THE SCORCHING heat has passed, and it is now June. A salty afternoon breeze drapes the skin, the cold air lingers, and soon, a swarm of mayflies will flock to the light posts. I suppose the dry season is over.
From the stilt house, the rain is an unsettling time. Normally, I deem rock oysters intimidating as they come uncountable. But, when it rains heavily, only the massive ones dare see the daylight. It dawned on me that the rain must stop for an oscillation to grow, especially for the outrigger boats that give livelihood to the people.
In mornings after storms, boats break down and their parts scatter across different islands, unmanned. Monsoon season does not always mean gloom. It sends a message, however, that you are supposed to pin yourself at home.
In places near the sea, the sun is most favorable–mostly for the children who require a vivid hue of youth, where their small bodies would blast off the shore, unable to comprehend the fun in attaching themselves to floater platforms.
It is fascinating to me as well, as a child, why I find myself by the end of an outrigger boat. I absorb every last ripple it brings to the deep water while looking down, hoping to see the very end of the sea. It still scares me.
The minuscule feeling of a small rock oyster during heavy rains. A detached pipe float. Weightless and carefree, as if the sea itself bore the responsibility of carrying all our weight.
It was a comforting thought, knowing that the sea kept us afloat despite it all. F
