On the ferry to Lamma Island, I leaned back in my chair. Remembering the sight of the silver buildings, towering over me, all lit in bright colours against the dark sky, reflecting in the inky water. It was busy there and people spoke in a language that sounded like gibberish to me. The most memorial thing was the touch of the humid summer.
The wind whipped my hair back and the waves crashed against the side of the boat, taking us further from Hong Kong and to where my father lived. I scoured the sea for dolphins, though they seemed to be hiding. It was my goal to see a dolphin jumping with the waves, but so far no luck.
When my family and I got of the ferry, the first thing to hit me was the stench. There was many restaurants on the island and nearly every one of them, had tanks of all sorts of fish outside, waiting to be chosen to be put on a plait. I never ate them, but favoured the ginger fried rice.
The pastel coloured houses sat scattered on the hill, over looking the sea. I wasn't to stay in one of those houses till a later date, for now I was going to my father's apartment, which lay past the village and in a woodier environment.
My father wrapped his arms around me and talked about all the adventures we'd have.
For my writing course under the theme travel piece.