Island interlude

In most of my island travels, finding a good shade is first on my itinerary. So I rushed to the nearest coconut tree and laid my back against it. The Boracay breeze was enough to save me from the angry sun.

This is the kind of afternoon that makes the sea a seductive sight — touch of sunlight, pearl-white sand, a vastness in rare shades of vibrant blue. The tourists were immersed in their own fascination with the beach: Children were building small sand castles with plastic cups and toys, afams were tanning on white recliner chairs, lovers were wandering around holding hands, leaving a trail of footsteps on the sand.

I took a stroll along the shoreline. The sun was already making its way to the other side, and only its crimson gleam sauntered over my skin. I have always been the happy guy, but in the past days I was suffering the wound of my broken schooling. A ripple seeped through the space between my foot and slipper and in the gaps of my toes, catching grains of sand as I made tracks on the damp side of the beach. I was supposed to graduate on time, but the mistakes involved in having fun were strong enough to pull me rock-bottom. The eyes of some of those I know narrowed at the sound of a once-golden name. My feet sank a bit more; I let them be.

Boracay was even more alive at night. The beach front was a parade of colors — greens and reds, yellows and blues — intertwined with coconut trees and building facades. With my family I went to listen to a local artist performing in a small space with knee-high tables and colored beanbags for seats. Tequila seemed like a fine drink on the menu. Alejandro, the singer, introduced himself; he started the night with a reggae vibe on his acoustic guitar. I eased my head on the softness of the beanbag, and the moon glanced back at me. Thoughts of the rough times began to crowd my mind but I had the stars—they called out to me, twinkling in a silver light. I finished my glass of tequila and listened to Alejandro’s strumming and the gushing of the evening waves, wishing the same Tuesday night on many other nights.

When I saw people flying in the middle of the sea, it was a sure call for me to go parasailing. The jet ski ride gave me a new haircut and almost tore off my white Calvin Klein shirt. The person in charge told my brother and me to stretch our arms. A harness was wrapped around my chest and on both my thighs. At the launch pad, we were instructed to sit down beside each other, legs half-stretched, and secure grips with both hands on the parallel leather straps on our body. The parachute started to gather air, and we were off the ground. The thread kept on elongating and in a moment, there I was, scared of the wind. When we finally opened our eyes, in front of us were the first colors of the world—the sea, the sky, the land. The dropped-jaw, eyes-bulging look on my brother’s face was no different from mine.

The horizon is the first love story on Earth. There was no reason not to smile at the sight of the sky kissing the sea, and we became witness to the unending splendor of the world…

The beeping of the car was a warning sign that I was running late, but it didn’t matter. I always spare a moment to take a last look because in most of my island travels, I always have my fair share of tears. But they never flow from my eyes.

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Arnel Matthew C. Balbin, 19, is an education sophomore at the Eastern Samar State University.