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It is 7 a.m. on a weekend, and the crashing of sea waves echoes like a siren’s call. Heads bob in and out of the water, with voices shrieking and bodies lying on top of surfboards, arms paddling, eyes darting, waiting for the next big wave.
I first saw my stepfather-to-be in 1942, when I was eight, during the Japanese time. He was attending the town fiesta of Majayjay. I saw him approaching on our pathway, dressed in clothes I’d never seen.
