Sail your ships around me

Temporarily Thairish was temporarily tempted to purchase a half-share in a long-tail fishing boat last week. A recently arrived French-Canadian guy, whom I’ll call Pete, popped down to the Double Duke and made me an offer I could refuse. Like many a footloose farang who comes to Ko Pha-Ngan, falls in love with the relaxed pace of island life, and then doesn’t want to leave, Pete was looking for a way to stay on here. A tropical idea, but easier desired than achieved.

Having unsuccessfully looked for work around the bars and restaurants (who all paid the standard Thai wage of fuck-all per day), he had decided to take a chance and invest his remaining funds in a long-tail. Unfortunately, his remaining funds would apparently only cover a ‘long’ or a ‘tail’. To cut a long tale short, this is where he was hoping I would come in. For twenty-five thousand baht (€500), I could buy half the boat.
“Why would I want to buy a boat with you?” I asked, bemused.
“We could take tourists out on fishing and snorkelling trips,” he enthused. “People are always looking to go out on the boats. We’d make really great money – especially in high season.”
“But what happens if one of us decides to leave?”
He gestured around at the Bou nty bar advertisement-like vista of coconut trees and clear blue sea and sky, and laughed. “Well, I don’t know about you, man, but I ain’t never leavin’ this place.”
Coincidentally, Nick Cave’s beyond-beautiful The Boatman’s Call was playing on the stereo. Being a great believer in omens, I actually spent a while seriously considering this wholly unexpected offer. Why not buy a boat and become a Thairish fisherman? It mightn’t be a bad life. I could spend my days out at sea, singing songs and drinking rum, and sell my catch in the local markets – making a net profit. My parents would be proud that I finally had a proper job. Or at least a more respectable one (‘hunter-gatherer’ is surely a better occupation than ‘writer-drinker’). I’d also have a semi-legitimate reason to wear a scarf on my head, a gold hoop in my ear and a knife in my belt. Cool!
Taking tourists out could be a lucrative laugh too. My friend Jacques has been making a decent crust recently taking groups of young women out to a secluded spot where they can swim and sunbathe naked (ever modest, the Thais will tolerate toplessness but nude sunbathing is sadly illegal). I asked him how he convinces them to undress in front of his pervy eyes. “Eet’s easy,” he grinned. “I juzz tell zem zat I am gay.”
Ultimately, though, I decided to refuse Pete’s offer. He seemed like a decent sort of guy, but I didn’t know him well enough to go into any kind of business partnership with him. Probably more to the point, I didn’t have the required twenty-five thousand baht.
When we met again a few days later, Pete hadn’t found himself another partner, but he had found a cheaper boat. Unfortunately, he’d had a minor tiff with a local fisherman along the way. “I told this guy that I really liked his boat and that I’d like to buy it,” he explained. “But I still had one more to look at. The next one I saw was a better deal and that’s the one I bought. But when I went back and told him, he completely freaked out. Apparently it’s really bad karma for a fishing boat to hear somebody say they’re gonna buy it, and then not.”
“What? So you upset his boat?”
“Something like that,” he laughed. “It’s a Thai thing. Anyway, I told him that I was sorry and that I’d personally take on any bad karma that I’d generated for his boat.”
“What did he say to that?”
“He told me to fuck off.”
To show that there were no hard feelings, he invited me to join him on the boat’s maiden voyage. Having nothing better to be doing, I gladly accepted, told him I’d just be a minute, and went off to get a waterproof bag for cigarettes, water and suntan lotion. When I followed down to the beach and started wading out towards the boat, though, I suddenly realised that there was an additional crew member already on board. I really wasn’t pleased to see him. I momentarily stopped wading and paused waist-high in the water.
For reasons best known to themselves, the Suratthani Drug Suppression Unit recently issued a press statement saying that they had a list of names and addresses of 200 farangs who are known to be active in the thriving drugs trade on Ko Samui and Ko Pha-Ngan. If that list exists – and apparently a number of people have already hurriedly taken off – then the other person Pete had invited (let’s call him Pablo Escobar) is definitely in the top twenty. As I’ve said, Pete hasn’t been here very long. Pablo’s the kind of guy who makes a point of introducing himself to all new arrivals.
I wanted to call over an excuse and wade back to shore, but it would’ve been too obvious. Fuck! I’ve spent the last few months steering well clear of Pablo, but now, in broad daylight, I was getting into a twenty-foot boat with him. Anybody could be watching from the beach. Adding to my paranoia was the fact that some of the dodgier locals have recently been asking my landlord Mr. Pong questions about me. The Drug Suppression Unit pays informants handsomely, and it’s within the realms of possibility that somebody might have mentioned the farang who’s been here for months, but doesn’t seem to have any visible means of support. Pablo was the very last person I wanted to be seen hanging out with.
He obviously didn’t feel the same way about me. “Hello, my friend!” he called over (“Fuck off and die!” I thought back).
I said a curt hello as I wetly clambered aboard, but otherwise spoke only to Pete. Pablo quickly got the message and his face soured. Pete didn’t understand the problem and looked at me quizzically. It didn’t make the atmosphere particularly comfortable, but I didn’t particularly care. Silently, I was cursing Pete for landing me in this awkward position.
I was also wondering if maybe Pete had lied and Pablo had bought into the boat (and which half of it the authorities will confiscate when he eventually gets busted). Although the paintwork was flaky, it seemed to be in decent enough condition. There was just one thing. “Pete, this seems kind of low slung,” I pointed out, putting my hand over the side and trailing it in the water just three feet down. “Yeah, well it’s not really a sea boat,” he explained, looking somewhat embarrassed. “It’s more of a lake or river boat. All I could afford. But it’ll be fine once the sea is calm. I just won’t be able to take it out if there’s too much wind.”
This didn’t sound too promising. This is the tropics. High winds can come up very suddenly here. Recently, the Bussamanee – a 200-seat catamaran that ferries passengers between Ko Pha-Ngan and Ko Tao – almost capsized when a storm blew up mid-journey and three-metre waves swamped the engines. And that’s a really big ship. Its lifeboats are bigger than Pete’s.
Further questioning revealed that he had no oars, radio, flares or lifejackets. My parents are in the lifejacket business and so are fairly big on water safety. They’d murder me if I drowned because I was stupid enough to go out to sea without wearing a lifejacket. When I explained this to Pete, he said, “Well, they rent them at one of the hotels. If you’re that concerned, go and get one. We’ll wait for you.” “What kind of jackets are they?” I asked. He told me. They weren’t my parents’ brand, and I simply wouldn’t be pulled from the water in anything other than a Crewsaver. “Ah, fuck it – let’s just go,” I said.
Situated on the north-west coast of the island, the beach at Hat Salad has been used as a hideaway by Thai pirates and smugglers for centuries. It’s on a fairly shallow reef and, with many large rocks hidden just beneath the water’s surface, is notoriously difficult to navigate. When the tide’s low it’s easy enough to pass, but if the water’s high enough it can be treacherous. Pete started the engine, and Pablo went to the front of the boat to watch out for rocks. He called out directions in French. “Gauche – non! – tournez a droit!” I sat in the middle, soaked up the morning sun, and nervously scanned the beach for undercover policemen.
It took a few minutes to get past the reef and out into the open sea. The cobalt Gulf of Thailand was fairly choppy, but not too bad. We risked taking on a little water every time the boat had its side to the waves, but once Pete had got the engine under control, it was fine. The strimmer-like long-tail engines are quite heavy and difficult to handle. You’ve got to keep your weight on the rudder at all times, holding the blades just below the surface (not so easy when that surface has so many ever-changing contours). If you want to stop the boat, you’ve got to hoist it out. Like slot-machine junkies and chronic masturbators, many long-tail fishermen have one arm noticeably stronger than the other.
This being the maiden voyage, Pete didn’t want to push it. We decided to travel north up to the next beach, go for a swim off the coral reef, and then bring her home.
It was around 10.30 in the morning of a bright, fresh and glorious day. My mind emptied of all concerns as we chugged along in silence, steep cliff walls to the right of us, a distant turtle-shaped Ko Tao to the left. We stopped just off the reef, killed the engine, dropped the anchor, and dived straight in.
Swimming in long fisherman’s pants is a lot more difficult than in togs, but it’s how the locals do it here. The water was bathtub hot on the surface but once you’d gone down a few feet it got considerably cooler. Having to heave gasping to the surface every thirty seconds was sobering. My lungs are fucked. I flashed-back and profoundly regretted smoking that first ever lipstick-stained butt I’d stolen from my grandmother’s ashtray, aged seven. I thought I looked pretty cool at the time.
It was only about 20 metres deep, but it’s still quite disconcerting not knowing exactly what’s swimming beneath you. Apparently there’s never been a fatal shark attack in Thai waters, though reef sharks have been known to occasionally snap at divers, mistaking them for seals. There are a number of other hazards – mainly jellyfish, barracudas and used prophylactics.
After about ten minutes, I was out of both breath and my depth. There was no ladder and it took me a while to summon the strength to heave myself back into the boat. Cursing my chronic nicotine addiction, I lit a cigarette, and lay down exhausted. The sun had completely dried my trousers before I stubbed it out.
Although, thanks to the recent tourist boom, it’s currently being heavily over-fished, the sea around here still teems with life. Throw in pieces of bread and scores of little fish immediately flock to the surface and start gobbling like pigeons in a park. Pete baited some hooks and threw a couple of hand lines down. After just a minute or so, he got a bite. With little effort, he pulled a small leathery brown fish out of the water. The hook was barely caught in its mouth and as it lay there gasping, its huge eyes bulging and its big lips kissing the air, it somehow resembled a deeply tanned and physically exhausted Mick Jagger immediately after coming offstage. It didn’t look like any fish I’d ever seen before.
“Fuck – what the hell is that?” Pete asked. “Do you know?”
“It’s a fish,” I replied in the same moment that Pablo announced, “C’est une poisson.” We laughed simultaneously, and I wished we hadn’t.
“I know it’s a fish, you morons!” Pete grinned. “But what kind of fish? Some of the fish around here are poisonous to touch.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I mean they won’t kill you, but they’ll sting you pretty bad. I saw one guy last week with his hand blown up like a fucking baseball glove! I don’t wanna touch this one.” Even so, we didn’t want it to watch it needlessly die. Pete managed to gently remove the hook from its mouth and then flip it back into the water with a piece of wood. “Guess I’ll have to start learning about the fish here,” he mused, as Mick gave a final celebratory leap before disappearing.
He restarted the engine, and we motored closer in to the shore to swim some more. The coral there was truly stunning – vibrant with all kinds of bizarre life, shapes and colours. We took turns exploring the underwater world with the boat’s only mask and snorkel. It’s illegal to drop an anchor over coral, and the boat started to drift dangerously close to the reef so we soon got back in and decided to head back.
It was then that things started to go wrong. Pete pulled the starter cord on the engine and then loudly screamed “SHIT!” The cord had snapped, leaving him holding a few inches while the rest of it ravelled quickly around the motor. We stared dumbly at the limp cord in his hand. “Now what?” I asked. “I don’t know, man,” Pete replied. “I’m gonna have to open the engine, but I don’t have any tools with me. Stupid, I guess.” He shrugged.
We considered this in silence for a moment and then, in a sudden show of true colours, Pablo started helpfully swearing at him. “Putain!” A massive row broke out en francais. I lit another cigarette, hoped there were no blades onboard, and, aside from one bored “guys . . guys. . come on”, left them to it.
Eventually Pablo stormed off to his end of the boat, where he sat rolling a spliff and muttering darkly to himself. “Can you fuckin’ believe this fuckin’ guy?” Pete seethed, incredulously. “He’s fuckin’ moaning at me!”
I wasn’t happy. We weren’t in any danger – except of being stuck there for quite some time. “Yeah, well not wanting to moan as well, Pete, but what the fuck do you suggest we do?”
He thought about this for a while and eventually concluded, “Look, I’m gonna have to go and get some tools. We can’t drop the anchor so you’ll have to stay and watch the boat, and make sure it doesn’t hit off the reef.”
“How will I stop it?”
“You’ll have to get into the water and hold it off.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake!”
“Come on, man. Help me out here.”
The beach was only twenty metres away and seemed to be populated with a number of lone females. I was mutinously tempted to just abandon boat and swim ashore. But it wouldn’t have been fair. All of his money’s tied up in the boat. I sighed and said, “Don’t be long.” Pete dived overboard and started heading for the shore. I looked over at Pablo, who sullenly pouted back at me. Pete would probably be gone for quite a while. This definitely wasn’t going to be fun.
Fortunately, I almost immediately spotted another long-tail puttering in the distance. I started shouting over and waving the snapped starter cord. “HELP! HELP!” The driver waved back and started heading towards us. I turned and called the other way. “PETE! PETE!” Pete started swimming back to the boat. Help was at hand, though not on land.
The long-tail stopped at a short distance from us. The friendly Thai fisherman was fat, moustachioed and wearing a straw sombrero. He didn’t speak any English but he recognised the problem immediately. A dripping Pete got back on board and gratefully accepted a thrown ratchet from him. He quickly opened up the starter motor and started to unravel the cord. Unfortunately, the problem was more serious than he’d thought. The Thai pulled his long-tail in closer and with one foot in each boat, started to help him sort it out.
The wind suddenly picked up and waves started to force the boats to crunch up against each other. Neither boat had fenders, and so I knelt down and held them apart with my hands. It wasn’t easy. Each time a wave hit – every ten seconds – I had to push about a ton of boat away. The sun was beating down heavily. I wanted to put my shirt on but, when I looked for it, I realised that Pablo was wearing it wrapped around his head. I was annoyed, but it would’ve seemed churlish to object. The sun was fucking hot and I had already put a baseball cap on. “Give me a hand, for fuck’s sake!” I snapped over at him. Sulking like a little girl, he daintily pushed the boat away. He was at the far end where the boats were hardly touching. Help was most needed in the middle, but I decided I’d rather go it alone than have him sit beside me.
After twenty minutes my hands were blistered, bleeding and full of splinters, and my arms were totally exhausted. I badly wanted a break, but the sea was on a roll. Pete and the fisherman were still busy with the engine, and his hands were occupied protecting an increasing number of small screws, bolts and parts. Pablo wasn’t going to take over. I quickly switched position and started pushing the boat away with my legs instead. I was starting to get burnt under the boiling sun, and badly needed a fresh coat of tanning oil, but my bag was just out of reach.
Time dragged and nobody spoke. The Thai was still silently working away on the engine, with Pete handing him the tools. For some bizarre reason, he decided this was the opportune moment to confront Pablo. In an angry tone, he called down the boat. My French is fairly patchy, but I knew enough to roughly translate, “You know something, you’re some fucking asshole! There’s a time and a place for moaning but it’s not when a boat’s in trouble. You stupid fucking prick!”
Pablo responded in kind from his end of the boat. “Fuck you! You take me out on your shitty boat with no fucking tools! Asshole!” I was exhausted in the middle, uncomfortably bathed in sweat, and getting it in both ears. My legs were starting to seriously weaken. A wave caught me off-guard and I came within an inch of having my feet crushed to uselessness. When was this torture going to end?
Not for a while unfortunately. The Thai kept on working. Pete and Pablo continued to argue, sporadically. The waves kept on coming – not big, but steady. Every now and then I’d miss one, or wouldn’t be able to hold the weight, and the boats would crash off each other, earning me a withering look from the Thai (who was otherwise stoically wearing a fixed grin).
Eventually, to everybody’s relief, the engine was fixed and started. Never has a loud mechanical whine sounded so good. Pete thanked the Thai and promised him a Chang beer if he came to Hat Salad later (nobody was carrying money anyway, but the Thai never asked). As he stepped fully back into his boat, he almost slipped and fell. As is customary in Thailand, we all laughed loudly at this in order to save him embarrassment.
When he started his own engine and dropped it into the water, Pete was too busy still abusing Pablo to notice. “Well fuck you! You know this is the first time out, man!” When he dropped his own long-tail, both engines collided with a loud, unhealthy bang. Pete’s remained running, but the Thai’s stopped. Everybody held their breath. Fortunately, it started again almost immediately. He didn’t wave us goodbye.
The arguing continued as we chugged back out to open sea. So much so that Pablo wasn’t performing his navigational duties. The boat crunched loudly off a rock. We looked fearfully at the boards. Luckily no damage seemed to have been done. And at least the fighting stopped.
As we approached Hat Salad, Pete called me over. “Listen, man, I’m really sorry about all this. I should’ve brought tools. And I hadn’t realised this guy was such a fucker. Tell you what, I’m not gonna charge you anything.”
“You were gonna charge me?” I replied, aghast.
“Just for the juice,” he said, defensively. “It’s fuckin’ expensive, man.”
When I eventually got ashore, badly sunburned, physically exhausted, and with hands and feet full of splinters, I went to the Double Duke for a beer and checked the time (Pete and Pablo were still sorting their differences). It was coming up to 3pm. Back in Ireland, people would just be getting into work. Despite my discomfort, I realised that my life could be a whole lot worse. A nice thing to realise on a Monday.