Violence at Sea

Illutuk Bay, Busuanga, Philippines, December 2010 

We have been craving for crabs since the start of our trip. Somewhere on our 10^th day or so, just when we were about to give up finding fresh crabs, a man in a makeshift styrofoam boat approached us to offer his catch. We paid P600 for 6 larger than average live crabs, approximately 5 kilos total, each with a shell of at least 16 cm across for about 1/5 of the price in Manila. We were so thrilled and couldn’t wait for dinner. But first I had to cook them. 

Crabs are easy to cook- just drop them alive in boiling water till they turn orange. I have never thought twice about this until last week as I was reading the book "Dearie: The Remarkable Life of Julia Child" by Bob Spitz. Julia Child, who brought French cuisine to and revolutionized cooking in America in the 60s, caused havoc amongst animal activists and was dubbed a murderer when she chucked a live lobster in boiling water in an episode of her show The French Chef for a lobster recipe. I wonder what these animal lovers would have thought of me as I continue my story. 

I had 6 big vicious very much alive and kicking crabs and one small pot. Space is a luxury in a boat so everything in Paraluman comes in efficient sizes. After figuring out how to cook the crabs (one by one), I got ready to work then realized that a single one won’t even fit in my cute pot. I had no choice but to tear off the claws and legs first so the bodies will fit into the cooking pot.

This man in a makeshift styrofoam boat sold us the crabs

How do you amputate 6 hyperactive crabs who suddenly seem to sense that they are about to be dismembered by a clueless cook? Although their pincers are tied, here they are crawling, gesticulating, waving their hairy thorny legs, fighting to stay on top of each other and climbing over my tiny sink. 

Do I kill them first to spare them the agony of seeing their appendages severed? How do I kill them? Spear them? Whack them on the floor? It’s too late for hypothermia in the refrigerator because dinner is one hour away. The only way I know is to pitch them in boiling water but as I said, they’re too big for my pathetic pot.

So I proceeded to breaking off the claws and legs of these living crabs. It was violence at sea.

The legs looked easy enough to yank off with my fingers but the crabs’ survival instinct kicked in as soon as I grabbed them, jerking their sharp legs and scratching me until I was bleeding. So I just set them on the sink and, with practice and good timing, cut off each writhing leg with scissors. Strangely enough, the crabs did not seem to notice that they had just been disjointed and were still attempting to crawl with their claws. 

Detaching the claws was the most difficult part. I couldn't yank off those bulky ferocious sharp claws with my bare hands. Both claws were tied by one string and if you pull one off, you free the other one for attacking; you needed to jerk off both claws at the same time if you were to use your hands. I asked Raul for help and we set in motion teamwork gleaned from 22 years of marriage. I held each crab down with pliers (the longest tool we could find in Paraluman with a blunt edge) while he cut off the claws with scissors. It was a struggle to set the scissors in the muscle in the joint and Raul accidentally cut through the tough shell several times. Our daughter Marina and grandson Diego watched with amusement and disgust from the safety of the cockpit and cheered each successful amputation.

Just when we were developing a rhythm, a crab came untied and lunged at Raul who was bending down for a closer look. Raul, all 74 kilos and 1.8 meters of him, squealed like a girl and jumped back 1 meter at the same time. I tried hard not to laugh as I watched him battle this runaway crab with claws unfettered going after him in our tiny kitchen.

Finally, after destroying a pair of scissors in the process and experimenting with other heavy duty instruments in Raul's toolbox, we were ready to cook our crabs- sans claws and legs but their hearts still beating (crabs must have nine lives!). Paraluman looked like a war zone with bits of shell and other crab parts everywhere. We felt like barbarians- drenched in sweat, smelling of raw crab, our arms and hands scratched and bleeding, but victorious in battle.

Crabs with our favorite dips- calamansi with butter sauce for Raul and sauteed garlic in olive oil for me.

It was one of our best meals ever, made delicious by the sweetness of success. We took our time, dined under the moonlight and ate with our hands with the juices dripping through our fingers. The crabs were fat and fatty, the meat tasty and succulent. We nourished every bite and picked and sucked each crab dry and licked our fingers clean.

I just bought a 28 cm wide cooking pot for Paraluman. It can fit 6 big live crabs.

Continuation of "Bird --t and Karma"

It's been 4 months and the birds are still shitting on this boat! I was back in Busuanga for Holy Week and this sight greeted me. But I'm not laughing, ok?! (straight face)

Read this to know the whole story and why you should be good to your neighbors.

Hanging On For Dear Life

White Beach, Boracay, Philippines, December 2007 

It’s nighttime, the wind is blowing steadily at 20+ knots gusting to 25+. The anchor line is pulled taut like a guitar string, it looks ready to snap any second now. We are not used to anchoring in these conditions. I am so stressed out and wondering if our rope and anchor will hold. I ask Raul for the umpteenth time if we indeed have the correct rope and anchor for the sandy bottom, if we set it properly and let out the proper amount of line. I envy my husband's cool state of mind. After a while, I surrender to our conditions and decide to have a few drinks and smoke some weed in order to relax and fall asleep.

Boracay's cool powdery sand was too tempting for Mariel.

Around midnight, Raul wakes me up to even more powerful winds and a boat that’s rocking like a horse. The wind is whistling, no it’s shrieking, howling fiercefully around me. The boat is creaking and groaning, ropes banging. He wants to take down our trapal, the tarpaulin we use to cover the rear half of the boat. This was our first sailboat then, Marikit, which did not have a bimini so we used a makeshift piece of heavy canvas to protect us from the sun during the day. It hangs over the boom then tied to the lifelines on the sides and measured approximately 3 x 4 meters. Because the wind is now blowing 30+ knots, Raul wants to bring it down because it was catching wind and pulling Marikit with it, and it might tear off and fly away.

Huh? I am stoned senseless and still drunk. But you always obey the captain, right? So we go out on deck and get to work. We have to do this properly or else we will lose the trapal, or one of us gets hurt by the billowing canvas and its numerous ropes, or, worst of all, someone falls in the water. My job is to hold the trapal down while Raul unties the sides from front to back until we are ready to fold it together.

But it takes me a while to understand what Raul is saying. I can’t get his instructions through my thick skull. I look at him blankly as the words slowly travel to my ears and my brain struggles to understand. Tell my ears to tell my brain to tell my arms to.... until one minute later- ohhh ok so you want me to hold down the trapal!

One of several overnight stops we made to break the trip from Batangas to Boracay

I can’t hold the trapal down with my hands. I am too small and powerless against the wind and the jerking boat. So I fling myself across the boom and use myself as a human paperweight. I lose my footing so I am draped across like a piece of laundry, my feet dangling, the boom swinging wildly from side to side with me on top of it like a rag doll, a stoned rag doll, hanging on for dear life, with a single thought- hang on, don’t let go. One thing about weed, you get wasted so you’re only capable of one thought at a time- hang on, don’t let go. I can’t think beyond that. I hold on until Raul tells me what to do next. I don’t have the mental faculties to check what he is doing, how we are doing. I am just waiting for Raul to give me his next instructions like an obedient child, a spaced out obedient child.

I’m not really sure how we did it but we finished the job without losing the tarpaulin or anyone falling overboard. I am happy to crawl back to bed in one piece. Good thing about weed, when Raul asked me to go out on the deck with him, I was too stoned to argue or process the pros and cons of what we were going to do. I just accepted the captain’s orders. If I were sober, I would have told him that we shouldn’t do it, it was too dangerous, we might fall off, it was too dark. But then again if I were sober I could have managed the job easily and then there would have been no need to say that, right?

Kids, don’t try this at home.

We had a pod of dolphins swimming with us for more than an hour on our way home from Boracay east of Mindoro.

Chasing Whale Shark Genitals and Poop

Oslob, Cebu, Philippines, February 2013 

When I was young, I wanted to be a marine biologist. I don’t know what happened but I ended up selling products for other people. So last month, I replied to a Facebook ad, left in the midst of amihan which is the height of sailing season, and gave up a trip to Barcelona for a taste of marine work. I volunteered as a researcher for LaMaVe*, a non-profit marine conservation organization, studying the effects of the controversial handfeeding of the whale sharks in Oslob, Cebu. It was a month of education, physical work and provincial life.

I swam with whale sharks everyday to take their ID pictures and match them against a database, and record data such as number of boat and human contact, feeding behavior and interaction time. I learned to recognize and name the regular sharks by sight through their distinct spots. I never grew tired of watching these majestic creatures swim with astonishing grace despite their immense sizes of 3-8 meters in length. I worked alongside marine biologists almost half my age and learned about shark claspers, genitals, biopsies, parasites, how to distinguish a male from a female. I prayed for the honor of catching shark poop every time I entered the water.

Discovering peace and beauty in Tumalog Falls

I pitied these gentle giants acting like dogs begging for scraps at the dinner table. I understood why we should stop feeding these sharks (yes, they are sharks, not whales, but they are VERY big sharks that eat only plankton) but I witnessed firsthand how the local community benefits and how visitors gain a profound sense of awareness of the sharks and memories that will last a lifetime (Learn more about this debate through the Tuki Chronicles.).

But my education went beyond the water. I lived in “the pink house after the slaughterhouse” with fellow volunteers from around the world. I learned to wake up everyday at 5:20am, to use the bathroom in the shortest possible time, to have a go at the local dialect. I learned to cook on a tight budget, with the limited produce in the market, and picked up a few dishes from an Argentine. I even learned about Republic Act 9262, the Law for the Protection of Women and Children, as I witnessed a domestic violence scene and participated in the filing of the case in the Cebu provincial court (but that deserves another story) against the son of the local jueteng king.

A slice of provincial life

Happy hour in "the strip" with Rachael from Brisbane

It wasn’t all fun and play. I swam in all kinds of conditions, even with 20+ knot winds, 1 meter waves, 0 visibility and jellyfish attacks while chasing sharks and evading a frenzy of boats and tourists, starting at 7am everyday. I developed a mask-shaped sunburn that looked like The Joker because sunblock is not allowed in the water. I craved for privacy as I shared a room with other women and one bathroom for all. I couldn't poop and fart with pleasure. Sleep was often interrupted by heat or mosquito attacks. Walking home was either in the oppressive mid-afternoon heat or on slippery mud when it rains. I ate food I normally avoid such as white rice, white bread and other fattening carbs, with beer as the only alcoholic drink available. I was humbled by the daily mind-numbing work of entering data into our computers when I normally have teams doing this for me. I longed to go sailing as the solid amihan winds blew past me.

Watching the sun break over the horizon everyday converted me into a morning person.

But all that was overshadowed by the simple and unexpected pleasures in our tiny town. Waking up before dawn and listening to the absolute silence before the town wakes up. Watching the sun break over the horizon during our jeepney ride on the winding coastal road that traverses several mountains to our workplace. Enjoying happy hour in our favorite sari-sari store and the assortment of street food that spring up every sundown while people-watching in the town’s main strip. Gorging on the best fried chicken I’ve ever had and rediscovering a childhood favorite- chicken neck. Delighting in the anticipation of what to choose from the bakery for breakfast every morning, and what our favorite carinderia has in store for us for lunch for the day. Looking forward to market day Sundays when goods are triple the usual. Reveling in the efficient bus and jeepney system and not missing my car. Discovering waterfalls and centuries-old Spanish churches and watchtowers. Finding beauty in the breakwater at twilight and solace in the Sunday masses even if I didn't understand the dialect. Reveling at how a little money can go a long way- P6 for pork barbecue, P3 for rice, P5 for the dirty ice cream I would buy everyday for the walk home.

Our daily walk home. These kids brought me down memory lane as they played
a childhood favorite, tumbang preso.

The month went too quickly and I am happy for the opportunity to learn and grow. I leave smarter, my legs stronger, and my heart bigger. I cherish the people I met- from my fellow volunteers from Argentina, the US, Australia and the Philippines, bound by our common love for the sea; to the tourists who are here to see our beautiful country and because it's just more fun in the Philippines; and to the happy Cebuanos with the eternal smiles on their faces. Above all, I look back with fondness at the whale sharks I learned to love- Bubbles, Bender, #2, Fermin, Coco, Eeyore, #43, Mr. Bean, Biboy, Stumper, Roxy, etc, and pray that a sustainable solution is reached immediately for their safety and protection, and for the benefit of the local community and all the Filipino and international visitors.

 *LaMaVe (LargeMarine Vertebrates Project)/Physalus does not agree with feeding any species of wildlife. Physalus is a non-profit organization, founded in Italy, operating for the protection of the environment through marine conservation initiatives. 

 Find out why this is controversial here and follow this contentious debate through the Tuki Chronicles here. 

This article, like the rest of my blog, is based on my personal point of view. 

Missing my family but ecstatic over the flowers and chocolates Raul, my husband, sent for Valentine's Day <3

Bird S--t and Karma

November 2012

Maricaban Bay, Busuanga, Palawan, Philippines 

I chuckle every time I see my neighbor’s sleek white 32’ powerboat moored 50 meters away from me. Every sunset, a flock of Philippine swallows roosts on its white deck and takes a shit, leaving behind black streaks that multiply and pile up everyday. The bow is starting to look like it has a polka dot design. I have resorted to making a wide arc around the power boat on my way to shore because the odor makes my skin crawl and leaves me gagging. I’m guessing that the birds like shitting on this boat because no one lives in it and they can while away their twilight hours undisturbed. I pity the owner when he comes back and I smile and look at Paraluman’s pristine white deck with pride.

My neighbor's powerboat. Port Caltom's Reef Bar behind left.

Until yesterday. I got back after a full day of errands in Coron town to find my neighbor’s powerboat gone and the revolting sight and smell of bird shit all over Paraluman’s deck! It must have been a shock for the birds to see their shithole gone and moved on to the next convenient spot which was, unfortunately, Paraluman. It was too late to clean up last night but this morning, I got on my hands and knees immediately to rid Paraluman of this filth. It was a tricky business because the stuff is sticky like peanut butter and requires vigorous scrubbing. It also needed a lot of water which I had to scoop from the sea with a bucket. I am not afraid of physical work but this was gross and I was gagging from the smell the whole time. By the time I was done, I had bird shit all over me and jumped into the water and furiously washed off the muck. Luckily, Brenda, the dive instructor, offered to help me out but I could see she couldn’t wait to get the job done, too. Cleaning bird poop is now the only boat chore I hate. I have stopped laughing at my neighbor’s boat. 

I’ve been here a month and whenever I’m on shore, I hang out in Port Caltom’s Reef Bar where I’m always greeted with smiles from everyone whether they are tourists or resort staff, Filipinos or foreigners. I am amazed at the ease of starting a conversation with strangers which always leads to a fun time together over drinks or food.

Just some of the people I met. I may have forgotten their names but I remember the fun we shared.

I think I finally understand why Marina, my eldest daughter, loves traveling alone. She once spent 2 weeks by herself in Bali and I remember being shocked at her stories of meeting and hanging out with other people, and even riding their cars and motorcycles (horrors!), relieved that she is home safe when I was convinced that those strangers were out to drug and take advantage of her. My time here by myself in Busuanga is helping me understand and get to know my own daughter more.

I used to be wary of speaking to strangers but as a consequence of traveling alone, I have learned how to strike a conversation with other people easily if the need or desire arises.

Today was the first time I was ever snubbed. My neighbor came back today and moored the power boat in its regular spot. I was excited to meet him because I enjoy talking to and sharing fish stories with fellow boaters. I started a conversation and although he dutifully answered all my questions, he clearly looked like he was wondering why I, a stranger, was talking to him. He was acting like he wanted the conversation to end immediately and leave. I got the hint and stopped then. I was surprised because he was the first unfriendly person I met on this trip but I didn’t have a problem with that as I don’t expect everyone to be chummy with me. I’m just glad he’s back. The birds have their shitting place once again. 

How to clean bird shit: Don’t make my initial mistake of splashing water on the shit immediately. It will disintegrate into tiny bits then spread and stick on the surface even more. Wait for the shit to dry then flick it off with your finger before you scrub the gooey remains with a wet brush. Then wash off with water.

To Fly and Be Free!

14 November 2012

Maricaban Bay, Busuanga, Palawan, Philippines

On this day, I ran along the beach and hiked up Hunter’s Rock for my morning exercise. It’s a 15 minute climb up a conical hill in the bay where Paraluman and I are living in for a month. It is a short but steep hike on uneven steps in a makeshift trail. Downhill is more difficult because of the layer of dried leaves and loose soil which makes the way slippery. But it is a very rewarding climb as you have a panoramic view of Maricaban Bay, a vibrant blue body of water fringed with coral reefs surrounded on all sides by lush green velvety mountains nearby and far off bluish slopes, and you have the view of the open sea on the other side of the hill dotted by islands. If you’re lucky like I was on this day, you will see a bayawak (monitor lizard) along the way.

Hunter's Peak in the background, Paraluman in the middle

When I got to the peak, I saw an eagle- below me! It was quite startling to see one below me rather than above as I usually do. I saw it clearly with its white head, brown body and wings with white tips. And I wouldn’t say it was flying- it was soaring! It was gliding without so much as flapping its wings, effortlessly gliding through the sky over the water. Then it slowly started climbing in a big spiral until it was higher than me, up in the sky until it faded into a dot. Then it started to dive down, slowly, gracefully, like it was just playing until it was near the water again and it repeated its climb in another big circle.  

It looked so effortless yet powerful and graceful. Whether the eagle was just having another day in its big playground or putting on a free show for me, I couldn’t tell.  I could feel the eagle’s spirit in my heart. I was ready to burst with a feeling of freedom, playfulness and happiness. I felt blessed to witness this display of beauty and elegance. I could have watched it all day.

People have always asked me what my 2 tattoos are to which my standard answer is, “It’s a bird in flight.” Then the conversation moves on to the colors and design style but I have never bothered to explain why I chose these designs or what they stand for. I’ve always felt that my reason for doing so is too cheesy or dramatic so it’s always been some sort of a personal secret. To properly explain why I chose a bird in flight to be engraved in my body permanently, 2 times at that, I would have to explain what I felt as I was watching that eagle soaring, soaring, soaring in the sky.

There Are Sand Mites In Paradise

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Ditatayan Island, Busuanga, Palawan- secluded picture-perfect island with a long stunning sand bar (see this post). We were so happy to find this place, we were literally jumping with joy… until the sand mites devoured us and drove us away.

Relaxing in Ditatayan island before the attack of the sand mites.

Malcapuya Island, Busuanga, Palawan- another one of those beautiful tropical islands with a long wide stretch of white beach. We were enjoying the peace and quiet until boatloads of orange life vests aka tourists shattered the reverie with their loud voices and rowdy music.

You think Boracay’s White Beach would be the perfect place to sail to? Wait till you try to sleep at night and the music from the multitude of bars on the beach travel over the water to you, different tunes all at the same time, each one trying to outdo the other. Or try relaxing on deck during the day amidst the drone of the engines of the bancas that ply White Beach during the day, at least one passing by every 10 minutes.

Mt. Guiting-Guiting in the background. Sibuyan Island.

There’s a piece of bright yellow plastic garbage in the waterfalls deep in the woods in Sibuyan Island, Asia’s version of the Galapagos Islands, garish amidst the lush green forest and crystal clear cold rushing water.

There’s a dead dog in Bulabog Beach in knee deep water a meter in front of me and I almost step on it. It must have been there for several days already because it is bloated, skin so tight it looks like it is ready to burst, with some parts missing, its skin a sickening white color. I run before I throw up...

There are jellyfish, invisible stinging critters in the clearest waters with the most vibrant underwater life.

Mosquitoes keep you awake at night in the most serene anchorages, the ideal spots you dream of spending the night- calm waters, quiet, uninhabited, peaceful. And during the day, the heat can be oppressive.

Birds will roost and poop on your pristine deck, leaving foul-smelling black streaks that are difficult to clean.

No, I am not nitpicking. I am just reminding myself that there is no such thing as a perfect world. Maybe the perfect world is in heaven when you die but I’m not going to kill myself to get there. In the meantime, I appreciate and cherish all the blessings around me, right now, in this beautiful world, sand mites and all.