If you have seen our Atlantic-crossing movie, I know you want to meet this man.
We’ve had so many followers and Patrons ask me so many questions after watching the movie: “Why non-stop?” “Why did you have so much trouble with the engines?” “What other spares would you have brought?” All valid questions that Phillip and I are happy to answer, but who better to ask than the Captain? Yannick definitely loves to talk about his boat and the lessons learned from the Atlantic-crossing and he has graciously agreed to offer up some of his time to share those with you, my followers. He is a very interesting man, with many diverse talents and pursuits and I’m excited for you all to get to know him better.
So, here’s the deal. We can only handle so many on a call. Just like the Patreon Skype session with Phillip and I discussing the Atlantic-crossing, we will open it up to the first ten folks to sign up. First come, first serve. Reach out to me in a comment below, or on Facebook or via email. GO! I will record the Q&A session like I did last time and share later with you all here so everyone will get the benefit of the discussion. Also, I will share with anyone who signs up to participate but who has not yet seen the Atlantic-crossing movie a link to view the movie for free so you all can watch it over Thanksgiving (while I’m voyaging to Isla Mujeres!) and start deciding what you would really like to ask Capt. Yannick about the voyage. You can also rent the movie ($2.99 on YouTube) here or Patrons get free viewing. The call will be Thursday Dec. 1st at noon, CST. (As Yannick is seven hours ahead, this seemed to be the only reasonable overlap of time that wouldn’t force him to give an interview at 2:00 a.m. his time. My hope was that any 9-5’ers who wanted to participate could take lunch at your desk and jump on the call.)
Thursday, Dec. 1st at 12:00 p.m. CST — Skype with Capt. Yannick
“If we snap one of those battens, I don’t have a spare,” Yannick tells the crew after we put in the third reef.
Thankfully the storm off the tip of Florida was intense but very brief, lasting a grand total of about twenty minutes with peak winds of 32 mph. We may not have needed to go all the way down to third reef, but after our (very first ever) drop to reef one did not go so well and the winds were still building at the time, Yannick instructed the crew to drop to reef two—for safety as much as for practice. While reef three was primarily practice, it was necessary all the same as the crew had never done it before and we needed to learn exactly how to secure the sail down to that mark. The third reef in Yannick’s main does not have a line at the tack (the mast) running back to the cockpit; rather, it is cinched down to the boom at the tack with just a strap. So, it was good practice to put the third reef in simply to learn the set-up. With the third reef in and winds holding at 28 mph, it was then just a fun romp in the rain, a nice shower for the salty boat and crew.
Video Annie was clearly having a good time:
However, just like washing your car to make sure it doesn’t rain, Johnny put the kibosh on our rinse by breaking out some soap to take a shower. I’d say I felt bad for him, all lathered up and sudsy the minute the rain stopped, but he looked so funny. Like an unhappy cat in the tub!
Yannick, ever the problem-solver, remained focused on the crew’s poor reefing performance. “I’m going to write up instructions,” he said as he headed down below right after the storm. It wasn’t like we had botched the whole thing but reefing can be difficult when you are on a 46 foot boat, cannot hear one another over the wind and waves and you’re not confident, without communication, which lines to release or pull and when. It needs to be coordinated, rehearsed and performed like a tire change at a pit stop—quickly, efficiently and safely. In order to do that, you need to know—before sails start popping and snaring and lines are whipping about—in which order to do things. I was all for instructions. Type away Yannick.
And type he did. And printed them too! Later that afternoon we each had a typed-up instruction sheet taped at each of our designated posts setting out each step of our specific reefing procedure and we started doing reefing drills.
By the second drill we were all far more comfortable with our respective roles and the communication that needed to occur while reefing. While our reefing was improving, we were still struggling with the boom. Yes, the boom. Or I was at least—having the luxury on our Niagara of a boom vang—having to deal with the added problem of a boom, if not held up by the main sail or topping lift would come crashing down on the bimini. Whose boom hits their bimini? This irked me! Like an entirely new, complicated task stacked on top of all our tasks was just what we needed. Imagine you’re making coffee in the galley (think of all the things you have to do—fill the pot with water, light the stove, measure the grounds, etc.) and if you let go of the stove, it will fall out of the counter and crash onto the floor. That’s a little what this crashing boom felt like. If the main sail is not holding it up, the topping lift must. Once the main sail is raised, however, the topping lift must be slacked or it will chafe the main halyard. So, it’s kind of like swapping hands, but keeping a constant hold on the stove while you’re working in the galley. It was just one more thing.
Luckily, the additional tasks relating to the boom were added to Yannick’s reefing procedure at the mast. His list was definitely longer than any one else’s. In case you are curious, here is a rough reconstruction of our reefing procedure on Andanza:
Phillip turns slightly into the wind
Annie furls the genny in to third reef – with either Johnny on port or Phillip at the helm easing the sheet out [We did this so it wouldn’t beat Yannick up at the mast while reefing the main.]
Phillip turns back off the wind while the crew prepares to reef the main
Annie checks clutches for tack on deck and for clew on boom are all closed
Yannick at mast tightens topping lift (so the boom won’t crash on the bimini when we release the tension of the main)
Phillip turns slightly into the wind
Yannick at mast begins to lower the main
Annie on starboard pulls line for reef one at the tack down to the mark
Johnny on port winches the line for reef one at the clew down to the mark [while my line could be pulled by hand, meaning if we were on a port tack the genny sheet could remain on the winch, Johnny’s task of pulling down the reef point at the clew was much harder and had to be done at the winch. If we were on a starboard tack, he had a separate clutch on port that could hold the genny while he used the genny winch to pull down the reef at the clew. Winching the sail down at the clew was definitely the hardest job as it held the most wind]
Yannick raises the main back up to tension the sail back up (so it can raise the boom)
Yannick then releases the topping lift (and we all hope the boom doesn’t crash on the bimini)
Phillip falls off and puts wind back in the sail and we all inspect sail shape, line tension and check for chafe points
Yannick also liked to use a long Velcro strap at the clew to help ease the tension of the reef line that held the clew down. As I mentioned, that was by far where the most tension was held. Listening to that line squeal and stretch to its limit as Johnny winched down the clew point was not enjoyable for anyone. And, because it held so much tension, it also squealed and squeaked with each slight movement of the boom as the boat knocked around over waves. Yannick hated this. He’s not a fan of anything that squeaks. So, he would always go up on the bimini after we put in a reef point and run a long piece of Velcro through the reef point at the clew to hold some of the tension at the clew and instruct Johnny to then let out some of the line that held the clew down. Yannick was happy when the Velcro and the line “shared” the load.
In all, it’s a good thing we got our sail tactics rehearsed and operating like a well-oiled machine because the winds were screaming, holding steady around 23 knots for three days! After our lackluster, glassy days in the Gulf, it felt like Andanza shot like a slingshot around the tip of Florida and up the east coast. It was fun to see folks who had been clearly watching us on the Delorme (albeit in silence) finally chiming in with comments like: “Now you guys are moving!” “There’s the wind!” and “No more motoring!” And they were right!
Yannick got some great panorama (i.e., GoPro on a stick) shots during those days:
We had a Mahi grab onto the line the day after our Key West stop and I had to wonder if the line actually grabbed onto him, because we were hauling at 13 knots.
I had never caught a Mahi before and I was mesmerized by the colors. Brilliant yellows and shiny greens, followed by a kaleidoscope ripple across her scales as she gulped her last breaths.
While I said previously that I didn’t feel bad for the tuna we had caught in the Gulf, that it felt like a gift, that did not ring true here. The Mahi was so beautiful. I really hated to pierce its stunning skin with my knife. Then Johnny says, “Throw the hook back out quick. You can often catch the mate.”
Apparently, these amazing fish mate for life and, once the connection is made, they swim together for the remainder of their piscine years. Now, not only had I stripped this sad fish in the water of his lifelong, by his side, every-day mate but then he had to watch me slaughter her before his very eyes. I know he was just sharing some probably very helpful, valuable marine-life knowledge but Jesus Johnny! I did not need to know that. The Mahi was succulent, light, fluffy and white and I hated every bite of it. Poor fishy.
The sailing those days was some of the easiest I’ve done in my life. It was Brandon, back home, who had told us this many times in the days before we left. “You’ll get on a tack and stay there for six days,” he said. “Chafe will be your biggest problem.” That Brandon, he knows his stuff.
He was so right. Once we had steady wind in the sails, with the auto-pilot holding like a dream, there was really nothing to do as far as the sailing went. While Yannick continued (continued! continued!) daily to work on boat projects, the crew kind of fell into an easy routine. Books were devoured. I recall specifically Johnny starting one, finishing one and starting another in one day.
Phillip and I found ourselves doubled over one day watching Johnny napping one days in the cockpit.
Sleep was absolutely indulged. Can you spot Johnny in this pic? That was his favorite sleep spot!
I distinctly remember Johnny had Phillip and I doubled over in laughter one day when he woke up from a particularly-deep nap. Sure, he’d had his mouth wide open, jaw dropped, overcome with sleep. We’ve all been there. You wake up on occasion, acutely aware your mouth is ajar, subjecting anyone around you to whatever funk is coming out, yet you find the weight of your jaw is simply too heavy to lift. So you just leave yourself wide open and let yourself drift happily back away. That wasn’t the funny part. What was funny was this. So he’s out. Mouth open. Heavy breaths of his chest up and down. Phillip and I were sitting on the other cockpit benches reading and we both watched as Johnny stirred. Pulled his heavy jaw up, smacked a few times, blinked around the table and let his gaze fall on a little bowl in front of him. It had been Phillip’s and it had been once filled with cookies. Now, only little cookie bits remained.
Johnny eyed the bowl, reached a lumbering hand toward it, dumped it into his mouth, closed his eyes while he chewed and swallowed (as if the act of consuming crumbs was so tiring he had to rest his eyes while he did it). Then he eased on back, laid his head against the boat and was soon back in his blissful, slackjaw slumbering state. Having both watched the entire scene in silence, Phillip and I busted up, snickering and giggling and joking about how now, at least, Johnny’s breath would smell like cookies. Johnny was funny. I made him post the group Delorme message that night where he said the trip was affording him “Days of undeserved rest.” Some moments like that, as well as Yannick spitting his words at us in the rain from the mast, talking about the third reef and battens snapping, will stick with me. Some moments from the trip are crystallized in my memory where other periods of time, days on end even, feel like a blue water blur.
Comraderie among the crew grew like vines. First it’s just a seed in the sand. Two things put together but not really connected. Then over time, as the two are exposed simultaneously to elements and experiences, little shoots start to emerge. A joke is shared, a frightening moment, a hand lent out with just the tool you needed, a story from one another’s past and before you know it, you’ve connected with the person. Roots have reached out and the dirt has welcomed their hold. You start to understand the person in a way you didn’t before. You’ll start to sense when they’re content to be left alone, when they may need your help but haven’t yet asked for it, when they’re in the mood to hear a funny story, but more importantly, when they’re not. Case in point:
When Yannick’s sitting in a pile of tools, frowning at the broken end of the windex: NOT a good time to tell him a funny story about your high school prom (he cares not).
When Phillip’s searing steaks on the grill on the transom, smiling and salivating: PERFECT time to strike up a rousing rendition of Son of a Son of a Sailor.
When Annie’s staring at her computer screen, tapping her lip trying to write something brilliant: NOT a good time to strum up a political conversation about Obamacare. (She cares not.)
When Yannick’s splayed out in his berth, asleep, drooling with Breaking Bad play on his laptop: BAD time to tell him there’s a screw loose on the bimini cover.
When Johnny’s looking for the tonic water to go with his swig of gin: GREAT time to ask him to write the crew message for our bottle. The message Johnny came up with:
Andanza was here, with its ruthless crew. (Give the date.)
You were lucky, you weren’t here too.
It is fun the moments you share out there. Phillip spent those days cooking up a storm every day with often a fun, creative bite for lunch (egg salad sandwiches, sushi, seafood pasta, BBQ) and, often, a rather gourmet dish for dinner (pork curry, beef stroganoff, shrimp alfredo). Thankfully, we were sailing then, no longer motoring, so Johnny finally got his days of deserved rest, reading and relaxing. I read and wrote and filmed and created and ate Phillip’s wonderful dishes. That man can sure cook! We make a good team ’cause I can sure eat!
And, Yannick continued to work. We all stayed out of his way primarily, with the long-standing premise that if he needed or wanted our help, all he needed to do was ask and we would jump to his call. Rarely did he. This system worked well, until two worlds collided. When Yannick started cutting into Phillip’s cutting board (literally) to construct a new base for his windex (which he had to mount on the port side of the mast) to account for the Freydis’ rotating mast.
Yannick and Phillip bartered and negotiated and it was decided Yannick could have a chunk, not the whole thing and Phillip was granted free reign of the cutting board that came with the Magma grill. It’s all about coming to understandings and respecting each other’s space. This is how you all get along on a boat.
But, let’s talk for a minute about how the boat gets along. Have any of you made an offshore passage on a catamaran? If you have, please chime in in a comment below. I would love to hear from you. The bashing on the catamaran shocked me. Stunned me. It was teeth-jarring at times. When water trapped between the two hulls rumbled, thundered and finally bashed its way out, I had to convince myself each time that we had not just hit a whale. While I had felt our 1985 Niagara 35 slam into a wall of water plenty of times and suspected a hull breach, this was different. It was a special breed of bashing, a violent, shrill collision that made me sure, not just suspicious, the boat had cracked in half. The bashing on the cat stopped sentences. It stung bare feet on the galley floor. It was like a nervous system message so strong it bypassed your brain. Muscles flinched without instruction. The crew grew accustomed but never comfortable with it. With the bashing, however, came a great deal of speed. With winds of 23+ holding steady, we were averaging 10 knots most day, even clicking off a record 243 nautical miles in one day. We were flying, bashing, sleeping while sailing into the heart of the ocean.
We were also shuddering. Once the wind found us and we started to do some actual very sporty sailing on the trip, the shuddering began. We heard it first on the port side because we were on a starboard tack. With each lurch and bash of the boat into eight-foot seas, the lazy shroud on the port side would let out a shrill metallic ringing. It vibrated like a plucked guitar string with each romp of the boat. The sound (as all sounds on a boat are) was amplified below and in mine and Phillip’s berth on the aft port side.
Annie trying to record some of the wicked sounds of the boat. Folks who have seen the movie, was I able to capture them? Did it sound like you were there? Do tell!
While I could try to find the words to describe it, the best way to truly convey our concerns would be to say it sounded like it was damaging the boat. Imagine a sail flapping, snapping and popping. Even a non-sailor would likely cringe and think to themselves: Make it stop. As a sailor, you know the sound means trouble for the boat and your immediate instinct is to fill the sail with wind or drop it, to rescue the flailing part somehow. With the shuddering of the shroud, the entire crew felt that way, but Johnny, Phillip and I, as strictly monohull sailors, had no experience sailing a catamaran offshore. We had no experience with a boat that only has three stays or, better yet, one whose mast rotates.
Once I found out we were dealing with a boat rigged up with lines to pull on the lazy shroud to lessen the vibration when on an opposite tack, I knew I had nothing to offer.
What is the proper tuning of that rig and what vibration is permitted or intolerable with a rig like that was an impossible question for the crew to answer.
While Yannick had the most offshore experience with the boat, it was limited to a sixteen day run bringing Andanza from Martinique up to Pensacola and he said he didn’t recall as much shuddering on that trip and didn’t know exactly how tight was the right amount of tight in light of the rotating mast. He sent out texts and emails to various professionals back in Pensacola via the Delorme (another benefit of having available satellite communication) but it was late in the evening when those were sent out and the crew knew we likely would not hear from anyone until the following morning. In the meantime, the shroud continued its murderous shudder with each romp of the boat.
Yannick worked tirelessly to tighten the slack line for the shroud and checking the chain plate on port. It looked solid at the time, but every time the boat went head to head with a wall of water, the wave would bash into the hull with a thunderous slap and immediately the metallic ring of the shuddering shroud would follow. Slap. Shudder. Slap. Shudder. Sleep came in fretful snatches that night. I woke around 2:00 a.m. to find Yannick checking the chain plate (for the fifth time) on the port side. He just looked at me sitting up in my berth and walked back up, his face telling me nothing had changed, but that meant nothing had improved either.
When Yannick is checking the chain plates because the shroud is clanging itself to death: NOT a good time ask him if everything is okay.
Fun story? I hope you all are digging the Atlantic-crossing saga because I’m sure having a helluva time telling it. The full-length movie from our voyage is up now for Patrons on Patreon and coming to rent on YouTube Oct. 7th. If anyone has already seen it, let folks know what you thought of it in a comment below!
I don’t toy with the idea; it toys with me, pecking and picking at the back of my brain. “You should go,” it says. And I should. At least I believe I should. Maybe not believe, but think. I think I should. Shouldn’t I? When the idea starts to grip and pull me hand-over-hand into its graces, there is only thing that pulls me fast-and-hard back. That is Phillip.
Friends, followers, I dare say it is time. While filming my adventures, making videos and taking pictures is fun, it is merely a pastime compared to my true passion: writing. I find the endeavor of trying to capture and re-create my surroundings in such detail you feel you are right there, breathing the air next to me, a deliciously-thrilling challenge. I am up for it, and it is time. I want to tell you the tale of my first Atlantic-crossing, from start to finish, complete with plenty of photos. As I come across footage, while making the Atlantic-crossing movie, that corresponds with these posts, I will share it in an exclusive video on Patreon as well. Although I hope my words will conjure crisper images, mostly I hope you enjoy the feeling of the journey as I experienced it.
When I say “Phillip” was the main reason for my not wanting to go I do not mean he had asked me not to go or that he did not want me to go. Quite the opposite. He was the first person to encourage me. Much like the trip I had bravely set off on not one year prior—where I agreed fly to the Bahamas alone and crew for five days on a boat with total strangers in the Abacos Regatta—Phillip encouraged me to sign on for the Atlantic-crossing even though he knew not at the time whether he could join. No, it was not Phillip’s desires or concerns that held me back, it was the thought of embarking on this incredible journey without him—leaving him behind to stand on the shores while I cast off to cross an ocean—that gave me serious pause. Had Phillip merely said, “It’s up to you,” I likely would not have gone. But he did not. “You should go,” he said, as if his was the voice of the Idea. And so I decided I would.
We all eyed him in a mix of astonishment and admiration. Alone. It was Yannick. Our Captain. Our faithful leader on this voyage, and the man we now congenially refer to as “the Wandering Frenchman.” I didn’t know him well at the time. This was probably my third time speaking with him. And I sure didn’t know in a matter of months I would be stepping foot aboard his boat to cross the ocean with him. At the time Yannick was just another boat owner who was having work done on his boat at the yard at the same time Phillip and I were hauled out this past winter re-building our rotten stringers, replacing our original 1985 rod rigging and knocking out a few hundred other “while you’re out of the water” projects. Yannick’s 46’ high-performance French-built Catamaran was docked at the yard at the same time undergoing significant repairs after suffering a lightning strike in September, 2015.
I’m sure this is no secret. It seems many boat owners—males in particular and Brandon and Phillip in a unique form of particular—can stand around and talk about boats for hours, days even. While Brandon mentioned Yannick’s catamaran often during these “boat conversations” at the yard, merely as a matter of course, we could tell he was especially surprised at the astonishing array of electronics Yannick was having him install on his catamaran: a back-up chart-plotter, radar, AIS, forward scan, numerous alarms, a siren, even! It wasn’t until the “alone” conversation that we learned why.
Yannick is a fighter jet pilot in the French Navy. He had been in Pensacola for two years working as a flight instructor but was soon slated to retire, at which time he planned to move he and the family—his beautiful wife Clothilde, their five-year old son Nils and five-month old daughter, Clemence—back to France where they would plan to move aboard the catamaran in the following year and then begin cruising northern Europe. All he needed to do was get the boat back to the France. All he wanted in order to do that was some high-end electronics and a siren. Yannick’s initial plan was to sail his catamaran single-handed, non-stop over 4,600 nautical miles from Pensacola, Florida to Roscoff, France.
I clicked on the GoPro the minute this news broke, out of habit (what a story!), and I’m glad I caught it on film. Yannick explained one of reasons he hesitated to seek out crew to help him make the passage was what he called the “human factor,” meaning: “Who do you want to take with you across the ocean?” Definitely a legitimate concern. It’s a small boat and a lot of days. It’s fun to look back on this clip, though, and realize none of us knew at the time, as Yannick was telling Phillip and I about his “human factor” theory, the pesky “humans” he would taking with him across the ocean would be us.
Video from our first conversation with Yannick about the crossing, up now in a Patrons-only post on Patreon.
I will admit, his plan seemed a little outlandish. While Yannick had brought his catamaran up from the Caribbean to Pensacola on a 16-day run with a hired captain, aside from that he had virtually no other offshore experience on his boat. What he did have, though, was confidence. He seemed so resolved, so pragmatic about the whole thing, I honestly believed he could do it. Surely someone who flies jets at supersonic speed can handle a slow boat across an ocean? Some of those skills must translate? Well, they do and they don’t. I will say at the outset one of the most interesting aspects of this voyage was watching someone as capable and smart as Yannick have to adapt in many ways to cruising. The weather, the elements and the boat simply do not treat you any differently based on your resume.
At no point did Yannick seem to be uncertain in his decision, though. At no point did he seem to be desirous of bringing crew aboard to help him make the passage. He seemed determined—excited even—to do it alone. “I like a challenge,” he said. Phillip and I chatted about our interesting conversation with Yannick a little here and there over the course of the next couple of weeks (this was mid-March), thinking how cool it would be when we would finally be ready to cross the ocean on our boat, but that was the extent of it. It wasn’t until Phillip came home from work one day a couple of weeks later, after having stopped at the shipyard on the way home, with a new piece of information and a seed to plant.
“Johnny?” I asked, a little confused. I wasn’t even sure Johnny and Yannick knew each other, at least not well enough to meet Yannick’s “human factor” and I didn’t know ocean-crossing was something Johnny had always wanted to do. Johnny Walker (no relation) is an old friend of Brandon’s and a well-known diesel engine mechanic in the Pensacola marine industry. We had worked with Johnny on several occasions over the past few years in tuning and maintaining our engine, borrowing some rare tools as needed from his impressive collection. (Remember the torque wrench we broke when re-torquing our keel bolts?) We also had the opportunity to buddy sail with Johnny on our way down to the Keys in 2014 when he and his son, Jeremy, were sailing his Morgan 38 down to Key West at the same time.
Needless to say, Johnny was an old friend, an old salt and, specifically, a proven and reputable sailor and mechanic, and he was now on board for the Atlantic-crossing.
“Johnny’s going,” Phillip said, with a playful gleam in his eye. I knew he was looking at me funny for a reason and I knew this information was key for a reason, but it was like I couldn’t get the rusty gears in my head to turn fast enough to put it all together. Why is it so important that Johnny’s going? Phillip could tell I needed help connecting the dots. If Johnny’s going, Yannick is now taking on crew. If Johnny is going, maybe others could go to …
“You know who else Johnny thinks would be a good fit to make the passage?” Phillip asked. Then it clicked. Me! Us! Me? Once again it seemed a little outlandish. I might be crossing the ocean this year? The idea was very new. My first thought was honestly how cold it might be and what gear I would be wearing. My vivid imagination apparently wanted to see it first before I could process the actual details.
Once I got past the fashion block, however, and started to truly digest it, my second thought was Phillip. I couldn’t imagine embarking on an ocean-crossing voyage without the single person who turned me into a sailor in the first place. I can’t go without Phillip. Or at least I shouldn’t. I can’t.
As luck would have it, right around the time this outlandish idea emerged Phillip had a rather large block of time on his calendar, for a trial that was scheduled in June, that could possibly open up assuming certain things fell into place with his case load. Now it was not just an idea, it was a hope: Phillip and I making our first ocean-crossing together this year! All of that depended upon Yannick, however, as we hadn’t even been invited yet. Phillip and I were dreaming about the voyage long before Yannick even considered the idea of welcoming us aboard for the trip.
This was the gut-wrenching part for me. The one, singular thing that held me back from jumping immediately on the idea was the one, singular person I truly wanted to make the trip with. We were nowhere near sure at the time that Phillip could make the trip with me. We spend just a few hours apart and I begin to miss him. Now we were talking weeks, months perhaps. I ached just thinking about it. But, it was an incredible opportunity and it was Phillip who did, and always does, push me to greater experiences. “You should go,” he said, and I knew he was right. The one thought that comforted me in agreeing, at first, to sign on without him was how much I knew this trip would mean to him. Phillip has crossed oceans before, in large carrier ships. He has traveled much more of this awe-inspiring world than I have. But one thing he has not done, that he has always wanted to do, is sail across an ocean. My hope was if I was able to secure us two spots as crew for the passage, he would move mountains to be able to join me. So it was decided. I, at least, was going.
My blood pulsed hot through the veins of my neck as I scrolled through my contacts in my phone, looking for one in particular: Johnny Walker. I needed to tell him one thing: If Yannick would have us, Phillip and I wanted to come.
Fun video following my initial conversation with Johnny that I shared on Patreon April 8, 2016. Thanks, as always, to my followers, friends and Patrons who enable me to share this journey. Get on board!