Flotsam and Jetsam

 "Out on the blue sea I sailed a blue ship.
I had a first mate, always had blue lips.
His name was Bluebeard.
He had a weird twitch.
We flew a blue flag on a big stick.
And we ate bluegill and we ate blue chips.
Oh, I felt real blue eating that blue fish.
Because there ain't much that I won't do,
unless it keeps me from being true blue."

- "True Blue", Bright Eyes

The fire is just beginning to die out when a truck pulls up on the far side of the lot. I am ecstatic but wary. The truck flashes it's high beams, blinding me. The driver doesn't turn them off and I can't see what's happening. I hear vehicle doors slamming shut. I stand up.

"Hello?" I call out, hoping for a friendly reply but none comes. I know I look like a swamp creature. My hair is matted with salt water, sand clings to my wet clothes which in turn cling to my body while ever in peril of slipping right off me. I can only hope this will improve my chances of eliciting compassion rather than a gunshot to the head for trespassing.

"Hello?" I call again. Still no answer. I see four bodies move away from the truck and towards the tent.

I wait while two shadows are escorted into the tent-the womenfolk I presume- then I gimp forward, tentatively, to meet the two Thai men standing in the porch light.

"I'm sorry," I begin, "so sorry to disturb you. I'm a little bit lost you see, and I'm hoping you might tell me where I am," I hold out my map.

The small one looks at me with squinted eyes. "Where you going?" he asks, taking the map from my hands and crouching down on the ground under the light of a paper lantern. I crouch down beside him.

"Here," I say pointing to the big black dot on the map.

"What?!?" His face changes from annoyance to bewilderment. "Are you taking the long way?"

I laugh, then, biting my lip in a melodramatic display of what I hope he will construe as cute, despite my age and dishevelment, answer "That wasn't my goal but I take it I am?"

"You've paddled past the south of island."

Now it's my turn to exclaim, "What?!?!"

He eyes me for a second, rolls up the map and stands, extending his hand to help me up. He and his friend exchange some words in Thai, but soon fall silent. I wait for what feels like an eternity before finally asking, "So, what is this place anyway? Where am I? Is it okay if I just pitch my tent on that far corner of the beach over there? I promise I'll be quiet and be gone first thing in the morning. You won't even know I'm here, I swear."

I try to convince myself that they can't send me back out on the sea in the dark. That they won't send me back out on the sea. There's an island about an hour's paddle from here. If they do, it's my only option, other than abandoning the kayak and hiking out.

"This is private resort," is his curt reply.

"Oh," I say, "well do you have any spare rooms?"

"Private resort," he says again, "only one room." He nods his head towards the occupied tent with the hardwood floors.

"Oh," is all I say, my fingers playing nervously with my bottom lip.

He converses with his friend again before his friend disappears inside the tent.

"Get your things,"  he says, "you come to my place for shower."

"Thank you," I try to sound relieved but realistically, the situation is getting dodgier by the second. "By the way, where exactly is your place?"

"I live in corner cabin. I take care here. I take care of guests. I take care of you. Now get your things."

I limp back to the kayak, grab the dry sack with my belongings and follow him back to the cabin.

"Thanks," I say again, "I'm so sorry to cause you trouble..."

"Crazy," he says.

"Pardon?" I say.

"Crazy. You are crazy. This is crazy. I have worked here eleven years and never this has happened."

"Oh, now, c'mon," I tease, "You're telling me in eleven years you've never had anyone wash up on your beach?"

"Never." He shakes his head adamantly and without humour. "And certainly never a woman all alone."

"Huh," I say, peering into the darkness trying to map the grounds as we walk, just in case. "Well, I guess that's probably why then. I mean after eleven years you're long overdue for something crazy to happen, don't you think?"

This time he laughs as he unlocks the door to his spacious one room cabin. He flicks a switch and the room is illuminated by a bare bulb dangling from an electrical cord. There are piles of clothes strewn about in typical bachelor fashion, a small cot against one of the plank board walls with Bryan Adams emanating from a small transistor radio on a box beside it. I follow him across the room, past a beaten up bureau with an alarm clock and some yellowing family photographs sitting on top of it. He opens the other door and gestures for me to go inside. There are six cement steps, each about a foot high, leading down into a large, moldy smelling cement room. There's something very "Silence of the Lambs" about it, but a quick double check of the doorknob confirms the lock is on my side of the door, so I descend the stairs.

"There's soap by the shower," he says, flicking on the light and closing the door behind him. I think, "It rubs the lotion on it's skin or else it gets the hose again..." then, laughing to myself I begin to undress. There's a knock on the door.

"Uh, yeah?"

"I have towel for you."

"Oh, uh, it's okay, I have one."

"I no look, lady. You use mine. Fresh wash."

It's not worth arguing. I wrap my quick dry travel towel around me and open the door. A small dark hand shoots through the crack with an old terry cloth towel.

"Thank you."

The shower is abrasively cold, but it feels good to wash off the salt and sand. I don't have any pants to change into but I do have a clean, dry shirt and by the time I walk out of the cabin I feel almost human again.

"Your pants are wet!" my host exclaims when I emerge.

I shrug, "It's all I have."

"You wear my sarong."

I follow him back into the cabin where he hands me his plaid cotton sarong. His is sewn together on both sides, like my sarong from the Baduy, but I've yet to master the art of securing these tubular garments. I fasten it the best I can and go back outside.

The other, large man has joined us now, with food. He dishes out rice and some sort of chicken vegetable curry for me while the caretaker pours me a glass of whiskey with coke. I raise my glass and toast my hosts, "Here's to the kindness of strangers."

"Here's to crazy woman washing up on beach," my little host replies and we raise our glasses for a second swallow.

While we eat, he tells me his name is Lahk. When he was nineteen he met a Belgian man who fell in love with this side of the island and asked him, "Lahk, do you think we could build a hotel here?" And Lahk said yes, sure, we can do anything. So with the Belgians money he set about building this resort and two years later they opened for business. He's been running this place ever since.

"Wow, tough life you have, living here in the jungle with your ocean view," I say admiringly.

"Yeah," he laughs, "when there are no guests it's all mine. Like today I just slept and drank whiskey," he raises his glass again. "Always, I sleep when I drink. It makes me very tired," he laughs as he swallows.

"You are crazy woman you know? Why do you do this?"

"Do what?"

"Kayak on the sea alone. Travel alone. Why do you go to a strange country alone?"

"Why not?"

"Because, you will get in trouble. Like today."

I laugh. "True. But what's the other option? Sit at home and watch TV? I wouldn't meet interesting people like you."

"Yes, well today you are lucky," he says, eying me meaningfully. "Not everyone in the world is good, you know."

"Oh I know," I answer staring back at him with equal entendre before smiling sweetly. "Still, I often get along just as well with the not good people as the good one's." Then I add with a shrug, "Sometimes better."

"What will you do," he says, still staring me down through inquisitor's eyes, "when one day you meet bad people who want to hurt you?"

"I guess one of us will win," I answer, meeting his gaze with unwavering eyes, "and the other one will lose."

He takes another swig of whiskey, then reaches for the bottle, refilling both our glasses.

"And what," he continues, settling back into his chair and fixing me in his sight again, "if you're the one who loses?"

"Well, then, at least I had a good time while it lasted. But," I add by way of warning, "I don't think my luck is going to run out any time soon." I drain my glass dramatically.

He quickly tosses his back as well before slamming his glass down on the mahogany platform I'm sitting on that's also serving as a table and laughs. He reaches for the whiskey bottle again and refills them both.

"Okay," I say, "one more but then I really must go down to the beach and get my tent."

"No," he says, locking eyes with me again as he hands me my drink, "you will drink with me. You can sleep in the guest house."

"What?! I thought you said there was only one?"

"I sent the couple away."

My glass falters in it's trajectory towards my lips. This changes everything. Lahk is small, but muscled and wiry. Still, I'm fairly certain I could knock him out if I had too. But his quiet friend, who it turns out is the gardener and whom Lahk has been teasing all night about his love of food, has an easy 150 pounds on me. He seems harmless enough but I'm don't like this situation one bit.

"You really shouldn't have done that," I say before taking my next sip. My stupored brain continues to try to formulate a plan. I will have to use the alcohol to my advantage.

"Where would you sleep?" Lahk demands. He's already told me alcohol makes him sleepy. I just need to outdrink him.

"I told you I would sleep in my tent," I retort watching him lift his glass and take another gulp.

The Gardener, who has eaten every last morsel of food, gets up from the mahogany platform, climbs onto his motorcycle and drives away.

Lahk seems to leer at me for a moment, like a wolf at a piece of tenderized meat, before saying quietly, "No. You cannot sleep outside. It's cold and the mosquitoes will eat you." I am about to protest that I slept just fine outside under the stars the night before when he gets up from his chair, gathers up the bottle and glasses and says, "Let's go, crazy woman."

But when I stand up the sarong falls down.

Lahk watches me struggle to retie it, then places his cargo back on the table. "Here," he says, walking behind me. He reaches around and grabs the cloth on both sides. I raise my arms like a helpless child while he folds, flips and rolls the fabric into a waistband.

 "Huh, just like that?" He nods, reloads his arms and wanders into the darkness. I grab my dry sack and hobble after him, back towards the sea.