After the scorching silence of the Saudi desert and the raw truth I’d felt in the limestone bat caves outside Riyadh, the roar of Formula One engines and clink of champagne glasses in Monaco couldn’t have felt further from reality—yet somehow, it was exactly where I needed to be.

Jay Patry and I had met a year earlier in Krasnoyarsk, Siberia. He was on an American-led expedition to the North Pole, I was still clinging to the remnants of my original Svalbard-based team, now fractured by war, lost visas, and time. What remained of my polar dream was a Russian-led patchwork of misfits—scientists, skiers, and hopefuls from all corners of the world. I was the only one left from that old crew. Still trying. Still holding the vision. Still skiing north.

Jay and I had bonded in Siberia, one of those rare connections where no explanations were needed. Months later, as I pushed through the Middle East with a sweat-drenched pack and wild border crossings, he messaged me: “Why don’t you come to Monaco? I’ve got a boat at the Grand Prix. You should come.”

I hesitated. My world was trains and tents. But I said yes. Then raced to make it happen—skimming days off the back end of my trip to carve out time, catching half-sleeps on desert buses just to claw a week into existence.

I arrived in Kuwait for one night to grab my North Pole gear I’d left with friends there, and the Kuwaitis lit up when I told them my next stop.

“Monaco? Grand Prix? No, no, you cannot wear that!” they laughed, eyeing my worn jeans and three tired t-shirts. They dragged me to the malls and transformed me—duck-egg blues, crisp whites, Riviera-ready.

Then I flew to Nice, dumped my pack at the airport, caught the bus to Monaco, and stepped onto a tender that shuttled me across glittering water to a floating world I couldn’t have imagined.

The yacht was enormous. Jay greeted me barefoot, grinning, as if we’d seen each other yesterday. Kendall, his wife, radiated calm warmth, and their kids—Sky and Talon—wrapped me into their lives like an uncle from another world. This was no fishing boat. This was a $50 million vessel with a crew of twelve, chrome polished hourly, and toys that looked like Bond’s weekend arsenal.

“I was supposed to sleep on the tender,” I joked, “but apparently it sank.”

Jay laughed. “That tender was worth a million. We’ll find you a blanket.”

That night, there was a DJ flown in. A pole acrobat who defied gravity. Champagne. Laughter. And underneath it all—kindness. I expected pretence, but found generosity. Opulence, yes—but wrapped in grace.

The next morning, I packed my bag, ready to leave.

“Stay one more night,” they said.

So I did.

We cruised to Saint-Tropez. I played on hydrofoil boards, walked ancient cobblestone lanes, and listened to Sky explain star constellations like a pint-sized Galileo. I met more of the family—nieces, nephews—each one curious, kind, grounded. I felt part of something again. Not because of the wealth, but because of the welcome.

Every day I tried to leave. Every day, they asked me to stay.

“Just one more night.”

So I did.

I had spent years remaking myself in the wild. Rebuilding after heartbreak, reawakening after burnout. I thought I needed solitude. But here, laughing on the sun-drenched deck, towel-drying my hair after a dip off the stern, I realised: this too could be part of who I am. Not just the expedition leader in torn fleece. But the explorer who could walk barefoot onto a superyacht and still feel like himself.

On the final afternoon, as the boat idled near Cannes and the sun began to set over the bay, Kendall turned to me. “So, James—how was it?”

I didn’t pause.

“You’ve just defined my new normal.”

We sat with that for a moment—quiet, content. Then, just as I was gathering my things, Jay pulled me aside. His voice was steady, but his eyes were lit with a kind of mischief I’d come to recognise in fellow adventurers. “Kendall and I have been talking,” he said. “We’ve watched how you are with our friends, with our kids. The way you light up when you talk about the world—it’s contagious. We have all this… stuff. All these opportunities. But it takes us so long to figure out what matters. We need someone like you.”

He paused, then said it:

“We need a Director of Adventures.”

I laughed. A what?

He smiled. “Seriously. We want someone to help craft and guide the most meaningful experiences of our lives. Not just luxury escapes. Something deeper. Someone to help us design a legacy—for us, for Sky and Fallon. For the future.”

I was floored. I’d spent years carving a path through wilderness and war zones, mountains and meaning, often questioning whether it all connected. And now, someone saw the shape in the jigsaw.

I almost cried. Not out of flattery, but recognition. A role that didn’t exist. A role only I could fill. I thanked him, said I’d need time. “I don’t think of myself as an adventurer anymore,” I told him. “Not in the traditional sense. If you want a guide, I know dozens. But if you want to create—to discover untouched migrations, to uncover the great stories of the Earth, to honour Indigenous wisdom and map a legacy your children can step into—then yes. That’s something I’d want to shape together.”

I laid out a vision: a lifetime of expeditions not just as travel, but as education. Not a scrapbook of memories, but a living atlas of meaning. Every journey building toward something bigger—like puzzle pieces finding their place.

We left it there. No handshakes. No contracts. Just possibility.

And with that, I caught a train to Switzerland. Three days left. A whole new continent to explore. But something had changed. I wasn’t just travelling anymore.

I was beginning to lead.

“To know where you are going, you must first know where you come from.” — Provençal Proverb (Southern France)

Reflection: Legacy begins with roots. A meaningful journey connects past, present, and purpose.

 
Action: Before your next trip, ask: What story will this add to my legacy? Travel with intention.