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Copyright © 2010 by Antonio Enriquez

Digital, Philippines
Dance a White Horse and Other Stories, UQP, Queensland, Australia, 1977

A Song Of the Sea

by Antonio Enriquez

The city man and his three companions are fishing very
early that morning off the west coast of Labuan, a fishing
village in Zamboanga City, island of Mindanao. With him as
fishing-guide is Old Tacio, who knows all the best fishing
grounds in the Sulu Sea, and a boy-helper who baits the fish
and unrolls the tangled nylon lines.
Suddenly Mr. Castro jumps up on his feet as the tánsi
fishing line sizzles in his soft hands, with a huge fish struggling
and streaking the water with its great fin just behind the
bamboo outrigger.
Then they see its ash-colored body about half a meter
under the surface of the sea like an ominous shadow.
Help! Help! cries Mr. Castro to his companions. Big...very
big fish.
He is nearly jostled overboard as three men rushes to him
and grabs the line to pull in the great shark. Only they do not
know it is a shark until, with the hook hurting its mouth (for
now four, not one man, is pulling in the tánsi line), the shark
lifts himself out of the water and explodes like a bomb on its
surface.
Then the old man shouts at the boy to pull up the iron
anchor hanging halfway in the water, so that the tánsi line will
not get entangled round the anchor’s rope.
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The great shark comes alongside the outrigger, they see

that it is as big as the motorboat, its fin alone is over two feet
high from the water surface.
For a few minutes they all stand in the boat and are dumb
and speechless watching the monster not seven meters away
behind the bamboo outrigger, they can see it all, just behind the
parallel outrigger bamboo tube: ash-backed, small-mouthed,
and pig-eyed the great shark is.
But before the boy-helper has completely pulled up the
iron anchor, the great shark suddenly wheels and plunges under
the motorboat, and everyone on the canoe fears the great shark
will leap up and turn their motorboat upside down and with
everyone overboard; then what horror as the shark attacks
them.
The line again sizzles hot in their hands and then goes
slack—and the shark is gone, it vanishes apparition-like in the
depths of the dark sea.
Although old Tacio and the city man are so disappointed,
they go on fishing since there is yet more than five or six hours
of good fishing. In fact, they catch two game fishes, a ray fish
and a sword fish before they decide to call it quits and return to
shore.
The old man Tacio starts to sing as he steers the fishing
motorboat toward shore. A soft westerly wind is blowing
behind it.
What’s the old one singing, boy? says the man from the
city.
The boy says:
About good fishing.
Then the man says:
Does them fisherman in your village always sing
whenever they come home from fishing?
No, says the boy-helper. They sings only when the fishing
is good to thank the gods and for their protection in the
unpredictable sea, or when asking for favor for good fishing.
The boy-helper and the city man are both watching the old
man Tacio squatting on the bow of the motorboat. He is
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singing of the good fishing they had that day and the past three
days. On the stern in front of the boy-helper, three other men
sit, and the wind from the speeding boat blows the hot, black
motor smoke into their faces.
As they come into the bay, the sun behind them is round
and red just like an egg yolk.
The old man stops singing and the boy cuts off the motor.
Languidly the boat slides in to the shore. The old man gets up
on his feet, rising automatically, and jumps waist-deep in the
water pulling the boat’s line in one hand. Wading toward the
shore, the water now up to his thighs, he with other fishermen
on the shore pull the boat in by the rope, and, turning around
serpent-like, they hold the boat firmly in place, as the boy-
helper and the city men jump on to the shore.
Now the three men unload the fishes on the beach, and the
bountiful catch lies lumpily, sand-powdered, gape-mouthed
and goggle-eyed on the sand. There is a pair of ray fish and a
ninety-pound sailfish whose eyes is filmy and dull in their
sockets.
Some naked children bathing in the bay now come running
to look at the fishes. The mops of hair on their heads are
bronzed by the sun and their naked bodies are wet and scaly
like the fishes caught in the sea by the city men.
Meanwhile, the sun scorches the sea with its rays and
taints the horizon red and yellow with its last fury.
The old man says: It was very good fishing, Mr. Castro.
Yes, we is very lucky, says Castro. And then to the three
men he says:
Better take them fish to the jeep.
They reply, All right.
So, the three men, with the boy helping, carry the fishes to
the jeep parked in the vacant lot beside Belo’s barbershop in
the market place. Two of the men go back down to the
shoreline and grab the sailfish by its tail and head, and carrying
it between them climb up the beach to the vacant lot. They lift
the sailfish up and plop it into the back of the jeep. When the
two men come back, the boy leaves the vacant lot and walks
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down toward the motorboat to bail out the seawater on the

boat's bottom.
The old man and Castro are walking barefoot up the beach.
The latter swears at the hot coral rocks and the sharp pebbles
cutting the soles of his feet, and limps along the shoreline.
A row of vintas covered with dry coconut fronds like
preserved carcasses outlines the front of the village. Their
empty hulls are raised half a foot from the sand on slabs of
wood that have been eaten and pitted by brine.
Both men, the old fisherman and Mr. Castro, halt before
the fishing canoes, which are called vintas by the local folk.
The old man says: I think you’ll come back soon, Mr. Castro.
Your fingers will be really itching for more fishing, again.
Ah-ah, Castro says. Yes, my fingers will itch for some
fishing.
Too bad about the tiburón, says the old man Tacio. It was
the biggest my old eyes has ever seen ... And in the old man’s
mind he sees the shark again, leaping white-bellied alongside
their bamboo-outrigger, too dangerously close. Then Tacio, his
patched short trousers and hair-whorled legs dripping with
water, says, If the ťansi line had not … But his voice is not sad,
since the lost shark isn’t everything of the good fishing they
had those four days in Labuan.
Looking up and slapping at his wet trousers with both
hands, he grins happily at the city man whose tanned and sun-
burnt face is as red as the devil’s.
Castro’s feet no longer hurt on the fine, warm sand up on
the beach — not so hot on the shoreline as before. He asks:
Grandfather, how much do you think we could have sold the
shark for?
Says the old man: Maybe, in the market here it would have
sold for fifty pesos. In the city it would get double the price.
The Chinese, for its fin alone, would pay as much as forty
pesos. It’s a delicacy to them.
The old man Tacio was terribly happy. He was happy even
with the loss of the great shark that had run off with more than
two hundred yards of the tánsi fishing line he had borrowed,
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and, of course, with his own wire leader and home-made hooks
and lead sinkers. Old Tacio says: I think we was too excited.
We could have speared the shark the moment it came alongside
our boat. But in the excitement we all forgot the salapang (gaff)
.... Anyway, you caught the second sailfish. That alone is
already a priceless catch.
In the vacant lot one of the three city men leans forward
through the door of the jeep and clamps his palm over the horn.
The quiet late-afternoon suddenly splits and its mantle of
last daylight tears in half, as the jeep’s horn goes beep, beep,
beep.
Two of the city men climb in and sit on the back seat,
while the other continues to clamp his palm over the horn.
City man Castro reaches behind and pulls out a leather
wallet from his hip pocket wrapped in a plastic bag to keep it
dry during them four days of fishing. He draws out some bills,
which are new and crisp, and counts them slowly before
handing the money to old Tacio. Says Castro: We’s leaving
now, grandfather ... That’s fifty pesos. You may count it
yourself–reminding Tacio he had given him thirty pesos as
advance payment last Thursday. Do you remember?
The fisherman-guide Tacio does not even look at the
money, although he is holding it in his dirty calloused hand.
Instead, he looks up at Castro’s peeling nose, his tanned
cheeks, his sun-burnt forehead and his red puffy face; it was
splotched and mottled from the sun and four days of fishing off
Labuan Bay.
Si, I remember…. says the old man. But this money isn’t
enough.
No? says Castro.
He shifts his feet on the sand, saying, No! It doesn’t pay
for everything.
How much then? asks Castro.
One hundred and fifty pesos more would settle everything,
says Tacio.
What! says Castro. You must be kidding.
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Beads of perspiration roll down Castro’s tanned, pudgy

face and from the corner of his slit eyes; they streak down the
creases of his sun burnt neck and across the folds of flesh shiny
with their own fat.
But our contract was for eighty pesos only.... says the city
man.
Says old man Tacio: Let me explain first, Mr. Castro. It’s
true our contract was eighty pesos for four fishing days. But
what I’s asking now is for the fishing line you yesterday lost
with that tiburón.
City man Castro says: You means that tánsi line costs a
hundred and fifty pesos?
Tacio is still looking up at the city man with that same
grinning expression in his face, saying: Yes; my mestizo Chino
friend told me he bought the tánsi line not long ago. I’s not
even charging you any more for the hooks, the wire-leader, and
also lost sinkers.
In the vacant lot beside the market the jeep’s horn again
goes beep, beep, beep.
All right, grandfather ... says Castro. You waits here. I’ll
get the rest of the money from my companions.
He walks off toward the jeep parked beside Belo’s
barbershop, and the old man turns and leans back against the
bow of one of the vintas along the beach.
Just then the boy-helper comes up the beach from securing
the motorboat to its mooring and sits by him and then he and
the boy watch the city man walking rapidly across the vacant
lot toward the jeep.
The city man Castro slides into the driver’s seat and
switches the motor on, throwing the gear into first and the jeep
springs forward down the dirt road like a bug.
Tacio, realizing Mr. Castro is driving away without paying
him, runs quick as a deer down the beach after the fast-going
jeep and instantly was covered with smoke and dust-cloud
from the motor car’s exhaust. His nose smarts from the sharp
tang of burnt rubber and gas. When the dust-cloud disappears,
he stands alone in the middle of the road, and the jeep turns the
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bend speeding toward the city and vanishes behind the grove of
coconut trees.
The fleetest deer could not have caught up with that fast
jeep and them fleeing city man, old Tacio says to himself.
Belo the barber steps out of his barbershop, and them
woman in the stores along the beach comes out and stands in
the door ways while them man in the vacant lot edges closer to
the dirt road. Holding an open razor in one hand, Belo
approaches the old man who has come up the road.
What happened, Tacio? the barber asks.
They cheated me, he says and flings his buri hat on the
ground. He stamps down on it with both feet, as if it were his
hat’s fault that Mr. Castro ran off without paying him in full.
What happened? the barber asks, again.
He made a fool of me, the devil! he says and jerks his head
up. Cabron! Cuckold!
Old Tacio and Belo the Barber gaze down the road for a
minute, and then Tacio bends forward picking up his trampled
buri hat and slaps off the dust on his thigh-trousers and walks
down the beach.
Belo walks alongside the old man a little way, the former
stepping in cadence, and, without a word, abruptly spins
around and walks back to his barbershop leaving Tacio alone.
Tacio goes on, and the boy-helper upon seeing the old
man comes up and walks beside Tacio.
Slowly and heavily, they walk together until they come to
a store the biggest in the fishing village.
On the steps of the store sit two half-naked children
wearing only camisetas or Chinese T-shirts. Their sleeves are
soiled and damp with mucous. Behind the counter lined with
glass jars filled with candies, biscuits, threads, buttons, and
fishing hooks a woman sits on a stool, and under her printed
dress the woman’s belly's taut brown skin swells pressing
against the cloth.
Buenas tardes, missis, says old man Tacio. Is your
husband Julian… He does not wait for a reply and walks
toward the room in the back of the store.
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Up along the walls hangs fish hooks with wire or nylon

leaders and two-coiled fishing lines, and in one corner a fishing
net trails down from a nail onto the floor.
A middle-aged Chinese mestizo sits mending a fishing net
at the head of a long wooden table, looking up when the old
man comes into the room. His hands with woman-like fingers
doe not cease pulling a long cord.
Hoy, friend Tacio, says the Chinese mestizo. And how was
the fishing?
Old Tacio with the fifty pesos in one hand, replies: Very
good. O, here is the money, Julian. But it’s only fifty pesos–
standing before the table and hearing his own strange voice.
What? Only fifty pesos? says the Chinese mestizo Julian.
O, o, says Tacio. I’s indeed ashamed that this is the only
money I can give you now. But something happened ... And he
tells Julian what happened down at the beach.
The merchant Julian cannot believe what he is hearing.
Had he not provided the fishing guide Tacio with the gasoline
and oil for the four fishing days and even loaned him his new
ťansi line? When they lost it the second day, Tacio promised to
get the money from Mr. Castro on Sunday or the last day of
fishing. But now here he is with only fifty pesos ... just enough
to pay for the gasoline and oil.
I’ll pay you all of my debts, says Tacio. In his effort to
hold back his shame, he squints and his dull eyes flits toward
the merchant's woman-like fingers. Little by little I will pay
you back …. It might even be sooner than you yourself will
believe possible, he stops. Trust me.
Of course, I trust you, says Julian. But I needs the money
on Saturday.
I still have my small boat, Julian, says old Tacio. He does
not look at Julian but instead smiles hard with the corners of
his thick mouth barely rising. Maybe you have forgotten….
I haven’t forgotten, friend, says the Chinese mestizo. Both
hands lie still before him on the table for he has ceased
mending the net. But can you pay me on Saturday even half of
it? No? I thought so ....
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No-no, cries Old Tacio, I mean yes, I’ll pay you.

The Chinese mestizo merchant does not say anything for a
while, and then continues:
You know, friend Tacio, I was depending very much on
this money which I expected from you. I planned this week to
buy new stocks in the city for my store, which you can see is
very much empty!
Yes, I know ... says old Tacio looking at the other and with
great effort raises his eyes from the woman-like slender fingers
to the merchant’s face. Again he squints, and still slightly
squinting wearily says: That’s why besides the regular ferry
and charter trips I do now and then, I is going dynamite fishing
with Lungi tomorrow.
Julian says nothing and is silent for a while.
Then the merchant says: Surely, you don’t mean yourself!
Uagh, says Tacio. I myself will go.
So the other says: Yourself, really, friend Tacio?
Julian leans over the table and quietly gathers the fishing
net and pushes it away to one corner. You are too old for it, he
says. Diving for dynamited fish is only for strong young
people. You are an old man now. You do not know that?
Sharp words that hurts old Tacio but makes him more
determined to go dynamiting for fish. He says: Uagh, one is
never too old for dynamiting fish.
Says the Chinese mestizo: Whom do you think you’re
fooling, hah? That devil Lungi is only interested in your
motorboat to take his dynamited fish to market. He cares
nothing for you but only for his fish. Ay, old Tacio, you will be
dealing with the devil himself! You know that ... !
Tacio thinks, He does not believe I am a good diver and
can dive very deep.
Julian swears to himself, Fool! and right away ceases; he
had been too rash and impetuous. And you, friend Tacio, he
says aloud, believe him ... the devil himself!
However, when old man Tacio leaves the Chinese
mestizo’s store he is carrying half a can of gasoline, and the
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boy who waited outside on the steps takes the gasoline can
from him and carries it himself.
Down the beach the two walk unhurriedly and up to the
open shed in front of one of the two stores beside the market
place.
There the boy says: Old one, are you going dynamite-
fishing tomorrow?
That’s right, ‘noy, he says.
I heard ‘Ñor Julian say you’s too old for diving!
Offended, Tacio says: You ... shut your big mouth, hah!
Both sit on a slope of beach and for some while watch the
sunset in the bay. After a while he tells the boy to bring the
gasoline to the house, and tell Lungi he will go dynamite-
fishing with him mañana.
Old Tacio goes into a tuba-an, a coconut wine store, just
behind the shed.
Store owner Pacita herself brings out a glass and the bottle
of tuba she reserves for old Tacio every afternoon when he
comes back from fishing. She pours the tuba and leaves the
bottle on the table in front of the old man.
Through the night he drinks out of his reserved tuba bottle
and a couple more until he retches outside against wall of the
tuba-store. Stepping into the dark, his stomach sour and with
wobbly legs, he starts walking toward home; the boy comes to
his side, who has returned from seeing Lungi, and holds up his
arm to keep him from veering off the path.
When they reach the hut, he climbs the bamboo steps
alone with the least of noise so he does not wake up his young
wife, whom he took from the native Subanon tribe as his
second wife.
He suddenly feels hollow and empty inside. Drinking has
not killed his shame … only makes it worse. The old man
Tacio skips his supper and goes to sleep on the bamboo-split
floor next to the bed he shares with his woman. But he cannot
sleep, thinking of the dynamite-fishing in the morning.
A little before daybreak before anyone is awake, Tacio
gets up and after drinking his coffee wraps some boiled rice
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and a piece of dried fish in a banana leaf for his lunch. Going
down the steps Tacio makes less noise than he had last night
and goes rapidly up the path toward the beach. He carries the
half can of gasoline himself since he does not need the boy-
helper this trip—unlike the four days fishing with the city man
Mr. Castro. At the end of the path that merges with the dirt
road, he sees that many of the vintas are still up on the beach,
but his motorboat is already in the water. On its bow stands
barefooted the dynamite-fisherman Lungi and some other
dynamite-fishermen and fish divers.
Tacio suspects they are laughing at him for going
dynamite-fishing at his old age. I could be mistaken, he thinks.
But if so why is it they has not stopped sneering?
The drab morning clouds is low and so densely hovering
over the village that surely he can touch them if he will only
reach out with his hand. Ay, it is perfect weather just as perfect
as the day before when he and Mr. Castro and the other city
men had gone fishing off the bay.
In a while the village dynamite fishermen and the fish
divers stop chuckling and lift their fishing canoes from the
wooden boards and carry them, one on each side, down the
shore into the water. Before their canoes are a few feet from
the shoreline, the fishermen and the fish divers jump into the
canoes and kicks the water behind them to keep the canoes
from floating back to the beach in the returning tide.
Later, when the morning sun is beginning to rise over the
shimmering horizon and the clouds high in the sky, Tacio
sitting on the stern of his motorboat lifts his head back and
sings aloud for a generous catch. His voice is plaintive and full:
laden with hope and passion.
Quietly the young divers listen to him and quiet their
mocking voices to hum with old Tacio’s plaintive song under
their breath, thinking with the old man of them home-made
bomb that will soon explode and kill the fishes and of the many
trips they must make to retrieve the bruised and dead fishes in
the depths of the dark Sulu sea. And as if on second thought
they also sing mournfully for their fisherman companions, who
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had lost a limb or an arm when the home-made dynamites

prematurely exploded in their hands or on the bottom of their
canoes.

End