Chapter 1: The Weight of Dreams

Santiago returned home one evening after yet another unproductive search along the beach. He shook off the sand from his worn sandals at the door, muttering curses at the grains lodged between his toes. Hanging up his jacket, he shuffled to the kitchen, where he spilled the remnants of yesterday's tea. After rinsing the cup, he filled it with fresh water and set it on the stove to boil, all while unbuttoning his shirt and heading for the shower.

His nightly ritual of black tea had become an essential part of his identity—he was a man who cherished his black tea. However, his days had turned into a repetitive cycle ever since that dream began haunting him a few months back. In this recurring dream, he walks the familiar northern beach of Valencia, where he and his late wife, Fatima, used to enjoy breakfast together. In the dream, he finds her golden ring, and she kisses him before he awakens.

Finding that ring had become his singular focus. After Fatima's death, he avoided the beach for an entire year, but now the dream relentlessly urged him to search for the ring. As he stood under the shower, a deep-seated anxiety washed over him. Months had passed, and he had only covered a fraction of the distance—2 kilometers out of the 15-kilometer stretch. With his health deteriorating, he feared he might pass away before discovering the ring.

Frustration mounted within him, evolving into a sense of anger. He had grown weary of the dream, the ring, and even the irritating sand that clung to his feet. He felt exasperated by his own existence, including his beloved black tea.

The following day, he resolved to try again. Packing a container of paella and pouring some sangria into the leather flask Fatima had crafted for him on his 50th birthday, he set out for the beach, donning his reliable sandals. As he approached the shore, his anger and frustration surged. He attempted to suppress it, placing one foot in the sand and the other beside it, taking a deep breath while locking his gaze on the ground in search of anything shiny.

Typically, he would collect small treasures: bits of confetti, soda cans, colorful glass shards, and the occasional beautiful seashell. But as he took his third step, more sand crept into his sandals, and he exploded. "Enough is enough is enough," he chanted, storming off the beach toward a nearby convenience store.

"I need rubber boots. Where are your rubber boots?" he demanded from the staff. After selecting a pair, he inquired about a metal detector like the ones featured on TV. With a sweeping motion of his arm, he mimicked the action of using one. The staff pointed him to the "Pro kit," which included headphones and a shovel. Without hesitation, he grabbed the kit and departed.

On his way back to the beach with his new equipment, he stopped at a trash bin. He opened his bag and discarded all the seashells he had collected. "You distracting pretty suckers. Fatima's ring is worth a billion of you," he muttered bitterly. He contemplated throwing away his sandals, but hesitated, recalling how their insoles conformed perfectly to his feet from years of use.

"You are the most comfortable sandals I've ever owned, but enough is enough. I might not have much time left, and I refuse to die with sand between my toes," he joked, placing them neatly beside the trash.

Arriving at the beach once more, he took a hearty swig of sangria and unveiled his new metal detector with a grin, ready to dive into the search. He moved with renewed vigor, swinging the detector from side to side. Every time he spotted a seashell, he crushed it underfoot, dismissing it.

"BEEEEP!" The device chimed. "AHHA!" he exclaimed, eagerly shoveling away the sand. Unfortunately, it turned out to be an old watch piece. Disheartened but undeterred, he pressed on, collecting a few coins, bottle caps, and numerous fishing hooks.

Though he felt like giving up, the absence of sand between his toes motivated him to continue. He soon recognized a pattern: a low-pitched beep usually indicated another worthless object. He quickened his pace, swinging the detector with renewed determination, covering a kilometer in just 30 minutes.

Suddenly, the detector went wild. "BEEEEEEEEEEEP, RIGHT HERE, STOP!"—the device was insistent. He thrust the shovel into the sand and felt it strike something. Dropping to his knees, he dug with his hands like an eager puppy.

Then, there it was: Fatima's gold ring.

Dabblers and hobbyists remain in the realm of amateurs. Amateurs may hone their skills but lack the courage to elevate their practice. They fear the depths and the stillness of life, never delving deeper or striving for change; they endure a life of quiet suffering.

At some point, you must grow tired—truly tired—of the circumstances surrounding you. Not necessarily because it’s entirely your fault, but because you recognize there are alternatives. When you decide to improve, you can become exponentially more effective if you commit yourself.

The urgency born from desire and frustration will shatter your comfort zone, propelling you to take action. You know you belong there, your heart has already ventured forth, yet your mind distracts you with trivialities, undermining your ambition.

I fell for every trick my mind played on me over the past year. I thought I was secure in shallow waters, yet I was slowly sinking. I aimed to write 365 stories but only managed 60; it stings, but I’ve learned valuable lessons.

Forget the sandals; it’s rubber boots for me now, every day of the week. Seek depth. Transform into a professional.

Chapter 2: The Shift in Mindset