When the Engine Went Quiet

Day 57 & 61: They All Leave & Nothing • My Journey to the Sea and Beyond

Sometimes the loudest chapters begin in absolute silence.
This one is about distance, fear and the strange grace of being found before you give up. Not by romance, not by rescue in the dramatic sense, but by presence. By someone who simply stays.

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Day 57: They All Leave

They stayed four days.
I stayed seven.

The waves were right. Not spectacular, but reliable.
No shouting in the lineup, no crowding.
Just gliders.
The kind who don’t need to talk about the peak,
because they’re already standing in it.

The weather held.
Mornings humid, midday warm, evenings dry enough for a fire.
No wind that disturbed.
Only the kind that moves through your hair.

The atmosphere was… good.
Not loud. Not tight.
More like a quiet agreement
between people who understand
what it means to leave space.

I was part of it.
Not in the middle.
But there.

Evenings mostly by the fire,
days more on my own.
I surfed early, they later.
Sometimes I cooked just for myself,
sometimes we shared what was left.

It was easy.

And then, on the fourth morning, they packed.

Not suddenly.
Not rushed.

Ordered.
Almost as if on a silent signal.

Tents folded.
Awnings rolled in.
Solar panels unscrewed.
Water tanks emptied.
Kitchens collapsed back into themselves.

No goodbye like on a campsite.
No hugs. No group photo.

Just a few looks.
A nod.
A quiet “Bon route.”

And then they left.

All of them.
Together.

In the same order they had arrived.

No one stayed behind.
Not even Anna.
Not even Luz.

I stood barefoot in the sand,
a thermos in my hands,
watching the dust rise.

Part of me wondered:
Was it me?

Did they sense
that I needed more?
More silence? More space?

Or did they simply feel
that my rhythm is still a different one?

I don’t know.

But their leaving wasn’t a rupture.
It was a gentle transition.

And me?

I stayed.
Three more days.

Not out of defiance.
Not out of fear of missing something.

But because my body told me:
Not yet.

AI generated

Day 61: Nothing

After the spot with the Silver Surfers, I kept driving.
Two more places.

The first: crowded.
Too crowded. The parking lot a marketplace, the waves packed.
One of those in-spots people talk about
when they don’t really have anything left to say.

I didn’t stay long. One night.
I didn’t even feel like unstrapping the board.

The second: empty.
Sounds good. It was, almost.
Only the waves wouldn’t cooperate.
No pressure. No rhythm.

But the weather was beautiful.
I stayed two days. Cooked a lot. Read. Let my skin breathe.

Then I drove inland.
Just like that. No plan. Only a feeling.

I turned off somewhere a hand-painted sign promised “Tracks.”

After an hour, there was only sand beneath the tires. And distance.
After four hours, no house. No sign.
After eight hours, not a single car.

And I was glad I had stocked up.
Papayas, water, peanut butter, crackers, dried lentils. A can of beans.

Because my car stopped.

Not abruptly. Not dramatically.
It just… went quiet.

Engine off. Nothing.
No warning light. No sound.

Just silence.
And then: me.

I got out.
All around: sand, scrub, shimmering heat.
No power lines. No signal.

Just me.
And a land vast enough
to swallow my panic whole.

Day one: I rationalized.
Enough water.
Power low, but enough for light and the cooler.
Food for two days, maybe three.

I read. Wrote. Meditated. Cooked. Slept badly.

Day two: I heard voices.
Not real.
Just the chorus inside me, talking too much.

What if no one finds you?
What if this was it the last decision?
Why are you even here?

I laughed. I cried. I spoke out loud to myself.
Quietly counted how long the gas would last. The light.

I thought of my parents. Of Luc.
Of everything I still wanted to do.

I wrote a note on paper
no one would ever read, if… if.

And then, in the third night,
I heard an engine.

An old Toyota. Large. Covered in dust.

It stopped.
The window rolled down.

“You alright?”

I wanted to nod.
But all I could say was:

“No.”

He turned off the engine.
Didn’t get out.
Reached for a device.
Satellite phone.

Called someone.
Short. Calm. No explanations.

Then: “Got it. We’ll head east.”

Later I asked who he had called.
He just shrugged.

“Just someone I trust.”

He stayed. In his car.
I sat in the dark next to my small stove,
the water quietly boiling.

He said nothing.
And I didn’t have to say anything.

I slept.
Not well.
But safe.

The next morning he got me moving.

He had two walkie-talkies.
“So we don’t get lost on the way.”

Six hours.

We drove slowly,
him in front,
me behind, pulled like a shadow.

His voice came through the radio, clear:
“Still holding up?”

I answered: “Trying.”

“That’s usually enough,” he said.

He talked about dust, navigation, hidden fuel stops,
kangaroos and spiders.

I just listened.

We reached a small village.
Three houses, a rusted sign, a windmill that no longer turned.

He spoke to an old man in French
who acted as if he had never heard of GPS.

A guest room for me.

His car stayed outside, under a tree.

I showered. Finally.
And when the hot water touched my skin,
I realized how afraid I had really been.

That evening we sat outside.
He with tea. Me with nothing.

He wasn’t a man who talked much.
But everything he said had substance.
And space in between.

I asked, “Were you ever a soldier?”

He laughed, dry.
“You could say that.”

Then he looked at me.

“Let’s just say I’ve seen places
people don’t visit on purpose.”

I didn’t ask more.

But there was warmth between us.
No flirt. No tension.
Just, connection.

Later, when he glanced at my backpack,
he paused.

“Your father was a photographer, right?”

I nodded, surprised.

“I think I met someone like him. Years ago.
In Dakar, maybe. Quiet man. Leica.
Listened more than he spoke.”

I froze.

“Dakar? When?”

He shook his head.

“Long time ago. Before all this.”

I didn’t say anything more.

But something was there.
A memory. Or a thread.

I didn’t know.

He gave me his number.
Satellite.

“Use it if you get stuck again. And you will.”

Then he smiled.
Calm. British.

“You’re not done travelling yet.”

And I knew:
This man, Rick,
would not disappear from my life
anytime soon.

Even if he left.

“ I love this part for how stripped back it is.
The land, the silence, the fear, the waiting. And then Rick, who doesn’t arrive with noise or charm, but simply by being steady.
What moves me most here is that I don’t fall into another love story. I fall into trust. Into presence. Into a connection that feels older than the moment itself.
And yes, that small link to my father is intentional. But back then, I had no idea…”