I’ve spent the past few months in a delightful cocktail of inebriation—mostly drunk and/or high, if we’re being honest. Sobriety has been as elusive as Jerry to Tom, of Tom and Jerry. Fortunately, I have a solid support system: Ed, my family, and my friends. What am I doing with my life? Honestly, who knows? And to be perfectly frank, I’m not sure I care. But let’s not wallow in my melodramatic coping strategies; that’s not the main event here.

The other night, Sheila and I found ourselves on yet another binge at Mogwai in Cubao Expo. Picture it: buckets of beer, sparkling repartee, and profound reflections on Jesse and Celine, punctuated by utterly pointless banter. You know the drill. After years of friendship, things can get—how shall I put it?—flat. Not boring, mind you, just flat. So, in true adventurous spirit, we decided to brainstorm ways to inject some excitement into the evening. The night was young, and so were we—at least in our minds. We’ve made questionable decisions before, like that one time we drunkenly boarded a provincial bus to Baguio on a school night. Sheila ended up puking her dinner all over herself, but oddly enough, I don’t remember the embarrassment. Perhaps it’s dissociative amnesia? I did learn in Psych class that our brains tend to forget the traumatic stuff. Sheila was also there when I impulsively got my first tattoo. Clearly, we bond over carelessness and questionable life choices.

After exhausting our options, we made a bold choice: let’s hit the beach! Because nothing screams “responsible adults” like a swim in the ocean at 5 in the morning. But the question remained: where? Ah, that was the million-peso question. We left Mogwai, a few drinks in, and found ourselves aimlessly driving. Inspired by the Eraserheads’ classic ‘Overdrive,’ we finally settled on Batangas. Off we went, southward! Our first pit stop was Coastal, where we promptly began the sobering process. It was then we realized Batangas is quite a trek, and given our earlier indulgences, we weren’t exactly in prime condition for such an epic journey. So we asked the ‘gasoline boys’ for recommendations. One of them cheerfully informed us that Cavite was only 2-3 hours away and had beaches. Beaches in Cavite? Who knew? Then again, The Philippines is an archipelago, so I probably should’ve known better. Rural yet logistically feasible, we set off for Cavite. Picture it: two tipsy twenty-somethings belting out Christmas carols with the windows down, wind in our hair, blissfully unaware of the impending disaster.

Not having a clear destination, we relied on the good graces of locals for directions. We weren’t picky; we just wanted to bury our toes in the sand, gaze at the sky, and let the salty sea kiss our skin. About two hours later, with the sun rising, we stumbled upon a place called ‘Aroma Beach Resort: Where Nice People Meet.’

 

We exited the car, eager to explore the resort. Our expectations were low, but calling it a “resort” felt like a stretch. It was, quite frankly, a bit of an eyesore. Everything seemed in dire need of an upgrade. The air carried a hint of mildew, the sand was black, and the sea had a murky hue. Ah, yes, I’ve certainly seen better. But the staff? They were warm, attentive, and greeted us like we were long-lost friends. It felt as though we were the only guests they’d seen in ages. More suspiciously, we likely were.

Despite the questionable ambiance, we were thrilled to have the beach almost to ourselves! First order of business: swimming in those oddly colored waters. But, since this was an unplanned adventure, we had no swimsuits. Aroma didn’t sell any either. So, we resolved to swim in our regular underwear. As we made our way back to the car to stash our belongings, Sheila suddenly froze. Panic washed over her face as she confessed: she’d left the keys inside the locked car.

Cue mild panic. Our valuables were trapped inside, we were three hours away from Manila, and all our cash—and both cellphones—were in the vehicle. This sobered us up faster than a cold shower. We scuttled back to the friendly Aroma staff for assistance. The manager suggested we head to a nearby city where locksmiths could help us. The catch? No stores were open that early—sunrise hadn’t even fully graced the sky yet. Plus, we had no money to get to the city—our wallets were still in the car. We considered borrowing from Aroma; they knew our plight and we’d leave the car as collateral. Come 9 AM, we’d find a locksmith! Voilà, a plan! Determined to make the best of our dire situation, we stripped down to our undies and bravely dove into the murky waters. Nothing, not even a minor crisis, would deter us from our pursuit of happiness.

By 7 AM, the sun shining brightly, we noticed a group of fishermen nearby. In a moment of desperation, Sheila let them in on our little saga. One fisherman eagerly claimed he knew exactly who could help us. He told us to wait, and we crossed our fingers. Moments later, a balding man with a groovy mustache and a vibe reminiscent of Ronnie Ricketts emerged from a hut, armed with a metal wire, a pair of pliers, and an aura of hyper-masculinity. Our hero! Ronnie Ricketts (not his real name) approached the locked car with confidence. I could tell he was a pro—maybe he moonlighted as a car thief, but who are we to judge? In no time, he had the doors unlocked. Crisis averted! And to our surprise, he refused any payment. We insisted on compensating him somehow, so we handed over a generous tip, two bottles of Coke, and a pack of cigarettes. He seemed genuinely grateful, and we were relieved. Sheila tucked the car keys into her pocket, and everyone was happy.

From there, things went as smoothly as we could hope. We drank more booze on the sand, frolicked in the sea like giddy children, and devoured freshly cooked lechon kawali and sinigang na baboy. The food was delicious—perhaps the only impressive aspect of Aroma. Then again, we were starving, and nothing quite compares to a good meal after a night of revelry. By noon, we were so lost in merriment that we almost forgot our earlier misadventures. Things were going splendidly.

But time flies when you’re having fun, doesn’t it? A few hours later, as we mindlessly splashed around, I had a gut feeling and innocently asked Sheila, “Hey, how are the keys?” She checked her pockets, and her eyes widened in horror. The keys were gone—again! This time, they had decided to take a swim in the sea. The very key that Ronnie Ricketts had valiantly rescued was now lost to the waves. Fantastic! As you can imagine, we were both upset. Okay, maybe we were giggling a bit, but only because the absurdity of it all was too rich to ignore.

To be continued…