turn of the tide













Only in retrospection do I finally understand the metaphor lying in this could-have been absolutely perfect day.

We woke up to the sound of waves crashing onto shore—melodic, steady, easy, easy there. We followed the sound, clumsily stepping on wet stone until the sound surrounded us. Until the sound appeared before us. The Andaman Sea. I’ve always been more terrified of the ocean than enthusiastic. It seems like most oceans were more like violently playful children—they never know when to cool it. I asked the sea to be gentle to me. And it complied. In the water, I could no longer feel the distinction between sand and water. They were one. They were soft and kind. The sand created tiny dips in the sea several feet in but it never reached clavicle height. Great. For a woman who can’t swim. Once I had enough love from Andaman, I sat under the loving shade of the palm trees. Ahhh. Peering to my left, belly against the towel, there is a swing. How did it get there? I could not even contribute it to my great imagination. Perhaps it’s a product of a kid or a local or a man or a woman or maybe a toursit who knew how to live. I thank you.


After a few gorgeous hours of that, we returned to the hotel. Washed off any remnants of Andaman’s love and took an ungraceful belly flop onto the bed. We turned on the tv. And on BBC, it said “Trump is now the President of the United States of America.” Fuckkkkkkkkkkkkk, today is the worst day ever.

- turn of the tide

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Visuals by Pedro
Wearing:
Swimwear - Motel Rocks