His Endless Summer
Like many teens in La Union, the waves dominated Ronie “Poks” Esquivel’s life by default. Surfer jargon strafed his awkward sentences, and his eyes glazed over with reverence each time he looked out to the sea. Predictably, however, he eased into the life of a beach bum until an Aussie patron started him on the road—or wave—to commitment to his craft. Joncy Sumulong reveals how this one-legged member of the StokedInc-Billabong team owns one of the most distinctive silhouettes in the entire sport today
Dawn Patrol.
That’s the title and distinction bestowed upon surfers who take to the waves before daylight. It’s part compliment in that it hints of resolve and commitment; no passion is too early for the pursuing. Then too, it’s part backhanded compliment in that it whispers of old age and insanity; only geriatrics or complete nutters get up even when the sun, itself, has the good sense not to.
Today, in particular, this sleepy oceanic crew, who have courageously fought the leaden eyelids of the sleep-deprived, the remorseful 20/20 hindsight of the hopelessly beer-goggled, and the unforgiving cranial poundings of one-tequila-too-many reap the largesse that only a November Pacific swell can bring: glassy surf, head-high, long rides, and only four surfers in the line-up. Christmas has come early for the dawn patrol.
It’s a 5:30 A.M. wake-up call for the early risers at the Mona Lisa pointbreak, and a formidable swell has blasted across the Pacific Ocean overnight. Traveling in an east to west direction, the waves slingshot counter-clockwise around northern Luzon, squeezing through the vise-like grip of the Taiwan Straits. The swell then charges ferociously into the South China Sea, ultimately crashing full-throttle onto a jagged reef a mere 100 meters from the La Union coastline. The first surfer of the dawn patrol catches the peak of the oncoming wave—it’s a liquid monster, eight feet on the face—and plummets down with unquestioned commitment. He whips a solid bottom turn, effortlessly tucks himself inside the barreling wave—the Holy Grail of surfing knighthood—and is spit out like a conscienceless bullet from a semi-automatic. Exiting the liquid cavern, the surfer relentlessly accelerates before shifting course with a massive roundhouse cutback that draws a spectacular figure-eight on the water. Unsatisfied with that impressive maneuver, he continues his assault down the line and launches into an aerial—surfboard and surfer momentarily suspended in mid-air—before landing intact as the wave hammers down onto shallow coral thunderously. It is Poseidon’s applause of approval . . . and admiration.
That entire display would have been rather banal work for the immensely talented pool of today’s surf tribe had it not been for the fact that the surfer on that crisp morning was born with fused fingers, under-developed toes, and only one leg. His name is Ronie Esquivel, lovingly if mischievously given the delightful sobriquet “Poks.”
On August 9, 1984, Poks Esquivel came into being in an impoverished seaside town of fishermen and rolling surf that is charming only for the literary image which it evokes and not for the harsh reality with which it punishes. “Life has always been a bit hard for us, and it was very difficult especially during the time my mother was pregnant with me,” says Poks, “so it wasn’t a very good time for everybody. It wasn’t even a good idea to have me.” Poks narrates the circumstances of his birth almost matter-of-factly and with a commendable lack of self-pity, his inflections shorn of melodramatics. This quiet if assured approach is reflective of his surfing as well.
“Somehow, I made it through,” Poks continues, “even if everything went against me, and even if it wasn’t a good idea to be born and with so little at that. I guess I was already hard-headed even before I was born ‘cause I made it. I just came out with a few parts missing,” he quips. Besides cutbacks and aerials, devilish charm coupled with a healthy and irreverent sense of humor are part of Poks’s arsenal as well.
“My life went on just like everybody else’s,” says Poks. “I hated school much like most kids; I didn’t attend class—but hopefully not like most kids. And I like chocolates, the occasional San Miguel, and pretty girls,” he sheepishly grins. “People always ask me if my life is any different because of my disability, but I wouldn’t really know. I was born this way and wouldn’t know what to do if given another leg,” Poks shrugs. “Although come to think of it, there’s a couple of people I wanna give a swift kick up the you-know-where, so yeah, another leg could come in handy,” he heartily laughs.
What would have been just another underprivileged existence in a forgotten rural town attained new meaning and direction when Poks was introduced to surfing. “A few foreigners came here to surf, and it was the coolest thing I had ever seen. I was thirteen years old, and my friend Ian Saguan taught me how to surf. We had no money, so first, we rode whatever bits of plywood we could find. We moved on to coconut trunks, parts of an old bangka, and broken surfboards. Then, some Australians left us their used surfboards, and we were unstoppable. It’s all I’ve wanted to do since. And it’s all that I have done since.”
Years passed and Poks’s surfing improved—and impressed. However, his recent, if modest, successes did not occur overnight. Reality refused to conform to the convenient meanderings of fairytales, and it took many years and more disappointments before Poks became a teamrider of the prestigious StokedInc-Billabong surf team. “I’m just a simple province boy, so I believed everybody’s promises. Many people promised me scholarships, sponsorships, and contracts. But nothing happened. It was all talk. I was heartbroken at first, and after a while, I just stopped believing,” muses Poks. “I became a beachside bum. I surfed, but not seriously and not well. I drank too much. I just didn’t know what to do with myself,” he reveals. “Then a few years ago, I met my now great friend, Australian surfer Paul Stranner.”
Paul had already seen Poks surf as early as 1997. Yet it was only during an extended La Union vacation in 2005 that he made Poks’s acquaintance. “I had a good chat with Paul at Surf Camp (The San Juan Surf Resort) that summer morning, and by nighttime, Paul and I had partied in all the clubs in town,” he recollects, smiling. Since that time, Stranner has been an unconditional benefactor and, above all, a compassionate friend with a guiding hand. “Within a few weeks of knowing him, Paul gave me ten thousand pesos to compete in the annual Siargao surf camp. He’s pushed me to improve my surf skills. But what I like most is that he’s taught me how to be helpful to my community in many small ways. We built the steps going from the beach up the seawall. We fixed the footpaths so that the kids won’t slip while walking during the rainy season, and we try to clean up the garbage around us.” Somewhat randomly, he mischievously interjects with a chuckle, “Oh, Paul also introduced me to the great music of the Chemical Brothers and Tiesto. So my surfing cutbacks are good, but my dance moves are better.” Upon seeing Poks shake his booty with a skip here and a stumble there, there appears to be some grain of truth to this playful declaration, even if only in the admirable effort and fervor he puts into it.
On the increasingly busy weekends that characterize La Union during the surf season, Poks hobbles down to the Billabong Surf School, at the San Juan Surf Resort (known to all as Surf Camp), to shoot the breeze with good friend and StokedInc-Billabong teammate Luke Landrigan, and quite frankly, flirt with the bikini-clad hotties from Manila. Luke is the owner and head surf instructor of the Billabong Surf School, and the team captain of both the StokedInc-Billabong surf squad and the Philippine national surf team. He recently led the national surf team to four medals, garnering a silver medal himself, in the recent Olympic-sanctioned Asian Beach Games in Bali and personally recruited Poks into StokedInc-Billabong.
