"Love, Liquor, Drunkenness and the Launch of a New Business on White Beach Mindoro."

Chapter 6

The dawn broke softly, casting a muted light over the battered remnants of our night’s revelry. Dad and I awoke, each feeling the weight of hours spent in stories spun from memory’s fragile thread, shadows lingering behind our eyes. It was a day destined for moments of reflection, a quiet interlude before the world demanded more. Dad’s morning began with a ritual—clearing the stubborn blood that clung to his throat, a silent reminder of the toll taken by nights of smoke and careless indulgence. Yet, his spirit remained unbowed, unruffled by the discomfort. Coffee steamed in his mug, mingling with the lingering scent of tobacco, as he faced the day with a stoic ease. Nothing seemed to shake him; he was a man carved from the same resilient stone. He inquired about Cain, a flicker of hope in his eyes—would he come by for drinks, share in the warmth of family’s simple joys?

But fate, as ever, had other plans. Cain had woven himself into a different story—one of sparks and new beginnings. A hot date, a woman of promise and promise’s who ran her own business, owned her own wheels, and they planned a road trip to some distant, forgotten place I could no longer recall. I cautioned Cain, whispering words of warning—be wary, for beneath the surface, some women hide intentions sharper than their smiles. The world is a tangled web, and exploitation lurks in shadows cast by charm and allure. As Cain prepared to depart, I found solace in the quiet company of my father, grateful for the rare gift of time—time to simply be, to share these fleeting moments before life’s ever-turning wheel spun us onward into the unknown.

My week in Angeles City with my father was a rare, shimmering moment—fleeting yet unforgettable. We shared quiet conversations and laughter that felt like a gentle balm, a bond that from my side now seemed more like friendship than tradition. Time slipped through my fingers, and though I wished I could stay longer, I knew a week was the most I could give him. Leaving a few days early weighed heavily on me, especially since he had wanted me to join him at the downtown bar for Melbourne Cup Day—a celebration I knew would have been a highlight, a memory etched in the glow of my stay there. But my plans in Manila beckoned, unbreakable and urgent, pulling me back to the chaos I called my happy place.

Cain’s journey was a different story—his road trip, once full of promise, now seemed to be unraveling. She was always after something more, tempting him with shopping sprees and teasing him in the quiet hours, never fully giving herself over. He saw her for what she was—a gold digger, a shadow of desire and disappointment. I warned him from the beginning: be careful. Don’t waste your time on illusions, I told him, knowing all too well how lust can be laced with betrayal. Now, frustration simmered beneath his words, and I urged him to leave her behind, to return to Manila where I would be waiting—an anchor amidst the storm. Cain followed my advice, and before I knew it, he was back in Manila, swirling through the city’s chaos like a leaf caught in an unpredictable wind.

We plunged headlong into the vibrant pulse of the metropolis—its cacophonous streets, neon-lit alleys, and the scent of grilled seafood hanging heavy in the warm night air. Laughter spilled from us like a restless river, echoing through the bustling neighborhoods as I led him through familiar streets—places I’d spoken of in quiet moments, now alive with our footsteps. Manila, with its wild, unrestrained spirit, had become a backdrop for our reckless joy, a place where time seemed to pause just long enough for us to forget the world beyond. But amid the revelry, an undercurrent of anticipation pulsed beneath our days. We knew a different horizon beckoned: the distant, tranquil shores of Mindoro, where an old friend awaited, and a new challenge loomed. After days of surrendering to Manila’s frenetic rhythm, we boarded a bus that wound its way southward, a vessel carrying us toward the promise of change.

The journey was a fleeting passage through landscapes shifting in color and texture—urban sprawl melting into lush greenery, the sea breeze whispering promises of what was to come. Finally, we arrived at Balatero Port, a quaint gateway to the island’s quiet heart. From there, a cheerful tuk-tuk, its engine humming a familiar tune, whisked us along a winding road to White Beach—our humble refuge nestled right on the edge of the shimmering water. The sands stretched out before us like a whispering invitation, the gentle surf lapping at the shore as if to welcome us home. Our modest accommodations stood just steps away from the frothing tide, simple yet perfect in its familiarity.

Some photos of me on White Beach.

For me, White Beach was a place woven into the fabric of my past. I had wandered its sands twice before, each visit, a chapter in my own unfolding story—moments of reflection, fleeting joys, quiet sorrows. It was a place I knew well, yet never truly knew completely. Not my favorite spot in the Philippines, perhaps, but a place that carried its own quiet magic, a canvas waiting for a new story to be painted upon it. This time, however, was different. I wasn’t here merely to revisit old haunts or to find fleeting respite. I was here for something more—an opportunity, a challenge that shimmered like a mirage on the horizon. The air was thick with potential, and beneath the lazy sway of palm fronds, I felt the weight of what lay ahead. The plan was ambitious: to cut down the towering coconut groves that had thrived for generations, to carve out a new future from the rugged earth.

I watched as Cain and Graham prepared to meet—two men from worlds apart, yet bound by a shared purpose, their minds already weaving through the fine details of logistics, labor, and vision. Graham had made White Beach his home—a quiet, contemplative man who found solace in the ebb and flow of the tides. His presence was calm, deliberate, like the steady rhythm of the sea. I was eager to see how he and Cain would wrestle with each other’s ideas, how they would navigate the delicate balance of progress and preservation, of dreams and reality. The planning would be meticulous, a dance of strategy and intuition, and I watched with a quiet hope that they would find a way forward—together, perhaps, or at least in understanding.

As the days slipped by, we let ourselves surrender to the languid pace of island life. Manila’s chaos was replaced by the gentle lull of the ocean, the soft rustle of leaves, and the warm glow of sunset that bathed everything in gold. It was a brief respite, a pause in the relentless march of time, before we prepared to face the next chapter. And now, standing on the sands of White Beach once more, I felt the weight of possibility settle over me. This place, familiar yet transformed, held the promise of something greater—a story waiting to unfold beneath the vast, endless sky. The horizon stretched out, infinite and uncertain, whispering of adventures yet to come, of battles to be fought, and of a future shaped by the hands of men daring enough to dream beyond the confines of what was.

Finally, the moment arrived Cain and Graham, face to face, their eyes locking in a silent acknowledgment of the weight that hung between them. I knew both men well enough to sense the fierce strength simmering beneath their calm exteriors, each of them a vessel filled with unyielding resolve and the stubbornness of men who had weathered storms before. Graham, with his measured tone and deliberate gestures, laid out the blueprint like an architect unveiling a grand design—every detail, every step, mapped out with precision. His voice was steady, almost meditative, as if he were sketching the future in the air, breaking down the complex into comprehensible parts: what needed to be done, how it must be done, and in what order.

Cain, ever the attentive observer, listened with a sharpness that betrayed his relentless curiosity. Then, with a piercing focus, he launched into a barrage of questions—each one carefully chosen, each one probing the depths of their plan. He inquired about equipment, permits, lodging, wages—every conceivable element that could turn a dream into a nightmare if overlooked. His questions weren’t merely about logistics; they were about trust, about ensuring that every piece of the puzzle fit perfectly, that no unforeseen problem would rear its head later down the line and bite us in the ass when we least expected it.

Watching them converse was an exhausting ordeal, a relentless dance of logic and instinct, a tapestry woven from threads of experience, doubt, and hope. It was like trying to follow the intricate patterns of a spider’s web—delicate yet resilient, fragile yet capable of holding the weight of an entire empire. I found myself silently questioning my own shortcomings, realizing why I was not cut out to be a businessman. The relentless scrutiny, the endless weighing of options, the careful balancing of risk and reward—these were burdens I was glad to relinquish. There was so much to consider—so many variables that could sway the outcome—an avalanche of details that demanded attention. I knew it would take days, perhaps weeks, for these two men to forge a plan that would be both practical and affordable, one that could stand firm against the inevitable storms of adversity.

Their conversation stretched on, a marathon of ideas and doubts, each man deflecting and probing, shaping a fragile vision into something tangible. And yet, amid the chaos of their deliberations, I saw something rare—the quiet persistence that only comes from men who refuse to surrender to failure. I saw the flicker of hope behind their eyes, the stubborn determination to carve out a future from the tangled roots of this enterprise. For all the exhaustion and frustration, I knew that in their relentless pursuit of clarity, they would find a way—step by step, detail by detail—to turn a daunting challenge into a testament to perseverance. As I watched them, I felt a strange sense of awe—an appreciation for the slow, deliberate craft of planning, the quiet poetry in each question and answer, and the unspoken promise that, someday, their shared vision might just become reality. All that remained was patience, and the unwavering belief that even in the face of complexity and uncertainty, men could forge something lasting—if only they dared to persist long enough

All this talk about business—constant, relentless—was starting to chew into my fun factor, gnawing at it like a rat in the walls of my mind. I felt the weight of it pressing down, dulling the sharp edges of the night’s promise. So I turned to Cain, my voice carried with a sense of urgency, a craving for escape. “We need to get on the piss and tear it up tonight,” I declared, a grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. His eyes lit up, a fire ignited by the promise of reckless abandon. He was all in.

White Sand—an oasis of neon and laughter that beckons Manila’s restless souls like a siren song. It’s a stretch of coastline where the air hums with anticipation, where bars and restaurants spill out onto the sands, full of lively, unguarded people. Especially on weekends, when the city’s pulse quickens, and the night becomes a living, breathing thing. Lucky for us, it was that very weekend, and the promise of chaos shimmered just beyond the horizon.

We began at the far end of the beach, where a band played with a raw, unpolished energy—a sound so familiar in the Philippines, yet always electric. The music was a thick, intoxicating fog that blanketed the air, wrapping around us like a warm blanket spun from melodies and memories. Cain and I found a table, unpretentious but perfect—just enough space, just enough noise. Not overly crowded, but lively enough to feel alive. We sat there, drinks in hand, letting the music seep into our bones, the world shrinking to this moment, this sound.

When Cain decided to venture to the bar for another round, I watched him go, feeling the night’s energy pulse through my veins. On his way back from the bar he got talking to a local girl. From where I was sitting I could see her eyes bright, her confidence unshaken. She looked like she’d seen the world and wasn’t afraid of it. I left him to work his magic, knowing that sometimes the night was best left to its own devices.

As the seconds stretched into minutes, a restless hunger stirred within me. The bar’s atmosphere, while lively, didn’t quite satisfy my craving for chaos, for the unpredictability that makes the night worth remembering. I looked around, scanning the crowd—there weren’t enough girls, enough energy, enough something to stir my soul. The kind of night that makes your heart race and your mind forget its worries.

I got up, weaving through the tables and bodies like a shadow, heading toward Cain to get my beer. As I approached, snippets of conversation floated to my ears, and I caught sight of him—boasting to the girl, his voice low and threatening, like a villain in a film. “I’m the baddest dude around,” he said, a wicked grin curling across his face. “I do things that you can’t even imagine—things most people wouldn’t believe.”

My stomach clenched. “Cain,” I barked, my voice sharp and cutting through the music, “what the hell are you saying to this woman? Are you threatening her?”

She, unfazed, looked at him with a mixture of amusement and defiance. She straightened her back and said, “Don’t worry. I used to deal with bad guys. He doesn’t scare me.” Her voice was steady, but beneath it lay a story of pain, of scars hidden behind her bright eyes. She told me—with her words—that her American husband was a brute, a shadow that haunted her every day. That he’d beaten her, shattered her sense of safety, and she had finally kicked him out, breaking free from the nightmare.

I paused, absorbing her words. The night’s chaos suddenly felt heavier, more real. Maybe these two—Cain, with his malicious sadistic rant , and her, with her scars—belonged in the same tragic story. I looked at Cain, shaking my head slightly. “Lay off the bad talk stuff,” I muttered. “Seriously. I’ll catch you later.” I felt the pull of other bars, other opportunities that waited just beyond the horizon.

“I’m going to look for some fun,” I added, a promise to myself as much as to him. “I’ll be back later.”

He nodded, already lost in his own world of alcoholism, and I turned away, the night sprawling before me like an uncharted map. The music, the laughter, the shadows—it all beckoned. I knew I’d find what I was looking for somewhere along this coast of chaos.

As I moved through the crowd, the salty air thick with promise, I couldn’t help but think about the stories that would linger long after the night was gone—the stories of the girl, the brute, the night that refused to be tamed. For now, I was just a wanderer, chasing the fleeting thrill of pussy, eager to see what the darkness would reveal next.

As I wander up and down the beach front in search for a suitable place to enjoy the evening an undercurrent of irritation simmered within me. The ladyboys—loud, insistent—pursued their relentless pursuit with a vigor that bordered on hostility. Their voices, sharp and unyielding, cut through the salty air, and their gestures, aggressive and unrestrained, shimmered like shadows cast by a restless midnight tide. They were bigger, bolder—rougher, even—than the gentle, understated Thais I’d known. Their presence was a tempest, an uninvited storm that threatened to drown the quiet peace I sought.

Yet, somehow, I always managed to slip past their grasp, moving like a ghost through the chaos, my steps light and deliberate, my mind focused on finding sanctuary. The beach was a labyrinth of chaos and calm, a place where the line between serenity and disturbance was as thin as a blade’s edge. I wandered on, seeking a haven that felt right, a place where I could breathe free from the relentless harassment.

And then, like a lighthouse guiding a lost sailor, I spotted it—a modest bar-restaurant nestled at the edge of the sand. It had the right vibe, the kind of place where the air was thick with the scent of salt, beer, and unspoken promises. I made my way inside. I reached out and grabbed a cold beer from the bar, the condensation cooling my palm, a small victory against the humidity and the day’s frustrations.

Scanning the scene, my eyes settled on her—the one my heart had been searching for amid the crowded place. She sat at a corner table on the very edge of the establishment, closest to the vast, whispering ocean beyond. Dressed in white, she seemed to glow against the darker backdrop of the bar, her presence as natural and inevitable as the tide itself. Her beauty was arresting eyes that shimmered like twin pools of midnight, a smile that hinted at secrets, curves that told their own stories. She embodied everything I had come here for: allure, mystery, a promise of something more.

I felt an undeniable pull, an urgent need to approach her. But her table was occupied—surrounded by Filipino men, their chatter and laughter weaving around her like a protective cocoon. They seemed friendly, familiar, as if they shared a bond that I could not yet understand. My heart thumped with a mixture of nerves and desire, yet I refused to be deterred.

Heart pounding, I steeled myself and strode confidently across the sand and tables, my steps steady as I approached her. With a voice steady but respectful, I asked, “May I join you?” Her eyes lifted, meeting mine, and in that moment, her face blossomed into a smile—an expression that said she was pleased, perhaps surprised, but welcoming.

She nodded, her smile widening as she beckoned me to sit. I introduced myself, my words flowing in the humid air, trying to mask the nervousness that threatened to surface. As I settled into the space between us, I cast a quick glance at the men around her, trying to sense any hostility or suspicion. But what I found instead was warmth—an openness that felt like a gift, a testament to the hospitality I’d come to love about Asia—the way strangers are greeted as old friends, the way kindness is woven into everyday life.

Turning to her, I asked softly, “Are any of these men your boyfriend? Or are they just friends?” Her smile played on her lips as she replied, “No, we’re all friends.” The words were like a melody, a clear note amid the symphony of sounds around us. It was a simple answer, yet it ignited a fire within me—a spark of hope, a thrill of possibility. For in that moment, the universe seemed to pause, holding its breath, and I knew I was exactly where I was meant to be.

From the moment our eyes met, it was as if the universe had whispered its secrets just for us, threading our destinies together in an instant. Conversation flowed between us like a gentle stream, effortless and pure, as if the beers we sipped were catalysts for something far more profound. In that fleeting, luminous moment, happiness wrapped itself around me like a familiar melody—the kind that lingers long after the last note has faded. She had everything I could have ever desired: a personality that sparkled brighter than the stars, a look that could make the moon jealous, and a body carved by the hands of a master artist. But most intoxicating of all? She was into me—her gaze, her smile, her laughter all spoke a language I understood without words.

I made my intentions crystal clear that night. No ambiguity, no games—just raw honesty. I wanted her, for tonight, to be mine in every sense. I’d been told once, in a whisper that still echoed in my mind, that lovemaking was simply the continuation of a perfect night—a poetic dance that began with stolen glances and ended in whispered promises. And as I looked at her, I believed it again. That magic was awakening, alive in the air between us.

We lost ourselves in conversation, the hours slipping by unnoticed—each word, each laugh, a thread woven into the fabric of this fleeting connection. Then, softly, I suggested we check on Cain at the bar where my night had begun. That place, alive with the pulse of music and the hum of life, was where I’d first found my footing, with Cain. I told her I wanted to see how Cain was doing, to make sure he was holding up—perhaps a subtle excuse to extend our night just a little longer.

She hesitated, her eyes shimmering with mischief and anticipation. “Give me another hour here,” she whispered, her voice like a caress, “and then we’ll head down.” I nodded, a smile curling at my lips, content with her words. The bar we were in was alive—a heartbeat of energy that coursed through every table and every song. I made a point to speak kindly to the men around us, ensuring she felt comfortable, not pulled away from her friends, but part of this vibrant scene.

Time seemed to dilate, stretching and folding over itself, until at last, we rose to leave. The air shifted, anticipation thickening. We made our way back to Cain’s bar, the beach outside alive with the buzz of nightlife. As we entered the outdoor bar, the atmosphere snapped like a taut wire.

And then chaos erupted.

Cain, a volcano of fury, barely able to string together a coherent word. His face was red, eyes blazing, and his voice, when he finally managed to speak, was thick with alcohol and rage. It was a warning shot in the dark.

Before I could fully process what was happening, a man—Canadian, tall, with a hostile glare—approached me abruptly. His face was twisted with anger and suspicion, as if I had committed some unpardonable crime. “Is this your friend?” he barked, voice sharp and accusatory, the hostility dripping from every syllable.

I looked at him calmly, even as my pulse quickened. “Yes,” I said simply, trying to keep my tone even.

His eyes narrowed further, and suddenly, his voice was a dagger. “Get him the fuck out of here. Now. Before everyone in this bar kills him.”