Competing was hard. Getting home was harder

Traveling is one of the best parts of being a jiu-jitsu athlete. Competing around the world pushes my limits and shapes me — not just as a competitor, but as a person.

What don’t I love? The trip home.

Sometimes the trip home turns into a disaster. Two weeks ago, it did exactly that.

It all started on February 21st, when I went to a local ADCC open to put the skills I’d been working on to the test. I took a couple of hard losses, but that just means I have some areas to improve. Nothing I can’t deal with. After hanging out in Portland, my mom, my dad, and I headed to the airport. It was a connecting flight, so first we had to fly to Chicago and then fly to Newark from there. We waited a few hours to head to Chicago, and I went over some stuff for my article to pass the time. We get on the plane, we fly out of Portland, and land with no issues. Should the next flight be easy? Yes. Was it? Absolutely not. We land in Chicago, and after waiting a while, we realize that we were at the wrong terminal. The gate changed from B7 to B5. It didn’t seem so bad—until we realized the airport was huge. Two terminals felt like ten miles. To make it worse, I had hurt my foot in that tournament from earlier. Walking wasn’t impossible, but it still hurt. It was fine, we made it to the terminal, and we waited for the flight.

After waiting around 4 hours, we realized we had missed the flight. Not ideal, but things happen. So we got on standby for the next flight, and there were about 30 other people ahead of us, making us wait even longer. After waiting again, we couldn’t get the flight home, so we had two options: we either had to wait until Wednesday to get another flight or drive 19 hours to get home. Since my parents had to go to work the next day, we ended up driving home. It wasn’t the first time we had to do it, and it probably wouldn’t be the last.

We hop in an Avis rental car and begin the drive home. The drive was pretty okay for the most part. We went through Wisconsin, Indiana, Ohio, and made it to Jersey. Only a little under 2 hours away from home. Unfortunately, this was the same weekend that a snowstorm came in. But it wasn’t that bad until we got to New Jersey. There was so much snow that it kept covering the windows and stopping the windshield wipers. A couple of minutes later, we see a truck flipped over on the side of the road. It was the first time I had seen a car flipped over. After seeing this, my parents immediately started driving more slowly to avoid crashing. A little more into the snow, we had to go down a hill. Not the greatest idea in snow. But we gave it a try anyway. It didn’t work, and we ended up hitting the side of the road. I was on the side of the car that got hit, so my shoulder took part of the impact. But it wasn’t bad. I’m okay. It only hurt in the moment of impact.

After driving a bit farther, we swerved again, and the back tires got stuck in a ditch. My patience wore thin, but after about an hour, we managed to get out. Still, more trouble—after reaching a deserted plaza around 2 or 3 a.m., we found ourselves stuck again when the emergency brake locked. Exhausted, I fell asleep while my parents worked to solve it. Avis could only offer Uber vouchers and a tow, which were useless at that hour. Eventually, my dad released the brake, and we made our way to a Ramada, but every hotel was full. With no choice, my dad carefully drove the remaining way at 15 miles an hour. We finally reached home around 7:30 a.m., just as I woke up.

As soon as we got home, I trekked through the snow, walked inside, put my stuff down, and slept for another 8 hours. That was without a doubt my least favorite experience coming back from the West Coast. Would I go through that again? No. Would I travel to the West Coast again? Absolutely. I describe my traveling experiences as high-risk but high-reward. Incredible adventure — but they can turn chaotic very fast.