A Barney in Bali--Day 2, 09JUNE2011

Riding on the back of Randy’s motorcycle, I ask him, “Why did we just run that red light?”

     He responds, “Because the other guy did.”

View in front of Randy's Bali home, the day begins.

 

The First Session: Nusa Dua

     Last night I went to bed at 2100. I was trying my best to finish day one’s blog, but I couldn’t. The jet lag finally caught up to me, and I expected to be conked out for hours. I woke up with a bad headache. I checked my watch--2330. Damn, I was barely asleep for a couple hours. I already knew what that meant: dehydration. I pounded some water and lied back down. The fan was blowing full blast; I needed it. I woke up again still feeling like shit. It was 0300. Randy would be up soon since he wanted to dawn patrol it, and I didn’t like the feel of my physical state. Randy warned me of dehydration during the first few days in country. Actually, he forced me to kill off a bottled drink right before leaving the airport. Even though I’ve been dehydration‘s victim in my past travels, I didn’t make an active effort to hydrate--mistake. I chugged more water and took a piss. The smell of the sulfur water and white tile actually reminded me of Egypt. I hoped to feel better in the morning.

     0500--I wake up, open my bedroom door, and Randy’s already up doing his pre surf warm up. He tells me that as soon as we reach Nusa Dua that we’re just gonna jump in the water. Warm up now, stretch after. I tell him about my pounding headache. He sounds concerned, but I don’t want to worry him. I say that it’s nothing and ask if he has some Advil. “Nope.” He makes us a special Balinese local style ginseng tea mixed with other spices and ingredients; I forget the name. I warm up while drinking more water in between.
0600--He says we’re meeting up with his homeboy Daz, and at where? Why, Dunkin’ Donuts of all places!

     He says that there’s a breakfast special for a buck-fifty. We step outside, and the sun is still barely peeking over the horizon. The morning is damp. The tile steps outside, the door mat, and our slippers have moisture. Randy grabs some funky curved bars from the yard and inserts them into the side of his bike, securing them with pins and straps--motorcycle surfboard racks. I snap a couple pics during the process, and we’re off. I’m thankful for the morning commute being much thinner than the traffic I experienced previously. The morning air is now filled with what reminds me of the mosquito repellent that I used to buy in Maui as a kid, the kind that you burn and it leaves a sort of smoky scent. Randy fills me in and says that they burn trash here every morning. I actually have time to relax a little bit and take in the sights. I can’t help but notice that the red lights aren’t completely obeyed. The signal lights have a timer letting drivers know when the light will turn green. However, when perpendicular traffic is none existent, some people are still crossing the intersection when the light’s red. Randy does the same.

     We arrive at Dunkin’ Donuts, and to my surprise, this Dunkin’ Donuts could pass for being in a luxury hotel. It is in fact the nicest Dunkin’ Donuts, or donut shop for that matter, that I’ve ever been to in my life. There is indoor and outdoor seating, small pools of water at the base of each window, the inside is spacious, the furniture is a vibrant orange and new, the back wall is a waterfall, and the place smells like an ice cream parlor. We are their first visitors of the morning. Daz shows up shortly after, and we order together. Daz is a Reno born, Aussie raised, international traveler, big wave charger, and local swell chaser. He’s my brother’s surfing buddy out here in Bali. He sounds like a native Californian. Weather beaten and dressed as if he’s been on the road questing for waves, we exchange kind greetings.


Bali Time:

     The conventions of a western society betray me, as I keep glancing at the counter wondering where the hell our coffee and food are. My brother, cut from the same cloth as me, seems just as impatient as I. It leads to our next conversation. I remind Randy about the slow service in Puerto Rico, and then we started talking about Hawaiian time.

     “No . . . it’s worse than Hawaiian time, it’s even longer,” says Randy. Then I notice how nice it is to not be rushed. A flashback popped up in my head. I was at a Starbucks in Irvine. This lady with designer clothes, purse, and still wearing her shades inside the store, was yelling at the barista, demanding the manager and owner’s information because she had to much ice in her drink. Then she demanded to know what Starbuck’s “policy” was on ice. She cursed, giving no consideration to a mother and young child behind her.
There is nothing like that in this place. Daz says, “Too bad it’s crowded in here.” I look around. There is just one guy in the corner. The coffee exceeds expectation, and it’s time for us to go. We grab our sandwiches and mount up. Daz takes off way ahead of us. Traffic is still light, and I am much more relaxed.

     A bike pulls directly in front of traffic and causes the whole swarm to shift. “Fuck, gotta deal with some stupid drivers out here,” says Randy. The traffic gets lighter and lighter, and pretty soon we are passing small villages which are defined by small shops and homes in the background. In between the homes are vacant lots with cattle grazing on small patches of brush. I tell Randy the sights and smells of the area are reminiscent to the early mornings that we loaded up in our grandpa’s truck to go to the pasture.

And can you believe, I was the only one creaming in my pants when got to this beautiful sight

     We go over a hill, and I finally see Nusa Dua. It looks like a green countryside by the ocean--tropical, but there are a lot of construction projects going on that are impossible not to notice. We turn into a tiny road which leads to a resort, a vacant resort. They explain that most of the crowds want to be where the clubs and bars are. We reach a shaded overlook high above the beach. The sight exceeds what I imagined. The air is so warm yet the sun so low. There is no wind. The water looks glassy as ever, and there are over a hundred yards of shallow reef to cross before you can paddle out. I could make out the peaks in the distance. I’m so excited to take a pic that I fail to notice a metal pipe sticking out of the ground. I trip over it and scrape my shin; I’m cut open but just a little. I’m embarrassed to tell the homies. Normally I’d call this a bad omen, but I don’t want to be negative, at least not yet. Daz devours his sandwich. A white sauce marinates on the corner of his mouth. I look at my brother, and then I realize . . . I am the only one stoked. They explain that this is “small” to them. I explain that if this was California, let’s just say that California can’t get this beautiful. They comment on the size of the waves, which they call 2-3 feet. But they also point out the main peak which seems to be giving a head high right-hander. What’s the difference between Balinese scale and Hawaiian scale? I only know one thing. Unless you’re surfing Mavericks, California scale is always more generous. A Barney in Bali, a South Bay surfer in Bali, an El Porto Surfer in Bali, or whatever you want to call it, I would finally get my feet wet and live the dream that few surfers do. Daz says my stoke is bringing up his stoke, so we mount up and park closer to the water. Another motorists shows up. My brother knows him. A guy shows up in a van with his two kids; guys from Maui, my brother knows them too.

    
     On the slight descent down the path to the sand, the warm air catches me by surprise once again. Am I really going to just “trunk it?” The last time I wore board shorts in the water was at 26^th St., and that was in October of last year! The sand is grainy but soft. The specks of sand are round like Quinoa. The tide is so low that only inches of water cover the reef on the inside. They explain not to step on the seaweed because the local fisherman harvest and sell it. The beach is vacant with only one fisherman, a small child, and a Japanese tourist chick venturing in the little caves taking pictures. The water on the inside is literally like a pool. The wind is unbelievably dead, as the only ripples are our own. We walk . . . I mean we really walk. The journey to the line up is more of what Daz refers to as a “reef dance” than it is a paddle out. We reach thigh deep water, paddle around the fishing fences, reach shallow water again, walk, and repeat this a couple times. By the time we reach the end of the shallow reef, I can see the break clearly. Indeed, it isn‘t ball wrenching gigantic, but I’ve never seen water so blue and clear, it is more of a tropical bluish turquoise. A couple clean right-handers peel on the inside, maybe only three feet, but with baby almonds, seeming hollow enough to hunker down inside. The coffee kicks in, and I can’t get to the line up soon enough.
 
    



I bet you thought that we were already paddling out to the line-up, huh? Nope, still doing the reef dance!


We paddle to the left of the reef or north, north east. I paddle for my first wave and scratch out. Randy tells me that I should be kicking my feet at the same time. I bring up the lame excuse that I tried that in Cali, but it throws off my paddling rhythm. Not a good time to try to practice something new. I try anyway, and scratch out on more waves. Randy takes off on a right and releases a bucket. Buzz and his kids (from the parking lot) join us in the line up. Buzz, probably in his mid fifties, looks like he should be playing golf or power walking with bright yellow headphones. But no . . . not this old guy. The fucking guy is CHARGING the plus set waves. The bigger waves come in at head high. I feel put to shame.

     A shoulder high wave appears. I paddle for it and pop up at the peak, but the section is so fast that it’s running away. As I’m kicking out I can see the white wash bouncing off the water’s smooth surface. It looks like glass, as the reef below is purely visible.

     Another set wave approaches; it’s a right. For the first time I am on a wave that is long, but not as fast, and builds down the line. Seeing the reef below me, I choose to play it safe. I don’t go for the aggressive top turns, but I still hit the lip, pump to keep up with the section, hit the lip once more, and then jump ship. I can’t help but be nervous at the sight of the reef. It looks so shallow, but there’s enough water that allows me to “starfish” over it and resurface. I paddle back to the line to find that the set’s not over. This is my nightmare. I’ve said before that perfect waves punch a little different. Try perfect waves in Bali on for size. Since the waves are a little hollow, there is no feathery mooshy section to duckdive. In the impact zone, I’m facing head high lips that are crashing straight down. I push the nose of the board down and go under. Like zero gravity, my momentum stops and freezes, real time changes to slow motion, and my board and I are bitch slapped backwards and upside down. This can’t be good, I think to myself. My feet touch the reef, I retrieve my board. I punch through a little deeper but still get my momentum halted. While underneath I can see everything: my board, the marine life, the violent submerged explosion of wave. I later find this to be an advantage. For the rest of the session I actually watch to see what’s happening underneath to gauge how much room that I have, see the wave go over me, and help improve my technique.

     It’s a humbling session. I’m still scratching out, and a lot of the waves are too fast for me to keep up with. I think about that last wave I got, how it may have been hollow, and if I should go for a tube ride or not. What happens next is a series of mistakes. I force myself into the face hoping I can get barreled. Going backside I grab rail, tuck into the face, and see the whole line build up and chomp down on me. I do it again with the same results. Going frontside, the lip shuts me out before I could scoot in, which leaves me completely missing the section and being forced to jump ship again.

     Daz chooses a peak further north, a peak which is bigger and holds shape better. Randy is with me to keep me company while I get my first dirty lickins from Bali. I have more than I can chew on and enough to ponder over for the rest of the day. I think about all the sessions that I pulled at Trestles and the South Bay only to realize that the true training starts now; those spots could not season me enough. I think about Buzz and see that his ability makes youth irrelevant. It’s overwhelming and a lot to take in my first day. The whole time in Cali, did I really expect to just paddle out here and get barreled?
 
     I see large fish swimming by under the water, a small group of fish expose their top fins right in front of me, and the empty line-up serene and peaceful. I think more about everything. In an arena with perfect waves, one can’t blame the waves for his surfing. On this very morning, the waves are good, and the struggle becomes with the surfer’s true ability himself. Humbling . . . I see my true worth. Instead of forcing the spray I need to just focus on getting into the wave, making the sections, and making it down the line if possible.
Daz paddles down to us and asks, “Are you guys ready to do the reef dance?” The walk back in is twice as hard as the walk to the line up. Randy tells me he stepped on a sea urchin on the way out, and he spots them and tells me go walk somewhere else. We paddle, get up, walk, hurt our feet, paddle again, find deeper water, reach shallow water, become off balance, fall (at least I do), and paddle again.

     Back at the motorcycle I kill off my sandwich from Dunkin’ Donuts. I thank Daz for choosing to be an addition to my first paddle out in Bali, and that I‘ll never forget him because he‘s a part of my experience.
We skip the evening session because we choose to go to Wulan’s birthday party. I eat homemade Indonesian food until I am full. Then I participate in a game that I lose in, and the consequence is me dancing to Michael Jackson’s song “Black and White.” I’m embarrassed, just like my surfing. I can do better than that.