A JACKASS IN JAVA: DAY TWENTY (06JUN2013)

Insomniac:

     By 0100 I had finished reading a small book that I had started on my flight from Taipei. I figured it was late and that it was time for bed. I whipped out my iPhone and played Angry Birds until I got three stars on the level I was playing. And then I played another level. And another one. At 0145 I was not tired, and I knew why. It was because I had only surfed one session yesterday, and since I had felt like shit, a lot of yesterday was spent sleeping in and napping. I was paying the price for that. I whipped out a book I have from Deepak Chopra. My buddy Francis turned me on to him. He had told me about his experiences being an EMT and the wide and wild variety of patients he got. He had said to me, “I just look them in the eyes and ignore everything else; I see the actual person.” He got that from Deepak, so I bought one of his books.

     I read until about 0330, and when I begun to doze off for the first time, I turned out the lights and went to bed.

Harbor Rights:

     Again with the knock at the door. I open it. “What’s your plan for today?” says Randy. “I just text grant. He said he’s going to K, and Reece says he’s going to the harbor.”

     “What do you think?” I ask.

     “Well,” he motions towards the clouds. Fuck. Clouds. Yup, there is serious overcast. No sun. “It looks like it’s gonna rain at K.” This is vital info because the road to K is steep, cliffy, and severely damaged. Imagine trying to ride up a steep hill on a moped over mud and cobble stones with a cliff at your side. No thanks.

     “I couldn’t sleep last night, so I think I’m gonna take it easy. I’m just gonna check the harbor with Reece. Afterwards, I’m down for whatever.”

     It’s 0700. I need at least another hour. By 0800, I get up, brush my teeth, grab my board, and I head out the door. I hear Randy upstairs following my cue. On a two vehicle convoy, we head to the harbor. We catch Reece coming back from the direction we are heading. “The tide’s still high,” he says. “I’m gonna see if I can borrow a longboard. It’s too soft.” Of course, we still have to venture out and take a look for ourselves, and Reece was right. It looks fun, but my Tokoro won’t do it, and since the waves will stand up more with the tide going out, there’s no way I’m gonna ride the Lost board out here.

     Back at the compound, I take my time, glad that I had slept in this morning. I whip out two packets of strawberry oatmeal while Randy makes coffee. We shoot the shit for a little bit. He tells me about the Philippines, how our dad is doing, and how he’s been asking, “When is Matt coming?” My dad probably senses it in his old age. He may not have much time left. Maybe he’s finally realized that after being a deadbeat dad to me my whole life that he finally needs some connection or closure. I’ve rehearsed the moment in my mind over the years, how cold I would be, how I would ask him, “How the hell could you have a son and not be interested one bit in his life . . . at all!” Well, I guess all families are fucked up and sick in some way. The only thing my dad has ever taught me is to not be like him. To be a good dad, just don’t be like my dad. Too easy. But what wasn’t easy were the years of looking up to my childhood friends’ dads, the drug addicts and the alcoholics, and having to learn all that hardcore “man” shit on my own, self help style. Someone had to fill the void. I think that’s why I’m paranoid about having kids. I don’t want any because I fear that I might be a deadbeat dad too. If anything, the last thing I want is to have a kid and not be around for him or her. So . . . don’t be like dad. Who gives a shit, really?

#

     An hour after we first checked it, I’m back here solo. Reece is out there on a longboard like he said he would be. The tide is at midlevel, and the peaks are only two feet and fast. He’s paddling into the waves with the board backwards, fin pointing to shore. He paddles into waves, pops up, and tries to spin the board around to point the nose to shore. It’s not working out for him. He flops every time he tries. I laugh. I wave at him like a toddler from the shore. He waives back. It’s funny making masculine guys do feminine things. He’s gay now, just like me, waiving back.

     I have to paddle out. I need my daily dose of surf. I’m damn sure not going to head back to the compound and check again later. Only Reece and one Indo grom are out. Since it’s overcast, I get brazen with the UV protection and only put a little on my face neck and ears. The rest of the Indo groms watch from the lifeguard station, waiting for a better window of surf.

     In the lineup, Reece tries his longboard trick six more times before leaving. On the shore, I see him talking to Randy. Today’s an easy session. I’m relaxed, waiting for the tide to drop a little more, being picky, and letting the Indo grom get a lot of waves. I need a good wave, one with a shoulder, one that will let me get at least a solid turn, one like the wave coming for me right now.

     There’s a little pressure paddling into this wave. The local kids are watching from the shore. I’m sure they know that my bro charges, but now, I gotta live up to the family name. The wave here is fast. Once it hits the sand bar it stands up, and you gotta get down the line to get to the open face if you want to turn. I pop up quick, but I draw a less efficient line, more straight and not deep for a good top-turn setup. I force the turn, but it’s more straight than top to bottom. My second turn is the same, like a check. On the third turn I’m going so fast that I fly off of my board when my tail hits the lip, but I did get some turns in . . . kind of.

     Randy paddles out, and now it’s just us and the Indo grommie. I’m still picky, passing up the walled ones and the lefts. I love lefts, but they don’t line up right since the go into the rocks, lining the harbor. Desperation hits. I take the left and . . . it fizzles. Bad choice.

    

Turn of the session:

     With the tide coming down, the waves are standing up more. Some are really sectiony, but others have one, single peak with a steep shoulder that holds. I paddle out to meet it, turn and go, and then I’m off to the races. It’s just one turn that I’m writing about here. The face stands up behind me while I’m winding up for this thing on my bottom turn, all my frustration, all my bravado, all my showmanship, everything is going into this turn. It’s a solid four footer, but the climb is steep. My head and torso are facing down at the base of the wave before my legs uncoil with it, bringing the nose of my board back to the six o’clock position. I hear a hoot from shore, but . . . the grom kid. He’s paddling out and heading towards my line, right where I need to cut the wave again, but I have to go. I set up for another bottom turn, but his face is right where my snap’s gonna be. I kick the board away from us at midface, and it almost hits his head.

     We both play it off cool heading back to the lineup. I’m weary now though. The last thing I need is to poke a local kids eye out while they’re all watching from shore.

     I can’t say if my wave sold the spot or not, but now Mando and his other German homie, and two other groms come out. For the next hour we’re trading off waves, but now the tide is getting too low. The shape goes with it, so Randy and I head in.

Wet Season All Over Again:

     Did I say that the dry season has officially begun? We plan to grab lunch at some barbecue chicken place, a place that hasn’t been invaded by any foreigners yet, but the overcast finally gives way, and it rains. There goes my hopes to surf the river mouth clean, I’m thinking. Imagine, it hasn’t rained for two days. What kind of disgusting shit is flowing into the sea at Choco Point this very moment?  

     Even worse, there goes our lunch plans. The rain . . . it’s too much, too heavy. I’d be drenched before getting to any restaurant. Instead, I whip out another oatmeal packet. I shoot the shit with Rian in the kitchen. Poor kid. He’s coughing and hawking up some nasty shit too. Something’s going around in Indo-Napili; people are getting sick.

     At about 1300, the rain slows to a drizzle. I grab my computer stuff and head to the Rajawali hotel. I stop by Compound One to grab Reece, but he’s stuck watching the Heroes DVD set. Alrighty. So I hit the internet café solo. I get to chat with Bri for a little while during her break at work. KK’s nice enough to keep me posted with the Volcom Fiji Pro. I wish I could watch some of it, but the connection here is too slow. I check my e-mail, and I’m a little annoyed that everyone thinks I’m in Bali. Trust me, this is not Bali at all. East Java is TOTALLY different from Bali. Hence the name of this series: A Jackass in Java. There isn’t pussy running rampant in the streets over here like in Bali. No bars, no clubs, no Westerners at every corner, no Indonesians speaking English, no. Java is pretty remote. I’m in a small town, not a tourist hub. If I was in Bali, I would know.

     It takes forever to upload the pics for my blog. The drizzle is still consistent by the time I leave. It’s a 1515. I stop at the harbor for a look. The tide push is starting, but the waves are tiny. Some people are out, but . . . it’s not as good as the morning. Still, I’m willing to surf it.

     Back at the compound, as I’m parking, this German dude Eric and Randy are looking down at me from the second floor. “You down for a second sesh?” says Randy.

     “Yeah, I just checked the harbor. It’s small, but I might do it.”

     “What about Chocos?”

     “Have you seen it?”

     “No, but Doc and Gayun haven’t come back yet, and they’ve been out there for an hour.” Randy points to the road from the balcony. “Your German friend is coming.”

     I run out to the road to stop her. She’s finished with her session there. “How was it?” I ask.

     “It’s okay.”

     “How come you’re done so soon?” I look at my watch.

     “What time is it?”

     “Three forty four.”

     “Oh, well I’ve been out since two.”

     “How does it look?”

     “It’s kind of fat.”

     “Is it pretty rideable?”

     “I don’t know how to explain because I don’t surf too much.”

     Well, this is a disappointment, but I can’t blame her. I tell her I’ll see her later during dinner with everyone else.

     Randy doesn’t want to get his moped dirty. That’s right. It’s because he just washed it. Yup, he washed his moped, and he doesn’t want to get it “dirty.” But we’re not talking a Mercedes Benz here, we’re talking Honda Moped! Good lord, I’m thinking. Who gives a shit. I mean, are Javanese chicks really hitting the brakes on their mopeds to check out a guy on his moped. Do they say, “Damn, girl! The black paint on his motherfuckin’ moped is shiny!” IT’S A FUCK-ING MOPED!?

     So now Randy’s riding on the back of my moped; we’re on some gay shit right now. Awkward . . . super awkward. Heading to Choco Point, the road is filled with deep puddles. We splash around on the way there. Doc passes us in his car. Not good. When we reach the spot, Gayun is coming out of the water. Not good. 

     “Oh,” says Randy, looking at a parked moped. “Richard is here.” Not good again. What thee fuck?

     I paddle out. There’s a fucking diaper (again) floating next to me. How many “not goods” is that?

     Fucking Richard. My brother told me that they are really good friends and the he even lets Randy store shit at his house in Jogja. I walk out to the point where there’s an old man longboarding, and Richard is sitting at the middle of the wave. His presence is already fucking with my conscience. Let him have the next couple waves. So I pass on two, thinking that if he hasn’t caught any one of those, then that’s his fucking fault. Out the back, lines start coming in. Brown and raised over the horizon, they are already lining up towards the inside. Richard will not have a shot of any of these from the middle section. The old guy gets the first wave. I paddle out and catch my first wave of the evening on my Lost board, and let me just say that I’m in the perfect spot. I haven’t caught a solid left in days. This wave is a solid five feet, the best Choco Point has been this week. The volume on my board works wonders. I hope back home that this can be a good Old Mans and PV board. I’m extra aggressive. I have to be because it will be dark in about forty-five minutes. The section stands up with size. On the open face, I pump and draw a wide, arcing turn. My turn leads my into a cut back. I don’t bang it off the white wash, but I redirect my board smooth enough. Although, I may have mistimed this cutback because the section is running away in front of me. I pump to beat it, but the lip is too long. I’ve missed it. Resurfacing, I’m still stoked. It just felt good to cranks a mean turn off of that face. Fuck I love this board. And then, Richard. Fuckin’ English fucker. He’s there, paddling out close by. I guess I must’ve almost grazed him on my cutback because he has that asshole, annoyed look on his face. I can’t tell if he’s looking at me to say hi or because I’ve somehow assaulted his honor again from taking my wave. Either way, I’m not looking at him because I can’t fuckin’ stand him and I don’t want to talk to him. Nope, he’s a dick. Fuck ‘m.

     But the tide is starting to come up. The fucking rain threw me off of my schedule. I should have been out here well over an hour ago. The sets take longer to come, so I sit at the middle of the wave, taking some insiders. Even though these waves aren’t standing up as much, I’m taking more risks at trying to make the sections. I’m attempting a lot more floaters on sections that I used to give up on. Half of my attempts have me coming unstuck on the landing. The other half aren’t smooth floaters, but the momentum from my amateur, foam climb slings me back into the pocket to milk the waves longer. Stoked!

     So the old guy. I’m talking to him at the point. His name is also Richard, so we’ll just call him Old Rich. He’s bald with white hair growing on the sides of his head. He’s riding a log. “I used to live in Oahu in the seventies,” he says. “Now I live in Singapore. I surf Malaysia, but I like to come here too. How did you find out about this place?”

     I tell him about Randy and how I’m here visiting him.

     “A year ago it wasn’t this crowded,” he says.

     A rogue wave comes. He catches it. Good for him. I’m stoked. He paddles back to the lineup and takes another fucking wave. Son of a bitch, I’m thinking. How about sharing those motherfuckers?

     Now I’m forced to do this paddle battle positioning thing with him, but there’s a long lull. I move just in front of the second point.

     Torrential downpour begins again. A flash of lightning strobes over the ocean ahead. The raindrops, dead wind, and overcast have the water so glassy that I can’t even tell when they are going to break. I still manage to get a couple more waves, but now the surf is to the point that I’m mistiming everything due to the lack of visibility. I ride the whitewash to shore.

     On the sand, Old Rich is talking to Randy, both sharing knowledge of the place. He says goodbye to us, and Randy hops on the back again.

     “Where else in the world can you do this?” I say, while my moped is sliding in the mud and splashing through now deeper puddles. The rain drops are so big and consistent that they hurt my fucking face. All I can see in front of me is a sheet of rain in the headlight beam. The rain is much colder than the ocean, and we’re just as wet as we were sitting in the water. Back at the compound, I tell Randy that it’s Sonia’s last night here, so I’m gonna do dinner with the guys at Compound One.

Al, where art thou?:

    

     I’m showered and dried, but the rain still hasn’t ceased. Would be nice to have a rain coat like the locals do. In fact, I have one, a military issued one. Actually, I have about three, but . . . they’re at home, in my garage. Would be nice if this was in the packing list I was sent months ago. But why would anyone need a raincoat in the dry season? Well, because dry season is late.

     If you can recall, dear reader, I haven’t had one solid meal today. I’ve had a total of three oatmeal packets. That’s it. And I’ve surfed two fucking times today. I’m starving. Rain or no rain, I need food!

     I leave the protection of the overhang over my porch and walk to my moped.

     “Matt,” yells Randy from the balcony. “Grab the umbrella. It might help.”

     I walk back to the stairs and grab Rian’s umbrella. Earlier, I had seen two kids on a moped. The kid in the back held the umbrella for both of them.

     So . . . here I am. Motherfuckin’ torrential downpour (really, picture this shit, it’s unreal), steering with one hand while my left holds onto the umbrella. This is fucking ridiculous. Sure, my hair is dry, but the faster I go, the more the umbrella bends and wants to turn inside out like half of an orange peel. From the chest down, I’m already soaked.

     Pulling into Compound One, I can see all of the guests at the dining room table. Ana comes out from the darkness and rushes under my umbrella.

     “What are you guys doing for dinner?” I ask.

     “I don’t know. Let’s go ask Reece and Grant.”

     We walk over to the table. Everyone there is directing his attention towards us, wondering who can this be coming out of the darkness. Of course, Richard’s back is to us, seated at the table.

     “Still raining?” he says.

     Unfortunately, my appearance only generates odd stares from everyone, except the people who I’m here to talk to. I walk towards Reece, waiting for him to acknowledge me. This is a normal routine, right? After surfing, come over, see what’s up with dinner. But he ignores me and talks to the guy next to him.

     I walk over and try Grant. There’s this funny thing about Grant, you see. He gets pussy blind really easy. There are new chicks at the compound. He’s seated close to them, so . . . he doesn’t acknowledge me either. I’m forced to interrupt and say, “Grant, what are you gonna do for dinner?”

     He looks down at the carcass of half of a watermelon. It’s completely spooned out. He motions down towards it. “I don’t know, mate,” he says, and then he’s back to his conversation with the ladies.

     Ana looks at me and says, “I’m not that hungry either. Maybe later.”

     Well fuck me in the ass. Am I one unwelcomed motherfucker or what? Or maybe . . . I’ve placed my expectations too high; I’ve placed them too high on everyone this trip. I had high expectations for my brother. Fail. I had thought I made some solid bonds here. Fail. Yeah, the truth comes out, and sometimes it’s just a beaten down anus. My buddies, my crew are just acquaintances. No real friendships here. I guess I was caught up in the ideal, but Compound One is a community, a community I’m not a part of.

     “Where’s Sonia?” I ask Ana.

     “She’s watching a movie.”

     “Okay then, see you later.”

A Battle Buddy:

     Battle buddy . . . it’s a cliché term in the army, but it has deep roots. Your first battle buddy is in basic training, just some random dude who may or may not become your lifelong friend, but he’s you’re buddy and you’re his buddy. Your jobs are to unfuck each other, down to the lace hanging out of your boot to the patch of hair on your chin that you missed shaving. Your mission is to never leave each other’s side and to make sure you are both squared the fuck away.

     In the active army, you get a say in who your battle buddy is. It’s the guy who you hang out with, hit the gym with, go out to the pub and Red Light District with. Even if you don’t feel like going out, you’re job is to watch out for your battle buddy because . . . he would do the same for you. Well, on this trip out here, Randy, Ana, Sonia, Reece, Grant, Camille, they were not and are not battle buddies. Al was my battle buddy.

     I’m riding as fast as I can with this umbrella bending against the wind and rain, laughing out loud in frustration and anger. “It’s a fucking joke!” I yell. Not one fucking moped is on the road because . . . who the fuck would want to ride out in these conditions? I know who. Me, and . . . my battle buddy would. I stop in the middle of the empty street. The street light above displays streaks of rain like a mini meteor shower. In the empty night with blackness surrounding me on both sides, I laugh to myself while I collapse the umbrella. Riding with the full rain drenching my face and my hair, I imagine Al next to me.

     “Hahahahahaa!” we both laugh at each other.

     “Dude!” says Al.

     “Dude!” I say. “Fuck it. We’re hungry!”

     “This shit is crazy!” he says.

     We both smile. Wind blowing rain drops past our cheeks to be replaced with new raindrops. BATTLE BUDDIES. Both soaked together from head to two. BATTLE BUDDIES. Enduring the same hardship, because we never leave a man behind. BATTLE BUDDIES. Because who cares if it’s raining. Hey, if you’re fucking hungry, I won’t let you go out there alone. Fuck no! You’re my fuckin’ battle, right? Let’s go. We’re going. Al would say, “Motherfucker, are we really doing this?”

     I’m sitting at the chicken satay booth alone. The market is dead empty. All the tables are wet. No one else is here. A breeze creeps up my back, making my wet clothes cold. I look like a stray dog, somewhere I don’t belong, wearing boardshorts and a T-shirt. An old woman walks up to me. She’s draped in a pink rain coat. She says the name of the place where I’m staying. “Yes,” I say back. She talks more, but I don’t understand, but her eyes show concern. She says something in Indonesian to the chicken satay husband and wife. They say something back. She smiles and walks away.

Basterds. . .

     My chicken satay comes, and even though I’m shivering with a fever I can’t quite shake off, I eat. My food is fucking delicious. I order a chocolate, banana martabak after. Fuck it. I haven’t eaten all day. I’m not letting my isolation ruin my night. I’m eating everything. Soto Ayam (chicken soup). I’m going all out, baby. Third course of the night. I walk to the fried stall for stuff, fried Tofu. Why not?

     In the rain again, along with my teeth chattering. I go to the Indomaret because it’s what I do, regardless if I’m with a group or not. I can do this. I just go for a soda though, no ice cream.

     In my room, I take a cold shower because it’s the only kind of shower you can take here. I wash the rainwater off one more time. We were supposed to have a movie night here again tonight, but I already know that’s cancelled. I watch Taylor Steele’s Sipping Jetstreams, and after that I watch Sight and Sound. It’s good surf motivation. Tomorrow, I’m getting up to surf early. Al would say, “Don’t forget to wake me up.”