03Sands On (Virtual) Paper
My helix of thought travels at least 6000 miles away from its current location. I shiver as the autumn breeze breathes on my skin, reminding me of the sporadic probabilities of catching the chills back when I lived in the tropics. The all-year-round summer relentlessly comforts me. No more does it occur as my present reality; it has turned into a mere memory, which, when recalled, sparks a sentiment that voices longing. I have finally met her last year (after fifteen years of envisioning how she exists), the “four seasons,” baring her vibrancy and dullness, warmness and cruelness, calmness and fury, her unpredictability.
The change of seasons presents itself strikingly, camouflaging as the earth toggles benignly around the solar system, changing colors of verdant to yellow to red and orange and brown, and then to total whiteness. The yearlong summers in the tropics lack all the colors of the four-faceted season, yet it compares to the splendor of the temperate.
The autumn chills teleport me back into those days, at twilight, when my sisters, cousins, my best friend and I ride back home on a tricyle, the wind gushing through our damp and briny skin and clothes soaked from the beach, our shoulders suppressing the shivers, and our teeth uncontrollably chattering. Playing like a muted film in my head, the sequels of reminiscences on the tricyle after those Saturdays or Mondays or Wednesdays or Sundays on a beach, vibrantly revives my bygone pleasures of my hometown, Aringay.
The beach rings inexplicable exhilaration among us, every time we yearn frolicking along its shores. Fortunately, our geographic location, an interminable stretch of the west-side coast, only a few minutes drive from our house in the province of La Union, lavishly serves our fondness. We’ve trodden on rocky shores and fine sands; we’ve plunged both into placid and perturbed seas, we’ve reeled freely in the beach underneath the sun and moon and rain, and even hazarded our lives to jellyfish stings – the tropical beach just happens to be irresistible. We chase after tiny crabs, bury each other in the sand, help the fishermen pull out their massive fishing nets into the bank, and just watch the skies change its face endlessly, complying with one’s state of emotions, or that’s how it makes me feel.
The sun zings the grandeur of the seas even more. When we were little kids, we used to stay all day in the seashores, absorbing all available radioactive rays in the spectrum. The sunlight at midday, though, as we grew up, made the beach a no-go zone, except to rest under a bough of a palm tree – tan people never fancied to be tanner. We then wait until the sun gets to a 50-degree angle, giving us the suitable lighting, a controlled dose of radiation, a hypnotic view of sunset, and ample time to enjoy the waves before the dark caves in. We pack a few munchies, a bottle or two of drinking water, a tiny towel to dry our hands, and nothing more; our kick of excitement overwhelms us enough. It’s not a vacation to pack for clothes, only a couple hours of impulsive craving for nature’s spectacle.
We rent a tricycle whose driver resides along the peaceful neighborhood of our barrio, and then we travel for about ten minutes, laughing, telling jokes, until we get sight of the sea, the coconut trees framing the view of the serene horizon, boisterous waves crashing and the sun descending dramatically in the mauve sky. Then, we run. The sand, soft on our feet, tickles our yen to get drenched in the ocean. We race to the shore, screaming, kicking our slippers off along the way, contesting the gentle sea breeze gusting on our faces, feeling earth’s pulse beating rhythmically as ours.
Splashes of water accompany the harmony of the wind and the waves as we hop-in. We tread along the edges of the sea, and later on, gutless yet animated, we attempt on going farther into the abyss. Nobody else lingers along the shore; we own it for that moment. I nose-dive into the brackish water, submerging my entire body, feeling my fingers disturb the sand resting underneath; there I’ve heard nothing but the euphonic noise of the current and the din of my heartbeat. The water keeps me calm; it makes me buoyant despite the cargoes I carry within. I take my head out of the water, succeeded by a deep breath gasping for air. I am breathing again, and hearing the clamor of the world the marine isolated me from for a while.
The cloud formations vary into figures a creative mind could construe to be something else; my mind sees them as they are, fluffy dense of vapor embellishing the sky. The sun radiates its neon orange, mirage recurring along its edges, my childish mind perceiving a soft-boiled egg yolk in the sky. The earth slowly rotates on its axis heaving us away from the sun, the horizon seemingly devouring on the bubble of light. Those last minutes of sunset keeps me still, I have never seen anything as picturesque. In a span of five short minutes, the sun fades out, a faint surge of melancholy hovers; it’s time we go home.
We turn away from the sea; slip our slippers back-on; walk on the soft sand, its fine grains adhering onto our legs soaked from the sea; and turn back to catch one more glimpse of the ocean. Like getting out of bed in the wee hours of the morning after one lovely dream, we leave with undue reluctance. The breeze dries our skin and sends quivers along our limbs. We keep walking. The dark override the scenic waves and the sea turns from blue to black, from a cordial atmosphere to a daunting one.
Summers tend to stretch the hours of daylight as late as 10 PM here in Regina, an improbable instance in my home province, La Union. The first summer sunset I had in Regina, around 9 PM, struck me with awe, an exquisite blessing with that much daylight throughout the season. The tricycle driver starts the engine, deliberately pissed off by us overstaying by the shore while he arrives at 6 PM sharp to pick us up; if only the sun sets later than six, we would love to have a prolonged stay by the beach. He grows a lot more displeased seeing the specks of sand that clung onto our feet and legs, the drippings of sea water messing up his tricycle’s seat and flooring. He drives us home, and despite his annoyance, he worries about us catching cold. A day transpires; the sun shall rise again.
The waves never cease to waver. The sun remains stationary as the earth, us, keep moving. The other side of the planet has a different season, weather and climate. All the more, it’s the same earth, the same sun. The same water that dropped on the roofs in the tropical zone might have fallen into ours, probably, into frozen snow. Superb how all this is possible. You stand in front of the sea across the setting sun and clouds, sand on your feet, wind on your face, whistles of the waves on your ears, a dog meandering freely and even testing the waters, and friends seeing the same wonders. All these occur naturally, yet they all seem surreal. How many splendid suns have shone on you and gave you the strange feeling of admiration?
Once more, today, the autumn wind made me shiver, reminding me of something else celestial that feels the same. I looked around, such spectacles everywhere. I see the colors of autumn. It, undeniably, looks remarkable.
