The deck shudders under my feet as the hull of the ferry slams against another wave. Neesha squeezes my hand. Out the window, the rain-blurred horizon pitches at wild angles. My stomach rolls in a different direction.
We are sitting at the back end on the lower deck of small ferry taking us from Lanta Island to Phuket. This is apparently the best location to minimise sea sickness, but the number of green-hued faces around us say otherwise.
The engine hums as it pushes us through waves too big for the boat. The smell of Gasoline fills the air.
We crash into another wave and the deck shakes against my shoes. The troop of cocky lads from London, who’d boarded with their caps on backwards and swaggered right to the front of the boat, stop laughing and put on life jackets.