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.
