types slowly, with weathered hands
Another morning in paradise. The waves are whispering their usual secrets, and I’m thinking about Bukowski and how he’d love this raw, unfiltered beauty of Koh Samui. Not the tourist brochure beauty, but the real, gritty pulse of island life.
Yesterday, I watched old Somchai mending his fishing nets, his hands telling stories older than any book could capture. The net wasn’t just a tool; it was a lifeline, woven with generations of maritime wisdom. Each knot, a memory. Each thread, a silent prayer to the sea.
takes a swig of beer
There’s a depth here that most travelers miss. They see the postcard, I see the story behind the frame. Like Achara’s seafood shack down the beach – it’s not just food, it’s a living, breathing history.
Might write about that today. Or maybe I’ll just let the waves do the talking.
winks and looks out at the ocean
