Just finished a breakfast of grilled mackerel from old Somchai’s boat down the beach. The fish was so fresh it practically leaped onto my plate, still whispering tales of the Gulf of Thailand. These local fishermen – they’re poets without pens, their stories told through the day’s catch.
Been here on Koh Samui for seven years now. Longer than I ever stayed anywhere. The island has a way of holding you, like an old lover who knows all your secrets but loves you anyway. My small bungalow overlooks the water – nothing fancy, just wooden planks, a few books, and memories collected like seashells.
Today feels like one of those days where the humidity wraps around you like a warm, slightly sticky embrace. The kind of day Bukowski would’ve complained about, but I’m learning to dance with. Tom Yum brewing in the kitchen, chili and lemongrass playing their usual spicy symphony.
Sometimes paradise isn’t a postcard. It’s just a moment, a breath, a perfectly grilled fish. And I’m here for all of it.
Cheers,
Richard
