We
reached a point where Mervin and Tony had to go down and start clearing
protruding tree branches so we could drive through. It was agonizing to
hear every squeak and scrape of the branches and shrubs under and on
the sides of the car. I was just waiting for the final thud that would
make us stuck in that jungle. It went on for the next half a mile or so
as we plodded on, finally reaching a small clearing to park our cars.
Our
trip was not over yet. Carting our heavy cameras and tripods, we slowly
inched our way in the jungle — this time parting thick shrubs with our
hands and ducking under roots and branches and avoiding one of the
hundreds of spider webs along the way.
Emerging into the open, we followed pale pink ribbons tied to waist-high shrubs as we looked for the Rabbit Hole.
We
reached a cliffside where a spectacular panorama awaited us. Way down
below and nestled between sharp cliffs was a cove with a small flat
surface but with rugged edges resembling a stage. It was mesmerizing to
watch huge waves crash on the “stage,” before rolling back to the ocean
in rivulets.
I
was too engrossed taking photos and video I did not notice Mervin making
calls on his cellphone. We were lost. We were not supposed to be on
that dangerous cliffline.
The
sun was beginning to set, and we had to head back. I did not relish the
idea of getting stuck in a jungle at night and share my blood with
thousands of mosquitoes. None of us was prepared for that trek — we were
wearing too comfortable sandals, carrying too much gear and were
mentally conditioned to shoot photos in friendlier and nearer areas.
We
failed to find our destination, and Tony ended up with a torn eyebrow
after hitting a protruding tree branch. Our cars suffered a hundred or
so minor scratches but we got the photos we wanted, and the adventure we
did not plan.
The Rabbit Hole, will still be there, somewhere, next time.
First published at the Marianas Variety











I
arrived at the dock a few minutes late and was expecting to see the
Coast Guard Cutter Washington or a small boat that would bring us to one
of those prepositioning ships seen from Beach Road.
Soon
we were navigating through a labyrinth of narrow hallways and climbing
up and down winding flights of very steep stairs with heavy doors at the
end that opened to more stairs. I needed more time just to find my way
through the confusing maze of narrow cubicles. We eventually reached the
navigation room where the ship’s operation took place — a small room
full of knobs and consoles that monitored and plotted the course of the
ship.
We
visited the officers’ dining room with its clean and polished wooden
tables before proceeding to the mess hall of the sailors with its blue
seats and tables topped with cream-colored tablecloths.

