Caught in a Timeless Dreamscape

We were somewhere near the peak of the pass when the sky turned from a cloudless, electric blue to an ominous gray full of storm clouds. No one seemed to notice or care so we trucked onward over the jagged slabs of slick rock jutting from the ground. At the top, we stopped to catch our breath.

I had not anticipated the hike to Bottle Beach on the far northern reaches of the island to be a vertical scramble over a rocky mountain with storm clouds looming. When the path narrowed and vanished beneath the boulders, our fearless leader bounded ahead. I think this is the way, he enthusiastically shouted over his shoulder. Koh Phagnan is not a big island, but I'd still rather not get lost in its thick tangled jungles where no roads go and no clear hiking paths exist.

Near the end of our decent to the bay we began to hear the waves crashing hard on the shore. Gray waves crashing, no boats in sight, the beach nearly deserted--this was not normal, especially for high season. As we made our way down the beach heading for shelter, our fearless leader and a few others stripped their clothes and ran straight into the stormy waters.

I stood ankle deep trying not to get knocked down and watched the storm move steadily across the ocean toward the island. Something about the energy of a storm. A sensation of lifting out of time and space. Deja Vu. Caught in a timeless dreamscape.

Throughout my high school and college days in Ohio, I made countless trips to Folly Island off the coast of Charleston, South Carolina. I'd sit on the beach amongst the sand dunes and tall grasses and watch storms roll over the water. Once the rain hit land, I'd run back into the stilted house where I'd sit on the porch, the house swaying in the strong wind, the thunder and lightning palpable. Fueled by the electrical charge from the atmosphere, I began to write stories here. Timeless dreams in stormy capsules.

During my first summer in Yellowstone National Park, my hiking buddy and I got caught in a thunderstorm storm hiking down from the peak of Mount Holmes, a 20 mile (32 km) hike round trip--only for the intrepid explorer, perhaps hinging on insane. Howling and laughing our way down the switchbacks, over the river, and across the fields, back in West Yellowstone by dark. Soaked, we ate so much pizza we nearly popped, never-minding all the stares. The entire experience deeply singed into by being, so surreal it feels like a dream.

California storms were rare, perhaps a reflection of the storm trapped inside me, the storms that came in other forms. Standing on the cold cliffs of Davenport, the sky dark, the waters rough, but no thunder would sound, no lightning would strike, no rain would fall. Wrapped in a flannel jacket and warm blanket, I walked down the stone stairs carved in the cliff side and waited for things that never came.

A picture of a storm hung on my walls over time and places--a storm and a lighthouse shining over the stormy waters, out into the dark sky. I surrounded the picture with glow in the dark stars so when I'd turn off the lights, the lighthouse light looked like a comet streaking through the night sky. By day, it was a storm. After dark, it became the cosmos.

I still have that picture, tucked in a box, somewhere, Santa Fe, New Mexico. But here I am now, standing on the northern edge of an island, somewhere in the Gulf of Thailand, letting stories and memories and the energy of a storm move through me.

No boats were heading back to Chaloklum so we decided to wait out the storm and hike back. I sipped on my coconut coffee and the rain blew sideways. I kicked off my shoes and talked about storms and storytelling, pulling timeless stories and memories from timeless places into the present. Caught in a storm, in a dreamscape, tumbling toward a destiny that I've already written. Because from this timeless perspective I already have.

Do you thrive in the energy of storms or hide from them? Tell me your storm stories--whether real or metaphorical!