Note: various versions of this story circulate out there. As a creative writing exercise, here is mine.
Once upon a time, a very long time ago, before the internet or cell phones, there was a very smart professor. He taught Economics at the Harvard Business School, which is to say that was where he was tenured, for as a world-renowned expert in the study of all things business, he only occasionally did any teaching. He had written many books, all well-received, and was sought out by industry titans and finance rain-makers for his views. A simple hour of his time providing advice could run to five digits, but everyone agreed it was well worth it.
The professor was not only at the top of his profession, he was at the top of his game. He embodied his theories on efficiency and return on investment, which made him quite wealthy and respected by his peers, if not quite such an interesting dinner date. Not that that observation bothered him, since time spent on such activities carried a heavy opportunity cost, broken relationships led to poor efficiency, and broken marriages? Well, he could cite a long litany of successful people who found a way to lose it all in divorce. Hardly a promising investment.
If any doubt about his life choices ever buzzed about his consciousness, he batted it away just as fast. At times, though, some doubts might creep in on a cold north wind blowing across Harvard Square. This was one of those times.
He hadn’t taken any time off, well, since ever. Time off was time lost, and while he could afford any luxury he could imagine, he was unwilling to pay the opportunity cost. Still that cold wind kept hounding him on his way to the office, and he let his mind linger just a bit longer on the idea of taking a short break. He knew the data on productivity gains associated with vacations; he also knew it was only a possibility, not even a probability. Perhaps he could conduct a little personal experiment to see how it applied to someone as efficient and productive as he was?
Safely inside his office and out of his overcoat, he asked his assistant–to her absolute amazement–to research where he could “take a little break from the cold.” The professor laid out a series of parameters, of course: nowhere too exotic, nothing more than a few hours flight, some place warm and quiet and absolutely NOT a tourist destination.
A short while later she returned, with this initial bid: “How about Mexico?”
His dismissal was abrupt and total: “No. What part of NOT-A-TOURIST-TRAP did you fail to get?”
She persisted, “I’m not talking the beach locations. There is a large lake in central Mexico that meets all your requirements: warm, quiet, not touristy, only a few hours flight time.” She passed him printed material about some place called Lake Chapala.
He demurred, if only for the moment. ‘I trained her,’ he thought, and she was good at her job. Perhaps he should give it due consideration. “Thanks, I’ll consider it” was all he said.
And so he did. The more he looked into it, the more he became convinced. It would not be very expensive and his assistant could do all the necessary rescheduling. With his characteristic decisiveness, he set the plans into motion, and only a week later he was on a flight to Guadalajara. The second thoughts arose as the plane left the runway.
The week back was going to be overloaded, he worried, and would be a real test of his improved efficiency. Would he really be able to keep away from work, or at least from thinking about work? What if the weather was bad, or the food not to his liking? So much was riding on this in his mind.
It didn’t get better as he debarked the plane into the queues for immigration, luggage, and customs: ‘Is there no word for efficiency in Spanish?’ he thought. He was passable enough in the language to hold a conversation, which was another plus to the location, but the question was rhetorical. When he emerged from the secure arrivals area of the airport into the throngs offering everything from taxi rides to trinkets to porterage, he seriously considered turning right around. But he stayed the course, even for an hour-long taxi ride that seemed more like time travel to the 18th century.
Once he settled in to the room at the boutique hotel in Ajijic, he had an odd feeling, one he hadn’t felt in a very long time: relaxation. He opened the curtains and looked out at the peaceful lake, the mountains, the bright blue sky. ‘Yes,’ he thought, ‘this will work . . . or maybe not-work is the right phrase’ he chuckled to himself.
The next morning he had decided upon a routine: breakfast, delivered to his room, eaten on the veranda, overlooking the lake. Followed by some light reading–nothing work related–until lunch. A short walk around the village and a stop for lunch, back to the room for some crosswords and more reading, perhaps a siesta, then late dinner once again in the village. Delightfully boring. He smiled at the notion he was even packing resting-time into his vacation: efficient as always.
As he sat reading that morning, he noticed a local fisherman wandering out to his boat around ten o’clock. When the professor got back from lunch, the fisherman was pulling his boat back to shore and leaving with a small catch. “Bankers hours for fishermen?” he mused.
The next day the cycle repeated itself, but this time the professor noted the fisherman returned again in the late afternoon and fished into the early evening, with the same meager results. “Twice the travel time for no extra performance,” he began, but pulled himself up short–no business here on vacation!
As the week wore on, the professor became more and more engrossed in the fisherman’s activities: how he stored the boat and nets, where he fished, the size of his catch, the hours spent on the water versus the hours preparing and traveling. The professor passed it off as not-business-related, just an interest in all things local. Toward the end of his vacation, the professor couldn’t contain himself any longer. He saw the fisherman pulling in to shore around two in the afternoon, and he called him over.
“Buenas tardes, señor” he began, “may I ask you a question?”
“Of course” the fisherman replied.
“I have been here all week, and I noticed your coming and going. Why do you start so late in the morning?”
“I stay home for breakfast and see my grandkids off to school.”
“Well, where do you go in the afternoon?”
“School lets out, and I see my grown children, too, then I take care of some tasks from my wife, maybe take a siesta. Finally I come back and finish fishing until dinner.”
“If you came earlier in the morning, packed a lunch, and fished straight through the day, you would catch many more fish. You spend so much time coming and going, loading and unloading.”
“I think you are right. But why catch more fish?”
“You could sell them and buy better nets, or another boat.”
“I see. And then catch even more fish?”
“Exactly!”
The fisherman looked down at his huichol sandals, then over at his boat, pondering his next comment carefully. “Muchas gracias, señor, you have a good idea. I will think about it some more. Adios.” and with that he trundled off.
The next day, the professor kept looking out at the lake in the early morning, to see if the fishermen had arrived. Around ten, the fisherman pulled his boat out onto the lake, then fished until two and came back in, as always. ‘Bad habits are the hardest to break’ the professor thought.
This time, though, the fisherman came walking straight back to where the professor was sitting. “Señor,” he started, “I have been considering what you said, and I have a question.”
“Go ahead, por favor.”
“After I get the boats and nets and catch more fish. Then what?”
“Then you hire people to fish for you on your boats. Maybe set up a small store and sell the fish yourself. Eventually you put in a restaurant, maybe a delivery service. Branch out into charter fishing trips. Who knows? Soon you’ll be el rey del lago (King of the Lake). I am a professor, I provide advice like this at the university. I guarantee that you will make a ton of money and then you can retire.”
“And?”
The professor laughed. “Well, then, I guess we all die. We have a saying up north, ‘there are two things in life that can’t be avoided: death and taxes.'”
Now it was the fisherman’s turn to laugh. “Oh, señor, I am a Mexican. We know that taxes can always be avoided! But death? Who would want to avoid that? Death is like an old friend you only get to see one more time. Here in Mexico, we don’t fear death, and we certainly don’t avoid it . . . look at how we drive! Do you know about our Day of the Dead?”
Visions of skeletons and macabre parades danced across the professor’s mind: strange, semi-pagan rituals fueled by too much tequila, no doubt. “Yes, Dia de Muertos isn’t it?” he replied.
“Yes. One time you must visit here for this fiesta. You will learn something from it!” Then the fisherman turned and shuffled home.
‘That will be the day’ the professor mused.
The next morning was his last before flying home. The professor assumed his position by the shore, and just before ten o’clock, the fisherman appeared and walked straight toward him.
“Buenas dias, señor,” he began
“Buenas dias, amigo,” the professor responded, “have you thought about my advice.”
The fisherman said, “I have thought of nothing else!” which caused the professor to smile a little.
“And?”
“Of course your are right, señor, we both know that. It will all come out exactly as you say.”
“But . . . ?” the professor interjected, sensing the rejection in the fisherman’s voice.
“It was very kind of you to offer this great advice. But I am too busy living to do all that work. I hope you can understand that. I hope you will think about that” he added, emphasizing the word.
“Yes, yes, of course” the professor replied with a resigned-but-friendly tone. “good luck!”
“Que te vaya bien, señor” the fisherman said, and headed to his boat.
Soon the professor was back aboard a plane, tanned, rested, and ready, as it were. His assistant had faxed down some preparatory material, and he devoured it. He was energized like he hadn’t been in years, and the exhilaration continued when he got back to Boston. He hired a second assistant, and wore both out as he endlessly rattled off memos, notes, to-do’s and the like. His productivity spiked, and the increase lasted months, not weeks. Even his colleagues noted how happy he seemed, on top of how productive.
As the Fall loomed in New England, he decided to take another break. There was no sense waiting until the depths of Winter; he would go in early November and beat the rush, then work through the holidays when everyone else wanted time off! So once again he was off on a flight to Guadalajara, but this time he was relaxed before he arrived: nothing to worry about, and he knew how much more productive he would be after the break.
When he emerged the first morning to eat breakfast on the veranda, he noticed the same fishing boat he had seen last year. This time, though, the fisherman did not arrive at ten and still had not arrived when the professor decided to walk into town before lunch. As the professor walked the village’s cobblestone streets, he noticed fewer crowds in the storefronts. He did see families walking in the distance, all heading in the same general direction, and he could hear far-off banda music. He wondered what was going on, so he walked toward the music.
The crowds thickened and led to the panteon, the cemetery. He glanced at his watch: of course, November 1st, Dia de Muertos. ‘I guess the old fisherman got his wish’ he thought. Having come this far, he joined the queue and wandered through the cemetery gate and into a spectacular scene.
Families were gathered around graves, sharing a meal and tending to the sites. A Mariachi band played in the distance. He noticed the small altars, ofrendas, with pictures and candles and mementos, the children playing, people telling stories. The air was clearly festive, and as he walked about, his mind wandered back to his parents and grandparents, his childhood, the funerals he attended. How different this was!
“Señor” a woman’s voice intoned, “may we help you?”
The professor snapped back to reality and realized he had wandered to the foot of a grave-site, smack in the middle of a family gathering!
“Lo siento” he intoned, “I wasn’t paying attention. I was look–” he stopped mid-sentence, as he gazed at the altar in front of the tombstone. On it was a picture of a fisherman and a boat. Not just any fisherman, but the same man he had spoken to just a year earlier. “–ing, err noticing—” his voice trailed off.
His mind raced. Was that the fisherman? He was used to speaking in front of large audiences, used to being the very picture of self control, unperturbed. Yet he felt himself standing there, speechless, and realized his mouth was still open though no words were emerging.
“Esta bien, señor” the woman said soothingly, noting the man’s apparent shock: “did you know my Francisco?”
The professor still had not regained his composure: “Yes, errrr, no, I mean not well. We met last year when I was here on vacation. We talked about work and things . . . ” again his voice trailed off.
“Of course, señor. You must be the professor! He told us all about you.” the woman said.
“He did?” A fleeting sense of pride helped the professor briefly recover his bearings.
“Yes, he told us he met a professor–a very intelligent man–who had excellent ideas about how to grow a business. He said he was sad to tell you he could not follow your advice, but that you would understand one day.”
Listening to the woman’s matter-of-fact voice, he felt his normal confidence returning. “well, then, thank you for sharing that. I am sorry for your loss, but I must be going. Sorry to intrude!” he said, hoping to make good his escape and complete his recomposure.
“No, not at all,” she replied, “after all, we were expecting you, in way.” She passed the professor a plate with some tacos.
Panic edged back into the corners of his consciousness, but a lifetime of cynicism held it in check: “Expecting me? Seriously? And how is that?” he said with a little bit of edge, as he took the plate.
“Francisco was sick in bed for several weeks before he died. One time, he reminded me about his meeting you. He said he gave you some advice, and you promised to consider it. He told me you were very educated, so someday you would figure it out, and you would come back here.” She poured some tequila into a small glass and handed it to him.
The professor gulped the tequila and repeated aloud “He gave me some advice” as the vertigo threatened to return. ‘I gave him advice, and he rejected it. What advice did he give me?’ he thought. He mentally rewound the tape of their encounters, and there it was. He suddenly felt a sense of peace, not just relaxation, but a more wholesome sense of accomplishment, something like completing a difficult crossword puzzle.
The fisherman’s wife refilled the professor’s tequila. The look on his face had completely changed, although he had uttered not a word. “Yes, yes he did. And he was right, I did figure it out, thanks to him. To Francisco!” he said and drained the tequila in a toast.
“Now I really must be going.” the professor said as he handed back his plate and glass.
“To work?” the woman asked?
“No, I’m too busy living to do all that work” he replied.
