The Maturation of Cloud Nine 

Mike Boyum slipped quietly into surf lore hiding along this very stretch of sand. The infamous explorer-turned-cocaine smuggler owed a bounty to the wrong people and was on the run. By this point in his life, Boyum had helped his brother pin G-Land on the map, served some drug-related jail time, and only required three simple pleasures—seclusion, spirituality, and surf. According to his journal, the metaphysical realm got the best of him as he withered away 43 days into a fast.

If starvation hadn’t done Boyum in, he’d surely have been discovered by now. Every day, dozens of tourists trample his remains on the way to the boardwalk. Or down the palm-lined beachfront for an organic juice or espresso. Boyum’s probably rolling in his seaside grave.

Aside from being tailed by bloodthirsty outlaws, what initially coaxed Boyum to Siargao—an ideally situated, palm-drenched atoll in the eastern Visayas—was the now-famous right-hand reef known as Cloud Nine. Aptly named, an aquamarine rush of oceanic energy funnels along a bulbous slab of coral, providing somewhat easy entries and an unrivaled amount of hollow, precarious thrills. It ranks amongst the globe’s best lineups. That’s what had brought me here. But why was my plane oddly filled with everyone from honeymooners to backpackers?

The island is now confronted with a contemporary stumbling block that plagues many Third World tourist destinations—rampant, unchecked development.  I wondered what the next five years would hold for Siargao.

As Cebu Pacific Air’s one-flight-a-day descended inland, tiny huts and skyward slithers of smoke revealed themselves among an impenetrable forest of coconut trees. No wonder Cloud Nine had flown under the radar for this long. Everyone went to Indo, Tahiti, Fiji, even Ponhpei. Yet Siargao appeared to be what every vagabond surfer dreams of—a high-quality tube ensconced in a dreamscape of snowy sands, balmy breezes, and scarce development. Though, the Europeans nosing through their guidebook across the aisle worried me.

*

Every accommodation adjacent to the famous reef was booked solid. I secretly hoped not all were occupied with skilled regular footers. My girlfriend Becca and I retreated back up the paved road toward the town of General Luna, feeling put off by the hustle and bustle of Cloud Nine’s main parking area. 

We found a quaint three-bungalow spot on the backside of Tuason point, which faced southeast compared to Cloud Nine’s northeast exposure. It was named Malijon—a rough Tagalog translation of “happy place”—and our hosts were a warm Swedish couple named Pontus and Frida. Their relaxed, sprawling grounds were complemented by blooming flora, a groovy barefoot bar, and a communal kitchen. We’d found the sanctuary we were seeking on this remote hamlet. I instantly struck up conversation with Pontus, a keen surfer, who’d first come to Siargao in 2005. 

“Siargao’s a quiet, unexploited tropical island with top-quality waves,” he said. “There’s a carefree, easy way of life here. It’s hard not to fall in love with it. But in the last 10 years, it’s gone from maybe five resorts to…I don’t know exactly. But it feels like close to 100.”

Pontus’ ringing cell phone interrupted us. I thought back to my research conversations with explorer/photographer John Callahan prior to my trip. He first visited Siargao in 1992 with Evan Slater and Taylor Knox. The results of their score graced the pages of Surfer magazine the following year. Though it was an arduous mission, they’d unearthed a fresh, world-class wave for the masses.

“I’ve been back four or five times since 1992,” said Callahan, who’s credited with naming Cloud Nine after a popular Filipino candy bar. “We didn’t see anyone else surfing on the island until 1996, when the first Siargao Cup was held. We’d heard that Tony Arruza, a photographer from Florida, went to Siargao in the late 1980s. And of course, there was Boyum, who supposedly arrived in December of 1988 using the nom de guerre, ‘Max Walker.’ He died on the island in June 1989. Other people had been there before 1992—there were 20 or 30 names in the guestbook of the place we stayed, which was the only place to stay at that time.”

Despite the buzz of nearby saws and trucks pouring virgin cement next to age-old thatched huts, Siargao seemed light years away from Bali’s four-million-person boom.

*

On the smaller days, local entrepreneurs took tourists out by the dozens for surf lessons. Flocks of hot Filipino groms swarmed the main peak and punted airs over shoulder-hopping beginners. But once the surf sprung into the 6-foot range, the traffic cleared out and a competent international crew got what they came for—racy, round, azure drainpipes that go blow-for-blow with some of Indo’s best.

Much of the Philippines’ surf potential lies in hard-to-reach reef passes or densely forested shorelines. Yet Cloud Nine is easily accessible from the main road. Plus, a quarter-mile-long boardwalk/viewing tower escorts you over most of the shallow coral and drops you gently into the keyhole. 

My favorite sessions came during a stretch of early-morning high tides. On the low, Cloud Nine is virtually peeled back into nothingness. But once enough water covered the spongy reef, the swell surged right along with it. Those with serious intent could position themselves directly on the sweet spot, paddle hard for the entry, pop up while pulling in, and let the magic of the wave guide them down the rabbit hole.

As I trudged up the boardwalk’s wooden stairs one morning, I happened upon a friendly and ambitious resident named Din Din. He was born and raised down the road in General Luna. “They built this boardwalk before we even had paved roads,” he said. “But once the road finally got paved and they put up the first cell tower, things around here changed in an instant. More resorts and businesses opened. But more jobs for locals too. So I guess overall there’s a positive outcome.”

This increase of First World luxuries was far better than what Siargao faced in the early 1990s—a thriving organ-trade operation, as well as a serious pedophile problem. While all of that has gone out with the tide, the island is now confronted with a contemporary stumbling block that plagues many Third World tourist destinations—rampant, unchecked development. I wondered what the next five years would hold for Siargao. Could it maintain its inherent aesthetics, or would it simply roll over and let the bulldozers take over?

Din Din told me where to find him if I ever needed any ding repair and we said our goodbyes. As I scanned the shoreline for Becca, I noticed kayakers exploring a patch of mangroves off to the north. Back on the sand, a group of Filipino tourist girls took selfies with the fabled Cloud Nine surf statue as their backdrop. I found Becca relaxing on a beanbag at a seaside cafe, enjoying a mango smoothie. She smiled, saying she witnessed one of my barrels from her yoga class on the third story of the boardwalk’s tower.

*

“They show this place on TV as the adventure capital of the Philippines,” said Andrew Russo, an expat from New York who’s been on Siargao since 2006. He owns the Greenhouse Resort back on our side of Tuason point and shed some light on the island’s recent growth spurt. “It happened in a variety of ways—social media, word of mouth, and consistent-yet-slow progress over the years. People see Siargao as an alternative from the busy shores and lineups of Bali. New activities are emerging all the time like kayaking, golf, island tours, and a legitimate dive operation. Families need to have something to do when dad is out surfing all day. And now, Siargao’s airport expansion is on the way. Soon there’ll be direct flights from Manila, furthering the spread of tourism and making it even more crowded.” 

At that, I sensed the need to maximize our time on Siargao while it was still relatively untainted. Swaying in the hammock with a good book is very satisfying. But given Andrew’s warning about the $5.6 million in airport renovations awarded by the government, I felt the urge to go explore. We got clued in to some underwater caves nearby, as well as an idyllic saltwater lagoon about an hour drive north. We packed a bag and rattled off on our rented motorbike (with makeshift surf rack) into the Philippine interior.

Just outside of General Luna the landscape took on a more rural disposition. Large bulls submerged themselves in muddy burrows to escape the intense midday heat. Vibrant mountains jutted upward, piercing the deep blue sky. There were sporadic construction crews completing the “new road,” which apparently was a good thing. The old road would wash out during heavy rains. Plus, as Din Din hinted, increased infrastructure would provide more jobs for Siargao locals. Still, traffic was non-existent. When native children heard the piercing buzz of our Honda XRM, they’d sprint out to the street screaming “hello,” waving frantically, reaching for high-fives.

A rustic ticket booth stood on the beach near the Magpupungko tide pools. Filipino vacationers barbecued on the sand under a coconut palm. We’d timed it perfectly—just low tide enough to define a noticeable edge around the reef-pond, yet high enough that the water was plenty deep to dive. The translucency in this corner of the Pacific was beyond belief. The sky even seemed turquoise that day. We splashed for hours and wondered why Cloud Nine was so crowded with tourists, while none of them had found their way to this playful respite. As I floated on my back, staring into the ether, I remembered what Callahan had preached.

“Surfers are what anthropologists call leading-edge travelers because they’re often the first to access new and unvisited areas in their obsessive pursuit of un-crowded waves—similar to scuba divers looking for new dive areas, or kayakers looking for whitewater rivers that have never been attempted. Non-surfing adventure travelers inevitably follow, eager to capture some of the special qualities of a place before it’s covered with fresh concrete.”

*

Before Cebu Pacific’s lone daily flight, options for getting to Siargao were sparse and slightly sketchy. A few ramshackle planes touched down here or there, but mostly one had to fly to Surigao City on Mindanao to the south, then ferry in. When Knox, Slater, and Callahan arrived in 1992, there was an airport but it wasn’t in working order.

“Back in 2001, Sea Air flew from Cebu to Siargao with sometimes only one passenger onboard,” Din Din told me. “But now almost every flight is full and most of them are non-surfers that are island hopping, here for the beach, or for other activities. When it comes to promoting tourism, it all revolves around the hands of the politicians and how it will benefit them.”

True, the Philippine government was the chief promoter of the Siargao Cup since its inception, marketing the island as the surfing capital of the Philippines, which it clearly is. The annual contest is now sanctioned by the WSL, despite no major surf industry backing. All the sponsorship dollars and prize money comes from the Feds. 

When I was schlepping my board bag around Manila’s domestic terminal, nobody knew what my odd-sized luggage contained. As I said the word “surfboard,” the Filipinos’ eyes lit up. “Siargao!” they said. (The marketing appeared to be working.) And once the runway extension and airport facelift is complete, who knows what type of publicity the government will bestow on this little slice of heaven? Cloud Nine eventually gave me a reason to visit Din Din. The reef maxes out around double overhead and anything heftier begins shelving outside and storming through the lineup like a whitewater avalanche. When these rogue cleanups occur, there’s nowhere to go but down. Gasping after my third swatting of the morning, I noticed I’d creased my Patterson round-tail during one of my many lobs. My only solace came in the fact I’d scored the wave of my trip just 30 minutes prior—an underneath cavern that breathed a rainbow of mist before releasing me cleanly from its clutches.

As I said the word “surfboard,” the Filipinos’ eyes lit up. “Siargao!” they said. (The marketing appeared to be working.) And once the runway extension and airport facelift is complete, who knows what type of publicity the government will bestow on this little slice of heaven?

On a dusty backstreet in General Luna, roosters stood guard at a fence-line built from various tree branches. I spotted a homemade board rack alongside the simple dwelling. A few of the elders sipping warm San Miguel beer on the porch took notice, so I spoke up and asked if Din Din was around. They shouted something in Tagalog and Din Din emerged in a familiar cloud of foam dust. He pulled down his mask, revealing a large smile, and immediately reached for my Patterson with wide eyes. He groped the edges like a veteran and studied the bottom contour, completely ignoring my rail-to-rail buckle. Registering my bewilderment at his fascination, he said, “Yeah, I also shape. But it’s hard because we have to import everything. And when they run out of stock in Manila, we have to wait a long time to get more materials.

“I’ve been shaping for six years now,” he continued. “My first attempt was just a reshape from a super-old board back in 1998. Then in 1999, I did it again because I found another chunk of foam to reshape. In 2007, Martin Andanar, who’s now the Cabinet Secretary for President Duterte, had the idea to manufacture our own blanks here on Siargao, but that only lasted five months. Remember what I said about politicians? Still, it was a successful experiment for me. I’m very proud of where I’m at today because no one taught me how to shape. Nowadays, I’m able to research techniques about board building on the internet and improve my skills.”

I left Din Din’s, realizing Siargao’s increasing infrastructure might not be such a bad thing after all. Otherwise, more feral surf visionaries might wash up like Boyum did on the bad side of an extended fast.

*

“Cloud Nine has its days where it can compare to the best waves in the world,” Russo said, when I badgered him about the area’s surrounding potential. “That’s why people come here—and the other spots around are just as gravy. But I’d rather get in a boat and surf other less-crowded zones. There are 25 or so reasonably good waves nearby. Just know your wind and swell and there are places around the corner that get great waves any day that Cloud Nine is working well.”

Once Din Din repaired my board (rather professionally, it’s worth noting), it was time for a little amateur exploration. I’d noticed a few islands dotted along the horizon, which consistently churned out tapered lines of whitewater, barely discernible through my travel-size binoculars. The next day, Becca and I hired some local kids to take us out in their banca—a handmade, wooden vessel punctuated by a deafening diesel motor. We zigged and zagged our way around Siargao’s surrounding archipelago. We stumbled upon colorful coral, copious starfish, and even a few formidable waves pushing off into deep water. Some of these landforms weren’t much more than glorified sandbars. Still, there’s an exhilarating Robinson-Crusoe-like feeling when you’re the only soul ashore on a lonely islet. 

“For most of the other waves in the Philippines, you need a boat, a vehicle, or both, so it takes more time and effort,” he said.  The Filipinos see surfing as more of a social activity—something done with friends rather than in isolation. So going off into the middle of nowhere to surf by yourself is kind of weird behavior.”

As the sun took on a citrusy glow, we motored back into the bay north of Cloud Nine. I high-stepped over the fragile reef, pondering the prospective waves that lurk about, mostly unrealized, in the Philippines. After all, Siargao was only one of 1,707 islands.

That night, I got an email from Callahan offering some insight from his decades of exploration across this part of the world. We’d been in communication about a recent typhoon’s track and he inquired how I was fairing at “Crowd Nine.” Meanwhile, he was stationed on some remote corner up north, bunking with locals and scoring pointbreak-style rights with just his crew. 

“For most of the other waves in the Philippines, you need a boat, a vehicle, or both, so it takes more time and effort,” he said. “The Filipinos see surfing as more of a social activity—something done with friends rather than in isolation. So going off into the middle of nowhere to surf by yourself is kind of weird behavior.”

Clearly, the untapped surf potential in the Philippines has yet to be publicly established. And for those few remaining Mike Boyums out there, that’s probably a good thing. For the rest of us, we’re free to choose what we prefer… isolation or modern luxuries?

[Feature image: “Steve Jones and me may have been the first surfers on Siargao Island,” says photographer Tony Arruza. “But we never laid claim to Cloud Nine.” Lured by an open swell window and a deep offshore trench in the late 80s, the pair was essentially skunked. Photo by Tony Arruza.]