by Anne Gumiran

“Hope when the moment comes you’ll say:
I, I did it all
I, I did it all
I owned every second that this world could give
I saw so many places
The things that I did
Yeah, with every broken bone
I swear I lived.”

The plane landed in Puerto Princesa City that gloomy Friday morning, and my emotions started to well up as my 2022 anthem, “I lived” by OneRepublic, faded to its end.

I am always thrilled while at the same time emotional every time I would fly to a destination lately. Life has been extremely tough, and I would often look back to it as I play and sing “I lived” in my head, especially when I embark on those much-needed breaks. “I saw so many places, the things that I did; with every broken bone, I swear I lived.” This was one of my ways of coping and surviving—taking my wounded soul to places and amusing myself with all the things I can do to let myself heal and say that “I lived.”

They say saltwater heals, so I often find myself by the sea. Few more hours and I’ll be reunited again with my healing element.

I paced giddily from the aircraft’s aisle with the gray skies above us, past the arrival hall and onward to the only café just outside the airport. Charlene and I waited for the van that would take us to Port Barton in San Vicente, Palawan.

Before we knew it, we were seated comfortably in a semi-filled van with a few European expats taking the long and winding road to the northern east side of Palawan. Charlene and I would exchange travel stories that frequently shift from one to another as the weather outside did, too. The weariness took over that we both dozed off the moment we stopped talking.

We woke up to the door that was slid open where the driver appeared telling us that we have arrived at Barton. A weathered tarpaulin just across the road told us so. The driver squinted as the sun shone on his face. He was checking if everyone was awake. A warm gust of air blew from the outside as I thought, wow, the weather is indeed getting better.

Port Barton looked like any of the other beach towns I have previously visited, except for the fact that it was mostly foreigners who would flock on its streets and beaches. It was laidback, too—probably the most laidback compared to the other tourist giants of Palawan like Coron and El Nido that overshadow it. There was no loud reggae music playing—the one we’d usually hear at the beach. It was so peaceful that I could only count with my two hands the tourists whom we came across when we arrived. There were not that many establishments and restaurants, too. They’re probably at the beach, and that’s for us to find out later that day.

Charlene and I took a walk outside to look for a place to eat. We were so weary from an early flight and so famished after a long drive that we ate at the first restaurant that we saw. As we savored the food on our plates, the sky started pouring. We then stayed a little longer and waited for the rain to stop and to buy the staff from the resort some time to prepare our room. When the rain stopped, we returned to the resort to get some rest.

The downpour lasted for hours. We could only enjoy the view of the beach and the long line of coconut trees from our room’s window. The waves were resounding. The islands and ranges that we were admiring from afar a few minutes ago suddenly went out of sight due to the thick curtains of rainfall.

I busied myself with unpacking my stuff, showering, and checking on the skies from time to time until the rain finally stopped. Charlene had been awake, too, and we agreed to look for a place to eat for dinner.

We decided to roam the streets to find a good local restaurant. It was a Friday evening, and we expected a lot of establishments to be open and alive by that hour. To our surprise, we only found two or three of them. We’ve almost reached the road where there was nothing but trees on both sides. It was getting dark, but we noticed that only few houses would have their lights switched on. I was also surprised to hear a generator operating when there was not even a power interruption.

We came across some locals and asked them for the best places to eat. The lady named a few which were all on the beach. We followed our hunger, and we found ourselves walking toward the beach.

Port Barton started to looked like a ghost town that night. I wasn’t feeling that kind of peace that I would often feel when I strolled on the beach at night. It felt more worried if I were to describe how I felt.

Some resorts were shut down; worse, some were abandoned and devastated. Some of those that were still operating, on the other hand, had only few lights on. It got me perplexed. We passed by Elsa’s, but it seemed closed because there were no lights in the restaurant. Then, we passed by MacFredo’s, where a staff member suddenly appeared out of nowhere, startling us and telling us, “Ma’am, we’re open. We just turned the lights off, but you can eat here.” The staff spoke with a bright yet seemingly pleading smile in the dark. Past MacFredo’s were more closed resorts and establishments.

We almost reached the other end of the cove when we found Besaga, a bed and breakfast with a grill and restaurant. Their grill and dinner set up by the beach were so enticing that it got us drawn into it.

Our curiosity got us interviewing the chef who was preparing our ensalada at the grill stand. We asked about why it was so dark everywhere.

“It was Odette,” he said despondently.

Epiphany came to us with a tinge of sorrow, knowing what the super typhoon has done to most of the provinces in the Philippines. It left people homeless—some lifeless and most hopeless.

“We have been paying 62 pesos per kilowatt in here since then,” he added—a shocking revelation for us. The normal rate per kWh is at 9 or 10 pesos.

The pandemic has bludgeoned the tourism industry all over the world since 2020. It was just getting back to its feet when the super typhoon came in 2021, causing another serious setback in the industry, especially in most parts of the Philippines.

It finally dawned on us that it was the reason why it has been dark everywhere. The locals, even the establishments, are conserving energy to reduce costs. It explained all the peace—well, silence is more fitting—ever since we arrived.

As I had some time to spare on our last day, I went on a morning walk at the beach. The empty and abandoned establishments that we passed by that night looked more depressing in daylight.

I met and talked to few people with whom I exchanged stories during my morning walk. One thing in common that all the stories I’ve heard, including mine,  expressed one truth, albeit unspoken: Saltwater heals.

A mother brought her kids to the beach because they have been stressed for the past weeks of attending the face-to-face learning mode for the first time in two years.

The resort owners were getting their hopes up about the tourists coming for some “vitamin sea,” so some were having their resorts reconstructed, redeeming what they have lost over the double whammy that they experienced.

I would often leave home with bottled up emotions that I would free in the ocean as I drown myself in tears.

No matter what these people from different walks of life are going through, they all—we all, rather—found a deep connection with the saltwater: We find healing in it.

We see how the ocean could provide in any way it can.

We believe that the waves could just ebb our worries away.

We believe that shedding sweat and tears could heal.

No doubt, saltwater heals.

With all the setbacks, we did not give up. We healed and lived.