It’s my last day in Boracay, and I am in the perfectly enviable position of having the island’s Bulabog Beach almost entirely to myself while lounging on a hammock at the Levantin with a bottle of California Red Muscat and the company of some of the loveliest people in the world. I am pleasantly tipsy—though surprisingly only mildly so given my body’s state of detoxification and the volume of alcohol I’ve already imbibed.
In any case, I’m at that level of inebriation where lucidity begins to outstrip coordination—a state of affairs that leads to the exaggerated care with which slightly drunk people move their limbs or pronounce their words. There’s a breeze on my face and sand beneath my toes—sensations delightful enough even without the enhancements of wine. The profoundest things going through my mind are: I can’t believe I haven’t gone to Bulabog Beach before, I can’t believe I haven’t hung out at the Levantin before, I can’t believe I haven’t drunk a California Red Muscat before, and I can’t believe I haven’t done all three things at the same time before. That I’d passed up on several such opportunities for bliss throughout the entire month should have reduced me to tears—except for the fact that it’s utterly impossible to feel anything apart from giddy happiness.
And it keeps getting better, because this is Boracay—an island metaphysically as large as five phone booths strung together—which simply means that one will run into the same people again and again. So the company keeps getting larger, and it’s perfectly alright, because the people attaching themselves to the table are genuinely funny—even without the enhancements of wine.
And in a few moments, we’ll drain the last of our alcohol and then head off to a local restaurant that allegedly serves the best crab in Boracay.
All in all, it hasn’t been—and definitely won’t be—a bad way to round off an unforgettable month.