The Day the Sea Gave Something Back

The morning air crackled with salt and sun. The tide was low, and the beach stretched wide and muddy, scattered with driftwood, fishing lines, and half-buried soda cans. Someone's slipper lay abandoned near a cluster of mangroves like it had been trying to run and didn't make it.

Jay was already there when we arrived.

He stood near the volunteer station, hauling sacks of garbage like it was nothing, his black shirt darkened at the back with sweat. He caught my eye for half a second—just long enough for that stupid, gentle smile to show—and then went back to lifting like the whole beach was his responsibility.

Abi elbowed me in the ribs. "If you don't talk to him today, I will. And I'll say something stupid like 'she thinks your triceps are a national treasure.'"

"You've said worse," I muttered, tugging on gloves.

"That's the spirit," she grinned.

We got to work.

The next hour passed in a blur of squelching boots, the rustle of trash bags, and people shouting "Bottle!" or "Razor!" like we were playing the weirdest game of beach bingo. Sweat dripped into my eyes. I smelled like salt and old plastic. But there was something oddly satisfying about clearing space, bag by bag, and watching the sand slowly reappear, as if the beach was sighing in relief.

At one point, Jay ended up near me. He didn't say much—just handed me a new sack when mine split and moved on. But when I pulled out the sandwich Abi had packed for me, I found two.

One wrapped in cling film with a smiley face drawn on the plastic.

Peanut butter and banana. My favorite.

Sneaky idiot.

"Who gave you two?" Abi squinted at me over a trash pile.

"No idea," I lied, chewing.

Meanwhile, Manang Vi had arrived in full glam: a wide-brimmed hat, pastel blouse, jeans tucked into boots, and zero intention to touch trash. She stood beside the barangay captain, arms crossed, lips moving non-stop.

"You! Tie your sacks tighter or else the wind will bring the ghosts of the plastic back," she called to a group of teens.

Someone snorted.

She turned to another volunteer. "Please tell your friend that old condoms do not belong in the pile for recyclables. You think we can sell that? In this economy?"

More laughter. Someone clapped.

"She's been talking for an hour," Abi whispered. "Hasn't even picked up a straw."

"She's performing," I said.

Then came the man in the faded blue polo shirt—grizzled, with a tricycle parked nearby and the confident saunter of someone who knew how to flirt and how to drive in potholes. He handed Manang Vi a cold bottle of water like it was a love letter.

"For you, beautiful volunteer of the sea," he said.

"Oh, please," she said, waving him off. "Don't disturb me while I'm directing this operation."

But her hand lingered around the bottle longer than necessary.

Abi snorted. "She's blushing."

"She's pretending she's not," I said, amused.

They bickered the rest of the morning. He kept calling her 'Captain' and offering to cook for her. She kept pretending to scold him while smoothing her hair every few minutes. A few kids started placing bets on whether she'd give him her number by lunch.

Everything was loud and light and filled with sweat and ocean air.

Until it wasn't.

I had just finished tying off another full sack when I heard the shout.

"Hey—hey! There's something—"

Voices, closer to the mangroves. Then a girl's scream.

Jay dropped the trash bag in his hands and took off toward the sound without hesitation.

My heart dropped. I ran after him, feet skidding over the sand. Abi called out behind me, but the wind had gone strange in my ears. Muffled. Off.

We pushed past people crowding the edge of the beach slope, where the trees turned to thick roots and soft mud.

Two teenage boys stood at the edge of the cluster, pale-faced and shaking.

"I didn't touch it—I swear—I just saw it—" one of them stammered.

Jay slowed. I stopped next to him.

There, tangled between roots and seaweed, lay something wrapped in a blue tarp.

Tightly.

But not tight enough to hide the shape underneath.

A leg stuck out. Dark-skinned. Swollen. Still wearing a shoe.

People behind us gasped. Someone ran to get the barangay captain.

Another started backing away, clutching a child to their chest.

Phones were out. But nobody dared speak.

Jay hadn't moved. Neither had I.

Because I recognized the shoe on the exposed foot.

The worn leather. The busted lace.

It was a work shoe—brown, scratched at the toe, with a slight tear on the side that I used to pick at when I sat on the floor beside his feet.

No.

No, no, no.

"That's just a—" Abi started, but stopped herself when she saw my face.

Someone moved closer, carefully peeling back the edge of the tarp.

I heard someone say, "We need to check… someone has to check…"

Fingers trembling, they pulled it open.

The body had been there a while.

But I knew that face.

Even bloated and bruised and pale.

I knew the jawline. The curve of his brow.

The scar above the right eye that I gave him when I threw a spoon at age six.

I stepped back, choking on my breath.

"Luana?" Abi asked, gripping my arm. "Who is it?"

I stared at the body, at the shape of it, unmoving and so horribly still.

And the words came out like a whisper I didn't even mean to say—

"It's my dad."

Everything went silent.

Even the sea.