Oh no.
From Koh Samui to Koh Tao ("Turtle Island"), I had to take the two-tier boat carrying c. 200 people. The sun was out and the sea air was fresh. There was the usual impatience to get on at the pier, and a general mood of excitement prevailed during boarding and manouvering of the boat out of the quayside.
Hungover young men/boys were sleeping on top of bags, and each other, on the deck. Fresh-faced travellers swapping stories in that familiar routine - how much does it cost, how long it take to get to Bangkok, or to the next island, did you like Chiang Mai, is Cambodia safe, how much is the plane ticket? A local Thai was holding a well-behaved rust-coloured chicken, wrapped in a hotel towel.
We depart, the bus-like vessel ploughing through modest wavelets. Conditions progressively roughen, and the mood livens up further. A roller-coaster type squeal spreads from the front of the boat backwards.
Are we paying for this?
The waves are getting more powerful. We are heading into the wind. The squeals of enjoyment are getting higher pitched, with a trace of horror in some girls’ raised voices.
A bronzed, fleshy Swede is laughing progressively harder at her skinny friend's comic genius, even as skinny friend is looking increasingly pale. The hungover layabouts start to stir.
Now the waves start becoming well-defined, rolling swells followed by leisurely-sweeping valleys. Pitch, roll, and yaw are all well-represented, with the bow of the boat nodding forwards, then swaying drunkenly to the right, now with increasing velocity, now smashing into the base of the valleys. Swedish girl is now laughting self-consciously, looking around, realising that everyone else has gone quiet, skinny friend, most others are looking down into the thick blue-painted deck.
You need to show me some respect.
Thai chicken guy looks unfazed. As does chicken. I mentally perform a safety audit of the boat - not good. Not good safety features, I decide. And not good that I'm thinking this way. Whats the worst scenario? Leave the bags, hang onto the passport. The sea is warm here. But the waves are looking more and more hostile.
We are not sea-sawing anymore. The boat is now climbing like a timber truck up a steep hill. Every time the hull climbs another crest and swoons head-first we feel closer and closer to the water. The white foam spray from the impact ricochets around the bodies of the young men now standing up, trying to avoid the vomit being distributed across the deck with the force of a fire hose. The funfair amusement park screams of entertainment and surprise coming from the passengers below deck are now low groans, only coming out when we have a yet-steeper pitch or more gut-wrenching roll.
The fat girl shuts up, looking pale. She leans over the side. When will it be over? Scanning ahead we can't see any sign of land. But, peering out there we can see that the sea is mercilessly, remarkably, getting worse. Just a little further ahead the waves are taking on a life of their own. The groans are replaced by silence. There is a feeling that this is a bad sign. We are now nothing but a container full of vomiting, clinging, watch-glancing bags of fear. Only the chicken pokes its head around in curiosity. The silence is all the more damning for the contrast with our former giggling selves.
I knew this would happen
Yes, we are defeated.
Is the sea calming down a fraction, or are we just getting used to the violence of this bucking horse? No one is looking up to check anyway.
The waves only start to deminish when we are close enough to the island to make out individuals on the pier. But the chatter doesn't yet return - except for the fat Swedish girl - until it is clear we are not going over, then everyone feels they need to utter some words of relief. Back we are to conversations about how to get to Bangkok, how much did that hotel cost.
Moral of the story?
Buy when the fat girl starts to chat again.
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