Not much happens when you’re working in the middle of the week in a mattress store, until someone walks in and makes you wish you were them.

He was maybe early 40s, with an 8-10 year old trailing behind. Goatee already greying; t-shirt; shorts. He wasn’t buying. He was just looking for free plastic bags to wrap up his mattress and box spring while they were gone for two months.

No problem.  If we have the bags in the back, I’ll give them out, hoping that whoever needs them will become a paying customer in the future.

Because I’m a nosy son of a bitch, I said, “Where are you going?”

And he says, “On a cruise.”

Well, thinks I, there ain’t no cruise ship cruise that lasts for two months; and while I’m peeling the first bag off the roll I says, “You’re going off on your own?”

“Yeah.”

Okay.  “Tell me about your boat.”

“Oh, it’s a forty-five foot catamaran.”

Damn.

I stared at him and looked him over.  I saw sunsets and sails and horizons tinted with with gold.

“Parrothead,” I said.

He grinned.  “Oh yeah.”

I knew where they were going, but I had to ask.

“Caribbean,” he says.

Island to island, sunrise to sunset, conch to oyster to burger to shrimp.  That’s what living is to me.  Yes, he has a boat dog; yes, two kids and a wife; yes, he’d be writing about their travels online, but warned me his blog was in beta, and might change.

Whatever.

The boat is the Izula.  The blog is here.

I’m wishing I were there.

Oh. I must keep believing . . . dreams will come true.