Sunk in the Saracen Bay

I was going to die. 

This was the end, I was sure of it. The green wave, towering above my head like the Incredible Hulk, was on the verge of crashing down, splitting our boat in two, and leaving me sucked into the depths of the surrounding ocean, swallowed by the waves before anyone even had a chance to notice. And what was I thinking about in my final moments might you ask? To be entirely honest, I was craving macaroni and cheese. 

Specifically of the fried variety. There’s this place back home that makes fried mac and cheese balls with spicy ranch dipping sauce, and as the wave crashed hard onto the deck of the ship, all I could think about was shoveling that crispy ball of fried pasta into my mouth, smothered in enough sauce to make my eyes water and my nose drip. Surely I’d much rather be there than facing death on the Saracen Bay. 

We all gasped as the turquoise water rushed onto the deck, the boat rocking violently until our noses nearly touched the waves on one side. Miraculously, the boat didn’t capsize. With a sudden gust of wind, our boat was lurched back upright, nose pointed off towards the unseen shore in the distance. 

I don’t know whose brilliant idea it was to try and visit Koh Rong in the middle of a thunderstorm. I suppose they couldn’t be blamed–the sky had been clear and a slight breeze had tickled our cheeks as we boarded the yellow fishing boat off the shores of Koh Rong Samloem, one of the most popular islands in Cambodia’s southern island chain. There were seven of us, a ragtag group of travelers all looking for a sunny afternoon on the beach, not at all anticipating the journey we’d be on to get there. As the sun reflected off of the opaque green water around us, the last thing on our minds was a sudden storm. 

I was seated at the front of the boat, chatting with my friend Yosuke as we sailed beneath the hot afternoon sun. Yosuke was from Tokyo, wore thick black glasses, and smiled constantly, revealing endearingly crooked teeth. He had a map pulled up on his phone, every place labeled in Japanese. 

“So you’re not from California?” he asked, zooming in towards a city I could only assume to be Los Angeles. “You’re not from New York City either?” He scrolled across the map. Japanese characters flashed in front of my eyes. 

“Nope,” I said, taking the phone to zoom in on what I hoped was Richmond, Virginia. “I’m from here, but I can almost guarantee you’ve never heard of it unless you’re a big fan of dead white guys and the American Civil War.”

He cracked up then, lifting his hands beside his face in a shrugging motion, his hands bent so far back I was surprised they weren’t dislocated. 

“I’m afraid not!” He kept laughing, and many of the other passengers turned to see where the sound was coming from. Yosuke, unbothered and unaware of the attention he was receiving, continued to chuckle to himself. 

Our boat pushed on through the turquoise sea. The sky had become cloudy, but the air was still light and warm, a nice change of pace from the crowded capital of Phnom Penh. In the distance, just above the horizon, I thought I could make out Sihanoukville, the port city which everyone visited before heading to the islands. Behind us, Koh Rong Samloem faded out of view, a mass of twisted jungles and soft white beaches disappearing behind the clouds. 

A sharp gust of wind suddenly sent my hair flying in front of my eyes. As I brushed it back to twist it into a bun, I saw the wall of water ahead of us, a sheet of cold, grey raindrops coming down in buckets right in the direction we were heading. The sea below was alive–white tipped waves crashed down on top of each other and a few flags, bobbing in the water to give direction, were now on their sides, their colorful streamers spiraling in the rough water. Our boat captain quickly ushered for us to cover our bags with a large grey tarp, which we did hurriedly as the sky began to darken. His facial expression appeared not to change, but I swore I saw a glimmer of fear in his eyes. We congregated around the bags in an attempt to avoid the rain, a useless effort as sea spray stung our eyes soaked our clothes. All that was left to do was hold on. 

Our boat began to rock back and forth, up as the waves rushed beneath us, down as our boat tipped back into the sea. I closed my eyes and tried to escape this place. Up, I was baking ginger cookies at Christmas, the kitchen smelling of molasses. Down, it was summer in the Blue Ridge Mountains, and I was dipping my toes in a clear mountain stream. Up, I was curled up beside my mother on the couch, trash television blasting as we ate $5 pizza from the box. Down, I was eating those godforsaken fried mac and cheese balls. 

Our boat shuddered, and came down with a crash over a massive wave. Without enough time to rise again, a second wave enveloped us, welcoming itself on board by rushing around my ankles and soaking my thin sundress. The fabric clung to my shoulders, and I, in turn, clung to the hand of my friend Jente, her knuckles completely white beneath my grasp. She swore she didn’t mind, but her face was pale to match.

I began to brainstorm my plan of action in my mind, scouring my brain for any survival advice I’d picked up over the years. Was this an oxygen mask situation, where one must help themselves before they can help others? When we capsized, was I to float calmly or swim for shore? I wracked my brain for any tidbits I remembered from junior lifeguards or summers at sleep away camp, and ultimately decided I would in fact put my expired lifeguard license to use and try to save my companions. I looked at the dark sea below and felt my stomach drop. What exactly lived in these waters?

Just when I’d convinced myself I’d end up stranded on an island somewhere with a volleyball for companionship, land appeared in the distance. The island of Koh Rong was nothing special, a mess of twisted jungles and tiki bars, but I felt like crying at the sight. It was only then that I noticed, through the wind and rain, that Yosuke was standing at the front of the boat, goggles strapped to his face and arms outstretched to the oncoming waves. He let out a sound somewhere in between a war cry and a yodel. In spite of everything, I laughed. 

I only let go of Jente’s hand when our boat was fully steady on the Koh Rong dock. As my feet touched the wooden planks of the deck below we all began to run for the beach, anxious to feel steady, solid, safe. As I neared the beach the air smelled of sand after a storm, and soon I was making footprints through the wet sand, safe for now. 

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