BARNYARD JAVA: Day 17 (double), SUN 02AUG2015

Time: 0545-0715

Conditions: 3-4 FT

Fins: JF-1 Thruster

     I had mentioned that the nights have been hot, but that all changed last night. We were supposed to wake up at 0430, but it was so cold that I had to snuggle up in the blankets and snooze for another half hour. At 0500 I roll out of bed and swipe through the mosquito netting. I’m sure my brother’s already on his way to the point as well as everyone else who had dawn patrolled yesterday.

     Outside, I pull my shorts and rashguard off of the drying rack and feel that they’re still weighed down with the same moisture as when I had initially hung them. Even though I had been saving the rest of my boardshorts for when I pack them away, I have to pull out a dry pair to avoid wearing sodden gear.

     Multiple mopeds are gone. No one’s in the kitchen. There’s an orange glow behind the mountains in the west.

     The cold wind’s against us as we ride out. Man, I can’t stress enough how much I wish I would’ve brought a flannel or a well-insulated rashguard. I don’t remember the mornings being cool as this.

     Pulling up, we see the lines coming in. It’s a tad smaller than yesterday. Tide also looks like it’s coming up fast. As I pull Bri’s board out of the rack, another bike pulls up. It’s Randy. A set breaks out the back. Everyone sitting in the lineup misses it. Someone takes off, a regular footer, and blows the section.

     “Awww, man!” says Randy. “See that?”

     I acknowledge.

     “You gotta get out there,” he says.

     I can’t find the earplug for my left ear. I swear I came with both of them yesterday, but now one is missing.

     We do the long paddle out. Since my rashguard vest was wet, I’m barebacking it this morning, the first bareback session since we first arrived. It’s taken that long for my nipples to heal.

     Another set’s breaking as I reach the lineup. It’s a replay of yesterday. Aaron takes one off the top, so does Brennan. I try to turn and go on the third one but scratch out. My days in East Java are numbered, so I sit at the top right away. When the next set comes, I take the first wave, but I can’t get around the section and lose it.

     Paddling back, I watch people take off on some insiders. I sit at the top again, and the same thing happens. No one’s saying anything. Even though I know everyone in the lineup, it feels tense. I feel like I’m being greedy, so I paddle inside wide. Meanwhile, the sun’s coming up over the horizon. I’ve surfed this spot at every time of the day, and it’s the dawn patrols that make this place look and feel different. Even at 0600, the water’s warm, the cliffs and the trees have a light orange tinge to them. The air’s still cool. It’s just perfect, not the hot tub that this place will be in the afternoon.

     I spot the next set rolling in way outside and wide. I’m the first to make a move for it. There’s no need to look behind because I know that everyone’s too deep. I turn and go, and I’m going down the line on a solid four-footer. There’s just something special about that first wave off the morning. You’re officially shaking off the slumber that you had just rolled out of bed from. The ride is more of a transitioning act on the verge of falling and balancing as you shift from rail to rail. For me, the greatest sensation is pulling off a deep wraparound cutback out of the pocket and pumping back up to the top of the lip where it’s steep. That speed you get off the drop for the next maneuver is exhilarating. The wave is perfect. Only you can mess it up.

     On the way back, I tell my brother that that was my wave of the morning. It doesn’t matter what happens now. I’m satisfied.

     I wait my turn and watch the others go, even pointing out where the waves are gonna break as they pass. I mistime a few and scratch out. The sun’s so blinding I can’t see much facing shore.

     “Bri got that one,” says Randy.

     Next wave, “Your girlfriend got that one,” says German Dad. Fuckin’ Bri, she’s over here cleaning off my plate like I don’t know how to eat my goddam self.

     The rest of my waves are lackluster, not necessarily because of my performance but because of the tide. It’s already soft, and the dropping swell isn’t helping.

     We catch our next waves in. It’s breakfast time in the kitchen again. It’s only the second morning that I’ve had the legit Javanese complimentary coffee here, and I’m getting addicted. I mean, shit is just so rich. I hate coffee snobs who bag on American coffee, but I can see why. Fuck. Even the store-bought instant shit at Indomaret tastes better than your premium drip at Starbucks.

     Boris sits down by us. We all chat it up a little. I wonder if I overreacted from the time he burned me on that wave. My animosity towards him has died down in the last couple of days. He’s a guy just like me trying to get waves.

     Randy’s coming down with an ear infection. “At least you caught the swell,” I say. I can still tell he’s bummed, though.

     Sonja also has injuries. On the way to Jogja, a couple days ago, she took a spill on her moped during the long two-and-a-half hour ride. She had refused to go to the hospital, but Edo and Tina insisted. The result? Stiches in her ankle, swollen knee and ankle, bruised rib and shoulder. It hurts just to watch her walk.

     Today the massage lady is here. One hour Javanese massage for only 70,000 IDR, that’s just over $6.00 U.S. Sonja gets one, and Bri goes after her. She says it’s even better than the one she had bought us in Manhattan Beach, which was $350 for the both of us.

     For lunch, it’s back to Quick Chicken, where it’s surprisingly empty for a Sunday. “Beach day,” says Randy. “Everyone’s there.”

     I order a fried chicken with rice combo. You won’t see that in the states, not even in Hawaii.

     Randy shows us a different route back home through smaller side streets in between the rice fields. In the distance, the lush mountains show their frilly lines with the blue sky in the backdrop. “Wish I brought my camera,” says Bri. I know. I could stop and take a pic from my phone right now, but I feel like that could ruin the whole moment. Sometimes the best pictures are in your head.

     Feeling the wind in my face and the sun on my arms, I smell the air as we ride through it.

The mandatory post-meal ice cream

#

Time: 1520-1745

Conditions: 3-4 FT+

Fins: JF-1 Thruster

     With the tide going even lower than it was yesterday, I’m expecting the lineup to get a little weird. There should only be a short take off spot that everyone’s gonna hog.

     Arriving at the point, there are no signs of the barbarians or the other new faces that were here the last couple of days. Instead, they’ve been replaced with more German newcomers. They’re not staying at the compound, but I’ve seen them come by to rent boards.

     One of them is a dude, and he’s coaching two chicks on how to surf. One of the chicks is wearing black stretchy pants. That’s fail one. The other keeps falling off of her board. Now this is a problem. If they can’t surf, let alone sit on a board, they shouldn’t even be in the lineup.

     There are some other newcomers, too. One’s a Brazilian travelling with a Japanese couple. Word around village is that the Brazo showed up to the compound and walked in unannounced, no hi or hello, and the first words out of his mouth were, “How big is it out there?” and then he went on talking about how he wanted to surf Machines in at least seven-foot surf. The next day, my brother asked him if he had surfed Machines. The Brazo said he didn’t surf it because his Japanese friends wanted to stay at Choco Point.

     So there’s still a lot of people in the lineup, but since the swell’s tapered off, everyone’s a bit more stagnant. I’d like to sit at the top of the lineup, but I grab a few short insiders. After a set rolls through, I paddle to the top.

     Not everyone caught the set, so the usual suspects are left out back, Boris & GF and Aaron. Aaron calls Boris into the next wave. He disappears. Aaron takes the second. Of course, GF didn’t catch shit, so I end up sitting on top of her.

     About ten minutes pass. I maintain my spot, feeling the growing number of surfers swarming behind me. I’ve let a few small waves pass. After a medium-sized one does, I anticipate the next one out the back and go for it.

     After my wave, the lineup’s packed again. Bri’s there at the top, too. I do my usual inside game until the next set clears everyone out. When it does, I sneak just underneath the top and catch a wave that Boris scratches out on. So far so good.

     Now, the lineup’s getting thicker. Aside from the three German noobs I had talked about earlier, four other German noob dudes arrive. On an inside wave, I’m pumping down the line, and they are all just standing there in the shallows holding thier surfboards. I steer between two of them, but it causes me to lose the fucking wave.

     I turn around and say, “Get out of the way!”

     Back at the top of the wave, I’m next to Bri. A set wave comes. Bri says something. I don’t quite hear her, so I go anyway.

     When I get back to the top of the wave, I’m pretty stoked about the rides I’ve been getting, save for one German kook who was in my way.

     Bri paddles up and says, “Hey! You totally burned me!”

     “What?”

     “Yeah, I told you that I hadn’t caught one in a while, and I asked you if I could get the wave, and you took it anyway.”

     I feel like an ass. I blame it on my earplugs. I’ve almost run over Tina because I couldn’t hear her warning me, same with some German. It doesn’t help how I focus more on the section in front of me than who I might run over. I tell Bri that if I’m on a wave to just take it.

     So on my next wave, I’m totally focused. I had pulled off a wrap and made it around a soft section. Just as the wave is standing up and I’m about to pump to the top of the shoulder, I see Bri jutting forward, paddling into the wave. Fuckin’ A. She cashes in on my promise and snakes me.

     The new crowd’s causing issues. Boris . . . even though I’m not chummy with him, I feel bad for him. Boris has priority on a wave, taking off deep. One of his fellow countrymen takes off right in front of him, the German noob’s first legit wave. While Boris is trying to call this guy off of his wave, the noob’s eyes are wide. A stoke-filled smile is smeared across his face. He’s hooting back at Boris, thinking that Boris is cheering him on. They ride like this until the sandbank. Boris kicks out, and Noob keeps going.

     When noob returns, his mouth is running a hundred miles an hour about how good his wave was, in German of course. Meanwhile, Boris is shaking his head. He puts his head down, rubbing his eyes and his face.

     The same noob takes off on one of the little groms I’m cool with, this little gap-toothed kid. Noob wipes out, and Gap tries to push the nose of the longboard out of the way to make it to the open face, but he falls behind.

     Bintang’s in the lineup next to me, yelling to Gap across, probably about there being too many fucking idiots out here.

     After the next set, I get to the top of the wave again. I’m next in the firing order, but a new local I don’t know paddles up next to me. His hair’s so curly he looks like he has Jeri Curls.

     The first set wave is a gem. Looks like the best wave this evening. Not a huge wave but just so shouldery and literally breaking at the top right next to the cliff. I can already tell that this one’s going to lineup all the way to shore.

     Jeri Curl jumps the gun and darts out for it. As the wave is standing up, he turns around right next to me to take the wave. Okay, I’m thinking. Fuck it. He’s a local. He can go. Next wave, fucking Gap, who I thought was my little homie, backpaddles me and battles me for the second set-wave. Motherfucker. Not cool. Since we’re on the verge of colliding, I back out, and . . . this little fucker scratches out. I look to my left. Jeri Curl missed his fucking wave, too.

     “So no one got that one,” says Brazo from the inside.

     All I can do is look down and shake my head. I look at Jeri Curl. He’s paddling by me with a shameful look on his face.

     “I had perfect position,” I say.

     He smiles. “I’m sor-ree. I’m sor-ree.”

     “And you!” I say turning to Gap. “Dude, I just gave you a wave. You gonna take that one from me?”

     Gap says some Javanese gibberish, but his expression, too, is embarrassed. They owe me and they know it.

     To diffuse things, Jeri Curl asks me where I’m from, and the conversation leads up to me being Randy’s brother.

     Next wave, I go, but it’s fucking small. I manage to get around a section, and this other German guy fucking drops in on me.

     “Fuck!” I yell. The guy turns around bewildered and kicks out, but he breaks the section apart.

     Now I’m just stewing. Bri snaked me. Jeri Curl kooked it. Gap, the little homie, fucking bamboozled me. Was I wrong thinking we had a connection? I never ever burned that dude.

     I sit back at the top, but now I’m picky. I want a real bomb. Redemption. I pass on a few that look too wide. The lull in between the next set’s taking too long. I take the next wave, and it’s too wide. I fall behind. Next wave, Gap snakes me again on the inside. When I do get a wave, I’m so fucking angry that I blow a power carve.

     I surf until dark trying to make things right again, but I can’t let go of the negativity, so I surf like shit.

     Bri’s been on the sand waiting for me when I go in. A few guys are still out, but you can barely see them.

     When we meet up with Randy for dinner, I vent my frustrations. We’re at a place I’ve never been to before, a quality chicken satay spot. When I take that first bite of chicken soaked in peanut sauce, I feel a lot better. We stop at the night market afterwards, and I kill some fried goodies from the Nasi Pecel Couple and also eat a terang bulan from the Martabak Man. My hunger is a surprise, and then I realize that I’m just overeating to make up for how the session went.