A JACKASS IN JAVA: DAY EIGHT (25MAY2013)

     Without consistent and reliable internet, Al and I are at the mercy of gaining our intel through other people, whether it be the tide or the swell. There’s this guy who lives upstairs who I kind of look like. He is supposed to be the guy to tell us these things, but now Al and I have to fend for ourselves.

     Grant and Reese have become our tour guides now, and even though their humor may be different and our personalities might clash a little bit, they are good guys and have been more than willing to take Al and me to check out different surf spots as well as places to eat.

     So after the failed trip to The Machine the other day, the whole group has decided to stay local once more. It’s something about the wind and the swell. It is forecasted to be ten feet today. I’ve heard that The Machine is too heavy in swell that size.

     I check both the harbor and Choco Point. As usual, they are not working that well in the morning. Choco Point for sure is a guaranteed evening spot, and like yesterday, there’s not much else to do but go back to the room and write. Al goes to Compound One to avoid the boredom of watching me type away on my laptop. I polish off as many blogs as possible. When he comes back around 1100, he tells me that Grant’s about to paddle out at Chocos. “How’s it look?” I ask.

     “It’s all right. There’s some size, and the shape is okay.”

     I close my laptop and start to get ready. Meanwhile, “the guy upstairs who I kind of look like” is walking by outside our window. Al goes outside to catch him. Shortly after, Al comes back into the room and says, “I just asked your brother what’s going on with the ‘cold shoulder’ he’s been giving me. I apologized for dropping in on him and his friend and asked if he’d accept my apology. He walked away and said, ‘I’m not in the mood right now.’”

     I’m baffled. What can I say?

     “That’s fucked up,” says Al. “I think your brother treating me this way is more fucked up than me dropping in on him and his friend.”

    

First Session:

     The tide’s still a little high. Grant is out there, kind of where the right is, but the waves are a bit racy. At this hour with the sun so high, the water looks like pure mud, and it’s at a simmering temperature when we enter it. No one else is out surfing it, let alone looking at it. Even though the wind is still onshore, the waves are about three-to-four feet high. Al and I paddle out right in front. The inside is a little consistent, which requires some duckdiving. By the time we’ve reached Grant, we’ve drifted a bit down the beach away from the point.

     Grant looks at me and says, “It’s not so bad now is it? The wind’s not so bad, and there’s a little bit of size.”

     I paddle into a wave, but it closes out. I paddle a little further out, and the rest of the waves are too mooshy. Outside, waves are starting to break at the top of the wave. I paddle as hard as I can, and reaching the point is becoming quite the workout. Al’s way down the beach. Grant caught a wave, so he has even further to paddle. I sit for a moment, and I’m still not out far enough. The rest of the session is spent paddling and duckdiving. “The guy who lives upstairs who I kind of look like” had told me that the river mouth is a long paddle out. I’m not even at the top of the wave yet, but I turn and go on a wave. I pump down the line, but I can’t beat the section in front of me. Now I’m in the impact zone all the way on the inside. The waves pick up in size to four-to-five feet. Every time I duckdive, there’s a similar wave coming towards me. I gain a little ground, seeing the wave break before it turns to whitewash. I can’t see beyond the rows of foam. I turn around and realize that I’m pretty close to the shallows. Now it’s an issue of pride. I keep on paddling before sitting, turning around, and riding in.

     Reese and Ana are parked next to my moped. I walk towards them, feeling like a buffoon for not being able to make it out.    

     “I was over here laughing at you,” says Reese in his Australian accent. “I knew you weren’t goin’ anywhere.”

     I really don’t like people talking to me like this, especially after I’ve paddled my brains out, but he’s right. It’s his sense of humor, the brash personality that he is; he’s just being himself. “Yeah,” I say. “It became more of a pride thing.”

     “Yeah, stubborn just like me I reckon.”

     We look out. Al’s now at the top of the wave. Grant’s on the inside where I was, but he rides the current in the shallows all the way back to the point. Al catches a wave in, and we leave Reese and Ana and have a look at the harbor. When we get there, we find that it’s unsurfable.

     Back at the compound, Al and I shower all the shit water off of us. Reese and Ana show up about thirty minutes later and ask if we want to go and grab lunch. Before heading back out, we catch Reese coming in from his session.

     “It got quite good after you two left,” he says. 

Grant and Reese

     We go to compound one and wait for him to change, head to the Indomaret for some soft drinks, and then to a hole-in-the-wall restaurant that Reese is curious about, where they sell nasi pecel (rice with vegetables). The restaurant’s dark on the inside, but the portions are good. It takes forever to pay for our bill, and we’re surprised to see that we each only owe 5000 IR, about fifty-two cents.

Ana in the background, fumbling with her bike.

XL Chocolate:

     By the time we’re done eating and driving around, we stop by Choco Point again before heading to the compound, and the surf is lining up much better. Even some local grommets are on it. Or . . . it’s kind of hard to call them grommets because the kids who are at high school age have tatted backs and smoke, but of course who doesn’t smoke in high school? Without much delay, even with our stomaches still full, we head back to our respective compounds and change into boardshorts. Manny Amador had hooked me up with some Hurley Phantom Xs that are a little above the knee. They have the trademark, dual band over the left thigh. Today I whip out the red and black patterned pair with the black bands, no rashguard. 

     All we recognize is the shape when we get there. The tide is a little low know, and the tide push is about to start. It’s about 1440 hrs. Out the back, long lefts are starting to form. It’s definitely rideable and it looks like maybe four-to-five feet. 

     Instead of paddling straight out, we try to do what the locals do: walk along the cliffline where the sand is still shallow, all the way up to the point, and walk out as close to the lineup as possible.

     Al and I work our way through the chocolate stew. Once in deeper water, he paddles towards the main pack, who are sitting a little away from the point because the tide is still low. It doesn’t seem like the surf is too challenging, so I sit on the point.

     It’s hard to gauge the size here, or should I say that it’s hard to rate the size because the wave is very slopey, even sloppier than Trestles, but it breaks longer than Trestles. To compare this break, I would say it’s a cross between PV and Churches, but a Churches' left.

     A four-footer comes my way. Today I’m sampling the Tokoro from the guy upstairs, which is smaller than the Lost Board that I brought with me. It’s a little harder to paddle into the wave with it, but I catch it. A long line forms in front of me, but it’s not a closeout. There’s a chick sitting on the inside, so naturally, I put a little mustard on my style and try to look as relaxed and fluid as possible, but why not? I feel good barebacking it for a change. Being a Cali surfer, this is something that we barely get to do. And I’m in a cool pair of boardshorts. Yes, I am guilty of “accessorizing” when it comes to boardshorts. But think about it, if you live somewhere where you rarely get to trunk it, how many boardshorts do you have just collecting dust, or that you can only wear around the house or on the way to check out the surf? The last time I used these shorts in the water was almost a year ago. So, here I am, pumping, fluid, relaxed. I have to race the wave a little bit because even though there’s a workable face, I don’t want to fall behind the section. Once I feel confident that I’m in good position, I do a slow and drawn out top turn, bringing me back at mid face, and then do it again. I get about three turns before the wave is running towards the inside, where the current makes the wave choppy. I kick out clean and stoked. It’s the best wave I’ve caught here so far.

And Then . . .

     What the fuck. I’m on the inside now, and out the back is pure roaring white wash. I paddle and duckdive wave after wave. It’s a repeat from this afternoon. I’m thinking, fuck . . . this place is turning to shit. Instead of wasting my energy, I walk out of the water and head back the same way that I came in, but on the way there I witness something different. With the tide push the waves are increasing in size. It’s hard to tell in the distance, but they are an easy six feet. The lineup has shifted. Everyone has moved closer to the point, but they are so far away that their heads look like little, black blobs paddling over the waves. Some of the sets are so big that everyone is behind the section, and the shoulders are so far away from the point that no one is sitting there.

     The walk takes a long time, and when I paddle out to deeper water, I am already in the lineup. There is this tiny chick, Indo grommet who’s five shades darker than me. I saw her paddle out at the harbor. I’m not sure who she’s sponsored by, but she had a guy filming her. She’s out here with her brother. I paddle away from the point because I don’t want to compete, so I sit by her. There are a lot of people out, but by Cali standards the crowd isn’t so bad. There are maybe twenty heads, but only half of us can surf while the other half are on fun boards and get pummeled every time they turtle dive. Unfortunately, Ana is one of them.

     It’s hard to describe how far the paddle out is. First of all, right now, I’m sitting in between the middle of the wave and the top of the wave, but still, the outside sets are further out from the point. Also, the shore is already faarrrrr away. One of those gnarly sets break wide, a set that no one at the point can get. Next to the ripper chick, we paddle out to beat it. It’s much bigger than I thought it was. Now in front of me is a massive, chocolate wall. I’m hoping that it holds shape before it feathers out. It does, and I only have to punch through the top of it before it breaks. There is a lot of water moving around. The ripper chick is still next to me, and I’m surprised. I thought she would have gone, but her eyes are wide. She’s scared. Lightning behind us flashes through the sky. The darker clouds move in closer, and then, it’s pouring rain. The drops hitting the water create a xylophone the size of a small country. The water’s surface calms even more because of it. Yet, I am still warm.

     I start to paddle towards the top of the wave, but I misguide myself. Foolishly, I’ve paddled at an angle directly to the crowd, but the outside sets have redefined my spot as the impact zone. Al is on the wave that I’m duckdiving, and the forecast is correct. By Cali standards it’s an easy ten feet, a mooshy ten feet I guess you can say. Al’s pumping and pumping, too far forward on his board, and he’s not using the face to go top to bottom. I’m caught for a little while duckdiving, getting front row seats of the action. This smaller Tokoro that I’m on is a mistake. With the distance to paddle and all the water moving, this board is like a leaf in a river; I need more volume.

     Even an average guy who is staying at Compound One, a Swede, is taking off on the bombs. This is the thing. A lot of people are backing out of these waves, but it’s because they don’t realize how non consequential they are. Once you pop up, there is so much face to work with, and the wave peels so slow, that all you really have to do is watch the sections and make sure you don’t fall. The Swede who I’m talking about is a regular footer. He looks awkward, but he’s on a bomb and practicing his cutbacks. Standing a little stiff, he is working the face, slowly drawing a highline, turning, and then cruising back into the pocket for more.

     Now on the outside, there is Reese, Grant, and some Japanese surfers. I wait patiently for the waves that swing a little wide. The second I see that the shoulder is away from the point, I dart for it. You see, the guys at the point are too deep. Even if they paddle straight out to meet the wave, it’s gonna feather out and run away on them. I said ten feet earlier, and this is accurate.

     The drop . . . it’s been so long since I’ve taken off on waves this big, but playful big. I have so much speed as I’m going down the face. The wave has a bowl effect, where I can tell that the wave is standing up from the curvature of the face. Even though the wave is mooshy, the racy sections have to be pumped through. Surfing a ten-foot face is different than surfing a three-foot face. What line do I draw? I’m pumping, damn near squat pumping to full and compressed motions. Once the section slows and peels I do a long, drawn out cutback. It’s to the point that I’m redirecting myself and looking at the wave behind me. I turn back to draw my line. This is where the section is going soft. I crouch down in the pocket, wait for the wave to stand up again, and then it’s pump city once more.

     Huge cutbacks, where I’m frozen in my pose, feet on my outside rails, arms extended in a power stance, but so graceful that I feel like I’m flying. Hair wet with wind in my face, it’s a game of cat and mouse: too high of a line will make you lose the wave; drifting too far from the pocket will put you where the wave cannot keep you. But still, I’m turning off the top, hoping my carves are throwing something out the back. My thighs are burning. Lefts, I love lefts. Now there’s a section in front of me that I know I cannot make. A floater seems too dangerous. I should kick out, but I’m too greedy. I gamble on the section but am forced to straighten out. I look behind me. Like a monster whose grasp I have barely evaded, the whole wave crashes down, leaving an explosion triple my height. I feel like claiming it, like raising both arms in the sky, but all I can do is smile. Yes, I’m smiling, until I’m back on my board looking at the point. I’m so far away that I can’t even see the surfers. It is such . . . a long . . . paddle . . . back.

     I thought that I had some long paddle outs in Bali. Nusa Dua was long. Uluwatu took some work, getting out of that cave. Back home, the paddle from Churches to Lowers can be a bitch sometimes, but this. If you wipe out on a good wave or catch a small insider, you will be in the impact zone for the larger sets. Since I caught a set wave as far is at can go, I have a long but safe route back to the lineup. There is no current. Ten minutes later, I feel like something must be holding me back, the point seems like it’s in reach, but the surfers are just beginning to be little dots. I think in my head how long this paddle is. I’ve heard stories of mile long waves in Costa Rica. I’ve never been able to fathom such a thing until now. Yes, it is possible, and some waves are fucking long. Closer to the point, my buddies are on their waves. We barely see each other in the lineup because of the length of the rides and the distance to paddle. Reese is a fellow goofy footer. He takes off so deep. Some guys are so deep on the bombs that you don’t expect them to make it, but they pump their asses off and reach the face. Imagine, a guy who’s half a football field away, and you have to pull out because you know he’ll make it.

     In the lineup, Al and I meet for the first time. It took about twenty minutes to reach the point again.

     “Dude,” he says, “I got a big one.”

     “I saw you,” I say. I give him some constructive feedback, not to be a dick, but Al has told me before that he sucks on lefts. “Top to bottom,” I say. “Use the height of the wave to your advantage. Turn off the top, rebound off the bottom.”

     Need I tell you more about my rides? I don’t think so. This place is holding ten-foot plus surf, and it is playful. It’s not standing up as much as Lowers does, but it doesn’t matter. The canvas is set for one who wants to experiment or practice his/her turns or cutbacks, and it’s at a size that makes you respect the wave.

     Doc is out here with his longboard. He goes the deepest and makes all of the sections. Ideally, this wave could also be a longboarder’s dream. All a longboarder would have to do is not be intimidated by the size and stand up quick enough, and she could get a ride at least a quarter-mile long, just standing or hot dogging.

     This trip is finally living up to its expectations. On the way back to the lineup, I see Al, heading straight towards me. I have time to watch and cheer him on before I go over the shoulder. This is what a surf trip is about, being stoked yourself, being stoked for your friends, and seeing your friends on the waves being stoked themselves. Al’s not going straight, this time he’s turning off the top, progressing.

     Can I explain the feeling of popping up and dropping in steep, pumping and turning, doing S-turns on a huge face? For the first time in my life, I’m doing cutbacks on this liquid playground. Even on the mooshiest sections, I know how to play this wave. I crouch low in the flat pocking down at the base until the pocket rises and the section in front of me is screaming, “Now hurry, go!”

     I’ve never top turned into a cut back before, where I’m whipping myself around at the base of the wave, stalking, waiting for the section to build, to pump again with arms wild, and then turning, holding that arcing line in a heavy metal, power stance. This is my world where I’m the best and freest that I can be. This is the IDEAL.

     Al and I are the last ones to leave. Giddy again, we pound fists on the sand. The sun’s long gone. We buzz through the muddy path back to our compound while bugs buzz through the air hitting our faces. Al speeds up next to me in the darkness and says, “Dude.”

     I reply, “Dude.”

     “Dude.”

     “Duuuude!”

     Bromances are pretty gay, but this one is well justified. After showering up and cleaning our ears with Q-tips, we go over the play by play of our rides, anxious for our turns to speak.

     “That was like Churches on steroids,” says Al.

     There’s a knock on the door. It’s dinner time. Ahhhh yes, priceless waves and filling your belly for a little over a dollar. What a life to live.