A Barney in Bali--Day 18 (double sesh), 25JUNE2011 SAT

Hawaiian or Not?:


    Randy takes off, and I watch the waves while I drink my Bali coffee. I watch how other guys ride the waves to see if there’s anything there that can help me out. Another Aussie guy that we talked to earlier has his whole family with him. His name is Peter, another expat.

    Peter says, “Between you and your brother, who’s the better surfer?”

    “Oh, my brother, definitely.”

    “Oh, because my buddy was watching you guys, and he was like, ‘The Hawaiians are getting all the good waves!’”

    Damn, I don’t think Peter’s buddy was watching my surfing that closely. The distinction between Randy and I is clear. But Peter had me thinking about another subject. I have roots in Hawaii, but I’ve never considered myself Hawaiian. What people don’t realize is . . . well, if you’re not of Hawaiian blood but you live in Hawaii (or even born there), that you’re not considered “Hawaiian,” but you’re referred to as a “local,” as in the local Japanese guy, the local haole guy, local Filipino, etc. To gain “local” status itself isn’t given. Mainlanders that move there, buy huge houses, and throw their money around, aren’t local. Another example, do you think that the Tongans and Samoans refer to themselves as “Hawaiian” just because they live in Hawaii? There are other issues of cultural pride associated too. I’m going off into another topic here, but Peter had my mind going. Back to what I was saying earlier, I have roots in Hawaii, but I haven’t lived there since I graduated from high school, and I don’t feel worthy of the “Hawaiian” designation. My grandfather came from the Philippines to work in the pineapple fields after WWII. He worked for Maui Land & Pineapple Co. until he retired as did my father. Before I was born, my family was part of the Honolua Plantation Community before they had to tear it down to make room for the golf courses. Those are my roots from Hawaii. I’m from a town called Napili that got it‘s first and only traffic light barely a decade ago.


Dues, Dues, Dues:


    I’m solo this time around. The tide is low, and the afternoon lineups seem just as light as the morning. I’m surprised that this Saturday hasn’t turned into a Balangan rager with it being the summer.

    As I walk out, Peter says, “All right, we’ll be watching you!”

    His wife says, “No pressure!”

    I reply with, “You won’t be that entertained watching me!”

    I do the reef dance, taking my sweetest time, but it pays off. Some sets are coming in and exploding on the edge of the reef. I stop my progress and wait for the lull before walking any further. I paddle out in thigh deep water, taking small waves over my head as I make my way out. Now I sit . . . and wait. I see a slight bump in the surface. It doesn’t look like I’m in position for it, but I still paddle a little further out because I’m weary of the clean up set. Once that wave passes, sure as shit, the first wave of the clean up set is already peaking in the distance. I should’ve paddled further out. The top of the wave is breaking, I’m far from it, it’s hopeless, I’m getting washed. These rogue sets are big waves that break so damn far out. They aren’t hollow on the outside, but they plow through with a tall, rushing, layer of white wash. My California duckdives are no match. It’s a struggle being tossed off of my board over and over again, getting back on, paddling, and catching my breath, only to succumb to the same thing at least three more times before I start punching through. I set my stopwatch. I’m gonna time these things, I think to myself. At least I’ll be ready for the next one.

    Then . . . there’s a lull. There’s a couple average sets in between but nothing major. I’m looking at my watch, it’s been twenty minutes without a big set. I’m apprehensive to turn around, as the sets usually come as soon as I break for the inside. I take off on a couple waves, but they are too fast and close out. A couple more people show up. Everyone’s face tells the story: we want waves. A “turn-and-go” set approaches, and I scratch out on the first two. I paddle for the third, feel the wave letting me in, but there’s a guy on my inside that gets it. I’m getting frustrated, as it dawns on me that I may go home catching nothing but close outs.

    When the next set comes, the same guy that was on my inside gets the wave. What he doesn’t realize is that he pays so much attention to me that he’s actually cutting another guy off that’s about to run into him. I don’t know what happens to them because as soon as I turn around, the fucking clean up set is back. I glance at my watch, it’s been forty-three minutes since the last one. “Of course,” I say to myself. It’s another episode of getting my ass kicked; everyone is getting their ass kicked. I resurface to find one of the Ecuadorian guys right behind me going through the same shit. The water changes to foam and fizz. I look around and only see a couple guys paddling as I am, everyone else is washed away somewhere behind. Another inconsistency happens, not even ten minutes later and another clean up set pops up. I give up on timing the sets.

    I’m still searching for one good wave. I see a peak in the distance, I’m in good position, I start paddling, I’m lifting, but something’s not right. Usually I’m sliding by now, but I’m still on the lip. This is a wave that I should have, but for some reason I’m hung up as the lip is curling; I’m brought down with the ship.

    First worry: I feel my board drop from under me as I’m freefalling straight down. I’m nervous and worried that I’m landing on my fins. I miss my fins, but now I’m underwater, and I’m going deeper.

    My second worry is that I’m gonna be grated against the reef, but I don’t feel it.

    Third worry: I hit the water so hard that my rashguard comes up and over my head; I’m binded by it. I have a hard time swimming to the surface because my face is covered, and my arms are caught up in it as well. At this point, it feels more like a straight jacket as I struggle to take it off. I’m released, I resurface, and another wave is about to break on me.

    Fourth worry: my rash guard is wrapped around my right arm and hand which means I can’t grab the rail to duckdive. I have to take this wave on the head.

    I don’t expect my rashguard to get away from me because there’s a loop on it that attaches to my boardshorts, but I resurface to find my rashguard behind me. I swim back to it and meet the glance of another surfer paddling out. He grins. I secure the rashguard and paddle back in the middle of the crowd bare chested; I’m embarrassed. No ego, I’m thinking. I wonder what happened to the tie that secures my rashguard to my shorts; it was ripped in the fall. I patiently put it back on, trying not to notice everyone noticing how I just got thrashed.

    With the turn of events, I should just paddle back in and go home, but I’m still searching for a wave more than ever. A defined peak shows up, and I make my exit on it, pumping, making it to the open face, and taking it as far as I can go.

    I walk back to Froggy’s, and there’s a new crowd watching the surf. I keep my head down, expecting that I’m “that guy” at the moment.

    Peter says, “How was it out there!” Actually, he doesn’t say it, he yells it. Everyone hears and awaits a response.

    “I got brutalized,” I reply.
    “What?”

    “I got worked.”

    Froggy’s is getting crowded, and there are enough Aussie chicks to legitimize the place as an actual bar. I wear a face that reflects the second session’s struggles. I pay for my stuff, load up, say by to Pete, and ride up the steep, unpaved hill. I stop at the top to grab a drink of water, and then it hits me. The wind is so refreshing, there’s not a building around me, I’m surrounded by banana trees and other trees that I can’t identify, and there’s a gulch in front of me with thicker vegetation. I drink my water, put it away, and take another moment to live. I feel . . . peace.

A surfer's journey on a Bali trail.

    The ride through the Bukit to the main highway is taken with ease. I’m not stressing out trying to catch up with Randy, so I’m just cruising along feeling free, enjoying the free spirit of being on a moped on a third world countryside. Once I reach the main highway, I ride on the shoulder with the other bikes, and I even manage to pass a bunch of people wherever the traffic clears. I arrive at home unscathed. It’s my best moped ride so far since being here.