Learning to Stand

 From early on in the conception of this trip we discussed getting to the beach for some dedicated time in the waves. Despite my aquatic upbringing I had never had the opportunity to spend a few solid days learning to surf. Boogie boarding? Body surfing? Skim boarding? Sure, those were all worthy endeavors of propulsion in the di-hydrogen monoxide medium. But they all seemed to be incomplete allusions to their more holistic forbearer. To glide your way into the swell, to match speeds with and be carried by it, to stand, able to see it curving its way to impossible shapes, falling in froth at your heels, to surge ahead towards shore, is an experience that one can't easily forget. And for me it happened first at Liwa-Liwa in Zambales.

I'd had a few brief encounters with the sport previously. A trip to Jones Beach here, a weekend in Rhode Island there, some beach break in San Fran. All had been forays into the unknown under mediocre circumstances. When spirits were high, but conditions were less than enticing. I have only stinted memories of donning heavy wetsuits on the cold New York coast, with hoods, mitts, and boots, fighting heavy walls of water, fighting the cold. To garner any enjoyment in such an atmosphere, one must believe the thrill of the ride can be relinquished from the difficult undertaking. But admittedly, it did not take more than a few mouthfuls of the gelid brine before I conceded to the ferocity of the liquid oscillations.

But this time, here, in the Philippines, would be different. With Professor Pips at the head of the class, Maggie and I took notes in the sand as he explained the concepts behind fighting our way through the break. It wouldn't be easy, with waves crashing in our faces over and over again as we would time our efforts to get past the shore break.

But after a few sobering moments of intensity, we found ourselves more or less comfortably handling our long boards and clawing our way into our first waves. On the first nice curve to come my way, I paddled in, stood up, and took a ride. Hooked.

 The next day, Pips' cousin Mara and her boyfriend Martin (both of whom who we'd met earlier in Manila) came out for the surf.

Mojo, seemingly named after the overwhelming desire he has for the lady-canines, only seemed to calm down when by the waves. Watching Mara catch waves, the chocolate lab would sit patiently on the beach, as if he was mentally preparing himself. Then, once Mara had her share of rides, she'd come in, grab the dog, put him on the board and paddle him out. Mojo seemed right at home as she pushed him into a wave. Surfing on all fours, it was quickly apparent he was one of the real pros at Liwa-Liwa.

 Throughout the few days at the beach, the waves were consistently large. There seemed to be no end to the crashing sets, and as we would drift to sleep each night aided by Tanduay rum and settling down after some intense card games, we'd find our rhythm amongst the sounds of the surf. After a morning session, we'd come in for some food at the small thatched roof restaurant. Bagnet, accompanied by choco-banana shakes spiked with Tanduay, seemed to be our snacks of choice. Bagnet is what Maggie was calling "bacon on steroids", which is to say it was the most incredible fried chunks of pork meat and fat. The fried meat was crispy and delicious, and the fat had turned into almost a light bubbly crispified pork rind. A trip to Zambales could probably be justified even if the waves were not hitting- if only for Atta Phoebe's bagnet.

And then it was back out into the waves. Back to shore once hunger struck again. Then back out for a few more rides, and so on. The pattern was only interrupted by sunrises and sunsets.

So went our time at Liwa-Liwa, a magic spot tucked into the Zambales coastline.