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On the Beach
By Marc Levy
Pinned by pebbles, row upon row of five thousand dollars in blue engraved travelers checks sit like butterflies fanning their wings on the hot dry sand. If curious children draw near I will shoo them away. Here is how it happened:
After a week in Ha Long Bay sharing a small wood boat with a garrulous German couple who constantly fought and drank and bacchanaled, when the boat finally pulled to port, Seth and I found a cheap guest house, set our packs down in the large cubicle room, and slept for three hours. Then it was time to wash our clothes.
There is an art to skillfully soaping the cloth, plunging the moist clothing into colorful plastic buckets, wringing them by twisting the fabric tight, methodically working the twist forward, until squeezing out the last drops of water.
As the sun set we hung our wash on green nylon cord bought in a thriving market in Phnom Penh, Cambodia, twenty cents a foot. After a hearty meal of fish, soup and rice, and a short walk up the main street and back, we turned in for the night. Early the next morning, we paid for our five dollar room, grabbed our gear, and headed for the tunnel that lead to the beach.
For fifty cents, a young boy wearing a white shirt, thin gray trousers and flip flops lead us through the war time shelter. We stooped low and followed his every step, the smooth walls fragrant with time and cool to the touch. A hundred meters later we stepped onto the gleaming white sand. There were no other travelers. The beach was eerily quiet.
I spread my towel and lay down. Seth waded into the tranquil sea. "Come on out," he shouted from fifty yards out.
I did not hesitate, and walked straight into the ocean. The cold invigorating water quickly rose above my ankles, my knees, my hips, and finally ringed my neck. "It's great," I shouted, and waved to Seth. "It's great!" Then an all consuming dread overwhelmed me.
A money belt is a portable safe, a nylon vault for credit cards, visas, hard cash, travelers checks, a passport. The seasoned traveler wears it securely hidden inside his pant waist, and only removes it before going to sleep. I had mine beneath my swim trunks. The salty ocean nipped my chin.
Frantically, I swam to shore, leaving Seth to wonder what was wrong. Kneeling behind a sand dune, fearing the worst, I unzipped the black nylon sleeve and gingerly removed its contents. A few ink stamps in the passport were smudged. The paper currency was slightly moist; the travelers checks were sopping wet. But to panic would have only made things worse.
I concentrated on fanning the passport pages to unstick them, and next set the booklet upright on the blistering hot sand. Six inches apart, placing pebbles at their center, I lay out five rows of currency and checks. A soft sea breeze made them flit like dragon flies. In less than five minutes the sun and sand had worked their magic. Row by row I gathered up several thousand dollars of checks and bills, returned them to the pouch, slide the dry passport behind them, cinched the belt around my waist, zippered it shut, tucked it beneath my bathing suit, and at last breathed easy. Then I stood and waved to Seth.
"C'mon back out," he yelled, both his hands gaily splashing water.
But for the moment I'd had enough excitement and preferred the safety of solid dry land.
Marc Levy was a medic with Delta 1-7 Cav in 1970. His war poetry and prose have been widely published online and in print. His website is Medic in the Green Time.