A JACKASS IN JAVA: DAY SEVENTEEN (03JUN2013)

     My alarm goes off at 0515. What the hell was I thinking? I shut it off and close my eyes. I wake up at 0600. I really should get up, especially if I want to catch the morning window for surf, but . . . I’m pretty fucking tired. Something’s happened to my sleep pattern because for my first two weeks here, I couldn’t sleep much past 0600. At 0715 I finally roll out of bed, brush my teeth, and start getting my surf shit together.

#

     I’m the first one at Choco Point. No one is here. This sounds familiar, yes? Kind of like yesterday’s evening sesh, but the tide still looks a little high. The swell is weak. I have no idea what the exact times are for the tide, I haven’t at all since I’ve been here. All I know is that Ana had said she paddled out around nine yesterday, so I imagine that the tide push should be around then. Wait it out a little is what I’m thinking. Maybe paddle out at about 0800, take my time getting to the top of the wave, and then I can already be surfing when the tide push happens. I throw the kickstand down and perch in the little hut that’s on the beach. Minutes later, James and the Portuguese guys drive up. I throw them a shaka, and they all come my way.

     Being honest with my own level of surfing, I have to accept that most of the guys around me are better. I know for sure that these guys are. That being said, I feel like I really don’t have much to say to them. I’d like to think I’m a novice. Wouldn’t you agree that surfers with different ability levels talk about surfing differently? Right now, I’m like a sixth grader talking to someone in high school.

     Both Portuguese guys are balding on top. One is short and the other is tall. I still don’t know what their names are. Shorty says, “Hi, Matt.”

     “Heyyyyy. . .” It’s embarrassing when other people know your name but you don’t know theirs. “I thought you guys were going to the Mentawais?”

     “He’s going to the Mentawais,” says Shorty, pointing at James who’s walking behind the group.

     They clearly see that I’m picking the cut on my foot, but they still extend their hands for a morning shake. I ask if they surfed the harbor yesterday.

     “It was fun,” says James. “I had a lot of fun. Some of those sets were,” he points to the top of the hut, “as big as this! Imagine if that was reef? We’d all be in the hospital. Pedro over here,” he points to Shorty, “got cut.”

     Pedro points to a small slice that’s visible on the right side of his scruffy jawline. “There was this guy going for a wave,” says Pedro. “It was closeout. There was no way he can make the barrel.”

     “I thought he was a local,” says James, “but he spoke really good English. 

     “That might have been my brother,” I say.

     Pedro continues, saying, “But he pull in, and I am right in front of him. He see me, I know he see me, he see my eyes are like this,” he makes his eyes wide. “And he still go. Under the water, our bodies are hitting each other. Our leashes are tangled. I ask him if I have anything,” he motions to his face. “The guy said, ‘yeah, you’re cut,’ so . . . I go to doctor. They should have give me stitches.”

     “Fuck,” I say. Maybe I shouldn’t have opened my mouth and said that it might have been the guy who I kind of look like.

     “He didn’t really look like you,” says James.

     Maybe it wasn’t him. Pedro and the tall guy both have a flight to Jakarta today, so they only have a two hour window to surf. They ask me for my opinion of Choco Point as far as what it might do.

     “Well,” I say. “The tide might bottom out soon, and it’s usually bigger on the tide push.” We look out. There’s a little, three-foot set breaking, but it looks soft. “When the tide changes, it might get a little fun.”

     “I’d rather wait in the water than wait in here. I am going,” says tall guy.

     I stay in the hut, talking to Pedro and James. Pedro says he lives in Jakarta now. He tells me about another surf spot like Indo-Napili in a different region of Indo, but I’m so geographically off when it comes to Indo that I have no idea where these places are; I just remember the names of the breaks. We also get to talking about Portugal.

     “Garrett Macnamara,” I say, “he caught that HUGE wave in Portugal.”

     “There was another shot of that wave,” he says. “The one from the sky, it look huge, but from the side, the wave was not so big. That was not the biggest wave. My friend surfed a bigger wave that day. He go to the XXL awards in the states, but he did not win.”

     “Look,” says James, “the waves out there are the same size as Boscoe, and he’s lying on his board.”

     We laugh, but I appreciate Boscoe’s attitude. He’d rather wait out there than where we are, dry. He has the right attitude. “I’m gonna go join your friend,” I say.

     “Do this when it starts getting fun,” says James. He makes an X over his head with both of his forearms.

#

     As I’m making my way out, Boscoe gets a little three footer. He’s regular foot, so he really has to draw the right lines to get some distance. When he comes back he tells me about how he took a trip to Cali to film a movie. He had surfed Moro Bay and a little north of San Francisco. “Crowded, but everyone share,” he says. He’s wearing a white rashguard that reads: Mentawai Surf Trip 2012.

     Whenever a set comes, I give him the first wave. It’s a laid back morning with good energy. Why not? Despite the medium tide, some nice, punchy peaks are breaking at the point. I get down the line and get three turns before the wave turns to mush. After my second wave, a set begins to break from the outside. I turn around and cross my forearms over my head.

     Boscoe catches a wave in. No goodbyes. That’s it. Not that I expected one, I just know it will be the last time I see that trio of dudes, and they were super cool. Out here, I’ve felt the weird vibes from different clicks of surfers traveling together, but these guys were not like that at all. Actually, Al and I were probably more standoffish at first, especially on Al’s last day when we talked them out of surfing Choco Point. Anyway, my point is that there are cool, travelling surfers out there who aren’t about ego and image. It’s refreshing.

     The surf seemed to be getting better, but now I’m faced with another lull. The clouds which made the morning gloomy have cleared, and the nine-thirty sun shines on the back of my neck and ears. It’s a long wait for a nice wave, but whenever one comes, it’s all mine, mine, mine. Frontside turns, this is my training ground. I’ve caught so many lefts since I’ve been here, maybe the equivalent of six months of lefts at least.

     I try to experiment with doing a grab-rail cutback from my top turn, but I keep stalling every time I do it. I think I need a little more size and speed to keep the momentum. My rear foot keeps lifting off of my board while I’m pumping, so I know that the fins from the Tokoro are no good for this board. I need to switch back to the fins that came with it.

     It’s 1000, and I’ve been out here for an hour and a half, for the most part alone until one of the German fraulines from Compound One paddles out. I don’t know what her name is, but she has a friend, and Sonia calls them the Barbies. The one paddling out to join me right now, she always wears this tiny bikini bottom while she’s surfing. Also, one of the guys staying at Compound One has already boned her, so . . . it’s really hard to look at her in any way other than the girl who one of my mates boned.

     “Halo,” she says.

     “Halo.”

     When the next wave come, she paddles for it too. I’m on her inside, pumping, and she still pops up on her longboard. I kick out, unable to maneuver around her. Fuckin’ bitch, I’m thinking. Just because she has a nice ass she thinks she can float her tanned buttcheeks around me and just take any wave. She paddles back. I look down at my board, avoiding eye contact.

     “Hey!” she yells.

     I look up. There’s a wave coming. She’s calling me into it. Awww, I guess she’s not so bad after all.

     1030. I’m surrounded by the Luftwaffe. Almost all the Germans from Compound One have surrounded me, except for Ana and Sonia who are from my crew. Fuckin’ Ana, she’s failing as Al #2 hardcore. Or maybe she’s not because I don’t even think Al would have paddled out.

     Every time there’s a set, I think it’s the tide push; it’s starting, good waves from here on out, but then the lulls are still long. I look back, wondering if the inside is drained out. Is it low tide or not?

     I’m the best surfer at Choco Point right now, thee best. I’m like Kelly Motherfuckin’ Slater compared to these guys, but . . . that’s not saying much. I’m picky, able to work the crowd of beginners, still choosing the better waves and getting the most distance, but the waves are getting smaller.

     1145. I’ve been out here for three hours and fifteen minutes. The sun is so strong. I splash water on my face and neck to cool down. I’m thirsty as all hell too. The tide push never happens, and since it’s almost noon, the wind has switched onshore. Half of the Germans have left, but it doesn’t matter. They can have it. I catch some whitewash in and take my sweet ass time getting to my moped. Outside of the water, I feel how hot it really is. I can’t get my bike started fast enough to feel the cool rush of wind against my skin.

#

     At Compound One, Sonia, Ana, and Reece are finishing up their brunch. No one is available to go and eat. “You better be out there today, Matt,” says Reece.

     “Yeah,” I say. “I’m just gonna eat and catch some internet real quick. I’ll check it out.”

     I feel the pressure of making an appearance. There were bombs coming through yesterday, but most of them were closeouts. Also, the guy who I kind of look like was surfing there.

#

     I go to me and Al’s spot for lunch: Padangs. Did I ever mention how stupid I look trying to order anything in this country? Fuck me, I can’t understand the language for shit. I mean, I know how to order and know the numbers, but every time I’m solo trying to do it, something always goes wrong. Either they are out of something and are trying to tell me, the ask me specifics about what I’m ordering, or they just speak so goddam fast that I have no idea what the hell is going on.

     At Padangs, usually I get a scoop of rice on my plate, tell them I want an ice tea, grab my food, eat, and then pay on the way out. After the owner’s daughter scoops my rice, she asks me something. I have no idea what it is. All I can assume is that she’s asking me what I want to drink. “Ice Tea,” I say, but it’s the wrong fucking answer. She’s saying something to me again. Now everyone who’s eating there is watching, even her little sister is behind her, giggling at me. Fuck, why has it been my destiny to be a clown. “I don’t know . . . I don’t know. I’m sorry.” I’m so frustrated. I sit down, and they bring me an ice tea. When Al was here, we could look like idiots together, but right now I’m sitting in the corner keeping my eyes down on my food, bearing this weight alone. 

#

     After posting my blogs at the Rajawali Hotel, I head out to the harbor. I catch Sonia and Ana leaving. Sonia says that she might look at Choco Point, but the Harbor is too hard, just like yesterday, so she’s going to go back. Since Ana wants to watch, I offer to give her a ride back.

     We’re sitting on the shore. “I talked to my dad,” says Ana. “I get to stay longer!” We have a girlie celebratory moment right here on the sand. Looking at the break, I already identify the guy who I kind of look like, Reece, Grant, ten other guys who are staying at both compounds, as well as some local groms.

     It’s crowded in the water, and the shore is full of spectators. The groms watching on the tower all watch as the guy who I kind of look like drops in on this walled right. The wave holds shape. He pig dogs, gets fully covered, and then comes out of the doggy door before the whole thing crashes. The people watching gasp in amazement.

     Am I going to paddle out there? Maybe if it wasn’t so crowded. In come the closeouts without shape. A guy gets obliterated on the drop; he just disappears into the foam. Duckdiving is hard for the guys on the inside. They go nowhere. I don’t want to paddle out. The space is too tight. I’d have to be right next to the guy who I kind of look like.

#

     I bring my board to Choco Point. It’s tiny. This place doesn’t work on a high tide. The same Germans from this morning pull up. We converse a little about how the waves are smaller here. I really just want to get wet, even paddle out just to fuck around for a bit, but the waves are that tiny right now. I can’t. I tell myself that I had a long session this morning and head back with that consolation in my mind.

#

     At Compound One, everyone is in the office with Tina, Edo’s wife, watching the Heroes disc set. There’s a scene where there are cheerleaders in a high school. “Fuckin’ Americans,” says a voice.

     “Are you guys gonna eat?” I ask.

     “Yeah,” says Reece. “We need to eat.” But no one is moving. I tough it out for fifteen minutes. Finally, I just walk out, hop on my bike, and head to the market. 

     I order some fried tempe and order nasi goreng ayam (fried rice with chicken. One of the Germans who I’ve seen at Choco Point every day sits down in front of me. We talk about the surf today. “What’s your name?” I say.

     “Daniel.” We shake hands. It turns out Daniel is pretty cool. He tells me how much it’s snowing back in Germany and how he’s bummed that he has to leave this Friday. He shows me a pic from his iPhone that his friend sent him. “Two meters of snow,” he says.”

     The rest of his entourage shows up, enough to fill up two tables. They all ask how long I’m staying too. Cool people, all of them.

     Anna, Grant, and Reece show up. They stop at the table, and Reece says, “What the fock? You didn’t believe me when I said we’d grab food?”

     “You guys were glued to the TV. I was hungry.” It’s a standoff right now, both clicks looking at each other. “I’m still gonna eat. I’ll meet you guys.”

     I wish everyone a goodnight and get up to pay. “Berapa,” I say to the woman at the foodstall.

     The woman in the headdress holds up seven fingers. I reach for seven thousand, hand it to her, and then an Indonesian dude sitting at a full table says something to her. His whole table laughs. I know it’s about me. At first, I didn’t mind the language barrier, but this shit is getting annoying. All the fucking stares and me being the frickin joke all the time. I need to learn more Indonesian before I travel here again.

     I order a chocolate, strawberry martabak and bring it our table. “Where were you today?” says Reece.

     “Yeah,” says Grant. “Randy asked where you were. He said you would’ve loved it out there.”

     “I was watching,” I say.

     “Yeah,” says Reece. “I could smell your vagina all the way from the shore.”

     “Yeah, you probably could,” I say. I reach into the box and pull out a pancake slice, drizzled in butter, chocolate, and strawberry sauce. “Look, if my brother’s there I probably won’t surf it.”

     “C’mon,” they both say.

     Grant says, “Make peace . . . for our sake. C’mon, you’ve got a week left.”

     “Two weeks,” I say.

     “Two weeks, you’ve come out here to see your brother. Make peace.”

     I change the subject. They think they know him, but they don’t. I’m thinking about checking that right-hand wedge we surfed with Al. “You guys gonna check out that wedge tomorrow?”

     “Yeah,” says Grant. “I think Randy had mentioned going there.”

     I guess I’ll be looking at the harbor in the morning.

#

     At the Indomaret, I’m looking at the freezer full of ice cream. Shit’s so cheap here, but I’ve been splurging hard to the point that I might not be working all of it off. Two ice creams after dinner for only a dollar. Now what red-blooded American would turn that down? I go for a Paddle Pop instead, something simple to suck on. Grant and Reese finish their ice creams and then go back in for more. Fuck. Ana offers me some chocolate candy that she bought. I eat a couple, but it’s not the same. 

#

     Back at my room, the silence gets to me again. My world is small out here. I didn’t intend on this being a solo trip, but right now it feels like it. Like I had said, as long as I’m in the water . . . as long as I’m in the water.