When I first signed onto this great class site of ours which Thad has put together (and now Ray is managing), I had just heard of Sally Smisson's passing. I remember my 10th grade English class with her-- bright students, challenging work, and her teaching somehow keeping me a bit more focused than usual. Sam Schlitzkus, Pretlow Winborne, Martha Finlater, Mary Webb come to mind.....Sally was one of those teachers I will always remember, so pleasant, but so demanding.  The tale below is a prequel to the story entitled "The Rent in the Mist" that I forced on you with my first entry two years ago.  Thought you might like to read it. :-)

For Sally......

From the Tsunami folder...

The Story of Erik

The days have begun to push on my return date, and as I look out onto the Gulf of Thailand from my beach chair, the noon-day sun putting a shimmering sparkle on a roily turquoise sea, I filter through the clutter and cling to a few memorable thoughts.

Thailand is such a pleasant country to visit and the beach at Pattaya has become a home for me. Daily walks and jogs down the several kilometers from my beach chair across from Soi 9 takes me along the crescent-shaped sandy beach to the rocky cliff from where the 5-Star Dusit Resort rises with its manicured lawns and lush gardens, across the catwalk that skirts the white rock wall that curves around to the black rock jetty that turns choppy seawater into a gentle turquoise bay, its beaches white as sugar. Chai, my adopted dun-colored soi (street) dog, runs ahead and splashes into the water, chasing black crabs and barking at them loudly.

A tall Swedish man in his forties joined us for a few days in our routine. We (Chai and I) met him as we walked towards the teak wat being constructed at the far end of the beach. He seemed to like Chai and would play with him as the three of us walked together. Erik did not say much at first, but as we got to know each other, he began to tell his story. Erik was here for the commemoration of the tsunami victims. I looked at him, delicately imploring, without questioning. He would talk in spots, then go silent, his mind heavy with thought. It took three days for Erik to reveal to me that his wife and two small children lay beneath the sand in Phuket.

Slowly the story unfolded about Christmas night with his children and lovely blond wife, opening presents, having Christmas dinner, cavorting with friends. Heavy drinking left him in slumber as the snorkeling party of three left for Pattong Beach that morning of 26 December. He would stop for long moments before continuing, talking wildly sometimes as if to himself, turning his head left and right in a jerky motion like a crazy man. But then he shook his head and seemed to rearrange his thoughts, his recollection now becoming a nauseating reflection as his eyes widened and he forcefully pushed on with the truth, the real story of Erik and his misdeed, and the blackness that will haunt his soul like the surge of burning, choking sand, and salt, and water that washed down the throats of his lovely family, their wide-eyed stares of fright growing dimmer into milkiness, into nothingness. "I should have been there," to recognize the change in current, to see the receding water, to lead them to safety, not to be a saddened, shocked Scandinavian being embraced by a CNN reporter. But there was more.

Erik mumbled the true story to me before he wandered off to the jetty and stood staring blankly out to sea, his foot perched on a large boulder as if he was a Norseman stepping from the gunnels of a longboat, resting his foot on the bow, looking into the cold of night and a stiff North Sea wind, eyes full of thought, so far away from home.

It seems that Erik had slipped off with friends and ended up in an apartment in Phuket Town that night, ten K from Pattong Beach where two towhead kids and a sleepy wife awaited him for the next day's swim. It was well after ten the next morning when he awoke feeling disoriented, then finding his way home on the back of a moto.

Word began to spread of the disaster at Pattong Beach, but Erik could not have imagined what he would see when he wound down from the high bluff with the sea on his right, and looked down onto the destruction of the Thai resort--the flotsam of palm fronds, torn siding, floating roofs, the ocean covering half the town, and somewhere down there was his family, entombed for eternity. Chai and I left Erik that day still looking out to sea from the jetty. Erik did not walk with us again.

Pattong Beach (Phuket)  December 26, 2004

As dusk fell on Pattaya Beach that day, children were frolicking in the gently breaking waves, vendors were closing beach umbrellas, there was the roar of two jet skiers getting in their last ride, the tantalizing smells of roasting corn and grilled crabs and prawns filled the air. Thais and Brits, Uzbeks, and Russians, often beer-bellied and red-faced with drink, and young English lads, oblivious to families, blurting obscenities in mirthful garble--Cockney and slurred. Slavic men with arms and chests swollen with steroids, heavily tattooed sycophants walking self-consciously away.

And out on the horizon there were craggy islands silhouetted against a graying sky, and the sun, a brilliant fiery orange, was slipping gently into the sea. And off to my right at the North end of the crescent-shaped beach where the black jetty separates the current, a lone figure stood, his long reddish hair visibly blowing in the breeze, his eyes milky, steadfast and rigidly set towards the horizon past a small fishing trawler, hands sorting nets, bait fish and small crabs falling back into the churn of the screw. I could not fathom the blackness of the waters of Erik's mind, the carnivores of his soul biting and chewing at the chum in the swirl, but as Chai looked out seemingly with thought for Erik, I hoped our friend from Sweden had come closer to a bit of peace that day.

Days passed, and I found myself at an open-air bar between Soi 7 and 8 on Pattaya's Second Road one evening. Looking out from my tall glass of Bombay Safire Gin and tonic, through shards of ice the street in front of me illuminated in refraction-- smoky neon signs, the streaming flow of motos and songtaos, roaring lories and pickups, upscale Mercedes and Volvos. Suddenly the blackened sky became liquid with light as great geysers of New Years Eve spray spewed fountains of red, yellow, blue crystals, the heavens rocking with starbursts, the blackness now spider webbed with light.

From inside the bar, revelers danced the night away in splendid merriment--a wonderful mix of Thais, Europeans, Arabs, and Australians and Americans.  And as I gazed out into the evening, a familiar face caught my eye. Under a neon restaurant sign I spotted Erik with a lovely Thai lady in hand, both of them in giddy laughter pointing at a sidewalk menu. He looked up and spotted me from across the street, and together they smiled warmly and waived, then continued on down the sidewalk and into the night.

I have not seen Erik since, but at least for one night,I hope, his demons may have let him be. From inside the bar a lovely Thai singer seductively purrs out a familiar tune--the Eagles' "Hotel California." Scents of jasmine and juniper and glowing oil lamps and burning candles drift sweetly in the air.

In the following days I notice some of my beach friends have departed, leaving for homes in colder environs, but new friends are met every day. Even Chai has a new companion, a freshly washed and brushed little female golden labrador retriever with a bright red collar. I am afraid high maintenance for my scuffed up beach pal. The two of them race up and down the shoreline by me as I make my way down to the bamboo stand where my favorite Thai vendor, an old lady with only two teeth in her broad smile, happily awaits me, and prances around the other ladies holding up three fingers for the three chilies in my papaya salad, the fiery chilies that will leave me drifting in the cooling emerald sea.

I look out to the distant horizon and I try to come to terms with myself. Never been one for making resolutions, but I guess if I had to make one, it would be to be a bit more like Chai, my warm canine friend who never seems to see anything but good possibilities out there along the endless stretch of sandy beach.

From up on the Dusit Resort the melodious voice of a Thai singer, and again the soft, metaphorical lyrics of the Eagles--"Hotel California."

From Thailand--..."Such a lovely place, such a lovely face."

Dan(ny)

Pattaya Beach

Chai               

Remembering Pataya Beach, Chai and Thailand and the Eagles and Hotel California--of Course

Dan, I think I told you that I spent 6 months in the Persian Gulf in 1990 during the Gulf War on the USS Rentz FFG-46.  This was before Dubai was developed. I saw nothing in Bahrain, Saudi Arabia, Oman, or the UAE that I cared to ever see again. It was all a wasteland. On our way home to San Diego, we stopped for 2 days in Thailand.  We anchored out off of Pattaya Beach and the ferry came out to our ship to pick us up.  I spent one day in Bangkok and another in Pattaya Beach.  What a different world it is.  There were women kick boxers at the bars on the beach.  I never thought I would see women beating each other up to entertain male customers at the bar.  The trip to Bangkok was mind blowing.  I saw things that I could not believe people would do just to make money.  I took a 12' long launch with a weird little diesel engine on the transom and a 8' long shaft coming out of it.  Seeing the people living in stilt homes above the river on our way to see the ruins has been burned into my memory.  I wonder if I will ever get back there.  The world is so big and we have so little time.