How To Panic During Your Banana Boat Ride and How To Break A Snorkeling Mask

Looking back, this trip to Puerto Galera, Mindoro in February 2005 was the beginning of my commitment to see the big world out there. I am scared of open water and unknown sea creatures that could harm me, but this sheltered soul only welcomed happy thoughts during the trip. I heard it’s the nearest sanctuary for desk jockeys like myself and I should let the beautiful backdrop do its magic on me.

A place for lovers

Sun, sand and strings!

Of course, the plan to enjoy the island is not limited to sight-seeing. With my friends’ encouragement, I said yes to banana boat and snorkeling. That time,. the banana boat rental was for P200/head for 20 minutes. Jet ski is for P2,500 per hour.

Ready for the adventure that lies ahead!

But if you were as cunning as Vannie, you’d get the banana boat and jetski at the price and duration of the former. She hopped off to the jetski before our 20 minutes were up. Scratch that, she ‘accidentally’ slipped off from the rear, boarded the front seat of the banana boat before we went for the third round then hopped off to the jetski before our 20 minutes were up. With my squinting eyes battling the sun and seawater, it was easy to imagine the jet skier (?)’s devilish grin as he splits off the rope connecting the jet ski and the banana boat and take her home. Luckily, he didn’t. With Vannie as the pilot, the final glide across the azure waters was as fast and smooth as a kalesa. How climactic.

Anyway, since it was my first time to try banana boat, let me assume you don’t know it either. Banana boat works this way: the man behind the jet ski (or boat) pulls the five-seater inflated boat to random points of the sea at a top speed until the passengers cry their go signal to be tossed out to the water. Unfortunately, the jet skier (Uhm, let’s call him Manong, shall we?) is not trained to decipher a yell of enjoyment from a shriek of self-made dread for sharks. When the boat tips over, the passengers should mount back to the boat on their own for another tour. Of course, it didn’t work that way for me. 1.) It took me 5 seconds to let go from the handle on round 1 out of panic; and 2.) Mitch, Maxi and Manong joined forces to tug me aboard on round 2.

Let me explain. My promising ascend for round 2 was cut short when Vannie made a bionic leap from my behind. It turns out we were pining for the same spot. The impact pushed me afar from the boat. I swear I struggled to reunite with that plastic perch. The next thing I knew, Mitch and Maxi were pulling me until my bossoms were pressed against the boat in a manner that no owner of XX chromosome would allow. No ouch escaped. I self-indignantly maneuvered for a climb but halted midway. With all respect for rhetoric, I announced, “Ang sakit ng ano ko, ng toes kooooooooo!”

***

On to the next water adventure! Snorkeling rates amount to P750 for 3 hours then P50/head for the equipment. If they offer it for P500, it’s likely they won’t take you to the Long Beach. Again, this rate is as of February 2005.

Due to some conflicts I do not wish to elaborate, snorkeling was reduced to cool down. Fewer slices, bigger sum. So Mitch, Maxi, Cleo and I took the P500-package. As soon as the boat engine stopped, I realized three hours of snorkeling are way too long. Or to be more accurate, 2 hours and 58 minutes. I might get bored stiff. This usually happens when one’s mind is hyped to something tremendously ecstatic. Based on Maxi’s calculation, it would take us 25 minutes to get to the Long Beach. I swallowed, thinking how that P250 would have extended the cinematic sensation of the sea breeze making my black mane soar away from my pallor.

Brushing bitterness aside, I geared up for the ultimate plunge. Life vest. Check. Snorkeling mask. Check. Flippers. Forget it. Cleo supplied me the details I need to know. How to breathe, how to wear the mask, the works. “Kagatin mo ‘to,” she instructed, pointing to the protruding pair from the mouthpiece.

The first fifty minutes, I guess, were awkward. I re-adjusted my mask for umpteen times, looked after my comrades but they’re too submerged to model for me, then realized the bread I was supposed to feed the fish were ten times enjoying the swim than I do. Subsequently, I feigned disturbance from the passing motorboats. If only they could see my eyes turning into tiny slits, they would definitely eat a humble pie. I attempted to appreciate what’s beneath, holding my breath. 1, 2, 3. My head would rise. Heavy panting ensued. Then I’d duck again, come up coughing since I let the air in through my nose. I suddenly missed yoga.

Cleo’s concerned voice interrupted my thoughts. I haven’t missed anyone in my life like that before! Inching closer in a speed you’d consider a breakthrough for the first time that afternoon, I admitted in a decibel equivalent to a negative integer that my mask has turned into a pacifier. I opened my palm for her to see the right pair is already detached. The other one is still holding on. I could only explain, “Sabi mo kagatin ko eh,”

Snorkeling with Mitch, Maxi and Cleo

Maxi was the first to go back. His alcohol exposure made him forgivable. Cleo decided to head back, too; she can no longer tolerate the shivers and the poor lighting down under. I panicked: what’s my excuse? There’s no way I can outlast someone in Marina complex. I joined Cleo, hoping a sea urchin bite would have made my snorkeling experience more eventful. Next to worrying if Manong would discover the damaged snorkeling mask during the boat ride back to White Island, of course.

Water(loo)

This is an amended version of this entry.