More than half a year has passed since I went to
Pangkor. Memories of how Death nearly claimed me for his own is still fresh on my mind, and now here in this post perhaps I will share the details of how it happened.
Of course it would be extremely helpful to note that I did not seek the services of any shrink after that incident, nor did I suffer from any post-trauma stress and throw plates against the wall whenever I get into a fit of anger, something which I thank God for. The photo that you see above on your upper left is taken from the road shoulder leading towards the beach. It overlooks the mini-jungle, and beyond it lies the colony of treacherous rocks, hidden from view.
It was a nice sunny August afternoon of the 20th. Three of my friends and I were on our way to Teluk Ketapang, purportedly a place at Pangkor island where fishes were abundant. This place itself was nestled in between Pasir Bogak and Teluk Nipah, with the latter being place which we were staying. The monotonous hum of two Vespa scooters were the only sounds that could be heard along the whole stretch of the road. I did not intend to catch marine life for food, and so did my friends as well. All purely for the sake of sport fishing "catch-and-release" attitude. The mellow afternoon waned on.
Upon reaching the beach, with its golden-brown sand welcoming us, we immediately set base camp and assembled our devices of death (for the fish folk, that is). It was exceptionally windy that day; nothing too murderous, just a wee bit stronger than usual. Nicely-combed hairdos instantly became a bundle of spaghetti-like mess in seconds. I wasn't particularly impressed. I stole my gaze at the beach.
The beaches and waves of Pangkor are stranger than the norm. On a typical beach, the contours of the terrain slopes downwards slowly and lazily as you wade deeper into the abyss. Almost the same can be said for the waves at a standard beach; the waves only get rougher the more you descend. In most cases it would take you about 8-10 metres away from the shoreline for the water to reach your neck (semi-high tide).
Not Pangkor. Here on this idyllic sleepy island, what you see of the beach isn't always what you get. A standard 5-metre plunge into the water will occasionally leave your head a few inches below sea level and drown you. Such is the deceptive allure of the beaches of Pangkor. You might walk out for a metre or so into the sea, thinking perhaps the most you'd get are your knees wet but in fact, the water already reaches your groin. In any case, I suspect that the unlevel seafloor plus the extremely dust-like fine sand around the area is what contributes to this strange (to me, that is) phenomenon.
It didn't take us long to realise that it was next to impossible to cast our lines from the beach; the angry waves pounding at the shoreline would not only keep the bait consistently thrown back towards shore, there would also be no clear indication when a fish (assuming there is to be one) had taken the bait. The only solution left was the boulders to our right. It looked pretty easy; just climb up the first rock nearest to us and keep on hopping from one to the next. Reaching the marble-white rocks after a brief bout of walking, we started the perilous ascent.
Clambering from rock to rock, I took every precaution not to lose my footing, slip into one of the treacherous gaps that littered the area, get wedged firmly between two rocks, and watch helplessly as the already-high water slowly but surely reaches up for my nostrils, and eventually drown me while I writhe in agony; the inky blackness and the taste of saline water being my only companions to the afterworld. I thought of claustrophobia and hypothermia, and how terrifying it will be to get stuck in a place barely big enough for you to even move one of your fingers, yet water flows all around you freely, seemingly laughing at you before it takes you to your watery grave. Below me, the sea water rolling into the small confined space made huge crashing sounds, amplified by the hard slate walls.
Soon it was clear that there was no direct path across from the rock we were currently standing on to the one that was just a mere 5 metres away. No. Another boulder was positioned in such a way between us (if I remembered correctly) that it made a natural wall of pure solid slate. To get to where we wanted to be we'd need to jump to another rock (with half a metre gap of death awaiting those who wouldn't make it), trek 6 metres or so up a dense mini jungle, go left round the first rock, and slowly creep down the other way. Slowly. Anything faster than that and you risk falling headfirst straight onto the boulder below, giving it a refreshing color splatter of red paint. Believe me when I tell you we all finally learnt the true meaning of 'slowly' that day.
Yes Death indeed surrounded us that day everywhere. At this point perhaps many of you would call me foolhardy. I don't blame you. Bravado comes easily to boys in their early 20s. A sense of indestructability reigns over them most of the time. Besides, we were so full of adventurous spirit that day. Just as a fighting infantryman of any war reasons with himself, there is always that feeling of "It won't happen to me. Some other guy'll get it, not me. I'm too lucky/well-trained/good-looking/tightly-laced/cautious" etc (ref. Paul Fussell, Wartime).
After much bitching and hawing we finally came to the so-said boulder. Atop it, the view out towards the horizon was nothing less descriptive other than being magnificent. Such a wondrous sight was rare. The water level was about 4-5 feet from where we were standing, as the boulder slopes downwards in an easy curve. Who knew then that a devious scheme to attempt to drown one of us was in the works? To us, as long as we kept clear of the water line, we reckoned everything would be alright. The ocean continued its slow rise as time went by.
After casting our baits into the sea, apart from scanning the area for any signs of marine life, there was little much to do than to sit back and enjoy the combination of waves crashing onto hard slate and wind in your hair. Prospects were seriously starting to look rather dim by the time an hour had passed when suddenly my friend felt something pulling at his line. With his powerful and expensive Abu Garcia reel, he retracted the line in. It was a fish all right, a greenish hue with black and blue stripes streaking its body. Immediately I felt sorry for the poor sod, but that's the way how fishing goes. Wishing no further harm to the little fish, I began unhooking the sharp prong from its mouth. I squatted down in order to lower my gravitational body point. Seemed to be the rational thing to do.
And then it happened. Something suddenly made my feet give way and down I plunged into the ocean, taking with me my friend's rod... and his precious Abu Garcia reel! That expensive piece of equipment was barely a week old. The waters easily reached to my shoulders, and the first thing my instincts told me to do were to try and get a foothold. The almost-smooth boulder offered none. In times like these, panic and fear guarantees certain death. I tried to stay as calm as I could, but the rough waves seemed to want to break my spirit by beaching on my back and pulling me out to the sea (my feet were well nowhere touching the sea floor or boulder; as a direct result of the currents going in and out, both my feet were in fact almost horizontal). In short, it was like me trying to hang on for dear life grabbing on a piece of paper embedded on the ground while a gigantic vacuum cleaner has just been turned on. It sure hurt like hell when the waves slammed into my body. I reasoned trying to swim to shore, which was just about 10 feet away, but with such strong undercurrents, I might just be pushed towards some underwater rock and get knocked dead. So swimming was out.
Occasionally the waters would engulf my mouth and nose. Not so much to effectively drown me, but still adequately made me taste salt and sputter. I thought that perhaps my time was up. I did not have flashbacks on certain milestones of my life (unlike what they show on TV), just that slight feeling of regret knowing I would die before getting married and figuring out the girl I am to marry. I thought of my family, and wondered if they could accept my death from drowning. God must have intended it not to be so, for suddenly I found something pulling me from the water. It was my friends.
Together, two pairs of hands pulled me up to safety while the third acted as an anchor by grabbing on to something while securing my friends' feet. I only prayed my arms wouldn't pop out of their sockets. In the process of hauling me upwards, while my feet instinctively looked for a something to act as a temporary foothold, I scraped them pretty nasty against the boulder surface. But compared to a certain death four feet below, this wasn't so bad. Nothing much, just probably like what a hundred cats would give to you with their incessant scratchings. Sure enough it started to bleed, yet the adrenaline rush kept the pain at bay. For now, perhaps. I wasn't going to sit down now and reflect on what that little blot of blood would do to my nerves. But the fact remained now that while I was already on dry land, the rod and reel wasn't. I could already see the anguish on my friend's face, and why wouldn't he be agitated? That reel set him back more than a hundred bucks. The pain on my foot started.
Was I in a state of shock? Apart from the stinging pain in my left feet due to the salt water, I was still sane and conscious. Seeing that I needed no emergency administration or morphine shots, we then decided to execute a maneouver that would involve the four of us locking hands together and try to brave the waves in a daring act to recover the rod by feeling around with our feet. Around the boulders we went, in a sort of semi-circle slow wade. Despite holding on to each other for dear life and trying to balance ourselves by placing our backs flat against the rock, the oncoming waves seemed to be playing a game of cat-and-mouse with us, mocking our feeble attempts. Being pushed hard against the rocks and getting sucked back out towards the ocean quickly tired us. Man can never stand a chance against Nature.
When in moving water, particularly those running deep in saline content, an average human needs to exert more muscle power to move compared to, say, a swimming pool. Even the tiniest article of clothing, in this case our shorts, feels like deadweight when the water is being sucked back into the main sea. It pulls you along with it, and herculean strength is required just to cover even 5 feet away from the beachfront.
The water was already chest-high even before we reached the boulder where we just stood. Venturing out more would be foolish, and we would need to come back when the waters had receded for good. It would have to be after the sun had set. Syed nearly lost the left side of his slippers when it came loose from his feet and bobbed on the surface, threatening to go further away to join the ocean. It was saved by a last-minute action by my hand. I needed to. After all, my life was saved no thanks to his participation in it by being the anchor guy.
Later in the night, my compatriots and I decided to return to the same area to look for the lost rod once more before we give up the hunt. Learning from afternoon's experience, we straddled around cautiously. I was tasked to provide light from the bike's headlamp, twisting the accelerator so as to pump more juice into the engine and thus making the headlamp shine brighter. However, no matter how much I twisted the accelerator, it just wasn't still bright enough. Suffice to say directing such a weak source of light towards an area easily 20 metres away is akin to trying to light up a whole room using a puny match.
Imagine my horror when they returned minutes later and told me that I was extremely lucky to have made it and not be claimed by the sea; the same boulder upon which we stood on earlier was in fact incredibly huge. The ocean, now having retreated back for the night, revealed that the water level that covered the boulder during high tide was easily more than 3 metres high! Many more areas, concealed by water by day but visible now during the night could be seen; seabeds with strange rock formations and pieces of rocks resting so close together they practically form a gap to trap some unlucky soul's foot. Somehow thinking of it made me uneasy. The rod was never found.
Back at home my friends told me just how lucky I was to be still alive and kicking. I couldn't agree more with them. Therefore from that fateful day onward, that little incident has prompted me to live out life in a more fulfilling way as much as I could. How? By doing the things I want to do. Life is already short. It could be shorter still. Ironically, most of the things scribbled on my list are extreme outdoor sports, which any of them could spell the end for me. But thinking on, if that happens (touch a darn big piece of wood) at least I'm going out in style doing the things I love doing the most. Perhaps I should search for true love too while I'm at it. Cheating partners and lying spouses need not apply.
Life is bliss indeed.
Come December (or early August if things are right) Clint Eastwood is set to release the first of two films based on the Battle of Iwo Jima during World War II. Titled "Flags Of Our Fathers" by author James Bradley's book of the same name, the film revolves around the six U.S. Marines infantrymen captured in the infamous "Rising of the flag on Iwo Jima" photograph (see accompanying picture on the left).
