My future Journey

Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4: THE SEA GUARDIANS AND THE RIPPLES OF CHANGE

1.

Two months had passed since their trip to Batangas, and the community garden in Quiapo had transformed from a patch of green shoots into a thriving hub of life. The murals on the walls now glowed under fresh coats of paint, depicting sea turtles swimming alongside rice stalks, children planting seeds next to fishermen casting nets, and mountains reaching down to meet the waves. Every morning, before the city’s rush hour filled the streets with jeepney horns and vendor calls, the garden was already alive with activity—families harvesting vegetables for breakfast, children gathering for storytelling circle, and volunteers tending to beds that now grew everything from bitter melon to butterfly pea flowers.

Aera pushed open the wooden gate she and Liza had helped build from old pallets and driftwood brought back from Batangas, carrying a basket of recycled plastic bottles she’d collected from neighbors. Kael was already there, perched on the edge of the new rainwater collection tank they’d installed with help from a local environmental group, drawing turtles on its side with bright blue chalk.

“Look, Aera! I’m making them swim all around the tank so they can guard our water!” he called out, not taking his eyes off his work. His small hands moved quickly, creating curved shells and delicate flippers that seemed to glide across the gray metal surface.

Liza emerged from behind a row of banana trees, wiping dirt from her hands on her worn denim shorts. She was holding a notebook filled with sketches and notes—her “Garden Growth Journal” that tracked everything from when the first mango flower bloomed to how many families had signed up for their seed-sharing program.

“Perfect timing,” she said, grinning as she waved Aera over to a shaded corner where several wooden crates sat stacked neatly. “We’ve got twenty new members in the Sea Guardians club this week—all kids from the nearby elementary school. Their teacher heard about what we’re doing with the turtles and wants us to come do a presentation next month.”

Aera set down her basket and pulled out her own journal—its cover now decorated with pressed sea flowers and a drawing of the star-shaped shell she’d found in Batangas. She flipped to a page filled with lists and plans: Make turtle habitat models for school presentation, Organize monthly beach cleanups in Manila Bay, Collect donations for Batangas fishermen’s turtle protection supplies, Plan first field trip to the cove.

“Your mom already said she’d help us make the models,” Liza added, noticing Aera’s eyes on the list. “She said she can bring in some of her art supplies from work. And Mr. Santos from the corner store is donating all the cardboard boxes we need.”

Aera nodded, her fingers tracing the edge of a photograph taped inside her journal—one of the group sitting on the flat rock in Batangas, the sunset painting the sea behind them. She’d written a small note underneath: Ripples start small but spread far. That’s what the fisherman, Mang Roberto, had told them before they left the cove. He’d said every good thing they did in Manila would send ripples all the way to Batangas, and maybe even farther.

Just then, the sound of a motorcycle pulling up outside made them look up. Liza’s Lola Elena climbed off the back of a tricycle, carrying a large woven basket balanced on her head—her usual way of transporting things, even though Aera’s father had offered to drive her every time. She’d always say that walking and balancing helped her stay connected to the land and remember the lessons her own grandmother had taught her.

“Look what I brought!” she called out, setting the basket down carefully and lifting the cloth covering it. Inside were dozens of small clay pots, each one hand-painted with colorful sea creatures—turtles, fish, starfish, and dolphins. “My friend Mang Tomas from Laguna makes these—he heard about our Sea Guardians and wanted to help. Each child gets their own pot to plant a sea bean seed that grows into a vine that reminds us of the ocean’s currents.”

Kael ran over immediately, his eyes wide with wonder. “Can I have the one with the green turtle?”

“Of course, anak,” Lola Elena said, ruffling his hair gently. “But you have to promise to take good care of it—water it every day, talk to it like you talk to the okra plants, and remember that even a small vine can reach high up toward the sky.”

As more people began to arrive at the garden—Ms. Dela Cruz from the bakery bringing fresh pandesal, Aera’s father carrying tools to fix the broken fence, a group of teenagers from the nearby university who’d signed up to help with the beach cleanups—Aera felt that familiar warmth in her pocket where the singing stone rested. She pulled it out and held it to her ear, smiling as she heard the soft hum mixed with the sounds of the garden: laughter, voices talking, water being poured, birds singing in the mango tree they’d planted near the center. It sounded like the sea and the land had found a way to sing together right there in the middle of Quiapo.

2.

The first official meeting of the Sea Guardians club was held on a Saturday morning when the garden was quiet enough for everyone to hear. Twenty-seven children sat cross-legged on mats made from old sacks, their eyes fixed on the small table where Aera, Liza, and Kael had arranged their display: the wooden turtle from Mang Roberto, the star-shaped shell, a jar of sand from the Batangas cove, and photographs of the turtle nesting grounds.

Aera stood up, holding the wooden turtle in her hands. She’d practiced her speech a dozen times, but her voice still shook a little with excitement as she began.

“My name is Aera, and this is my friend Liza and my brother Kael. We started the Sea Guardians because we learned that the sea is connected to everything—even here in Quiapo, where we can’t see the ocean from our homes. The rain that waters our garden comes from clouds made by the sea. The fish we eat comes from the sea. And the turtles that live in the sea need our help, even if they’re far away.”

She held up the turtle so everyone could see it. “Mang Roberto, who takes care of the turtles in Batangas, gave me this. He said that when his father carved it, he thought about how turtles travel thousands of miles but always find their way back to the same beach to lay their eggs. They remember where they came from, and they work hard to make sure their babies are safe.”

Liza stood up next, holding up one of the clay pots. “Each of you is going to get one of these pots and a special sea bean seed. When you plant it, you’re making a promise to help protect the sea and all the creatures that live there. We’ll take care of our plants together in the garden, and when they grow big enough, we’ll plant some of them along the banks of the Pasig River to help keep the water clean—because the river flows into Manila Bay, which flows into the same sea where the turtles live.”

One of the younger children—a little girl named Mia with curly hair tied in pigtails—raised her hand. “How do we help the turtles if we can’t go to Batangas every day?”

Kael jumped up before Aera could answer. “We sing to them!” he said proudly. “And we tell other people about them so everyone knows to take care of the sea. We also pick up trash so it doesn’t go into the water and hurt the turtles!”

Aera nodded, smiling at her brother. “Kael’s right. Every time we pick up a piece of plastic from the street or from Manila Bay, we’re helping the turtles. Every time we tell someone not to throw trash in the water, we’re helping. And every time we take care of our plants here, we’re learning how to take care of things that are important.”

They spent the rest of the morning planting their sea bean seeds in the clay pots, with each child decorating their pot with more drawings and writing down one promise they’d make to help protect the sea. Mia wrote I will never throw plastic in the street on hers. A boy named Rico wrote I will help clean up the beach every month. Another girl, Sofia, wrote I will tell my Lola not to use plastic bags when she goes to the market.

As they worked, Lola Elena told them stories about the sea—how her grandmother had taught her to read the waves to know when storms were coming, how fishermen used to sing songs to call the fish, how the moon pulled the tides just like it pulled at people’s hearts when they were far from home.

“Your promises are like stones you throw into the water,” she said, her voice carrying over the quiet sounds of dirt being scooped and water being poured. “Even if you can’t see all the ripples they make, they spread out and touch things you’ll never even know about. The turtle that lives because you picked up a piece of plastic might grow up to lay eggs that become more turtles, and those turtles might travel to other places and help keep the sea healthy. That’s how change happens—one small promise at a time.”

By the end of the meeting, every child was carrying their potted seed carefully, as if it were made of glass. A group of them had already started planning a “Trash-Free Tuesday” campaign in their neighborhood, while others wanted to make posters to put up in the jeepneys and at the market. Aera watched them leave, their small figures walking down the street with their colorful pots, and thought about how Mang Roberto had said ripples spread far. She could already see the first ones forming.

3.

The first beach cleanup at Manila Bay was harder than they’d imagined. When the Sea Guardians—now thirty-five strong, including parents and volunteers—arrived at dawn, they found plastic bottles, food wrappers, old tires, and even broken pieces of furniture scattered across the sand and floating in the shallow water. The smell of garbage mixed with salt water was strong, and some of the younger children wrinkled their noses or looked like they might cry.

Aera’s mother knelt down next to Mia, who was staring at a plastic bag that had gotten tangled around a piece of driftwood. “I know it looks sad,” she said gently, “but that’s exactly why we’re here. Every piece of trash we pick up is one less thing that could hurt a fish or a turtle or a bird.”

She picked up the bag carefully and put it in one of the large trash bins they’d brought. “When I was your age, this beach was clean enough to swim in. My Lola used to bring me here to collect shells and build sand castles. We can help make it that way again—maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but if we keep coming back, little by little, things will get better.”

Mia nodded, then reached down and picked up a small plastic cup, holding it carefully as she walked to the bin. One by one, the other children followed suit, until the beach was filled with the sound of rustling plastic and the occasional shout of “I found another one!”

Liza and the university students had organized the cleanup into teams—some picking up trash from the sand, others using nets to collect what was floating in the water, and a small group sorting the garbage into recyclables and things that needed to be properly disposed of. Aera worked with Kael and a few other younger kids, teaching them how to safely pick up sharp objects and how to tell the difference between plastic that could be recycled and plastic that couldn’t.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, warming the sand under their feet, a group of fishermen arrived to start their day. At first, they just watched the children working, their faces unreadable. Then one of them—an older man with gray hair and a weathered face—walked over to where Aera was sorting bottles.

“You’re the ones from the community garden in Quiapo, aren’t you?” he asked. “I heard about you from my sister—she buys vegetables from you every week.”

Aera nodded, wiping sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand. “We’re trying to keep the trash from getting into the sea where it can hurt the turtles and fish.”

The fisherman looked out at the water, then back at Aera. “When I was young, we’d catch more fish than we could carry,” he said quietly. “Now we have to go farther and farther out to find anything worth bringing back. The trash is part of it, but so is forgetting how to take care of the water like our parents and grandparents did.”

He bent down and picked up a piece of broken fishing net. “My name is Mang Carlos. I’ve been fishing here for forty years. If you’re serious about helping, maybe we can work together. We know where the worst trash collects, and we can tell you about the fish and birds that need help. In exchange, maybe you can teach our children like you’re teaching these kids—teach them that the sea isn’t just something we take from, but something we have to take care of.”

Aera’s face lit up. “We’d love that! We’re planning to start a storytelling circle at the garden where people can share stories about the sea and the river. Would you come talk to us? Tell us about how things used to be, and what we can do to make them better?”

Mang Carlos smiled for the first time, revealing gaps in his teeth but making his eyes crinkle with warmth. “I’ll do better than that,” he said. “I’ll bring some of the other fishermen too, and we’ll teach you how to mend nets and how to tell which tides are best for cleaning the shore. My granddaughter is eight years old—she’d love to join your Sea Guardians club.”

By the time they finished the cleanup, they’d filled twelve large bins with trash, half of which could be recycled. The beach still wasn’t clean enough to swim in, but it looked better than it had that morning—like a person who’d washed their face after a long day. The children were tired and covered in dirt, but their faces were bright with pride as they looked at what they’d accomplished.

On the ride back to Quiapo in the rented jeepney they’d decorated with Sea Guardians posters, the kids started singing the song Lola Elena had taught them—the one about the sea flowing wide and deep. Their voices were small but strong, filling the vehicle with music that mixed with the sound of the engine and the city outside. Aera sat next to Liza, holding the singing stone in her hand, and felt its warmth spread through her fingers. She could hear the sea’s voice in their song, and she knew that Mang Roberto was right—ripples really did spread far.

4.

Three weeks later, the garden was hosting its first “Sea and Story” day, with tables set up under the mango tree and strings of colorful lights hanging from the branches. Mang Carlos and three other fishermen had come from Manila Bay, bringing with them old fishing nets, carved wooden boats, and stories they’d learned from their own parents and grandparents. Lola Elena had brought her collection of sea shells and woven baskets, while Aera’s mother had organized a craft station where kids could make their own turtle sculptures from recycled materials.

Mang Carlos sat on a large mat with a group of children gathered around him, holding a small carved boat in his hands. “This is the kind of boat my father used to fish in,” he said, running his fingers over its smooth surface. “It was made from wood he cut himself, and he’d paint it with natural dyes made from plants and seaweed. He said that when you make something with your own hands, you take better care of it—just like when you grow your own food or take care of the sea.”

He held up a piece of old net. “This net is torn, but we don’t throw it away. We mend it, just like we mend things in our lives when they break. My father taught me that nothing is truly wasted—even old nets can be used to make baskets or to protect young plants from birds. The sea teaches us that too—tides go out but they always come back, storms pass and leave the water cleaner than before, even broken shells become part of the sand that makes new beaches.”

Across the garden, Lola Elena was teaching a group of kids how to read the patterns on sea shells to tell where they’d come from. “This one is from Batangas,” she said, holding up a large spiral shell. “You can tell by the way the lines curve—they follow the same path as the currents there. This one is from Cebu, brought here by a fisherman who traded it for rice during the war. Every shell has a story, just like every person has a story, and just like every place has a story.”

Aera and Liza were at the craft station, helping kids make turtle sculptures from plastic bottles, cardboard, and paint. Kael was in charge of “decorating the shells,” using glitter and markers to make each turtle unique. A little boy named Jun, who’d just joined the Sea Guardians, was working carefully on his sculpture, drawing small hearts on its shell with a red marker.

“Why are you drawing hearts?” Aera asked him.

“Because the turtles need love to be safe,” he said simply, not looking up from his work. “My Lola says that if you love something, you take care of it. So I’m giving my turtle lots of love so it can help take care of the sea.”

As the sun began to set, casting long shadows across the garden, Aera’s father brought out a guitar and started playing a soft tune. Soon, everyone was singing—the fishermen with their deep voices, the children with their clear ones, the adults with their warm ones—all mixing together like water from different rivers flowing into the same sea. They sang songs about the sea, about the land, about working together and making things grow. They sang the song Lola Elena had taught them, and when they finished, Mang Carlos stood up and sang an old fishing song his father had taught him, his voice carrying over the garden like a lighthouse beam cutting through fog.

After the singing ended, Aera stood up and held up a large map she’d made—combining her great-great-grandmother’s map with new paths they’d created themselves: the route from the garden to Manila Bay, the road to Batangas, the path along the Pasig River where they’d planted their sea bean vines. She’d drawn small pictures along each path—turtles, fish, children planting seeds, fishermen mending nets, families sharing food.

“Every path on this map is a promise we’ve made,” she said, her voice clear and strong now, no longer shaking with nervousness. “The path to Manila Bay is a promise to keep cleaning the beach. The path to Batangas is a promise to help protect the turtle nesting grounds. The path along the river is a promise to keep the