Coconuts

Coconuts floated on the water, split open and adrift. Chunks of white meat sank and resurfaced with the rolling of the waves. In the distance, the faraway islands sat on the ocean's head like ghostly green yarmulkes. I felt happy. There was sunshine on my face and her skin smelled like the wind. We'd been away for four weeks at that point, and the world seemed to smile on us. Our yurt was about a hundred feet up the beach, and we spent most of our days devising plans for where to go next; learning native tongues; hunting for bargains down at the market and getting drunk on cheap wine. It was perfect.

I remember thinking everything so surreal, there on that little beach in Portugal, every day an adventure, every day living, breathing, being. Months before, in San Francisco, it would've seemed unthinkable. I was working a job that rapaciously consumed all of my time; leaving the house at 6am and returning at 10pm; working weekends; skipping lunch. Now here I was, living like a bum on a beach, in a shack with only a few pairs of pants and shirts to my name, a computer and a camera. A sunburn.

We had nothing - no money, no possessions, no fancy apartments, no expensive dinners, no six-figure salaries - but it felt as if we'd stolen something: something grand.

We did.

We had the one thing we didn't before - time.