I've lost count of the number of times I've climbed aboard the Capricorn in the blue pre-dawn light of early morning. The 50-foot research vessel creeks against the dock behind the UNC Institute of Marine Sciences. The air hangs heavy, thick with salt and moisture, but without the heat of the sun, I'm not sweating yet. 

 Stacey, the first mate, gives me a kurt nod of recognition - he'll be more talkative later when the sun is up, and we're out in the middle of the open ocean.

"Good morning Captain Joe," I say, as I put my camera bag inside the main cabin.  I pull my BCD and regulator out of my dive bag and walk back onto deck. 

A few weeks ago, right after I got home from San Francisco, I went out to dinner with my dear friend and personal creative muse, Jon Haas. I have lots of incredible friends, but none of them inspire me and push me in the ways that Haas does. When I posed the question, "what should my intention for 2017 be?" he gave me an immediate, yet thoughtful, response.

"Expansion." 

When Dave Johnston taught me how to fly my drone, he said, "If you want to get good at this, you need to fly as often as you can."  

So I utilized those two days - 48 hours away from the typical daily grind - to fly as much as possible. I flew at sunrise and sunset both days. I flew the drone low over the water, and then 300 feet up. I took it to the beach and flew my little quadcopter through dunes and sea oats. I logged seven flights, and it felt good. I'm finally getting the hang of this, I thought. 

The breeze at dawn has secrets to tell you. Don't go back to sleep. You must ask for what you really want.

Don't go back to sleep. 

As we head back to town in the late afternoon, Tim drives and entertains us with stories of his adventures in Idaho and across the west. He talks about wilderness EMT training and trad rock climbing. He tells us about the time he biked the entire west coast from LA to Oregon, and the time he almost died trying to kayak a class five rapid.

He's bragging, but his stories are captivating. I stare out the window, pretending not to listen. I wonder if he's full of shit. 

That evening, over cheap Chilean beers, Tim and I talk for a long time. He mentions type 2 fun. 

"What's that?"

Everything happened all at once - but at least I was at the wedding. I missed the engagement party because I was working in Chile. I missed Gia's bachelorette party because I was filming a documentary in the Canadian Rockies. Photojournalists, as a general rule, are not the best at making it to social engagements. Our calendars tend to fill up with events happening in other parts of the state, country, and the world. 

I focus on my hands - my chalky fingers gripping tiny indentations in sandy red rock - because that's easier than looking 60 feet down. 

"Birdie!" I yell, refusing to look down at her. 

"You're so strong Marley! You've got this." Jasmina's voice is confident and comforting. "There's a hold just above your left hand." 

I stare at my left hand and will it to move. My right leg is trembling. I'm so afraid my foot is going to slip off the tiny sliver of protruding rock when I reach for the hold. I try to focus on what Jenny told me earlier in the day. Trust your feet. I reach for the hold and slide my foot up - the rubbery sole of my climbing shoe does not slip. A few minutes later I reach the anchor, and finally look down.

"You made it," Jonathan says, grinning broadly and clapping me on the back. "Welcome to Chile!" 

I smile at him. Jonathan Lees is the chair of the Geological Sciences department at UNC-Chapel Hill, and he looks like it. His eyes twinkle behind thin frameless glasses. He's wearing a button-down water resistant shirt and matching shorts, a hat, hiking boots and a large backpack. He looks like he's about to set out on an expedition - and he is.  

I turn away from the revelry to look out over the ocean. The water is placid and the sky is plain—a wall of dismal, gray clouds blending into dark blue water creates a stubbornly monochromatic backdrop. 

Well I’m here, I think to myself.  I’ll just wait for a little bit. Maybe the clouds will break up some. Maybe the sun will poke through at some point. 

Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. Why didn’t I bring my book? I wish my phone had service here. With nothing to do but occasionally glance over at the party kids—now they are sitting against a wall, leaning their heads on each other’s shoulders—I start to get impatient.