S.S. Tequila Sunrise: The First Vessel
Before there was a company, there was a mistake.
Before there was a fleet of boats, there was one skeletal captain standing in a mustard-colored panga, saluting a horizon I didn’t yet know I would need.
The S.S. Tequila Sunrise was the first Skelly I ever deemed fit for the public. At the time, I wasn’t building a brand. I wasn’t launching a business. I was fumbling around on my computer, teaching myself graphic design from scratch — learning gradients, rulers, blending tools, and opacity sliders. I didn’t know the language for what I was doing. I just knew I liked what happened when one color melted gently into another.
I was learning how light moves.
Tod had “Tequila Sunrise” by the Eagles looping in his head that season. We were down in Baja — dusty roads, salt air, sunsets that sank slowly from red into gold. When I hear that song, I don’t hear music first. I see color. Mustard. Burnt orange. Deep wine reds. Yellow-browns. A sky that hums instead of shouts.
I wanted to capture that hum.
Our neighbor had been painting Day of the Dead figures on old cabinets. One of them stood in a small boat, saluting. I remember thinking, I could do that. Not her version, but mine. Cleaner lines. Graphic. Digital instead of paint. My own color story.
So I tried.
And tried.
And tried.
There were so many awkward drafts. Bones that felt stiff. Hats that didn’t sit right. Boats that looked more stranded than drifting. I was learning depth without realizing it. I was teaching myself how to soften edges, how to let one shade breathe into the next.
And then — the accident.
In the lower-right corner, I accidentally lightened the canvas to a soft circle. It wasn’t intentional. Just a slip of my pen. But when I leaned back, I paused.
That looked like a sunrise.
And Tod was singing again.
“Tequila sunrise…”
Of course.
Of course the boat’s name was S.S. Tequila Sunrise.
The sunrise wasn’t planned. The name wasn’t planned. But something aligned. The mistake became the horizon. The song became the christening. And suddenly I wasn’t just practicing software anymore.
I had launched something.
What I didn’t know was that I was creating my own lifeboat right before everything would burn.
In 2017, I was still just playing. I didn’t have a company name. I didn’t have a brand. I didn’t even have the thought of a company. I was just drawing a skeleton standing steady in a little boat. Then the fire happened.
And suddenly I was adrift in real life.
Trying to keep everyone together. Trying to keep us from drifting apart. Tying our life rafts together — and honestly, sometimes it felt more like tying rats together. Chaos. Fear. Smoke. Loss. I didn’t know where we were going. I only knew we had to stay linked.
And while we were displaced, while we were rebuilding, I kept drawing.
I kept refining Tequila Sunrise.
Then Tod got his diagnosis.
UCSF Memory Care accepted him.
And I was adrift . . . again.
That’s when it hit me.
I had drawn the metaphor before I understood it.
A skeleton — already stripped down to essentials — standing upright in a small boat, saluting the horizon with humor and defiance, drink in hand, bird beside him, waves rolling underneath.
Somehow, in the middle of fire and diagnosis and grief, my art and my life aligned, and something new began.
And new beginnings are creations. And creation is birth.
Not the polite kind. Not the tidy kind. Real creation, the kind that matters, lays you bare. It pulls something from inside you and asks you to look at it in the light.
When I first began drawing Tequila Sunrise, I did not realize I was midwifing something. I thought I was just learning software. But every true act of creation carries vulnerability and the risk of exposure. Your rough drafts reveal your limitations. Your insecurities rise to the surface. You either retreat or you push through.
I had already learned how to push through exposure and vulnerability.
Because my lesson was learned in childbirth.
If you have ever given birth without warning, no preparation, no medication, no easing in, just suddenly at ten centimeters with someone yelling, “Push now,” you learn something fundamental about being laid bare. Your body is tearing itself open. Sheets fall away. Nurses, doctors, family, and clergy come and go. You scream. You sweat. You curse. You grip whatever you can hold. Someone down the hall says, “It can’t be that bad,” and you are splitting open in ways that permanently change you.
After that, modesty becomes optional.
After that, fear of vulnerability loses its teeth.
I cried in labor.
I cried during the fire.
I fell apart at UCSF.
I screamed into the Baja wind.
What more is there to protect?
So, when I tell you that S.S. Tequila Sunrise makes me cry, I am not embarrassed.
It takes me back to Tod whistling in Baja. Before fire. Before diagnosis. Before words like “memory care” and “progression” and “prognosis.” It transports me to before.
Sometimes when Tequila Sunrise merchandise arrives, I keep it. I can’t sell it. It feels too personal to exchange for money. Other times, I give it away freely because it feels too sacred to price.
Silly?
No.
Some vessels are not inventory.
Some vessels are time machines.
We never know which pieces of art are preparing us for what lies ahead, or the memories that they may evoke. So, when you wear Tequila Sunrise, I want you to know you are wearing more than ink on cotton.
You are wearing a sunrise born by accident.
You are wearing a skeleton drawn before death entered my home.
You are wearing a boat created before I knew I would need one.
You are wearing defiance.
You are wearing memory.
You are wearing the choice to salute the day anyway.
And if my tears, or my laughter, or my lack of modesty about any of it helps one person feel less alone, then sharing is the lesson.
I have no more vulnerability to hide.
I have only connection to offer.
And until we all reach whatever horizon waits for us, we sail.
take care,
dz