Gentler Waters

I’m on a boat again. In the middle of the Andaman Sea. Gliding past limestone bluffs jutting out of turquoise water. Passing white sand beaches, peaceful bays, and cliffsides checkered with private villas: resort guests basking poolside, enjoying the tropical, honeymoon-type quiet that could only be interrupted by the sound of our motor. 

Pastel fabric adorning the bow of our boat flutters in front of us: poised perhaps as a beacon of… hope? An amulet of protection? A symbol of moving forward? I don’t really know what I want the fluttering fabric to represent but I know that it has to mean something different than what it meant to me two years ago when I was here—exactly here—on a boat in the Andaman Sea.

~

I was in a miserable place in my life the last time I visited Krabi, Thailand. I had a job that consistently chipped away at my joy, confidence, and sense of self. I was steeped in workplace politics, and I carried it around with me, allowing the weight to drag me into meltdowns and moments of deep insecurity. When I visited my parents in Thailand for the holidays that year, work followed me. 

My dad had planned a father-daughter trip to Krabi for my visit, knowing that I had never been to Thailand’s iconic southern beaches. We hadn’t traveled together like this in years, and it was the type of quality time I cherish with my dad—reminiscent of weekends in my childhood when we would bop around Minneapolis, exploring and talking for hours.

During our trip to Krabi, we shared moments similar to the Minneapolis weekends I was so nostalgic for. We kayaked in a freshwater lake, weaving around mangrove trees, and charming our guide with our imperfect Thai. We wandered around Ao Nang criticizing the tourists that we surely were NOT and chatted about our lives and goals. We followed our whims, never got too attached to a plan, and shamelessly ate at the same Isaan restaurant we found on the first night. 

I was so thankful for this time with my dad. And yet, during it, my Slack channel (and therefore my guard) were on high alert. I felt guilty about stepping away from my job for vacation, leaving ongoing projects to my already-stressed teammates. I felt responsible for answering questions that pertained to me. I felt pressure to be available, even while I was halfway around the world and fifteen hours ahead. To my dad’s dismay, I ended up working a ten hour day from our hotel room because… well… I had to finish something! My life depended on it, after all! 

~

At dinner one night, my dad asked me about my wellness. Something about gnawing at our fried chicken wings—dipped in chili sauce and flaked with crunchy garlic—that got the man thinking about health. My dad had something to say about the importance of sleep and probably had a remark about my stress levels when the man sitting in front of us nearly toppled out of his chair, unconscious. The man’s family and the restaurant owners rushed to his aid, holding him, fanning him, checking his heartrate, repeating his name over and over again.

At that moment, my breathing paused. All my muscles clenched. And my body didn’t snap back into its regular rhythms until the man in front of us was upright again, shakily raising a tall glass of water to his lips, his wife smiling back at him with tears swelling in her eyes.

I don’t think my dad and I said very much for the rest of the night, but I felt as though the universe was telling me something. It was raising its voice, from a whisper to a murmur, directing a message right at me. 

~

The next morning, on our way to an island-hopping excursion, I received a message from my manager. It popped up on my phone’s lockscreen: an unavoidable troll guarding the rest of my phone. The message, sent to a channel with other colleagues in it, included a criticism about an email I had sent the night before. My manager had copied and pasted not only my mistake, but the entire email. She called me out in front of colleagues I already felt scrutinized by. And she called me out while I was on vacation. Perhaps the message could’ve been interpreted as a “learning opportunity” or “constructive feedback.” But as my dad and I zoomed toward the beach, my legs anxiously bouncing and my sunkissed face now a ghostly white, I felt humiliated. Ashamed. Worthless. 

We climbed into a longtail boat just as the sun was rising on the horizon. We were whisked out into the open ocean, where I could silently pout and pity myself. I felt both disappointed with my work performance and devastated by my punishment. As we traveled further into the sea while fighting the crashing waves, the orange fabric at the bow of the boat violently whipped in the wind. I watched it thrash. It warped and flexed and reconfigured itself against the gusts, dancing despite its opponent. I let my hair down and allowed the wind to unravel it, each strand a writhing tentacle behind me. I closed my eyes and let the salty breeze slap against my face. 

Eventually the boat slowed down as we approached the limestone islands. The water beneath us calmed and it felt more like we were floating, rather than fighting. The orange fabric settled into a gentle flutter. And as I looked around, remembering how far out into the ocean we had come, I felt for the first time in a long time how big the world was. How massive and deep the ocean was. How minuscule the message on my phone was in comparison to the universe. I also remembered the man from the night before—the fright that filled the room when he passed out—and it reminded me of the simple truth that life is way too short and unpredictable to be miserable. 

We disembarked at Maya Bay, an idyllic beach on the island of Koh Phi Phi Le, made famous to foreigners by the 1999 film The Beach with Leonardo DiCaprio. After years of over tourism, the national park closed the beach to visitors from 2018 to 2022 for restoration. They reopened the iconic attraction just a year before my dad and I set foot on its soft shore. 

The beach was serene: quiet before the morning rush. Due to low tide, the sand stretched far into the cove, its reach caressing the foundations of rock formations. We were restricted from swimming in the shallow waters for ecological reasons, so my dad went for a stroll. I plopped myself down in the sand and took a moment to appreciate the stillness.

I was so moved by the serenity, compelled and inspired to take it back with me. I was filled with hope that I could apply this peacefulness to the rest of my life. 

Call me sentimental, but before we left Maya Bay, I etched a flower into the sand as a symbol of a promise to myself. I would no longer allow my work to thrash me around. I needed to stop fighting and start blossoming, to flutter gently in the wind. I remembered in that quiet cove that life was mine to create. I promised myself that I would seek out calmer waters as soon as I got back to Seattle.

Two years later, I’m on a boat again in the middle of the Andaman Sea. I’m on vacation. And this time, it’s a true vacation: my phone is buried in my backpack somewhere and my time in the longtail boat is uninterrupted bliss. I work at my dream job back in Seattle, writing and showing travel journalists a place I love. When I go to work, I feel a sense of belonging, fulfillment, and community. My coworkers hype me up, show gratitude and friendship, help each other grow in encouraging ways. I have fun. And I feel as though the peace that I have found at work has changed my entire life for the better.

I found the listing for this dream job of mine on that trip to Krabi two years ago, essentially the moment I got back to the hotel after our Maya Bay excursion. I quit my other job the day I got back from Thailand.

Maybe it’s the simple act of being on vacation—stepping away from everyday life and finally having the time and space to reflect—that inspires people to make drastic changes in their life while abroad. Maybe it’s how travel encourages people to observe the world in a new way, opening the door to imagining better realities. Or maybe it’s just that, in beautiful places, people like me make ourselves the main characters in our own lives, emboldened to make braver choices. 

Whatever it is, I believe I owe my newfound peace to my trip to Krabi. I owe it all to the Isaan restaurant that my dad and I returned to every night, the longtail boat driver who whisked us out into the open ocean, and the morning shores of Maya Bay. 

And in this moment, on a boat in the Andaman Sea, I watch the pastel fabric at the bow blowing in the wind. I know that it could be thrashing, fighting gusts as we navigate rough water---and I am more than delighted that it’s just gently fluttering in the breeze.

Robert and I on our way to Koh Phi Phi from Ao Nong, Krabi.

Back at Maya Bay in 2025.