The New Class Of Canadian Olympians

Sanoa Dempfle-Olin

In Tofino, there’s not much else to do other than surf. Locals wear wetsuits year round, and more than a dozen surf schools and shops line the coast. Cox Bay Beach was a minute’s walk from my family’s home, so I spent most of my childhood there, swimming and boogie-boarding with my older sister, Mathea. By the time I was six, I was riding waves—usually ankle- or knee-high whitewash—on a five-foot soft-top board, a birthday gift from my mom, who also surfs. She taught me the basics, like how to pop up on the board and paddle hard. I’ve been chasing waves ever since.

When I was seven, my family took a surfing trip to Kauai, where I met Russell Lewis, an Australian coach who worked with the famous American surfer Bethany Hamilton. He initially taught me a trick or two. Then the next year, we went back for a few weeks, and he gave me more involved lessons. Soon, I was competing alongside Mathea in local contests in Tofino. My progress was enough for me to land a sponsorship with Billabong, after Mathea and I surfed in the annual Queen of the Peak event. After that, I started surfing internationally—first at the 2016 ISA World Juniors in the Azores, where Mathea and I competed as a team. In 2017, I became the youngest female surfer ever to win the Tofino Rip Curl Pro Nationals, which led to more global competitions in Brazil, El Salvador and the U.S.

Going to the Olympics was never a part of my plan—more like a far-off dream—but it became real after the sport was added to the Games in 2021. The last couple of years have been full of big moments. Last year’s Pan Am Games in Santiago, Chile, was the biggest by far. Halfway through Pan Am, a huge rainstorm rolled in and the waves got up to 15 feet high, the biggest surf I’d ever experienced. The competition was postponed, and I spent two days in a hotel room before returning to the water for the women’s shortboard event. I won silver and, in doing so, qualified for the Paris Games. It was all so surreal.

This summer, I’ll become the first Canadian ever to surf at the Olympics—technically in Tahiti, where the Paris Games’ surf events are being held. To get ready, I’m alternating between a few hours of surfing and dry-land exercises every day. I’m excited to show off my surfing technique on the world’s biggest stage and represent other Canadians who have paved the way for me. I also think my appearance will give the sport more credibility and viewers here at home. Right now, we have CSA Surf Canada, our national association, but it’s run by one staffer, Dom Domic, who organizes all the contests and qualifiers. Compared to other national organizations, like in the U.S. or Australia, it’s pretty small.

As a whole, Canadians have less beach access than, say, Californians. But in the towns that do have it, the surf scene is definitely growing—across Vancouver Island, of course, but also out in Nova Scotia. In areas without coastlines, people are surfing in rivers and lakes. I only have to look outside at my house in Tofino to see how popular it’s getting. A decade ago, Mathea, my mom and I would have the waves to ourselves. I’m down at Cox Bay training every day— in rain, hail, snow or shine—and now there are usually at least 10 other people there, some up-and-coming junior surfers, all trying to catch waves of their own.

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Philip Kim

One day, when I was 11, I was walking past the Vancouver Art Gallery and I saw Now or Never, a local breaking crew, performing moves that blew my mind. I remember thinking, I could totally get girls if I did this. Shortly after that, Jheric Hizon, one of Now or Never’s members, came to teach hip-hop choreography at my elementary school. When I asked if he taught breaking, he gave me his card. I started taking lessons with him at a studio now known as Boogaloo Academy.

Initially, I cultivated my style by training with Vancouver-based crews like Soul Felons, the Hoodz crew and Raw Minds. I grew up in the YouTube era, so I also watched a lot of livestreams of Red Bull BC One, one of the world’s biggest breaking events. When I entered local competitions around 2012, I was happy just to make the top eight. My friend Samson and I even created our own crew, the Wizards. That’s how I got my b-boy name: Phil Wizard.

In the beginning, I got a lot of scrapes and bruises; it’s hard for a kid to hold up their entire frame using their own strength. But I quickly fell in love with breaking’s combination of physical and artistic difficulty. I loved the competition, performing in front of judges and audiences, adapting to the DJ’s music—the freestyle nature of it all.

My parents, both immigrants from Korea, sacrificed a lot so I could have opportunities in life. They wanted me to get a post-secondary education and a regular job. There weren’t a lot of financially viable avenues for breakers at the time, but there was nothing else I wanted to do. After I finished high school in 2015, I flew to Korea, a powerhouse scene in the breaking world, for a four-month stay to train with higher-calibre talent. (I lived with my grandma.)

A while after I got back, I heard about a qualifier for Red Bull BC One in Los Angeles. I told myself if I went and did well, I’d pursue breaking full-time. I flew all the way to L.A. just to find out qualifiers were only open to U.S. citizens. The organizers took pity on me, an 18-year-old unknown from Canada, and let me compete against star breakers like Morris and Nasty Ray. I was surprised to win, but I also knew how hungry I was.

From 2019 onward, I performed in competitions all over the world. When I heard breaking was going to be part of the 2024 Olympics, I didn’t think much of it—or that I’d be able to qualify. Around then, Jheric gave me a key to Boogaloo. From that point on, I spent all my time experimenting with new techniques, like a scientist in a lab.

That’s when everything changed. In 2022, Red Bull signed me to its all-star team—a dream come true—and sponsors like Lululemon and Toyota flooded in. I took the top spot at the WDSF World Breaking Championships in Seoul and, the following year, headed to Santiago, Chile, for the Pan Am Games. I hurt my neck during the warm-up, but thanks to some Team Canada physiotherapists, I didn’t lose a single round. I became the world’s first Pan Am breaking champion. Team Canada asked me to be its flagbearer for the closing ceremonies. I’ve always been proud to be Canadian, but in that moment, I felt like the country was proud of me, too.

As a sport, breaking is still niche, but it’s come a long way from its 1970s origins at hip-hop parties on the streets of the Bronx. I hope its place in the Olympics will encourage a new generation to fall in love with the sport, just like I did. There’s also the athleticism of it all—the flexibility it requires, the core and upper body strength. Each one-on-one round involves bursts of high energy, like little HIIT workouts, over and over again.

The breaker with the most complicated tricks isn’t always the one who wins. Coming up with a creative idea is just as difficult as spinning on your hand 100 times. In fact, for Paris, I thought it’d be fun to invent new tricks inspired by other sports. One, inspired by swimmers, looks like I’m doing a front stroke on the floor. It’s now one of my signature moves.

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Fay De Fazio Ebert

The first time I tried skateboarding, I was in a church basement. I was eight years old, and my dad had suggested we visit Impact Skateboard Club, a non-profit in Toronto, for a free lesson over March Break. The instructors taught us how to stand on the board and ride it up and down a ramp. I felt excited yet comfortable, like I’d done it all before. Right afterward, my parents took me to buy my first board—a black Hoopla deck with a blue wolf on it.

Soon, I was practising tricks at local skateparks and entering contests in my free time. There were people of all ages, from six to 50. I learned a lot of my current techniques from them—tricks like tail slides and Smith grinds and ollies and airs. Skaters would say, “Try this!” or “Adjust your foot to make this move a bit easier.” We all hyped each other up, like, “Hey, this one’s for you!” Within a couple of months, everyone noticed that I was getting really fast. They saw my spark.

Later that year, Canada Skateboard, our national team, started following my progress on Instagram and asked me to join their first-ever skateboarding team as its youngest member. I started competing at events all across the country. I still remember finding out that skateboarding was going to be included at the Tokyo Olympics. It totally made sense. The sport has so many complex elements to it—scoring, style, trick variations. It definitely deserves a place in the Games. Skateboarding is mentally and physically challenging—and requires a lot of perseverance—just like gymnastics or any other high-level sport.

In September of 2019, I competed at the World Skate Park World Championships in São Paulo, Brazil, one of the tournaments where skaters can gain points to qualify for the Olympics. I wasn’t ready. I’d done bigger competitions before, like the Vans Park Series in Montreal, but the practices in São Paulo were hectic. I stood on the deck of the skate bowl for 45 minutes only to get in one practice run.

I didn’t rank as well as I’d hoped, but the experience taught me a lot, and I was proud of myself for trying my best. (I was only nine, after all.) When I competed at the Pan Am Games last October, I felt more grown up—really dialled in. As the organizers announced my name and I started my run, everything slowed down. I thought, One trick at a time, and stick to your board no matter what. I won gold that day.

I’m preparing for the Olympics by getting my tricks down—first at world qualifiers in Shanghai and Budapest and then at a week-long training camp in California. My physiotherapist has also given me yoga stretches; I should probably do those more often. Other than that, I’ll be skating for a few hours a day, taking breaks for dinner and, of course, schoolwork.

I’m excited to see Paris landmarks like the Eiffel Tower and to eat all of the croissants. But mostly, I can’t wait to face off against my competitors—some of them will be in their 20s, but many will be teens like me. The average age of the women’s skateboarding medallists at the Tokyo Olympics in 2021 was 14. It’s amazing to see how good us girls have gotten. I know that I’m a powerful skateboarder, too. People tell me I’m fun to watch.

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This story appears in the August issue of Maclean’s. You can buy the issue here or subscribe to the magazine here.