Balikbayan Part Three: Puffer Fish
“Puffer Fish” was originally part of the Balikbayan series, a collection of short stories from my childhood, which eventually inspired the full-length play of the same title. Self-published in 2017 after a trip to the Philippines, I refrained from editing this piece because I wanted to keep the thoughts and feelings I had as a 23-year old to remain as they were— without judgement and censure from the person I am today. I wanted to share these stories again, because as I was re-reading them, they felt like prologues to the inevitable journey I find myself in now.
Lutaw [lu-taw]
verb
To float
I breach the crystal surface and take a massive breath, swallowing a gulp of water before violently coughing it back up. I held on to the pool’s edge as I tried to ignore the strong taste of chlorine invading my nose. Next to me, my brother and cousins were gliding through the water with perfectly executed breaststrokes.
“Hurry back!” someone yelled from across the pool. I glared at him through my goggles hoping that he could see my resentment. At the ripe age of seven, I was convinced my swimming instructor was trying to kill me.
After narrowly avoiding summer school yet again in 2000, my mom thought it might be a good idea to sign my brother and I up for swimming lessons with our cousins—Rosie and Nico— at Pal Mas, a small resort about ten minutes away from our house. We’d wake up every morning with tired eyes from our usual summer sleepovers and we’d walk over as a group or take a trisikad, a type of cycle rickshaw people used for quick commutes between neighborhoods. On our first day of lessons, we were met by a dark-skinned, stocky man whose bald spot often blinded me with the sun’s reflection whenever he turned his back to me, which was often. He introduced himself to us by shaking each of our hands, which was odd considering none of us were above the age of twelve. As much as I wish I could tell you his name, I just can’t seem to remember it. Perhaps my mind has blocked it out along with the trauma, but I can tell you with confidence that he absolutely resembled a puffer fish.
“These are my assistants,” our instructor said.
At this point, I’m glad to note how appreciative I am that I haven’t fully developed at that time, because had I been, too much would have been revealed through my speedos (yes, speedos). Next to him stood two tall Adonises with skin sun kissed to a golden brown from their days spent frolicking around the pool, I assumed. These guys were in their twenties (I preferred older men even back then) and I’m glad to note, had fully developed and were revealing far too much through their speedos. But as cruel as the universe can be sometimes, I would never get their undivided attention. They helped mostly with Rosie, who was the oldest and was at a level above us, having taken classes before, and at times my brother and cousin Nico. As I was the youngest, and most likely to drown without any supervision, I was to spend all of my time with the puffer fish. I resigned myself to daydreaming about those two and trying to catch glimpses of them in the changing rooms. Despite the slight bitterness with which I am recalling my memories of the puffer fish, I did have a favorable first impression of him. The first two weeks of my lessons were spent trying to master the doggie paddle, a stroke executed by moving both the hands and feet in a circular motion while maintaining the head above water. This move amused my seven-year-old self far too much and I can only imagine how giddy my tiny head must have looked zipping back and forth the length of the pool. My teacher was extremely encouraging. He praised me and presented me with a certificate commemorating my mastering of the doggie paddle in only a few sessions. Little did I know, that he was merely leading me to a false sense of security like a puffer fish to... algae? I actually had to Google what puffer fish eat.
I was introduced to the freestyle stroke in my third week of lessons. The puffer fish meticulously demonstrated the maneuvers before allowing me to attempt it. He had me try it on the shallow end of the pool at first, but I was getting more and more excited with each instruction. Fresh from my victory over the doggie paddle, I was more than ready to start doing laps. After my first attempt, I was unexpectedly met with furrowed eyebrows. The puffer fish was not happy. After my second attempt, his eyebrows lowered further down his face. This continued on with each attempt until he was squinting at me. I squinted back. How dare he not praise me?
“Your legs aren’t straight,” he commented. “Try again.”
This continued on until the next session. I’d race back and forth across the pool for an hour and a half and he’d give me the same comment. He was getting angrier and I was getting more and more frustrated as my brother and cousins moved on to new strokes. By my third session with the freestyle, I was quickly lagging behind everyone else.
“Hand it to me,” the puffer fish ordered one his assistants halfway through the lesson. Adonis 2 grabbed a silk handkerchief from the edge of the pool and dangled it in front of me. As a twenty-three year old, I would have welcomed this sight, but back then, I was confused.
“You’re going to tie this around your thighs and swim back and forth until your legs straighten out.”
I looked at him like he was insane. This man was sending a seven-year-old to swim towards the deep end of the pool with his legs tied. I laughed at him until he pinned me down with another one of his by-now-frequent squints. I squinted back. I tied the handkerchief just above my knees, dipped under water, and pushed back against the wall to start a lap. I hope I drown, I thought, he’d get in so much trouble. By the end of that lesson, my legs were bruised, exhausted, and no straighter than I am now. On the way home, my brother and cousins were excitedly talking about their own progress as I attempted to master a different maneuver— the eye roll. By the time of my next lesson, I had spent an unreasonable amount of time trying to figure out how to properly drown myself so that the puffer fish would go to jail and I could leisurely spend the rest of my days at the kiddie pool.
The same thing happened once again. I lapped around the pool until the puffer fish stopped me when he saw my frustrations. I remember being close to tears, which he became aware of when he saw water inside my goggles. He tried to comfort me, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the three figures swimming across the pool. I didn’t get it at the time, but the piece of advice he gave me would probably be one of the most valuable ones I’ll ever get.
“You can’t focus on what they’re doing,” he said softly. “You can only focus on what you’re doing and doing the best that you can do.”
Eventually, I’d take the handkerchief off my legs and he’d present me with another certificate, but it wouldn’t be until one of the last sessions. Even to this day, whenever I’m swimming, I can hear his voice in the back of my mind commanding me: “straighten those legs out.” I recently thought about him when my family spent a few days at Pal Mas. I wondered if he was still teaching kids how to swim and if he’s still giving some seven-year-old a hard time. But more importantly, I wondered where his assistants are now as I sighed dreamily.
