He awoke at dawn. Silvery light filtered through the paper-thin fabric of the handkerchief covering his eyes. His limbs were sore from being squeezed into the cramped hull of his bangka.
As he stood up, Silver stretched his limbs and let his knotted muscles relax. Facing the easterly sun, he let its feathery light wash over him as if he were being baptized in the light of the Lord.
Silver scanned the beach. He saw empty beer bottles and plastic wrappers littering the sand. The burnt remains of several campfires reminded him to focus on his goal. Everything else was just noise.
This is a good sign, he thought. I am the first one here.
He would win this time. Silver was sure of it. Today was the final race, the Dumaguete leg of the National Bangkarera Championships. What drew more than a hundred competitors from all over the Philippines was the size of the purse. At stake was half a million pesos, winner take all, at day’s end.
The time trials would start at 8 a.m. The top 64 racers who posted the fastest finishing times would be allowed to compete in the elimination rounds that afternoon.
As the morning light changed from silver to gold, his nephew arrived to bring Silver breakfast. It was a light meal: sikwate, bulad and a hardboiled egg. Silver didn’t want a heavy meal to give him indigestion at such a crucial time. If ever he felt hungry, he had packed fingerling bananas to eat and give him energy.
Silver sent his nephew to the control booth several times to check on the schedule and find out his seeding for the morning trials. He never left his boat. If he needed to go to the bathroom, Silver relieved himself into an arinola underneath the tarp covering his boat.
He had just finished his breakfast when his nephew returned with his racing number and the location of his parking slot at the waiting area. Silver left immediately. Pieces of rice and grease from the bulad still clung to his hand holding the engine tilter. His other hand served as a makeshift visor over his eyes. He had packed a pair of sunglasses in a compartment but he had forgotten to retrieve them in his haste.
Silver had parked at a small stretch of sand between the Dumaguete Port and Rizal Boulevard. He headed for the racing area in the middle of the boulevard where a wooden pier had been constructed and buoys with rope running between them cordoned off the water.
An hour to tipoff, the racing area was already bursting with activity. On both sides of the wooden pier were stretches of sand filled with spectators. People packed the entrance of the pier, which served as the launching area for the boats, and spilled out onto the sand. A chorus of cheers and applause greeted each racing boat as its driver paraded it in front of the crowd and taxied to the waiting area. The atmosphere resembled a fluvial fiesta rather than a racing event. Each racing boat was painted in bright and colorful hues. Multicolored streamers and flags decorated the sides of the pier and the border between the racers and observers. Even the buoys indicating the distance from the shoreline carried brightly-colored flags painted in single tones.
Silver retired early last night, refusing the entreaties of his fellow racers to join them in drinking and carousing. He slept inside his boat parked in the sand. A hanging roof made from layers of tarp stitched together protected Silver against rain and strong gusts of wind from the sea.
He only woke up twice. The first time, a drunk grabbed the stern of his boat for balance while looking for a spot to urinate on. The second time, a cat was drawn to the smell of food he had stored in a compartment near his head. Both times he chased away the intruders by shouting at them and waving his arms. “Hawa! Hawa! Pesteng Yawa!”
Only the Devil could make him lose today, Silver thought as he inspected his bangka in the morning. He made sure the skin and hull had no holes. He checked the lashings and knots tying the outrigger arms and bamboo floaters for signs of looseness and tampering and found none. He removed the cover of his bangka’s outboard motor and probed the surface for loose parts and holes, no matter how small. The motor was in the same state as the afternoon before when he had emptied its fuel tank after he finished his last practice run.
That morning, he filled the tank with the special gasoline that would bring him victory. The blood-red fuel dotted with black spots made a sloshing sound as Silver poured it from the gas container into the fuel tank. At any other time, he would be suspicious of the presence of particles in the crimson liquid. Not now.
An odious scent made Silver turn around. Someone was approaching him. The glare of the morning sun made him squint his eyes. He could not see his visitor clearly but he already knew the other’s identity. His nose cringed at what he imagined was the smell of sulphur but what was probably just bad odor.
“Speak of the Devil,” Silver whispered under his breath.
He quickly closed the seal on the fuel tank and screwed on the cap of the gas container he was carrying.
“Hello, Silver Medal, este Silver pala.” His nemesis, Bagi, lumbered into view.
Thirty years after Silver first met him, Bagi had not changed. He had skin as dark as a clay pot, hair as curly as a pig’s tail, and a paunch that looked like he was several months pregnant. Time only accentuated his ugly features. From a mischievous and chubby imp, Bagi had grown into an overweight devil whose only pastime was to torment Silver.
He spent four years in amateur boat racing circuits before Silver decided to join the big leagues. He entered the National Bangkarera Tournament only to find his childhood tormentor climbing up the standings. In Silver’s rookie year, Bagi won his first national championship.
This was his third year in the tournament and the closest Silver got to Bagi. Leading to today’s race, the last leg of the tournament, Bagi was in first place with Silver in second.
Bagi reminded Silver of his position in the standings every chance he could. He always greeted Silver as “Silver Medal.” He always added a backhanded compliment by saying, “Hey, you’re doing great for a farmer. Imagine that—a farmer racing a boat.”
He wasn’t a farmer but his grandparents were. Silver’s grandparents tilled the land for Bagi’s grandparents across the Tañon Strait in Oslob, Cebu, a fact that was not lost on their arrogant grandson.
Silver likened dethroning Bagi as champion to a holy mission given to him by God. Whenever he saw a bottle of Ginebra San Miguel, Silver imagined himself as the archangel Michael on the front label slaying the Devil—his personal devil, Bagi—and banishing him to the fiery pit.
“Hey, Silver Medal. You shouldn’t be daydreaming too much or else you won’t finish in second place again. You have to be true to your name after all,” Bagi said, laughing.
“And you should be true to yours as a bag of wind,” Silver replied.
“So you say.” Bagi grinned. “I have to be true to my name as Champion and you should be true to your name as Second Best. You’re quite clever for a farmer, I’ll give you that.”
“I’m cleverer than you think,” Silver said, “clever enough to find out your secret to winning.”
Bagi mocked him with a raised eyebrow and a half-grin. “What is my secret? Tell me.”
“You have your boat blessed by the local priest before each leg of the tournament.”
His eyebrow fell back down. Bagi was no longer grinning.
“So what?” he said, “It’s a habit I borrowed from horse racers. Tried it once. Kept winning so I keep doing it. I don’t think I’ll lose even if I stop. My skill makes me win after all.”
“If you really think that way, then let me take away your boat’s blessing by urinating on it. After all, you don’t think much of the Lord’s favor. I value it very highly.”
Bagi laughed. He said, “So, you had your boat blessed like mine? Won’t change a thing. My skill and experience are far beyond yours. I’ll win today and finish as tournament champion for the third year in a row.”
“The only place you’ll be is behind me as I cross the finish line and replace you as the leader in the standings.”
“Keep thinking big, farmer, and maybe it’ll happen. But not today.”
Bagi turned his back at Silver and walked away.
Silver tapped the cover of the outboard engine of his boat. Bagi was wrong. Silver had not had his boat blessed before the race. He had something better.
He turned and faced the east where the silhouette of a small island had slowly become visible in the early morning sun. A strong breeze was blowing from the direction of Siquijor, famed island of witchcraft and magic. Silver knew a number of racers who had made a pilgrimage to the mystical island before the Dumaguete tournament. They returned with all sorts of magical charms, agimats, anting-antings, and necklaces and bracelets made from fallen roots of the balete tree. Silver dismissed them as useless trinkets made by false practitioners. He believed that priests were the true miracle workers, transforming bread into the body of Christ and wine into His sacred blood. Like them, he had transmuted ordinary gasoline into something greater, blessed fuel that would win him the races today.
Earlier that year, Silver received a glorious tip from a cousin who was a fisherman. On the second night of a family reunion two islands away in Ormoc, Leyte, Ruel brought Silver and their other male cousins to his favorite drinking pub. After they arrived, Ruel told the bartender, “Keep the lambanog flowing.”
Surprised, Silver and the others asked Ruel what prompted his sudden act of generosity. He answered that he had been returning to shore with full nets since last year.
When asked about the source of his good fortune, Ruel responded by raising his glass and telling everyone to drink through the night.
Silver maneuvered beside Ruel and kept asking the same question phrased differently each time.
“Come on, ’Pare, why not share your secret of your success with your dear old cousin? We’re blood, aren’t we?”
“Sige na, pinsan. Your secret’s going to be safe with me. I won’t tell anyone, I promise.”
“You know I race, don’t you? I won’t use your secret to increase my catch but to win the championship this season. I’m so close, don’t you know? I just need help crossing the finish line.”
Ruel answered with a smile each time before downing a glass. He remained tight-lipped with Silver as their table consumed an entire jug of lambanog.
Midway through the second jug, Ruel started slurring his words and had difficulty rising from his seat. It was then that Silver pounced.
“How…hic…did I…hic…get so good…hic…all sudden? Would…hic…you believe…hic…God?”
His cousin grinned drunkenly and slouched in his seat. He began rubbing an area beneath his flannel jacket next to his crotch. To an observer, it might have looked like his cousin was giving himself pleasure. Silver recalled that the bulge had been there since Ruel arrived at the drinking pub.
Silver grabbed his cousin’s offensive hand by the wrist and moved it to the side. He leaned close to his cousin and whispered into his ear. “We don’t want others to get the wrong idea and get you thrown out of this pub.”
Ruel grinned and blubbered. “Can’t help…hic…rubbing it…hic…like a magic lamp…hic.”
Silver lifted the area of his cousin’s flannel jacket covering the bulge. Beneath it was the handle of a dried palaspas strapped to the belt.
“Why are you carrying this around?” asked Silver.
“I didn’t want it….hic….get stolen…hic…from boat,” answered Ruel.
“What’s so special about it? You always nail a palaspas to the front of your boat every year and your luck doesn’t change.”
“This one…hic…from Bantayan…hic. Broken rib…hic,” Ruel said, pointing to the left side of his torso.
“Worth it…ha, ha, ha…” He punctuated his laughter with a belch.
“Tell me more,” Silver said and refilled his cousin’s glass with more of the milky-white liquid.
A moon in the shape of a communion host hung in the sky above the island of Bantayan in Northern Cebu. Silver took the sign as a blessing for the task before him. He stood outside the gates of the Saints Peter and Paul Church beside the Bantayan town plaza and waited for his chance. It was Good Friday, the day of Jesus’ death on the cross.
Bantayan’s fiesta coincided with Holy Week. Since Spanish times, it was tradition in Bantayan to hold a procession of carrozas every Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. Each carroza depicted a scene from Christ’s Passion. As they moved through the streets of Bantayan, these elaborate carrozas were bedecked in finery and their sides lined with palaspas blessed for this occasion.
Right after the final carroza began its circuit around the población’s streets, a mob had already assembled outside the church gates. Just as Filipino Catholics hung a palaspas blessed on Palm Sunday over the doors of their homes, Bantayan fishermen nailed a palaspas to the bow of their boats. According to local belief, having a palaspas from a carroza ensured the boat’s owner a year’s worth of bountiful harvest.
Silver intended to obtain a blessed palaspas from a carroza in Bantayan. He would not settle for any carroza. He only wanted a palaspas from the very last one.
It would be almost midnight when the procession of carrozas returned to the Bantayan church. At the end of the procession was the final carroza, the Santo Entierro, which carried the dead body of Christ covered in a purple velvet shroud. As Silver learned from drinking with the townsfolk of Bantayan, they believed that the Santo Entierro was the holiest among the carrozas. Therefore, the palaspas decorating its sides possessed the strongest and most potent “holy power.”
Silver had just finished relieving himself into a water bottle when the final group of carrozas returned to the town plaza. Shouting from the far end of the crowd made Silver turn from the wall. He saw the crowd following the purple shroud of the Santo Entierro.
There was almost no time left. Silver almost fumbled screwing on the cap of the water bottle. He put down the bottle of urine on the ground beside the wall of the church courtyard and sighed in relief. He wouldn’t have budged from his location even if it meant ruining his pants.
As the Santo Entierro approached the church gates, people began jostling for position. Silver shoved and squeezed his way to the front of the crowd assembled around the carroza. As he fought to maintain his spot, he kept his eye on the wheels beneath the carroza, waiting for them to stop turning.
Silver took a deep breath. The Santo Entierro slowed to a crawl until its wheels finally stopped. At that exact moment, the crowd exploded around the Santo Entierro.
He ducked between the unseen hands grabbing and clutching the palaspas decorating the sides of the carroza. Fists landed on his face and torso. Blows rained down on the back of his head. His head ringing, Silver fell to one knee and grabbed a stray palaspas hanging from the front bumper. His fingers held the palaspas by the stem and Silver prepared to tuck it inside his jacket. An errant arm shot out, knocking the palaspas to the ground. Silver cursed and dove to retrieve his prize.
Just as Silver clutched the palaspas, another hand closed around it higher along the stem. “That’s mine,” Silver shouted through the commotion, glaring at his opponent. His demonic rival bared his teeth, unwilling to let go. Silver did not hesitate. He punched his rival in the mouth with his free hand. The other’s head snapped back. Silver yanked the palaspas free. Turning, he quickly tucked it into his jacket before another could wrest his prize from him.
From a corner of the courtyard walls, Silver emerged from the scrum with a palaspas safely inside his jacket and a devil’s grin on his face.
During the morning trials in Dumaguete, Silver felt as if God was personally pushing his boat toward the finish line. His finishing time was the fastest in the morning trials.
When his nephew brought him lunch, Silver noticed that his food tasted better than usual. Maybe this is the taste of victory, he mused.
Silver and Bagi were placed in different groups for the afternoon rounds of 64. Both finished first in their groups but Silver once again posted the fastest time.
After the round of 64 were the top 8 brackets. Each race in the top 8 consisted of one-on-one matches. Silver and Bagi were seeded in opposite brackets. If they won all their matches, they would meet in the championship round.
Silver got his wish. Both he and Bagi won their next two matches. The only race left was the championship match for the winner-take-all prize of half a million pesos.
It was late in the afternoon. The moon was already visible above the horizon just before the championship round of the competition. It was full just like the moon over Bantayan earlier that year when he claimed a palaspas from the Santo Entierro.
This is a good sign, Silver thought. He made the Sign of the Cross before he opened the gas tank of his outboard motor and poured in the blessed fuel he had made.
After making sure his gas tank was full, Silver sat in his boat, waiting for the final round to start. On the other side of the racing lane, Bagi glared at Silver.
Silver met his tormentor’s gaze and smiled.
It’s providence, Silver thought. His blood was pumping with consecrated communion wine. His ascendancy was at hand.
A loudspeaker blared.
“At last, ladies and gentlemen, the final race is about to start.”
Silver heard his name being announced. People started clapping. He imagined them with a palaspas in their hands waving at him. This was how Jesus felt when he arrived at the gates of Jerusalem, Silver thought, grinning.
He looked across at his rival. Bagi didn’t meet his gaze. He kept his eyes in front of him the entire time.
“On your marks,” blared the announcer on the loudspeaker.
Silver turn away from Bagi and stared straight ahead to the red buoy that marked the halfway point of the track.
“Get set.”
His right hand gripped the handle of the outboard motor behind him. There was no time to say a prayer, so Silver just whispered, “Amen.”
“Go!”
A horn blared, starting the race. Both motorboats roared toward the halfway buoy 200 meters from the starting point.
Silver began inching away from Bagi as their boats left the starting line. Approaching the halfway buoy, his lead grew by 20 meters. A quick turn at the halfway buoy and Silver began speeding toward the shore.
Midway to the finish line, his engine began to sputter. It made a choking sound as if a piece of food was lodged in its windpipe. The choking continued until the engine died.
His boat slowed. Bagi passed him.
Silver swore he could hear the Devil laughing as he desperately tried to get the engine working again. He pulled and pulled the cord to get the motor restarted but the engine refused to revive.
He glanced in front of him. Bagi’s boat had crossed the finish line.
The loudspeaker announced the winner.
“What a shocking development, ladies and gentlemen. What a tragedy for Silver. Leading most of the way only for his engine to fail so close to the finish line. Congratulations to Bagi, the winner of this final race and now three-time national champion. What an amazing achievement! What a dramatic finish!”
Silver gazed heavenward. “Why did you do this to me?” he asked softly.
The darkening sky was silent. Silver felt like he was drowning and God was holding his head beneath the water.
His gaze fell from the sky. His boat floated aimlessly in the water. An oar was within reach but Silver made no effort to grab the handle and paddle back to shore.
Silver looked down at the outboard motor of his boat. He removed the cover and checked the fuel tank. It was filled more than halfway. His fingers inspected its walls. There were no holes. The gasoline was the color of tuba, deep red flecked with dark spots. The spots were particles of ash but they were too tiny and dispersed to have caused the engine to fail.
He plunged his hand into the red liquid and reached down into the tank. His fingers wrapped around an object resting at the bottom. It was blocking the fuel filter. He fished the object out. It was a blackened stub the size of his thumb. The charred object was the handle of the palaspas he had burned and mixed in with the fuel.
