How a sprained ankle quietly hijacked our holidays

Orcas Island, WA

Jan 01, 2026

The exact moment everything went sideways

There’s a very specific moment in squash, about 0.3 seconds before you commit to a heroic lunge, when your brain should politely ask your body:

“Hey… are we still capable of this?”

On December 20th, my brain did not ask.

It assumed.

Four days before our carefully planned van escape to Southern California, I was back at my old squash club, riding a three-day free trial pass and a dangerously optimistic internal monologue titled The Return™. New shoes. Old confidence. Pajama T-shirt pretending to be athletic wear. Life was good.

Then my opponent played a drop shot.

I lunged.

My foot stayed.

My body… did not.

My ankle sent a very clear, very loud message to my brain: absolutely not. Puff. Dizzy. Ice bag. Silence.

Freeze frame.

This, this right here, is the moment our California road trip quietly died.

The comeback tour (cut tragically short)

Let’s rewind a little further.

For context: I’d been wanting to get back into squash for a while. Like, 6+ years kind of a while. Long enough that my muscle memory still remembered what to do, but my tendons absolutely did not. So a few days before our holiday van trip, I went back to my old squash club and asked for a 3-day trial pass. The idea was simple and very adult: ease back into it, see how it feels, and only then decide whether to recommit.

Naturally, this plan did not survive contact with reality.

Day one: rowing machine, solo squash, endorphins everywhere. I even bought new squash shoes that evening, which, looking back, feels like the universe collecting a down payment.

Day two: sore muscles, so I treated myself to what my best friend, Samir, and I used to call “an executive”. Sauna. Shower. Fresh shave. You leave the club feeling like a newborn worth a billion dollars.

Day three: I went all in. Pick-up match. My opponent hesitated (understandably) because I looked like I had wandered in from a sleepover (FYI I wear old, loose T‑shirts that I normally reserve for sleeping as my squash gear. Comfort over credibility.). Within minutes, though, he realized I knew what I was doing.

And then… overconfidence.

I forgot about aging. Forgot about physics. Forgot that tendons keep receipts.

ER realism & RICE (not the comforting kind)

The swelling came fast. By the next day I couldn’t bear weight, so off to the ER we went. X-rays. Waiting. Anxiety math.

Good news: no fracture.

Bad news: likely a grade-3 sprain.

The prescription? RICE and time. Important clarification: not actual rice. Which is unfortunate, because actual rice is comforting and this was not.

Rest
Ice
Compression
Elevation

RICE is also wildly incompatible with:

20 hours of driving
Van life ergonomics
Pretending everything is fine

So yes. We cancelled our SoCal trip.

After an intense year at work, the vacation I’d been mentally clinging to evaporated under fluorescent ER lights. FML. But also… yalla, day by day. Let’s not cancel everything.

Four days of religiously following doctor’s orders (plus YouTube physical therapists who whisper encouragement) later, I could tolerate some weight.

We pivoted.

Destination → Orcas Island 🐋

The ferry we missed (and the one we deserved)

I hate alarms. I only set them for flights, which thankfully happen rarely.

Turns out ferries also count.

We woke up at 8:17am. Respectable. Alizée walked Louie. I packed the van. At 10:30am, I punched the ferry terminal into the GPS.

ETA: one minute before departure.

This triggered our patented “who is responsible?” spiral. Was it me? Alizée? Louie?

(It was Louie. Obviously.)

Halfway there, we surrendered. Costco detour. Taylor Farms salads. Snacks. Water refill. Then a picnic at Bowman Bay, because if you miss a ferry, you might as well lean into it.

Mid-afternoon sailing. Front row. Calm water.

By the time we reached Orcas, it was dusk sliding into full darkness.

No audience on Orcas Island in the Winter

Our goal was to reach Moran State Park before nightfall to scope out a campsite.

We did not.

It was pitch black. Silent. Empty. We drove up the Mountain Lake loop and picked site #130 purely on vibes.

Zero degrees Celsius. Flirting with negatives.

Heater on. Cozy achieved. Van theater deployed.

We watched Emily in ~~Paris~~ Rome. Yes, we like it. No, Paris is not that clean. Yes, it will always be the most beautiful city in my eyes.

We fell asleep with the heater blasting… and woke up convinced we were being slow-roasted. Turned it off. Woke up freezing. Eventually negotiated a truce between “sauna” and “ice cave”. Hahahaha

Van life, baby.

Small moments, big quiet

Morning brought sun rays (actual sun) after three straight weeks of PNW rain. The campground was still empty. Not a single soul.

Coffee by the lake. Cold air. Gratitude.

📍 Eastsound:

Dog park pit stop
Orcas Bakery (sourdough focaccia, simit, buckwheat cookie - zero regrets)
A surprise chat with a local realtor who casually mentioned there are 30 friendly realtors on the island (this sentence alone explains Orcas)

Lunch at North Beach: avocado toast on focaccia, calamari, and people-watching.

A solo kayaker packing for three days around the islands in frigid temperatures
Two grandmas chatting, coats on, legs dipped into the freezing water like it was nothing

Coffee at Dragonfly. So welcoming, Louie made himself at home on the rug. A must. Seriously, I think it ranks as my top coffee shop in America. So Cozy.

We drove toward Doe Bay, stopped at a local-artists-only gallery, then watched the sunset while chatting with a family stitched across France, Ohio, and Seattle.

Back at the campground: still empty.

I made a fire. We had wine. We talked about honesty. About my almost obsessive pull toward being brutally honest in every part of my life (including work), and how hard it is to find the line where honesty still feels kind and caring, instead of blunt or accidentally hurtful.

We fell asleep to Emily in Paris again.

The ranger, the drone, the view

Morning knock.

It was the park ranger, doing his morning round to check in on park visitors. An activity that, given the circumstances, felt more ceremonial than necessary.

He was friendly and relaxed. And to be clear, this was not an honest oversight.

The first night, I had insisted we pay. The second night, however, we happened to enter the park from the opposite direction, completely bypassing the ranger check‑in booth. Alizée seized the opportunity.

“You had things your way last night,” she said. “Tonight, we’re skipping the pay booth.”

I agreed, but with a condition: “Fine. But we’re 100% getting a wake‑up knock in the morning asking for payment.”

Reader, I have never been more right.

The ranger casually mentioned that we were only his fifth camper in three weeks, which somehow made us feel both special and mildly unsettled. Like, wow, lucky us! immediately followed by wait… why is no one else here?

Sun again. Cold again.

With no one around, I flew the drone for a few shots. Five minutes later, the ranger returned, someone had reported it. No fine. No warning. Just a kind reminder that drones aren’t allowed in state parks.

We drove as high as the icy road allowed to Little Summit, then walked 500 meters to a viewpoint overlooking the San Juan Islands and Mount Baker.

Epic.

Bakery again. This time grabbing pizza sourdough to make pizza at home, because who actually has the patience to make their own sourdough? (If you do, please email me. I have questions.)

We drove south toward Deer Harbor and made lunch by the marina, watching boats gently knock against the docks like they, too, had nowhere urgent to be. It felt like the island quietly exhaling.

With time to spare before the ferry, we stopped at the Orcas Hotel lobby for coffee. Two americanos, warm hands, soft light. The kind of pause that makes you forget what day it is.