To Float on water

I don’t know for certain if he’s drunk, after all, tons of people talk infuriatingly loud on their cell phones and perhaps he has a speech impediment that’s causing him to slur his words.  Granted, he would most likely fail a breathalyzer test, but he’s standing quite effortlessly and just might be able to walk in a straight line. To be frank, it’s his being there rather than his level of intoxication that’s the problem. At this point, I simply want what I was guaranteed: my own compartment.

On the deck bellow, I find the most official looking crew member, hand him my ticket and explain my situation. The man, presumably in his late forties, calmly tells me that the ship doesn’t have single cabins and that the woman who sold me the ticket made a mistake by promising the impossible. Then he utters, with a sympathetic grin, one of my least favourite Chinese expressions: “mei banfa”. Loosely translated, “mei banfa” means there’s nothing that can be done.

Adopting an unattractive but highly effective self-righteous tone, I go on the offensive. I begin by rhetorically asking him if I should have to pay for her mistake which, I’ve labeled as her big fat lie. “If I knew that I’d be sharing a room, I wouldn’t have bought a ticket,” I say, in Mandarin, wearing a frown on my face, “you know it’s not right, that woman cheated me…she cheated the foreigner. So now I need you to fix this problem because this is not acceptable.” Sensing that he now realizes “you banfa” (there’s something that can be done）, I conclude with a firm request to be moved into a vacant cabin.

Once the ship moves out of the dock, beginning the 12-hour passage to Haikou, a jovial female crew member comes to my room with good news. Ecstatic, I say goodbye to the man with the beet red face, who’s probably equally as excited about having his own space, and follow her to the cabin that happens to be right next to the one I refused to spend the night in.

Three evenings later, I and my good friend Chris, who’s been living in Haikou (the capital city of Hainan) for three months, arrive in the tropical city of Sanya. Located in the southernmost tip of the island, it is touted as the Hawaii of China.

When I was first introduced to Sanya, many years ago on a CCTV 5 morning newscast, I couldn’t believe that such beaches and exotic scenery existed in China. Since then, In every weather report I’ve ever seen on Chinese TV, the forecast for Sanya is always sunny with a high of over 25°C.

Rain in Sanya, didn’t seem possible until actual drops of water fall on me while walking back to the hotel after a late but satisfying dinner. Although, I haven’t checked the forecast or asked anybody about tomorrow’s weather, I presume it will be sunny and hot.

It’s a little after seven, when I jump out of bed, walk over to the window and open the curtains to see if my uneducated forecast has come to fruition. It’s drizzling and grey clouds are blocking the tropical sun, but it’s early and at least it’s warm. I reckon the sky will clear up later.

The view from my hotel room in Sanya

Sitting on a wooden beach chair underneath an oversized umbrella, Chris and I are connecting an excerpt from a book on his Sony Reader to a lesson that was learned in the sea, some thirty minutes ago, before the downpour began. “It’s really about letting go,” Chris says, confidently, as he recalls his floating experience, here, at Yalong beach, “you saw me, my eyes were closed, it was like I was sleeping…that was meditation.”

Hard rain at Yalong beach

For people like my oldest sister, who can float for hours, my friend’s discovery might appear to be quite trivial, but for someone like me, it’s an epiphany.

When I was around seven I failed a beginner’s swimming class because I couldn’t do l’étoile (the star). Since then, all my attempts at floating, without a life jacket, have been unsuccessful. Over the years, I’ve jokingly told family and friends that my muscle mass and thick bones prevent me from floating.

So when Chris, who like me has never floated, suddenly declared that he figured out how to do it and gave a demonstration, I felt compelled to give it a shot. Despite the discomfort of salty water streaming up my nose and through my nasal cavities with every botched try, I persisted and finally completed l’étoile.

“That’s deep, man,” I say, reflecting on my friend’s words and our time in the sea while watching the heavy rainfall.

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