Safe at sea

This morning was special.

A return visit to something I loved so much but haven’t done for ages made it so.

When I was much younger, I hung out with friends with whom I shared a deep and passionate love for the beach and the sea. All urbanites, we would travel four to five hours to get to the nearest beach that was clean and uncluttered of fellow city dwellers escaping the heat and smog of Metro Manila. (This photo here which I "borrowed" from the web, is merely illustrative of the Philippine beaches we frequented.)

South of Metro Manila, there would be the beaches of Batangas. In the north, there would be the beaches of Bataan or Zambales, or farther away, Pangasinan and La Union. One time, there was even this private island 45 minutes by boat from the main shore of San Fabian. Owned by a friend, it is small enough for one to be back at where one started after an hour's leisurely walk. Idyllic, white sand, with trees and plants in wild abandon and the caretaker's nipa hut in a clearing hardly seen from the shore. (Alas, at the time I hadn't discovered yet the value of photography!)

We would stay at least a night and a day and a half to make it worth the time we spent on the road. No big production. Just lolling in the sand, and time – lots of it – in the sea.

Out of the water and on the sand, we would play, doodle or build whatever we took a fancy to, tease the children of the fisher folk who peddled broken corals and seashells strung into necklaces, and chat with the women selling yummy boiled peanuts, and native delicacies and snacks. At times, we would walk either northward or southward along the shore until our spot is but a dot in the distance. Then we would walk back, picking up, as we went, shells and broken twigs and driftwood washed ashore. From time to time, a dried starfish or a teeny-weeny crab scurrying into the sand would stop us dead on our tracks. For a few minutes we would be on our hands and knees on the sand, scrutinizing those lovely creatures and invading their privacy.

Before lunch, we would troop to the nearest “market” -- just a few makeshift stalls actually -- that sold seafoods, veggies, fruits, rice, and cooking staples like cooking oil, salt, garlic, charcoal, and the like. Back on shore, we would cook our purchase and then have a hearty lunch. Just before sundown, we would repeat the same routine, this time for dinner.

After dinner, we would build a fire and sit around it, singing, playing truth or consequence or some other game, or just joking around and chatting. The carousing would become subdued as the night wore on, signalling fatigue had set in. Soon, there would only be whispers punctuated by episodes of total silence as we gaze up at the sky figuring out the constellations, or waiting for a falling star, or trying to spot the man on the moon. Meanwhile, the sea had become an endless stretch of black that one now only saw with her mind. It had transformed into a rhythmic sound accompanied by bubbles that with the moonlight and the campfire, glittered as it played and danced with the sand in a choreography that is at once magical and hypnotic.

In the water, in the water – those were the best times! We would spend long hours far from shore swimming around the rented banca (like this photo which is also "borrowed" from the web) that brought us to the spot. We would play in the water around it, sometimes jumping alternately on its bamboo outriggers on either side, our squeals reaching a crescendo everytime it seemed the banca would turn over. To rest from swimming, we would hook our arms around the outriggers, or climb atop them and sit, dangling our legs and swishing the water with our toes. Sometimes we stayed in “lifesavers” – inflated old tire tubes that we rented from the fisher folk who lived nearby.

We would also rest on some bamboo raft close to shore, sometimes drawing shapes in the water with our fingers or toes. From time to time, we would jump in and take a dip to douse the burning on our skin. Refreshed again, we would climb back onto the raft. Lulled by the unstoppable even rhythm of the sound and movement of the waves, we sometimes fell asleep lying on our tummies.

I was young. It was a time of adventure and fun and friendship. It was so long ago. I have since lost touch with most of those friends (some of them shown here in a photo taken by Mang Romy, RIP), a handful I am in touch with via Facebook, though infrequently.

But the memory is vivid still. I feel the hot sun stinging my face. I feel the breeze fanning my hair. I taste and smell the sea water. I feel the fine grains of sand under my feet.

Perhaps because of age, now I also see the risks and the dangers that were lurking all the time. And by grace, now I also see how life is truly very much like the sea – with no let-up it swirls around gently, or hits back with a tad of force, or comes with a whack so strong it drives one underneath. These are the times when I panic. Will I rise to the surface again? That question sends me floundering, waving my arms and moving my legs every which way in an attempt to break through. I gasp for air and spit out the salty sea water as soon as my head is out of the water.

Then I realize how the same God Who created the sea and commands its moving has been holding me firmly that I surface again and again and again…safe and whole, ready for the next tap or the next whipping.

An exhilarated child sometimes, more often a scared adult, but always, protected in the steady arms of a loving and faithful Father.