In 1966 my girlfriend Norma and I flew with some other Peace Corps friends to Zamboanga, Mindanao, and then on to Jolo in the Sulu Sea via a smuggler’s boat. We left at night with a case of San Miguel beer and not much more than a promise from a cute guy I met on the plane that this boat would get us to Jolo and maybe beyond, if we so desired. Beyond was Borneo, which we seriously considered. The boundaries of the Philippines and Borneo were so permeable as to be nonexistent, and if we had decided to go on to that Sultanate we might even now be at the bottom of the Sulu Sea or languishing in some harem, or more likely, as slaves in a house of prostitution. Since we had to be back at our school to teach in two weeks, the mundane trumped the glamorous, and I am here to tell my story.
It has to do with memories of flying fish, called up by this sumptuous illustration of the creature by Aldovandi (1522-1605).
Our Jolo trip has stories within stories, but this memory is about a full moon shining on a glassy sea, and the boat churning out phosphorous in the rear.....and flying fish, leaping and gliding along our boat like small winged dolphins. They would rise, sparkle silver in the moonlight and fall like swords into the sea, except for the few that thumped onto the deck. Norma and I gathered around one fish to watch it as its colors, rainbow at first, faded to blue and then dark grey. A shawled Muslim woman came up silently behind us and picked up the fish from the deck, deftly filleted it with a sharp knife she carried in her belt, and motioned to us to come with her down into the hold. There was a small box of sand on the floor with a brazier with charcoal, and she lit the charcoal with a twist of paper and roasted the fish. It was cooked in minutes, and we shared a flying fish snack. Chewy (all muscle, this fish!), without seasoning, but certainly fresh.
Later, full of beer and worn out from the excitement, I crawled into one of the wooden bunks to sleep in the captain’s cabin. The captain, while polite, paid me little attention as he steered the boat through the shining sea. Mild breezes came in through the open doors and windows and while the bunks had no mattresses or pillows, I was grateful for a place to sleep. Twenty-five and exhausted, I slept dreamlessly until sunrise, and woke to the sound of the captain singing a minor song, a high ululation in an unfamiliar dialect. Rising on my elbows, I saw that we were sailing through a pink fog where flying fish were arching in gleaming loops of mercury, slip, curve and shatter.
It was so splendid and strange. For a half hour I dangled my legs over the edge of the bunk and looked out at a gauzy apricot world flashing with our glittering winged armada. The captain sang, the fish flew, and I almost forgot to breathe.
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