PORT BARTON
Stories

It was one of those mornings.

Grey sky.

Rain on the windows.

The bus was crowded.

Everyone looked half asleep.

Like every morning, I was scrolling through my phone without really paying attention. News. Emails. Advertisements. The usual endless stream of information.

Then a photograph appeared.

A white sandy beach.

Turquoise water.

A sea turtle swimming effortlessly above a coral reef.

For a second, my thumb stopped.

I looked at the picture.

Then I kept scrolling.

A few minutes later, I went back. I don't know why. Maybe it was the turtle. Maybe it was the colour of the water. Maybe I simply needed a little escape from that rainy morning.

The photo came from a place called Port Barton, in Palawan, Philippines. I had never heard of it before.

A few clicks later, I found myself looking at pictures of small traditional Filipino boats, tropical islands and divers floating weightlessly above coral reefs.

One thing led to another.

Before booking, I had looked at Coron. I had looked at El Nido.

Most people had heard of El Nido.

Few had heard of Port Barton.

That was exactly what attracted me.

A few weeks later, I booked a flight. Then a hotel. Then, almost without thinking, a PADI Open Water course with Sunset Divers.

I still wasn't sure it was a good idea. I wasn't a diver. I wasn't particularly adventurous. And if I was honest, breathing underwater sounded slightly unnatural.

A few weeks later, after a very long journey, I finally arrived in Puerto Princesa. The road north seemed to get smaller and smaller.

The traffic disappeared.

The noise disappeared.

The buildings disappeared.

When the van left the main highway and turned onto the road to Port Barton, the landscape changed completely. The forest seemed to close around us. Massive trees towered above the road. Giant leaves caught the sunlight filtering through the canopy. Vines hung from branches. Every shade of green imaginable surrounded us.

For long stretches, there were no buildings at all. Just rainforest.

I remember looking out of the window and thinking that this was probably the closest I had ever come to the world imagined in the movie Avatar.

Wild.

Untouched.

Almost unreal.

The deeper we travelled into the hills, the more the outside world seemed to disappear. It felt less like driving toward a destination and more like entering another world.

Then the van rounded a corner.

The forest opened.

And there it was.

A bay. Blue water. Small islands scattered across the horizon. A handful of boats resting near the shore. Nestled between the rainforest-covered hills and the sea was a small village.

Port Barton. I had finally arrived.

No traffic lights. No large resorts. No shopping centres. No endless rows of beach umbrellas. Just a small village facing a beautiful bay. The kind of place that immediately makes you slow down without even noticing.

I walked to my hotel, checked in and dropped my bag on the bed. For the first time in months, I had nowhere to be. Nothing to organise. Nothing to answer.

As the sun moved lower, I found a comfortable bean bag on the beach and ordered a cocktail. Nothing fancy. Just something cold. My feet in the sand. The sea a few metres away.

The sky slowly changed colour.

Blue. Orange. Pink. Gold.

I had seen hundreds of sunsets before. Yet somehow this one felt different. Maybe it was because there was nowhere else I needed to be.

As darkness settled over the bay, I realised I hadn't thought about work all afternoon. Not once.

The next morning I walked to Sunset Divers a little before eight o'clock.

I was nervous.

Excited.

And still wondering if I had made a mistake.

The team at Sunset Divers welcomed me with a smile. Nobody seemed rushed.

We sat down together and started preparing for the course. One of the Sunset Divers instructors helped me choose equipment that fitted properly — a wetsuit, a mask, fins, a BCD. Everything went into a dive bag.

I expected the process to feel technical. Instead, it felt surprisingly simple.

Somewhere along the way, a coffee appeared. A glass of water. A few stories about Port Barton. A few stories about turtles. By the time the paperwork was finished, I felt surprisingly relaxed.

Outside, Port Barton was slowly waking up. The day was beginning.

A little later, we left the dive centre and walked through the village. The banca was waiting near the beach. The instructor walked beside us. We talked about Port Barton. The reefs. The turtles. The best months for diving.

By the time we reached the shore, I realised something. I wasn't carrying a tank. I wasn't dragging heavy equipment. I wasn't trying to figure everything out by myself.

The equipment was already prepared. The crew would take care of the logistics.

For the first time in a long time, my only responsibility was simply to enjoy the day.

The Sunset Divers banca left the beach and slowly crossed the bay. Port Barton became smaller behind us. The sea became bluer. The air smelled of salt and sunshine.

Then somebody pointed toward the water.

Flying fish.

Tiny silver bodies launched themselves from the surface and glided above the waves. A few minutes later another group appeared. Then another. Everyone on the boat smiled.

I had seen pictures before. Seeing it in real life felt completely different.

The further we travelled, the more I realised how beautiful the coastline really was. Small beaches appeared between the jungle-covered hills. Palm trees leaned toward the sea. Occasionally a tiny fishing hut appeared on an otherwise deserted stretch of sand.

It felt less like a tourist destination and more like a place that had somehow remained hidden.

Eventually the banca slowed down. The engine dropped to idle. The water beneath us was crystal clear. I could already see the bottom.

When we arrived at Pena Plata, I understood why so many people fall in love with Palawan.

White sand.

Crystal clear water.

Palm trees leaning toward the beach.

No roads. No noise. No crowds.

For a moment I forgot about the course entirely.

It felt like arriving in paradise.

Then it was time.

My first breaths underwater.

The moment I had imagined for weeks.

The regulator felt strange. For about ten seconds. Then it felt normal.

I remember looking at the instructor underwater. He gave me a simple "OK" sign. I answered.

And suddenly I realised I was breathing underwater. Actually breathing underwater.

A few minutes earlier that would have sounded impossible. Now it felt completely natural.

One skill led to another. Slowly. Calmly. Without pressure. Every time I thought something would be difficult, it turned out to be easier than expected.

The instructor never seemed in a hurry. There was always time for another explanation. Another attempt. Another smile.

Descending beneath the surface felt like entering another world.

The noise disappeared.

The stress disappeared.

The outside world disappeared.

Only the sound of my own breathing remained.

Back on the boat, fresh fruit appeared. Water bottles circulated. Nobody seemed in a rush. The sea breeze felt wonderful after the dive.

The course wasn't interrupting the experience. The course was helping me understand it.

The second dive was even better. I spent less time thinking about myself. And more time looking around.

Corals.

Schools of fish.

Colours I had never noticed before.

And then, suddenly.

A sea turtle. Calm. Elegant. Completely uninterested in the excited new diver watching it.

I smiled behind my regulator.

The turtle continued on its way.

I remember thinking:

This is exactly the picture I saw on my phone that rainy morning. The one I almost scrolled past.

The next morning felt different. The nervousness was gone. The equipment no longer seemed complicated. The boat already felt familiar. The crew greeted us like old friends.

The ocean felt less like something unknown and more like a place I was beginning to understand. Back on the Sunset Divers banca, everything already felt familiar.

The dives that day were the best yet. More relaxed. More comfortable. More natural.

Later that morning, we headed to Middle Rock, one of the local reefs that had made Port Barton famous among divers. The visibility was extraordinary. The coral seemed untouched. Below us, the reef fell away into deep blue.

The instructor pointed toward a site called Shark Point. Despite the name, it wasn't sharks that caught my attention, but the incredible schools of fish covering the reef. Thousands of them. Moving together as one silver cloud, catching the light.

Between dives, looking back toward Port Barton Bay, the rainforest-covered hills seemed to rise directly from the ocean. No hotels on the hillsides. No high-rises. Just jungle meeting the sea.

Port Barton still felt like a fishing village that happened to have discovered diving, rather than a tourist destination built around it. That difference, I realised, was everything.

At one point, suspended in clear blue water above the reef, I stopped moving completely.

For a few seconds, there was only silence.

No phone.

No deadlines.

No meetings.

No traffic.

Just sunlight entering the water from above and the ocean stretching in every direction.

I realised I hadn't thought about work for two days.

That alone felt worth the journey.

The afternoon dives were my favourites. Not because they were deeper. Not because they were more difficult. Because I finally stopped thinking about the course.

I was no longer trying to become a diver.

I was simply diving.

Later that afternoon, the banca turned toward Port Barton. The village slowly appeared on the horizon. The same village that had seemed so unfamiliar only two days earlier.

Now it felt different. Familiar. Comfortable. Special.

As we approached the beach, I realised something. Somewhere along the way, without really noticing it, I had become a diver.

Officially, I would soon receive a PADI Open Water certification. But the certification wasn't what I was thinking about.

I was thinking about the flying fish. The warm sea breeze. The turtle. The white sand of Pena Plata. The quiet moments on the boat. The feeling of moving freely through the ocean.

And the photograph I had almost scrolled past on a rainy morning weeks earlier.

Years from now, I probably won't remember the certification number. I probably won't remember every skill. Or every briefing.

But I will remember the flying fish. The rainforest road to Port Barton. The first glimpse of the bay through the trees. The warm sea breeze during the surface intervals. The laughter on the banca. The turtle that passed beside me without a care in the world. The feeling of floating effortlessly through three dimensions. The silence beneath the surface.

And the sunset over Port Barton on the evening I realised that I had become a diver.

Because in the end, the certification was not the destination.

It was simply the beginning.