In the summer of 1966, the world cracked wide open for me.
I had been chosen to play in the All-American Youth Honor Concert Band for a South American Tour — a high honor for a young man who had worked hard to master the tuba and the sousaphone. I wasn’t just a part of the band; I was a standout. Back home in Texas, I’d earned recognition for my performance of Flight of the Bumblebee, a piece most folks would never expect to hear from a heavy brass horn. Through a technique called triple-tonguing, I could make that horn buzz and dart and dance like a real bumblebee in a summer field. I was proud of that. It wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t handed to me. It was earned — through long hours, sore lips, and pure grit.
When we loaded onto those buses in Austin, I didn’t know a soul. Sixty or seventy students and a handful of adult chaperones — all strangers. We were starting out on a journey that would take us across the American South, across the Gulf of Mexico, and into the heart of South America.
That bus ride to Miami was the first step — and it was an eye-opener in ways I never could have predicted.
We made plenty of stops along the way. Somewhere deep in Mississippi, we pulled into a little roadside stop to grab a bite and use the restrooms. I remember stepping off that bus, stretching my legs, walking toward the building — and then seeing it. Signs. Segregated spaces.
Signs marking “Whites Only” restrooms. Separate dining areas.
Growing up outside San Antonio, I hadn’t come face-to-face with that kind of stark, legalized division.
That day, standing in the sticky Southern heat, I understood something new: The world was not as fair, or as decent, as I had assumed.
That moment planted a seed in me — a deep sensitivity to injustice that would resurface later in life when I walked through old workplaces and towns, spotting the scars of that era. The bones of separation remained long after the signs came down. You could see it if you knew what you were looking for.
From Miami, we boarded a plane — and for me, another first.
I had never flown before.
As the engines roared and the ground fell away, I felt both a jolt of excitement and a ripple of fear. Flying felt like being set free from gravity and from everything I had ever known.
We landed in Guayaquil, Ecuador, where the air hung heavy with salt and spice. After a series of concerts, we traveled onward — this time to Quito, Colombia, on a plane I can only describe as straight out of a World War II movie.
It was an old prop utility plane, a surplus relic from WWII that had somehow found its way into civilian use. Instead of rows of cushioned seats, the interior had webbed canvas bench seats running along the sides. The cargo hold wasn’t pressurized. The big door had cracks you could see daylight through.
Flying at high altitudes into the Andes with that door rattling just feet away — it wasn’t for the faint of heart. But I sat there, wide-eyed, thinking, I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.
In Quito, we stayed in a hotel facing a grand old plaza. On one free afternoon, feeling adventurous, I wandered into a small shop tucked off the square. A friendly couple who spoke a bit of English took a liking to me. The man offered to show me around — not the tourist spots, but the real Quito.
He led me underneath the towering buildings, into a hidden world built on the massive concrete pillars that held the city above.
It was a slum — a place of crushing poverty — but it was also a place of life and resilience. Families lived there, raised children there, built businesses from nothing. It was humbling. And it was fascinating.
I didn’t feel afraid, even though part of me knew I probably should have. I trusted the man. I trusted the moment.
And I brought home from that hidden market a few woven llama hair saddle blankets — treasures from a world most Americans would never see.
The trip also introduced me to what we started calling “The Galloping Incas” — a polite name for the inevitable stomach troubles that came from eating new and unfamiliar foods.
It wasn’t pleasant, but it was part of the price you paid for stepping outside your comfort zone.
Another thing that stood out was the presence of armed soldiers in public spaces — carrying machine guns in markets, on street corners, at public events. At first it was jarring. But after a while, it became just another thread in the fabric of daily life there.
Another reminder that freedom and peace are not things to take lightly.
When the tour wrapped up, we flew back to Miami.
And on that return flight, as we descended toward the runway, I looked out the window — and my blood ran cold.
Oil.
Thick, dark oil, streaming across the wing from the engine.
I knew just enough to be terrified. Wings hold fuel.
Engines aren’t supposed to leak.
I sat there, gripping the armrests, thinking, This is it. We’re not going to make it.
But there was nothing I could do. Nothing anyone could do.
I learned, right then and there, sometimes you just have to sit with fear — and trust the ride.
We landed safely.
We rolled to a stop.
And we stepped back onto solid ground.
Looking back, that trip gave me more than a collection of memories.
It gave me a deep respect for different cultures.
It showed me the face of injustice — and the resilience of the human spirit.
It taught me that leadership starts with showing up — with standing tall among strangers and becoming part of a team.
And it taught me that sometimes, the biggest growth comes when you have absolutely no control and have to choose faith over fear.
That summer, I didn’t just travel across countries.
I crossed the threshold into a bigger, wider, richer life.
And I’ve been traveling forward ever since.
The Journey Didn’t End There — It Only Got Bigger.
That summer opened my eyes to a bigger world — and it’s a lesson I carry into every part of leadership and life today.
If you’re a leader today — feeling stuck, overwhelmed, or simply ready to grow beyond the “small circle” you’ve been operating in —
maybe this is your moment to step into a wider world too.
Because leadership isn’t just about solving problems.
It’s about becoming the person who can stand tall when it matters most — even when you can’t control the ride.
That’s why I’m offering a free 45-minute Leadership Strategy Call.
In this session, we’ll work together to:
✅ Clarify the bigger vision you’re called to lead
✅ Uncover the hidden patterns that have been holding you back
✅ Map out your next courageous move toward the leader — and life — you’re meant to build
You don’t need all the answers right now.
You just need the willingness to keep traveling forward.
👉 Click here to book your free 45-minute Strategy Call.
Let’s chart your next bold chapter — together.