Davino looked over at Caro, his seventeen year old Fillipino girlfriend, sitting in the morning sun on White Beach; she wrinkled her nose, and leaned forward from the waist, her elbows planted on her bare legs, and he asked himself how long she would stay in Puerto Galera--would she catch the one-thirty o'clock ferry back to Batangas, stay another week or month; and whether she stayed or went, would it really matter, or had he drifted so far off course he had forgotten himself.  He dove into the warm water and swam away from the beach.  After a few minutes, he looked up at the beach, and Caro had gone.  He splashed the water with both hands like a child and smiled at the empty shoreline. At eleven thirty the foreigners--mainly Germans and Aussies, their fair skin red from the sun and scattered patches of heat rash raised in bumps on their legs and arms--waited for the jeepney back to Pureto Galera where they would take the ferry to Batangas and the bus back to Manila.  They drank San Miguel Beer slumped around a table at the edge of the dusty road.  Davino's seventeen year old girlfriend sat along on the wooden plank in the hot sun.  She stared straight ahead down the road, her arms folded, sweat rolling down her face.  Her long black hair was tied into a thick pony tail with a rubber band; a long, luxurious length of hair that touched the small of her back.  She crossed her legs, hunched forward, rocking herself.  Davino was the sole Canadian.