A JACKASS IN JAVA: DAY FOUR (21MAY2013)

The Machine:

     On day two I followed my brother to this spot, but it wasn’t working. Randy is reluctant to surf it because he knows it will be crowded. There is a left here that barrels, but today it is not working. The tide is high, and there is a rip current in the middle of the bay. Randy says that because of the tide, the rip is running directly into the left. 

     And then there is the “right” on the other side of the channel. The right works on a high tide. Two guys are out, one of them is wearing a convict striped shirt. The wave stands up, forms into a slab, and the convict gets a right-hand barrel on his forehand, shooting out of it from the highline. “It’s a lot bigger once you’re out there,” says Randy. Al and I look at each other, acknowledging that it looks big from right here. “I would do it if I were you guys,” he says.

     “You’re not gonna paddle out?” I ask.

     “Nah . . . gonna wait it out, see if the left will start to work. Plus it’s too crowded.” Three Japanese surfers hit the water too.

    

Got Balls?:

     Al paddles out first, but I wait it out a little bit, ask my brother more questions. “There is no ‘fading out’ on this wave,” he says. “You’re gonna feel like you’re in it, but you need a couple extra strokes before it will let you in, so just keep paddling until you get the drop. Pull in right away. You have to pig dog.”

     Now, you may be at home reading this, and if you’re an experienced barrel rider, you are probably thinking that this is simple as wiping your ass or scratching your butthole in the middle of the night. However, if you are a novice like me, then maybe you can relate to the anxiety.

     “The reef is sharp,” says Randy. “Starfish, don’t touch the bottom, and if you’re on the inside, work your way back to the channel and let the rip carry you back out.”

     At the water’s edge with my barrel board, the one I got from Craigslist with a tri-fin set up, I will finally know if it will be able to do what it’s meant to do. Same goes for me.

#

     During the El Porto winter, I tried to get barreled on my forehand. It didn’t happen. Either the hollow sections were too racy, resulting in me getting pinched in a fraction of a second, or I just got bashed by the lip by my poor positioning. I came close to one, fading out, waiting for the right opening, only to see a picture taken by John Amador, revealing how the barrel section was way behind me.

     My backhand is worse. In Huntington, I lacked the balls to pig dog and straightened out. At Porto, I was too intimidated by the massive wall, straightening out and looking back, wondering if the section was makeable our not.

     Ideally, I would love my first barrel to be on my forehand. It just seems easier, or at least I imagine it so. But today there is no fading out. All fears aside, dead or alive, I must pull in.

     Randy suggested that I sit in the channel and watch it for a while. I do. Before the sets start coming in, Al goes on some medium sized waves. He rides one to the end. “Did you get in?” I ask.

     “No, it wasn’t doing it.”

     I commend him for going for it right away. I tell him this.

     “I have to,” he says. “I paid a lot of money to come on this trip!”

     More Japanese guys start paddling out. After spectating from the shoulder, I ease my way into the lineup. The energy is good. Bodyboarders, pros, Japanese and Frenchies, everyone is cool.

Glaciers:

     So how can I describe this? There is tons of water moving around, rasing and lowering us. In the distance, a massive peak forms. It looks like it’s going to wall up, but the right lines up into the channel. The French guys, God damn they are good. As I paddle over a wave, I catch a glimpse of a Craig Anderson Lookalike, conforming with the face on his frontside, getting tubed from the take off. Mooshy peaks in the distance are so menacing. Even though they look soft I know that they will jack up. Closer to the lineup, the wave shoots up into the shape of a jagged glacier. THIS . . . IS . . . A  . . . CONCRETE SLAB. Imagine, that this is the setup for your first barrel. It makes Balangan and Uluwatu look nonconsequential. I remember what Randy told me: it’s a quick take off, a short right, but it’s critical; pull in.

     Bombs . . . like plateaus of giant, blue, crystal landmasses jutting out of the sea, even the pros choose not to take them. The bodyboarders sit deeper than everyone else. There is a Japanese pro in a white rashguard. On the last wave of the bomb set, he turns and goes. Fuck . . . so critical, it stands up so fast. I’m clearly out of my league.

     A rational person thinks to wait for a medium sized wave, but in reality, there isn’t one. It’s either L or XL. Al’s been going, not getting tubed, but riding the wave, trying to get a turn, but I know that these waves aren’t for turns. If I wanna turn on a right I can go to Trestles.

     In the middle of the lineup, I’m the only A-hole that hasn’t caught a wave yet. On the next one, I turn and paddle, and I feel the wave jack up much faster than expected. I’m thinking that I need to grab rail, but it’s so fast that I pop up late, and I have no choice but to ride it straight. Coming back to the lineup, I at least feel a little more comfortable that I went on one.

     Even though the lineup is semi crowded with about twelve heads, there is enough surf to go around. No one is greedy. Surfers sit out of position for a couple of waves before moving into the take off spot. No one wants the next wave, so I turn and go. Fast . . . never have I ridden a wave so fast. Super critical, my first experience on a slab. With my heart in my throat, I feel the power of the wave as it stands up quickly. Dropping in, I grab rail with my left hand, and just like that, I’m in the tube.

     Don’t surfers say something about time standing still in the barrel? I mean, this is supposed to be a short ride. In order to keep myself stable, I drag my right arm behind me with my hand in the wave, and as far as time goes, I am frozen in it. So what do I see and feel? I feel like I have no control, that I am literally bracing one arm on the rail and the other in the face of the wave, like my life depends on holding this line. The inside of the barrel is dark blue and almond shaped. There is room in here but barely; I am slotted in it. Ahead of me, I see the rest of the wave. From above my head, the wave lines up and droops down in the distance like an eternal telephone wire. I’m holding, damn near shitting my pants in full disbelief. The water in the tube changes color to marbleized white water. At the very end of my ride, on the highline, I feel like I’m going to make it out, but it clamshells and pinches.

     How can I “starfish” and fall flat when I’ve kamikazied this ride, holding my line to the very end. I’m rolled into the impact zone. The weight of the water pushes me down and drags me closer to shore. My feet touch the sharp reef. I resurface, grab my board, and make my way back to the channel.

     At this moment, I’m the most stoked I’ve ever been in my life about surfing. My yellow-toothed smile is as wide as it can get. The Japanese Pro is paddling back out. He sees me, smiles back, and gives me a thumbs up. “Good wave?” he says.

     I’m so giddy that I’m rambling on and on about how I was in the barrel and almost made it out. Al sees me paddling up in the distance and notices my smile too. I tell him what happened. “Fu-huuuk,” he says. He paddles back into the lineup to get one for himself, but I feel that something’s not right. There’s a sharp pain coming from my foot. I touch it. The reef had sliced the bottom of the middle of my left foot in a short, deep, vertical line.

     After Al takes a wave, I get cocky. I’m sitting a little too deep on the next wave, but I paddle for it anyway. My late drop sends me into the base of the wave so fast, that as I’m attempting to grab my rail, the tail slides out and the nose points to twelve o’clock. My board and I are flipped, side by side. Tumbling in the white wash with the weight of the wave over me, again, I’m dragged down deep and over the reef. The water’s not letting me free. I’m trying to avoid shredding my face and my body, and my hand touches the bottom. When I resurface, I see that my left hand is bleeding.

     When I reach Al he says, “That looked like it hurt.”

     I’m laughing when I say, “I hope that that’s the worst wipeout for the day, for the whole trip even.”

     Al says he’s trying to get barreled, but that he’s straightening out because the waves aren’t letting him in. On my next wave, my pop up isn’t quick enough. I miss the rail when I try to grab it, and I plunge into the sea. When I resurface, my shin is cut.

     The French pros are cool. One of the guys is named Arthur, the guy in the convict shirt, and he’s sponsored by Reef. He says he did the competition in HB, but that he’s only surfed Rincon and Ventura. It’s nice to meet a cool pro who doesn’t mind talking to noobs.

     On my next wave, my timing is better. I pop up and pig dog immediately, but the wave doesn’t open up. I’m pinched right away, and as I paddle back there’s a bomb right in front of me. I paddle for my life to beat it, but I’m in the worst place, directly spot on in the impact zone. There’s no way that I’m duckdiving two-and-a-half inches of thickness into a slab. I ditch my board, get dragged back to the inside, and then I turn around and head to shore. One barrel ride cost me a sliced foot, a sliced hand, and a sliced shin. 

     My brother is still under the shade next to the warung when I get out of the water. I wave at him. He has his arms crossed while he stares out into the ocean. I’m wondering if he saw my wave. “Did you see how I almost made it out?” I ask.

     Still looking out, he says, “No, but Al is doing pretty good. He’s going for it.”I turn around and see Al. He’s close to the wave’s face, but he pulls out because the wave isn’t hollow.

     When Al comes back, my brother says, “You were doing good. There was one that if you pig dogged, you would have got in it.”

     “Fuck,” says Al. He turns to me and says, “Well, if you’re brother thinks I’m doing good. . .” I nod back, feeling like an idiot. I get no positive feedback from my brother. You see, I’m not good enough. It’s hard not to shake off the little brother mentality that I have when it comes to him. I can’t help but look up to him and try to emulate him. Even as a grown ass man, I seek my brother’s approval. 

shower

toilet

#

     The left is not barreling yet, but there are waves coming in, maybe enough for a couple turns. After about a half an hour, Randy gets ready to paddle out. Al and I join him.

     The rip that’s running through the left is stronger than anything I’ve paddled through. I try to sit where Randy does, and the rip keeps pushing me closer to the rocks. The waves looked smaller from shore. Here they are coming in messy. The chop gives the face an etched surface like an incongruent emerald. Al takes off on a bomb. I go on the next one, but it doesn’t line up. Once it closes out, I see that we are both on the inside. I paddle towards the channel and make my way out again.  

     Randy knows this wave. He races along the face, stalls, and pulls in for a quick little cover up at the end. I try to do the same on my next wave, waiting for the lip to throw over, but it doesn’t happen. Back at the lineup up, Randy and I are paddling our asses off to keep position. “I’m over it,” he says. Al’s already on the shore. I catch the next closeout in, expecting that Randy’s done too. A half an hour later, he finally comes in. 

     On the way home, we stop at a place overlooking the bay where the compounds are. They have a fried fish dish that Randy says is the best. They pull out about eight different plates of vegetables and rice. Randy knows the staff here, and the lady who’s working jokes about how Randy and I look alike. A random Indonesian guy sits with us and converses with Al and I. We have no idea what he’s saying, but we try to communicate via hand signals and the one or two words that we can agree on. We end up comparing ages. The man says he’s forty six. He’s balding on top but has such a kind face that I feel I could trust this man with my life if need be. There’s something about this place, I mean the people are so nice, so much different than American culture. Our buffet only costs us a dollar each.

     We go back to the compound, rest up, and then eat again. This time we go to the Indonesian marketplace where there are different stalls with all kinds of food. We order the mie ayam, which is chicken with noodles, and then we go for some fried tahu (tofu). We’re full before bedtime, once again not even spending over a dollar. I feel a shit brewing. When I push it out, brown water comes shooting out of my anus like a firehose.