(I wrote this about two years ago when I first got into XRP. I still believe in XRP, but I see now that I could insert XDC or any other crytpo/digital asset in this story. That’s the beauty about finding something that interests you, researching it, and believing in it. Good luck to all in your investment endeavors. As always, this is NOT financial advice. It’s a story.)

We were on our third bottle of Marechal Foch and conversation was coming around to where I like it. Loose. Free flowing. Lots of highs and laughter. Just a tinge of sadness. And hope. Lots of hope. That will happen when you are outside the Thunder Bay Winery at a café table with good friends for three hours on a summer Saturday afternoon.

“Goat yoga!” Sam blurted out. “That’s what I want to do.”

“No, no fucking way,” Henry said. He sat his empty glass down and I filled it. I caught the eye of Mona, our waitress, and she came over.

“Another bottle?” she asked.

I looked at my wife, SB. She was rosy-cheeked and smiling. It was good to see her like this. It had been a hard week. Downsizing at my work—I still had a job, but for how long I was uncertain. Her job as an art teacher at Art in the Loft was also in danger. It was hard enough getting people interested in the arts in our town of camouflage and jacked up four-wheel drives, but now funding was drying up, and her hours had been reduced by half.

SB winked. “Do it,” she said.

“The lady would like another bottle,” I said.

All four of us raised our glasses for a toast.

“Here’s to hope,” I said.

We knocked glasses together, drank, and sat quietly for a moment. The sun was bright over Lake Huron. The herring gulls bobbed on shiny waves. Fishing boats buzzed along the horizon.

“Seriously, though,” Henry said. “We are not investing in goats. If you want to do yoga, maybe. But I don’t think goats are a good investment. I want to retire one day, not clean up after goats.”

We chuckled at this. And all of this was familiar. Twice a month, me and SB met up with our best friends. We drank wine and commiserated. Our jobs. The difficulties of parenting. The joys of parenting. But we got into other things too. God, or the lack thereof. Ghosts. The cosmos. Poetry. Movies. The state of our country and how important it was becoming to speak up and stand up for good. And always, we got on the topic of our dreams. In particular, doing something that would lead us to that lucky break that would afford us a little comfort in an otherwise uncertain world.

“It’s not all about money,” Sam said.

“No,” SB said. “Definitely not.”

I twisted in my seat a little. Tried to stretch my legs. I was getting all boozy and lazy. I knew we could stay here all night, but I hoped we would walk to another place, stand for a while and listen to music. And the truth was, I was restless.

“What about you guys?” Henry asked. “You’re pretty quiet these days when the topic of investing in the future comes up.”

I was quiet because I had a secret. That secret was called XRP. I stumbled on it by accident. There was an article about cryptocurrency somewhere. I knew nothing of it. I’d heard of Bitcoin. I knew it was volatile. From my limited understanding, I believed it was akin to gambling. But then I found others out there in the world that knew a lot about XRP. Suddenly, I had a feeling—something I’d never felt before—like I had a chance. I actually had a chance to get my wife and kids out of the middle.

“We have our 401k,” SB said.

Henry and Sam looked at each other. Sipped their wine. Then looked back to us.

“Bullshit,” Sam said. “What’s going on? What have you got your hands on?”

“Cat yoga,” I said.

They laughed, and I hoped that they would be onto the next thing. Dan Rather’s kick-ass new book or going to see Weezer in October.

It wasn’t Brad Garlinghouse’s interviews or the genius of Joel Katz. It wasn’t the Twitter feed of Tiffany Hayden, Bank XRP, or Dr. T. What got me in and believing and buying XRP every chance I could was the YouTube channel of the Digital Asset Investor. His straightforward, calm, matter-of-fact presentation of facts and figures and the way he correlated the movement of cryptocurrency and XRP to history drew me in. My kids could have a bright future without worry. They could study music and animals and travel. My parents wouldn’t have to worry about their horrendous health insurance premiums. SB and I could live as we do now, with little fanfare, but not have to worry about making the mortgage payment or chipping away at those goddamned student loans. And most importantly, we could help. Being holders of XRP meant that we could get meals to the hungry. Shelter to the homeless. And art and culture and growth to our little town.

“No, seriously,” Henry said. “What have you got going on? Maybe I want in.”

SB reached over and squeezed my hand. I felt her warmth. We had been through a lot in ten years. We’d always worked hard and worked smart. Not because we wanted to, but because we had to. We wanted to do better than our parents, not to have a Lambo or a mansion or Rolex watches, but so we could make life better for our own kids, for strangers, for the world. XRP was our winning lottery ticket. And we were waiting as patiently as possible to cash it in.

“Listen, Henry,” I said. “We’re four bottles into it now, so I’m gonna tell you something. It’s not a secret, but it’s a key. A key to a better tomorrow. There is hope, and there is a promise, but it is not for the faint of heart, and it is filled with ups and downs.”

He and Sam leaned forward.

“XRP,” I said. And I felt as if I let loose a great unknown that would forever change our lives.

“XRP?” Sam asked, genuinely perplexed.

“It’s incredible,” SB chimed in. “Our chance of a lifetime.”

“What about it,” Henry said.

“The best place for you to start is the Digital Asset Investor,” I said. “Google XRP. Google him. You’ll be glad you did.”

We sat again in silence. The fishing boats had gone. The herring gulls were up in the sky now, circling round. And the sun was moving, ever-so-slowly, toward the end of another day, reminding me of how lucky we are.