Let me take you back to that teenage summer in Atimonan, when the waves danced like playful children, teasing the shore. On a whim, I found myself on a secluded spot on one of the formerly pristine beaches—not the kind splashed across travel brochures, but one where the sand glowed pale gold, humble under the sky, and the palm trees bent low, as if sharing secrets with the ocean. I had brought along an umbrella, delicate ivory lace casting soft patterns on the sand, and a basket of ripe mangos and fruit tea.

As the tide crept closer, I became spellbound by the rhythm of the sea—ancient, steady, and alive. At one point, wading knee-deep with the hem of my sundress skimming the water, a school of fish flickered around me, flashes of silver darting in the sunlight. I stayed perfectly still, feeling the sun’s warm embrace and a connection to something immeasurable, something words can’t fully explain.

And then he appeared—a boy of twelve or so, carrying a woven bag filled with seashells. His eyes, shy yet earnest, met mine as he offered a single shell, its twilight hues of lavender and pale pink mesmerizing. “For luck,” he said softly.

I accepted it, feeling its smooth surface in my palm, and smiled my thanks. That shell has been with me ever since, resting on my desk, its spirals a constant reminder of that day. It’s not just a keepsake; it’s a symbol of how life’s most profound moments often arrive unbidden, when we allow ourselves to wade into the unknown and let it surround us. That day, I didn’t merely visit a beach—I stepped into the endless, boundless flow of life.