A Barney in Bali--Day 11, 18JUNE2011 SAT

Sunrise over Tugu

Tugu Round 2:

    It’s 0511, and I notice the light on outside my room. Randy’s up. As I flick the bathroom light on, my body’s telling me something. Despite seven hours of solid sleep, I’m still tired. My back muscles are aching; I’m surf worn. I brush my teeth, do my warm ups, and join Randy for tea. We converse about memories of our grandfather, and how the sound of tea being stirred in the early morning, while everyone’s a sleep, brings back memories of him.

    We discuss yesterday’s fortunes and how that will play out today. We aim for a short session at Canggu, and then another gamble on SS #1 if the winds are right.

    In the darkness, we hit the road. Over the past 10 days I’ve gotten quite comfortable on the back of the bike. I’m not tensing or clenching as much and actually enjoy the straightaways where we’re at full speed with the wind against us.

    Yesterday’s swell forecast was actually thirteen feet, and today it goes down just a little. The past couple mornings have been low tide mornings, and Canggu doesn’t do well on a low tide. The only break working is the sand bar, but the inside looks really washy. We can see the north end of Tugu which has a left that is holding shape pretty well. We adjust fire and change locations.

    Randy chooses to surf the inside again, so I start my long paddle out to the line up. I pass up clean right handers that peel away towards the inside. The waves on the outside break and reform, which turn into the waves that my brother rides. It takes a while and a series of duckdives, but I make it. Yesterday morning I surfed a different peak to my south. This morning is less crowded with mostly novices at my level or a little lower.

    The size is down just a hair, but the shape looks cleaner. I take my first left which closes out after a couple pumps. My second wave doesn’t let me down. It’s head high. The peak is lined and walled for the right, but there’s a well defined left hand shoulder at the end of it; I’m in perfect position for it. It’s a steep drop, but I start pumping my board at mid face to keep up with the wave. The section in front of me starts to close. I draw another high line just under the feathering lip, rebound, and move down the line as fast as I have so far on this trip. Two guys are on the shoulder seeing if I make the section. I do, so they back off. I’m so stoked. I’m on a wave that will potentially take me all the way to the channel, the longest ride ever awaits me. I set up to move down the face and into the pocket for a bottom turn, when I see some fucking guy paddling out, right in my fucking path. I’m moving so fast, and I really need to get in the pocket because I want to set up for a bottom turn. I have no choice but to jump off my board. The breaking section that I successfully passed, now consumes me as I go down in a roar of whitewash. I resurface, and the guy’s behind me; he ditched his board.

    He says something, some kind of apology that I can’t hear over the overwhelming fizz of foam.

    “Are you all right?” I ask.

    He nods his head as if to say yes. He’s not getting on his board. I wait until he’s on it and returns a thumbs up.

    Back at the line up, I know I won’t get another one like that. That wave was worth more than one session, it would’ve made up for all my foibles that I’ve had thus far on this trip. But it did feel good going front side on a big wave, pumping, racing, and choosing good lines to make it out to the shoulder. I killed the aggro attitude and approached the guy in kindness; I know he didn’t mean it. How many times have you been paddling out to see some guy drawing a straight line to your ass? The paddling dance begins. I paddle for some smaller waves, scratch out, turn around, and rogue waves are way on the outside. I paddle back out to beat them, miss them completely, and the water goes flat into lulls. I catch another left, but incomparable to the previous.

Hard to tell, but there's rain.

     My session’s just over an hour, so I catch a shoulder high right back to shore. That epic ride, cut short, haunts me. There’s a patch of dark clouds, it‘s drizzling, and a rainbow appears over the ocean as my brother catches his last wave.

    We ride home, do some grocery shopping at Bali’s version of K Mart, and do take-out from a Javanese restaurant. I feel nervous ordering. I look for anything that I can identify; I recognize nothing. I point, point, and point, until the leaf wrapped dish is full. It’s heavy, costs me three dollars, and tastes delicious.

Javanese food, $3.

    Unfortunately, the wind isn’t dead like yesterday, and the tide’s low again just before sunset. Tomorrow will be the next session.

A Barney in Bali--Day 10 (double sesh), 17JUNE2011 FRI

Secret Spot (SS) #1:

    Surprisingly, there’s no wind, and it’s almost noon. It’s just like the day we surfed Nusa Dua, but Randy says that the well there will be too big for me, so we can’t surf there. It’s a little disappointing, but drowning is disappointing too, so I trust his judgment.

    He says that the same spot we checked out yesterday might be good because, there’s no wind, there’s a good swell right now, and since it’s not getting the swell head on I should be able to manage. But there’s one major factor: the tide. It’s a full moon, so the high tide will start draining fast which will make conditions change drastically.

    We take a short break, eat a small meal, and we’re on the road again. My brother wears a face mask. Blazing through traffic, I feel dust particles crunching between my teeth. Good call on the mask, I think to myself. It’s a long ride, and my ass is fricken’ sore. We reach gridlock, my bro’s a little aggro from some car that cut off the shoulder that all the bikes use.

    We get to one secret spot, but the tide is still high. We notice a couple peaks that are working, but it’s only two feet. We pull up to SS #1. Yesterday there was nothing, today there are only two guys on it. I sense the urgency in my brother’s voice. He sounds like me as I’m suiting up to surf Trestles.

    “Ohhh shit! There’s only two guys on it!” He says as he struggles to put the kickstand down faster than his mind allows. As I try to get a glimpse of the peak, he’s already changed and putting wax on his board.

    “I’m not waiting for you,” he says. “We gotta get on it, we gotta catch this window!”

    I put wax on my board. “It’s melting,” I say. I turn around. I’m talking to myself. I catch up with him on the sand. There’s a chick in a pink bikini with her boyfriend in the line up and two other guys watching from shore.

    Randy walks up and says, “Fuck, the wind just went onshore, but look! Backhand barrels!”

    I see the wave going; it‘s a right hander. It‘s probably only three feet, but the water cascades down over the shoulder, leaving a hollow pocket to tuck into.

    “All right,” he says. “I don’t know where to paddle out, this is my first time surfing here. I’m paddling out right here; I’ll meet you out there.”

    He jumps in the water while I do my presurf ritual. I sink into deep water the second I step in, similar to Torrance Beach. On the paddle out I notice that I’m paddling over some rocks. There looks like at least three feet of clearance, or so I hope.

    The guy in the water catches a right hander all the way to the channel. The spot is just one right, but it’s so secluded. Nowadays, to surf a spot in Bali with good conditions, and to only have two other people as “the crowd” is a goldmine. The guy passes me as he paddles back. He smiles, I say, “Hi,” and I feel refreshed with the positive environment. My brother is even talking to the pink bikini chic about how secluded the spot is.

    I paddle for a wave on the outside, Randy has good position, he lets me have it, I scratch out. He paddles past me, says that he missed the wave because he thought I had it, and he goes to the peak.

    A wave forms towards the inside, I paddle and catch it right where it’s breaking. Even though it’s only three feet, it’s a pitchy three feet that stands up fast. I survive the drop. Once I realize that I’m not eating shit, I pull off a satisfactory top turn, reenter the pocket for speed, and pump down the line. The wave isn’t hollow, but it’s my best wave in a couple days. I look down and see that I’m over the rocks. Fuckin’ rocks . . . always, I swear. I bail out over the lip in hopes to avoid the reef.

    It isn’t the redeemer wave but a much needed wave, and that‘s enough to bring back some stoke. The two guys on the shore earlier are now paddling out. Randy’s gets a wave, and the surfing couple watches to see what he does.

    There’s now five people in the line up, and that’s still thin company. I paddle more south, away from Randy. He waves me over to go come back. He says, “You’re going too deep in the peak, you’re gonna get caught on the inside.”

    Has my brother’s advice ever let me down? I can be hard headed sometimes. My other surf mentor Rick A., has given me advice that I went against, which resulted in me backtracking and following his words. So when it comes to people that have way more experience in the water, you listen.

    There’s a bump in the distance, a small one, but I’m in the perfect position to catch it right on the peak. I do, but I’m behind it. I caught it where my brother told me not to, and the section closes in front of me. Under the water, my right ass cheek hit’s a rock. Here we go again. Since we’ve been there, the tide is already lower and still sucking out even more. I’m over two feet of water. I look in the distance and see that I caught the first tiny wave that is bringing in the rest of the set. Fuck my ass. Yes, only three feet, but as I said, the waves really stand up as they break. I prepare for the first hit, I duckdive, too shallow, I get washed around and feel the rocks on my back. I struggle to get to deeper water, the next wave comes, someone’s on it, I paddle towards the broken section to take my beatings, and I’m washed around again. This time the chick is on the next wave. She draws eye contact with me as I’m paddling. I’m looking like the deer in the headlights. The look she gives me is a look of concern. She is charging, while I’m stuck on the inside: FAIL. Randy keeps looking back to see if I’m alive. I smile at him, but it’s a “WTF smile.”

    On the wave, I thought that I was at least a little bit towards the channel because I was after all on a “right.” Fuckin’ A, my brother was right. I didn’t go against his advice, but I obliviously drifted where he told me not to go; I wasn’t paying attention, and now . . . I pay.

    The peak is getting closer and closer. Finally, I duckdive a wave in deeper water. Like so many other times on this trip, I’m embarrassed. No one is as Barnier as I. I catch my breath and remind myself to let go of the ego. I tell myself that I suck, and I accept it. I grab my balls and paddle closer to the channel.

    The Aussies are tearing these waves up. I have perfect view of the drop and the first section. The are regular footers, so they gain a lot of momentum and make the wave look easy on their front side.

    Two of the Aussies are paddling back to the line up when I try to catch what looks like a small wave. It jacks up again once it hit’s the shelf, it jacks up, I fight the pitch by leaning back and grabbing rail . . . explosion . . . I’m underwater. Adding insult to previous injuries, I wipeout with an audience.

    I realize two things. One, wiping out in front of a few people is worse than wiping out in front of a lot. At least when there’s a lot of people, you can get lost in the crowd, and there’s a chance of more people wiping out as well. Two, I never eat this much shit in California. I actually got to the point where I barely fell, where falling would be a rarity for the session. Maybe only once or twice. Out here . . . I’ve been eating a lot of shit.

    Randy paddles up to me and says that I should get out of the water because it’s getting to shallow on the inside. I concur. I paddle even more near the channel and catch one as far as it will take me. Now I’m in barely a foot of water. The surfer couple are leaving as well.

I know I'm a dork, but I'm happy right here.

    As we are packing up to go, Randy can’t keep his eyes off the spot. I’ve never seen him this stoked over a surf session since I’ve been here. He even gives me the Balinese handshake, so I know he’s happy.

    We have a post surf lunch at an Indian and Malaysian warung. We splurge buying two dishes each, cold tea, and Sumatra juice drinks.

    Over dinner he tells me that he’s been trying to escape the crowds, and now he may have found the place. He’s stoked.

    He says, “I don’t care about surfing ‘the premier’ wave over here. If I can find a good wave that I can have all to myself, I’m happy.”

    I’m happy with the day’s adventures. I surfed two new spots, and in complete opposite conditions. Even though I had a rough time at SS #1, I still got that first good right and had fun despite the reef incident. The splurging at the restaurant was the cherry on top; it only costs us $10 total. Today was the kind of adventure that I had hoped for. But the ride was long, and my ass still hurts.

A Barney in Bali--Day 10, 17JUNE2011 FRI

Sunrise on the Canggu Stretch

Getting What You Ask for Doesn’t Always Work Out:

    Last night there was more surf mentoring over dinner, but Randy told me the things that I’ve already been epiphanizing the last couple days: I suck.

    Now that it’s a new day I’d like to think that my pussy doesn’t hurt as much. It’s 0500 and Randy’s not up yet. I take my time warming up, and when I’m done he’s in mid routine.

    “Damn, I woke up late,” he says.

    He starts the morning tea as we read the wind, swell, and tide forecasts. The swell is up today. In fact . . . the swell forecasts are incredible compared to back home. The numbers during the week are anywhere between eight and thirteen feet. Next week is supposed to be eighteen feet. I’m such an idiot that the common practice of downplaying wave size has me confused too, so I just follow the “Bali Scale.” It’s three to four feet. I suppose when I’m involuntarily shitting my pants, it will be safe to call it six feet, but what are the actual wave heights? I hate exaggerating, so I’ll play the game. 

    After losing the Sanur gamble yesterday, the options are Canggu or Tugu. Randy says that Tugu is more of a gradual wave. He gives me this option because of today’s swell. Basically, Canggu may be too big for me to handle. Being tired of surfing the same spot, I suggest Tugu.

    As we arrive, we first look at The Gu. It’s big enough to clear The Burger; it’s closing out and not holding shape, while he river mouth still holds. The sand bar works, but it’s fast.

    “Okay,” says Randy. “This is the deal. If we surf here, it’s gonna have to be the river mouth. Sand Bar may be a little too difficult for you.”

    I watch Rivers and note the crowd there. The inside looks a little brutal. My concern is eating shit, which is a guarantee for me, and then being in the way of a dozen Aussies pumping down the line. It’s consistent, big, and crowded, which is not appealing. I decide on Tugu for my sake.

    We pull up and see the two different peaks which gives the option of rights and lefts, but the paddle is way out there. The wave is big, but slopey and gradual. It’s more of a long boarder spot, and the energy here is different. More chicks are surfing here and more older guys.

    “Is this even challenging for you?” says Randy.

    “Well, I just want to surf something different and surf some fun waves.”

    “All right, as long as you’re having fun, that’s all that matters.”

    His board isn’t made for the mooshy waves, so he says he’ll surf the inside. I tell him to just surf the river mouth, but he wants to be close by.

    The paddle out takes a long time. The set waves break far on the outside, but duckdiving white wash from mooshy waves is a cinch. For the first time since being here, I feel comfortable in the impact zone.

    When I get to the line up I try to figure out where to sit. I try to triangulate and see if I’m too far in or out. It’s hard to gauge because people are sitting everywhere. I catch a small left, pop up late, and kick out before it closes out--not a good wave choice. Now the sets arrive in the distance. I’m too far on the inside, so I have to paddle and beat it. I catch what looks like a good right, but the wave is really boggy. I’m on the wave, but there’s no power on it. I’m right where the power should be, but I’m moving with the ferocity of a shopping cart being pushed by an elderly woman at the grocery store.

    I’m out there for two hours, so I’ll sum up the mediocre session with the memories that stand out. The chick that was charging The Burg a couple days ago is out there. We talk a little about Canggu being closed out. There are local surf instructors in the water trying to push some tourists into waves; it’s not working. The water’s so glassy, which is odd for the mid morning. The sets start to get bigger and break further outside. Everyone scrambles to beat them, and the long boarders have the best advantage by catching them early.

    My best wave of the session is a left. It’s the left I’ve been waiting all morning for, one I can catch all the way to the channel where Randy is. I get it right at the peak, have a fast drop, bottom turn, draw a high line, and there’s a fucking, tattooed, long haired, Balinese guy that drops in on my. I’m just about to set myself up for some momentum off of the lip. I let out a “Whoaaaaa!” and have no choice but to do a self induced wipeout. I resurface, and he’s right there. No apologies, this is their turf.

    I catch a clean right hander, but an Aussie paddled into it behind the peak, makes the section, and is right behind me. I’m forced to kick out. I eat shit on another wave. On my paddle back, the waves are getting even bigger, and breaking even farther out than before. Everyone is stretched out. A couple chicks paddling next to me are struggling more than I am, which (I hate to say it) gives me some relief for my own abilities. I’m getting tired, and my duckdives aren’t as clean, I’m getting washed around a little.

    I still don’t have an epic wave to claim for myself, but it is nice to surf without getting my ass kicked. I’m in position for an outside set, and the Balinese surf instructor actually pushes his student into a wave; it’s mooshy, but, easily head high. It was a hell of a wave to catch for a first surf lesson; there’s no way he can’t be sold. I’m in position again, and another instructor pushes a female student into the wave. She’s slow at getting up, shaky, but she stands, and it’s a very, very long ride to the channel.

    I’m bordering on my second hour, and I want to get back to the bike. I scratch out on a lot of waves. Yes, it’s an easy session, but my brother is right. It’s too easy. Or I should say, so mooshy that it’s hard to paddle into--big and mooshy. I catch another right that’s a bogger. It mooshes out towards the inside, and I paddle the rest of the way in.

    I see Randy in the distance. He’s dry, his board is packed, and he starts up the bike. He’s probably been there for a while.

    “How long have you been here?” I ask.

    “Oh . . . forty-five minutes. Did you have fun?”

    “Oh, it was all right.”

    I feel guilty. I know he would’ve had more fun at Rivers, but . . . I wouldn’t have caught anything with the crowd there. I think it was still good to clear my mind and surf in a calmer atmosphere. Now I’ll look forward to more of a challenge after this morning.

    “The wind just turned on shore,” he says.

    I don’t comprehend at first. “Ohhhhh, so now it’s offshore on the other side.”

View from the Tugu line-up

To Be Continued:

A Barney in Bali--Day 9, 16JUNE2011 THU

     After yesterday morning’s Barney beat down, I really wanted to redeem myself by getting some good rides. In the evening the tide was drained out. We checked out a different spot called in Berawa. Randy told me that the spot can get crowded, but I underestimated his warning. As we pulled up I noticed that the break is in front of a resort. A mass of motorbikes were parked in the area. When we walked out to see the break, a lot of guys from Canggu were there checking it out too; the same Aussie rippers that I’ve seen tearing up the sand bar. I didn’t want to pull out my camera because I would’ve been taking pics right in front of everyone. I have to pick and choose good times to play tourist, and I didn’t feel like that was one of them. I saw a thick crowd waiting for one peak that didn’t seem to break. To our right, there was a consistent right hander going off at a solid three to four feet. It looked fun, but it was awfully packed. The shoulder was clean and peeled all the way into a channel, but for some reason, there were a lot of guys caught on the inside. It looked dangerous out there with so many people in the way. Over the crowd, we checked out Tugu, and the low tide shut the place down. We ended up at Canggu overlooking the sand bar. There were ten people out despite the conditions. Burgers was dead flat, and River Mouth wasn’t holding shape. I opted not to fight the crowd for that one peak that was working, but we watched it and saw some guys get fast little three foot barrels.

     After yesterday I realized that I just want uncrowded surf. I don’t care about overhead waves or barrels at this point. Just beat the crowd, that’s all I want to do. Get a couple waves to myself without it being a constant battle, like how we scored Nusa Dua my first surf there. Even in Cali, I don’t mind scoring a spot where the surf isn’t as good, just so long as I don’t have to deal with the crowd.


The Tour:


     I open my eyes and check my watch--0551. Randy’s making tea, and we go over the morning options. The wind is dead. We discuss Canggu or a gamble on Sanur. Desperate to get away from the crowds, I support the gamble.

     On the back of the bike I’m watching the trees for any signs of wind. I hope for no wind at all. Half way there, Randy points out some roadside banners that are flapping full stream.

     “Look at the wind,” he says.

     We pull over; I’m bummed. He continues: “Do you wanna keep going?”

      "It’s gonna be windy like this in Sanur?”

     “Yeah. . . . The tide is high right now, so it’s either we go back to Canggu and surf fat, clean waves, or we surf uncrowded waves like this.” He’s referring to the wind.

     I think about the crowds and how I’m dying to find something new. The gamble seems so worth it to find surf to ourselves. “Nah, lets keep going,” I reply.

     It’s my first time in Sanur. Everything is new: the highway, the shops, the landscape, and the community on the way. We pass through the town ceremony. Something smells mighty good.

     “It’s probably goat,” says Randy.

     He told me the night before that these spots are secret, so I can’t name them. Just short of the spot, we are halted by a closed gate.

     “That wasn’t there before,” says Randy. “Fuck . . . how’s that? Take a picture of that shit.”



     I reach for my camera. We park and walk the beach route for a look. The wind is strong onshore, and the gamble . . . was a complete loss. The wind could be manageable, but the swell is nonexistent on this side of the island. He points out where the peaks usually are. I snap photos. An island in the distance reminds of the view from my hometown Napili where Lanai and Molokai seem a swim away. Despite the negative surf, I’m still stoked for the experience to have seen something new.




     On the way back we stop at a different Dunkin’ Donuts and shoot the shit over some morning java. The following conversation ensues.


The Western Effects:


     Randy points out the Balinese programming on the TV. The woman is light skinned, so is her male counterpart.

     I say, “It’s kind of like Mexican TV, huh? They show the lighter skinned people.” I sip my coffee. “Like how on Mexican programming they show chicks with the blonde hair, light skin, or more Spanish features.”
Randy nods his head, drinks his coffee.

     I continue, “There’s irony on how cultures complain how they’ve been vanquished by invaders, but look who they put on TV. That’s not how the indigenous people look like.”

     “Well, they are getting more western here; looking western is a sign of wealth.”

     “That sucks . . . eventually their culture will get watered down too.”

     Done with a sip, Randy sets down his coffee. “I’ll have to disagree.” He turns and looks at the street. “In Hawaii where do you see the culture?”

     I laugh. “At the luaus . . . the hotels.”

     “Yeah, exactly, and over here I see in every town they still do their religious offerings. They still wear their cultural clothes and do their practices. In every town, I see them making offerings to the shrines. It’s part of their religion, and religion is strong here.”

     I make the connection in my head. He’s right in a sense. The Balinese can still adopt aspects of western culture but still hold true to their beliefs and practices. Just as easy as they can change into western clothing, they can also return home and continue their same practices that they’ve been doing for generations. And I’ve seen this. I’ve seen the festivals, the offerings at the shrines, villagers dressed in traditional garb, and all this just on the way to surf.

     I say, “So they have a religious ideology. . . . The culture will stay strong because they have to practice it.”

     “Yeah, like take Hawaii for example. You don’t see them wearing the lava-lavas.”

     “And they don’t worship their old gods. Now it’s just commercial . . . entertainment. Luaus, at the hotels; it’s just folkore . . . stories, hula dancers at the airport.”

     Randy gives further examples of how the Balinese culture is “in your face.” The topic ends on his final note: “And that’s why I love this place.”


Wet Season VS Dry Season:


     We also talk about surf conditions and why we’ve been sticking to Canggu. Right now Bali is in its dry season. During the dry season, the spots on the eastern half of the island get blown out, such as Nusa Dua, Sanur, and a couple other secret spots I was shown days ago and today. My very first surf session, we scored at Nusa Dua. It turns out that that was never supposed to happen. The winds were supposed to be on it, but on that fine day, I guess the surf gods wanted me to surf there. Ever since then, Nusa Dua and the other spots we’ve been gambling on have been torn by the wind.

     Uluwatu is protected. What do you think of when you hear the word Uluwatu? For me, I think of old surf footage, uncrowded surf, and left hand barrels. According to my brother, it’s a fuckin’ scene over there; it’s jam packed to full capacity. We discussed checking it out before I leave. That is one spot that if I don’t surf, I at least have to see it.

     So . . . where does that leave me? My only options are crowded Ulus, the beach breaks along Kuta and Seminyak, Berawa, Tugu, and Canggu. Or, there are places that would probably land me in a hospital because they are too gnarly for me. Besides the latter, Canggu breaks the best out of all of them, so Canggu is what I‘ll mostly be surfing. My first impression of Bali was that uncrowded spots like Nusa Dua would be a given, but I’d have to be here during the wet season for that.

     I’ve heard it, it was hard to believe, but it’s true: Bali is crowded. Imagine El Porto on a crowded day, but almost everyone’s Aussie, and they all fuckin’ RIIIIP. Even the chicks and little kids will put you to shame. Well, that is if you’re a Barney, a Bali Barney.


Message Overkill:


     We have a late start surfing because of the morning’s gamble. It’s about noon, the sun is roasting everything, and the wind is up. I can see Burgers working, and there’s only a couple people out. River Mouth . . . why do I even bother talking about Rivers? It’s packed, and guys are putting on a clinic over there, most of them are young bucks; I’ll never surf it. The sand bar seems to be working, but there are people there. Randy says that he’s “over” Burgers, he’s surfing the sand bar, but that I should just surf Burgers. I tell him I can surf the sand bar, but I’ve never had a good session there, so he’s right.

     At The Burger there’s that same guy that I was in a paddle battle with yesterday. I paddle out, he catches a right, and I go for a left. The left doesn’t hold; it closes out. Since the ride is short, I’m in the impact zone over the rocks . . . those damn rocks and whatever else is down there that’s waiting for me to step on. Motherfucker. The waves aren’t that big, but they are a little lined and fat from the post high tide. Well, who am I kidding? I don‘t know what scale to use anymore. I should switch to: easy, could get your ass kicked, beatings, guaranteed beatings, and suicide. It’s a Bali three feet, the water’s choppy, the wind is howling, the current pulls north, and there’s a rip; it’s unclean funky surf. I duck dive the next wave of the set, I get knocked back, I feel the rocks, I pick up my feet, starfish, get back on my board, and the next wave comes. I do the underwater boogaloo again and take two more before the set’s over.

     I thought my humbling session was yesterday, but apparently Canggu’s not done with me. I got the message already, but it’s still being beaten into me. I decide not to go for the lefts anymore; I stick to the rights.

     The first right is my only solid wave. The wind makes the wave break weird, it stands up as the top is crumbling, I choose a high line to make the section, bottom turn, and get one good top turn. From there, my wave bogs out, and it reforms into a building section in front of me, but the peak forms way ahead.

     There’s people parked near by, and I’m the lab rat for their decision to surf or not. I put on a dismal performance. I have a couple decent wipeouts. I think to myself if there was such a thing as wipeout surf porn, I’d be sponsored.

     I don’t even care about the details for the rest of the session. The other guy left after my first wave. Alone in the water, I have a lot of time to sit and think about everything. It’s probably pretty lame to read this, but I have to write the truth. It’s easy for the reader to say, “What a pussy, just get out there and surf.” Do you want to know the truth? I’ve gotten away with a lot surfing Porto, HB, DMJ, Churches, and Trestles. I’ve been able to have a half-ass duckdive, get pounded on the sand, shake it off, and keep on paddling. At Trestles, I’ve been able to ride forgiving gradual waves that let me make one or two mistakes before regaining composure. But this . . . this is all new. I’ve never been pounded by waves while there’s reef, sea urchin, and rocks to get dragged across. Okay, there’s cobblestones at Trestles, but that’s totally different. I had the dream of coming here to get barreled. OMG, really? What the fuck was I thinking? Barrels aren’t happening, at least not on this trip. I’m sure I’ll see barrels, but not from within them.

     Still, out there, I paddle, fight the current, sit, wait for a wave, think, question my identity. Does every surfer go through this at some point?

     I surf The Burg for a good solid hour. Walking back to the bike, the river mouth is giving good rights. Groms, they’re pumping and doing airs at the end of the wave, 360s even. We ride back to the pad, clean up a bit, and go out for Japanese food in town. It doesn’t occur to me to take a picture.

     This is a lot to take in. I‘m not the surfer I thought I was. Do I want fun waves, or do I want the ability to have fun on waves? The line is blurring.

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.



A Barney in Bali--Day 7, 14JUNE2011 TUE

We pulled off of the highway to meet Daz and saw this. 

Surf Celeb:


     I wake up a bit late, 0621. I spring up from bed, and my brother’s already been up since 0500. I guess I didn’t rest that well. Last night when we returned, there was a power outage. It wasn’t until about a quarter to midnight that we were able to shower off remnants from the evening’s session. Also, it was pretty hot, and it was rough sleeping without the fan.

     The wind is still dead in the morning, so we attempt to gamble on Sanur. We meet Daz on the main highway. Daz has spent the last week in Lombok to chase that swell that was supposed to hit. Unfortunately, the forecast was off, so he didn’t get what he set out for. Daz tells us that he’s heard that Sanur’s been blown out the last few days. We part ways. We figure that it’s not worth the drive if the spot’s blown out. We ride to Dhyana Pura to see what the swell’s doing. The tide is high, there’s not much size, it’s crowded, and there isn’t much shape. It looks mooshy all around.

     We go back home to do a couple things before we head out again. So far, the morning’s not looking too good for surf. The wind is picking up, so we stick to Canggu. He tells me that Uluwatu is probably the only area protected by the wind, but it’s always crowded, and it’s not worth it without the right swell. Canggu is a good wave, and I still need my practice to prepare for the big swells to come anyhow.

     We pull into our parking spot by the cows, and there’s a black truck parked there already. The guy in the truck is by himself, wearing shades, is dark, and has long hair. I wave, as I would greet any stranger out here. He waves back. I already know who it is the second that I see him; it’s Mikala Jones.

     My brother parks and walks up to him. They’ve already been communicating via e-mail because they have a mutual friend from Hawaii. They start off on small talk about the waves, and then Randy lets him know that he’s the “Randy” from the e-mails. They immediately hit it off and discuss business that they’ve already been communicating about. Randy introduces me, and I shake Mikala’s hand.

     My brother gave me his collection of surf porn a long time ago. The first time I saw Mikala surf was from the movie “Snapt 2.” More recently, his surfing is also on the extras from “Castles in the Sky,” and he has a surf sequence on “Innersections.”

     Their conversation moves on to the local surf, and Mikala fills my brother in on some local knowledge. I want to chime in some kind of tidbit to add to the conversation, but everything that crosses my mind would make me sound like an idiot. I just nod my head in approval to whatever the hell they are talking about, and keep my mouth closed.

     Randy says that we’re gonna go and paddle out. They shake hands, but I can’t let the opportunity pass.
I say, “Hey, is it cool if I get a picture with you?”
“Yeah, sure,” says Mikala.

     I hand the camera to Randy, and he suggests we move into better lighting. We both throw up shakas, as the camera clicks.

     I tell him, “Cool, man, thanks.” Then I say too much: “I liked your sequence in Innersections. Cool song by the way. I was thinking of it this morning.”

     “Oh yeah?” He replies.

Totarry Rawsome!

 
     One more goodbye, Randy and I change, and then we throw him one more shaka for the road. Damn, I can’t help but think about how stupid I must’ve sounded, but I’m not ashamed of it. It’s not everyday I meet a pro surfer or free surfer. They guy’s surfing is awesome, and I really do dig his part from “Innersections,” I wasn’t just saying it.

     There’s a couple pulses in the water, but they’re not consistently rolling in. The crowd is thinner than yesterday morning, but the peak in front of the resort, Sand Bar, and the River Mouth still have a lot of heads. We walk to The Burger again; there’s only three guys out.

     I think about my brother’s surfing advice that he gave me last night, and I want to take this opportunity to surf harder. The tide’s sucking back out, and it’s happening fast.

     “This is gonna have to be a fast one,” says Randy.

     With the lack of swell, side shore wind, and draining tide, we have a one hour window before the break shuts down.

     Surfing harder doesn’t come as easy as planned. I try to duckdive a set wave and get tossed underwater. I kick my feet while paddling into waves, but my rhythm is still broken. Despite all that, I still get two nice lefts to start the session. I attempted a cut back on one wave, but it’s fast, so I just pump on down the line. For the second wave, I take a page out of my friend Klaude’s book, and concentrate on surfing with my back foot. The small crowd is mellow, and we strike a conversation with one of the Aussies in the water. Not too long after, the break starts to shut down. The sets become more inconsistent, the water’s now choppier, and the wind is still howling. I catch a couple rights that bog out towards the inside. After that, I get a “turkey” on my next three waves, meaning that I eat shit on all of them. Randy is paddling out as he sees me do a dump rider special on a right. I stick the drop, but there’s too much momentum, and I fall backwards. I get pitched over on the next left. On my last wave, my board purls. I did my best not to touch the bottom, especially with the tide going out so fast; I didn’t want another sea urchin mishap. At this point, we both struggle to catch our last waves. I get a right which gives me one top turn before it bogs out on the inside. Randy spends another five minutes trying to catch something in, but the spot has turned off.

The river mouth

     Today’s session was a short one. I’m hoping that the conditions clean up and that there’ll be some lulls in the wind. Either way, I got to meet Mikala Jones. Mikala fuckin’ Jones . . . awesome.

A Barney in Bali--Day 6 (double sesh), 13JUNE2011 MON

Delicious mangostine! Not sure if I'm spelling this right.

Bean cakes, so yummy!

    
    
     After the morning session, we cruise around town and head back to the market. I notice that Pepperidge Farm cookies are around a whopping eight dollars. Randy explains that things imported are going to cost a lot more.

     We head back, eat Christina’s cooking, and power nap until about 1330. The wind has gotten stronger, and the verdict is that Canggu is no doubt going to be blown out. We make the call to head to Dhyana Pura at mid tide and just stay local. When we get there it’s completely shut down. The tide’s still too low, the swell from the morning is gone, and there’s no shape. I suggest we call it a day if we know Canggu’s gonna be the same, but Randy says that he wants to show me a spot near it called Tugu. Tugu is known for being more of a slopey long board wave, easy, and good to practice turns on. He says it’s more protected from the wind. It’s a hell of a decision to make. The sun’s already low and traffic’s a bitch.

Bad camera shot.

     On the way there, I witness the thickest traffic I’ve seen so far since being here. An intersection is an ocean of motor bikes around vehicles that are bumper to bumper. I hold my breath when we cut right through it.

     “It gets worse than this,” says Randy.

Tugu

     Tugu has a lot of wind on it, mostly side shore from the south. I see what he’s talking about. It’s a long ass paddle out, but there is a left that’s consistent, but it’s barely three feet.



     A Balinese chick appears out of no where wearing a tight green dress, holding a bottle of wine, two wine glasses, and wanders the shoreline as if she’s looking for someone. It’s an odd sight that we did not expect. The next break over is The Gu again, so we go there.

     The Sand Bar seems to be working, but there are about six heads on it. It’s small and choppy, but we figure that we just want to paddle out and get wet anyway, so it doesn’t matter. On the way out, Randy catches a wave on the inside. I continue and sit outside the main peak. I catch my first right which actually produces an open shoulder, but I lose balance on my top turn and fall. The break in front of the resort is giving the cleanest lefts, but it’s a locals only spot this evening, as six gangly looking dudes are trading off. I want to share the peak at the Sand Bar, but I continue to get some random rights, none as good as the first wave. The right seems just a little hollow but closes out fast. Randy works the inside the whole session getting both lefts and rights. It’s amazing what you can do with a strong paddle. I insert myself into the lineup but fail to get any of their waves. One of the Aussies is tearing it up with a single fin.



     The sun’s already down, and it’s hard to make out shapes in the surface. We catch our last waves in. It turns dark, the moon’s bright, and we realize we forgot to bring clear glasses. We ride away through screens of bugs. One gets in my left eye and remains a nuisance the whole way home. When we arrive, there’s a power outage, and we eat in the dark, talking about surfing.

     I’m given words of encouragement to push myself harder and try new things in the water now that I have Bali at my fingertips. I hope I don’t let myself down.

A Barney in Bali--Day 6, 13JUNE2011 MON

The Wave that Rocked my Anus:

     Posting blogs last night was ridiculously frustrating. I gave up at about 2230, and then I woke up at 0330 to give it another shot. Tasks which could be done in fifteen minutes took hours. With a slight lack of sleep, Randy wakes up on cue and starts the morning rituals. The wind is dead.

      We check out two different online swell and wind forecast sites to find out what’s in store. According to the forecasts, today is supposed to be smaller than yesterday. We contemplate on gambling on Sanur but determine that a small swell is not worth going out of our way for--another day. We deliberate on Canggu which sounds good, but the tide is high. We know for sure that we can catch The Gu before the wind picks up, while Sanur is a gamble. The Gu it is.
    
     Some of the sights are beginning to get familiar to me now. I name things on the way. There’s that nice stretch of road where there’s nothing but vegetation on each side: The Canggu Mile. There’s this hill that always hurts my ass every time we go over it: Ass Clench Hill. I fumble for my camera to snap some pics of the countryside, but the road is too bumpy, and I need both hands to save my ass.

     A van with about five boards on top of it drives by and heads in the opposite direction. We both know that’s not good. I mention the wind already picking up, and Randy looks at the trees to validate this himself. When we pull up we have low expectations. I see the slight texture on the water before we even go over the hill, but what we see next is a surprise.

The left in front of the Warung (restaurant). Seems to be working this morning.

    River Mouth is jam packed for being so early in the morning. I learn that the southern peak is actually called The Sand Bar, and that the locals usually dominate it. On this morning, Sand Bars is a little swamped by the tide, but the peaks are still well defined. The southern break next to Sand Bars is called Warung because it’s right in front of the resort. I haven’t surfed there yet, but we’re in time to see a good set roll through. The rights are long and lined, but the left breaks perfectly with a small hollow shoulder. Only two guys are on it. The sets are lined up one after the other, the take off spot in the exact same place each time; it looks like a wave machine.

The Sand Bar

     “Did you just see that guy get shacked!” says Randy.

     He’s motioning towards River Mouth. I missed it, but I watch others fail in their attempts to get barreled. I’ve never seen The Gu working like this; it’s impressive. We take a look at The Burg. There’s only three guys out.

     “We’ll definitely get waves at the Burger,” says Randy. I point out the break in front of the resort, but he says, “Look.” I turn my head and see four more guys paddling out, and there are already a couple more people out there.

     I’m still stoked, so we walk to The Burg. The river mouth is deeper than usual. Some Westerners walk by with their dogs. The dogs howl at the test before them to pass the deep, fast, river water. A gray dog is missing a hind leg. He struggles, but he makes it across.

     I now have a feel for that peak, at least where to sit and where to paddle out. We get sucked out through the channel as a set approaches. I’m in prime position for a four foot (Bali scale) wave, the wave jacks up in front of me. Randy yells for me to go, and then he lets off another sound when I pass it up. I felt like I was too deep. Another wave just the same pops up, he tells me to go again, I see a guy on my inside paddling for it, I back out of the wave, and the guy doesn’t even get the slide.

     Randy says, “You gotta go for it. Just paddle for it. Don’t pull out.”

     A little bit of sulking starts the session. I now curse myself for not going for the first and that last wave. The    current and rip sucks us out and north; everyone is out of position. Another set appears, the pocket begins to darken, and Randy says, “GO!” Yes, his words are said with a purpose, as I paddle with a purpose. I’m not good at kicking my feet when I paddle, but I’ve been trying. I am indeed right on the peak. It’s a left with a steep mooshy drop with a juicy shoulder to work with. I pop up, but there’s a problem. I have toes like fingers, in fact, they’ve been called “eagle claws” on more occasions than I can mention. My praying mantis toes actually catch my leash when I pop up, so I’m riding my board frontside, with my leash caught between my big and middle toe on my front foot. I have no slack to spread my stance, so I am forced to ride the back of the board. I still pull off the bottom turn, but my top turns don‘t have the right weight distribution to be clean. However, it‘s still a long ride, and I milk it for what it‘s worth, eagle claws or not.

     I get back to the peak. There are now six guys at The Burger. I catch a right hander. God damn . . . on this mooshy, high tide morning the set waves are big (for me), but the mooshiness reminds me of Trestles. My confidence boosts, but it could also mean my downfall too. It looks like a carbon copy of a juicy right hander at Lowers. When I pop up and set up for my bottom turn, two Aussies are on the shoulder watching, on the brink of dropping in. I bottom turn and hit the lip to ward them off. I’m not sure what the spray factor was, but it felt good; I felt alive. I transition into a sloppy backside cut back and hit the lip again. When I straighten up from the turn, an Aussie is paddling out and in my path. I am forced to eat shit to avoid him. Staying positive, I resurface and paddle back. I hear him yell something. I turn around. He congratulates me on my ride.

     Back at The Burg, everyone wants to sit at the same place; every position is covered. I hate crowds, but for some reason it’s manageable out here. I take the situation as a good practice opportunity. I scratch out on a couple rights, and then Randy tells me to stop sitting on the shoulder. He was right. I get another set wave going left. I’m weary of the sea urchin farm hiding down there and of the rocks. Randy says that Burgers barrels on a good swell, and I see the potential first hand. I’m pumping down the line and approaching the shallows. I stall for a second before I penetrate out the back. The wave stands up, but this time, the shoulder remains. For a split second, I see the wave throw out over me. I can either stay tucked in, earn my barrel badge, and retire. Or . . . I can get barreled and get dragged across the shallow rocks that I’m already riding over. I choose the third option and punch through the back.

     I paddle back to Randy, excited like a little kid that just had something awesome happen to him. The next left stands up as I’m sliding down. Randy later tells me that the wave hit’s a shelf and barrels on big days. It looks like it’s turning hollow. I tuck myself close to the face and get pinched.

     My daily debacle happens on my last left. It’s a wave from another juicy set, but it breaks weird. I’m on the peak, but it doesn’t break first. The left hand section in front of me breaks, so I’m behind it trying to catch it. I fail, and a roaring bed of white wash stampedes over me. I’m where the sea urchins are, so I try to fight the washing machine and stay near the surface. Instead, I’m tumbling backwards and my anus lands on a hard, blunt rock. Let me type that again: I landed hard, on my ass, the round edge of a rock literally TAPPED MY ANUS . . . hard . . . in an ungentle manner. The whole time I’m thinking, sea urchin sea urchin sea urchin! I get dragged a little further and get the top of my shins and legs a little banged up. I resurface and see Randy paddling back out, most likely off of one of his smooth stylish, non ass-raping waves. I groan in pain and share my experience with him. Despite my tampered anus, I am grateful: I’m not cut open at all, but it definitely shakes me up.

The Burg's getting crowded.

     Other guys in the water over hear my rape tale, as they glance at me curiously as I paddle pass. I no longer want a piece of the left. Burger my ass. . . . While I was getting violated, more people paddled out, including two chicks. There’s about a dozen heads out. Everyone’s distracted by the poon in the water, so we sneak back to the peak. Randy turns to me and says, “Hold your position.” It’s kind of funny. The other ten surfers don’t realize that they’ve drifted too far north. Well, the joke’s on us because the tide makes The Burg inconsistent. We paddle for the sets that are now breaking closer to the inside; we miss them. The other’s are now alerted, and we are now all nut-to-butt like a carton of eggs. We agree to call the session and hunt for our last waves. Two waves come, but I pass on jockeying for them. A surprise bump appears, and I catch a right-hander back to shore. I get one top turn before it turns mooshy. It reforms on the inside, but I step off the rail to walk back to shore.
    

The Burg

     River Mouth is still going off, and all the local Balinese guys are there, even little kids. That spot is at least twice as packed as Burgers, with people working the outside, middle, and inside. Gangly, little kids playfully hoot for each other and ride left after left, unmoved by the foreign presence.

My girlfriend Lauren will kill me for this pic. I took this one strictly for the fellas that read my blog. Please leave a comment in appreciation to keep me out of trouble.

Randy, Burg in the background.

     Randy catches a right in and says that one guy got in his way twice, and that that last wave turned into a battle. Well, we’re on the sand, unscathed, and happy with our decision to go to The Gu. Just then, good, solid, consistent sets roll through. We watch guys get pinched in the barrel, others gouge the lip releasing massive sprays. We marvel at natures gifts, smiling, satisfied.

Right hander at River Mouth

    

I prepare my camera for the ride back and take pictures of “the sights that sold my brother on Bali.” I’ll post them. You can decide for yourself.

Ass Clench Hill

A Barney in Bali--Day 5, 12JUNE2011 SUN



The Pre Blog:


     It’s 0500 in the morning, and the wind is dead outside. That’s good news. It means that we’ll either go to Nusa Dua or a new spot on the other side of the island. I woke up about fifteen minutes ago, and since then I’ve done my morning routine with more of an awareness: brushing my teeth, drinking my water, etc. Outside is still pure darkness with a faint blue haze in the sky. I peer through the tinted windows to look at the palm tree that isn’t moving. It kind of hits me then: Bali . . . my expectations were ridiculous. Deep inside, I expected a fun playground of perfect waves. I hoped that I’d over stress on the thought, build a monster, and be welcomed with gradual waves that would let me in, then throw out over my head only when I was in the right position for the barrel. No . . . it’s not that at all. Bali can be that way for someone already seasoned or at least saltier than I; that is the truth. My brother said his favorite spot is a spot that only barrels; every wave is nothing but a barrel. We haven’t been there yet, and honestly . . . I won’t be surprised if I don’t see it, not on this trip.

     I had ridiculous visions of returning to California, stepping off of that plane, like an enlightened monk that’s returned after a long journey from the Shaolin temple. I would turn to my friends with the look of wisdom and say: “Yes, I’ve seen the light. I know now, my friends, I know. I know it all. Barrels, big waves, everything; I know the secrets to surfing.” If there’s anything that I’ve gained so far, it’s perspective. The only thing I know is what I need to be, and I am not there yet. In reality, I may step off the plane, let out a sigh of releif, and say, “Fuckin’ A . . . I made it. . . . My balls are still between my legs, and I’m home.” A Barney in Bali, it’s a bit of irony I guess. A random title, but I see that it actually fits. I am the Barney at your leisure, and I will report the trials and the tribulations of a Barney in Bali.--0512

Skunked:


     My brother checks on me as I’m writing this. He tells me that the wind’s dead, and that our best bet is to gamble on a spot called Sanur. He starts his warm up ritual in the living room, and I do mine in my bedroom. We are in a bit of a rush to leave; the energy is off a little. It’s probably because I struggle with posting my last blog before it’s time to go. We hope that the wind stays like this, and we ride to Dunkin’ Donuts for their breakfast special. It’s too early to wear our shades, so dust and bugs irritate our eyes. We shoot the shit, look outside, and still see that there’s no sway in the trees. We grab our sandwiches to go and head to the Bukit (the small head of Bali where Nusa Dua and Uluwatu are). The traffic is light, Randy gives an extra twist to the throttle, and my glasses and helmet are unstable from the rushing air. We reach the village towns again as we escape the busy city. Trash is burning.

No waves! Randy angry!

     There’s waves, but they’re being knocked down by the wind. That smooth reef that we walked across on day two has white wash over it. We gamble, we lose. It turns out that Canggu was the right call, but we both wanted something different, especially after two consecutive, choppy, and blown-out sessions there. Either way, Canggu is in the opposite direction, and we’d have to backtrack to get their--inconvenient.

     Randy takes me sight seeing to another spot which is a secret and could only be posted in the pics. Because of the wind, these spots aren’t working, but the left barrels when the conditions are right. The sights are beautiful, and I snap some photos regardless.

Dhyana Pura:


      That local break in Seminyak that we looked at yesterday evening is called Dhyana Pura. It’s our best bet because it’s on the way home. By the time we’re driving back through Kuta again, everyone is heading to work, so there’s a lot more jockeying involved to get through, and more ass-clenching on my part. We arrive to find only three Balinese locals in the water. The water’s glassy, and the wind hasn’t reached that part of the island yet. It’s amazing how a little distance makes a difference.

     “It’s not gonna last,” says Randy.

     I find it hard to believe. “But it’s so beautiful out!” I reply.

     The water’s smooth, glassy, silky, and it’s sunny and hot, but there is one major problem: there’s not much shape to the break. Randy warned me the other day, that we’d only surf here if we just needed the quick fix. We lost on a gamble, and this is the consequence. The locals make it look fun, as they catch some quick shoulders for some decent rides. In between the sets, the water is so motionless that it looks like a flat mirror all the way to the horizon. But when some of shoulderless sets come, the crashing lips looks like lines of exploding dynamite. It would be a picky session.

     We paddle out and Randy identifies our landmarks. He calls me into the first wave, and surprisingly it’s a left hander with a peeling shoulder. I pop up late but fail to get the drop. I’m stuck on the highline. I even do the “California shuffle” to the nose of my board and only drop in to mid face before the wave closes out. What a shame . . . a good wave gone to waste.

     Randy does his normal thing as the locals watch him feast on their waves. I paddle for waves that are close outs. He tells me to practice hitting the lip or even doing a floater to end my ride. I paddle, I try, but the lip always seems to be curling the whole time I’m chasing it. The plus sets are about four feet in the distance. I work and duckdive to get past them. Two chicks paddle out, and then four more are on long boards, probably Aussies. One paddles in front of Randy and I and starts giggling. We smile back and look at each other like “WTF?” For all you single guys out there, I think you’d like Bali.

     I don’t know how long we surfed. I’ve taken a step back from timing my sessions; I’m on vacation. After about an hour the wind arrives as Randy predicted. It’s not blowing hard, but the texture’s in the water. The local boys start hooting at every set, but it’s not the type of hoot you’d here in a Cali line-up. Randy gets some long rides that I still find hard to fathom given the conditions. My rides are short bottom turns that go nowhere. There’s a long lull while we wait to catch one in. I go first. Just like my first wave, my last has shape. It’s not pretty, but I trim down the line for a long ride and do three half-assed top turns.

     We kill off our sandwiches while we dry off. Sure, not the best session, but at least we paddled out. I’ve always said that I can do nothing all day long, but as long as I surfed, I feel like I’ve accomplished something.

     We go home, get cleaned up, and eat Dum Sum after. We cruise through the surf ghetto to do some shopping. The streets are so narrow that you literally browse each store front while sitting on your motorcycle. In the evening, the whole family and Randy’s friend go out to eat at an Indian buffet. Tomorrow is another early morning. The swell is dropping off, but the wind will still be there. The call will be Canggu. Maybe we can catch it before the wind picks up. Being a Monday, it shouldn’t be crowded.