Mason Maiwat
There May Be a God in the Sky over Krabi
I don’t often think myself a religious man. Certainly, when I was younger, I believed in god with a capital G, but not anymore. Still, there are times in my life where, upon further inspection, lead me to believe that there may be something swirling in the cascade of clouds that make up the heavens above. What could roam those fields of water vapor? Perhaps a serpent longer than a whale who controls the rains and rivers. Perhaps a series of winged creatures who swoop down to pluck sinners from the face of the Earth with their eagle talons. Though the latter must be a work of complete fiction—for here I still stand—feet planted firmly on the ground.
I am seventeen years old, almost eighteen, in the summer before my senior year of high school. This summer is hotter than all the others. The heat sticks to the leaves in the trees, permeates the ground I walk on, and smothers me like an overbearing aunt. The summer is hotter because I am in Thailand. We’re both finally old enough, my father explained, to appreciate Thailand to the fullest. Both meaning myself and my sister, who has just finished middle school and will be entering the same high school that I attend. She looks more like my father than I do. We travel through the country while we are there; Bangkok, Chang Mai, my father’s hometown, and finally Krabi. This is about what I saw in Krabi.
For those of you unfamiliar with the geography of Thailand (and I assume many of you are), Krabi is a province that sits on the western side of Thailand's long peninsula. It’s known for its beaches and cliff faces. But mostly, it’s known for Railay Beach, an island that isn’t an island. You see, the beach (beach is a catch all term, it's really a small resort-like area with hotels and shops) is only accessible via boat and is isolated in such a way that it appears to be an island, splintered off from the mainland. I assumed this was done to give the tourists who come to the location a sense of isolation and seclusion from the rest of Thailand, and perhaps it was, but I always felt odd while I was there. I felt we existed in a sort of limbo, both connected to and distant from the rest of Thailand. For as many signs as there were that we were in a resort, I knew that just beyond the thick jungle was a bustling city. Just look on google earth, search “Railay Beach” for me right now and take a look. Go on, I’ll wait for you. It’s not like I’m going anywhere. Have you looked? Do you see the jungle? Good. Do you see the ocean? Good. Now the stage has been properly set and I can start again.
I am seventeen years old, almost eighteen, in the summer before my senior year of high school. I am sitting alone on the bow of a tour boat. My family, the rest of the passengers, and the driver are stashed below the cover of the boat, safe within the hull. My mother told me to stay with them, but my father let me go. He handed me a face mask, one used to snorkel by my mother. It covers my whole face, like a dome, and it fogs every time I take a breath. It’s what let me keep my eyes open as the rain seared through the sky and pelted the ship. Each drop hit me like hail, hard and cold, but it was undeniably rain. It splatters like rain, washes over my skin like rain. There is a tropical storm raging over the sea. The waves move like a man possessed, flailing and retching. It’s like they’re trying to expel something, force some sort of curse out from themselves and into the open air. Instead, it tosses our boat back and forth, sending us up into the air in place of a curse. The bow suddenly surges up, we’ve hit a big wave, and I’m forced to grip the metal guard rail with all my strength. The rail is slick with sea water; salt deposits and rain making it even harder for me to hold on. I slide, my grip subsiding and my body moving back along the bow. I am forced to grab hold with my other hand, digging my nails into my palm to ensure that I am not cast down into what must be a cursed sea. The boat levels out, for now, and I am finally able to look around again. And I see it. The storm.
According to myth and legend, when the Buddha sat under the Bohdi tree to meditate on the nature of all, a great storm appeared. The storm threatened to kill the Buddha before he could finish his meditation, but from the heavens Muccalinda descended. Muccalinda was the Naga King, a great serpent with seven heads. He wrapped his body around the Buddha for seven days as the storm raged, and he used his great hooded heads to cover the Buddha, shielding him from the rain. Once the storm had passed, Muccalinda removed himself from around the Buddha, assumed human form, and bowed to him. He then returned to the heavens.
Other myths speak of Naga holding domain over water; rivers, lakes, oceans, all fell under the domain of great serpents. They slumber under the rivers or in the sky, acting as guardians for their respective abodes. They are worshipped at festivals of harvest, for it is thought that they controlled the weather, bringing rainfall and plentiful crops. Sailors revered them for their role in storms at sea and safe passage across the waters. Sometimes I dream of them.
The storm is like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Having been raised in tornado alley, I am no stranger to storms. But the way the clouds ebb and flow leave me in what could almost be a trance. I cannot peel my eyes away from the clouds. They swirl and pulse, like they’re alive, and I am overwhelmed with this feeling that I am seeing something I shouldn’t. Perhaps I should’ve kept my head down and watched the waves instead. But it's too late. I’ve seen the sky. I stare in awe of the meteorological marvel. The mask is drenched in rain, and water has begun to leak under the plastic dome, sending drops into my eyes that cloud my vision. The towel that’s wrapped around me is drenched, and a cold chill is beginning to set in. I can only hear the rain, the rain and the storm, drowning out even the waves that lap and smack at our boat. I think back now and wonder if the Buddha heard the rain for those seven, if he, like I had, was lulled by the constant downpour of water. Or was he in such a deep meditation, so deep within himself, that he never noticed, never even felt a drop. Maybe he wasn’t even aware of Muccalinda wrapped around him. Protecting him. It's then, with water in my eyes, fog on my mask, and rain drowning out my hearing, that I see the Naga in the sky. It coils in the clouds, opens its mouth and hisses just as lightning cracks overhead. Through half closed eyes I can make out the blurry shape of something slithering away among the clouds.
I know it cannot have been a Naga. My vision was obscured, the sound was distracting me, clouds simply move like that. I know, trust me, I do. But I have to wonder, I have to wish, that maybe I had seen something more than the mundane that day. I wanted to see something.
The boat returned to the beach unscathed. No one was hurt, and in fact by the time we had arrived back on shore the captain assured us that the storm was likely passing already. The sand was still flying in the wind as we stepped off the boat, and the minuscule grains buffeted my skin as we ran for the hotel room. The storm was gone an hour later, but the rain persisted into the night. We went about the rest of our day, exploring the area in the rain. Summers are monsoon season in Thailand; nothing unusual had happened that day.
A storm like that, in all likelihood, was nothing but a normal Tuesday for the people who live in Krabi. I know nothing out of the ordinary occurred, I know that I saw the clouds roll just as lightning struck. But I can’t help but to think of the man who was standing on the beach when the boat returned, under an umbrella, watching the swirling clouds roll away. He could’ve just been any man, any of the hundreds of people who worked and stayed at the beach. But he was the only one still outside, staring at the sky as the storm rolled through just as I had done on the boat. His clothes had looked dry, and at the moment I didn’t think too much of it. Perhaps he had too much to drink that day and didn’t feel like moving when the storm came in. Maybe he was like the people I knew back home who made a sport out of watching storms. It wasn’t until later I read the story of Muccalinda that I began to fantasize. I began to wonder, with childlike amazement, if the Naga had descended to the earth, assumed human form, and watched its handiwork slip away. But it probably wasn’t the case.
There is another myth about the Naga. There existed, according to legend, a Naga who was a devout follower of Buddhism. He desperately wanted to join the monkhood, so he disguised himself as a man to enter the monastery, and he began to live alongside the monks. However, in his sleep he reverted to his true form. This frightened the other monks, and they asked that the Buddha remove the Naga from the monastery. The Buddha approached the Naga and explained to him that, though his faith was strong, the Naga were still beast and not man, and so could not be enlightened. The Naga was saddened by this, but accepted the word of the Buddha, making one request of him. He asked that those who wished to become monks be called “Naga” when they were ordained. The Buddha granted his request, and since then those who wish to join the monastery would be called Naga and asked if they were human before they were ordained. It is said that this is asked because Naga likes to watch the ordainments and will still sometimes try and enter the monkhood.
I understand them. I wonder if they dream of enlightenment.
I am twenty-something years old, and I lie in bed. I look up at my ceiling and think of the Naga I didn’t see in Krabi. Tonight, I hope I will dream of them.
