Phu Quoc Yourself!

An hour til' my flight to Hanoi again, where I'll settle down roots in an attempt to start writing.  Do I see myself suddenly pouring out letters and paragraphs and pages full of witty analogies and universalized thoughts about unspecified events – where after years of stillborn attempts I will miraculously be a fisher of words, a champion assembler of truth's jigsaw?

I doubt it.  But I suppose it's time to figure this thing out.

Just came back from Phu Quoc, an island between the southern-most coast of Vietnam and the tip of Cambodia.  Waters that reflected the piercing irises of the sky.  Clear waves, cresting slowly on the horizon before rushing into the feathery sand – and then as quickly as they gallop in, they tumble out again, into the bright tranquil of the infinite sea.

Palm trees shade the thatched canopy where I sit, with a lemonade, a book, an iPod, and a plate of steamed crabs, freshly caught from the sea.  A lemon, salt & pepper dip is nearby, but it's not needed, the crab is sweet and succulent enough.

When I tire of the current beach, I hop on my motorcycle, rev up, and blaze to the next isolated beach, curved into the towering vegetation of the island. The dirt roads are made of copper bespeckled with bronze and gold flakes.  I am covered in red dust by the time I reach my destination. Again – tranquility.

Broken suddenly by a group of boys, no more than 12, rushing out from the jungle, laughing, cart-wheeling, kicking sand up in the air like the tasmanian devils that they are... they jump feet first into the embracing waves, gliding like dolphins out into the open waters in a mixture of jest, laughter, curses and shouts.  A dog joins in the fun, skipping along the edge of the waters -- a throaty bark.

On the next beach, the waiter grills fish right on the beach as I sleep. The wind sings. The waves continue their eternal dance. In. Out.

The sun sets in a protest of purples and tangerines. A fishing boat bobs in the water.

The taxi engine is purring, growling now.