By Rodriguez It all started on a breezy summer afternoon by the sea. I had kicked off my beloved pair of foam clogs while lounging on the beach, toes buried in the sand, half-listening to the waves and the chatter of nearby tourists. By the time I stood up to leave, one of them—the left one—was gone.
I searched the shore, the dunes, even the tide pools nearby. Nothing. Just one lonely right shoe in my hand and a growing sense of disbelief. I even posted a sarcastic message on social media that night: “If anyone sees a lime green foam shoe sailing toward Japan, let me know.”
I thought that would be the end of it. A strange, mildly annoying beach mishap.
Three months passed.
Then one evening, I received a message from someone I didn’t know. It was from a fisherman living in a small coastal village several hundred kilometers south. His message was simple: “I think I found your shoe. My son’s been using it as a boat.”
Attached was a photo: my missing lime green clog, now slightly sun-bleached, floating in a puddle with a plastic dinosaur riding inside. It was unmistakable—scratches I remembered, the little charm stuck near the toe. But what caught my eye was what was inside it: tiny white seashells, a strip of seaweed, and what looked like a faded photograph tucked neatly into the holes.
The fisherman explained over a few more messages. The shoe had washed up near their dock a week earlier. His young son found it and declared it a “pirate ship.” They’d used it in puddles, streams, even in the shallow tide when the weather was calm. One day, while cleaning it, the boy discovered a small plastic sleeve wedged deep into one of the holes—inside was a miniature photo of a couple, clearly tourists, smiling in front of a palm tree.
No names. No message. Just one of those mysterious postcards from the sea.
When I asked how the photo got in there, the fisherman only said, “Maybe the sea decided your shoe should collect stories.”
I couldn’t stop smiling. My missing clog had gone on a tiny adventure, collecting more than sand and seawater.
I asked if the boy wanted to keep it. The fisherman replied with a photo of his son clutching the shoe like treasure, smiling from ear to ear. I told them it was his now, officially. He was the captain, and every ship deserves its sea.
A few days later, I received a small package in the mail. No return address. Inside was a reused jam jar filled with frosted sea glass—blue, green, and white, some as smooth as river stones. Taped to the lid was a note in crooked handwriting: “Ship fee. Thank you for the boat.”
Sometimes the sea takes things from you. And sometimes, just sometimes, it brings something back—with stories, and smiles, and the kind of magic that only floats in with the tide.