The old fisheman

 The old fisherman, Joseph, guided his wooden skiff back into the cove as the sun began to melt into the sea. His catch for the day was modest: a few silvery jack, enough for his family and maybe to trade for some fruit. To the young consultant from the city, here on a frantic "digital detox," Joseph's life looked like a portrait of stagnation. No growth, no expansion, no hustle.

Curious, the consultant sat on the dock as Joseph cleaned his fish. "You're out there all day," the consultant began, choosing his words carefully. "With your skill and a bigger boat, you could build a real empire. Export to the big hotels. That's real success."

Joseph smiled, a web of kindness around his eyes. He didn't look at the consultant but at the horizon, where the sky was painting itself in shades of orange and violet.

"Success?" he mused, the word soft in his patois. "My grandfather taught me that the sea gives you what you need, not always what you want. A bigger boat would mean a bigger debt. A bigger empire would mean I am its servant, not my own master."

He pointed with his knife. "Success is the peace of knowing these waters and my place in them. It is the freedom to sing to myself out there, to create my own rhythm for the day. It is the strength in my son's arms as he helps me pull the net, and the impact of giving the extra fish to Ms. Claudette, whose hands are too old to fish now."

He finished, washing his hands in a bucket of seawater. "And this?" he said, finally turning to the consultant, gesturing to the dazzling sunset reflecting off the calm water. "This is the joy. You cannot schedule it. You cannot buy it. You can only be here, in this moment, to receive it. That is true success. Everything else is just hope and noise."