Note: This story is from September 2011 while I was away from Puok because of flooding.

A large wave crashes into the boat, splashing my face, holding me hostage in the situation.  I can barely make out a deserted, rocky shoreline.  Darkness of night has set in.  Our small, wooden boat is about a mile or two from the nearest land.

The captain’s in action, wrestling the boat, the ocean.  I think, “No life jackets.  No life jackets.  No life jackets.  If the boat flips, I’ll be okay.  I can swim to the shore and wait there until morning light.”

We sit silent.  We hold the floor.  We listen to waves.  We listen to the engine.  Except for stars, and lightning in the distance, it’s dark.  It’s hard to tell if we’re going forward because we’re being tossed around.

What a trip–my first to Monkey Island, Cambodia.

Only nine hours earlier I’d eaten fried eggs, bacon, beans, and fried mushrooms for breakfast with my friend Vanna.  I was content staying on the beach, but Vanna insisted on exploring the island’s jungle.  He’s been here before.

My black, strap-on Teva sandals were no shield from what had been a monsoon weekend.  Hints of the morning sun were hitting the yellow, blue, and green shacks that line the beach.

Vanna told me about a trail from our side of the island to the other.  The trail’s entrance was no more than a few pieces of a boat engine, scattered next to a few pieces of trash from the tiny market nearby.

The trail’s initial climb was uphill, but just a little bit.  The path was rocky and wet, taking us through two ankle-deep creeks.  I left my sandals on, but Vanna took his shoes off, going barefoot, because the soles of his shoes were too slick.

(Note: Vanna has become a good friend.  He’s from America, but his parents are from Cambodia.  They fled the war in the late-1970s.  Vanna was born in a United Nations refugee camp in Thailand.  He was four-years-old when his family was sponsored to move to Massachusetts.  He left the U.S., and everyone he knew, in 2009 to work in Cambodia, and explore his parents’ homeland.)

We hiked at a quick pace heading into tree-covered darkness, until we came to a cliff.  Vanna looked back at me, surprised to see how steep the incline was. It looked almost vertical.

Someone had tied a rope to the tree next to us–a tool to help hikers get down the cliff.  We were 30 minutes into the hike.  We didn’t consider turning back.

I spent what felt like the next hour on my butt scooting down the cliff, one hand on the rope.  By the time we stood on flat ground again, the trail had disappeared.  We kept walking for an hour in what we’d hoped was the direction that would lead us out.

I could hear the ocean, the Gulf of Thailand.  It sounded like the waves were hitting rocks only a couple yards away.  But, the tree cover was too heavy.  I could only see trees.

It started to rain, and the spot where we stood felt like a dead end.  There was no sign of a way to go.  I thought, “What the hell happens if we can’t find our way out?”

We back tracked.  Then, we back tracked again, going a different direction this time.  As the rocky coast appeared, we walked past small, empty, wooden cabins–a deserted resort, maybe open only in the dry season.  The rain hurt my face because it was coming down so hard.

The beach looked untouched–a much more rugged and deserted side of the island.  But we weren’t the only ones there.

Two people who were staying in the same place as us shouted from behind.  We had met them the night before.  They were so far down the beach I could barely see them.  We waited as the couple caught up, out of breath.  They told us their trek was just as treacherous–although they were on a different path than us.

We agreed hiking back, up the cliff, was out of the question.  Vanna told us about a village four miles down the beach.  So we started walking, hoping a boat would be able to take us back to our side of the island.

We walked through sand so wet it sucked our feet in with every step.  There weren’t many signs of life–no traffic, no buildings, no people–just a few pieces of trash.  Heavy gray clouds covered the vast, open ocean.

Two hours later the sun had started to come out, allowing us to see the village.  It was a tiny place–about a dozen small, wooden houses near the water, and a group of sparse cabins for backpackers.

Loud Australians drinking beer marked what appeared to be the only food spot in the village.  A few beers, and fried rice with beef and squid sounded amazing.  So, we sat down and ordered.

One of our new friends told us he’d head down the beach and try to bargain spots for us on the only boat in sight.  Turned out the boat’s owner planned to leave for our side of the island just after dark.  He offered to take us for $15 each.  That’s really expensive, but we had no other choice.

To pass the time until our trip back, we drank beer and watched the sun set against the ocean.  Darkness had set in as we walked toward our small, blue, wooden boat.  It was a big hop from the dock down to the boat.  A Khmer family was huddled around the driver’s seat in the back–two little girls, their mother—the father, our boat captain.

We sat on a grass mat picnic-style on the deck. Our legs were nearly even with the top of the water outside the boat.  Fumes from the boat’s engine were overwhelming as it sputtered to life. The engine was loud–I could feel it vibrating in my chest as we pushed off the dock.

Vanna and the two others were laughing about something–trying to distract our friend who’s scared of the water.  The boat captain’s right-hand-man who was sitting in the front, left his perch and stood next to us as he removed one of the boat’s floorboards.  He bent over, scooping water out of the bottom of the boat with an empty, plastic oil jug.

The few lights in the village behind us faded quickly in the boat’s wake.  The boat rocked heavily from side to side–I held onto the floor so I didn’t fall out.  The water was rough. Vanna and the other two grew silent.  I turned to look at them for the first time since we left.  They were all clearly scared.

Now, I’m scared too.

My stomach churns.  I’m nervous.  The boat crashes into waves.  Waves.  Waves.  Waves.  The only light is a small blinking spotlight near the captain, the lightning in the distance–and the stars still uncovered by the clouds.

I look for constellations, and for a moment I don’t feel nervous.  The stars–stay focused on the stars.

I have no idea how much time has passed as we round the island’s point–maybe 40 minutes.  The boat slams into waves.  Waves.  Waves.  Waves.  In the darkness, I can see the lights of our cabins now.  Between the flashes of lightning, they almost look like stars.

-end-

Two snapshots.