PA KHLOK, Thailand — I drove up to the gate of the private yacht club fully expecting to be turned around. Two Thais in uniform vests stood at the gate, smiling.

I said nothing and acted like I belonged, despite what the economy car I’d rented suggested.

With a smile, they lifted the gates and waved me through.

Though I could find neither harp-wielding cherubs nor St. Peter, I knew I’d arrived in heaven: Phuket Yacht Heaven.

White privilege

Depending on the circumstances of your life, Earth might be a lot closer to heaven or hell at different times. Though you can always improve your position in life, some of us are born with an advantage.

The “Alt Left” exaggerates the role of “white privilege,” while the “Alt Right” denies its existence entirely, but white privilege is real. In most of small-town America, it goes unnoticed because 90% or more of the homogenous population shares in its blessings, and if everyone has the same advantage, it’s as though no one does.

I grew up in small-town America, and I saw glimpses, but strangely enough, it is outside of the United States where white privilege has been most apparent to me.

Thailand

Perhaps my greatest summer adventure yet took me to Southeast Asia, with Thailand’s Phuket Island playing host to many of the highlights.

Thailand ranks eighth in global tourism, but given that it’s just a little larger than the state of California with far fewer inhabitants, that’s a flex. Thailand has stayed neutral enough that it serves as a strange playground for nationals of countries not exactly friendly to one another. There are few other places — perhaps none at all — where Australian, American, Russian, Indian, Pakistani, Chinese and Taiwanese nationals vacation together, but it is the norm in Thailand, where the inexpensive economic structures and broad array of leisure activities draw in all kinds of tourists who are welcomed by the locals with open arms and open wallets.

As a developing nation, Thailand has abject poverty next to absurd wealth much more visible than it is in more developed nations. Much of the wealth is foreign, and the nation is home to a burgeoning population of resident aliens, which some estimates put near 5 million strong.

All of this foreign wealth tends to congregate, and nowhere is it more obvious than in the nation’s many yacht clubs and marinas.

Though I figured getting into one of these elite venues would be almost impossible, my healthy tan didn’t hide the white skin beneath, and I was granted access to one of these yacht clubs without question by just driving up to the gate, greeting the guards and assuming they’d let me in. They asked me no questions, and I told no lies; I merely relied on my white face.

Heaven

I drove down the manicured road towards the marina. I was told by another attendant I couldn’t drive down and figured the 500-foot elevation drop was the end of my bid to fish the marina. Instead, he directed me to the parking lot nearby and told me I’d have to taxi down.

Still expecting to be expelled any moment, I parked, grabbed my backpack and bucket and said a little prayer of thanks that I’d bought the four-piece ajing rod the week before in that specialty tackle shop in Singapore. It fit perfectly inside my backpack when broken down to its component parts.

I didn’t look like a middle class white traveler trying to fish the marina; apparently I looked like a yacht owner because the golf cart taxi pulled right up and waited for me to load up.

I nodded to the marina guard on my way down, and I think he was as surprised as I was.

We drove down the steep grade to the yacht club’s opulent, fully modern boardwalk, and I looked around to see wealth dripping off everyone there.

A concrete path split pristine lawn and tropical vegetation en route to the club headquarters, a restaurant, real estate office, charter office and something that looked like a port authority. I tried to act the part as I generously tipped the cabbie and scoped out the area.

The large marina was even bigger than I’d surmised from my research. Hundreds of boats sat in the cerulean slips below, the calm waters of the Andaman Sea every bit as beautiful as the postcards.

A quick trip to the bathroom left me relishing the frigid air conditioning as I wiped sweat from my neck and brow — only some of which came from the heat. I was almost there.

Two or three gates with electronic locks separated the marina from the plebes trapped on the boardwalk. I expected signs banning fishing, but I saw none. Apparently, those wealthy enough to own a slip wouldn’t be trashy enough to fish from the shoreline, so signs were unwarranted.

Timing was everything.

I walked the boardwalk feigning self-assured wealth like the Swiss or German couple ahead of me, though I lacked the pastel clothing and designer sunglasses. I faked a phone call to allow myself a break in stride and surveyed the traffic to and from the gates.

A burly Aussie with a beard gave me a “Cheers, mate!” as he passed by, lugging a massive cooler en route to his vessel. I followed behind him a few paces, hoping was heading for the gate, but he turned and went on to the charter office.

Not wanting to blow my cover, I walked by the gate without breaking stride.

At the end of the boardwalk, I turned around and saw someone with a cart full of gear coming off the docks and seized my opportunity. Moderating my pace to arrive just after they’d opened the gate, I brushed through without incident and walked to the furthest reach of the docks, fishing in the shadow of a large commercial yacht.

I was in.

Marina

A pulsing carpet of fishes swirled in the waters below, but most did not excite me. Scad and sergeants dominated the assemblage, and I caught dozens of fish before deciding to move.

Sure, I’d be visible to folks who might not want me there, but I decided to risk it.

Slowly, I worked my way around the docks. When the first person came up and talked with me, I figured I’d be asked to justify my presence, present my slip number or indicate which boat I worked on. Instead, I just became a source of entertainment.

The novelty wore off quickly, and passers-by simply nodded or smiled as they brushed past.

In the relentless tropical heat, I drank the roughly half-gallon of water I’d brought, and after a few hours, I began to feel the tug of thirst and the slow discomfort of a full bladder.

Unsure how easily I’d be able to slip back to the slips, I vowed to fish another hour and go.

In that hour, I finally caught something new: the lagoon shrimpgoby, Cryptocentrus cyanotaenia, which was breathtakingly beautiful despite its small size.

As I neared the slip closest to shore, I decided to chum a bit and see what I could draw in. Mostly scad, as it turned out, but I also noticed something beefier in the mix.

Dropping and then rapidly jerking my bait up and down yielded yet another new and shiny prize: the longfin trevally, Carangoides armatus.

Content with my haul and nearing the point of kidney damage from my bursting bladder, I beelined through the dock gate (which opened with the push of a button from the inside) to the bathroom, took a short sink bath and then bought lunch at the club’s restaurant, where I had some seafood fried rice only privilege (and about $10 USD) can buy.