Vietnam had the boat people in the 1960s and 70s. “If worse comes to worse,” went the crass joke in 1997, when thousands of rich Hongkongers were obtaining foreign passports before the handover to China, “we’ll become the yacht people.” Our fancy boat moored off the coast, near Repulse Bay and its giant Miami-looking condos. The sun was shining so brightly that we could see the islands of China out in the distance. Alongside us were two fishing trawlers. My host explained that we are in the midst of a government-mandated break in the fishing season, so that the fish can replenish themselves. Instead of equipment, these fishermen had loaded their boats with family—dozens of little children in lifejackets climbing down the rusty green ladders to the water and paddling around happily as their mothers and fathers watch from the deck. I did some paddling of my own just off the boat, unable to shake the feeling that the warm, bright water I was swimming in was of questionable cleanliness. Luckily, there was a little shower to rinse off as you reboarded. I sat for a while on top of the boat, in the sun, looking out again to China. Hong Kong's stratospheric buildings were behind me, and the quiet rocking of the water, the impossibly bright sun, the rocky islands and green cliffs combined to clear my brain of crowds, filling it instead with the incredible natural beauty of this city’s setting. Unfortunately, I must have looked a bit pale after rocking for two hours in the hot sun, for one of the women we were with offered me a little brown dried up thing. “Chinese sour plum,” she explained. “Helps with sea sickness.” I sucked on it gratefully, tongue tingling, feeling the breeze finally blow again as we turned back towards Aberdeen Marina and the Hong Kong of public transportation, people, and activity.

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