Chasing The Sunrise In Boracay

I woke up on the beach with the sun roasting my face, and moved my hand up to my eyes to block the penetrating light. “Ahhh!” – people sitting on beach chairs around me had undoubtedly been watching for hours, wondering if I was going to wake up, or if I was even still alive. They now breathed a collective sigh of relief. Asian culture dictates a certain level of personal privacy, and no one wanted to intrude by calling for help or gently poking me; if I wanted to die on the beach, then these tourists were going to respect my decision.
My foot throbbed, and I sat up to inspect the deep gash on my right instep. Dried blood caked my skin – surely heightening the level of concern among onlookers – and my body ached like a prizefighter after a bout. "How did I end up here?" I thought, pulling myself unsteadily to my feet. I had seen better mornings.
Hours earlier, amidst a mixture of protests and encouragements from friends, I had set off into the jungle in an attempt to cross the tiny island of Boracay on foot. It was my last night in the Filipino vacation destination, and because my hotel was located on the west coast, I had not yet experienced a “post-card sunrise.” Determined to capture the memory and certain that the island was no more than a mile or two wide – “easily walkable,” I had boasted – I began trekking through the dense foliage barefoot, a decision which, in hindsight, proved unwise. After mangling my foot on a hidden piece of metal in the darkness, I eventually came to a vast swamp. Though I considered traversing it, my imagination quickly filled the murky waters with sharp-toothed horrors, and I was forced to abandon my mission.
Dejected, I began limping back as reds and oranges diffused into the depthless blue of the morning sky. In the new light, I began to see the true Boracay, the one that existed just beyond the resort buffets and all-night parties – women emerged from corrugated steel huts holding naked children; cars full of locals on their way to construction jobs packed the crumbling roads; free-range roosters crowed. Everyone stared at the lost, bleeding white kid. A group of men wearing filthy t-shirts smiled and handed me a warm Red Horse beer when I asked for directions.
“Salamat Po!” I said, and we clinked bottles with an “Aayyy!” – the universal cheers of brotherhood. After finishing my beer, I thanked the men again, then followed the sound of the ocean down to the clean, white beach where I collapsed, completely exhausted.