There wasn’t a great deal to do on Molokaʻi that morning, so I decided to wander down to the wharf and walk the long mile out to its end. The tropical sun was already high, scattering brilliant sparkles across the choppy water until it was almost painful to look at.

A few local fishermen were sitting quietly along the pier. I settled in beside them, asking questions and enjoying the chance to learn a little about their lives. One fisherman never seemed to take his eyes off the water. I finally asked him how he could possibly watch it with all that blinding glare.

He smiled and tapped his sunglasses.

“They’re polarized. They cut the glare.”

As we talked, he patiently explained the art of throwing a net. Yet even while carrying on our conversation, his attention never really left the ocean.

Without warning he stood up.

“I’ll be right back.”

He hurried to his truck, drove back to the beach, stepped out with his net, and with one practiced throw sent it spreading across the water. Moments later he pulled it back in, heavy with fish.

When he returned, I couldn’t help asking, “How did you know?”

He simply replied, “I saw a school of fish… and I know where these fish go when they run. I just got there first.”

The following day he allowed me to follow him to several beaches around the island and photograph him fishing. Those photographs are special to me.

But this one is the real gift.

It reminds me that some of the richest travel memories aren’t made by seeing famous places. They’re made by sitting beside someone whose world is different from your own… and being welcomed into it for a little while.