Happy the man who, like Ulysses, has made a fine voyage, or has

Host: The harbor was quiet, wrapped in a mist that blurred the edges of everything — boats, lights, even time itself. The air smelled of salt and rust, of seawater and old rope. A single lantern swung on its hook by the pier, its light weak but steadfast, throwing broken reflections across the surface of the water.

Host: Jack sat on a weathered bench, his coat collar turned up against the cold, the sea wind clawing at his face. Beside him, Jeeny stood with her arms folded, her eyes on the horizon, where the fog seemed to swallow the world whole. They had come down here after the funeral, when the crowd had gone home, leaving only the sound of the tide and the memory of his father’s voice.

Host: The quote came from a small, folded page in Jeeny’s hand — a line by Joachim du Bellay:
“Happy the man who, like Ulysses, has made a fine voyage, or has won the Golden Fleece, and then returns, experienced and knowledgeable, to spend the rest of his life among his family.”

Jeeny: “He would have liked that one, don’t you think? Your father. It sounds like something he would’ve said — after a few drinks, maybe.”

Jack: (gazes out at the sea) “Yeah. Except he never made it home, did he? Not really. Always chasing one more voyage, one more deal, one more project. Even when he was sitting at the dinner table, his mind was already gone somewhere else.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that was his way of being alive, Jack. Some people are built for movement, not rest.”

Jack: “And some people just don’t know how to stop. There’s a difference.”

Host: A ferry horn moaned in the distance, low and hollow, carrying through the fog like a lament. The wind shifted, stirring the harbor flags, and the lantern’s flame trembled but did not die.

Jeeny: “Du Bellay wrote that after coming back from Rome, didn’t he? He saw all the grandeur of the world and realized he missed his home. That’s what he meant — that wisdom isn’t in the journey, but in the return.”

Jack: “Funny thing, though. Most people never really return. They just collapse where they stand. You leave to become someone, and by the time you come back, you’re too tired to be anyone at all.”

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly it — the return isn’t about going back to the same place, it’s about coming back to yourself. Ulysses didn’t find peace because he saw Troy fall; he found it because he came home and saw what endured — his wife, his son, his land. The ordinary things that waited.”

Jack: “Ordinary things…” (he laughs quietly) “You make it sound holy.”

Jeeny: “It is holy. When you’ve been through storms, when you’ve seen how easily life breaks, the ordinary becomes sacred. The smell of bread, the sound of children, someone’s hand resting on yours — that’s the real treasure at the end of the voyage.”

Host: The sea hissed against the rocks, its rhythm ancient and indifferent. A single seagull drifted low, its cry slicing through the air like a memory. Jack looked down at his hands, calloused, strong, but trembling slightly — the hands of a man who had spent his life building, but never quite arriving.

Jack: “You talk like someone who’s already found home.”

Jeeny: “I’m still searching. But maybe that’s what home is — not a place, but a moment when you finally stop running.”

Jack: “And what if you can’t stop? What if the only way you know you’re alive is when you’re moving?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve confused motion for meaning, Jack. A ship that never docks isn’t free — it’s lost.”

Jack: “You make it sound so simple. But people don’t stop because they love the sea. They stop because they’ve got somewhere to go back to. Some of us never had that.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then maybe it’s time you build it. You’ve seen enough storms. You’ve earned a harbor.”

Host: Her words fell into the fog like stones, rippling through something unseen. Jack turned to her, the lamplight catching the edges of his eyes — grey, weary, but glinting with something like recognition.

Jack: “You sound like you believe everyone deserves peace.”

Jeeny: “I do.”

Jack: “Even after everything they’ve done? The mistakes, the lies, the ways they’ve hurt people?”

Jeeny: “Especially then. That’s what makes peace earned. The sea doesn’t judge the sailor — it just waits. So does home.”

Jack: “Home doesn’t wait forever.”

Jeeny: “No, but it forgives when you arrive.”

Host: The tide crept higher now, licking at the edges of the dock, as if to remind them that time, too, was a current that carried everyone — willing or not. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled from the lighthouse, slow and solemn, counting out the hours like a metronome for the heart.

Jack: “I used to think happiness was about accomplishment. About stacking enough wins so you could finally say, ‘I made it.’ But now…” (he gestures to the sea) “Now it feels like a race with no finish line. Every success just opens another horizon. And I don’t even remember why I started running.”

Jeeny: “Because you thought the world owed you meaning. But maybe meaning isn’t out there. Maybe it’s in the stillness you’ve been avoiding.”

Jack: “Stillness is just another word for boredom.”

Jeeny: “No. Stillness is where you finally meet the part of yourself that’s been chasing you all along.”

Host: The fog began to thin, revealing a strip of moonlight on the water, trembling but whole. A fishing boat drifted by slowly, its engine low and steady, the crew’s laughter faint but warm. It was a sound that didn’t belong to ambition — it belonged to belonging.

Jack: “You know, he used to tell me — my dad — ‘Don’t come home until you’ve made something of yourself.’ I think he believed it too much. Maybe that’s why he never came back.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he just didn’t know that you can’t measure what you’re worth by what you’ve built. You measure it by what you can sit beside without needing to prove anything.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “That’s what this quote is really about, isn’t it? Not just the voyage, but the return. The moment you stop trying to be more, and start remembering what you already are.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The journey gives you stories. The return gives you peace.”

Host: For a long time, neither of them spoke. The sea filled the silence, endless and forgiving. A light rain began to fall again — not cold, but cleansing, like a benediction. Jack reached out, catching a few drops on his palm, then looked at Jeeny, a faint, tired smile breaking through.

Jack: “Maybe it’s time I stopped sailing.”

Jeeny: “Then anchor, Jack. Right here. The world doesn’t need another man chasing the horizon. It needs one more man who’s brave enough to stay.”

Host: The camera lingers as they sit in the soft rain, two silhouettes framed by light and water, their voices fading into the hum of the sea. The fog parts just enough to reveal the shoreline, and in that brief clearing, there’s something like grace — not dramatic, not loud, just quiet completion.

Host: The voyage, after all, had never been about conquering the world, but about finding the way home — the place where a man, like Ulysses, could finally rest his heart, surrounded not by applause, but by love, by family, and by the kind of peace that comes only after the long, long journey ends.