STORIES I NEVER TELL — A SERIES (maybe): Part 1

The actual sand/brick passing line in the displaced persons camp, January 2006.

On December 26, 2004 around 10 AM local time, a tsunami hit the coast of Thailand. I was 23 years old and living in Bangkok. Having just completed my contract with the United Nations, I was free to assist in the relief efforts within the week.

I first went to Baan Naam Khem, the village most devastated by the tsunami. They were still in the trenches digging for bodies. It was covered in sand and smelled like dead fish.

I then arrived at the displaced persons’ camp where we were working to build temporary housing. The survivors were staying in small nylon tents with all of the possessions they had left. At the time, I couldn't speak Thai, and I had zero manual labor skills (still don't) — so I passed sand.

We passed sand for hours. Sometimes we passed bricks. It was grueling work. In case you don't know, Thailand is hot and humid. We were dripping with sweat.

At one point, a rotund, red-faced Englishman wandered up dragging a small, busted carry-on suitcase with a broken wheel through the dirt.

"Can I help?"

He placed his broken luggage behind him and began passing sand with us.

We learned that he had just jumped on the first (empty) flight back to Thailand, told a cab driver to take him where people needed help, and found us. He didn't know anyone. He'd never been to Thailand. He just wanted to help.

I think about that man often, and it brings me comfort to know that there are people in the world who will race to serve those who are suffering.