A JACKASS IN JAVA: DAY TWENTY EIGHT (14JUN2013)

     During Ana’s little going away get together, we had all agreed to surf Choco Point in the morning. I had said, “Let’s see who arrives there first.”

     It’s 0530 when I glance at my watch. My curtains are closed, but I can tell that its’ still pretty dark outside. My mind is still stuck in a Cali mentality that the water has to be cold at this hour of the morning. I shut my eyes.

     I wake up at 0630. Fuck. It’s bright outside. I should have just woken up. I brush my teeth, skip breakfast, grab my wax and my rashguard, and then I head out the door.

     The days here are short, so 0630 is actually kind of late. My day should have begun already. When I reach Choco Point, I see four motorbikes with surf rack assemblies. Fuck. I can’t completely tell who the little black dots are in the water, but I have a feeling it’s the homies.

     I opt to put on some sunblock for this session, and then I begin my walk to the lineup. I’m more upset that I missed the good window for the low tide. Low tide was about 0620. It’s almost 0700 now, but ideally, it would have been nice to catch the tide on it’s way down, bottoming out, and then just a little bit on the rise.

     Once I’m close enough to the point, I can see that the homies are in fact here. They beat me. It’s Grant, Reece, Eric, the Japanese couple, and German Fabio. What happened to Ana? I paddle out and sit towards the inside. Waves come, but they moosh out pretty fast. The size isn’t here like yesterday evening, but then again, this place is an evening spot; it’s never as good in the morning. Even though the surf is slow and inconsistent, there are sets that show up unexpectedly. I miss the first couple, being too far on the inside or not sitting deep enough. I’m on Reece’s outside, paddling for a wave, but this gangly Aussie, he has a really strong paddle. He slides into the wave, and all I can do is watch from behind. The wave peels, damn near, never ending. At the end of his ride, all I see is his black smudge of hair, still on the wave.

     I don’t have a memorable ride that comes to mind as I write this, but the waves were an easy three-to-four feet. I caught a couple of long rides but nothing epic. At 0830, Grant and I are the only ones left in the lineup. The surf slows down to a minimum, and we decide to head in so we can say goodbye to Ana.

#

     After I shower, I head to Compound One. I can’t say that the morning session was a total waste because it was nice just to paddle out, but I think everyone was hoping that last night’s swell would carry on. Most people here don’t check the tide or the swell forecasts; they don’t even have watches, but I took a snap shot of this week’s tide chart. The mornings have a medium low tide right now, and the evenings have been more on the drained side, that’s why the surf wasn’t that great—too much water.

     When I pull up, there’s a shuttle already waiting to pick up Ana. As I walk in, Ana’s walking out from the dormitory, looking like a straight up backpacker with how stuffed her bag is and all of the straps dangling on its sides.

     I reach out for a hug and say, “Remember, when you’re in Caliornia. . .” We hug.

     Reece, Grant, Edo, and Tina come out from the kitchen to give her a hug as well. She almost sits in the driver’s seat of the shuttle and then doubles back around the other side to enter. We all stand on the road and waive as her ride pulls off. I remember on my first morning here with Al, we had witnessed something similar: a long-time vacationer was leaving, and his friends all came out to the road to say goodbye. With Ana gone, we have no estrogenic balance. This is officially the sausage stage of the trip. . .

     Back at the compound, Randy’s friend has cooked omelets again. There is something about the eggs over here. I mean, I thought that one egg was no different from another, like the eggs I buy from the grocery store back home are the norm, but the eggs from the chickens in Indo have a natural flavor in them. They taste like they already have salt. I also have some coffee, milk, and the local brownies that are more like chocolate cake. I’m killing a lot of these brownies, especially after this surf session.

     On the mornings that we’ve surfed local, the routine has changed a little. It’s surf, eat, nap, surf again, shower, and then eat at the market for dinner. I guess the only thing that’s different is the nap. I’m so full, so lying down on my bed is mandatory.

     At 1037, barely an hour and a half later, I hear a motor bike pull up. I raise my head and see that it’s Grant. Fuck, I already know what he wants. Last night we had planned to eat at Padangs after our morning surf, but I hadn’t counted on being fed so well from Randy’s friend. I get up and walk out to meet him.

     “Hey, Matt. It’s time.” His face is smiling under his helmet and sunglasses.

     I scratch my shaggy head. “Fuck, I already knew what you wanted when you pulled up.” I yawn.

     “Padangs, man. Come on, we planned this yesterday.”

     What is it about an English accent that’s so hard to say no to, especially Grant. He uses his accent to his advantage, like a puppy who’s begging. “I don’t know,” I say. “Randy and his friend fed me. I’m still full.” I’m also tired. I could turn around, plop on my bed, and sleep until it’s time to surf again.

     “Awww, come on, mate. You promised. We planned it.” He frowns. “Don’t make me go by me-self. . .”

     Fuckin’ A. There he goes with his boyish charm and good looks, working his magic in a homosexual way on a heterosexual guy. He’s made pin cushions out of several women who have so much as wandered too close to his compound. I stretch and let out a long grunt while staring at my moped and the gate he’s opened. “All right,” I say. “I’m a man of my word.” I turn around and grab a shirt.

     “Now that’s what I like to hear.”

     He lifts the kickstand to my moped and wheels it out of the parking stall for me, so I can start it and ride out. “Wow,” I say. “It’s like valet parking.”

     He smiles but doesn’t comment. I have a feeling they call it something different in England.

#

     Padangs. . . Did I mention I was already full? Ilham’s (the owner) daughter scoops us a plate full of rice. The food here is so greasy, which is usually a good thing, but I’m not hungry. I choose to go vegetarian on this run, scooping greens, tempe, and teron (eggplant). Grant is smiling and giddy when we sit. It’s always ten degrees hotter in here. The fan isn’t doing much, and a plate full of fishbones at the edge of our four-person table has a congregation of flies hovering around it. A couple of days ago when Grant and I ate at the new Padangs, he had said, “The old Padangs does have a trashy quality to it.” He eats with his hands, local style. In Javanese restaurants, they have a couple small bowls of water to rinse your hands in. I go for the fork and spoon. My teron is tough and rubbery like it’s been overcooked. The tempe has sambal in it, a chili paste which makes my forehead bead in sweat. Flies land on my face to taste the excretions from my pores. “It’s so good,” says Grant, as he claws his way through the soupy rice that’s saturated in curry juice. I’m a food lover, but only when I’m hungry.

#

     There’s always room for ice cream, that’s why we’re here at the Indomaret, staying true to our routine. Every meal in town must be followed up with dessert at the Indomaret. Back home this would be the equivalent to hanging out in front of the neighborhood liquor store. Sitting at the table outside in the Indonesian sun, we lick our ice cream like two little kids, but we’re grown ass men. I want to make a comment how we’re like Jay and Silent Bob right now, but I don’t because I doubt he knows who they are. What kind of impression have we made with the locals? They must think, Westerners . . . they’re some ice cream eating motherfuckers.

Choco Buffet:

     It’s 1430 when I start waxing my board for the evening session. I have to be out there before 1500. It’s my evening routine. I want to be the first one out there if possible. I notice that my arms are getting darker than the rest of my body, so I bare back it. I can’t go home with an upper body tan line. 

     When I pull up, the sight amazes me. It’s early, so the wind hasn’t switch to offshore yet, but there are massive lines coming in. Six-foot sets with onshore wind, rippling the top of the waves. I’m stoked. Yes, getting here early is a good gamble.

     I can’t get out there fast enough, but I take the time to put some sunblock on, and then I grab my board to begin the walk to the point.

     Two old fishermen are on the shore with their lines cast out. I walk under their lines and smile at them. They smile back. I imagine they must think I’m crazy for paddling out in this water.

     Before paddling, I’m standing on the edge of the shallow shelf, waiting for the set to die, and that’s when I dart towards the outside. Since it hasn’t rained today, the water is clean for the first time. It’s still chocolaty, but there aren’t any diapers or wood floating around.

     OTB. Only The Bombs. I know this place will be crawling with surfers soon, so I wait on the outside. Only the bombs, nothing else. But the tide is still somewhat high. Low tide will be at about 1800, so we’ll miss the best window of surf, but the waves should get better towards last light.

     I’m sitting on the outside waiting for another monster set, but it doesn’t happen. Paddling towards the inside, I see Grant making the walk to the point. Just then, I catch a little inside wave.

     One thing about this spot is that it offers different kinds of waves. The ones that break over the shelf at the top are steeper. They offer faster sections that require a quick pop up. The waves are performance oriented for quick, snappy turns, and on good days even a little barrel coverup. The second point breaks a little softer, but if it’s a good wave it will reform towards the inside and take you all the way to shore. On the low tide, waves will line up from the first point all the way to shore. And then there are the monsters. The rogue sets break so far out and wide that those at the point will be too deep. Only those sitting way outside and in front of the second point will have a chance at scrambling for these. The takeoff is steep, but just the size alone will build enough speed to get turns all the way to shore.

     Right now, this inside wave that I’ve caught over the shelf reminds me of a peaky day at Huntington. I get two fast carves and then the wave mooshes out. As I paddle back towards the lineup, the bomb that I was waiting for comes in.

     It’s duckdive central right now. After punching through each wave, the next one is already peeling, and I’m dead in the impact zone, too far behind the shoulder to go. When the set is finished, I meet Grant on the outside.

     Poor positioning has me missing the best waves on tap this afternoon. I have to adjust to the crowd that’s just showed up, so I sit further at the top than I’d like to. The waves I take are short and only offer two turns. Thankfully, the crowd isn’t as thick as yesterday.

     As the tide gets lower, the waves start getting better. By 1600, the wave buffet is officially open. Every time a set comes, everyone scrambles. Either surfers are falling behind the sections because they are too deep; guys have been sitting too close to the inside, so they’re forced to duckdive the whole set; some guys are too far outside, so they scratch out; or there are the few who are extremely picky like my brother, who calmly pass up the first wave and position themselves for the next one.

     Grant and Reece have switched to longboarding on this swell, and they catch waves nonstop. They are either at the top of the wave or coming back on long, paddling journeys.

     I take a lot of waves deep, popping up fast and pumping as the lips are curling but still able to get to the open faces. Deep bottom turns and projecting back up six-foot faces. I had learned my lesson with forcing my surfing, so I’m graceful and careful not to lose the wave. My arcs are wide and transitioning well back into the pocket and then rebounding for more turns. The sections are playful and standing up on the verge of closing out. Surfing the wave requires work and good judgment on when to pump and when to stay close to the pocket. Since the waves have size, I don’t risk the floaters and instead pump just under the feathering lips.

     The paddle back is so long after so many waves. I pass up the ones breaking at the second point. OTB. At the top of the wave, I’m so tired that I call other guys into the rides, saying, “Go for it.” For the first time, my thighs start burning towards the end of my rides to the point that my last turns are shit. At the top of the wave, Randy and a local dude named Ya-ya are pulling in, trying to get barreled, but the barrels are too fast. The Japanese dude’s girlfriend has a bodyboard today, and she’s catching any wave she wants. Without the rain, the sky is clear, giving us more daylight. We surf until 1730, a two-and-a-half hour session. As I leave the water, I see the surf getting better and better. I’m stoked that this spot has turned on during my final days here.

#

     I’m freshly showered, sitting in a chair in the dormitory at Compound One, a dormitory that was once teeming with life. Reece lies in the hammock. Eric sits on his mattress, playing with his long, curly hair. And Grant sits in the chair next to me. I say, “I can’t believe that this place was once filled to capacity. When I first got here there were so many people.”

     “This is how it was last year,” says Reece. “I love it when it’s like this.”

     We should be heading out on our bikes to eat, but everyone is exhausted. “Can’t we just order some food bunkus (to go) and bring it back here?” says Reece. No one answers.

     “I can’t believe my trip is almost over,” I say. “I mean, it felt like it was going slow, but now . . . I only have a couple of days left. You guys have been gone for well over a year, but for me . . . one month is a HUGE deal.”

     Everyone laughs. “Shit,” says Grant. “Just the other day I was thinking that I only have three weeks left. That’s not enough time!”

     “I only have $67 left in my bank account,” says Reece.

     I think about that money that I saved from Iraq and how I haven’t touched it. I bet if I wanted to, I could use that money and just be gone for two years at least, just travelling and surfing. But I’m not as extreme as these guys, and with my military obligations, something like that won’t be possible for years. 

#

     At the market, I order two meals. I have to. I’m leaving soon, so I might as well splurge. I eat two ice creams at the Indomaret too.

     Everyone else heads back to their compound, but I have to get on the wifi to make some posts. I have an email from Ryan that reads: “Hey, Matt. I heard you met my twin. Is that true?” I send him links with Doug’s photos.

     The playoffs are tied 2-2. Yes! I will see the NBA Finals when I get home. Francis leaves me a long Voxer message, telling me not to worry about getting barreled and to just enjoy myself. KK’s going through some hard times with his injury. I hope he heals well and fast. Patience! My friends Nikki and Surfing Grandma of the OC leave me long, heartfelt messages, commenting on the post regarding my childhood. I thank you both. I Vox with Briana, who assures me that I’m a good man and have turned out well despite what I’ve been through. An avocado smoothie later, and it’s time for me to head back to the compound.

     For this entry, I don’t know what else to say. I don’t have anything groundbreaking or new to express, but there is the sense of my trip coming to a close. It’s everywhere, down to how much my brother has been taking care of me these last some-odd days, the way that our crew has thinned out dramatically, and how empty Compound One is. Looking out my window, wind rustles the leaves of the small plants in the front yard. One day too, these plants will canopy this whole place like how it is at Compound One. Edo and Tina will still be running this place. Doc will make his appearances in the surf with his longboard and Red Billabong rashguard that a pro had given him from an actual competition. My bro said he’s gonna sit on this spot for a while longer. I’m not sure if Gayun, the college boy, or Rian, the high school graduate, will still be working here. All I know is that the surf will remain, and surfing vagabonds will come and go. Both compounds will teem with life once again with Germans, Englishmen, and Aussies; and those hooking up will be boning on the beach while mosquitoes bite their sweaty backs. This month-long trip is just a slice of my life and a slice of time that Indo-Napili has to offer. Never again will a trip happen like this, with the same exact people here at the same place at the same time. There will be future Grants and Matts, Reeces and Anas, and so on. I’ve ridden through the jungle, surfed a slab and survived, dined like a dictator, and surfed the longest waves of my life in diaper-infested water. That wind outside my window rustling the leaves, it’s unique and belongs here; I’ll be leaving it behind. In a few days I’ll be in El Segundo, sitting in my apartment just like this, and the wind will be making a different sound.