BARNYARD JAVA: Day 18 (double), MON 03AUG2015

I didn't know it at the time, but this was our last evening session

Time: 0545-0715

Conditions: 2-3 FT+

Fins: JF-1 sides, Rusty Q-R trailers (small)

     I get up at 0508. Bri’s not moving. I know she’s sleeping in. Opening the front door to my bungalow, I hear a light sprinkle of rain tapping on the leaves and trees. “Fuck,” I say. I can make out some dark clouds. I anticipate a cold rainy ride to the point, especially wearing nothing but boardshorts, but when I reach my moped, the drizzle’s already settling. No alarm.  

     Aaron and Elena are walking towards the shore when I arrive. Out back, I can make out German Dad and Brennan. Two Germans are here, too. One of them is the dude who had snaked me yesterday. They walk to the point, while I paddle out right in front. We make it out at the same time.

     Since I’m a little late, the sky’s already lighting up a bit. A small set comes. I pop up, but the offshore wind holds me up. The trailer waves are small, so I skip them. German Dad and Brennan paddle back from sitting too far out, and now everyone is paddling back towards the inside.

     Catching a wave right now is hard. It’s just too soft. Even my quads don’t feel like they’re giving me an advantage.

     The two German dudes leave. I’m thinking, one wave and I’m done.

     Everyone’s sitting far inside, so I paddle to the top of the wave just chancing that I’ll get the best small one out there. After letting a couple slow rollers pass, I anticipate a set. A lip looks like it’s curling behind an oncoming wave. I paddle out, and there it is.

     First legit set of the morning, and I’m all alone paddling out to it. As I’m turning to catch it, I see everyone in my periphery trying to beat the set. The sun’s shining over the mountains so bright that I have to look down as I paddle. I pop up. The wave is soft but with decent size. I point my nose down the line and pump, and that’s when I feel the quad fins working. Even on this mooshy wave, I’m pumping down the line with speed. I sacrifice pivot on the turns, but too much pivot would risk dumping too much speed. My cutback is more drawn out, fluid, and fast. I rebound for a snap. I shouldn’t be getting this much distance. The wave wants to race away, but with the additional drive, I make the rest of the sections all the way to the inside. Paddling back to the lineup, I feel redeemed from yesterday.

     The crowd is so manageable now. Save for the Japanese dude, I know everyone out here, and they’re not snakes. I’m familiar with how everyone here surfs, so I position myself based on predictability on how the lineup will shift. Three people sit at the top of the wave too deep, fall behind the sections, get frustrated, and sit inside. Only the Japanese dude is left out there. I paddle out next to him, and luck strikes again. Without seeing the set, I just start darting out, and behind the wave in front of us is a wide wave. I’m paddling hard because I’m desperate and so short on vacay time now. Turning around to catch the wave, Japanese dude looks deep. Yesterday I would have backed out for him, but I know it in my heart that he won’t make the section. I pop up, look behind, and he’s already eating shit. This is my second set-wave of the morning.

     By 0700, the surf’s getting soft from the tide push. A few people leave. I sit out back for one more. It takes a long time for a wave to come, but I catch a good one in. Three good waves in one and a half hours.

     On shore, Brazzo’s sitting down with one of the Finnish chicks. “Too small,” he says.

     Back at my moped, the Japanese duo approaches me, these are the two dudes that had arrived about five days ago. One of them has a shaved head. Randy had told me that this dude was cocky when he asked him where he was from.

     “Where do you think I’m from?” had been Cocky’s reply.

     They ask me if it’s good out. I try to explain that it’s too soft now. “Early,” I tell them. “Come tomorrow five-thirty.

     “Five-thirty!” they both say. “Like that?” They point at my bare chest. A drop of water slides down my smooth Filipino chest.

     “It’s not that cold,” I say.

     They both laugh and unstrap their boards.

     On the way back to the compound, I pass two different surfers on the way to check it out. One of them is a tattooed tanned guy with a longboard strapped to his moped, face angry and unsmiling like he’s ready to charge.

     I’m wondering how informed these guys are? Dude . . . it’s fucking late. It’s getting softer by the second. There’s nothing left. You missed it.

#

Time: 1445-1745

Conditions: 2-3 FT+

Pre Blog: I write this piece, sitting on my Japan-operated American Airlines flight from Jakarta to Narita. So much has transpired since the last time I wrote, which was three days ago before my last evening session. I’m tired. Bri and I have done so much travelling in the last couple of days on planes, trains, and automobiles. I hope I can recall what’s important.

#

     Since the morning session was small, I’m not expecting too much this afternoon, but the plan is to surf it as late as possible. Dead or alive, we’re getting waves, especially on our last full day here.

     The moped ride to the point has been an offroad experience. Two years ago, Al and I had caught this spot towards the end of the wet season, so the road was always damp with minimum dust and packed soil. This time around, the dirt has been so dry and soft that we’ve seen people get stuck. Bri and I almost ate it a couple of times. Despite the hazards, I hit the throttle through the soft parts with Bri bouncing on the back. A water buffalo glances at us disinterested. Here come more foreigners about to break their asses, he’s probably thinking.

     Of course, the point is packed. The stretchy pants German chick is out with her other German barney counterparts. German John-John Florence—let’s call him Flan-Flan Jorence—is out as well. A couple other Aussies. Okay. The whole shebang is out. Fucking foreigners everywhere, the kook kind. Encounters of the Kook Kind.

     On the drained tide, and with the swell still tapering off, the waves are once again just breaking at the very top of the point. Everyone is sitting at the main take-off spot.

     Supri runs over to me and Bri and asks for more zinc. I’m happy to oblige and be in favor with this kid. He only smears some on his nose and cheeks, right under his eyes, drawing a light T. The zinc is noticeable on my face because I’m dark, but Supri is so fucking dark that the zinc looks white on him.

     Aside from Stretchy Pants not having any surf gear, one of her friends is surfing in bottoms so thin that they could be panties.

     Flan-Flan gets a wave. To think this kid is so ripped with a serious surfer hair do, but he fucking sucks. All he can do is pump, no turns.

     Sitting at the bottom of the lineup is fucking painful. I can’t sneak to the top because it’s so inconsistent. I just don’t want to obviously burn people and insert myself into the firing order. There are articles about pulling that shit. Foreigners or not, it’s just kind of a principle thing that I can’t forego.

     I count on sets to scatter lineups. Just like this morning, one actually comes in. Supri is at the top. He gets the best one. Rian goes next, and then another older local dude falls behind the section. The rest of the barns are caught inside. With all the longboards that the Germans have rented, the inside is just an obstacle course of flailing limbs and ditched boards.

     I go to the top of the wave. The locals paddle back and sit by me. Too eager, I go on the first thing that looks rideable. With the tide too low, I fall behind the section even though I pump my hardest.

     It’s back to the bottom of the lineup. Impatient, I paddle towards the inside just under the main takeoff spot and snag a few small long rides, which would be fun waves any day in SoCal. Even though the waves are barely three feet, I can manufacture some cutbacks, hold a low line, get through the flats, and pump back on the highline as soon as the wave hits the sandbank. Really, it takes some skill to milk the most out of little slow rollers. 

     About an hour into the session, the surf just miraculously gets more consistent with occasional four-foot sets. I work my way back to the top and sit with the locals again. Flan-Flan had been out of position towards the inside, but he tries to paddle over to cut me off. Ha! The struggle to be the alpha male.

     I try not to be fooled and let some smaller waves go. Now it’s just Supri and I at the top. The first setwave comes. “You go?” I ask.

     Supri nods, stays still, and turns around to see who gets it. I take a gander at it myself, but it looks too racy. The lineup shifts to prepare for the rest of the set. Supri catches the next. I scratch out on the third one. Looking up, I see the wake from the person who caught it. When the surfer pops up, I see that it’s Bri.

     One more wave of the set. I turn and kick and scratch as hard as I can. Pumping, I try to go high and ride low to get around the flat section, but I can’t quite make it. Looking up, I see Rian take it on the shoulder. He throws buckets out the back all the way to the inside.

     He comes back, smiling, saying, “Mott!”

     “I couldn’t get around,” I say.

     Frustrated, I sit under the main takeoff spot and settle for insiders. With the tide still shifting and going lower, the water is shifting the lineup more inside, but people don’t notice. I casually paddle to the top of the wave, but no one tries to cut me off. They all think they’re in the same place, so to them I look like the idiot who’s gone too far out. I see the next set before anyone else does, and with this knowledge comes great power. If I paddle early for it, monkey see monkey do, every motherfucker will read my body language and make a move. If I wait too long, I might miss the wave. Like the piece of shit that I am, I paddle so fucking slow and turtle like. Instead of tip-toeing I’m finger-tipping, paddling like a thief in the night, and . . . I sense people watching but don’t hear anything. When the small wave in the foreground passes, the first setwave is right in front of everyone, and that’s when I just hit the gas and start paddling my ass off. I feel like a sneaky bastard, but the stoke of the ride washes it away.

     I’m at the top of the wave again. No one’s fooled anymore. Whoever can pop up on a wave is on it. I have to give up the first couple of waves of the next set due to the firing order, but the last wave is a free for all. I turn and go but realize I’m sandwiched between a grom on my outside and Bri on my inside, so I pullout. Watching from behind, I see Bri’s head pop up, and the kid kicks out. Now, this is a good setwave, like a legit all-the-way-to-shore wave.

     “Yup,” I say out loud. “My girlfriend’s wrecking it again.”

     “Duuuude,” says Brennan. “She’s been killing it.”

     Yes she is. It was the latest most critical drop that I’ve ever seen her take. From my position, it was even borderline too deep for me, and her position was deeper than mine. When she paddles back to the lineup, she tells me that she doesn’t even want another wave after that one.

     By 1700 most of the Germans are gone. Whoever’s still out is pretty beached by now. The energy goes from frenzy to relaxed. I’m a little more aggressive now, going back to the top after the main locals catch their waves. I don’t get a wave as good as Bri’s, but I still manage some triple-hitter rides at least.   

     At 1745, I can barely see the waves anymore. It’s only Brennan, Bri, and a new local out. We have the break to ourselves. The three of us trade off on glassy three-footers that are draped in a dim tangerine tone. Still more turns. It’s fun and rippable. We could stay out longer. If the swell’s too small tomorrow, this could be the last evening session we surf.

     We finally call it just before 1800. Brennan’s the last one out. Riding the moped through the soft sand is almost like surfing in the dark. I can’t see all the soft spots and holes, so I have to ride by feeling. My feet dangle off the sides in case we’re going to eat it, but we don’t. Every time I feel the bike start to slip, I just pull the throttle back a little bit more, turn my head, and say, “Hold on.”

Chocolate roti bakar AKA grilled bread

cheese roti bakar