On the boat ride from Pundaquit to Anawangin Cove, Sky told her cousin, Ashley, about the pine trees that grew on sand, and that they were Mt. Pinatubo’s sons and daughters. At seven years old, Ashley’s brows furrowed on the similes.
|The agoho "sons and daughters of Pinatubo." Anawangin, 2010|
“Di ba, mommy?” Sky needed story reinforcement so I pitched the local tale about how the cove used to seem like any other cove, with beige sand matting the length of the long shoreline and turning slightly gray on the left cleft where fresh water met saline.
In 1991, when ashfall from Mt. Pinatubo carpeted San Antonio, Zambales, there also came a seeding of sorts. “Anak ng Pinatubo,” was how the old caretaker explained the mysterious birthing of the agoho trees, so uncharacteristic of Philippine beaches with most having coconuts and talisay as resident terrestrials.
It is partly this realignment of Anawangin’s geomancy – fire conceived the agoho, earth midwifed newborn islets and dunes, water gurgled in the center and flowed freely to the sea, mountain protected her back -- that validated it: secluded Anawangin is soul terrain.
|Anawangin river, meandering and meditative. 2010|
Twice here already, Sky regaled family with philosophical mastery that niners throw out so casually, “the beach and river, they’re kind of never the same.”
But the never-the-same, this time around, had no philosophy, and created bad feng shui.