Or should I say, he once met me.

 

You don’t know you are lost, until you are found.

 

It was early in the morning of summer vacation in August, 2021. My father dropped me at the ferry on Long Island. I had to get from the South Fork to the North Fork, and in between is a great big drink of water called the Peconic Bay, part of Long Island Sound. There’s also a little bit of land in the middle called Shelter Island.

 

However small Shelter Island might be, the distance between the South and North ferries is considerable – especially with luggage. Dad said to call an Uber. There is no Uber on Shelter Island because only the deer would use it.

 

As the ferry pulled out of Sag Harbor, I looked around and spotted a couple of guys in an open-air Jeep. So I wandered up to the door and asked if they’d give me a ride.

 

It’s been quite a few years since I hitched a ride (or even traveled on my own). I actually make a joke in yoga when we do internal arm rotation with the thumb pointed down. I say, “Just say no to hitchhikers.”

 

Ahahahahaha! I’m glad my fellow said yes.

 

Not only did they give me a ride, they did me one better. My friend had a dinghy tied to the shore, and he brought me all the way to Mattituck.

 

But this story keeps on going.

 

Something happens when we meet middle age and silver hair and slightly sagging parts. We often forget that once upon a time we were young and fearlessAF.

 

Years ago my best friend and I would escape from summer camp in the woods of New Hampshire. We’d hitchhike all over the place in search of candy and adventure. What on earth could we have been thinking? Back then we had more bravery than brains, but that kind of chutzpa ebbs as you age.

 

Now, a half century later, I did not realize that my inner fearless girl was missing. Life takes it out of you. But here I was, riding with a total stranger 1,000 miles from home and feeling, if I’m honest, like a motherfucking badass.

 

Later that week there was a knock at the door. It was late, perhaps nine o’clock, and we wild and crazy sexagenarians were just finishing a vegan dinner of carrots and barley, looking forward to oat-based ice cream. Yee hah!

 

(Sadly, the definition of sexagenarian has nothing to do with sex, in more ways than one.)

 

Voila! There was my skipper at the door, with flowers printed on a bottle of wine. He said he hoped he wasn’t intruding, but he just couldn’t stop thinking about what I had done. It was wild, and brave, and crazy, and inexplicably delightful.

 

Perhaps in some way this also reminded him of his youthful ways. I don’t know him, but I’ll guess that a man with a mortgage, family, job, kids nearing college, a car and a boat -- basically the whole nine yards of responsibility -- is also feeling a little, meh.)

 

My calling has been to write about what it takes for us to thrive. How do we live life to the fullest? I came back from this vacation not a new person, but more like my old self.

 

Thank you kind stranger. I really needed that.

 

Michelle Berman Marchildon is the Yogi Muse. She is an award-winning writer based in Denver, Colorado. You can find her wit and wisdom on aging in “Fearless after Fifty,” and “Finding More on the Mat,” wherever books are sold.