To my self 100 years old

Dear 100-year-old me,

Well. If you made it to 100, that is frankly impressive.

Either you lived wisely, got lucky, or modern medicine turned into witchcraft. Probably a mix.

I am writing to you from the age where a man is old enough to know better, young enough to still make a mess of things, and stubborn enough to believe he may yet pull off a second life.

So tell me: did we?

Did we ever actually build that career 2.0, or did we just keep talking about it with great depth and eloquence while fiddling  at the edges? Did we move some stones in the dive industry, or mostly ourselves from one hopeful idea to the next? Did we manage to make diving not just beautiful, but cleaner, more ethical, less full of ego, damage, and plastic nonsense?

I do not ask whether we changed the world. I am not completely delusional. But did we at least nudge a corner of it? Did we leave behind a few reefs, a few people, a few places slightly better than we found them? Or are you still at 100 naively dreaming about a better world and simultaneously annoyed by how little one person can actually get done?

I suspect that frustration never fully goes away. I almost hope it didn’t. Total peace with the world would probably mean you stopped paying attention.

And tell me this too: did you finally live somewhere you could have a dog again?

That one matters more than it sounds.

After Amandla — that sweet black labrador we had to bury in Lesotho — something stayed sore. Not dramatic, just there. A quiet ache. A dog means more than a dog. It means staying somewhere long enough. Belonging somewhere long enough. Building a life that is not permanently in transit. So? Did you manage it? Did you finally live in a place with a door a dog could wait behind, a path it knew by heart, a bit of land, a bit of routine, a bit of peace?

Did we become less restless? Or just older and better at dressing restlessness up as philosophy?

Did we love well? That too. Not in theory. In practice. Did we show up? Did we say the thing? Did we stop hiding behind irony, competence, work, distance, analysis, timing, circumstances, and all the other elegant excuses?

Did we become kinder, or merely more tired?

Did we learn the difference between what matters and what merely shouts loudly?

And what about this absurd old habit of wanting life to be meaningful? Did that survive? Or did you finally relax and accept that sometimes a good coffee, a decent conversation, a healthy back, and a calm sea are already a very respectable victory?

Also: did you finally get yourself a piano again? Not the abstract idea of one. A real piano. In a real room. Keys under your fingers. Music back in the house. Or did that remain one of those slightly sad promises you keep making to yourself for later, as if later is guaranteed?

And another thing: what did you do with your thumos? That indignant fire. That rage against injustice. Did you ever learn to manage it properly? Not kill it, because that would be tragic. But steer it. Use it without becoming unbearable. Keep the force of it without losing the diplomacy needed to be effective. Did you find that balance, or were you still, at 100, trying to work out how to stay decent without going soft, and sharp without turning into a menace?

I hope you kept some wonder. I hope the sea still got to you. I hope fish still made you smile. I hope light on water still stopped you mid-thought. I hope you did not become one of those old men who know everything and feel nothing.

I also hope you forgave yourself a few things.

For being late sometimes, in every sense.
For taking detours.

For caring too much.
For not fitting neatly.
For hurting those you loved most  

For wanting both freedom and home, depth and lightness, usefulness and beauty, love and escape.

That combination was never especially convenient.

Maybe by now you know whether the confusion was necessary. I hope it was. I hope all the circling around was not just circling, but slowly finding the path.

And tell me honestly: did you enjoy it in the end?

Not just admire it, analyze it, improve it, survive it, endure it, or explain it. Enjoy it.

Did you laugh enough?
Did you swim enough?
Did you sit still enough?
Did you love enough?
Did you waste less time on nonsense?
Or at least waste it on enjoyable nonsense?

If you have regrets, I hope they are the decent kind. Not that you were too alive, but that you were sometimes too careful. Not that you tried and failed, but that now and then you hesitated when life was clearly telling you: this way, idiot.

Anyway. I hope you became a good old man. Not a grand one. Not an important one. Just a good one. Curious. Warm. Sharp enough. Mild enough. Still slightly troublesome. Still able to laugh at yourself. Still capable of being moved.

And if you are reading this somewhere near the sea, with a dog nearby, then frankly, well done. You pulled it off. Yours,
the younger you