Almost on a whim, I spent an unexpected weekend with a couple of law school friends in San Juan, La Union. This all began a couple of weeks ago, following the LSAC Christmas party, when, while having a couple of drinks at Good Earth in Rockwell, Xilca, a friend from the law school, had jokingly asked me whether I would be willing to drive the three hundred kilometers with her to go surfing in La Union. She had been planning to go on the trip for some time now— alone, if needed, because everyone seemed to have busy schedules— but was having second thoughts because of the expense. Not knowing my penchant for long drives, and the fact that I had absolutely nothing to do until after New Year's Day, I, almost without thinking, called her bluff, willing always to go to back to the beach, if only for a brief overnight trip.

Following a week of hurried text messages and rather sketchy plans (it was the first time for me to actually go out of town without much of an idea of where I would be staying, who I would be going with, or how I would actually get there), I found myself speeding down the North Expressway at two o'clock in the morning, trying to keep awake after a long day of mundane errands and minor personal crises. It was a good thing that my navigator and I had (surprisingly, and quite pleasantly) many things to talk about, so that the seven hour drive went by without much incident.

We arrived at the Surfer's Inn at about ten o'clock in the morning, and while I was a bit drowsy from driving straight from Manila, I took the effort of walking the couple of meters to the beach, and saw, for the first time, the waves which we would try to ride later that afternoon. Already, there were a number of surfers in the water, some in the deep where the ocean was calmer, and others nearer the shore, catching the waves as they broke on the shallows.

From where I stood, the waves looked persistent, but small, and while they ferociously broke on the rocks in the distance, I did not quite appreciate the force of their approach, fascinated only by the white foam spreading itself like fingers on the dark sand of the beach. I went back to the room and tried to get some sleep.

Ansky, who had agreed to come along for the weekend, took the bed next to mine, while Xilca stayed on the second floor, because the first floor could only accommodate two people. While I was able to doze-off for about half an hour because of the exhaustion, I found myself awake at around half-past twelve, first, because of hunger, and second, because I knew that I was not on my own bed. I tried to get a little more rest, but my fragile sleep could no longer be retrieved. Finding Ansky half-awake on the bed across mine, I asked whether she wanted to get something to eat. Xilca, she said, was sleeping, and asked not to be woken. And so, following our stomachs, Ansky and I sought for a restaurant out on the seafront, but found that they were not serving lunch.

On the beach, I looked out to sea, and watched more of the waves clamber onto shore. They seemed much louder now and more unrelenting, more ominous than earlier this morning, and I told Ansky, "Kaya ba natin 'yan? Mukhang nakakatakot." And I meant it. The water looked deep, and the white foam which earlier had fascinated my sleep-deprived mind now looked like insidious tentacles, long and foreboding. What a time to chicken out, I thought.

But I would address the fear later on. A more primal need had to be satisfied. Following our stomachs, therefore, Ansky and I found ourselves eating at the first restaurant that presented itself along the main highway. It was an open-air ihaw-ihaw; I had a pork steak, Ansky had a grilled tangigue steak. The servings were not that big, but for P45 and almost half a day without food, who could complain?

After lunch, we found Xilca still asleep upstairs. It was nearly two o'clock, and I figured, we'd spend the afternoon resting, and get down to surfing the next day. It wasn't such a bad idea, I thought, because I was not about to meet those waves lightheaded and sleepy. I jumped back into bed intending to get more sleep, although I knew that I would not be able to since taking naps was never something I was used to doing, even with only two hour's sleep. And so, I drifted between wakefulness and slumber, barely cognizant of the vehicles that rumbled down the highway just outside our room. The mere attempt at sleep, I found, was strangely restful, so that I did not notice that I had been in bed already for almost two hours. I heard Xilca coming down on the stairs, and, between yawns, drowsily asked her whether she was ready to hit the beach. She said yes.

After rousing Ansky from her nap, changing into our beach wear, and coordinating with our instructor, Anthony, we were on the beach, at last, learning the fundamentals of surfing. It was about four o'clock then, and the sun, hiding behind thick clouds the whole day, made a brief appearance closer to the horizon, casting gentle orange hues on the water and on the sand. It was no longer warm, and the sea breeze made the scene more idyllic, were in not for our excitement at finally hitting the water.

Xilca, Ansky and I each had our own instructors who were locals, and with our long boards, they taught us the proper way to lay flat on the board while paddling out to meet the waves, and how to push up from it, with right foot planted squarely in the middle of the board, and the left three-quarters from the end, leaning slightly forward, with knees bent, to keep balance, when the waves finally swept us towards the shore. The simulated surf seemed simple enough: laying flat, pushing up, planting feet firmly on the surface. And then again, and another time.

No sooner had we been taught on the beach that we were wading into the water, meeting the waves which seemed so much bigger now that we were actually in the surf. The instructor pulled the board along side us, as we struggled against the water, with the waves getting stronger and stronger as we got further away from the shore. What was surprising was that I could still walk the surf, and that the water never got any deeper than my chest, forgetting that waves form precisely in those areas where the sea gets shallow.

It was an effort just wading out into the sea, even with the instructor helping to push the board forward. Upon reaching a suitable distance, we would point the board towards the shore, and I would get on it, as I did on the beach, but this time, salt water splashing all around me. I gripped the board, trying to stay on, when, with the rising of the wave around me, the instructor would push the board forward giving it momentum, matching my speed to the rushing wave, and I would slide down together with it towards the shore.

The speed was something I did not expect: traveling with the wave did not give one much time to think, only to react to the forward motion, and finally: pushing up, planting feet firmly on the surface, balancing with the movement of the wave, and hoping that you didn't fall off!

But I did, many times, struggling beneath the waves, and gulping in the salt. Pushing off from the board during that first attempt, I twisted my back without intending to, sending sharp jolts up my spine. What a time for my back to act up again, I thought, and of all places! But finding that the pain was more inconvenient than distressing, I persisted, careful not to make any sudden sharp movements with my back. For about an hour, we did the rounds, each time, pulling the board against the wave out to the sea. For a couple of runs, I found my balance, and stood on the board triumphantly, reaching almost onto the shore, completing a long ride— thrilling, especially for the ultra-beginner.

I stood on the beach after our hour-long instruction, exhausted and out of breath from fighting the waves, and discovered a new and healthy respect for surfing which— and the three of us agreed— was not as easy as it probably looked. We looked forward to the next day, when we would try to go at it on our own, doubtful if we could, but it was fun, nonetheless.

The sun was setting when I left the beach, and I could not resist taking a La Union sunset.


We had a pre-dinner drink at the neighboring surf resort, the room rates of which we found affordable (P1600/night for a room, maximum of four people), but more expensive than our accommodations for the evening (P250/person). Of course, we did not have cable television or air conditioning, but we were all on a tight budget. It was a cowboy weekend for cowboy people, an unexpected adventure which was turning out fine.

We found ourselves having dinner with real surfer dudes and dudettes staying at the Surfer's Inn with us. They brought us to Midway Diner, a restaurant no more than five minutes away from the Surfer's Inn. The food, we found was cheap: nothing went over P130, with most of the dishes ranging from P60-P90. And the servings were quite generous; the softdrinks, bottomless at P25. It wasn't difficult to understand why surfers frequented the place: cheap filling dishes for big surfers' (and hapless Manila travelers') appetites.

From our dinner conversation, we learned that most of the surfers with us at table had been surfing for over five years, and in those five years, each would almost always spend weekends in La Union. They told us that by far, the best way to travel was by bus, leaving on a Friday night, and arriving early Saturday morning. And they told us how surfing could get addicting: the moment they could stand on the board, they were hooked. What was interesting for us to note, however, was that these surfers were all professionals: they were lawyers and architects, they worked for internet companies and produced plays. And they surfed almost every weekend, one wondered where they'd find time for such a diversion.

We excused ourselves early from dinner, wanting to get to bed. They told us that the best time to catch the surf was in the morning, and we said that we'd try to wake up in time for it. When we got back to our room, we didn't say much to each other, knowing that we all had sleep in our heads. While it took me a while to drift off to sleep that evening, mercifully, I did, at around two the next morning.

We all woke up at about the same time, which was to say, we all woke up later than we had wanted to. It was already nine in the morning when I heard Xilca stirring in our room, preparing to get out on the beach. Somewhat groggy, but determined, I followed. Wanting to save on the board rental, we decided to take turns using the surf board of one of Xilca's friends who had allowed her to use it for free. Without an instructor, we waded out into the ocean, each in our own turn, and tried to ride our own waves.


Initially, I found, the most difficult thing was actually getting yourself out there into the water with your surfboard, and wading out into the churning grey ocean to where the waves formed and broke. The apprehension, of course, was understandable, because as someone quite correctly observed, we do not have an instinct for water. Drowning was an ever-present fear.

Strangely, I found that the water was not inconveniently chilly, or perhaps I just did not notice it, intent as I was in fighting off the waves as they came, in rhythmic succession, sometimes throwing me off balance and sometimes even pushing me under the surf. At other times, I'd find myself paddling out, which took much more effort than walking in the water, because the waves would just push me back closer to the shore. It was really this walk or this paddle out to the surf which was tiring and discouraging. I sometimes felt that I wasn't getting anywhere, only drifting lazily between crests.

But persistence was a virtue, even in surfing, and so pressing ahead, I finally reached that part of the water where the waves rolled in from the ocean, bulging up in the shallowing beach shelf. I turned my board around, and facing the shore, I jumped on quickly, anticipating the rising of a wave behind me.

At that moment, resting my chest on the board, I felt strangely but pleasantly alone in the water. The breaking of the surf was muffled in the distance, and all I could hear was the eerie muted noise of the sea as it approached behind me. And the board rose up with the coming of the wave— one need only feel being lifted up— and I started paddling, left hand over the board, right hand, left, and then right, trying to keep pace with the wave.

Often, my paddling was too slow, and the wave would just pass me by, carrying me up on the crest for a moment, but later, gently (or sometimes violently) taking me back down to the surface. I'd wait for the next wave, now somewhat closer to the shore, and I'd paddle frantically again, hoping to catch it in its cresting. On lucky moments, I would, and I would surge forward on the water, the speed terrific in the foam, and I would try to stand, attempting to plant my left foot firmly on the middle of the board. But the speed of the surf and the instability of the water would often push me off balance, and I fell into the foam, a complete washout.


Recovering from the fall (after coughing out the saltiest water I had ever tasted), I was often short of breath, for the first time feeling the fatigue of wading out against the ocean. Panting, I'd recover my board, attached to my right leg by a leash, and facing it out into the ocean again, I'd try to think about where I had gone wrong during the last ride. Sometimes, the chosen wave was just too big. But often, it was my balance that was off. Washing out again and again, I learned that even in surfing, balance was everything.

But other waves would come, certainly, and I ventured out into the surf again, walking, paddling, drifting as the water got calmer out to sea. Out in the distance, I could see the experienced surfers just hanging on to their boards, seemingly doing nothing, but actually (I learned later on), waiting for the perfect wave. I turned my board back onto the shore, got on it again, and waited for mine.

While it certainly was not the perfect wave (experienced surfers would probably scoff at its height and the simplicity of its cresting), I caught a couple of them just as they broke, able, finally, to match my paddling with the speed of their cresting. But more than this, as the unexpected wave pushed me along the water, I was able to plant my foot firmly, and, lifting myself up from the board and extending my arms out for balance, I was able to stand, soaring above the surf, and I saw the water somewhat differently, standing at last on the surfboard. The wave and I had merged, it seemed, and while it lasted only for about ten seconds each time, it was enough. The wave had carried me safely back to the shore.


I carried my board from the water back to the beach, turning it over to Xilca, who was next in her turn. It was a tiring ride, I thought, but strangely satisfying. And while I knew I was nothing compared to those that rode the waves as an act of the will, I had an idea of what it was to surf, to match the wave, and be brought back to the shore by nothing more than the forward rush of water. And it wasn't easy.

Discussing the experience on the beach while watching Xilca on the surf, Ansky asked, “What was your favorite part?”

Without thinking, I said, “Definitely, standing up on the board, as the waves carried you forward.”

She nodded her agreement. “E, ikaw, what's your favorite part?”

“Ako?” she said, thinking for a moment. “Ah, that moment just before I'd fall into the water.”


We had late lunch at a local carinderia, after which, Ansky planned to get an instructor before leaving for Manila. While waiting for her to finish her session, I laid on the beach, hoping to get some sun. It was about four-thirty when we prepared to leave, but not before Ansky, Xilca and I played some frisbee on the beach. We left for Manila at exactly five-thirty in the afternoon, and made the City in around six hours, with an hour for dinner at ChowKing somewhere in Tarlac. I got home a little before midnight, exhausted from the long drive, yet satisfied with the spontaneity of the weekend. It would not be the last.