BARNYARD JAVA: Day 5 (double), TUE 21JUL2015

FUCKING INTERNET HERE SUCKS. CAMERA ALSO BROKE. OH WELL. I'M A ROXY BITCH.

 

Loc: East Java

Time: 0600-0800

Conditions: 4 FT

Percentages

     Randy was supposed to be here, via bus, by the time I woke up. I clawed out of the mosquito netting at 0515 and flicked on my porch and bathroom lights just in case he had been waiting. After brushing my teeth, I headed towards the kitchen and found Sonja drinking tea. “He should be here soon,” she said. “I messaged him last night.

     I took a seat, bareback in Hurley shorts still wiping sleep from my eyes. It was still dark out.

     “It will be cold,” she said, shivering and holding her teacup. It’s funny how dawn patrols are always the same. It’s always too easy to be unmotivated in the early morning.

     Gigantar already left. So did Claudia, both German longboard hogs. Since Sonja said she’d be paddling out later or going for a run, I asked her to let my brother know where his boardbag and moped keys were.

     A set was peeling through Choco Point when we pulled up. Three people were out, the third Swiss Mark. Bri and I walked out to the lineup, caught two racy closeouts, and made our way back out. Our natural course took us to the right spot, inside and wide right next to the sandbank.

     Within the hour, more people paddled out. This Japanese dude was struggling. I had seen him go straight on a wave the day before, his best wave yet. Gigantar, Mark, Claudia, Spaniard Victor, French Sofi, and some stringbean redhead German chick (aside from Sonja, the only cool German).

     I didn’t want to have to battle it out with anyone, so I stayed inside. A few waves broke at the top of the point, and only Gigantar and Claudia were able to get them, but the ones they missed came straight to me and Bri.

     Having concluded my fin experiment, I was content with the recent setup, but my surfing was still off. I cleared a couple sections, but my turns felt forced, like attacking the wave with the same enthusiasm since I got here wasn’t working. Again, next wave, I got a few turns, but I wasn’t clicking, and then I realized that my body was worn out, not just physically, but I had been surfing at 100% the last four days. My last trip to Java, even Bali, wasn’t as consistent as this trip. Now, Bri and I were literally just waking up, hitting the waves, coming back to rest, and then doing it all over again, a minimum of four hours a day on a consistent pointbreak, no long moped journeys involved.

     I told myself to taper my surfing down to 70%. On my next wave, I surfed fluidly, bottom turning, relaxing as I climbed the face, and gracefully carved my way into a torqueing snap. I didn’t tighten up or even pump too hard unless I had to make a long section, but tapering off on how hard I was surfing made me feel in form again.

     Bri sat at the top of the wave and picked off the inside ones just under the pack. I watched her pop up on a perfect four-footer. As she made her way closer to shore, I noticed small pale tosses of water out the back. Already on day five, she was showing signs of a backhand snap.

     I gave up a lot of main sets to the guys up top, but when the really big ones came through and swung wide, I was in perfect position. Surprisingly, no one caught on. Monkey see monkey do, everyone wanted the top of the wave, so I had a bunch of long insiders all to myself.

     We surfed until 0800 when the tide made the surf too soft.

     Back at the compound, Randy was already chilling under a bungalow talking to Edo. We hugged. Looking at him, it was the happiest I had seen him in a long time, genuine happiness, not just endorphins because we’re here together but that his life was good. He didn’t have that gangliness to him from nonstop surfing. He had wellness in his life, fully nourished with insulation. Balanced.

LOWER JAVA

Time: 1420-1720

Conditions: 3-5 FT

Fins: GMB 5 quads

     More people show up to the compound, and that’s bad news. Last night, a couple had walked in. They looked Euro. I tried to help by asking, “Are you looking for the manager?” The woman ignored me. “Are you looking for Edo?” I said again.

     “Hello,” she replied.

     Hello? Fuckin’ bitch thought I was saying hi. “Nevermind,” I said,” as I made my way to Edo’s office to grab my brother’s moped key. Instinctually, the Euro couple followed. When I got the keys, they spoke fluent English with Edo, and then it hit me. They treated me like I was “the help.” Just fucking ignored me, assumed I didn’t speak English, and didn’t even listen to what I was saying, even though they could have understood if they would’ve made the effort.

     Reflecting on that, I thought about how I’ve recently been frustrated in local public places, when some Javanese talk to me. I don’t want to deal with how stupid it is that I don’t understand Indonesian, but maybe I make them feel the same way I felt. From now on, I need to make an effort to at least learn how to say, “Sorry, I don’t understand,” or “I don’t speak much Indonesian.”

     Aside from that couple, an Aussie and three chicks showed up, but they’re actually cool. Two more German couples also showed up. Fuck. Something about the Germans here. They are so clickish, they keep to themselves, don’t talk to anyone else, and have shitty wave etiquette.

     Anyway, more people at both compounds one and two means more surfers in the lineup.

     Bri and I reach the point at 1400. Sofi and Victor are sitting on the sand. “No waves,” says Victor. Sonja arrives shortly after. Looking out, the tide’s still too high. Mooshy peaks are crumbling through with a strong sideshore wind.

     We sit, we wait, and fifteen minutes later Sonja, Bri, and I decide to go for it. Why wait on the sand?

     When we do make it to the lineup, which is pretty far from the shore, the surf is actually a foot bigger than it had looked. It’s not prime time yet, but I manage a few pumpy rides before the wave sections off towards the inside. The three of us have it to ourselves. Little by little, the tide drops, and then I’m able to at least get some single hitters.

     By 1500, our private session gets infiltrated. I don’t mind Sonja. Victor, he’s actually pretty cool. He had told me on the beach how he doesn’t like the board he’s renting. It’s a 6’3 with glassed on fins and channel technology underneath the board, but it’s brown and weather beaten. I initially thought that he didn’t know how to surf. He’s good at getting down the line, but he just looks like shit doing it. Now it makes sense because every time he’s on a wave, it looks like he’s battling against his board. Whenever he can’t get a wave, he’ll call me into it. I had done the same with him days ago, so it’s nice he returns the favor.

ALOHA R.I.P.

     I tried to bring that Francis and Ohana 26^th Street style to the lineup, but I can do it no more. Fuckin’ German longboarders at the top of the wave, three of them now. One of the chicks actually has a cutback. I can respect that, but with 17 assholes sitting on a pointbreak, three longboarders are too many. On day 1, I was stoked to hoot people on, but watching the same people get wave after fucking wave just irks me, and it’s not like I’m the only one who’s left with the scraps. There are a bunch of noobs out here trying to get waves, too. It’s like Lowers in Java. Same story everywhere. How many tourists have traveled to Lowers just to end up frustrated? Well, the same can happen here.

     The highlight of the day is watching my brother in the lineup. Bri says that our styles are similar, but I know they’re not. Seeing him on a left, he’s just way more fine-tuned, like every movement, pivot, body positioning, pose is done for a reason. You can see it in his turns. I watched him do a layback carve and recover so quickly that it could easily be missed by the untrained eye. With his arms out, he just has this twang as he jams each turn. Legit jam, not graceful carving but jamming gouges that just scream, “UHHH!, UHHH!, UHHH!” I know my surfing’s not there yet because I still hold back on some movements, like fully committing my body into layback jams. I’m still easing my way into them. Even when I blow the fins, I rarely recover.

     I try doing my inside and wide technique, and it works okay, but once the lineup is at full capacity, the waves are usually taken from the top. Now I’m the asshole on the inside thinking, Fall, fall, fall, fall. I sneak a couple waves this way, laughing the whole time. What a dick. . .

     “Too much longboarders,” I say, paddling up to Victor.

     “Fuck them,” he says.

     And then the locals all come out. Even Gigantar has to pull out for these guys. I hate not getting waves, but I know that these guys deserve them the most. It’s their wave.

     My brother sits with them. Technically, he’s an honorary local, so he gets his pick.

     Frustrated, I move to the top of the wave. I hate doing this. I hate battling. I sit deep because it’s the only place up top where no one wants to sit, and the reason’s because it’s hard to make the sections from here. I hope to get lucky, but I blow two waves in a row, leaving some lucky asshole way on the shoulder the ride of his life. Even Randy’s trying to call me into waves. Fuck. Charity. That’s how bad my vibes are, so easy to read.

     When I get my last legit ride, I surf it angrily, over exaggerated mannerisms on the pumps, Dane Reynolds imitation on the carves. I get pretty far. Bri’s already on the sand, so I take the next closeout in.

     That night, I vent to Randy and Bri over dinner. “I might end up being that angry guy in the lineup,” I say. “I can feel it.”

     “Don’t be that guy,” says Randy. 

     “Yeah,” says Bri. “You don’t want to be getting into fights with twelve year olds.”

     After dinner, Bri and I chill at Indomaret with our ice cream and cold drinks. Riding on the moped through the dark streets of Indo Napili, I quell my negativity. I tell Bri to look at where we are. We’re in a third-world country riding on a moped through beachside streets after two surf sessions and chowing down on some Indonesian cuisine. The kid at the Indomaret had actually spoken to us in English. He didn’t have to do that, but it was cool. Indeed, look at where we are. Coming from the SoCal surf environment, it’s easy to get upset over crowds, but I don’t want to be upset to the point that I can’t appreciate what’s right in front of me. It’s surreal. In a couple of weeks from now, I’ll be sitting back on my couch in El Segundo, missing all this.