Rain pelted the deck of the massive cargo ship as it sliced through the South Atlantic. Beneath the steel sky and angry waves, First Engineer Roberto “Bert” Manalo wiped the sweat from his brow and tightened the last bolt on a faulty engine valve. It was just another long shift aboard the MV Pacific Wave, but for Bert, every task was tied to something far beyond the horizon his family in Batangas.
Bert had been a seafarer for nearly 15 years. He left the Philippines at 24, newly married, with dreams bigger that his coastal town. He had promised his wife, Liza, that he would only do it for a few contracts just long enough to save up for their dream house and send their future children to school.
But life at sea has a way of stretching time. One contact turned into five, five into ten. The money was good better that any job he could find back home but it came at a cost. Birthdays, anniversaries, even the funeral of his own father he missed them all. The ocean paid well but demanded everything.
Despite the distance, Bert made sure his presence was felt. He’d write long letters during his free time, emailing them when the ship docked. Ge recorded video greetings for his children’s milestones and read bedtime stories via voice messages. Liza kept a box labeled “Papa’s Letters,” which their kids read every night.
One December, while anchored near Rotterdam, Bert received an email from Liza: their son, Marco, was diagnosed with a mild form of autism. Bert felt like the ship had tilted beneath his feet. He wanted to go home, to be there, but his contract still had four months left. He spent sleepless nights wondering if he had chosen the right path.
After completing his contract, Bert returned home and spent every waking hour with Marco attending therapy sessions, building Lego sets, and simply holding his son in silence. It was in those quiet moments that Bert realized something: presence is more than proximity; it’s about showing up with love, even from afar.
He returned to the sea with renewed purpose. From the on, he worked smarter, taking shorter contracts and saving aggressively. He cut back on unnecessary expenses and invested in a small poultry business that Liza managed. He also started mentoring younger seafarers, teaching them not just the technical skills of the job, but how to stay emotionally connected to home.
Now 39, Bert is in his final year at sea. The poultry farm has grown into a stable source of income, and Liza has hinted that maybe it’s time for him to retire from seafaring. Their house is complete, their children thriving, and Bert’s heart once stretched thin across oceans finally feels at peace.
On his last voyage, as the sun set over the calm sea, Bert stood at the ship’s rail, eyes fixed on the horizon. This time, he wasn’t chasing dreams across waters. He was going home for good.
