Just a Girl, Standing in Front of a Dive Shop, Waiting for Frenchie

I am thirty-eight and still chasing love. Or boys — can anyone even tell the difference? I thought I’d grown out of it by now. But no — I’m back on Phi Phi Don, all because some French guy said hello to me once.

I took the plunge and left everything, and I mean everything, about a month ago, because, evidently, I’m so brave! When everyone starts waxing lyrical about your bravery, you can’t help but wonder if you’ve completely lost the plot. The line between courage and insanity has always been blurry, especially for a hopeless romantic leaning towards madness.

I never thought I’d be the mid-life crisis kind — you know, lost and confused, floundering like a gap-year student at almost forty. But then came this urge to embrace the spine-chilling unknown, just for once. I was ready for this epic journey: self-discovery, dream career, true love. The music swells as she says yes to the man that will change her life forever…

Still, that moment of insani — uh — erm — bravery drove me to quit my brain-numbing-but-barely-paying job, my turbulent long-term relationship, and the home that never truly felt like mine. Leaving was the only way forward.

So here I was — unemployed, homeless, untethered and travelling solo. The epitome of bravery arriving in paradise: Ko Phi Phi Don.

I hadn’t even planned to bother with the Phi Phi Islands. Too touristy, too overhyped, the type of place that attracts the trashy tourists I actively wanted to avoid. I’m too old — or maybe just too uptight — to drink bathtub booze from a bucket I’d later puke into.

But then again, I’m not immune to the booby traps of FOMO. So I booked a single night, just to dip a toe in, to tick it off some imaginary checklist that always comes up at a dinner party, when the conversation inevitably drifts off to Thailand, and I am asked, “What did you think of Phi Phi Don?”

Now, I have a great story for that fictional dinner party. And not at all your typical drunken blunder.

Are you gonna tell the story or what?

Fine, I’m getting to it.

I wouldn’t admit this in high society, but the moment I set foot on the island, I was blown away. I mean, sure, it was teeming with lobster-red Brits and Russians, some chasing Thai ladies for fun, others merely on beer time, and plenty taking self-obsessed selfies against the stunning backdrop. And you know what? I wasn’t even mad. After my Ko Lanta social deprivation boot camp, I welcomed the party people like humanitarian aid.

Yes, the island was overdeveloped. Sure, it was full of McFlurries. But oh boy, was it still breathtaking? I ambled around the pedestrian centre and basked in this safe cat-haven, delighted that no dogs were in sight. Then, I stumbled upon the local parts and found where all the dogs lay in ambush.

Can you get to the point, please? You still haven’t even come to the French guy yet!

OK, relax! I’m just building up the setting, fine.

In my search for a cheap eat, I was circling the same spot for at least twenty minutes when I locked eyes with this guy, sitting at a dive centre. His wavy blond locks cascaded down his shoulders, and his piercing blue eyes were neither soft nor threatening; they were curious and 100% focused on me. This wasn’t a passing glance; it was pure intent. He was watching me. For the first time in weeks, I finally felt seen. This attractive guy with all the options in the world — women with chiselled midriffs, tanned butt cheeks winking with every step. And then there was me: Antarctic pale, in a maxi skirt, going around in circles, bickering with Google Maps. He chose me! And I don’t even own a bikini bottom that shows half of my ass. Naturally, my ego gobbled it down like a starved stray dog, offered food for the first time in days. Could he be the man my lovesick brain had been craving all along? I didn’t know why, or what he saw in me, but I drank it in like a dehydrated shipwreck survivor discovering how to crack open a coconut.

But my stomach waved a red flag: “Thou shalt not coquet whilst famished!” So I held his gaze like a soap opera star just before a commercial break, then tumbled into a night market nearby.

After dinner, I circled back to the diving centre to see if he might still be around, and there he was. This time, though, when he clocked me, he made a move.

“Are you interested in diving?” he asked with an undeniable French accent.

Well, that all very much depends on what we’re diving into. I should have said, igniting the latent Samantha Jones I knew I had somewhere deep inside me. But instead, I mumbled. “I’m going to Koh Tao in a couple of days to get my open water diver certificate.”

He told me I was making a mistake, that the Andaman coast was far more incredible than what I could ever find in Koh Tao. Besides, we wouldn’t get to dive together, so that was a shame…

Was he flirting with me? Or was he buttering me up to sign up for a diving course?

Sure, he touched my arm every now and then, but he’s French — he’d have done it with an octogenarian grandmother.

Maybe he was working on commission?

Oh gosh, maybe he just pitied me. He saw me wandering around all night and thought I was special, but not in that desirable kind of way.

Or maybe… just, maybe he thought I was cute? Was that even within the realm of possibilities?

It was all too much for me to decipher. What I should have said was

“So, what are you doing after this? Is there a good bar I should check out?”

But being me, I just kept things professional and asked for more diving tips.

It was pouring down, and we might have been chatting for twenty minutes. When there were no more diving tips to share, I said, “Well, thanks for the advice.”

Before we parted ways, he said, “Maybe we’ll go on a fun dive here after you get certified in Koh Tao.” I said, “Yeah, maybe.” And got myself into the closest corner shop to buy an umbrella.

Yeah… I walked away from a hot French guy with a…

Yeah, maybe…

What the fuck is wrong with me? Why can’t I just flirt like a functional human being, instead of acting all cool and uninterested?

I couldn’t sleep that night. Partly because I was convinced a tsunami would drown me in my sleep, but mainly it was him and our unfinished business. It gnawed at me that I hadn’t given it a proper shot. I’d been too timid, and it was making me lose sleep.

The next morning, I left for Ko Tao to get certified as a diver. Frenchie kept tormenting me for days. I kept thinking about him and what could have happened if I weren’t an utter milquetoast. I kept picturing these scenarios where I would go back to Ko Phi Phi and rewrite the whole scene. But this time, I would be brave and go after what I wanted.

And maybe, I wouldn’t even need to try that hard.

Maybe, I’d just stroll into the dive shop, and he would just be there, like time had been frozen, and we would lock eyes again, and he’d smile at me and say, “What took you so long?” or “I knew you’d be back.”

Gosh, let a girl dream a little before starting with the snarky laughs!

But what if he remembered me, too? Maybe our awkward moment had meant something to him as well? Maybe he’d enjoyed being interrogated about his diving preferences? What I knew was that I didn’t want to die from this “what if” malaise. Was it really that crazy for me to go back there, just to explore?

I ran it by a few selectively curated friends, and surprise, surprise, they all loved it.

“It’s so romantic,” they clamoured.

“Every great love story starts with a grand gesture like this.”

And this had the hallmarks of a great love story that would be told for generations. After all, I owed it to myself — and my future half-French children and part-French grandchildren — to see this through. High on being egged on by a mob of romantics, I booked a ferry, a bus and then another ferry to take me back to the Phi Phi Islands.

And fuck it, this time, I was going to do all the things I’d skipped.

50 baht to climb up to the viewpoints? It’s a bargain!

A 6 am boat tour to see the Maya Bay without the crowds? Sign me up!

But, most importantly, I would ask that scuba diving instructor out.

And then I was back. I stepped off the boat that second time, all nervous and giddy with expectation, convinced the love of my life was embalmed in time and waiting for my arrival.

This time, I picked a hotel high up on the island, just in case there was a tsunami — one last thing to lose sleep over.

I hauled my bag past the dive shop, my eyes eagerly scanning for him, but no luck. He must have been off on a boat, leading a fun dive or charming his students.

After climbing up to my room, I gussied up like a silky Bordeaux, aged to perfection and ready to be decanted.

Legs, shaved.

Same clothes from the night he laid eyes on me, unwashed and still clinging to the notes of hope, sweat and desperation.

I was pristinely preserved by the monsoon rains of Thailand.

When the time felt right, I headed down to the dive shop. My heart was pounding like I was about to make my Edinburgh Fringe debut, my brain was heckling from the front row, and caught in the crossfire, I was about to pass out from delusions of romance.

Could this be the day? Was I ready to face the reality?

As I strode past the dive shop with my proverbial nonchalant cap on, a girl approached me.

“Are you interested in diving?”

What the fuck? That’s Frenchie’s line. Why is she asking me this?

“I got a minor barotrauma in my right ear, so can’t dive until it clears out.”

Where the hell is he?

“Ah, sorry to hear that. Maybe next time you’re around?”

Don’t be a coward! Ask her now!

“Yeah, maybe.”

This is your only chance to see him again.

“Enjoy your stay on Ko Phi Phi.”

Ask her!

“Thank you. Have a good evening.”

And, I left. What the hell just happened? That interaction was almost verbatim. Same pick-up line, same friendliness. Sure, she didn’t chat me up for over twenty minutes. And, yeah, she didn’t touch my arm, but she used the same script. He wasn’t flirting, he was just trying to sell me a course. And I fell for his salesman tricks.

Desperate times call for a level-headed friend’s analysis, so I texted Jen.

“So what? Just go back there and ask if he’s around.”

“He only talked to me to sell me a class.”

“You don’t know that. Just go back there and ask if he’s working tomorrow.”

So, I sallied back and noticed another instructor sitting alone. No more beating around the bush, no more playing coy!

“Hey, is Ollie around?”

“Ollie? Is he a diving instructor?”

“Yeah. I think his real name is Nicolas, but he goes by Ollie for some reason. French guy.”

He shook his head, confused.

“We don’t have any instructors named Ollie or Nicholas. We only have French girls here, sorry.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Did it even happen? Did I just make up this man? Was I so lonely that I just conjured up a hot man to make myself feel desirable? Was I in a Sims simulation? Was Frenchie my hallucinated social bunny?

Maybe I got the diving centre’s name wrong. Or maybe he was just hanging out there, but working somewhere else?

I consulted Jen again, and she gave me the reality check I needed.

“Ask around all the diving schools if he works there. Stop wasting time, hunt that French motherfucker down!”

The wheels were in motion, I was going to stalk him like a creepy serial killer. But first, I needed some carbs.

I found myself at the same night market, like muscle memory, and sat myself at the same stall, but it was different this time. There was no Russian lady to chat with, the food wasn’t as tasty, and the world didn’t feel like my oyster.

Had I finally lost my mind? Was I really a stalker? Could I get a restraining order from this? I was about to discover the depths of my own insanity, which was thrilling as much as worrisome. But what else was I supposed to do? I came back here for this man. If I had to knock on the door of every diving instructor on the island to track him down, then let it be. A stalker is in the eye of the beholder anyway. With that resolve, I marched out of the night market, and as I was navigating to find the nearest diving school, I was hit by his presence.

Oh-my-fucking-God!

There he was, sitting at a cheap Chinese restaurant, lost in his phone. His hair was loosely tied up, and he was wearing a white linen shirt, looking like a pseudo yogi about to bring his hands together to the third eye and whisper Namaste. Was I really into this?

His face looked hollow, his eyes weren’t the piercing blue a la Cillian Murphy. But, it was him alright. Was this kismet? Manifesting?

Whatever it was, I should have bought a lottery ticket.

So, what was it going to be? Fight, flight or flirt?

I had no choice but to go right in.

“Ollie?”

As he looked up, I could see the blankness in his eyes… No sign of recognition. Clearly, I was just an intrusion.

“Fancy bumping into you again. How are you doing?” I panicked.

“Oh, hi. Sorry, do I know you?” He mumbled.

Pangs of heartbreak pitched a tent in my chest, with the intention of camping there indefinitely.

Of course, he didn’t remember me.

Of course, it was all in my head.

I was just a girl he said hello to once.

The rest is a blur. I was zooming in and out, as the walls of delusion were collapsing down on me. I remember flashes of him showing his bandaged leg, something about a surgery and instructions of no diving until he recovered. I even worried about his livelihood for a split second, until he said he was going back home in three days. The vacation was over.

Vacation.

He was on a fucking vacation?

At least it wasn’t a bloody salesman’s pitch, whatever it was.

We chit-chatted a little longer about our only known mutual interest. I told him about Ko Tao, he gave me some groundbreaking diving location tips — Ko Lipe or Indonesia.

He was on edge and fidgety, anywhere but with me. Kept checking his phone like a sulky teenager stuck talking to his mum’s friend. I got the message and left with a cordial goodbye. He waved, wishing me a good trip.

No saliva exchange, no sand in crevices they shouldn’t belong, just awkward waves and polite smiles — the greatest love story of my life.