Dawn at the Marina
The marina woke up slowly, stretching after a long night of drinking cheap whiskey and singing karaoke off-key. The sun crept over the horizon, turning the sky the color of a ripe peach that had been left out in the sun too long, and the water shimmered as if it had been sprinkled with glitter by a very enthusiastic toddler. I sat on the tailgate of my van, sipping iced coffee from a thermos that had seen better days—days when it wasn’t held together by duct tape and sheer willpower. The condensation dripped onto my jeans, leaving dark spots that made it look like I’d peed myself, which, honestly, wouldn’t have been the worst thing that had happened to me this week.
Captain Earl was already out on his boat, untangling nets and muttering to himself, arguing with a ghost. The Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki was a weathered thing, its paint chipped and faded to the color of sea foam that had been left out in the sun too long. The name was carved into the side in bold, uneven letters, the kind of handiwork that suggested Earl had done it himself, maybe after a few beers and a heated argument with a seagull. A pelican perched on the bow, eyeing the water like a bored fisherman who’d seen it all before, and the mast tilted slightly to the left, as if the boat had decided to lean into its own imperfections. I half-expected it to start telling me its life story, complete with dramatic pauses and a jazz soundtrack.
"Morning, kid," Earl called, his grin as crooked as his mast. "You gonna sit there all day, or you gonna earn your keep?"
I laughed and raised my thermos in salute, the gesture probably looking more dramatic than I intended. "Just admiring your boat, Captain. Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki—that’s a mouthful. What’s it mean?"
He paused, wiping his hands on his jeans in a way that suggested he’d been doing it for so long, the denim had given up trying to stay clean. He squinted at me, sizing me up, trying to decide if I was worth the effort. "You in a hurry to know everything, or you got time to learn?"
"Guess that depends on the lesson," I said, taking another sip of iced coffee. The cold bit at my teeth, but it was worth it for the relief from the heat, which was already settling in like an uninvited houseguest.
"Smart answer," he said, tossing a net over his shoulder with the kind of casual grace that only comes from decades of practice. "Stick around, kid. This old tub’s got a way of teachin’ folks what they need to know, when they need to know it."
The Sea’s Syllabus
Lesson one:
The waves will knock you down.
Get back up.
Lesson two:
The tide will take what it wants.
Let it go.
Lesson three:
The horizon is always farther
than it looks.
Keep going.
Lesson four:
The sea doesn’t care
if you’re ready.
Be ready anyway.
Lesson five:
The best treasures
are the ones you don’t expect.
Keep your eyes open.
Breakfast with Lila
The diner was a squat little building with a neon sign that flickered even in broad daylight, potentially sending a Morse code message to passing aliens. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of bacon and coffee, and the walls were covered in faded photos of fishermen holding up prize catches, their faces frozen in expressions of pride and mild confusion, like they weren’t quite sure how they’d ended up there. A woman behind the counter—Lila, I assumed—was pouring coffee for a couple of regulars who looked as if they had not slept in a week, their faces etched with the kind of exhaustion that comes from chasing dreams that always are just out of reach. I thought to myself, “Is she… real? Like legally allowed to exist without some kind of divine permit?” She was a masterpiece; cheekbones that could slice through bad vibes, lips that could launch a thousand bad decisions, and eyes so stupidly hypnotic they should come with a waiver.
I slid onto a stool at the counter, the vinyl seat sticking to my legs in a way that made me question my life choices. Lila turned to me with a raised eyebrow, her expression, a mix of curiosity and mild disdain; subconsciously comparing me to a thousand transients she had seen before and was not impressed.
"You lost, or just hungry?" she asked, her voice dripping with the kind of sass that could cut glass. The question almost didn’t register in my brain, as I was busy letting my internal monologue play itself out as I focused on her hair. It wasn’t just hair; it was a cascading rebellion against ordinary physics; it defied both gravity and logic just to frame her face like that. Even her half-smile was a full-spectrum emotional ambush, radiating more charm than a puppy holding a lottery ticket. Finally, I noticed her features change in such a way that made me realize I had no idea how long it had been since she spoke.
"Uhhhh…both," I said, glancing at the menu, which wore old stains I hoped was coffee. "What’s good here?" I recovered just in time to prevent her from thinking I had the mind of someone half my age.
She smirked and leaned on the counter, her elbows resting on the worn laminate like she owned the place—which, for all I knew, she did.
"Everything’s good if you’re hungry enough. But if you’re looking for a recommendation, the shrimp and grits’ll change your life." Little did she know my life had already changed the second I laid eyes on her. I wondered how many others had noticed the effortless way she moved across the diner. She was a gravitational force; a walking violation of fair play—like the universe went ‘you know what? Here’s another flawless person, just to ruin everyone else’s confidence’. I should say something cool. Or witty. I’d settle for human at this point because my brain is currently blue-screening like a 90s computer trying to power a spaceship. Abort. Retry. Fail.
"Sold," I faltered, handing her the menu with a flourish that probably made me look like an idiot. "And a coffee, please. Black."
"You new around here?" She asked as she nodded and scribbled the order on a pad, her pen tapping against the counter like it was keeping time to a song only she could hear.
"Just passing through," I said, trying to sound mysterious and probably failing. "But I might stick around for a bit. Seems like a good place to get lost."
She chuckled, pouring my coffee with the kind of precision that suggested she’d done it a thousand times before. There was an elegance in the simplicity of her motions that made even this everyday act of filling a coffee cup become sensory overload for my neanderthal brain.
"Oh, honey, this place is great for getting lost. Just ask half the people in here." She gestured to the regulars, who raised their mugs in a silent toast. One of them, a grizzled man with a beard that looked like it had its own ecosystem, winked at me.
"Welcome to the club," he said, his voice gravelly and warm, like a fireplace that hadn’t been cleaned in years.
As I sipped my coffee, she leaned in closer, her tone shifting to something softer, almost intimate. Her arm brushed against mine as she reached for a napkin, and I couldn’t help but notice how soft her skin was—like she’d spent a lifetime moisturizing with sea salt and sunshine. It was a stark contrast to the sharp edges of her personality, and for a moment, I was caught off guard.
My gaze lingered a little too long, drifting downward as she leaned over the counter, and she noticed. Without missing a beat, she straightened up slightly, her hand brushing against the collar of her shirt as if to adjust it, her eyes locking onto mine with a knowing smirk. "Eyes up here, sailor," she said, her voice still soft but with a hint of amusement. "Are you fleeing shadows, or chasing light?"
I hesitated, completely caught off guard by the poignancy of the question she laid at the doorstep of my soul, then shrugged to try and play it cool, my cheeks warming like a teenager caught sneaking a peek at a dirty magazine. "A little of both, I guess."
She nodded, like she’d heard that answer before. "Well, whatever it is, don’t let it eat you alive. This place has a way of chewing people up if you’re not careful."
Before I could respond, she turned to the kitchen and called out my order. When she came back, she slid a plate of shrimp and grits in front of me.
"Eat up. You look like you need it."
"This is incredible." I said as I took a bite and groaned, the flavors exploding in my mouth like a fireworks display.
"Told you. I’m always right. It’s a curse, really." She smirked, the kind of smirk that said she knew she was good and didn’t need anyone to tell her.
"Must be hard, being perfect all the time." I grinned, the kind of grin that said I was either brave or stupid, and I wasn’t sure which.
"Oh, honey, I’m far from perfect. Just don’t tell my ex-husband I said that." She joked as she raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a sly smile.
The Marina Meditations
The boats don’t ask
why they float.
They simply do.
The tide teaches the same lesson
every day:
what goes out
will always return.
A gull’s cry is not a song,
but it is still music.
The dock creaks under the weight
of footsteps,
but it never complains.
The diner’s bell rings,
and for a moment,
the whole marina pauses
to listen.
Meeting Jesse
I found Earl back at the Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki, now wrestling with a tangled net. "You survive Lila’s interrogation?" he asked, not looking up.
"Barely," I said. "She’s... something else."
He chuckled. "That she is. But she’s got a good heart, even if she hides it under all that sass." He straightened up and wiped his hands on his jeans. "Listen, kid, I’m heading out on the water this afternoon. You wanna come, you’re welcome to. But I need another pair of hands. You know anyone who might be up for it?"
I shrugged. "Not really. I don’t know anyone here except you and Lila."
He nodded toward the trailer park. "There’s a kid over there—Jesse. He’s been hanging around the marina, trying to fix up an old RV. He’s a good kid, just needs something to do. Why don’t you go see if he’s interested?"
The trailer park was a patchwork of rust and faded paint, with RVs and mobile homes almost overlapping like Venn diagrams. I found Jesse sitting on the steps of an old Winnebago, fiddling with a broken radio. He looked up when he saw me, his eyes wary but curious.
"You lost or something?" he asked, echoing Lila’s earlier question but with a softer edge.
"Not anymore," I said, holding up a bag of leftovers from the diner. "Hungry?"
He hesitated, then nodded. We ate in silence for a while, the only sound the hum of cicadas and the occasional squawk of a gull. Finally, I spoke. "Earl sent me. He’s heading out on the water this afternoon and needs another pair of hands. Thought you might be interested."
Jesse looked at me, his expression unreadable. "Why me?"
"He said you’re a good kid, and to be honest, I don’t know anyone else around here."
He nodded slowly, like he was weighing the offer. "What’s in it for me?"
"Free food, maybe some fishing tips, and a chance to get out of this heat for a few hours."
He smirked. "Sounds better than sitting here. But if I die, I’m haunting you first."
"Deal," I said, grinning. "But if you die, I get the RV."
He snorted. "Good luck with that. The radio doesn’t even work."
Driftwood Diaries
I am driftwood,
carried by currents I can’t name,
tossed by waves that don’t care
if I’m polished or splintered,
if I sink or float.
The sea doesn’t ask for my story,
but she writes it anyway,
in salt-stained lines and barnacle scars,
in the way I lean into the wind,
always a little crooked,
always a little lost.
Earl says driftwood has a purpose,
even if it’s just to remind us
that the sea is bigger than we are.
I think he’s right,
but I also think
I’d like to be a little less lost,
a little more found.
The Fishing Trip
Jesse and I walked back to the marina, the sun climbing higher in the sky and the heat settling in like an uninvited guest. The Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki was ready to go, its engine sputtering to life as Earl fiddled with the controls. He looked up as we approached, his grin widening.
"Took you long enough," he said. "I was about to leave without you."
"Wouldn’t be the first time someone’s left me behind," Jesse muttered, but there was a hint of a smile on his face.
Earl chuckled and tossed us each a life jacket. "Put these on. I don’t need you two drowning on my watch. Paperwork’s a nightmare."
We climbed aboard, the boat rocking gently under our weight. Jesse looked around like he was trying to memorize every detail, his hands brushing against the worn railing. "This thing’s older than my grandpa," he said.
"Watch it, kid," Earl said, pointing a finger at him. "This old girl’s got more stories than you’ve got years. Show some respect."
I leaned against the side of the boat, watching the marina shrink as we pulled away from the dock. The water sparkled and the breeze carried the faint smell of salt and seaweed. It was the kind of moment that made you forget about everything else, at least for a little while.
"So," Earl said, breaking the silence, "you two ever been fishing before?"
"Not unless you count the goldfish at the county fair," I said.
Jesse snorted. "I caught a catfish once. It was bigger than my little brother."
Earl raised an eyebrow. "That’s a start. But out here, it’s not about size. It’s about patience. And luck. Mostly luck."
We spent the next hour casting lines and swapping stories, the boat rocking gently on the waves. Earl told us about the time he caught a marlin so big it nearly capsized the boat, and Jesse countered with a story about a snapping turtle that bit his uncle’s toe clean off. I mostly listened, content to let their voices fill the silence.
At one point, Jesse turned to me, his expression serious. "Why are you really here?" he asked. "I mean, you’re not just passing through, are you?"
I hesitated, then shrugged. "I don’t know. I guess I’m looking for something. I just don’t know what it is yet."
He nodded, like he understood more than I was saying. "Yeah. Me too."
Earl, who had been quietly baiting a hook, looked up at us. "You know what they say about looking for something?"
"What’s that?" I asked.
"Sometimes you find it where you least expect it," he said, his tone uncharacteristically serious. Then he grinned and tossed the bait into the water. "Or sometimes you just catch a bunch of seaweed."
The Sea’s Syllabus (cont.)
Lesson six:
The storm will pass.
But not before it teaches you
how to hold on.
Lesson seven:
The pelicans know more than you.
Watch them.
Lesson eight:
The salt will sting your wounds,
but it will also heal them.
Trust the process.
The Storm
The sun had been relentless all morning, but now the sky began to darken, clouds rolling in like an angry mob outside of Target on Black Friday. Earl squinted at the horizon; his expression unreadable. "Looks like we’ve got company," he said, nodding toward the gathering storm.
Jesse frowned. "You’re not worried, are you?"
"Worried? Nah," Earl said, though the way he tightened his grip on the wheel suggested otherwise. "This old girl’s been through worse. But you two might want to hold onto something. Things could get a little bumpy."
As if on cue, the first drops of rain began to fall, cold and sharp against my skin, like tiny ice pellets hurled by a vengeful sky. The wind picked up, whipping the water into frothy peaks, and the boat rocked violently, swaying like a drunk at a honky-tonk. Jesse grabbed onto the railing, his knuckles white, while I stumbled toward the cabin, trying to keep my balance.
"Thought you said this thing was seaworthy!" I shouted over the roar of the wind.
"She is!" Earl yelled back, his voice barely audible. "But the sea’s got a mind of its own, and right now, it’s throwing a tantrum like a toddler who missed nap time!"
The rain came down in sheets, soaking us to the bone, and the waves grew taller, slamming against the side of the boat like they were trying to knock us over. For a moment, I wondered if this was how it ended—lost at sea, with a grizzled fisherman and a runaway kid for company. It wasn’t the worst way to go, I supposed. At least the view was better than a cubicle.
Jesse, who had been silent until now, suddenly burst out laughing. "This is insane!" he said, his voice tinged with hysteria. "We’re gonna die out here!"
"Not on my watch!" Earl barked, steering the boat with a steady hand. "You two just hang on and let me do the driving! I’ve been through worse than this. Hell, I’ve been through my ex-wife’s cooking!"
Somehow, his confidence was contagious. Jesse’s laughter faded, replaced by a determined grin, and I found myself smiling despite the chaos. There was something oddly exhilarating about facing the storm together, like we were part of some grand adventure—or maybe just really bad at checking the weather forecast.
After what felt like an eternity, the rain began to let up, the clouds parting to reveal a sliver of blue sky, like a shy kid peeking out from behind a curtain. The boat still rocked, but the waves were gentler now, and the wind had lost its bite, retreating like a bully who’d finally been told off. Earl let out a long breath and wiped the rain from his face. "Well," he said, "that was fun."
"Fun?" Jesse repeated, incredulous. "I thought we were gonna die!"
Earl chuckled. "Kid, if I had a nickel for every time I thought I was gonna die, I’d be richer than those beachfront snobs up the coast. You gotta learn to roll with the punches. Or in this case, the waves."
I leaned against the railing, my legs still shaky, and looked out at the water. The storm had left the sea churned and restless, but there was a strange beauty to it, like the world had been washed clean and hung out to dry. For the first time in a long time, I felt alive—or at least awake enough to appreciate it.
The Map of Small Miracles
The sea doesn’t give maps,
only fragments—
a shell, a shadow,
a ripple in the sand.
I’ve learned to read them
like a language I didn’t know I knew,
to follow the curve of a wave
or the arc of a heron’s flight
to places I didn’t know I needed to go.
The best maps
are the ones you make yourself,
the ones etched in salt and memory,
in the way the light catches the water
just before sunset,
or the way the wind carries the sound
of laughter across the docks.
I’ve found miracles in the smallest things—
a crab scuttling sideways into its hole,
a child’s sandcastle holding firm
against the tide,
a single star reflected
in the blue mirror of the sea.
They don’t glitter like gold,
but they shine all the same,
quiet and steady,
like the pulse of the moon.
The map isn’t perfect,
but it’s mine—
a patchwork of moments,
a mosaic of light and shadow,
a guide to the places
where the world feels
less like a storm
and more like a song.
After the Storm
The storm had left the Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki battered but unbroken, much like the three of us. Earl steered the boat back toward the marina, his hands steady on the wheel, while Jesse and I sat on the deck, our clothes still damp and clinging to us like a second skin—or maybe a clingy ex who didn’t know when to let go. The sun had returned, casting a golden glow over the water, and the air smelled fresh, like the world had been scrubbed clean with a giant cosmic sponge.
Jesse broke the silence first. "That was... something," he said, his voice tinged with awe, like he’d just witnessed a magic trick he couldn’t quite explain.
Earl chuckled, the sound low and gravelly, like a truck engine idling in neutral. "You’ll get used to it, kid. The sea’s got a way of keeping you humble. Or giving you a heart attack. Depends on the day."
"I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that," Jesse said, shaking his head so vigorously I thought it might unscrew itself. "But it was kind of... fun? In a terrifying, might-die kind of way."
I grinned, the kind of grin that said, I’m either brave or stupid, and I’m not sure which. "Welcome to the club. Next time, we’ll bring snacks. Maybe some nachos. You can’t die tragically at sea without nachos."
Earl shot me a look that could have meant anything from I slightly approve of your humor to I’m questioning your sanity and possibly your lineage. With Earl, it was hard to tell. "Next time?" he said, his voice dripping with skepticism. "You planning on sticking around?"
I shrugged with a sense of irreverence that probably made me look like a teenager who’d just been asked to clean his room. "Maybe. Depends on what else you’ve got to teach me. So far, I’ve learned that the sea is a drama queen and you’re her enabler."
He smirked, the corners of his mouth curling up like a cat who’d just been offered a saucer of cream. "Careful what you wish for, kid. The sea’s a harsh teacher, but she’s fair. You just gotta listen. And maybe bring a life jacket."
As we approached the marina, I noticed something floating in the water—a piece of driftwood, maybe, or something else. Earl slowed the boat, squinting at the object like it owed him money. "What’s that?" he muttered, more to himself than to us, his voice tinged with the kind of curiosity that usually leads to trouble.
Jesse leaned over the side, and in a moment of anti-climactic disappointment, he sighed and said, "Looks like... a cooler?"
Earl steered the boat closer, his movements precise and deliberate, like a man who’d spent a lifetime coaxing stubborn objects out of the water. He reached over with a gaff hook and hauled the cooler aboard, setting it on the deck with a thud that made the boat shudder. "Well, well," he said, prying it open with the enthusiasm of a kid unwrapping a birthday present. "Looks like the sea decided to give us a gift. Or maybe it’s a trap. Hard to tell with her."
The Marina Meditations (cont.)
The sea doesn’t care if you’re watching,
but it will still show you something beautiful.
The horizon is not a line, but a reminder
that there is always something beyond.
The pelican dives not because it is brave,
but because it is hungry.
There is wisdom in that.
The wind carries stories from places I’ll never see,
but I can still hear them if I listen closely.
The hardest thing to hold
is not the weight of the past,
but the shape of what
we cannot yet see.
The Cooler’s Mystery
Earl set the cooler on the deck with a thud that made the boat shudder like it was having a minor existential crisis. He pried it open with the enthusiasm of a kid unwrapping a birthday present, only to find a soggy sandwich, a few cans of beer, and a waterproof bag that looked like it had been through its own personal storm. Jesse picked up the bag, his eyes widening as he pulled out a map and a small notebook.
"Looks like someone’s journal," Jesse said, flipping through the pages with the kind of reverence usually reserved for ancient artifacts. "There’s coordinates and everything."
Earl took the notebook, his expression thoughtful, like a man trying to decide whether he’d just stumbled onto a treasure map or a grocery list. "Huh. Might be worth looking into. Could be nothing, but you never know. The sea’s full of surprises. Most of them involve seaweed and disappointment."
I glanced at the map, my curiosity piqued like a dog hearing the word treat. "You think it’s a treasure map?"
He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that seemed to come from somewhere in his boots. "Kid, in my experience, the only treasure you find out here is the kind you make yourself. But it’s a good excuse to get back on the water. And maybe find out who lost their lunch."
Jesse’s eyes lit up like a kid who’d just been told Christmas was coming early. "So we’re going after it?"
Earl shrugged, a gesture so casual it could have been choreographed. "Why not? Beats sitting around the marina all day. Besides, I’ve always wanted to know what a soggy sandwich tastes like."
Saltwater Lessons
The sea doesn’t give answers,
just questions wrapped in waves,
lessons written in salt and sand.
Earl says the first rule is patience,
the second is humility,
and the third is knowing
when to hold on
and when to let go.
I’ve learned to read the tides,
to listen to the gulls,
to trust the pull of the moon,
but I still don’t know
why the sea calls to me,
or why I keep answering.
Maybe the lesson isn’t in the knowing,
but in the asking,
in the way the waves keep coming,
no matter how many times
I stumble back to shore.
Following the Map
We set off toward the coordinates, the Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki cutting through the water like a knife through butter—if the butter was slightly melted and the knife was a little rusty. Earl steered with the kind of confidence that comes from decades of experience, while Jesse and I sat on the deck, pretending we were the Hardy Boys solving our latest mystery.
"According to this," Jesse said, squinting at the cramped handwriting, "the guy who wrote this was some kind of amateur treasure hunter. He thought there was a shipwreck out here with a bunch of gold or something."
"Amateur treasure hunter, huh?" Earl said, his tone dripping with skepticism. "Sounds like someone watched too many pirate movies."
I grinned. "Or not enough. Maybe he just really liked Goonies."
Earl shot me a look that could have meant anything from I slightly approve of your humor to I’m questioning your sanity and possibly your lineage. "Either way," he said, "we’re about to find out if he was right."
As we approached the cove, the scenery changed dramatically. The water turned a deep, crystalline blue, and the shoreline was dotted with palm trees and pristine white sand. In the distance, we could see a sprawling mansion perched on a cliff, its windows glinting in the sunlight like it was winking at us. The place looked like it belonged on the cover of a magazine.
"Looks like our treasure hunt just got fancy," I said, gesturing toward the mansion.
Earl snorted. "Fancy, huh? More like pretentious. That place looks like it was designed by someone who’s never had to clean a fish."
Jesse laughed, but his eyes were fixed on the mansion, his expression a mix of awe and disbelief. "You think they know about the shipwreck?"
"Only one way to find out," Earl said, steering the boat toward the shore. "But if they ask, we’re just here for the view."
The Weight of Small Treasures
I came looking for gold,
but found a seashell instead,
its edges worn smooth by the sea,
its spiral a map to somewhere
I’ll never go.
Earl says the best treasures
are the ones you don’t expect,
the ones that fit in your pocket
but weigh heavy on your heart.
Like the way Lila’s laugh
echoes across the marina,
or the way Jesse’s eyes light up
when he talks about fixing things,
or the way the sun sets
like it’s painting the sky
just for us.
I don’t need a chest of coins,
not when the sea gives me this—
a handful of moments,
a pocketful of light,
and the weight of small treasures
I didn’t know I was looking for.
Approaching the Mansion
We docked the boat near the mansion, the Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki looking decidedly out of place next to the sleek yachts and paddleboards. As we climbed onto the dock, I couldn’t help but feel like we were trespassing in someone else’s dream. The mansion loomed above us, its white walls gleaming in the sunlight, its windows reflecting the ocean like a giant, unblinking eye.
"Who do you think lives here?" Jesse asked, his voice hushed, like he was afraid the mansion might hear him.
"Someone with more money than sense," Earl muttered, squinting at the house like it had personally offended him. "Probably some rich folks who think they own the ocean."
I glanced at the journal in Jesse’s hands, my mind racing with possibilities. "What if they’re connected to the treasure? What if they’re the ones who lost the cooler?"
Earl shrugged. "Only one way to find out. But if they ask, we’re just here for the view."
We approached the mansion cautiously, the crunch of our footsteps on the gravel path sounding unnaturally loud in the quiet cove. The air was thick with the scent of salt and flowers, and the only sound was the distant cry of a gull. It felt like we were walking into a postcard, the kind that makes you wonder if places like this actually exist.
As we reached the patio, a man in a polo shirt and khakis appeared, his expression a mix of curiosity and mild disdain. "Can I help you?" he asked, his tone suggesting that he’d rather be anywhere else.
Earl stepped forward, his grin as crooked as his mast. "Just out for a little fishing," he said, gesturing to the cooler. "Thought we’d stop by and say hello."
The man raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "This is private property."
Before Earl could respond, a woman appeared on the patio, her sunglasses perched on her nose like she was auditioning for a soap opera. "Oh, let them stay, Charles," she said, her voice dripping with the kind of charm that only comes from years of practice. "They look... interesting."
Charles sighed, clearly outnumbered, and stepped aside. "Fine. But don’t touch anything."
Margaret beamed, her smile so bright it could have powered the mansion’s solar panels. "Come, sit down! You must tell us all about your little adventure."
We followed her onto the patio, which was furnished with chairs that looked like they cost more than my van and a table that probably had its own insurance policy. Jesse and I exchanged a glance, both of us trying not to look as out of place as we felt. Earl, on the other hand, looked like he’d rather be anywhere else, his expression a mix of skepticism and mild irritation.
Margaret gestured to the chairs. "Please, make yourselves comfortable. Charles, darling, could you fetch some drinks?"
Charles looked like he’d rather fetch a root canal, but he nodded and disappeared into the house, leaving us alone with Margaret. She leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. "Now, tell me everything. Where did you find that cooler?"
Jesse held up the journal, his hands trembling slightly. "We found it floating in the water. There’s a map inside, and we thought—"
"A map?" Margaret interrupted, her voice rising with excitement. "How thrilling! Charles, did you hear that? They found a treasure map!"
Charles reappeared with a tray of drinks, his expression as warm as a tax audit. "A treasure map? Really?"
Earl crossed his arms, his tone dripping with sarcasm. "Yeah, really. We’re thinking of starting a pirate crew. You in?"
Charles raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "I’ll pass, thank you."
Margaret laughed, the sound light and musical. "Oh, don’t mind Charles. He’s just grumpy because he hasn’t had his afternoon espresso."
Charles shot her a look but said nothing, setting the tray down with a clatter. I picked up a glass, the ice clinking softly, and took a sip. The drink was cold and refreshing, with a hint of something expensive that I couldn’t quite place.
"So," Margaret said, leaning forward, "what brings you to our little corner of the world?"
"We’re just following the map," Jesse said, his voice tinged with excitement. "We thought there might be a shipwreck or something."
Charles snorted. "A shipwreck? Out here? Unlikely."
Earl shot him a look, his jaw tightening. "You’d be surprised what’s out there if you know where to look."
The tension between them was palpable, like two cats sizing each other up. Margaret, sensing the mood, quickly changed the subject. "Well, regardless, I think it’s wonderful that you’re exploring. Life’s too short to stay in one place, don’t you think?"
I nodded, grateful for the distraction. "Yeah, that’s kind of my philosophy. Just keep moving, see where the wind takes you."
Margaret smiled, her eyes softening. "I admire that. Charles and I have been all over the world, but sometimes I think we’ve forgotten how to really see the places we visit."
Charles cleared his throat, his expression softening slightly. "Yes, well, it’s easy to get caught up in the... logistics of travel."
Earl raised an eyebrow, his tone less sharp than before. "Logistics, huh? Sounds fancy. I just point the boat and go."
Charles hesitated, then chuckled—a small, reluctant sound, but a chuckle nonetheless. "I suppose there’s something to be said for simplicity."
Margaret beamed, clearly pleased by the shift in tone. "See? You two aren’t so different after all."
The Sea’s Syllabus (cont.)
Lesson nine:
The shadow guides,
but it’s your choice
to decide where to dig.
Lesson ten:
The sea doesn’t give answers,
only questions wrapped in waves.
Learn to love the asking.
Final exam:
Let the sea teach you
what you didn’t know
you needed to learn.
The Landmark Search
The sun was already beginning its slow descent toward the horizon, casting long shadows across the patio and painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. Margaret glanced at her watch, her expression shifting from excitement to mild panic. "Goodness, look at the time! If we’re going to find this tree, we’d better get moving. We’ve only got a few hours of sunlight left!
Charles sighed, the sound of a man who’d long since accepted his fate, and disappeared into the house once more. Earl watched him go, his expression a mix of amusement and disbelief. "Your husband’s a real charmer," he said, his tone dry enough to start a fire.
Margaret laughed, waving a hand dismissively. "Oh, don’t mind Charles. He’s just... particular. But he’s got a good heart, really. You’ll see."
Charles returned with a pair of pristine hiking boots, a wide-brimmed hat, and a walking stick that looked like it belonged in a museum. He set them down on the patio with a sigh, his expression softening slightly as he glanced at the map. "Alright, let’s see what we’ve got."
Jesse spread the map out on the table, the edges curling slightly from the damp. The coordinates were marked with a small "X," and there were notes scribbled in the margins—directions, observations, and what looked like a doodle of a fish wearing a crown.
Earl leaned over the map, his brow furrowed. "Looks like the guy who wrote this was either a genius or a lunatic. Hard to tell which."
Charles picked up the magnifying glass, his movements precise and deliberate. "Hmm. These coordinates are close to the cove, but they’re not exact. It’s possible he was working from memory."
Margaret leaned in, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Or maybe he was hiding something. What if the treasure’s not in the water at all? What if it’s on land?"
Jesse’s eyes widened. "You think it’s buried somewhere?"
Charles adjusted the magnifying glass, his expression thoughtful. "It’s possible. The notes mention a 'landmark'—something about a tree with a distinctive shape. If we can find that, we might be able to narrow it down."
Earl raised an eyebrow, his tone less skeptical than before. "You know your way around a map, huh?"
Charles shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I’ve done my share of sailing. And I’ve always had a... fascination with maps."
Margaret beamed, clearly pleased by the shift in tone. "See? I told you you two would get along."
Earl chuckled, the sound low and gravelly. "Don’t get ahead of yourself, lady. We’re not exactly best friends yet."
Charles smirked, his expression softening. "Give it time."
So we set off down the path, the sun now hanging low in the sky, its golden light filtering through the trees like a spotlight searching for its star. Charles led the way, his walking stick tapping against the ground with the precision of a metronome. Earl followed close behind, his hands in his pockets and his expression unreadable. Jesse and I brought up the rear, our eyes scanning the horizon for anything that looked like a tree with a "distinctive shape."
"So," Earl said, breaking the silence, "what exactly are we looking for? A tree with a face? A tree wearing a hat?"
Charles chuckled, the sound low and reluctant. "Something like that. The notes mention a tree with a twisted trunk and a branch that points due north. If we can find that, we might be able to narrow down the location."
Earl raised an eyebrow, his tone less skeptical than before. "You really think this is going to work?"
Charles shrugged, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It’s worth a shot. Besides, it’s not every day you get to go on a treasure hunt."
Earl chuckled, the sound low and gravelly. "I’ll give you that."
Where the Shadow Points
The shadow doesn’t lie,
though it bends with the sun,
stretching long and thin
like a finger pointing
to something I can’t quite see.
I followed it once,
past the rocks and the mangroves,
past the places I thought I knew,
to a chest half-buried in the sand,
its lid creaking open
like a door to another world.
Inside, no gold, no jewels,
just a map and a journal,
its pages filled with words
that smelled like salt and regret.
The shadow doesn’t lie,
but it doesn’t tell the whole truth either.
It points, but it’s up to you
to decide where to dig.
The Shadow Clue
The sun was sinking lower now, its golden light slanting through the trees and casting long, jagged shadows across the ground. We’d been walking for what felt like hours, though in reality, it had probably only been thirty minutes. The air was thick with the scent of pine and salt, and the only sound was the crunch of our footsteps on the gravel path.
"Are we sure we’re even looking in the right place?" Jesse asked, his voice tinged with frustration. "This tree could be anywhere."
Charles adjusted his hat, his expression thoughtful. "The notes mention a tree with a twisted trunk and a branch that points due north. If we can find that, we might be able to narrow down the location."
Earl squinted at the horizon, his hands on his hips. "Yeah, but how do we know which way’s north? I didn’t exactly bring a compass."
Charles smirked, pulling a small, sleek compass from his pocket. "Lucky for you, I did."
Earl raised an eyebrow, his tone less skeptical than before. "Of course you did."
We continued walking, the compass guiding us toward what we hoped was the right direction. The shadows grew longer, stretching across the ground like fingers reaching for something just out of grasp. Suddenly, Margaret stopped, her eyes widening as she pointed to a tree in the distance. "Look! That has to be it!"
We hurried over, our footsteps quickening as we approached the tree. It was exactly as the journal had described—a twisted trunk with a branch that pointed due north. But as we stood there, staring at it, something felt... off.
"Okay," Jesse said, his voice tinged with disappointment. "We found the tree. Now what?"
Charles frowned, his brow furrowing as he studied the map. "According to the notes, the treasure should be here. But there’s nothing."
Earl crossed his arms, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe we’re missing something. What else does the journal say?"
I flipped through the pages, my eyes scanning the cramped handwriting. "There’s something here about the sun... 'When the light aligns, the shadow will guide the way.'"
Margaret’s eyes lit up. "The shadow! Of course! Look at the tree’s shadow—it’s pointing right toward that rock formation over there."
We turned to look, the tree’s shadow stretching across the ground like an arrow, its tip pointing directly at a cluster of rocks in the distance. The sun was low enough now that the shadow was long and precise, its path unmistakable.
Charles adjusted his hat, his expression softening. "Well, I’ll be damned. The sun’s been helping us all along."
Earl chuckled softly. "Guess we owe the universe a thank-you note."
We set off toward the rocks, the sun now hanging just above the horizon, its light casting a warm, golden glow over the landscape. As we approached, I noticed something strange about the map. Holding it up to the light, I saw faint lines and markings that hadn’t been visible before. "Guys, look at this."
They gathered around, their eyes widening as they saw the hidden details. The map, when held up to the sun, revealed a secret message—a series of symbols and coordinates that matched the landscape around us.
Margaret clapped her hands together, her excitement palpable. "It’s a puzzle! The sunlight reveals the next clue!"
Charles adjusted the map, his movements precise and deliberate. "If we align the map with the rocks and the tree, the symbols should point us to the exact location."
Earl raised an eyebrow, his tone less skeptical than before. "You really think this is going to work?"
Charles smirked, a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "It’s worth a shot. Besides, it’s not every day you get to solve a centuries-old mystery."
Earl chuckled, the sound a little less gravelly. "I’ll give you that."
The Last Light Chronicles
The last light of the marina
is the kind of light that makes you stop,
that turns the water to gold
and the boats to silhouettes,
their masts like black lines
against a fading sky.
It’s the kind of light that makes you think
about all the days that came before,
all the sunsets you missed,
all the moments you didn’t know
were moments until they were gone.
I used to think the last light
was a kind of ending,
but now I see it’s a beginning,
a quiet promise that the sea
will still be here tomorrow,
waiting to teach me something new.
The Treasure Revealed
We followed the shadow’s path, our footsteps quickening as the sun dipped lower in the sky. The rock formation loomed ahead, its jagged edges silhouetted against the golden light. The air was thick with anticipation, the kind that makes your heart race and your palms sweat, like you’re about to open a present you’re not sure you deserve.
"Alright," Earl said, his voice low and steady. "Let’s see what we’ve got."
We approached the rocks, our eyes scanning the ground for any sign of the treasure. Jesse was the first to spot it—a small, weathered chest half-buried in the sand, its surface pitted and worn from years of exposure to the elements.
"Is that it?" Jesse asked, his voice tinged with disbelief. "It looks... smaller than I expected."
Charles knelt down, brushing the sand away from the chest with careful, deliberate movements. "Appearances can be deceiving," he said, his tone thoughtful. "Let’s see what’s inside."
He pried the chest open, the hinges creaking like an old door in a haunted house. Inside was a collection of objects—a tarnished compass, a handful of coins, and a small, leather-bound book. Margaret reached in and picked up the book, her fingers trembling slightly as she opened it.
"It’s a journal," she said, her voice soft with wonder. "The same handwriting as the map. It’s... it’s a love letter. To the sea."
We gathered around, our eyes scanning the pages as Margaret read aloud. The journal was filled with poetic descriptions of the ocean, musings on life and love, and reflections on the beauty of the natural world. It was clear that the author had been a dreamer, someone who saw the world in a way that most people never do.
Earl crossed his arms, his expression thoughtful. "So, no gold. No jewels. Just... words."
Charles nodded, his expression softening. "Sometimes, the real treasure isn’t what you find. It’s what you learn along the way."
Margaret smiled, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. "It’s beautiful. It’s like... a reminder to appreciate the world around us. To see the beauty in the everyday."
Jesse looked at the chest, his expression a mix of disappointment and awe. "I guess I was hoping for something... shinier."
Earl chuckled, now he sounded low and gravelly. "Kid, sometimes the shiniest things aren’t worth much. This... this is something real."
I looked around at the group, their faces illuminated by the fading light of the sun. For the first time in a long time, I felt... connected. To them, to the sea, to the world. It was a strange, unfamiliar feeling, but not an unwelcome one.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting the sky in shades of pink and orange, we sat together on the rocks, the chest between us. The journal lay open, its pages fluttering gently in the breeze. For a moment, everything felt... perfect.
Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki
The world is wider
than the stories I was told,
deeper than the maps
I once trusted to guide me.
I came with my hands full of answers,
only to find them slipping through my fingers
like sand, like water, like smoke.
Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki—
a word I couldn’t pronounce,
a world I couldn’t see,
until I learned to listen
with more than my ears,
to see with more than my eyes.
It’s not about forgetting who you are,
but about letting the edges soften,
letting the wind carry you
to places you didn’t know
you needed to go.
It’s about sitting at the fire
and hearing a story
that doesn’t belong to you,
but feels like it could,
if you let it.
I’ve learned that wisdom
doesn’t always wear the face you expect,
that the earth speaks in languages,
I’m still learning to hear,
and that the greatest treasures
are the ones you can’t hold—
only carry in your heart.
Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki.
It’s not a destination,
but a way of moving through the world—
with open hands,
with a quiet mind,
with the humility to know
that every culture is a mirror,
and every person a teacher,
if you’re willing to learn.
Full Circle
The sun was almost completely down by the time we got the Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki back to the dock, the sky painted in deep purples and blues, the first stars beginning to twinkle overhead. The marina was quiet, the day’s hustle and bustle replaced by the gentle lapping of water against the boats and the distant hum of cicadas. I felt a renewed sense of vigor and confidence, like the day’s adventures had scrubbed away some of the rust on my soul.
As we tied up the boat, I noticed Lila closing up the diner, her silhouette framed by the warm glow of the neon sign. She moved with the same no-nonsense efficiency I’d come to admire, her ponytail swaying as she locked the door. My heart did a little flip-flop, and before I could talk myself out of it, I called out to her.
"Hey, Lila! Wait up!"
She turned, her expression unreadable in the dim light. "Well, look who’s back. You survive the high seas?"
"Barely," I said, grinning as I approached. "But I’ve got some stories to tell. Thought maybe you’d like to hear them over a cup of coffee. Or, you know, something stronger."
She raised an eyebrow, her lips curling into a sly smile. "Is that your way of asking me out?"
I shrugged, trying to look casual and probably failing. "Maybe. Depends on if you say yes."
She laughed, the sound light and musical. "You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. But I think you’ve got a few more things to learn before trying to tame someone like me."
I blinked, caught off guard. "Tame? Who said anything about taming? I was thinking more like... coexisting. Maybe with some mutual respect and admiration thrown in."
She smiled, her expression softening. "I appreciate the tenacity, really. And in another lifetime, I might’ve said yes. But this lifetime? I’m already spoken for."
My heart sank, but before I could respond, she stepped closer and gave me a light kiss on the cheek, her lips warm and fleeting. "You’re a good kid," she said, her voice gentle. "Don’t let this knock you down."
I stared at her, my brain struggling to catch up. "Wait. You’re... spoken for?"
She nodded, her smile widening as she glanced toward the boat. I turned to see Earl leaning against the Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki, his arms crossed and a knowing smirk on his face.
"Sorry, kid," he said, his voice dripping with amusement. "Didn’t mean to steal your thunder. But Lila’s been my girl for a good long while."
Lila walked over to him, her smile widening as she slipped her arm through his. "Took you long enough to figure it out," she said, her tone teasing.
I stared at them, my brain struggling to catch up. "Wait. You two? Seriously?"
Earl chuckled, the sound low and gravelly. "What can I say? The sea’s a harsh teacher, but she’s got a way of bringing people together."
Lila leaned her head on his shoulder, her expression fond. "And sometimes, the lessons are worth learning."
I shook my head, a laugh bubbling up despite myself. "Well, I guess that explains why you’re always right."
She winked. "Told you. It’s a curse, really."
Earl clapped me on the shoulder, his grip firm but not unkind. "Don’t take it too hard, kid. You’ll find your way. Just remember—sometimes the treasure isn’t what you find. It’s what you learn along the way."
I nodded, the words sinking in. "Yeah. I’m starting to get that."
As they walked off together, Lila’s laughter trailing behind them, I stood there for a moment, watching the last light of the sun fade from the sky. The marina was quiet now, the only sound the gentle creak of the boats and the distant cry of a gull. For the first time in a long time, I felt... okay. Not perfect, not fixed, but okay. And maybe that was enough.
Before they disappeared into the twilight, Earl turned back, his voice carrying across the dock. "Oh, and kid—Ah-Tah-Thi-Ki? It’s Seminole. Means 'a place to learn.' My granddaddy used to say life’s one big classroom, and the sea’s the best teacher there is. Guess that makes this old tub my schoolhouse."
I flashed him a grin, the kind of grin that said I’m either brave or stupid, and I’m not sure which. "Thanks for the lesson, old man," I said, my voice light but sincere. "I’ll try not to flunk out."
He chuckled, the sound low and gravelly. "You’ll do alright, kid. Just keep your eyes open and your wits about you."
As I turned to walk back to my van, I couldn’t help but smile. The day hadn’t gone the way I’d expected, but maybe that was the point. Sometimes, the best adventures are the ones you don’t see coming.
The Pelican’s Guide to Letting Go
The pelican doesn’t ask
if the fish is too big,
if the wind is too strong,
if the sea is too wide.
It simply opens its wings
and lets the air carry it,
trusting the sky to hold its weight.
Earl says, letting go
isn’t about forgetting,
but about making room
for what comes next.
I think of the driftwood,
how it doesn’t fight the tide,
but lets the waves shape it,
smooth its edges,
carry it to places
it never planned to go.
I’ve held on to things
I thought I couldn’t live without—
a map with no destination,
a journal with no words,
a heart with too many cracks.
But the sea doesn’t keep
what it can’t use,
and neither should I.
The pelican knows this.
It doesn’t mourn the fish
it didn’t catch,
or the waves it didn’t ride.
It simply dives again,
its wings wide and sure,
its eyes fixed on the horizon.
I’m learning to do the same—
to release what no longer serves me,
to trust the currents,
to believe that the sea
will always bring me back
to where I need to be.
Letting go isn’t easy,
but it’s necessary,
like the tide releasing the shore,
like the sun releasing the sky,
like the pelican releasing the fish
it can’t carry.
I am learning to open my hands,
to let the wind take what it wants,
to trust that what remains
will be enough.
06/23/2025
11:33:30 AM