I am inside a Cubao mall cinema with a college friend when she suddenly places her phone screen in front of my face.
“Look, it’s just a few hours away from Manila!” she exclaims, as I stare at an Instagram photo of something that resembles the rolling hills of Batanes. “Now we don’t have to fly to Batanes to experience what it’s like to be in Batanes!”
It’s December 2021. That we can now broach the subject of leisure travel without fear of an impending lockdown augurs well for my wanderlust. Visiting the country’s northernmost province was a dream I aimed to reach in 2020, but alas, things went south. I am now in the last stretch of my early 20s, and I’m hell-bent on reclaiming my youth by being as adventurous as I can.
“Let’s make a plan after this movie.”
A month later, we are in a van heading to the “Batanes of the East.” Situated between the country’s longest mountain range and the world’s largest ocean, Dingalan—Aurora’s southernmost municipality—is getting back on its feet by welcoming tourists again after nearly two years of border restrictions.
A cursory Google search yields plenty of its postcard-perfect tourist spots, but Dingalan’s beauty belies the long list of catastrophes it has weathered over the years. Its location means it often bears the brunt of typhoons that pummel the country. The White Beach, a fixture in many Dingalan itineraries, is now a misnomer after a 2004 landslide irreversibly changed the sand’s color to gray. One can say that Dingalan’s appeal lies in its ruggedness and in the sheer thrill of experiencing nature in all its scarred glory.
It’s past six in the morning when our group of 10 arrives at Barangay Paltic in the northern part of town. On the map, it is a sliver of land that juts out into the sea, like a human chin viewed from the side. Before we board a boat that will take us to the first attraction—the Lamao Cave—our two guides give a brief rundown of what to expect during the trip.
“Let’s have a show of hands: how many of you can’t swim?”
Despite towering over everyone else at almost six feet tall, I’m the only person in the group with my hand raised.
“Just make sure you never remove your life vest,” one of the guides gently reminds me.
As our boat leaves the Dingalan Feeder Port, the Pacific waters glisten in a thousand shades of blue. My eyes follow the white crest of the wild waves slapping against the dark chocolate feet of the Sierra Madre. At once frightening and fascinating, I watch in awe as the two mighty forces assert their dominance as if engaged in a tempestuous love affair.
Our guides decide that the waves are too huge for our boat to safely enter the sea cave, so we take a detour to the nearby Suwa Rock Formation. As I walk along and observe the peculiar pattern of the jagged rocks, I get a feeling that we are stepping on a giant gargoyle’s foot.
While some climb on the rocks to find the perfect spot to take photos, others, including myself, stay on the shore, erupting into cheers as the white foam of each crashing wave tickles our feet. I hand my phone to a friend who agrees to take videos while the Pacific waves dance behind me. As I turn my back on the ocean, I jokingly remind my friend to make the videos Instagram-worthy.
To our dismay, the waters seem to have taken respite, with each succeeding wave getting smaller and tamer. We go for a final take, this time without my life vest on, and wait for a more cinematic wave to come. And when at last it arrives, it devours me in one fell swoop.
I remember reading an article once saying that most people drown because of panic; the energy that could be better spent trying to stay afloat gets wasted on hysterical behavior. I recall this as I try to make sense of the situation I am in. If I keep myself relaxed, perhaps my entire body will naturally float. But all I can see is blue—a faint, gloomy blue. I can’t hold my breath anymore, and I’m starting to swallow water. I’m running out of time. How long have I been here? It feels like forever ago since my feet last touched solid ground. This must be it. Yes, this is definitely it. All my dreams, hopes, and unrealized potential end right here, in the treacherous waters of the Pacific. All I can do now is close my eyes and wait for it to happen quickly, silently, painlessly. What a stupid way to die.
“Hold on to me.”
Unsure if it’s just a figment of my imagination, I feel someone trying to pull me out of the water. He commands me to stay calm. Is it the voice of God? No, my savior turns out to be one of our tour guides—the one who had earlier reminded me to not remove my life vest. He patiently transports me back to the rocky shore, and to a world I now see with fresh eyes.
“I thought I was going to die,” I recount emotionally.
“Consider this your second life.”
As I write this, it has been a year since my second life began on that fateful day in Dingalan. Ironically, though, I haven’t stopped chasing experiences that inevitably change my interior landscape. 2022 alone saw me fly to seven provinces, get more piercings, go out on the streets to campaign for my presidential candidate, and enroll in swimming lessons. This time around, I have a newfound appreciation for the fun that comes with discernment and caution.
Who knows if I’ll get a third, a fourth, or even a fifth life? What I am sure of is that I get to choose the life I want to live—one that is guided not by the fear of what almost killed me, but by the wisdom I gained from what I survived.
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Erwin B. Agapay, 25, is an analyst in a financial services company.