Ronno Schouten can still remember the day he stepped aboard the 203-foot Feadship Lady Aviva. It was late 2002, and the badly burned yacht had been rescued from her Red Sea cruising grounds and returned to her birthplace in Holland. She was still just a baby. Yet the damage was everywhere.

A star is reborn

I wrap my fingers firmly around the handrail. It’s crowded, but these guys are so big, I can bounce into them like the ropes of a boxing ring instead of out of the boat and into New York’s Hudson River. I prepare mentally to keep my head high, as I prefer my nose intact and bloodless.

Tickets to paradise?

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The bulk of my feature writing these days is about boats and travel, but the samples below show that my range extends well beyond both. I’ve won awards for stories about everything from multimillion-dollar yachts to America’s mental health crisis—and I’m ready to report on much, much more.

When the tip of an iceberg topples, it is a rare and precious sight. The one we just encountered is grounded about 70 feet below us, and what remains of its 30-foot-tall, 85-foot-wide snowcap is heaved on its side, dripping a slow death.

When Louise Pyers talks about the weeks leading up to March 23, 1997, she slips into worry, even anger. It’s understandable, given that the conversation is about her teenage son’s attempt to goad a police officer into killing him.

Eddie Cutts, Jr. whirs into the room. The 77-year-old is in a wheelchair, but I can tell he’s a shooting star stuck in a plastic seat. He’s been ready since before I was born for this chat, and he clears his throat as if straightening his stance in his mind.

“Are you sure we’re going the right way?” Tiffany calls. She’s been on these trails before. Her first outburst of concern fuels the visions I’ve been harboring between heaving breaths for the past hour, of being the first flabby white woman to drop dead in the lush, hidden heart of Jamaica’s Blue Mountains.

The walls of The White House sub shop are crammed like a mother’s dresser, only the framed photos are of famous patrons. Stars may perform at Atlantic City’s casinos to build their bank accounts, but they come here to earn immortality.

Playing it cool

Beyond the bean

Listen, honey

The crisis cops

The white house

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