"Oy! Grite throw!" the pirate boomed, his Aussie accent oiled from a day of drinking beer. He was clearly pleased with the young Filipino's handiwork, and wanted me to know. The boy, no more than 18 years old and standing bare-chested in a pair of red flip-flops, had hurled a piece of rebar bent into a heavy square 50 feet across the grassy lawn. The metal arced through the humid night sky like an out-of-control satellite before crashing with a clang around another metal bar sticking a foot out of the ground at my feet. "A ringah!" shouted the pirate, and he raised his brown bottle high in a toast to inevitable victory.

     Here in Siargao, a tiny teardrop-shaped island in the Philippine archipelago, about 500 miles southeast of Manila, there is no such thing as a game of horseshoes as there are no such things as horses or shoes. There are no pirates, either, although Pete, a 50-year-old sailor who lives o­n the island and keeps his blood equals parts salt and booze, looks but o­ne galleon shy of a buccaneer. Standing well over six feet with skin baked to leather from decades under the intense tropical sun, a billowing mustache, gold earring, and a head like Mr. Clean's, a nickname like "Ernie" just wouldn't do.

My girlfriend and I had been in the Philippines for almost six weeks when we rolled into Siargao. Having already scuba dived with sharks, paddled native outrigger canoes (called bancas) to remote islands, and plied emerald waters atop sea kayaks under smoking volcanoes, surfing was the o­nly watery hole we sought to fill.

The Philippines has more than 7,000 islands that pepper the South China and Philippine seas, so naturally there's a wealth of affordable liquid adventure, above and below the waves. For instance, marine life here is so diverse that o­ne lobe of brain corral no larger than a VW bug will likely have gaggles of Christmas tree worms, nudibranchs, parrotfish, flute fish, and pulsing sea clams jockeying for front seats before your regulator, while turtles and banded snake eels circle in holding patterns just beyond. Sea kayaking is so new outfitters make their own boats, but they track brilliantly and can carry you over whale-shark infested waters for less than a the price of a new CD. What's more, you can join locals who love to paddle the area, and spend nights with them under skies humming with cicadas, camp in fishing villages or o­n remote beaches, and mingle with the watermen during the day.

     Palawan, a remote sliver of an island to the west of the main archipelago, is the best place to find secluded beaches, although word is seeping out so go now. The Bacuit Bay Marine Reserve near El Nido has 23 islands, most of them no more than sheer 1,000-foot cliffs jutting out of the sea to dot the green waters. Bats fly out of caves in the cliffs by the millions, and scores of idyllic coves with names like "Paradise Beach," "Seven Commandos" and "Secret Beach" await. Hidden lagoons behind some of the cliffs are perfect for lazy days with a snorkel and fins. Of course surfing doesn't have to cost you a peso.



     

Tourism in the Philippines, at least the industry that caters to the western and Down Under backpacking crowds, is still green. Unlike, say, in Thailand, there no tourist busses, no 'special price just for you,' no tacky resorts serving tofu pizza. There are still countless McDonald's and Kentucky Fried Chicken chains, but they aren't there for you: Filipinos love the grease and still cling to their American colony roots. After 50 years under the auspices of Washington, English is the lingua franca, so getting around and delving into the culture is easy and inevitable. You're still an oddity here. During two months of island hopping we met a dozen Aussies, four Canadians, two Danes, o­ne German, o­ne Frenchman, a Dutch painter, two Brits, and three Americans.

     And, of course, o­ne pirate. The ringer proved to be the coup de grace, so I dug deep into my swimming trunks and ponied up the 20 cents to buy him a round from the bar that he conveniently owned. The pirate also owned three surfboards, the reason I went looking for him in the first place. He lent me o­ne, a waterlogged, dinged-to-hell 6-foot-9 thruster, for $2.50 a day and a promise to return it in good condition.

"That shouldn't be a problem," I said. The nose had been snapped god knows how many times, it lacked a leg leash, and it was stained yellow from leaky resin. Still, this turd was better than nothing, so we shook hands and I went back to our bungalow.

     The next morning at sunrise I walked five minutes down the rutted dirt road in front of our bamboo-ceiling room, past more coconut palms to the beach, a crescent bay with countless breaks ranging from mush to insane. An Aussie surfer I'd met the day before, a tall thirty-something with short blond hair and an affinity for rolling his own cigarettes, came wandering along a few minutes later. He looked down and frowned.

"Chrise mate," he said. "Yer git y'self killed o­n that piece a shite." He had brought a second board, a beautiful seven-footer complete with leash, and he suggested I take it. I told him it had been eight years since I had surfed. "It's OK," he said. "Yer git the feelun back." I set pirate's board aside and we studied a break that was considerably more consistent than the others dotting the bay: Cloud 9, the country's dreamiest ride.

     The American surfing world first saw these tubes in 1993, when Surfer magazine ran shots of people tucked so deep in the barrels you'd need gargantuan forceps to pluck them out. The captions were conspicuously vague. Directions to Cloud 9 eventually surfaced in 1996,.when a professional surfing tour came through and brought its entourage of international attention. Not that this break is now crowded or anywhere within a weekend warrior's range: All tallied it had taken us a 15-hour flight, four boat rides, several miserable nights in putrid port hotels, and an hourlong bus ride past coconut palms, dilapidated nipa huts, and pig farms to reach Cloud 9.





     

The lineup that morning consisted of a dozen surfers, most of whom were local kids in cut-off jeans, riding boards in worse shape than the pirate's. They were testaments to courage over equipment, and I watched as they carved deep cutbacks and piloted audacious floaters. A slight offshore breeze kept the waves hollow. It was early May, the off-season, but a swell had come cruising in off the open Pacific generating a head-high right. Typhoon season was still a few months away, but come September the waves would routinely tower in the eight- to ten-foot range and last through March.

     The waves here are certainly world-class, but so are those at Mavericks or Oahu. It's what's out of the water that makes Siargao as attractive as its swell. General Luna, population 1,000 or so, the break's nearest town about a mile south, has but a handful of small stores along its dirt-road spine. Kids shoot marbles in front, while inside a place like Lourdes Eatery, a small general store overlooking the main drag, ex-pat Aussies frequent the beer coolers stocked with twenty-cent brews. Just about any storekeeper will whip you up a fine vegetable curry over sticky rice, assuming the vegetable truck has made it to town that week. A string of inns, more like compounds sprinkled with bungalows, have popped up along the coast, and offer rooms tucked in among banana plants, bougainvillaea, and palms for $10 a night. To get around, you can hop o­n a hable-hable, a motorcycle with an extended seat that sits three people banana-boat style, and bounce along the dirt roads to any number of other breaks along the Pacific shore. The break at Cloud 9 is also extremely accessible: The channel went just south of an old pier through calm seas, and we plunged in paddling. The water was bathtub warm, a fact I appreciated o­n my first ride when I was cast over the falls like a sorry mackerel and drank a gallon of seawater. Things eventually improved as I got the feel for the board, and by the end of the day I was able to make the drop, oh, a good quarter of the time. Truth be told, I caught o­nly o­ne clean ride that resulted in more wind hissing by my ears than water filling them. I'm quite pathetic, thank you very much, and my session ended with a spill an hour later that snapped the rubber leash and sent the very borrowed board o­n a beautiful hundred-yard solo ride to shore punctuated with sudden jerks as it bounced over bolo-sharp coral.

But that o­ne ride stands out. It was a right, a chest-high wall of water that reared up into a perfect ramp. Heart racing, stomach high in my throat. (Please oh please don't screw this up). The thrill of the drop and the surprise at sticking it. The sibilant hiss of a board actually riding the wave. o­n and o­n it seemed to go until I cranked the nose over the top, pulled out of the impact zone and into a surge of exhilaration. It couldn't have lasted more than ten seconds. There were no deep cutbacks, no audacious floaters, and no disappearing acts into hollow green tubes of the sea. Just o­ne happy kook with an arm raised high in a toast to victory.

The Lowdown




China Airlines has flights from L.A. to Manila for about $870 round-trip. Flying directly to Cebu costs a fortune ($1,700 and up). Instead, fly to Manila, and then visit a travel agent to book a flight to Cebu for about $100.

Expect constant rain July through September. It's hot and muggy year round, although particularly sweltering from March to June.

Filipinos are incredibly friendly and willing to help. Avoid the Sulu archipelago, home to the ransom-thirsty Islamic militants you've heard about. Real World Rescue (www.realworldrescue.com), an agency that trains journalists covering the globe's hot spots, doesn't rank the Philippines as a dangerous country. Use common sense as always.

Diving: Cebu island has dozens of world-class sites sprinkled just offshore. Moalboal o­n the Tanon Strait has dozens of dive shops with multiple daily trips to areas along the shore. The Savedra-Great White Dive Center (www.savedra.com) is a 5-star PADI outfit with certification courses ($300) and dives ($20 a pop). Accommodation is cheap: as little as $2.50 a night.

La Union, o­n Luzon, has a decent beach break. Baler in Aurora province o­n the Pacific side of Luzon, is home to a handful of other great breaks, including the o­ne featured in the 'Charlie Don't Surf' scene in "Apocalypse Now." But Cloud 9 is by far the best. Bring several boards. The trip to Siargao takes two days and two boats from Cebu, costing about $15 each way. Seair (www.flyseair.com) offers flights from Cebu to Siargao now for about $100 each way.

Gulf Marine Outfitters in Legazpi City in southern Luzon offers overnight trips to islands in the Albay Gulf. Trips cost about $10 a day, depending o­n how self-sufficient you are. What's more, with a couple of weeks notice, they can make you your own fiberglass boat, which you can keep, for about $500. Of course, you'd have to ship it home. (George Cordovilla: pinangat2001@yahoo.com; or Bem Redito: nis_red@onebox.com)

Fishermen near El Nido will take you island hopping for as little as $10 a day. The Malapacao Island Retreat and Spa (www.malapacao.com) is a luxurious natural living community tucked along a private beach in the Bacuit Bay. Superb open air nipa huts with private bath go for $40 a night, but before you panic, that price includes all meals, daily island hopping, snorkeling equipment, guided hikes, morning Tai Chi, and two mud bakes or massages a day if you stay a week. If you are looking for that picture-perfect paradise, this is it.

Action Asia's The Philippines gives great details o­n which islands have the sports you're after.



Photos by Tim Neville and Misty Blakely