A Barney in Bali--Day 22, 29JUNE2011 WED

People on Their Webcams:


    So as I attempt to write about today’s surf sessions, I’m at Chat Café. There’s a Black woman (race doesn’t matter, I just have to mention this for “visual” sake) on her webcam arguing with her boyfriend. It’s a little different from being in L.A. because she’s talking with a British accent. The café is half full, and this woman is talking so goddam loud; it’s ridiculous. We can hear everything, and now she just started crying. What the fuck is wrong with some people. No one wants to hear this shit.


The Bali Experience:


    As I’ve said, the mornings have switched to high tide. There are more barrels during low tide, so we aren’t rushing in the mornings as of late. It’s 0630 when I hear Randy wake, so I follow his lead. It’s gloomy out and looks like it’s going to rain. We drink some tea, and Randy’s thinking about going later as soon as the tide drops. He mentions that I’m leaving soon, and he highly suggests that I surf at least twice a day from now on. “You know how to get there,” he says. I do.

    I start packing up my stuff. It’s my first time driving to Balangan solo. It’s about 0800, and I’m already worried about the traffic. I tell him I’ll see him out there and head out. I fill up the gas tank. I haven’t realized how far the drive is until now. It’s forty-five minutes, but it’s a fast forty-five minutes, probably because I’m on a moped with a rinky dink helmet as my only true protection. It’s also fast because I’m alive during every second of the drive, meaning that there’s no day dreaming. Everything is calculated: throttle, braking, checking who’s behind me, who’s trying to go around me, people trying to u-turn in front, vehicles entering our lanes, gaps, etc. It’s far enough that we need to refuel every day. It’s a solo drive, but I’m so happy that I’m able to drive in Bali on my own. it’s such an experience. Once I get to the Bukit, the traffic turns dead, and I enjoy the scenic views, lush green surroundings, and fresh air. I’ve already wrote about Canggu’s Ass Clench Hill, but Balangan has it’s own geographical challenges as well. There are two steep hills that aren’t even paved; they are just dirt with holes and huge rocks. Every time I descend the hill and ride up it, a sigh of relief always follows. I make it down, bouncing an rattling on the moped’s shoddy suspension. “Rights of passage,“ I say to myself.

Beginning of descent

Brutal

Boundaries:


    I’m Froggy’s first customer of the day. I can see the high tide line, there are long boarders surfing the inside, and another peak north of the bottom of the wave is actually working. This tells me one thing: it’s small. I don’t watch the show that long. I’ve already gone through one whole bar of Vertra, so I use my leftover bar from Cali. No reef dance is necessary at high tide. I paddle out easy, careful not to get grated on the reef. The crowd is just like yesterday; there’s a lot of people at the top of the wave and people sitting all over the bottom. I see Chad done with his session as he paddles back in. I decide not to compete with the crowd towards the inside. Just like I love doing back home, I sit on the outside and wait for the sets. It’s just my luck, I don’t have to wait long for an outsider to arrive. It’s a T&G to start the day. I get it late. The drop-in feels so critical, I’m practically vertical and going straight down. At least it “feels” that way. It could’ve looked different, but I feel like I’m in the “gnar.“ A chick is trying to paddle to the outside as I’m sliding straight down. I pass her so narrowly as she’s going up the wave; it’s danger close. I bottom turn. . . .

Jellies under my surfboard

    The last couple days I told myself that I’m just gonna go for it, but being in the actual moment is another story. I look in front of me. I’m sure the wave is barely overhead (my standards), but it’s a hell of a mountain for this Barney. I see the blue jaws and white foamy teeth about to chomp down. The hollow section, where I should be tucking into, looks dark, cylindrical, fast, unfamiliar, and uninviting. On top of that, there’s always the reef; it’s so hard to just shut it out.

    I straighten up as the wave closes out. Sure, it wouldn’t have been a legit barrel, but I could’ve pulled in. It takes a lot of guts, and as much as the “ideal“ Donny Duckbutter should be surfing, it’s still a tall order. I fail.

    Yesterday was supposed to be the smallest day, but it’s hard to tell with today’s wave size. But I need to be clear on this. Instead of a “small” day, it’s more inconsistent. Instead of the waves being small, they are still a good size but very inconsistent. Besides the top of the wave, it takes a long time for the sets at the bottom. If you can recall all the clean up sets I’ve been raped by and underwater boogaloos I’ve done, today is so inconsistent that I don’t duckdive one wave. For the first time, I’m begging for the clean up sets; they are so needed. They spread everyone out, wash everyone around. In the end only the strong survive (not always me), and there’s only a couple takers for the rest of the set. Without them, everyone is stagnant, waiting, and ready for the waves when they arrive.

    I scratch out a lot. I’m on the outside trying to get the advantage, but I’m not deep enough to get the slide. It’s frustrating. A random outside set appears, and I finally get a big one to myself. I’m tired of close outs, so I’m trying to milk the ride for all it’s worth. The top of the wave starts spilling, I draw a high line to make the section regardless, but the spill lands on my board, I’m knocked off balance, and I fall.

    I get a couple more waves, but nothing is worth noting. I’m bothered by jellyfish everywhere I go. I put my hand in the water, I feel jelly. I kick my feet, I feel jelly. Things that look like Rice Krispies float on the surface. One lands on my rashguard, it’s a small transparent crap. The fucker’s crawling on me. I try to shake it, but it won’t budge. Stubborn little bastards.

    I catch my last wave. It’s another glory hole, but I straighten out again and belly-ride to shore. The same chick is paddling back out. I step off my rail, she’s scared that my board’s gonna hit her, but there’s so much distance between us. She glares at me as we pass. It’s funny how, on some days, we draw the asshole card, but she really didn’t have anything to worry about.

    I don’t want to blame the surf. If I was better, then I’m sure I’d have better results. I said it before. This ain’t the movies, Daniel LaRusso doesn’t always beat the douche bag, and I’m not guaranteed a defining moment of my life if I’m not willing to put myself in harm’s way.