My journey back in time

We set out young, full of piss and vinegar, ready to take on the world. My high school major was physics, but that didn’t stop me from chasing music, motorcycles, and mischief.

That final school trip was unforgettable. The physics majors, myself included, stopped at CERN to marvel at the Hadron Collider—a machine so vast and powerful it felt more like science fiction than reality. Further down the road, the art students made their pilgrimage to towns steeped in history, where Picasso, Monet, and Chagall once chased the light.

By then, I had already carved out a name for myself. I played guitar in a rockabilly band called The Ringlets. We weren’t great—at least not by the standards of the legends—but we played fast and wild, and it worked. We packed the leftover bars of the German hippie days—places still run by old free spirits, where the beer was cheap, the music loud, and the nights endless. People knew our names. That felt like something. But that was in my free time.

In school, there were three of us—Thomas, born into money, with a head full of wild curls; Karsten, tall, shy, thoughtful, and quietly average; and me, towering at six foot eight, reckless and restless. We spent our time tearing through fields on off-road bikes and Jeeps. I rode a Yamaha DT 175; Thomas and Karsten drove their little Suzuki off-roaders. Germans, by the way, called every off-road vehicle a “Jeep.” We climbed dirt trails and raised hell, and I made a habit of riding up the school’s stone stairs just to see if I could make it. I nearly got expelled for that one.

Then came the infamous Monaco field trip—a week or so that changed everything.

We rolled into town loud, young, and invincible. The original Blues Brothers soundtrack played on repeat. That trip shaped us, but for me, it did something more.

I overheard her speaking to a friend—Simona, an art major, a Francophile with an artist’s soul. “He has pretty eyes,” she said. That was it. That was my in. She became my first real love, my muse. Much like Dalí, for whom one woman was never enough, I lived by that credo.

We roamed Europe on a whim, booking hotels only when we were too tired to drive farther.

And then there was Jimmy’z—the legendary nightclub of Monaco. The discotheque. We showed up far too early, but the man at the door looked at us and said, “We opened just for you.” Maybe he was joking; maybe he wasn’t. It didn’t matter. The place sprawled before us, the drinks impossibly expensive, the energy electric. Locals kept lockers with their names engraved, stocked with their private bottles. I had never seen anything like it. It was another world, one made for the nights of the wealthy—Brigitte Bardot, Bond (James Bond), and Gunter Sachs. We had all the time in the world.

That trip left its mark. So did Monaco. I never truly left it behind.

Now I return to it—my promised land—on a ship anchored inside Monaco harbor, with an invitation to the Yacht Club de Monaco in hand.

Life is strange and beautiful. What a trip.

I had the good fortune to be invited on a private yacht trip in the stunning U.S. Virgin Islands. Friends of ours were celebrating their 30th wedding anniversary in grand style, and they had chartered Chillaxin’, an almost 100-foot superyacht that was perfect for the occasion.

With a dedicated crew of four attending to every detail, the stage was set for an unforgettable experience. From the moment we stepped aboard, the atmosphere was one of pure relaxation and indulgence. The yacht's elegant design, spacious decks, and luxurious accommodations made it the ideal setting to celebrate such a milestone.

As we cruised through the crystal-clear waters, we explored hidden coves, snorkeled vibrant coral reefs, and enjoyed gourmet meals prepared by the onboard chef. The days were filled with adventure, laughter, and the kind of camaraderie that only comes from sharing such a special journey with close friends.

Sunsets over the Caribbean were nothing short of magical, painting the sky in hues of gold and crimson as we toasted to love, friendship, and the beauty of the moment. It was a celebration that perfectly blended elegance, adventure, and heartfelt joy, a trip that will be cherished for years to come.

9/6/2024

Today, I returned from a bittersweet journey to my father's hometown—a place I know intimately yet remain a stranger to. As a child, I spent nights in the grand sitting room of my grandparents' house, the first Pinkernell grandson granted such honor. A tall, blonde, blue-eyed German boy, I was a city kid visiting my rural cousins in Haren Ems, a town rich with the traditions of seafarers, farmers, and horses.

Back then, those traditions felt more like burdens than treasures. They annoyed me, lacking the clarity I now see. I was allowed to swim against the current, my youthful charm granting me some freedom—though the deeper truths remained unspoken and beyond my grasp.

This trip, however, brought clarity. My father, at 88, is in remarkable health, and my godfather, 82, shares his vitality. We spent hours reminiscing, my eager listening occasionally interrupted by hazy memories needing clarification.

I finally grasped the love for the sea coursing through my veins and the profound connection to horses and the land that defined my ancestors. At 56, I’m amazed by how I’ve become part of this sprawling, intricate legacy. Being a Pinkernell means belonging to something greater than oneself—an heritage that may be puzzling at first, but one that shapes your identity in ways you come to appreciate over time.

My grandfather was the highest guild master tailor in town. He had married into a well-known horseman family, but he made his own name through his craft. He ran a custom tailoring business with his sister, employing 20 people—a big deal for the small town.