Kayaking to Buddha: A personal journey in Koh Kaew
Guest post by Keith Fitzgerald
I headed over to a little beach called Ya Nui to rent a kayak for 100 baht (US$3) an hour and paddled out into the beautiful Andaman Sea at the southern end of Phuket island. Since I was a kid, I’d had this fantasy of rowing on a tranquil blue-green sea, floating around, maybe jumping in for a swim.
I paddled first toward Man (pronounced as mahn) Island just across from the beach because the kayak-rental guy told me it was a good place to snorkel. When I got up close to the rocky edge of this isle, with no beaches, I saw an American couple struggling because of all the sharp rocks and the lack of any place to get a foothold. They had swum here from the beach.
I saw nowhere to tie up the kayak so I could commune with tropical fish, so I navigated around the island and out to the sea.
I was determined to get all the way to Buddha Island, which is what the farang call it. The real name is Koh Keaw Pisadon. It means Magic Glass Island, though I’m not sure why exactly. My bed sheet and floor have bloodstains on them now.
Magic Glass / Buddha Island was about a mile from Cape Promthep, the end of the land. No one rowed kayaks or anything else out there. However, I saw a man in a strange hat, foot-paddling what looked like a combination catamaran-sailboat-bicycle. He was so relaxed and comfortable, drinking bottled water. I cursed him for it.
As was my way, I hadn’t prepared at all. It reminded me of that time I did a 10-hour hike through South Korea’s Wolchulsan National Park without taking any water. That journey took me up high peaks and to an ancient stone Buddha, which I nearly dropped dead trying to get to, even though I was as atheist as a toad.
The kayak moved. I moved it. After a few minutes, the point hit home that I wasn’t in good shape. Acute shoulder pain, with every stroke sending a shot of it. Still, on that first leg, after I passed beyond Man Island, I was in the paradise I’d longed for.
Out in the distance, I saw some longtail boats and a fishing vessel. The figures of tourists on the bluffs of Cape Promthep, especially Muslims from the deep south who went there every day.
I could see my destination. From this far out, I could tell the Buddhist statues were garish gold, rather new, and nothing to die for in a kayak, without a life raft, anything to drink, or anyone to rescue me if another tsunami hit.
At the north end of Ya Nui beach, there was a plaque to Heather, from her love, who lost her on December 26, 2004. The kayak man told me that three people were killed at this beach, all of whom were foreigners. The tidal waters went one kilometre inland. Out of over 5,000 people whose names we had, nearly 4,000 were still unaccounted for.
At a certain point in my now slow row to the Buddhas, the waters got a bit choppy. Nothing big enough to even splash into my boat, but the fear struck. What if it was a tsunami? I’d be swallowed up, and no one would ever know. I’d just go missing forever.
That passed after a few minutes. I caught ahold of reason. I kept rowing, through the stabs of pain, and the lovely water.
Man Island, Ya Nui, and Cape Promthep receded. Closer and closer to my goal and exhausted, I paddled straight toward where I saw stairs. I docked there and tied up my boat. Then, I went exploring, found a place to swim, took pictures, and headed back.
Maybe it took an hour from where I started to Scylla and Charybdis. I steered my craft to the only point where it looked like I might be able to moor it. The closer I got, the rougher the current. Sometimes, it seemed like I could cut a quick path to a safe place to land.
Two seconds later, the waves were enough to make a mess of me against the rocks. I tried to get into a notch. Couldn’t control the kayak. I didn’t have the experience. Anyone who did wouldn’t think to land here. I saw nowhere else to do it.
First try! I closely averted a disaster: capsizing, losing the oar, and my waterproof plastic duffel bag with my wallet, camera, and keys. Worse than that, I avoided being smashed against the rocks covered with razor-like barnacles.
My heart was racing, and I had to be calm. I waited and let the water settle. I watched what it was doing, and when it calmed, I would use the oar to get into a slot where the kayak would stick, and I could scramble out, take my bag and oar, tie the boat to a post, and go see shiny Buddhas.
A few small cuts and then success, but I couldn’t fret about how the hell I was going to get out of there until after I saw this place. Everything in its time.
After tying up the kayak, I went up the stairs to the peak. Near the top was a man with a mean face and half a right foot. No Thai smile. More like: What were you doing here? Go away or I’ll steal your yellow kayak and leave you here to rot after I get your money.
I took pictures of a Buddha who looked out toward Man Island, then I headed for a little chapel, which was dirty and had a green glass Buddha in a glass booth. Near the entrance, there was a magazine featuring photos of people with eerie deformities and various severed appendages.
Back on the path and down the hill through a forest and ratty dorm rooms for the monks. Maybe people liked the glaring half-footed man.
Then, down to a building on a little beach that looked like a temple but wasn’t. I should have rowed to this place.
In front of this structure, at a long table, sat a 75-year-old monk smoking Marlboro Golds. His body was tattooed all over, and tufts of hair sprouted off the edges of his ears. Not from inside, like you see with some guys. These were like those ancient whiskers on a Chinese chin. He spoke Thai to me a lot and was not deterred by the fact that I had no clue what he was saying. A lady got me some orange juice and a glass of ice and cleaned the table, which was covered with dirty dishes.
I drank the juice, and they offered me more. They also offered me water, which I said no to because I was shy, and I was a fool.
Then, I went down to the beach, and four very friendly black dogs surrounded me, greeted me, and asked me to take them with me. I told them there was no room for more than one of them on my boat, and I might not make it back anyway. Best to stay here as strays on the beach. The monks and the ladies would throw you scraps of food.
I headed over to the main Buddha attraction – a big seated figure with a long pointed nose. He was on a sort of throne, which was wrapped by the coil of a huge Naga serpent. He looked with utter indifference at the tourists on the Promthep Cape.
I checked him out but wasn’t impressed. In a shack nearby, a chubby, snoozing monk in his early 60s. Orange and brown robes dried on the line.
I went back to the black dogs, said goodbye and my thanks to Hairy Ears and the Orange Juice Lady. Then, I went back up and down the path, past the green Buddha, the shrine for dead children, the magazine of malformities, to my kayak, bright yellow in front and orange-red in the back. Some of the red was my blood.
Untied the bark, took it to the place of danger, fear, and pain, and now I understood about ships wrecked on the coast and men of the sea respecting it like no one else did because if they didn’t, and even if they did, they may die in an awful way. I thought if I died at sea, I would really know about being abandoned by God. I already knew about it, but today I knew it better.
I turned my boat around and got ready to push out into the channel between the cape and this island. The water was mean. It came at me relentlessly, and it was making a point.
I had to get to this point. The point was: Stay back.
Don’t think you’re so special because your tribe went to the moon. I would kill you if I felt like it. The rocks and the barnacles, and I would put an end to you. It would be days before anyone found whatever was left of you.
I listened to this. The water roiled between big rocks. When it let up a bit, I tried to get out. The swells and the fury came back quickly. I waited again. Stillness came. I moved the kayak out for a try. Waves rose, and I almost lost everything. The violence of it was enough to give me good judgment. I would not go if it wasn’t safe.
In the distance, I saw a longtail boat fisherman, and he was watching me. He saw that I was stuck and in trouble. He was way too far away for me to see his face, but I could tell he was concerned.
He must have thought I was one stupid farang, but I was hoping he would come here and figure out some way to help me. Except there was no place for him to stop. What could he do? He could have watched me get pulverised. One less potential customer.
Another longtail came up near him. The first guy gestured toward me, as in: That guy was in trouble, and maybe we should help him, but, well, there was nothing we could do.
They checked me out for a while, then left. Humans can be as detached as that Buddha on his perch with the Naga snake protecting him. And the sea itself.
Patience. The time came and the sea settled. I saw my chance and bolted out between the death rocks and out away from the coast. A brilliant manoeuvre by this first-time captain of his own little ship.
Rowing and rowing and rowing. Ya Nui was far. An hour from here. There was no rowing without pain. As I got closer to the cape, I saw that the waves crashing against it were much more deadly than what I just escaped. I had to stay clear of that. Headed out to the sea so I didn’t get caught up in anything that could bring me close to that.
I needed to drink water. I shouldn’t think about it, but I couldn’t stop. Shouldn’t think anything but positive thoughts. Eyes on the prize. Ya Nui Beach. Just an hour or so away. I could bear the pain. One stroke at a time. Rest if I needed to. Took it slow.
But the sea was pulsing. Tsunami paranoia came back. People on the cape were watching me. They were thinking I was a fool, and they were waiting to see if I would die. It’d be a good show like the Indy 500 without the crashes and flames, and they would just watch like the longtail boatmen did.
I wanted to drink ocean water, and now I knew this was kind of crazy. Didn’t matter how many TV shows I’d seen about this sort of end, I needed to drink. Gave me salt water!
The man in the strange boat foot-paddled past me in his bliss. He didn’t know I was in trouble. The trouble was in my head. Big trouble there. My shoulders were the least of it. I couldn’t bear to look at the surf exploding on Cape Promthep. I couldn’t look at the Muslim tourists from Yala watching the Keith-goes-under show.
Row and row and row and row and row. Away from that cape which I stood at the top of just a few days ago, looked out to this sea, to Buddha Island, and wanted nothing more than to be where I was now.
But in spite of everything, I made steady progress. The sun was going down. No one could do a thing for me if I capsized. I had to make it back because I had a comfortable bed in my tiny apartment in Rawai. Some people cared for me. My book would be published.
Didn’t drink the Andaman Sea. Didn’t give up, no matter what. Even if a monsoon came, darkness fell.
As I slowly got closer to home base, I noticed that, though it seemed like the way should be easiest coming back in because that’s where the waves were headed, in fact, it was very hard to get any momentum. Couldn’t figure it out. God was dead. God was cruel. God didn’t give a shit. God had nothing to do with this. The current was going across my bow. I was worn out. If I made it to the beach, I would put the boat in the sand and collapse.
I stayed clear of Bash-Your-Brains-Out Rocks to my right. Closer and closer to safety and rest I went. Here, just near the end, there were shoals. A last danger. I navigated around them and cut a line on a current straight to the sand. The triumph of sanity.
I just turned down the volume on all the demons chattering in my ears. Drink the sea. You’re sure to get sucked into a swell that’ll send you into the rocks over there. Another tsunami was coming. The people watching you wanted you to die.
I had made it. I dragged myself to the other end of the beach where I got the kayak. I needed the man’s help to carry it back. He said he could do it himself. I said no. Too heavy. Just let me get some water.
We went to get the kayak. He was so tan, he could have been Sri Lankan. He had a Muslim name, but his woman wore no headscarf. They were sweet to me. “You went to Buddha Island?” They laughed. “Crazy farang.” He didn’t charge me for the snorkelling gear.
When I was out there in distress, I thought of how great it would be to see people again. To talk with someone. Not just to be on land. I talked with these people. The man and woman and the water and the ground on which I stood – this was the beginning.
He told me that, in a month or two, no one would be here. The waves would be too rough. Too much wind. I asked them what they would do then. They said they had a portable noodle stand. Maybe rent out motorbikes. You got by.
Some vague thought came to me about the three people killed here by the tsunami a little over four years ago. Heather and two others. There was a sign for Heather. But the thousands of others who just disappeared – there was no sign of them.
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