It's 3:30 in the afternoon in one of the coastal barangays on Bantayan Island. The white sandy beach stretches kilometers wide, with people hurriedly preparing for an all-night trip toward the northern tip of the island.
Various fishing crews, mostly composed of men ranging from teens to late sixties, boarded their individual colorful boats called Pamalingan—engine-less vessels usually 10 to 12 meters long and about a meter wide.
They were preparing for a traditional fishing method called Pamaling in their local dialect. In this method, they catch schools of anchovies using fine black nets, laying down a hundred-meter net and trapping the fish into a net pocket in the middle.
"It's you again?" grumbled an old man named Mang Tiko, the boat's owner. He looked disappointed upon seeing his new crew member. With gray hair and tanned skin—both earned from years at sea—he stared at the young man who had just arrived.
"Hello, Mang Tiko! Looks like you're short on manpower again, huh? Guess I'm your last hope then!" Alan cheerfully climbed onto the boat, leaving the knee-deep water behind him.
"Whatever. I guess I can't be choosy with the competition today," Mang Tiko muttered, positioning himself toward the bow as he carried the bamboo pole they would use as the boat's "engine." This long, worn pole—clearly used for years—was called a tokon.
"Don't worry, Mang Tiko! As long as I'm here, our catch today is guaranteed!" Alan declared, his eyes gleaming with excitement and hope.
Alan, 18 years old and marked by a distinct birthmark covering the upper left of his face, placed his worn-out jacket at the rear of the boat, where he was instantly assigned. He, too, would be using one of the three tokon poles to help push the boat when the time came.
Despite his pure and cheerful nature, Alan was widely dubbed the dumbest and unluckiest guy in the neighborhood. Abandoned in a trash can at birth—likely because of the dark birthmark—he was adopted by a local family. No one ever claimed to be his real parents, and as he grew, his struggles with learning and memory only deepened his outsider status.
Only one person ever truly defended him—his adoptive mother Ana, who rescued him from the trash can and the death he almost met.
"Huh. Did you forget we didn't get a single bilabid catch on the last three trips you joined? I'm not sure if you really are a cursed child, but we're getting there," Mang Tiko said, shooting him a hopeless scorn.
"That was last time! This time's gonna be a jackpot—I can feel it!" Alan replied, too used to the bitterness of others. It was simply how people treated him.
But what made Alan special was his boundless positivity, incredible patience, and unwavering compassion—even toward those who bullied him. He smiled in the face of insults, praised those who mocked him, and always repaid cruelty with kindness. No one had ever seen him fight back.
Often, his goodness won over even his harshest critics—some of whom eventually became silent supporters.
Alan might have been slow in the head, but his heart was full of compassion. He lived by one core belief: everyone is going through something too.
How did he cope with the harsh reality? He shrugged it off with a smile and countered cruelty with kindness. "No darkness lasts forever" was his personal creed. Just like now.
"I'm sorry if you feel that way, Mang Tiko. But one thing's for sure—I'll always do my best in everything I do. You can trust me on that," Alan said, starting to push the boat into deeper waters. The rippling waves reflected the silhouettes of their humble homes on the shoreline.
Mang Tiko didn't respond. He silently turned his gaze westward. The orange horizon was filled with Pamalingan boats sailing at full speed. Each one had at least seven men aboard, four of whom were already pushing the boats with powerful strokes. Mang Tiko could only watch as they slowly disappeared into the distance.
He remembered his past.
Everyone knew Mang Tiko had once been a high-ranking seaman on an international cargo ship. But because of lavish spending, alcohol, gambling, and failed investments, he now lived in a one-story house with a single Pamalingan boat to his name.
Once a local star, honored like a mayor, now he was being left behind—just like the boats passing him by.
TUD!
Mang Tiko snapped out of his thoughts when the boat hit a solid reef hidden beneath the water.
"What are you doing, you idiot?! Trying to sink us before we even leave the barangay?!" Mang Tiko shouted, his neck veins bulging.
"I'm sorry, Mang Tiko! I was just following your path—I didn't see the reef under you!" Alan quickly apologized and shifted his grip to help redirect the boat away from the coral.
"Idiot! Why am I even stuck with these fools? Row faster, or those bastards will get the anchovies before us!" Mang Tiko barked. "Keep pushing—this'll be the last time I hire you if we don't get a single damn fish!"
"Sir, yes sir!" Alan gripped his tokon tightly, rowing with renewed energy.
"By the way, is it just the two of us this time, Mang Tiko? Are we picking up more crew from another barangay?" Alan finally noticed the lack of people onboard.
He had assumed others would arrive after him. Normally, a Pamalingan boat needed at least six men—two to row, two to handle the nets, and two to control the ends of the net during the fishing sequence.
In Pamaling, once a school of anchovies is spotted—usually by the faint silver glint of their bodies—the crew drops one end of the net, circles the school, then drops the other end to complete the trap. Slowly, they then gather the net, funneling the fish into a large net pocket in the center.
"No, there'll be three of us—" Mang Tiko began but then stopped.
He raised his tokon and struck a mound of black net in the boat.
POK!
"Aw-gay!" a voice yelped from under the pile.
A rugged man in his thirties emerged, massaging his head. His eyes still looked sleepy, and his face revealed the aftermath of a heavy drinking session. This was Kokong, Mang Tiko's nephew—a loud-mouthed bum who worked only to fund his drinking.
"Good morning, princess! Gonna sleep while I row this crap? Or should I throw you overboard?" Mang Tiko threatened with the tip of his tokon.
"I know, I know, sheesh…" Kokong grumbled, standing up unsteadily. He picked up a tokon, still rubbing his swollen head. It may have seemed harsh to others, but this was their version of a wake-up call.
"Hello Kokong! We meet again!" Alan greeted cheerfully.
"Oh, it's Alan Bobo!" Kokong laughed, mocking him. "Why are you here? Didn't I tell you not to come back? You bring bad luck every time!"
"I know! But—" Alan began to explain, but Kokong cut him off.
"So you know? Then why don't you leave now so we can find someone else? I know you can swim, dumb or not."
"There's no time, Kong," Mang Tiko interrupted. "All the available crew joined Edwin's Pamalingan," he added with obvious irritation.
"What?! Even our regulars?" Kokong was shocked.
For years, Mang Tiko's boat had a consistent crew of seven. Now, they had only three. It was still possible to operate, but incredibly difficult.
Starting from the west bank, it took at least two hours of nonstop rowing to reach the northern tip of Bantayan Island. No wonder all tokon crew had well-toned arms and abs.
Realizing the grueling night ahead, Kokong pleaded, "Can't we go back and get more peop—"
"I told you, no one's coming, idiot!" Mang Tiko snapped. "That bastard Edwin's offering three times my pay, with snacks and coffee to boot—"
"With snacks and coffee!? Uncle, is it okay if I jump to their boat later—"
BONK!
A quick strike from the tokon reminded Kokong that he had no choice but to serve on his uncle's crew.
Alan couldn't help but speak up. "I don't think it's good to keep hitting your nephew, Mang Tiko. He might become dumb—"
"Shut up! I don't need your pity!" Kokong snapped. "My uncle could hit me a thousand times—I'll never be stupid like you!"
"Stop talking and keep rowing. Those anchovies aren't catching themselves," Mang Tiko muttered.
"Yes SIR!" Alan answered, rowing with full force.
"Yeah, whatever. Just make sure if we catch a big haul tonight, I get ten times more than this monkey," Kokong added.
"That's if we catch anything," Mang Tiko mumbled, lighting a cigarette. The smoke drifted past Kokong and Alan.
The splash of their tokon hitting the water was the only sound as the sun dipped below the horizon.
In the distance, Alan saw children playing by the shore. Some played tag, others mock-fought, and some sat around a seaside fire.
Fishes occasionally leapt out of the water, startled by the boat's sound.
On the island's eastern side, the moon began to rise, casting a sleepy glow on the sea. Alan breathed in the salty air. His body was tiring, but his spirit was calm.
"I know. I can feel it. This time will be different," he whispered, eyes full of resolve.
Then his stomach grumbled.
KIOOOHHOOOGGHK~
"Oh no," Alan whispered, suddenly kneeling from the sharp cramp in his gut. He had a bad case of diarrhea.
They couldn't stop. They were already behind. Going back wasn't an option. Alan gritted his teeth and tried to hide it.
Noticing his slow rowing, Mang Tiko asked, "What now? Why so slow?"
"Uhm, Mang Tiko... do you have any medicine for diarrhea?"
"Really? Now? You know we don't bring meds. Why don't you just take a dump over there?"
Alan glanced at the water, hesitant.
"What, afraid you'll poison the sea?" Kokong laughed. "Look at Mr. Environmentalist here."
"I already went six times this afternoon," Alan confessed.
"You had diarrhea but still came with us? Lucky me! I've got a drunk and a sh*t-head on board!" Mang Tiko growled. "We're not stopping. Pray for a miracle—maybe your God will send you a bottle with medicine!"
Alan's eyes lit up. "That's actually a great idea!"
He put down his tokon and knelt. His figure reflected on the ocean's surface with the ripple getting further and further. The moon shines over his head creating a majestic glow on the edge while his praying voice like a midnight serenade against the calm sea.
"Father in heaven, thank you for this opportunity to work on Mang Tiko's boat. But with my condition, we might not make it. Please send me medicine so our trip won't be in vain…"
Kokong couldn't help but mock him. "You actually believe in God?"
"Probably learned it from his born-again mom. That rapping priest nonsense," Mang Tiko muttered, turning his gaze northward.
They could see no one—not even shadows of the other boats—as the darkness closed in.
Sigh.
"This is hopeless," he whispered.
Then—
"BINGO!"
Mang Tiko turned around to see Alan waving a tiny glass bottle with a glowing black pill inside.
"What the heck?!"
Alan looked at the pill and smiled. Maybe miracles really did float in the sea. And the rest... was history.