The 5 AM Club

“Mauritius?” the companions exclaimed, as surprised as a vampire waking up to a garlic clove.

“This is all unbelievable,” the artist said as he climbed into the cabin. “Mauritius! I’ve always wanted to go to that island, and I’ve read a bit about it. It’s a high-frequency place. French flavor. Tremendous beauty. And, from what they say, many of the warmest and happiest people on Earth live there.”

“I’m blown away, too,” the entrepreneur said as she sipped her coffee and peeked into the cockpit. She studied the pilots as they performed their pre-flight preparation. “I’ve also heard Mauritius is splendid, and that the people are super-friendly, helpful and spiritually advanced.”

After a perfect takeoff, the first-class plane floated high into the clouds. Once at cruising altitude, premium champagne was served, caviar was recommended and an array of fabulous main courses were suggested. The entrepreneur was feeling fairly content and far less incited by the cruel attempt of her investors to take her company away from her. True, this might not be the ideal time to take a vacation to learn about The 5 AM Club philosophy and its underlying methodology that had served Mr. Riley’s ascent to business titan and global philanthropist like rocket fuel. Or perhaps this was the perfect time to get away from her usual reality to discover how the most successful, influential and joyful people on the planet start their days.

After sipping on some champagne, the entrepreneur watched a movie. She then fell into a deep sleep. The artist had a book called Michelangelo Fiorentino et Rafael da Urbino: Masters of Art in the Vatican. He read it for hours. You can just imagine how happy he felt.

The jet made its trajectory over a number of vast continents and above varied terrain. The flight was meticulously conducted, and the landing was as fluid as the overall experience was fine.

“Bienvenue au Île Maurice,” announced the captain over the public address system as the aircraft taxied along the freshly paved runway. “Merci beaucoup. Welcome to Mauritius and Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam International Airport,” he continued, speaking his words with the well-earned confidence of someone who had spent most of his life in the sky. “It’s been a privilege having you two VIPs with us. We’ll see you again in several days, from what Mr. Riley’s personal assistant has informed us of your itinerary. Thank you once again for flying with us, and we trust that the journey was elegant, excellent and above all else, safe.”

A polished black SUV glittered on the tarmac as the flight attendant escorted her special passengers off the plane and into the humming vehicle.

“Your luggage will follow shortly. Not to worry – it shall be delivered to your guest rooms at Mr. Riley’s seaside estate. Spasiba,” she added in a graceful tone and with an earnest wave.

“This is so A-list,” observed the entrepreneur as she happily snapped some selfies, uncharacteristically pouting like a fashionista.

“Def,” replied the artist, as he photobombed her, sticking out his tongue like Albert Einstein did in that famous photo that betrayed his seriousness as a scientist and revealed his undiminished childlike sense of wonder.

As the Range Rover rolled along the highway, tall stalks of sugar cane swayed in the fragrant breezes blown by the Indian Ocean. The quiet chauffeur wore a white cap, the kind you see bellmen at five-star hotels wearing, and a well-pressed dark gray uniform that hinted at an understated yet refined professionalism. He never missed slowing down when the speed limit descended and ensuring his signal light was on whenever a turn was to be made. Though it was evident that the man was older, he moved the vehicle along the roadway with the precision of a young apprentice dedicated to becoming the absolute best. Through the drive, his focus remained transfixed on the pavement ahead, in a sort of trance designed to keep his passengers secure yet deliver them to their destination with a smooth efficiency.

They passed through some tiny villages that had a timeless feel. Bougainvillea lined the streets, wild dogs with king-of-the-road demeanors stood at the meridian line, confronting the SUV in a deadly game of chicken, and children played on small grassy lawns with thoughtless abandon. Roosters could be heard shrieking from time to time, and old men in basic woolen hats with tooth-missing mouths and chestnut-colored skin sat on weather-beaten wooden chairs. They looked like they had too many hours to pass in the day, at once tired from life’s hardships and yet wise from days fully lived. Choirs of upbeat birds sang melodically while colorful butterflies seemed to be fluttering everywhere.

In one tiny community the SUV snaked through, a skinny boy with legs that appeared too long for his body pedaled a banana bike with a seat that was set too high on its creaky metal frame. In another, a group of teenaged girls in tank tops, surf shorts and flip-flops shuffled along the narrow but attentively maintained road, following a man in army green cargo shorts wearing a t-shirt that had “The No.1 Flame-Grilled Chicken” printed on the back of it.

Everything seemed to move on island time. People looked cheerful. They beamed with a radiant vitality not so commonly seen in the overscheduled, machine-dominated and sometimes soulless lives so many among us are experiencing. The beaches were unspeakably beautiful. The gardens were entirely glorious. And the entire Gauguin-looking scene was draped by a series of mountains that looked like they’d been carved by a sixteenth-century Florentine sculptor.

“See that structure up there?” the driver said, breaking his self-imposed silence and pointing to a rock formation at the top of one of the peaks that resembled a human figure. “That’s called Pieter Both. It’s the second-highest mountain in Mauritius. See the summit up there? It resembles a human head, right?” he noted with a finger pointed upward at the structure.

“It definitely does,” responded the artist.

“When we were in elementary school,” the chauffeur continued, “we were told the story of a man who fell asleep at the foot of the mountain. Hearing strange sounds, he woke up to see fairies and angels dancing all about him. These creatures instructed the man never to tell anyone what he had just seen or he would be turned to stone. He agreed but then, given his excitement over the mystical experience he’d witnessed, broke his commitment and told many of his good fortune. Upset, the fairies and angels turned him to rock. And his head swelled to such a degree it rose to sit at the peak of the majestic mountain you both are looking at now, reminding everyone who sees it to keep their promises. And honor their word.”

The SUV meandered past another community. Music played from a small loudspeaker on a front porch as two teenaged boys and three teenaged girls with white and pink flowers in their hair danced gleefully. Another dog barked modestly in the background.

“Great story,” noted the entrepreneur. Her window was open, and her wavy brown hair flitted in the wind. Her usually lined face now appeared completely smooth. She enunciated her words more slowly now. An unprecedented peacefulness emerged from her voice. One of her hands rested on the seat – not so far from where a hand of the artist, which bore finely etched tattoos on its middle and index fingers, lay.

“Mark Twain wrote, ‘Mauritius was made first, and then heaven; and heaven copied Mauritius,’” the driver shared, now warming up after being somewhat steely. He beamed as proudly as a president on Inauguration Day after saying what he’d just said.

“Never seen anything like this,” the artist said, his goth-meets-angry-man hostility now replaced with a more untroubled, carefree and relaxed demeanor. “And the vibe I feel here is stirring something deeply creative inside of me.”

The entrepreneur glanced at the artist for a little longer than was politely acceptable. Then she looked away, out at the sea. Though reluctant, she couldn’t help but smile gently.

The driver could be heard whispering into the SUV’s speakerphone, “Five minutes away.” Then he handed each of his passengers a handcrafted tablet that seemed made of gold. “Please study these,” he told them.

Engraved, finely, in the apparently precious metal were five statements. Here’s what the tablets looked like:

RULE #1

An addiction to distraction is the end of your creative production. Empire-makers and history-creators take one hour for themselves before dawn, in the serenity that lies beyond the clutches of complexity, to prepare themselves for a world-class day.

RULE #2

Excuses breed no genius. Just because you haven’t installed the early-rising habit before doesn’t mean you can’t do it now. Release your rationalizations and remember that small daily improvements, when done consistently over time, lead to stunning results.

RULE #3

All change is hard at first, messy in the middle and gorgeous at the end. Everything you now find easy you first found difficult. With consistent practice, getting up with the sun will become your new normal. And automatic.

RULE #4

To have the results The Top 5 % of producers have, you must start doing what 95 % of people are unwilling to do. As you start to live like this, the majority will call you crazy. Remember that being labeled a freak is the price of greatness.

RULE #5

When you feel like surrendering, continue. Triumph loves the relentless.

The vehicle slowed to a crawl as it passed an orderly row of faded white beach houses. A compact pickup truck was parked in the dusty driveway of one house. Dive gear was strewn across the front yard of another. In front of the last house, a gaggle of kids played in a yard, laughing hysterically as they enjoyed their game.

The ocean appeared, both greenish and bluish with foam-topped waves making shaaaashing sounds before colliding with the sandy shore. The air now smelled a marine life smell, yet sweet like nectar with unexpected cinnamon hints blended into it. On a wide-planked dock, a thin line of a man with a Santa Claus beard and rolled-up khakis fished barefoot for his family’s dinner. A motorcycle helmet was perched on his old head.

The sun was beginning to set, a glamorous sphere of blinding radiance that cast liquid yellow streaks and reflections on the welcoming water that lay before it. Birds still chirped. Butterflies still flew. Quite magical, all of this.

“We’re here,” announced the chauffeur into an intercom perched beside a metal fence that seemed to have been erected more to keep wildlife out than to prevent interlopers from getting in.

The gate opened. Slowly.

The SUV rolled down a winding road teeming with bougainvillea, hibiscus, frangipani and Boucle d’Oreille, the national flower of Mauritius, along the sides. The driver opened his window, inviting in a sea breeze carrying a swirling scent that also included fresh jasmine mixed with rich roses. Gardeners in smart gardening attire waved sincere waves. One shouted “Bonjour” as the vehicle sailed by. Another said “Bonzour” as two fat doves the size of a trucker’s fist hopped along a stone path.

The billionaire’s house was low-key. The design was of the beachfront chic sort. Kind of a Martha’s Vineyard cottage meets Swedish farmhouse feel. It was both sensationally beautiful and completely private.

A massive veranda at the back of the home extended over the ocean. A muddy mountain bike leaned against a wall. A surfboard rested near the end of the driveway. Massive floor-to-ceiling windows were the only extravagant architectural flourish. More precious flowers were meticulously arranged along a deck where a trolley supporting hors d’oeuvres, assorted cheeses and a service of fresh lemon tea with precisely cut slices of ginger waited. Sun-bleached gray steps wound down to a breathtakingly lovely beach, the type seen in the travel magazines the elite crowd like to read.

Amid all this exquisiteness, an isolated figure stood on the milk-colored sand. He made not one movement. Perfect stillness.

The man was Eiffel Tower tall, shirtless and bronzed, and sporting a pair of loose shorts with a camouflage pattern. Canary yellow sandals and uber-stylish sunglasses, the kind you might purchase on Via dei Condotti in Rome, completed the surfer Zen meets Soho swagger appearance. He peered out into the sea, remaining still as a star in the big African sky.

“There,” said the entrepreneur, pointing. “We finally get to see our host. The illustrious Mr. Riley,” she noted energetically, picking up her pace as she hustled down the wooden stairs that led to the seashore. “Look at him! He’s just hanging out by the water, soaking up those rays and totally lovin’ life. Told you he’s special. So happy I trusted my gut and agreed to this wonderful escapade. He’s been true to his word, in a world where too many people say things they never do and make promises they fail to keep. He’s been super-consistent. He’s treated us so well. He doesn’t even know us, and yet he’s really trying to help us. Zero doubt in my mind he’s got our backs. Hurry up, will you,” she urged her slow-moving companion as she waved an encouraging hand. “I feel like giving Mr. Riley a giant hug!”

The artist laughed as a baby gecko jaywalked across a broad plank. He took off his black shirt in the dazzling sunshine, exposing a Buddha-sized belly and man breasts the size of fleshy mangoes.

“Me, too. He does walk his preach. Man, I need to get some sun,” the painter murmured as he sped up to stay close to the entrepreneur. He breathed hard.

As the two guests walked toward the man at the water’s edge of this Nirvana of an ocean compound, they observed there were no other houses in sight. Not even one. Just a few wooden fishing boats with paint peeled off from the passage of years moored in the shallow waters near the shore. And aside from the sun worshipping empire-builder in Italian shades, there was no other human being in evidence. Anywhere.

“Mr. Riley,” shouted the artist, now on the sand hungrily sucking air into his extraordinarily unfit lungs.