Chronicle & Humor: Bernard Takes a Dip in Cambodia

Bernard decided, one Saturday, to "make the most of the residence pool." Six Anchors later, the pool is mostly making the most of him.

Illustration photo only — © Cambodge Mag

The Strategic Setup

Bernard sets himself up on a lounge chair by the pool at 10am sharp, cooler within arm's reach, cap screwed onto his head — but pushed well back, more decorative than protective. "Gotta make the most of it, we're on vacation year-round here," he announces to no one in particular, before cracking open his first beer of the day. He'll be on his fourth before noon.

Entering the Water

Around 1pm, Bernard decides to join the pool, beer in hand, never once letting go — a balancing feat he clearly considers the most impressive part of his afternoon. He floats on his back for a good half hour, belly emerging from the water like a small tropical island, methodically tanning an area no known sunscreen protocol recommends exposing unprotected.

The Diving Demonstration

Around 2:30pm, buoyed by enthusiasm and his fifth beer, Bernard announces to everyone within earshot that he's going to "show the young folks how we used to dive back in the day." He takes a modest run-up, leaps off the edge with all the grace of a fridge being pushed down a staircase, and belly-flops with a splash loud enough to turn heads up to the second floor of the building. A wave of water reaches a retired German couple quietly enjoying happy hour three lounge chairs down. Bernard resurfaces, red, out of breath, and proudly declares: "That one was just for laughs, I actually practiced all morning." Nobody saw him practice. Nobody believes him. Nobody corrects him either.

Denial, Act One

Around 3pm, a fellow resident, a little worried to see him so red, gently suggests he get out of the water and hydrate. "Don't worry, it's Cambodia, it hits hard but I'm used to it, eight years here." He has, quite obviously, never actually acclimated any part of himself to anything, having spent the bulk of those eight years in the shade of a bar.

The Fainting Spell

Around 4pm, Bernard tries to get up from his lounge chair to fetch a seventh beer, and ends up halfway there, sitting in the grass, a little lost, not entirely sure how he got there. "I'm fine, I'm fine, I just stood up too fast," he assures Sophea, who's rushed over in a panic, while his face has now taken on the exact shade of a bell pepper.

Denial, Act Two

Settled in the shade, a damp towel around his neck, Bernard categorically rejects the idea that this could be sunstroke. "It's the chicken from lunch, it must not have been fresh." Nobody at the table had chicken that day. Nobody corrects him either: Sophea has already called a neighbor who's a doctor, just in case, while Bernard keeps explaining his culinary theory to whoever will still listen.

The Tally

The next day, back on his feet but still a bit pale under his tan, Bernard recounts the episode at the bar like a heroic tale: "Man, I must've had a nasty case of food poisoning yesterday, gotta watch out for the chicken around here." Nobody contradicts him. He orders an Anchor, ice, lime — an unshakable ritual — and settles onto his molded stool, as if nothing happened, to tell anyone still listening how he "nearly didn't make it" because of a chicken that never existed.

One Week Later

The following Saturday, at exactly 10am, Bernard is back on the same lounge chair, identical cooler within reach, cap just as decorative as ever. Sophea, passing by with clean towels, asks him, half amused and half resigned, whether he's planning on doing the exact same thing as eight days ago. "No way, don't worry, I learned my lesson," Bernard replies, cracking open his first Anchor of the day at 10:02am. By noon, he's on his fourth. The lesson, as it turns out, appears to have amounted to switching beer brands.