Chasing Waves - South East Asia - Andaman Coast

The short flight south gave credit to why millions decide on descending here annually. The squared off agricultural zones south of the great city led on to the narrow mountainous region known as the Isthmus of Kra, where I found out later, was an area designated to become a short cut canal connecting the bay of Bengal to the south China sea. The view while flying south exposed a labyrinth of large fingered aquatic outflows spread forth from Jurassic type landscape, out towards fractured landmasses that had broken free during some previous geologic upheaval. Leaning forwards, I noted that on the western faces of the off shore landmasses, thin white trails could be seen skirting the beaches. There were waves and we were going surfing.

By noon Bix and I were well on our way to some secret spot. The drive took hours but was pleasant in that the population density of where I had just come from and where I was now at, was a different planet all together. One lone road cut through seemingly endless rolling flow of green hills that where occasionally marked by small villages of Muslim communities. Large trees showering yellow and red flowers roadside were fed by the constant flow of waterways branching out to the west.

That evening, Bix held his beer high and gestured towards a faint incoming rolling wave. “Here’s to incoming swell”. I followed suit and more than anything was just happy to be sitting seaside. Staring out at the few lines spilling to the shore, even by my standards, it was hard to find excitement in what I was seeing. But Bix assured me that what he was seeing was indeed the beginning and so with the excitement of being on a new frontier and hopes of catching the spin drifters settling on this distant shoreline, all was well in the head and heart.

Bix was by all standards, an old timer now. It had been years since he and Pops had spent those days chasing the fabled swell up and down this coast. He looked his age but still mastered wave riding with the eloquence and enjoyment that modern surfing seemed too have forgotten. With a large expansive playing field on offer just for the two of us, with pleasure I watched and gave way as to be sure that the first wave ridden was going to have Bix written all over it. As he glided his 9’ 3’’ into the dawns shimmering red-orange liquid canvas, he gracefully climbed to his feet, posed steady, and drifted down the line just ahead of a golden fan of spay. He floated effortlessly in the direction of rising sun while beyond him shore bound, a wall of dark tall ironwood trees seems to be gracefully bowing down to his presence. Flying Osprey circled within and around the wondering tree tops while the second wave of the set drew out its ruler edge of perfection.

Hours were spent trading the chest high waves while intermittent stories gave clue to the under skin realities of this region. These where the borderlands and here, the laws was governed by the deep pockets of families with ties. To roam while “keeping it clean” and to remain as innocent “farang” chasing waves, according to Bix, these were the pursuits that would keep one out of harm’s way. Suspicious eyes, critical words, and loose antics were not welcome here.

By evening, I sat alone out in the lineup and continued to pick off random rights and lefts that produced an endless stream of satisfaction. A lone sailboat dropped anchor just to the outside and within a few hours’ time, Bix and I were penned into the passengers list that would have us heading North West into Myanmar’s Mergui islands, eight hundred of them to be exact.