THE STORM
The sky wrenched down with rain, shrouding any hope of mercy that was the sun’s light. I was trapped—frozen mentally and physically. Horizontal rain daggers pierced the few thin layers that covered my body and tore through my 85-kilo pack with ease; my pack cover rendered useless, as it too succumbed to the storm’s mighty rage. The shelter I found refuge in was no match to the stark rainstorm that devoured the island. Umbrellas were ripped from the trembling hands of those around me, as they stood erect like pencils, arms extended fully to their sides. The constant shrieking of Taiwanese and Chinese travelers became muffled by the pounding of the rain against rock and wood. I weathered the storm as good as any, but this was one storm that I would not outlast. It surged on heavily for as long as I stood motionless to its torrential beating. Not once did it lift its grasp or ease its force.
Minutes before the squall had struck, I was sitting peacefully, alone, reading and writing, as I hovered over the Pacific Ocean. Accompanying me was the warming sun, abundant, rich shrubbery that sprouted from the rock walls, and the endless harmonic sound of crashing waves below; it was a heavenly kingdom, my heavenly kingdom.
A small sliver of land jutted out from the island creating a narrow, peninsula-like structure. 
Its reach was no more than 100 meters from the island and was connected by an earthly passage that spanned roughly two meters in width. Although natural in form, Taiwan had reinforced the footpath for ease of use and assurance.
Surely the most astounding part of this mostly natural formation was that it towered nearly 100 meters above the ocean, its only support being tons upon tons of solid rock. At the tip, sat a beautiful watchtower that gave a view of the eastern seawall and—over ten thousand kilometers out—the Americas.
The late morning passed into the later afternoon, as I became lost within the contents of my work, so preoccupied with what lay in front of me that by the time I lifted my head to scan the horizon and take a momentary lapse, it was all but too late.
Dark, ominous clouds approached from the West almost as if they had summoned from the Great Pacific, and their bearing was set straight upon the vulnerable rock in which I stood powerless to its gaze; It had the momentum of a speeding train without breaks and the force of ten thousand men marching to war.
“How is this possible?!” I stammered. Any evasive action would be futile; the storm was approaching too fast, leaving me with my second best option: steady myself to brace the storm—stare down this monstrous wall of clouds and all its ferocity. “It will pass. I am sure of it,” I declared. Optimism took a fatal blow, as I couldn’t have been more wrong.
I scurried frantically to conceal my gear utilizing every ounce of dry-sack I owned. If I hadn’t, my laptop, camera and phone would’ve been mutilated by the rain without question. A few at a time, others came bolting to the small sanctuary that bored no walls, only four sturdy pillars that held the roof intact. Within seconds, robust drops of rain began speckling the roof; a seemingly calm noise for what was to come. Soon enough, the few drops turned into many, and the many transformed into an army, an ocean of rain that doused everything it touched—and some.
I held out for the better part of an hour, far longer than any of my fellow pencils, but it was clear that this storm would outlast me and that I had to make for cover before nightfall. I couldn’t chance water seeping too deep into my pack as to get its malicious fingers into my most valuable gear. It was final, I had to desert this collapsing sanctuary, but where I would go is the thought that circled dreadfully in my head.
To town, perhaps? It was an eight-kilometer trek north on a road that was susceptible to the battering of rain and wind, as it hugged the ocean with every curve. But no other option presented itself to be any better. Lyudao Island, a relatively small island, was home to only one major town. There were others, but they were scattered about and resided in by the natives. One could easily ride the entire length of the island within one hour’s time, but the idea of walking it was blasphemy; even if it was less than half of its circumference.
The rain steadied itself with sporadic violent bursts that pounded the soul, followed by soft intervals of mist that made one think its end was near. It was not. At the sight of my pack, no motorist would dare offer a ride, especially with the conditions as they were; not to mention, getting on the back of a motorbike didn’t strike me with enthusiasm—no matter how rewarding the outcome would be. I vowed not to hitchhike, as the risk of crashing with a foreigner who didn’t speak English was a card I didn’t want to draw. As they say: When it rains, it pours. So adding eight kilometers to the current conditions only seemed fitting.
UNEXPECTED ENCOUNTERS
To tell you the truth: losing all hope was incredibly freeing. I was left to my own demise, and things were already at their worst; well, I suppose a typhoon or tsunami could’ve trumped the situation. Long distances never bothered me as I’ve had my fair share, but I had spent the entire day sitting calmly and lazily with no intentions of strenuous movement; it was a day I had formerly devoted to gathering myself—a day dedicated to nothing more than being in a mellow stupor.
The first few steps sent a miserable cringe into my thought process. I was frustrated with the laws of nature and for being sent on my way when I was content with where I was.
Rhythm worked itself into my steps, and acceptance of my situation prevailed. The steady rain grew into a therapeutic whipping that was deeply soothing. I had the comfort of my music to carry me the distance and all the time in the world to make it to town. Before I knew it, I was already three kilometers in with roughly five to go—a much more manageable feat. I had been sleeping in my tent ever since I arrived at the island but decided I would spare myself for the night and allow my things to dry.
I lost my thoughts once more, mainly focusing on planting one foot in front of the other. I trudged along the long stretch of road that embodied the island paying no attention to my surroundings. Rather, I became fixated on the string-like drops of water that flung from the tips of my shoes with each step. Once they caught my eye, they’re all I noticed. I would see how far I could fling the water; sometimes, allowing my shoes soak up as much water as they could hold before testing my newly found skill. All the while, motorbikes came and went—as the storm surged on—paying no attention to the lonely fellow who strolled on the skirt of the road with a heavy pack dripping of water; I didn’t mind in the least. When I make up my mind, I seldom diverge and assume the full length.
As I stared thoughtlessly at my shoes, I noticed four glaring brake lights as they brightened several meters in front of me. By this point, I was so far consumed by my thoughts—or lack thereof—that I didn’t feel like explaining my position or, for that matter, talking to anybody; I had become content with my situation and suffering.
One bike had two riders while the other, only one. Three words penetrated the transparent walls of rain, breaking my thoughtless daze: “HEY! GET ON!” Not: “Do you need a ride?” Or: “Where are you going?” Rather, a remark that left me with no way to decline, “Get on!” The rain had subsided back to its steady cast, alluding that It was safe to jump on with a minimal threat of crashing. I threw back the hood of my jacket and could feel the puddles that had accumulated, run down my back.
Athena, Chloe, and 朱美瑜 were their names, English names, and they were the storm’s mercy; saviors who had set out on the sole mission of liberating me from the storm’s formidable grasp—not really. They were on their way back to town after a routine dive, the only reason they were on the island in the first place. Even in the heavy rain, they dove religiously. At first, I naively thought how miserable of an experience that would be, but soon learned, upon asking, that it was not at all the case, and would later come to find out on my own accord in the days that followed.
THE WORLD THAT LURKS BELOW
The depths of the deep blue are ignorant to the world above; rain, shine, wind, no matter. A thin stratum—fortified thousands strong by its ocean—shields the crystal blue world with graceful might and ease. Raindrops, no matter their size or power; even how many, merely dance upon the surface, broadening and strengthening the very shield it deems to corrode. The sea life, abundant, and sea vegetation, resilient, oar about showing no sensitivity to the destruction above. Vibrant colors and life contrast itself to the cavernous blue walls that stretch on for thousands of kilometers and hide a vast amount of indigenous creatures who lurk in its darkness. The secret world that lays below—It exists right before our eyes; hidden in plain sight; hidden beneath the cloak-like reflection of the ocean’s crown; hidden only to those ignorant of its existence.
-An adventure continues, but not here and not now.
The Wanderer 