When the river rose, my father didn’t hesitate.
One rainy morning, the river had swallowed the spillway between our village and the town. The current was strong, the water high—but school was open, and I refused to miss it.
My father threw me over his back, grabbed the rope stretched across the rushing water, and stepped in.
One foot, then the next. Slow. Steady. Determined.
That wasn’t a rescue mission. That was my commute to school.
I grew up in a small village in Bulan, Sorsogon. Life was simple—but never lacking in the things that mattered. We didn’t have much, but we had food on the table, a roof over our heads, and the kind of love that made you feel safe even when the world outside was uncertain.
As the eldest, I always felt like my parents carried a quiet hope for me. They believed in who I could become, even before I did. That belief showed up in small sacrifices—like transferring me from our local elementary to central school in town. It was a public school too, but bigger, with more students, more teachers, and more opportunities. I thrived there—always on the honor roll—and I carried that sense of responsibility with me, even when the river threatened to block the way.
At home, we lived simply. We had electricity, but no fridge, no TV, no fan. We cooked in a dirty kitchen outside, using firewood. Eventually, we upgraded to a gas stove, and it felt like a big deal.
We didn’t have phone lines. If we needed to send a message to someone in another barangay, we relied on snail mail—or a trusted neighbor heading that way. It wasn’t fast or convenient, but it worked. People showed up when they said they would.
Water came from a nearby spring, and we fetched it in gallons. We took baths in the river or used water from a manual well in our backyard. Laundry happened by the river too—squatting on smooth rocks, soaping clothes, and letting the suds float downstream. I know it wasn’t eco-friendly, but back then, it was simply what we did to get through the day.
That stormy day—the one with the rope across the river—is a memory that lives in me like a quiet anthem. The rope wasn’t a toy or an adventure—it was a necessity. A lifeline built by the village to make sure children could still go to school and families could still reach the town market. Looking back, I guess you could say that was my first zip line experience—not the fun kind, but the kind built from bamboo, knots, and love.
That’s the kind of place I come from. We didn’t have a lot, but we had enough. We had ingenuity. We had each other. And we had parents like mine—who carried more than just our weight. They carried our dreams too.
I think about those days more often than I admit. Not out of nostalgia, but to remind myself of what shaped me. These stories aren’t just memories. They’re reminders that love, resilience, and community can carry you far—sometimes across rivers, sometimes across a lifetime.
Today would have been my father’s birthday.
He passed away almost 11 years ago, but I still feel the strength of his steps in every challenge I take on. The rope may be gone. The river, too. But his belief in me? That’s still here.
Still holding me.
Still carrying me forward.
Stride & Wander 