Have You Ever Tried Feeling Alone in the Crowd—And Found Peace in the Waves?

I still hear the tide when I close my eyes.

It’s 2 a.m. in Brooklyn. My mother’s voice echoes through the screen—”Kairo, you okay?“—and outside, the Atlantic hums like it remembers me. I used to think fishing was about luck. Now I know: it’s about showing up.

I sit on my porch with coffee, not for wins—but for the silence between waves. The first time I cast my line alone, no fish came up. But I felt something deeper than money: a rhythm only the sea understands.

I stopped chasing jackpots. Instead, I watched how others played—some lost three times before they smiled through tears. One man waited till dawn without betting at all. He just breathed with the tide.

This isn’t gambling. It’s communion. Every small stake is an offering—not to the machine, but to yourself.

Last winter, during “Coral Night,” I won $800—not because of skill—but because I stayed quiet long enough to hear what the waves were saying: “You’re already enough.”