Marooned on a Manjuyod Sandbar

Sunday, 9:10 a.m. Four houses-on-stilts seemed to levitate above the water in the middle of a forlorn sea. My bangka approached the last and smallest structure in the neat row. As we wafted alongside, the crewmembers gracefully leapt to a landing area no bigger than a small table, and deftly untied knots of rope that released a ladder to the balcony. As the lone room was aired out, two large containers of fresh water for my bathing and toilet needs were transferred from the boat. Linen and pillowcases were replaced. With clinical precision, my hosts transformed the place into something liveable for the next 24 hours.

“Everything fine, sir? We return tomorrow at 9 a.m.” With these parting words, they left me alone, stranded in this seemingly fragile but adequate abode. My provisional maritime residence was situated on a white sandbar several kilometers off the mainland. In the moments since “checking-in,” the water level had risen, submerging the stilt foundations and the sandbar they were anchored on, although I could still clearly see the sand underwater. Schools of small fish scurried about, a little too mindlessly for my liking.

My accommodations had a spacious yet frugal balcony, decorated with a rattan sofa, a wooden table and several unpretentious monobloc stools. In contrast, the solitary room was just big enough for two bunk beds. The sink, toilet, and bath drained into a sealed septic tank integrated into the design. A solitary solar panel protruded conspicuously from the thatched roof, providing just enough power for the balcony and room lamps. I had brought torches but it was comforting to know that I wouldn’t need them.

I sat on the railings and scanned the horizon, my legs dangling over the light-emerald sea. The island of Negros lay to the west, punctuated by the definite shape of Mt. Talinis.

Water, water everywhere, I thought. I looked forward to 24 hours of doing nothing. Was this the life, or what?

10:34 a.m. Four bangkas were moored at the edge of the sandbar, each boat loaded with 15 to 20 passengers headed for these cottages for the day. Although the water above the sandbar was only waist-deep, there were only a handful of swimmers, as the waves were severe, even offensive.

I suspected people were merely waiting for conditions to improve, perhaps impatiently as it was a sunny but windy day.

I glanced at my provisions for the remainder of my stay, all hastily grabbed from a Bais bakery without much deliberation, before I chased a bus to the municipality of Manjuyod. Three siopaos (Chinese pork buns), four chocolate rolls, two ensaymadas (a Philippine butter and cheese roll), two liters of bottled water, and a can of soda. I’ll live, I said to myself, grabbing one of the siopaos. I was suddenly famished.

Tourists head for the Tannon straits, the channel separating the islands of Negros and Cebu, to spot dolphins. As a side trip to dolphin-watching tours, a stopover at the sandbar on the return leg is included. I, on the other hand, came to Manjuyod precisely to stay overnight. Dolphins were not my cup of tea. Different strokes for different folks. It only took a phone call to the local municipality to book a reservation and I was good to go.

11:55 a.m. All the boats had left. The strong breeze had evolved into furious gusts, creating whitecaps cresting huge swells, conditions downright detrimental to swimming and snorkelling. The tide had risen to shoulder-level. Another boat had crawled up from the horizon, stopping at the sandbar’s edge, bobbing to the surf ’s cadence. Were it not for the outriggers, the boat would have surely tipped over.

With nothing else to do, eating had become my preoccupation, and I had seriously depleted my provisions. I was down to a siopao and a roll, which I had set aside for dinner. Seagulls flew overhead swiftly and I tried to photograph them, with little success.

My iPod discharged New Order: On a thousand islands in the sea, I see a thousand people just like me… For these last few days, leave me alone. For this trip, I had even put together a playlist that matched the occasion.

1:07 p.m. I awoke to the sound of voices and rapping on the staircase. Three passengers from the solitary boat had swum over, requesting to stay in my hut. Several passengers had become seasick and wanted to temporarily get off the boat. I agreed. I didn’t mind the company at all.

The 15 people who joined me on the balcony were part of a local college’s staff, in Bais on a summer outing. In return for my welcome was a reward: they had brought adobo, salad and rice with them. Fresh supplies at last! Bingo!!!

2 p.m. The tide had begun to recede. A few of my new friends were back in the water, now knee-deep. For the most part, my other guests had left me alone, not wanting to impose on my hospitality. They were spread out in the balcony area, sprawled on the floor or sitting on the stairs, unwinding and exchanging gossip, which entertained me immensely. I made another attempt to shoot the gulls. I checked my camera’s LCD. No luck still.

4:15 pm Low tide and a wide stretch of white sand was at last revealed, perhaps six kilometers long. My house stood spindly on the fringe, where the water was light green. Further, the water turned to deep blue, a sinister drop just two meters away. We were in the middle of the sea after all.

Spirits and emotions were lifted. People began playing volleyball, running around, frolicking in the water or writing their names on the sand, each one finding their own corner on the sandy mantle. More boats arrived, disgorging more people. From my balcony, I imagined the entire stretch as my backyard. Mine, all mine!

5:04 p.m. The place was again empty. Pools formed slowly as the water rose. The sandy stretch was fragmenting. I watched my playground slowly disappear. I was resigned to the futility of the moment. My visitors had earlier said goodbye, leaving me their leftovers — sandwiches and bananas — for dinner. More importantly, they left some rum, to “see me through the night.”

6:27 p.m. Dusk, and the sandbar was by now engulfed by noisy waves. I took a swig of rum, while Sting wailed in the background — Just a cast-away, an island lost at sea-oh. Another lonely day, no one left but me-oh.

Man, I think I’m taking this trip too seriously.

9:50 p.m. A symphony of roaring awakened me. I had almost depleted the rum and had dozed off. The tide boomed and crashed as it rolled in, coming, like the wind, from different directions, creating the ambient cacophony. The waves lapped incessantly on the stilts as well. The light from my balcony and from the other houses provided barely enough illumination but I saw that the water had risen to a very high level, just underneath the balcony’s base, almost fully covering the stilts. My heart filled with anxiety.

Monday, 12:15 a.m. Fear had set in. Terrified beyond belief, I had retreated into the room, yet the noise continued. The house shook with every crashing wave and I agonized it would collapse. My mind’s eye saw immense tsunamis forming in the distance, about to run riot. Not such a good idea, being alone like this, I fretted. My imagination had gotten the better of me. God, please let it be daylight soon. It was a chilly evening, but I was sweating copiously, wishing for sleep. Please God. Please. Please.

I tried to think happy thoughts — baked mussels, champoy, Voltes V, Kate Beckinsale, and Apeng Daldal. Whatever gets you through, I told myself.

3:20 a.m. My full bladder would not be controlled any longer. After delaying the inevitable for an hour, I eventually went to the toilet. Stepping out onto the balcony, I was surprised by a calmer, gentler world. In my suffering, I had not noticed that the winds and deluge had died. The sandbar had reappeared, gleaming under the full moon’s faint yellow glow. I walked around, the sand cold against my bare feet, half-expecting to see ghastly forms floating above the sand. It was eerily beautiful.

All of a sudden, my board shorts and shirt found their way off my body and into the air. I ran around au naturel, a madman laughing and yelping in sheer, childlike delight. Another item scratched off my bucket list.

3:50 a.m. Bright balls of orange seemingly suspended in air converged along the shore. Only the audible putting of engines hinted that boats were approaching. Fishermen had arrived for the early catch. I put my clothes back on, not wanting to have to explain this potentially embarrassing situation.

7:00 a.m. I devoured the last siopao and the leftover adobo ravenously. My night at sea had been both unnerving and amazing. Perhaps, this was the way to view things: as a dichotomy — the worst served along with the best. Or as part of a cycle of rises and falls, of renewals, of death and new beginnings. I felt that those who made the day trip to see the sandbar in its full glory, only to leave when it started to disappear, missed out on a much more meaningful experience. Only when things are perceived in the context of a full cycle do they make sense. There is a greater scheme that we are all part of. Things are not merely random. I caught a glimpse of a lifetime within a 24-hour period and was reminded of its mysteries.

I never knew siopao could induce such philosophical insights. Maybe that’s why Confucious was wise.

8:45 a.m. My boat reappeared and docked near the landing, to return me to civilization. On the way back, a sea gull flew beside the boat, flapped its wings against thermals as if seeing me off and waving goodbye. This was the perfect moment to capture the image as the bird was in asteady glide. I watched it attentively, weighing whether to make one final attempt to snap the moment into permanence. I decided against it. I just couldn’t be bothered anymore.