A JACKASS IN JAVA: DAY TWENTY SEVEN (13JUN2013)

     My morning begins with a knock at the door. It’s still dark out, and my alarm hasn’t even gone off yet. I check my watch. 0454. I open it.

     Randy says, “You want some coffee?”

     “Yeah, yeah. Sure.”

     “Okay. Be ready in fifteen, twenty minutes.”

     I shut the door. Fuckin’ A. I know he had said “early” last night, but I had no idea. This is a legit dawn patrol. By the time I’m done brushing my teeth, he’s at the door with the coffee. I sip on it as I get my gear together.

#

     We’re on the road by 0530. The sun is just turning the overcast sky into a faint, metallic blue. I have my sunglasses for eye protection, but it’s too dark to use them. Randy’s taking it easy on the road again. Right when we exit town, there are a good amount of miles of construction. They are still destroying the side of a cliff to make the road wider, leaving piles of earth and rock on the side of the road. Some stretches of road go from two lanes to one, a little sketchy when vehicles are heading straight towards you.

     As we cruise I begin to notice more things: the large crops behind people’s houses, glimpses of villagers walking alongside roads that I’ve never ridden through, and the way the cliffs shoot straight up with heavy, impenetrable vegetation. I’m enjoying this laid back, dawn ride through on the way to Machines. I’m going to miss this.

#

     I don’t know what it is about this drive that makes me think about Maui. There are some stretches of road that remind me of the two-lane highway through Kapalua, Honolua Bay, and Punalau where my grandpa’s pastures were located. The smell of the trees and cow shit bring back memories.

     The last time I took this ride it was a tear jerker for me, and I try to refrain from doing the same. I’m staying in the moment, watching out for potholes on this dark, early morning and being weary of catching a bug in my eye.

     A quick memory flashes through my mind: the night my grandparents came to my aunt’s house, asking me to come back home. “Boy is not the boss,” said my grandfather. “I’m the boss.” It broke my heart to tell them no, but I couldn’t go back to living under the same roof as my uncle. I kept saying no over and over again, but it was a stale mate. My grandma was no different. “Come back, baruk,” she said. Even when they both left, my grandpa threw in the last words before walking back down the dark staircase. “Baruk, come home, yeah?”

     No tears here. I release the throttle going downhill, leaning into the left turn and hugging the curve in the road. Another scooter passes me, heading in the opposite direction. I have to share this narrow road. Always hug the curves. I pull the throttle on the next uphill, and another memory about that night comes to mind.

     The flashlight. My grandpa had this huge diver’s flashlight. It was long and thick. Its handle was orange and fat because it used double D batteries. The lens was disproportionally large with a brown housing. The flashlight. . . They walked through the night in the dark, my grandma and grandpa. In Maui, the houses and neighborhoods sometimes resemble villages. From behind my grandpa’s house, they had to walk through the dark backyards of the neighboring houses, down a path of stone steps placed on a dirt hill, and then through the back door of my aunt’s house. I think about that flashlight. They needed it. They weren’t the type of grandparents to take random walks in the night. I had never thought of this before. What kind of conversation had ensued before they decided to walk in the dark to ask me to come home? Was it my grandma that gave my grandpa and uncle and earful to the point that my grandpa had to ask me to come back? Maybe my grandma and grandpa talked among themselves and both wanted me back. The thought of them walking the dark path in the middle of the night for the sole purpose of asking me to come home makes my eyes water. They came for me, and they walked back on that dark path with my grandpa holding the flashlight while my grandma followed close behind him. They had came for me and hoped that I would be walking back on that path with them, but I didn’t. My eyes well up. I keep the tears back.

#

     When my brother and I arrive at Machines, there are two guys on the right and three guys on the left. An Aussie is sitting underneath the empty warung. I say hello and sit on a bench, watching the surf. A fisherman with his daughter are holding their boat at the water’s edge, waiting for the tide to come up a little before they venture out.

     “That guy’s a local legend,” says Randy.

     “Legend?” I say.

     “Yeah, he always catches the biggest fish.” Randy changes into his rashguard and shorts. “He’s also feared.”

     “How so? Does he have connections? He has guys ready to do some dirty work?”

     “No. In like these villages, especially the small ones, they’re very superstitious. I heard he uses black magic.”

     The man and his daughter jump in the boat and motor out past the lineup through the channel in the middle of the bay. When they come back, the man, in his underwear that doubles as swim trunks, approaches Randy and starts talking to him in Indonesian. I have a feeling that this guy can sense energy, since I am purposely avoiding him because I’m not in the mood for any black magic in my life. He finally looks at me, and Randy tells him that I’m his brother. Just then, a barrel peels off from the middle of the wave on the left. The fisherman hoots and claps his hands at the sight. He turns back to my brother and says, “Five wave. Five other waves. No bulé (foreigners)” He points out towards the direction of the right. 

     Randy’s deciding where to surf. He wants to do the left, but honestly, frontside barrels (at least here) aren’t as easy as I had anticipated. I’d rather surf the right, but the call is to surf the left first before the tide kills it.

     On the sand, the French guy who’s sponsored by GoPro walks up to us and shakes both of our hands. He tells Randy about how the surf was yesterday and how he and his buddies have paid the fisherman for the day to show them the other, bulé-free waves. Before he walks away he says, “Timing is EVERYTHING out here! You mistime your wave, you are FUCKED!” He’s passionate with his speech. Right on.

     Randy begins his paddle out to the left, and I follow close behind. On our way there, Frenchie and his mates are on the boat, heading out of the bay. He’s holding up his GoPro and throws us a shaka. We throw shakas back. Maybe we’ll be in his next movie.

     The thing about Machines is that there’s this rip current that sucks you out into the channel, so the paddle out here is really easy. In a minute, the rip has placed us on the shoulder of the wave. 

     The Aussie guy who was surfing with us the other day is out here. His name is Wade. He’s sitting at the top of the wave by the furthest rock at the edge of the cliff. It’s ballsy. He Paddles in at the foamball that forms at the top, getting at least two turns in, and then he pulls into the barrel section. Some of those waves connect and go hollow all the way ‘til the end. Randy prefers to paddle in at the middle of the wave. 

     As usual, I’m dealing with some anxiety being out here, but the thing that’s better about today is that the swell is a little smaller than the last time we were here, and there aren’t any judges from the warung booth. Taking some initiative, I paddle into my first wave without being called into it.

     Moment of honesty . . . I’m a coward when it comes to this wave. I’m not a fan of the reef at the end as I’ve said before, but of course, this is how I justify my cowardness.

     I’m a little deeper than I should be, but I go anyway. The shoulder of the wave isn’t huge, but it has so much power because the rest of the wave behind the shoulder is a beast. The face is already standing up as I’m bottom turning. From here I have to judge if the wave is going to open up and when I should pull in. The tide may already be going high, because the section is shutting down. I pull in and penetrate out the back.

     I have one more barrel attempt, and that’s it for the left. Whenever the tide gets high, the rip starts going through the left, which makes the water choppy and forces you to paddle against it to keep position.

Pig-Dog Training:

    

     Randy and I have the right to ourselves. Unlike the left, the right is best on the mid to high tide. The reef here is unforgiving, so even though it barrels on the low tide, no one risks it. I had expected that, being a goofy footer, that I would find frontside barrels easier, but I realize that I enjoy trying to pull in backhand instead.

     On my first wave, immediately upon take off, I grab my rail and stick my arm into the face. That’s all you have to do, really, for a backhand take off. You are automatically pulling in from the get go, so whether you get barreled or not depends on your timing and your pig-dog technique. Granted, the only barrel techniques I’ve established are in their elementary stages and have only been cultivated during this trip.

     I pull in close to the shoulder, hoping to at least get some cover up. A little bit of water throws out over me for a little shampoo action, but I’m not in the barrel at all. Still, it feels good to practice holding a line, but my technique needs some work. At the end of my ride, my front foot slides off of my board, so I’m riding the wave with my outer-calf lying flat on the deck.

     Randy goes, but he doesn’t pull in. With his experience, he can tell if the wave’s gonna open up or not. Instead, he gets a couple of turns.

     Another guy paddles out. He’s light-skinned with brown hair and a burly ass beard, thick as a lumberjacks. We talk for a little bit. Turns out that his name is Conner, and he lives in San Luis Obispo, working at a place that produces a local wine label. We talk about the surf back home, and he enlightens me a little about the surf in his part of town: summer is small and the winter gets big and cold. San Luis Obispo always seems cold to me.

     “How much longer you here?” I ask.

     “Two more days.” We both look at the horizon. There’s a small bump out there.

     “So what’s it gonna be when you get back?” I say. “In-N-Out or Mexican?”

     He smiles and says, “Mexican,” right away. “Good Mexican.”

     We both motion for the incoming wave. He looks at me and says, “Go for it.”

     I’m deeper than I should be, but after my first barrel attempt I feel pretty good. I turn and paddle hard to make up for my late positioning. As I’m popping up to grab my rail, I’m lip launched in the tube. What did Frenchie say? Fuckin’ A. Timing is EVERYTHING. It is, he’s right because . . . this grabbing rail deal while being suspended in mid air, it’s not working.

     Fuck, I’d like to think this isn’t my worst wipe out, but as my friend Grant describes it, all I can say is: “SMASH!” Yup, smashed. All that weight from the slab flips me in the tube. It’s so powerful and happens so fast that I get the wind knocked out of me. With the cushion of the tide, I’m not touching the reef yet, but these barrel wipeouts (even on the left) have long hold downs. I’m trying to stay calm, but I’m running out of air. I’m not even that deep, just held down. I worry if there’s another wave. I finally relax despite the air deprivation, and I tell myself that I may have enough air for a double, hold down. When I resurface, I see that that the next wave is standing up. I scramble for my board. My brother had told me that at the big day at S___ A-frame he had to hold onto his board even though he was getting worked underwater; hold onto it to resurface faster. Grabbing my board, the explosion of the next wave sends me under again and closer to the reef. I resurface quickly and paddle to the channel.

     I should be embarrassed. It’s obvious that something went awry on that attempt. The look on my face says it all: the fake smile like everything’s all right even though my limbs and lips are trembling. The next set comes. “You guys go,” I say. The lack of air when I was held down affects me. The power of that wipeout itself has me in need of some recovery time.

     Conner gets a couple of waves and goes in. The tide here is coming up sooner than expected, but we’re almost at the two hour mark, a decent length of time for a solid surf session.

     The next wave has a long bend in it that’s stretching all the way to the channel. These are the ones that my brother had said are the ones to take. Identify the wave ahead of time—check. Paddle out to meet it and turn around in good position—check. Kick really hard and put in two extra strokes to avoid getting lip launched—check (What’s cool about dropping into a backhand slab is that you can’t see the wave. I know this sounds rather pussyish, but on your forehand, you’re watching this massive wall in front of you, judging and timing when and where you should draw your line. On this right, the line is instant; every wave is a barrel attempt; on every wave you have to pull in). Grab rail, stick arm in wave, don’t let front foot slip, tighten your anus, and hope for the best—check.

     My brother’s on the inside, paddling back out and watching. I don’t know if my position is good or not. I don’t know anything about barrels. I can only pig dog. The rest is out of my hands. The long bend going into the channel starts to curl. The shoulder turns into a long, drooping, laundry line. That’s the best way I can explain it, since it’s not very often that I get a perspective from inside the tube. The water curls over my head. Ahead of me, my brother paddles over the shoulder looking in. The opening at the end gets further away and smaller, but I’m relaxed and unwavered. Rumor has it that the barrel is the safest place to be in the wave, and for the first time in my surfing life, with this wave about to clamp down on me, I’m comfortable with wiping out in the barrel. As the wave shuts down, it lifts me up into the curl and dunks me under as the wave passes. I resurface unscathed.

     Back at the lineup, my brother says, “How was that?”

     “It was good. I had a good perspective, just . . . looking at it.”

     “But what happened?”

     “I don’t know. I guess . . . I was too deep?”

     “It looked like it was lining up for you.”

     Now I’m thinking . . . did I do something wrong on that wave? I held my line. What else could I have done? Held onto my rail harder? I couldn’t have stood up and pumped. Practice . . . that’s what it is. Maybe one day, my surfing will develop to the point that time can slow down more for me on waves like this, but I need more experience.

     Even though the tide’s getting higher, we’re still going for waves. On my last attempt, the wave doesn’t open up. It’s spilling, but I’m still pig dogging and stalling with my arm. It’s no use. The window’s closed.

     As I’m paddling in, I see Doug jogging towards the channel with a surfboard in hand. I reach the shore, walk up to him, and say, “Where were you? I was hoping to catch you in the water.”

     “Man,” he says. “I woke up at six, closed my eyes, and next thing you know it was eight!”

     I look at his board. He’s rented himself a potato chip. There’s barely any wax on it, and half of the traction pad is gone. “Dude,” I say. “You need some wax?”

     “You got some?”

     I walk to my bike, whip out my tropical and basecoat, and start waxing his board. “I can’t let you go out like that,” I say.

     “I almost got into a fight with the French guy yesterday. I paddled out to the top of the wave, and he was like, ‘You paddle out in front of me.’ I wiped out on a wave, and he was like, ‘You wasted the bomb of the day!’ I couldn’t believe it. I’ve never experienced anything like that, not even in Hawaii. I complimented him on a wave too, and he said, ‘You know nothing about surfing!’ I paddled up to him and said, ‘Do you wanna fight right now? Because we can go.’ I never do that. I’m not like that.”

     All I can do is shake my head. I don’t know what to say.

     “If I see that French guy in Hawaii,” he says, “I’m going to give him a hard time.”

Doug Masters!

     He says he’s riding back to Jogja tonight on his moped, a long two-hour journey on narrow, winding roads. I tell him that I’m stoked that I got to meet him, and I wish him well. He paddles out to the left. It isn’t barreling, but it’s good for some turns.

     I’m watching him surf as Randy and I are about to leave. “We can stay and watch him catch a couple of waves,” he says. I wait a little bit, seeing if he’ll get a ride from the top and crank out a couple of turns. That’s Ryan’s twin out there; he looks just like him. I wish I could have shown him more of this place and got more face time with him. His brother Ryan had hit me up last year, during a bad breakup with my ex. Ryan had wanted to hang out, but I couldn’t; I had too much going on. With Doug here, I’m trying to make up for that, but I’ll have to settle for letting him borrow my board the other day and letting him borrow some wax this morning.

     I switch the ignition to ON, depress the rear brake, pull the throttle, and hit the start button. My moped’s engine comes to life, like an old man woken up in the club to get on the dance floor in a crowd full of young chicks. “I’m all right,” I say. “Let’s go.”

#

     The people are so fucking nice here. On the ride back, a guy stops in the middle of cutting grass. He stands up and waives at us. My brother honks. I waive back. He didn’t have to do that.

     The kids somehow manage to yell out a quick, “Hello, Mister!” as you ride by on your moped. One of them sticks out his hand. I reach out and high-five him, almost losing control of my bike, but I couldn’t resist. I’ve taken this aspect for granted on this trip. Driving in my car in Los Angeles, who in the fuck is gonna say hello to me or even fucking waive? No one. It’s just American culture, right? Sure, people do say hi to each other back home, but it doesn’t happen all the time. Even while walking on the street, I sense the oncomers’ eyes purposely looking down or away to avoid any conversation; I too have done this. I might have over judged from the stares that I’ve received during this visit, but they were just out of curiosity. East Java, the people here, they’re fucking cool. 

#

     We’re back at a decent time. I check the harbor before going to the compound. Supri is out there, but it’s flat. From way out in the lineup, he looks back at me. He’s probably wondering if anyone’s gonna join him. Sorry, man, not happening.

     I run into Grant on the way back. He says he’s on the way to the warung around the corner for breakfast, but I tell him that I’ll catch him later. I wanna get back and shower.

     I stop by Compound One to see what’s up with Reese and Ana. Ana’s in her hammock and Reese is watching movies on his computer. “I’ll probably go to Machines this afternoon,” says Reese.

     “You can go with Randy,” I say. “He’ll probably be going back.” I look at Ana. “It’s your last day here, so I’ll be surfing Chocos with you later.”

     “Yayy!” she says, as we high five each other.

#

     It’s about 1030, and Randy’s friend makes us omelets and coffee. “We’re gonna get some tuna at the market for lunch later,” says Randy. “It’s only 170000 IR for two pounds.” Fuck . . . that’s cheap. I scarf away the food, open up the windows to my room, and lie down immobilized in a food coma. I have a feeling this day’s gonna go by quick.

Chocolate Fest:

     I wake up to the sound of motorbikes. Eric the German and Reese have pulled into our compound. They look towards the kitchen where Randy and his friend are. “Construction,” says Reese. “We were on our way to Machines, and the whole road was covered in rocks. We were waiting for them to clear it for ten minutes before we turned around and headed back.” Well, I guess staying local for the afternoon was a good call. They say they’re gonna check out Chocos. Ten minutes later they ride past the compound and honk. I wonder if the surf check was good or bad.

     Randy tells me to come eat, but . . . it’s already two. If I eat now, I won’t be able to surf. I walk in the kitchen and munch on some fried fish. Ohhh, it’s so good, hot and crunchy! “Go for it,” he says. “There’s rice too.”

     “I can’t,” I say. “I’m gonna head to Chocos in about forty-five minutes. If I’m full I won’t be able to surf.” Rian is sitting on the raised platform next to the kitchen. I look at him and say, “I hate turning down a good meal, but I hate turning down waves more.”

#

     As I’m locking up my room it begins to rain. Fuck man . . . rain, rain, rain. I shake my head, but I shouldn’t be surprised. Rian smiles at me from the platform. He’s seen this reaction from me for over the last three weeks. He cuts his smile short with his chronic cough. Poor kid. I was coughing a lot about a week ago, but he still hasn’t gotten over his. I hope it isn’t herpes.

     Lucky the rain is light. I reach Choco Point and I’m the only muldoon out here. Fuck yeah. I haven’t barebacked it in a while, especially since I’ve been at Machines, so today I decide to get some sun on my skin. I’ve been careless with the skin protection, especially since it’s been raining so much.

     The Japanese couple from Compound One show up and park next to me. I waive. They smile back. There’s a communication barrier, but we both speak stoke. We understand each other perfectly fine.

     The tide is till dropping. It could use less tide, but there are waves peeling at the second point. There’s some decent size, three-to-four feet. Well, I’m sold. It doesn’t take much. With only a small crowd here, this should be fun. I leave my camera behind as well, looking to treat myself to a surf session without a top or an object in my pocket.

     I walk out to the lineup, take my time to wait for the set to finish, and then I paddle out. Small waves come, but I’m picky. I don’t want to settle for a small wave; I want to start off with a bomb. I look at my watch. 1445, just like I had planned. This guarantees a minimum of two, solid hours of surfing.

     I sit at the second point but the waves start breaking on the outside. Fuck. Mispositioned again. I paddle out and see waves peeling in front of me. I could turn and go, but I don’t. I need a bomb, all the way from start to finish. I’m not gonna fuck myself on any half rides. At the top of the wave, I wait . . . and wait . . . and wait. Fuck. Smaller waves come, but I let them pass. I paddle deeper. Maybe I shouldn’t be so picky.

     Lumps on the outside form. Timing . . . timing is everything. I paddle out to meet the first wave. The water’s so glassy that it’s hard to tell if the wave is walling up too high or if it’s too soft. I turn and paddle, but my board slips out from under me a couple of inches. I’m thrown off, and I miss the wave. Fuck. That’s what I get for ditching the rashguard. I should have put more wax on my board. I’m deep for the second wave, but I can manage these late take offs. I get the drop on a five-footer, and the section in front of me is standing up.

     I’ve mentioned how I’ve been long overdue for a good session at Chocos, so it’s hard to calm myself down and not over do my turns. But I’ve been starving for frontside carves, so I pump wildly with my arms out in front of me. My first turn has extra mustard on it, cutting back in broken motion, rebounding off of the crumbling shoulder in two, awkward steps. I’m keeping momentum; I’m not losing the wave. My stance is a little too wide, but I’m still able to force the rails. After my third turn, the wave mooshes out. I go back to the pocket and squat low on my board to make sure I keep momentum. The wave stands up on the inside for the last closeout section. I climb the face and get a wide, wrap-around carve, which has me kicking out of the pocket. It feels so good, like a clean, deep carve—all rail. I look behind me as I paddle back out, and my grin diminishes. There are one, two, three, four, five, six, seven guys walking to the lineup.

     Do I have any right to be upset at the convoy of cocks heading my way? No, of course I don’t. Bethany is here with her Indo crew. They are locals; this is their wave. Edo and Gayun are making their way out. They’re the coolest guys ever. Rian too, despite his cough, here he is at the top of the wave. Ana, it’s her last day. Reese and Grant and Eric, fucking, ALL OF INDO-NAPILI IS PADDLING OUT AT THIS MOTHERFUCKER. NO, WHY SHOULD I BE UPSET?! I WAS JUST THE FIRST MOTHERFUCKER HERE, THAT’S ALL. . .

     Shoulder . . . I resort to sitting at the shoulder. I have to. I just don’t like crowds. Fifteen people in the water right now, including me. Oh, Randy’s out here now too. That’s sixteen. With the tide going even lower, the waves are standing up better and better. At the top of the wave, over the shallow point, the waves are barreling fast. Gayun pulls in for a quick shampoo, cover up, barely making it out. Edo and Randy get pinched, but they are trying. Every time I think I have a wave, I turn and paddle, but someone’s already on it.

     Rian paddles past me after a long bomb. “Over there, Matt,” he says, while pointing at the top of the wave.

     “Crowded,” I say.

     Edo passes me after a long bomb. “Go sit up there,” he says, pointing at the top of the wave.

     “Crowded,” I say.

     He smiles and says, “Ohhh, crowded.” He paddles two more strokes then turns to me again and says, “But deeper is better.”

     Yes . . . deeper is better. Deeper is always better. “Okay,” I say.

     Grant broke his board at Machines yesterday, so he’s using a loaner longboard from his compound: Big Blue. On my way out, a set rolls in. Everyone else is too deep. He’s sitting so wide that he turns and goes, but he falls right after he pops up. He resurfaces in time for the second wave and gets into it with only a couple of paddles. Ana too, it’s the best I’ve ever seen her surf. She’s catching some bombs, staying close to the pocket and milking them for distance. Even Reese, on this set, either everyone took a wave or they’re demolished on the inside.

     I paddle for the first wave of the next set. I’m sitting more inside than everyone else, so I’m in perfect position. Doc and Grant are on the inside as I’m dropping in. I’m beyond eager for this wave. As I’m bottom turning, Grant hoots me onto my wave. I do a carve off of the lip and lean back hard, but I have too much rail and not enough momentum. I fall backwards. Resurfacing, I yell, “Fuck! I lost it!”

     Now I’m paddling back just hating myself. I’m off. My surfing has been off here my last couple of sessions. Hungry-Hungry Matthew is so hungry that he’s fucking himself on these waves.

     I paddle through the rest of the set and sit at the top. I have to be patient. I’m not on the inside, and I’m not wide; I’m at the best spot possible.

     The next set breaks further out than anticipated. I swear, on the low tide this place is phenomenal for long waves. On a good wave you can get six turns. I’ve only dreamed about six turns, only watched waves that distribute so many turns on my TV or laptop screen. My friend Klaude had left me a message on my phone, telling me that he had a decent session with two waves. Have I already forgotten that that’s what good sessions are like in the crowded, SoCal lineups? Two waves? I’ve had days when I was out for hours and was satisfied over two turns on a single wave. Three turns in the South Bay will make your whole week! Machines can be fun, but I like turns too, especially when I can get lots of them.

     The first wave is six feet and walling up, but it has a tapered shoulder that should hold and be makeable. Paul the Groucho Marx longboarder is in front of me. He jerks his board to the left and looks back at me. “Go, Matt!” he says.

     Fuck yeah. Steep and late. I’m going for it. A fraction of a second later, and this would be a hellacious wipeout. I turn and paddle. I’m lifting. Yes, this will be a fast drop in. I look down in front of me, and I see five surfers getting ready to duckdive this wave. Directly in my line is Bethany, the white chick that speaks Indo. She ditches her board. Everything happens so fast. I’m at that crucial point. If I don’t pop up, I’m going to get pitched. If I do pop up, I can’t bottom turn until the base of the wave; my direct line will be straight and over the chubby chick with the butt chin. This is the wave that I’ve been waiting all session for, the monster, the beast, the one that has half-a-dozen turns written all over it that will end over knee deep water. I push my board to the side and become a martyr, going over the falls. . . This is the worse wipeout that I’ve had at Chocos. I mean, it’s a wipeout at the top of the point where it’s most shallow, where the wave stands up most, and it’s on a set wave. I go down so far that I touch bottom, but I’m not scared, at least not for my physical well being. This wave is more of a spilling wave. It’s not round, there is no reef, and it’s non consequential. What I am worried about is that being pushed this far underwater is forcing the bacteria-infested water into all of my sinus cavities. I resurface, feeling the crunchy sand and Choco-Point particles between my teeth. Mud water slithers down the back of my throat. Bethany . . . god damn, you!

     The rest of the set, waves two, three, and four are taken by Paul, Grant, and Reese. I look back and see Reese’s head silhouette off of the top of the wave, followed by spray. The rides are ridiculously long. I search for them, still tossing out water all the way to shore. Son of a bitch.

     The consistency and size gets too much for the last half hour. A lot of people have caught their last waves, so now I’m at the top of the wave with a manageable crowd. I don’t get the bombs, but I get good waves. Not six turns but at least four. That’s not bad I guess.

     Grant on Big Blue is making a killing. Every wave he gets is long because he can make every soft section. He even walks back to the top of the wave, like he’s on a wave ride at an amusement park.

     Why am I not relaxed? My surfing here has suffered. Is it because I’m leaving soon, too greedy, and want to force my progression on my last couple of days. “Forcing” has taken away the liberating sensation of being on a wave. It’s 1715. I patiently sit wide and take a solo rogue wave. Maybe I shouldn’t say rogue because it’s only five feet, but the shape is good with a long shoulder stretching down the bay. When I pop up, I make the effort to not make too much of an effort; I ride the wave relaxed. For the first time today, I let my board do the surfing, making only subtle weight and pivot adjustments with my feet. The board under me is responsive, bouncing up from my bottom turn and, once again, gracefully going from a top turn back into the pocket. The section in front of me walls, but I keep my pumping motions subtle. My board advances me past the section, as if I was being pulled by a large dog on a leash but at a comfortable speed. Yes, feel the board. My knees bend naturally as my board leaves a curvy trail behind us. My lost board, with tongue lolling and dashing forward. It’s saying, “Trust me, I’ll take you, I know where to go.” My feet are the reigns, not taking control but sharing it. I don’t pull off the strongest carves, but this is my base. Everything starts from here, relaxed and smooth. My board brings me back to the center. When the wave closes out, I ride the white wash in.

Farewell to Ana:

     As soon as I strap my surfboard to my bike, guess what? Torrential fucking monsoon rain! The rain doesn’t extinguish the stoke afterburn from my last wave. In the darkness, relying on my weak headlight, I ride through the puddles and under the trees. When I reach the open road, the rain stings. Literally . . . the rain fucking hurts; the combination of throttle and oncoming sheets of rain drops is not pleasant. I ease back on the throttle to reduce the damage, but I still can’t help but smile. What an experience being out here in all of this. Where else can you catch good waves just minutes away, hop back on your scooter dripping wet in boardshorts, and ride back to your abode in the splintering rain? This is the surfing life. I can’t experience nothing like this back home.

     After I shower, Randy invites me out onto the porch for tequila. We drink and chat a bit. The conversation is good, and today, with the Machine’s session in the morning, it’s probably the most brotherly moment that we’ve had. Better late than never I guess. He asks if I’m interested in selling him my leash. “I only have two, and one of them is cracking,” he says.

     Ehhh, he hasn’t acknowledged how he had buckled the board that I bought off of him (during Christmas) for a hundred and fifty bucks. I didn’t ask a dime for it, but oh well. I guess family is like this some times. It’s pretty lame actually. Just acknowledge it, say sorry, OFFER something. I’ll probably refuse and say that it’s cool; it’s just the mere principle. I wouldn’t do that to him, but he’ll do that to me because my money isn’t important as his.

     I know that I’ll just give him my leash because I know he really needs it. I can always get one from Khang. Maybe I’ll ask for something in return. I probably should, since I already lost out on my board that he had broken.

     Reese, Grant, Ana, and Eric pull up. The rain has stopped. “That’s my crew,” I say. I thank him for the tequila and head out to the market. I go for the soto ayam and chicken satay tonight, two meals since I missed lunch. Eric says he has some rum at the compound, so after we eat, we get some Coke and limes to drink it with. At the Indomaret, Ana buys everyone a round of Bin Tangs since it’s her last night.

     While we’re all drinking at their compound, we ask Ana to give a speech. She says, “Well, I had three goals on this trip—. No, not goals, more like plans. One, I wanted to learn how to surf. Two, I wanted to get a tattoo at Miami Ink, but I didn’t.”

     “I’m glad you didn’t,” I say. “That’s a lame goal.”

     “Three, I wanted to return to Germany much happier than I was when we left.”

     “Not hard goals, really,” says Reese. “My goal was to surf every day and get drunk.”

     Ana leaves tomorrow at 0900. After we’re done drinking, Grant says, “So Choco Point tomorrow morning?”

Eric the German, Ana, and Reese with his pervert mustache look.

     We all agree. “Ana,” I say. “You got a friend for life. If you’re ever in California, you can couch surf at my place. I’ll show you where to surf. You can surf with my girlfriend and the other chicks I know who surf. My friends can fight over you.”

     “Who surfs better?” says Grant. “Ana, or your girlfriend.”

     “Well,” I say. I look at the ceiling for a moment and bring my eyes back down. “My girlfriend.”

#

     My room echoes from the orgy fest that the frogs are having outside. It’s fucking loud. I write for a little bit but struggle to stay awake through a couple of paragraphs. I get ready for bed and lie down.

     I’m woken up by the swaying of my bed. Staring at the ceiling, I realize it’s an earthquake. I get up, turn on the lights, and step outside. What am I expecting? In L.A., sometimes neighbors come out to chat after an earthquake, or a couple people at least poke their heads out of their doors, but no one’s here. Standing outside on the porch by myself, listening to the sound of frogs, I feel alone. How many people have came and went on this trip? Camille, Al, Sonia, and now Ana. I turn off the porch light, walk back in my room, and close the door. Lying down in my bed, I think of Briana who’s at home waiting for me. It’s nice to have someone to come home to. All this surfing has been great, but I’m incomplete. It’s the end of my trip; I feel it. I pull the covers up to my chest and close my eyes, knowing that in four days I’ll be at home with a warm body next to me.