Travel Sized Bites.
A selection of short stories submitted by visitors to the site between 500-1000 words
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a funny thing happened
By Author: Peter W. Morris
E-mail: petertraveler@usa.net
Submitted on Tuesday 30th October 2001
It’s a fact; Asian people are considerably smaller than their well-stuffed American counterparts, which is why experienced international travelers know to take clothing items with them as opposed to purchasing pants and dresses, shirts, skirts and shoes from local vendors. To be perfectly blunt, Japanese, Taiwanese, Chinese, Vietnamese and all of their Pacific Rim cousins are short and skinny and have feet which could literally swim in American size 12-D footwear.
Which brings us to the aforementioned activity of swimming , as practiced at a resort on the South China Sea not far from Saigon (only foreigners know it by the Communist-inspired name of Ho Chi Minh City), in Vietnam’s southernmost region. Here, surrounded by bikinied-and-bronzed Asians, both male and female, and salt-spray as produced by the Pacific’s thunderous waves, a white-bellied "English" who’s obviously spent way too much time in buffet lines from Newark to Los Angeles tends to stand out...especially when clad in street clothes.
"Dad, I’m not so sure you’re going to be able to find that swimming suit," noted son Jonathan, enroute to take-on the surf in a wave runner. "But, they do sell ‘em up at the concession stand."
The attendant could hardly maintain her composure as she surveyed my ponderous girth. When questioned if she had a triple-x sized suit, "Something in deep blue or black" (it provides a thinning-deception we heavies crave), the teen replied, in halting English, "Our biggest is extra-large. There’s a changing room next door. Good luck!" she added, producing the radiant smile for which the black-haired Vietnamese are known."
It wasn’t a pretty sight. Pulling, tugging and stuffing, the skin-tight black cotton suit moved slowly northward, it’s ribbed-band finally settling three inches short of a prominent navel...in other words, three inches short of the top and three inches short of the bottom of where a boxer-type suit ought to reside. Walking a bit stiff-legged out of the bath house and quick-stepping across the hot sand—with seemingly every eye focused on every move—I made the way into the pounding surf, where the bemused captain of a psychedelically-decorated wave runner awaited his cargo. Five minutes of slipping from the seat to the submersed engine followed before all passengers (three total) headed for the California coast.
The South China Sea was, at best, temperamental. Deep-seated currents sucked at our craft as it plowed through troughs and across foamy crests at harrowing speeds. Flying fish soared through the salt-mist; shore-bound beachcombers became distant images on a sandy shore. And, then, the inevitable happened as white-knuckled fingers parted company with the lovely Vietnamese girl onto whose life vest I was clinging. All became a watery blur as I tumbled heels-over-head backwards into the fathomless depths.
Untold humiliations followed in numerous attempts to raise myself back aboard the bucking wave runner. Face-saving—of utmost importance in all Asian cultures– was elusive. Alas, I was towed shoreward as a soon-to-be-beached whale might travel.
Once in less-threatening waters, I was greeted by friends who’d obviously enjoyed my impromptu display of wilting bravado. Jonathan, himself a veteran of Asian watersports, was quick to pan the show which had so delighted both himself, his Vietnamese girlfriend Ewing, and the hundreds of spectators on the beach. "Dad," he noted in a tone well known to parents’ worldwide, "I’m not going to let anyone know we’re related, or even friends...nothing personal."
It wasn’t until several moments later, as the undercurrent swept me full-frontal into a nearby Asian woman, that I realized that my sea-borne escapade had affected far more than my pride. Her dark eyes wide and her mouth agape, she questioned in astonished alarm, "Where is your bathing suit!" a statement which was quickly followed by a string of supposed-Vietnamese expletives.
Within the short time it had taken for my mid-ocean exploits, my new extra-large had ripped stem-to-stern, resulting in a most unintentional first step toward international relations. "Jon!" my scream echoed above the waves, "Come here...QUICK!"
As for the limited success achieved in pulling on the newly purchased second—and very wet—bathing suit amidst the strong currents and relentless waves of the South China Sea, well, that’s another rather humiliating tale-of-woe. Suffice it to say that I’d lost more than mere face as I raced from water’s edge to blessed anonymity.