“I would bring guns if I were you guys.”

Everywhere that we have traveled we have inevitably received this advice. Upon hearing that we intend to bike south of the border, many tend to cringe before launching into a rant about the perils of “cartel country.” A significant percentage of the people we talked to on a daily basis were weary, to say the least, of Mexico.

Today, we ride our first miles outside the familiar confines of the United States. My mind is cluttered with the many voices of warning.

I have no idea what to expect.

As young people we are constantly searching for our place. With each stunning sunset, colorful character and group argument we learn a little bit more about ourselves and where that place might be. This journey south has allowed for a surreal detachment from society. We have been able to resist the demand for a rigid schedule; seeking an alternative approach to life.

Now, more than four months after leaving Juneau, I find myself on a bicycle saddle rather than in a kayak cockpit. The monotonous melody of the turning pedals has allowed me to reflect.

Stacked up waves rolled forward lurching my girlfriend Elyse above me and then dropping her down with a nerve tightening “thud”. Our tandem kayak knifed forward, as we fought for control. To our left, nine other kayaks, bright yellow, mango and maroon boats rose and fell amongst green frothing swells.

We had pushed away from Cape Fanshaw and were gaining ground to the South before the ten-mile cross over to Kupreanof Island and our first food drop of the trip in Kake. The idea on shore had been to keep the group together, be able to talk and make decisions on the water.