Kho Yao

"Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore."

-Andre Gide

Zack taps me on the shoulder and nods his head towards an eagle hovering over the cliff to our left. The bird is futilely flapping his wings, unable to fly against the raging wind. Zack and his friend continue to carry the loaded kayak towards the pounding surf while I pause and consider postponing my launch until tomorrow. I push the doubt from my mind and follow the boys with my kayak but when I catch up Zack says, "You know, you can wait until tomorrow."

When I shrug, he nods and says in his sweet melancholy way, "Yeah, your right, it just makes it more of an adventure."

A few hours earlier, Zack greeted me with the slow, penetrating, sadness I associate with the tortured souls of romance poets, maligned musicians and alienated writers.  His, I soon realized, was a much worse affliction because his was a dispossessed soul with nothing to pour all that pain and angst into but a kayak shack.

Much to the amusement of his two friends seated on the log benches, I rose to the challenge, trying to cajole him into better spirits throughout our transaction but failing to elicit even a fleeting, faded smile.

"Do you have someplace I can keep my bag?" I asked before heading to the nearest village to buy food and water.

He let out a pained sigh so heavy with disdain I thought the sheer apathetic force of it might topple his tiny, sinewy frame. "Of course."

Laughing, I picked up my bag, passed it to him and turned to go.

"Good gawd, is there someone living in here?" I stopped to watch him carry my bag away, feeling quite satisfied with myself. I had cracked him. He made a joke.

"Well, in a manner of speaking, yes, yes there is," I replied before setting off, down the gravel road.

When I returned an hour later with 6 bottles of water, bananas, two bags of peanuts and a container with my leftover dinner of chicken and rice, he had all the camping gear laid out on the beach and paperwork ready to sign. His voice still plodding with the heaviness of depression, he handed me 'the big knife' and he deadpanned, "you will need that in the middle of the night when you find you're not really alone."

"Gee, thanks Zack," I replied with mock earnestness, "between you and the guy in Phuket going on about the sharks I'm feeling reassured about my life choices." This time he even cracked a smile.

"Now," he continued, "I just need you to sign this form saying it's not our fault when you die and an emergency contact number or email I can use when you don't make it back. A friend, a relative, ... boyfriend?"

When I smiled but didn't answer his question he retreated and instead tried to reassure me, "I'm kidding you know, about the not coming back. No one's ever not come back."

Once the paperwork was in order he pulled out a map to point out favourite sights and places to avoid. "But, you should go here," he concluded drawing a circle with his finger around some dots to the north of the island. "I love it there. Nobody goes there. It's beautiful and quiet and you don't have to deal with other people at all. Perfect for people like us. Go there." For a minute, I was taken aback: how did he know that I am 'people like us'? But of course I am a woman setting out to sea, alone, in a kayak. Who else could I be?

As he helped me pack my gear he showed me where a rat, trapped in the storage hold, had damaged the kayak trying to escape. "Don't," he admonished morosely, "leave the cover off for even a minute or they'll get in and ruin everything." So much for thinking I was leaving rats behind in the city.

Occasionally he'd look up from the folding, and stuffing and jamming of packing to say "Canada, hey?" Then, shaking his head in a bewilderment tinged with the blues, he'd add, "Canadian girls are awesome."

Now he sits on the bow, holding the kayak steady for me as I climb in. Once I've pulled the skirt tight around me he hands me the paddle. He removes his camouflage cotton baseball cap revealing a mass of long black loose curls, unusual for this part of the world and which the wind tussles wildly, revealing a two inch wide strip shaved on the left side where six, thick wire stitches have been threaded into his skull.

"You're going to have a great time, Canadian girl," he says. Then, placing his hat on my head, "You're going to need this."

But once he's hopped off the kayak and pushed me out to sea, the doubts begin to clang above the roar of the sea. I dig into the water with my strongest strokes but barely move against the aggressive wind and waves. I am as helpless and static as the madly flapping, motionless eagle. The wind knocks Zack's hat off my head and a wave swallows it whole. I sit for a moment, watching, waiting for it to resurface but it never does.