You tell your kids that no matter what, you set your goals and

Host: The sky was a faded lavender, the kind that hangs after a long rain, soft and tired, like the world had just taken a deep breath. A faint mist hovered above the ocean, where the last light of sunset painted thin silver lines across the waves.

On the boardwalk, the sound of the sea mixed with distant laughter, a radio, and the occasional bark of a dog. A small surf café stood at the edge, its lights flickering warmly against the growing dark. Inside, the air smelled of salt, coffee, and the faint trace of wet sand.

Jack sat by the window, still in his wetsuit, a few streaks of seawater running down his neck. His grey eyes watched the waves roll in, methodical, eternal. Across from him, Jeeny sipped tea, her hair damp, her eyes alive with the kind of fire that only comes from having once believed too much and lost just enough to still keep believing.

Between them lay a surf magazine, open to a page featuring Joel Parkinson, the quote printed across a photo of him mid-wave:
"You tell your kids that no matter what, you set your goals and you go for them. Whatever it is you achieve, never give up."

Jeeny: “That’s beautiful, isn’t it? The way he says it — simple, but so full of faith.”

Jack: (smirking faintly) “Yeah. It’s a nice poster line. But life isn’t a motivational brochure, Jeeny. You can’t tell kids they’ll always win if they just ‘believe in themselves.’ Sometimes you do everything right and still lose.”

Host: The light from the window fell across his face, catching the small creases near his eyes, the ones formed by too much squinting at horizons that never answered back. Jeeny watched him quietly, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup.

Jeeny: “It’s not about winning, Jack. It’s about trying — about teaching them not to quit when life starts pushing back. That’s what he meant.”

Jack: “Maybe. But what if you teach a kid to never give up, and the world keeps crushing them anyway? What happens when the dream just… doesn’t work? Do you tell them to keep trying until they break?”

Jeeny: “You tell them to bend, not break. To find another way, another goal, another dream if they must — but never to stop believing that they have the right to dream at all.”

Jack: “Belief doesn’t fill stomachs, Jeeny. It doesn’t pay rent. You know what fills those? Pragmatism. Adaptation. Not blind faith.”

Host: The café door opened, letting in a rush of cold air and the faint sound of the waves. The lights flickered, and for a moment, everything felt suspended — the salt, the silence, the invisible thread of their disagreement pulling tighter.

Jeeny: “Do you hear yourself, Jack? You sound like the kind of father who’d tell his kids not to even try because the odds aren’t good. Isn’t that worse than a broken dream?”

Jack: “No. That’s a lesson in reality. You tell them to work, to prepare, to understand the world’s weight before they run into it headfirst. Hope without strategy is suicide.”

Jeeny: “But cynicism without hope is just another kind of death. You talk about the world’s weight like it’s something holy — but it’s just heavy, Jack. Heavy doesn’t mean right.”

Host: The rain began again, tapping lightly against the window. Jack turned his gaze back to the sea, where the last surfer cut a lonely line across the waves, silhouetted by fading light.

Jack: “You know, my dad told me the same thing Parkinson said — ‘Never give up.’ He worked two jobs, tried to build a business, barely saw us. He believed in himself, Jeeny. But belief didn’t stop the bank from taking our house. You know what he told me then? ‘Son, sometimes giving up is the only honest thing left to do.’”

Jeeny: “I’m sorry, Jack. But maybe he didn’t give up — maybe he just redirected. Sometimes the goal changes, but the spirit behind it doesn’t have to. That’s what Joel meant. It’s not about blind pursuit, it’s about faith in one’s own resilience.”

Jack: “Resilience is a nice word for endurance in pain.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a word for growth through pain. There’s a difference.”

Host: The sound of the waves deepened, echoing against the wooden walls of the café like distant heartbeats. Jack leaned back, his jaw clenched, while Jeeny leaned forward, her voice trembling, but firm.

Jeeny: “Do you remember the kid at the surf club last year? The one who kept falling off his board? Everyone laughed, but he came back every single day. And now he’s out there, still surfing, still trying. That’s what never giving up looks like. It’s not about being the best — it’s about still showing up after you’ve been knocked down.”

Jack: “Yeah, but you’re romanticizing it. Not everyone who keeps showing up gets a happy ending. Sometimes the wave just doesn’t come.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes it comes just when you stop expecting it. That’s what makes it beautiful.”

Host: The light outside dimmed completely now, replaced by the soft glow of hanging lamps. The surf café grew quiet — only the murmur of the ocean remained, endless and wise.

Jack rubbed his hands, his fingers rough from years of work, of struggle, of trying and failing in quiet ways no one saw.

Jack: “I just don’t want to feed people lies, Jeeny. This world doesn’t care about your attitude. It cares about what you can deliver.”

Jeeny: “And yet the people who change it — the inventors, the artists, the athletes — all started with attitude, not guarantees. You think Joel Parkinson didn’t fall a hundred times before he became a champion? The difference between failure and success is often just one more try.”

Jack: “Or one more heartbreak.”

Jeeny: “Heartbreak is proof you were alive, Jack. A life without it isn’t safe — it’s empty.”

Host: Her voice cracked, not from anger, but from memory. Jack looked up at her — really looked — and saw not the idealist he always accused her of being, but someone who had also fallen, failed, and still believed anyway.

The rain stopped. The air outside shimmered faintly as the moonlight broke through the thinning clouds.

Jack: (softly) “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about pretending the world is fair… just about teaching them not to stop moving, even when it isn’t.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The world can break them, but if they still try, still stand up, still believe — even for one more day — that’s what makes them strong. That’s what makes them free.”

Jack: “You think belief alone can make you free?”

Jeeny: “No. But without it, you’ll never even try to get there.”

Host: The café owner dimmed the lights, the waves outside now just a soft rumor beneath the night. Jack stood, stretching, his shadow long across the wooden floor.

He looked at Jeeny and smiled — a quiet, unguarded one, the kind that only comes when the armor slips.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll tell my kid that tomorrow.”

Jeeny: “What — that the world’s unfair?”

Jack: (grinning) “No. That sometimes you fall, sometimes you lose, but the only way to find your own wave… is to keep paddling.”

Host: Jeeny laughed — soft, real, full of warmth. The sound mingled with the distant crash of waves, the salt air, the whisper of a night that still had hope in it.

Outside, the moonlight stretched across the water, silver and infinite, like a promise made in the dark — fragile, but real.

And somewhere between the tide and the stars, the truth lingered: that belief, no matter how small, was still the most powerful form of courage a heart could hold.