An Extremely Modest Proposal

When I first heard of the vacation proposal, I rejected it. I threw it out, dripping from my own streams of vitriol. What's so bad about a vacation, you say? Well, what exactly is so good about one? To a sociable teenager such as myself (read: whiny and stubborn) who is running out of time, to be ripped away from his vibrant life for even a meager ten days is life-threatening. Obviously, the promise of a beach wasn't near as thrilling as the promise of walking around the mall for hours, only breaking occasionally for sub-par food.

Even by the time all of us and our stuff was carefully packed in the car, I still wasn't convinced. Let me tell you, ten hours is a long time to mull over the things I already didn't care for; cramped body parts (and functions), shuddering roads, and our GPS's incessant warbling. We stopped at a roadside hotel for the night, and I found a dead cockroach to add to my list.

The next day held only a few hours of actual driving, and we made it fairly quickly to our tropical destination. It only took a matter of minutes before I recanted every ill-intentioned thought I had had toward such a haven as this. Being a male teenager does have certain advantages, and I was able to acquire a room all to myself. The room was discovered with a double bed, its own bathroom, and an elongated balcony. On the actual balcony, a simple turn of the head could swing you from the deep blue of careful chlorination, or a westward bay, tingling with curls of foam. A waved construction of man, or the mighty splendor of creation. Naturally, my family opted first for the pool. As such, it only took a few hours before my new swim-wear was put to good use. Heaven forbid that I actually swim, I just wanted to weightlessly drift for hours on end, my eyes closed to life's problems. It didn't flawlessly work, but it helped my tan.

Day 2:

We as of yet have only attempted one night without using the air conditioner, and at this point we don't intend for a repeat performance. I get up early (and yes, seven is early, especially on vacation), shower, and finish reading the book I had started the day before. The beauty of free time is that it can always delightfully be wasted, this time by a library that sits rather nonchalantly directly in front of my balcony view.

Breakfast is a buffet in the main cafeteria. Yes, it is delicious, and yes, I manage to eat far too much. The morning is spent splashing salt water and accidentally getting beach up my shorts. The sand is soft and crumbled, like baked confection sugar swirled around candles of fir trees. And much like this powdered sugar, it also tends to get everywhere, but never mind. I retreat to my room to take a second shower, start a new book, and write the beginnings of this log. Thankfully relaxation isn't drowned by possibilities; it certainly looks as if I'll be wading in a sea of tranquility for the next week or so. So long, I'm off to capture sunlight.

--

I didn't capture the sunlight like I wanted to, but it sure likes getting trapped under my skin. I'll settle for a handful of shells, beached by the low tide. Uncomfortable sandals lashed between my toes, I was a lone warrior with the entire horizon held in my iris. Pale blue boats, float idly in the shallows, while the ground below me seems to pulsate with the fury of thousands of tiny legs. They scurry back and forth between holes, and you wonder if they could slip the ground from under you. I shake off my feet cages and scrunch. You can't hear much besides the constant lapping of the water, and your own ebb and flow of thought, never ceasing to drench the shores of the mind.

I start to walk, a watery yonder on my left, sparse tropical civilization to my right, and a massage of liquid beneath my feet. I start to walk, leaving my shoes behind. When I finally return, they are rather indignant, and show no mercy for toes all the way home. Most of the rest of the afternoon is uneventful, which is apparently pleasant according to vacation standards. I spent it starting another new book, writing portions of this insufficient monologue, and serenading the room walls.

Evening comes, so I put on my swimming trunks and head down to the pool. The water is surprisingly warm, and aimlessly flailing my limbs held the most fun I'd had all week. Limbs tired, I grab airy plastic and hoist myself on my back. Words can hardly describe the milky textures and friendly moon, even though only half of his face is showing. It was as if somebody had poked holes through a giant blanket, and kept wiggling the fabric so that the pinpricks of light danced too. It was in that moment that I had never felt so simultaneously miniscule and secure in being cared for at the same time. Celestial bodies continue their june-bug while I remain content to hop back to my room. There was only one thing left for the day: A showdown of words fighting for territory upon crinkled land. In other (more normal) words, I took part in an ill-fated Scrabble match against my mother, my poorly trained soldiers soundly beaten and sent home. I didn't mind, sometime this week I'd get the opportunity for vocabulary domination through Boggle.

Day 3:

After the normality, there isn't a whole lot to tell. Breakfast is still delicious, I finished my third book, and my sandals are still slightly uncomfortable. I maintain minimal contact with the outside world, and spend a good portion of time either reading or catching up on sleep. I wish there was more exploring to be done, but it appears the fine residence of Dolphin Bay leaves most of the room for relaxing. I say most because there is still the promise of boat and kayak trips, but for now I'm sequestered in my room.

Day 4:

Most of the morning passes by expectantly, with a few extra pieces of toast. The smell of shore permeates the outdoors and I revel in it. As a surprise, or maybe even as a bribe (it's hard to tell the difference nowadays, but it works) my dad decided to rent the two available motorbikes for the afternoon. I won't detail the minor 'speed bump' right at the beginning, but after that setback, everything is smooth driving. There's a lazy stretch of road parallel to the coast and we cling to it for the nonexistent traffic and distracting but beautiful scenery. When we did veer off onto bigger roads and bigger things, I'm eager to exercise my wrist and soak in the rush. I pull back the throttle and feel the chatter of the engine and the gradually unfocusing pavement. My dad is ahead of me, and I can quickly close the gap if I need to. The wind is a forceful bully: it whips the helmet strap against my neck, takes a holed of whistling clothes, and presses the visor hard into my nose. I can't say I mind; I'd wish for the wind to carry me everyday. And for a few hours, it did.

Day 5:

In our single stroke of actual planning we arranged for a boat to take us around the bay for some fishing, but it mostly served as an extra chance for the sun to paint us a deeper shade of red. I view fishing quite similarly to Scrabble: it's fun for a little while, but eventually you wonder when it's going to end, if ever. Which is why I carried my book along as added ammunition against a tyrant named boredom.

Our captain was built of smiles and leathery brown skin like the majority of Thais, and you could tell he loved his job. He quickly got all of us attached to fishing lines, even my mother, who would have preferred to sit this one out. Not five minutes had past before my little sister felt a tug on her line and quickly reeled it in. Then it happened again, and again. I caught two of my own silver sea creatures, but Abigail remains the heroine of the day with six to her credit. I made my catches early on, so I quickly find excuse to lay back and become the boat, caressing crests of emerald water.

Due to some lucky miscommunication, the boat swerves around to the lee shores of the one place my parents didn't want to go. Unsurprisingly, Monkey Island is aptly named and our welcoming party consists of a single primate, larger than you'd think. Our toothy guide begins making noises of encouragement and throwing orange flecks of something I couldn't identify, but the creature remains wary. Then he (I think all monkeys have the appearance of males, but don't hold it against us) yawned, and I very quickly become just as wary. I saw exactly how large his incisors were. He scampers off and we follow, only to the point of running into whatever you would call a group of monkeys. I notice two of the monkeys that have offspring attached to their chest, hereby disproving my previous theory. We had always heard unpleasant stories about the island's inhabitants being exceedingly aggressive, owing to my parent's hesitation, but these ones remained as shy as kids on the first day of school.

If the monkeys would have remained still, which they would not, you could've mistaken most any one of them for some primal stuffed animal, and I probably wouldn't hesitate to take one home if I could. Their eyes were like caramel that had recently been glazed over, which I see when I finally manage to get one over and give a little tug on my shorts. A few seconds later he was gone, and we retreat to the relative shade of the boat. thus concludes our island adventuring, and anything remotely unordinary for the rest of the day.

Day 6:

On a relative whim we decide to visit a national park that happened to be quite close by. After breakfast, of course. You can't miss breakfast on days like these.

Our first stop had us stomping through richly red soil under the glare of a feverish sun. We are handed awkward looking head-lamps and pointed away to a rather large pile of rocks, which evidently we are supposed to climb. All we have to do is follow the arrows and hope for no sprained ankles. Half an hour later finds me peering down through a substantial opening in the ground. Or mountain, as it were. You are led down by a comfortably sturdy ladder (by Thai standards) and left to stare at all the natural wonders that a cave can afford. The disadvantage of small families comes when Abby is the only one willing to join me the seeking out the depths of the cave, and I'm instructed not to lead her too far.

The head-lamps are squeezed just tight enough to allow brain aneurysms, but I hold up fine among the craggled enclosure of brown. The stalactites and their brothers seem friendly enough, so even when the path becomes difficult, we keep on going. It's our first encounter with the living that gives us time to pause. I hate spiders. He probably just wishes I would stop shining light in his eyes. I turn a blind eye and crawl on, coming to some more agreeable caverns. It should have been expected, but the wider space allows for some new friends. I ask Abby if she wants to keep going in spite of the bats, but I'm secretly thankful when she said no. Not before one decides to fly out a short distance from our heads, but no worries, we live to fight another day.

I don't have to have had a traumatic experience with those blind cave creatures to know that I dislike them (hate is more naturally reserved for the aforementioned arachnid), but it's just as well. They are probably thankful for me to be out of their way.

Backtracking among scattered rocks, I make sure Abby has safe footing and a sure hold of my hand in just enough time to be concerned for my own safety. We travel to the decidedly less exciting visitor's center, but at least there are more of our primate friends. They saw fit to ramble around every tree they could find, and maybe even on occasion to cross the road.

One thing did strike me about this place, and that's that in spite of the tropics, the landscape is quite desert reminiscent. All they need is a few saguaros in place of the mangrove trees and I would have been fooled. Of course, this is me we're talking about.

After that we find our way to a surprisingly pleasant Thai steakhouse, where I ordered the 'beep steak.' Afternoons back at the resort are holding up to a lazy standard, despite me having to play catch up with this travel journal. Duty calls, right?

Day 7:

Today is supposed to be extra relaxing because apparently some stiffness stubbornly held up
overnight from yesterday's excursion, enough to postpone the kayaking trip we had planned. But also for the maximum dolphin viewing time, which I anticipate in earnest. The stiffness wasn't unkind to me, but I still lazily coasted through books five and six. The evening is just balmy enough to ready for a swim under cloudy black. Nature always has a way of proving my failings, but when I saw the moon clothed in swathes of smoky haze framed to perfection by the leafy blades of closer palm trees, I had to rush for the camera. A picture takes, but has the appearance of film captured by a disposable in a windstorm. I change the settings. The camera shudders unexpectedly as the flash pops up in surprise and I overhear mutterings of 'What was that?', 'I thought it was lightning.' Disappointingly, it still looks like a large speck of dust got caught in the lens. I maintain a bruised composure and walk quickly back to the room to trade the camera for the smooth wood of my guitar. Ah, familiarity.

Day 8:

The one constant that strings together almost every single one of our weeks has always been church, and this Sunday is no different. We brave early morning traffic and unsure directions to finally make it to a gathering of Christians that could very well have been a simple Bible study. The message is about being judgmental, and I identify. The pastor and his wife are also members of the same organization as us, so we spend our afternoon at a seafood restaurant with most gorgeous seaside view I've ever seen.

Overall, not that exciting, but there's nothing better than fellowship and food with good friends.

Day 9:

Here we come, the final day. Some disappointing things happened to bring our kayaking trip to this point in time, but we still set out after breakfast, seeing the ache of arms in our future. I grab a purple ended oar, and drag a hopefully sea-worthy vessel to the licking edge. Push off, and the water rolls under with all the thunder of an infant cradle. About twenty minutes later, this was not the case. I'm called abruptly back with an island giant staring me down. So, our self-sustained boat trip was kept pretty short, but as in my orange plastic raft, part of the fun is going with the flow.

The rest of the day is layered with the theme of our entire vacation: reading, swimming, and general relaxation. A final respite before the realization that we have to spend eleven straight hours in the car tomorrow.

Now:

In the aftermath of all this, I'm pretty content. I realized that in Chiang Mai I was spending too much time for assuring closure with the multitude of friends that I soon am leaving behind, and I wasn't spending enough time to assure closure with my beloved family members that will leave behind a more consistent hole than most of my friends could.