A JACKASS IN JAVA: DAY NINETEEN (05JUN2013)

Wakey Wakey:

     The good news is that my fever isn’t as bad as I expected it to be. The bad news is that I might have to skip surfing today to ensure that I don’t risk making myself worse. Sitting up in bed, I have that off feeling, like one sudden motion can send my nausea into chunk-blowing mode. I’ve been chugging water throughout the night and pissing about every hour on the hour. Hydration is key right now.

     There’s a knock on the door. It’s Randy. He walks in again with another cup of coffee, just like yesterday. “Watch out. It’s hot,” he says.

     I still cup the bottom of the mug in my palm. It’s hot, but not as hot as my head. At least my throat isn’t fucked like the other night.

     “I might check the harbor later on,” he says. “You gonna go?”

     “Nah, my fever’s still lingering. I think I’m gonna just take it easy today, sleep, rest up.”

     “You wanna have dinner with me and Richard tonight?”

     Richard . . . the fuckin’ dick that called Al an asshole, the guy who bitched at me for taking the wave that Edo told me to go for.

     “I don’t like that guy,” I say. I explain. He laughs. No need to go further into it.

     I lie back down and go back to sleep. It’s about 0615, and at about 0700 Randy knocks on my door again. “Shit, you still asleep?” he says.

     My mustache is just as messy as my bedhead. “Yes,” I say. “Okay, I’m going to the harbor.”

     “Okay, I’ll be here.” I toss and turn for another hour before I finally get up and make myself some oatmeal in the kitchen. Rian, compound security, is outside.

     “Harbor good this morning,” he says. “You surf?”

     “No, I’m a little sick.”

     “Ohhhh. . . “

     Fuckin’ A. I wanna surf; I really do, but I can’t. I feel like shit right now. I’m in no shape to. My mucous isn’t so bad, just the mild fever right now and a slight case of the dizzies. Leave me be.

     After eating my oatmeal, I decide to be productive by washing my walking shorts, waxing the Tokoro that Gayun repaired, and taking a shower. Since there’s a good eight-foot swell projected on Saturday, I bust out the GoPro and the surfboard mount that I bought before the trip and set them up on my Lost board. Since I haven’t used it in forever, I whip out the instruction booklet that I grabbed in haste before leaving to the airport. I flip the thing over, scrutinizing each line to make sure I’m not seeing things. Son of a bitch. The instructions are in German. . .

     I whip out Annie Dillard’s book The Writing Life. It’s the first time I’ve taken time out to read on this trip. Fifty pages in, and I start nodding off. It’s 1000. I’m hungry and I want something else to drink, something cold with sweat beading and dripping down the side of the bottle. I want to go to Indomaret.

     When I step outside, I see that my brother’s bike isn’t here. Motherfucker . . . he’s been in the water for at least three hours now. I hop on the stallion and head to Compound One. Reece and Grant aren’t around. It’s so fucking quiet. Everyone is at the fucking beach. 

     Walking upstairs to the dormitory, only Ana and Sonia are there. Sonia is curled in the fetal position on her mattress. Ana is next to her. They speak softly.

     I approach and say, “Hey.” I see that Sonia is wrapped up in the covers with her shoulders bare. “Are you naked?”

     “Yah,” says Sonia.

     “Are you sick?”

     She says something in her thick German accent, but all I can gather is that Doc is on his way to wake a look at her. I ask if she needs me to get anything for her, but she passes.
     “Ana, did you already eat?”

     She looks at her watch. “It’s only 1030. You are going to eat lunch?”

     “I’m starving.”

     “We have eggs. I can make you eggs?”

     This is a nice offer, very kind and generous, but I need PORTIONS. Besides, someone cooking you a meal involves at least an hour of shooting the shit, payment and gratitude for a meal made for you. I just want to grub and get back to my room.

Quick check at the harbor. Low tide no good.

     At Indomaret, I buy two waters and an orange juice, but I don’t drink it yet because I go to Padangs for lunch. Ordering my food is the language barrier incident of the day. The owner’s daughter, the same one who I talk to every time I come here, she scoops my rice and asks if I want something to drink.

     “No,” I say.

     She asks again, possibly thinking that I have no idea what she had just said, but I do, and I don’t want a drink because I have an ice cold orange drink in the Indomaret bag hanging off of the scooter. I say no again.

     After I grab my tempe, eggplant, chicken, and spinach, I sit down. My God it’s hot. I haven’t even started eating yet, and my arms are already glistening. Fuck me. Was Iraq this hot? I mean, I’ve been in some pretty fucking hot places. Maybe I’ve forgotten how miserable it is to be starving while a delicious plate of food in front of you, but the weather is so fucking hot. Sweat starts dripping off of my beard into the plate, but I’m fucking hungry. Just the faintest hint of spice from the tiny red peppers in my tempe sends the beads on my forehead running down my cheek!

     “Matthew,” says the owner. He knows me by name now. Hell, he’s even friend requested me on Facebook. “What do you want to drink?”

     Shit, I can’t tell him now. I’ll make his daughter look like an idiot. I imagine the scene back stage, he probably said to her, “Did you ask him if he wanted something to drink?” And then she probably said, “Yes, the dumb American said he didn’t want anything.” And now, if I say yes, he’ll probably go in the back room and scold her.

     My mouth is on fire, and I’ve fucked myself by sitting on the other side of the room away from the dust-infested fan. I wipe sweat and chicken grease from my dripping mustache and say, “Ice tea.”

#

Swell too small for Choco Point

 

Choco Road

     I have the doors and windows open back at the room. Might as well air the room out a bit. With me kooked up in here all day I’m sure it smells like foot and ass. I hear a moped pull up, and it’s Reece. He walks over in his Billabong boardshorts and green tank top.

     “Oiy,” he says.

     “Hey.”

     “How ya feelin’?”

     I drop the book down on my chest. “I’m okay. Not one-hundred percent but much better than this morning.”

     “Okay, good. So you’re not dying. Me and Grant have been more exposed to eating weird shit. Sonia’s all messed up. Just thought I’d check on you to make sure you’re all right.”

     What a sweet, sweet man, I’m thinking. How caring. You know, if I was a chick, even though Grant has more boyish good looks, I’d be turned on right now. Reece, he’s so frickin’ blunt, can easily rub people the wrong way if their skin isn’t thick. If you can’t surf for shit he’ll tell you in a heartbeat, but here he is, checking on a Chinese motherfucker that he’s only known for a couple of weeks. “Thanks, man,” I say. “I’m all right. I think I’ll go out for a surf at the harbor later this evening.”

     “Yeah, I’ll probably get a late-late session because of the tide. I’m going to the internet right now. Catch ya later.”

     I read until my eyes are heavy again. I shut the door and windows, turn on the AC, and take a nappily poopskie. 

    

The Harbor:

     It’s 1445 when I wake up. I should probably at least take a look at it right now. If I paddle out at 1530, I can at least get a two hour sesh. That won’t be so bad. Two hours of surf after feeling like shit all day. My fever’s come down. I’m at ninety percent.

     Heading out the door with my gear, I glance upstairs. Randy has a broom stick, trying to fish out his rash guard that fell from the balcony onto the overhang. “I’m going for a look,” I say.

     “If it’s small like this morning, I might not surf it.”

     I waive and hop on my putt-putt. I’m on the way to Choco Point when Ana drives right past me. She looks back at me and hits the brakes. I turn around to meet her.

     “It looks like shit,” she says.

     We race to the harbor and find that the tide is still too low. Ana says she’ll be back in a half an hour. Only some little kids are out, playing with some surfboards and going straight on the whitewash. I’ve only surfed this spot once, but now I can see how it works. Interesting really, what a dynamic. There’s Choco Point on one side of the bay that works on a low tide. And then there is the harbor which works on a high tide. Great set up. I think Choco’s not working though because of the lack of swell. Why surf it anyway, especially if the water’s dirty. But rumor has it that the dry season has officially started. Yesterday’s heat wave and the absence of rain in the last two days is evidence enough. I might actually surf Choco’s when the water’s emerald green or blue by the time I’m outta here. Right now, I see lines coming in, but the harbor needs more tide. In about an hour it should be okay. I can go home and come back, but . . . I’ll just stay and watch it change. Maybe I’ll paddle out early and feel the change while I’m out there.

     I park directly in front of the surf. About twenty minutes later, all of the local, Indo groms arrive. What a place to grow up surfing. There’s no difference in watching the high school grommets line up on the shore and paddle out at Manhattan Beach. Sure, there would be a language barrier between the two groups, but they understand stoke, and that’s all the communication they need. Also, I’d match up any of these Indo groms with the grommets back home in Cali too, any day. They definitely go for it. Not landing their airs, but they boost; they’re trying.

     I watch until the rights hold shape long enough for a turn. Today I have the Tokoro. I wear the rashguard to ensure I get the best performance possible, limiting my body slippage on my deck. The walk out is shallow, and I’m halfway to the lineup before I have to paddle. Choco Point is a far paddle. Here, it’s right in front of the shore.

     The empty lineup has turned to chaos. Everyone is out by 1600. Not just the local kids, but the fuckin’ Luftwaffe is here too . . . all of them! I sit off to the side, at the same peak where I was yesterday, but today is a little smaller. Yesterday’s sets were around five feet. Today it’s anywhere from two-to-four. I catch a lot of closeouts, but some of the rights hold out long enough to bang one turn, and I mean BANG! I haven’t been surfing rights much since I’ve been here, so it’s really nice to knock the dust off my backhand snaps for a change. Even at home, I’ve been working on timing my turns a little later, to the point that I’m almost falling back into the wave after pulling them off. Plus there are the spectators on the shore. It makes you put a little extra showmanship in your surfing.

     Ana sits at the main peak today. I see her catch a right. She pops up late but rides it straight. I throw out a shaka to her. She takes another one, but she’s too late. On her belly, she’s on a collision course towards some Indo grommies on the inside. I see her later, asking one of them if he’s okay.

     Traffic . . . everywhere. I met this German guy named Mando yesterday, and today he’s in my way every time I catch a wave. Damn Germans. I get this right and crank out a good snap. He’s on the inside, just bobbing, board away from his grasp. I know he’s there, but I really want this turn. I go for it, but bail when I’m on the lip because we’re too close.

     “Sorry,” he says.

     In comes my wave of the day. By the way, the waves here, they stand up nicely. Not mooshy like Chocos. This is a good beach break wave, a cross between El Porto and Huntington. So the rights here stand up fast. You have to pop up right away to get down the line or you’ll be left behind. I do so, get up fast, and on a four footer I get a deep bottom turn and whack the lip late, touching the nose of my board with my front hand on reentry. There’s something so fluid and loose about surfing in just shorts in warm, bath water. A Cali surfer would understand. . . I set up for my second turn. Bang. Another one. Solid snaps. And then . . . fuckin’ Mando. German motherfucker is there, again, on the inside, bobbing, and watching me. No, no attempt to grab his board and paddle forward to at least scramble to get away or duckdive. E-T-I-Q-U-E-T-T-E. I’m forced to abandon my last turn because of Mando the German. Fuckin’ Mando. Whatever.

     It’s getting dark, and half of the crowd has cleared out, but now the tide is at the right level for this place to reach its full potential. Even on this small swell, the shape of the waves are now better.

     I resurface after a wave just in time to see this Indo grom. He pops up on a perfect, right-hand peak (mind you, the lefts here don’t line up). He knows this wave because he doesn’t even try to turn. Instead, he stands full up right, on his backhand, he doesn’t grab rail. Then he crouches down and conforms to the wave, squeezing into a tight, little barrel right in front of me. Now . . . I’m Mando. He gets pinched in front of me. We resurface really close to each other. “You all right?” he says.

     “Yeah, man. Good barrel!” I say with my thumb up.

     “Yah,” he says. “Bagus!”

     Fuckin’ A. All I’m thinking is that I want one too. At the main peak, Reece has made his way out like he said he would. “That Indo kid just killed it,” I say.

     “Yeah,” says Reece. “I would too if I was raised in the Mentawais.” He takes a right, leaving me in place for the next wave. It’s another nice right, lining up. I don’t know if it’s gonna barrel, but I pig dog and hold my line. I now see what Randy was talking about, how he thinks backside barrels are more fun. Position wise, and with my limited experience counted, it feels better, grabbing rail with your other arm into the face, committed to the line. Water throws over my head, but it closes out. I never used to pull in or even chance a backhand tube ride. After surfing Machines, I think I feel more comfortable taking risks like these at beach breaks where there aren’t razor sharp reefs.

     The Mentawai Kid goes on another wave. From the inside, I see him float the closeout section on his backhand. He floats it so well that the nose of his board is at the twelve o’clock position. He slams the nose back down, sticking the landing when the wave closes out. He lets out a hoot. I really need to work on my rearhand surfing.

     Reece catches his last wave, which means that I’m the last man out. Fuck. The waves are getting so good, but the spotlight from the lifeguard tower is my only salvation to seeing the surf. I need one good wave to end this. Another perfect right appears, but I can’t see my position, so I try to pop up too soon and lose the damn thing. “Fuck!” On the next set, I’m too far on the inside. My position feels good until I see the lip of the wave feather out much earlier than expected. But I do get a last wave, a wave that I have to ride blindly and operate by “feel.” It’s night time, and I can only feel so much. My turn is mistimed and mediocre. I ride the white wash in with a sense of pride to be the last guy out.

#

     Sonia is down for the count tonight. At Compound One, I ask her again if she needs anything. She says no again. Poor thing. She’s been shitting chocolate water all day long. You figure, if you are shitting yourself all day, might as well go out for a surf, right? I mean, you wouldn’t even have to catch all the waves. You could just sit there in serenity, shitting in your shorts the whole session, only taking a wave or two here and there in between shits. Convenient if you ask me.

     Reece suggests we gamble on a new restaurant that’s opened around the corner. When we pull up on our mounts, we see that the doors are closed. Reece motions for Grant to come forward to consult on a different place to eat.

     Ana’s so hungry though. She parks her bike and says, “I’ll check.” It’s nice to have a woman in your crew. I think they definitely treat women here better, so she can just swing the doors open, poke her little head in there, and do the dirty work for us. She comes out and gives us a thumbs up.

     The place is empty. The owners look like they live here, like the restaurant is just the front of their house. They look like such a cool, old, mom and pops couple. They remind me of my elderly Filipino relatives in Maui. They start pulling out food from the back as we enter.

     The selection is scant. I mean, sure, there’s a pot of rice for an army, but . . . there’s a small tray with three pieces of chicken, a small bowl of greens, and some other things that I do not know the names of. They scoop Grant a bowl of rice to get him started, so now we’re stuck here. However, the old woman brings out more food from the back. There’s a bowl of hardboiled eggs and tofu in a yellow curry sauce. “Mmmm, talur and tahu,” says Reece.”

     “Yah,” says the elderly woman.

     Reece looks at me and says, “That looks good, mate.”

     So we’re sitting here, grubbing. What a convenience. Convenience has been the theme of this trip. Two different waves to surf, the Indomaret around the corner, all the food you can eat for a couple bucks. . . Convenience. The meal and drink cost 1300 IR, about a buck thirty in U.S.

     Of course, we have to stop at the Indomaret. Ice creams all around. Grant goes for a second Paddle Pop while Reece and I go for thirty-cent sodas. Standing here in front of the Indomaret, I am fulfilled. Even though my day started like shit, I got a solid, two-hour plus surf session in, ate my brains out, and had dessert. Not bad for an average day here, and we still have a big swell coming in on Saturday. Sigh. . .

     I host a movie night in my room. The crew recommended it because I have AC. I put on Kai Neville’s Dear Suburbia. These blokes have been on the road for well over a year, so they’re behind in surf movies. We all agree that these surf movies bring us to the realization of how much we truly suck. Afterwards, I throw on a girlie surf movie, Leave a Message. Anna’s stoked to watch girl surfing, and Reece and Grant are stoked to watch the chick surfers rip in bikinis. A win win for everyone. 

     We’re not sure what the plan is for tomorrow. The harbor might be good again. Also, the tide is starting to get better in the mornings for Choco Point. I know Randy wants to head back to Machines. We’ll just have to see.

     Tonight I’ll drink a lot of water, try to fight the urge to whack off, and then I’ll start to write this blog that I’ve already written. Things are going smoother here, and I’m happy to be here. No more awkwardness, just good vibes. No avoiding anyone or having to prove anything. I feel it, the original objective to just have fun.

     But now . . . why is my hand mysteriously moving the cursor to open the file that has my porn stash?