There comes a point, b’ys, when you just gotta put down the phone and pick up your life.
That’s where this whole wild adventure life began. Me, sittin’ in the same spot I always do, scrolling through photos of other people living their best lives—kayaking fjords, beaches, skydiving, climbing peaks, smiling wide in places that I’d only ever watched. And then KaZam – I have an epiphany, a moment of extreme clarity: I was watching life instead of living it.
So I pulled out the ol’ camera, hit record, and made a promise across all my socials:
“I’m dropping out. Not from society—but from the scroll. From the chase. From watching you out there having adventures while I rot on the couch. I’m leavin’ the social feed behind and turning toward what’s real: nature, people, and the raw beauty of Newfoundland and Labrador and beyond. If you’ve got an adventure for me, drop me a line. I’m coming. No matter where you are. No matter what it is.”
And just like that, Adventures Unknown was born.
Didn’t take long for the messages to roll in, but one in particular stood out. A girl named Emily messaged me—said she and her buddies were going dirt bike riding’ across the cliffs and trails that lace Bell Island like veins. She said, “If you’re serious about jumping into adventure, come ride with us. We’ll see what you’re made of.”
I was on the next ferry.
Bell Island rose out of the ocean like a wild beast—steep, weathered, and absolutely begging to be explored. Emily met me with a grin, a helmet, and eyes that said, “Try to keep up”.
Now let me be honest—me and dirt bikes don’t have a long history. I’d barely sat on one before. But I was committed. I climbed on, gave it some gas… and nearly drove straight off the cliff. Like, literally. Feet flyin’, arms flailing, tires spinning in the gravel. I swear I saw my life flash before my eyes—mostly memories of embarrassing moments and awkward school dances.
But Emily and her crew? They just laughed, helped me dust off, and welcomed me in like I was one of their own.
And off we went.
We tore through rocky trails, bounced over gullies, and ripped across windblown meadows that looked out over the Atlantic. Bell Island’s got this raw, rugged feel—like it doesn’t care what you think, but it’s glad you came anyway. It’s a 15 minute ferry ride from Portugal Cove which is about 40 minutes from the capital city of St. John’s. It rises straight up out of the Atlantic, a massive plateau with cliffs that drop off dramatically.
Of course, it wouldn’t be a Donny Love adventure without a little chaos on two wheels. Tryin’ to impress Emily and her crew (mistake number one), I decided I’d try a wheelie—yes, a wheelie—despite barely knowing how to shift gears. I gave the throttle a twist, the front tire popped up, and for a glorious split second, I thought I was a stuntman.
Then gravity remembered me.
I flew backwards off the bike, arms flailing, feet in the air, and landed in a heap of dust and embarrassment. Twisted me ankle a bit, too—nothing broken, but enough to earn a few sympathetic chuckles and a solid pat on the back from Emily.
After a quick sit-down, some water, and a bit of pride realignment, I was back on the bike. Limping slightly, but grinnin’. Because that’s what this whole journey’s about—gettin’ up, dustin’ off, and ridin’ on.
Like a real trooper. Or at least a very determined klutz.
After hours of riding and laughing, near-misses and dust-covered grins, we pulled over to catch our breath. We sat high on a grassy cliff, boots dangling over the edge, lookin’ out at the Atlantic stretching endlessly below. The sky was wide and slow-moving, full of soft clouds and that kind of wind that carries thoughts you didn’t know you were thinking.
That’s when Emily pulled out her phone, quiet now, thoughtful.
“I want to show you something,” she said, her voice softer than it had been all day.
She brought up a photo—a stunning shot of a bald eagle, wings stretched wide against a sky painted with fire and gold, glidin’ just above the Bell Island cliffs. You could almost feel the freedom in it. Like the eagle wasn’t just flying, but singing.
“My grandfather took this,” she said, holding the screen between us like it was sacred.
She told me about him—a legendary Newfoundland nature photographer, known in those parts not just for his talent behind the lens, but for the way he saw things. Not just the big, obvious beauty, but the quiet stuff too—the curve of a wave, the twitch of a fox’s ear, the way the sky blushes just before it rains.
“He never rushed,” she said. “He’d sit for hours, waitin’ for the perfect light or the perfect moment. Sometimes he wouldn’t take a single photo all day. Said the land had to invite you.”
Her eyes shimmered a little as she looked out at the cliffs. “Every time I ride out here, I feel him. Not just in the memories, but in the wind, the sea, the stillness. Like the land remembers him too.”
She paused, and we both sat with that for a moment. The kind of silence that means something.
That’s when it hit me: this journey of mine—this escape from the scroll and the noise—wasn’t just about thrill-seeking or knocking things off a list. It was about connection. Real, rooted connection. To people. To stories. To places that hold memory like water holds reflection.
I looked at Emily and saw more than a dirt bike rider with a quick laugh—I saw someone carrying a legacy. And sharing it.
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As I sat there, feeling humbled and full-hearted, Emily gave me a little nudge.
“You didn’t think I forgot, did you?”
“Forgot what?”
She grinned and reached into her bag like she was pulling out gold.
A Big Mary chicken sandwich—crispy, golden, perfect—straight from Mary Brown’s, still warm, still smelling like heaven. But that wasn’t all. Stuck in the top of the bun was a little birthday candle, flickering in the wind like it had something to say.
The rest of the gang started singing “Happy Birthday” right there on the cliffside. Their voices blew out over the ocean, cheerful and off-key in the best way. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I did a little of both.
There I was: helmet hair, boots scuffed, one ankle still sore from my earlier wipeout, cheeks streaked with dust and a few honest tears. And in that moment—that absurd, perfect moment—I felt more celebrated than I ever had in any restaurant, bar, or birthday party in a long time.
I took a bite of that Big Mary and with a heart as full as my mouth, I thought:
This is what it’s all about.
Just when I figured the day couldn’t get any more unforgettable—after dirt bikes, cliff views, and birthday chicken—I got another message.
This time, from a fella named Jason Thistle, who sails the waters of Conception Bay like he was born with sea legs. He’d seen my post about jumping into real life, and he had an offer:
“Come out with me on the sailboat. We’ll jig a few cod, talk about life, and cook it up right. Only catch is… you gotta swim out to me.”
Now, if you’ve ever dipped even a toe in the Atlantic off Newfoundland, you’ll know that water ain’t for the faint of heart. It’s the kind of cold that makes your bones question your decisions. But hey—I’d already dropped off the digital grid, wiped out on a dirt bike, and blown out a candle in a chicken sandwich. Might as well go full send.
So I stripped down, handed Buddy my towel (okay, not really, but I gave him a nod), and took a running leap into the icy blue.
Sweet suffering Moses, it was cold.
I gasped, flailed, and shouted things not fit for television. But I swam—arms churnin’, legs kickin’, adrenaline mixin’ with the salt water. And before long, Jason reached over the rail, grabbed my hand, and hauled me aboard like a wet cod with a camera crew.
Jason’s sailboat rocked gently as we set off, wind catchin’ the canvas and carryin’ us out into the heart of the bay. The coast stretched behind us, green and gold, while the sea opened up ahead like a blank page waiting to be filled.
We dropped our lines and started cod jiggin’. There was something special about doing it from the deck of a sailboat, bobbin’ in the Atlantic, just two fellas and the quiet pull of the sea.
Jason told me stories about growing up on the bay, about family, freedom, and the way fishing grounds change but the feeling never does. We talked about life, about taking the leap (literally and metaphorically), and about how sometimes you find clarity when you’re drifting—not when you’re anchored.
The cod bit quick and fierce—beautiful fish, silver-scaled and strong. We hauled a few in, just enough for a feed, then steered the boat toward Jason’s wharf to cook it all up.
Jason’s setup was simple, but perfect. A little fryer, a slab of cutting board, and the kind of know-how that comes from a lifetime on the water.
We filleted the cod, battered it lightly, and tossed it in the bubbling oil. Chips hit the fryer next, golden and crisp, while we leaned against the wharf post and watched the tide roll in.
That plate of fish and chips might’ve been the best I’ve ever had. Crispy on the outside, flakey and melt-in-your-mouth on the inside. No distractions. No noise. Just good food, sea air, and the kind of easy conversation that makes you feel like you’ve known someone forever.
As the sky started to soften with the colours of evening, we climbed back aboard the sailboat. Jason steered us toward Bell Island, sails catchin’ the last breath of daylight.
When we got close to shore, I looked out across the water, back toward the beach I’d started from. “You want me to swim again?” I asked, half-joking.
Jason just smiled. “You didn’t come all this way to not jump.”
So I dove in.
The water hit me like a thousand cold truths, but I surfaced laughing, sputtering, and kicking for shore.
I toweled off, pitched my tent near the edge of the cliffs, and built a fire as the sky went full masterpiece—shades of orange, purple, and firelight minglin’ over Bell Island. I whipped up a fire and got to roasting marshmallows over the coals. They were delicious, the kind that crisp up just right on the outside and turn to gooey heaven in the middle.
That night, sittin’ by the fire with the sound of the waves below and a belly full of fish and marshmallows, I felt it.
Not just happiness—but rightness.
This first episode wasn’t just about dirt bikes or bucket list moments. It was about answerin’ the call—to show up, to say yes, to take the leap even when you don’t know where you’ll land. It was about being seen by strangers and made to feel like family.
It was the first of many reminders that the best adventures aren’t scripted. They’re given to you by people generous enough to invite you in—and brave enough to ride beside you when you wipe out.
So to Emily, her wild crew, and that beautiful, battered island: thank you. You kicked off this journey with heart, horsepower, and a whole lotta chicken.
And to everyone else reading this?
I’m still looking. Still listening. Got an adventure for me?
Drop me a line. I’ll be on my way.
Catch ya on the next one,
Donny Love
Birthday boy, dirt bike survivor, and forever friend of Bell Island.
