A wise man turns chance into good fortune.

Host: The night was heavy with fog, the kind that turns streetlights into halos and shadows into whispers. The harbor lay still — rows of boats swaying like tired dreams, their ropes creaking softly against the posts. The smell of salt and diesel hung thick in the air, mingling with the faint echo of distant waves breaking against the rocks.

At the far end of the dock, a small shack glowed with yellow light. Inside, Jack sat at a wooden table, a bottle of rum between his hands. His coat was wet from the mist, his hair unkempt, his eyes carrying the cold steel of fatigue. Across from him, Jeeny leaned forward, elbows on the table, her fingers curled around a cup of tea. The lamp above them buzzed quietly, casting long shadows that trembled on the peeling walls.

Host: It was the kind of place where chance often came dressed as failure — and where wisdom, if it came at all, came late.

Jeeny: (softly) “Thomas Fuller once said, ‘A wise man turns chance into good fortune.’ I’ve been thinking about that.”

Jack: (gruffly) “Sounds poetic enough. But in the real world, chance doesn’t hand out fortunes. It hands out wrecks. The wise ones are just the ones who manage to swim.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe they’re the ones who see the wreck and decide to build something from it.”

Host: Jack let out a low laugh, dry as wood smoke. He looked out the window, where the harbor lights blinked faintly through the mist.

Jack: “You always make it sound like there’s a choice. Like a man can stare down luck and tell it what to do.”

Jeeny: “And you always make it sound like fate is the boss of everything. But think about it — what is luck, really? Just opportunity disguised as chaos.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “Opportunity? Tell that to the fishermen out there. When a storm hits, it doesn’t bring them opportunity. It brings debt.”

Jeeny: “Unless they learn how to read the wind.”

Host: The words hung in the air, quiet but sharp. Jack’s jaw tightened, his fingers drumming against the bottle. Outside, a foghorn moaned, deep and sorrowful, as if agreeing with both of them.

Jack: “You think I haven’t tried? I’ve played every hand the world dealt me — and still lost more than I’ve won. There’s no wisdom in chance. There’s only luck — and luck doesn’t care.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you mistook survival for failure.”

Host: The lamp flickered, catching her eyes in the glow. They were dark, alive, full of that soft defiance that always made him uneasy.

Jeeny: “You remember the story of Steve Jobs getting fired from Apple? He could’ve vanished, Jack — could’ve drowned in his own defeat. But he didn’t. He turned that failure into NeXT and Pixar. And when Apple came calling again, he didn’t just come back — he rebuilt the world.”

Jack: (gritting his teeth) “Yeah, yeah — the legend of the visionary. But for every Jobs, there are a thousand men who try and fail and stay failed.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe wisdom isn’t about success — it’s about transformation. It’s about turning chance — good or bad — into purpose.”

Host: A pause. The fog pressed closer against the window, and the light dimmed, leaving their faces half-lit, like two halves of the same truth.

Jack: “You really believe wisdom can bend luck?”

Jeeny: “Not bend it. Redirect it. Luck is just the raw material. What you make of it — that’s what matters. Remember that old fisherman who lost his boat last year? Everyone pitied him. But what did he do? He started repairing boats for others. Now he earns more than when he was fishing. He didn’t wait for fortune — he forged it.”

Jack: (quietly) “And what if you don’t get another chance?”

Jeeny: “Then you make one.”

Host: The words struck him harder than he expected. He looked down at his hands, rough and scarred, reminders of a business he’d built, lost, and tried to build again. The mist outside blurred the lights, turning them into little fires trembling in the dark.

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s just possible. Every wise man I’ve read about — they weren’t lucky. They were aware. They knew when chaos came knocking, it wasn’t a warning — it was a door.”

Host: Her voice carried a rhythm — soft but steady, like waves pushing against stone. Jack’s face softened, his defenses slipping.

Jack: “So you’re saying chance isn’t something to fear — it’s something to shape.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Even in the worst storm, there’s a current trying to lead you somewhere. The fool fights it. The wise learn to steer.”

Host: The lamp light caught the edges of her smile, faint and knowing. Jack looked away, out toward the dock, where a boat lantern swayed slowly in the mist, like a single hope that refused to drown.

Jack: “You know, when I lost my job last year, I thought it was the end. I’d built that company for ten years. Every waking moment — gone in one board meeting. But then… I started this little repair shop. Just to stay busy. Now, I actually enjoy it more than I ever enjoyed managing spreadsheets.”

Jeeny: “See? That’s what I mean. You didn’t just fall — you pivoted. That’s the wisdom Fuller was talking about.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “Maybe it wasn’t luck that failed me. Maybe it was me who didn’t listen.”

Jeeny: “That’s how it always starts. Fortune doesn’t shout, Jack. It whispers.”

Host: A slow smile crept across his face, weary but real — the kind that comes when acceptance finally replaces resistance. The fog began to lift outside, revealing the faint outline of the sea, calm and endless.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny, sometimes I think you missed your calling. You should’ve been a philosopher.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “No, I just learned how to watch people dance with chance — some gracefully, some stubbornly. The wise ones don’t wait for luck to change; they change themselves.”

Host: He raised his glass, the liquid inside catching the light like melted amber.

Jack: “Then here’s to the wise. To turning storms into sails.”

Jeeny: (raising her cup) “And to the fools who learn to do it the hard way.”

Host: They clinked their glasses, the sound small but clear — a note of agreement echoing in the quiet room. Outside, the sea shimmered faintly under the moon, the fog drifting away like a curtain parting after a long act.

In that moment, both of them understood: fortune wasn’t waiting in the distance — it was already here, disguised as the choices they’d made and the courage they’d found.

The lamp flickered once more, the harbor sighed, and the night — now lighter, gentler — began to breathe again.