 |
| Another vacation ended. Mark, leaving the compound. |
Time:
0530-0700
Conditions:
3-4 FT+
Fins:
JF-1 Thruster
The window for manageable tide is opening
up again for first light, so the plan is to do a legit dawn patrol.
I get out of bed at 0430. The mornings were
cold when we first arrived here, but lately it’s been stifling hot, especially
at night, so hot that we’ve had to leave the fan on. I throw on my damp shorts
and rashguard and load up the moped. Sophi is already up, the German Dad, San
Fran Brennan, and Randy. He’s sitting there sipping his ritualistic cup of
coffee. When Bri makes her way through the compound brush with her board, I
tell him we’ll be at the point.
It’s still night out, but the full moon is
giving off plenty of light. Two mopeds are ahead of us. Fishermen. One turns
right at the skate park, but the other goes straight, and that’s when I get a
view of a surfboard strapped on it. Damn. Another surfer’s beating us.
When we reach the point, I see that it’s
Mark. Mr. Consistent. He’s dawn patrolled every morning. Since there’s no hint
of first light yet, Bri and I walk to the waterline and warm up. It looks like
there are waves, but it’s still hard to tell. At 0515, more people show up and
paddle out.
On the way to the lineup, waves are
becoming more visible. Someone’s taking a legit five-foot set wave, a long one.
Mark’s on the next one. We’re not even at the top of the wave yet, and we’re
caught in the midst of a consistent set. I try to go but scratch out.
Blackbeard takes the next. Somehow, Mark is right next to me again. He must’ve fallen
behind the section of his bomb. Even though the wave should be mine, I feel
like I’m too deep. Mark, who’s on the shoulder, turns and goes.
Now the surf lulls out. I’m out back,
waiting. Despite how early it is, there’s a sense of urgency in the lineup. We
all know that we’re fighting the tide, that’s it’s already going from mid to
high, and that every set will be softer than the last.
I finally get my set wave. One. Bri gets two.
From there, I play the inside game with her, trying to milk the surf for what
we can without having to compete so much.
After an hour, the surf turns mooshy. We
call it an early morning. Blackbeard says bye to us before he hops on his
moped. It was his last morning for surf. He, Tom, and the rest of their friends
are heading back to Australia.
Back at the compound, Mark says he’s on his
way home, too. “I theenk I need to apologize for takeeng a wave,” he says. “You
could have gone, bot I went. Eet eez my last day. I hov to.”
I appreciate the apology, and . . . I
understand. On my last day, I may pull that same card.
Everyone who paddled out is having his/her
cup of coffee and breakfast. Since being here, Bri and I haven’t frequented the
community kitchen much, but sitting down with everyone is actually nice.
Everyone’s mellow after the dawn patrol and chiming into each other’s
conversations. Brennan’s talking about the tech jobs in NorCal. Aaron’s saying
how he heard Randy wake up this morning, and how he saw him shut the compound
gate so that no one else would follow. Randy tells us about Vietnam, how we
need to go there and perhaps teach English there one day. It’s a romantic idea,
a traveling lifestyle of surfing and exploring.
High on caffeine, I spend the rest of the
morning writing. For lunch, Randy takes us to the fish market restaurant that
overlooks the harbor. We expect a weekend crowd, but there’s only one Javanese
family there. The owner, an older Muslim woman, remembers Randy even though he
hasn’t been there in a year. He orders the whole shebang. They’re basically
going to get a sample dish of everything they have for us to eat.
We go back to rat-race talk. Is it worth it
to be a nine-to-fiver, buy a house, take out a loan for a mortgage, and work
until you die to pay it off? Or do you work enough just to get by so you can
still dedicate quality time to the things you love, possess less things that
may possess you, and travel your ass off? Option B. definitely doesn’t fit the
American grain of life. Option A. is definitely the way my grandfather had
raised us, he who came from a small town in the northern Philippines and hopped
on a boat to Hawaii for a better life. Funny how he escaped the very thing that
I’m trying to immerse myself in now. Sipping on my coconut water, I think about
the options. How would Bri and I make things work to be in places like this for
at least two, three, or even six months a year? Would we be able to give up the
luxuries of living in Southern California?
Sitting at the counter overlooking the
ocean with seven different dishes to pick off from, it’s the nicest meal we’ve
had since we’ve been here. It reminds me of Kimo’s on Front Street in Lahaina,
Maui. A view and a meal like this in the states would be at least fifty bucks
for the three of us.
When we’re full and done, Randy pays. The
bill is barely five bucks.
#
Time:
1410-1730
Conditions:
5-6 FT
Fins:
JF-1 Thruster
Lunch was heavy, so I need ample time
digesting. By 1345, we’re ready to head out again.
As soon as we pull up, the barbarian crew
is packing up and leaving. They say Machines is still crazy, that’s why they’re
here. “Still good on the sets here,” they say. Leaving, they don’t give any
additional goodbyes. I’m perfectly fine with not seeing them again.
The tide is so low that Choco Point is
breaking in a way I’ve never seen before. With the swell still holding size,
and the shore nearly ankle deep at the first sandbank, waves are standing up
all the way from the cliff and lining up far, way past the parking area. Only
issue is that the waves are racy.
Paddling out, Bri and I aren’t sure where
to sit. The top of the wave is crowded, so I gamble on catching an insider by
the sandbank and hoping it lines up.
Harry, the owner of the compound, paddles
out. He paddles half way to the top of the wave and gets a long soft
four-footer that sections off at the sandbank. A few more waves come, but I
scratch out. They’re hard to get into. My timing’s off.
Out back, I witness the first real set, and
because of the low tide, the set is breaking really far out. Everyone is deep.
Boris gets one that lines up all the way past me. Harry pulls out on one and
tells me to go. Getting into the wave, all I see is a long pumpable wall. I go
down the line, working hard to gain distance. When the wave stands up, I try to
kick out but get sucked over the falls. Resurfacing, I see that I’m far into
the bay. The inside waves here are bigger and dumping. I get worked trying to
get back out. It’s the farthest paddle I’ll have to make.
Bri’s smart, taking some waves just
underneath the main pack. Slowly, I work my way there. None of the insiders are
connecting as well. Turns out the top of the wave is much more crowded than I
thought. There are new faces, other people from Machines that I haven’t seen
yet.
Bri tells me that she talked to one of the
chicks who’s wearing dental floss for surf bottoms. She’s from Spain with her
Puerto Rican boyfriend and his homeboy, but they all live in Australia. PR Guy
is pushing his chick into waves, but she already knows how to make the
sections. It’s pretty annoying.
The PR crew is aggressive, but the
boyfriend really knows how to surf. He’s goofy foot and pulls off these long
cutbacks, rebounding out of the pocket so vertically that his tail is at twelve
O’clock. It really puts my own surfing into perspective. I had been clowning a
lot of guys, but I still have a long way to go.
The other fresh faces are unsmiling and
aggressive, putting the lineup in disarray. Even Tina, Edo’s wife, is getting
frustrated. Bri gets a bomb that one of the Puerto Ricans has to back out for.
She makes the section. I’m stoked to see her get respect.
Bodies are everywhere. Because the peaks
are one long line, people are paddling into waves and falling behind the
sections. Those taking off at the right spots are the ones who win.
Boris paddles up to me and asks what time
it is. I’m surprised he’s even talking to me, but it relieves the tension
between us. I’m actually glad.
In the midst of the chaos, I sneak up to
the top after the lineup gets washed away and get a couple set waves for
myself. The faces are so long and pumpy. When I get to the open face I draw wide
carves off the curling tips of the lip, sending sheets of water out the back
with help from the offshore wind. The chaos and consistency keeps me in the
running for rides.
When the locals paddle out, they’re a
Godsend. Yeah, the guys who I had accused of being greedy when I first arrived,
Augus and Gapang, they go to the top and regulate the lineup, taking waves at
will. Yah-yah shows up. PR Guy pushes his chick into a wave, and she drops in
on him. He yells at her to kick out. Hell yes. The upset look on her face makes
me so happy. Fuck them! Once Neon Rian, Gayung, and Supri paddle out, it’s
over. Whoever doesn’t belong is gone.
The tide fills in, and the wave starts breaking
the way it should, scattered and connecting. Whoever’s lasted the long haul is
tired. By time 1700, Randy and Edo make it out for a mellow finale. It’s hard
recalling waves ridden, but over the three hours and twenty minutes we were
out, we caught more than our fair share. We walk towards our moped with the
sunset behind us, heading into another evening, stoke drunk and exhausted.
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