Save the bikini babes of Cafe Del Mar, the leisure island of Sentosa with its manufactured attractions holds little to draw the interest of my defenestrated duck. Artificial ruins and gigantic mer-myths with glow-in-the-dark globes mar the hills of what could have been an oasis of green within a deep harbour of humanity. And what little that remains that have seen and survived the rise and fall of the surrounding sea is slated for selective value-addition in the name of guests who'd probably care nought for a fancy resort built to mollify the shame of the game. A forest and its forgotten flock, it appears, has no intrinsic worth, but must be embraced by the rulers of perceived utility and reduced to fragments assailable by man and nothing less. But maybe it's no surprise, given that even the mortared memories of men on this island are not spared guttings that leave behind isolated hollows of disconnected history. Who remembers now a time of living dangerously, when two-armed bandits and bloodthirsty buccaneers commanded this isle of backhanded death and fiscal defiance, whose very name of legend has now been shelved to herald prettier auspices. But worry not, the thievery will soon be back, and this time, there shall be no quarters given. In fact, they won't give any change at all!
Just a pebble's throw away from the fake lagoons sprinkled with imported sand, there is a world of clear waters and shores of colour that reveal the glory of life aquatic and overlooked by passing pleasure boats. A small seawall behind the cannons of Fort Siloso discourages adventurous tourists from the shore below, but beyond the turf lies a beach largely shunned and sheltered from the wrecking feet of semi-aquatic apes. No armies of cleaners toil by the water's edge to clear the silicon of debris; the flotsam of harbourfront life find their way here to rest amidst a blanket of Ulva or dangle from twigs of sea hibiscus. An abandoned stair of stone shatters in mid-step to permit the passage of curious questioners.
Hiding visitors from the teeming mass (though not the din) that throngs just yards away is an eroded cliff crowned with coastal trees. The trunks that tower above are a breed apart from landlubbering logs, having weathered generations of shifting tides and the spray of unforgiving winds. Unravaged by manicured gardens and the cultivars of civilisation, a remarkable host of trees and shrubs make a living between the reef and the rubble, granting shade to walkers and gawkers of the crevices and caves carved beneath their roots. With little to live on and surrounded by a sea of thirst, it's a wonder how a mere vine named after a certain Mr Bingley can find the reserves to reach the topmost branches of its arboreal support save the occasional treat of a trapped flea or fly.
The way through this sliver of wilderness brings one across ripples of rock that extend from the cliff face like tendrils of frozen time. On the sand lies a multicolour garden of worn pebbles, the shed droppings of a long gone era when the straits was a stream and the hill a mountaintop. Through these drowned rivers, barbs and bettas once found their way to distant dens on the far end of the Sunda Shelf, but now their routes are grazed upon by slugs with knobbly bodies and camouflage that's too effective for their own good. The sun-baked pools are filled with mottled onchids that care not that the tide's out. Unfortunately, the ability to breath air doesn't do them much good, for those slugs that wander out of the pools and onto the slippery rockface face a squishing from clambering ducks.
The harsh and craggy shoreline then gives way to an expanse of coral rubble and lush patches of seagrass. In the crystal clear shallows, spoon seagrass (Halophila ovalis) with dainty pairs of leafy spatulas form submerged meadows co-joined by subterranean rhizomes. Sharing the substrate are ample tufts of mermaid's cup seaweed and macroalgae in the form of fine-toothed ferns and miniature parasols. The scene is dominated, however, by tape seagrass (Enhalus acoroides) whose strap-like leaves float and sway like crazy horses shielding the surrounding entourage from the full glare of the evening sun.
Now that we are away from the mainland, where two babes in a bedroom (sans any protective duck to ensure that a proper heterosexual ménage à trois takes place) might just be committing a felony, let's talk about sex. It was a full blown orgy that day as the Enhalus engaged in botanical sex by the beach, smothering the surface of the water with their 'seed' in an unfair bid to outdo my defeated duck. Male or staminate flowers close to the leaf base produce hydrophobic pollen particles that bear an uncanny resemblance to styrofoam. The pollen floats up and gets scattered by the waves.
Lucky bits of pollen that reach the carpellate flowers join together to make seagrass whoopee
while the rest gather in moody assemblies with the sour consistency of
spilled semen milk. The female blooms are carried on
a long coiled peduncle that gives the inflorescence access to the
atmosphere. Keeping the styles dry and ready to hook up to passing
pollen is a dynamic whorl of three frilly petals that automatically
open when the flower is exposed to air and draw together into a waxy
cover when inundated. When consumated fertilised, a plump, onion-shaped fruit with rows of hairy ribs is produced that bursts with orgasmic finality when ripe to spew small seeds that are said to taste like water chestnuts.
In the waters swam creatures spined and spineless, united in their perverse rush to avoid my desirable duck. Karen spotted a little blue spotted fantail ray (Taeniura lymma) that first tried to hide under a rock and then under the sand. My duck found a like-minded creature that likes to poke around and enter holes without asking for permission. The usual assortment of gobies eyed my duck with suspicion; I am told these fish suck but not in the way I'd like. Hoping for some tactile stimulation, I plucked out a little inch-long swimming brachyuran from the sand and the crabby fellow instantly tried to pinch the duck out of me. What chutzpah! His larger cousin was no friendlier. Soon the tide turned with the sinking sun and compelled my duck to seek higher ground, where deckchairs and lotion by a coconut-lined cove conspire to keep barely-there dames safe from the forces that once ringed this isle and still lurk from a corner beyond sight and know no sanctuary.
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