Pinned by pebbles, row upon row of blue engraved travelers checks sit like butterflies fanning their wings on the beach. Five thousand dollars in all. If children come near I will shoo them away. Here is how it happened:

Seth and me are at Hoa Long Bay. After a one week boat tour, holed up with two German couples who drink, smoke dope, kiss and caress, jump overboard, speak excellent English, day and night ballad and bacchanal, finally, when the stout wood ship pulls to port we are thoroughly exhausted and seek out refugee. Our five dollar guest room is as long and wide as a barn. There are ten cots but we are the only takers and the place is ours. We throw down our gear, wash up, then nap under the mosquito netting. A cool breeze fans our bodies. Later we wash our clothes in buckets filled from a cold water spigot. I use my stick of detergent soap from Guatemala and a hard plastic brush bought in Hanoi. I ring my clothes the way the Maya do: twisting the fabric tight then bending the cloth and working the twist forward to strangle out water. We hang the clothes on a nylon laundry line bought in a market in Phnom Penh. Now it's time for breakfast. Over fresh fruit, yoghourt and French bread we make plans. The guide book says we must walk though a long dark cement tunnel. The guide book says the water at the beach is calm and cool. We pay up, grab our day packs and move out. A young boy with a Chinese flashlight leads us through the bomb shelter. Admission twenty cents. We stoop and follow like obedient children. The low ceiling and smooth walls are cool and damp and the air smells of ocean and the fragrance of time. We emerge to white sand and the rhythm of waves. I spread my towel and lay down. Seth wades into the water. After ten minutes I get up and walk to the shoreline. The salty water stings my cuts and scratches, cleaning and curing them. I feel the cool water rise up my ankles, calves, knees, then hips to chest. I'm laughing and smiling. Then I remember the money belt and am filled with dread. I'm wearing it under my swim trunks. The seasoned traveler wears a money belt inside the waist or keeps it securely hidden or near to hand at all times. It contains your passport, credit cards, travel visas, cash money and travelers checks. It is your lifeline, without which you are lost. But I am wearing my money belt in the ocean and the ocean is circling my neck. Filled with dread I turn and make my way back to the shore line. In a far of corner of the beach I unzip the belt and lift out its contents. The damage appears minimal. The pages of my passport are moist. A few ink stamps are smudged. Not so the travelers checks, which are soaked clean through and dripping wet. Fortunately my ball point pen signature remains intact. Over and over I tell myself to remain calm. Do not panic. I must work to make things right. I fan the passport's pages and set it down so that air will pass through it. One by one I lay the blue certificates on the sand. Sprinkle pebbles at the rectangles center. One by one I plant rows of iridescent oblongs on the white beach which shimmer and dry. After twenty minutes I carefully pick up the bills and return them to the belt. Zipper it shut. S lip it round my waist and walk to the main part of the beach. Seth waves hello. I wave back. But there will be no more swimming today.