Which part of the journey do you like the most — the travel or the destination?
Because to me, while the destination may be the place of our goals, there is something more human and magical in the journey we take. Today, I found myself remembering one of the most memorable trips I ever had last year — a voyage aboard a sailing ship across the Rodeo Capital of the Philippines, to bring the light of journalism to the students of the island of Masbate. I may have shared this experience in my blog before, but this journey keeps calling me back, urging me to keep it in my keepsake, to honor once more the life I was walking with before today.
It was a somber night for us student journalists as we waited patiently to board the ship that would take us to the remote island of Masbate. The wind was cold and the night was quiet. We were uncertain of what awaited us there — how our speeches would go, who we would meet, and what stories would unfold. But all the worries faded away, because we knew we could always look toward each other for comfort. The best things, after all, happen in good company.
I didn’t expect this trip to become the way we truly got to know one another — as student journalists, as peers, and as friends. Listening to each other’s stories while sailing made us closer than we ever were in the office. Life had already taken many turns for each of us, and I never thought a simple trip could build such strong friendships, or perhaps even a family, within our publication.
It was already late when we boarded the ship. I remember trembling from fatigue, exhausted from all the reviewing for our assigned categories. Yet despite how tired we were, we took courage as we placed our bags beside unfamiliar beds among unfamiliar faces. That moment — putting our bags down — felt like the start of our real journalism journey, not as mere writers, but as catalysts of truth and warriors of literature brave enough to cross the sea.
I can still vividly remember how different our conversations were on the ship compared to those in the office. As we sailed to Masbate, we heard stories we had never shared before. We exchanged secrets as if trust had always been there, only waiting for the right time to speak. Most of my co-journalists were seniors, and being surrounded by such talented writers, artists, and photojournalists felt both humbling and inspiring. Beneath their skills and outputs, I saw kindness — the kind that shows through their words and laughter as we shared stories from our double-decked bunks beside a noisy air conditioner that never failed to make us laugh.
Sometimes we’d get hungry from all the talking and head up to the cabin where food was sold. We also brought instant noodles, which we cooked and shared around a small table. Where one went, everyone followed. We were like siblings — making sure no one got left behind, not even from a random topic that suddenly came up in conversation.
In the morning, the sea became our landscape. We woke up excited, drawn by the view and the thought that we were getting closer to the land of Masbate.
Crystal blue and lurking green — that’s how I saw the ocean, and my co-writers filled it with colors unseen, as we watched the waves together and exchanged small stories over laughter.
The sea was silent, but it was a kind of silence I had never heard before — not the stillness of nature or the quiet of birthdays.
It was sweet, calm, and full of hope for what was yet to come. I remember how it helped one of my co-journalists ease her nerves about the seminar, and I too found comfort in it — a reminder that good things were waiting for us on the island.
And indeed, they found us. The glory of young writers, the kindness of the Masbateños, and the joy of teaching the next generation about true writing — those moments became treasures I’ll always keep.
Going home was bittersweet yet hopeful. We watched the sunset on our way back — a complete sunset, not one seen from the shore. It was warm and freeing, as if reminding us that though the journey had ended, the seeds we planted in the minds and hearts of those student writers would keep growing. We spent that final night outside our bunks, soaking in the moment and making sense of all that had happened — laughing, reflecting, and realizing that only we could truly understand how special it was.
Now, even after the trip and back home in the present, we still say, "The glory is in Masbate.” And perhaps, that is our story — one that only we were meant to see.
