Have You Ever Felt the Loneliness of the Ocean While Chasing a Quiet Catch?

It began with a single cast.

I was twenty-two when I first sat on that rusted boat in Auckland’s harbor—not as a fisherman, but as someone searching for silence. The ocean didn’t speak. It just breathed. I thought if I could catch something real, or if it would catch me back.

The budget was never in dollars.

I spent fifty cents per cast. Not to win—but to feel the wind whisper my name like an old lullaby song. My mother calls every Sunday evening. She asks: “Are you okay?” I don’t answer. But I watch the waves.

The net isn’t a machine.

They call it “gambling.” But I call it prayer. Every flick of the line feels like holding hands with something wild—something waiting to be seen, not taken. In those thirty minutes, no fish came… but I left richer.

I learned this: loneliness is not empty.

It’s full—of salt air, twilight hues, and distant gulls crying over concrete piers. My grandmother said: “The sea doesn’t choose your fortune—you choose yours.” So I cast again.

You don’t need to be a king.

You just need to show up—with quiet courage—and let the tide remind you: you’re not alone here.