A JACKASS IN JAVA: DAY FIFTEEN (01JUN2013)

Farewell to AL:

     Last night we had agreed to check Choco Point in the morning. So right now, at 0600, we’re up and slowly getting our shit ready. It’s Al’s last morning of surf here, so I hope that it will be somewhat decent.

     When we show up only one guy is out. This isn’t good. We missed the tide bottoming out, but the push is starting. Three guys, one British and one Portuguese are parked next to us. They watch the lone surfer from shore. I hear a car door slam and sense that one of them is walking towards us.

     “You reckon that it might get any better?” the guy says. He looks Chinese but with a British accent. He was surfing here a couple of days ago, part of the crew that came and blew up the place. A tribal tattoo covers part of his chest and shoulder.

     “I don’t think it’s gonna get much better,” I say, “but we’re desperate. We need to surf.” The guy on the outside catches a left. He’s a regular footer, staying where the pocket is and getting some backhand turns.

     “That’s just about the only good wave we’ve seen. That’s me mate out there.”

     “Oh,” I say. “Well, it’s really risky. The water’s terrible. I already have some weird rashes on my back and arms from surfing this.” I look at Al. He nods.

     “All right then,” he says. “I reckon we’ll check the harbor. Maybe we’ll get lucky.” He walks away.

     Al and I look at each other, telepathically communicating how much we’re assholes.

#

     We do the walk to the point. Since there’s the tide push, we have to wade through more water than usual, but still walk out far enough to make the paddle out easy. On the outside, the Portuguese guy is still surfing. When we reach the lineup, nothing looks spectacular, but we know that the tide push here always produces bigger waves, and until high tide, we have a little window of potential.

     Sets start appearing on the outside, maybe five feet max. This spot is unpredictable. You think you’re in a good spot, and then you have to paddle out to beat the set. We don’t make it. We have to duckdive about four waves. Since it didn’t rain yesterday, the water is still dirty but not as bad as usual. Imagine river dirt and grime all up in your sinuses. It’s terrible. Not sure how this compares to the urban runoff we have back home.

     After a couple of waves, the Portuguese guy goes in. Ana and the white-Indo chick make it out. A new white dude who I haven’t seen before is out here, as well as this huge, buff, local Indo guy with dread locks. I have never seen him before. He’s on a fun board, something that will float his weight.

     Al works the main point while I sit at the middle of the wave near the sandbar we walk out from. We’ve waxed the hell out of our boards, but I find myself too deep on my first waves, mostly pumping but falling behind the sections. Al is getting some nice bombs lining up to shore, but he doesn’t feel as comfortable going front side. I see that his front foot is way forward on his board, which is causing him to sink and lose some waves. I tell him this on the way out to the lineup.

     The atmosphere is good. Everyone is sharing and no one is hogging. Ana is having a hard time. I tell her to go deep and late. The white-Indo chick is catching a lot of waves, but she has no idea how to pump and make the sections. Sometimes you can’t just stand there in the pocket and expect the wave to place you where you need to be; you have to work.

     I don’t catch a buffet of waves, but I get enough to be satisfied. The surf is definitely more fun here out in the water than it looks from shore. I get at least two turns before my waves moosh out from the tide. Some of the waves I just pump on forever until I’m half way to shore, setting up for a section that never happens.

     The guy who I kind of look like is out here too. Some of the sets are swinging wide, so I sit on the shoulder a little away from everyone. Dreadlocks paddles up to me and says, “How’s this peak over here, man?”

     I’m surprised. He sounds so mellow, like he could be from California. His English is really good. “It’s okay here.” I explain what I know about this spot, where to sit, etc. “Where are you from?” I ask.

     “Honolulu.”

     I’m shocked. I tell him that I’m originally from Maui, and then I point out the guy who I kind of look like and mention him too. “Really? That’s your brother?” he says. “I thought he was a local.”

     It turns out his name is Eddie, and it’s his first time in Indo-Napili too, but he’s been to Indo before, just not here. A wave approaches from the outside. “There you go, Eddie. Go ahead.”

     “Nah, brah. You’ve been waiting longer than me. Go for it.”

#

     At the end of the session, Al and I are satisfied. We’ve been out for about almost two hours. Camille’s taxi leaves at 0900, so we’re in a rush to get back, shower up, and join the gang to say goodbye.

     A little later, we’re speeding over on our mopeds to Compound One. We see a taxi pulling out of the compound. Parking our bikes, we’re standing next to it. The tint is so dark that we can’t see inside. “I think she’s in there,” I say. Al and I waive, not sure if she sees nor is acknowledging us from inside. The van pulls away. We might have arrived too late.

     Sonia, Grant, Reese, and Ana are drinking and spooning out coconuts when we arrive. Reese says he might head to Machines today. Everyone else doesn’t have a plan; they are just going with the flow of their daily routines. It’s so chill here that there isn’t much of a dawn patrol vibe. The normal routine is to wake up, eat, and if you feel like surfing local, you ride out for a look. If not, you hang out and see where other people are surfing. Al needs to check in for his flight, so we hit the Rajawali Hotel.

     The wifi is strong today. Al checks in for his EVA Air flight, but he can’t check in for his Lion Air flight to Jakarta until after 1400 today. He heads back to the room while I chill and do my blog posts.

     I catch Bri on my Voxer app while she’s on her break, so it’s nice that I get a chance to hear her voice. She says that yesterday she went for a jog in El Segundo and saw that my friend Boris’ door was open. It turns out that he and his wife invited her in for dinner and drinks. I’m so grateful that I have friends who would do that for me, take care of Bri while I’m gone. I have good people in my life.

     A voice calls, “Matt!” from the parking lot. It’s Reese. He has his board loaded on his bike. I walk out to meet him.

     “Just letting you know that I’m going to Machines if you and Al want to join.”

     “Did you tell Al?”

     “No. That’s why I came here. I thought he was here.”

     “Okay. He’s probably in the room packing. I’ll let him know. I’m gonna leave it up to him since it’s his last day.”

     Reese leaves, and I finish up my posts, say bye to Briana, and then I check some other Voxer messages that I have. I learn that my buddy Klaude passed his CPA test. I’m stoked for him. He had sacrificed so much surf time studying for it, and I know that it’s a tremendous accomplishment for him. Francis also left me a message. He gives me some real encouraging words, saying that no matter what I’m going through here that he would give anything to surf these waves and be surrounded by good friends. He’s right. This is still a once in a lifetime trip. I need to treat it like so.

#

     When I walk in the room, I wake Al from his nap. I tell him that Reese is heading to Machines. “Where do you want to surf?” I say. “It’s up to you. We can go to Machines, there’s that other spot right next to it that might be working, or we can just chill and surf here later.”

     He sits up with a grunt and says, “Let’s go check that one spot by Machines.”

     Before we head out there, I demand that we stop at the Indomaret for something to drink. Those two, big Bin Tangs from last night really drained me. For the first time, I feel dehydrated and weak. I haven’t been keeping up with my fluids, so I down a vitamin drink and buy a big ass water.

     Something’s wrong with Al today. He leads the way to the spot, but he’s driving like a dick, leaving me behind and recklessly passing other motorists even on the blind spots. I’m annoyed. I can read people pretty well, and I wonder why he’s ditching me. 

     A half an hour later, we reach the spot. The three guys we saw this morning at Choco Point are here. The wind is offshore, but the water’s still a bit choppy. The tide is high, breaking next to a cliff, producing a right. A wedge pops up out of the ocean. It’s rideable, but the shape tapers off quickly as it peels. A couple walls roll through too. This is a reef break that has potential, but we can tell that the tide is a little too high. Maybe in an hour it might be good.

     “What do you think?” I ask.

     “Let’s go to Machines,” he says, as he starts his bike and begins to steer back towards the road.

     “Whoa, what’s wrong with you, man?”

     “Nothing.”

     “Are you mad? I didn’t force you here, did I?”

     “No, it’s just, I still have a lot to do before I fly out.”

     “Okay, well, if you have a lot to do, why don’t we just chill and surf here. Machines is like another half an hour away, you’ll be back even later if we go there.”

     “All right,” he says.

     Al . . . he doesn’t even have to say it, but know why he’s acting this way. It wasn’t the trip that he idealized. Every time we’ve driven nearly an hour away to check the surf, either it was too crowded or it wasn’t working, and this surf in front of us is not working. Not yet at least.

     While we’re changing, we hear a moped approaching. We look back. It’s Reese. He pulls up, parks and says, “Machines was shit, completely onshore.” He looks out. “Ohh, there are three guys on it? What the fock. I thought I’d have this place to myself.”

     “It’s Al’s last day,” I say. “Might as well go for a paddle out, fuck around for like an hour and head back.”

     The three of us paddle out together. We’re expecting that the trio who are out there are going to be pissed. Instead, the British dude welcomes us, says that it’s not so bad on the sets. And just like that, with the tide going lower, we hit a window.

Al draws first blood, disappearing behind the right. A bucket of spray gets tossed out the back. He paddles back with a smile. This is too cliché, but it’s happening: the final stoked farewell session.

     Reese, fuckin’ A. He’s good. I didn’t realize how much this wiry Aussie rips. He gets the most distance on his wave, getting three turns. 

     As I paddle for my wave, Al’s cheering me on, saying, “Go, Matty!”

     And then the British guy too is like, “Go, Matt!”

     Fuck, I’m thinking. I don’t even know his name. This whole trip I haven’t surfed a rippable right, only the death slab at Machines. The take off is so fucking steep. You see . . . it appears to me that these reef breaks, they need at least five feet to work, and when they do they are gnarly. Even though it’s not a barreling wedge, the take off is fast. My backhand is rusty, but I bottom turn with tremendous speed from the drop and crank out one solid top turn before the wave closes out. Fuck me. This is fun. 

     Grant shows up out of nowhere too, as well as another Brit that we’ve met surfing Machines and Choco Point. Despite there being eight of us, everyone is cool. Al’s not holding back. It’s his last day. He puts himself in prime position repeatedly, even out maneuvering the tattoed Brit. That guy paddles up to me and says, “You know, I try to pull in. Every time I do, the wave shuts down. It’s like it wants to barrel but it’s not doing it yet.”

     “Hey,” I say. “You know my name, but I don’t even know yours.”

     “James,” he says. 

     As for my surfing . . . fuck, I have the hardest time getting a good ride. There are some closeouts in the mix and some with decent shape. Every wave I go on either closes out or I’m too deep. I feel the pressure since everyone is sharing waves. They all know it’s my turn. The next wedge forms in the distance. It’s breaking further out, and then the chant starts, “Matty, Matt, Matt, go, Matt!”

     I paddle my damndest to meet the wave, but it’s already starting to crest. I turn my board and go, but I’m so late that I’m slung down the face with too much speed. My natural instinct (from surfing Machines) is to pig dog, but when I do, the wave just shuts down. The wipeout isn’t as brutal as the slab, but I’m being dragged towards the inside. I have no idea how bad this reef is, but . . . I don’t touch bottom. I resurface and head back out.

Rains everyday here.

     “Hungry, hungry Al” is what Reese calls out when Al goes for his waves. Everyone else is backing out for him. “He’s going back to Santa Cruz,” says Reese.

     “Shit,” says James. “In that case, he can catch any wave he wants. On Monday I’ll be in the Mentawais.”

     “Awwww,” we all say in the lineup. Now James will be hitting the surf on a boat trip to an epic spot. One day I’ll have to do something like that.

Hungry, hungry Al

      

 

Grant's booty right in front of me. Al is on the wave.

 

Reese the Aussie Ripper

 

Al and Reese with their stoked faces on.

     We arrived around 1330, and now it’s almost 1600. We’ve surfed over two hours, and it’s been raining at least half of the time. I take a break from eating shit and take some pics from the channel. I want some pics for Al, since he’s one of those guys who doesn’t believe in taking pictures, this day is actually important whether he believes it or not. It’s his last day here, who knows if he’ll be back, and we will all miss him and his stupid antics.

     Back on the shore, Al is stoked. It’s good to see him smile. “You finally got to surf a right,” I say.

     He nods, saying, “I love rights . . . it was fun. I had a lot of fun.”

     Reese, Al, and I head out while Grant is changing. The ride back is a wet one, with slick and muddy roads. I feel like my wheels want to slip out. Even the locals ride a little more conservatively in these conditions.

     Back at the compound, we change and then we all go out in a big group to the market for dinner. Al and I splurge, eating satay ayam and mie gorang (chicken satay and fried noodles), two dinner dishes totaling at barely two dollars. Afterwards it’s ice cream again at the Indomaret.

     We hit the Rajawali Hotel once more so Al can do an online check in. We stop at Compound One. Al says goodbye to everyone. Edo jokes around, trying to pinch his ass. I’m glad that someone else around here besides me has gay humor.

     In our room, Al packs his stuff. I stay up talking to him, showing him old video footage and pics from our deployment in Iraq that he’s never seen before. We agree that in these pics we look so young. That was three years ago. We both are clean shaven with our military cuts. There’s a picture of our housing area: gray gravel as far as the eye can see and concrete, blast-proof walls. Yet, look where we are now. We’ve come a long way. Iraq to Indo, Al my battle buddy, packing up his bags and going home. “You know,” he says, “I can’t say it wasn’t a good trip. I had fun. Where else you can ride around without a helmet, find surf right in front, and drink in the streets.” He pauses and looks up again. “We surfed a lot.”

     His cab will be here at 0430. “I’ll wake up when you wake up,” I say.

     “You’re crazy.”

     “I’ll see you out. I’ll probably write a little after and then check out the surf.” I savor the last moments I have with him. I’m sad because . . . we came here together, started this trip together. We were the fidgety fools at LAX, trying to beat the clock, and then we went through being ass raped in Jakarta. Not funny when we were going through it but funny to look back on it now. Even when the guy who I kind of look like left us to fend for ourselves, Al and I, we made our own friends and made this “our” trip, but now I’ll be a battle buddy short. I’m not sure how I’ll fare on my own.

     Good for him though. He’s going home, back to Santa Cruz with his fiancé, and sixty degree NorCal weather. “What’s the first thing you’ll want to eat when you get back?” I ask.

     “Mexican . . . I miss good Mexican.”

     We laugh in the darkness, his rack next to mine. We talk. Longer pauses intersperse between sentences before the only sound is the hum from the AC.