Pre-Dawn breaking, birdsong dances through the treetops as nature’s symphony. The music is medicine. Dazed and confused, I wearily throw on clothes and a cap, exit the wooden hut, the door creaking ajar, my wife left stirring in bed, fast asleep. I softly rap my knuckles against the dilapidated door of my Father’s hut, and he immediately emerges bright and breezily, forcing me to guffaw far too loudly, probably waking up the neighbours. Gently, we push the motorbike up the rocky pathway and away from the other dwellings, out of consideration for those still slumbering soundly.
My father puts his full weight upon my shoulders, as he swings his legs around the back of the bike, placing his feet on the side bars, almost pulling me off the bike and having us do a stationary wheelie. Almost. As we roll out of the clearing in the jungle atop the steepest hill on the island, I flick on the bike’s ignition, and the engine coughs and splutters into life. We pass by Thais sweeping leaves from the pot-hole-ridden road. A fruit seller pushing his cart gives us a great beaming smile. We reciprocate with a nod. The local dog mafia sprints into the middle of the road as a feral, four-strong pack of boundless energy. The brakes screech, our bike swerves, carrying on downhill.
The smell of the ocean wafts through the chilly morning air with a light breeze, as we turn the corner, parallel to the beach’s golden shoreline. We glimpse the beginnings of the bright red dome rising from the sea’s horizon. We must speed up. We cannot miss it. Park the bike beneath a dense canopy of palm trees. Shaded, shielded, and secluded.
We navigate a narrow pathway, peppered with fallen branches, decaying coconut shells strewn about the forest floor. For the second time on this trip, I notice my Father’s frailty, his balance and coordination beginning to fail him. I offer my shoulder for support, as I have done consistently for traversing any challenging terrain, ever since his terrible fall at the Phra Nayakorn cave trail on Lamsala beach (to the 6ft 5 Russian man, who caught my Father and broke his fall, we shall be eternally grateful).
I will forever wonder if my Father’s noticeable cognitive and physical decline since 2021 is due to the C19 injections - multiple boosters.
The debris-covered-dirt-track begins to open up a little, and we finally see a clear line straight to the beach. The wind blows sand in our faces as we momentarily stumble, letting out a chuckle together. We seat ourselves beneath a tree, sitting upon a slightly sloped embankment, waiting for the magical phenomena in the distance to humble us. I pass my Father a cup of coffee and a banana, to which he responds by calling the island paradise, as he has been saying at least once per day.
We spot an Asian gentleman nearby, beginning his own solo photoshoot. The sun has now risen all the way out of the ocean, burning fiercely red, like molten hot magma, dripping with energy and exuding soft hues of warmth. I opportunistically interrupt the stranger’s selfie-session, kindly asking if he would mind taking a polaroid photograph of my Father and I. He obliges, and in return, I offer to photograph him, giving him his own polaroid print to hold in his hands. He appears to be taken aback and overjoyed. We talk for a few minutes, and he tells us he is from Taiwan, then we part ways, wishing each other well on our respective holidays.
Sat back beneath the tree, I suggest that my Father and I try some meditation together. My Father asks how this should be done. He has just turned 73 years old a few days ago, and has never meditated before in his life. We sit cross-legged in the lotus position, and use our heels to kick out the sand from underneath us, to create a comfortable ditch for our legs to be lower than our hips. I tell my Father to close his eyes, and just listen to the sounds of the waves crashing against the shore, to hear the birds chirping in the trees, to feel the wind on his face, to feel the grains of sand beneath his feet. I tell him to simply observe any intrusive thoughts he may have, any concerns or worries, and to just let those thoughts dissipate and fade away. I tell him to focus on his own breathing.
Together, we sit like this, in silence, for a while. When my Father eventually opens his eyes, I ask him how the meditation experience was. He replies that it felt wonderful.
This trip has gifted me with the most quality time ever spent with my Father, since I was a child. I love him.
All is well under the blood orange sun.
Nicholas Creed is a Bangkok based writer. All content is free for all readers, with nothing locked in archive that requires a paid subscription. Any support is greatly appreciated.
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