Racy in Boracay
They slouched on long wooden benches and throttled their Pale Pilsen as if these might scurry off. The crate of downed amber bottles by their feet suggested pleased celebration. They looked like any group of working men just done with hard labor. Except that the sand beneath their feet was gleaming white, stretching on to a tropical beach that some believe to be among the finest in the world.
The beer guzzlers are fishermen from Malay, Aklan. They also happen to be fantastic paraw (native double outrigger sailboat) racers. This particular group sailed Tequila Sunrise, finishing third in its category mere hours ago in a paraw regatta in Boracay Island. Still flushed with race rush, these men felt electric and er, we were counting on that.
We in this case confess to have been in a do-it-all-in-Boracay mode, as evidenced by the jellyfish sting from snorkeling around Croc Island, the ridiculously lubed skin from the coco oil shiatsu, the tattooed wrist, the motorbike tambutso burn on an ankle, the strained waistband after succulent seafood and sinful crepes, and the shuffle of tie-dye, sarong, and beads that we’ve become after a visit to the talipapa.
Not content with the damage thus far, we gawked at the tableful of San Mig devotees. Blood-shot eyes pinned us for what had better be a good reason for the intrusion.
In the vernacular, we explained as fast as we could: We sat on a boat during the paraw race, and we were amazed over how fast the wind propelled the contenders, and we could tell from the boats that got tangled that maneuvering was no easy skill, and we were wondering if they could, maybe, if they didn’t feel we were being such touristy pests, teach us how to sail a racing paraw and so on and so forth.
They looked like they were thinking about it.
My friend Marla hastened to promise: We’ll treat you to a case of Pale Pilsen after.
Replied a heavyset, maroon-faced man: His paraw is no ordinary fishing boat. (He dismissed the bancas lining the shore with a wave.) He’ll show us. Tomorrow at 10 o’ clock, Tequila Sunrise would dock at Balabag. Be there. His name’s Charlie Gumboc, by the way, and he’s won in fiesta races, out-of-town invitationals, and had been a paraw grand slam champ.
That’s right, piped in a mustached crewmember. Chulie’s a legend around here. That man’s been playing with paraws long before girls started to catch his eye. Sure, kids from these parts know their rudder and sail; their Panay heritage demanded that. But Chulie, he’s a natural. They call him kuto ng dagat. He lives for the sea. What’s more, he’s a skilled paraw builder.
Well, well, the man has a fan club. Good, we wrangled a tutorial from a master.
So off to the high seas we sailed the next day. Since Chulie was busy with the running commentary, he hand-picked to be captain the curiously named Antonio Tumaob (tumaob being Tagalog for toppling over.) Sharing the task of balancers were Chulie, fisherman Ronnie Cahilig, me and Marla (the-one-who-promised-beer and therefore precious cargo to Chulie and company).
This is how it was: pony-tailed Kapitan Antonio sat, with legs extended, on the banca. With the rope grasped between his hands, he shifted the triangular sail and foresail and in seconds, he snared wind. As we cut through the water with amazing speed, Antonio’s feet danced; clamped between his toes was rope that pulled the timon (rudder). As you can imagine, Antonio is a very limber and coordinated man.
Meanwhile, our place was on the katig (outrigger), pliable but strong bamboo that served as counterweights on both sides of the boat. Two parallel poles with netting (think hammock) bridged the outrigger and boat. Marla and I sat on the netting, feeling like the day’s catch, while Chulie pointed at how the wind beat the sails and how the boat’s hull and right outrigger balanced the boat. As the wind ripped harder, the boat leaned heavily to the right (and we went down like a see-saw while the left outrigger hung in the air.)
Sure-footed Ronnie moved up the booms of the hanging outrigger. The boat settled. When the wind reshifted, Ronnie moved back to the other outrigger.
And that, said Chulie, is why you are called balancers.
Uh, no problem. We didn’t exactly leap around with grace the way Chulie and Ronnie did. In fact, we often had to move on all fours to make sure we didn’t fall overboard but hey, we were thrilled to put our weight to good use.
As Tequila Sunrise edged near another paraw, Chulie shouted: Lumbaanay na! He challenged his friends on the other boat (named C-Line) to a race over Tabon Strait to Cubay Norte, Malay. Chulie, who looked portly and fiftyish on land, shed off a decade on blue water. He was lighter, quicker, clearly in his element. Bracing against the wind, tasting the salt, staring out to sea, what more could a person want? He said a beer in hand right that second sure would be nice.
Photos by Alexies Santiago
