Hawaii and the only person on Earth

I was relaxing on my parents' patio in Hawaii. I've been wearing nothing but board shorts since I landed. The ocean murmured in front of me, framed by palm trees on the west and some birches due east. Directly ahead stretched the endless sky line and the yearning horizon.

Earlier, I had swam with sea turtles and manta rays, burned the shit out of myself surfing and lost a few pounds. The calming nature of the island seemed even more surreal after the techno-buzz of the city. I turned off all notifications and put my phone away after snapping an obligatory insta for the squad.

The wind started picking up, warm and soothing. It reminded me of the gale forces that formed this tropical climate and sometimes battered the palm trees as a reminder of how little shits nature gives really gives.

Yet, I was at peace. It’s impossible not to be at peace here. My feet touched the newest soil on the planet (cooled volcanic lava) and the metaphorical edge of the world. Conference calls and Monday mornings receded into the ether. The world slowed down. No wonder, everyone here drives below the speed limit.

White water caps galloped over the coral reefs of the ocean floor. The sea was shallow here, inhabited mostly by giant sea turtles whose heads occasionally broke the surface of the water to consider me with lazy curiosity. I waved back, because there no need to be rude.

I saw a woman walking along the beach. The locals proudly wear a deep and saturated tan. Most are covered in ink, reflecting the Hawaii surf culture which combines the native flavors of the Polynesian with the modern crackling noise of red-bull-big-wave riding.

Here, the reclusively old mingles with the abrasively new and the quite holds back the mega social. My parents house is covered with forest, blocking any sign of near by civilization, so for a moment, I can pretend like I'm the only person on earth.