On the eve of my birthday, fate handed me the heaviest gift. On February 12, Mula arrived before us — floating on the surface, too weak to dive. In that desperate moment when no one in all of El Nido could take her in, I looked at her — barely two years old, her eyes full of the will to live — and I knew I couldn't let go. On a beach with almost no resources, we cut a blue water drum in half to serve as her hospital room, hauling buckets of seawater by hand to change her water. In that crude barrel, we carried our deepest reverence for life. Those days, anxiety nearly swallowed me. Watching her refuse food and water for four days, watching her struggle weakly through the pain, I prayed countless times in the dead of night — afraid that my first rescue would end in goodbye, afraid that all this kindness would come to nothing but regret. I reached desperately across the sea to professional teams locally and in Taiwan for help, and in that warmth of "no borders in the ocean," I learned to be strong. I told myself: ten years ago all I could do was dig holes on the beach to bury eggs; ten years later, as long as I care enough, the universe will gather every force it can to help me. After 56 days of vigilant care and waiting, on April 7, the miracle truly happened. As sunlight scattered across the water, we sent Mula home with our own hands. Watching the tag on her front flipper shimmer like an earring, I held my breath as she sank slowly into that deep blue, watched her rediscover her familiar rhythm, even playfully scratching her back against the coral rocks. In that moment, tears blurred my vision. Thank you, Mula. You rewarded our persistence with your recovery, and gave us the courage to become Palawan's strongest guardians. I hope you grow freely in the boundless sea. We've made a promise to meet again at ten meters deep. Or, on some future night when you're grown, you're welcome to climb back onto this beach and lay hope here — I'll be waiting for you, just as I watched over you at the start.

A fisherman who had worked the waters of Nacpan for years met an old friend in the shallows, four meters deep. It was a large sea turtle he had known for a long time — last year, the creature was still strong and full of life. But after disappearing for a while, when they met again, the turtle lay motionless on the sand. The fisherman anxiously lifted him up, and thankfully — feeling the vibrations — the old turtle struggled to raise his head and take a breath. And so, the fishermen carefully carried him all the way, and delivered this grandfather turtle into our hands. When we first saw Grandfather, our hearts ached. His huge body was covered in barnacles and seaweed; his original shell was barely visible. In the recovery tank, he was heartbreakingly quiet. His only movement was that faint but determined lift of his head to breathe — his final insistence on life. After careful cleaning, as we peeled away the heavy burdens, his wounds finally became clear: the scars left by the barnacles, the fracture in his right hind leg, even the exposed bone at the top of his skull... every mark told a story of the hardships he had endured in the open ocean. Although we gave our all — nursing him, providing nutrition and support, with professional veterinarians joining every effort — Grandfather ultimately could not survive this severe illness. An autopsy revealed that his organs had long been overburdened; his lungs and liver had lost their healthy color. A small comfort: we found no human-made plastic waste inside him. But the sorrow remains — he did not die of old age. We are left wondering: in this sickness from nature, did humans also bear some responsibility? The cause may remain a mystery, but what is certain is this — in his final connection with us, Grandfather was no longer alone against his pain. He took his quiet bow in the warmth of human kindness. "I'm sorry we couldn't return you to the ocean you loved so deeply. But I hope in that world without pain, you can soar more freely." Thank you, Grandfather. You taught us how to treat life with greater tenderness.

Upon receiving a call from a rescue team regarding a stranded turtle in Helicopter Island, Dilumacad, we know we have to make a decision considerable to the current situation --quality of care for a soon to be 2 patients at a time, the capacity of the rehab set up & mentally, are we still able to take it all in? When it was confirmed a small turtle just about the size of Mula, which survived a cruel spearfishing attempt, compassion immediately made us say yes. We quickly activated our resources to pick up the turtle from the first responders. Unable to dive, frantic, body with multiple puncture wounds, Rito spends all its energy to swim away from any thing that gets closer to it. The wounds are already in the state of healing while possibly an infection is going on, trapping air inside its body. And it's been trying to recover since then, but the trauma behavior is hard to see. 😔 Rito did not eat until the 6th day, although turtles have an energy storage from fats and muscles it doesn't spare it on the uncertainty of a successful recovery. Even the all out supportive care we can give whilst having a limited information of its diagnosis will never be an assurance, but we have to trust the process. Fast forward to a little over a month, Rito surprised us submerging in-water completely. It's will to live and move forward from the situation were greater than its fear of humans. Its recovering efforts were hard to miss during the rehabilitation period, concisely Rito put in the work. And by the time of its return to the ocean, the moment it entered the water, it dashed and never looked back as it should. Nature chooses who survives and who will have to end their time. When we lost Lolo shortly after Rito arrived, the emotional toll after that loss is more than enough to doubt our capabilities, but it was never zero on learnings. It kept us humble one way or another, and the overlapping of cases somehow means stopping is never encouraged in this field. We pressed on just like how Rito taught us to do.