A few days ago, I sat down for lunch, as many of us do, in the middle of another ordinary yet fascinating day. Before my food and I had a chance to make acquaintance with one another, I started a conversation with the man on the table next to mine. I speak to strangers on occasion, hoping to stumble upon someone with a riveting story. Someone with the graceful art of stimulating conversation.

This man just so happened to be a pirate.

I was in Sal, one of the islands of Cabo Verde, a small, windswept country off Africa’s western coast. It was the first week of the year, a time when resolutions still felt fresh, and the ocean seemed to hum with a restorative energy—a kind of vitality that’s harder to find as the year drags on.

Having placed my order with the waitress, I sat back and took note of the man in his mid 50’s sitting with his son on the table next to ours. The first thing I noticed was his hair. At first glance, his hair seemed unremarkable, but upon closer inspection, it told a different story. The strands had been shaped by the elements—drenched by powerful sun, soaked by relentless rains, and battered by winds from every corner of the world.

He seemed slightly on edge, like a man who didn’t quite belong in this place or time. It was as if he had been transported here, out of another era entirely. I could also sense that his past still held some hold of his present circumstances, as it does for all human beings. Anyone who claims otherwise is deceiving themselves.

And yet I could tell, even before exchanging one word with him that he had many stories to share. He had lived life. Experienced its variety and depth. The bewildering highs and the depressive lows. No straight path could ever compare to the thrill of the climb.

And so being the conversationalist I am, I leant over and made an introduction. I guess everything, everywhere, begins just like this, an introduction which leads to a new portal of interaction.

When I say 'pirate,' I’m sure a familiar image pops into your mind: a ragged, rum-soaked figure with an eye patch, a crooked grin, and a cutlass in hand. Well, let me tell you, this wasn’t that kind of pirate. Sure, he had a taste for rum, but the rest of the clichés? Not even close. This was no swashbuckler, but rather a man who had traded his plunder for something far more elusive—a life of freedom on his own terms.

He spoke of the ocean with a pride usually reserved for a firstborn son. It was clear that this man had long preferred the untamed vastness of the sea to the comforts of land. He was a true master of his boat, the water his domain. His eyes sparkled with life as he recounted his voyages—circumnavigating the Drake Passage, navigating the vast expanse of the Pacific. For a decade, he called the Caribbean home, hopping between islands as only someone with a hefty bankroll and no particular destination in mind could do. How he came by his fortune, though, remained a mystery. He hinted at various businesses, global ventures, and—perhaps most intriguingly—an inheritance from his father’s estate, but the details were deliberately vague, as if his wealth, like his past, was meant to remain shrouded in mystery.

He was a modern pirate; a man who had already found the treasure the old pirates once risked their lives for.

He sat there, at the café overlooking the very seas he had come to cherish, his 12-year-old son beside him, speaking with the wisdom and flair of someone much older. His ex-wife was somewhere nearby, though not at the café—her presence lingering in the background like an unspoken chapter. He could order another drink without fear of judgment. After all, a pirate should never be judged. And he should never linger too long on land. The land may be safe, but safety never made for a story worth telling.