all at play

This, from a travel magazine I contributed to two years ago: “From Aparri, Baler, Surigao del Sur to Zambales, surfers have a term for what they do: ‘laro.’ Play. Because that’s what surfing is. It’s a game, played with abandon, where your body and Mother Nature are one. If you’re more concerned about poise and looking good than having fun, then surfing is not for you. At one point or another, you cannot avoid looking like a drenched cat.

“But isn’t that the way we used to play when we were young? When we were totally unself-conscious? And that, I believe, is how one should live life: you get on the board of life, paddle out to find and catch your wave. You ride it, hopefully with grace. And if you don’t, you get back on again. And again. And again.”

I had the chance to enjoy this kind of play recently, when the kids and I took a road trip to San Juan, La Union (where I first stood on a surfboard in 2006). I remember Luke Landrigan, who runs Billabong Surfing School and San Juan Surf Resort, telling me that children could start learning as early as four years old. My twins are five—and one of them, Mateo, is exceptionally agile—so I thought: perfect. They learn to surf, I get to work on my ever-darkening tan, and we get to enjoy the crazy-fun kids and parents have when no one is looking (and cares).

Painless trip

The trip itself is relatively painless—around six hours (including a breakfast stop) on good roads. What will make it more painless is a “happy stop” at a convenience store, where you can have the kids run free and pick up whatever they want. This is where I feel I have to jump to a defense of some sort: at home the kids have their pick of fruits—from kiwi to apples to oranges to melons to dried jackfruit, mangoes, and bananas—so feasting on junk food is a treat. It only happens when we’re on holiday, so bring on the Cheetos and Doritos!

Located on MacArthur Highway, San Juan Surf Resort is in Urbiztondo, around 15 minutes drive north of San Fernando, La Union. You won’t miss it. Once inside, you might as well just forget you came from the city (or wherever) and focus on just one thing: having fun.

Pets are allowed, which is a bonus, but Luke’s dogs, particularly his Labrador, River, is clearly an Alpha male and will let your dog know it. Good thing my dog, Gizzard—who looks exactly like River, except he’s got, er, extra padding round the middle (like his owner)—is the self-effacing type and conceded immediately to River’s authority.

Surf’s up!

We arrived a little after noon, so we had to wait until the waves swelled a bit higher and rougher to actually do some surfing. Luke, who by the way, bagged the silver medal in the recent Asian Beach Games in Bali, told me we would start at 4 p.m., which gave me plenty of time to a) play with his year and half-year old baby boy, Kai, b) drink a few beers, c) watch over my twin boys to make sure they stayed away from the “danger no swimming” area of the beach, and d) correct people from calling Gizzard “River” (“that isn’t River. River has ribs.”).

By the time Luke called my attention, I was already feeling a little buzzed, but the buzz would give way to absolute thrill when I saw Mateo ride his first wave.

How does one explain it, the excitement and pride that literally rises from your gut and explodes into cheers and whoops and sends a parent to do a crazy little jig of happiness even amidst the roaring waves? Well that’s precisely what I felt—and did—when Mateo pushed himself up on his little arms and stood on the surfboard. Ah, magic.

I have to credit Luke and his fellow instructors, like Joel, who patiently walked Mateo through the motions and rules. Hands at chest level. Push up. Balance. Before you hit the shore, jump off. Mateo got it on his second try. And he went at it, again and again and again, and would not stop bugging me until he tried it again the next afternoon.

My daughter Simone, 12, who was hesitant to try it at first, finally gave in to her curiosity the following day. She got it on her fourth try, when she realized she wasn't a ‘goofy’, like her brother (her right leg is more dominant), and rode wave upon wave. The next morning, the salesgirl in the surfshop asked me if the twins were my children. I said yes; so is the gangly dalagita. “Ah, yung magaling mag-surf?” she answered. I kidded Simone about it after, and watched her blush. Lovely sight.

Ok, now for the practical stuff

Don’t expect fancy digs, though. This is, after all, a surf resort, and the guests are active types who are used to roughing it. We stayed in a beachfront room good for four adults (P1890 per night), but other types of rooms are available as well, according to your budget and length of stay (you can even rent a condo unit for up to a month!). Everything is clean and well-maintained. There may be the occasional glitch of the cable TV not working, or the Wifi being down, but what the heck—you’re there to surf the waves, not the Internet.

Home-cooked meals are available in the resort restaurant for an average of P160 each. (There are other worthwhile places to eat at in San Fernando, like Midway Grill and Café Leona. Also, if you want to take a break from surfing, you can visit places like the Taoist Ma-Cho Temple and Botanical Gardens.)

Surfing lessons go for P400 an hour (that includes use of a surfboard and the instructor’s fee); or P800 for half day (that’s 8 a.m. to 12 noon). Don’t forget to give them a nice tip! The best time to go surfing if you’re a beginner would be about now, when this issue comes out. Waves get bigger and stronger come October—that’s when the big boys come out and play.

All good

Seeing Mateo’s enthusiasm and fast addiction to the sport, Luke warns me: “Nako, every weekend na yan: ‘Mommy, surfing tayo!’” I laugh, a little nervously. Seeing my son enjoy and experience something new is one thing; but fully committing to it is another. “Hah! Let’s see,” I answer. Do I really want Mateo—or Simone, for that matter—to get glued to a surfboard, do nothing but surf all day, win competitions, watch them turn golden and healthy, like Luke and his partner, Kai’s mom, Noelle? A part of me, the beach bum mom who secretly wouldn’t mind selling t-shirts and homeschooling her kids screams “yes!” But the grown-up inside me takes over and counters: “No. Not yet.”

So, even as I make plans for Mateo and Simone to try out Corey Wills’ surf school in White Rock, Subic, I push away any dreams of them surfing professionally from my mind. Marco, the least athletic of my children, the dreamer, the flower-child, rolls on the sand. Mateo runs with Gizzard, and Simone sits beside me, laughing her precious laugh. We allow the waves to spray us, and the sand to get into our hair, under our rash guards and shorts.

We enjoy the crazy-fun kids and parents have when no one’s looking. And we don’t care.

For inquiries and reservations, go to sanjuansurfresort.com.

published in the july-aug 09 issue of HIPP Magazine. get a copy. now.

carom-bola

billiards.
i remember the time when Ali and i had nothing to do, for about four months or so, except play pool. carom, to be exact, in the most pedestrian sense of the word. for some reason, there was no working TV in the house. mom was out of town. my papa was too busy doing something else to properly stock up the refrigerator with real food, so Ali and i had no choice but to play carom day in day out. get really good with it. chalk all over the table, all over our hands, all over our skin, us busting poses and moves that would've made the pahinantes and drivers on the outskirts of BF Homes blush. and we were good.
we learned to drive those disks into the holes with one shot. we learned to angle our shots and temper the force with which we thrust our sticks. we were coming up with absurd expressions to punctuate every move, like "slideh peninsula." we were learning to hustle. and we were learning to subsist on cheese. ("che-heeeeseee...." Ali used to mock-cry when we got hungry in the middle of the night, nibbling on an aging brick of cheddar.)
one day, when our mom was finally in town, we came home to find a gaping space in our family room. no more pool table. no more tako. no more chalk. "i gave it to Factoran," mom explained, naming her boss, the then-secretary of DENR. and us? what were WE supposed to do?
we never articulated it, but we loved that carom table. we loved those nights as we played, round after round, coming up with absurd names and poses of the shots we pulled off.
but as easily as we got used to the game, we got used to watching TV again.

my kids and i now dine on a carom table. a find derek traded for a bottle of tanduay. but it's not the same. it's not the same.

trying out hyperlink. check out red's blog. now.

red's SMS to me june 21, 09.

"when you stroll down the path of fabricated personal deficits, that's when things become difficult. enjoy your paella and curse the gods for making so many imperfect men."

ex-husband's dream of uncle dalmacio, late '06

at the end of this entry is mardy's text to me after i reminded him about uncle dalmacio, how we visited him in the hospital just before he passed away. he was so different--well, at least his body was--from what we remembered him. he had turned into skin and bones, dark, dry, paper-thin skin stretched over the distinct, gangly Abuyuan frame.
i loved that man. he was the one who wrote the Ybanag version of my wedding invite. he was graceful and quiet and didn't mind a drink, any drink, as the sun went down. i can remember him leaning against the sink in the dirty kitchen, tipping his beer bottle my way, then sipping from it delicately, like it was champagne instead of San Miguel. his jaw and mouth like my own, Indonesian Class B, wide and curved, how our ancestors must've looked. he visited us every summer, or before or after the rice from my papa's land was harvested, to give us a heads up on the workers and how much the crop brought.
my Auntie Mina Falcon remembers how Uncle Dalmacio used to carry her on his shoulders as he walked her to school. he was so like my Lolo Tomas, her and my papa's father. genteel and gentle and always calm, moving like a cat. like Papa. an old boyfriend used to call Papa the Ninja. we would never hear him as he approached and caught us almost making out. but that's another story.

Mardy:
"Oh yeah! I remember i dreamt of him last night! We were
sitting by a grill, he was cooking and he told me not to
worry. I said about what? He said i know how you feel.
I've been there. I said what are you talking about? He hit
me on the head and smiled. I'm looking after all of you.
Then i woke up. Ganda ng dream na yun. So don't worry gina,
He's there for you!"

sms to myself: april 1, 2006

I am 33 years old. The age reeks of botox, tennis bracelets, lacoste shirts w upturned collars. SUVs and perhaps a desire to grow my own herbs. Instead i have a fading henna tattoo on my arm, a dead palm on my balcony, and a deluge of deadlines i have yet to meet. The sky is pink, my babies squeal in the background. My mouth tastes of marlboros and i'm wondering if i can ever kick san mig lite.I am 33, and strangely, still feel like i am immortal. There's a motherlode of history in me, and more yet to be made. I feel so alive it hurts.

harvest moon, neil young

Come a little bit closer
Hear what I have to say
Just like children sleepin'
We could dream this night away.

But there's a full moon risin'
Lets go dancin' in the light
We know where the musics playin'
Let's go out and feel the night.

Because I'm still in love with you
I want to see you dance again
Because I'm still in love with you
On this harvest moon.

When we were strangers
I watched you from afar
When we were lovers
I loved you with all my heart.

But now its gettin' late
And the moon is climbin high
I want to celebrate
See it shinin' in your eye.

Because I'm still in love with you
I want to see you dance again
Because I'm still in love with you
On this harvest moon.

sweet mateo

beautiful surprise of the day from mateo: plastic container with pieces of paper with "mommy," a heart, and a flower drawn on them. yaya said he was loitering outside my door waiting for me to wake up so i could see his "surprise". sweet, sweet boy. he's going to break some hearts, this one.

-_-

Twenty minutes past the witching hour, and i'm still awake.
feeling like i'm going to implode. but still.
plodding on, plodding on.
been through worse before.
kicking in the door, seven months pregnant,
finding a den full of porn.
plans to clean out a bank.

i should've sank.

but no.

plodded on, plodded on.

like i do now.

'love's got nothing to do with it,'
he said.
'this is self-preservation.'
and so i read.

how many witching hours to go
how many implosions to endure.

sure.

manure.

3.32
july 1

:(

glenfiddich tonight. after all the beers have gone.
glenfiddich, i remember, when times were much simpler and i, young.
Er. he called me to his house that night. said he needed company.
but i left the other one in the bar that night. and he too, needed.
Me.
but of course
i chose
the white horse.
he made everything more.
MORE.
joy. more.
sadness. more.
hate. more.
and i saw forevermore.
like i thought ma and pa were. So.
glenfiddich tonight. after the beers have gone.
single malt, baby. let's have some fun.
back to sounding trite.
back to feeling all right.
maybe. or not.
memory: him lugging a tire: "hon, this is how much i love you."
"piece by piece, i'll build a car for you."
"i see the future with you."
"here's a toast to you."
a Medoc? A burgundy? Maybe. i don't know.
it's this glenfiddich i sip now.
and i miss being young.
So.

june 30. 1.30 a.m.

simone, my original baby

I came home after a 20 hour workday, hoping to catch some brainless action on Facebook or Twitter to de-stress, and lo and behold--what should greet me when I opened my laptop? A small swarm of red ants swimming in and out of the keys.

Simone.

She had complained about the same thing happening to her a few days ago--that ants were invading her desk, to which I replied: then don't eat there. "But all I eat is yoghurt!" She protested. I brushed it aside, attributing the presence of the ants to the freakish weather we were having lately.

Then, an epiphany tonight: Fruit Roll-Ups.

Simone got herself a motherlode of these from Derek when I came home from Dubai. She ate them everywhere--in bed, watching TV, at the table, at the computer.

First reaction was to scream and shake her from her sleep. Do you rinse your fingers after eating your roll-ups? I imagined myself telling her. The ants were all over my keyboard. Even after I had wiped the whole thing down with alcohol, they were back in full force, just as I turned my back. F&%k!

Then I stopped.

This was a good thing. Yes, the best thing that happened to me over the past 24 hours--the incompetent lawyer from Laguna, me learning that what Ungas had givne for his capital gains tax had been squandered, the late proofs, the driver calling my sons gay, making them cry, and me firing him on the spot (more on that in another post).

This meant my daughter was still, in many ways, mine. She was not given to having crushes left and right, like her classmates. She preferred sneakers to nail polish; considered it gross when a boy had a crush on her; actually enjoyed still horsing around with her brothers. She still asked permission from me if she wanted to hang out longer with her friends, and asked me--me! not her friends--to watch 17 Again and the David Cook/Archuleta concert this coming May 16 with her. She still loved Fruit Roll-Ups. She was still my little girl.



Still tried to kill them pesky ants, though. But they'll be back.

A good Good Friday

I've always associated Good Friday with the unrelenting heat of summer, somewhat akin to the fires of hell. I remember pabasas in our ancestral home in Larion (20-30 minutes away from Tuguegarao by tricycle), us cousins being powerless against our parents' rules of 'no-swimming-in-the-river-today-BAWAL', so all we were left to do was to sit on the squat staircase leading from the bedrooms to the living areas, and watch the old women wail away about the torments Christ endured, lazily fanning themselves in tempo with their voices and dizzying heat.

As an older child–and when Randy and RJ, our Larion cousins, started to spend summers in Manila–I remember my mom trying to infuse us with her Catholic chirpiness, and coming up with the all-too-ideal idea of reading Bible verses under the shade of the santol tree in the garden of our BF home. She spread out a mat, brought out snacks, and urged Randy, RJ, Ali and I to take turns reading the gospel. Of course we played along–but only until we couldn't stand the heat anymore and started to make excuses of having to go to the bathroom–and staying there. One by one, we slipped away, leaving I think only Randy to keep my mom company. Sorry dude. Sorry mom.

One summer, though, the Bible-reading fever got to me. But instead of turning to the evangelists, I preferred to start off with Revelations. Suddenly filled with anxiety and fear, I made a steadfast vow to myself to give myself a good painful pinch every time an evil or impure thought entered my head. I realized I was pinching myself every five minutes. Determined to distract my mind and save my soul from the eternal agony, I busied myself preparing our merienda–green mangos with bagoong, and rock salt with chopped siling labuyo. At one point I rubbed my eyes. Suddenly, a painful burning set in–this is it! I thought. I'm being punished for my sins! I'm being blinded by God! I groped my way to a chair and slowly sat myself down, bracing myself for fate. God is indeed swift to anger, I thought, and He has smote me with His mighty Hand. So be it, so be it. As I started to imagine my life without sight, the effects of the capsaicin faded away. I had been forgiven and healed! Allelujah!

As a teen I was once again gripped with fear of being unworthy of Christ's love if I didn't repent. So just before the reading of the Seven Last Words, I walked to BF church and tried to be a pious Catholic. Again, the summer heat got to me as I swooned and felt a blackout descending. Sorry, God, I said to myself as I staggered out and trod with great difficulty back to our house. I tried, but damn it if I faint in public and wake up on a cot in the parish office. Eww.

This year's Good Friday was no different, temperature-wise. Waking up from a Maundy Thursday night cross-continent hangover (Ungas and I spent around eight hours online drinking, talking, fighting, making up, and talking again), I crept downstairs and promised the kids we'd cook an honest to goodness meal using the herbs the twins re-potted last month...as soon as the sun set.

We have oregano, mint, basil, and lemon. The photo here shows them on my balcony, but because of the crazy-angry heat, we had to move them, along with the other plants, to the less-photogenic back part of the house, where it's cooler. Predictably, pasta was on the menu. I wanted to do a natural tomato concasse, but Chef Ungas said better if I just used pureed canned tomatoes or tomato paste rolled over heat to remove the sourness. So I did that, and added mushrooms and bacon to the mix. The twins' job was to pick the leaves of whatever herb I needed, wash, and dry them. "This is fun!" Mateo said, finally speaking in English due to sheer excitement. And Marco: "Di ba Mommy pag kinain mo yung pli-nant mo, parang kang farmer?" He gets the whole slow-food concept, this boy.

To put the mint to use, I blended orange juice with Dona's Wild Organics honey (Mateo operated the blender), poured it in the popsicle mold I got from Choitrams in Dubai, and dropped in a couple of mint leaves. In the ideal picture I formed in my head (something I got from Mom), I imagined us sucking at them while watching Harry Potter on HBO after dinner. Instead, I succumbed to a catnap, Sim practiced her Speed Stacking, and the twins watched Chowder on Cartoon Network. The kids enjoyed them the following morning, but I was too lazy to take photos.

I had Marco pick lemon leaves–I didn't have to teach him which herbs were which, he knew, just by smell and shape of leaves, he even taught Ann how to tell them apart–for my own version of butter "cookies". I shook some flour in a bowl, cracked an egg, poured some milk in, added sugar, and had the kids mix the batter. We threw in the leaves while spreading it out on a sheet. Twenty minutes in the oven at 200 degrees (everything is guesswork with me and baking), and sliced (er, broken) while hot. After finishing off the pasta, Mateo ate almost all of them. Lalake talaga.





For most of my life, I've struggled with the guilt the nuns taught us in parochial school. It was only when I reached my late 20s that I figured my spiritual self out, and formed and grew comfortable with my own opinions about Christian–not necessarily Catholic–faith. For me, the saddest and yet most glorious day in the Lenten Season is Palm Sunday, because that's when Jesus absolutely knew that He was literally riding towards his death and victory. He got on that donkey (mule?) and accepted His destiny. You can't get any more astig than that. I can't get why people get all mopey during Good Friday. Jesus' death was just symbolic. He rose from the dead on the third day, Christian legend goes (there are other resurrection myths in other religions, but we can visit those another time), so if Catholics believe in that, why be sad? He lives. Always will.

And so: an easy, love-bank worthy Good Friday with the kids. Without the fear of the burning fires of hell.