The Amazing Journey: True Story of a Father and Son's Odyssey Around the World

By Grady Hicks

The Amazing Journey is a fast-paced, true story of Grady and Austin Hicks, a father and son who travel the world for twenty-eight days before Austin attends college. Austin is the first of three Hicks children who embark on this globe-trotting tradition with their father.

In the spirit of adventure, their route and activities are kept secret—even from family. They complete daily, self-imposed Journey Tasks that deliberately immerse them into cultural authenticity, and far outside their comfort zones. As the journey unfolds, it becomes clear that these travelers are in store for much more than unfamiliar landscapes. From foreign militaries to spiritual clairvoyance, from serious illness to unnerving dares, The Amazing Journey reminds us to connect with people—be it those closest to you or those across the world—to test your limits, and to trust the Journey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 30, 2015
• ISBN: 9780986420832

Book preview

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Day 1.

Phileas Fogg and Passepartout Set About

Wednesday, June 8

It was 3 a.m., and so far all was good, I thought. Pacing in my head, I wondered, were we truly ready for all of this? I rattled a half full glass carafe loose from the coffee base. Another cup was needed. The reality of a year’s planning had ticked down to this moment.

For a final few minutes I was alone in our kitchen. I stared around at papers neatly organized on the island, and then a single coil-bound booklet holding the journey’s master plan. I reviewed everything for the hundredth time.

Itinerary? Check. Passports? Check. Shot records, prescription meds and emergency phone numbers? Check. Phones, iPad and all documents backed-up to email? Check. Four changes of clothes, protein bars, binoculars and literature about our hometown? Check.

It was the small things too, like did we pack enough socks? The first of almost 100 self-imposed Tasks and Challenges would begin in forty-five minutes.

I took a deep breath. Decent sleep had been impossible for weeks due to anxiety over this trip. A camouflaged opponent named Unpredictability lay hidden in our travel’s idle, mundane moments. Anticipation of the unimaginable, the unplanned, the unforeseen battled my exhilaration with apprehension.

Did I have all travel legs coordinated correctly?

Was all the paperwork in order for such a journey?

What obvious piece have I overlooked?

Would this odyssey truly be immersive and authentic, enlightening us with new perspectives?

What would happen if we deviate from the trip’s strict schedule?

Was I ready to leave the office for a month?

Was Belinda ready to run the company while I’m gone?

What (if any) insights would my son gain from others a world away?

Would we be able to live side-by-side for 28 straight days?

Austin, our oldest, accompanied me. He is an 18-year old varsity football and track athlete, who tends not to understand why people should fear anything. Reserved by nature, he is a quick, rational thinker using his left-handed, right-brain methodology like another developed muscle. I predicted his confident, street-mart thinking would be useful, and often.

He had just returned from college orientation with Belinda, his mother, and my wife, the night before. To have her tell it, he partied with new friends until 5 a.m. during dorm night. Now back home, Austin tells me he is slightly tired. Considering what’s ahead, he just thinks he is tired.

Nevertheless, my number one priority and responsibility was to introduce Austin to the world he was stepping into. After all, parenting doesn’t stop at eighteen; it begins again. My hope is that he and I, as father and son, would have countless memorable moments along the way retold over and over as I counsel him through the coming decades.

In fact, the more I thought about that, and my own dedication to the spirit dwelling in all things, I was reminded how insignificant incidentals become, and that family alone is irreplaceable.

So I was settled.

Head West Young Man

You ready? I asked.

Yup.

Once we start there will be no turning back. An unknown abyss lies ahead, changing forms, daring us to explore …

Are you going to talk like that the whole time?

I’m trying to prepare you for something deeper than a long weekend in Jamaica.

I know the route; the stops and the agenda. It’s going to be fun. We’ll see some cool stuff.

Yeah, something like that.

We kept walking towards the gate, weaving through passengers either walking too slow or determined to run over our toes with wheeled bags. Austin cut his eyes towards me, serious about his stance, and previous question.

Are you going to talk like Zelda for a month?

Who?

What?

… Is that your version of Frasier Crane? I continued.

Who?

Ehh, nevermind. It’s time to board. Let’s go.

Adrenaline time-warped our arrival much faster than the 10 ½ scheduled flight hours. A gentle bounce on the runway was our trumpet; the cabin-door was the starting gates of Pimlico. Honolulu, Hawai’i was three left turns and a straight-away across an airport parking lot.

We passed hundreds appearing as robotic conventioneers waiting for baggage. Our pace was adventure. For the next twenty-eight days, all we would need was bundled on our back. Only a rental car agency blocked our access into paradise.

How ‘bout a free upgrade sir?

Barely ten hours into a month long trip and the journey’s tone had been set. At this point such a revelation was simply known to us as luck because we had yet to recognize the other traveler who had joined us.

Seriously? I said while she searched for keys.

We have a convertible Mustang … will that work?

Yes, yes it will. I peeked over at Austin, reminded of Mustangs I drove during my own high school days.

We headed onto the parking lot to find space H-216. If it has a five-liter engine, I’m driving, he said.

I doubt it, but it’s a convertible in Hawai’i. Not bad considering I planned for an econo-box.

While Austin stuffed our over-sized backpacks into the trunk, I flipped the switch to fold the top back, basking in the perfect eighty-two degrees. An early tanning option appeared. We rolled away from the airport with energized smiles in search of Task number one.

Understanding Black Tears

With dozens more Tasks and Challenges to come, I wondered if each was certain to enlighten so deeply. That was the journey’s greater purpose, and I was banking on such awareness. But for me, and so personally, right off the bat? I had pictured myself as the wise adult, pointing him towards monuments while explaining their historical meaning. After all, I have walked Pearl Harbor’s hallowed grounds before; however, not as a parent. And the difference was tremendous.

We strolled around so Austin could take in the place. I suppose my view of WWII has been through a romantic haze that movies and television tend to portray. Then we crossed through the turnstile, and war’s tragic depth of loss became very real. My own call to service came to mind. To be a parent is such a gift; a fortune not to be taken lightly. Pride swept over me while I thought of my lifetime duty. I looked around again, attempting to comprehend the reality that families of war have endured.

We headed towards a walking tour within the museum area. Once inside, I was awe struck. Taken aback by 70-year old black and white photographs of young men, I turned to look at my own son.

Those are your friends.

He looked at me strangely. I’m a father. My perspective is not Austin’s; it can’t be, he’s a teenager with a whole wide-open world in front of him. I then clarified my point.

I mean, those men are kids your age. Had you lived at the start of this war, those nameless faces would have been your friends, dying right here where we are standing.

I paused. He considered my statement, then looked at them again.

The exhibition drew us along. Through closer examination of the items on display we learned how the war started. I really didn’t know, or maybe just forgot, but was shocked to learn about Japan’s all-out drive for natural raw materials along the Pacific Rim. This thirst for more land and resources of that generation’s leaders started the aggressive path which led to war. Then it dawned on me; the strategically wiser path of green power such as wind and solar which are free to all, counteracts the lust of aggressors. What a thought; sharing through conflict-free energy, while historic death surrounded us.

We moved back outside. The tender’s launch toward the Memorial was across the old wharf’s promenade. The sunken USS Arizona wasn’t far. On the way out we passed the docked USS Carl Vinson. The mighty ship had just returned from the Indian Ocean, where, among thousands of gallant missions, it may become best known for disposing of Osama Bin Laden’s body. My stomach still turns to write his name, a stark reminder that war marches on. Cameras flashed while we passed by in silence.

Aboard the USS Arizona Memorial, we milled around with a hundred other visitors. Of the 1,177 fallen soldiers, only 229 bodies were ever recovered from the ship. Oil leakage, or Black Tears as Pearl Harbor survivors call them, still seeps form the Arizona some 70 years after that infamous day, December 7, 1941.

I caught up with Austin who was leaning on the railing, staring down at the sunken ship.

I feel like I’m right there, he said.

How so?

I don’t know. It’s like being in a trance or something–like being there that day when it all happened.

He stood facing me, awaiting a response while I sized up the depth of his perception.

What? he said, fearing his guard was left down too long.

Nothing. I left him, hoping he would re-engage his thoughts a while longer.

The visit’s emotional impact continued, heightened for me when I recognized several brothers killed aboard the great battleship. Each was memorialized together on the cold, white marble wall inside the Memorial. One pair was named Hicks. Shivers filled me. I can only imagine those parents’ anguish; a sudden perspective certain to be carried all my life.

Amazing, how a simple academic tour can awaken feelings that have been fast asleep. And it was just the afternoon of Day One.

Pay Respects to the King

The journey’s spirit surprised me early, but our step would always be quick, so we left Pearl Harbor and headed toward the Honolulu capitol grounds. We zipped along the Lunalilo Freeway attempting to locate King Kamehameha’s statue somewhere in downtown. Since we would miss Kamehameha Day by 24 hours, our task was simple: leave behind a traditional Hawaiian Lei at the King’s feet as a tribute honoring this revered state holiday. Of course, we had to find it first.

Austin drove for about ten minutes, and that was it. Perhaps the liability coverage concerned him (it should’ve concerned me) or he wanted to take a closer look at the euphoric surroundings of paradise. Whatever the case, Austin became the navigator from that point. Every team needs one.

As day-dreamingly beautiful as Oahu is, Honolulu’s traffic seemed magnified beyond other cities’. Maybe it was the claustrophobic sense of being squeezed between the mountains and the shore, or knowing we were on a tiny island surrounded by three thousand miles of ocean in every direction. Mobile people were jammed everywhere, and it was only 3 p.m. Every few feet we would grind to a stop. At least the lowered convertible top distracted our attention. Cool tropical breezes and the occasional waft of nearby pineapple trucks reminded us we were not stranded within the doldrums of Main Street, USA. Eventually, wild hibiscus was replaced by exhaust and big-city street scenes as we wound around one-way streets into downtown. The capitol area, we thought, would be the King’s appropriate landmark placement.

The tree-covered grounds created hundreds of shady spots making it nearly impossible to see anything clearly. After twenty minutes we finally identified him. The King, at least eight feet of black onyx adorned with contrasting yellow tribal-wear, appeared every inch the regal Hawaiian leader of 1800s folklore. The beloved memorial stands atop a ten foot tiered white marble stand welcoming visitors to his land with an outstretched hand.

Ok, go put this lei at his feet, I said while I searched for the hotel on our iPhone’s GPS map.

I don’t want to.

Why not?

All those people are standing around. I’ll look stupid just walking up putting this thing next to it and walking off.

"Oh my gosh. Nobody cares. They’ll just shrug it off, if they look at all. Maybe you’ll inspire them to go find their own lei."

I’m not too sure about that, he said with a shy grin.

Mildly exasperated, I grabbed the yellow-flowered necklace.

At least walk up there with me.

With Austin too embarrassed to lei the King, I placed one at his feet. He stood at my side while I finished the two-second ceremony. Task accomplished.

Finding the Hotel Prince Waikiki was next. A six-story rectangle with an appearance of 1962 would be our home for two nights. We made a right hand turn, then left into a tiny parking garage designed to fit seven compact cars, as long as the Rubik’s Cube method of arrangement was employed. In downtown Honolulu, space of any kind is a premium. The hotel was basic and moderately clean but came standard with an exceptional location; only two blocks off Waikiki.

We slung our packs on the floor. Two double beds were just past a moderate kitchenette. Our accommodations were less that of a family resort and more the back-packer’s suite which was more than okay for us. The surrounding neighborhood was a collective mix of other informal hotels and old homes that had survived the conversion into small restaurants or convenience stores. Our window view peered down onto an entrepreneur’s rental car agency. We didn’t care. This was a place to sleep for eight hours, not to lounge around pontificating economic theories. We had things to do and resting rarely fit our schedule anyway.

Hungry, tired and both dehydrated with scorching headaches, we bravely set back out. It had to be the continuation of first-day adrenaline, or maybe it was the teasing carrot still to come at day’s end. In either case, we were determined to complete our self-imposed journey Tasks, further risks to our health and energy or not.

Down three blocks, then a left-turn and up two more blocks. Suddenly foot traffic had increased. We walked as I attempted to gain my bearings. This would be my fourth visit here and still my eyes wandered a bit. A familiar entrance finally appeared. Inside was a deviation into something I wanted Austin to wander through before moving on.

Next door to every brand-name store the planet has to offer was the International Market. A little touristy, yes, but this market enjoyed the edge, because entering is a step back to the island’s old way of trade. Covered by huge banyan trees which have lived hundreds of years are stalls operated by local craftsman, jewelers and wheeler-dealers making a living one fifteen dollar purchase at a time. Before millions vacationing by the week discovered paradise, the International Market was the trade and barter of Oahu. In this sense, the International Market was its own hidden authentic gem among the high-dollar brand name boutiques.

We hunted among countless vendor stalls for a single item representing Hawaiian culture, but found nothing. I guess we just needed to eat because that was more a dream sequence than anything. Partial victory was claimed for attempting to support local merchants. I pulled the Route Map for the entire 28-day journey from my pocket. My weary eyes tried to focus as I scrolled down finding our next Task, and we set off.

Entering The House without a Key

Delirious from traveling all day by air, then Pearl Harbor by sea, we left the International Market by land in search of nourishment skipped over for hours. We passed street entertainers playing some familiar and some unrecognizable instruments. Artists displayed hundreds of diverse visions. My favorites were the fine works of multi-hued chalk art along busy sidewalks. But it’s the mimes; their oddly curious display of entertainment that I just didn’t understand, maybe because they are near clowns on the evolutionary chart. I’ve longed to push one off their box just to see what would happen. I let the temptation go, though my irrational starvation would have made the action acceptable, and enjoyable to most, I believe.

Using only a map and street signs, I charged Austin with navigating us through this idyllic yet modern metropolis toward our next destination. Soon, the entertainers faded and my old, well-remembered friend appeared down a long, narrow street; the Halekulani. This five star hotel was the scene of a starry-eyed dinner shared by his mother and I on our honeymoon in 1988.

In the spirit of symbolism we walked about browsing the grounds but our interests really lay elsewhere: we both needed food and a relaxing state of mind.

The House without a Key restaurant was placed on the hotel’s back lawn, between the pool and crashing ocean. Our open-air patio table captured one cool tropical breeze after another flowing off the Pacific twenty feet away. Hawaiian musicians played as we absorbed a spectacular sunset among the Halekulani’s colonial Hawaiian architecture. While winds whispered through palm trees, ukuleles strummed old Hawaiian standards, lulling our Day One tensions as if Benedictine Monks massaged our shoulders. Slow-motion hula from the island’s flower-dressed beauties swayed feet from our table. Five-star dining, quiet, calm.

What are you getting? I asked.

I don’t know, a hamburger I guess.

I’m getting the sage chicken with spinach and mashed potatoes.

That sounds weird, Austin said while gobbling the assortment of table breads as if they were candy.

Anything here will be prepared above the ordinary. The Halekulani is one of the world’s top resorts. This is where your mother and I spent our honeymoon.

What about our budget?

We need to eat well. The last thing we want is to be burned out the first day. Eat up.

Now re-inflated and re-energized, we were good to carry on. For a while, though, we sat out and listened to the music, enjoying a couple more glasses of refreshing iced tea.

Once dark, we walked back toward the hotel along Waikiki Beach. Along the way, a memory brought a grin to my face. I retold Austin the story of his mother and I dragging suitcases across these very sands in search of a lunch spot and drinks years earlier …

Eleven years ago Belinda and I were in Honolulu revisiting our old honeymoon sight. Our quick trip came to a close far too soon. At the airport we were thrilled to be offered a later flight. This afforded us seven extra hours in one of our favorite places anywhere.

Let’s go back to town and wait. There’s no reason to hang around the airport, I said, excited about our bonus layover.

Ok. Belinda’s eyes lit up as if restarting our vacation from the first day.

Out of money, we wedged ourselves onto a crowded city transit bus that we were assured would deliver us directly back to luxury hotel row. Naturally, we were dressed for a cold airplane, and airports do not store luggage, so carting four heavy, souvenir-infested bags about town was unromantic.

In a mad search for something that reminded us of our vacation, we jumped off at some unrecognizable bus stop searching for a Mai Tai. We landed near the hotels, but not at the hotels.

I wonder how far a walk it is from here, Belinda asked, holding a carry-on in one hand, her heavy beach-bag purse in the other.

Oh, I bet it’s not far. We’ll find our old hotel and cut through to the beach, then walk to The Royal Hawaiian … how ‘bout that? Somehow my excitement still lived after a beat-down city bus ride.

Yeah, and we’ll have a late lunch then hang out and watch the surfers.

Walking hand in hand, luggage in tow, dressed for an eight-hour chilly plane ride, we spotted the Pink Palace, a legendary Honolulu hotel down the way. If only the sidewalk had thought to continue. Like air dropped tourists on a desolate beach, we rolled up our pant legs, suitcases close behind, and drug ourselves five hundred yards across midday beach and sun.

Remembering this memorable escape made me laugh while retelling Austin about that trip. He and I now stammered across the very sands on a different adventure.

I turned to him and said, You were just seven. In fact, you scored your first touchdown in flag football while your mother and I were on that trip. Now here you are, about to head off to college. Crazy how that is.

Poignant to me of course, yet Austin, taking in the pulsing night-life of a grand, world-famous beach, returned my whimsical story of years past with, What were you saying?

Though moderately early, we collapsed on our beds and ended up staying at our modest hotel all night. It was 3 a.m. Dallas time, awake now for twenty-four hours straight. Adjusting to local time would be of epic importance. Nineteen more time zones remained ahead, and tomorrow’s agenda would bring us face to face with our greatest fears. We needed rest. As we fell asleep, and still unknown to us, the Journey itself recessed quietly back into the shadows, waiting for a new day.

Day 2.

The Highs Are High; The Lows Are Low

Thursday, June 9

Islept well, but woke often if that makes any sense. Finally at 4:30 a.m., I gave in and left in search of coffee. Mac 24-7 at the Hilton Hotel was three blocks away. This would be our breakfast spot tomorrow before flying towards stopover number two, so I headed there.

Sitting undisturbed in the lobby, I made some calls checking with the office while I had the chance. Needs continued whether I was on a worldwide adventure or not, and growth had been on the upswing during the first quarter.

Belinda was doing well running the business. As a mother, she is a saint. The role of company president intern was new for her and is a daunting task for anyone, especially after a three-month crash course. Thankfully, she’s smart, and a quick learner. I guess schoolteachers are just born hard-wired differently from the rest of us. Even though we were only a day in, I was relieved. Soon the time zones would not align for daytime calling. More troubling, sometimes we would be out of phone range altogether. Since our itinerary was a secret, she (and everyone else) had no idea where we would be each day.

I pushed the thought of future communication hassles aside, and headed towards Waikiki. Surfers and outfitters were getting rigs set for the day. That was expected, but I found others; couples, joggers, leashed dogs–all just moving about as if heading to brunch. Why were all these people wandering around before sunrise? Maybe it’s a Honolulu thing; or I was being joined in some inconvenient, jet-lagged, zombie walk. Whatever the case, I soon became bored and returned to get Austin moving.

A Breakfast Top Ten Is Discovered

On a journey, even the routine must be allowed to become a stand-alone moment, like breakfast. Why settle on any detail, even those considered so trivial? A local, storied bakery would work just fine. The challenge was to find one and I refused intimidation when it came to baked goods. Diets? Forget it. The overwhelming and intoxicating fragrance of a bakery equals childhood Christmas mornings.

Leonard’s Bakery, a Honolulu staple for over five decades, fit perfectly. They are the creator of Malasadas, the house specialty. Malasadas were sort of like Mexican sweet bread; round like a palm-sized Nerf ball and topped with sugar then stuffed full of assorted fillings. All types of creamy combinations were available. Cherry and strawberry, sure; but we were in Hawai’i, so coconut and banana made it to the car.

Not necessarily sharing my bakery fervor, Austin browsed the glass cabinets for five soon-to-be morning favorites. Protein shakes usually start his mornings.

This one tastes like Gran’s banana pudding, he said, taking a large bite while holding another.

Oh yeah, these are outstanding. It’s like biting into a soft pillow ball of goodness. I could eat a dozen. I stuffed another into my mouth.

Probably should before this next little escapade.

You think so, huh?

Yeah–you’re going to need as much sugar as possible, Austin said quite confidently.

They’ve Blown It All Sky High

The drive across the island was beautiful once outside Honolulu’s constant, tunnel-visioned highways where road signs drew the attention. We seemed to coast right into the northern edge, never quite noticing how we had worked our way into the upper stratosphere of this island paradise.

Our first true Journey Challenge neared. A specialty aircraft company located at Dillingham Airfield was a mile ahead. There, at precisely 8:30 a.m. we would climb aboard for a sightseeing trip from 14,000 feet. Once at the proper altitude over the Pacific