It was my first time in Mulki, Karnataka, a small, unassuming coastal town that quietly sits by the Arabian Sea, known to few but the surfing community. My journey there was driven by curiosity, a thirst for something different, and a longing for the ocean's embrace. I'd signed up for a surfing training program, hoping for days spent riding the waves, tasting salt on my lips, and feeling the pull of the tide. But what I didn't expect was how one night would change everything I thought I knew about wonder, about stillness, and about the magic hidden in the smallest of places.
The first two days were all about learning—the rush of catching my first wave, the occasional stumbles and wipeouts, the warmth of the sun on my skin, and the satisfying ache of muscles pushed to their limits. But something about the place, with its blend of palm trees and the ceaseless sound of waves, calmed me, made me feel like I'd stepped back in time. Here, life moved at a rhythm of its own, unhurried and untamed, and I found myself settling into it. By the time the third day rolled around, I was no longer just an outsider on an adventure. I was part of this little coastal world.
The plan for that night was a kayaking trip in the backwaters, and as we set out, I had no idea what awaited us. The sky was a blanket of stars, each one twinkling as if in on a secret. I remember the first deep breath I took as we pushed off—how the air smelled of the sea, tinged with a hint of earthiness from the mangroves. It was quiet, almost eerily so, with just the gentle sound of paddles slicing through the water. We drifted deeper into the backwaters, the lights from the village fading until it was just us and the stars above, mirrored in the stillness below.
Then, like a scene from a dream, the water around us began to glow. At first, it was just a hint, a faint shimmer, as if the stars themselves had descended to play on the surface. I dipped my hand into the water, and it lit up, a cascade of tiny blue sparks trailing from my fingertips. Bioluminescence. I'd heard of it before, seen pictures in glossy magazines or documentaries, but nothing prepared me for this—being in it, surrounded by it. Each stroke of the paddle left a trail of light, and every small ripple danced with a magical, otherworldly glow.
The entire scene felt surreal. I was suspended in this universe of light, with stars above and stars below, each reflecting the other. And there was a quiet beauty to it, something that went beyond just the spectacle. In the dark, with only the soft glow of the water, it felt like a private gift from nature, a reminder of how much beauty lies hidden in the world, waiting to be discovered by those willing to be still.
I wanted to capture it, to freeze this moment forever, to reach for my phone and take a picture or record a video. But something held me back. Maybe it was the stillness of the night, or the way the glow felt too delicate, too pure for a screen. So, I chose to simply be there, to drink it all in without the distraction of a device, to let the memory imprint itself on my heart instead of my camera roll. And in that choice, I felt free—free from the need to prove it to anyone, free from the compulsion to "capture" it for later. There was a timelessness in that decision, a sense of surrender to the moment that felt almost sacred.
We drifted for what felt like hours, each of us silent, lost in our own reverie, the glow of the water casting soft shadows on our faces. It was as if we had been transported to another realm, one where time moved differently, slower, softer. And as I sat there, surrounded by this magical glow, I felt a peace that went beyond words. It was a kind of stillness that filled every part of me, a reminder of what it means to simply be.
As we headed back to shore, I looked around at my fellow kayakers, each of us carrying a quiet smile, as if we'd shared a secret we knew would be impossible to explain. And maybe that was the beauty of it. Some moments are meant to be lived, not captured—moments that feel like they're a part of you, woven into the very fabric of your memory, untouched by technology and unblemished by the need to share.
When I think back to that night, I feel grateful. Grateful for the choice to stay present, for the privilege of witnessing nature's quiet wonders, and for the realization that some experiences are treasures meant only for the soul. It taught me that not everything beautiful needs to be held onto or documented; some things are more powerful simply because they are fleeting, because they are lived fully in a single moment, and then carried in the heart forever.
And that night, under the stars, with the bioluminescent waters glowing softly around us, I learned the true magic of letting go and just being there, in awe of the world and my place within it.