Sand bites in Puerto Galera

WE follow the "G" that says Getaway! to the white sands of Puerto Galera. Driving to the port city of Batangas from Quezon City alongside the dawn breaking while the rest of the city lies asleep is already our getaway into the real.

This is the dawn that the Cat Stevens of a flower era sang about in his classic ode, "Morning has broken." We had been missing it in the daily grind of pounding thoughts on computer keys, only to obtain a view confined to pixels and bytes of virtual images on the monitor screen. Well, goodbye, virtual, and hello, reality. I can breathe you now and for the rest of my (brief) vacation leaves.

There is something sublime in taking off, in getting away, in journeying. Whether motoring in a spacious van on the South Luzon Expressway, winding down highways, cutting through the Batangas Star Tollway or cruising the waters of Mindoro in a 50-passenger motorboat, the rhythm of traveling fuses with the beat of your pulse. Even the rough waves at midday roll and rock to the throb of drums and cymbals until the boat riders erupt into cheers at the sight of land-"Beach, ho!"

As the holiday seekers disembark, their feet land in deep impression on the white sands of Puerto Galera that will last through the next sojourn.

Boat by boat, city slickers make like there is no other place but here, in spite of it being a heavily hyped destination. By the hour they come like there is no other time but now, in spite of it being peak travel cum Holy Week.

They arrive in search of a brief paradise, only to be greeted by hawkers they were trying to get away from-selling anything from prepaid cards to beach bandanas. Globe makes a presence but loses its signal, and the hyped "G" turns into "Grrr!" The spirits of San Miguel (the beer, not the saint) pervade the "holy days" with unholy drinking and fun contests. It isn't the best time to get away to but the freebies that go with an invitation lure us to explore the place. That is, if we get to find it in the crowd.

It seems like an entire gentxt has landed, lugging its "Baywatch" fantasies and getting body paint, a tan, a braid and a massage on the sand. In the noon heat, old-fashioned ice-crushed halo-halo provides stiff competition to ice-cold commercial drinks. Afternoons are filled with more ways to expend youthful energy: beach volleyball, jetskiing, snorkeling, sand sculpting, bikini ogling. On Easter eve, the irreverent ones party all night, watch a best-in-bikini contest, dance on the sand, in the moonlight. The gods of commerce made sure to fill up the time of their life and break our sedentary lives.

We figure that the best time to enjoy Puerto Galera, the beach (as distinguished from the diving reefs or the private Ayala beachfront), is at daybreak, when the spent hypercrowd takes a rest. But it is quite a feat to get up early after barely sleeping through the raucous night.

What becomes apparent is that, devoid of urban invaders, White Beach cove is an artist's landscape. The stretch of sand, while not so fine, is creamy white, and underneath the beach water lies a bed of pebbles that have witnessed the constant ebb and flow of the waves. The cove is bounded by rocks that jut out to sea from both ends. This is the scenic wonder that a gay crowd fails to see.

On the rocks where you stare out to sea, you recall history. Puerto Galera was a docking port for galleon ships during the Spanish era. It was also a site of sunken ships, which launched many diving expeditions for sunken treasures, the most recent of which is a treasure trove of artifacts. Today the other cove is a favorite diving site for exploring whatever remains of its past. Puerto Galera is a destination as far as any bakasyonista can get out of Luzon.

Away from the madding crowd, we find our peace saluting the sun rising out of the misty blue yonder. Above us, only sky. Nothing comes between heaven and us now.

The best way to spend a day at the beach is to rise with the sun and go down with the sun. In between, we race to raise our sandcastles before our fantasies are swept away by the sea. We stamp our footprints on the sand, meditating on a holy note even as the prints will soon get buried in oblivion by the invading horde.

At dusk, we lie on a bed of sand in awe and wonder of the Divine Artist painting a canvas of blue, then lavender turning purplish, now a tinge of tangerine here, and a dab of golden yellow there.

While waiting for the great vermilion orb to go down in an awesome splash on the horizon, comes a meditative moment telling us that we all are many rays of a single sun.

Even as the images are fleeting, the vacation is real. You get back to city life but you still taste the salty sea breeze, still feel the sun's power energizing your sun-screened body. Only your tan and color photographs serve as proof of the sand bites and sunny disposition you take with you.

But what makes those getaway moments real is the discovery that in the frenzy of getting a life, we forget what we are getting away from. We find that there is nothing to get away from, only a whole lot of living to get into.