I think my bones are sweating. The sun has a palpably obnoxious, get-up-and-go attitude today. Like it just got back from one of those life coaching seminars given by an American man with an over-enthusiastic face. It's early and the clouds and the wind have opted for a sleep in, presumably to avoid the sun who is, as far as I can tell, homicidal.
The lack of cloud coverage means that on our paraw – a small, locally-made, motorless Filipino trimaran – we have no shade. And the lack of wind means we have been floating (at what feels like mere centimetres a minute) in the general direction of 'over there' for around an hour. Unless the wind picks up, wehave a couple of death-defying (or, at least, sunstroke-defying) hours to go.
“You OK boss?” Bong Bong asks. “I’m OK, boss,” I reply, whilst simultaneously not being OK. Bong Bong isn’t his real name. His real name is Machete (I’m also not sure if this is his real name), and he’s one of the three crew spending the week sailing around remote Filipino islands with my brother and I. Jeffrey is up on the outrigger, whistling for more wind (I’m not sure if it’s working). Mike, our captain, is steering this fine vessel. My brother, Matt, horizontal on the outrigger opposite me, is just kind of sitting there.
A few hours before the scene in which you find us now, we were up to our eyeballs in rum at a bar on Tablas Island. So up to our eyeballs were we, in fact, that the staff had to restock the bar twice in one evening. This isn’t meant as a boast of any kind; merely to offer slightly more insight into the extremely tender physical, emotional and spiritual state in which we find ourselves today.
I lift my sore head and around at the eight other paraws that make up our travelling party. “What position do you think we’re in?” I ask Matt. “Not sure,” he replies. We’re all drifting along within a few hundred feet of one another. This is no relaxing jaunt around the Philippines, you see. We’re one of nine teams on the first ever Philippines Sailing Challenge – an Amazing Race-style trip (minus the TV cameras) on which teams race and complete challenges along the way to accrue points. Thanks to our crews, sailing experience isn’t necessary. But it probably helps. Wind also helps, as we are learning today.
Each team has a name which is displayed prominently on their paraw’s sail. Our team name is The Nauti Buoys. The name was supposed to highlight how we are ‘nautical boys’ but they got the spelling wrong, so our sail reads The Nauti Boys instead, which makes us sound like a couple of perverts. The South African team are having a lot of fun letting us know just how much it makes us sound like a couple of perverts.
The scene is one of total and utter tranquility. This place – the Philippines – is pristine from this vantage point. Islands covered in avocado-coloured rainforests and fringed with Leonardo DiCaprio-worthy beaches make up half the scene. The other half is ocean as far as you can see. I can’t get the Jurassic Park theme tune out of my head. Nor the dull ache of last night's rum. I think I might cry. I don’t.
As we reach the channel between Tablas and Carabao Islands and drift past the headland, the wind arrives. The relief is overwhelming.
We’re on course for Argao, a small village situated on the island of Panay, just southeast of Boracay, where we’ll stay with Mike and his family for the night. As we sail past Boracay’s main beach, the wind really arrives. Our nimble, built-for-speed paraw glides through the Sulu Sea like a gentle, wooden torpedo. Every now and then we catch a wave and surf towards the horizon. It’s like a less-fictional magic carpet ride. Jeffrey’s beaming ear-to-ear. His whistling worked after all.
This trip, the Philippines Sailing Challenge, is organised by a small outfit by the name of Large Minority. The company – owned and operated by co-founders Julian Carnall and Juan Parades – specialise in this particular style of ‘adventure challenge’.
The words 'group travel' typically don't do much to stoke the imagination of the prospective adventurer. And whilst this trip bears a couple of similarities to traditional 'group travel' - namely that you are travelling as part of a loosely-organised group - that's where the similarities end.
These trips, y'see, are intended to be a solution to the problems presented by mass tourism. They aim to provide travellers with those fabled get-the-fuck-out-of-your-comfort-zone-or-else travel experiences that, as the world becomes smaller and better connected, are getting harder and harder to come by. The loose organisation of the trips gives you a vague sense of security whilst ensuring all chances for serendipity are maximised.
Matt and I drove a tuk-tuk 1200km around Sri Lanka with Large Minority in 2013 on the Lanka Challenge and decided on that trip - because we live on opposite sides of the world (he in Brighton, England, me in Melbourne, Australia) - to do something similar every couple of years or so. Signing up for their inaugural jaunt to the Philippines was a no-brainer.
Every Large Minority trip is geared to help positively impact the communities and destinations they operate in, too, with 10% of all entry fees going towards local initiatives. So you can feel good while you're having fun.
As we approach the beach in Argao, we’re still sailing at quite a pace. I wait for Mike to do the thing where he slows the boat down (again, I don’t know much nautical jargon). The beach draws closer. I wait a little longer. We’re in no more than six feet of water. Four feet. Two feet. Before we realise what’s going on, Mike sends his boat flying straight up onto the beach and parks it right outside his front door. It is probably the single most profound display of aquatic badassery I have ever seen.
My brother, Jeffrey and I grab our stuff and race (actually, it’s closer to a meander. It’s too hot to race) to Argao’s basketball court, the first checkpoint of the day. Here we find Rachel, the trip’s challenge master and one-woman medical team, and receive our instructions. Today our challenge is to dream up our own challenge and to provide photo or video evidence of us completing it.
All of the crew members on the trip are from Argao and each of the nine teams will be staying at their respective captain’s house tonight – a fact which has given the day a bit of a homecoming-vibe. “We could go and find every house and take a photo of the captains and their families standing outside,” suggests Matt, after some contemplation. I think it’s a shit idea (primarily because I don’t really see the ‘challenge’ in it), but I don’t have any better. We tell Mike about our plan and he offers to take us to each house. Most of them are within a kilometre or so of one another.
It becomes apparent to me pretty quickly that my brother’s idea isn’t shit after all..Seeing each of the captain’s houses – most of which they’ve built themselves – and catching a glimpse of what life in Argao (a place neither of us would have ever come on our own) turns out to be a pretty fascinating way to spend an afternoon. A lot of these captains are around my age (28) or younger, too, which makes the sheer amount of useful, practical knowledge they have at their disposal even more impressive. By comparison, I made a spice rack at school once.
Later that night all nine teams and crew are gathered at Mike’s bar (yes – our captain has his own bar) to receive the day’s challenge results. It turns out we didn’t win the challenge. Team Hey Buoy, Hey Girl won the challenge. They went around Argao and collected a bunch of discarded bottles and, with the help of some locals, built a pint-sized paraw out of them. It’s impressive and a pretty good representation of what these Large Minority trips are all about.
Most nights on this trip have felt like a celebration but tonight is more celebratory than usual. Where other evenings have been spent on islands that even our crew had never visited, tonight, we’re in their hometown. All of the families have pulled together to make us feel welcome. There’s a long table outside Mike’s bar piled high with delicious Filipino food (each team was tasked with bringing along a traditional dish) and surrounded by crew, their families and our small band of travellers. The rum makes another appearance.
Before we know it, it’s late and my brother, myself, Jeffrey and captain Mike are the last ones left. We’ve run out of mixer for the rum, so we’re just drinking it with water. Mike – who is slightly older than most of the other crew members and is well-respected in Argao – is telling us stories. Once, his paraw capsized in the channel near Boracay and, because visibility was so poor, he and his crew had to wait some 10 hours to be rescued. “You must’ve been scared!” I say. “Not really,” Mike laughs. “I was mainly hungry.” I hadn’t thought of that. I would be hungry too.
Then Mike, who named his boat and crew ‘The Scorpions’ because most of his family are Scorpios, tells us that there is a live scorpion in the boat (the boat we’ve been sailing on for close to a week). He put it in there for good luck. Matt and I laugh. Then Mike tells us there’s a live scorpion somewhere in his house, where we will be sleeping tonight. Matt and I do not laugh.
Two days later, and I can’t tell if I’m in mortal danger or having the time of my life. Perhaps the two are closely linked. Like the sun earlier in the week, today it is the turn of the wind to be the unhinged, sociopathic member of the natural elements family. The perpetually uninvited cousin, rain, has also turned up with bells on.
We’re Boracay bound and sailing against the gale. Our paraw lifts and slams into the waves, condemning us to an indiscriminate soaking. When it gusts, which it often does, the wind feels as though it’s going to tip us right over. On more than one occasion, I look down from my outrigger and the other half of the boat seems almost vertically below me, half the boat totally submerged, with Mike only just above the surface. My brother and I share more than one concerned glance. As my knuckles turn transparent, I develop a new appreciation for the term ‘white knuckle ride’.
Two other paraws from our party are already out of action – one with a cracked boom and the other with a cracked mast – and I’m waiting for it to happen to us. Mike, Jeffrey and Bong Bong look like they’re having the time of their lives. All smiles and woo-hooing, Bong Bong wipes the spray from his face before giving me a huge grin and a thumbs up. Their laissez fare attitude to the situation makes me feel a little more relaxed about the whole thing. But then I remember that we lost our radio (the radio we’re supposed to use to call for support if we capsize or someone goes overboard) a couple of days ago, and I do not feel so relaxed.
Hang on, I think. I didn’t come on this trip to feel relaxed. I came because I knew it’d be a trip that forces me, kicking and screaming, out of my comfort zone. And, as I sit on this paraw boat in the middle of the Sulu Sea and get proceed to get shafted by nature every which way, almost literally shitting myself, I realise I haven’t seen my comfort zone for the best part of a week. This is exactly what I signed up for. Too young to die? Maybe. But that doesn't mean you can't give living a red hot go.
This story was originally published by Adventure.com