| Clark, Angeles City |

First of the four parts.

The supposedly heavy-duty Cricket was no match with the wind fanned away by Manila Bay. It took three pairs of hands from my friends to shield the flames that had been trying to sear the already contorted Marlboro stick between my fingers. The sky above was ablaze even at that ungodly hour, lighting up the empty parking lot facing the Cultural Center of the Philippines, exposing the maniacal grins of friends deep in thought with the mixing and matching of their outfits for our vacation.

Dust blanketed the area that got awakened by the roar of swaggering engines. I watched it hover fleetingly over the crowd not long ago dispersed like stranded passengers with bulky bags and paddles in a terminal. Now forming phalanx before the vans, they were members of the United Paddlers Club (UPC) that would compete in a dragon boat race foregrounding the town’s fiesta.

At the command of our friend, whom my other two friends and I would cheer for during the event, we joined the organized queue. We went into the van assigned to us and flumped our bodies in dire need of a well-deserved break. We braced ourselves for the four-hour journey. At around 11 pm, we entered the South Luzon Expressway en route to where we could childishly play in the waters and wildly bask in the sunlight.

The radio in full blast mixed dissonantly with the heavy snores of my friends comfortably slumped in their most unappealing positions. The tinted window I leaned on from time to time cast the houses along the highway into grayed and obscurely sinister lights. I tried to catch some sleep, but my mind was already frolicking along the coastlines of our destination. Raised in a town that is always the receiving end of the strong slaps of the waves of the Pacific, I was as thrilled as my friends to finally visit Polillo, an island floating somewhere in the Pacific underneath my hometown.

The road to Polillo follows a seemingly never-ending pattern of crisscrosses and twists and turns. Locals describe it as chicken innards precisely because of the resemblance. It often triggers motion sickness that challenges the sensitive gag reflexes of many passersby, including my friends, who chose to busy themselves with munching chips and any food they could grab. Alternately, they made the sign of the cross to drive away the spirit of Michael Schumacher that seemed to possess our driver. Speeding at 120-150 kilometers per hour, we reached the Port of Real approximately 30 minutes before the expected time of arrival.

The Port of Real was already in action. It was busy and noisy. People, drenched by the sudden pouring of rain, were scampering to get onboard ferries going to islets farther than our destination. Tourist guides were shouting at the scampering people to assist them with their assigned ferries and boats. Vendors were trying to stop scampering people to sell whatever products they had. My friends, whom I left for a quick smoke break, were playing hide and seek with the leaking raindrops inside the port. After more than 30 minutes of what seemed to be a scene in a mall sale, a paddler from UPC ushered us to our ferry.

The ferry was medium-sized, made of steel, woods, and rubbers, and meticulously designed to withstand the ferocity of the Pacific Ocean. Painted in already peeling navy blue and green, it had two decks that could hold around 100 passengers. Beside each window on both sides of the ferry, there were laminated notices outlining safety measures tacked just above the rows of five welded chairs, which resembled the seats common in fast-food restaurants in the early 90s. Separating these rows was the passageway leading to the stairs beside the captain’s cabin and a kiosk. At the tail of the boat behind the cabin, there were flashy orange jackets that reflected the streaks of the peeking sun.

My friends and I planted our already malfunctioning bodies in the middle, parallel to the kiosk offering instant coffee, instant noodles, and assorted chips. It was strategic because, at that time, our bellies were hungry predators ready to devour anything crossing their paths. I decided to indulge in the salty chips that sounded like my bones whenever I crunched. I had been sleepless for more than 24 hours, and I felt that my pelvis decided to have a life of its own as it started to detach itself from my entire skeletal system.

As mandated, my friends and I put on the flashy orange lifejackets. We heard a prolonged blast filling the entire port, interrupting the erstwhile still summer breeze. It was loud enough to shoo away the birds trying to fit in with the crowd. But it never bothered my friends, who were busy finding their best resting positions.

One could never be complacent when crossing the Pacific Ocean. During our trip, it was a beast that had terrible mood swings. I watched its beauty and vastness, and it was not pacific at all. Its waves changed from sparkling blue to green to brown depending on the position of the vessel and the sun. From time to time, it teased us with its gentle pats on our faces, which, I recognized, became savage and strong slaps eventually. I felt our ferry flailed in different directions, struggling to be in shape, holding its ground, and I realized how brave but helpless it was in the middle of the seething sea.