Tattoo #11 - Mauritius: A new decade begins

Tattoo #10 wasn’t supposed to happen. But the country for #11 was carefully chosen — because this would be the year I turned 30.

By reaching this milestone, I had already visited over 100 countries. I had seen more of the world than most people will in a lifetime. Literally, and yet, as my 30th birthday approached, something shifted. The journey didn’t feel like it was expanding anymore. It was starting to feel like it was narrowing.

For the first time in my life, I found myself slowing down. I had moved to Omaha, paused my travels, and started thinking long-term. That’s why I transitioned into IT. So I could work smart and re-retire, this time with more luxury. I had grown tired of the cheapest flights, hotels, hostels, couches, and Airbnbs. I also realized that if I kept traveling the way I had been, I’d run out of countries no later than my early 40s. The world, for all its vastness, suddenly felt small. And that was a problem.

But I had a plan.

For months leading up to June, I researched the entire planet to find the perfect place to celebrate my 30th birthday. I narrowed it down to two: Bhutan or Mauritius. Mountains or oceans? Floating temples or underwater waterfalls? The decision wasn’t easy, so I left it to fate — flipped a coin — and fate chose Mauritius.

I’m glad it did.

A Birthday Like No Other

Cindy and I packed our bags and headed off to Mauritius. It was the first stop on a whirlwind trip near the African continent, and it quickly became one of the most memorable weeks of my life. I always aim to one-up myself, and Mauritius didn’t disappoint. From catamaran rides and rainforest tours to pristine beaches with crystal clear water, this was not Omaha.

We stayed at a five-star luxury resort and soaked in every bit of island life. The food was phenomenal — rich with Indian and Arabic influences. Port Louis, the capital, was vibrant and colorful. The best octopus salad of my life happened here. Every single day felt like a gift.

Then came the morning of my birthday.

The resort had to reschedule my original plans, so instead of a catamaran tour, I found myself hiking Le Morne Brabant — the iconic peak that overlooks Mauritius’s famed underwater waterfall. Cindy struggled on the way up, even threw up from the intensity, but we made it. We stood at the summit together as the wind whipped through our hair and the sun rose over the island. It was magical. Majestic.

After the hike, we returned to the resort, cleaned up, and ended the day with the most romantic dinner I’ve ever had: a private treehouse, three exquisite courses, candlelight, and the stars. The kind of night you lock away in your soul and revisit whenever life feels heavy.

The Tattoo – A Permanent Reminder

I knew what I wanted inked before I even arrived in Mauritius. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment tattoo. On the outside of my right index finger, I tattooed the number…30.

So why 30 and what does it mean?

Time…is…precious!

That’s it. That’s the punchline. The beat drop. The moment where everything clicks into place.

Because turning 30 wasn’t just a number — it was a reckoning. You’re no longer the young one. You start noticing NBA rookies are much younger than you. Your joints ache. Did your skin wrinkle overnight? Oh…sunscreen prevents premature aging? I didn’t know that. Until this point, no single thought about my age or mortality came to mind among all the chaos in life. Honestly, it’s like my entire life, I didn’t even realize I was aging. It all happened so fast from a little boy in the Caribbean to a grown man in Mauritius. Now, you become the punchline for “old head” jokes. And there’s a sting that comes from knowing you’ve officially crossed the threshold that I never felt before. You’re not young anymore. People treat you differently. You feel older. You are older. Why are people treating me differently?

But it goes deeper than that.

I’ve dealt with loss before—a lot of it. In the military, you’re prepared for it. You expect it. It hurts, but there’s a framework for that kind of grief. When an older relative passes, it hurts, but it’s not a shock. It’s something we tell ourselves to be ready for.

But when I turned 30, I realized something I hadn’t let myself feel before: the same way my time isn’t guaranteed, neither is anyone else’s.

And that’s what truly shook me.

I’ve been lucky. I’ve never lost someone close to me in civilian life. But as I approached 30, I remembered seeing social media posts about people I used to know — dying in their 20s. Gang violence. Toxic relationships. Random tragedy.

There was one girl, two grades below me in high school. Beautiful and constant smile. She was murdered in her early 20s by an abusive partner. I didn’t even know her that well. Just another name on the friend list. But it shocked me so much I didn’t believe it could happen to someone as deserving to be alive as her.

When I turned 30, a door opened. A door I wasn’t ready to walk through.

I had built thick skin in the military. I was hazed for my Caribbean accent, size, and rank. I learned to shut things off like a light switch. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel, far from it, — I just learned to manage it so well I could disconnect at will.

But now, I had people again. Real people. Civilian friends. A best friend/cousin in Florida with his queen and two daughters, who are my god kids. A woman I loved deeply.

And for the first time in my life, I realized I could lose them at any moment, and I was terrified of losing them.

What if Cindy died before me? What if one of my closest friends got in a car accident or something random and tragic? Never getting the chance to say goodbye. Not knowing the last words would be the last words. What if I had to lie on my deathbed, Cindy holding my hand, whispering “Don’t leave me” in that voice I adore? My heart cracks at the thought of my response to her. I would say “I hope I see you in the next life” or “I’ll be looking for you”. So now I realize that people around me, including myself, are reaching the period where age is a factor in death and probability. Technically, every day a bus doesn’t hit you on your way to work, increases your chances of getting hit the next day, or is my math not mathing? Every year, we pass a day on the calendar that we will die in the future, not knowing what day that is or when the last year is. And I’m here celebrating my birthday when people have a deathday.

Those thoughts consumed me. They broke me. And if you look closely at some of the photos and videos from that trip, you’ll see it. I was smiling. I was celebrating. But the thoughts ran wild.

That’s why I got this tattoo. That’s why I marked myself with a number at the start of a new decade.

Because time is precious.

I can’t control what happens next. Not to me. Not to them. Not to any of us. But I can live. I can live loudly and fully and beautifully. I can honor the people I love, especially the ones who never saw 30.

Every time I see that tattoo — on the hand I use every day — I remember: time is precious. I don’t have the luxury, or the desire, to waste it.

That tiny number “30” is a contract. A vow to stay conscious of each day that goes by. Every. Single. Day.

To stay present. To stay alive. Not just breathing — but living. Stop sacrificing your present because you are so fixated on what life will be like when you accomplish your goals and dreams. If you do, you will be a victim of the old saying, “life slipped through my fingers”. You have to be conscious of the present. You have to remind yourself to enjoy the journey. How do you make today better? What do I want to do today to have a great day?

So I hike mountains. I dance in foreign cities. I make love under the stars. I dive into oceans. I party under pyramids. I travel the world. I write these stories.

Because time is precious, and I refuse to waste a second of it.