He Had Made FriendsFiveo1

He had made friends in town. It had only been six months or so, but it felt right. A place to call home.

That was until today.

Standing there. Barefoot. Shirtless. Handcuffs hanging from his wrists. His other hand clutching a body camera — at least he had that. The moon illuminated the night sky. It was a beautiful evening. The kind of evening that mocks you when everything has gone wrong.

How did he get here?

Let me start at the beginning.

—

It was a short flight from Spokane, Washington to Cancun, Mexico. The next stop on my early retirement at thirty-eight. On the road for a few years, hopping from country to country, exploring the sights. No schedule. No boss. No one telling me where to be or when.

I had just finished a nine-month tour of Mexico on my Kawasaki Vulcan 1500. Crossed from Texas to Monterrey, then down to Tampico, over to Mexico City. Thousands of miles of desert and mountain and coast. The kind of ride that strips you down to your essentials. Just you, the bike, and the road.

I was hit by a truck in Guadalajara. Spent a month there recovering. Then two months in Puerto Vallarta. By an act of God — or maybe just decent Mexican insurance — the driver was insured. They repaired the bike back to new. I rode up to Sinaloa, over to Ensenada, and down the Baja Peninsula to one of the most beautiful places on earth.

I spent a month there doing absolutely jack shit. Smoking weed. Fishing. Watching the sun set over the Sea of Cortez. Beautiful beaches. Gorgeous women. Cold, cheap beer. Cheap weed. The kind of life that makes you forget why you ever wanted anything more.

Having spent most of my time campaigning and on the road, my thoughts turned toward beach bumming it down the coast of Central America. I had an addiction to spicy Mexican food and sexy Latin women. Cancun was a short, cheap flight from my worries and family problems back in the States. A reset button. A new beginning.

The ocean is part of my life. An avid free diver and spearfisherman, I need the ocean. Its limitless adventure. Its cold embrace. Its honest indifference to my existence. Having owned a few different boats over the years, I still held the dream of living on a sailboat, touring the world for the rest of my life.

A dream I planned on starting in Cancun.

—

COVID-19 had been active for a year and a half at this point. Mexico was still the best — the most open country for travel with its lax restrictions. The best place for me to start my search for a seaworthy vessel.

Always the bargain shopper, I keep an eye out for exceptional deals. Husbands and wives scorned, going through divorces — fire sale that shit. They provide excellent deals for thrifty bargain shoppers like myself. Someone else's heartbreak becomes my opportunity. I don't feel bad about it. Heartbreak happens. Boats need owners.

Assuming I would be able to access ports along my way, I could find out what boats were for sale. The likelihood of expired boat slips or abandoned boats from expats in Europe and the States — unable to return due to the pandemic — was in my favor.

I had just made forty thousand dollars on trades due to the collapse of the market. While the world panicked, I bought. While others sold in fear, I held. When the dust settled, I had cash. And cash, in a pandemic, is power.

I was looking to invest my money in a restaurant, a bar, or a hostel. A base. Somewhere I could call home between adventures. Somewhere close to epic, beautiful water where I could dock a boat when I was off on a trip in another part of the world. Business at pennies on the dollar. The pandemic had created opportunities for those bold enough to take them.

I had an opportunity to buy a bar in Santa Marta, Colombia. An American acquaintance from Idaho had owned it for ten-plus years. Now he wanted out. His age. The lack of tourism caused by COVID. A turnkey restaurant with a bar and a small apartment behind. Directly across from a beautiful, creepy historical cemetery. In the center of the old town.

It was perfect. Or it would have been.

But Colombia was still off limits to travelers at the time. Borders closed. Flights grounded. No one in. No one out.

I was in no hurry.

—

So I stayed. I made friends. I built something that felt like home.

Six months. Long enough to know the names of the shopkeepers. Long enough to have a regular table at the taco stand. Long enough to stop being a tourist and start being a person.

And then it all came apart.

—

Barefoot. Shirtless. Handcuffs.

The moon was beautiful. The night was warm. The ocean was somewhere nearby, doing what the ocean always does — rising and falling, indifferent to the small dramas of men.

I clutched the body camera like a talisman. Like proof. Like the only thing standing between me and oblivion.

At least I had that.

The handcuffs bit into my wrists. The concrete bit into my feet. The silence bit into my soul.

He had made friends in town.

But tonight, standing under the moon with nothing but his skin and his shame and a body camera full of evidence, he wondered if any of them would remember him tomorrow.

He wondered if any of them would care.

—

The story continues. It always continues. But for now, this is where it paused. A man. Handcuffs. A beautiful evening. And the quiet, terrible realization that home is never as permanent as you want it to be.

Home is just the place where you haven't been arrested yet.

Tonight, that place was somewhere else.

And Potter — barefoot, shirtless, handcuffed — was not there.