Back in October we were off the Eastern coast of Malaysia in the Perhentian Islands, the remote island of Kecil to be exact. Due to monsoons expected to hit in those next few days, the island was a ghost town. There are two main beaches on Kecil and on that particular afternoon we’d walked over to the larger, yet less developed, on the backside of the island. A football field’s worth of unoccupied, yellow powdered beach was ours. The only other sign of life was the small clan of locals who were feverishly putting hammer and nail to board as they safeguarded their homes and businesses from the fast approaching monsoon. I love being on a beach. However, I’m not the type of beach lover that immediately strips down, runs, and splashes myself into the water. But, unexplainably, this afternoon was different. As disconnected as I felt from the rest of the world, I somehow felt intimately connected with this deserted beach’s turquoise waters. Maybe it was the moon, the stars, or the creeping monsoon. Whatever it was, I ran in-and-out, jumped up-and-down, and dove over-and-under the crashing curls of those waves again and again. When standing still to catch my breath, the wet sand crunched between my toes. No pebbles, no rocks, no seaweed. Pure powder. A long day’s sun had the pristine waters at a perfectly cool temperature. More underwater backflips, handstands and bodysurfing – energetically I felt like a child’s toy that had been wound up over and over. As the sun began to set, I laid floating on my back, looking up as the Malaysian skies as they began changing colors. As waves of freedom shoved me back to shore, I remember thinking to myself, Ugh, I really don’t want this to end.
Thanks for the question, Lisa Russell. – Adrian