Under the Golden Sun: La Union’s Quiet Rise and the Echo of Champions

By Gerard de Sagun

It’s been nearly half a year since the 2024 World Junior Championships unfolded in La Union, Philippines—but if you were here, if you felt it, the waves are still speaking.

Held in January 2025, this event marked more than a milestone for Philippine surfing. It was a convergence of talent, history, and spirit. It turned our beloved coastline into a stage where the ocean itself seemed to lean in and listen.

Weeks before the world descended, I was already surfing—same stretch of coast, same familiar tide. And that’s when I began noticing unfamiliar surfers paddling out at odd hours. Quiet, focused. You could sense it even from the shore—this wasn’t vacation. These were competitors arriving early, listening to the rhythm of Monaliza Point like monks in silent training. No sponsors, no flashes. Just presence.

I didn’t know then that I was watching future champions preparing the way only champions do—by first humbling themselves to the sea.

During the championship itself, I walked every morning from our home in Dalumpinas Este to the shoreline, barefoot and steady. A simple walk that became a kind of moving meditation. And along the way, I always made time for Shogun Café, a small and soulful spot tucked along the road—its wooden sign catching the sun just right, the aroma of fresh grounds drifting down to the pavement.

There I’d chat with Bryan, the owner—laidback, observant, and like many here, a surfer at heart. Our conversations were never rushed. Sometimes we talked about wave patterns, or the underdogs to watch. Sometimes we just sipped in silence, letting the surf speak instead.

And then the competition began.

Under the golden La Union sun, the ocean didn’t just host a contest—it unveiled character. And at the center of this unfolding was Luana Silva.

She wasn’t loud. She didn’t need to be.

There was a stillness to her presence, a quiet confidence that seemed rooted in something unshakable. Before her final heat, she stood on the sidelines—not pacing, not performing—but simply being. With her father, who is also her coach, by her side, their communication was pared down to the essentials. No wasted movements. No theatrics.

Just breathe. Just focus.

It was a contrast to the buzz all around—tourists gathering, camera shutters snapping, beachgoers pausing mid-swim. And yet, all of that seemed to melt away in her orbit. Even when she signed an autograph, it was with a grounded poise that felt rare, almost sacred.

Monaliza Point, the break that would decide it all, is not a wave you conquer. It’s one you listen to. One that asks for surrender before it grants its rhythm. That day, the lineup was intense. On the other side of Luana was Kana Nakashio, a fierce competitor from Japan with clean lines and high-scoring heats throughout the event.

They traded waves like warriors. For most of the heat, neither gave an inch. The scores remained tight, the crowd silent with tension.

And then, near the end, Luana caught the wave.

She didn’t just ride it—she read it. Every movement, every transition flowed as if time had slowed just for her. She posted a 6.53—enough to seal the win.

When she stepped back onto the sand, you could see the weight lift from her body. She had done it. But she didn’t speak about herself. Her first words were a tribute to a childhood friend who had passed away. A moment of grace that lingered far beyond the final score.

And let’s not forget Bronson Meydi, the Indonesian underdog who carved his legend with a perfect 10, defying predictions, shifting momentum, and inspiring young Southeast Asian surfers in the process. His victory was more than a highlight. It was a message: You belong here.

That’s what this championship became: not just a celebration of athleticism, but an invocation—for La Union, for Southeast Asia, for anyone who’s ever wondered if the world might one day turn its gaze to their shore.

From San Juan’s surf schools to the stillness of Monaliza Point, the Philippines showed up, not as a backdrop, but as a force.

Months have passed, but the current hasn’t slowed. New surfers come, drawn by stories still whispered by the waves. Boards are being waxed. Groms are practicing cutbacks. And some of us are still walking that same barefoot path from Dalumpinas to the sea, pausing at Shogun, talking with Bryan, listening to what the water has to say.

Because some moments don’t fade.

They echo.