My Story
From forced labor and the concrete walls of divided Berlin to risking everything for the monster waves of the Pacific. This is the story of how I took control of my destiny.
Home / My Story
A Stolen Childhood
My story doesn’t start with tropical beaches; it begins with harsh memories. After surviving an abusive environment at home and school, my father brought me to Germany just a month before I was about to finish my first year of high school—cutting off my education after nearly nine years. Instead of getting an education as a TV technician alongside my older brother, I was immediately thrust into illegal, forced labor.
As a minor, I was subjected to 12-hour days of brutal heavy labor. Factoring in travel time, I spent 15 hours a day away from home, earning nothing more than the pocket money local kids received just for going to school. I vividly remember hiding behind high chain-link fences, deeply ashamed, watching girls walk to the lake to swim. I was terrified they would see the humiliating slave labor I was forced to endure.
Two Faces of Berlin
At fifteen, I crossed the Berlin Wall for the first time. From my very first day in East Berlin, luck finally seemed to find me. Until I joined the army, I lived two entirely different lives.
In West Berlin, I remained a slave to my father. But in East Berlin, I was an independent, happy young man. It was on that side of the wall that I experienced the most beautiful day of my entire life in Germany.
Breaking the Chains
At nineteen, I volunteered for military service in my homeland. That distance gave me clarity. On my third day back in Berlin after serving, I made my choice and left for good.
After an eight-year gap in my education, I finally took my life into my own hands. I trained as an auto-electrician (1978–1980), later completed a state-subsidized degree as an industrial clerk (1999–2001), and finished my higher education in Facility Management (2002–2003). I was building a normal life, but the real adventure was yet to come.
32,000 Marks and a Dream
By the late nineties, the collapse of my homeland, Yugoslavia, was imminent. Stubbornly, I still wanted to spend my summer vacation on our island, despite the approaching war. My wife was wiser. “I don’t want to vacation in a war zone,” she told me.
I started looking for alternatives. We looked at Tunisia and almost booked a beautiful resort in the Philippines. Then, one Saturday, I caught the last 15 minutes of a sports broadcast showing giant, monster waves. I immediately recorded it. The next morning, I watched the replay three times until I caught the name of the spot: Ho’okipa.
The location wasn’t in my old atlas, so my wife pulled out hers. Her finger traced the map and stopped in the middle of the ocean. “Honey,” she said, “These are the Hawaiian Islands.”
I made a proposal: “Since we can’t go to Yugoslavia, I would love to windsurf the waves of Ho’okipa just once in my life. What do you say?”
She smiled. “If we are flying to Hawaii, I want to see Hollywood first.”
We had a deal. No Philippines. We were flying to the monster waves of Maui. At the time, I was a laborer working on roofs, making 18,000 Marks a year. But since we planned to go to Hawaii just once, we risked everything—investing our entire life savings of 32,000 Marks for a five-week trip that would change my destiny forever.