We immediately began scouring the seabed with our feet, and Sheila bravely submerged her face in the murky water, eyes wide open. Meanwhile, I opted for the safer route—no need for saltwater stinging my vision. We searched with increasing desperation, knowing full well how hopeless it was. Not long after, a boat with six fishermen drifted by. I waved them over, and they kindly joined our search. But failure loomed; nobody could find the key. I offered to pay them for their trouble, but they graciously declined. After all, the keys were still missing and we were still in deep shit

And so, here we were: two tipsy adventurers, stranded at a less-than-ideal beach, contemplating the depths of our own incompetence. But hey, at least we had each other, a story worth telling, and a newfound appreciation for the phrase, “Always keep a spare key.” Who knew?

Desperate times called for desperate measures, so we turned to the locals for help. Word spread faster than the latest celebrity scandal. Within minutes, the entire strip of huts along the seashore was buzzing about our rather ludicrous predicament. We quickly found ourselves surrounded by fishermen and other well-meaning locals, each eager to lend a hand—or, at the very least, enjoy the spectacle of two hapless pseudo-adults floundering in their own misfortune. Despite the onlookers who seemed more interested in our misery than in solving our plight, we were genuinely grateful for any assistance.

Two valiant souls stepped forward, offering to use their fishnet to fish the key from the briny depths. We warned them that our swimming area was rather expansive, but their determination was commendable. After a few futile minutes of flailing about, we began to reconsider our options.

Option 1: The resort manager, who seemed to possess a heart larger than the ocean, proposed sending someone to the city to fetch a locksmith. Perhaps they could conjure a car key out of thin air, but no guarantees. Option 2: One of us could embark on a seven-hour round trip back to Manila for the duplicate key while the other sat guard over the car. Leaving it behind felt like inviting trouble, and we were already sticking out like sore thumbs—a fact that didn’t escape the notice of any potential thieves.

Given our less-than-brilliant circumstances, Option 1 became the obvious choice.

With a sympathetic nod, the manager dispatched a man on a fancy tricycle to fetch the locksmith. This was a long wait, and patience was not our strong suit. The weight of our predicament began to sink in. If the locksmith failed, we’d be forced to spend the night at Aroma—clearly a punishment far worse than our initial folly. Sheila was starting to unravel, while I, in my own special way, was handling the crisis beautifully. If by “handling” you mean a colorful array of profanity and blasphemy, then yes, I was a model of composure.

After what felt like an eternity—though it was only about an hour—we finally spotted the fancy tricycle rolling in, our potential savior inside: the locksmith. We explained our plight for what felt like the hundredth time. He seemed optimistic, and we couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope ignite within us.

With the confidence of a man who had surely faced worse challenges than a lockout, the locksmith set to work. Yank here, tug there, twitch, file, file, twiddle, tweak, file again. In less than an hour, he emerged victorious, having fashioned a new key from the ether itself. He unlocked the car and turned the ignition. It worked! An Aroma miracle, albeit a rather pricey one. The locksmith charged us handsomely, but at that point, we were just relieved to escape our absurd predicament. We were more than willing to throw money at the problem—even if it meant being slightly taken advantage of. Gratitude filled the air; he was thankful, we were thankful, and suddenly everyone was happy once again.

This time, I clutched the key like it was the Holy Grail. I tied it securely to the cord of my camera and wore it around like a bracelet, vowing to protect it with my life. Our trauma was shaken off, and we determined to reclaim our joy. So we did what any rational humans would do: we drank more, ate more, and happily splashed about in the questionable waters, as if we were seasoned pros. We found our escape—or rather, we forced it. Either way, we were free!

For a place with the corniest catchphrase ever, Aroma wasn’t half bad. I owe a debt of gratitude to the staff, especially the manager, the fishermen, the ever-curious locals, the tricycle driver, and, of course, the locksmith. They all helped us without asking for anything in return, which more than made up for the less-than-pleasant aspects of our stay. In true Aroma fashion, what a lovely bunch of people we met! I will remember them fondly.

And just when we thought our luck had turned, on our drive back to Manila, the MMDA pulled us over and issued a ticket for a color-coding violation. They say when it rains, it pours!