Right outside the pickup area at the Savannah airport, there was a row of rocking chairs.

Outside, not inside — in the thick Georgia air, mostly empty, lit softly from above. I dropped my bags next to one and plopped down. It was just after 10 PM. I could hear the crickets even at the airport. I’d been running hard for weeks and just sat there, not looking at my phone, not doing anything. The humidity wrapped around everything, warm, yet soft in a way Bay Area evenings never quite manage. It had all caught up to me right there — the go-go-go, the chaos, with a harsh ending by hopping on a plane and suddenly just being here. Whether I had everything figured out or not, I was here and the busyness was thousands of miles away.

I had a couple of bags and a backpack next to the chair — my whole life was compressed into what I could carry, which is a far cry from the life I’d left behind three time zones west. I hadn’t booked a return flight. There was no checkout date pointing me home, no orchestrated plan, no family holiday tradition being observed. I sat in that rocking chair in my college shirt and didn’t want to get up.

The short version of how I got here: thirteen years at the same company, a new boss, and a path that had quietly stopped going anywhere. The decision got made for me — and honestly, it was the right call at the right time.

I wasn’t sad about it. My parents had moved south to be closer to my sister, the Southeast had been calling, and I finally had the runway to answer. I shipped the new to me GS east and booked a one-way flight to Savannah. The ending of one chapter had already happened. This ride was about the beginning of the next.

I half-expected my sister to have opinions about the motorcycle. She basically said “you do you.” I hadn’t fully prepared for that and appreciated it more than I let on.

My Uber driver and I danced around the should-we-talk-or-be-quiet first few minutes before I just asked him straight out — do you prefer a conversation or just being chill, I can do either. He instantly jumped in. About halfway through the hour drive out to the island he volunteered that he was part of the gay community, and I let him know I was as well. What followed was the best community welcome I’d received in recent memory — where to go, who to know, how to plug in, all of it genuine and completely flowing. It reminded me of walking into a Southern Baptist church (the welcome, not the theology) where you get signed up for every group at the church. I grew up around that kind of open-arms culture and spent enough years in California to half-forget it existed.

A few days later the GS showed up on a 53-foot semi. The original plan was Tybee Island — where I’m based, about a 40-minute ride east of Savannah through the city and out past the point where the lights fade behind you and the road keeps going into the dark toward the water. It feels like the end of the earth out there, the Atlantic bookend to Cape Flattery on the other corner of the country. But low-hanging Spanish moss and a 53-foot truck don’t negotiate, and my sister’s neighborhood wasn’t having it either. The driver suggested a Walmart. I found the closest one and we met there.

From the minute I saw Derek you could see the good-natured human all over him — solidly built, easy smile, full of life in a way that reads immediately. He was a rider himself, the kind whose collection spans genres: a GSXR 1000 sportbike and a couple of Harleys in the same garage. You can tell somebody actually loves motorcycles when the American cruiser and the Japanese race bike are both on the list. When I mentioned a trip out to Southwest Georgia to see some old high school friends who’d moved that way to start a farm, he laughed — a real one. “Why are you going there?” And then almost in the same breath told me I should absolutely look him up if I came through his town. Californians aren’t always front porch people the way folks are back here, and I instantly felt that front porch welcome.

We got the bike unloaded, she fired right up, we swapped numbers and said goodbye. I hope we cross paths again.

My sister lent me her car, so I could get all the setup shopping done. I’d was mentally switching over to motorcycle math, and even with a car in the parking lot I didn’t want to overbuy. The car wasn’t always going to be available. I found myself justifying every purchase against the three saddlebags waiting in the parking lot — the ones I’d eventually have to live out of. I wasn’t living off the motorcycle yet, and I was already beginning to think like someone who would be.

At the Publix deli counter, the woman slicing my ham picked up immediately that I wasn’t local. She wanted to know what brought me here — and I had the distinct sense she was actually asking and cared. I told her: here to spend time with family, reconnect with my roots, enjoy a new city, looking forward to settling into Savannah after years in California. She opened up immediately. We exchanged stories and laughs easily. She had a charm about her even when her team was no where to be found and a line was starting to pile up. Not long after I first moved to California, a friend asked me why I said hello to everyone we passed on a hike. It was just how I grew up. Being back here, I’m remembering what that feels like from the other side.

Over at WalMart, the cashier apologized because the person ahead of me was taking some time sorting out what they wanted vs needed to buy at the register. I told her I had nowhere to be and nowhere to go. She smiled, said thank you and bless you, as neither of us needed to rush the moment.

My sister dropped me back at the Walmart parking lot after all the shopping and putting the groceries away was done. We said our goodbyes, and she headed home. I walked over to the GS, swung a leg over, and hit the starter.

Slow. Heavy. Laboring — the bike was thinking hard about whether it wanted to be part of this particular chapter. Then the motor caught.

I sat there for a second. Tybee Island was 40 minutes away, the city lights of Savannah between me and the end of the earth, and I was fully on my own. No return ticket. No plan. Now I have a motorcycle that sounded like it had questions about our whole arrangement.

I’m glad I brought a battery tender from California. It was going on the bike tonight.

Welcome to my next chapter.