By Reisha Mae F. Valdez, UC student
Somewhere between every goodbye and every return, there is a family waiting for a seaman to come home.
I grew up being part of that waiting.
My father is a seaman. Half of our life has depended on the sea. It has paid our bills and helped build the life we have today, but it has also taken him away for the moments I wanted him home the most. Birthdays. School events. Little achievements that may seem ordinary to others but meant everything to me. There were times when all I had was a video call and the comfort of knowing that somewhere far away, my father was still thinking of us.
So when a ship does not make it home, I do not see just a headline.
I think of the people waiting on the other side.
On Sept. 9, the MV June Aster caught fire off Coron, Palawan. The Philippine Coast Guard later confirmed that 128 people were aboard. Seventy-seven died, 43 survived, and eight remained missing as of Sept. 16. Four people listed in the manifest were later found to have never boarded the ship. Authorities are still working to reconcile the records.
But behind those numbers are families who cannot simply wait for the next news update.
Someone was expecting a father to come home. Someone was waiting for a mother. Someone was probably checking their phone again and again, hoping the next call would finally bring good news.
I know what it means to wait for a parent because of the sea. But there is a difference between waiting because someone is working far away and waiting because you do not know if they are ever coming home.
That difference should matter to all of us.
We are a country made up of islands. The sea connects us to places our roads cannot reach. For millions of Filipinos, ferries are not vacations or weekend trips. They are the way people get to work, get home, see family, transport goods, and build a life.
The sea gives us a living.
It should not take our lives in return.
The questions surrounding the June Aster cannot disappear with the headlines. Why were people listed on the manifest who were not even aboard? Were passengers properly accounted for? Were safety procedures followed? Did everyone responsible for their safety do what they were supposed to do?
These are not questions asked simply to find someone to blame. They are questions asked by families who deserve to know what happened.
We have seen maritime tragedies before. We have heard investigations promised before. We have heard authorities say that lessons will be learned.
But what good is a lesson if the next ship carries the same risks?
Accountability cannot begin only after lives are lost. It has to begin before the ship leaves the port, when safety checks are still being done, when passenger lists are still being counted, and when someone still has the power to prevent a tragedy.
My father continues to sail. Somewhere, another child is also waiting for their parent to come home.
That is why maritime safety is personal to me.
I do not want a country where families have to choose between the livelihood the sea provides and the fear that the same sea might take someone away.
For an archipelago that depends on its waters, safe passage should never be a matter of luck. The sea should bring our loved ones home, not leave families waiting for their names to be found.**
