I grew up in an island just a tad smaller than Guam. During the monsoon season, when I had already learned how to swim, I would run with my friends to the sea, rode the approaching swell, and swam under the foamy water. Our heads would disappear, and we would bob up like seals squealing with glee.
When we got tired, we would sit together facing the sea on the sandy and pebbled beach, in our wet shorts. Our skin suntanned more than normal. We were panting and exhausted, but with smiles on our innocent faces. We would wait for the next surf rolling and slamming onto the shore. Rain clouds were looming on the horizon, the outlines of other islands were blurry. The grey clouds above us were fast racing toward the mountains behind us, the fluorescent sunshine tried to squeeze through a clearing in the sky. The wind blowing against our faces brought some chills to our scrawny little bodies. Our jaws would chatter. Coconut trees rustled, the mist dropping away from the swaying fronds. Undeterred, we patiently sat and adult-talked some silly stuff like hiding someone’s flip-flops under the sand.
We were boys who lived in our small barrio. Kids who loved to play around the block while our neighbour blasted Michael Jackson’s Thriller through the air from a transistor radio. We walked to the same elementary school, sang at the same church or another, and climbed the same trees. We got scared hearing the same stories of ghosts, and of fairies. The monster-story I remember had the head of a black horse, the rest of the body human, covered in dark loin cloth. Its hairy hands and feet perched up the mango tree at dusk, smoking a giant tobacco, and laughing like thunder.
Our lives were so simple and care-free back then. The streets were not paved but we enjoyed playing and running through the dust and dirt with our bare feet, our flip-flops in hand. We enjoyed the tropical moonlight, played hide-and-seek until our parents’ voices would sound with familiarity and admonition, like a long whistle coming from all directions, “Psssssshhht!” We didn’t know exactly from where the voice was coming, but we’re pretty sure if it was for me, or for my friends, Tata and Bubot (Rolly Parpan), the brothers. We would recognize our parents’ voices like hens clucking, roll-calling their chicks home for the night.
