When a Fake Submarine Taught Me About Loss
When I was a kid, we didn’t go on fancy vacations. We had Four Season Salute tickets. Florida Resident specials, good during off-peak windows: early fall, late winter, the quiet months. It wasn’t extravagant. But it was everything.
We didn’t visit Disney because it was close. We went because it was safe.
At home, things were… unstable. Behind closed doors, my mom’s fuse was short and her words were sharp. But in public - especially at Disney - something changed. The same woman who scolded and snapped would laugh. Smile. Share cake. Maybe she knew there were too many eyes. Maybe the magic softened her. Either way, those moments in the park were the closest thing we had to peace.
That’s why I loved it. That’s why I still do.
Every trip had its pattern.
20,000 Leagues Under the Sea for me.
it’s a small world for my brother.
A thick slice of layered chocolate cake at Main Street Bakery for our mom.
We didn’t rush. We wandered. We belonged.
One September afternoon - our last trip before blackout dates - we walked toward my favorite ride. 20,000 Leagues. But the line was long. Brutal. I wanted to wait, but we made the decision families often make when they’re trying to do too much with too little.
“We’ll ride it next time.”
But that fall, we spent more time at EPCOT. Future World, Horizons, all the stuff that felt new and big and modern. We didn’t make it back to Magic Kingdom until later.
By then, 20,000 Leagues was gone.
Closed in October.
No fanfare. No second chance.
That’s the moment I learned a truth I’ve never shaken:
There is no guarantee of next time.
It sounds simple. But it’s shaped me in quiet, permanent ways. I don’t wait to say what matters. I don’t assume people, places, or peace will be there later. I ride the ride. I eat the cake. I speak the truth.
I carry a 10-inch Nautilus tattoo on my arm now. It’s not just for the ride. It’s for what the ride stood for. Escape. Wonder. Calm. That brief part of childhood where you feel like you belong in the world - even if just beneath its surface.
Some people remember their first rollercoaster.
I remember the lagoon.
The portholes.
The silence.
Because for a few minutes, I could go deep and not be hurt.
And then it was gone.
And no one told me it was the last time.
Somewhere along the way, the magic of that ride disappeared for me. But I was bummed when they close Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride and If You Had Wings. When I die, I expect to be transported via one of those rides to what comes next.