The catamaran rocked gently against the rolling water. Teary eyed performances played on the DVD screen of America’s Got Talent unlikely underdog stories. Simon from American Idol is a nobhead, but I have to admire him; he played us all for idiots and won. His character is almost believable.
My thoughts are as a shiny ball rolling from side to side of the insides of my skull. It’s been a massive few weeks emotionally, but as the ferry pulls into port at Koh Tao, I feel old loops being untied. I’m here to get healthy in body and mind.
The first week passes by without much ado. I have little to no interaction with other island patrons, as I just hit the gym and the water and try and piece myself together. I am aware I am just a weirdo in a room on an island in the middle of nowhere, so far from home. Is this how the homeless start off? I don’t care to find out, I quite enjoy sleeping in a bedroom instead of a bathroom, and egg in a beard is not a good look for anyone. Lest we forget.
I drew up a list of things I’ve been meaning to do for awhile but have lacked motivation or life situation to complete. Top of the list is learn how to freedive, which is descending down into the ocean deep on a single breath. Moving into a more social accommodation, I book a two day course.
Freediving is all about the preparatory breathing. Bobbing at the surface, cycling deep long breaths, I grab the line and gently pull myself down into the deepness. The nerve that safeguards breathing function begins to scream at around 8 metres, though I have been trained to ignore it. At 10 meters it is quiet. And then before I know it, I am at 20 meters, lost in an expanse of weightlessness. I hold the line gently and observe my surroundings, a single white speck in another world. If a scuba diver is the astronaut of the ocean, then I must be some sort of space angel, drifting through the ether, gliding through the cosmos. In reality though, I’m just a pasty white guy with no shirt on getting punished for his hubris by stinging jelly fish. Maybe a worm at the end of a twenty meter fishing line? It must be humbling existing anywhere other than at the top of the food chain, and it’s been about twenty seconds in such a foreign place without oxygen. The surface is far, but I am at peace. What an experience.
I had started the friendship momentum, engaged and interested in people again. The homeless ethos begins to subside. People are actually good, and life begins to turn itself around. I hit bars with my new friends, dancing on the beach with enough enthusiasm to get hit on by at least two homosexuals per night. I resolve to be a bit more cooler. My gaydar calms its beeping and I reach equilibrium, interested and firey without looking himterested and fairy. I imagine the ‘beep’ sound on a gaydar would evolve to be a bit more camp. Probably a fem-sounding “hayyyyyyy”, or “mmmmm” or “darrr-ling”…... but I digress.
The full moon party date looms closer and it’s been awhile since my insanity has been sanctioned and validated by thousands of others. And with that, I book a room at Coral Bungalows. Again. And here I am, surrounded by youth a side step away from comatose, covered in fluro paint. Again. That side of it is a bit of a drag as I realize I’m not 18 anymore. I have to be told about Instagram and Pinterest by people that are younger than me, like it’s such an inconvenience for them to visit me in the old folks home and teach me how to work the DVD player. I resolve to never eat butterscotch candy just in case I accidentally slip into my twilight years whilst chatting to these kids.
The upshot is I befriend a crew who are cooler than frozen polar-bear-flavored icy pops. Brennan, Charley, Emily, Nick and Laura shine an affinity I could only find in my bestest of friends. Love is people accepting you for who you are and not wanting you to change. So when we sit around the war table playing drinking games, my stories make people laugh as I don’t feel the need to muzzle who I am truly; an eccentric weirdo. We all laugh and make merry, and as usual, the days after the madness of the Full Moon Party are the most fun. The ladyboys have garnered enough validation sexually from unsuspecting English alcoholics to stay at home, the pickpockets sit atop a pile of swag in their tin roof shacks and the hippies on mushroom shakes have enough room to dance like water flowing through a maze without upsetting the steroid swelled Australian dudes with their shirts off. Peace in the shire.
Despite the monsoon season we decide to move over onto the West side of the peninsula to visit the small island of Railay. A rock climbing mecca, we find ourselves freeclimbing into the middle of a mountain, slip sliding down vertical ropes in the wet with too many close calls to count.
To the victor the spoils, for in the center of these rock walls lay the most beautiful lagoon I have ever seen. Laying on our backs adrift in the huge pool, we all realize how awesome it is to be alive. Descending into the pool was a baptism of pure peace. I laughed heartily, overcome with emotion. It was good to clean the mud off us, three sweaty shirtless men in the jungle covered in a mysterious brown substance. The picture is suspect if you think about it.
Backstage at a Freddie Mercury concert.... Jokes
Railay was the island getaway we needed. The bars rocked at night, but were friendly enough for even the drunkest amongst us to wo/man the DJ booth. My memory is stained with Laura up on the decks, playing two hip hop songs at the same time, out of time. The dancefloor dispersed faster than even the worst flatulence ever could. Who even cares, we run this town.
Next on the agenda; the Phi Phi Islands. ‘The Beach’ had made these islands famous in the nineties, appealing to mans sense of island adventure. The ferry pulled into port as the rain fell down lazily. ‘Save as’ for next time.
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