A Barney in Bali--Day 3, 10JUNE2011

     First, my apologies. My blogs are late because of the modem internet in Bali. Wifi is a hassle, and I spend more time trying to upload pictures than actually writing. My memory fleets me a little. Due to the current surf conditions, I hope to catch up and get back on track.

Black sand hill, beach on other side.

The Second Session: Canggu (pronounced: chang-goo)

Nusa Dua was not a debacle. The sight alone and feeling of being on that wave filled me with many surf sensations that I’ve never felt before. Just for the record, that session was priceless.

Day 3, Daz was not joining us. The swell prediction was eight feet for that day. Daz chose to gamble on a different island called Lombok. I can’t recall if it was for swell and wind direction, but Randy said that “The Gu” was the best bet. A little bit of back-info on Canggu: recently Taj, Parko, and some other pros were spotted there. Wherever there are pros, there are cameras. Canggu also hosts surf competitions.

Sunrise at Canggu. Volcano on the left.

I killed off a small piece of raisin bread, we had our morning tea, and we were off. I didn’t know what to expect, but I did know one thing: beach break is safer than pokey reef. After all, except for some of the round cobble stones in Socal, I mostly surf beach break. I thought this would be a good opportunity to push the envelope a little, since the wipeouts wouldn’t be as gnarly as Nusa Dua.

Bale hut

Considered a small day to paddle out by local standards. This is the southern peak.

We rode in a completely different direction from yesterday. This time we stayed away from the main highway and took roads through the villages. My brother once told me that the reason he loves Bali so much compared to Hawaii is that, despite all the tourism, you can always drive a couple miles and be back in the village country side. Well, he was right. There is this one stretch of road on the way, it opens up with nothing but banana trees, palm trees, and rice fields on each side. The road was narrow but empty. The sun was still behind the volcanic horizon, truly majestic.

Randy said, “Remember how I told you I was sold on Bali when I took a drive through the rice fields?”

“Yeah.”

“This is that drive.”

Though rough, bumpy, and full of pot holes, I understood what he meant. He says that the whole island is rigged this way. One can grab a moped and explore the whole island. I could only imagine the roads and places I haven’t seen yet.


Our destination was marked by a small, grassy plain where cattle grazed. They are used to human contact and didn’t budge at our arrival. We parked at the foothill of the black sand beach. When we walked over, I saw glassy, clean, beach break. There are three main peaks: one southern most peak, the famous “River Mouth” in the middle, and Burger Peak (Randy and Daz named it) to the north. The southern peak was a perfect A-frame. About five camera men already lined up the shore as a couple guys were launching airs. River Mouth was the most crowded. Not as peaky, but bigger, and the rides longer. I was stoked at the sight, and of course . . . Randy was disappointed that the swell forecast was off. It was supposed to be eight feet. I think eight feet would kick my ass right now. In the South Bay, eight feet raises a stir within the local surf community. In Bali, it’s expected. He apologized for the conditions again, but I reminded him that I El Porto. So it wasn’t eight feet? Who cares? It was about four feet, close to head high on the plus sets.

The top two pics are peaks further down south not even considered the main part of Canggu. How would you like this as your "throw away" break?

Randy finds a turtle, gives it to the sea.

We changed parking locations and walked to The Burger. Note: It’s called Burger Peak only because it’s smaller compared to River Mouth; it actually barrels on a good swell. There were six heads at the peak, crowded to Randy’s standards. It was in fact one peak, so it did have to be shared. There were no peaks in between, just the three. We were about to paddle out, but Randy said he might have to take a shit, so I left without him. Aussies. They’re everywhere, but some guys in the line-up were speaking French too. Randy struck up a conversation with one of them. Surprisingly, there was no bad edge to the surfers in the water. Everyone was cool. Randy’s advice was to smile in the line up. I do, I get nods and smiles back. Some didn’t acknowledge, but there was nothing aggro about the place at all.


With the crowd factor, I didn’t expect to get many waves; I don’t do well in crowds. There was a slight rip current which actually helped because it placed people out of position without them knowing. Randy filled me in on where to sit, and we constantly paddled to maintain position. The lefts were breaking better this day. Randy called me into a wave. His presence kept others off of it. There’s something about a long-haired, cut-up, dark islander that spells “ripper.” I popped up and pumped down the line. It was long and I took it towards the inside--mistake. I looked down and saw that I was surfing over brown rocks. Son of a bitch, I thought. I used Daz’s “starfish” technique when I dismounted, careful not to scrape the bottom. I returned and thanked Randy for the ride.

Surprisingly, I got more than one or two waves. Even though there were a lot of people for one peak, I found myself in the prime position, even without Randy’s blocking. My wave of the day was another left, this one was close to head high and fast. It felt like it might have been a little hollow, but I learned my lesson from Nusa Dua, and I was worried about the rocks. I saw two guys paddling over the building wave in the distance, one was Randy. I had a lot of speed and stayed just in front of the critical part of the wave. I attempted some cut backs. I didn’t pull off the whole movement, but my entry was smooth and graceful. I crouched down low to keep a low center of gravity and started a wide, arching turn. My problem was my reentry back into the wave. Instead of a smooth transition to redirect my board, I kept getting stuck with my nose down, so my redirection was SLOPPY. Either way, it was a fast wave that I kept up with, and those arching turns felt fast and gouging.
 

Small day, but someone is getting a partial cover-up.


Once the tide started to go out, it was time to leave, as The Burger was starting to shut down. It was a great “breaking in” session. We walked back to the Yamaha and were almost completely dried by the sun when we got there. The southern peak was going off still. It was A-framing so well, but there were so many people there.

We stopped off to get some petro for the bike and took the same scenic route back. We were greeted by Randy’s maid Christine. Lunch was ready.

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.

A Barney in Bali--Day 1, 07JUNE2011

  

Asia bound, a first for me.



I said it, so now I’m doing it:

It’s so funny to think that I’m on a plane to Bali. A year ago to this day I was in Iraq staring at my buddy Al in our tiny room. I told Al about my brother’s move to Bali, and how we need to go and surf over there. In Iraq, obviously, there was no surf, just a murky pool with fifty rock hard sausages in it. So now I sit in my window seat not knowing what to expect. It sure wasn’t easy getting here.

I think I bought my ticket two months ago, but I didn’t have much time to prepare. Between finals and work, I had to rush to prepare. I had a laundry list of things to get for myself and mostly my brother. One of the things I received was a massive donation of surf gear from friends for my brother’s people in Bali. My friend Manny A. donated three huge boxes of all brand new clothing. I literally spent the whole day up until I left, packing. The result was two surfboards in surfboard bags filled to capacity with clothes, two huge suitcases (courtesy of Boris) filled to the brink of busting open, and two carry-ons. I’ve never traveled with this much shit before. I got clipped $164 for both boards and another $32 for exceeding the luggage weight limit. After that whole mess, I kissed Lauren goodbye and headed towards my gate. I didn’t expect parting from her to be so hard, but it slightly brought back the feelings of when I left for Iraq. We’ll manage; it’s only thirty days this time and without incoming.

I’ve flown international before, but never to Asia. So far, everyone seems cool. The flight is full, but it doesn’t feel like it, and there’s enough room for everyone without feeling like flying in a sardine can.

I’m not the only surfer here. I saw some surfer chicks dropping off their board bags at the same place I did. I thought it necessary to give off the aura that I shred, but in reality, those chicks would probably own me in the water. I at least know one thing for sure. My dark complexion and weathered, sun beaten skin gives the appearance of someone who spends a lot of time in the water. But I’m not a fool to forget that it’s one’s surfing that does the real talking, not his appearance.

I’m hungry . . . ravenous. I didn’t eat dinner, and I have a feeling that we aren’t eating for a long ass time. It’s 0138, the plane’s gaining speed, and it makes my stomach feel emptier. I have fruit snacks.
I gave the Taiwanese chick next to me a stick of gum. There’s another chick sitting in the aisle. I’m glad I’m not sitting to a huge hairy bastard. The plane’s taking off. I am tired. --0141


Ten hours later . . .

I’m not sure if this plane actually has room or if it’s just because I’m sitting next to two tiny females. Dinner was just “okay.” I chose the chicken with rice. The vegetables were so overcooked that they were mushy. The rice was cooked with too much water, and the chicken tasted like a failed attempt at shoyu chicken: not enough salt, not sweet, but the texture and sauce color was deceiving. Damn . . . and the flight attendant forgot to give me a fork to eat with. I kept trying to get her attention, but it was too much for her to notice the brown monkey waiving his hand. The chick next to me saved me, and the stewardess apologized. I spent the next seven hours dozing on and off, waking to uncomfortable and awkward airplane sleep. I hoped that I wouldn’t have to piss or shit so as not to disturb my neighbors. I woke up to the sound of wrappers being opened; people were eating. Dammit, I thought. I slept through them handing out snacks. About an hour ago I woke up to find the seat next to me empty. I woke up the girl sitting in the aisle seat, so I could get through and take a piss. So now it’s 1223 in Los Angeles. I have no idea what time it is over this part of the Pacific Ocean.

I ate some Kellogg’s fruit snacks. Jesus H., they were delicious. I didn’t offer any to the girl next to me; they are much too precious.


Two and a half hours from the last time . . .

So I finally need to take a shit, and pretty badly too. They served us breakfast about an hour ago. I wanted to take a picture, but I didn’t want to weird out the people around me. After all, isn’t taking a pic of your airplane food normal? I had a choice between Chinese Congi and scrambled eggs. The eggs came with soggy hash browns and what tasted like a vegetarian sausage link. Delicious.
The turbulence was so strong. My tea spilled all over the tray. Current time in L.A. is 1427. We’ve flown over a couple islands. One looked barely the size of two football fields. My buddy Klaude gave me a book titled “Saltwater Buddha” by Jaimal Yogis. I’ve already blazed through half of it on this flight alone. Jaimal’s narrative made me think of my own. Everyone has their own story to tell.
I don’t even know what the local time will be when we land, or how long my layover will be. All I know is that I’m about to shit my pants. I think we’ll land in a half hour. Thankfully, this doesn’t feel like diarrhea. --1435 L.A. time


0736 Taipei:
 

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I waited until everyone got off the plane before I got my bags from the overhead bin. From there I looked for a monitor that would have my flight info. I was a little worried to find that my flight to Bali wasn’t listed. Some guy was assisting people on where to go. Even thought I wanted to fend for myself, my look of confusion sent him my way. Gate A6 was my destination. As soon as the sky car arrived, everyone crammed in it. I thought I was smart by taking the corner, but soon I was pushed into the corner, then I, Donny Duckbutter, became the corner. The need to take a shit took a back seat to finding my gate. There was a flight going to Ho Chi Minh first, so I had some time to kill.

I was hoping for more places to eat or drink without feeling like a foreign idiot. Oh . . . but I had to shit too. When I did find a bathroom, I was not prepared for what I stumbled upon. My intention was to use the bathroom and change into a pair of shorts, but the toilet was in the ground, like the kind I’ve seen on the travel channels on TV. I’m somewhat ashamed of my Western attitude, that something like this would strike me as odd. How do foreigners feel when they come to America and sit on our shitters? Not knowing how to approach the situation, I got butt naked, squatted, threw up the “W,” and released about five pounds of ass logs. The first flush barely moved the brown glacier an inch. Three flushes later, and it was still only half gone. Patriotism filled my bosom. American shits . . . built tough.

Freshly changed, I walked up and down the terminal looking for some hydration. The vending machines didn’t take my currency. I settled on an expensive looking coffee shop. With the baristas choppy English and my inability to really listen, I eventually ordered a mocha ice coffee which came out to five bucks. Not too bad for airport prices. The staff was amazed by the one-dollar coin pieces I paid with. They congregated and asked their manager if I could pay with that. The all said, “Coo-ool.”

The Second Leg: 4 hrs. & 45 min.

It’s 0858. After my coffee I found my gate emptied. The flight to Denpasar Airport looked to be an empty one, but the crowd began to thicken with each passing minute. Eight guys sat next to me. I could’ve passed for one of them on a quick glance. They spoke their native tongue and could’ve been talking shit about me for all I knew. It brought back memories of high school in Hawaii, and the Ilocano insults that I could only translate through disdainful facial expressions.

It was almost boarding time, and I wouldn’t be held up at the back of the line like at LAX. After first and business class, I was the next person on the plane.

This plane is smaller but in much better shape than the last. The headrest monitor isn’t scratched, the remote looks brand new, and the tray table looks like a contraption you’d find in the W Hotel. Just as I got into writing this, a stewardess asked me if I was traveling alone. She told me how a married couple got separated, and if I wanted to switch seats to help them out. I looked up and saw the aisle cluttered with people shuffling to their seats. Reluctantly, I said, “Sure.” She thanked me, grabbed my bag, and said to follow her. At least she was nice enough to clear a path. I don’t know how, but her little Chinese frame plowed us through the gauntlet.

She offered me a free vegetarian meal, but I declined. I want meat! Maybe I’ll hit her up for seconds. At least I’m more towards the front. Easy exit maybe? Randy told me what to do when I land, but I still feel like I don’t know what to expect. Those doors will open again, and the adventure has yet to begin.

The First Impression:

As soon as the plane stopped, I rushed towards the airplane doors before the seatbelt signs were off. I was stopped by the stewardess as she told me to wait, and then she pulled out my bag that she stored for me. I was happy for securing the first spot to be out the doors. I rushed down the hall and was passed up by some chick that was in an awful hurry. My instincts told me to follow her, but I was also worried that I’d foolishly get myself lost on a whim. I came across a fork that didn’t have any signs guiding me on where to go. Like an idiot, I chose the wrong path. By the time I turned around and was back on track, half the airplane was ahead of me again. Again, once I got downstairs, I had to choose to go left or right. I chose to go right, which was fucking wrong again. The security guy with horribly crooked teeth told me to turn around. I paid for my on arrival Visa, got my passport stamped, and headed straight for the baggage claim. My brother told me to just find a stray cart, but what I saw was airport workers with carts in hand. When I asked one of them for the cart, it finally hit me that they were jockeying to help out passengers and receive a tip. I declined the help and finally found the empty carts in the back. Now the other battle started: struggling with my two carry-ons, the two suitcases, and the two board bags. My surfboards were between two carousels, and I’m glad that no one was stepping on them or knocking them around. The final battle was going through customs. Since I had so much shit, they opened up the third conveyor belt just for me, and then I had to talk to the Customs Officer.

He said, “You have cigarettes?”

“No, no, just vodka. One bottle.”

“No, you don’t have any cigarettes?”

“Nope, just the bottle.”

“How many?”

“One.”

He looked at the pile of bags, and he chose to only inspect one, but it was the one with the vodka. When traveling into Bali, you’re only allowed a single one liter bottle of alcohol. Mine was 1.75L.

He picked up the bubble-wrapped bottle and said, “This is big bottle, how many liters is this? Two?”

“Nope, just one.” I waited for him to open it and catch me in a lie, but he struggled to rip the packing tape off of the plastic. After a couple more seconds of wrestling with it, he told me to go.

I had to pile all that shit back onto the cart. I was like an ocean liner moving through that terminal. The message was clear: I came here to surf. Once I exited the double doors there was a gate holding back a sea of people who were holding up signs with names on them, both in English and Asian characters. I was pretty tired by then, and a defeated look overcame my face. I knew that I wasn’t gonna find Randy in that crowd. I tried to listen for my name, and then I heard him calling. I strolled clear of the crowd and exchanged greetings with my brother. I fucking made it. He introduced me to his homeboy Kadek who took all my bags and drove them to his house.

Denpasar Airport reminded me of Kahului Airport on Maui. There was orange tiling on some buildings, palm trees, the angle of the sun at that hour, the humidity, and definitely the heat. The only difference was that there was no wind, it was five times as crowded, and there were a lot of motor bikes instead of cars.


Get Ready to Shit Your Pants:

Randy said that we’d get to his place via motorcycle. He whipped out an extra helmet for me, and he started his Yamaha. Jaimal Yogis wrote about letting go and just giving yourself to the situation that’s taking hold. I tried. I tried to do so and not flinch or tighten up, but it was useless. My hands gripped the rails on the rear seat to hold me in place. I don’t have the words to express what I felt as we drove away from the airport, but we entered an abyss of motor bikes. I say motor bikes as a general term because there were both mopeds, scooters, scooters on steroids, and dirt bikes equipped for the street just like Randy’s. The surrounding areas around the airport weren’t that bad. We weaved through motorists and commuters in their cars and vans.

Randy said, “I’m going to take you the exact route that my friend Sky took me on when I first arrived. We’re going to Kuta!”

“Kuta?”

“Yeah . . . the surf ghetto!”

Fuck . . . sightseeing . . . I fuckin’ love sightseeing. But it’s hard to enjoy sightseeing when you’re entering a busy city during peak rush hour traffic on the back of a motorcycle that’s weaving through unorganized traffic that’s going every which way while coming within inches of trucks, cars, vans, etc. What extreme opposites to go through. I was just sitting on my ass through eighteen hours of flight time, not including the layover and rigormorrig of getting outside the airport.

I don’t know how, but we squeezed in between another motorists and a van moving at top speed. I inhaled and clenched.

“Don’t flinch!” said Randy. “You’ll move the bike. Don’t worry, I got this.” As much as I wanted to look around more, my instincts took over and stared at what looked like impossible traffic to drive through.
“What are you thinking?” Randy asked.

“I’m thinking . . . that I’m just letting you focus on the driving.”

We reached gridlocked traffic, but not to fear, for Randy simply rode on the sidewalk and hit the throttle. Just let go, just let go, I thought to myself. We stopped at the Big Kahuna surf school in Kuta to meet my brother’s friend Wulan. I turned around and saw the beach right behind us through a small entrance in a wall. I told him that I needed to see the surf.

I’ve never seen such a busy street right next a beach that was surfable. I mean, during my high school days I spent a lot of time on Front St. Lahaina which was right by the water, but this was different. I walked through the entrance and saw a sea of beachgoers. Randy said that it wasn’t even crowded. It actually did remind me of Maui a bit, but just with more locals and less tourists. Some westerners were hanging out and mixed with the locals. A card game was going on, people were laid out on the sand, most people stayed underneath the shade of the trees closer to the street, and people came back from the water with boards in hand. It was a “small day” as far as surf goes. The peaks were long and lined, but the shoulders were more than workable. It was on the mooshy and gradual side, kind of like Trestles. It was only two feet on the Bali scale, but it still looked fun. It was eighty-two degrees, but a manageable eighty-two. I would’ve loved to paddle out at that moment. The beach was packed with longboarders. Mostly tourists I think. I watched a guy pop up on a left who had to kick out because a guy was paddling into his wave, and yet another guy was setting up to snake that guy as well.

We met up with Wulan and got invited to her birthday party taking place the next day. From there, Randy and I rode to his place. On the way there I glanced in a bar that was filled with tourists, which was very reminiscent of Maui. Our path led us away from the urban traffic and onto rural, residential side streets. Away from the chaos, we pulled into an open lot where my brother’s house is stationed. Jessica and my nephew Baby Jaya welcomed our arrival.

Randy’s maid had food already cooked for us. We ate, I settled in, and by 2100 I couldn’t even keep my eyes open. We were to dawn patrol at Nusa Dua the next morning. Randy said, “It’s gonna be small tomorrow so . . . don’t expect much.”

Funny how he felt he needed an advanced excuse for the small surf. I had a feeling that I’d be in for a shocker regardless.