Downhill:
Reese is getting antsy to catch The Machine
again when it’s good because he wants to get barreled, so the plan is for Al
and I to meet up with him and Grant at mid morning. While Al is over at
Compound One, Randy stops by my room. He has other surf buddies visiting from a
different surf camp, so he says he’ll be running errands with them today. The
look on his face is serious as always, but something’s pressing him. With his
sunglasses on, he says, “Hey, uhh, you should tell Al to watch out.”
“What? Al? Why is that?”
“Because, yesterday he was doing that
stupid California shit, when you catch a wave, paddle back, and catch another
one. He was doing that to me and my friend Rich. Rich is like the coolest guy. Rich
looked at me and said, ‘That guy’s an asshole.’ Plus, if Edo sees him doing
that? He’ll be pissed. He doesn’t like that.”
I’m a bit in shock. Speechless.
To tell the truth, “I’m kind of over that
guy,” says Randy.
Right there, his comment takes the stoke
right out of me, just kills it. He’s already been distant enough with me as it
is, and now this. Aren’t surf trips supposed to be fun? I shake my head with a
grin and say, “All right. Have fun doing your errands.” He walks out without
saying a word. I’m not sure how to feel really. I am now no longer
participating in a surf trip with my brother and Al; I am not a buffer between
them. On top of that, I’m supposed to relay this information to Al, and I know
Al. He won’t take this lightly. Al has thick skin. Randy could have just told
him up front in the water right away, and Al probably would have apologized.
And what does this mean for Al? If Randy is truly over him, does that mean that
Al’s not allowed to come and hang out with us anymore? Isn’t the energy for the
rest of the trip, living in the same compound going to be awkward? Randy knows
that we are pretty much relying on him since he knows this place and we don’t.
Just weeks ago, he was pushing hard for Al to come. “The more the merrier,” he
had said.
Al comes back and says that Reese and Grant
are ready to go. I pack my things, preoccupied about how and when I’ll tell him
what my brother said.
Checking
The Machine:
The ride is usual, through the roads,
through the villages. Grant’s way up ahead while the rest of us are stuck
behind a truck. It’s not letting us pass, and it emits black smoke every time
it hits the accelerator. It’s not until it’s faced with an oncoming vehicle
that it slows down, giving us the chance to pass it.
We pull up to the break and park. The
tide’s high, looking similar to the first time Al and I came here, but it’s a
little bit smaller. The wind’s onshore, the rip is still going through the
left, and the right . . . with the smaller swell and the tide too high, it’s
not barreling a the moment. It may be good for a turn, but that’s it. It still
looks doable, fun enough to just sit there and get used to the break while it’s
not too gnarly. But then, nobody’s out. A couple other surfers are spread along
the beach, watching. I don’t feel like being anyone’s guinea pig.
We all order a mie gorang with a fried egg
on top of it. Since we’re waiting for the tide to drop so the left to work, we
chill, eat, and watch it. A local guy knows as “Neil” arrives. A woman calls
Randy’s name from behind. It’s his wife. “Oh,” she says. “You look like Randy
from behind.” I smile at her.
It’s about an hour since we’ve arrived, and
five guys are sitting on the right now. No one’s gotten a clean barrel, but
with the tide dropping a little but, it’s starting to work better. Some waves
are letting guys pull in to get half tubed before getting pinched. The left
still looks like crap.
“Look at that,” says Grant. “She’s
topless!” He motions towards the beach on our left hand side. There’s a
flat-chested woman with long hair. A booby shot’s a booby shot is what I’m
thinking. When she turns around, we see that it’s actually an Aussie guy with
long hair.
So now the right’s too crowded and the left
isn’t working. Not what Reese had hoped for. I feel kind of like an idiot. Al
and I should have just paddled out when we got here.
On the way back, Grant and Reese lead us to
another spot. There is a gate before entering the beach, which costs us 4000
IR. We run into two French guys who are staying at Compound One. “It was good
at high tide,” one says. “But now, ze fishermen are here. Zey tell us, ‘Go
away!’.”
It doesn’t matter anyway because the swells
not hitting here. Reese and Grant lead us to other spots in the area, beautiful
without surf once more. On the way out, by the guard shack, Randy is with his
buddy checking out the surf at a spot that we had missed. We park our bikes to
take a look at the surf too. Even the Frenchies end up here too. Reese is in
the back of the convoy, and he doesn’t notice us looking at the surf, so he
continues on without us, probably thinking that we’re way ahead of him on the
road. Randy doesn’t introduce us to his friend, nor does he acknowledge us. I
know that he’s mad at Al, but I didn’t expect for him to ignore me too. And
then there’s his smile. He talks to one of the French guys about the surf,
being the good guy, a friendly converser to the other people there.
The Anti
Stoke:
We skip lunch since we had the mie gorang
at Machines and also because we haven’t earned it yet. After resting for a
little bit, we resort to surfing Chocolate Point. While we’re getting ready, I
see Randy on the second story, chilling with his buds. He has his rashguard on
and sunscreen on his face. I get a glimpse of his board that he’s pulled out.
“Randy,” I call out, “where are you surfing?”
He turns his back to me, walks back into
his room and mumbles, “I don’t know.”
Wow . . . nice one. So that’s how it is I
guess. So . . . I came to Indo to surf with my friend and my brother, but I
guess the whole “brother” thing is out of the equation. I read a book last
semester for twenty-first century British Literature. I forgot the title of it,
but there’s a passage in there that goes something like this: “The only way you
kill love is by neglect.” Randy knows that without him, we’ll have to rely on
other people now to show us the inns and outs of Java, but he’s made the
deliberate decision to caste the both of us off. Suddenly, I feel both
unwelcomed and trapped. Al’s only here for two weeks. I’d leave with him if I
could. Changing my ticket would cost me about $750. I could go to Bali, but my
budget has been planned for staying here. I didn’t come here to be treated like
shit, but there’s no way out.
The sad thing is that my brother’s behavior
is not entirely his fault. You see, control . . . we were under the thumb of a
tryant back in Maui during our younger years. Our uncle, you see. Despite how
much we recognize the way he treated us, sometimes you can’t help but become
similar to those who raised you. I see my negative traits in my brother right
now, and they stem from our uncle. I now curse myself for every time I’ve been
so controlling in my past relationships, with both friends and lovers. I can
see it in him, but he doesn’t have anyone treating him the same way for him to
realize it himself. Oh well, some people don’t change. To him I’ll always be
the little kid to be bossed around in our grandfather’s house on Hui F. Road in
Napili, both under my uncle and my brother’s thumb, forever. The only way to be
liberated is to go home, away from an environment that he controls, and that’s
not happening until my flight on June 18th.
Chocolate
Point Part II:
Randy’s already out surfing the same right
again. Al and I are sitting on our bikes with the kickstands still up. We’re
ready for surf. The tide needs to fill in a little more, but it’s coming up.
The waves are a little bigger than yesterday, but the wind still needs to
switch offshore. It’s only 1500, so we’ll be out there while the window opens
up and the surf gets better. But there’s this message business. My brother gave
me strict orders to address his grievances to Al for his violations at
Chocolate Point. You, the reader, can’t understand how difficult this is for
me. I mean, my brother basically doesn’t like Al, but . . . how am I to mend
this? Can I? Am I supposed to choose? I pussyfoot around the issue and sugar
coat what Randy has to say as much as possible.
“Al,” I say, “So, I talked to my brother
yesterday, and he had said you might have accidentally dropped in on him and
some other guy in the water. So . . . you know . . . he just kind of said to be
careful because they are really sensitive to that sort of thing here, and also
if Edo sees you do that, he might get upset as well.”
Al’s still looking out at the ocean when he
says, “I knew it . . . I knew he was going to say something to you.”
“I mean, I wasn’t there, so I didn’t see
what happened, so—”
“Whatever, that just killed it for me right
now,” he says. We’re both looking at the ocean. A left peels across the bay.
“I Know,” I say. “It’s killing it for me
too.” I’m upset that I have to be the one to deliver this info, to get my stoke
all fucked up.
“I got thick skin,” says Al. “He could have
just talked to me and I would have apologized.”
“You know what? I don’t even want to talk
about it anymore. Let’s just surf.”
When we paddle out, Al heads to the right
by Randy. I want to avoid the whole situation, so I just go to the top of the
wave for the lefts. The waves look small on the high tide, but once I paddle into
them, they stand up and go a little racy, but still holding the face with some
shape. Even though it’s not a big day, and the surf is only about three feet, I
see the potential here. For the next couple of hours, until the sun goes down,
I surf a buffet of waves, only to be shared by a couple other Germans who are
staying at Compound One. The energy is good, everyone is sharing, and as long
as I’m on the wave, I realize that there can still be hope for stoke; I can
still have fun on this trip with Al, and when he leaves, even by myself. This
may be a solo trip after all.
Back at the compound, Al says, “You know, I
was out there in the lineup by your brother, and he didn’t say one single word
to me.” I’m not sure if I should apologize on my brother’s behalf or not. We
meet up with the rest of the gang: Reese, Grant, Ana, and now another German
Sonia. Unfortunately, since the internet here sucks, Al and I cannot connect.
We still end up eating dinner here, but since this restaurant caters to a lot
of Westerners, it is overpriced and the food sucks. When we’re done eating, we
head back to the market for some Indonesian food that costs barely over a
dollar.
 |
| Ana on the left, a German vagabond. |
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