Dirty Little Secret” and “Scotty Doesn’t Know,” we came across a massive empty space beside the lake where our school’s rowing team practices. It was far away from any neighborhoods or streets, and I could tell The Dark Horse wanted some of that untouched pavement.

I slowly rolled into the parking lot with my headlights off, the idle rumble of the 365 hp engine gurgling underneath us. I looked at Rob Jones and the girls in the silence and just smiled. We reached the center of the crisp blacktop and Rob Jones picked up his iPod. I turned off the traction control and shifted the Mustang into first gear. I gave the gas a few taps to rev up the engine while I held the hand brake up. The opening lyrics to Rob Jones’s song selection played as we rolled our windows down.

“Living easy, living free. Season ticket on a one-way ride,” Bon Scott, the lead singer of AC/DC, sang.

Rob Jones and I looked at each other. We were about to experience life.

“Hell, yeah!” we shouted in unison.

I dropped the hand brake and held both pedals down as the engine started to heat up. Bon rolled through the speakers as I revved the engine: “Going down, party time. My friends are gonna be there too . . .”

The snare drum hit, and in a moment of perfect synchronization, the back tires ripped free from the concrete, and the fastback tail of the Mustang whipped counterclockwise as we were thrown hard against the backs of our seats.

“I’m on the highway to hell!” we all sang together. “Hiiiiighway to hell.”

RPMs shot up into the 7,000 range. A massive plume of smoke fired out of the Roush exhaust pipes, and like a roller coaster I could control, we whipped around traffic islands in the parking lot. I was whirling the steering wheel around from full left turns to the right. Rob Jones was laughing so hard he couldn’t breathe. The girls were screaming, their hair flying all over the place, while I led the beast into submission with the face of Vin Diesel from Fast & Furious. Shooting gaps between curbs and launching the 3,500-pound monster into drifting turns across the wide-open space was a liberating celebration of ignorant youth. Pure bliss.

We ran the Mustang until Rob Jones and the girls had had enough. Our equilibrium was off balance and our heads were spinning. The tires were smoking and the engine was red hot. It’s necessary that every once in a while you take a Mustang out to stretch its legs, letting it melt not only rubber but also all of your own stress away.

“Let’s get out of here, man!” Rob Jones suggested, now realizing that we could get into trouble.

My hands were shaking from adrenaline. They were gripping the wheel so tight that my knuckles had turned white.

“Yeah,” Jenna agreed, “I don’t want to get into trouble!”

So I shifted back into gear and goosed it out of the parking lot. We drove a couple miles down the street and into a nearby neighborhood. We then drove slowly to stealthily hide amongst the shadows. Then, ominously waiting in the back of a cul-de-sac in the distance was a police car with the lights turned off. As we made our turn so gracefully, its headlights came on and it started to follow closely.

“We’re dead!” Karli said with fear in her voice.

“No, bro, you’re good,” Rob Jones reassured both Karli and me. “He’s way too far away to have known what happened. Just be cool.”

Immediately, blue and red lights reflected off of Rob Jones’s stupid face.

Jenna started to panic. “Oh, no, we’re so screwed!”

I was determined to stay calm. “Guys, we’re fine, just be cool,” I said.

Another police car came out of nowhere and pulled in front of me as I made my way to the side of the road and onto the gravel.

Jenna started to pray out loud. Rob Jones was trying not to laugh. This was getting ridiculous.

“Shh! Shhhhh!” I tried to quiet everyone down as my shaking hands pulled my registration and proof of insurance out of the glove compartment. I had never been pulled over before.

“Here he comes! Quiet!” I demanded.

The large, intimidating police officer approached my window.

“License and registration, please,” he said with a deep voice.

I reached out and handed him the required documents. Without making eye contact, he walked back to his cruiser.

“Your dad is literally going to kill you,” Rob Jones kindly reminded me.

“Dude, chill out, just let me talk,” I said, beginning to show some anxiety. “There’s no way they know about what we just did. They have to prove it.”

After a few minutes, the officer got out of his cruiser and started to walk back toward the Mustang. He was on the radio giving an operator a detailed description of my car. I was in the books.

The crunching of the officer’s boots on gravel stopped right outside my window. As I looked up, he beamed a flashlight directly into my face.

“Now, I’m only going to give you one chance here,” he said, continuing to shine the flashlight at me.

I nodded submissively without saying a word.

“Just a few moments ago,” the officer continued, “my partner and I heard a lot of engine revving, tires screeching, and what sounded like street racing. You wouldn’t have been a part of that, would you?”

“Uh, sir, that was all us,” I said, looking down at my steering wheel. “Everything you heard was this car. No racing, just burnouts in a nearby parking lot. That’s it.”

And then the officer . . . chuckled?

“Well, son. I see the car, and the racing stripes. I see who is probably your best friend there, and the girls in the back. I get it. And to be honest, I’d probably have done the same thing.”

Rob Jones started to form his classic grin.

“This guy’s a good kid, yeah?” the officer asked Rob Jones as he pointed to me.

“Oh, yes, sir, he is! And his dad is going to kill him!”

The officer chuckled again. “Well, hopefully not today, buddy. See, because of his honesty, I’m going to let this one slide. He has a clean record, and I’d like to keep it that way. But I better not find you boys out here again.”

I said, “Catch me if you can!” and slammed on the gas as my wheels spun and I fled the scene like a bat out of hell.

Not quite.

“Yes, sir, you can count on it!” I said as all four of us nodded our heads and smiled like the delinquents we were.

The officer, still smiling, walked back to his cruiser. Rob Jones started slapping the dashboard and laughing hysterically. I think Jenna almost cried. I let out a major sigh of relief.

“Dude, let’s go back and do more donuts,” Rob Jones suggested, looking at me for approval.

I almost slapped him.

* * *

I’d like to say I learned my lesson that night. Alas, this same story happened once more when I was clocked traveling 120 mph in a 55 mph zone on my twenty-second birthday. And again when I pulled out of a left turn lane and drifted through an intersection. And yet again when I was zipping in and out of traffic on Thanksgiving because my roommate and I were getting hype over “A Thousand Miles” (go figure). And once more when I was blasting Fetty Wap’s “Trap Queen” and high-fiving pedestrians from my moving vehicle in downtown Santa Barbara . . . and once more when I aggressively pulled out of a Diplo concert in Hollywood, frustrated after waiting so long for the crowd to thin out. I smooth-talked my way out of each scenario—I never even had a warning ticket to show for any of these incidents.

The day I swept three other cars out of the freeway at full speed was the day I finally got a ticket. But I couldn’t talk my way out of that one since the evidence was thrown all over I-40.

Do you hate me yet? Me, too.

The biggest lesson I learned from this was that Rob Jones will always be the one to push me over the edge and convince me to do something when I was unsure—but still wanted to. Also, that I should chill out with the driving. Fortunately, the lesson about Rob Jones led to many positive things, like chasing a dream, building a company, writing a book, and talking to a pretty girl.

I also learned that “Yes, sir,” and “No, sir,” go a long way when talking to police. Speaking with respect and caution whenever dealing with a person of authority has gotten me out of trouble on many occasions. Not to mention I have finally calmed down with the driving . . . for the most part. It’s important to let loose and break a rule every once in a while, but only if you’re smart about it. I think it has a lot to do with the intent. My friends and I are usually there for the adventure, trying new things and exploring places. And if we’re caught (which happens frequently), we can come up with a quick yet honest story to buy our way out of the situation, or demonstrate respect to walk away with a hard-learned lesson.

As humans, our sense of adventure constantly needs to be fueled. We’re always seeking that new feeling or that next leap of uncertainty. Some of us choose to act on it, while others push it away as if it were a childish feeling they no longer want to acknowledge. I say go for it. If life gives you a parking lot, do burnouts. If there’s a wide-open street, hit the gas—figuratively. Because if you die having followed every single rule, you may have been cheating your inner sense of creativity and adventure the whole time—and who wants to do that? Let yourself free. Say yes more often, and drive it like it’s a V6 Mustang.

Major Keys:

��Telling the truth, admitting your mistakes, and using “sir” or “ma’am” when speaking to authority goes a long way.

��It’s important to let loose and challenge a small rule every once in a while, as long as you’re willing to face the consequences.

��Intent is a major factor when deciding what rules you’re going to challenge. Doing something for adventure and doing something to be malicious are two totally different things.

Me (left) with Drew Taggart (second from left) and Alex Pall (far right) from The Chainsmokers after I talked my way onto a nonexistent press list in California. Photo taken by Orchid Elizondo

Shivam filming as I do burnouts in The Dark Horse. The logo was a design for the production company we started in L.A. Photo captured from our drone, which was flying rogue on its own.

Challenge: Push the limits of a situation. See if you can explore something that’s a little off-limits (like a fancy hotel pool or a hidden trail) or experience something that most people avoid. Consider your safety and the possible consequences. And make sure that if you get caught, you have an honest story and good intentions for why you’re doing what you’re doing. Even Rob Jones and I can’t get away with everything.

Chapter 11: Dolphins Are Better Than Sleep

“Only put off until tomorrow what you are willing to die having left undone.” —Pablo Picasso

Don’t you have days where you’re in work or class and wish you could run away? How about life? Do you wish you could just run away from reality and escape? I think I can speak for everyone when I say, “Let’s just fill up the tank and drive until the gas runs out.” Life sucks sometimes.

Pops wouldsayin this situation, “Get used to it.” Mom would say, “Do you want me to give you a hug?” (Thanks, Mom.) But it’s hard for all of us to accept a lot of the tension that builds up in our shoulders as we deal with more and more of the same routine every day. I mean, every day we have to wake up at the same time, get ready, eat breakfast, and drink a Red Bull just to think about starting work. That will drive anyone insane, eventually. So how do we make sure we don’t go crazy and end up running after someone asking for money in the middle of a Hawaiian 7-Eleven parking lot? The answer? We literally run away.

* * *

I was sitting in the Atlanta airport late at night, with my mom dozing off beside me, and we were about to board a flight home to North Carolina. I’d been visiting my thirteen-year-old cousin, Emerson Doolittle, for his confirmation. What a kid. Even at a young age, he frequently picked up a flip cam to film silly videos in his backyard, highlight videos of basketball tricks with his friends, and live-stream video Facebook sessions for his friends. He was already on that crucible grind!

Sounds familiar.

I had recently broken up with my second girlfriend, so I was an emotional disaster. Most guys act tough and don’t show emotion. But if you know me, I take relationships seriously, so when one falls apart, I’m a mess. Summer was coming to an end, and I had nothing to show for it. My friends were off studying abroad or working at exciting internships. I was stressing about classes starting, the broken relationship I was hoping would come back together (it never did), and the fact that my summer consisted of Netflix and refreshing my Facebook timeline every thirty seconds.

This airport story is just like yours. My flight had been delayed a few times, and I just wanted to get home. I was hungry, didn’t want to spend money on the overpriced packaged food at Starbucks, tired, low on phone battery, and without Wi-Fi. So I sat and stared at the impatient expressions of passengers around me—which all read, “Can this please hurry up?”

Whenever you want time to speed up like I did then, you’re doing something wrong. There’s always something you can do to pass the time and shake up the predictability of the situation, even in the most dry and helpless of scenarios. You could start a game with those around you, creating a scavenger hunt together to find a list of things wherever you are, and see who can complete it first. Or maybe write a rap as a group and convince a stranger to perform it. Think of anything to get people out of their comfort zone and—more important—unaware of the concept of time. After all, we’re all in this together.

I decided to take a simpler route and texted my man, Rob Jones. He always knew what to do.

Me: Dude, I’m so bored and stressed about a thousand different things.

Rob Jones: Come to the beach.

Me: I can’t come to the beach. It’s 8:00 p.m. and we haven’t even taken off yet. I won’t get home until midnight.

Rob Jones: So what. Drive over once you land.

Me: I’m wearing khakis and a polo and have no other clothes. I wouldn’t get to you until like 5:00 a.m., dude.

I was making the mistake of trying to poke holes in a Rob Jones idea. He caught on.

Rob Jones: Dude. Let’s watch the sunrise.

I thought about it for a minute. I had nothing to do the next day. Except I didn’t have anything I would need for the beach. But I had the Mustang waiting at the airport in North Carolina, and it would be a four-hour drive to the beach. . . . I could buy Red Bull. Yes. That’s always a good plan.

I’d convinced myself. Now to convince Mom.

“Hey, Mom,” I said quietly. “Rob Jones wants me to come to the beach. So I think I’m going to go.”

Her tired eyes looked up at me. “This weekend? I guess that’s fine . . . ?”

“No, like right when I land.”

She immediately sat up in the seat. “Oh, heavens, no—your father will kill you. You won’t be able to sleep. Not happening. End of discussion.”

“Mom, Dad doesn’t have to know. I’m going. I have my own car, I can do this,” I said with confidence.

“Nope,” she cut me off without even making eye contact.

I dropped it. I figured I’d wear her down on the flight until she’d be too tired to say no.

I told Rob Jones it probably wouldn’t happen, and he started to get inspirational on me.

Bro, the sunrise is going to be legendary. You’re coming.

“Hey, Mom,” I said after we’d finally made it on the plane and were pushing back out of the gate. “Rob Jones keeps texting me. He says I can stay with him. Can I just tell him that I’m coming?” I was pushing it.

My mom was never one to spoil an adventure if she could help it. I could see in her eyes that she wanted to say no. But as usual, she decided it was better that I just go for it and learn my own lessons.

“I don’t want you to go, but I can’t stop you,” she said. The engines started to rev up and the plane began to rumble.

“Thanks, Mom.” I smiled gratefully at her as she slipped off to sleep.

I immediately texted Rob Jones. Bro. I’m in.

His reply came through a second later: I’ll see you at sunrise.

The aircraft left the ground, and I drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Boom!

The wheels thundered as we touched down in Raleigh, North Carolina.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the flight attendant said over the intercom, “it is my pleasure to welcome you to Raleigh-Durham International Airport, where the local time is five past midnight. Please leave your tray tables and seats in the locked and upright position as we approach the gate.”

We made our way off the plane, dragging our feet as a collective mob to baggage claim and eventually onto the bus to take us to the parking lot.

“Are you still going to the beach?” Mom asked as we were pulling up to our stop in the parking lot.

“Duh,” I said, “I’ll buy a couple Red Bulls to keep me going on the way. Text you when I get there.”

I could already see Rob Jones’s dorky grin. Here we were, set up for another adventure during the hours everyone else sleeps.

I hugged Mom goodbye under the only streetlight in the emptying airport parking lot. She was ready to get home and fall asleep. I was building energy for my escape.

I opened the door to the Mustang and sat behind the wheel. Home. It didn’t matter where I was in the country (and we had been together through many states), the driver’s seat of The Dark Horse was always a home. I gripped the leather-wrapped shifter in silence and turned the keys.

The engine roared to life and the dashboard lights came on. The clock flashed 1:00 a.m. and my heart started to race from the thrill. I wasn’t sure how long this adrenaline would last, but I didn’t want to stick around too long and find out. I pulled out of the parking lot to Katy Perry’s “Hot N Cold” and started my journey.

Speeding along Interstate 40 with the windows down was an escape from everything. I could cruise down the center lane as the headlights paved the way for my flight from reality. All I could hear was the wind rushing into the car, the loud explosions of the Roush exhaust pipes behind me, and the top 40 playlist I was singing along to in order to keep awake for the lengthy haul to the coast. Freedom in its truest form.

This is a feeling so rich with energy. It’s when you drop your schedule with your thoughts of planning and certainty, and trade it all for a whimsical and quick trip in any direction you point to first. Just go!

About two hours into the trip, the novelty of the spontaneity was wearing off, and I needed a boost to carry me the remaining miles to the shore. I had segued from top 40 hits to a mellower James Taylor, which made me too emotional and tired at the wheel.

I wonder what two large Red Bulls at once would feel like? I thought as I pulled into a gas station to fill up. I had never had a cup of coffee in my life, and caffeine wasn’t usually a part of my day. Occasionally, I’d drink an 8 oz. Red Bull for late study nights, but that was pretty much it.

So I purchased two 12 oz. cans and shotgunned them as soon as I got back into the Mustang.

I could see the future.

The faint glow of the speedometer on my dashboard reflected off my wide-open eyes as I looked at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My phone rang, and my shaking hands picked it up.

“HI-THIS-IS-WILL.”

“Hey, dude . . . um . . . okay. Are you close?” Rob Jones asked from the other end.

“YEAH-BRO-I’VE-GOT-RED-BULL-AND-KATY-PERRY-BE -THERE-IN-AN-HOUR.”

“A’ight, man. I’ma knock out. Just wake me up when you get here,” he said quietly before hanging up.

High on caffeine and adrenaline and with no one to talk to, I kept myself entertained.

“I got the eye of the tiger, a fighter, dancing through the fire, ’cause I am the champion, and you’re gonna hear me roar!” I sang along with the radio. I remember wondering what this looked like to some of the cows from the farms I was passing.

I held my hand out the open window and scooped the cold air toward my face. My hair flowed freely as the waves of energy rolled off my caffeine-filled body. I don’t know how long I had been awake at this point, but it wasn’t long enough. There were more adventures to be had.

I finally pulled up to the beach around 5:00 a.m.

“You ready to watch this sunrise?” Rob Jones greeted me as he got out of his car and took his shoes off to walk into the sand.

I smiled. “It better be as dope as Hawaii, because that’s the standard.”

We walked out onto the beach just as the sun was peaking over the horizon. I stood there in my nice airport clothes, my bare feet in the sand, and just let the golden rays touch my face. Rob Jones’s silhouette cast a shadow across the beach, and all you could hear were the North Carolina waves crashing on the sand. It was one of those moments where the present froze in time, and we only had to focus on what we were seeing and feeling. Slowing down—it’s a rare thing we often forget to do.

The wind softly moved the grass growing on top of the sand dunes. I could hear seagulls flying in formation overhead, and the wind rushing over our ears accompanied the sound of the waves rolling onto the beach.

But just as quickly as we slowed down, Rob Jones pitched another brilliant idea.

“You want to grab a kayak and head down to the pier?”

“So down,” I replied as we both took our eyes off the sunrise and looked at each other, eager for adventure. Even though the pier was a couple miles away, I didn’t even think about it. I just said yes.

So we walked back into the neighborhood. The detail I should have assumed was that Rob Jones did not have a kayak. But I didn’t discover this until after we were standing in his neighbor’s backyard about to take their kayak.

“They won’t even know we borrowed it. We’ll bring it right back,” Rob Jones said with his signature grin as we walked around the side of their house to find the kayak.

“Wow. Really, dude?” I asked, realizing that I was now an accomplice.

“Now we just need to borrow some paddles,” he said as we carried the kayak toward the beach. “How about this guy’s house?” He pointed to a nearby cottage.

“Dude, do you even know them?”

“Sure.” He walked into the open garage and grabbed a pair of paddles.

“Hey, what are you guys doing?” someone asked from the porch. A middle-aged woman stepped into view, and she didn’t look too happy.

“Oh, we were just borrowing these paddles,” Rob Jones said in his charming tone. “We have this kayak, and were going to bring them right back! I’m the son of Cathy’s friend, Barbara,” he reassured her.

I swear Rob Jones is connected to everyone. They say we’re all connected by no more than six degrees of separation. Rob Jones is no more than three.

The lady pondered his proposal for a moment. “Oh! I see. Well, I suppose, as long as you guys bring them back!” our new friend replied politely.

“Yes ma’am! We’re going on an adventure to explore the ocean!” Rob Jones said with his best Marco Polo spirit.

I couldn’t believe it. Classic Rob Jones.

We stepped back onto the beach with our vessel and paddles and took it into the water.

“Holy Ice Castle!” Rob Jones hollered as we waded through the frigid water. We overlooked that wet suits also would have been a good snag while we were boosting the kayak and paddles.

“Just get into the boat! I can’t handle this!” I yelled.

We both jumped in the boat and paddled hard through the breaking waves. I was shivering. At this point, I questioned the practicality of our planned adventure and decided that I would rather be inside where it was warm instead of paddling to a pier several miles away. But at this point, there was no turning back.

“Dude, I’m already starving,” I said as I opened the soggy Lunchable I had on reserve. I picked it up on the way to Rob Jones’s house because I don’t go anywhere without food.

“Lemme get one of those sandwiches, BillCo!”

“Oh, yeah? Sure, one sec.” I wasn’t happy since there are only 400 calories in the meal, and I needed them all. “Here you go, dude!” I held out the little cracker and Oscar Mayer lunchmeat snack.

But just before Rob Jones could reach his grubby hands out, I threw the sandwich into the ocean.

“Make your own hibatcher sandwich,” I sneered.

Rob Jones’s eyes widened. “Wow, BillCo. Wow.”

We both looked at the round floating cracker as it separated from the meat circle and cheese square. Suddenly, something shot up from the ocean’s darkness and grabbed the free snack.

“Dolphins!” Rob Jones shouted, nearly rocking the boat over to get a better look.

I looked around us. Multiple fins popped up out of the water. The “dolphins” were actually porpoises.

Rob Jones started laughing. Here we were, once again stuck in the middle of another adventure and something unexpectedly wonderful happened. I would be surprised if this sort of thing wasn’t a recurring theme for Rob Jones and me.

* * *

Unexpected adventures don’t happen on a phone screen. They don’t happen in an office cube. And they definitely don’t happen while you sleep. That day, I pushed the limits of my comfort zone. Not just with my sleep, but with the practicality of that adventure. I could have stopped when my mom said it wasn’t a great idea. Maybe when I landed around midnight. Or when I didn’t have the right outfit for the beach. Or when we didn’t have a kayak. Or even when the water was just too cold. But instead, I just kept saying yes in hopes of experiencing another unexpected adventure.

Rob Jones summed up our porpoise adventure perfectly: “You can count down the days until the weekend and watch videos on your phone to escape from reality, or you can go out and live.”

* * *

As for the pier, we did eventually make it. It was way farther than we estimated, and we paid for it in sunburns. We ended up getting out of the water and dragging the kayak back to where we started. Everything was inconvenient. But worth it? It depends on whether you think porpoises are better than sleep.

Major Keys:

��Slowing down to take in details makes it easier to remember a moment.

��A spontaneous escape from routine is an essential refresh button for your life.

��Don’t let minor setbacks keep you from reaching your goal. Even as they build up, stay focused.

Challenge: Tomorrow, spend an entire day with nature. Don’t use your phone, and go off the grid until the sun goes down. In the words of Rob Jones, “Nature is humbling—when you are standing next to a beautiful sight, you feel grounded and connected at the same time. It’s hard to put into words because you feel so many good things all at once. You know that you are not the center of the universe—nature doesn’t see job title, bank account numbers, race, religion, or anything—it just exists.”

Chapter 12: On My Honor

“Be Prepared . . . the meaning of the motto is that a Scout must prepare himself by previous thinking out and practicing how to act on any accident or emergency so that he is never taken by surprise.” —Robert Baden-Powell

We sometimes forget that our days are numbered. In one moment, you could either lose your life or find out that there isn’t much of it left. We fall into a false sense of security, taking on each day as if there were an infinite number of them. We’re all numb to routine, and our default setting is to let go of any sense of urgency.

Let this sink in: you might die today.

That statement is as real as the words you’re reading. It could all end today, and there’s nothing you can do to guarantee your own safety. But what do we do about it? How do we take advantage of the time we have now and fight back against the natural instinct to just exist?

* * *

I was once again sending away emails to music managers from the comfort of my college dorm room. I was a sophomore, oblivious to even the limited time I had left in college. Even if we live long lives, some of the precious one-time experiences like college are often spent in the blink of an eye.

My phone rang.

“This is BillCo,” I answered.

“Hey, Bill! It’s Blake. How are you?”

Blake was the mentor and Boy Scout leader for my troop’s trip to Sea Base and Northern Tier, two of the most extreme high adventure camps the Boy Scouts had to offer. Once I made Eagle at thirteen, I knocked out these two camps in addition to the third, Philmont, before I turned eighteen. Philmont was a seventy-five-mile hike through New Mexico’s mountains and deserts. Northern Tier was an eighty-five-mile canoe trip through the lakes of Minnesota, and Sea Base was a two-week-long scuba-diving trip in the Bahamas. Philmont is such a big deal in Scouting that when my father visited when he was sixteen, he saved extra money to purchase two leather Philmont belts: one for him and one for his future son. I still wear that belt today—it fits perfectly.

Now that I was done with Boy Scouts and had made it to college, I hadn’t really heard from Blake since the adventures. So I was curious what he had in mind.

“Doing well, my man. What can I do for you?” I replied.

“Good to hear!” he said, but with concern in his voice. “Listen, I’m sorry to bother you, but I’ve got sort of a special request.”

“What’s that?”

“There’s a boy from our troop, his name is Noah Spivey, and he was just diagnosed with cancer.” Blake paused. “We don’t know how much time he has to live.”

That wasn’t what I was expecting to hear. “I’m sorry to hear that, Blake. How old is he?”

“He’s seventeen, and he’s working on his Eagle Scout project. He’s not very close to finishing, but we’re trying to pull something off. The committee said that he still has to complete the requirements, but he might be able to swing it if everyone pitches in to make this happen quickly.”

“Okay. What’s the project? And how can I help?”

“We’re hoping to build a prayer garden outside of the church where his Scout troop meets. Lots of local companies are going to donate materials and volunteers. We want to plan a big celebration for Noah during the same day, and we need someone to capture it all on video. Can you help?” Blake asked hopefully.

“Of course I can,” I responded without hesitation. “Just tell me where you need me to be, and when.”

“Oh, that’s great to hear, Bill! This Friday afternoon at Pleasant Grove United Methodist Church!”

“I’ll be there,” I said. “Thanks for the call, Blake!”

“Looking forward to it! Noah’s family has no idea we’re all doing this. It will be a big surprise,” he added eagerly, and then hung up.

I sat there thinking for a second before resuming my emails. What if someone told me today that I had a limited amount of time to live? What would I do? Go on a trip? Tell someone I loved them? Go rent a Lamborghini to drive? I realized that these are questions we should ask ourselves on a normal day. And then do those things for no other reason than to avoid dying without having experienced what each would have been like.

When Friday arrived, I packed all my camera gear and drove across the state to Noah’s church. After parking and grabbing my equipment, I walked around the back and noticed a large crowd of volunteers, Boy Scouts, and local media. Behind them was an amazing garden of flowers, benches, trees, and beautifully landscaped paths and grass. The community had come together to make this boy’s dream come true. Some of the Scouts held up a tarp to shield the garden from view as the crowd formed a path to see it. We waited for Noah’s arrival.

Suddenly, a long black limousine pulled into the parking lot. Everyone stood in silence with smiles and tears building. We could hardly wait to see his reaction. The back door opened, and his family approached the door with his wheelchair. They transferred him from the limo to the chair, and Noah greeted everyone.

“Well, how’s everyone doing?” he asked politely. I wasn’t sure how many of our surprises he knew were coming, but he was about to find out pretty quickly.

The crowd just smiled with anticipation and joy.

Blake led Noah down the path toward his garden, the Scouts still holding up the tarp so no one could see.

“What an awesome thing this is,” Blake said to Noah, “what you’ve been able to do to touch so many people. You know people can live to be a hundred years old and not have the impact that you’ve had with the short time that you have on this world.”

With Blake’s cue, the boys dropped the tarp to reveal the garden. Noah’s face lit up. He started to clap. Everyone cheered and smiled as the young man realized his dream of an Eagle Scout project had been completed. He had inspired everyone to quickly take part in his dream.

After the applause calmed down, everyone made their way to their vehicles to drive over to Noah’s party at a nearby warehouse. I arrived just as Noah was pulling up in the limo. Blake was already waiting outside, and I followed Noah into the large building, holding a camera up behind him.

We stepped into a large auditorium full of balloons, confetti-covered tables, and decorations. Elaborate food spreads donated from caterers all over the city were displayed, and the entire room was packed with friends, family, and volunteers for the project. A band was on stage, and Marines stood in the back next to community leaders, firemen, Boy Scout leaders, and other distinguished visitors. Everyone erupted in applause when Noah entered.

Noah was crying and clapping, too. It was clear he was touched by his city’s generosity.

I walked around the room to grab clips of all the different festivities as a line formed to greet Noah.

“It’s hard to put into words what we feel,” Noah’s father said over the microphone, “but we just want to thank you all. We just ask that you pray for Noah.”

I watched as Noah broke down in tears with his parents in the background. Each group then presented some sort of award or decoration to Noah for his hard work as a Scout and his perseverance in fighting cancer. I had no experience with something that challenging, but I could tell Noah wasn’t the type to let life push him around.

Once the presentations ended and the guests started to mingle, I approached Noah.

“Hey, man, my name is Bill Collette and I’m filming your video today. I just wanted to meet you!”

Noah shook my hand and thanked me.

“Listen,” I said, “I was your age when I became an Eagle Scout. And I’m proud that you’re in this family now. The project is done, so that means you’ve earned the Heart of an Eagle award. So I want to congratulate you, and give you this.”

I handed him one of the Eagle Scout medals I had from my ceremony. Even though the Heart of an Eagle award is slightly different from becoming an Eagle Scout, I believed he had deserved to have one of my medals. Typically the Heart of an Eagle award is awarded posthumously, but the Occoneechee Council agreed to honor Noah once his Eagle project was complete.

Noah offered the most genuine smile I had ever seen and took the medal from my hand. We gave each other a nod and a good handshake, and then I stepped away.

The kid was seventeen, and already he had done more in his life to change the world than I ever will. He set a high example, he had goals, and he completed them. He inspired a community and brought all kinds of people together, and he certainly changed my life. Because now, whenever I feel like I’m having a slow day, or sitting in another routine meeting I don’t want to be in, or waiting for an airplane in some Atlanta terminal, I think of Noah. I think of what it would be like to have not just limited time left but only one day. Like I’m dying at midnight. And what I would do with those hours if I knew they were the only ones I had left.

Death should not scare us. It’s not there so we live in fear. It’s there so we can maximize our lives. The unpredictability of how much time we have left can fuel us to accomplish more than we think is possible. So start filling up your life while you have time—don’t wait for life to just happen. We only get one shot here, and what we do with each day defines who we are and how many lives we can touch. For me, the clock ends at midnight every day. I treat it like I’ve got twenty-four hours—and that’s it. I can’t guarantee whether I’ll see tomorrow, so I let Noah’s spirit live on as I fit as many adventures as I possibly can into each day. If not for me, for Noah. And for everyone else we can inspire with that kind of spirit.

Major Keys:

��It’s easy to become numb to reality—fight that feeling with a sense of urgency.

��Treat each day as if you are going to die at midnight.

��The unpredictability of death exists so that we can maximize our time on Earth.

Noah Spivey as he saw his prayer garden revealed by the local community and Boy Scouts from his troop.

Challenge: Pretend today was the last day you had on Earth. What would you do with it? Make a list of things you’ve always wanted to tell a few close friends and family, and then send off those messages. Next, make a list of some short-term goals you want to experience before you die, and do three of those things before the week ends. Next week, repeat. Take advantage of the fact that you still have today.

Chapter 13: WAKE UP!

“There’s a storm inside of us. . . . A burning. A river. A drive. An unrelenting desire to push yourself harder and further than anyone could think possible.” —Mark Wahlberg, Lone Survivor

“WAKE UP, CADETS. YOU HAVE SIXTY SECONDS TO BE DRESSED AND AT ATTENTION.”

It was the glorious hour of 4:00 a.m. in the pristine summer weather of Maxwell Air Force Base, Alabama. I had just completed my sophomore year of college and was entering the next stage of training to prove I really wanted to be an officer. Field training was a place where uncertainty and surprises were common, and we had to learn to adjust.

“EAT FASTER. YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES TOTAL.”

Alabama summer getaway. What a wonderful vacation it was.

“CHEST TO BACKS. TIGHTER FORMATIONS.”

Our drill instructors made sure to cater to every need.

“PACK EVERYTHING YOU OWN. WE’RE MARCHING IN THE RAIN. YOU HAVE EIGHT MINUTES.”

Everything was done so quickly to make sure we had enough time for the day’s fun activities.

“THIS IS A 3 A.M. FIRE DRILL. GET OUT NOW. MOVE WITH A PURPOSE.”

We were so excited about new training that it was sometimes hard to sleep for six full hours.

“COLLETTE, WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH YOUR SHIRT ON BACKWARDS AND INSIDE OUT? ARE YOU KIDDING ME!?”

But in all seriousness, even the simplest of freedoms were taken away.

“STARE AT THIS WALL.”

Forty-five minutes later: “KEEP STARING.”

Sleep was limited, food was limited, free time was nonexistent. Phones and Internet were gone. Haircuts were all buzz cuts. No one spoke, only yelled. The weather was 100 to 115 degrees plus humidity while we were in full canvas uniforms and boots. We marched in formation everywhere, eyes never to move around. You couldn’t talk unless an instructor asked you a question. You couldn’t laugh, smile, scratch your nose, look around, tie your shoe, or even go to the bathroom without permission.

As we stood in formation one day in the direct sun, sweat started to pour down my face and into my eyes.

“LET THE SWEAT STING. LET IT BOTHER YOU. YOU’D LIKE TO WIPE YOUR FACE, WOULDN’T YOU, COLLETTE?”

I stood in silence as the salty warm liquid found its way from my forehead to my eyes. It stung as I closed one eye in an attempt to keep it from clouding my vision. Flies buzzed around and sometimes landed on my itchy nose. My stomach growled, as I was always hungry. The sun was as hot as Ariana Grande.

(By the way, field training was where my Ariana Grande fascination started. We were twenty-six days in, and I hadn’t heard music once. On our way to the last 4 a.m. workout, the bus driver agreed to play whatever was on the radio . . . and I heard the voice of an angel caressing my eardrums: I love the way you make me feel, I love it. I love it. I promised myself I’d go home and find this artist and buy every song she ever made. And so I did.)

At first, field training was a bit of a shock. I struggled to pack in 2,000 calories every meal in five minutes, switch uniforms in three, and stand for hours in the ’Bama heat, but eventually I adapted. Discipline was sharpened, patience grew, and external factors like the rain, heat, and yelling instructors rolled over our shoulders. I swear, forty-eight hours in these kinds of conditions and most people would have folded. And we hadn’t come close to what most of the active duty forces carry out on a daily basis. But this was a game. A game of mental strength, stamina, and wit. How long can I survive? Are there more efficient ways to do anything? How can I stay motivated through just one more day? Almost every day, someone decided that they’d had enough.

The rest of us figured out all the shortcuts.

“Hey, team,” one of the cadets addressed our flight during the planning hour, “I figured out that if you spread your vegetables in the mashed potatoes, it sticks together and you can eat it all faster. Stuffing your mouth with bread right off the bat gives you time to chew and cut your meat at the same time.”

Other cadets chipped in their ideas.

“Let’s put the slowest runners in the front of formations during runs,” one of my wingmen said. “That way we can stay together and no one gets left behind.”

“I had another idea!” another cadet chimed in. “We can nudge each others’ knees in the auditorium and pass the nudge back and forth across the rows to keep everyone awake during the long briefings.” Brilliant.

Then yours truly had an amazing idea. Since we all carried the same CamelBaks, we needed to do something to make the packs different so no one puts their mouth on someone else’s pack. I had some bright blue North Carolina Tar Heel duct tape I could put on my CamelBak. This was the best idea I ever had.

Until the next day, when it was put to the test.

We were in the dining facility packed chest-to-CamelBak like cattle herding through a barn. My eyes were focused on the back of the head of the cadet in front of me. I saw in the corner of my eye a major casually inspecting the ranks. Then he did a double take, stopped, and made a face of pure disgust.

“WHAT IS THIS ON YOUR CAMELBAK!?” he shouted at me.

“It’s tape so I can tell that this is my pack, sir!”

“OH, SO YOU WANT TO BE AN INDIVIDUAL. WE DON’T HAVE INDIVIDUALS IN THE AIR FORCE!” he yelled as he ripped the tape off my pack. I was so embarrassed.

But I thought of a better solution during our planning hour that evening: place strips of duct tape on everyone’s packs with their ID numbers on the tape so we could tell our packs apart. So we cut up strips, placed them on each pack, and before we went to sleep, everyone was sporting the baby blue colors of my alma mater. I was so proud. I couldn’t wait to get breakfast.

The next morning after our workout, we marched into the dining facility at 6:00. I was beaming with anticipation. Packed like cattle once again, I waited for the major to make his rounds. He turned and looked at our lead cadet, who had the same interlocking NC logo–patterned tape he had trashed the day before.

“HOLY SMOKES!” he shouted with rage. “ARE YOU JOKING, CADET? WHAT IS ON YOUR PACK?”

“It’s tape so I can tell which pack is mine, sir! Everyone has one so we’re standardized!”

The major looked around the formation and saw a bright blue strip attached to the back of every cadet. I hid the smuggest leer behind the head of the cadet in front of me.

“OH. EVERYONE HERE MUST BE A TAR HEEL, THEN?” he questioned.

“Yes, sir!” the front cadet responded.

“IN THAT CASE, WHAT IS THEIR MASCOT?”

“Umm . . . I don’t remember, sir?” You could hear the defeat in her voice.

“Ram!” I whispered. “It’s the Raaaaaaam.”

She didn’t hear me.

“THAT’S WHAT I THOUGHT!” he screamed. “YOU’RE NOT A TAR HEEL. THERE WILL BE NO INDIVIDUALISM!” He ripped the baby blue reminders of home off everyone’s pack as they entered the facility. I had lost this battle. But there was plenty of field training left, so I needed to stay focused.

About three weeks in, I decided that the only thing I wanted to do was to be able to choose what I wanted to do. It didn’t matter if it was going grocery shopping, doing laundry, watching Netflix, or even looking to the left if I felt like it. I just wanted to have the choice. Because for me, the freedom to be spontaneous and go on unpredictable adventures was something I loved. But at field training, that was taken away.

I wasn’t expecting to so suddenly lose so many things I took for granted. I started to appreciate what I was preparing to defend. You always hear the saying that freedom isn’t free. Well, it sure isn’t. And to have it stripped away and realize that it isn’t necessarily a right made it very clear to me how important it was that we have defenders ready to make sure you get to wake up with that freedom delivered to your front door every day. And to be completely candid, some people either are numb to the fact that freedom is so expensive, or they feel entitled to such a privilege.

Compared to active duty, I’d basically done nothing up to this point. Hats off to the active duty out there doing their thing so we can look around the room if we feel like it. Or update Facebook feeds, or whatever we do with our precious free time.

Eventually, our freedoms were returned. At the conclusion of field training, I felt like I had been swimming underwater all summer and finally broke the surface for air. I had been off the grid for weeks and finally heard new songs (“Blurred Lines”), got sports updates (no one cares about baseball during the summer), and had a million Facebook notifications. I had a newly found, massive appreciation for simple things, like hot food, picking out my outfit for the day, having more than five minutes to eat a meal, and walking casually without ninety-degree turns.

Even though field training couldn’t restrict my ability to think freely, the ability to be physically unpredictable is impossible without freedom. Fortunately, I was able to use my freedom to think freely to motivate myself through the challenges, and rationalize why we were doing trivial things like filling sandbags in the sun only to dump them out later.

But I wouldn’t trade it for the world. Where else can you command a column of Humvees and do practice ambush responses? How about massive assaults on entire villages with paintball guns and room clearings? Hand-to-hand combat? Weapons training? Workouts during the sunrise? Small unit tactics?

The lessons from the Air Force have trickled down to all parts of my life. Surprisingly, a lot of this helped me years later in Hollywood. Since I was used to working with such high-caliber Airmen, it was easy to demand respect with unbreakable core values, like integrity first, service before self, and excellence in all we do. Since my filming team in L.A. put commitment and accountability first, we quickly stood out in a world of flakes and embellishment. Simply because the values the Air Force has taught us are somewhat unexpected in today’s society. Even in the simplest situations, like a conversation with a gas station attendant or a cashier, “Yes, sir,” “No, ma’am,” and eye contact are habits. This catches a lot of people off guard because most people don’t offer that level of respect in every interaction. I greet a McDonald’s employee exactly how I greet the three-star general at my Air Force base.

With all this said, it’s time to wake up and realize that freedom isn’t free. It’s an amazing privilege that is required if you’re going to be adventurous and unpredictable. I also learned that if your tag is hanging out the front of your shirt, you are going to get yelled at, and it will not be fun. You will not pass go, and you will not collect $200.

Major Keys:

��Unpredictability requires either physical or mental freedom. Only the latter is guaranteed in any situation.

��A culture of commitment and accountability stands out in any profession.

��You can get through a day without most of the things you think you “need.” Sometimes, these things can even add stress to your life.

My first year in the Air Force, next to an Atlas V rocket. Our mission at Vandenberg was to provide launch capabilities to the nation. This same rocket survived a massive fire Vandenberg had in 2016—one of the most unpredictable challenges we faced as a base during my time there.

Challenge: Give up something for a day. Something simple like your phone, your car, hot food, or sleep. Any one of these things we think we can’t live without, but we actually can. Learn how to adapt to the unpredictability of losing a constant in your life. Once you’re free from the dependency, you’ll only come out stronger.

Chapter 14: Thanks for Being My Friend

“I cherish the memories of a question my grandson asked me the other day when he said, ‘Grandpa, were you a hero in the war?’ Grandpa said, ‘No. But I served in a company of heroes.’” —Major Richard Winters

Everyone has a hero. Whether yours is a famous basketball player or a character in a book about magic and wizards, we all find someone’s footsteps to follow. For me, it was a World War II B-17 bomber pilot, Noah Thompson, from the quaint city of Essex, Vermont. When I first met him, I had no idea what kind of impact he would have on my life.

* * *

It was my thirteenth birthday. I had just finished a day full of looking at old aircraft and identifying every weapon on display at the National Museum of the Mighty Eighth Air Force in Savannah, Georgia. I grew up watching Band of Brothers, an HBO miniseries about a company of World War II paratroopers and their heroic battle from Normandy to Hitler’s Eagle’s Nest. I also watched Black Hawk Down and We Were Soldiers religiously. I read the books, too.

“Is this your book?” my sixth grade teacher asked me when she picked up a copy of Band of Brothers I had dropped on my way to the school bus.

“Yep. It’s pretty good.” I took it from her and rushed to my ride home. I’m sure it was odd for a kid my age to be reading material like that. But then again, those stories are why I’m in uniform now instead of being a full-time delinquent.

Noah was a member of the 388th Bomb Group, which was part of the Mighty Eighth Air Force. He had flown twenty-one combat missions and led flights all over Europe to help defeat the Axis Powers. He had been right behind me as I walked through the museum, probably admiring my interest in WWII history. He finally approached me in the front lobby.

“What do you want to be when you grow up, young man?” the elderly retired Air Force officer asked my young, spirited, middle-school self.

“I want to be in the Air Force, just like you!” I replied.

“Well, if you hope to be in the Air Force,” Noah said, “here’s my address, so we can write each other and stay in touch!”

“Thanks, mister!” I said as my eyes caught a dog tag machine, and my attention was averted elsewhere. I wasn’t much of a writer at thirteen, so you can imagine the obligation to write some old guy wasn’t very appealing.

Six years later, I was off to field training at Maxwell Air Force Base to represent the 590th Air Force ROTC Detachment. I was nineteen years old and about to be a junior in college. Once I graduated field training and moved to the next level of my ROTC training, Noah mailed me his set of Prop and Wings from World War II, which matched the set I was awarded with at Maxwell. From the week after we met to this moment, we had been writing each other regularly.

Our initial meeting at the museum didn’t end up being our last, either. I was fortunate enough to travel from UNC to Essex to visit Noah on occasion. Typically, we would meet up at his favorite diner and talk about the Air Force or girls.

“So, have you found any nice girls down there in North Carolina yet?” he would ask.

“Yeah, I think I’ve found the one! Here’s her picture!” I would pull out my phone to show him. He would look skeptically, as if analyzing whether or not this girl was good enough for his Air Force protégé. He would chuckle and say something like, “Oh, I dunno. We’ll see!”

We would have this conversation three different times throughout college. I always came back with a story of what happened and plans for the next girl. Noah would just smile, knowing that this was all part of a predictable pattern.

As I grew older and progressed through military training, Noah’s health slowly began declining. As he approached 100, it became more difficult for him to write me back and hear my voice over the telephone, but that did not keep him from hanging on to see me commission one day.

He would call me on major holidays, greeting me with, “Happy Christmas or Halloween or whatever it is!”

“Thanks, Noah!” I would respond. “How have you been?”

“My hearing aid sucks. What?”

“I said thank you! How have you been?”

“Happy Christmas or whatever! I can’t hear you. But does it even matter?”

I loved that guy.

Eight years after we met and a shoebox full of letters later, I bought another plane ticket to Essex. Without announcing my travel plans, I arrived at a quiet retirement home and changed into my uniform.

“Is Noah Thompson still here?” I asked the front desk politely.

I had the attention of most of the residents in the lobby, considering I had just changed into camouflage and combat boots.

“He sure is!” the front desk attendant said with a smile. “Let me lead you to his room!”

She walked me down the quiet halls, the only sound coming from the distinct thumping of my boots on the ground. As we passed open doors, residents leaned out and smiled, as if anticipating that the only reason I was there was for something special.

I’m not sure how much time you’ve spent in retirement homes, but I’ve clocked some hours. When my great-grandma Ruth was approaching ninety, I spent countless evenings eating her chocolate and listening to her blab about resident gossip. I was young enough that my pops would drop me off for the day and I’d just eat snacks until I was picked up that evening. Mama Ruth’s memory didn’t improve as she got older.

“Boy, I sure wish Bill would come visit me sometime!” she would say to my face. I wondered who she thought I actually was.

Retirement homes aren’t known for unexpected events, or anyone under twenty. So naturally, I was a spectacle at Noah’s.

“Here’s his room!” the attendant said. She knocked on his door.

It slowly opened, and I was greeted by a smile of instant recognition. “Well, hello, Lieutenant.”

He gave me a strong handshake and a hug. Residents outside watched as their neighbor put on a smile so big they had to put one on themselves.

A dream that was shared by two Airmen for nearly a decade had finally materialized, and I couldn’t be more proud to follow in the footsteps of a true American hero.

We caught up on all the things that had been going on in our lives, including my Air Force training and his family visits. We hit the usual topics: school, my Mustang, girls.

Eventually, the visit came to a close and I walked out of Noah’s room. I remember looking back at him waving as he stood proudly, having inspired a young kid to do something worthwhile with his life. Leaving Noah was always extra challenging, because I never knew if that would be the last time I’d see him. You start to treat people differently and value your time with them more if you act like it might be your last time seeing them. Because of my visits with Noah, I try to treat my time with my closest friends as if it were my last run with them. Deciding to create spontaneous adventures without hesitation or revealing true feelings and honesty to others has helped grow some of my friendships into lifelong bonds.

* * *

By the time I was sent to Fort Meade, Maryland, for Public Affairs tech school, I was twenty-two years old. On the last day of class, I received a phone call from Noah’s son.

“Hey, Will,” he said quietly over the phone. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. Noah’s health isn’t very good right now, and we don’t know how many days he has left. If you want to see him once more, this would be the time.”

I paused for a moment, unsure how to respond even though I knew this phone call would happen eventually.

“I’ll do everything I can to visit,” I said. “You take care, all right?”

It had been a little over a year since I last saw Noah, but we still wrote each other letters. I knew this was a mission I could not fail. So I immediately sprung into action.

As soon as training was complete, I jumped on the next plane flying out of Baltimore and landed in Essex. I called Noah’s son and told him I was on my way.

I arrived at Noah’s retirement home and walked through the frigid winter snow to the entrance. This time, without a uniform, I only brought the memory of all the letters he had sent me over the past ten years. They were full of inspiration and support for anything I wanted to do in life.

I walked into his room once more. He was lying down, surrounded by loved ones. These were definitely the final stages.

At the time, I was still getting used to the demands of active duty and what that lifestyle entails. It was tough for someone my age to make a sudden transition from college to a new position of leadership in an unfamiliar location. But once I saw a fellow Airman, a hero, laying there after a lifetime of defending freedom and endless love for his country, I held his hand and promised myself that my time in the Air Force would be full of my greatest effort and relentless dedication to defend the same freedoms Noah was so proud to fight for.

I’ll never forget the last thing he said to me, through tears:

“Thanks for being my friend.”

What do you say to something like that? Noah lived a full life. He was always there for other people. Whether it was his Airmen in the back of a B-17 flying over flak-filled European skies, his family, or his beloved country, he lived a life of adventure and service for others. And he was thanking me for being there for him.

“You know none of us decided to join the military,” his son said to me after several moments of silence. “Noah always wanted one of his kids to carry that part of his legacy. Ever since he met you, that was it for him. The tradition to serve—he felt like you carried that torch.”

If I didn’t already have enough responsibility as a brand-new lieutenant, this was plenty more.

“Wow, sir. I don’t know what to say.” I looked at the pictures of me and Noah framed on the wall of his room. On the coffee table sat every letter I had sent him since I was thirteen.

Before his death, Noah published an autobiography, A Pilot’s Story, which concluded with these words of wisdom I carry with me every day:

“I [will] not trade these years for anything else I can think of. It [will be] an opportunity of a lifetime!”

And for the record, the dog tags I bought the day I met Noah at the museum hang on the rearview mirror of the Mustang I drive around Vandenberg Air Force Base today.

Major Keys:

��Relationships with people are the greatest gifts on Earth.

��Don’t assume you know the full value of something. The best gifts become more valuable over time.

��Treat each time spent with loved ones as if it were your last. Don’t hold back feelings or moments of gratitude.

The day I surprised Noah Thompson to tell him I had made it as an officer, and our shared dream had come true. Photo taken by Kelly Collette

Challenge: Connect with someone from a different generation, either a young kid to mentor or someone older who might offer some useful wisdom. Generational differences are full of unexpected stories of adventure. Make sure you write to them—it’s a lot more personal, and you’ll have a visual record of all the things you have learned together.

Chapter 15: By Chance

“Why does everybody feel the need to judge one another when we’re all the same?” —Logic

It was a crisp October morning in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, as Rob Jones and I walked to the UNC dining hall. I always ate breakfast before class, despite how most college kids choose extra sleep over food. I was somewhat indifferent to yet another Monday of lectures and note taking. I’ve never been a fan of PowerPoint, and I usually couldn’t retain all the information dumped on me in a two-hour lecture. Especially if there was nothing new happening on Twitter.

I spent most of my class time following music artists to see their upcoming releases, emailing managers, and setting up concerts to film on the weekend. One time, I completely missed a big lesson in Sociology because I Tweeted a DJ, and he offered to let me film a video for his show that weekend. I almost failed the Sociology test, but the artist brought me on stage for the best EDM show I have ever seen. I guess you never really know unless you ask.

Rob Jones filled up his cup of mediocre dining hall coffee and smiled for no reason. (That kid smiles too much.) Up to this point, I had only had one cup of coffee in my life: I tried it on our trip to Hawaii and hated it. Until I tasted some at our dining hall that morning.

“This is amazing!” I thought as Rob Jones and I both sipped our drinks. What I didn’t realize was that I was drinking a cup full of french vanilla creamer. When I made my first cup, I just filled one at a machine that said “Coffeemate” and assumed it was coffee. I would down entire cups of this for the next few years until someone noticed me filling up at the machine and pointed out that I had not been drinking coffee as I initially thought but nearly 600 calories of sugary liquid instead. I still haven’t changed my habits.

“Want to go climb a mountain?” Another Rob Jones Big Idea.

“Sure,” I casually replied.

“Okay, grab some Red Bull and meet me at your car in ten minutes.” He took off.

Only half aware of what just happened, I had agreed to skipping that two-hour lecture—as well as my other classes for the day, hoping that this adventure didn’t include a meth addict at a 7-Eleven. Even though it had Rob Jones, which, considering his wild side, is basically the same thing.

As I’m sure is obvious by now, Rob Jones is a savage when it comes to managing time. The guy makes impulsive decisions without considering time constraints and figures out the rest as it’s happening. It’s like the author Ray Bradbury once said, “Living at risk is jumping off the cliff and building your wings on the way down.”

One time in college, I came back from an early Air Force ROTC workout to our door room and saw him wake up, sit up on the couch he was sleeping on, and open up a binder on his lap. His hair was disheveled, his eyes were red, and papers and books from his science class surrounded him. With only a pair of underwear on, he rubbed his face and started to study.

“Hey, man, don’t you have a final exam today?” I asked as he was clearly coming to terms with his reality.

“Yep,” he said without looking up.

“When is it?” I asked.

“Thirty minutes ago.”

“Wait. Are you serious?” I asked incredulously. “You gotta go, man!”

Rob Jones finally looked up at me. “I’m fine, dude. I still haven’t studied enough. The test window is three hours long; I’ll study for two hours then go take the test.”

I couldn’t believe his confidence and his unorthodox means of test taking and time management. But then again, I can’t argue since the guy passed the test with flying colors.

While Rob Jones is an impulsive spontaneous guru, dependability is king in my rulebook. That day, though, I was 100 percent in for a mountainous adventure.

We jumped in the Mustang and drove west. We were two twenty-somethings with a combined $300 to our names (about $280 was mine), so west was the best plan we had. We didn’t know what mountain we were going to climb, either; we only were sure that we were going to find one, and eventually summit the peak. Sometimes we learned more by doing things in the world than we ever could in a lecture hall.

If you know me, you know I’m perpetually hungry. I could eat a Chick-fil-A sandwich, McDonald’s fries, and Krispy Kreme doughnuts, crave In-N-Out thirty minutes later, and still lose weight just from eating food. So naturally, I noticed when we passed a church with the sign free lunch at 12:00. [CR6]I looked at my watch. It was noon. Rob Jones could keep his $20 life savings.

“Should we go?” I asked, noticing that Rob Jones saw the same sign.

“Why not, dude? It’s a church. We’ll be fine!”

We pulled over, parked, and walked into the church to find a large sanctuary full of people. Everyone was talking softly until they saw us and stopped what they were doing.

I could hear Rob Jones swallow in the silence.

I guess when two obnoxiously tall, awkward-looking guys step in wearing all baby blue, it garners attention. Except this was the what-are-you-two-doing-in-our-church? kind of attention. In the sticks of North Carolina, you sometimes aren’t as welcomed ’round those parts.

So I casually dropped some cash in the donation bowl and walked over to the serving table. Rob Jones hadn’t stopped smiling uncomfortably since we walked in. Everything was awkward. I just wanted to get food and sit down as quickly as possible. I couldn’t handle all the eyes on us.

The free lunch was cold grilled cheese and canned tomato soup—essential life nutrients to fuel an Olympic athlete. I guess that’s what you can expect for free. We sat down at a round table with an old man slouching over his bowl of red liquid.

“Hey, buddy!” Rob Jones offered his opening line.

Silence.

The situation became more and more awkward as time went on. At this point, I would have paid money to escape this scene. It was reminiscent of my first high school dance. Quiet. Tense. And no one willing to make the first real move.

“Hey, were you in the Air Force?” I asked after noticing the man’s hat.

“Um, yessir,” he mumbled without looking up.

“Oh, cool! I’m in the ROTC program at UNC. Heard of it?” I cheerfully inquired.

“Yessir, I attended that same program back in ’75,” he said, now looking up with a smile. “I graduated as an officer.”

Just like I was planning to do. Suddenly, Rob Jones and I fit in. Our conversation moved from the slouching man to his two friends and then to the serving staff. As usual, Rob Jones and I were able to take an awkward situation and pull ourselves out of it with goofy smiles and relatable charm. (Unfortunately, this has worked on zero percent of girls I’ve talked to.)

The feeling of wanting to escape an awkward scenario applies to a lot of situations in our lives. Often, we want to separate ourselves from our environment by either speeding it up or escaping. This is why our cell phones seem so valuable to us. Facebook and Instagram offer instant separation from our surroundings. An easy out. But is it always worth it? We left that church having made friends with nearly half the people in that room by the time we were done socializing—and by nature, I’m an introverted person. But the reward of a genuine interaction with even the most hesitant of North Carolina’s citizens is a memory I’ll keep close.

I’ve tried this grilled cheese strategy many times since; stepping outside of my phone bubble and striking up a conversation. It’s surely a rush of anxiety and adrenaline, because I don’t want to land in awkward silence. So I’m forced to listen to what the other person is saying and find ways to relate. Customers in grocery store checkout lanes, lunchroom cashiers, car mechanics—you’d be surprised how many people have such interesting stories, not to mention how much we all have in common. If I just wrote off a KFC cashier I met in L.A., I never would have discovered he participated in Hurricane Katrina’s relief effort with my best friend’s dad from North Carolina. If I didn’t talk to my mechanic, I wouldn’t have learned so much about how my car works. Talking to the UNC dining hall employees always earned me extra bacon at breakfast in college.

Everyone goes through routine during the day. But when you take a little step out of the usual conversation and throw a curveball, like “What’s your biggest dream?” or “Do you like grilled cheese sandwiches, too?” the scene changes completely, and people start to open up. Everyone on Earth has a gift you can’t see on the surface, no matter what situation they are in now. You’ll never know what it is unless you start a real conversation—past “Hey, how are you?” Dig a little deeper.

Not just that, but you never know who you’re going to run into. Starting a little conversation might lead you to unexpected opportunities.

* * *

“Hey, man, the guy in front of us looks familiar . . . maybe he’s a football player?” I said to one of the Air Force cadets as we were waiting in airport security to return home from field training. It was my sophomore year of college, and I hadn’t seen anyone but the same flight of future Air Force leaders in weeks.

“Maybe. Why don’t you say something?” he said.

“No, I don’t want to bother him. Especially since I can’t put my finger on who he is.”

The guy was extremely tall, with long dreads and Beats over his ears. His arms were massive, and he was covered in tattoos. Having worked for a football team in college, I wanted to assume he played ball—the guy was in amazing shape. But I decided to stay in my bubble and get on my flight.

As soon as I got home, I logged on to Facebook to check my notifications for the first time in more than four weeks. At the top of my news feed was a caption with all my cadet wingmen tagged in it:

Our Air Force real goons lol.

The post was from the guy I recognized from the airport, Waka Flocka.

As disappointed as I could possibly be that I’d missed the opportunity to meet such a well-known hip-hop artist, I promised myself that I would go outside my comfort zone and start a conversation with anyone who looked familiar from that point on.

And it paid off.

Exactly one year later, I found myself in the Raleigh-Durham airport in North Carolina waiting for an early morning flight to Panama City Beach. It was 6:00 a.m. and the only thing I wanted more than a date with Ariana Grande was sleep. I was meeting my college buddy Chadd Pierce for an epic spring break weekend. Chadd was like an older brother to me. He took me under his wing my freshman year and taught me not to wear cargo pants, how to love hip-hop, and most important, how to start a conversation with a stranger—confidently. Chadd always had epic weekend stories I would vicariously live through. Finding an upper classman to hang with early in college was my key to trying new things I never would have tried with my freshman circle of friend. (Yes, you read that last word correctly.)

As I waited for Chadd to show, I noticed someone sitting directly across from me, looking down at his iPod. When he looked up, a chill ran down my spine. I instantly recognized him.

I remembered my promise to myself and decided to break the silence.

“Hey, man, you look just like Chance the Rapper!” I said nervously.

“Who’s that?” he replied.

I had made a mistake. I felt so awkward. I regretted opening my stupid mouth.

“Chance the Rapper?” I said, shocked he’d never heard of him. “He was the XXL Freshman of the year, produced Acid Rap, and he’s really big right now. You don’t know him?”

“Never heard of him, man.”

“Well, you should check him out,” I said, desperately trying to end the conversation. “I love his music. I think you might, too!”

“I’m messing with you, man,” he said with a smile. “That’s me!”

“Wait, for real?” My eyes lit up.

Just as he confessed, his squad returned with breakfast and I introduced myself. The same day I had run into Waka Flocka the year prior, my team was hired to film Chance the Rapper’s concert in North Carolina. I wasn’t able to attend because of field training, but I had been emailing his team back and forth for months. They all remembered me after my intro, and we were finally able to connect in person.

But it doesn’t end there.

The same month, a year after I ran into Chance the Rapper, I was boarding my flight to Las Vegas to meet Rob Jones for his bus project.

“Excuse me,” a large man said as he pushed me aside to cut the ticket line at the gate to board in front of me.

“What was that all about?” I asked the gate agent as she shrugged and took my ticket.

I was ready to tell this guy off. The nerve.

As I got closer to him, he was taller than my 6’2” frame and at least another hundred pounds. He wasn’t the first person I should start mouthing off to for cutting.

Regardless, I tapped him on the shoulder, careful not to touch his waist-long dreads.

As soon as he turned around, I got that same chilling feeling I had when I met Chance the Rapper. He was strikingly familiar, and the only thing I could think to do was remember that promise I made to myself.

“Are you Waka Flocka?” I asked, nearly trembling.

“Guilty as charged!” He gave me a handshake and a hug.

“Dude, I ran into you two years ago with the Air Force. I’ve always regretted not getting that picture with you.”

“I remember that! You want one now or something?” he said in his deep voice.

“Nope. I want your phone number. We’re going to do a music video,” I said confidently.

“All right, my dawg.” He took my phone and plugged in his number.

Other people were catching on and started approaching him for autographs.

“We’ll talk later, my man!” I said as he handed my phone back and stepped on the plane.

And sure enough, a year after that, my team was in a studio in North Carolina shooting for Waka Flocka.

It doesn’t end there, either.

That same year I was walking to Franklin Street in Chapel Hill to pick up some sweet Southern grits at the Waffle House, when I noticed a gentleman unloading guitars out of a trunk. I stopped, decided the grits could wait, and asked if he needed any help carrying the instruments in.

“No, I think we’re all good!” he said with a smile.

“Sweet! Well, are you in a band or something?” I said, pointing out the obvious.

“Yeah!” he said as he unloaded a cello. “My name is Joe Kwon. I’m one of The Avett Brothers.”

“I think I’ve heard of you guys!” I said.

“Want to meet the rest of the band? We’re performing tonight in the church!”

“Of course! And I’ll be there!” I said.

Shortly after meeting Joe, I met the other members and witnessed an acoustic performance from a band I quickly learned was incredibly talented. All because I decided to ask someone if he needed a hand.

Two years later, things got Moore interesting.

“Are you in a band?” I asked the guys sitting across from me in the airport terminal of the Columbus International Airport. They were waiting on a flight to Los Angeles, and they all had guitar cases. Since I’d connected with Waka Flocka and The Avett Brothers, I was asking anyone with so much as a plastic recorder if they were in a band.

“Yeah, man, we’re a country group. Kip Moore’s band,” one of them said, equally as tired as I was.

“Hmm. I’ve never heard of Kip Moore,” I said, quickly getting their attention with my ignorance. “I like DJs! Do you like Diplo?”

“I’m not sure if I’ve heard of him,” one of the guys said. I think we all shared equal disappointment in each other. But hey, maybe it was just somethin’ ’bout a truck that wasn’t clicking with me that day. Either way, my list of random musician encounters continued to grow, all because I was willing to start a conversation with someone I didn’t know.

* * *

Rob Jones and I ended up climbing that mountain in North Carolina. We went off the path and found a good ledge to sit on at the top. We toasted Red Bulls and watched the sun for a while.

“Anyone can do this,” Rob Jones reminded me.

“We always say this, man. I think people are sometimes afraid to take that leap of faith.”

I’m not saying our five-star education at UNC that day was worthless. But every once in a while, throw in a spontaneous adventure. Leave your obligations behind, especially your phone, and engage with the people around you to create an adventure when one didn’t exist. It doesn’t have to be elaborate, it doesn’t have to cost money, and it doesn’t have to be planned. The best part about a day like this is not knowing what comes next. It could be a simple conversation with a stranger in the sticks of North Carolina or running into a famous rapper multiple times (perhaps by Chance). Just keep your eyes open, your outgoing spirit bright, and your burning desire for adventure lit.

Major Keys:

��Starting a conversation can sometimes lead to unexpected opportunities.

��No one has mastered a subject just from a classroom lecture. We learn our best lessons when we practice and fail.

��It’s possible to find some way to relate to every person on Earth.

Challenge: Get a friend and agree that one day when you both don’t have anything critical going on, you’ll drop everything and go explore something nearby. Bring a Red Bull. If it sounds boring, like a typical hike up a mountain, make it interesting. Make sure you introduce yourself to a stranger! Throw some curveballs in. Bring Waka Flocka. There’s always a way.

Chapter 16: The Four Kinds of Miracles

“Miracles happen every day. Change your perception of what a miracle is, and you’ll see them all around you.” —Jon Bon Jovi

“All right, Bill Bill, you can run around, just don’t go where I can’t see you!”

My wonderful mother turned me loose in UNC’s PlayMakers auditorium. I was three years old and a rolling ball of energy.

“Hey, Mom! Look at me!” I shouted as I ran circles around the stage in overalls and a stunning bowl cut.

Even at a young age, I was thrilled to be at North Carolina’s flagship university. My mom always took me on “adventure trips” in Chapel Hill when I was growing up. Even though we lived in Atlanta, we’d make the trip up to UNC for every home football game. We’d usually stay with my grandpa, Big Bill, and sit with the whole family in the seats we held for nearly five decades straight. I’m a fourth-generation Tar Heel, on both sides of my family, so game day is life.

Big Bill was the original creator of “the adventure trip.” He’d put me in his Cadillac and turn an average trip to a gas station into something exciting. He’d never plan anything—he’d just say, “Let’s go on an adventure!” and I’d get driven around the city to meet all his friends. Big Bill could turn anything normal into an exciting experience with a little imagination and magic. Like the time he approached us with a “spell” at the beach. He didn’t give us any context; he just noticed it was raining outside and improvised.

“I want you to repeat after me,” he said to me and my sister, Carly. “Oh one.”

“Oh one,” we said in unison.

“Tie goose,” he thundered.

“Tie goose.”

“Psy am.”

“Oh one tie goose psy am.”

“Oh won a goose pie am,” we struggled.

“Now go outside and see if the rain brought you a surprise,” he said with a grin.

“Ahhhh!” we yelled as we ran out the front door and onto the beach.

There were shells everywhere. Amazingly painted colored shells.

“Look what I found!” Carly yelled as she held up a magic conch.

“It’s not as cool as this!” I yelled as I picked up a starfish.

“Oh wanna tie goose ham!” Carly yelled as she filled her arms with fantastic finds.

We wouldn’t realize until we were teenagers that Big Bill had pre-planted all these shells he bought from the store and was tricking us into calling ourselves geese. Genius. Almost as brilliant as the time he convinced us he had a watermelon patch. Carly and I would run out to pick “fresh fruit” from his ivy, which, in reality, were melons from Walmart that he’d duct taped to the vines. We never knew the difference. The power of his imagination. He was always able to transform rather mundane family visits or rainy days into spectacular adventures. I think Big Bill was the original source of my sense of unpredictability.

“Mom. Look. At. Meeeee.” I attempted to get her attention again from the stage. I was an annoying toddler.

“I see you, honey!” she said, smiling from the back of the auditorium.

As she followed me with her eyes to make sure I didn’t hurt myself (which was common), a girl walked out from backstage. She was likely a college student, observing the wonder of the massive auditorium. I was making my twentieth lap around the stage, giggling like a clown. Just as this girl crossed the center, she stepped on a small trap door that immediately gave way. She fell into it, barely catching herself before falling completely through to the thirty-foot drop below.

“Are you okay?” Mom yelled as she stood up.

I stopped running and just stared.

“Yeah, I think I’m fine!” the girl said as she pulled herself up and out of the opening.

“Oh, my goodness! Bill! Come back here!” my mom called, realizing that a three-year-old and a drop that far would have spelled something bad for sure. The odds of me not hitting that trap door left us feeling like we’d won the lottery.

This didn’t seem as much of a magical experience as finding colored shells on the beach, or watermelons in Big Bill’s front yard, but it was certainly a miracle in every sense. Just as life can unexpectedly take days away, it can grant some extras. My life could have come to a screeching halt only three years in. But it didn’t, because there were more miracles to come to life.

I had experienced a miracle of odds.

* * *

“We regret to inform you that your admittance to The University of North Carolina has been deferred. We appreciate your continued interest in becoming a Tar Heel.” The words at the top of the letter from my dream school left me staring in silence as my eyes started to water.

“I think I have to wait until May now,” I said to my mom through tears. It was November, and it had been several months since I’d applied. This was the first wave of acceptance letters, and I had fallen short. UNC hadn’t denied me, but they wanted to wait to see my spring semester grades to decide whether I deserved to become a Tar Heel. I was essentially being friendzoned by a university.

“You’ll be all right. You’ll get in!” my mom tried to reassure me.

I was broken, but I decided to lock it down and prove to Carolina that I had to go there.

Around February, three months before the next round of acceptances, I had my interview with the Air Force ROTC at Carolina. They would decide if it was worth pushing my application forward for a national scholarship.

“What’s your name?” the Air Force major said to me at the start of our interview.

“Bill Collette, sir,” I answered, giving him the name I went by until I graduated college.

“Bill, do you want to be in the Air Force?” he asked, looking directly into my eyes.

“More than anything sir. I want to film, sir.”

“Film?” He frowned. “You know the Air Force probably doesn’t have anything like that.”

“Sir, I believe I will find something. But as long as I’m wearing the uniform, I’m happy.”

“All right, well, do you want to go to UNC?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” I said, “everyone in my family has attended this school. We moved to Chapel Hill to be close to it. I know this campus better than where I grew up. I’m sure of this.”

“Is that so? Wow. Glad you’re a fan!” he said, nodding.

The interview continued with a few more questions, and then the major stepped out of the room. I was nervous as I could be, and I reviewed all my answers in my head to see if I said anything wrong.

The major returned a few seconds later accompanied by someone else. “Bill, I’d like you to meet the colonel,” he said as the Detachment 590 commander walked into the room and extended his hand to shake mine.

“Nice to meet you, sir!” I said as he squeezed my hand way too hard.

“Listen, Mr. Collette,” the colonel said, “I was talking with the major, and given your commitment to this school and the Air Force, we’d like to offer you our Commander’s Leadership Scholarship. If you get accepted by UNC, the Air Force will pay for college. The only catch is that you are required to attend UNC. Would you be interested?”

“Where do I sign, sir?” I said, holding back the unprofessional desire to hug everyone in the room.

“Well, just think about it, talk with your parents, and if you’re sure, you can come back and sign the papers!” the major said.

“Sounds good to me, sir!” I shook their hands and stepped out the door. I drove home and went inside to share the news. My dad was working at his desk.

“How did it go, buddy?” he asked, his tired eyes glazed from the work he had been doing.

“Well, they aren’t going to push my application through. Instead, they’re going to offer me a full ride to UNC.”

“What!?” My dad picked me up and screamed. “Unbelievable! Way to go!”

To this day, this was the happiest I had seen him aside from the Macklemore concert.

“Yeah! We just have to think about it and go back and sign some papers!” I said from the air.

“What are we doing here? Get in the car, we’ll go now!” We ran through the door and drove back to UNC to make it official.

As wonderful as this experience was, it lacked one thing: an acceptance letter to UNC. The scholarship was valid only until May 15, and then it would be offered to someone else. I had one shot to get into UNC, one opportunity, and I couldn’t let it slip.

As each day passed with no word from UNC, I was one day closer to losing that scholarship. The Air Force called the admissions office many times to lobby for my acceptance, but it was all up to God at this point. I couldn’t control anything.

Then, another letter finally came in.

“We regret to inform you that your application has been placed on the waiting list for the 2011 freshman class. Thank you for your continued interest in becoming a Tar Heel.”

Getting on a waiting list is like stepping on a land mine. Once you’re there, you’re basically done. You need a lot of help to get out of that situation, and the likely end is that you stay there as long as you want until you just give up and accept that it’s over.

I’d need to wait several more weeks until students who had already been accepted decided whether to attend UNC. I had busted my butt that semester earning the best grades I could, but it seemed that every letter of recommendation, extracurricular activity, and Air Force appeal wasn’t enough to make it happen. It appeared to be over.

As winter turned into spring, I hadn’t heard anything new from UNC. Eventually, May 13 approached. That Friday was the last possible day I could hear back before my scholarship expired. As each hour of the day melted away, so did my hope of becoming a Tar Heel. I had already applied and been accepted into my safety school, NC State.

Two hours before the UNC admissions office closed, my house phone rang. I was so upset I just ignored it and let the call go to voicemail.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Collette! This is the UNC admissions office!” I started to listen to the message coming from a nearby room. “I understand you have a scholarship with an expiration date on it. With that in mind, I’d like to tell you that we’re letting you know ahead of time that you have been accepted into the University of North Carolina! You just need to keep this a secret until the rest of the names are released. Congratulations!”

But it was too late. Everyone in my family heard the message and was already screaming. My dad was calling everyone from the UPS man to my grandma to tell them the good news. Carly was happy I’d be moving out. And my mom gave me that I-told-you-so look.

Faith pulled through. The next big life miracle had come to light. I was going to be a Tar Heel. Even when time isn’t in your favor, anything can change at the last minute. All it might take is patience and plenty of faith.

My experience with UNC’s admissions office was a miracle of timing.

* * *

One day during my sophomore year, I found myself filming on the sideline at Kenan Stadium for the 2012 football matchup between NC State and Carolina. NC State had won five consecutive games against us and was aiming for a sixth. It was head coach Larry Fedora’s first year coaching at UNC, and his only mission was to end this nonsense.

Fortunately for us, we had a secret weapon: running back Giovani Bernard.

“35-35, thirty seconds left,” the voice of Jones Angell, UNC’s announcer, graced the radio waves for all to hear.

I was filming the highlights from the Tar Heel end zone, awaiting a simple play that would likely lead to overtime. We were all tied up in a shootout of a ball game, and NC State was set to punt to Gio on fourth down. Some fans decided this was a predictable play and made their way to snack bars and restrooms.

“Tar Heels set up to return. Bernard fields it at the 26. Heading to the far side. . . .” I watched Gio carve around the first State defender and bolt to the sideline like lightning.

“Gio at the 35! Gio . . . he’s at the 50!” Jones started to lose his composure. One of our players, Tre Boston, slammed into a State player so hard he knocked him into another State defender and took both out over the sideline behind Gio. The rest of our punt return coverage was flawless.

“No, he’s not! . . . Yes, he is!” Jones shouted as Gio went screaming past the State bench and the rest of the Carolina fans as everyone sprang to their feet. A right sweeping wall of Tar Heels made block after block as Gio narrowly escaped multiple State players.

“Oh wow! Oh wow!” I shouted as I filmed the remaining State defender make a last-ditch effort to dive for Gio right in front of me.

“Gio! He’s gonna take it for a touchdown!” Jones yelled passionately in his microphone. It was one of the greatest moments in Carolina athletic history.

I ran onto the field and across the end zone as Gio ran to the student section, only to get piled on by the rest of the team.

“Are you kidding me?” Jones was stunned.

The stadium was absolutely lit. Fans couldn’t handle it. The walls were shaking. The sound of the crowd and my racing thoughts made it difficult to process everything that was happening. My face was red as I yelled in the faces of the students yelling right back at me. We had won—on remarkable odds, with an iconic player.

Jones cast the final expression across the Carolina Blue radio waves: “He can do it all!” What an incredible sports miracle. I couldn’t have planned a better outcome. We had all witnessed history. I surely couldn’t have predicted the outcome I had just witnessed. All I could do was watch it unfold and appreciate that it had happened. Moments like this can occur instantly when we believe they are possible.

On this day, Carolina fans witnessed a miracle of willpower.

In addition to miracles of odds, timing, and willpower, there are miracles of grace. All four kinds always seem to play out unpredictably.

* * *

It was Good Friday at the 2004 Masters Golf Tournament in Augusta, Georgia, and Arnold Palmer was finishing his fiftieth round on the one-of-a-kind course. Fortunately for me, this was one of the “adventure trips” my grandpa and mother took me on. Since I was only eleven, I was pushed to the front of the crowd for every hole.

The day was perfect. I was witnessing the greatest golfers in the world compete on a sunny day. Surrounded by legacy, tradition, and that ping the driver makes when it sends the ball sailing down the rolling green fairways, I was in heaven. More literally, located just above Amen Corner. Big Bill, my mom, and I were making our way to the 18th hole to watch Arnie tee off for his last tournament in Augusta.

Ping.

His swing was graceful. The crowd applauded the seventy-four-year-old master as he sent another ball on its way to the hole. He was a professional in every way.

His caddy picked the tee out of the ground, looked around, and made eye contact with me.

“Hey, buddy! Why don’t you keep this?” he said as he handed me Arnold’s tee.

“Gee, thanks, sir!” I said as a smile appeared between my dorky rainbow polo and bowl-shaped haircut.

I placed the tee in my pocket and ran back to show Mom and Big Bill.

“Wow! He gave you his tee? That’s amazing!” Big Bill said.

Being the eleven-year-old that I was, I lost the tee before the day would end. Classic me.

But before you hate me, know that at least I was there to appreciate the legend at Palmer’s final round at the Masters, even as a kid. But I deserve at least a smack in the face for not keeping up with the darned tee.

After following through with an Eagle of a day, it was time to throw a wedge in our plans and drive home to Atlanta.

The ominous clouds in the distance indicated rain was on its way. I jumped in the front seat of mom’s car as Big Bill took off in his own car to Chapel Hill.

“Hey, can we get a hot doughnut on our way out?” I asked. Being a kid, my priority was to inform any parents, especially my own, when Krispy Kreme’s hot doughnut sign was lit. And the one outside of the golf tournament surely was.

“Of course!” Mom couldn’t resist my suggestion. She was almost a bigger fan of Krispy Kreme than I was.

After we picked up our soft, cloud-like cakes layered with warm frosting and pulled out of the Krispy Kreme parking lot, the rain started to come down all at once—so hard that somewhere a guy named Noah was being informed from God that the second flood was coming.

“I don’t know about this,” Mom said as she pulled onto the freeway. Mom never liked driving, but I couldn’t have cared less. I had RollerCoaster Tycoon to play in the car—my favorite video game.

“We’ll be okay,” I reassured her, obviously unable to guarantee that in any way.

I began to get lost in the world of theme parks and thrill rides. RollerCoaster Tycoon allowed nearly infinite creative limits, and any rules could be stretched with the help of an inspired mind.

Just as I was deciding where to put my Shuttle Loop coaster, our car jolted me back.

I looked up and was face-to-face with another driver, whose engine was now joined with my side of the vehicle. We spun violently multiple times across the freeway at full speed. The rain made both cars glide without resistance across three lanes of traffic, all while the theme music from a merry-go-round played in my headphones. It was like an intense nightmare from carnival hell.

The other driver’s vehicle broke free and slammed front first into the guardrail, totaling it completely. Our car continued to spin until it slid to a stop only a few feet from the guardrail, parked perfectly parallel to the street but facing oncoming traffic.

Both my mother and I paused for a moment as we looked at each other and realized we were without a scratch. And all four passengers from the other car managed to escape injuries as well. To the passing cars swerving to avoid car parts scattered across the freeway, it was a bad accident. But to us, it was a beautiful experience of grace.

* * *

For some reason, my luck with the rain, highway, and Georgia isn’t that great. But it’s still better than my luck with girls, so I’ll take it. At least for this accident, I can blame the timing on getting a Krispy Kreme doughnut.

* * *

More than a decade later, I was assembling furniture in my new home in Lompoc, California, just outside of my Air Force base, when I got a text from Mom:

I’ve always told you that miracles exist. I think you need to write about that. You know that faith plays such a big part in your life, and you and I have seen enough miracles to know that it’s real.

Reluctant to add another chapter to my book, I finally agreed. After all, both life and golf can be best defined as a series of challenges mixed in with the occasional miracle.

* * *

Miracles of odds, timing, willpower, and grace are moments I now look for in each day. Even though I know what to look for, I can never truly predict when one is coming. All four kinds of miracles remind us about life’s ability to throw sudden curveballs when we may not feel prepared. When this happens, embrace the uncertainty and grab hold for your life. Sometimes, you might be lucky to walk away with just that.

These are only a few examples of the magnificent coincidences that have kept me walking on Earth instead of in heaven. For that reason, I am careful to run on stages, I avoid driving in Georgia, Friday the 13th is my luckiest day, and I’ll always be on the lookout for a lost Arnold Palmer tee.

Major Keys:

��There are four kinds of miracles: miracles of odds, timing, willpower, and grace.

��Miracles are everywhere. The harder you look for them, the more you will see them.

��Don’t leave a game early. The outcome is always unpredictable—even to the last thirty seconds.

The greatest moment in Carolina sports history, as Gio Bernard crossed into the end zone, and I was lucky enough to capture it on video. I am on the left side of the photo wearing a ball cap. Photo taken by Jeffrey Camarati

Going on fifty years, my family has held the same seats in Kenan Memorial Stadium. My mother will always be my #1 best friend, barely above Rob Jones.

My sister and I enjoying the company of the original creator of the adventure trip: my grandpa, Big Bill.

Challenge: Think back to the last time you experienced a miracle, and what that felt like. Continue to search for that feeling again, and be thankful when the miracle happens. Remember, when you least expect one, expect one.

And keep in mind these words of wisdom from my mother: “Life is so much better when you take time to notice the miracles. Know that you can experience miracles, which are reminders that God is right with us.”

Chapter 17: What Are You Drinking?

“You have to get drunk to act a fool. I can act a fool without drinking a drop.” —UNC Basketball Head Coach Roy Williams, Hard Work: A Life On and Off the Court

I am one of those rare unicorns who made it to twenty-one without drinking. Call it an anomaly, or the result of a socially introverted kid unaffected by peer pressure. Regardless, I figured out how to keep from getting lost trying to fly in the face of the college life.

“Why don’t you drink?” asked anyone I had a conversation with at a party. It started to get so annoying since my “I’m not twenty-one yet” answer wasn’t good enough. Instead of just giving in and drinking with everyone else, I found a loophole. Capri Sun.

As soon as I would pour a pouch of the tropical juice into a cup, the questions were less about why I wasn’t partaking and more about our school’s latest football game. Not just that, but reminding myself to let loose a little bit at parties, judge a little less, and engage in real conversations with people helped me fit right in. Considering I was a DD any time someone needed it, I found myself getting invited to more parties than I had time for. Maybe you and I attended parties for different reasons, but at least I was getting invites.

Capri Sun wasn’t my only saving grace at parties. I brought Lunchables, Red Bulls, and maybe even milk just to have something in my hand. Some of the hotshots tried to make fun of me, but I just owned it with enough confidence that people eventually accepted that I was going to eat my damn Lunchable and they were going to like it. In fact, people often asked me for a sandwich before the night’s end.

Now, I enjoy singing along with Lil Jon when he suggests that all the females should crawl from the window to the wall as much as the next guy. But eventually, parties become routine. There’s the pregame, the ride to the bar or house, awkward conversations with loud music, staring at phones to appear busy, and a late-night return home. Every once in a while, you’ll have a story worth telling. But most of the time, a party is a cookie-cutter copy of the previous weekend. I needed to find something else to fill up my free time.

That’s when I decided to start doing what I loved: filming.

Halfway through my freshman year in college, I contacted a local club to ask if I could bring a camera to their next concert.

“Sure, man, we only have like forty people coming, so I don’t think it’s a problem!” the owner said to me over the phone.

I showed up with a borrowed camera and a flashlight duct taped to the top. I had made it into a club on Friday night without even using a fake ID. Despite sticking out in cargo pants and a UNC football shirt, I was on my way to exploring my passion.

“Yooo! BillCo! What are you doing here?” my friends would ask.

“I’m filming the concert, they just let me in!”

“That’s crazy—hey, film this!”

Everyone always loved the camera. Most of the time I could point the camera toward the crowd and people would pop their self-conscious bubbles and just let loose for a few seconds—dancing with each other, screaming their own name, or holding their drinks high in the air. The camera had an amazing ability to make everyone surprisingly comfortable.

I was hooked. I had found a way to go out without alcohol. I was legally inside the best clubs under the age of twenty-one, and I quickly found myself on stage with artists like B.o.B., Major Lazer, and Big Sean. I kept this trend going until I was hitting the biggest stages in the world with the best cameras money could buy. I wanted to make sure my weekends were fun, but I also didn’t want to waste them doing the same thing every time. I found a happy medium.

I’d get Facebook messages like: “Hey, BillCo, I saw you on stage last night! That party was lit!”

And invites to the next party: “Yo, BillCo, there’s a party at this place off of Franklin Street, can you bring your camera?”

And from girls . . . I would put a quote from a girl here if girls actually thought what I was doing was cool.

Just because I was doing what I loved sober didn’t mean I didn’t have a few wild nights that included alcohol after I turned twenty-one. Every once in a while, you might have a story worth telling.

* * *

“Dude. BillCo. Let’s get out of this club and go jump in the pool!” Mickey DeMaria said as he, Rob Jones, and I were swing dancing with girls on the deck of a cruise ship. It was our last spring break together. Rob Jones, Mickey, and I were cruising through the Bahamas on a weeklong vacation.

Mickey is probably tied with Rob Jones for my best friend. While Rob Jones taught me about inspiration and dreaming big, Mickey taught me how to be confident and uninterested in what others thought about me. He’s a huge reason I grew out of my Bambi phase from high school and opened up to new experiences and friends in life.

“I’m down!” Patrón took the lead on this one.

We grabbed the girls and said that we wanted to go swimming. They looked at each other, then back at us, and nodded with smiles. But first, we were to make a detour.

I followed Mickey, Rob Jones, and the girls through the main lobby on our way to the swimming pool. Suddenly, Mickey ran up to the grand set of keys on the stage and pulled the cover off. “Dude. BillCo. I’m gonna play this piano!”

“Okay! I’m gonna take drums!” I ran up on stage and grabbed the sticks.

“I’m gonna . . .” Rob Jones paused as he tried to figure out his contribution, “watch for security!” The girls giggled beside him.

Mickey took a deep breath and cracked his knuckles. I clamped the high hat on the drum kit, and prepared to craft a beat to match whatever Mickey was about to play. He broke the 2:00 a.m. silence with the most amazing introduction on the keys. Mickey is an extremely talented piano player, and he frequently used his abilities to win over girls in college. I wish my drumming was equally as good. But with all the Patrón, I’d say we were evenly matched.

Then we began singing the opening lyrics to “Hallelujah” together.

I took a brush to the snare drum and struck the ride cymbal ever so gently, not to overpower the tune as it escaped the top of the grand piano.

As we quietly segued into the soft chorus, I could see security guards slowly approaching from all angles. But we continued to play. At this point, there was no hiding. We were being surrounded.

Rob Jones, the worst lookout ever, didn’t realize security had shown until one of the guards was standing right next to him. But something peculiar happened.

We continued to sing, and the security guards just stood their ground, without saying a word. I think it was because the moment was so peaceful.

Then, the guards started to hum and sing along softly,

And love is not a victory march

It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah

Together, we all sang the final chorus of hallelujahs. When the song came to a close, the chief of security grinned and waved us off the stage.

“You cannot be here during these hours,” he said with a heavy Jamaican accent. “However, that was lovely.”

“Oh, no problem, bro!” Mickey waved as we led the girls out of the room and toward the pool.

As we walked through Willy Wonka–esque rooms decorated for a proper journey across the sea, Mickey sipped his Long Island iced tea.

“Bro. We totally did spring break right this time,” he said to Rob Jones.

“Can I get a hell, yeah?” Rob Jones said.

“Hell, yeah,” I replied as I laid eyes on a completely still but lit pool on the ship’s main deck. There wasn’t a soul on the entire top floor, but all the lights were on and music was still playing. A light, undisturbed fog slowly crept over the glasslike water. I hit record on my GoPro and went sprinting toward the pool. Fully clothed, I jumped as high as I could and splashed into the warm water. I was followed by everyone else in our entourage.

“BillCooooooo!” Rob Jones shouted to the GoPro from midair as he jumped into the pool. The girls were laughing hysterically at our carelessness. We were there strictly to enjoy the moment.

We’d had encounters with the security guards every night that week thanks to our previous “adventures” on the cruise, so by now, they probably should have had someone following us. One night we were catching the best views of the full moon from a restricted area in the front of the boat. Another night we met a kid who showed us how to hack into every television screen on the ship. We made them all display you’ll never shut down the real napster, like the screens did in The Italian Job. One night we showed up to the “fancy dinner” dressed in short shorts, reflective sunglasses, and tank tops, theorizing that they had to feed us no matter what. And they didn’t just feed us—we ended up being a huge hit and won over the entire waiting staff with Rob Jones’s and Mickey’s charm. At one point, I got caught dancing on a bar singing along to Ariana Grande’s “Break Free.” The same security guard who warned us off the stage asked me to step down, but not until after he stopped laughing. We were never destructive or malicious—just looking to shake up the routine.

The pool incident was no different. Right on schedule, security guards started making their way onto the main deck. The chief of security was shaking his head in a mixture of empathy and awe.

“All right, gentlemen, party is over! Time for bed!”

“Dude, you should jump in with us!” Mickey suggested to the now beyond-uninterested security staff. His invitation, however, was met with stern looks of irritation. “Okay, we’re getting out.”

Everyone stripped down to their underwear and wrapped ourselves in towels we grabbed nearby. Giggling, we carried our soaking wet clothes as we disappeared into the next room to order more drinks.

“Cheers to the squad!” Mickey said as he raised another charged-up Long Island iced tea. A table surrounded by our newly-found group of friends held their glasses up. We were just a few more who bought into the idea that you can strive to be different, own your decisions, and do whatever you want with your life.

* * *

Whether you choose to drink or not is your decision. But I get it if you’re one of those rare few who just doesn’t, for no reason other than you just don’t want to. Guess what? That answer is good enough. And this goes for anything else. Whether you’re into Taylor Swift, being vegan, playing soccer, watching romantic comedies, filming artists on stage, or jumping into a pool with all your clothes on, it doesn’t matter. It might be hard at first, but let that FOMO go. You don’t always need to do what everyone else is doing. The important thing is that you stick to doing what makes you happy and let other people accept that—instead of the other way around.

If you need time to think about where you stand, just put Capri Sun in your cup for the time being and figure it all out later. Can I get a hell, yeah?

Major Keys:

��You don’t need to do what everyone else is doing just to fit in. Find your own way, and own it.

��Look for substitutes if you ever don’t want to participate in something. Capri Sun is a great substitute for alcohol.

��Let other people accept you for who you are. Don’t adjust your choices to please someone else and fit into the crowd.

From the bottom of the spring break cruise ship pool: Rob Jones (left), Mickey DeMaria (middle), and me (with clothes still on).

Challenge: If you know someone who has made an unpopular choice, support them in their decision. Whether you agree with them or not, they’d appreciate the words of encouragement. Even just one person who stands with someone who seems alone can make a huge impact on how well they stick to their choice.

Chapter 18: Favorite Kind of Will? Free Will.

“The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.” —Mark Twain

Life is full of choices. You might make some that land you in a police station after a weekend of golf carting, or you may end up floating above dolphins in North Carolina. (Porpoises. Whatever.) Regardless, there are good ones, and there are bad ones.

Life is full of choices because life is based on free will. And no matter what situation we might be in, we always have the ability to exercise free will within our own mind. We can choose what to believe in and what we think is false. Free will gives us the chance to make sense of situations and add meaning to our lives.

So how do you uncover the meaning of your life?

When I started my freshman year of high school, I had just moved from Atlanta to Chapel Hill to be as close to UNC as possible. Within a few weeks, I was invited by a kid named Evan to attend a youth group Wednesdays after school. Evan was in the school band with me, but I wasn’t very close to him or anyone else yet.

At first, I was reluctant to accept his invite since I was pretty shy in my new school, but I decided I didn’t really have a choice, considering my social life was nonexistent.

“We play basketball over half the time,” Evan reassured me at the end of band class, “so it’s a pretty chill group.”

“Basketball?” I should never agree to anything athletic. My six-foot frame usually led to me getting picked first but benched quickly for my lack of talent. Regardless, I agreed to go. “I guess I’m in.”

I showed up to the youth group and met a few of the guys: Tommy, Brian, and James. They made up the first real “squad” of friends I ever had. The youth group was led by two guys in their thirties named Jennings Berry and Michael Chambers.

Typically when I thought of church, I saw boring people shuffling in on Sunday mornings, moaning lame hymns, repeating phrases, and gossiping about each other over lunch after the service.

But this was different.

“Run butter beans and biscuits!” Tommy would shout as Michael would loop around the arc to pick up the ball and execute their secret play.

“Why do I always bring Rainbow flip-flops to these things?” James would shake his head.

“Kobe!” Brian would announce as he shot a complete brick three-pointer.

We were all mediocre at basketball, but we had fun. Of the hour we had reserved for youth group each Wednesday, we typically spent forty-five minutes balling so hard Jesus would wanna fine us.

I started attending the Wednesday nights regularly. And then, a few weeks in, I was invited to an upcoming beach retreat. There would be a large group of high schoolers there.

Oh, great. Social anxiety.

“I don’t think I’ll go. Are you going?” I asked Evan as we left another Wednesday night basketball practice.

“Yeah, man! I’m definitely in. It’s the beach, so why not?”

“I don’t know, man,” I said, looking down, “there will be a lot of people I don’t know. I’m not really sure if I’m into all this Jesus stuff that much anyway.”

“Well, you can always come to see what you think, and if it’s not for you, then at least you tried.”

Evan had a good point. “All right, man,” I said as I walked toward my mom’s car to get picked up. “I’ll give it a shot. See you next week!”

A few weeks passed. It was time for the beach retreat. I’d had some more time to spend with the squad, but I hadn’t yet opened up to the idea of Christianity, and I definitely was nervous about meeting a bunch of new people at the same time.

“Hey, man! Glad you’re coming on the trip with us!” Jennings said as we loaded the van in the church parking lot.

Jennings was one of the main reasons I was going. His goofy attitude and inability to take anything too seriously made it easy to open up. Especially since he was the guy in charge. I couldn’t be afraid to be myself when it seemed that Jennings couldn’t care less about what anyone thought about him. He just wore his hipster T-shirts, sandals, and dorky smile and loved life.

“Thanks, Jennings.” I nervously buried my face into my iPod.

We drove three hours from Chapel Hill to Emerald Isle, the same beach where six years later, Rob Jones and I would hijack a kayak and discover porpoises. This was also the same beach Mickey would take me to for my twenty-second birthday.

“You might want to check the boat’s oil and gas levels before you go out!” Mickey’s dad said to us from their beach house before we headed out on my birthday adventure.

“Nah, I’ll be fine,” Mickey shrugged it off.

We were joined by two lovely girls, Emery and Madison. The four of us would spend our senior year in college accomplishing spontaneous trips to New York City, Emerald Isle, Savannah, and Charleston for the most ruckus anyone could ever ask for.

We made it 100 yards out the channel before the engine died, the boat flooded, and we were forced to drag it to a sandbar. We ended up camping within eyesight of Mickey’s house. Starving, wet, and covered in mosquitos, it was the best twenty-second birthday adventure I ever could have asked for. I’d take an evening with the sunset we had and the unexpected boat troubles over a few beers in a bar any day.

The first day on the beach retreat was all about fun. We watched movies, we threw a football on the beach, and my friend circle grew 900 percent. I was overwhelmed by the genuine love everyone had for me just because I was there. No one had any kind of agenda or beliefs to push; they just loved me. It was that simple.

I started to realize what may have originally pushed me away from church. A lot of churches like to keep their network tight and judge others from a distance. Or maybe they focus a little too much on the “rules and regulations” of the game and forget that the reason Jesus came down here and did some cool stuff was to show everyone that He just loves us.

A weekend of football and movies was great, but the moment it all came together for me was when we broke into small groups. Michael Chambers brought me and a few other guys down by the beach. We sat down at a picnic table, and Michael opened it up pretty casually.

“Sup, dudes.”

“Sup,” we all echoed back.

“I guess we gotta talk about Jesus or something.” Michael smiled. He was a video game designer with nearly unlimited creativity. He loved Dungeons and Dragons, his Xbox 360, and everything Nintendo. Because Michael never let go of his passion for video games, he was forever stuck in the world of Neverland with me. Neither of us would “grow up” in a sense, so it was easy to understand his way of explaining things.

Michael stepped on the gas pedal and jumped right in. “What do you guys think is the meaning of life?”

“Uh, I dunno, Carolina Basketball?” I said jokingly.

“Very true,” Michael said back as everyone giggled. “But really, why are we here? What’s the point?”

“I have no idea,” Evan chimed in. “I don’t think anyone can answer that.”

“What if I told you I have a pretty good idea of what it might be?” Michael said. All of us were leaning in now. “What if I told you that our entire lives are based off of choice?”

At this point, the only sound was coming from the small waves gently crashing on the water behind us. Michael was about to get serious, and I wanted some answers.

“Who here likes cars?” Michael asked.

Everyone raised their hands. Obviously.

“Okay, so if I told you that you could pick any car in the whole world, the one you’d choose is probably the one you love the most, right?”

We all nodded our heads. I surely would choose the Shelby Cobra. The love would be unconditional.

“So what about girls?” he asked.

Some of us raised our hands, others hesitated. We were only thirteen years old, so the idea of a girl wasn’t as great as the idea of a dream car.

“If you could choose any girl in the world, assuming she loves you, too, wouldn’t that mean that she’s the one you love the most?”

Michael’s logic made sense to me.

“The same thing applies to faith. God created the world, and he filled it with us. He gave everyone complete control over their lives, full of free will. We have a window of time here to decide what we’re going to believe in, or who we love.”

He started to bring things full circle. “Check it out.” He raised his eyebrows and said, “If Will here loves Carolina Basketball more than anything, then he actually loves the devil.”

Now he was losing me. The Devils play in Durham, North Carolina.

“The Bible talks about a devil,” Michael continued, “and most people envision a little guy with pointy horns and a pitchfork sitting on your shoulder. That’s one way to look at it, but the devil is actually anything that’s not God.”

“Wait, so anything can be the devil?” Brian asked. Brian was a Duke fan, so maybe this wasn’t all bad news for him.

“Yes and no,” Michael explained. “You are free to love anything you wish, but if you put all of your faith into something that isn’t God, then you’re essentially worshiping the devil—a false idol. You see, everything else will eventually fail you. God is the only one who will never let you down.

“God created all of us, and He just wants to be loved back!” Michael made it seem simple. “But He knows that if He forced you to do anything, it’s not true love. Just like if I forced you to buy a certain car, or marry a certain girl. Anything that doesn’t involve free will isn’t true love.”

I thought about what he was saying. I asked, “So maybe free will and love are connected?”

“Absolutely. The greatest form of love comes from choice. And you can’t have complete choice without complete free will,” Michael said.

“So what you’re saying is Carolina Basketball is the devil, and choosing what you believe in is like picking out a car?” Evan asked.

“That’s exactly right!” Michael said.

I had never thought of it this way. Until then, I thought the Bible was a strict rulebook that if you didn’t follow it meant the “good people” would judge you, and you’d probably go to hell. Didn’t sound like a fun club to me. But suddenly, I had learned that God was just a cool dude who wants you to love Him. It’s like he has a ballin’ Tinder profile and he’s hoping that everyone in the world will swipe right. I bet His profile would say something like this:

God

Bio: “I created you. I love you. Just swipe right so we can hang out.”

Talents: “I’ve forgiven everything you have done and will ever do.”

“I created the seven days of the week—my bad for Monday.”

“Will never cheat on you, leave you, lie to you, let you down, or lead you through anything you’re not prepared to handle.”

(Maybe. Maybe not. My Tinder profile needs work, so maybe I should fix that before working on God’s.)

“Christianity is based on love and choice. Not rules and judgment.” Michael elaborated, “I think dudes like us forget that sometimes. Jesus didn’t come here to judge anyone or force them to believe He was a chill dude; He just wanted to give us the pieces to the puzzle, let us decide what we want to believe in, and then die so all of our sins could be forgiven.”

This was the conversation that made me go to church because I wanted to. Choice. Free will. I could buy into that. It was a better stock than Apple, and better news than an acceptance letter from UNC.

From that point on, I decided my faith would be first over everything, that I’d get in the team huddle with God before I made any big life decisions. It didn’t mean that my life was perfect from then on, or that I never made mistakes anymore, but it did mean that my life meant a lot more. I was happy. And I’ve been on a good day streak ever since.

Of course God knew what would happen if [we] used [our] freedom the wrong way. . . . If God thinks this state of war in the universe a price worth paying for free will . . . instead of a toy world which only moves when He pulls the strings—it is worth paying.[8]

—C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity

Major Keys:

��Life is full of choices because life is based on free will.

��Christianity is also based on free will.

��The greatest form of love is based on choice.

The original church squad, from left to right: Evan, Brian, Tommy, me, and James. Photo taken by Jennings Berry

Madison (left) and Emery (right), giving birth to a premature watermelon before we drifted 100 yards downstream for my twenty-second birthday adventure.

Challenge: Give a youth group or church service an honest try. If you keep running into churches that don’t seem like a good fit, try different ones. Not every restaurant makes their french fries exactly the way you like them. Not every church can make you excited about God the way you want, either. Just keep looking. Waking up every day knowing it’s the best day of your life is a feeling worth searching for—I promise.

Chapter 19: The Final Paiges

“You can’t live a perfect day until you do something for someone who will never be able to repay you.” —John Wooden

I sometimes wonder if God stretches time if He knows there’s something that must be accomplished. Like if time actually froze, we were able to do what He needed done, time then resumed, and God flashed everyone with one of those Men in Black devices so we would remember it as a faint memory. Have you ever looked back at an accomplishment and wondered how it all came together? Even more so in the amount of time it took? Sometimes an accomplishment can take a while to develop. But sometimes, they can happen unusually fast.

***

I was in my dorm on a Wednesday afternoon working on emails to music managers, trying to set up concerts for upcoming weekends. I was a junior in college and relatively sure I was the greatest video producer who ever lived. I left my humble pie in the fridge far too often. Rob Jones ate most of it. He always eats my food.

My phone buzzed. “This is BillCo.”

“Hey, bro. I have this idea.” It was my classmate Taylor Sharp. This guy was a campus legend. Even before he graduated, people knew about this kid’s ambitions. He could rally together the biggest names on campus and pull off some of the craziest stunts. Except he always used this talent to give back. He has his hand in several nonprofits now and continues to be an inspiration to me and many others.

“Whatchu got?” I quickly responded.

“I need you to make a video for me. Can you make something happen in like a day?”

My eyes widened. “You’re crazy, man. A day? A football highlight video takes a week. Music videos can take months. What do you want in a day?”

“I know this kid, and he’s coming to UNC to visit tomorrow, and I need a videographer to document the day. If you can edit it the same day, I might be able to get it approved to play in the Dean Dome on Saturday.”

The Dean Dome, UNC’s premier basketball stadium named after Coach Dean Smith, was the home of Marvin Williams’s game-winning shot against Duke, Tyler Hansbrough’s 360 dunk, Wayne Ellington’s deep three-pointers—endless history. And Saturday was college basketball’s greatest rivalry game—UNC vs. Duke. People wait a lifetime to get a ticket to one of these games, and students wait hours in the snow for lottery admission tickets, often to end up walking home empty-handed. It’s a cruel game of chance many of us were familiar with.

It didn’t take me long to decide on this one. “All right, dude, I think I can make this happen,” I said, imagining the possibility of having one of my videos running on the stadium’s four jumbotrons.

“Sweet! Can you bring a team of videographers with you? I want to make sure we capture everything. And we’ll need you pretty much the whole day.”

Was he crazy? “Dude, I have Air Force workouts, class, work, and . . . you need a whole team? This is insane. Why are you calling last second for this?”

“Trust me, man. I can explain the details later, but we’ve gotta make this happen. Just call me back if you can swing this favor.” Taylor hung up.

I thought about it, and I knew whom to call.

“Sup, BillCo,” came Rob Jones’s voice from the other end. He was the first person I could think of.

“I need some advice.”

“What’s up?”

“I’ve got this project offer from Taylor. He wants a video done in a day for some kid. Thinks he can get it in the Dean Dome. What do you think I should do?”

“Well, you already know what I’m going to tell you,” he said. Rob Jones was usually the voice of confirmation I needed to make a decision I had subconsciously already made.

“You’re right, man. I guess I’m in.” I hung up.

I started planning the next day’s shoot. I would just skip class . . . no one ever remembers a day of class, anyway. I could work out with the Air Force, have my team cover the visit while I was gone, and then be there for the rest of the day. I’d need to borrow cameras and make sure everything was set to capture whatever Taylor had in mind. There were a lot of questions, but as usual with my filming, it was shoot first and ask questions later.

A few hours later, after I had assembled somewhat of a team, I called Taylor back.

“Hey, man. I’ve got the team. And we can meet you tomorrow wherever you need us.”

“This is awesome, man, I can’t wait to show you what we have planned,” Taylor said eagerly. “I’m going to tell you a secret.”

Now I was very interested.

“There’s this group of people on campus. We’re calling ourselves OneCarolina, and we want to start a movement. It’s composed of some of the most influential students we have: athletes, the student body president, club leaders, student government, and now you. We’re coming together to highlight The Carolina Way.” This was a term we used to describe our tight-knit family of students, faculty, and alumni. “But we’re doing it without anyone knowing who we are, or how we did it. We want to share authentic stories about the positive things happening on our campus.”

So basically I had been accepted into a secret cult of do-gooders and would only ever know one member. But I did know that they all would have a hand in what I was about to capture.

“Tomorrow will be all about my friend Anthony,” Taylor explained. “Anthony has a rare disease called Emery-Dreifuss muscular dystrophy and is confined to a wheelchair. He’s only twelve, and his dream has always been to come to UNC. However, his condition can bring on serious heart issues at a young age, so we need to make that dream come true right now. Our job is to find a way where he can feel like a true Tar Heel for one day, and share that story with the world.”

I was sold. Whatever needed to happen was going to happen.

Without knowing all the details, I showed up at the first planned location the next morning, Sutton’s Drug Store. Sutton’s continues to be my favorite restaurant in the world. It’s the only soda pop shop and storefront to witness every UNC basketball national championship since 1923. It serves the best Sunday brunch in North Carolina.

As soon as we arrived, Taylor explained to all of us that we were about to surprise Anthony with a special lunch. With him were two legendary Carolina basketball players: Marcus Paige and Leslie McDonald. The shop’s manager then had the two ball players and my camera crew hide in the back until Anthony arrived with his family. We could still film from where we were. Taylor would wait outside for Anthony.

Just a few minutes after we were set, Anthony and his family arrived and were welcomed in to sit down at a table with Taylor. After they had all settled in, Marcus and Leslie stepped out and walked up to Anthony’s table.

“Can we join you for lunch?” Marcus asked.

The kid was nearly speechless. He just kept saying, “Wow!” and “It’s you!” to both of them. And we had only just begun.

The day continued on campus. We grabbed photos by iconic UNC landmarks like the Old Well and the Bell Tower. We made our way down to the Dean Dome, where Marcus and Leslie ran inside for afternoon practice. We brought Anthony around the back to enter through the Carolina Basketball Museum.

We took him through the museum to see the iconic trophies, rings, and jerseys of the athletes who have played on the court inside. With legends like Dean Smith and Michael Jordan in the light-blue history books, it’s no wonder Anthony spent most of his time in the museum staring in awe.

“Hey, Anthony, the guys are at practice now, want to head over?” Taylor asked.

“Sure,” he said eagerly, “let’s go!”

We stepped out of the museum and right into the Dean Dome’s VIP entrance. Standing there waiting for our entourage was the head coach, Roy Williams.

“Anthony, are you doing all right today?” Coach asked.

“Yes, sir!” Anthony smiled.

“Is Marcus one of your favorite players?” Coach questioned.

“Yes, sir.”

“You want me to be nice to him today and not run him as many sprints?” Coach asked.

Anthony’s smile grew even bigger. “Nah, I think you should still do it.”

Everyone erupted in laughter.

“You’re my kind of guy!” Coach high-fived Anthony.

As we left the VIP area and headed to practice, Anthony talked about everything he had done in one day. He still couldn’t believe it. Already, OneCarolina’s nameless students were able to change this kid’s entire world. And there was still more to come.

Anthony was brought out to the sideline to watch the boys practice. He didn’t stop smiling the entire time. Once practice was complete, the team took photos with Anthony, and Coach walked up to him again. He thanked Anthony for coming to visit and then invited him, his favorite teacher, and both of their families to the Duke game that Saturday.

“Can you come watch us play at this weekend’s game?” Coach asked.

Anthony couldn’t put together words. But we knew he was in. As he received the priceless tickets specifically set aside by UNC athletic director Bubba Cunningham, he might as well have received a million dollars. This was all Anthony could ever ask for.

As Anthony’s perfect day came to a close, we interviewed him and the players for the video in the press conference room.

“This is a dream,” Anthony said. “There is no way that I just met Marcus Paige, and I am going to the stadium. There is no way. This has been a very long dream.”

I stayed up the whole night with one of my editors and Taylor to complete the entire video. It was a miracle of willpower. God was looking down from heaven, giving us a wink and a nod, because His hand was going to guide OneCarolina through this challenge.

We sent the video to the athletic staff, hoping it could find a time slot during the game to be played. With every influential person on campus aware of what happened under the radar, it was sure to be a slam dunk.

That weekend, one of the biggest snowstorms UNC had seen in years rolled through. The game was put on standby, and thousands of students waited outside for the doors to open. Unfortunately, Duke decided not to make the eight-mile trip to our stadium. The game was delayed.

But a few days later, it was back on. Light blue vs. dark blue. Good vs. evil. Tar Heels vs. Blue Devils.

Anthony made the trip back to UNC, and I was once again invited to document the experience. I was given a seat right next to Anthony, about halfway up from the baseline.

We watched the Heels battle the Blue Devils. Anthony sat eagerly as his hero, Marcus Paige, sprinted up and down the court to conduct a masterpiece of a basketball game. Every time Duke would get ahead, UNC would answer with more points. It was a tug-of-war, especially considering Duke was ranked number five and UNC wasn’t ranked at all.

At the half, Duke was up 37-30—an uncomfortable spread if you ask this Tar Heel. But for a second, the excitement of the game faded away as the crowd grew silent. Anthony’s video started to play on every screen in the stadium—and all eyes were on it.

Nearly 22,000 fans sat completely still and watched the story unfold. A story of students pulling together anonymously for the magic of changing one kid’s life. A kid who certainly deserved it.

As the video came to a close, the Dean Dome was nearly silent. I stood up on a seat and pointed down at Anthony.

“He’s right here! Everyone! Anthony is here!” I yelled.

The row in front of us turned around and started to clap. Some people were even crying. But everyone was smiling.

Then, like a wave of energy, fans tapped each other’s shoulders, and row after row turned around and focused on this twelve-year-old. Standing ovations. Roaring screams. And before I knew it, the entire sold-out Dean Dome—Duke fans included—were standing in relentless cheering and applause for Anthony.

I looked down at him. All I could see was his family hugging him while they cried together in happiness. Fans lined up to high-five Anthony on the way out of the stadium, too.

We did it. We changed the world.

It didn’t cost us anything, either. From Marcus Paige to Coach Williams to the OneCarolina team, all we had to do was believe that something was possible. We each stepped in where we could help, and it all came together in one amazing moment of awe-inspiring applause. Anthony’s Big Day.

And to top off Anthony’s special day, UNC won the game by eight points. One for every mile between us and Duke’s campus. Even now, I believe it was the extra sprints Anthony ran Marcus through the last practice. Students rushed the court and mobbed together, singing our alma mater:

Hark the sound of Tar Heel voices

Ringing clear and True.

Singing Carolina’s praises

Shouting N.C.U.

But the sweetest part of that win was that Anthony’s dream came true. He was welcomed into the Carolina Family and got to be a college kid for a day: hanging with the athletes, going to practice, and witnessing firsthand a historic victory that UNC students will talk about for years to come. At least for me, I’ll remember the look on Anthony’s face after that video played, when I knew it didn’t matter what the scoreboard said at the end—Anthony was a winner. He was a Tar Heel.

At the close of the game, Anthony was brought back to the locker room, where Marcus Paige, still in uniform after winning one of the biggest games of his life, hung out with Anthony and signed his new No. 5 jersey. Anthony closed out the day perfectly by declaring proudly:

“I’m Anthony Hernandez, and I’m a Tar Heel.”

Major Keys:

��You don’t always need a lot of time to accomplish something great. Just a team and a shared belief in why you’re doing it can make it work!

��Spending your time and effort on someone else is often more rewarding than spending it on yourself.

��We might not have enough time to change the whole world, but we surely can try—one person at a time.

On his big day at UNC, Anthony met Coach Roy Williams. Anthony’s brother is pushing the wheelchair, with his teacher in the background. Taylor Sharp is smiling on the far right.

Challenge: Find a problem that you and your friends might be able to solve. Even better, find a way to do it without spending too much money. Use your talents or your teamwork to find a solution. Almost anything can be accomplished with a little flexibility, creativity, and drive. And maybe the help of Marcus Paige.

Epilogue

As you now know, I believe in challenging routine and upsetting the balance of predictability whenever possible. Life only gets shorter, and I’d rather not waste it with days I can plan and predict. The days filled with adventure, spontaneity, and uncertainty are the ones we can always look back on and think, “Today, I lived.”

The moments you’ve read about in this book were the ones I was born to experience, and I believe you deserve even better ones. The majority of these experiences didn’t cost any money or require any special qualifications. Most of the time, all I had to do was decide I wanted to do something, and then take a leap of faith to do it.

Since I wrote this book, I have crashed my Mustang, repaired it, and haven’t slowed down a bit. I’ve questioned my faith many times, and as a result it only grows stronger. I’ve been invited back to EDC to film again, and I am due for another spontaneous flight to Hawaii . . . this time without Jerry. I have sung “A Thousand Miles” more than 100 times in the car with different passengers, and I’ve become great friends with several different police officers in California. And best of all, I was invited back for my fifth Chainsmokers show at their New Year’s Eve celebration in Los Angeles. The audience was surprised with a Backstreet Boys appearance, followed by Big Sean. After singing happy birthday to one of The Chainsmokers, Drew Taggart, Big Sean summed up the night:

“Hell, yeah!”

I have no idea what I’m going to do next in life, but I think that’s the best part. We don’t need to figure out every step, because life will find a way to change it anyway. Celebrate the unpredictability, and embrace the fear and uncertainty. Remember, we’re limited in life only by our own imagination. Challenge yourself to create unpredictability instead of trying to control it with routine. And every time you complete one of the challenges in this book, or decide to do something a little out of the ordinary, share it with the hashtag #TheArtOfUnpredictability so we can show the world that everything is a bit out of control—and that’s just the way we like it.

[1]. Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi, Flow: The Psychology of Optimal Experience (New York: Harper and Row, 1990), http://www.pursuit-of-happiness.org/history-of-happiness/mihaly-csikszentmihalyi/.

[2]. Chloe Sorvino, “Inside Billionaire James Dyson’s Reinvention Factory: From Vacuums to Hair Dryers and Now Batteries,” Forbes, August 24, 2016, http://www.forbes.com/sites/chloesorvino/2016/08/24/james-dyson-exclusive-top-secret-reinvention-factory/#50f50bec372c.

[3]. Rob Jones coined the term “hibatchers” in college to replace literally any word. Example: We hibatched those hot dogs. We ate those hibatchers. The hibatched hotdogs were delicious—don’t think too hard over this.

[5]. New York: Riverhead Books / The Penguin Group, 2009.

[6]. Beyond Boredom and Anxiety, quoted in Drive: The Surprising Truth About What Motivates Us.

[7]. Steve Hawk, “Authenticity’s Paradox: If You Flaunt It, You Lose It,” Insights by Stanford Business, August 23, 2016, https://www.gsb.stanford.edu/insights/authenticitys-paradox-if-you-flaunt-it-you-lose-it.