La Union and Primal Forces

It’s something of a ritual. You put guys in their mid-twenties on a beach, and regardless of how colorful their background, how sophisticated their concerns, or how convoluted their views, something else takes over. It’s quintessential; it’s primal. It’s bigger than us - an instinct hard-wired to take control, setting aside nuances and, ultimately, uniting us.

This primal force says – as a friend of mine very eloquently put it – “Pare, chicks!”

It’s a very curious thing, that “pare, chicks.” Last week, we headed to a beach in La Union, and I heard that about 634 times, not counting conversations about KFC.

It’s like fowl have collectively taken control over every single brain of every single creature with a Y chromosome. And some that don’t. I think it’s a global thing; somewhere on the other end of the planet, the Ys are waking up, some are heading to large bodies of water, declaring with wild abandon, “Buscar, chicks!”

Thing is, it’s not like there’s nothing to observe in La Union. The place was beautiful; there were few enough people that you could get your piece of action whether what you’re into is throwing a football by the beach as the sun sets, or drinking by a hut near the pool, hopefully not intending to jump in.

The waves on the beach were the size of small monster trucks – if you wait long enough, there’d be a few with enough force to throw a fridge a couple of dozen feet back. What that feels like when it hits you… well, that’s kind of fun.

They have a pool near a speaker that’s on all saxophone, all the time. It’s weird as hell, yet strangely endearing.

But nobody’s thinking about that.

Because someone, somewhere, at any given point is saying, “dude, chicks.“

Dendrites stop the synapses about football. Brains stop taking in the view. They’ve got business to attend to.