The Ground Beneath My Feet

Gutter 9, Autumn 2013

Yet another successful evening. We’ve been doing this long enough, got it down pat, could do it in our sleep.

Six years hard at it, sailing around resort islands putting on a gourmet evening. Special alcohol, special dinner. Keep the guests interested, give the chef a night off, give the resort a flavour of elegance, elitism, whatever it is that’s sought after. Every year we change the menu, change the culture. Last year was Turkish. The year before was… Peruvian, I think. Maybe that was the year before.

This year is Japanese. Five types of very expensive saké each served with an accompanying dish which perfectly compliments the spirit. $100 a head, thank you very much.

She’s settling up, cash, receipts. Money in the bank. Business is booming. Woopty-doo.

It was all supposed to be a bit of fun. A way of seeing the world, travel paying for itself.

I take my glass of Sauvignon Blanc and what’s left of the bottle out onto the beach. Sand between my toes, crushed shell and coral beneath my feet. The yacht is anchored out beyond the Over The Sea bar. Woodstock she’s called. Named by the retired wannabe hippy we bought her off in Manila. Recently I’ve rechristened her Blue Monday. That feeling I get when I see her from the beach, when I climb back aboard, haul anchor and set sail: Monday morning. Back to work.

The island is quiet, near the end of the season, the weather unpredictable. At the height this beach is full of honeymooning couples, wealthy families, executives on enforced vacations, laptops and briefing memos next to cocktails with umbrellas. Now I can only see a Chinese family noisily arguing in the bar, a retired couple walking hand-in-hand towards their villa and the staff preparing everything for breakfast.

Sink down, making sure there are no crabs under me, push my heels into the colder, darker sand. Sip of wine. The thought of going back out there. The circuit down the eastern edge of the Indian Ocean, through the Singapore Strait up to Hong Kong via the Philippines, the new resorts in Vietnam, Cambodia, Thailand, back through to the Indian Ocean to start all over again. Laps of Asia, like a race car looping again and again. Burning fuel but getting nowhere, always back to the start.

I just want to stop. Enjoy the world again. Experience something. Six years ago I’d never have guessed this would turn into another rat race.

We met in Sumatra, staying at the same hostel. A one night thing, then travel buddies, then a couple, then partners. Always another step. We’re both trained chefs, earned our pocket money cooking here and there, got to know the owners, built a reputation. Then the yacht was available at a reasonable price, a businessman we’d catered for put up the capital and that was us in business.

We went wherever we could get a booking. As we became more sought after structure crept in. Two bookings a week, then three, sometimes four if the islands are close enough. One day it had become a job. We aren’t cooking in order to travel: We’re travelling to cook. Some days we’re in and out like a special forces team. Like the Seals, the SAS armed with saké and condiments. We arrive, cook, chat, laugh, clean, collect our cash – in US dollars if you don’t mind – and are off the island before the date has changed.

I want to stop. I yearn for a bed on dry land. Our idea was to live the slow life. Do enough work to survive, live and travel, be free and see the world. If all you see are jetties and kitchens, if all you do is plan menus and study charts, exactly how much of the world are you really seeing?

The wind is picking up, the palm trees moving more excitedly, Blue Monday a weather vane, pointing out to sea. The monsoon is coming, storms more frequent. We’ll keep heading east, outrun it, get through the Strait, change seasons. She checks the weather every few hours, our bookings following the expected course of weather fronts. We came here in the wake of one. Turn, I find myself praying to the god of storms. Turn. Shut off our escape, dash our plans on this perfect white shore. Every time we make landfall, I pray for this the way kids pray for a snow-day. Just a few days off. Please.

By the law of averages, I have to get a winner one day.

I wake to clanging and swell. She’s already up, cursing the weather feed.

“What is it?”

“It’s turned.”

“Are we stuck here?”

“Shit. Looks like it.”

Roll away so she can’t see the grin. Thank you, Storm God.

“I told you we should’ve left last night,” she says. “If you hadn’t got drunk we’d be halfway there and able to outrun it. But you had to open another bottle.”

No point arguing. Can’t let her see how pleased I am.

“So what’s the plan?” I say instead.

“Well, we've got two options, either we cancel tomorrow’s booking and continue with the schedule or we shift everything forward a day or two. Ideally I’d do the latter, that way we don’t lose any money, but the logistics are a nightmare and I don’t suppose I’ll get any help from you in calling all these resorts. Also if we move the entire schedule we’ll piss off every resort whereas if we only cancel one then we only piss off one resort. I hate cancelling though. All that money lost. Damn this weather.”

“It’s only money,” I say before I can stop myself.

“It is only money, I agree. It’s only money we need to live on. Only money that pays for the fuel, the ingredients, our life, this yacht. Only money that keeps us literally afloat. But hey, let’s just pack it in, sit on the beach and drink.”

Not a bad idea. “Spending a few days here won’t put us out of business. We won’t go bankrupt taking a holiday.”

“A few days? It had better not be a few days or we’ll never be able to cover the distance to catch up with ourselves.”

I don’t care. “Have you spoken to the boss?”

“Not yet,” she says.

“I’ll go and tell him we need to lean on his hospitality for a few days.”

“For a day at the most.”

“Until the storm passes.”

I could call the water taxi but I want to get off her. Dive in and swim until it’s shallow enough to stand, wash the alcohol out my mind. When I reach the shore I see the boss coming down to meet me.

“Morning Charlie,” I call.

“Morning Nick. I was just coming to see you both.”

“Saved you the trouble. It seems we might need to stay a day or two.”

“That’s no problem, Nick. We don’t think the storm will reach us, but it is sitting right across your path.”

“Well, c’est la vie.”

“Will this be a big problem for you?”

“We’ll miss one booking, maybe two, but what can you do? Weather is an occupational hazard in our job.”

“True.”

“And there are worse places to be stormbound than here.”

“Well, all the facilities are at your disposal, meals, the gym and everything.”

“That’s very kind of you, Charlie. And if we can help out in anyway, don’t hesitate to ask.”

Nothing to do. Wonderful. I take a stroll along the beach as far as the wooden fence separating the resort from the staff’s residential area then cut inland. What to do with my day? Tennis? Swimming? I could snorkel, float for hours, rising and falling with the waves watching the fish getting on with fishy things. I could lie by the pool drinking smoothies, maybe the odd cocktail. I don’t have to do anything. No schedule, no charts, no prep. Nothing.

This island is tiny and I cross it in under ten minutes. Here the beach is a little narrower, less picture perfect. There are no villas on this side, just the spa and gym and beyond that the Korean barbecue restaurant, both raised over the water. On the sand beneath the spa a man in the loose white pyjamas all the staff wear is doing Tai Chi. His graceful movements and slow shapes remind me of a stork in a rice field, or kelp in a soft current. I sit and watch him go through his routine. I learned a bit of Tai Chi in Hong Kong but never had the discipline. Like all my attempts at fitness. I get an urge to go to the gym, do some weights, run a bit and that’s me for a month or two. It looks good though.

There’s a light breeze and apart from the grey clouds breaking up the horizon no one would believe a tropical storm was raging out at sea. I could stay here forever.

“Good morning.”

The Tai Chi guy comes over. He looks South East Asian. Malaysian maybe, Singapore. Even in his casual uniform I can tell his body is taut, ripped. Tai Chi isn’t the only martial art he knows.

“It is,” I say. “Perfect morning for Tai Chi.”

“It is always a perfect morning with Tai Chi,” he says. “We shouldn’t start the day out of balance.”

I don’t think I’ve ever started a day in balance.

“I am Goh Seng,” he says.

“Nick,” I say. “Nick Johansson.”

“You are the chef, shipwrecked on our island.”

I like the sound of that. Shipwrecked. Robinson Crusoe.

“I am. What do you do here?”

“I am a fitness trainer and masseur.”

“I could’ve guessed,” I say, nodding at his hard body.

“You wish to use the gym?”

“Maybe later.” I pat my paunch. “Not much for working out, me.”

“So you don’t wish to use the gym?”

“Not just now, thanks. I’m happy just relaxing. To be honest I haven’t had a day off in a while.”

“Stressed? How about a massage?”

Charlie said the facilities are at my disposal. “You’re not too busy?”

“No,” he says. “There are few guests today.”

“Well, if it’s no trouble, I think a massage would be just what I need.”

A magician. A wizard. Like that, all my stress is gone. I felt awkward at first, naked save for the tiny paper pants, but he put me at ease. The table stands over a porthole in the floor, so as Goh Seng took my cares away I watched the marine life on the coral. His hands, the aroma, the music.

I want to do something to thank him. Not a tip: That’s empty. An urge to make a meaningful gesture, a desire to splurge, to give. What can I do? Well, there’s only one thing I can do well. Cook.

It’s quickly agreed. Charlie has no problems with my idea. I’ll use the Korean restaurant, which is closed tonight, to make dinner for the resort staff. Two sittings, so those on duty can partake but nothing interferes with the paying guests. He’s a bit hesitant at first but when I assure him the whole thing is at my expense, he loses all objections.

With my new-found energy I swim back out to the yacht and pull myself up. She’s there, doing an inventory, tidying, unfolding and refolding charts. Filling time.

“Morning,” I say.

“Has been for some time.”

“You should come ashore. No point staying cooped up here all day. We’re stuck, might as well enjoy it.”

“You know I hate these resorts. Elitist playgrounds, parasites.”

“You made the booking,” I say. “If you don’t like them, don’t do business with them.”

“That’s different. Business is business. But I don’t want to become buddies with them.”

“That just hypocrisy. It’s like a vegetarian owning an abattoir. ‘Meat is murder but business is business.’ It’s nonsense. Anyway, I offered to cook dinner for all the staff tonight.”

“You did what?”

“I offered…”

“Who’s paying?”

“At my expense.”

“At your expense. You mean at our expense. Our money. Our time. Our ingredients. And you’re going to waste it all on the staff? Besides, we might not even be here tonight. As soon as the storm moves on we’re off.”

“No, we’re not.”

“Yes, we are.”

“Look, you can sulk out here all day, bitter and grumpy, or you can try and enjoy yourself. I’m not asking you to help me tonight, I’m perfectly happy to do all the work, I’m just asking you to relax. Whether you like it or not we’ve got a day off and I sure as hell don’t plan on wasting it. Now. Are you coming for a swim?”

“You can go to hell.”

I fill a water-tight bag with spices and return to the island. Five minutes alone with her undid all Goh Seng’s good work. I need another massage. I need a drink. I need a change.

In the back of the restaurant I go through the stores, see what we have, start putting together ingredients, ideas. Textures and tastes, compliments and juxtapositions. It’s a treat to be working on a full meal. These tasting evenings we do are all very well but at the end of the day it’s just finger food and drinks. Nibbles. Delicious and perfectly balanced though they may be, the difference between that and a meal with courses is the difference between a pop song and a symphony. Sure “Can’t Buy Me Love” is as perfect a tune as you’re going to hear but it doesn’t satiate the way Beethoven’s 9th does. A quickie is fine, but sometimes you want to make love.

By early afternoon I have a fish-based menu and start making a G&T to celebrate when Goh Seng comes in. I gesture with the glass, offer him one. He shakes his head.

“Don’t drink?”

“I like wine with my dinner.”

“Me too.” I open the gin bottle but something about the way he said that stops me. Maybe it is a bit early. Rescrew the cap and pour us both a grapefruit juice instead. We sit go outside and sit on the steps, looking across the island.

“You worked here long?” I ask him.

 “Two years,” he says. “Before I worked in Thailand. Before that Singapore.”

“You’re from Singapore?”

 “Yes. You?”

“Christchurch, New Zealand. Have you been?”

“No.”

“How did you become a masseuse?”

“I did Tae Kwon Do. I was in the Seoul Olympics, but there aren’t many jobs for retired Tae Kwon Do players. I became a fitness instructor, a masseuse, many odd jobs. You’ve always been a chef?”

“Yes. I didn’t get many qualifications at school. Got a job in a restaurant washing dishes, went to catering college.”

“And now we both wander from job to job.”

“Island to island.”

“Yes.”

“You’re coming for dinner tonight?”

“I thought maybe you would like some help in the kitchen. Or is three a crowd?”

“Three?”

“Your wife.”

“She isn’t my wife.”

 “Oh.”

“I don’t think she’ll be there tonight. She’s… she’s not so well.”

“So maybe you need a hand?”

“That would be handy.”

Goh Seng goes back to work. I return inside. That was weird. Where did that stupid pun come from? I wash the glasses, look around the kitchen. I’m all set. Nothing to do until it’s time to light the grills. A drink? No, not the right mood. Then what? I feel like some exercise.

Back on the yacht I pack a bag for the gym and for tonight, fresh clothes, my toiletries. She’s asleep. I leave her. Go for a run.

The dinner is a hit. It’s awkward at first, the staff used to waiting on people, not being waited upon, but the food goes down well and soon everyone relaxes. A restaurant filled with laughter, the sounds of cutlery, people enjoying each other’s company. I miss this. At the end everyone thanks me, pats on the back, happy faces, content stomachs.

“Thanks for that,” says Charlie. “The staff loved it. Everyone works hard here, it’s nice to give them something back.”

“No problem,” I say. “I live for this. I’d do it every night if I could.”

“This? Can’t imagine you’d swap what you’ve got for this? A different island every few days. A free spirit. No nine to five, no working week.”

“I don’t know. I’ve been doing it a while. You know what they say, a change is as good as a rest.”

“Well, if you’re serious, our head chef is leaving at the end of the season. I’d be happy to offer you and your wife jobs here.”

“She’s not my wife.”

“Oh.”

“No, we’re... it’s just business. Are you serious about the job?”

“I don’t want to get in the middle of anything. But yes, we need a new head chef. Have a think about it.”

Yachts aren’t meant to be viewed from the back. They never look particularly impressive from that angle. The classic images of ships are never from the stern. The cruise liner majestically sliding passed crowds of admiring flag-wavers. Tall ships of wood and rope riding the waves on journeys of exploration. Aircraft carriers seen in a flyover, toy planes lined up on the deck. I guess the only time you see it stern-first is in movies like Mutiny on the Bounty where there’s a shot from the perspective of those set adrift in the longboat, watching the Bounty sail away.

Sailing away.

The stern of Blue Monday really is ugly. I’ve never seen her from this angle before. I’ve always been onboard. Now she’s up there by herself, charts and instruments and I’m here, no more at sea, watching the arse of that yacht waddle away like a fat woman in low-slung pants.

I turn away, pad barefoot along the jetty to where Goh Seng is waiting. His hands are clasped behind his back in placid readiness. On some people – on me, I guess – that pose makes them look pompous, like some aging major standing at the edge of a ballroom, but on Goh Seng it’s dignified. Maybe it’s the Tai Chi. Balanced mornings. He can teach me.

As we walk between the palm trees, hermit crabs fleeing our steps, he is silent. Did I make the right decision? To trade in the yacht, the island hopping for a job here. The same place for a couple of years. I’ve a lot of money sunk into that yacht. I wish Goh Seng would say something. His mild, calm voice might blow the storm away.