A Barney in Bali--Day 24 (double sesh), 01JULY2011 FRI

He ain't friendly. . . .

The Motherfuckin' Saga Continues:


    It’s about noon, and I’m ready to paddle out again. Randy passes on the second session and heads back home. There’s been a little evolution on this trip. I was like Randy’s shadow the first ten days here, now I have my own place, and I can find my way around. I’m gad, it should be like this, and I’m sure Randy appreciates the freedom too. I’m about to wax my board when I feel a rumbling sensation in my stomach. Bali belly. Torrential shit-rain falls out of my asshole, and then I head to the sand. I’ve been watching guys fail the paddle-out all morning, and I don’t want to be next on the entertainment list, so I do my best to get to the line up. I make it there pretty quick. This Barney can at least get to the line up.

    There are more people in the water now, but I stick to my outside technique in hopes for something good. An outside set comes, but I scratch out on everything. There’s a moment that I almost get one, and on the lip the offshore wind sprays water in my face; I feel held up. It’s like the wave blew a load on me, didn’t even kiss me goodbye, and left without me. Asshole. I’m wondering if I’m just tired. I’m scratching out a lot and missing waves that I should have. I’m in position and start paddling for one. Just as it jacks up, I look down and see that same guy, the first guy that was in my way this morning. I pull out of the wave. It’s not intentional, but I still shake my head. Out of frustration, I go towards the inside more, and I’m in position for the next wave. A Balinese kid is paddling up to me from the inside, trying to get the wave. I’m scratching and kicking as hard as I can, and the kid actually backs off and lets me have it. It’s kamikaze time. I’m pumping down the line, and the face is going vertical. It’s suicide, but I crouch low and watch the lip curl over as I’m impacted with its force. I’d like to think it was good for a few “Oooohs” back at the Warung. On my next wave I pump down the line and jump over the wave to safety. It’s a superman that doesn’t count, but I’m happy with the results.


Everyone Must Suffer:


    I complained about there not being any clean up sets that last couple of days. I said, “You need them because they spread everyone out and even out the playing field.” I’ve been lucky to avoid or even catch some of them. My outside technique isn’t working as good, so I start drifting towards the inside. After a small wave passes, the horizon becomes visible again, and the first wave of a clean up set is already peeling outside by the top of the wave. It’s long section is building in front of me. I paddle over it and make it, but the next one is already starting to break, and it’s far away. And this is what I asked for. Oh well . . . hail Mary, every man for himself. Even though my duckdives are getting better, I don’t go deep enough under the mountain of foam that was once smooth ocean. I get violated on the first two and make it to safety on the third.


Remain Humble:

    The water’s so clear that I can see the masses of jellyfish everywhere, but there are also fish swimming in front of me. I whip out my camera and take a pic. It’s already happened a couple times when an outside set approaches as I’m fumbling with my camera; it’s not easy.

    It’s a battle to get my last wave. There’s a guy that seems to be mirroring my movements. We are both going for the same ones. Where I paddle, he paddles, and I can’t shake him. On one wave I start to get the slide, but he’s on my inside. I assume he has it, but he doesn’t get it, and the wave goes to waste. Randy says I can always just pull out on someone else’s ride, but it’s not something I want to maneuver on a big wave. We finally separate, and the guy gives out a loud, “FUCK!” on his next scratch out. He’s not the only one scratching out, but he’s the only one getting ugly about it. I think about his behavior, my behavior today, and realize I don’t want to be like that.

My view of the top of the wave.

    I’m reaching two hours again. The afternoon is not as good as the morning, but I’m grateful for everything. I forgot what happened on my last wave, but I ended up straightening and going towards the inside. When I fell off my board I hit shallow reef. I couldn’t get to my feet, so I was sliding over the rocks until the white wash dissipated. There’s a sharp pain under my foot, and I’m only starting to feel the stings on my legs from the jellies. As I hobble back over the reef, a tiny wave comes up behind me and smacks me on the ass. I chuckle. Mother Ocean, you fuckin’ bitch, thank you. Put the symbolism where you want, but the moment strikes me with irony and double, triple meanings.


Beat the Rush Hour:


    I’m dripping wet while paying Froggy and gathering all my belongings. I need to be on the road, pronto! I’m thinking that this schedule I’m on is good, that I can pull two early sessions and still get back lickity-split. The country road out of the Bukit is therapeutic; I’m on auto pilot taking the turns with ease. As soon as I hit the main road, traffic comes to a crawl. Like I said, “One extreme to the next.” Traffic opens up on some stretches. Every time I pass a car and squeeze between oncoming traffic it’s like a mini victory, but so much time is spent crawling in an endless line of bikes that the victories are erased. I gamble and get away from the shoulder, I’m shooting gaps between cars, but I’m halted when it gets too narrow. I follow a string of bikes that are riding in the opposite lane, whizzing past oncoming cars. It’s gut wrenching, I don’t believe my own luck sometimes. I’m first at a red light, when it turns green I go, and I almost get broadsided by a bike and a truck that ran their red light. I’m the only idiot that jumped the gun. I miss a turn that would take me directly into Kuta. I take the long route, but I still make it in one piece.

    I shower up, pull a piece of reef out of my foot, and go to the chat bar to talk to Lauren before she falls asleep. I order a chocolate shake and some French fries. Now it’s 1947, it’s dark outside, and my day’s coming to a close. I’m gonna go on an adventure to look for some dinner. Hopefully, I won’t be shitting my brains out again.

    For a moment . . . honestly . . . I truly am having the time of my life out here. Surf bumming it, living in this motel that has this ceiling fan whirling over my head. It’s hot, there is life outside, and I’m jumping into it. It’s a surf pilgrimage. I hope I’ll be shitting solid logs tonight.


Fuel:

    I’m a lot more tired than I realize. I walk down Poppies 1 towards the beach, the opposite direction from last night. Restaurants here double as cafes. I stop at two different ones, look at their menus, and they’re over charging. The third one is called Tree House Café, and it barely costs a tad bit more than the Indo warung I go to in Seminyak. There’s no TV, there are families, couples, packs of chicks, and a couple loner boners like me. I grab a table and just people watch. I’m getting tired.

    I start off with the vanilla banana milk shake. There’s nothing like starting off a meal with dessert; it’s the right way.

    I order the gado gado (peanut sauce salad with tofu and tempe) and the nasi goreng special (fried rice dish with all sorts of stuff thrown in there). I dust those off and order some mango juice. Jesus, the banana split is so cheap, but I don’t want to do over do it like last night, so I pass. Everything barely costs six American dollars. I’m telling you . . . if you EVER do a surf trip, you gotta come here. If you’re surfing everyday, you can get away with eating all the shit that I’ve been putting away. I’m going all out with main courses, desserts, smoothies, this place is a splurger’s dream!