It was dawn, and morning came early in Sibuyan Island. There was no electricity in those days, so the room was lit with homemade kerosene lamp made of used Lady’s Choice jars with a burning wick cloth. Imagine, it was 1986. The cacophony of clanging pans, chopping of firewood, and the swishing of broomstick sweeping the dried, withered leaves was my alarm clock. I stretched and yawned without getting out of bed yet.
The grass was still silvery with the morning dew. The leaves of mango and coconut trees swayed with the soft warm breeze against the jaw-dropping backdrop of Mt. Guiting-Guiting. Grey sparrows twittered, and the red-plumed roosters crowed all their might.
We lived in our grandparents’ house which was about a hundred metres from the beach of España, the barrio where I was born and where I spent some odd years of my adolescent life. Except for the concrete foundations, the house was built of local organic materials – hardwood, rattan, bamboo, and nipa. It seemed bigger than most other houses in the village, at least to me. The wind crawled leisurely from tree to tree and the tropical humidity was rolling from the sea towards the land. It was a sun-drenched, sweltering morning. I didn’t have to spread the blanket over the night.
Outside, the street dogs barked and were already roaming like they owned the narrow, unpaved roads of our village. These noisy mongrels annoyed some of the men that happened to be walking and minding what to do with their lives. Unemployed, unmarried, bored and with empty stomachs, these men had placed these dogs in an awfully bad situation.
Nanay’s* teacher-voice bellowed our names, “Jing! Jong! Ne! Get up and come downstairs now.” I glided from the wall where the window was to the far edge of the brown-aged palm-leaf mat which covered the hard wooden bed frame, got up, and walked towards the stairs. My two siblings were still stuck on the mat, asleep in the other room. From the second floor window of the house, I could see a substantial part of the sea. The water was so fluid that we would sometimes describe it as “oil-like.” There were no ripples, and I couldn’t hear the waves breaking into the shore – a sign of pleasant weather. Typhoons are exceedingly rare during this time of the year.
*Mother
The mixture of vinegar, soy sauce, onion, garlic, and backyard-grown chicken was boiling over crackling firewood that filled the air with the all too familiar savoury smell of adobo. The putrid smoke penetrated my nostrils. Heavy smoke lingered in the air. My eyes itched, I had to shut, scratch, and squeeze them in. The rice too was simmering in boiling water. The air wafted with fried dried fish. Sautéed garlic and onion sizzled in a pan of hot oil. The steam of coconut milk drifted into the fresh atmosphere of the countryside. My parents were already busy cooking our food for our voyage to Manila. They’d like to cook for the trip so we didn’t have to eat the food served on the boat and the leftovers would carry the taste of our hometown to the city for our relatives. My grandmother, Nanay Belen, as we call her, might have already been in her little variety store downstairs, counting coins so she could get my mother to buy her goods in bulk and re-sell them for a profit of a few centavos. My tummy growled as I came down the stairs. Breakfast was ready.
That was the day we were leaving for Manila. I was going to continue my studies in a Catholic high school. It would have been just another trip in April if not for that. Turning points in life can put you on the edge of a cliff and make your heartbeats sound like drums. Our travel by sea was going to be calm, safe, and enjoyable, I thought.
Tatay* took a break from his work at the Philippine Ports Authority to go with us on this trip. Nanay must have felt relieved that Tatay was there to travel with us. A couple of weeks back, I graduated from España Elementary School. I was at the top of our Grade 6 Class of ’86. It was our last year in the elementary school system. The teachers were on a break as well. Despite the petty rumour that it was because of having Nanay as my class adviser that I got an award, I was, nonetheless, expected to study harder than all the rest of my classmates. Our barrio was small so there was only one Grade 6 class. This kind of training paid off when I continued to excel in high school at St. Joseph School.
*Father
The sunrise was now behind Mt. Guiting-Guiting and was spotlighting the island of Panay across the vast Sibuyan Sea to the west. I barely slept the night before because of excitement and anticipation of this trip. Even until then, my heart was pounding, the veins seemed to have pumped my blood straight to my head. I was leaving my friends and the place of my childhood that it felt like I would be gone forever. Nanay had already packed our clothes and the carton boxes were already filled with gifts for our relatives in Manila – lots of dried fish, anchovy paste, fresh mangoes, vegetables, and more. Since we had no refrigerator, Nanay wrapped the perishables with fresh banana leaves to keep them cool and fresh.
My playmates walked the streets, in their old worn shorts and oversized tank-top shirts. They dragged their slippers on the unpaved and dusty streets of the barrio. Usual as a business could be. I was going to miss our games, the local candies made of nothing but sugar and blood-red food colour, climbing the trees, swimming in the surf, and all the kid stuff. They were looking for other friends to play with or to do something like fishing, swimming or just sitting by the sea and watching people. The school was over, and summer break started in April. “Jing, mus makanam!”* my friends would call me.
*Jing let’s go play!
Having lived in an archipelago with thousands of islands, my experience was a series of separation, of sea travels, of the joys of leaving, and of the sorrows of being left behind. Leaving was hard but the change of scenery could be entertaining. For those who stayed, life went on as usual but something or someone was noticeably missing. Nonetheless, remembering that day we travelled to Manila brings me a feeling of pleasure and longing for the old ways. I wish I could live it again one more time.
We, islanders or provincianos, were naturally very eager to go to Manila. For some, it’s ironic that we would want to leave an island paradise in exchange for a crowded and polluted city. Tourists and vacationers wanted the lush of the rural settings. People simply longed for what they didn’t have.
By mid-morning, we carried our luggage and walked a small distance to the seaside where we waited for the boat to dock. Other passengers were already there ahead of us. The sun was almost overhead by now. The air was damp and warmer than usual. The wait seemed endless. Nanay Belen went to send us off until we boarded the boat. My grandfather died the year before, so she had decided to stay behind to look after her store. I remember Nanay Belen walking with us in her long flowery bluish-white duster dress. Nanay and my siblings would be back on the island before the next school year opened in June. I would be staying in Manila so I wouldn’t be seeing her until the next school year was over.
The boat’s engine droned with a long and lazy rhythmic thud, thud, thud. Sonorous and resonant. Its horn blasted like a giant tuba and became louder as the boat moved smoothly near the shore. The white-painted wooden boat, M/V Kalayaan, maneuvered to docking position and anchored to a full stop. As I could remember, there were other competing passenger boats in varying regularity that were servicing the major islands of Romblon Province to Lucena, like M/V Lourdes, M/V Peñafrancia, M/V Transmar, and M/V Paz. I couldn’t remember if the pier of logs and planks had been already built at that time. Maybe. But it might had been destroyed by the typhoons. So, there was no pier. Passengers and cargo had to be taken to the boat by a launch.
The adults were standing, conversing, laughing, smoking, and watching people while we all waited for our turn to board. Other spectators were sitting on dry-docked bancas*. A battery-operated transistor radio from one of the houses by the shore was broadcasting the local weather. Fishers were coming home late from an overnight catch. Their frustrated faces gave out the number of fish they caught. If the catch were good, they would sell some of their fish, and rest were for their own family’s consumption. Life went on.
* Small, paddled outrigger boats.
The small waves splashed, pushing the pebbles towards land, gurgling in protest. We were dressed up in shoes and jeans. In a society where signature clothes are believed to show the amount in your bank account, ours were modest, some of them were donated from rich countries and were sold to fundraise for the local parish church.
We said our goodbyes to Nanay Belen and boarded the launch. The launch was an open square box, a free-floating wooden cube with frames of kiln-dried studs and marine plywood sidings. The plywood had greyed out and faded over time. It was like a huge dipper without the handle. The four walls were inclined at an angle, someone might have thought a bit about hydrodynamics. The boat did not have a forward or aft, so it was multi-directional. The height of the launch was a little higher than an average five-foot-four-inch Filipino. It has no engine or rudder, so the launch had to be pulled along a rope line tied to a tree on one end and the other end tied to the boat.
We had to balance walk on a foot-wide gangplank, the top was ledged on the launch, and the bottom rested on the shore where the line of the tide was dry. The launch floated, filled with passengers, standing, and holding on tight and as close as possible to their precious cargo. I felt anxious being in the launch as it tilted side to side while the crew pulled us all towards the boat. Some adults lent a hand pulling or lifting the rope above our heads. I tried to keep myself grounded. From where I stood, I could only see the sky and the noses of adults as they looked up, mindful of the tensioned rope which was wet with seawater. I could taste the tiny sprays of saltwater on my face. Mothers and fathers carried smaller kids in their arms while also trying to keep themselves upright. My two siblings were looking up to me. They were good. Other kids were crying, scared as I was. Everything was moving from where I stood and I didn’t know where exactly we were headed.
The crew was holding onto the rope and pulled us from the shore towards the boat. A crew was shouting to another not to let go of the rope. So, towards the boat, they pulled until the launch was onto the side of the boat bumping into rubber tire fenders. The launch was now docked to the side. The passengers who boarded from the earlier port were looking at us with curiosity like sea birds on the wide-open windows of the boat.
Suitcases, bags, carton boxes, plastic bags, and sacks of all shapes and sizes were being passed on and we had to climb up the wall of the launch to get on the lower deck of the boat. It was scary. I hoped and prayed that we would not sink soaking our clothes wet with saltwater. My excitement was thrown overboard. Everything was chaos and people were shouting instructions from all directions. The crew was helping the frowning, grimacing passengers to climb up, struggling. The boat looked huge and overpowering us as our launch was bobbing up and down. The throaty humming of the boat’s engine was noisier than ever, and it scared me more. Someone from behind had lifted me to climb up into the deck. I was relieved.
I saw my siblings lagging behind me, then we walked our way through the crowd and turned to look back from time to time making sure that our parents were right behind us. The opening to the hold of the boat was at the forward where we boarded, so we walked as far away as possible from the gaping rectangular hole where brown sacks of copra, crates of produce and other cargoes were in their ephemeral state. The pungent and smokey smell of copra dried with sweat and sun was distinguishable from all the rest. When the hold was full and closed, some cargoes had to be left out on the deck exposed to the elements. Sometimes there would be chickens, pigs, and even cows.
My siblings and I continued to walk inside the deck although not knowing where to stop. First come, first served. The air inside was dense and it reeked of engine oil and urine. Nanay was urging us on behind us while Tatay waited for our other cargoes. We climbed the stairs to the upper deck and away from the engine stack which smelled of rust and overheated metal. The stack leaked that sometimes you’d wake up the next day thick with soot all over your clothes. The boat’s kitchen was toward the back of the lower deck, right beside the toilets.
Old friends, neighbours, and relatives who hadn’t seen each other for months or years would now be stuck in the sea for at least twelve hours. It was a reunion, and everybody had wanted to talk. Scattered conversations and laughter had drowned humdrum of the engine. There were a couple more launch trips and soon the captain’s voice crackled repeatedly through the speaker, “Pwera bisita!”* alerting the non-passengers to disembark as the boat was about to leave.
*Visitors, please disembark now!
The boat had neither cabins nor double-decked beds that we see today, so the image is disappointingly nowhere close to the luxury of a modern passenger liner. Privacy was bare minimum if not lacking unless you’re in the washroom doing your business. We sat on an adjustable wood-framed chair that reclined and could be folded like a poolside chaise-longue, without any vanity – the seat and the back were made of tarpaulin that stuck to your skin when dry and greasy when you’re sweating. The tarp was shiny-yellow on the side facing up and dark blue under. We’d take the seats nearest to the window. Our baggage was placed by the aisle, the pack of food nearest to Nanay who usually took the aisle seat. Tatay always found a spot to snore somewhere. There was no air conditioner so it was hot and humid, and we would smell the fusion of fuel, and dead fish. There was an altar with a statue of Señor Santo Niño leid with dried, crunchy, itchy Everlasting flowers. Right beside it was a small, old, thick-box television suspended against the front wall painted with marine-white which had a shiny, slippery, wet look. The crew would show action movies with the classic themes of guns, bloodshed, screaming, tears, and women. All the seats faced this wall forward. Despite the entertainment being shown on TV, the whole scene didn’t seem all-natural to me. Our eyes were fixed on the TV while everything else moved around us.
The engine chugged some more, and the crew pulled the anchors up. The vibration increased as the propulsion shifted to high power. I imagined the voluminous water being washed out by the giant propeller. I looked up outside. Above us were great ominous rain clouds rolling down the mountainside. Such was the strangeness of rainforests during summertime.
My father used to take us to the pilothouse for a front seat view. It was one of those perks where one knew the captain because Tatay worked in the port authority. Tatay let us stay in the Pilot House to see scenic hills, plateaus, and the deeply forested mountainside. Beyond those beach-lined villages, hidden away by nature’s beauty, were residents who lived mostly in poverty and simplicity – the likes of people we’d see on TV who could still throw a smile during floods and earthquakes.
Sibuyan was widely unknown during those times when the internet was non-existent, so I’d hope I could show this paradise to my friends someday. It happened years later when my classmates at Adamson University visited. Two of them did their research on community architecture, and one did an inventory of fish. Several others came simply to discover. Nowadays, our environment is in the limelight, thanks to our locals, like Nanay, Armin Marin, my cousin Rodney Galicha, our church, schools, and leaders whose staunch support to care for our environment has united our community to protect our Island.
From España, the boat travelled halfway around Sibuyan Island to reach another village, Ambulong, but this time we docked at a concreted pier. We stopped for a few hours to pick up more people and cargo. A throng of porters and vendors came in from all directions and we’re crying out their goods and services. They wore tropical-weather clothes – thin shirts, shorts, and flip flops. Several porters were climbing in through the windows by the side of the pier carrying luggage with smiles and speed. Outside below, half-naked kids were swimming beside the boat and showing off their diving skills. They screamed for money and raced to catch the coins thrown at them by the passengers for entertainment. The sea was clear so you could see the coins when they hit the white sandy seabed. Elusive fishes swam aimlessly away. The incandescent sun continued to blaze baking what’s left of the children’s pigmentation. Then we sailed across to Romblon Island for another few hours and then set off to San Agustin town in my father’s island, Tablas. It was the last port before the boat finally headed north towards Luzon.
Slanted triangles of sunlight pierced through the clouds in the afternoon sky, reflecting against the shimmering sea. The sun soon disappeared behind the horizon, beyond the stark silhouettes of islands. The orange sky brought a feeling of nostalgia – a departure, a separation from yesterday, from home. By the window, the dense air wheezed against my face. The foamy water splashed away past our the boat. If we were lucky, we’d see dolphins frolicking in a pod. We passed by several fishing boats moved up and down. The fishers waved at us while they set out their nets and fired up their Petromax lanterns for the night. We sailed with the slow rocking of the sea beneath us. I was standing by the window where my seat was nearest, looking at the scenery when homesickness struck all too sudden. I held back my tears and tried to swallow the emotion shaping up in my throat. I tried not to choke and I didn’t want my siblings to see it. Nanay Belen, was alone and might have already been preparing dinner for herself. The night fell fast.
The free food served en mass was not the best for my young taste. I had wondered about how much food the crew could have cooked, enough to feed hundreds of passengers onboard. I didn’t have to worry because my parents had prepared our food-to-go early on. The rice and the chicken adobo was compacted in Tupperware and placed neatly in plastic bags, or in a bayong – a bag that was made of weaved dried indigenous palm leaves. There was a small dining area towards the back of the upper deck and a small store that sold liquor and instant noodles. Hot water was free.
We sailed the rest of the night. Incandescent and fluorescent lights were turned on. The dull grey dimness added to the gloom while the ever-present monotonous hum of the engine put us to a night of shallow sleep, while the intermittent gust of wind was forcing itself through the wide windows. The air was sultry until the wind swept the dampness out. The waters were louder and billowing underneath us. As the tropical weather was unpredictable, it’s not surprising that there would be occasional downpours. We had to lift the heavy wood panels to close the windows, which didn’t seal shut so the wet breeze whistled in. Tiny drops of moisture seeped through the gaps. The pelting rain banged with lightning. The gathering moisture that made its way in slipped off from the wall beside me. The drizzle was depressing. The animals left outside would have been soaking wet and cold. At about midnight, we reached the trabesía, a Filipino adaptation of the word “crossing” in Spanish. This was where turbulence usually happened, in the open sea, as if we were going towards the storm. The lull put me to sleep.
I woke up to the creaking of our seats and the moaning of passengers. When I fully opened my eyes, the floor and wood posts supporting the roof of the boat seemed to move as if we were on a hammock. The windows were closed but the mist still found a way in. The air inside was not moving. Several spots on the walls were wet and oozing with rust where the nails had been hammered. The tarpaulin on my chair was stuck to my skin every time I moved. No matter how much I positioned and re-positioned myself to get comfortable on the chair, sleep was too far gone. The dizzy heads of passengers swayed from side to side whenever the boat listed left or right. Those who weren’t lucky to get a seat had to make do of the small dining table by the small store for their backs to rest and share with others who got drunk early on. We made sickness bags out of any plastic we could find. Nanay always had a bunch of them in her bag, so we were all prepared. I felt all the food I had eaten that day tottered back and forth with the waves. Those who were seasick and nauseous had to just bend over from their seats and growled out like a volcano. My eyes were stuck on hi-vis orange lifesaver jackets that were tucked on suspended racks above me. I imagined myself being the boy hero who would singlehandedly force open the slats of wood that securely encased those jackets and lifebuoys. I’d yell at anyone for my all-too-important, urgent, and life-saving instructions. Or, in my mind, I could just easily grab one for myself, don it snug around my skinny body, open the window, and leap two storeys overboard into the raging tempest. Well, my planned strategy was short-lived as I got busy being scared. And depending on what circumstances demanded, who knew what kind of heroics I’d do to save the day. But these images sliced through my memory like raindrops.
After a few hours of turmoil, the wind died down, and the sea grew calm. My stomach was cold, and I was about to faint. Vicks VapoRub was our cure-all antidote to any pain or sickness, its strong minty smell ingrained in my memory. Calmness followed when the boat had gone past the trabesía. Seasickness could be exhausting to the body, so all sorts of snores and snorts ensued. Some opened the windows to let the fresh air in. Outside was pitch-black, but if you looked up, the sky was pepper-sprinkled with dazzling and glimmering stars. The calm after the storm.
Dawn at sea had the most refreshing feel of the cool, fresh, clean, ionized air. Still groggy from the night’s tilts and rolls, a hot, steaming aroma of brewed coffee soothed the head and the perturbed stomach. The golden sunrise was now reflecting against the unmoving, silvery ocean. There was no trace of last night’s agony. Consolation. The sun had dried off the water-drenched floor of the boat. Some were disheartened to discover that their cargoes that were left outside were soaked in water.
The final stop of our voyage was a river port called Cotta, in Lucena City. We were lucky to arrive when the tide was high, so we didn’t have to transfer to a motorized outrigger boat to take us ashore. Sometimes the was so low that the boat could endanger running aground. The river was like a snake slithering from the mouth of the river to the port, so the boat had to cruise at a snail’s pace. It felt forever.
The crew released the anchor, the chains were clanking and grinding metal to metal. We had arrived. In no time, people were starting their way out of the boat, luggage, and cargoes in both hands. Tatay would hire a porter whom he knew, and then he would usually slip in his hand a peso bill or two for the service. Men, women, kids, and the elderly were focused in a single direction. The pleasantries that were exchanged during the start of the trip had long been forgotten. Our boat docked right beside another boat, so we had to cross over each one by balancing walks on wooden planks in between. Passengers emptied fast. The steadiness of the concrete pavement felt strange and was exaggerating the silence by the sound that died in our crossing. The uproar of the boat’s engine had been replaced with those of the buses and trucks which took us farther to Manila. The chatter was now coming to form the Tagalog-speaking porters and vendors selling boiled eggs and strong, locally fresh-brewed coffee. The boat’s engine and the rolling sea kept spinning in my head even days after I stepped on land.
