Desafinado: Slightly Out Of Tune - 1. CHAPTER 1: MISREAD

CHAPTER 1: MISREAD

The sunlight danced and frolicked on the brim of my hat. This straw hat, crafted from rye, exuded a stylish charm. It was a gift from a dear friend during one of my wild birthday adventures. I used to have tons of those—birthday parties, that is. Sex. Parties. Drugs. Booze. Lots of dick and ass. Lots of men. Slim. Thick. Short. Tall. Hairy. Smooth. Muscle. Twinky. Black. White. Brown. Yellow. Latino. Asian. European. Genovian. Hell, I’d even fuck Barney, the purple dinosaur, if I could. There was a whole line of men waiting to have a taste of me. Gay or straight, sometimes women, it didn’t matter. I was your grade A, Wagyu-quality, fully degenerate “Fuckboi” in all its senses. They called me the flipper back in college for a reason. I’m a very hot guy; I’m just spitting facts here. Nowadays, I don’t count my birthdays anymore. I’m way past my expiration date, it seems. And I don’t celebrate it in the way that I used to. I've changed... and, well, I've grown tired of it. I grew tired of myself.

On that specific birthday, we had been in St. Barts, cruising on a fancy yacht with a lively crew of friends and family, indulging in a blissful two-week getaway. I can't quite recall who suggested it, but someone mentioned that wearing a hat of this size would be advantageous in the scorching sun. Does it actually make sense? Well, maybe. Although I must confess, this massive hat was a bit unwieldy, covering my entire face like a depressed jellyfish. But the idea stuck with me. Rocking this distinctive look meant I stood out from afar. But I preferred to hide my face anyway, always keeping my eyes fixed on the ground, never glancing forward, sideways, or backward—just downwards, to the path ahead, wherever it may lead me.

As I lifted my gaze, I eagerly scanned the horizon, hoping to catch a glimpse of the breathtaking skyline. The vibrant colors intertwined with the warm orange glow as the sun neared the edge of the world. It dawned on me that I had been neglecting my usual routine of observing my fellow passengers on this voyage.

Usually, I'd be up and about, playing detective in my head as I observed the motley crew aboard The Hiligaynon. I had a knack for spotting those infamous "foreigner's streak" types—the ones who bring their unpleasant attitudes along on their travels. Not that it really mattered since I was part of the crew. Surviving in this bustling environment required endurance and a mountain of patience. But it was hard to stay optimistic when a foreign visitor expected everyone to bow down to them while their excessive luggage took over every inch of the yacht. Or when someone felt entitled enough to raise hell about a missing camera drone, triggering a frantic search through everyone's stuff in a desperate attempt to find it.

Our last voyage was a hot mess, filled with privileged folks who lacked basic manners. I fervently hoped this trip wouldn't turn into a migraine. It was the last thing on my mind as I daydreamed about my upcoming return to New York, where urgent matters were waiting for my attention.

As I turned my gaze back to the massive, jaw-dropping 80-foot yacht, I couldn't help but analyze the intriguing cast of characters on board. They were a bit too far for me to catch any red flags, but their unique figures and animated movements grabbed my attention. There was this colossal woman, resembling a mighty titan, struggling to step off the boat; she was a sight to behold, no doubt. And her petite fiancé, bless his soul, was putting up a valiant struggle as he heroically carried her booty on his shoulders, trying to offer some emotional support. He was teetering on the edge of collapse—no exaggeration. The veins pulsating on his neck and the temples bulging were like a spectacle in themselves. He was lugging his beloved around like a symbol of their love, showcasing their bond with a back-breaking, mind-boggling effort that posed quite a formidable challenge.

Surprisingly, the people in line behind them didn’t care. Most of them were engrossed in their cell phones, capturing every moment. They recorded a crew member clutching their bags, a group of shirtless men diligently unloading food supplies onto another boat in the distance, and men transferring water jugs to the encampment area. Everything seemed captivating through the eyes of the tourists. I bet if I faked getting devoured by a shark in real-time, the guests would whip out their cameras faster than you can say "Jaws." My death would’ve gone viral.

Every little detail became a visceral curiosity, eagerly recorded on their phones and destined for social media fame. One sprightly individual even conducted a live vlog of the tour, narrating the procedural drama captured by her camera. It was an enthralling spectacle as she silently recorded the men untying the boat for thirty minutes straight. I wondered, who the fuck has the time? Well, apparently, she has.

Everyone was in such a darn hurry, completely consumed by their trivial nonsense, making time feel like it was moving at a snail's pace. It was like watching a wild ant party on a hot summer day, with each bug scurrying around thinking they held the universe's secrets. They were trapped in a tornado of urgency, like the world would implode if they didn't move at warp speed. But little did they realize that their frantic frenzy only made time drag even more.

Meanwhile, the world suffered the consequences of their haste. Simple joys were ignored, beauty went unnoticed, and connections were strained by the relentless pursuit of meaningless crap. The vibrant colors of nature became a blurry mess, the sweet sound of laughter got drowned out by the thundering footsteps, and heartfelt conversations turned into shallow exchanges of rushed mumblings.

No one listened to the crackling of Tokay Geckos reverberating through the forest, their low staccato resembling a chorus of deep baritones. No one bothered to hear the symphony of crickets that grew louder as we approached the shore, assuring us that land was within reach. The winds that playfully whistled through two majestic rock formations nestled in the narrow waterway, as if offering a welcoming gesture, seemed to cry out for everyone’s attention. But no one seemed to care—except me.

I flicked the cool water, revealing a school of parrot fish gracefully swimming beneath the boat. The crystal-clear turquoise waters waved irresistibly. And within that sliver of orange light in the horizon, extending a warm greeting, paradise eagerly awaited our arrival.

It was like a picture-perfect moment you'd see on a postcard. You know, the kind you'd send to your folks or your sweetheart when you're off on a dreamy vacation. Picture this: a jumping pose in front of the Eiffel Tower, a friendly nod to the gigantic Corpus Christi statue, a magical stroll along the Great Wall of China, or a tribute to the majestic stairs at the Sydney Opera House.

This moment was something to be admired. I mean, we were looking at this pristine beach with crystal-clear blue waters, sand as white as snow and as soft as powdered sugar, and palm trees surrounded by a lush forest that just oozed tranquility. But here's the thing: none of the other passengers seemed to get it. They weren't taking it all in. Instead, they were focused on capturing the moment, freezing it in time, rather than actually experiencing it. Except for one person who cared enough to speak to the ocean.

At the back of the line, there was this guy gazing out at the open waters. I zoomed in with my camera to get a closer look at this intriguing sight. I took a candid photo, looked it up, and saw him whispering a prayer to the wind, like he was pleading for something. His mouth was barely open, so I couldn't make out the words. Surprisingly, nobody else noticed him. But maybe, just maybe, my camera managed to capture something special. A memory that would mean something to him. A memory worth revisiting.

We had David, a local teenager who was deaf, guiding us in a small boat, moving away from the yacht and closer to the shoreline. The rest of the passengers were being ferried by two chase boats. I glanced at my watch and was amazed that we were actually on time. Sharp at 6 a.m., right on schedule. That was a first.

After about thirty minutes, one of the guides huddled with the group and spoke through a megaphone. "We'll be staying on this island por five nights, and then we'll head to the resort for the remaining pive days. Por those who didn't opt for the Pitongpulo island resort package, you'll be taken back to the yacht and back to Puerto Princesa," explained Kulas, one of the senior guides, who was more experienced than me. A short, swarthy man with long white dreads walked over to where I was standing and asked, "Hindi ba tayo iikot sa sagada? Extend ba to nang 2 days?" (Aren't we going to circle around Sagada? Will this trip be extended by two days?)

As I adjusted my straw hat to keep it from flying off in the gusty wind, my long, curly blonde hair peeking out, I turned to face him, checking the trip details on my iPad. "Ah… hindi, sampung araw lang itong tour. Hindi to yung fifteen-days," (Ah... no, the tour is only ten days. It's not the fifteen-day one,) I replied, my accent sounding as local as can be.

Even though I spoke Tagalog like a pro, it was pretty obvious I wasn't Filipino. I mean, blue eyes and blonde hair don't exactly scream "Pinoy." But hey, after living it up in Palawan for a solid ten years, I had become part of the locale. No matter how fluent my Tagalog got, they'd always see me as the foreigner in the crowd. But you know what? It didn't matter one bit because they embraced me like family. Fun fact: I was actually born right here in the Philippines. Yup, dual citizenship made it a breeze for me to settle down in this awesome country. And with all those childhood trips and summer adventures in Palawan, it feels like I hit the jackpot living in this paradise I proudly call home.

I faced the crowd, ready to make my introductions in my own annoyingly quirky way—cause you know what? I’m quirky. Hihi. "Morning, folks! I'm Damien, your friendly neighborhood senior guide for this adventure. Yep, I may not look like your typical local, but trust me, I've been living here for a solid ten years, so I know my stuff." The crowd chuckled at the irony of a white guy being the expert among the brown-skinned locals. It's like being the odd one out in a world where being white is considered a disadvantage. "Now, go ahead and drop off your stuff at the huts and take it easy this morning. At lunch, we're gonna have a boodle fight. Don't worry, I'll explain what that means later. But for tonight, get ready for a bonfire and some kick-ass local music to lift your spirits!"

The crowd erupted in applause and excitement; their attention quickly diverted as Mariel, the only lady crew member on the H.M.S. Tours, stepped up to guide everyone to their rented huts or villas. As the last remaining chase boat made its way to shore, they brought along a man struggling with a jar, a backpack, and a massive suitcase. I couldn't help but feel exhausted just watching him. Sweat dripped down his forehead, and his green eyes squinted against the scorching heat. I looked down at him and asked, "Tulungan na kita diyan?" (Can I help you with that?)

"Sorry?"

"You don't speak Tagalog?" I asked.

"Do I look like I should?" replied the shorter man, eyeing the surroundings while struggling to hold onto his jar. His skin was brighter than that of an average Filipino. And compared to him, I looked like I had spent more time in the sun. He was a mix, as the locals would say. Part Filipino, thin straight nose, large eyes, part Scandinavian, with sharp angular cuts and the skin tone of an Iberian, sepia beige, if one might wonder, like a sun-bleached tangerine bursting in the summer. The power of his mixed heritage shone through his emerald eyes. He was gorgeous. The longer I stared, the more those green orbs captivated me. They were a striking contrast against the dark curls, and his eyes were constantly searching for something. And that accent—it felt so familiar. Definitely British.

He wiped his forehead and pulled out a thick white cloth, vigorously dabbing his face. Some of his long lashes got smudged in the process. I winced at his rough treatment of his own face. The poor guy must be melting in this humidity.

"Um... do you need some help with that?" I asked again, insistently. He seemed in desperate need of assistance. "Looks pretty heavy.”

"Thanks. But I'm good."

There was an awkward pause. I wasn't sure if I was blocking his way, but the way he looked at me made it seem that way. "Uh... okay then. Sure," I muttered, scratching the back of my head, desperately trying to come up with something else to say. "By the way, I'm Damien. I'll be-"

The man scanned the huts from a distance, walking away without a word, leaving me behind. Not one to dwell on potential rudeness, I let out a sigh and followed the rest of the group.

Everyone had settled into their huts and villas by now. A bunch of rowdy Swedish tourists burst out of one of the fancy villas as part of their VIP package. They were laughing and giggling like a bunch of high school kids, lugging their drunk (or drugged) groom into the master suite. The villas had a master suite and a couple of adjoining rooms, depending on the tour package. These guys must have spiked their friend's drink to knock him out, all because he couldn't handle being seasick. Poor guy spent last night puking his guts out until the drinking games began.

As I made my way towards one of the admin huts, I caught a glimpse of the brunette dude with a killer smile. He flashed his pearly whites, and I couldn't help but return the favor with a smile of my own. I was busy unloading my stuff into a hammock outside the hut, hunched over like an exhausted pack mule, when I felt his gaze on me. I was just about to turn around and see what he wanted when one of his buddies dragged him away for a quick laugh, and they rejoined their group

"Did you manage to catch some shut-eye last night?" asked Ryan, the chef extraordinaire responsible for all the meal prep and also my good buddy. He's a Le Cordon Bleu-trained chef who supposedly speaks about a gazillion languages—French, Tagalog, Swedish, Spanish, German, Chinese, Korean, you name it. It's hard to find a chef who's a linguistic genius, but honestly, I've never heard him utter a single word in any of those languages he claims to know. But hey, he's been with us for almost eight years, and we share a bunk on every trip. When it comes to snoozing, he's the undisputed champion, leaving his fellow guides, Kulas, Manny, Jerome, and David, in the dust with their ungodly snoring. And let me tell you, that's just the way I prefer it—a tranquil slumber of a full eight hours, undisturbed and blissfully serene.

I tilted my head and replied, "Nah." I flicked on the air conditioning and shut the door. "There was too much noise going on. Sounded like a wild party or something. All I heard was a man retching."

Our rooms were as basic as a plain white 4x4 box. The only perks in the communal admin huts were the blessed air conditioning, a couple of beds (sometimes bunk beds), and a guitar sitting in the corner. All the fancy amenities were reserved for the huts and villas.

"You should've crashed below deck. I was waiting," Ryan teased. He's an alright-looking dude; there's no doubt about it. But... I was way too tired to play poker with him last night.

He rummaged through his shorts for a towel, snuck up behind me, and wiped off the sweat from my back. He even lifted my arms to dry my sweaty armpits. "There you go, babe," he said, tossing the towel in my face. I chuckled and shook my head. This guy always knew how to read my moods and say the right thing at the right time. One thing we're both crystal clear on is that he's straight, I'm his boss, and we're just good pals. Period. Plus, he's not exactly my type. He’s also blonde and blue-eyed. As much as I’m a bit of a narcissist, I wasn’t really keen on fucking myself.

I headed over to the corner to grab my pack of cigarettes from my bag and asked, "What time's the roll call?"

"In about 5 minutes." Suddenly, panic washed over his face. "Shit. I completely forgot about the lobster bisque." He sprinted outside, slipping on his slippers in a hurry, and made a beeline for the kitchen. I followed him out, muttering, "Some things never change." I lit up a cigarette, puffed out a cloud of smoke, and lounged on the hammock, waiting for the roll call to go down in the square.

"Greg Wallace?"

"Here."

"Matty George?"

"Here."

"Etienne Claudette?" Mariel asked with her twangy Southern drawl, scanning the crowd as she waited to cross off names from the list. “Y'all seen Claudette 'round here? Miss Claudette, that is?” She glanced around, but no one raised their hand to claim the name. Then she caught wind of some hushed whispers, like when the homeroom teacher catches students passing notes or signaling each other in the back. She pointed towards a group of boys and girls engrossed in conversation and asked, “Anybody reckon we got ourselves a Miss Claudette in this bunch?”

The girl, engrossed in conversation with a guy, replied with a playful tone, "Oh la la, c'est moi!" She giggled and continued chattering away in French.

When Mariel touched her ponytail, she was clearly annoyed. The half Filipino-American tried putting on a big smile, as she said in her sing-songy voice, “Well, well, well, ma'am! Next time 'round, let's make sure we're all fixin' to keep our ears open during roll call. You see, your name carries the weight of decidin' where your group's gonna lay their heads. So, let's be as attentive as a hound dog on a scent, y'all hear?”

I couldn't help but grin at the image of a petite, five-foot woman yanking the hair of one of the French tourists to keep them in line. One thing I've learned is that Mariel’s the kind of woman who will take care of you when you're hurt, but make no mistake about pissing her off. She’ll cut your dick in your sleep if you’re not careful. I learned that the hard way when she walked out on a group that treated her like their personal servant, expecting her to cater to their every whim.

She shut down the power to the villa for a whole week, and guess what she did next? She got her hands on a frickin' bucket of stinging wasps and released it right in their room. I was about to fire her, but the guests were a bunch of dipshits, so I had to kick them off the island and refund their remaining trip. After that, we had a serious talk. She promised to stick by my side and attend a couple of anger management sessions with the promise of a raise.

Well, I guess that's the price you pay when you hire yourself a Filipino-American raised down in Louisiana. She's tougher than a two-dollar steak and country as cornbread. But let me tell you, she's got more wealthy executives flocking to her than a hen's got chicken eggs. Counting all those marriage proposals who got caught in her web of Southern sweetness, she's never running low on suitors. I bet that several of the guests eyeing her right now were on their way to getting their hearts broken.

Then Mariel called out the last name on her list. "Albert Mathersen?" As the guests were escorted by the busboys to their respective accommodations, she called out the name again, “Mr. Mathersen?”

Depending on their package tour, a 5-day yacht adventure plus a 5-day stay on the island would cost you around $10,000. For the VIP package, it's around $30,000. The VIPs had their own personal assistant, separate from the group, which I called the stress-free package. Before you could even think about getting a drink, a bottle of water, fresh coconut juice, or a mojito would be served right in front of you

"Mr. Albert Mathersen," called out Mariel. She scanned the area, hoping to spot someone raising their hand. She didn't want to embarrass the only person lingering nearby, so she called out the name while walking closer to that person.

I noticed the same man from earlier, gazing into the distance—the beach view was still empty. I wondered what he was searching for. Since he was the only one in the middle of the square, it made sense for Mariel to tap his shoulder and bring him back to reality, reminding him that he's in paradise. Flicking my cigarette to the ground, I nonchalantly moved closer, hoping to overhear their conversation.

"Mr. Albert Mathersen?" Mariel asked.

"Yes," the man replied. "I'm sorry. Yep, that's me," he reassured, sounding a bit interrupted.

"I gotta apologize for this whole dang mix-up, sir. Seems like we got our wires crossed somethin' fierce," Mariel explained, reading from her tablet. "That tour you ended up on was actually booked and paid for a whopping two years back. But here's where it all went haywire: when y'all tried to reschedule, our system went and plumb messed things up real good. It reckoned you belonged on our luxury yacht package, when all you wanted was that good ol' 3-day El Nido tour." Her eyes squinted as she absorbed the information on her tablet. "Now, I reckon that shouldn't have happened, and I'm mighty sorry 'bout it. Just give me a minute, sir. We got ourselves a big ol' mix-up to sort out here."

Meanwhile, I was playing pretend, lugging around potted plants with the workers as we headed towards the villas. All the while, I was eavesdropping on their conversation. Suddenly, David, a lean and wiry boy with average height, caught sight of me. His arm jingled with the handcrafted bracelets he was wearing as he started signing.

(What are you up to?)

I clumsily dropped the potted plant to the floor and shot a secret signal. (Shh, keep it hush-hush; you didn't see anything, alright?)

(Who am I gonna blab it to? A palm tree?)

(Oh yeah, you can't hear a thing.)

He rolled his eyes. (Listen up, pal! I'm about to let Kulas in on all your shenanigans. You were supposed to handle those tax reports by now. The big shots at the Bureau of Internal Revenue are breathing down our necks, demanding last month's quarterly reports. Manong Kulas specifically asked me to remind you. So quit slacking off and get to work, okay? Owning this resort doesn't give you a free pass to be a bum and a slacker. Please get your shit together!)

Damn. I forgot how smart this sixteen-year-old kid is. (Please don't tell him anything! I'll do the reports later.) I signed, desperately clasping my hands together. (For the love of all that's holy, don't say anything for my sake. If he catches me doing this, he'll totally lose it. You know how strict he is. Come on, help a brother out, pretty please.)

He pondered for a moment. (What's in it for me?)

I tilted my head, racking my brain for a tempting offer. (I'll treat you to some finger-lickin' isaw [chicken gizzards] once we're back in the city.)

He jumped up in the sand and grinned. Then it hit me. Oh shit. I forgot to tell him that I'm heading to New York. He'll be furious when he finds out I'm leaving town. Nodding my head back towards their conversation, I got intrigued by what the guy was saying.

"So, what's the deal now? Any chance I can catch a lift on a boat back to that island adventure you were banging on about? Where was it again... El Nido, right?"

"Well, reckon there ain't no boat 'til sunup tomorrow."

"Right, that's sorted then."

"But," Mariel said, getting ready to apologize for the mistake or inconvenience. "Uh, the hitch is, um, all them huts and villas are plum full tonight. See, technically, you ain't paid for this here trip..."

"What do you mean?"

"What I'm tryin' to say, sir, is that all we got left is a Kubo."

"A what? A ku-bow?

"Yes."

"What's a ku-bow?"

"It's a hut made of, um—how d'ya say it?" She waved her hands in the air. "It's made of wood and bamboo strips." Then she shut her eyes, like she was reciting straight from a Wikipedia page. "The bahay kubo, or payag in Visayan, is a type of stilt house native to the Philippines. It's a symbol of Philippine culture, mostly found in them lowland areas."

"Alright, fair enough. No need for me to be privy to that information, miss."

"I'm sorry, sir. But you got me all jittery."

"So what's the bother then?"

"This here kubo is smack dab in the middle of nowhere on this here island."

"Well, doesn't sound like much of a problem, does it?

Mariel started squirming. Her polite face turned into a twisted expression, expecting a potential meltdown. "There ain't no ventilation, no breeze sir."

"What do you mean?"

"No fancy AC contraption."

And then it happened. "BLOODY HELL!" the man bellowed, mopping his brow with a bleeding white cloth in this sweltering heat. "You expect me to kip there tonight in this weather? You trying to send me to an early grave?"

"But the nights do get a mighty chilly, sir."

"Brilliant! Just bloody brilliant."

"I sure do apologize for this."

I had to step in. I nudged Mariel aside and grabbed the guy's hand for a handshake. "Hey, I'm Damien. I'm one of the top guides—"

"—aren't you the tour manager?" the guy interrupted, venting his frustration towards her. "Why's he the one explaining this ruddy mess?"

"Well, sir, uh—Mathersen?" I said, glancing at Mariel. She nodded and gave me a half-smile to confirm. "Because, uh, we want all our customers to have an awesome experience. At H.M.S. Tours, we always guarantee customer satisfaction.”

"Seriously? How can you guarantee my happiness?"

"By providing you with the best darn service possible."

"And you reckon this is first-class service, do you?"

I had to bullshit my way through this. I had no clue how to turn things around. I looked down and grinned at his scowl. "Yes. By making sure you're, uh, happy and satisfied?"

"You're about to chuck me into a sweatbox with no fancy air conditioning. I'll either turn into a roasted corpse or keel over from heatstroke in this blistering heat."

"Hey, I get where you're coming from, but you're kinda' missing the whole point, ya' know?"

"So, when does that 'point' of yours make an appearance, then?"

He eyeballed my hands like they were giving him a sweet little massage, just begging for my grip to loosen. After what felt like an eternity, I reluctantly let go of his hand and blurted out, "Here's the deal," and then opened my palms, freeing them from the electrifying jolt of our touch. "I'll personally make sure that I become your own personal tour guide. You're guaranteed a spot on our fancy yacht trip."

Mariel chimed in. "Mr. Ellison." I shot her a glare to remind her about the confidentiality agreement. "I mean, Damien." I dragged her to the corner and she whispered, "Boss. The El Nido tour for three days costs 500 bucks. This whole dang shebang is worth 10,000. It'd be cheaper if we shipped him off to Manong Ed's ferry come sunup, so he could tag along on their day trip to El Nido. I'll fire off an email right quick."

"Do we still have a spot for the VIP package?"

"Yeah, but it's gonna set ya back a whopping 30,000 for—"

"Put it on my tab," I whispered back.

"But boss," she said, looking unnecessarily worried.

And then, I flashed a grin. My grandpa always said that a genuine smile is the key to effective communication. Whether it's good news or bad news, smile your way through it. I looked down at her, waiting for her to change her mind, and it seemed to sway her a little. "If we wanna keep those five-star reviews, we gotta make sure the customer is happy. Our system screwed up, so let's fix it. Sound good?”

"I guess so."

She tilted her head and started typing away on her emails. This passenger intrigued me. He seemed disconnected, like his mind was off in another world. I wondered, what's his story?

I stood in front of Albert, taking his luggage from his hands, when he asked, "Where are we headed?"

"To the kubo. It's a bit of a hike from here. The beach stretches for miles." Albert followed me as I rambled on about the island's history during our walk. He didn't utter a word, and I was pretty sure he wasn't even listening.

The kubo was secluded and quite a distance away. Definitely not within walking distance. I could've squeezed him into one of the admin huts, but the whole island is fully booked. It'd be weird if he shared a room with Ryan and me, with him taking the bed and me crashing on the floor. Or maybe he should be the one sleeping on the floor?

The trail was all jumbled up with rocks. This was where the beach and the sand welcomed the gravel, pebbles, and stones. This part of the island was left untouched, so there was more greenery around. They didn't mess with construction here too much, trying to preserve the natural habitat. But hey, guess what else came with that? The island's very own mosquito army.

I was constantly swatting at my legs and arms. I looked back and saw him flapping a white cloth around his back and legs. And boy, did he hold onto that jar like it was his lifeline.

Finally, we reached the kubo. And let me tell you, even I wouldn't stay there. It was an old-fashioned nipa hut on stilts, raised up in the air. It had three wide-open windows you could easily access with a ladder and one window that was shut tight. The ladder had six steps, but two of them were broken. And nearby, there was a creek that mosquitoes loved to party in. If someone stayed in that nipa hut, they'd be massacred by mosquitoes all day long. I turned around and saw that he was wiped out. Well, he looked exhausted.

I asked, "You okay, buddy?"

"I'll be fine," he replied, heading up the ladder.

There was something off about his breathing. It sounded all wonky. Even though it was faint, I could hear his breaths coming out in short bursts. And then he slipped. I caught him just in time, holding onto his torso as he clung to the ladder with his back against my chest. I looked down at his face and stated the obvious, "Hey, are you sure? You don't look so hot."

He kept on climbing. "I'll be fine. Don't worry," he said, sounding pretty convinced.

Just as I was about to let go, wondering why I even cared, I reached over to grab onto the ladder while my other hand rested on his forehead. Damn, he was burning up. "Hey, you're not fine," I said.

But he kept climbing. And when he reached the top, he suddenly passed out. With one swift pull on the ledge of the ladder, I hauled myself up beside him. I grabbed his stuff—his backpack and that precious jar—and stashed them in a corner. In the middle of the room, there was a bamboo bed without a mattress. I carefully carried him over and laid him down. As I felt his forehead, it was clear he was having a rough time. To end up on the wrong trip and then catch a fever on a journey to one of the most stunning beaches in the world? Talk about a major downer. This man’s straight-up unlucky.

I grabbed my phone to call for help, but there was no signal. I totally forgot this place was a dead zone. I figured I might as well call for backup and get this place cleaned up. I always keep my word when it comes to customer satisfaction. What better way to get Mr. Mathersen to give us a glowing review than to give him top-notch service by sprucing up his crib. I'll throw in an air conditioner. Maybe set up a fancy flat screen in the corner. A mini fridge by the bed...

What the hell am I thinking? The guy is sick, and here I am, hoping for rave reviews. What's wrong with me?

Just as I was about to check his forehead again, my hand slipped and accidentally landed on his cheeks. I quickly pulled away, but he grabbed onto my hand.

"Don't leave."

"What?"

"Don't go," he said, lost in some feverish delusion.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't go, Daniel. Come back."

"But I'm—"

"Please. Don't leave me here. Don't go."

He started sobbing, soft little cries meant for his own company. And as he turned to his left, toward the window that was stuck shut and could never open, I walked out of the kubo, glanced back, and wondered who the hell this Daniel person was. As I pondered how someone could get so sick in a place that some people called paradise, I wondered if maybe this haven wasn't meant for all of us. Just like any pretty little secret locked away, the decay and the pain keep creeping back.