A long time ago, I heard a story that stuck with me. I’m sure it’s been retold a thousand different ways, and maybe I’m butchering the details, but instead of looking it up and sanitizing it with someone else’s wording, I’ll tell it how I remember it—because the point is what matters.
A wealthy, high-powered CEO—one of those guys who can’t help but tell you how little sleep he runs on—takes a vacation with his family to a remote fishing village. It’s serene. Quiet. The kind of place you pay tens of thousands just to get off the grid for a week and pretend you’re not a slave to your inbox.
One morning, the CEO meets a local fisherman. They strike up a conversation. The CEO brags a little, as men like this tend to do—mentions his company, his title, the sacrifices he’s made, the success he’s achieved. He feels fortunate to finally have the means and time to take his family somewhere peaceful.
The fisherman listens politely. He shares his own routine: he wakes up early, spends time with his wife and children, then paddles out to catch a few fish—just enough for the family to eat and to sell at the village market. The income is modest, but it sustains them. After work, they relax together, eat dinner, play music, laugh. It’s not glamorous, but it’s full.
Now the CEO lights up. This is his moment. He starts laying out a plan for the fisherman: What if you worked longer hours and caught more fish? Then you could hire some help. With the extra profits, you could buy a second boat. And after that, a third. Before long, a fleet.
“And then what?” the fisherman asks.
“Then you could build a company. Maybe even go public. Eventually, you hire someone like me to run the business for you,” the CEO beams.
“And then what?” the fisherman asks again.
“Then you’d finally have enough money and free time to…do whatever you want. Be with your family. Sit by the sea. Take a breath. Maybe even come to a place like this to relax.”
The fisherman smiles. Because he’s already there.
The message is simple, almost deceptively so. But that’s what makes it worth repeating: we chase things we already have. We mortgage the present for a future that looks suspiciously like the life we could live today—if only we had the clarity, the courage, or the contentment to recognize it.
Not everything needs to be scaled. Not every passion should become a hustle. Growth for growth’s sake isn’t always wisdom—it’s often just ego in a nicer suit.
So, ask yourself: is your ladder leaning on the right wall? Or are you climbing toward a version of peace that someone else sold you, while the real thing is already within reach?
You don’t need a fleet to find still water.
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