Christ once stood by the shore,
Seeking men for great deeds,
To fish for hearts with the Word.
O God, did You call me?
Your lips spoke my name.
I leave my boat now by the shore.
From now on—I go where You send me.
—after Krist na žalu (Christ by the Shore)
The First Day
The cold stone floor pressed against my knees,
while my voice was firm, without pleas.
I sang into the darkness,
in the darkest corner in Brazil—
while silence ruled in the prison,
and time stood still.
Words slid over stone walls and benches,
through the iron bars—soaked in sweat, regret,
and showing no scars.
The cracked toilet in the corner
leaked beneath pale light—
the stench of dread,
without sorrow, rest, or right.
Yet I felt no regret for what had been—
only His blessing—and peace within.
* * *
And just hours before, I had been drowning my tiredness, my self-pity, my broken fire, in a cheap bar beside my friend Tyron whose laughter was louder than my doubt.
I met her there—the girl—an angel at first glance, a promise I still thought I could afford to make.
I offered her everything I had left—a future, a life, a hand stretched out into the chaos.
And she decided otherwise.
She accused me.
Not immediately—
not even while we sat, hands held, pretending that dreams could still be bartered in bars.
But later, after I had left.
And now I was here, accused of a crime I had not committed.
Yet guilty—guilty of other things I had carried inside me for far too long.
This cell wasn’t my punishment for touching a woman.
It was my wake-up call—for touching complacency, for drinking myself into oblivion, for allowing tiredness to become my god.
And when they called me to the interrogation room, I rose with a blissful smile.
I knew what it was about.
Maybe it was emptiness.
Maybe it was the strange, radiant peace of knowing Him again—feeling His breath, His patience, His mercy.
In that moment, I felt no fear.
I knew that, through Him, I had all the power.
No accusation could touch that.
No court could erase it.
And so I sang Christ by the Shore in that filthy cell, with a voice I had not had in years—clear and pure.
The stone walls caught the song, magnified it, sent it down the corridors where prisoners and guards alike stopped and listened.
When they brought me water, juice, and cookies afterward, I didn’t mistake it for pity.
I knew it was a sign.
A small kindness, whispered into the pit by the One still holding me in His grace.
The Second Day
The bench felt hard and cold,
the limelight sour and old,
and the moans and cries of someone’s suffering
floated through the never-coming dawn.
Yet I closed my eyes,
to find some sleep.
Nothing bothered me.
My faith was deep.
I smiled, feeling His touch—
just a breath,
and that was enough.
* * *
The dawn broke through the bars with a pale light,
ravens flying low across the waking sky.
I hadn’t managed to sleep much,
still twisting, trying to find the right position, half-dreaming.
I had faith in my friend Tyron—
to settle the worldly stuff, the lawyer and fine,
while my soul dealt only with the Divine.
A guard came with handcuffs and told me I was being transferred to the real prison.
I asked about my lawyer.
He shrugged—said he didn’t know, but that I would probably get one.
I nodded, said “okay,” and let him walk me out.
In the van, more prisoners—
accused of theft, of blood, of blame—
each wearing silence like a name.
One of them asked if I was a drug trafficker.
I smiled and said, “No—something far worse.”
He asked what.
I said, “My sins are not of this world.”
When we arrived, I saw hell.
Overcrowded cells, shouting and screaming everywhere—
murderers, traffickers, abusers—
and some men thrown in by mistakes, under senseless, soulless laws written by careless hands.
I was placed in a cell with two murderers, a professor, a drug trafficker, and others facing accusations like mine.
Nine of us, crammed into a space barely 1.8 by 4 meters.
The toilet was just a hole in the floor where you had to crouch to relieve yourself,
the ground around it stained and sour with old waste.
The stench filled the air, heavy and sour like rotting iron.
Above it, nailed into the back wall, was a showerhead—
cold water dripping down like salvation.
That water became our drinking source.
Someone had smuggled in an empty plastic bottle, and we used it—
passing it from hand to hand, from mouth to mouth, each of us fetching water for the others.
Always someone volunteering to go.
Always someone crawling into the stinking corner without complaint.
One of the makeshift blankets had been hung like a curtain, giving a thin illusion of privacy between the shower and the rest of the cell.
We lay side by side, arms and legs touching, breathing each other’s sweat, and yet—
there was kindness.
Friendliness.
Jokes and murmured wishes and shared silence.
And faith—
and hope.
Only the professor wept, quietly in the dark,
mourning the broken shell of the life he had lost.
The walls were covered in strange beauty:
carvings of Christ, graffiti of hope, images of aliens staring upward through space and filth.
I slept through most of the day,
eating what little I could,
drifting in and out of a strange peace,
listening to the voices around me,
all of us trying to stitch some meaning back together with sarcasm and dreams.
I lay comfortably and happy,
grateful to forget my problems,
pleasantly embracing this strange world I had been thrown into.
For I knew—even in hell—there is light,
even if it is only the light you bring yourself.
Everybody soon learned I was Croatian,
and they all started speaking beautifully of Croatia and its football.
One man joked if I had come to Brazil because there was nothing left to rob in my own country.
I smiled and said, “I came to rob your souls from the wrong path—and bring them to righteousness and peace.”
They all laughed.
Some understood.
Some didn’t.
But the air warmed around us.
Then they called my name.
The guard said my lawyer had arrived.
Tyron had done his work,
as I never doubted he would.
The lawyer was a young man, nice and capable.
He said the hearing would be tomorrow,
but he could not guarantee I would get out on bail.
In that moment, I accepted whatever would come.
I knew I was in God’s hands.
If He thought I needed more time to reflect,
then so be it.
Back in the cell, bad thoughts came swirling like ravens—
the old, poisonous “if only” dreams:
If only I had done better in business…
If only my father had been different…
If only my ex-wife had stayed…
If only I had fought harder…
I pitied myself, mourning a life that could have been easier, smoother, brighter.
But the darkness did not last long.
Marcus, lying nearby, started a story about King Arthur from a book he was reading.
The professor joined him,
and soon we were speaking of Avalon,
of Camelot,
of Viviane and Morgan, of Merlin and Lancelot, and the Grail.
Then the talk drifted to pyramids and Nazca lines,
and every man who knew something added his piece—
a patchwork of knowledge, wonder, and dreams.
The others listened in darkness, in reverent silence.
Long time it had been—
since I felt so good.
No cellphones.
No screaming debts.
No clocks ticking away futures.
Only men,
only stories,
only a fragile Avalon built from words and breath,
glowing in the dark like a bonfire a thousand years ago.
It was truly spiritual and I slept well that night.
The Third Day
The professor sat all night, slumped against the wall—
his blood pressure high, his liver fatty, his cortisol.
He said he felt hot and anxious, like he might fall.
And I thought: This could be me,
if I kept drinking, if I kept running—
doing dumb things, afraid of becoming.
I knew then why God had placed me here, beside that man—
not to condemn, but to guide, to heal, and to understand.
He asked me how I overcame anxiety and fear.
I said: “Only through faith that brings you near—
only through faith can fear disappear,
when trust in God becomes sincere.”
* * *
Then came the third dawn—the day of judgment.
The day I would either stay, or leave.
I prayed, and without forcing, without thinking, the words came:
“God, if You allow me to leave today, I promise You two things:
I will not drink again, and I will resume the fight.”
I saw my lawyer.
I took a cold shower before the hearing.
And I knew.
I knew I would get out.
But I also knew that if I broke my promise, I would find myself thrown back into chains—and rightly so.
And it all happened just as it was written in my heart.
Lunch came.
We waited.
Three of us—on the third day—waiting to be released.
Some would stay forever.
Some would break their chains.
Some played dominoes.
The professor stood by the door, counting each minute, each breath.
I lay on the floor, strangely sad to leave such good men,
such brave souls—and their stories.
But I knew—it was not my fight.
It was not my place.
My cross waited to be carried to another hill.
And Avalon would have to wait in another story.
The guards came.
And for the first time, I walked without handcuffs.
Free.
We boarded a real bus this time—not a sardine-can van without windows—but a real bus, open to the world.
I had only one worry:
How would I find Tyron?
I had no phone.
No number.
We were going to be dropped at the bus terminal, lost in the crowd.
But I let it go.
I trusted.
If God had orchestrated all of this, He would surely arrange one last meeting.
And He did.
After a short wandering through the immense terminal,
Tyron found me—by chance, by providence—
calling my name across the noise.
I turned—
and hugged him.
And I hugged my fellow prisoners.
And I walked toward my new life,
toward my new fight,
toward my new hill,
with my heart on fire
and my mind still.