All it takes to conquer fear sometimes is to ride the tide

The sea speaks. In idyllic Krabi, on the southern coast of Thailand you can hear its voice undiluted — a whisper, an echo and occasionally, if you’re lucky enough to witness it in a thunderstorm, an unrestrained roar.

I don’t mind the sea. Actually that’s not quite right, I’m a fan. But only of its tamer avatar, the one that shows itself gently swishing along the shores of Mumbai, of everywhere coastal, placid, in the torpid languor that spells the height of summer.

Riding riotous waves in a wooden Longtail boat, with the floorboards not quite fitted together, so you know it’s handhewn, isn’t my idea of a holiday. But there I was, braving the waters, temperamental and boisterous as they are in the hours before a full moon along with my husband and toddler daughter. Lifejackets —check. Basic first aid kit — check. Fingers white at the knuckles from clutching too tightly at the boat corner as the sea played cat and mouse, tossing us to and fro so we keeled in tempo with the giant waves —check. “We must be mad to do this, may the Gods have mercy,” my silent refrain as each wave pushed us to the brink of overturning.

The Longtail works with the ocean, mimicking its movement, that’s its beauty — low, flat, basic, unlike the bigger, enclosed and hence aseptic speedboats. To a first time traveller slightly intimidated by nature being boastful, it’s the thrill of a lifetime. Or, as in my case, the anxiety of a lifetime.

We were enroute Ao Nang to Railay, both beaches about 20 minutes apart by boat. Railay, the more secluded of the two, is accessible only by sea. Ao Nang is the touristy part, dotted with souvenir stalls and street eateries hawking the wondrous Thai cuisine.

In the hours precluding full moon, the seas are particularly rough. And a storm was brewing, like some slow tempo build-up in a bad Bollywood movie. It would happen that we appeared to be the only ones braving the bay that day. “If we capsize, no one would even find us,” I thought darkly.

Matter of fact we didn’t. We stepped onto the paradise beach that was Railay just as the sun broke through the gloom. As with the rest of Krabi, the tableau was breathtaking. Before us, the tempestuous ocean — indigo in some parts, aquamarine near the rocky outcrops. The valiant Longtail boats moored in a corner, colourful flags underlining their individuality. And the just appearing sun, turning the water to liquid light. “Look mummy, it’s like diamonds,” my three-year-old voicing our collective fascination.

There were jellyfish at Railay, scores of them, in the water, on the sand, dead, marring the extent of our utopian experience. “It’s the rains that bring them on,” the locals nodded sagely.

There was no boat mishap. Not through the duration of our stay, not even when I, emboldened by that initial Longtail trip, rode into a tropical storm on speedboat, the sea spray so sharp it lashed the face tightly, like a slap. It was exhilarating, the sheer grandeur of it — rain, sea and wind one, an entity demonstrative, alive. I’ve never been the adventurous thrill seeker type. But Krabi, this time round, made me a believer.