A passive-aggressive sigh from the person waiting in line behind another who for whatever reason takes a little longer than normal — that’s friction born of selfishness.

The self-righteous sentiments of those who argue that guns should be more difficult to acquire so as to stop ‘crazy people’, and of their counterparts who argue that guns should be easier to acquire so as to protect against ‘crazy people’ — in both cases — that’s friction intensified by ignorance.

When molten rock boils and churns beneath the earth until — snap – a violent volcano shakes the land — that’s friction unleashed by conditions.

When pressure, frustration, anger and despair boil and churn in a human being until — snap – a violent shooting shakes the land — that’s friction unleashed by conditions.

A warmhearted sigh from the person in line behind another who for whatever reason takes a little longer than normal — that’s friction quelled by selflessness.

When two opposing sides ‘put down their guns’ and seek collective answers to the shadowy questions beyond what’s in front of them — that’s friction humbled by wisdom.

When plants and critters return decades after an eruption and life is breathed back into a once desolate landscape — that’s friction cooled by conditions.

When everyone has a chance to laugh, it’s not all taken so seriously, encouragement and understanding flow, and when people are kind to one another — that’s friction extinguished by conditions.

Ever notice how avid world travellers — and especially sailors — seem to see the world a little differently than most? They don’t lock up their home and go on vacation, they part with their possessions and set forth on a journey. They don’t see the world as a big, scary, insurmountable planet but a perfectly accessible playground. They don’t have a plan and an itinerary; they have a thirst and a vision.

At Paradise Lost Resort on the tiny and idyllic island of Ko Kradan off Thailand’s southwest coast, I spent a few hours chatting with one such visionary world traveller: 71-year-old Wally Sanger.

Wally, in his element at Paradise Lost.

Originally from Hawaii, Wally grew up sailing from island to island while encountering diverse people, so he felt right at home when he first came to Southeast Asia in the 1960s. It wasn’t until 1980 at the age of 40, however, that he set out for good to sail the world, and more than 30 years later he’s yet to return to Hawaii or anywhere else in his native United States.

“I’ve been to just about every state, country, territory and island in the Pacific,” he recalls. After spending significant time in and around Australia, Indonesia and Papua New Guinea, he began to sail competitively, participating in races in the Philippines, Malaysia, and Thailand. Wally then reached a crossroads. “Too much time on the open seas and you become your own worst enemy,” he says. So, about a dozen years ago, he began to poke around in Thailand’s Andaman Sea for some dry land.

But not too dry. Ko Kradan is just a sliver of an island, now inhabited by only a few resort owners, park rangers and wild dogs. There are no roads, just one of Thailand’s finest white sands beaches, and when Wally first arrived there was just one small resort occupying part of the beach. It was here he decided to drop anchor for good and begin clearing the small plot of land for Paradise Lost out of Kradan’s thick interior jungle. The process took no less than two years.

I ask whether people thought he was crazy. With a gruff chuckle he replies, “They still do. Hell, I still do.” Whatever people think, his resort now books up almost entirely during Thailand’s high season, with countless travellers returning year after year for Paradise Lost’s chilled out atmosphere, tastefully rustic bungalows and outstanding restaurant. More than that, perhaps, they come for Wally himself.

A basic thatched bungalow at Paradise Lost.

Our casual interview comes to a pause when a group of local Thais stop by to drop off some supplies for the resort. “Paw sawasdee krap (hello papa),” they say to Wally with palms together. With a grin I ask, “They call you papa, eh?” “Now, now,” he answers, “all Thais call older men ‘papa.’ It’s not special for me. It’s just the customary term that’s used, nothing more.” True as that may be, the respect these locals have for Wally is evident in their eyes and demeanor. Given his humble and kind disposition, it’s no surprise he’s treated like something of a gypsy saint.

The accommodation reflects the owner — simple, rustic, full of character.

Wally’s not the sort to force his views on anyone, but I do manage to reel in a few bits of his seasoned sailor’s wisdom. On nations and governments he reflects, “The more simple and grassroots a society the better… You don’t see children crying much and you don’t see emaciated people… Families take care of each other. The people just take care of their own.” He encourages people from all over the world to get out and travel, pointing out that, “You’ll learn a whole lot more by travelling than you ever will in a classroom.”

And in response to my request for some final words to live by, he first replies, “No, nothing like that… We just try to teach the kids to take care of each other.” He pauses. A subtle grin emerges from beneath his scratchy white beard and he says sharply, “It’s better to be a ‘has been’ than a ‘never will be.’ ”

It’s a tough job but …

Indeed, Wally has been around, and he’s seen what most can only dream of. He’s a reminder of what travel is all about: exploring the world and discovering one’s place within it. Don’t have to take my word for it, though. Next time you’re in Thailand head out to Ko Kradan and hang at Paradise Lost for a while. As long as Wally’s around, you’ll be met with a very warm welcome.

If I’m living in Thailand, I feel like I should be traveling on the back of a camel in some majestic corner of Africa that hardly anyone’s ever seen. If I’m meditating on the floor of my apartment, I feel as though I should be ordaining as a Buddhist monk. If I’m doing my best to be kind to people in my daily life, I feel as though I should be “saving the world” by starting some large-scale non-profit. If I’ve got a $20 bill in my pocket, it should be a $100. If I’ve got a decent little blog with a few followers, it should be something that touches the lives of thousands, something like this perhaps. If I’ve got something great, I always seem to overlook it, feeling as though I should have something better.

Sometimes it’s so important to take a step back and see those deeply rooted inclinations for what they ultimately are — craving. Usually we think of craving as that sense of wanting something tangible, like an ice cream cone, a girlfriend/boyfriend, or a longer vacation, but craving takes far more deeper and broader forms as well.

When I finally got around to reflecting on all that I should have, I began feeling not only selfish but also a bit silly. I have food in my belly, a roof over my head, a healthy body and mind, loving family and great friends, a job I enjoy, and so much more. So many in this world don’t even have one of those things, let alone all of them.

Today I’m turning over a new leaf — to acknowledge and be satisfied with what I am doing and what I do have rather than dwelling on what I don’t. It’s so simple, but honestly, it’s not easy.

What are the wonderful things in your life that you’ve taken for granted? What do you really need for happiness? I wonder, if you turn around and reflect for a moment, are most if not all of those things already present?

Then one morning, I awoke to the buzz of electric saws and weed-whackers. A group of workers were clearing foliage and debris from the lot. “I guess they’re going to build something”, I thought. No big deal. This is a city, after all.

As soon as that thought had passed, I noticed a family of four white ducks walking aimlessly in the lot. It was the first I’d seen them, but they’ve obviously been there for a while. They had trees for shelter, and a tiny pool of rain-water for bathing and drinking. Not a bad home for a family of urban ducks.

On each of the following mornings, I’ve checked on the ducks. The trees are all gone now, and yesterday I saw workers filling in the pool. For now, the ducks are still there.

I’m not being some painfully romantic tree-hugger. I’m not going to launch a “SAVE THE DUCKS” campaign (although I’m sure it would get plenty of likes on Facebook). If it were my riverside lot, I’d probably want to build something too.

But that doesn’t change the fact that I feel very sad whenever I look at those four helpless ducks.

Who knows what will happen to them. I hope they move on and live happily ever after at an even better overgrown lot. I hope they don’t have to suffer. Yet I know – as sure as the morning sun will rise – that suffer they will.

I’m not judging it. I’m not saying it’s “right” or “wrong”. In due time, we’re all going to feel whatever those ducks are feeling now. None of us are safe. The weed-whacker’s nipping at our heels too.

It’s just four ducks. Yet they embody all of the uncertainty, fragility, fear and sadness that pervades this world. Birth. Life. Suffering. Death. With some love splattered in for good measure. The river flows.