A Barney in Bali--Day 27, 04JULY2011 MON

The best Dunkin' Donuts, probably in the world!

Nusa Dua Reloaded:


    You’d think that after the night I had that I’d be sleeping in for a while. I wake up, it’s still dark out, and I look at my watch; it’s 0609. I get up in a hurry. This is the earliest I’ve been up so far. The plan for this morning is to take a gamble on Nusa Dua. Yesterday’s winds were light, so we’re hoping that today will be the same. The only thing with Nusas is that we don’t have Froggy to watch our stuff, so I pack light. Board and surf racks, I make the hump downstairs and start putting my bike together. Even though we’re supposed to meet at 0630, I’m hoping that I can at least get there before 0700. I pull out of Aya Beach to find the streets dead with only a few motorists. I go through the usual routine and fill up gas. The attendant’s an old man, and he asks me where I’m from. Usually Hawaii generates a positive response, but instead he laughs out loud and says, “Amerrr-ika, Amerrr-ika!” He keeps on saying it, as if he’s scoffing at me. It’s a little awkward, but he puts 7,000 worth, and I’m on my way.

    I pull up to Dunkin’ Donuts, and Randy’s no where to be found. “Fuck,” I say to myself. I hope didn’t leave. I order my breakfast special, skip the donut, and take a seat. Their TV is on, and I’m watching Indonesian Scooby Doo. It’s different. Scooby Doo’s talking Indonesian; I can’t put it together. I hear a bike pull up, I look outside, and it’s Randy. I actually beat him here, yesss! He orders his sandwich for take away while I scarf mine right there. I watch the commercials and tell him how Lauren got me into watching them, figuring out who’s the target audience, and what each one says about society. I bring up one of the latest Hilfiger commercials that I saw back home, how they dressed up little kids with their line of clothing, making them look like tiny douche bags.

    “But that’s how people want to look,” he says.

    We pound our coffee, and we each feel a shit coming on. I tell him to go for it because mine needs to brew a little bit longer.

    He leaves, comes back, and says, “I don‘t know, I stood up, and it was gone.”

    “I was thinking the same thing,” I reply. I feel it in there, but I don’t think the masterpiece is finished yet.

    We mount our bikes, and Randy feels it coming on again. He runs back in, I wait about five minutes, and then he comes out ready to surf. He tells me that we’re still making the right turn at KFC. We head down the road, I pull over in the right turning lane, but he keeps going straight. I move out of my lane, see that he’s waiting for me, I honk to get his attention, and we’re finally on the same track. We turn off the highway and make the drive that I’ve only ridden a couple times since I’ve been here; it’s my first time making the drive myself. It turns out that Nusas is the easiest place to get to because there are only a few turns involved.

    When we arrive at the lookout point by the temple, the wind is still dead. The still air makes the sun’s rays hotter. We look out through a clearing in the brush and see a set come through. The roar of white wash stampedes over the shallow reef after the waves break. Randy’s quiet, so am I . . . I’m nervous. It’s one of those situations where you see the surf from far away, it looks small, but you figure out that the two little dots that you see are surfers, and that it’s not so small after all. It’s so different from Balangan. No, no more long left handers. We are staring down at peaks. They are well defined, and . . . and Randy’s comment says the rest.

    “It’s big,” he says. “This is good.”

    He leads the charge, and we park lower by the warung. I’m a little nerve wracked. I always am when surfing somewhere new. It’s nice that we’re here. Day 1 Donny Duckbutter surfed Nusa Dua, and it’s time to see how day 27 Donny Duckbutter performs. I’m already psyching myself out, and that’s not good. I know comfort. I can paddle out at Trestles and feel unstoppable, but out here, I’ve felt like an underdog the whole time. I’ve only surfed this spot twice compared to Balangan and The Gu which I’ve spent weeks at. I know it’s big, but I try not to think about it.

    Randy takes note of the new construction that’s being done to the sand in front of the beach; he’s not happy. We walk down the path, the water is glassy, a couple fishermen gather their nets, the tide is coming up, and we’re walking the shoreline for a good spot to paddle out. We see two people doing the reef dance in front of us, but they’re about two hundred yards out.

It's hard to tell, but two guys are out there still walking on shallow reef.

    “We’re not doing the reef dance,” says Randy. “I got vana in my foot last time, and I can’t see over the white wash.”

    It’s a little refreshing to see that he’s not completely indestructible. He’s susceptible to the same mental woes as I, for the left hander at The Burg will remain a sea urchin infested spot to me forever.

    We start the long paddle. The tides high enough that we don’t have to walk, but it’s a long ways out. The white wash looks tiny from where we are. I look below and scan the reef as we’re paddling. I’m worried about touching something pokey, so I don’t bury my hands in the water. My rear delts and upper back muscles are starting to burn, Randy’s ahead of me and pulling away fast, so I try to keep pace. As we’re nearing the white water, small ripples begin to tilt me on my board. Once we’re in the white wash zone, I assume that I can start duckdiving, but when I look down, the reef is shallow again. I do my best to do shallow dives, I look for Randy, and he’s way out there already. It’s still hard to accept. Looking at the both of us, it’s hard to imagine that one possesses bionic paddling capabilities while the other one doesn’t.

    We’re actually at the northern most channel closest to land, so we make it out without incident, but the current and tide causes some waves to come in perpendicular against us. It’s really weird, and it slows my progress a bit. An outside set comes, I take a deep breath, but it breaks after it passes me. Randy, if you can imagine, is far enough to resemble a little surf figurine from my perspective. These are the days he warned me about, I think to myself. For Bali training, even while he was in Cali, he told me over and over again, specifically, to get my paddling up. He told me of paddles that are at least a mile out, while fighting current, and while fighting waves. He said that some guys will take boats out to the lineup it’s so far, but that it’s always better to work for it. And it is so . . . I maintain my stroke and breathe in rhythm each time my hand strikes the water. I do this until Randy sits, and I finally close the distance.

    The tide’s doing something weird to the water; it’s lumpy. On day 1, the water was glassy, and each peak was defined. Today, the peaks are big and sloppy, the shoulders are hard to read, and there’s a lot of movement in the water.

    Randy spots his friend Charles and says hi to him. He’s an older gentleman on a longer board, but he sits way outside, and he only goes for the big ones, nothing else. I’m picky. A couple big waves suddenly appear, but I paddle out to beat them. I’m wondering how they are breaking, where are the peaks, where should I sit, how far to take the wave, where is the reef shallow, how shallow is it, and how much time do I have before the sets?

    The two guys we saw doing the reef dance are an Aussie father and son. The son looks barely eighteen, a grom, and he’s going for it. He paddles out past me. I say, “Good morning.”

    “How’s it going?”

    “Oh, trying to get that first one.”

    He laughs. “How can you not get a wave out here?”

    Well, he said it. Fuck me. How can I NOT get a wave out here? Randy comes back after his ride, and we all talk a bit.

    “The next one that comes is yours,” the grom says.

    “Yeah, it’s only my second time here, so . . . I’m still trying to figure it out.”

    “It’s like my fourteenth time here. I love it.”

    Randy asks, “How long are you here ‘til?”

    The grom replies, “We leave on the eighth . . . it sucks. I want to live here for the rest of my life!”

    This kid is so stoked, his energy is good, he’s good people. He alerts us to a fish, the size of my torso, that’s swimming by him. I try to take a pic as he takes another wave.

    Randy looks at me and says, “You’re gonna have to get one.”

    Fuck, it’s my thoughts exactly. I’m a Barn, but I don’t want to look bad in front of the kid, especially if he’s offering waves. I haven’t caught a good right hander in weeks, but I get over the mental block and paddle for one. The face is different, I’m so used to Balangan now, everything is different: my position on the board, the fine peaky shape of the wave, and the length that it’s running. I play my first one safe, do a passive bottom turn, stall on the lip, and let the wave pass as it breaks over the reef. It’s not an epic ride, but it’s a start to the session. I tell Randy how I get what he means, that it’s easier to generate speed going front side, as I had problems staying with the section going backhand.



The Buffet is Now Open:

    In a strange turn of events, the movement in the water subsides, it’s not lumpy anymore, and it’s turning glassy. Randy even acknowledges and says, “It backed off a little.“ He’s referring to the drop in size. The sets are coming in easy, maybe two at a time with smaller waves in between. Using Randy’s scale, it’s only three feet. For Cali scale, it’s much bigger. The peaks are so defined, there are rights and lefts, and it takes some getting used to. I don’t take the peak directly, and I paddle in just to the side of it, but it doesn’t take away from my rides. I start taking lefts. The peaks are A-framing, I feel as if I’m gonna get pitched, but I angle my board, and manage steep drops. The waves are almost too peaky in that they taper off in size after the bottom turn, but they are still fun regardless. I pull off the best front side top turns that I ever have in my short surfing career. For the first time, without even needing a deep bottom turn, I’m carving with the tail, using my rear foot, leaning down into the pocket, and smoothly reentering the face. For me, it’s some of my best surfing yet. Balangan has the big long lefts that has standing sections. Nusas starts off peaky and then goes shouldery.

    The most beautiful thing this morning is the clarity of the water. On each of these lefts all I can see is the brown plant life on the reef. The water’s not even blue; it’s so clear it’s like surfing on Evian. The water is invisible if you can imagine. There’s only a sign of the water when my board breaks the integrity of it; there’s barely any depth perception at all.

    I’m not even eating shit; I’m feeling confident now. On one right, it’s reminiscent of Trestles. I get the steep drop, bottom turn, do a couple little pumps to set myself up, whack the lip, pump twice, and do it again.

    The whole morning, I’m respecting the reef, trying to end my rides just a hair early, and making it back out unscathed. It’s hard for me to pick one ride as the wave of the day; I’m getting so many. It’s the wave buffet I’ve been dreaming of. I’m already thinking about my blog post. This IS like the movies. I’m back at a spot that I couldn’t handle at day 1, only to come back at the end of my trip to conquer it. Yes, I have changed, I have surpassed Barney status, Bali changed me, I’m a better surfer now!



I’m sorry, sir, you forgot to pay. Your bill is your ass:


    I’m beyond confident; I’m having the time of my life. I’m totally doing my own thing, Randy’s doing his own thing, we’re on our own agendas, and he doesn’t have to watch over me.

    Randy motions out towards the tour boat that’s closing in on our spot. “Guys are getting dropped off,” he says.

Dropped the off right next to the father and son.

    I look, boards are being flung overboard, and four bodies enter the water. I’ve said that I want to be humble, but . . . after that long paddle out, I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at these guys. Words cross my mind: lazy, piece of shit, sorry ass motherfuckers. I have to be honest. I can’t stop these thoughts; I’m not perfect.

    The lineup’s a little more crowded now but not by much. Before these guys showed up, there were only seven guys in the water, and that’s amongst scattered peaks; we’re only on the edge of Nusa Dua’s breaks. I paddle further south to get some for myself, away from Randy. I’m still having a blast.

    After a wave, a freak set pops out of no where, it’s the first since we’ve paddled out. I’m far enough to beat it. It’s a clean up set. It’s three or four waves, the peak starts in the north without warning, it’s lip curling down before anyone has a chance. I watch the inside, and everyone’s caught. I see Randy, and he’s recovering his position on his board. One of the boat riders is on a long board, and he’s caught in the insde. Wow. Not me. Not today. Randy gave me another warning about Nusa Dua. It’s a deep water spot, so the waves will jack up out of flat water, unlike other spots where we see them form in the distance. Nusa Dua has no point to predict the sets.

    After the set, the wave buffet continues. It’s hard to be picky any more. The wise thing to do is ensure that there’s not a haymaker waiting for me after my ride, but I catch a right anyway, and I catch it too far. I don’t touch the bottom but can see the reef through the clear patches of whitewash under my board. I’m paddling over white marble, and some waves are breaking I front of me. No problem, I’m thinking. It’s been an easy morning thus far. I duckdive one, two, paddle, paddle, paddle . . . three. Holy shit. Behind these smaller waves I see bigger waves behind them, and it’s worse. Since I left Randy’s area, I’m between two peaks now, and at the moment they are both working . . . really, really well. At Balangan and The Gu I had the channel. With Nusas scattered peaks beginning to turn on, I have none. It’s like being tag teamed. I’m ducking diving waves from one peak, and there’s a wave just a couple yards behind it getting ready to break. I duckdive one, resurface, and get another one on the face. I can beat this, I can beat this. I’m looking for relief, but there is none. The sets are still coming, it’s the groundhog day effect, am I even moving? I’m still surrounded by marble water. No one else is caught, I’m the only one at my peak, the beating continues.

    I’m having a hard time making amends with the situation. But everything was going so well, I think to myself. I’m not even worried about the reef because I know I have room, but the marble zone seems endless, I’m struggling to get to blue water. Where the fuck is the lull!? I’m tiring out, and I find that my improved duckdive still needs improvement. I pride myself that at least I’m holding on to my board, but I get washed around and spun in the opposite direction.

    Finally, I’m past the white water, but there’s a wave forming in front of me. All I have to do is duck dive this one. It breaks in front of me, I tell myself that I’m going to make it, I go under it, feel it’s power pulling me back, and I’m sucked away in reverse. When I resurface there’s another set on the way. 

Boat rider going for a wave. Dammit, he looked in the camera, ruined the action shot.

Return to the Dark Side:


    “Arrrrrrrrrrrrghhhhhhhhhhhhh!” I yell out, but at who? I’m pissed. I hate everything again. I’m thinking about someone or some thing to place my hate on. Why am I here? I can’t blame Randy, it’s not his fault. The stoke has long drained from my veins. It’s a paddling marathon. I see Randy. He’s watching me, but I don’t want pity, I want revenge, but it’s not working. Each ounce of hate goes into my paddle, but it causes me to give up. I float on the inside during a lull; I’m frustrated. I paddle back slow and still get worked; it’s fucking endless.

    When it’s all over, Randy is still watching me from a distance. I’m floating on the outside, lying on my board, forehead on my deck. I’m tired but mostly angry. My only way to deal with it is to catch another wave. I get a big left which I catch all the way to Randy’s peak.

    “I saw you caught on the inside!” he says. “I thought you gave up and went in!”

    “Fuck. I was so fuckin’ pissed off.”

    “Man, you must’ve got like thirty on the head.”

    I’m silent.

    He says, “The other guy got like fifty. The guy with the gray hood.” He’s referring to the boat riding longboarder. “Yeah, I heard him on the inside. He was yelling. When he came back, his friends were all looking at him wondering if he was all right.”

    “It’ll do that to you. Fuck, I just went through that myself.”

    I’m trying to be positive, telling myself that I can’t have fun without having the struggles along the way as well. I catch a couple more waves, good ones, and I’m happy again. I even tell Randy, “Ya know . . . despite getting worked earlier, I’m still having a lot of fun. It’s a wave buffet out here.”

    “Yeah, but normally Nusas isn’t like this. There are usually two peaks, this one and that one, not like how it is today. There are a lot.”

    He tells me he thinks he’s done, and I tell him I’ll catch a couple more. I catch a right hander, and another set starts to come in. Not again. I’m paddling, Randy punches through and reaches the safe zone, and I’m taking beatings all over again. Randy catches another wave, passes me, has time to stop, and says, “I’m going in.”

    “All right,” I say, but I’m not. I’m paddling. I can’t end the session like this, not like this. It sounds like I’m exaggerating, but even Randy said that he thought I would’ve given up to let myself to get washed up on shore. On the second round of beatings I become delirious. I try different things to punch through the wave better, but they need practice. I’m almost back to the outside, but I see a big wave forming in front of me. Seething with anger, I yell at it: “YEAHHHHHH, YEAHHHHHHHH! FOCK YOUUUUUUUUU!” It’s ridiculous. I barely punch through, and I’m sitting at the line up again. The beatings now outweigh the fun that I had. My mission is one good wave; I need to end it on one good wave. A big let comes, I ride it wisely, no practicing turns, just staying on the face as long as possible. I straighten out and let the white wash take me as far as possible. I’m not satisfied. It was a “gimme” wave, or a freebee. It was as if Nusa Dua said, “All right you fuckin’ bitch. Here, take this fucking wave and stop your crying.”





How About a Little Salt in That Wound?:


    After the white wash fizzles away, I’m only half way to the shore. I sit on the inside, exhausted from. . . . I see Randy already near the shore. No waves are breaking where I am, so I must paddle. I head for the temple where we walked out to, but as I get closer I see that the water level is above the path. There’s a current on the inside, and it’s taking me north of the temple, but there’s no where to walk over there. I need to go south where the sand is. The current on the inside is so strong. I’m being dragged behind the temple. Each stroke barely covers any distance. I’m watching the foliage on the cliff to see if I’m moving; I can‘t even tell.

    I make it around the temple, and some little local kids are hanging out on some beach chairs. They’re watching me and laughing. I don’t blame them. It’s obvious. The look on my face says it all. I walk out of the water, a kid gives me a thumbs up and smiles, I give a thumbs up back, I plant my foot on the stairs, and I sway unbalanced.

    Randy’s almost done changing. I’m suffering from post beating afterburn. He knows I’m wiped. He says, “Man, today was small. Can you imagine six foot Nusa Dua and consistent?”

    I give his comment some thought. The epiphany sucks, but I accept it. “I’m not ready for Bali,” I reply.



Where the Fuck am I?:

    I find the shortcut back, but it’s my first time riding back alone via the shortcut. I make a wrong turn somewhere, and I’m looking for the road that runs parallel to the beach. I come to a dead end. What the fuck. Not only am I tired, but I don’t know where the fuck I am. I turn around, trace my route, and find the road I was initially looking for. Someone once said, the best way to know your way around is to get lost. Actually, I just made that up, but I’m sure that someone else has already said that.

The Wind Down:

   
    I get back to my motel room, go out to the balcony, eat a couple bean cakes, and drink some water. I shower, change, and go back to Heaven’s Club for some food. I splurge. I order the eggplant, tofu with tempe, egg, Indian potatoes, a side order of rice, and another avocado smoothie. I inhale it all. I go back to my room and sleep until 1630.

    I wake up, try to write, and do a little inspection on my surf board. Sure as fuck, there’s a crack on the tail’s glassing, and a piece is missing. I got Solarez but no sanding material. I walk my board to BK, talk to Kadek, but he used the last of his materials to fix my brother’s board. He tells me to go to a local shop by my motel and not to pay more than 30,000. When I show up, the guy points out two other dings on my board. I knew of them, but I was gonna ask my friend Rick to fix them when I got back to L.A. I decide to have it all done in one shot. He wants me to pay 70,000, but I talk him down to 50,000. It’s five bucks for three dings, it’s a good deal, but it won’t be done until tomorrow at 1000.

    I drive to Seminyak Chat Café, work on my blogs, and then drive to Cabe (Indo warung) around the corner. Coincidentally, Randy is there. We talk about tomorrow’s plans, he takes his food to go, and the splurging continues. I order the beef curry dish, gado-gado, and some Indo dessert. It barely comes out to seven bucks.

    My board won’t be ready until late in the morning, so I’m up late writing. Today is the fourth of July, but in Bali, it’s just another day. I had my ass handed to me today. I don’t know what this says for my surfing. I just need to accept it.
   

Another night at the chat cafe, posting my blogs.