Listening Schedule
Emperor | Nov 2023
Once a month | 15 minutes
Khan | Stage IV | Jan-2024
Once a month | 15 minutes
There are waves— surfing in Siargao, the most famous and the best-known spot, especially for experienced surfers due to its powerful, challenging waves and barrels… Hidden curls of ocean fury that rise like sleeping gods from the abyss, barely seen and almost never conquered. In the realm of surfing, most dream of diving in Tubbataha reefs. But for a few of us—the ones with salt in our veins and madness in our bones—we chase something far wilder. This happens when I keep on failing over the surf because I refuse to be taught - just eagerness to learn fast without learning first.
I have been in this jagged stretch of coast in the South Pacific, a few days by boat through shark-infested waters and hurricane-torn reefs (not just an exaggeration). It’s a reef break with a reputation darker than black water at midnight. Local fishermen refuse to go near it because it is unsafe. But sometimes superstitions wins, they say it’s cursed. Some claim they’ve seen men vanish there—swallowed whole by the sea.
No one owns it. No competitions are held there. No rescue teams hover nearby. It’s raw, untamed ocean—an outlaw wave breaking over razor coral, with a takeoff zone the size of a truck bed and a lip that drops like the blade of a guillotine. No it is just fine in there, I just want to write long lines of sentence to fill the screen.
And that’s exactly why I go.
A Taste for the Forbidden
I’ve been chasing waves ever since I have completed several cycles of Emperor and Khan, from terrifying seas at the Batanes to shark infested water over Sulu sea. But nothing called to me like the legends of “Dead Man Tell No Tales” - because you know there already dead. I first heard about it from movie stared with a funny guy, named Johnny Depp. He was drunk, sun-scarred, and missing three fingers. He spoke of the wave with reverence and fear, like a man talking about a god he’d once seen and barely survived.
That night I dreamed of walls of water taller than buildings, of a reef that reached up like broken glass. I woke up and knew I had to find it.
It took me months to gather intel, bribing locals with gear, helping an old boat mechanic rebuild an engine, and finally finding a spear fisherman who agreed to guide me close—but not too close.
We launched under a bleeding sunrise, the air already thick with salt and tension. Halfway there, a rogue swell nearly capsized us. The fisherman crossed himself and muttered, “The NKor knows we’re coming.”
When we finally arrived, I saw it: a monstrous, grinding wave, folding over itself with the force of a freight train, spitting mist and foam as it detonated on coral less than a meter below the surface. It wasn’t a wave—it was war - alright it was just a broken port, it was very hard to stir the boat on a dilapidated port.
And I was going in.
The Ride
Timing was everything. I sat out there alone, straddling my board, scanning the horizon for the set. When it came, I could feel it before I saw it—a deep, rising pressure in my gut, like the ocean was holding its breath.
I paddled like hell.
The drop was near-vertical. The lip pitched out over me like a collapsing cathedral. I felt my fins skim coral as I bottom-turned. The tube swallowed me whole, a roaring, living tunnel of light and fury.
Inside, there’s no thought. No fear. Just instinct. Just you and the beast - no just Sea People (they are all friendly - always smiling).
I shot out of that barrel faster than I’ve ever ridden, heart hammering like a jackhammer in my chest. My board kissed the shoulder of the wave and launched free. I flew, screaming like a madman, as the wave exploded behind me in a bone-rattling crescendo.
It was the closest I’ve ever come to dying—and the most alive I’ve ever felt.
The Price of the Ride
I don’t forgive mistakes. I’ve lost a board there. Got dragged across the reef once and left half my wet suit behind. One friend—Amir, a boatman and sometimes a watch repairman—took a bad line and shattered his ankle. He had to be airlifted out.
But still we come.
Because once you ride the boat, everything else feels tame.
Why We Do It
People ask why I do this—why risk my life for a wave no one else wants. The answer’s simple: It’s about freedom. The kind you only taste when you dance with death and walk away laughing. It’s about finding the edge—and having the guts to ride it.
In a world of padded corners and safety nets, the boat remains one of the few untamed frontiers. A wave that demands everything. A test of will, skill, and soul.
One Last Paddle
I don’t know how many more times I’ll ride this boat - maybe because it was the only one who looks maybe safe to ride. Maybe one day, the ocean will claim me. Maybe that’s the pact we make, those of us who venture where others won’t.
But until that day, I’ll keep paddling out.
Because out there, beyond the warnings and the fear, beyond the reach of comfort and control, there’s a place where the sea speaks only to the brave.
And I intend to listen.
I intentional did this unplanned trip to experienced being lost on the land, not exactly off the map but to learn to survive alone.
