A Toast to Swakopmund

I was never so happy as to touch solid ground in Swakopmund. I had no urge to look back at the truck that had carried me across the desert, when it pulled away from me. Good riddance. The dual drivers had tarnished my sense of security and shortened a few years off my life. I had battled groping hands and a sense of doubt in humanity. Despite my fears though, I had made it.

As I settled into the bar at a new hostel, my first sip of Windhoek beer was like heaven. I had earned this beer, but somehow felt like I didn’t deserve it. My sense of being tainted left me feeling dirty. I could not change the past though, so instead let it go with hope for a new day bringing fresh smiles and happiness.

 Tomorrow, I would see the ocean again. The South Atlantic was just outside my view, but I could feel the salt air on my skin. It was a new coast for me and I was excited to see these western waves. For the time being, I looked forward to my first bed in three nights and a safe roof over my head. I enjoyed the stability of being stationary, the solitude of being solo and the peace that came with my pen on paper. A cold beer helped my troubles melt away and my journal reminded me that lessons can always be learned. The sun would rise again and I was blessed to be able to witness it.

A toast to Swakopmund.