Stoned, In the early afternoon heat, I stumbled into my bungalow on the beach.  

This, a routine I had been doing for the last few weeks.  I’d wake when the sun beating on my thatched roof got to be too much, slip on my suit, open the door, and slide into the lukewarm Gulf of Thailand. Refreshed, I’d emerge and meet friends at the beach restaurant for a bite to eat.   Following that, we’d smoke a joint and lay on the beach. 

This was my happy place.  I’d listen to Portishead’s Dummy or St. Germain’s Tourist and write.  We would talk about home, the three of us.  We shared our upbringings, and I’d collect little bits of them in my journal on that beach.  Our bond strengthened by our reasons for travelling to the island.  

Little did I know, someone else on that beach wanted to know me.  He followed me with his eyes and memorized my super simple island routine. Watching, timing, and waiting to take from me what I would have never given freely to him.  

So, on that day, when I stumbled into my bungalow, stoned and exhausted, he waited and quietly let himself in.  My camera, passport, and wallet strewn about the small 10x10 space, but he didn’t want to take those things.  He wanted to take my outgoingness, my freedom, my energy, the way my hair dried of salt-water, my tanned skin, the way I flirted with other island men.  He had watched me (I was told after the fact) and wanted to take from me everything that I would never have given to him.

When I opened my eyes, he was hunched over at my head staring at me, inches from my face.  It’s like he had hesitated, and I woke up before he could pull the trigger.  I jumped up, stoned and confused.  I spoke to him calmly and frankly - What are you doing in here?  This is MY space?  I know my door wasn’t locked. Could you please leave? As I spoke to him, conscious not to get too mad or offend him, I opened the door.  

Somewhere down the beach, my travel companions noticed my open door.  Excited I was awake they decided to come up to my bungalow to collect me to get a head start on the day’s adventures.  When they walked into the bungalow, they were confused about who the intruder was.  Startled by their presence, he took off running down the beach, and I collapsed onto my mattress on the floor.  There I sat, and wept.  

I wept because my mother’s fears were not unfounded.  Some men will take what they want.  He wanted to take from me, and I was lucky.  I am a lucky one.  I was lucky that my door opened at the same time that two Canadians looked up from their beach walk.  How is that lucky?  How is it lucky to NOT get raped?  Jesus. How is our thinking so warped?  

Stoned, in the early afternoon heat, I stumbled out of my bungalow, changed, missing a piece of innocence and replacing it with this ridiculous feeling of luck. I’m a lucky one.