Loc:
East Java, Choco Point
Time:
1500-1700
Crew:
Bri, Sonia
Conditions:
3-4 FT, sunny, hot, offshore
Pre
Blog:
It’s hard to sum up my thoughts on this
upcoming trip, or should I say that it’s hard because it’s so easy? Let me put
it this way. . . Four years ago I took my first trip to Indo, Bali, and even
though I had thought that I would be ready for it, nothing could have prepared
me for the waves that I paddled into. Naïve, I had expectations of just getting
barreled out of my mind. If anything, my most valuable lesson from that trip
was perspective, to surf waves so different from Cali and see at what level my
surfing needed to be at.
East Java two years ago, again, I thought I
was ready. My brother had led my friends and me to cheese-grating slabs. Again,
too much. The lesson on that trip? Limitations.
Now here I am, four years ago from my first
trip to Indo with Bri knocked out on this Japan Airlines flight beside me.
What’s changed?
One, I’m not that naïve man-child anymore
with ridiculous expectations. I’m also not that automated barrel hunter that I
was two years ago, by automated I mean that I was forcing myself into waves
that were too gnarly without realizing that I wasn’t having fun in the process.
An experience is an experience, and there are always valuable lessons in them,
but what have I learned?
I’ll never surf like my brother. I’ve
looked up to his uncanny surf ability for years, and all I wanted to do was
catch up to him, not overcome, but just to be at that same level where we could
be peers.
Two years ago, my brother and I were out at
the left I called Machines, a slab that breaks fast over sharp reef. Set wave
after set wave, I watched my brother as I paddled over the shoulder, a heaving
mass of water about to devour him. He was bottom turning with arms and fingers
stretched out and hung low in a slow-motion casual stance, as if he were
skating in a pool. It was that moment that I knew he would always be eons ahead
of me.
In 2006 when I first started writing about
my surfing, I had big plans for Donny Duckbutter. He was going to pay his dues
through surfing, but in time he was going to SHRED. He was going to dedicate
his unemployed hard-surfing ass to the ocean, and he would get barrels and become
a local standout. Maybe even an air or two.
How funny it is to look back and see that
you’re no longer the surfer you were yesterday but you’re nowhere near where
you had hoped to be. It’s just not easy. It’s not. Those older Venice Vets I
know, it’s not a miracle that they’re still ripping. They’ve surfed their whole
lives and are still improving.
So, on this third trip to Indo, my second
to East Java, I’m done with the expectations, and I’m not going on moped
missions to find that barrel that nobody’s on. Two years ago I sat on a left,
Choco Point, right by the surf house. It’s a sand-bottom point that breaks
twice as long as Palos Verdes, holds shape in big surf, and yet can be just as
rippable as Trestles. All along, the most fun I had ever had in Indo was on
that wave.
There won’t be airs on this trip. No
barrels. Simply put, I just want to have fun. Long rippable lefts. And I got my
girl with me, too. Gonna have fun on a Barney wave, right in front of the
surfhouse. Noodles and fried rice around the corner. Welcome to Barnyard, Java.
In ending the chase of becoming the surfer
I wanted to be, I will finally become me.
#
EUSTRESS
15JULY:
Boris just dropped us off at the airport,
and I’m wondering if Bri and I have forgotten anything. We should be good, must
be good. The last time I went to Indo, Al and I were late getting to the
international check-in counter. There were long lines of people flying to
Taipei with us, along with small covert packs of surf bums. Covert because
surfers don’t talk about surf while in transit; the first rule about fight club
is you don’t talk about fight club. So I’m saying I’m concerned.
Klaude’s mom had contacted a family friend
to take care of us at the Japan Airlines terminal. Flight boards at 1315. It’s
0955. With the stress thinking about how things can go wrong on these trips,
for the first time everything happens with ease. First off, it’s nice travelling
without boards. Bri and I only have a carry on and one suitcase each. Mr. Imu
is just as Klaude had described. I walk up to him, introduce myself, and he
assures me that he’ll get me and Bri to Ms. Sai’s counter. Ten minutes later,
our seats to Narita are upgraded.
The first eleven-hour leg isn’t so bad. Our
legs are a little stiff, my deodorant is still working, and I’m looking forward
to some ramen at the Narita terminal. Two hour layover. I look at our tickets
and realize that I had miscalculated the second leg. I thought that the flight
to Jakarta was five hours when it’s actually eight.
Second leg, we’re officially drained. Full
off of ramen, we still eat all the food that JAL gives us. They feed the shit
out of you, and the customer service of these damn Japanese is excellent (Props
to KK).
Jakarta’s where the real stress is. The
foreign-currency exchange lady tried to rip me off last time. Thank gawd I had
Al with me with his money fingers. Then there were the taxi drivers who tried
to fleece us, and the free shuttle we ended up using which was packed breast-to-butt
with tiny Muslim women.
Stepping out of the airplane, that smokey
Indonesian air just hits me. So familiar. Brings me back to my first flight to
Denpasar, Bali, to waking up to roosters crowing, smoldering trash piles, and
moped exhaust. It’s 0100, the 17th. Even at night, the air is hot
and sticky. Waiting for our luggage, I feel my sweat soaking through the back
of my shirt. Deodorant long gone.
One thing going for us is that it’s Idul
Friti. Best explained by my brother, consider it the Indonesian Christmas, so
the bustling Jakarta Airport of memory is a ghost town.
Our tourist Visa is free because we’re not
staying over thirty days. That’s good news. I expect customs to rummage through
our luggage. With a bunch of surf goodies, I wonder if they’ll make me claim
any of them, but Customs doesn’t look twice at us.
Immigration is a little sketchy. There’s an
argument between an Indo Immigration agent and an Asian tourist.
“I ask, where you going?” says the agent.
The tourist replies back. I can’t hear
everything, but I can tell he’s not delivering the specifics asked.
“I ask where you staying,” says the agent
again. “I ask you nicely, and you act like that? Go! Go to the back of the
line!”
Fuck, I’m thinking. Please don’t let me and
Bri get that guy. Just then, another agent waves us forward. He seems like a
dick, but the second I hand him my tickets and tell him that we’re going to
Jogja, he stamps our passports and lets us through.
Our puddle-jumper flight to Jogja is in the
same terminal, no taxi haggling necessary, but the problem is that I don’t see
our next flight on any of the monitors. Scores of travelers are sleeping on
benches. The check-in counters are closed, so security isn’t letting anyone
through yet.
We’re victim to the open Jakarta air. It’s
just so hot, like a Vegas night with a hint of third-world thrown in. The third
security entrance all the way at the end has a monitor in front of it. We check
it. We’ve found it. Our flight board’s at 0515.
With about three more hours to kill, Bri
has her first Dunkin’ Donuts experience. The dough tastes like it was fried in
the same oil to cook meat with. Fuckin’ delicious. I tell her that Dunkin’
Donuts tastes way better here.
We lean on each other on a bench with the
other travelers. A group of Indonesians sit around us. We’re all face to face,
strangers to them, but they don’t mind talking across to each other as if we
weren’t there. We could be part of the family.
They open up security at about 0400. I beep
when I walk through. The security waves his wand without even looking at me and
tells me to leave.
My bag’s really heavy. The only reason I
didn’t get charged at JAL was because of Klaude’s hookup, but even though I’m
over the 20 kilo limit, the Garuda Airlines chick slaps a sticker on it and
sends it through.
The sun’s rising halfway through our
flight. A solid orange beam shines on Bri’s face. Sitting at the window, she
looks over and smiles at me. “Look out there,” she says. Mountains jut through
the clouds, piercing sharp. Volcanoes maybe? I tell her that it’s the volcano
near Jogja, but then ten minutes later we see another, and another.
We get our bags end exit the baggage claim.
Some guy’s supposed to be holding up a sign with my name. I’m looking for the
all familiar characters: M-A-T-T, but then I notice something weird with one of
the signs. A guys is holding one that reads: DUCKBUTTER & BRI
It should be a three hour drive to Jogja,
but because of the holiday, our driver makes it in two and a half. I’m gripping
the oh-shit handle the whole time with the near collisions and the risky car
passing. Meanwhile, Bri’s just captivated trying to handle all the
surroundings. It’s not every day you see a family of four on a moped. Yet, all
the locals are elegantly dressed for their holiday, the women sitting side
saddle on the backs of mopeds, headscarves with lipstick and makeup.
#
Salvation:
Indo Napili has changed so much since the
last time I was here. This place isn’t actually called Indo Napili, but it’s a
surf destination that remains uncrowded, only on the map in the last ten years.
You remember the first rule about fight club?
We get dropped off at the compound, the
street now unfamiliar with a little more development. We say hi to Edo and
Tina. Entering the arena of bungalows, mopeds, and surfboards, the inhabitants
stare at me and Bri in unsmiling curiosity. Ahhh, I get the message. You see,
these guys have long been members of fight club, right, and now they’re
thinking, Who the fuck are these guys? They stand in their boardshorts, ragged
and salty, self-imaged king Neanderthal surfers. But you know what? I’ve been here
before, so I don’t care. I actually bask in the thought of being the “new
Barneys.” I smile and nod at them, not paying attention if the gesture is
returned. It’s cool. I’ll be the harmless noob. I can play that.
Bri and I are greeted by Edo and Tina, who
manage and live on the compound. They say our room will be ready in an hour, so
Bri and I walk to the beach out front. A few of the guests have paddled out
into soft, mooshy, junky surf. Some of them get rides on longboards. Others
struggle. A few euro chicks lay out in bikinis. One looks at us. I wave back.
I point out Choco Point in the distance and
the harbor on the opposite side.
When we go back, Edo says our room’s still
not ready, so I grab my moped, sling Bri on the back, and take my first ride
through town. I’m so nervous to crash this fucking thing. Not used to having
someone on the back. There’s no traffic, so I’m driving slow as shit.
At the Indomaret, we grab toiletries and
snacks. When we return, we unpack and settle in. My friend Sonia from two years
ago is here. I hand out a few gifts to Edo, Tina, and their baby. The plan is
to check the surf at 1500.
#
The
Reason:
I whip out the FCS Simon Anderson 2 quads
that Klaude had let me borrow, larges, as well as a nubster. I’ve got all the
grip I can possibly throw onto this groveler. As far as the board goes, I never
ride boards this short, but it looks like a really fun piece of surf craft.
There’s good volume in it, the nose isn’t pulled in much, so it’s wide down to
the squash tail (not as extreme as a Neckbeard), and it just looks rippable.
The word is out that the surf is small this
afternoon but that it’s supposed to be bigger tomorrow, and the water’s a
little cold. Being from Cali, I don’t think that will be an issue. I don’t care
what the surf is doing. I just want to be in that tropical water.
Two boards in the surf rack is a tight fit.
I nearly dump the bike in some soft sand on the way to Choco Point. When we get
there, I see that it’s not so chocolatey any more. Two years ago, this region had
a rainy dry season, which is uncharacteristic, but this year’s dry season has
been true. No rain, no mud from the river mouth to turn the surf into chocolate
milk. The water’s a greenish blue with a hint of brown. The waves are breaking
far off in the distance over the drained tide, three-feet tops, but peeling . .
. long and peeling. Dumpster Divers are made for small surf, so I hope to still
catch something.
One of the neanderthals paddles out right
in front of where he parked, but I know better. When the tide is low, you hug
the cliff and walk to the point.
The water’s warm around my ankles. Bri and
I have to duckdive a few waves, but get in position on top of everyone while
Neanderthal’s only halfway to the lineup.
The point isn’t to backpaddle or get more
waves than anyone. I set Bri’s expectations that it’s going to be crowded while
we’re here, especially in the afternoon, and that we’ll have to move around the
lineup and share, definitely with the locals. But right now, there are only six
guys out. Not bad for a crowd.
Even though I haven’t surfed here in two
years, I remember how this place breaks. While everyone’s sitting wide, I move
in closer to the top of the point and inside where the waves will break over
shallow water but peel off to where it’s deeper.
Bri and I scratch out on our first waves.
The negatives of such a small board. My futile attempts are magnified by having
such a short nose underneath my chest, feeling the waves pass me. Second wave,
the same. I need to go later.
The neanderthals are on to me. They begin
to move in. I catch the next wave. Granted, it doesn’t peel off nice and long
like I had hoped. I pump and get outraced, but I make it look pretty good for a
spot no one wanted to sit at. In the distance, more people are coming out.
Sonia, too, with some locals.
Being the harmless Barneys who just showed up
here, I use a little aloha, 26th Street Ohana style, to break the
ice. When people catch waves, I hoot them on or throw them a shaka. What
stranger wouldn’t appreciate that? Immediately, I receive some stoked smiles
back.
About fifteen minutes into the session, I
finally get my first legit wave. Even though the surf had looked small, the
sets are an easy five feet but soft and non consequential. To get in, I have to
paddle late. The first section off of the sand bank makes the wave stand up
more. I bottom turn and try to get a solid carve, but the board feels way too
loose. Just feels different from my boards back home. Instead of power carves,
I pull loose snaps on the lip but struggle for positive control the whole time.
After two turns, I manage a wraparound cutback. Towards the inside, the wave
gets walled but holds, kind of like PV Cove does on the left. It’s a huge pump
section that I work through, ending the wave with another turn.
It’s gonna take some getting used to. I
hear Klaude’s voice in the back of my head, “Bring your own boards,” but at the
same time it was so good to travel light. Travelling with boards is a bitch.
Bri’s struggling, too, but eventually she gets a long left.
A guy in a Superman shirt from Munich
strikes up a conversation with me. He’s on a longboard and has been doing the
merry go round, taking wave after wave. Superman leaves tomorrow morning.
Just then, three locals paddle out. One’s
gangly with long hair and gray stubble on his chin. The other is tall and dark
on a longboard. He paddles over and competes for an inside wave with me. He’s
local, so I know the rules. I back out, and he doesn’t get the wave anyway. He
yells out in frustration and paddles away.
On the next set, Superman snakes me. Sonja
looks at me and shrugs. “It’s okay,” I say. “It’s gonna happen.” I catch a wave
on the next set. When I get back to the lineup, I hear someone yelling, “Hey,
hey, hey! No fighting in the lineup!” It’s this huge guy who’s also staying at
the compound. He has a New Zealand accent. Let’s call him Gigantar. The other
Euro chicks and locals paddle over to see what the commotion is. Superman and
Yeller (local longboarder) are off of their boards, pushing and pulling each
other. I have no idea how this happened. I can tell that Yeller’s territorial
while Superman is your standard German surf tourist who knows no etiquette.
“You have to respect the local,” says
Stubble (local longhair dude).
“I do respect you!” says Superman.
“Hey!” says Gigantar. “Stop doing that with
your hands.” He splashes water at Yeller.
Yeller paddles away, letting out a loud
screech that’s reminiscent of the sound a baboon makes.
Sonja tries to explain the whole thing to
me. Apparently, Yeller’s been super aggressive the last couple of days.
Superman has been, too.
On the next set, I turn and paddle for the
first wave. Stubble’s on my inside. I call him into it. He goes.
We surf until about 1730, a solid two
hours. Not bad for our first day, despite the jetlag. I struggled with the
Dumpster Diver, not that I couldn’t catch waves with it, but just getting used
to how hyper responsive the board is. I haven’t ridden a squash tail in a
while, mind you one that’s only 5’6.
Our bungalow has an outdoor bath, no hot
water. Still, the water’s coming out warm because of how hot the pipes got
during the day. Even though everything is supposed to be closed due to Idul
Friti, Bri and I go on a night mission to find any warung (restaurant) that
might be open. There are a few, but they look baron without any patrons. I
gamble on the local night market that I had frequented so much two years ago,
and surprisingly three vendors are open. One of the vendors, a married couple,
makes nasi pecel, which is rice with peanut sauce, spinach, and bean sprouts.
We order two of those with ayam (chicken) and fried tahu and tempe (tofu and
soybean cake).
The whole time, they think I’m Randy. I try
to explain that I’m his brother and how I was here two years ago. They keep
saying Banyuwangi, the town where my brother’s at, in denial that I’m not him.
Sitting at the food stall with Bri, It’s
funny to think how we were just sitting in our El Segundo studio a few nights
ago. Little kids in headwraps watch cartoons on the TV next to us. Two stray
cats hiss and meow, fighting next to the foodstall. The air is hot, but we’re
not sweating. Bri drinks her ice tea across from me, still trying to take all
this in. She had been to Italy for school three years ago, and only now she
gets to ride in the back of a moped.
Now here we are in a small town in East
Java, eating with our hands.
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