Life left behind
In Lehtovirta's workshop, the aroma of cedar drifts down from an overhead rack, where planks of rough-cut lumber share space with a yellow surfboard.
"Changes in Latitudes, Changes in Attitudes" plays through speakers on a tool shelf. Wearing blue board shorts, a yellow T-shirt and a blue bandanna, Lehtovirta whistles along with the song.
"It's just me and Jimmy in here sometimes, you know?" he says, turning away from his workbench for a moment.
Ten years earlier at Fintech, the board shorts were slacks, the shop was an office building, and life in Florida was far from a Jimmy Buffett paradise. In business school, everyone talked about pulling in a six-figure income, so that became his measure of success.
"I almost made it one year," Lehtovirta said. "I made $80- or $90,000 and I thought, 'I am so close to my ultimate goal!'"
Twice a day, Lehtovirta battled traffic on the 25-mile commute. He traveled all over the country, sometimes spending three to five days a week on the road. From his office in a high rise, he watched company presidents come and go, each bringing new theories. Along with them, new demands. New stress.
Before he knew it, six years had gone by, and his work permit had expired.
He had to leave the country for a year before he could get a new permit. Another local company, A3 Education Software, allowed him to work by phone from Vancouver, Canada. He was still in sales, but his employers wanted him to take on more of a technical role.
When he returned to Florida in 2001, he was on the road about 10 days a month training customers. He was less happy than ever at his job.
"Ninety percent of people do that job because it's a job," he says. "It's not who they are."
In 2002, he met Natalia. They were married the next year. They bought a blue and gold parrot to keep Natalia company when Lehtovirta was traveling.
They named him Captain.
"I found out how my parrot felt in his cage. Once you know your true occupation, you can never go back."