Our only bad vibe came when two tourists – I’m guessing they were from Singapore or something – were protesting when asked to pay a 50 Peso fee to go further. I gently reminded the guy that he was being a complete dick because it’s only one dollar and these people are literally living in dirt just trying to get by. 
 
He just kept hemming and hawing while his friend vaped. What a d-bag.

I snapped a few photos, guzzled my coconut water, and signaled to Fatima that we should keep going before we got too comfortable. The crucible of the volcano was only 1,000 meters away now, but the rest of the way was even more steep with no shade cover at all.
 
That last leg was impossibly hot, but it was worth it when we reached the ridge of wild grass and red rocks that descended down into the crater lake on the other side. It was a steep drop, and the path along the rim of the volcano was only a foot wide at best, with no ropes, guard rails, or nets below. ​

Along the hour-long walk, Fatima confessed to us that she’d actually never taken that Spanish Trail in her year as a tour guide, so she was thankful that she was learnig soemthign from us! Enlivened that we were interested in her, her life, and her family, she welcomed us to her home when we passed by her four-house village, too.
 
We all took a break in the shade of the front porch as she collected a pitcher of cold water from inside. This was a big deal for her, and she glowed with pride to have two genuine new friends spend time at her house.
 
Remarking that my travel companion was so beautiful, she offered that she once wanted to be a model, too, through sugar cane-worn teeth and still-young, radiant face. 

We thanked her for her hospitality and I put the water glass to my lips and pretended to drink, pouring out half of the water on the ground when she wasn’t looking. Since there’s no way it was filtered water, it could actually be dangerous for me to drink with a delicate foreign stomach, but I didn’t want to offend her by not drinking. It worked like a charm and she had no idea.
 
We continued walking and passed a smattering of school kids coming home from their half day in class, wearing mismatched uniforms based on what they could afford. Fatima explained that there were so many kids on the island but only a few teachers, so they had to break the school days in half so every kid would at least get some education daily.
​

But before I could even propose that we try to check on her, Joy had already texted Fatima and heard back. She was ok, but they had been evacuated not to safety on the “mainland” of Tagaytay or Batangas, well-off communities that surrounded the lake, but to a different island on Taal Lake. ​

The Beatles' Abbey Road album cover, 1969
This iconic image of the band crossing Abbey Road in London would guild their 11th studio album, and last recording before disbanding in 1970, the end of the British Invasion.  

The album, their top-selling ever, was met with critical acclaim and swirled in controversy, some people theorizing that it was a big staged metaphor for Paul McCartney's death.   

None the less, the image of the four Beatles crossing the road over a piano key-like crosswalk has been one of the most replicated and imitated album covers ever.
 
 

This is part 3 of a 3-part series on the life and legend of surfer Mike Boyum.

You can read part one and part two here.
***

​One morning in late 1988, as islanders hung Christmas decorations in the village square, a wild-eyed American strolled into General Luna carrying a battered surfboard. 
 
He, introduced himself as “Max Walker.” 
 
The late Mayor Jaime Rusillion remembers it well since there weren’t many foreigners and surfing was nonexistent. Mayor Rusillon even started calling the man “Mad Max” after the popular Mel Gibson flick, and the name stuck. 
 
Mad Max asked the mayor’s permission to make camp on a palm-lined outcropping of beach called Tuason Point in the Catangnan region.
 
There were no stores, eateries, electricity, or, even other people around Mad Max’s new home, and it was a good 3-kilometer hike just to get to the dusty fishing village of General Luna.
 
But the solitude was just fine for Mad Max, as he preferred to stay out of sight. The man who called himself Max Walker also had different motivation for living on Tuason Point: it was only steps away from the best reef break he’d ever seen.

By some accounts, he was the first person to ever surf in that spot, which would later be dubbed “Cloud Nine” and achieve world fame among surfers and travelers alike. However, I read somewhere that he first heard of the surf break from Tony Arruza and Steve Jones, American and Aussie surfers who first found Siargao in 1980 and called it "Jacking Horse."

But the old school Siargao expats I talked to never heard those names, and claim that Max Walker identified first the reef break from marine charts, as he was apt to do. 

Either way, Cloud Nine is a “hollow and heavy right-hand barrel; for experience riders only.” (I put that in quotes because I’m not a surfer and don’t know jack-shit above waves except that they’re wet and I like jumping in them!) 

I do know that it’s located on the southeastern coast of the Philippines island of Siargao, where I now live. In fact, my little green house on Purok 1 (Road 1) is probably only a hundred meters from where the solo, mysterious American surfer first made his presence known.

Tasked with filling his long, lonely days with more than surfing, Mad Max turned introspective. He was already an avid fitness fanatic, maintaining a macrobiotic diet and regularly fasting. Settled into his secluded hut while rain poured around him for weeks, he underwent another such fast that was supposed to last 40 days. 
 
He’d completed 40-day fasts before, so took the necessary safety precautions. Max arranged for a well-respected local to come check on him periodically, making sure he was ok and providing water or a squeeze of lemon juice. 
 
However, during his final fast here in Siargao, the man who was supposed to come to check on Max couldn’t get there until the 46th day because of a big storm.
 
By then, Max Walker had grown so weak that his body just gave out. They say he passed away on June 14, 1989 – his 43rd birthday and the 43rd day of the fast. 
 
Of course, John Michael “Mike” Boyum also died on June 14, 1989, as the two men were one in the same. ​

​But the locals, including Mayor Ramillio, only found out Boyum’s true identity upon his death. Ramillo was smart enough to know that “Max Walker” was an alias (it was actually the name of a popular cartoon character at the time).

​He probably also realized why Boyum was on the run and hiding out in Siargao, as the Hawaiian authorities (and, more importantly, the Maui Mob) were still looking for him. 

But General Luna’s mayor also wasn’t one to pry in the young American’s affairs, and genuinely considered the man a friend. ​​

​(Mayor Rusillon passed away on April 26, 2019, considered a beloved hero and "The Godfather of Philippines Surfing.")

However, Mayor Ramillio had no idea just how famous (and notorious) Boyum was until surfers and fans started showing up in Siargao, too, paying tribute to the surf icon’s death…and also riding the waves that were fast becoming legendary.
 
Tuason Point continued to gain attention – both as a shrine to Boyum/Walker and an epic surf break. 

​A few years later, Surf Magazine came to do an expose on Siargao along with pro surfers like Taylor Know and Evan Slater. One of their photographers, an American named John S, Callahan, thought the waves there looked like the Cloud Nine chocolate bar that is still popular in the Philippines. 
 
“I named the break after the local no-melt chocolate bars,” says Callahan. “Going into town after lunch for a warm Coke and a Cloud 9 was the highlight of our day.
 
When the Surf Magazine piece was released, the secret was out: “Cloud Nine” was a new mecca for surfers around the world. 
 
Today, it’s still a surf haven, and rapidly becoming one of the coolest (in my estimation) and best (according to various travel magazines) islands in the world, yet alone Southeast Asia. 

​And what of Mike Boyum?
 
Passing away while on a self-imposed fast was just one version of his death. 
 
Another account puts his death in April of that year. Still another says he drowned while surfing right out in front of his home on Tuason Point, his surfboard washing up but his body never recovered. Still more people suspect that the Hawaiian mob finally caught up to him, extracting revenge before leaving him for dead somewhere deep in Siargao’s mangrove swamps.
 
Then again, we can’t give much credence to those rumors, as spreading gossip, or chismis, is an artform in the Philippines. 
 
I’ve even heard whispers that Boyum carefully staged his own death to throw off the mob, and is still alive and hiding out on Siargao somewhere, doing his business on the outskirts of General Luna before disappearing back into the jungle.

The beginning of his very long end may have come on one such illicit operation in 1984. It was then that Mike Boyum was arrested Noumea, New Caledonia (a French-colonized island east of Australia) along with Peter MCCabe and Jeff Chitty, as the three tried to smuggle half a kilo of Bolivian Marching Powder into Australia. 
​
Boyum and Chitty managed to smuggle two kilos of coke from Brazil to Jakarta in a suitcase. Then, about half a kilo of the cocaine was packed into condoms that Chitty swallowed before boarding his flight to Noumea, where McCabe and Boyum were waiting for him. ​

It was there they planned on recovering the cocaine from Chitty and packing it into hollowed-out surfboard fins before someone else took the boards to Australia. 

However, they didn’t get that far.

As the twin-prop plane buzzed and swooped low over the Indonesian coastline, Mike Boyum sat with his face nearly pressed against the glass. But he wasn’t just looking for nice white beaches or majestic jungle vistas like most travelers. No, he was carefully analyzing every reef, wave, and break along the coastline from a thousand feet in the air.
 
Then, he spotted it – an impossibly long, smooth left breaking wave far below, a surfer’s paradise like nothing he’d ever seen. Bill frantically asked everyone sitting around him as well as the stewardess, and he was told they were somewhere over a bay and village called Grajagan in West Java, Indonesia.
 
He told his brother about it once they reunited on the ground in Kuta, and got Mike excited enough to take a journey out to try and find the epic wave. After an arduous journey, they arrived at the Plengkung Beachheadland across the bay from Grajagan village just in time to witness a majestic sunset over the Indian Ocean, as well as one of the most perfect barrels human eyes had ever seen. 

​That’s one version of how they discovered Grajagan, or G-Land, as they started calling it. And while it may have been romanticized over the decades of retelling, like much of Mike Boyum’s life story, it may not be entirely accurate.
 
Another account is that his brother, Bill, already knew about the place, and enlisted younger brother Mike’s help to get there and start surfing once he arrived in Indonesia with surf boards, as they were impossible to get locally.
 
Together with a friend named Bob Laverty, they traveled out to G-Land for the first time to show Mike before returning back to Kuta. 
 
(Tragically, a day after they came back from that first G-Land excursion, Laverty drowned while surfing, his board – but never his body – washing up on shore.)
 
***

​Mike Boyum grew up in the United States in the 1950s, the son of a disciplinarian Navy Pilot. Perhaps that planted the seed for both his rebellious spirit and his love of traveling to exotic places for daring adventures, two things that would come to define his life.
 
“My brother Mike and I spent our youth traveling because of our father’s Navy career,” writes Bill Boyum in his 2002 ‘Letter from G-Land.’ “Our focus in life became finding a place we could call home, or a ‘power spot’ as my brother’s favorite author, Carlos Castaneda wrote in his novels.” 
 
The Boyums lived the typical transitory life of a military family, as Bill Boyum muses in ‘Letter from G-Land’: 
“Join the Navy and see the world.” 
“You were in the Navy?”  
“Nope.  But the Navy is in me.”   
 
The family was stationed in Southern California in the early 1960s – the perfect time to be a surfer, as the wave-riding sport was just burgeoning in Hawaii and Cali and the iconic surf movie Endless Summer exposed a wide world of undiscovered waves,
 
It was also the time for The Summer of Love, teenage rebellion, and books like Jack Kerouac’s On the Road that challenged societal norms, encouraging youth to question authority and make their own way in the world. It was also the time for drugs – a whole lot of them, and that went hand-in-hand with surfing and being a youth at the time.
 
After dropping out of college in the mid 1960s, Boyum, traveling all the way across the world to bop around Tahiti, Fiji, Australia, and New Zealand, surfing whenever he could. By 1969, he followed his brother, Mike, to Bali, Indonesia, and that’s where his story really starts.
 
Bill only knew that he could find his brother in a remote fishing village called Kuta outside Bali. It was there the elder Boyum had settled, followed rumors of a place with perfect white-sand beaches, temperate waters, consistent offshore wind every day, and great, cheap food – all perquisites for any true surfer. 

But, although the conditions were perfect, there was one thing that Mike was missing: a surfboard. In fact, there were none available in Bali, as the locals didn’t surf yet and the fraternity of surfers trotting the globe was few. So, Mike asked if Bill could bring a few surf boards along on his flight, so he gladly wrapped them up and threw them on the plane’s cargo hold. 
 
***
Whichever version of events you believe about how Mike and Bill came onto G-Land, they definitely resolved to start surfing those waves. 
 
Just getting there was no easy feat, as they had to ride their motorbikes for nearly two days to the entrance of the Natural Reserve of Alas Purwo. There, they ditched the bikes and go on foot, hiking for two days through jungle that is rumored to be vexed with spirits and demons, as well as plenty of real-life Java tigers, wild boar, Komodo dragon, and a whole lot of poisonous snakes. 
 
When they wanted to return to G-Land, the Boyums and friends took local buses and hitchhiked until they arrived at Grajagan Village where the river met the ocean, and then they had to walk about 20 km up the beach carrying their surfboards, food, and all of their supplies. They even had to bring in their own fresh water supplies, and they set out old sails to catch more water when it rained.
 
It was well worth it, as G-Land is now considered the best left wave in the world. Although it’s in tropical Java, the waves from the Indian Ocean there actually originate with swirling low pressure systems in Antarctica, thousands of kilometers away. 
 
Of course, back then, the different sections of the beach and reef breaks didn’t have well-known names like “Money-Trees,” “Kongs,” and the legendary “Speedies,” with up to 20-foot wave faces (Hawaiian scale) and single barrels they could ride for up to several hundred meters. The Boyums and friends didn’t realize at first that G-Land was best surf at high tide so the week after a full moon was insane, or that there was a “key-hole” within the shallow and unforgiving reef where it was easiest to paddle out. But they would learn that all – and much more – over the ensuing years surfing G-Land.

They kept living and surfing at G-Land for three more years. The smooth-talking and big-thinking Mike Boyum even talked the local Indonesian authorities into granting him permission to open a more formal surf station there, starting with a few tree house and nipa huts that they rented out to others for $10-$15 per night.

The legend of G-Land grew among surfers from all over the world, and the camp became quite a commercial endeavor. By the end of 1977, surfers from around the world came and paid an astronomical $50-$100 per night or even $1,000 per week to stay there and surf in the rustic yet uncrowded elements, and the camp was cashing-in $250,000 per year! 

Of course, all of that money brings the wrong kind of attention. 
 
“But much of this was my doing.  The surf camp was a great idea but we should have known that something so spectacular was impossible to keep secret.  I look back on it with a mixture of pride and sadness,” wrote Bill Boyum in 2002 about the eventual commercialization of G-Land.
 
The Indonesian authorities who had once granted Boyum permission to start a little surf camp wanted a piece of the action. And then, a bigger piece of the action. 
 
I’m not sure if it was the police, local politicians, regional authorities, or just strong-arm thugs who put the pressure on Mike, but sometimes in these developing countries, they can all be one in the same. 

​But in the end, an enraged Boyum wouldn’t concede to these Indonesian bribe solicitors. Instead, in an act of ultimate defiance, he set fire to all the nipa huts and tree houses they’d meticulously erected, burning down the camp, willing to kill his dream before someone else took it away.
 
While this is accurate, I found out that they actually burned the nipa huts and bamboo tree houses in G-Land at the end of every season to prevent rat infestation, rebuilding them at the start of the next surf season when they came back. So, this may have been less an act of arson than one of frustration and just ending the season early. Mike was less spiteful and more spiritually wounded by what happened, according to a mutual friend.
 
Forced out of the G-Land, his surf camp and every penny (or Indonesian rupiah) he’d earned over the years taken from him, Mike left the country heartbroken and jaded, with nothing but the shirt on his back. 
 
Soon after, Boyum relinquished control of G-Land to a local Indo surfer, Bobby Radiasa, who built it up into a legitimate surf resort of the decades, and it still stands today.
 
But this story isn’t just about G-Land, nor is it only about surfing, because Mike Boyum started doing what plenty of other surfers did in the 1970s to fund their round-the-world adventures: he trafficked drugs.
 
And this is also where the story really gets crazy, with twists and turns out of a Hollywood movie, eventually leading him to the exact paradise island where I’m living now in the Philippines: Siargao. 

***
This is just part 1 of 3 of this series documenting the legend of surfer Mike Boyum. Stick around for the rest, coming soon.

-Norm  :-)

P.S. I'm not a surfer, nor do I pretend to be "in the know" or part of Mike Boyum's life in any way. I'm just a curious dude living on Siargao in the Philippines who wants to honor his contributions and pay tribute to his remarkable life, good and bad. If I got anything wrong or you have an issue with something I said, PLEASE contact me and set me straight - I welcome it!

A few months back, I shared ten things that I now consider normal as part of an ongoing series (although some would argue that the last thing I’m qualified to write about is normalcy!). 

So, to celebrate the variety diversity, randomness, and abject craziness of life abroad, here are ten more things I now consider normal:
​

1. Soft rock (still) rules!
Soft rock was, at best, an unfortunate stain on the U.S. music scene in the 1970s and early 80s. If we listen to soft rock songs by Air Supply (Lost in Love), Christopher Cross (Ride Like the Wind), or REO Speedwagon (I Can't Fight This Feeling), they either serve as nostalgia or make us cringe with their milquetoast creepiness. That era is as dead as disco (or dead-er!), never to be heard from again…or is it? 
 
In the Philippines, the soft rock scene is still booming, and I hear all of these 'oldies-but-softies every single day. But the soft rock playlist isn't just reserved for elevators and malls (that's the Bruno Mars playlist). Instead, you’ll find them in the background in everyday life, and guys, especially love them! 
 
With a Red Horse beer in hand and a karaoke mic in the other, they’ll howl out Extreme ( More than Words), Phil Collins (In the Air Tonight), or Bryan Adams (Everything I Do).
 
In fact, the thugiest thugs will belt out a ballad along with the radio, and taxi drivers, in particular, are enamored with soft rock. So, bring on the Styx, Hall and Oates, Toto, Chicago, Kansas, Boston (boy, there were a lot of bands named after places!), and the immortal (unfortunately) Kenny Loggins! They’re all alive and well in the Philippines.
 
You’ll find dozens of complete strangers singing along to “I’ll be Your Hero” from the Karate Kid II soundtrack, and when “Faithfully” by Journey hits the airwaves, it’s cause for a national celebration!

There’s also no consideration for boundaries. No one cares. It leads to some bizarre and hilarious situations. 
 
For instance, you may get bullied by a little grandmother who pushes you right out of the way as you’re standing in line at the grocery store, go into the men’s bathroom only to find (thoroughly unimpressed) female custodians working amidst all of the half-pants'd men, and a creepy strange dude may walk up and start massaging you at any given moment! That's not even to mention the traffic, which is so bonkers that you have to see it to believe it.
 
“Get in where ya fit in!” should be the slogan here!

​3. A different relationship with food
I could write a whole book on the relationship with food in SE Asia. It seems that everyone is always eating 24-7, and no one is counting calories or talking about “non-fat,” “gluten-free, or “organic.” Yet, they’re still head-scratchingly lean while I'm the chubby guy giving out health advice. Go figure!

Check out the normal size of Wendy's French Fries here and you can see the portion control is a big part of that equation.
 
In Southeast Asia, Rice is the daily staple. In fact, rice is life” is the popular saying, and they eat it for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and even sweet/sticky rice for dessert!.

They don’t really make sandwiches like in the U.S., and cheese isn’t on everything. Nor do they have many salads in the western sense. ​

4. The whole world is shit-faced drunk (except me)
In the U.S., we think we have a vibrant party scene, but it doesn’t even hold a candle to the level of boozing that goes on in other nations, especially poor and tropical countries.

Young people, especially, drink every single night, but that extends to people in their 20s and 30s, and even middle-aged people are day drinking and sitting around guzzling cheap spirits and singing karaoke. And they don't stop at 2 am, but routinely go until 5 or 6 am!
 
At this age, I'm a big lightweight, getting pleasantly buzzed after three beers and ready to call it a night. So, just about everyone – man, woman, and child, can drink me under the table in SE Asia. I've seen plenty of 90-lbs. females who could drink 20 shots of tequila in a night when I'm soused after just one! I still have no idea how they do it.

5. And very caffeinated (including me)
Coffee is also a huge cultural phenomenon abroad, with about 10x more coffee shops than I see in the U.S. They act as de facto gathering spots, community centers, mobile offices, entertainment venues, and a clean, safe, air-conditioned refuge from the wild world outside.

​Coffee is such a big deal that there are even whole nightclubs based around coffee to plenty of cafes with pristine outdoor gardens and koi ponds, to plenty of street vendors selling joltingly-strong and sugared ice coffees from their carts. 
 
You’ll find international franchises like Starbucks, Canada’s Tim Hortons, and Australia’s Bo’s Coffee, but also local S.E. Asian brands like Amazon [coffee], Tom n' Toms, Gloria Jeans, and a million little local cafes.
 
There’s also a huge milk tea and bubble tea trend going on from Korea that people go absolutely nuts for, lining up for hours just to buy one. I don’t get it!

However, the concept of paying “the Pink Price” (ostensibly, because foreigners have pink skin) goes to a whole other level when people try to rip you off or scam you.

For instance, they have these cool used clothing stores called “Ukays” here, with piles of t-shirts, shorts, jeans, etc. from all over the world. I might pull a pair of shorts from a bin that says “100 Pesos” right on a sign, but the store clerk will tell me that they cost 350 Pesos for me, and not even budge when I try to negotiate. 
 
The Manila airport is notorious for scamming the pants of unsuspecting tourists, as taxi drivers routinely try to charge $50 USD for a fare that should cost $6 if a Filipino or local was sitting in their back seat! 
 
Of course, this ain’t my first rodeo, and I have plenty of battle-tested strategies how I can counter this form of foreigner financial f*ckery!

​7. Flying is cheap
I often complain about the prices in SE Asia (because I'm a big complainer at heart), but one thing I can’t “whinge" (a U.K. term) about is the cost of airline tickets. In fact, they range from affordable to ludicrously cheap. For instance, to fly from Manila to Bangkok, Thailand costs only about $86 with the cheapest fare, or about $150 for a standard ticket. You can find tickets from SE Asia to New York or California for as low as $600 or so – ROUND TRIP! 
 
In the Philippines, flying around the nation’s 7,500 islands will run a prudent traveler about $160 for the most expensive and longest fare, to $60 or $70 for most common routes. In fact, I used to live in and near Cebu, a transportation hub, and I routinely found tickets all over the central region of the Philippines for $30 or $40.

I once found a flight from Dumaguete to Cebu for only $11. With airport taxes and fees, it was still only around $20.
 
For that price, how can you NOT fly as much as possible? (I flew 64 times total that year!)

8. Subtlety is not a thing
People in Asia are uncomfortably forthright when it comes to sharing their opinion of your shortcomings. There’s really no subtlety, nor is there any consolation for feelings or the possibility that someone may take offense.
 
“You too fat,”
“You look old man,”
“You have no hair,”
“What is wrong with you?”
 
These are all things you may hear on a daily basis from friends, coworkers, loved ones, and complete strangers (especially strangers) every day. Of course, they offer full disclosure on the negatives, but become mute when it comes to compliments.
 
And if you get mad and retaliate by pointing out that they're a midget or only have one eye, they'll just look at you strangely, adding your anger issues to the growing list of your un-flattering traits.
 
I've learned that this is actually a form of endearment, believe it or not. Families and close friends are often the most critical of each other, and it shows that they care enough to verbally beat you into submission and shatter your self-esteem. 
 
What else are families for?!

9. Almost getting creamed by cars
Pedestrians have no rights in the Third World, and it's up to you to cross the street safely at your own peril. That's also exponentially more difficult because there are far less usable sidewalks, crosswalks, stop signs (they actually don't exist here in the Philippines- just because everyone would ignore them), and stoplights.

Even so, those are suggestions – not something drivers follow to the letter of the law.  
 
I’m not exaggerating when I say that the cars won’t stop – they’ll just run right over you without slowing down. In fact, I’ve heard of bus drivers backing over a pedestrian to finish the job once they’ve hit them since the payout for killing someone is far less than the cost of paying their medical bills for life! 
​
It’s also a wealth/privilege thing, since if you're rich enough to drive a car, then you can basically do whatever you want to lower class people, including hitting them with the car, speeding off, and not thinking twice.  
 
It’s no wonder why traffic fatalities and accidents (often on motorbikes) are the leading cause of death for foreigners in SE Asia and many other countries.

Either way, life is definitely full of surprises. Waking up, you never know if you’ll encounter a cockroach as big as a small rat in your shower, a marching band blaring outside your window starting at 5am; a violent political protest or a 100-person spirited dance competition around the next corner; ​a goat riding on the back of a motorbike or a Bentley rolling down your street; a bathroom that looks like a Turkish prison cell or the most beautiful beach you've ever seen in your life.

Last week, I had the opportunity to revisit an extraordinary place here in the Philippines – the Taal Volcano. Located on an island in the middle of a rugged and windswept lake, we actually hiked up to the volcano’s crater for an up-close, stunning view.
 
Located only 35 miles outside of Manila in the upscale lakeside region of Tagaytay, Taal is a remarkable feat of geography and geology alike. 
 
Get this: the Taal Volcano sits on an island in a lake in the middle of a volcanic crater on a larger island, which sits on a huge lake on the giant island of Luzon.

If we follow that inside-out, tiny Vulcan Point Island sits inside the Main Crater Lake, which is on Volcano Island and surrounded by Taal Lake sitting in a volcanic “caldera”, which is on the Philippines main island of Luzon, surrounded by the Pacific Ocean. Wow. 
 
That’s like something out of a Pirates of the Caribbean movie…except it’s too fantastical to be made up. According to my research, it’s also the only one of its kind in the world

​Of course, there are plenty of active volcanos in the Philippines (53 to be exact) since it sits on the western Pacific edge of the Ring of Fire. Most of them are dormant, but some still spit lava when we anger the gods, like on the island of Camiguin, which is home to seven volcanos but only five towns. 
 
Mount Pinatubo provided one of the largest eruptions in the world in 1991, causing the overnight evacuation of the USA’s naval and air force bases nearby. That’s also why there’s so much seismic activity in the Philippines (aka earthquakes that scare the shit out of you).

​But Taal still holds a fiery, menacing presence over the surrounding countryside, erupting 34 times since Spanish friars first discovered it in 1572 and started keeping written records. For that reason, it’s been designated a Decade Volcano, one of only 16 in the world, warranting close monitoring to prevent further natural catastrophe.
 
Taal, which means native or original in the Philippines aboriginal language, is also notable because it’s one of the lowest volcanos in the world, cresting at only 1,020 feet above the onyx-colored beaches, lakeshores, and tropical jungle below. 

That wasn’t always the case, as the Taal peak used to be a mountain reaching 18,000 feet high. But every time the volcano erupts, rocks, dust, and magma are shot into the sky, knocking the mountain down like a sandcastle and reshaping the whole island.
 
The most powerful of all Taal eruptions took place in 1754, when the volcano raged smoke, fire, and ash a full 200 days nonstop from May 15 to December 1!

​A Catholic priest stationed at Taal at the time of the 1754 eruption, Friar Buencuchillo, wrote this account: 
 
“The volcano quite unexpectedly commenced to roar and emit, sky-high, burning flames intermixed with glowing rocks which, falling back upon the island and rolling down the slopes of the mountain, created the impression of a large river of fire.”

While there were plenty of volcanic explosions and seismic events over the ensuing decades and centuries, the next huge eruption occurred in 1911. That explosion was so profound that it obliterated the main crater floor completely, allowing water to fill in and creating a volcanic lake. The volcano started raging on the night of January 27 and by the end of the next day, there were about 240 total seismic shocks, 10 of which were severe.

​With Taal still shooting fire and debris on the night of January 30, residents of Manila who saw the flashes of light 30 miles away first thought it was a thunder and lightning storm. But they soon saw a massive mushroom cloud of debris and dust, illuminated by sparkling fields of electricity, rising until the eruption ended and the cloud disbursed around 2:30 am.
 
By mid-morning, a blanket of dust and ash settled on Manila, covering streets and the inside of homes, leaving a thick layer on floors, furniture, and all surfaces. In total, that eruption shot about 80 million cubic meters of debris into the air, dissipating it over an area of 770 square miles. The titanic sound from the eruption was heard more than 600 miles away.

Back in 1911, the area around Taal island and the lake region was far less populated than it is today, but the official death toll still reached 1,335. The true loss of life is estimated to be up to five times more.
 
At that time, there were seven barangays – small fishing villages or farming communities – on the island. They were all completely wiped out, sparing no man, woman, child, and turning the 702 cattle on the island into smoking carcasses. 

​Buried mid-stride as they only managed one or two steps in a futile attempt to run, the deceased were found to have perished from boiling steam and scalding volcanic mud, melting trees and nipa huts in its path.

Remember that this was well before seismologists and meteorologists could measure and share data, so there was no warning, and only grainy black and white photos of the event exist. ​

​While that was the deadliest saga in the history of Taal, the ring of fire exploded violently once again some 54 years later in 1965. During that eruption, ash and debris were shot a full 12 miles straight up into the atmosphere. ​

The eruption of '65 was different because it was actually caused when underground magma hit the lake water, creating what’s called a cold blast or base surge (the scientific name is 'phreatomagmatic eruption’). 

Traveling like a supercharged typhoon of ash, mud, and boulders, it screamed furiously across the lake, crushing villages and jungle canopy at the water’s edge two and a half miles away, killing about a hundred people.
 
The other difference was that in 1965, more people owned cameras, so there are more photos from during and after the eruption, including one shot of people on the “mainland” fleeing with suitcases in hand.

The blast was so powerful that it rearranged the landscape of the island, cutting a new crater that was one mile long and 1,000 feet wide.

No significant eruption has taken place since 1977, but plenty of minor disruptions, toxic gas leaks, and seismic activity occur periodically. Those include rumbling threats in 1991 (when Mount Pinatubo erupted), 1992, 1994, and June of 2009 most recently. For that reason, it warrants careful monitoring with advanced scientific instruments by the Philippine Institute of Volcanology and Seismology.

You’re also not allowed to swim in the crater lake inside the Taal Volcano anymore. While a few of the shoreline areas are inhospitable but safe to swim in, other parts of the lake are so hot that your skin would burn right off if you jumped in. Or, the waters contain poisonous gases that instantly kill all of the livestock on the island when released by seismic activity.

That’s also where the volcanic lake’s water gets its majestic emerald color, but there are no fish under the water. That color has changed over time, too.
 
Before the 1911 eruption that redrew the map, the 18-mile diameter Taal lake actually had several openings because it was lower than sea level, with a green lake, a rusty red lake, and a bright yellow lake based on the minerals and gases it was interacting with. Some were so hot, steam billowed off of them incessantly. ​

But, now, things have settled into one massive lake, filling most of the Taal caldera.
 
The most telling sign of an impending eruption would be a precipitous rise in the lake’s water temperature. For example, the water temperature rose from a bath-water-like 86 degrees Fahrenheit to a scalding 113 degrees right before it erupted.

Taal will blow again - it’s just a matter of when and how big – and that’s the reason the government has banned the public from living there, so there are no official towns or barangays.

​
​But we weren’t trying to flee the volcano this sunny day in July – we were trying to actually go to it, boating over to the island, hiking up to the volcano, and entering the crater.
 
Stay tuned for my account of that adventure in next month’s postcard!

​Stay cool, everyone!
 
Norm  :-)

​We’re getting really old
In 2050, the world’s population will look much older than it does today. By that year, it’s expected that one out of every six people on earth will be 65 years or older.

​This is due to several factors, but more prominently advances in health and medical care (and less major wars) that are allowing us to live longer, and as well as decreases in fertility rates.
​
By 2050, some industrialized nations like Germany, Japan, Canada, and, yes, the United States, will have public health campaigns and economic incentives in place that encourage its citizens to have more babies!

“Oh, you’re a writer? Wow. That’s impressive!” she said in her thick Filipino accent.
 
I stood a little taller, puffed out my chest a bit, and started calculating the odds that she was a sapiosexual. 
 
“Yes, I am a writer,” I said, smiling at her.
 
“That’s so cool,” she said, visibly excited. “And dangerous!”
 
Dangerous? I never thought of writing as dangerous. I did get a nasty paper cut once but soldiered through it.
 
“What do you ride?” she asked. 
 
“I write books, blogs…” 
 
“Do you ride motorcycles?” she asked.
 
“What?”
 
“Do you ride horses? Do you race them?”
 
“No, I’m a W-R-I-T-E-R,” I explained. “Not a rider.” 
 
But she was already scanning the room for someone with a speedier vocation.
 
The rider/writer thing actually happens more often than you may think here in the Philippines, so I’ve started scribbling in the air as I tell them what I do, instead of revving the throttle on my imaginary motorcycle.
 
It’s also a perfect metaphor for my career.
 
It’s been a journey cleanly stripped of any “success,” accolades, or financial gain, like a fish down to the bones. In fact, my chosen life as a rider…err a writer…has been filled with solitude, sacrifice, and a lot of fudging hard work. 
 
Most days, I ask myself, “Why the hell did I give up a job making tens of thousands of dollars a month for this?!” Why on earth am I fighting it out on the scrapheap of society while every Instagram marketing punk is raking in the dough?
 
I’ve even called writing my “beautiful failure” before.
 
But when I get over my daily freak-out, I realize that I wouldn’t change a thing. Being a writer has granted me plenty of amazing new friends and opportunities, a creative outlet that’s given life new meaning above just paying bills, and, perhaps the most valuable thing of all, freedom. 
The friendships, laughter, and deep conversations – with people near and far - have been invaluable, and worth more than gold to me.
 
So, when it all starts to feel like I’m the piano player on the Titanic, I remind myself that I have a rare opportunity to make a difference in the world through my writing and outreach. Through my words, I can impact a positive change.
 
I must confess that when I started this crazy ride (not write) in 2011, I had less than altruistic goals. In fact, I had visions of grandeur floating through my head. I was moving to Costa Rica, eschewing my worldly goods, fast toys, and high-paying career in California. On the beaches of Tamarindo there, I would write my first book, which would be a smash hit because…well, because I wrote it, of course.
 
I’m not kidding – I really thought that’s how it works! 
 
Let me tell you in my own words, from this passage I wrote in my second book, South of Normal in 2012 as I contemplated success and fame:
 
“I’d daydreamed about that for hours while I should have been writing. 

Most likely it won’t happen—there are over 2,000,000 books published every year, and even the established authors with big publishers have a tough time making a living at it.

BUT...let’s just fantasize for a second and say that lightning strikes and my book hit it big. Here’s how I see the whole thing going down: 

Have you ever heard people say that when they get rich or famous, they won’t change? Or. lottery winners who keep their jobs and remain the average Joe? 

Not me. I’m going to turn into a completely self-absorbed asshole!

The moment I sign with a publisher, I’m going to morph into a totally different person, leaving behind everyone who’s been good to me. 

Let’s just say that my first book hits it big and does end up on the New York Time’s Bestseller list. The critics will probably call me “Raw and refreshing, with prose as smooth as a $50 cigar. The best underground American writer since Bukowski.”
 
The royalty checks will start coming in faster than I can take them to the bank. I’m going to start wearing leather pants, put product in my severely-thinning hair, and don gaudy fur coats while walking down the street. Actually, I won’t walk anywhere, but hire someone to drive me around in my Bentley. 

It’s important to me that when I get famous, I forget all of my old friends. Every chance I get I’ll “Big Time” the compadres who supported me through thick and thin. I’ll hire two super model assistants to screen my calls, until even my mom can’t get through. 

I’ll buy a mansion in the hills and decorate it all in white leather. I’ll have a huge “N” tiled onto the floor of my massive swimming pool. I’ll buy a rare white-striped tiger cub that I’ll walk around on a diamond-studded leash and develop a huge coke habit. 
My old friends and family will shake their heads and try to talk to me about their concern for my behavior, but that will just incite one of my tantrums where I curse them out and throw escargot and fire the super models and have them all forcibly removed from my estate. 

Then, my next book will come out, but the critics will turn on me. They’ll call it “self-indulged drivel, a soggy excuse for literature,” and publicly question whether I plagiarized the first one. 

By then, my spending habits of $20,000 a day will be impossible to maintain. I’ll have to return the Bentley and donate the white tiger to the Los Angeles zoo. The pressure of my poor-me existence will be so overwhelming that I’ll snort twice as much coke and start brushing my teeth with Jack Daniels. My finances will go into a tailspin and even the mansion will be up for sale. But, all of the potential buyers will be named Justin or Kanye or Ahmed, so no one will want an “N” pool. 

Soon, the bank will foreclose. All of those fair-weather friends will disappear when I can’t afford limousines and VIP bottle service anymore. I won’t be able to sleep, little Norm won’t work right, and, worst of all, I’ll suffer from a horrible case of writer’s block. 

I’ll lose it all and be resigned to the life of an average drunken bum, sleeping under my fur coat in the dumpster behind a vacant Borders. I’ll live off discarded McDonald’s French fries and rant and rave to anyone I pass how I used to be a somebody. 

Eventually, my true friends will hunt me down and drag me out of there and set up an intervention at the local Olive Garden. I’ll have a complete emotional breakdown, realizing the error of my ways, and vow to never be an a-hole again. 

My mom will take me home and tuck me into the twin bed in her guest room, where I’ll sleep for three days straight. Over the months, I’ll clean out my body and rebuild my constitution, until I’m gulping down raw eggs and doing one-handed pull-ups in her basement...and writing again. 

The ensuing book, “White Tiger Dumpster Fries: My Life from A-hole to Amen,” (Random House, June 2016) will be such a testament to the resiliency of the human spirit that it will shoot me right back to the top. 

“Bravo, a fete de accompli! Our generations Siddhartha!” the critics will applaud. 

But this time, I’ll donate all of my royalty checks to children’s charities. I’ll be invited to the Ellen show, taking public transport to the studio, and we’ll laugh and hug like old friends, even doing a little victory dance together before the commercial break. 

But I haven’t put a lot of thought into it or anything...” 

No, White Tiger Dumpster Fries never came out, and I never did more than sell a few hundred copies (at best) of a few self-published books over the years. 
 
But I’ve still managed to eke out a living writing blogs, websites, reviews, and all sorts of marketing content for companies and entrepreneurs. I estimate that I’ve written almost 5,000 blogs or other forms of content since 2011 – each one nearly 1,000 words!
 
I’ve thoroughly enjoyed working as a ghost writer on other peoples’ books, too. In total, I have my fingerprints all over more than a dozen books available on Amazon.com and Apple Books right now, and each and every one of them is special to me, whether or not my name is on it.
 
I’ve advised on a series sheet for a TV pilot, co-wrote a book about legendary martial artist Judd Reid, was chief blogger for Marijuana Weekly, did the marketing for a pro soccer team, got to write about Fantasy Football for a couple of years, got paid to write travel reviews for a great site called AllWorld.com, and even got to blog about bondage and S&M for a product website for a while. 
 
The subject matter, too, ranges from fascinating to mundane to just plain random, but I’m always up for the challenge. 
 
However, most of my work deals with topics that aren’t quite as sexy, like dentistry, taxes, credit scoring, and I even had to write all of the content for a huge website about ice fishing.
 
I appreciate all of the work, but I assure you that life as a writer is a lot more ice fishing than it is bondage! 
 
I have no idea where this all will lead me, but I’ll keep forging ahead, because one thing I’ve learned is that you only lose if you quit.
 
And I’m more all-in than ever.
 
As the calendar now starts flipping towards the 10-year anniversary of when I left the United States and decided to start anew as an author, I find myself prone to reflection – and nostalgia. I’m looking forward to putting together my next travel memoir in time for a 2021 release, with all of the crazy, remarkable, and insightful experiences from life abroad. 
 
It will be called simply, “Less.”
 
Until then, when someone asks me what I do for a living, I can just point to my wrist and say, “Norm Writes.”
 
-Norm  :-)
NormWrites.com