Balaring: Rain, Memory, and Soft Light

38mm ISO: 100 F9.0 Shutter: 8"

It was raining hard when I woke up. The kind of rain that makes you second-guess every plan. But my daughter, Fiona, insisted — “Maybe it will stop before we get there.” Her hopeful tone made it impossible to say no.

All the way to Balaring, I kept praying for even a small window of clear sky. Balaring is a small fishing village north of Silay City, known for its floating seafood restaurants and calm coastal mornings. When we arrived, the rain softened into a light shower — gentle enough to walk through, and just quiet enough to take photos. I know my gear could tolerate the gentle rain shower, so I took it as a sign to keep going.

The shoreline was the same familiar scene I’ve always known: fishermen fixing their nets after the night’s work, boats resting along the water, the restaurants still closed and waiting for the day to start. The only unusual sight was a group of construction workers contracted to repair the seawall, probably damage left behind by Typhoon Tino.

50mm ISO: 800 F5.6 Shutter: 1/320s

As I set up my tripod for the sunrise, people walking by greeted us with warm “Maayong aga.” My daughter asked if they knew me.

I smiled and told her, “No, people here are just kind.”

And it was true — the warmth of a small community always feels like home.

As I waited for the sun to break through the clouds, an old dream resurfaced. About six or seven years ago, I had planned to start a marine fish-cage business here — something inspired by salmon farms in Europe. I had everything lined up: the technology, the plan, the investor funding commitment, even early support and enthusiasm of then city mayor.

50mm ISO: 800 F5.6 Shutter: 1/320s

And then, the pandemic hit.

Everything collapsed.

The investor backed out.

Everyone's priorities shifted.

And a dream I had poured so much of myself into faded quietly away.

For a long time, that memory stung.

I wondered if I had wasted time.

I wondered if I had failed again.

Then the rain stopped.

The sky opened just a little — not with a dramatic sunrise, but with soft, gentle light.

The kind of light that doesn’t shout… it whispers.

And something in me recognized that moment.

Standing there, camera in hand, I realized something simple but honest:

Some dreams don’t disappear — they transform. What I lost back then made space for opportunities I have now. If the business had pushed through, maybe I wouldn’t be here taking photos with Fiona. Maybe I wouldn’t have remembered the comfort of quiet mornings like this. Maybe life was redirecting me long before I understood it.

Sometimes life closes a door loudly.

Sometimes it closes a door gently.

But almost always, it opens a window with softer light.

And that morning in Balaring, I no longer felt any regret.

I felt gratitude — for the unexpected detours, for the dreams that change shape, and for the small moments that remind us we’re exactly where we need to be.

Because sometimes, we return to a place not to chase what we lost…

but to appreciate what we’ve gained.