Thursday, April 26, 2007 Solitary in Siquijor By Jeneen R. Garcia
WHEN the heart is scarred and the spirit barely breathing, the only balm is distance and open space. And so I found myself on a late Tuesday morning at the start of summer standing at the pier in Dumaguete City, looking for a ride to Siquijor.
I had just missed the 11:30 a.m. boat; the next departure was by pumpboat. In a way, I was glad. I wanted no fussy boarding procedures or annoying action movies, wanted only to be close to the wind and the sea. I sat down on a wooden seat across a student whose face looked as weary as my heart. We each have our reasons for going away, and though we may be strangers, often we find ourselves seeking the same places for healing.
Isla del Fuego, the Spaniards had called it. Island of Fire. But under the fierce summer sun, it was the sight of Siquijor Island’s long, white coves and blue-green waters that comforted me. Surely I had come to the right place.
“But all the resorts are fully booked!” a local told me, “There’s one that’s available later tonight, but it costs more than a thousand. You should have traveled with someone so you can share the cost. Why did you come here alone, anyway?”
I shrugged. “I just needed a break from schoolwork,” I said.
“Ah, you want peace of mind.”
Yes, peace of mind. Something so precious that I was determined to find it, even if it meant a cut in my monthly budget. Fortunately, God was on my side.
At just the second try, I came to a quiet place just a few minutes away from the pier that had cottages made of amakan and bamboo sitting on a grassy outcrop. A smiling Japanese couple welcomed me as I stepped onto a wide, wooden patio shaded by coconut trees. “We have one cottage available, only for tonight. But one room upstairs is available for two nights,” they said. Best of all, the price was perfect.
Happily, I decided to stay for two nights, and went down to the beach for a walk. The sky was lavender, the brilliant sun beginning to set behind the mountains of Negros. I could see as far as the ends of the island. By the curve of a rock in the distance, children were walking home after an afternoon of gathering suwaki and sea cucumbers.
Blades of seagrass and flower-like algae littered the fine, white sand. The tide was coming in gently now to sweep them back into the sea where they had come from.
I, too, sat on the long stretch of beach, wanting to return. To return to the nurturing sea where all life was first formed. To return to the self I had lost underneath the wounds. To return to the God I had forgotten, but who had never forgotten me.
I sat through the chill of wind, basking in the full moon’s light, patiently waiting. For two days I sat by the beach, alternately writing, reading, praying until my heart was spent. On my last day, I looked at the sea and felt a familiar throbbing in my spirit. I was still alive, after all. And by God’s grace, I would be alright.
Three summers ago, I had come to Siquijor for the first time for some exciting exploration with friends--rented a motorcycle and went around the island in a day, jumping off waterfalls and cliffs, walking through a haunted convent, and emerging from a witch’s cave in the dark of night.
Some summers, the greatest adventure is the journey we take deep into ourselves.
