While enjoying my pretend run around UP, I came across a group of students handing out stickers that asked a simple question: “Anong kwentong dagat mo?”
Attached to it was a QR code that led to an Oceana Philippines campaign advocating for the protection of municipal waters and the rights of small-scale fishers who depend on them for their livelihood. The campaign highlights the importance of preserving our oceans not just as natural resources, but as spaces that sustain communities, cultures, and generations of Filipinos.
The question got me thinking.
I have always loved the sea.
I grew up where access to the sea was as easy as taking off my clothes and running a few steps toward the water.
Weekends and summers were spent swimming under the sun until our skin turned several shades darker. We never got tired of it. Sometimes we’d even lie to our parents just to sneak away for a swim, knowing they’d say no because it meant more laundry waiting for them at home.
Back then, the high tide was strong enough to reach the cemented barangay streets. The sea never felt distant—it was part of everyday life.
I remember reenacting superhero fight scenes by the shore with childhood friends, the day I accidentally learned how to swim, and much later, nights spent at the beach with friends, sharing stories and drinks under the sound of the waves.
Through every stage of my life, the sea has been there. A playground. A witness. A refuge.
Long before I understood policies, conservation, or the debates surrounding the 15-kilometer municipal waters, I already knew what the sea meant to people who grew up beside it. It wasn’t just a body of water. It was where we played, gathered, celebrated, healed, and made memories.
When I think of the sea, I don’t immediately think of maps, boundaries, or regulations. I think of childhood. I think of home.
The sea has always been my place of comfort and happiness. And no matter how far life takes me, a part of me will always belong to the shore.
