It was just another summer's day. We were craving waves, I couldn't sleep anyway, so I went up to the beach's parking spot and opened a cold one by myself, listening to the windy Mediterranean waves, standing on a rock with moonlight accompanying my shadow. I was looking at the pole flag, in case it turned off-shore. Waiting for dawn. And my friends.
There are moments in life that completely alter your sense of the world and society as a whole, and this is that story. A brief moment, an act from a stranger, where its simplicity perpetuates until today, five summers ahead, and most likely will be with me for the rest of my time on earth.
Finally, I snoozed myself up and got woken by the first sun-rays coming through my van's window. My friends were on their way. The dawn patrol. I went to check the waves, and well, they were disappointingly small, but that's the case for a summer in the Med. That's why you need a whole squad to multiply the fun, drop in on each other's waves and play-fight while the next set comes rolling through. If it comes.
Anyway, I still haven't introduced her.
She spent the night in her caddy-style van, next to mine. When I got there, she was already sleeping and it was just too dark anyway, so I never paid much attention. As soon as I woke up, on my way to the beach, she was already coming back. "Buenos días," I heard. And I replied back. I think.
That was it.
My friends finally arrived, we got the boards ready, rode some fun sloppy knee-high waves as if they were the ride of our lives...
We went back to the parking spot.
And when I was about to open the door of my van, I see a paper stuck through the window.
A note.
Shocked, I dropped the board, wet and all, grabbed the note, and in the most elegant handwritten words I read:
Buenos días vecino,
I was so psyched I went back to my friends like some lunatic, carrying that piece of paper like it was the Holy Grail, jumping and stumbling through the sand, half drunk on sea water and sun and this electric shock of possibility going through my veins. Banging on their car roofs like a madman, flagging that note above my head like a battle cry, like I'd just discovered fire or found the fucking meaning of life scribbled in an elegant handwriting, shouting "¡Me dejó una nota! ¡ME DEJÓ UNA NOTA!" at the top of my lungs to the sky, to the gulls, to anyone who'd listen, because suddenly the whole universe had cracked open and spilled magic all over this dusty parking lot by the Mediterranean.
A solo traveller from inland Spain who had just arrived in my town, fascinated by its turquoise waters and reddish soil. She guessed I was from here, probably the accent or the olive oil skin tone, and wanted some recommendations to "watch the stars without too many cars." She told me where she was heading and when she was leaving back to the arid regions of desolate Spain (which got delayed by my arrival). She left her phone number... and well…
I couldn't even remember how she looked. My eyes were still half closed and the only thing I could think of was the waves, but I called her and we met the next morning for breakfast. The date lasted four days and three nights, and I never saw her after. Seriously, never. But what wild three nights they were!
I remember her asking softly "What's your story?" At that time I was just 22, out of uni, still hadn't had a "real big boy job," so I was this wild-eyed kid buzzing with madness, this sunburnt goofball who wanted to crawl inside her skin and live there, wanted to taste the salt in her hair and the stories behind her eyes, wanted to map every freckle on her shoulders like constellations I could navigate by.
She was 32, not that it matters, but just for context. This woman who moved through the world like she owned it, all curves and confidence and that way she had of looking at you like she could see straight through to your bones. "Well, I like reading and surfing, oh and I don't have social media," I said, probably grinning like an idiot.
At that time I was reading Small is Beautiful by E.F. Schumacher, so I just kept rambling like a caffeinated philosophy student about resource allocation, Buddhist economics, human-centric policies and such, words tumbling out of me like I was trying to impress her with my brain when really I just wanted to press my mouth against her neck. She was fascinated that I read books, leaning forward with this hunger in her eyes, like I was some rare specimen she'd discovered washed up on the shore.
I don't remember every detail, I wish I did. But in five years, well, a lot has happened.
But I remember the sweat, Christ, the sweat, how it dripped through her throat like liquid amber, how the Mediterranean heat turned us into these raw, primal creatures moving through thick air like we were underwater. Every goddamn move was sensual, even cooking became this erotic dance, her stirring eggs with one hand while the other traced lazy circles on my chest. How real she was, this woman with dirt under her fingernails and this raw energy crackling behind her eyes that didn't just boil me from inside, it rewired my entire nervous system. I remember waking up from a siesta in her van, dizzy, watching her read with afternoon light streaming through her hair like she was some kind of golden-hour goddess, her lips moving slightly with the words of Coelho, and thinking this is what paradise looks like. I remember the sex under that infinite stare of stars on the hood of her van, metal still warm from the day's heat beneath us, her skin lit by moonlight, moving together like we were trying to merge two atoms, to become one breathing, sweating, desperate thing. And I remember the sunsets at the beach painting us orange and pink, our bodies caressed by salt and sand, kissing with the taste of the sea still on our tongues.
But this trip, this 85-hour marathon of pure human electricity only happened because she, this brave, beautiful stranger, decided to take a piece of paper and scribble a few words and slip it through the window of some beat-up van that could've belonged to anybody, to some serial killer or boring accountant or whatever, but instead belonged to this sun-fried, wave-obsessed kid who didn't know his ass from his elbow about life but knew about enough to recognize magic when it landed on his car. I carried that note with me for years in my wallet.
And this, this whole experience, rewrote my entire operating system, cracked open my skull and poured in this new understanding that the world isn't just some cold, indifferent machine but this pulsing, breathing network of souls all waiting for someone to make the first move, to bridge the gap,
to say "hey, I see you there."
For so many years I couldn't understand how just writing a letter had such an impact on me. Why did she do it? Why me? Did she feel me before I did? I couldn't crack the code, and there was nothing to solve.
Because sometimes the most profound moments aren't meant to be understood, they're meant to be felt. She taught me that connection doesn't require explanation, that magic lives in the simplest gestures, and that the most beautiful stories begin with someone brave enough to leave a note for a stranger and surrender and let go of what’s suppose to be normal. Because the world is full of people willing to reach out, if only we're awake enough to notice.
She didn't just leave me a note that day, she left me a new way of seeing. A reminder that we're all neighbours under the same sky, all looking for someone to ask us about the best place to see the stars. To tell us what a beautiful scent we have. To buy someone a coffee, bring it over, smile, leave it on the table, and say “hope you have a beautiful day.”
And maybe that's my story. Maybe that's everyone's story.
Maybe life is what happens when we are waiting for that note from a stranger.