A Barney in Bali--Day 8, 15JUNE2011 WED



Soul Surfer Haven:


     Last night Randy took me for a cruise to check out the surrounding areas around Seminyak. I asked questions about places that surf bums can live. He tells me that there are places where you can get a small room, a small kitchen, and a bathroom for only $7/day, and that’s with a free breakfast too. It sounds like a no-brainer for any surf bum that wants to chase waves. Being here with Randy, Jessica, and baby Jaya, has made me realize a lot of things. In their home, they only have the essentials; nothing in their home is just for show or shits and giggles. Everything they have, they use; it has a purpose. Thinking of this, I think about my apartment in El Segundo and all the extra crap I have collecting dust and shit that I’m just hanging on to. They could pick up, leave, and resettle at the gentle drop of a pube.

     Also, Balinese culture is so different. When we ride through the streets, we merge into on-coming and flowing traffic, and no one maliciously speeds up, tries to cut us off, or gets road rage. Everywhere we go they have smiles. They stare a lot, but that’s just because they’re checking out who you are, and then when you draw eye contact they smile again. No one’s out here flossing and trying to “one-up” each other. No one’s putting on the flashy jewelry, designer clothes, or going out of their way to buy nice cars. My first night here, I asked my brother what the poverty level was like, and he said that depends on what your definition of poverty is.

     He said, “They grow their own food and breed their own livestock. They have food, shelter, and clothing; they have what they need.”

     I can see why there are expats here. The cost of living is inexpensive. I’ve changed a lot over the last couple years, and I know that I’m not a fan of the rat race. The super-structure is inescapable, our sense of agency is false, and yet we’re all trying to climb the same ladder to get that same piece of the pie. It’s a romantic thought to come out here alone, carrying what you have on your back, to live an aesthetic life, and redefine yourself and your world. Bali . . . you can lose yourself and find something new that you’d never find otherwise.


If I Ever Had an Ego, It’s Dead Now:


     Because of the wind we’ve been staying local in Canggu. Well, Seminyak is local, but Canggu is a short, bumpy ride away. There’s no use to go to the Bukit with all the wind, unless we’re surfing Uluwatu, but my bro has been waiting for the right conditions to score that area. Either way, he’s warned me about overhead Ulus. I hardly doubt that pulling into an overhead, left-hand barrel is as easy as Gerry Lopez has made it look in old surf footage. For now, we wait.

Raindbows. Not so durable after all.

     The plan is to be in the water by 0530. We wake up at 0445 and start warming up. There’s no time for tea. In the morning darkness, I feel mosquitoes munch on my ankles as I attach the surf racks to the Yamaha. Randy uses his clear lens Oakley knock-offs that he bought in the surf ghetto the other day, while I’m using my military-issue goggles. We ride through the barren streets under the waning moonlight. The horizon is changing from black to purple. Through the rice fields, we ride through a sea of bugs that are drawn-in by our headlight. Air rushes against us as we pierce the morning darkness. Bugs shoot through the gaps in my goggles, and now they are trapped, buzzing in front of my eyes. We are almost there.

Pic taken as we were leaving. High tide made things really swampy.

     We don’t arrive at 0530, but it’s not even 0600 yet, and there are already surfers in the line up. It is crucial to surf early because of the full moon: today’s low and high tides change drastically in a short time. It’s mid-tide, and the goal is to catch that surfing window before things get swampy. We rush the burger because the other peaks are already filling up.

     At The Burger, there are only two guys and one chicks. The waves are about shoulder high and consistent. I start off by catching two rights, but the lefts are much better, as I only get one top turn before the rights moosh out. The crowd is thin, so I feel confident paddling into waves. I catch my first left which has a building wall. It’s a bit of a tease. It looks like it’s going to get hollow, but the size isn’t there. I kick out early before the wave closes out over the rocks. I resurface to find that I kicked out too early and caught the first wave of a big set. The chick is pumping fast down the line on a bigger wave right in front of me; I’m in the impact zone. I get pummeled by the wall of white wash, recover, and try to make it back out. Here comes my brother on a wave just as big. This time I’m closer to the channel, but I still eat the crashing lip. The chick and my brother are back at the line-up while I’m still sucking wind. Randy comments on my troubles . . . I catch my breath.

     Thankful for the lull, I’m ready for the next left. It’s fast with more of a shoulder, and I enjoy drawing good lines; my body feels fluid with my board‘s movement. More people show up, now there are six. The next series of events set the tone for the morning.

     It’s a little harder to catch waves with more people around. I guess everyone’s aware of the “window” to surf. The pack scatters as a set approaches. A guy is on my inside, we both paddle for the left, I back out thinking that he has the wave, but he scratches out. Fuck, I think to myself. Next one. We both paddle, I’m sure he’s on the wave, but he misses it again. Fuck my life. He catches the third wave. Now I’m sitting towards the outside all by myself because everyone else either caught a wave, or they’re out of place from the chase. More sulking. I look out and see that the sea is flat; I’ve lost my opportunity. I hear the lesson in my mind from my brother a couple days ago: “Always paddle for it, don’t pull out.” I failed. I look at the horizon again. There’s a bump. It’s more than a bump, it’s a rogue wave bigger than the set, and it’s coming my way; I’m all by my lonesome. I hear splashes of paddling behind me; others are trying to beat the wave before it closes.

     Randy calls me out whenever I’m sitting on the shoulder. “You need to be on the peak,” was also a lesson from a couple days ago. I have the option to paddle into the safer shoulder, or take the peak that’s already starting to break. I go for the challenge. It’s a good old fashion “dump rider special.” This wave is head high, the lip tosses me as I’m popping up, and I stubbornly stand on the rear of my board to see if I can stick the landing like an Olympic tumbler. It almost feels as if I’m air dropping. The landing is an explosion in front of a live audience.

     Surfers know what kind of wave this is; it’s the redeemer. During a period of frustration, it’s the breakthrough wave that can define the session, and also make for a good story: the old triumphant tale of man versus the sea, succumbing to nature’s fury, to finally conquer and ride out her death dealing blow. There is no such tale for I. The under dog remained so. I brushed it off and kept my defeat internal.
Headcount back at the peak: 10 heads. Another rogue wave appears in the horizon, I’m too far on the inside, so I prepare for battle. The lip crashes on me while I’m under water. I get wiped back like a crumb gets wiped off a table. I run into something that’s moving with me; it’s another surfer. We roll and tumble together. I can’t even remember if I held on to my board or not.

     We resurface, he says, “I’m sorry.”

     “Don’t worry about it,” I reply. “Are you all right?”

     “Yeah.”

     How the hell did we not get tangled, banged up, or sliced by our fins? My board’s in tact. It could’ve been worse.

     New headcount: 13 heads. By now everyone is surfing with their best buds. A few alpha males paddle aggressively into the set waves. I scratch out a lot, the tide is high, the conditions are changing, and it’s getting inconsistent.

     Randy’s over the session and catches his last wave. No details are needed for my last wave. I tried. I scratched out or got out paddled. I hate myself. I just want to catch one in but can’t. I take the cowards way out by paddling in. I paddled in at Bali and disrespected “the sport of kings.”

     It’s a quiet ride back. I don’t flinch when coming within inches of other motorists; I’m reflecting. It’s so humbling it’s almost like meditating, reaching a level of awareness through humility and suffering. Who was I to ever have an ego when it came to surfing. I think about the days back home in the line up, the times I was “on point,” felt like my shit tasted so deliciously nutty, and thought that my shit was harder and larger than John Holmes, all because I launched a couple sprays on some mooshy waves that a caveman could paddle into. In a surfer’s existence, today I feel small. No more egos.



I'm not a fan of taking boring pics of myself, but in this case, it's appropriate. This is me after my Bali beatdown.