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Standing on a beautiful Filipino beach staring into the familiar ocean in early July 2013, I knew I was facing the storm of my life. Twenty months earlier I had been one of the highest paid wastewater professionals in northern California. Thirteen months earlier I had resigned and moved to a bungalow on a small island in the Philippines to begin writing a story. Six months earlier I had quit trying to write my story, spending time SCUBA diving, drinking, and living the most care-free life imaginable instead. One month earlier I had moved from Panglao Island to a quiet volcanic beach on Camiguin Island. Three days earlier I had been invited to attend an Aussie mate's wedding in Moalboal, Cebu, and four of us ferried over for the celebration. Eight hours earlier we had finished partying into the late evening and returned to the resort and crashed. Two hours earlier we had attended the formal part of the wedding at the Moalboal government center pavilion. One hour earlier we had moved down the beach to where the large wedding celebration was taking place behind me. Five minutes later my life changed forever when the Philippine National Police arrived and took me into custody. My destination? The Philippines' notorious Bicutan Prison near Manila: awaiting extradition back to America to stand trial for a crime that never happened. 825 days later I sat down to finish writing my story. Goes something like this...
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