Today I lead a climbing trip, packing a myriad of gear with a
fellow guide before heading out on the same boat as our kayakers. I look at the
karsts with new eyes today: The little geology remaining in my brain from
college, coupled with a small amount of intuition and sizable input from my
coworkers, Google, Neagha (our local conservationist) and a pretty cool movie on bolting routes in Thailand tell me that the
limestone karsts surrounding us were laid down over 200 million years by layer
upon layer upon layer of shredded sea shell. Tectonic movement then edged the
sea floor in under the limestone, buckling and shoving the rock over a
kilometer and a half into the sky, where it was eventually exposed through
erosion to display individual layers of deep gray rock in clear-cut angles
rising from the sea. As coastal weather wore peaks down to their present
heights through physical erosion, tidal sea life aided the process along the
water line. Shellfish, clamped onto towers in the tidal zone, release gasses
that combine with water to create a weak sulfuric acid and wear away the bottom
of the towers through chemical erosion. They accelerate the erosion in process
from the bay’s battering waves, undercutting the mountainous features and
leaving arches, caves and tunnels. Mussel-covered pillars drop from ceilings,
countering looming outcrops and rocks just below the surface. As tides rise
arches disappear, waves shrouding undercut cliffs and restoring an illusion of
simple islands rising from the sea. Occasionally undercut walls fall into the
sea, taking with them blankets of vegetation and revealing stark new faces.
Additionally, water soaking into the rock absorbs carbon
dioxide released form roots put down by jungle vegetation, forming carbonic
acid that dissolves the limestone as it moves downward. When water seeps out of
the sides and base of the towers and evaporates, it forms tufas and stalactites
as minerals are left behind. In the meantime, hollow spaces left behind in the
towers eventually collapse in on themselves, creating massive sinkholes that
will eventually connect with the bay to become lagoons.
Local legend ditches all the fancy science and informs us
that Once Upon a Time pirates attacked, sending the island into terror. A huge
dragon descended from the sky, spewing fireballs and jewels and jade into the bay as she
destroyed the invaders. Islands were raised in a maze to keep invaders at bay
in the future, causing shipwrecks when attempts were made. The dragon’s
children then decided to remain in the bay, living beneath the water among the
towers.
Given the breathy trumpets released from the rock as waves
move in to fill caves and tunnels, this legend seems almost plausible.
_______
Some time later we clamber from our junk boat onto a
smaller tender boat from the channel’s center between a couple of smaller
karsts, past an archway and onto tide-dependent oyster-covered rocks onto Moody
Beach, ringed by vertical walls. A small patch of jungle divides the beach,
doubling as cover for a narrow, winding bunker that hid artillery during the
war. We spend the next three hours setting climbs and belaying customers,
coaching them through the fear, uncertainty and unfamiliar body movement that I
remember so clearly from my first days on the wall. I’m reminded daily of the
trust given to us as we tie unfamiliar knots through our customers’ harnesses,
threading rope through oddly shaped metal devices and instruct them, an hour
after our lives intersect, to place their lives in our hands.
The point is driven home today, especially, as I've woken to
discover a friend’s death in a mountaineering accident overnight in Alaska. I’ve
never dealt with death easily, and this is the first time I’ve experienced the
loss of a friend my age. It’s also the first time I’ve been in this situation
far from home. Even not having crossed paths with Dasan for some time, the news
of his fall wrenches me. Dasan was a careful, extremely competent and experienced
climber, full of passion and genuine good. He was an absolute inspiration, and
I would have put my life in his hands without hesitation. I still would.
It’s so important to remember that we’re human– and to
double- and triple-check everything that we do. Everyone makes mistakes. Recognizing
the blind faith and confidence given to us by the vast majority of our
customers is humbling.
And so I think today about the
lives I hold in my own hands, and how Dasan’s passing has reminded me once
again to live life to the fullest. I like to believe he’s at peace in the
mountains.
__________
After lunch, the climbing guides normally hop on a smaller
basket boat to “Castaway Island,” where Vietnam Backpackers hosts dozens of young(er) adults in a day and night, or two, or three, of continuous drinking and debauchery. We
pick up a predetermined (yet most definitely susceptible to change) number of
climbers, ferry them to another beach and set a different pair
of routes, practicing patience and tact at their highest levels along the way.
I suppose the folks who board our basket boat constitute the higher-IQ
population the island, since they’ve foregone the more popular “Booze Cruise”
(beer most definitely not free) to
let us put them on rope and experience something a little different in life. Ergo,
we find ourselves unsurprised when faced with a very hairy-chested man in a
teeny tiny pink and black string bikini, holding a beer as he attempts to jump
through a hula hoop on the beach.
Today, however, I’m shown clearly how quickly and fully I’ve
been welcomed as family amongst Asia Outdoors and our boat crew. As I finally
have a chance to begin processing the news of Dasan’s passing, taking a moment
to cry on a colleague’s shoulder, the crew vehemently insist that I return to
town and another staff member step into my overnight shift on the boat (we’ve
got people who’ve signed up to sleep under the stars). I turn down compassionate
offers from other guides on the boat and we come to a compromise, shuffling
guides so I can take the afternoon for myself. Once the afternoon kayakers have
been sent off, Anh Son builds me a nest in the low-ceilinged cabin above the
captain’s seat and kitchen, which I’m pretty sure is his small territory on the
boat. His ever-present smile touched with concern, he beckons me through the
low door and insists I sleep. And so I do, waking to the kayakers’ return and
able to fully enjoy the evening as we eat a feast of squid, fish, fruit, rice and spring rolls; drink whiskey and beer; sing karaoke (English songs primarily selected by the Vietnamese present, consisting of christmas carols, the YMCA and Nsync), and play cards on a
floating house (above the planks that hide Bova’s ridiculously giant lucky
grouper) before settling down for the night on thin pads and beneath the
comforting weight of thick blankets on the top deck.
__________
The bay has stilled. Dogs bark in the distance, an
occasional basket boat passes through the channel, and light seeps around the
surrounding karsts as the junk boat rotates gently on the water’s glassy
surface above our anchor.
I still say you should write when you get too old to climb. Guess that'll be a while
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