The Tourist Gaze

I’m lounging on a poolside chair by an infinity pool that overlooks the beach. My dad swims nearby, his strokes steady and strong. The sky is painted with warm hues of orange and pink in the golden hour. My sister relaxes at the edge of the pool, taking a timelapse shot of the impending sunset. A few moments later, my sister calls my dad and me for a groupfie with the beach as our background. We huddle together, and in that moment, the familiar feeling of home wraps around me, even though we’re more than 200 kilometers away from our house. It’s a comforting feeling, but also a reminder of how much has changed.

My father is a few hours away from 70.

We had big plans for my dad’s birthday this year—a trip to Bangkok—but, as with a lot of things this year in particular, circumstances changed. With a tight budget and a packed schedule at school, we went for something much closer to home: the Sundowners Beach Villas in Botolan, Zambales. It’s our second trip to this province this year, but Zambales offers an accessible pause we need after a year that had been a bit of a rollercoaster.

This moment is the downtime my dad has always wanted. Over the years, I’ve heard him turn even the smallest details of life into deep reflections, always tying things back to faith and ontology. When I was younger, I often found these musings a bit much, especially when I wasn’t in the mood for spiritual talks. But now, sitting here and reflecting on where I am and how far we’ve come, I’m starting to realize that perhaps his ramblings were his way of not only explaining the world as he sees it, but his way of expressing how he wants the world to see him.

The older I get (I’m about to enter a milestone myself next month), the more I see that his philosophising was also a window into the way he wanted to be remembered—not just as a father, but as a man of deep thought, faith, and purpose. In those moments, he wasn’t just imparting wisdom; he was telling me, in his own way, that he was someone who sought meaning in all things, who found lessons in every situation, and who believed that everything—whether ordinary or extraordinary—had a deeper significance. As I watch him swim and listen to the quiet, I think, maybe those conversations weren’t as much about teaching me, but about showing me the man he strived to be—and still is.

Earlier this year, it was just me and my dad on a road trip to Bataan. I was behind the wheel that time, guiding us through the city we had been so many times before, but only at that time properly explored. I could tell that walking wasn’t as easy for him anymore, but he still came along. Seeing him make the effort, despite the challenges, really hit me: how much time has passed and how I don’t want to take these moments for granted.

Perhaps the greatest legacy my dad has given us, his children, is the school. About that, finishing my first year as the co-administrator was as exhilarating and exhausting as it sounds, but surprisingly, the most rewarding part has been seeing the school’s first recognition day come to life. It wasn’t a grand spectacle—more like a modest ceremony filled with genuine pride—but it was a significant moment for me, my sister, and my parents. A small victory in the grand scheme of things, but one that made me feel like, maybe I’m starting to get the hang of this.

But not to sugarcoat things: finances were a struggle. Between bills, loan payments, and dealing with the realities of running a school in an unpredictable market, there were more than a few sleepless nights. Add to that some dating disappointments (the kind that make you rethink your approach to relationships), and you have a snapshot of a year that was anything but smooth sailing.

But if 2024 had a remedy, it was the fleeting joy of getting on a plane and leaving the stress behind. At the start of the year, I wasn’t even thinking about travel. I was more focused on staying afloat—getting my financial house in order and tackling the mess of middle-age adulthood head-on (yes, Jay, we’re that old). But, as often happens, plans changed. In May, we found ourselves applying for visas to Australia as a family. In June, I finally paid off my Holy Land tour and was able to go in October. Suddenly, the year had its rays of hope.

Those trips were reminders (like I needed one) of the broader world beyond my office, beyond the school, beyond the constant hum of responsibility. They gave me perspective. They made me feel alive in ways I didn’t expect.

It’s funny how a good trip can do that. You get on a plane, and for a few days, the world is wide and full of possibilities. It’s the kind of reset that reminds you why you love to travel in the first place.

Which brings me back to this beach with my dad. Where the warm sea breezes and quiet moments give him a sense of peace he’s longed for. It’s not just a destination; it’s a place where the rhythms of life slow down enough for him to reflect, breathe, and feel at home.

“This is the best birthday celebration I have ever had,” he says, maybe as a hyperbolic statement, but also maybe not.

There’s no need to say much more. In this moment, I understand his joy. He loves swimming in pools because the water embraces him. It’s not just about the physical exercise or the cooling relief from the stifling tropical heat; it’s the stillness of the water, the space to think, or perhaps to not think at all.