IN MY previous blog post, I mentioned my deep eagerness to return to Paraiso ni Juan in Sulvec, Narvacan, Ilocos Sur, to once again scale its landmark rock formation, Immagamang. That desire finally materialized during my latest homecoming last December.
This time, the excursion was organized by my Uncle Boni—my mother’s younger brother. He wanted all the kids, including my own children and their town-visiting cousins, to enjoy a nice holiday dip on the beach. He intentionally chose this rugged, rocky location over typical sandy beaches.
It was low tide on the day after Christmas, December 26, when we piled into my uncle’s van and headed to Paraiso. The crisp morning breeze and shallow waters were comfortably cool for the little ones. My son, Dudoy, however, began to complain. He openly preferred a classic sandy beach with deeper waters for proper swimming. Ultimately, he contented himself with wading through the shallows, climbing the rock formations alongside his siblings and cousins, and hunting for interesting shells and tiny sea creatures hidden in the tide pools.
Watching from the shore, I found myself craving a bit more adventure. Spotting the massive, solitary rock rising not far from the shoreline, I challenged the children to climb it for a brief but thrilling expedition. Except for my eldest son, Nathaniel—whom I had carried to the summit when he was just three years old—none of the children had ever climbed it before. They eagerly accepted the challenge.
The rock stood about 400 meters from where they had been wading, its rugged, rocky pathway completely exposed by the low tide. The kids immediately raced ahead. I, who was supposed to be their responsible guide, lagged comfortably behind with my brother Romel, who had joined us for the walk. Even my youngest daughter, Eya, had a wonderful time wading through the pools and hopping from one craggy stone to another.
To my surprise, the children scaled the massive rock with ease. They stood at the summit for a long moment, savoring their small achievement and posing for photographs with the brilliant, cloudless sky acting as a perfect backdrop. After a few minutes, they scrambled back down to cavort on a wide, flat ledge at the foot of the formation. Dudoy and the boys went back to their shell hunting, while the girls giggled and splashed in the ankle-deep water pooling on the rock's surface.
Then, we decided to walk entirely around the base of the rock—a first for me. On the backside, a narrow span of flat stone became visible, sitting incredibly close to where the roaring waves broke violently against the rock's outer edges.
Having grown bored with his shell hunt, Dudoy suddenly had the idea to play with the waves. He seemed completely mesmerized by the frothy, bright, and cheerful surf rushing up to meet him where he sat on the rocky edge. When a sudden, massive wave broke right over him, he shouted in pure exhilaration.
The rest of the kids rushed over to join him. They lined themselves up along the rocky edge, waiting with breathless patience for the next big swell. When they saw a crested wave creeping higher than the last, they would scream hysterically with joy as it fell over them in a magnificent, cold splash, immediately begging for more. I managed to capture that beautiful suspension of anticipation and the crash of the surf perfectly with my camera.
Ah, it feels like eons ago when I was just like those kids, sharing rambunctious, carefree moments with the tide. Perhaps I am getting a bit too sentimental. But the waves truly were the favorite playmates of my childhood, a time when my beach days were measured by gathering shells, frolicking in the surf, sketching fleeting images with a stick on moist sand, and building short-lived sandcastles. Back then, before I learned how to swim, those same big, unruly waves used to terrify me like a neighborhood bully.
My relationship with the sea shifted during high school, when I attended a conference for young campus writers hosted at a beachside public school. On the very first morning of the seminar, I woke up before sunrise and slipped away from our quarters. I walked along the shoreline until I reached an old, abandoned pantalan (wharf). As the sun broke over the horizon, its soft, amber light hit the glassy surface of the water, tempered only by the rhythmic pulse of the tide. It was a visual masterpiece, a piece of coastal imagery I desperately wanted to capture in words. It was exactly in that solitary moment that I decided I was going to be a writer.
While watching the waves was a game of thrilling anticipation in my childhood, at this stage of my life, it has transformed into a sanctuary for solitude and meditation. It made me wonder: When was the last time I sat quietly on a beach, simply letting a beautiful wave tumble right up to my feet?
Even now, I can feel the magnetic pull of those giant ocean ripples. I still crave those quiet intervals of doing absolutely nothing but sitting, watching the sea, and observing the waves roll in, bumping into one another in their glee before gently sliding back out.
I often wonder what it is about a wave that captivates both the young and the old. Scientists might point to the gravitational mechanics of the sea, complemented by the coastal breeze that dictates the tides. It is a physical magnetism that forces us to look out at a smooth horizon and become utterly hypnotized by the constancy of its ripples. Or perhaps it is a visual manifestation of the rotation of our Earth, creating a perpetual dance of crests and troughs. This constant rhythm holds our breath as we watch warm, playful ripples rush eagerly toward the shore.
Maybe the magic lies in the unique nature of the shoreline itself. It serves simultaneously as a starting point for an uncharted journey and a final destination—a safe refuge for sailors and travelers seeking shelter from a sudden, violent storm. It represents a two-way path. That is why when you stand on land and gaze out at the horizontal expanse of the sea, you naturally contemplate your future, deciding whether you are meant to sail away or if you have finally headed home.
I believe I will always share a deep intimacy with the waves. Sitting in quiet reverie and watching the shifting colors and changing sizes of the water breaking against the shore is where I feel truly spiritual. Ultimately, I am inspired not by the dramatic highs or the low troughs of the water, but by its sheer consistency. Much like life, with all its inevitable ups and downs, the wave simply finds its rhythm and continues to push itself forward.
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