A JACKASS IN JAVA: DAY TEN (27MAY2013)

EGO CHECK:

     I hear a moped enter our compound. Looking out our window, I see Reese with his surfboard loaded in his rack. He parks and comes to our room. “I’m heading to The Machine,” he says, “If you all care to join.” Two minutes later, we’re on the road.

     Al has gotten better at riding. With Reese leading the way, we hold a tight formation at a steady speed, riding through the winding roads. There’s a sense of urgency today, no bullshit, just business. I take mental notes again, trying to remember landmarks on how to get there.

     Once we show up, we see that some people from Compound One are chilling at the break, not surfing, but just out to watch. The French Pros are at the Warung, eating. Reese parks his bike right away, heads towards the crowd, and then turns to face me and Al. If you can’t tell from my blog, Reese is a blunt motherfucker, even blunter than Al. He comes off as brash and I’ve heard others describe him as grumpy, but right now, for the first time I see him smiling like a child. He’s rubbing his hands together like he’s starting a fire, and then he claps his hands. “I knew this would be a good call,” he says.

     Now, Reese is a goofy footer, so he loves the left. The tide is still high, but there is swell. The rip current isn’t messing it up like it has been the last couple times we were here. There are already guys on the slabby right, but Reese is waiting for the tide to drop lower for the left to work.

     Another bike buzzes behind us. It’s Grant. Earlier he had said he was going to check a different spot, but now he’s found himself here.

     The size here is not as big as the first time Al and I had surfed it. It’s still challenging but manageable. I start to get my gear ready when Al comes over. “You’re gonna paddle out?” he asks.

     “Yeah.”

     “You know, it’s not the wave that’s a problem, but I just don’t like being watched.” We look at the pros under the shade of the warung. There are a lot of spectators, “ooh-ing” and “aww-ing” whenever someone gets a clean tube ride, but I don’t want to make the same mistake as the other day.

     “We might as well paddle out now,” I say. “It’s no secret that we’re not pros. I know I’m gonna wipeout, eat shit, and that people are gonna laugh. Fuck it. Would you rather surf with the pros on the sand or surf when they are in the water and it’s crowded?”

     “You have a point,” says Al.

     With my board in hand, on the way to the water’s edge, I walk up to Reese and say, “You know what? I’ve never been barreled before, like legit barreled and made it out clean.”

     He sneers at me and says, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

     “I suck.”

     “All you’ve got to do is try really hard. I want to see you get barreled before you leave here.”

     I smile and say, “Thanks.”

     Now I’ve told myself before that I wouldn’t put pressure on myself to get barreled, but here I am, heading towards the slab again. A wave where I can only pull in and not turn. It’s a little bit smaller, I think to myself. I can handle it. I also think about the last time I surfed here, how I cut my hand and foot. Those cuts are almost sealed and healed completely, and I don’t want any new ones. Be picky; be safe today.

     There are about six guys out already. The silence in the water is different from the first day. Since there aren’t glaciers rising out of the sea, everyone is a little more cocky and confident, not smiling or talking as much; there is greed and machismo in the air. Despite the crowd, I find myself in position for a wave right away. Today, on my Lost board, I’m sampling the quad setup. I paddle in and pig dog right away, but I’m too much on the shoulder, so nothing throws out over me. I lose my footing and ride out the wave on my ass, still grabbing rail. A guy who I’ve seen surfing at Choco Point paddles past me and says, “You’re putting on a show.”

     “No, no,” I tell him. “I was too much on the shoulder. No barrel.”

     Al . . . he’s not wasting any time. While I’m being picky, he’s going for everything that comes his way. Balls I tell you. Even the other guys in the water. The French Pro Photographer has time to surf since the left isn’t working yet, and he’s pulling in on some bombs, but I can’t tell if people are getting barreled.

     On my next wave, I feel that it’s closing out, so from my pig dog stance I bail. I resurface without touching the reef, but a wave of equal size is breaking again. I go back under water, and this time, I’m pushed towards the inside. The water today is much shallower than last time. The reef is unavoidable. My feet skid along its surface. It’s either my feet or the rest of my body. It feels sharp. I paddle towards the channel and make it to safety, but I feel a cut next to my big toe on the side of my right foot.

     Back in the lineup, I’m a little psyched out. I said it before when I was in Bali; I am just not used to surfing sharp reef. I keep checking out my cut. It’s not as bad as the last batch, but it was a close call; I should be torn to shreds right now.

     I become hesitant, too picky. Some guys aren’t pulling in and instead, try to get turns off of the shoulder. The sets are still out of my comfort zone, wedging up quickly before they break. I’m filled with anxiety. I pass up more waves than I should. I see guys watching me, mumbling in their foreign tongues, probably saying that I’m just “sitting.”

     On the left, I see a crowd now. Reese and Grant are there, sitting on the shoulder. “Wanna go there?” says Al.

     “Maybe after another wave,” I say. You see, there’s my ego. I do have something to prove to myself. I can’t go home unbarreled again; I have to try. Plus I need to do better than the last time I was here.

     It starts raining the hardest I’ve seen it since I’ve been here. I mean HARD RAIN, like some monsoon type shit. The wind is blowing so hard offshore, and the rain itself is actually cold.

     On the next set, I go deep. Paddling in, I grab rail again, but I see that there is no barrel; the wave is shutting down. I straighten out, which is something I should not do, and ride over the shallow reef. I somehow make it over it without fucking myself up. This time, I head towards the left.

     Grant and Reese are sitting on the shoulder. Edo is out too. He waves and continues to go out towards the lineup. I have no idea where I should sit since this is my first time on the left. I can’t believe how far Grant and Reese are on the shoulder. As I approach them, Reese splashes at me, motioning for me to go away, but he laughs.

     “You get any good rights?” asks Grant.

     “Well, I didn’t get barreled,” I say.

     “I saw you trying,” says Reese. “Trying more than Al. But you just got smashed.”

     The top of the wave, close to the rocks is a tricky take off. The wave starts off soft, like the way a wave breaks next to a pier, but once the water hits the reef, it jacks up. The French guy who looks like Craig Anderson makes the first section, backhand snaps it, and then he pulls into the barrel. I lose sight of him, and then he kicks out. Grant turns as well, catching a wave from the shoulder. The wave looks tiny, but it also stands up, not enormously, but he kicks out as well. He’s smiling again. “You get barreled?” I ask.

     “Yeah,” he says. The next wave is coming, it looks so small.

     “I’m not sure where to sit,” I say.

     Reese’s eyes open wide. “Go, Matt, go!” he says.

     So I paddle into what looks like moosh. I’m heading down the line. The wave stands up fast. I pull in closer to conform to the wave. It doesn’t look like it’s barreling, but I know there’s a slot I can fit into. I don’t even see an opening when I draw my line. I feel my board slide up from under me into the face of the wave. I fall as my board is being thrown over from the lip. Miraculously, I don’t touch the reef and resurface unscathed. I’m stoked that I at least tried, and I head back to Reese for another one. Al has shown up on the scene too. But as I feel the bottom of my left rail, my fingers touch foam and sharp edges. “Fuck,” I say. My board had smacked the reef.

     Now I’m doing what I do best: being hard on myself. I forced that wave. It didn’t look like it was barreling, but I pulled in anyway. Is that not the right thing to do? And the cost is my barrel board. I’m sitting out here, only one barrel attempt in on the left, and my session’s over. Fuck me.

     As I’m paddling back towards the inside, I turn around in time to catch someone else wiping out, deep in the barrel. His surfboard shoots up into the air as the foamball swallows the surfer. I recognize the bright orange fins. It’s Al’s board.

     Grant’s on the sand talking to some Germans, Sonia, and Camille from Compound One. I walk around them to avoid the question, “How was it?” I order a mie gorang with an egg on top since I haven’t eaten anything but oatmeal from this morning. I go to the neighbor’s backyard, drop a five-hundred piece in the coin slot and rinse myself off. My wound isn’t too bad. Back at the warung, Grant says, “Matt, have you got any first aid with you?”

     “No,” I say.

     “Oh, because I’ve cut myself pretty deep, and there’s sand in it that I can’t seem to get out.” I walk closer. Along the side of his big toe are two deep, red lines. One long one, a space, and then a shorter one after.

     “Holy shit.” Fuck, I feel bad for him. It’s a terrible cut. Here I am worried about my little knick. Things could be worse.

     Reese and Al are out of the water. They walk up to him and look at his foot. “Why don’t you just super glue it,” says Reese.

     “But there’s sand in it that I can’t get out.”

     Despite the injury, Grant and Reese are talking about their barrels. I’m quiet and envious. I wish I had some barrel stories too right now. I reach the epiphany that there really is something wrong with me just like Reese had said. For the life of me, when it comes to barrels . . . I just can’t do them. It’s disappointing. Watching from the warung, pouring over my fried noodles, I watch guys get barreled over and over again. To me, getting barreled is like earning a combat patch. Without one, you’re a soldier that’s never deployed, a uniform with a blank spot on the right shoulder, no bragging rights. Not that I’m one to brag or rub anything in anyone’s face, but if surfing is my lifestyle of choice, in an arena where courage and mettle are tested regularly, I feel like without a barrel, especially in Indo, I am nothing. My trip two years ago, I had the excuse of inexperience. Will the same excuse work again?

     It’s a long drive home, reflecting. Little kids waive as I pass them. I don’t waive back. The rain returns, Reese’s bike starts to slide coming down a muddy hill. He regains control of his bike.

     Back at the compound, Al looks at me and says, “Stop it, Matt. You’re doing it to yourself.”

     “No . . . I’m okay, it’s just. . . “

     “Dude, for sure you should look to get barreled but not every time. You have three more weeks here.”

     Ana left this morning to renew her Visa, so tonight our crew consists of Camille, Sonia, Reese, Grant, Al, and myself. We head to the market, and everyone splurges this time, buying two entrees. Al and I go for the chicken satay again, but I also order this chicken noodle soup called soto ayam. Al goes for the fried rice or mie gorang. We also order more martabek and fried tahu and share them with the group.

     Al treats me to a beer, and at Compound Two, there’s not much conversation because this guy brings out his camera that has today’s barrel footage. Reese and Grant are practically on top of each other, searching for their barrel sequences on the camera’s tiny screen. I can’t blame them. If I had gotten a barrel, I’d be doing the same.