To the Edge of Light

The basketball hurtled past my wandering eyes ripping the angled reflection of sunlight in the blue expanse across the coconut fronds. Through a shrill whistle sounding like a quick rush of sea draft pushed from under, a foul was called and No. 44 stepped into the free throw line to clinch for his team the game and the Inter-Barangay Championship. Sitio Maliwanag’s No. 44 was Geram, all of 200 pounds, rapid-shooting two-guard before Tanduay, Marlboro and Lechon extended his frame into a bulldozing center-forward. As the ball hissed through the net, I saw the shoulders of the opposing players sank from the heat; a four-point deficit in the last possession scorched like the sun-baked asphalt of the bordering National Highway. I was starting to feel the heat myself–-35 degrees and counting, 40 feet above sea-level, 2 p.m. sun in the heat of July beckoning, unforgiving–-when Geram emerged from the departing crowd to join me and Edbac, his point and bodyguard, as we prepared to negotiate down Maliwanag Beach in our motorbikes. The barangay basketball court was now covered in dust and hot arid air and, unlike minutes before, the spot was suddenly hushed by the distant murmur of the waves from the beach still hidden from our view by the coconut trees and mounds of earth.

We lazily ambled through the pebbled and dusty slope under the bamboo-rattan archway announcing that we are in Maliwanag Beach already when, in fact, the beach front is still a kilometer down the hill. I was reacquainted earlier while counting gas and packing the long ones that Maliwanag Beach is ten kilometers north of Tandang, the capital town, that of shorelines chiseled by the Pacific Ocean, rainforests as dense as the early-morning fog, and mountains and rock formations straight from enchanted islands. I had been frequenting Maliwanag Beach in the past even if my hometown, Ugat, is 18 kilometers away but that afternoon of July, I was visiting the place for the first time after Geram bought the two hectares beach front and converted it into a sprawling beach resort.

Half a kilometer down the snaking dirt road sometimes sloping to 45 degrees, we were suddenly enveloped by tall cogon grass and large trunks of coconut and unknown trees aligned like overturned giant rafts. The 2 p.m. lights were slanted if not deflected by the trees and brisk wind started to ripple the branches. All of a sudden, I peered into a dazzle of intermittent blue in between shimmering clouds of leaves; a token view of the purest blue above alternated with a vista of the deeper blue cupped by massive boulders of rocks. I heard Geram, his bike whirling to the left, telling us that the hill we were traversing will not be leveled as it affords an experience quite of its own. Edbac mumbled a rejoinder I failed to make sense of as after a sudden turn, the crashing of the waves became louder and right before us, emerged the ocean, wind-roaring, exquisite in spasm; its blue complementing the same color of the sky.

Maliwanag means well-lighted or clear-as-day. Indeed, as I trained my untrained eyes to the spread of homing waves and uneven rocks, I was lamely blinded by the vertical sheaths of light shifting and flowing with the breeze. The beach, I gasped in lousy meditation, was beautifully sculpted; its edges were walled by solid limestone cliffs intersecting in a kilometer stretch of white sand and scattered rocks. From above, I started to calculate, it would form a horse-shoe, its gaping heart–-where the current and the drifting waves gather and rush into—collecting the sunlight as it slants and angles past the foliage and the breaks in the moss-covered boulders. For a brief moment, I was lost in the intricate interplay of sunlight as it washed through the ocean gate—the surf droning with the flight of birds, our voices drowned in the cool wind. The unforgiving sun in the heat of July was playful in the respite, its fury lost in the shadows of the foliage in the precipice. I was about to advance to the two resthouses in blinding white and blue glinting on a hill when I heard my name being called by voices from the opposite direction. I retreated to a small nipa hut under the shade of tall coconut trees, smoke from barbeque grills clouding the pathway and my oblique view of the ocean. I slowly unburdened my shoulder from the sack of long ones. Instinctively, I felt my back-waist-- the 3rd Gen Glock 23 was still there, safely tucked.

Our conclave was complete with the arrival of Uncle, unconfirmed yet eternally suspected as our leader by the authorities, and Glepp, our concession to the legal world, our man in the crowd. We settled ourselves in the landing of the stairs of the hut we intimately called Ang Munting Paraiso. The feast–-grilled giant squid, grilled yellow fin Tuna, kilawing Blue Marlin, tiger prawns in butter and shellfish in various treatments–-slaked the deep longing in us for the seaside charm that we have known so well. We traded so many, mainly memories and recollections, as we consumed one plate to another, and only left just enough energy and appetite to carry us in the drinking bout that was to follow. After the 3 p.m. lunch and while everybody was resting, I managed to get around the paraiso to gauge its present worth. I found the hut’s modest living room as it was in the pictures they sent me—bamboo flooring, samurai swords hanging in the wall, relic rifles and pistols crisscrossing the corners, adult contraptions from one furniture to the next. I surveyed next the animals around the hut and found to my heart’s content a coop of bantres and Texas chickens, a family of pigs, a pair of Labrador Retrievers named George and Georgia, a pair of kittens whose mother was shot to death by Edbac using his new M-16 armalite rifle while in a drunken rage, full-grown pawikans, and a white monkey whose predilections bordered on the obscene. The sun carefully settled in the coconut leaves as if to summon our waning strengths.

At 4 o’clock in the afternoon, we were all huddled in the balcony of one of the blinding white-and-blue 5-bedroom villa all by ourselves with an unimpeded view of the high tide, the long ones scattered near the open bottles of premium scotch. The last batches of bathers were scattered and were carefully towed by Edbac away from our view. The conversation now settled on trust, family and honor; all eyes on the bend of the water before it swells into the ocean spread. Edbac with two of his soldiers emerged from the convention hall and ushered to our view two slumped bodies neatly tied-up inside black garbage bags. The fading sunlight had a soft impression when it nestled on the two wilted bodies now being tied up in two separate posts by the foot soldiers.

The chats became somber with hints of giddy anticipation. One of the bodies bore the brunt than the other; all his fingers were cleanly cut-off in the morning by the ever-meticulous Edbac. The bruises and the bleeding in the other parts were almost identical though. They were left for dead in the morning beatings. They were left barely alive for us. They grunted and mumbled noises not audible words. Their ears were spared in the morning from the baseball bats and steel knuckles so the two pairs can still hear us before the sun sets for good. Uncle delivered his monotonous spiel--about being in the family and the price of betrayal--as we each get a stick: my M4, Geram his new AR15 and Glepp his old, reliable AK 74. No cries were heard, if there were, they were drowned by the flurry of the birds in the caves nearby. That was no ordinary payday, the two in the posts were not non-remitters nor fouled-ups, they were upstairs guys, our kind. No pleas were heard not because their teeth were not in the proper places and dried blood pitched in; they knew the consequences, we all know. Uncle clipped his M16, released the safety and we followed suit.

Amidst the thunderclaps of our rifles followed by the commotion of birds, the singsong of broken glasses and ripped flesh and the careless squeals of small animals, my attention fell captive to the retreating sunlight as it slank back, beams, angles and all, into the cold recesses of the cliffs and the elevated forest that we passed through. There were at least 60 bullets in each body, eye balls were protruding if not blasted to smithereens. A tattered limb was dangling as if begging for a handshake. Or was it a gesture of gratitude--that we ended their agony after eight excruciating hours. I busied myself downing shots of whisky as the foot soldiers gathered the remains of the day, shred upon bloody shred at a time.

I was lost in reverie, the riot of our drunken thoughts, the buzz of chainsaws and the blurring seascape swirling around, when darkness and cold descended. I watched the framed Pacific expanse stood still interrupted only by the fading flicker of nearby fishing boats and by the gleaming stars in the cloudless July skies. The buzz of the chainsaws were like that of giant mosquitos becoming louder with the shadows. I inspected the pile, the chunks were neatly arranged and stacked in bright containers; Edbac was working in OC precision again. I edged to my room way past midnight; the fireflies retreating to the black foliage, the campfire outside smoldering the remaining twigs, the waves rapping the shadows, the horse-shoe beach in darkness trapping the electric lights of the villas between the ocean and the trees.

A soft drizzle roused my 5 a.m. stupor. The imposing hills surrounding me and most of the sea were covered with white fog. I tumbled across empty bottles of JW Black Label and occasional caked blood when I retraced the trail of uneven rocks leading to the edge of the sea. Reaching the end, I had a complete view of the Pacific Ocean, the outline of Mangkukulam Island and the unabbreviated blue-green stretch glinting with broken sunlight in one full sweep. The slow drizzle flowed into the fog suspended above the surf. I was standing alone on the rocky perch when the drizzle suddenly shifted in the damp cliffs. We were to go fishing for our breakfast which meant pulling ashore the fishing nets cast the night before. I was thinking of the harvest already—danggit, bolinao, lato, gangis, kugita—as I tiptoed into the edge of the perch to assess the 20-foot deep clearing before me. My plunge into the blue was steady and slow as the approach of sunlight splitting the ledge of thinning mist.

***This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual events or persons is not intended. Really. Really, really.