One Morning On The Beach

It was already warm atop the Markland Hotel by 8 o’clock, and from the rooftop garden high above the northern end of Pattaya beach you could see crescents of white in the sea just offshore; the graceful, curved wakes of day trip boats making their morning in-bound trip to the beach, where they’ll anchor to pick up knots of pasty-white tourists already gathering along the sand, “un”-dressed to the nines in holiday swimsuits and oversize hats.

Cameras and coolers in hand they’ll clamber onto the boats, eager to get out to a beach they can pretend is exclusively theirs for a day. When the boats return a handful of hours later they’ll come spilling off the sterns, their skin now just a slightly brighter tint of red than the barbecued shrimp they over-stuffed themselves with at lunch.

Some will be oddly two-toned: their lobster-red torsos crowned by a pale, ghostly face that droops from the nausea they’ve fallen victim to as they’ve skipped to shore in the small speed boats; having learned it’s not always wise to mix rich food with high-octane beer and umbrella drinks in the tropics. Even with the helping hands of the boat staff they’ll sometimes stumble ass over tit into the gentle surf, rising from the warm water to weave weakly up over the beach to their waiting buses.


I lean on the balcony railing and watch the graceful arcs left in the wake of the boats, their roaring outboard motors just a gentle drone from my high perch. I count dozens of them swooping into shore, their wakes crisscrossing as they jockey for position.

Birds cheep and chirp somewhere nearby, dipping and diving as they sail overhead; the occasional bee stops to explore the brightly colorful flowers in pots that dot the large tiles of the balcony around me. It’s slightly humid after the warm night rain that has left everything below wet and shiny in the early-morning sun. As they speed along Beach Road below me the tires of the sang taews spray occasional fans of water up from the pavement, sending unfortunates on the roadside jumping to try and stay dry. A small pickup truck moves slowly along, its loudspeaker blaring out a distorted and over-amplified message I can hear but can’t understand.

Sated from a full breakfast buffet and impatient to get down to beach level I call to my friend; verbally goosing him along so we can get out for a walk and back before it’s too warm to be pleasant. He finishes gathering his things and we take the glass elevator down the front of the hotel, out through the lobby and stroll the hundred yards or so to Beach Road. The pavement that was wet with rain just a half hour ago is now nearly dry, another indicator of the hot day ahead.

I paused to lean against a pole at the corner, watching the stream of “motocy” drivers, sang taews and scooters moving past us along Beach Road. The area is active as we stand there: our day really just beginning, many of the locals already well into theirs. We gather our nerve and shuffle quickly across the street, through a gap in the morning traffic.

Along the tree line on the beach side of the wide walkway there are further signs of life: vendors beginning to set up the familiar canvas sling-type beach chairs-for-rent that will line the sandy shore until evening time. Carried one by one and two by two from the stacks where they’ve rested flat for the night they’re now lined up facing the ocean beneath the large, colorful umbrellas. Deeply tanned workers in tank tops and shorts move through the sand with a rhythm that comes only from countless similar days, their flip-flops sending up small samplings of the golden sand with each gentle slap of sandal to heel. They smile broadly and return my wave as they notice me watching their morning rituals, some just pausing from their rounds to take a breath and be friendly, some bowing slightly while waving their arm toward the chairs already set up, side tables at the ready, in a gentle invitation for me to select my spot for the day.


“Going for a walk,” I say in my clumsy phonetic Thai, and hold my hand out, fingers down and scissoring as I point down the shore in an attempt to draw his attention away from how I’ve again mangled the native tongue. My friend’s used to it and laughs with good nature along with the vendor who’s made his offer and is now again heading for the stack of folded-down chairs. “May I take your picture?” I ask, trying another phrase. The man stops again to pose, smiling another genuine broad grin and then waves and turns to continue his work.

As we climb the steps from sand to sidewalk I catch a whiff of a wonderful, familiar smell, wafting over on a trindle of smoke from a small barbecue grill. The grill’s handmade from the end of a metal drum, topped by a crude wire grate and covered with enormous whole shrimp, sizzling softly over the charcoal beneath them. They look delicious. Even with the long, sharply-pointed heads removed these jumbo tails would be five inches long, some of the largest prawns I’d seen this trip. Their cooked shells were the color of a sunset you’d be likely to see from this very beach in another ten hours or so: deep oranges shifting to reds that are so rich they can take your breath away.

I was still full from breakfast, but made a mental note to look for them on our return walk after noontime. My friend, who had been more restrained than I at this morning’s buffet eyed them longer than I did, but when I offered to stop and buy some for him he acted as though they were less than important; as though he had them frequently, something I know not to be true.

We walked another block or so on the beach-side walkway, but soon tired of the zig-zag path we were having to take to avoid deep puddles, mud, heaps of sand and piles of round stones larger than your fist that were all still waiting to be put into place as part of a major overhauling of this primary public walkway, so we went down the next available set of stairs back to the sand itself, passing a couple of short, very dark-skinned young men, splayed on their backs, arms over eyes and sound asleep.

“Burmese,” my friend said. “They’re allowed to come here to do the difficult labor because nobody here wants to do it.” “Oh?” I replied, “Back home it’s the Mexicans who do so much of the menial labor.” “Not mean,” my friend said, not understanding the word and looking concerned. “It’s hard work, but they want to do it.” I just nodded and smiled at his comment without getting into any further conversation about labor relations.

“Hey, mister!” came the call from a man by standing in the water by the tail of a small boat. “Hey, mister, you go island?” “No, I go walking,” I replied, in English this time, again making a walking motion with my fingers and gesturing down the beach. “You go island!” he said again, waving me aboard his boat. “No, thank you,” I said, “not today.”

“Mister, you go island!” he said a third time, with the same enthusiasm he’d used the first time. “OK, “ my friend said, laughing and throwing his hands up, turning to walk back to the sidewalk as though I was going to lose the battle, “Maybe you GO island!” Then he turns back, laughing, coming over to me as I waved goodbye to the boat man and wished him luck today. He continued to call to me another time as we walked further along the beach.

It was another gorgeous day - and it was only just beginning.