Stranded in typhoon-battered paradise

Some journeys give you exactly what you planned for. Others give you an experience you didn’t know you needed.

The author, Joy Santamarina, left, with fellow race runner Angie Limbaco

By Joy Santamarina

I arrived on Guam on April 9 with the full intention of having a fun, sun, sea and sand-filled weekend, with the Guam Ko’Ko’ Half Marathon as the trip's main agenda. Having lived on the island from 2013 to the early 2020s, I felt it was a fitting racecation weekend to see friends, eat some of my local favorites and have a healthy dose of that Hafa Adai vibe Guam is known for.

Despite the threat of a storm, I was in full tourist mode the first few days, visiting new spots like the Village of Donki with an amazing array of goodies that made me feel I was in Japan and not on Guam. I also visited my old favorites such as Pika’s and Kracked Egg, while catching up with friends along the way.

Sunday was reserved for the race with a full beach day after. And an early Monday morning flight back to reality. At least that was the plan. 

The Guam Ko’Ko’ Half Marathon pushed through on April 12. The race itself was everything I hoped it would be. And then some. The starting line felt like a grand reunion of sorts as I saw many of my runner friends, some of whom I haven’t seen in years.

I’ve forgotten how challenging and fun running on Guam could be, with its rollercoaster roads stretched against stunning island views; the air heavy with humidity, but also filled with gusts blowing from every direction because of Sinlaku.

A bit of rain one minute and the sun in another for good measure and friends and volunteers alike cheering everyone on. Thus, every mile became one of both effort and gratitude—beautiful, intense and humbling. The island has a way of making you feel both small and deeply alive.

Joy Santamarina: "Sometimes the most memorable part of the race isn’t the medal. It’s the poignant moment after the finish line."

But as with many meaningful experiences, the Guam Ko’ko’ Half Marathon finish line was not the end of the story.

Then came Sinlaku.

Our planned post-run beach day was canceled due to a high-surf warning. Instead, we did a celebratory catch-up with friends that unexpectedly turned into a frantic one as our flight got canceled. We spent the rest of Sunday afternoon rebooking flights and getting hotel and car rentals extended instead. Thank God for friends who are always ready to help.

With all flights canceled, Sinlaku stranded many of us on the island. The disruption that modern life trains us to resist suddenly became unavoidable. Shelter-in-place took on a new (non-pandemic) meaning as I tried to explain to my friends what COR-1 meant. We braced ourselves for the storm. 

As I write this on Wednesday afternoon, the worst of Sinlaku has passed. We have survived the last few days and last night’s height of a super typhoon’s fury.

Power has been out since yesterday, even at our hotel, which had a generator that didn’t quite last as long. The hotel staff has been more than helpful to all of us, doing room-by-room health and safety checks, sharing whatever information they have on the typhoon and power restoration status and ensuring the lobby convenience store remained well stocked with essentials.

It’s a difficult situation to be in, but I’m betting other areas experienced far worse. 

The island now has an eerie quiet I can’t quite explain. Things seem to be on hold until the typhoon truly dissipates and the sun rises again. Hopefully, that means my Friday morning flight back to Manila, twice canceled and rebooked, finally pushes through.

For me, being stranded carried its own strange gift. It reminded me that not everything needs to go according to plan for it to remain meaningful.

There is something poetic about coming off a half-marathon— an exercise in endurance, adaptability and mental resilience—only to be asked by nature to practice the same lessons differently.

This time, there was no race bib, no hydration station, no cheering crowd. Just patience, presence and trust. 

For the many runners like me who got stranded, Sinlaku turned Guam into more than a race destination. The island held both extremes in one experience: the exhilaration of movement and the forced grace of pause that many runners find very difficult to achieve.

Sometimes the most memorable part of the race isn’t the medal. It’s the poignant moment after the finish line.

And Guam, through the Koko Half and the unexpected interruption of Sinlaku, gave me both the run and the reflection. For that, I am grateful. 

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