#to be clear i expect to be fleeced when EYE am a tourist to these countries too its literally fine

[robobee]

i always get so hurt when I see tiktoks of white tourists in 3rd world countries and they're not getting upcharged... REPENT and pay that street vender 5 more dollars right NOWWW how dare you enjoy that 60 cent pad thai

[cartilageandperfume]

I’m finally gonna post one of my first short stories! This one was for a school assignment, and seeing as the school year’s over, it should be fine to publish. @yupokaysuremhm helped me edit!! (Don’t repost, but please feel free to reblog.)

Undercurrent

"Sunset and evening star and one clear call for me! 

And may there be no moaning of the bar, 

when I put to sea."

Excerpt from a gravestone at Rock Creek Cemetery, Washington, DC.

'Have you ever been out on the beach at night, my dear?'

I have. I know the pull of the ocean, stronger still on a dark night, the waves at once thunderous and silent. I know the feeling of such insignificance compared to the vastness of the water. The frothing white of the sea illuminated by a round, full moon that would seem massive in any other context swallowed by the weight of the sea. 

We step onto the sand together just after dusk. The beach is empty save for a pair of seagulls who take to the sky when we get too close, bone-white feathers bright in what little light remains. The late July heat is vanished with the wind-off-the-water, and I shiver in the dark fleece jacket I brought along. You have no such qualms, still wearing the plain t-shirt and long, flowing white skirt you threw on this morning. Now it seems thin, insufficient protection from the chill of the night. I've never liked the droning heat of summer, but now the cold does nothing but put me on edge, wind lifting the hair on my arms, winding around my ankles. I can't help but imagine the wind wrapping around me as cold, heavy weights dragging me down to the bottom of the ocean. Shuddering to clear the image from my mind, I make my way to the abandoned lifeguard chair, lifting my feet as far above the ground as I can with each unsteady step through the shifting, hungry sand. I watch you pull your long hair out of its hair tie, already curly with salt from a morning spent at the sea. Not this beach, though, but yet another of the beaches on your list. You told me that this summer you want to revisit every beach on the coast, every beach you knew so well when you lived here as a child. A few feet from the ocean, you can no longer resist the pull, and you charge in, meeting the crest of a wave with your full body, entirely soaked and still in your clothes. I can't help but smile as I watch you, seemingly more at home in the sea than you ever are on land. We met at college in the city, you, an unwilling emigré from back here, I, a generation removed from these same coastal towns. 

My mother had described it as an escape to the city, away from the unchanging monotony of small town, USA. She and I went back to her parents’ for a weekend or two every year, though, staying as long as we could until the tension between them snapped like frayed ropes during a storm. Then we'd return to our sophisticated urban life, impossibly far, yet only a few miles away from their rough, saltbox-style home. I loved the beach then. I'd spend all day wading, dodging waves, too skittish to venture the ten feet or so beyond where they broke over the sand. Sometimes, on those brief weekend trips, my grandparents would take us for a drive, to see the marinas, the marshes, historical homes in the area, and of course, the statues. One statue, a man boldly steering his ship through a storm, the other, his family waiting for news-- a safe return, or a wreck. They that go down to the sea in ships. We stopped coming up here, my mother and I, when she met a man her parents disapproved of. No great falling out, the visits just stopped. I came up alone for each of their funerals. My grandfather, a heart attack in the cellar. My grandmother fell into the water on one of her daily walks. Descended from a long line of North Shore fishermen and their wives, she had never learned to swim; many who make their living on the water up here never do. The water's so cold, and nobody can fight off hypothermia no matter how strong their crawl stroke. 

The flow of memories ebbs, and I look up to check on you again. Your crawl stroke is good and strong, and you weave through the waves with practiced ease. I still worry, though. I'm sitting up straight and craning my neck in the assumption that I'll be better able to see you, and I realize I'm unconsciously mirroring the posture of the fisherman's wife statue. Does that make you the fisherman? A ship's cook, perhaps, or a deckhand? I laugh a bit as you dive under a wave, long dark tangles of your hair like seaweed, filmy skirt half blending in with the white of crashing waves. No, you're the siren calling the poor humans aboard to their doom. I realize, watching you cheer when a wave douses you, that you're not as reckless in the waves as I initially assumed; I've never once seen you turn away from the ocean, and you seem to be able to predict and avoid which waves that are larger than they seem. 

Experience from a life spent here, I assume. You lived here all your life, your father a lobsterman who turned to taking tourists around on his boat when you were born, a safer, more predictable living for a newly-responsible single father. And so you grew up no stranger to the sea, only leaving for college, where we met in our first year. At the time, I was studying to become a historian, and you, a writer, and so we ended up taking the same nonfiction-writing class. It was your first story that captivated me, a piece about a local shipwreck. And every story after was a dive into life on the ocean. I can't remember most of my pieces, but I do remember the way your eyes lit up when you talked about the sea. It made me homesick for a place I'd never truly lived. 

You call to me from the ocean, waving, beckoning me closer. I laugh you off, motioning to myself huddled on the worn wood of the lifeguard chair. I'm fine right where I am without any late-night soaking, and besides, you're having enough fun for the both of us. You laugh at that, then turn and dive beneath a wave. It takes you a long time to come back up, and I worry, but you resurface the same as always. 

You've been in the water almost twenty minutes now, and I wonder about hypothermia. It's true that the water now is warmer than the sand, due to some principle of thermodynamics I never cared enough to learn. Still, the temperature on the sand is frigid at best, and I can imagine the water slowly draining the warmth from your body, fingertips turning blue. Just my imagination, though, and you're moving around plenty enough to get your blood circulating. You beckon me in again, and again, I decline. Your loss, you call, and I make a face at you, laughing. And I hope I'm not misunderstood; I do enjoy being here, content watching you and taking in the ocean as a whole. The water stretches out in front of me, the beach in a ragged crescent of sharp rocks reaching out into the water, almost encircling you in an embrace. Those same rocks all up and down the coast spelled doom for many a sailing ship and fishing boat long ago. Now they're mapped out on every electronic system, nearly making obsolete the lighthouses adorning these beaches and islands. The biggest danger these days is the weather, or equipment failure, or human error. I glance down at you again, to make sure you haven't fallen victim to the waves. You're fine, as always. 

The sky stretches out above us, nearly as large, nearly as deep and dark as the ocean. There are no clouds tonight, and the moon is full. It hangs there, alone, dwarfed by everything else. It simply can't compete with the roiling inky-blackness of the ocean. 

I check again, to make sure you're still alive, still breathing air. You catch me watching, and beckon me down a third time. And this time, I listen. The water around you calls, too, pounding and crashing, thundering all around us, almost quietly. Almost precise, but so wild as well. I leave my clothes and shoes on the lifeguard chair. I'm wearing a swimsuit beneath my warm outer layer; you always manage to convince me to join you, so I've dressed for the inevitable. I'm not steady on the sand as I walk down, stumbling over the thick and shifting crests of sand. The wind picks up the closer I get to the water, battling me as I come towards you. The realization that the ocean's too far away from the lifeguard chair for any lifeguard to be of rapid use drifts across my mind, but I give it no thought.

The ocean is warm, both warmer and colder than I expected, and a wave pulls away from me as soon as I step in, leaving my ankles now wet and exposed to the bitter wind. I laugh and go deeper. I'm up to my waist in the warm water, clinging to me like a hug from a long-lost friend. You swim up to me from under the water and surface with a spray of salt water. I laugh again, and you grab my hand and pull me yet deeper out. I follow willingly, sinking to my knees, up to my neck in the water. I tilt my head back and let a wave crash over my face. When I surface, I see clouds for the first time tonight. I point the sky out to you, and you laugh, almost flippantly. What does the appearance of the sky matter, compared to the strange beauty of the ocean? It matches your eyes, you say to me, and I laugh. My eyes are dark brown, and I tell you so. You shake your head. Not the color, you say, but the depth. I flick water at you. You pull me out yet deeper. I'm taller than you and I can't stand. 

I'm worried about being out this deep. I tell you as much, and you dismiss my fear. You grab both my wrists this time, and playfully pull me down in the water. Your hands are so cold around my wrists and as we swim deeper together, the water grows colder as well. I pull up before you, needing to breathe. You don't want to let go, keeping me underwater. Frustrated, I try to break free. 

You hold me down with you. Angry now, and a bit afraid, my eyes fly open in the harsh salt water. It's dark, of course, nighttime above and even less light below. But I see your eyes, flashing and playful. I try to kick away, towards the surface, and something circles my ankles, scaled and twisting. I scream, and the last of my air bubbles float away towards the surface. You let go of my wrists only to embrace me bodily, and I can feel where your skin gives way to thick scales, cold and grating against my unprotected limbs. You kiss me one last time, full of salt and sharp teeth. I close my eyes in the depths of the ocean. It's not so cold anymore. I wrap my arms around you, tangling my fingers in your hair, and give in to the pull of the water.

[ronjonjo365]

Joe - Raindrops are tappin' the tarp. It's 9:30 in the morning and I'm kicked back in my recliner enjoying my second cup o' coffee. I slept well, this same drizzle was a lullaby on my tent last night to accompany the sound of glacial melt rushing down the Matanuska waterway 100 yards from camp. It's shaping up to be a day best spent under shelter close to supplies and reading material and I'm nodding off lost in those thoughts. Me and the dog detect the sound simultaneously. He bounces out of my lap as I strain to visually confirm my suspicions. An old Chevy truck pulls up to the bridge. I know that sound. I know that guy. I hope I'm wrong about knowin' what he wants to do. I'm not. Wayne rounds the corner onto the camp trail grinnin' like a goofus. He gives me one of the beers he's carrying, pops the top on his and sits in the dog's chair (yeah, the dog has a chair, it's a recliner...not bad for a homeless guy eh?) and announces his intention to drag me off to some bay on the coast of Alaska and help me catch salmon. "Right now?" is my initial query. Can't I finish my nap and wait for the weather to clear are my immediate thoughts... "Pack yer shit, here's some dry bags. Ya got a fishin' pole?" FUCK! It takes half an hour and we're heading south. I packed for cold and wet. Wayne says we're snaggin' 'em. I don't know what that means, I don't know what to expect. "People are trying to come with us, a woman with kids," he explains, "I ain't no babysitter, we gotta get outta town before she can find us." We stop at the govt game office for a proxy permit. They say no. We go to a coffee shack for some biscuits and gravy. I read the fine print and point out a flaw in their reasoning. We go back to argue with the govt. they say no. Wayne's head is gonna pop. We gotta get outta dodge. We're waiting on traffic trying to exit the parking lot and make good our escape when the woman with kids appears out of the line of vehicles. She pulls up and rolls down her window. Apparently she wants to make some plans. Wayne is turning red, "OK," he rolls up his window and we're on our way. There's a friend in Anchorage. We stop for a packet of powder guaranteed to enhance our expedition experience and increase our salmon harvest. Travelling the Turnagain Arm road the truck starts acting up, starvin' for gas is the prognosis. We stop at a pullout and pop the hood. I gotta pee. I retreat to the trees. In the process it occurs to me what are the odds that woman and those kids will find us here. I zip up and turn around in time to see her truck pull up. I have yet to meet any of these people. Wayne's been cussin' 'em out the whole way so I don't expect much. Through the side I can see eyes and hair in the back seat and skinny limbs hanging out the windows. Much noise emanates from the area. She wants to make more plans. "OK," Wayne says and we close the hood and leave. The weather clears but the mood is stormy She trails us all the way into Seward. We find a place to park and access the water. Poles are set up with inch long treble hooks with a 10 ounce weight in the middle. The woman has poles and hooks for all in her party. Wayne takes notice. The tide's coming in so we have a long walk to where people are fishing. They cast the hook halfway across a 30 foot channel then jerk the rod. Pull in the slack like a fly rod then jerk again, pull the assembly out of the water and toss it to the middle again...over and over in hopes a passing salmon will get impaled on one of the treble hooks. If the surroundings weren't so beautiful this repetitive slinging and jerking would get monotonous. Then some guy 15 feet downstream pulls 5 pounds of fighting salmon out of the slough and you redouble your efforts. It's a maddening way to spend an evening. Thank dog for beer. Wayne is warming up to the woman and her kids when she shows they can take care of themselves and we don't have to babysit. Hell, even her 7 year old daughter is standing in the water slinging and jerking. We all get skunked. The tide is coming in fast and the water's getting deep so we head back to a tent camp we spotted in town. The woman is completely unprepared for camping. She comes across a tent tucked away behind the debris collecting in the back of the truck but nobody thought to bring a sleeping bag or blanket. The powder works its magic and I don't sleep a wink all night which is funny when you think about it. Here I am all rolled up in a kingsized sleeping bag with my eyes bugging out of my head, my brain working overtime and not a chance for zzz's to kick in while the woman and her kids are huddled and cuddled up in a cheap tent trying to spread body warmth. I feel bad now...I didn't then. I did donate a polar fleece shirt . I was tired of watching the 7 year old shiver. I'm 6'3" she's 3' nuthin' I figure she could use the shirt as a sleeping bag. I've yet to get it back. We find better water access for $20 in the morning. We meet some interesting people on the way. One guy named Darrell from Cedar Rapids Iowa."I just like to kill shit and eat it," is his philosophy. Interesting. That was my dads name and that's where he was from though that wasn't my dad's philosophy. Another guy named Rich from Anchorage who grows pot professionally. I get his phone number. Another guy from Ukraine whose story was so convoluted I'm still confused. Wayne catches a couple fish. The woman caught one too. I get skunked again but I'm privy to a heartwarming scene: We are trudging to a new channel 'cause the one we were fishin' wasn't producing. I pick a spot next to an old guy sitting on a bucket holding his head in his hands. Wayne taps the guy on the shoulder and asks if everything is ok. The guy looks up and says, "Yeah, I'm just a little tired. I just want to catch a fish." Wayne says, "Ok but you can't catch anything if yer hook ain't in the water." "I know," the guy sets up to restart the slinging and jerking process. Wayne walks past a couple fisher folk and starts fishing. We're not here five minutes when Wayne hooks into a salmon. He keeps the rod tip up, excuses himself to get around 2 guys with poles and presents the old guy with his rod, "Here's yer fish." The old guy grabs the rod like a pro, passes his to Wayne and reels in the catch. The smile on his face will stay with me for a long time. I'm still skunked but the kids are a joy to be around. They're not stupid and they're not whiners. They smile a lot, stay active and are capable of coherent conversation. The weather includes sunshine and warmth and things are looking up even if I can't catch a damn fish. Eagles are common as crows with all the fish food the anglers leave behind but they're still impressive. The $20 dollar entrance fee includes camping so we find a place in the weeds, away from a flock of screeching sea gulls and pitch tents. The demon dust works its spell and my body rests but my mind wanders through another sleepless night. The morning finds me and Wayne sitting around a campfire talking ourselves into the long walk to the water for a final attempt. The woman and her kids are still snoozin', we don't need no stinkin' food, we pack our nostrils, grab our poles and head out. A mile later we're at waters edge. Not a channel, this is the bay at low tide. We're casting 50 yards into saltwater. My first cast lands a flounder. He gets to swim again. My second cast hooks into a nice sized salmon. Heehee I'm not a vegetarian ('vegetarian' is native for 'bad hunter'). Wayne pulls one in too. The action slows so we go. The woman and her kids are out fishing so we break camp and head out. Highway traffic is at a crawl on this 2 lane main artery. Tourists are gawking, roadwork is halting progress and we need ice for the fish. We have to wait till Anchorage for the frozen cubes but it's a beautiful day and we have food. It's a good trip!