MANILA, Philippines - In the interest of full disclosure, let me tell you about my medical history.
Like a bubble boy without a bubble, my formative years were characterized by frequent visits to the pediatrician, as well as occasional bouts of hospitalization. From skin asthma (1993) to primary complex (1994), I had it all. I had so much of it, in fact, that it seemed like my doctor was inventing new illnesses to diagnose me with, like furunculosis (2004) — a name so improbable to my chemistry teacher, he decided I was lying.
And just in case I hadn’t had enough of hospital emergency rooms, I was also persistently accident-prone, like cutting off part of my finger while playing with a knife in 1997 (I know, I know) and then going for the rest of the hand by breaking a window with my arm in 1998. A few weeks before my 20th birthday, I reached the pinnacle of my young, sickly, accident-prone life with rheumatic fever — a throat infection so massive it eventually messed with my heart’s functions.
When my editor called to tell me he was sending me off to a surf camp, it felt a bit like stunt casting — the journalistic equivalent of casting McLovin’ in a bombs-and-babes action movie. He probably saw the comedic gold in getting a hardcore lampa to try to not get into an accident for five minutes and get himself on a swiftly moving board.
It was all confirmed in the first few minutes of meeting Paolo Soler, the man behind the surf instructional course Philippine Surfing Academy (PSA) and my coach for the weekend. “He told me you’re overweight and out-of-shape,” Paolo said, visibly relieved that I was not of Precious proportions, also foolish for thinking that it means I’m anything close to physically-adept. “I’ll get you surfing this weekend, man,” he promised.
A few Big Macs later, Paolo, myself, and Lui Tortuya, the father of the Philippine custom surfboard, were in Paolo’s car on the way to Real, Quezon and the surf camp. “I want a chain of surf camps around the country,” Paolo says, multi-tasking driver, interviewee, and joint-roller all at the same time. “Anyone can surf, dude.”
Paolo’s iPod — which he insists isn’t his — provides the auditory entertainment, playing everything from The White Stripes to Cyndi Lauper. “Dude, that’s gay,” Lui says, shaking his head and chugging down his beer at the same time, looking both bewildered and amused at the inclusion of the age-old girls’-night-out classic.
Paolo and Lui go way back. They laugh out loud, say “dude” a lot, and have enough battle scar stories to make a three-hour drive amusing. And if their friendship has a long history, with enough inside jokes to create an imaginary wall between the car’s front seats and the back seats, they are hardly ostracizing, always making sure to fill in whatever details their laughs and prompts leave out.
After three hours of driving, Bette Davis Eyes (Paolo’s iPod again), watching horses dragged down mountains by jeepneys, and some passing of the dutchie (both musical and otherwise), we got to the surf camp.
As we settled into Paolo’s kubo tower (one of the perks of rooming with the coach — you sleep in the tower, not the tents), I realized that, heck, everyone knows everyone. A lot of hugs and fist bumps later, they’re all guzzling Pale Pilsens and talking about waves and ghosts of surf competitions past. But as I learned earlier, surf culture is hardly exclusive and very much inclusive. After some lambanog, herbal hospitality, the realization that Animal Collective’s Merriweather Post Pavillion is better heard on the beach, and failed attempts at instigating lesbianism, they felt like age-old friends.
In the morning, we wake up at the crack of dawn and we’re surfing. To see what I can “naturally do,” Paolo told me to just surf, without any lessons or instructions. I already knew what I could do, of course — nothing, except maybe fall on my ass a lot. Some 2.5 wipeouts later (give me 0.5 for being able to stand for 10 seconds), and all I learned was that, when surfing, be kind to your nipples and wear a rash guard.
“Don’t stress, man,” Paolo tells me on the way back to camp. “Thing about surfing is you can f*** up as much as you need to.” With this in mind, I came back for the morning class. With a proper lesson and specific instructions, I went back to the water and successfully wiped out again.
And then there was the time I held on to the rope. Minutes after Paolo told us the story of the girl who grabbed on to the rope when wiping it out and lost her finger, I was doing the same thing. It was 1997 all over again.
But eventually, against all odds, with the country’s best surf coach helping me out, I got on that damn board and didn’t fall and made it all the way back to the beach. It was a small victory, of course. There were nine-year-olds making it all the way back on the second try. But three hours away from Manila, with Animal Collective still ringing in your ears, while finally navigating those waves, you can feel pretty damn invincible.
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Email info@philippinesurfingacademy.com or visit www.philippinesurfingacademy.com for schedules and rates.
Class schedule at Club Manila East: Monday to Sunday, 10 a.m. to 12 p.m., 2 p.m. to 4 p.m.