It's 0330 and I still can't sleep, and I have early morning classes in Ito tomorrow. It's bizzare.

I have been arranging private language lessons in HK in March. I googled for a HK map, and then I saw Lantau Island, and then I saw all the bays and capes labeled, and the memories hit be so hard my heart literally skipped a beat.

4 hours later, I am still shaking with excitements.

Why did I stop kayaking? I understand now. Now that I am a teacher, now that I handle students and children and learners and young people every day, I understand.

I am not very good at managing people. I am getting better now, but I am not good, and I was horrible. That circumnavigate HKSAR trip, it broke me.

I pushed myself to my physical and psychological limits when I was paddling through outer-Sai Kung in the dark; and then I pushed myself over again on Tung Ping Chau. I didn't know what the ocean was capable of then -- I still don't know now, of course, but at the very least, I know that I don't know. I overestimated myself; I let my pride make the decisions, and mother nature punished me hard for it.

Looking at the map of Lantau, every landmark brings back vivid memories. Some were happy memories, others were frightening.

The worst of it was the emergency landing and camping in the bay just opposite of Kai Yik Jim -- it was dark; from 6 o'clock I started looking for landing site, but there was no beach, it was all rocky shore. Then it was dark, and it was no longer possible to make out the shoreline. I was torn between paddling as fast as I could to find landing site with the remining hint of light of the setting sun; and to stop paddling in the middle of the sea, dry my hands, fish out my cell phone from my dry-bags, and call Dennis to make a safe call.

Finally, I found a pathetic landing site -- I had no idea where I was at the time (by the morning I figured I was just opposite of KYJ, but in the dark, I had no idea.) It was a tiny stretch of small pebbles lined beach no longer than 10 meters in length; I thanked my lucky star for giving me a landing place at last, and tried and tried to call Dennis and Fred. But there was no signal. I dumped all my gears on land, took my EPIRB, two phones and the kayak back onto the water, and paddled as far as I dared to find signal -- but there was no signal. Finally, I spoke into the radio channel that Fred said his friends were monitoring in regular intervals, hoping someone would pick up. Thinking back, it wasn't that important to make that call. The worst that could happen is that Dennis would call the police and report me as missing. But I was psychologically stretched to the breaking point and I needed debriefing. I needed to talk to somebody, I needed to hear myself say and confirm that I was safe and sound.

I was so exhausted that night, I didn't make dinner. Starting a fire felt like too much work. It was all I could do to hang all my wet clothes to dry, and change into something dry, pull out my bivy, and settle into the sleeping bag.

I jammed my flashlight on the rock face so that a ray of light shines right at where my bivy was. I needed to drain the puss and dress my blister wounds on my hands to make sure they didn't get any worse. That was a mistake. A BIG mistake.

I thought I was alone; I wasn't. Santiago said "no man is ever alone at sea. Ever." Well, that's true, but then it's true on the shore as well. The beam of light attracted an army of fireants into my bivy, so there I was, exhausted, psychologically defeated, in pain, lonely, frightened -- and forced to dance on jagged pebbles to get the stupid ants off me.

And I thought I was such a great advanturer. A couple of ants defeated me.

I gave up on dressing my wounds. I gave up on the idea of food. I even gave up on sleep. I shook the ants out of my bivy and moved it to a different spot on that tiny stretch of land, left my flashlight shining on the original spot with the hope that the ants would stay there (they did.) I curled up in my bivy feeling so very very small.

By 4am I was breaking camp. I didn't get any sleep, but it was good to be able to lie down anyway. I still remember the first time I went camping in Algonquin Park, how the darkness frightened me at first, but eventually I grew to love the simplicity of obeying mother nature -- as the chinese people say, "work when the sun rises; rest when the sun sets." Nature can be so simplistic and beautiful when you stop struggling and just go with it.

Breaking camp from KYJ didn't feel beautiful though. There's nothing to do but to struggle.

An hour ago, I wondered why I stopped paddling. It can't be such a mystery, can it?

But I miss the ocean now. I miss Lantau; there is something about suffering every bit of that landscape, somehow, as penniless as I am, it felt as though the Island belongs to me and me alone. To every Hongkie, it's just another polluted Island in the the SA Region. To me, every landmark along that shore is personal, and sacret.

March feels like a life time away. I don't think I can wait that long to embrace Lantau again. To be honest, I don't even know if I will ever come back to Japan again. And if I do, I will die before I'll come back to Utsunomiya. Still, there is no urgency to get to know this city. My body is still doing the work of an Eikaiwa teacher; my heart is already riding the waves in Fred's little Indian Summer.

-Lia