A JACKASS IN JAVA: DAY TWENTY SIX (12JUN2013)

     Last night I had told Ana that I’d check out Choco Point early, by early I mean getting out of bed after hitting the snooze button a couple of times. It’s 0645 when I finally get up. Low tide was around 0500. I’m late. The tide’s probably coming up a little, and it’s only getting worse and worse. If I want a morning session it’s now or never.

     No one’s out at Choco Point yet. I’m not surprised. It’s mid tide with some three-foot waves. Doesn’t look particularly special, but I’ll do it. Might as well. I can also check the harbor after surfing here.

     I hear a bike coming up from behind me. I turn around and it’s Ana. “Ahhh, you made it,” I say.

     She smiles and takes a look out. “It doesn’t look that good.”

     “Yeah, I know, but I did see a little set come through. It’s rideable.”

     Ana. Tomorrow’s her last full day here before going back to Germany, and ain’t no surf over there. It’s really now or never for her.

     She takes the long walk, wading through the midtide to get to the point. I paddle out right in front, thinking that I can punch through the small surf. Dumb idea. The paddle out here is still really long. The waves start to break on the inside, and I’m duckdiving like a motherfucker. Since the tide is starting to come up, it’s picked up all the trash that was stagnant on the shoreline, but it’s still not the worst I’ve seen it. There are twigs, but most suspect of all are the collections of bubbles and fizz floating in the lineup. They look like congregations of diarrhea.

     I somehow beat Ana to the lineup. When she paddles up to me, she’s already had to turtle dive a couple of sets. “This water is so dirty!” she says.

     Fuckin’ A it is, but we’ve been surfing this cesspool for some time now. If it was going to make us sick, it would have done so a long time ago. A Japanese couple who are staying at Compound One paddles out, and so does Groucho Marx. I found out that his name is Paul, and that he’s a frequent visitor of this region.

     With a mellow lineup, there are enough waves to go around, but they are just small. Just like the other day, when surfing was revolved around staying in the pocket, the same thing goes here. While Al was here, the surf here was decent, but the recent swells just haven’t been doing it here. Also, we are late in catching this window. I should have been here at first light if I really wanted to surf this wave to its full potential.

     Ana gets a couple waves, but I think she’s picking up bad habits from watching us surf. She’s already on the highline, but she still pumps her board to the point that she pumps over the wave. I want to give her some pointers, but she’s leaving soon. If she won’t figure it out now, she’ll do so on her next surf trip.

     Getting turns is a bitch this morning. I generate the most speed on the drop, bottom turn, and can only crank out a good carve on my first turn. After that, the wave just gets too soft.

     An hour and a half later, I’m on my bike on the way to the harbor. When I get there, the surf is flat. Today’s swell isn’t big or it hasn’t shown up yet.

#

     Back at the compound, I chill out in my room and write for a little bit. Randy comes and knocks on the door. His friend is visiting. “Hey, we’re cooking lunch,” he says. “Feel free to join us.”

     “Sure,” I say.

     Aside from the party from the gigantic tuna that Tina had sliced up, this is the first homecooked meal that I’ve had here. Randy has a fancy rice cooker, there is terong (eggplant), hardboiled eggs with tempe in some kind of paste, green beans with red peppers, and this fried dish that has corn in it. Compared to the greasy food that I usually eat out on the Indo economy, this meal is clean. Everything is good. “Just go for it,” says Randy. “Polish it all off if you can.” I try. I have three platefuls, and then Randy busts out the brownies from a famous bakery in town, but the brownies are more like chocolate cake. “This afternoon we should go to Machines,” says Randy. “Catch the left when the tide’s going out. At about two thirty or three o’clock.” I can’t say that I’m enthused. I’m not looking forward to the long ride, and since we’re going late, it’s guaranteed that we’ll be riding back in the dark. But I have to go and can’t say no, especially after he and his friend took care of me for lunch. I thank the both of them for the meal and walk back to my room, the most stuffed that I’ve been since arriving in Indo.

     The meal puts me in a food coma. I set my alarm for 1430 and fall asleep, but at around 1415 I’m woken up by something outside. Motherfucker. . . Rain. I open the door, and Randy’s standing next to his bike. “Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s really light. It won’t last long.” My motivation to ride to machines is getting worse and worse. “I’ll ask Edo if he has an extra raincoat,” he says. I sit on the porch, watching the rain drops spill off of the tiled roof and into the puddles on the dirt. The water from the roof becomes more consistent. The rain gets harder. It’s not going anywhere. 

FUCK-ING RAIN!!!

     I walk towards the kitchen and see Randy on the balcony. “I don’t think I’m gonna go,” I say.

     “You sure?”

     “Yeah. I’m not gonna ride out in this.” I open my palms and face them towards the sky. I’ve had my fair share of riding when it’s pissing out.

     “Okay,” he says.

     I put on Dear Surburbia again and watch it with Rian. Randy decides on staying too, so he chills in the kitchen with his friend and snacks on some food. By 1530, I decide that I have to look at the surf at Choco Point despite the rain. If the surf is good, I can deal with the rain, but I just have to get over getting drenched during the drive.

     

Double Sesh:

     I’m riding in my rashguard with sheets of rain stinging my face and arms. This scene is all too familiar. Wave at the security guard who’s working at the gate, hit the throttle, avoid the big puddles, and make sure I don’t scare the water buffalo. When I arrive, I’m surprised to see that the waves are bigger than this morning. The tide is drained out, and four foot sets are breaking from the top of the wave and lining up all the way to the inside. I curse myself for not getting here sooner. Doc’s car is parked and the Australian couple from Compound One are already out there.

     I walk half way out to the lineup before reaching the deeper water to paddle out in. The rain is still strong, splashing everything around me. I sit at the second point as usual and catch an inside wave, but the section swings wide, and I can’t get to the open face. I’ve lost a lot of ground, and I have a long paddle back, but every time I reach the second point, another wave is breaking. I turn and go on three waves that don’t materialize; I’m tiring myself out. I skip the inside waves and go back to the second point, and then . . . the swell hits.

     I’m way too deep for the set that are breaking. The size has increased five-to-six feet. I still have a long way to go. I try to turn and go on the bigger waves, but my timing is so off this evening. 

I know it's hard to tell, but that's a wave approaching.

     Ana’s made her way out. So has the Japanese couple, Fabio the German, Doc, the white Indo chick Bethany, and a couple of her Indo homeboys. Yesterday I had this spot all to myself. A rogue waves rolls through, but one of the female longboarders gets it. I’m upset that everyone’s here. It puts me in a bad mood. I’m greedy. Less waves for me.

     I’ve heard stories of this place barreling, and I never thought I’d see it on this trip, but on this low tide, something happens. This spot is really unpredictable. Big sets break so far out when it’s big here that everyone is out of position. On this tide push, lines start coming in. We all scramble to the top of the wave, and peeling off of the first sandbar is a six foot barrel, I mean . . . it’s the ideal beginner’s barrel. Chocos breaks so soft and mooshy. Because of the size and the tide, the wave starts throwing out in slow motion, perfectly round to get pitted on the highline, and it’s holding shape just as slow as if it was spilling. No one is in position. The longboarder couple fake paddles and pulls out. Fabio fake paddles and pulls out. Once the barrel shuts down, I try to turn and go, but the shoulder’s too soft where I’m at. Everyone else on the inside gets obliterated.

     For two more waves, it does the same thing: barrels reeling from the top. Fuck, I’m so anxious. I want one so bad, but I’m out of position. Scratching out on the first wave of the set places me further out of position. On the second wave I’m too deep. On the third I scratch out. I can’t tell you how frustrating this is. I’ve surfed here consistently, waiting for a day like this, and my surfing is just off. It’s like there’s a woman with her legs spread in front of you, saying, “You want this,” but you can’t get to it. Or a guy with a gaping anus bent over in front of you, saying, “You want this?” This is the price I’m paying for sitting at the second point, underestimating the evening swell.

     I pass up all the inside waves and finally reach the first point. I sit and wait. Everyone does. Fuck, the first wave that comes is going to go to someone else; I know it. The next set is even bigger at six feet plus, but it’s almost too big. It lines up along the first point, so walled that the wave is only makeable to someone who is sitting way wide. The second wave is makeable. A longboarder gets it. I’m in perfect position for the last wave of the set, but the rest of the surfers who are caught in the inside are scrambling towards my take off line. As the wave is picking me up, Fabio is directly below me. I’m paddling and yelling, “MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!” Fucking German Fabio, man. His eyes get so wide while he’s looking up at me. He slides off of his board and dives underneath the wave. I’m forced to kick out. “What the fuck!” I yell in the lineup. I turn towards the outside, talking to myself, saying, “Get the FUCK out of the way!” Fuck . . . this is bad. My energy is bad. I receive some curious stares. I’m just . . . I’m mad. I don’t understand how surfers don’t know that they’re supposed to just paddle towards where the wave is breaking and let the guy have the open face; just paddle to the inside, away from the take-off line and do a duckdive. It’s easy! Shit, I do it for other people all of the time. If I see someone taking off in front of me, I paddle towards the closing section and take a beating. Fuck it. Doesn’t everyone know this?

#

     There are good waves. I’ve had poor positioning, and now German Fabio took away my line. I haven’t caught a bomb yet. Expending all my hate energy, I paddle hard to the top of the wave. On a smaller wave I scratch out again. Fuck . . . I’m off; I’m throwing myself off.

     The next set builds way on the outside again. I duckdive the first wave. The second wave approaches. It’s walled, and I still feel out of position—too deep. “Fuck it,” I say. “I have to.” I take off late as the lip is curling. These waves aren’t as critical. I’m thinking that I just need to pop up fast. I do and stick the landing. I haven’t surfed a wave this big at Choco Point in weeks, not since Al was here. The wave is perfect. With a deep bottom turn, the face is slanted upwards and standing, good enough to go rail to rail without losing momentum. With my rear foot hard on the tail, I draw a long arc, and now I’m cutting back, facing the pocket again. I whip the tail around and rebound off of the whitewash. It’s not as crisp as I’d like my wrap around to be, but it’s progressing. On the inside, surfers paddle towards my wave, either duckdiving or going over the shoulder. I stall before my next turn to let some people pass. Front side carves on these big lefts have been the best part of my trip. I get three more turns, fast and feeling the air rush against my chest. It’s liberating, the closest I’ve been to flying on a surfboard. The wave walls up on the inside and explodes all around me. The white wash sucks me down, but I resurface stoked.

     The tide’s still going out, and the waves are getting better, but they are getting harder to see. It’s still raining too. The whole session, people have been catching long rides to shore and walking back to the point. Not me. This is paddle training. I have to paddle back. I don’t think this wave needs a super surfer, meaning that any average person should be fine here, but the biggest challenge is the distance. I’m surprised at how many people choose to walk it after each wave. Most of them will give up if caught on the inside during the set, turning around to ride the foam in and get back to shore, so they can walk. It’s not even a hard wave to duckdive. As long as the wave isn’t round, it shouldn’t be a problem. I’m writing this because on big days, this place empties out. The surfers who can’t paddle for shit leave early, and at the point, it’s just me and the husband of the Aussie longboarding couple. I want to start a conversation, but I feel kind of stupid for going off in the lineup earlier. I just turn to him and smile, knowing that he can have the next wave if he wants it.

Getting dark

     He goes on the next set wave, a five-footer. It lines up well, but he kicks out early. I paddle further out, waiting to capitalize my session on a bomb. Minutes later, it’s so hard to make out the waves that I have to just go on the next one. I get a wave the same size, ending the session on a good note with three turns. I ride it on my belly to the inside, stopping where I can stand and walk. 

 

Torrential rain on the ride back through Choco Road

#

     It’s been three days since I’ve been on the internet. I’m behind on my posts, and I haven’t contacted Bri to check in and let her know I’m alive. Once the rain stops, I go to Compound One at about 2000. Reese and Ana are downstairs in the courtyard. “We were just about to get you,” says Reece. “We’re gonna have dinner around the corner. We’re gonna walk it.”

     “Walk it?”

     “Yes,” says Ana. “Reese says we’re always driving everywhere, and it would be good to walk every once in a while.” Grant comes downstairs.

     I apologize for being a party pooper and tell them that I’m having dinner at the hotel because I need internet.

     At Rajawali Hotel, I order a nasi pecel with an egg. It’s not as good here, but it’s convenient. I see that the Spurs are up two games to one over Miami. I’m stoked to see this. Fuck Lebron. If this series goes to a game six or seven, I might be home to watch it with a cold, sweaty bottle of beer in my grasp with my woman on my side. Imagine that! Bri tells me how fun Klaude’s birthday party was. I’m bummed that I missed it. Klaude also tells me that he surfed pretty hard and may have aggravated an old shoulder injury. I hope he’ll be okay to surf when I get back. 

The Martabak Man!

     By 2130 I’m on the road, not feeling like calling it a night since I missed dinner with my pals. I head to the market and buy some fried tofu. I wait for the Martabak Man, which takes about ten minutes. While he’s cooking, a little girl, probably his daughter, stares at me without smiling or saying anything. I ride out with my food and head to Compound One, but when I get there I see that the lights at the dormitory are off. Fuck. They’re already sleeping.

     When I park my bike in my compound, my brother walks out from his room. “Matt,” he says. “Tomorrow let’s go to Machines . . . early.”

     In my room, I’m forcing myself to eat all of the food. I’m stuffed, so stuffed. I splurge hard, but my days here are numbered. I’ll be in America again, where the only meal I can get for a buck is a fucking hamburger from McDonalds. Stuffing my face full of tofu and chocolate martabak, I mumble, “It’s only a dollar . . . it’s only a dollar. Must . . . eat . . . everything. . .” I fall asleep with the lights still on. Chocolate and grease are stuck in my mustache and beard. This is what it’s like to be King.