Twenty-Six
My birthday this year was spent in a bubble. Made from the froth of the sea, lingering gently on a small strip of beach, shaded by green and red leaves. Far from phone calls and Facebook messages I spent the day basking in the warm embrace of Philippe, Dali and the Andaman Sea.
By this point in our trip our eyes and minds had begun to adjust slightly to our altered and privileged reality. So much so that we did not feel too intimidated to handpick a secluded corner of Chakra Jurum and claim it ours for the night.
Phil anchored the boat with fresh confidence and ease acquired from our recent crossing. Dali had never sat so close to the shore, and looked magnificently smug about ten meters from the reef, perched perfectly on a white sandy bottom surrounded by turquoise and azure.
Laying on the sand and looking at the sky while Phil fished for our dinner, I found it hard to reflect on my twenty six years of life. I felt too far removed to consider it all as a sequence of events or coherent ensemble. I saw Phil and I floating in a bubble, detached from our previous experiences, suspended temporarily in our fragile and pristine paradise. Even when two catamarans entered the channel to remind us of the outside world, our eyes quietly followed the movement of their sails until the intrusion was chased away and we were alone again.
In the early afternoon we made a fire on the beach and prepared for dinner. Our picnic was complete with white wine and a freshly baked cake. We toasted to us, to the boat, to the halfway mark in our journey and to our family and friends who were in our thoughts as night fell and the stars united everything under their guard.
Iva
