Back in the early 90’s, Rowell was half of SLC’s super twins – the other half being his brother Rommel. Rowell is enrolled in the Engineering Department while his twin brother is with the Arts and Sciences Department. They were popular and conspicuous on the campus, not only because of their almost identical looks and striking symmetry but also because they were equally outstanding in their academics. I remember training a Quiz team led by Rowell for the prestigious Varsity Quiz during one College Days Celebration. They were to compete with, among other teams, an AsEd group anchored by Rommel. Yes they were Quizzers. They were also declaimers, orators and debaters. They were regular contributors/columnists to the Torch. And boy, could they write! Rommel, a man of letters by training, is expectedly good but Rowell, a man of numbers, was never left behind. How I wish all SLC Engineers could write as lucidly and as vividly as Engr. Rowell could. He would put to shame most Eng'g. instructors, including deans. hehehe. I left Saint Louis College when Rowell was in Third Year Engineering. I wonder if he had learned to write this good had I remained to affect him with my twisted English. Hehehe… Enjoy his comical adventures.
Why I Never Learned How To Swim Naked
by Rowell Olivar
Back in 197_, My brother Yit and me had a bestfriend whose name is Tambong.
He was the robust type, growing up as a grunt in their farm, while Yit and me were skinny and sickly.
Ruddy and vigorous, he was the instigator of many escapades, though we were older by a year.
Our favorite place was a small creek near our house, not so near as my father could see us learning to swim there.
Its waters were clean, and fish and crabs were abundant in its recesses. The creek was shallow. But in some places there were deep pools, especially where large bamboo clumps have grown, and overhung the water.
Tambong introduced us to the creek’s pleasures when we were 6 and he was 5. A bit sheltered, we didn’t know how to swim, and we were openmouthed at how our friend would dive and stay underwater.
How he would come up with handfuls of sand from the bottom and display them to us, like gold dust. He was Aquaman from the Superfriends.
Naturally Yit and me(my name is Kit, by the way), wanted to learn how to do what he could.
He was our idol, so to speak.
Everyday, as soon as we finish breakfast, we would sneak off to their house and ask him to go with us.
His father must have been amused by us, lost little twins. He would just tell us to be careful and let Tambong go.
And off we would go running to the creek. Stripping off our shirts, our shorts, sandals flapping, throwing them every which way, to fall shrieking into the water. Thus our mornings would be spent.
Lunchtime is a whole different matter.
Our father has definite ideas on our kind of fun- in his book swimming is illegal. His favorite tree, among the multitude in our yard, is the atis.
Many middays, my brother and me would come home with mud in our hair, and smelling like carabaos.Our dear father will be waiting for us.
He will grab us by our ears and march us to the sanctity of the atis tree.
This tree, aside from its sweet fruit, has slender and pliant branches, ideal for making whips for little boys.
We watch while father makes his selection, testing each supple branch til he finds one to his liking. He will break off this branch, about two and a half feet long, slender like a green snake.
One by one, the leaves are slowly removed, making sure the nodes by which they are attached are left intact, for maximum damage to small legs and butts. When everything is ready, he will ask who will go first.
As the elder by 30 minutes(or 15 minutes, depending on who’s talking, my anti or my grandma), I choose to go first. Father will hold me by the left hand, pull it just a bit to get a clear shot, then deliver one stinging lash to my legs or behind.
Like being bitten by hundreds of ants, I do a kind of jig, with both palms trying to rub off the pain, and wearing a comical deathmask.
Yit is next, and the ceremony is done.
Whimpering a bit, but not crying, we leave our calvary, promising not to get caught next time.
After every punishment, we used to envy Tambong, wishing Lakay Tukkol was our father.
We never saw Tambong punished for swimming in the creek, or hitching onto a jeep, or climbing the coconut trees. Often my father would go to Lakay Tukkol, asking him to punish Tambong for our antics. But he couldn’t teach the older dog what to do.
One day, the three of us went to the creek, same as before. Our clothes were scattered all around the shore, and we were playing tag. The ‘it’ boy will try his best to catch the others.
Depending on our mood, a particular body part is chosen as the target. Being naughty little boys, our favorite are the little eggs between our little legs.
Hard to believe, but though Yit was the skinnier and sicklier, he was the hardest one to catch. He does all these contortions underwater so that you would think it is easier to catch an eel.
I was the ‘it’ boy, working very hard to catch my little brother, swimming, twisting and squirming, trying to cover his peanuts.
The plonk and splash must have been going on for a bit, but I heard them as I was catching my breath.
I stopped and looked around.
Yit was still trying to get away, but Tambong was at a safe distance, and so noticed me.
Pebbles were falling all around our pool. Sometimes it would be this way, sometimes that way. They do this splash, as if a creature is trying to come out of the water, like a deep sigh.
The pool was overhung by dense shrubs on both sides, and being near midday, everything was quiet. Except for the falling pebbles, and the sighing splash as they hit the water.
In a split second, Tambong and me looked at each other, and then panicked and broke for the shore.
Yit was still starting to comprehend.
Like outraged buffaloes we waded screaming for the shore, thinking that the river ‘kumaw’ has come for us!
Never mind clothes, slippers nevermind, or my brother scrambling behind. We left everything and didn’t look back once.
We didn’t see our father laughing and rolling on the shore.
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