Chapter 3: The Impossibly Cyan Sea


It was all I could whisper to myself, as the tiny turboprop teetered through white cumulus cotton down to the almost-too-short Caticlan runway. Minutes before, somewhere just under 9700ft with my nose pressed flat to the cold window ala Ronalie (mmm, me likey Ronalie), I had been treated to a spectacular aerial view of the famous Boracay white beach. I was truly in awe of the intensely saturated cyan colors of the shallow, warm Sulu Sea. Cyan, indeed… turquoise, maybe. But NOT fucking AZURE (blue), as in my Philippines travel book. It was penned by the same drab author who wrote about the “sad expatriates in Angeles City who sit alone watching dancing prostitutes”. Dumb-ass on all counts. Saturated Cyan, I tell you. Would my digital camera even CAPTURE this splendor?

Then I smiled. It was a postcard that I really wanted to share, but Spinner was pocket-blocking my camera. She couldn’t hear my “whoa” whisper over the droning Hamilton Sundstrand propellers, as her pretty head was still in my lap- initially hiding like an ostrich from the fear of her first flight, then studiously practicing for the entrance exam to the Mile High Club, Air-Start Chapter. There were only four passengers, and luckily we were farthest back.(!) This trip quickly introduced me to the unabashed malibog nature of my most petite companion. It also quickly introduced both of my wet-behind-the-ears estrogen-fueled friends to the confusing mechanical puzzle of the metal airplane seatbelt clasp. I grinned. First time in a plane. All three of us were destined to learn a few things on this trip. I glanced two seats forward to innocent Chastity’s alluring teenage silhouette, while her hungry cousin’s lips surrounded my prop shaft. It was indeed MY idea to bring along the cherry girl college student, who would never DREAM of setting foot in the Angeles bars of her older cousin. There was a tantalizing freshness to her flirting, her smell, and there was a toga-clad devil sitting on my shoulder who was speaking in the tone that Homer Simpson reserves only for doughnut flavors. (Mmmm, cheeerrry)

Our sweaty trio was cheerfully met at the terminal by carefully rehearsed 5-star resort smiles from our driver and porter. A 30 minute van-boat-van sequence led us to the ass-end of the stark white, very modern Discovery Shores Resort. Did I mention that this trip was going to be over-the-top? (don’t remember) If you haven’t been there, Discover Shores Boracay is one of the hotels listed in that little hardcover book: “Small Luxury Resorts of the World”. You get the picture here: two poor young girls get dragged from the slums, and then sent straight to the palace. Good times.

We could all die tomorrow; therefore we should all live well today.
We should flip the bird to the former and include beautiful girls in the latter.
(Okay, I’m done with my bastardized mantras for a while.)

Yep, this place was definitely on the obscene high-end of hotels in Boracay, especially when you could score an economy hotel room right down on same the amazing white beach for about the price of a spotlight girl barfine. Our suite was also similar in cost to a barfine… a barfine for an entire cultural dance troop! (hmm, new idea, here, dance troop barfine…)

“Sir, I’m here to wash your feet” blurted the pretty pony-tailed white-clad pinay who slithered in behind us as the bellhop dropped the luggage upon first entry to the hotel room.
“Ummm… whaaat??”
“Your feet, sir. Please sit down,” she nodded at the huge wooden foot-laundering bowl on the floor next to three pairs of white cotton slippers.
For some reason the two girls straight from the province and I all arrived at the same response at the same time.
“No thank you” we chorused.
Puhleease. Feet?? I’m gonna wash my feet in that friggin warm waveless ocean about 100 meters West of here! Bada bing, dammit.

We splashed into the salty cyan bathwater of the sunny Sulu Sea with all the eagerness of three freshly tagged game fish with oxygen-starved gills. (yes, CYAN, dammit) As Chastity frolicked in the water beside me, it only seemed natural to hug Spinner in front of me and give her a salty kiss. It only seemed natural for her legs to wrap around me. It only seemed natural to slip her bikini to the side and make face-to-face boom boom in front of her cousin and 25 odd tourists in the morning sun.

“Don’t bounce… just stay still!” I urged between laughs.
We were long-parted North and South poles from two different magnets. Hard NOT to bounce. Spinner was tiny, hot, accommodating, and much more slippery than mere salt water should be. She felt like heaven upon initial entry. Both of my hands supported her ass as one finger tickled her o-ring. Just over Spinner’s shoulder, I locked onto Chastity’s eyelids which widened slightly just before she broke our stare and glanced left and right with the concerned cop-scoping gaze of a teenager driving with open alcohol. It wouldn’t be the last time that she and I locked eyes while I was inside her cousin. The water safely hid our connection from any beachgoers 100 meters away. Right next to us, however, Chastity’s innocent eyes were at a different angle altogether.

Showers, naps, and a sunset filled our first day, as did the sea, shower, Jacuzzi, couch, and bed. Chastity watched our intimacy with the curiosity that only a virgin could summon. Spinner and I grew closer and closer, until our love making exhibited the same synchronization that our laughter did.

After dinner, the three of us ventured south from our hotel on the dark white sand until we stumbled upon Guilly’s Island: bar, disco, beach grill. The thump-thump bass line led us in and the tequila body shots held us captive. We danced, we drank, we flirted, we laughed. The three-way dirty-dancing was oddly lust-filled. Chastity had no boyfriend and her cousin was willing to share me, yet there was a certain selosa flavor to the Angeles-style three-way kisses. I had no conscious cherry-picking penchant, but there WAS that toga-sporting devil on my shoulder. The little evil dude likes tequila. The other tequila hound was Spinner. She proudly matched me body shot for body shot. Completely sticky, we all stumbled back onto the sand in the wee hours for the trek back to the hotel. Spinner descended the Guillys steps and promptly collapsed into a comatose heap. Had I done the math, I would have simply realized that a girl who weighs less than HALF my weight cannot drink the SAME amount of alcohol and still deal.

I slung the limp Spinner over my shoulder as Chastity walked beside me. I looked up and down the beach with visions of a stomach pump and activated charcoal for my tiny little rubber friend who was dead to the world. I vaguely remembered a dentist office/24 hour emergency clinic on the main road. I carried her lifeless body a few hundred meters, dropped to the sand for a rest, and then she jerked to life only to leave her entire dinner on the beach. At this point I suddenly realized why Chastity came along. She expertly held Spinner’s long hair back in the ancient tradition on the friend of the suka girl.

Morning found me next to Spinner on the couch, as I stayed awake next to her through the night, visions of John Bonham in my head. She made clever use of the decorative foot-bath bowl in ways that would make the foot-bathers grimace. She popped to her feet showing new life with the sunrise, as if ready for a morning jog, asking for breakfast.
“Of course you want breakfast, you gave your dinner to the fishes” I groaned.
“Do you remember walking back to the hotel?”
“mmmmm” she tried to remember, hands to head.
“Of course not. I CARRIED you!”
“mmmm, really? How about pancakes?” she deadpanned.
“Aye animal!”

We lounged on beach chairs that day which included our personal manservant who fetched drinks, folded crumpled shirts, and cleaned sunglasses. The next night was filled with SML sipping for me and chocolate shakes for the girls. We saw a band, sang karaoke, and retired to the Jacuzzi where the underwater boom boom in front of the cherry girl evolved into a family affair. At some point the three of us ended up on the big bed. Chastity pretended to sleep at first while the two love birds did their thing next to her. She seemed too shy to join in but too interested, urgent to push away. There was a certain ensuing exhibitionist excitement mixed with innocent curiosity that left everyone wet and me quite dehydrated.

Chasity left Boracay a virgin.
Pretty sure.
She did not leave innocent, however.
Spinner and I left Boracay as very intimate friends… ready for another island… with just the two of us…


Almost forgot.
SEAIR. Turds.
How could I forget?

We reversed the Boracay van-boat-van sequence and found ourselves back at the tiny Caticlan airport for a really convenient flight back to Clark. Just over an hour. No brainer.

When I presented our boarding passes to the SEAIR agent, she blinked at the laser-printed paper. She blinked at me. The paper again. Me again. Before I could ask, she ran to another little counter across the room with my printout. A group of four young probable SEAIR employees without matching shirts huddled together, each excitedly grabbing at our boarding passes. The shark feeding frenzy suddenly ended as all four heads slowly lifted to look at me with the same concern that a group of nurses might share while trying to elect a fatal-news messenger among them. The trouble I smelled was enhanced by the humidity. I could feel my old-fart voice spontaneously warming up.

“Sir, your flight is canceled,” blurted the girl who must have drawn the short straw. “But its okay, we will put you on a later PAL flight to Manila instead.”
“How is that okay? Have you ever BEEN to Manila?” I replied.
“How do we get back to ANGELES?” (easy, bud)
“A van sir. We will provide a van at no charge to you.”
“No charge?! WOW. My golly. Thank you!!” I smiled.
She smiled back, devoid of all sarcasm-perception skills.

I had guessed that the plane coming from Clark had no passengers that afternoon, so they just didn’t fly it. Hell, there were only four of us on the way down.

“You failed us, ma’am,” I uttered quietly, wiping the smile from the rocket-surgeon girl’s face. I wasn’t angry. I WAS going to have a little more fun, though. I was owed.
“Your company. SEAIR. You failed us. You have my email address and cell phone numbers, yet you failed to get any sort of message to us about the cancellation. Text. Do you know what a text message is?”
“Sir, the system didn’t have your information,” she replied.
“The SAME system that printed out all of that information onto the paper I just gave you? That system?” I asked, eyebrows raised.
“It seems it forgot your information, sir.”
“It forgot??”
“Yes, sir.”
“It forgot…”
“Yes, sir.”
“The computer forgot?”
“Yes, sir.”

I was laughing WAY too much to pull off a decent old-fart voice at this stage. The rocket surgeon girl would just have to discover the science of heat versus humidity without my coaching.

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