A Barney in Bali--Day 12 (double sesh), 19JUNE2011 SUN

 Me VS Bali Traffic:


    Randy lines up his connections for me to rent a moped, but it’s in Kuta: the surf ghetto. Trust me, this place makes Venice Beach look like Brentwood. I hop on the back of his bike, and he gives me another tour showing me where all the bars are.

    “This is where it’s happening at night,” says Randy.

    I really wouldn’t mind checking it out, but I’m on some TB meds for nine months in which I am to stay away from alcohol at all costs. Clubs and bars aren’t really my thing nowadays anyway.

    We get to Big Kahuna surf school where all the homies work. Kadek greets us, and we find the guy who rents the mopeds. It only comes out to a couple bucks a day. The moped is a piece of shit, but it’s an automatic, and it will get me where I want to go (hopefully).

    Now I follow Randy through traffic, and I lose him because I’m too slow. He makes a right turn which I don’t see because a truck obstructs my view. I make the right turn late, as a couple cars honk to my unexpected action. Later, he makes another right turn, but I miss the opportunity gap. I forget to put my signal on, and just as I turn, a taxi has to brake to prevent a collision. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! I think we all reach a point where we question if there is a higher power, but in situations like this, when you know for sure that your ass should’ve been toast, you can’t help but thank someone or something for saving you.


One More Time:


    It’s about 1400, and we arrive home. No, Randy arrives home. Me? I’m ready to kiss the ground for the fact that I survived the ride. The Bukit is now out of the question because the traffic will probably cause me to have a mental breakdown. No more riding on the back of Randy’s bike; it’s time for me to learn how to get myself around this place. The options are Canggu now at mid tide, or Canggu after the high tide drops. We both had a shitty morning session, and I know that I’d like to end the day’s surf on a better note, so we head out.


    I’ve been there enough to know how to get there. The whole time on the back of the bike I’ve tried to remember shops and landmarks to know my way around. Randy leaves me in the dust again, and I’m trying to adjust riding with a surfboard attached. I can’t see him anymore, but I’m confident that I’m on the right track. I see a sign that reads “aqua.” I think to myself, Yes, I’ve seen that sign before, it’s familiar, I’m on the right track. The road I’m on keeps going and going, and next thing you know I’m in a crowded intersection that I’ve never seen. Fuck my ass. I turn around. I turn around a couple times. I realize that I must backtrack to the beginning of the road. When I get to our usual parking space by the cows, Randy is standing their waiting.

    “What happened?” he says.

    “Oh, I missed a critical turn, but I made it!”

G-string 4 da boys.

     He paddles out in front of the sand bar while I prep my gear. The wind is strong in the afternoon, and the sand bar is washy just like it was in the morning. This is not a day of ideal surf conditions, but we’re frothing for waves.

    I skip my usual pre-surf ritual for the first time since I started doing it. I tell myself that no one, not even God, or Mother Ocean herself can improve my surfing, only me, so I skip the theatrics.

    Randy gets his usual wave count. I catch a left that closes out, get worked on the inside, and then spend a lot of time fighting the current after that. It’s hard to stay in position the whole session. On top of the current, there is a rip pulling everyone out too.

    An Aussie family is in the line up: A father, two daughters, and two sons. Their youngest son, who probably weighs barely a hundred pounds, takes a wave at the peak. Randy goes next and takes a set wave. A body boarder lets out a hoot to acknowledge his wave. I watch the back of it waiting to see the spray, but there’s nothing. Then I see Randy on the inside holding up something. It’s the other half of his board.

    During my pre-surf ritual I pray for the safety of others I am surfing with. I feel a little guilty now for not doing it, or it could just be a mere coincidence what happened to Randy’s board. Sign? Now I’m in the line up scratching for a wave to end the session. The spot has good lefts, but a right hand shoulder surprisingly forms. I don’t expect much from it, but I take off anyway. It actually holds shape, but it starts to wall up. I set up for a sharp bottom turn, baby kiss the lip, and ride the whitewash to shore.

    Randy says that his wave started to curl over the shallow water, the nose purled, and he had a feeling that the board would give. His 5’11 Patterson will be repaired and sold to its future owner. It’s only the third time that Randy has had a board break under him ever.

    I’m not really satisfied with the day’s surf, but not everyday is guaranteed to be good, even on the North Shore and even in Bali. I’m just grateful for being in the water so much.


A Surf Tourist:

    I don’t get lost on the ride back. To no surprise, Randy leaves me in the dust again, or should I say I lose him because I am so slow. Despite the separation, I find my way home. It’s actually exhilarating to ride in the streets. I was spoiled with my brother, but now I fend for myself, and I enjoy the sense of adventure and accomplishment to successfully make it home unharmed.



    We go out to an Indonesian place for dinner, in town. I struggle to keep pace with Randy, but we somewhat make it there at the same time. The ambience is that of a top end lounge. It’s right on the street, and the interior is quite modern. I order an appetizer (fried egg omelet type thingy), a salad (vegetables and tofu with peanut sauce), a main course (beef with potatoes and rice), and a water. Randy convinces me to try the Indonesian spices because they are good for back pain, but I find myself sweating profusely half way through the meal.


 
     Randy leaves with his plate for Jessica, but he tells me to stay behind and take my time. I order a dessert which has fried cassava with coconut shavings and brown sugar on top. I also order a scoop of vanilla ice cream with that. To top things off, I order a Bali chocolate coffee. I’m so stuffed that I have to take a shit at the restaurant before my dessert arrives. I eat, take my time, and people watch, as the restaurant has an open air view to nightlife and traffic. My bill comes out to 96,000 Indonesian Rupiah, which is $11.21 USD. Anyone that knows me knows that I love food. I always wanted to go to a country where the dollar goes a long way and just SPLURGE!





     Traffic is light, I think about going for an evening cruise, but my stomach is so full that I figure it best to just head back. The $2/day moped rental is a blessing. My Bali adventure has expanded outside of the water and into the streets. It should be an interesting

A Barney in Bali--Day 12, 19JUNE2011 SUN

My writing haven: 24 hr. chat cafe, Cappuccino with a scoop of vanilla.

 
Return of the Ass Clencher:



    As I’ve mentioned before, the internet here is pretty slow. I had a hard time chatting with my girlfriend on line, so in a fit of frustration I headed out the door, on foot, to find an internet café.

    Randy stopped me and said, “Just take my bike.”

    Jessica said, “Should we give him one of our phones?”

    “Nah, he’ll be all right,” Randy replied.

    There are men in this world . . . real men, men of action! And I’m not one of them. No, I’m Mr. Cautious. Before venturing out on his bike I should have had not only my brother’s phone number, but his address, a prepaid phone, a preplotted map marking my destination and return route, a piece of paper with useful Indonesian phrases, and the phone numbers of all the emergency agencies I need. But in this case, I took his keys and jumped on the bike without all of the above. Back home I have a two stroke Yamaha YZ125 that I ride in the desert with my dirtbike buddy Sebastian. I would learn that riding in the desert and a third world country are totally different.

    Not used to a four stroke, I was really slow at letting out the clutch and gave too much gas, but I got it moving. Okay, left side of the road, left side of the road, think left side of the road, I thought. The chat café was literally just a couple blocks away, but the major intersection was unavoidable. Taking precaution, I didn’t drive too fast in the neighborhood. I must’ve looked weak and afraid because a dog on the side of the dirt road started barking. I looked back, and the little fucker was chasing me. What the fuck? So far for driving slow, I thought. I picked up my foot to make sure I wouldn’t catch rabies and made the left turn onto the street. Shifting gears, worrying about traffic, using my turn signals, keeping appropriate speed, and maneuvering between vehicles was a bit much to take in on a Saturday night. When the light turned green, I made the right turn and parked at the Chat Café.

    It was my first time on my own since being here, and the freedom was refreshing. The place was modern and westernized. I sat in a comfy leather couch and logged on. Wifi . . . such a creature luxury, but gawd damn do I love it. Internet so fast, the pages loaded faster than I could dig my asshole. Finally, I was able to chat with Lauren. I told her I had risked life and limb for our relationship.

    It was a pricey restaurant/café compared to the other places that my brother took me. I immediately splurged. I started with the chocolate shake (which did not pass American fatty standards), a mixed fruit smoothie, a cappuccino with a scoop of vanilla ice cream, and a calamari appetizer. Total: $10. Yeah . . . expensive.


Vacation or Training Camp?:


    Last night my brother gave me the option on where to surf. It was either going to be the Bukit or Canggu again. He made the dilemma clear to me. One, the Bukit would be big. The swell was forecasted around 8 ft. with 15 sec. periods. He made it clear that if the Bukit is big, I may find myself in a bad situation over the reef. Waves at the Bukit stand up really fast. He also said, we could surf Canggu where it won’t be as bad, but at the same time the Bukit would get me out of my comfort zone. What’s a Barney in my shoes supposed to say? I’ve already had the reality check to know that my surfing is not up to Bali standards. Eight feet and reef, I thought. I also didn’t want to disappoint my brother, as anyone that’s a “younger brother” could understand. I told him I’d do the Bukit.

    He said, “All right, but it’s a long drive. If I paddle out, you’re gonna have to paddle out too.”

    He gave me that stern facial expression: no smile, serious as a heart attack, and straight. It immediately sent me back through time to my high school days; I was sixteen again. He would come home from college, throw on the boxing gloves, and knock me around the garage until my grandma would come down asking us what all the noise was about. “If I paddle out, you’re gonna have to paddle out too” is what he said. Last night I had the worst sleep since I’ve been here. I thought to myself, did I come here to have fun or to have this kind of pressure on me?


Inaccurate Forecast:


    Because of the tide, we choose to surf The Gu so we could check out the Bukit around noon. When we get there, we see the end of a big set roll through. After that, the sets are about the average size for that place. It’s definitely not eight feet. For Bali scale, it’s four at the most. The break in front of the Warung has lefts with barreling sections that appears on the good waves, but it‘s getting crowded, and it is just “one left“ that everyone is fighting over. The sand bar in front of us has a left hand barreling section also, but it’s less consistent. Since the sand bar has two peaks that randomly work, I tell Randy that I’m willing to surf there.

    I practice kicking my feet while paddling for waves. This morning it feels much smoother. I actually catch a left at the peak, but it’s walling up fast. I pump down the line until it closes out. If it barreled, there was no exit route. Randy watches me scratch out on another wave.

    He says, “You’re getting your rhythm down.”

    “Yeah, I feel like paddling at the surface while kicking seems to help.”

    The morning session is just over an hour, and I can’t even recall if I got more than that one wave. No rides this morning are remarkable, but that’s most likely my fault of course.
   
Effort:

    Back at the bikes, Randy tells me that he’s watched my paddling, and that I’ve been doing it wrong. He says that I paddle like I’m swimming. He’s in fact right, I do. No one’s ever told me that I’m doing it wrong. It feels good when I do it, so I don’t know any better. He says he’s seen this for some time. Well . . . now I know.

    Randy also asks me about my duckdiving, and how he notices that I’m caught on the inside a lot. This is true. I’ve always written about my duckdiving problems, and it still is a problem. What I do is use my foot to push on the tail. Randy tells me to use my knee instead. I’ve tried this, and I just can’t get it down; I feel as if I have no leverage.

    At this point, we are both frustrated. Not only am I frustrated with my own lack of abilities, but now I must see my brother get frustrated over my lack of abilities as well. He says that I don’t follow his advice, but I tell him I truly am trying.

    He brings up options on where to surf the afternoon. I tell him I don’t want to, and that I just want to get a moped rental and do my own thing.

    I’ll leave out the details of the conversation that followed. This is obviously getting into a personal realm. I appreciate how he tries to push me to surf better, but this is my first time here. I don’t know. I guess I sound like a fucking bitch right now, but fuck . . . it’s Bali. It’s not easy out here, but I guess I’m not trying hard enough. I guess all my wipeouts, eating shit over the reef, and getting caught on the inside means that I’m not trying.

    I just want to hit the reset button. All I want is to have fun by catching fun waves, even if they are small.

A Barney in Bali--Day 10, 17JUNE2011 FRI

Sunrise on the Canggu Stretch

Getting What You Ask for Doesn’t Always Work Out:

    Last night there was more surf mentoring over dinner, but Randy told me the things that I’ve already been epiphanizing the last couple days: I suck.

    Now that it’s a new day I’d like to think that my pussy doesn’t hurt as much. It’s 0500 and Randy’s not up yet. I take my time warming up, and when I’m done he’s in mid routine.

    “Damn, I woke up late,” he says.

    He starts the morning tea as we read the wind, swell, and tide forecasts. The swell is up today. In fact . . . the swell forecasts are incredible compared to back home. The numbers during the week are anywhere between eight and thirteen feet. Next week is supposed to be eighteen feet. I’m such an idiot that the common practice of downplaying wave size has me confused too, so I just follow the “Bali Scale.” It’s three to four feet. I suppose when I’m involuntarily shitting my pants, it will be safe to call it six feet, but what are the actual wave heights? I hate exaggerating, so I’ll play the game. 

    After losing the Sanur gamble yesterday, the options are Canggu or Tugu. Randy says that Tugu is more of a gradual wave. He gives me this option because of today’s swell. Basically, Canggu may be too big for me to handle. Being tired of surfing the same spot, I suggest Tugu.

    As we arrive, we first look at The Gu. It’s big enough to clear The Burger; it’s closing out and not holding shape, while he river mouth still holds. The sand bar works, but it’s fast.

    “Okay,” says Randy. “This is the deal. If we surf here, it’s gonna have to be the river mouth. Sand Bar may be a little too difficult for you.”

    I watch Rivers and note the crowd there. The inside looks a little brutal. My concern is eating shit, which is a guarantee for me, and then being in the way of a dozen Aussies pumping down the line. It’s consistent, big, and crowded, which is not appealing. I decide on Tugu for my sake.

    We pull up and see the two different peaks which gives the option of rights and lefts, but the paddle is way out there. The wave is big, but slopey and gradual. It’s more of a long boarder spot, and the energy here is different. More chicks are surfing here and more older guys.

    “Is this even challenging for you?” says Randy.

    “Well, I just want to surf something different and surf some fun waves.”

    “All right, as long as you’re having fun, that’s all that matters.”

    His board isn’t made for the mooshy waves, so he says he’ll surf the inside. I tell him to just surf the river mouth, but he wants to be close by.

    The paddle out takes a long time. The set waves break far on the outside, but duckdiving white wash from mooshy waves is a cinch. For the first time since being here, I feel comfortable in the impact zone.

    When I get to the line up I try to figure out where to sit. I try to triangulate and see if I’m too far in or out. It’s hard to gauge because people are sitting everywhere. I catch a small left, pop up late, and kick out before it closes out--not a good wave choice. Now the sets arrive in the distance. I’m too far on the inside, so I have to paddle and beat it. I catch what looks like a good right, but the wave is really boggy. I’m on the wave, but there’s no power on it. I’m right where the power should be, but I’m moving with the ferocity of a shopping cart being pushed by an elderly woman at the grocery store.

    I’m out there for two hours, so I’ll sum up the mediocre session with the memories that stand out. The chick that was charging The Burg a couple days ago is out there. We talk a little about Canggu being closed out. There are local surf instructors in the water trying to push some tourists into waves; it’s not working. The water’s so glassy, which is odd for the mid morning. The sets start to get bigger and break further outside. Everyone scrambles to beat them, and the long boarders have the best advantage by catching them early.

    My best wave of the session is a left. It’s the left I’ve been waiting all morning for, one I can catch all the way to the channel where Randy is. I get it right at the peak, have a fast drop, bottom turn, draw a high line, and there’s a fucking, tattooed, long haired, Balinese guy that drops in on my. I’m just about to set myself up for some momentum off of the lip. I let out a “Whoaaaaa!” and have no choice but to do a self induced wipeout. I resurface, and he’s right there. No apologies, this is their turf.

    I catch a clean right hander, but an Aussie paddled into it behind the peak, makes the section, and is right behind me. I’m forced to kick out. I eat shit on another wave. On my paddle back, the waves are getting even bigger, and breaking even farther out than before. Everyone is stretched out. A couple chicks paddling next to me are struggling more than I am, which (I hate to say it) gives me some relief for my own abilities. I’m getting tired, and my duckdives aren’t as clean, I’m getting washed around a little.

    I still don’t have an epic wave to claim for myself, but it is nice to surf without getting my ass kicked. I’m in position for an outside set, and the Balinese surf instructor actually pushes his student into a wave; it’s mooshy, but, easily head high. It was a hell of a wave to catch for a first surf lesson; there’s no way he can’t be sold. I’m in position again, and another instructor pushes a female student into the wave. She’s slow at getting up, shaky, but she stands, and it’s a very, very long ride to the channel.

    I’m bordering on my second hour, and I want to get back to the bike. I scratch out on a lot of waves. Yes, it’s an easy session, but my brother is right. It’s too easy. Or I should say, so mooshy that it’s hard to paddle into--big and mooshy. I catch another right that’s a bogger. It mooshes out towards the inside, and I paddle the rest of the way in.

    I see Randy in the distance. He’s dry, his board is packed, and he starts up the bike. He’s probably been there for a while.

    “How long have you been here?” I ask.

    “Oh . . . forty-five minutes. Did you have fun?”

    “Oh, it was all right.”

    I feel guilty. I know he would’ve had more fun at Rivers, but . . . I wouldn’t have caught anything with the crowd there. I think it was still good to clear my mind and surf in a calmer atmosphere. Now I’ll look forward to more of a challenge after this morning.

    “The wind just turned on shore,” he says.

    I don’t comprehend at first. “Ohhhhh, so now it’s offshore on the other side.”

View from the Tugu line-up

To Be Continued:

A Barney in Bali--Day 9, 16JUNE2011 THU

     After yesterday morning’s Barney beat down, I really wanted to redeem myself by getting some good rides. In the evening the tide was drained out. We checked out a different spot called in Berawa. Randy told me that the spot can get crowded, but I underestimated his warning. As we pulled up I noticed that the break is in front of a resort. A mass of motorbikes were parked in the area. When we walked out to see the break, a lot of guys from Canggu were there checking it out too; the same Aussie rippers that I’ve seen tearing up the sand bar. I didn’t want to pull out my camera because I would’ve been taking pics right in front of everyone. I have to pick and choose good times to play tourist, and I didn’t feel like that was one of them. I saw a thick crowd waiting for one peak that didn’t seem to break. To our right, there was a consistent right hander going off at a solid three to four feet. It looked fun, but it was awfully packed. The shoulder was clean and peeled all the way into a channel, but for some reason, there were a lot of guys caught on the inside. It looked dangerous out there with so many people in the way. Over the crowd, we checked out Tugu, and the low tide shut the place down. We ended up at Canggu overlooking the sand bar. There were ten people out despite the conditions. Burgers was dead flat, and River Mouth wasn’t holding shape. I opted not to fight the crowd for that one peak that was working, but we watched it and saw some guys get fast little three foot barrels.

     After yesterday I realized that I just want uncrowded surf. I don’t care about overhead waves or barrels at this point. Just beat the crowd, that’s all I want to do. Get a couple waves to myself without it being a constant battle, like how we scored Nusa Dua my first surf there. Even in Cali, I don’t mind scoring a spot where the surf isn’t as good, just so long as I don’t have to deal with the crowd.


The Tour:


     I open my eyes and check my watch--0551. Randy’s making tea, and we go over the morning options. The wind is dead. We discuss Canggu or a gamble on Sanur. Desperate to get away from the crowds, I support the gamble.

     On the back of the bike I’m watching the trees for any signs of wind. I hope for no wind at all. Half way there, Randy points out some roadside banners that are flapping full stream.

     “Look at the wind,” he says.

     We pull over; I’m bummed. He continues: “Do you wanna keep going?”

      "It’s gonna be windy like this in Sanur?”

     “Yeah. . . . The tide is high right now, so it’s either we go back to Canggu and surf fat, clean waves, or we surf uncrowded waves like this.” He’s referring to the wind.

     I think about the crowds and how I’m dying to find something new. The gamble seems so worth it to find surf to ourselves. “Nah, lets keep going,” I reply.

     It’s my first time in Sanur. Everything is new: the highway, the shops, the landscape, and the community on the way. We pass through the town ceremony. Something smells mighty good.

     “It’s probably goat,” says Randy.

     He told me the night before that these spots are secret, so I can’t name them. Just short of the spot, we are halted by a closed gate.

     “That wasn’t there before,” says Randy. “Fuck . . . how’s that? Take a picture of that shit.”



     I reach for my camera. We park and walk the beach route for a look. The wind is strong onshore, and the gamble . . . was a complete loss. The wind could be manageable, but the swell is nonexistent on this side of the island. He points out where the peaks usually are. I snap photos. An island in the distance reminds of the view from my hometown Napili where Lanai and Molokai seem a swim away. Despite the negative surf, I’m still stoked for the experience to have seen something new.




     On the way back we stop at a different Dunkin’ Donuts and shoot the shit over some morning java. The following conversation ensues.


The Western Effects:


     Randy points out the Balinese programming on the TV. The woman is light skinned, so is her male counterpart.

     I say, “It’s kind of like Mexican TV, huh? They show the lighter skinned people.” I sip my coffee. “Like how on Mexican programming they show chicks with the blonde hair, light skin, or more Spanish features.”
Randy nods his head, drinks his coffee.

     I continue, “There’s irony on how cultures complain how they’ve been vanquished by invaders, but look who they put on TV. That’s not how the indigenous people look like.”

     “Well, they are getting more western here; looking western is a sign of wealth.”

     “That sucks . . . eventually their culture will get watered down too.”

     Done with a sip, Randy sets down his coffee. “I’ll have to disagree.” He turns and looks at the street. “In Hawaii where do you see the culture?”

     I laugh. “At the luaus . . . the hotels.”

     “Yeah, exactly, and over here I see in every town they still do their religious offerings. They still wear their cultural clothes and do their practices. In every town, I see them making offerings to the shrines. It’s part of their religion, and religion is strong here.”

     I make the connection in my head. He’s right in a sense. The Balinese can still adopt aspects of western culture but still hold true to their beliefs and practices. Just as easy as they can change into western clothing, they can also return home and continue their same practices that they’ve been doing for generations. And I’ve seen this. I’ve seen the festivals, the offerings at the shrines, villagers dressed in traditional garb, and all this just on the way to surf.

     I say, “So they have a religious ideology. . . . The culture will stay strong because they have to practice it.”

     “Yeah, like take Hawaii for example. You don’t see them wearing the lava-lavas.”

     “And they don’t worship their old gods. Now it’s just commercial . . . entertainment. Luaus, at the hotels; it’s just folkore . . . stories, hula dancers at the airport.”

     Randy gives further examples of how the Balinese culture is “in your face.” The topic ends on his final note: “And that’s why I love this place.”


Wet Season VS Dry Season:


     We also talk about surf conditions and why we’ve been sticking to Canggu. Right now Bali is in its dry season. During the dry season, the spots on the eastern half of the island get blown out, such as Nusa Dua, Sanur, and a couple other secret spots I was shown days ago and today. My very first surf session, we scored at Nusa Dua. It turns out that that was never supposed to happen. The winds were supposed to be on it, but on that fine day, I guess the surf gods wanted me to surf there. Ever since then, Nusa Dua and the other spots we’ve been gambling on have been torn by the wind.

     Uluwatu is protected. What do you think of when you hear the word Uluwatu? For me, I think of old surf footage, uncrowded surf, and left hand barrels. According to my brother, it’s a fuckin’ scene over there; it’s jam packed to full capacity. We discussed checking it out before I leave. That is one spot that if I don’t surf, I at least have to see it.

     So . . . where does that leave me? My only options are crowded Ulus, the beach breaks along Kuta and Seminyak, Berawa, Tugu, and Canggu. Or, there are places that would probably land me in a hospital because they are too gnarly for me. Besides the latter, Canggu breaks the best out of all of them, so Canggu is what I‘ll mostly be surfing. My first impression of Bali was that uncrowded spots like Nusa Dua would be a given, but I’d have to be here during the wet season for that.

     I’ve heard it, it was hard to believe, but it’s true: Bali is crowded. Imagine El Porto on a crowded day, but almost everyone’s Aussie, and they all fuckin’ RIIIIP. Even the chicks and little kids will put you to shame. Well, that is if you’re a Barney, a Bali Barney.


Message Overkill:


     We have a late start surfing because of the morning’s gamble. It’s about noon, the sun is roasting everything, and the wind is up. I can see Burgers working, and there’s only a couple people out. River Mouth . . . why do I even bother talking about Rivers? It’s packed, and guys are putting on a clinic over there, most of them are young bucks; I’ll never surf it. The sand bar seems to be working, but there are people there. Randy says that he’s “over” Burgers, he’s surfing the sand bar, but that I should just surf Burgers. I tell him I can surf the sand bar, but I’ve never had a good session there, so he’s right.

     At The Burger there’s that same guy that I was in a paddle battle with yesterday. I paddle out, he catches a right, and I go for a left. The left doesn’t hold; it closes out. Since the ride is short, I’m in the impact zone over the rocks . . . those damn rocks and whatever else is down there that’s waiting for me to step on. Motherfucker. The waves aren’t that big, but they are a little lined and fat from the post high tide. Well, who am I kidding? I don‘t know what scale to use anymore. I should switch to: easy, could get your ass kicked, beatings, guaranteed beatings, and suicide. It’s a Bali three feet, the water’s choppy, the wind is howling, the current pulls north, and there’s a rip; it’s unclean funky surf. I duck dive the next wave of the set, I get knocked back, I feel the rocks, I pick up my feet, starfish, get back on my board, and the next wave comes. I do the underwater boogaloo again and take two more before the set’s over.

     I thought my humbling session was yesterday, but apparently Canggu’s not done with me. I got the message already, but it’s still being beaten into me. I decide not to go for the lefts anymore; I stick to the rights.

     The first right is my only solid wave. The wind makes the wave break weird, it stands up as the top is crumbling, I choose a high line to make the section, bottom turn, and get one good top turn. From there, my wave bogs out, and it reforms into a building section in front of me, but the peak forms way ahead.

     There’s people parked near by, and I’m the lab rat for their decision to surf or not. I put on a dismal performance. I have a couple decent wipeouts. I think to myself if there was such a thing as wipeout surf porn, I’d be sponsored.

     I don’t even care about the details for the rest of the session. The other guy left after my first wave. Alone in the water, I have a lot of time to sit and think about everything. It’s probably pretty lame to read this, but I have to write the truth. It’s easy for the reader to say, “What a pussy, just get out there and surf.” Do you want to know the truth? I’ve gotten away with a lot surfing Porto, HB, DMJ, Churches, and Trestles. I’ve been able to have a half-ass duckdive, get pounded on the sand, shake it off, and keep on paddling. At Trestles, I’ve been able to ride forgiving gradual waves that let me make one or two mistakes before regaining composure. But this . . . this is all new. I’ve never been pounded by waves while there’s reef, sea urchin, and rocks to get dragged across. Okay, there’s cobblestones at Trestles, but that’s totally different. I had the dream of coming here to get barreled. OMG, really? What the fuck was I thinking? Barrels aren’t happening, at least not on this trip. I’m sure I’ll see barrels, but not from within them.

     Still, out there, I paddle, fight the current, sit, wait for a wave, think, question my identity. Does every surfer go through this at some point?

     I surf The Burg for a good solid hour. Walking back to the bike, the river mouth is giving good rights. Groms, they’re pumping and doing airs at the end of the wave, 360s even. We ride back to the pad, clean up a bit, and go out for Japanese food in town. It doesn’t occur to me to take a picture.

     This is a lot to take in. I‘m not the surfer I thought I was. Do I want fun waves, or do I want the ability to have fun on waves? The line is blurring.

A Barney in Bali--Day 8, 15JUNE2011 WED



Soul Surfer Haven:


     Last night Randy took me for a cruise to check out the surrounding areas around Seminyak. I asked questions about places that surf bums can live. He tells me that there are places where you can get a small room, a small kitchen, and a bathroom for only $7/day, and that’s with a free breakfast too. It sounds like a no-brainer for any surf bum that wants to chase waves. Being here with Randy, Jessica, and baby Jaya, has made me realize a lot of things. In their home, they only have the essentials; nothing in their home is just for show or shits and giggles. Everything they have, they use; it has a purpose. Thinking of this, I think about my apartment in El Segundo and all the extra crap I have collecting dust and shit that I’m just hanging on to. They could pick up, leave, and resettle at the gentle drop of a pube.

     Also, Balinese culture is so different. When we ride through the streets, we merge into on-coming and flowing traffic, and no one maliciously speeds up, tries to cut us off, or gets road rage. Everywhere we go they have smiles. They stare a lot, but that’s just because they’re checking out who you are, and then when you draw eye contact they smile again. No one’s out here flossing and trying to “one-up” each other. No one’s putting on the flashy jewelry, designer clothes, or going out of their way to buy nice cars. My first night here, I asked my brother what the poverty level was like, and he said that depends on what your definition of poverty is.

     He said, “They grow their own food and breed their own livestock. They have food, shelter, and clothing; they have what they need.”

     I can see why there are expats here. The cost of living is inexpensive. I’ve changed a lot over the last couple years, and I know that I’m not a fan of the rat race. The super-structure is inescapable, our sense of agency is false, and yet we’re all trying to climb the same ladder to get that same piece of the pie. It’s a romantic thought to come out here alone, carrying what you have on your back, to live an aesthetic life, and redefine yourself and your world. Bali . . . you can lose yourself and find something new that you’d never find otherwise.


If I Ever Had an Ego, It’s Dead Now:


     Because of the wind we’ve been staying local in Canggu. Well, Seminyak is local, but Canggu is a short, bumpy ride away. There’s no use to go to the Bukit with all the wind, unless we’re surfing Uluwatu, but my bro has been waiting for the right conditions to score that area. Either way, he’s warned me about overhead Ulus. I hardly doubt that pulling into an overhead, left-hand barrel is as easy as Gerry Lopez has made it look in old surf footage. For now, we wait.

Raindbows. Not so durable after all.

     The plan is to be in the water by 0530. We wake up at 0445 and start warming up. There’s no time for tea. In the morning darkness, I feel mosquitoes munch on my ankles as I attach the surf racks to the Yamaha. Randy uses his clear lens Oakley knock-offs that he bought in the surf ghetto the other day, while I’m using my military-issue goggles. We ride through the barren streets under the waning moonlight. The horizon is changing from black to purple. Through the rice fields, we ride through a sea of bugs that are drawn-in by our headlight. Air rushes against us as we pierce the morning darkness. Bugs shoot through the gaps in my goggles, and now they are trapped, buzzing in front of my eyes. We are almost there.

Pic taken as we were leaving. High tide made things really swampy.

     We don’t arrive at 0530, but it’s not even 0600 yet, and there are already surfers in the line up. It is crucial to surf early because of the full moon: today’s low and high tides change drastically in a short time. It’s mid-tide, and the goal is to catch that surfing window before things get swampy. We rush the burger because the other peaks are already filling up.

     At The Burger, there are only two guys and one chicks. The waves are about shoulder high and consistent. I start off by catching two rights, but the lefts are much better, as I only get one top turn before the rights moosh out. The crowd is thin, so I feel confident paddling into waves. I catch my first left which has a building wall. It’s a bit of a tease. It looks like it’s going to get hollow, but the size isn’t there. I kick out early before the wave closes out over the rocks. I resurface to find that I kicked out too early and caught the first wave of a big set. The chick is pumping fast down the line on a bigger wave right in front of me; I’m in the impact zone. I get pummeled by the wall of white wash, recover, and try to make it back out. Here comes my brother on a wave just as big. This time I’m closer to the channel, but I still eat the crashing lip. The chick and my brother are back at the line-up while I’m still sucking wind. Randy comments on my troubles . . . I catch my breath.

     Thankful for the lull, I’m ready for the next left. It’s fast with more of a shoulder, and I enjoy drawing good lines; my body feels fluid with my board‘s movement. More people show up, now there are six. The next series of events set the tone for the morning.

     It’s a little harder to catch waves with more people around. I guess everyone’s aware of the “window” to surf. The pack scatters as a set approaches. A guy is on my inside, we both paddle for the left, I back out thinking that he has the wave, but he scratches out. Fuck, I think to myself. Next one. We both paddle, I’m sure he’s on the wave, but he misses it again. Fuck my life. He catches the third wave. Now I’m sitting towards the outside all by myself because everyone else either caught a wave, or they’re out of place from the chase. More sulking. I look out and see that the sea is flat; I’ve lost my opportunity. I hear the lesson in my mind from my brother a couple days ago: “Always paddle for it, don’t pull out.” I failed. I look at the horizon again. There’s a bump. It’s more than a bump, it’s a rogue wave bigger than the set, and it’s coming my way; I’m all by my lonesome. I hear splashes of paddling behind me; others are trying to beat the wave before it closes.

     Randy calls me out whenever I’m sitting on the shoulder. “You need to be on the peak,” was also a lesson from a couple days ago. I have the option to paddle into the safer shoulder, or take the peak that’s already starting to break. I go for the challenge. It’s a good old fashion “dump rider special.” This wave is head high, the lip tosses me as I’m popping up, and I stubbornly stand on the rear of my board to see if I can stick the landing like an Olympic tumbler. It almost feels as if I’m air dropping. The landing is an explosion in front of a live audience.

     Surfers know what kind of wave this is; it’s the redeemer. During a period of frustration, it’s the breakthrough wave that can define the session, and also make for a good story: the old triumphant tale of man versus the sea, succumbing to nature’s fury, to finally conquer and ride out her death dealing blow. There is no such tale for I. The under dog remained so. I brushed it off and kept my defeat internal.
Headcount back at the peak: 10 heads. Another rogue wave appears in the horizon, I’m too far on the inside, so I prepare for battle. The lip crashes on me while I’m under water. I get wiped back like a crumb gets wiped off a table. I run into something that’s moving with me; it’s another surfer. We roll and tumble together. I can’t even remember if I held on to my board or not.

     We resurface, he says, “I’m sorry.”

     “Don’t worry about it,” I reply. “Are you all right?”

     “Yeah.”

     How the hell did we not get tangled, banged up, or sliced by our fins? My board’s in tact. It could’ve been worse.

     New headcount: 13 heads. By now everyone is surfing with their best buds. A few alpha males paddle aggressively into the set waves. I scratch out a lot, the tide is high, the conditions are changing, and it’s getting inconsistent.

     Randy’s over the session and catches his last wave. No details are needed for my last wave. I tried. I scratched out or got out paddled. I hate myself. I just want to catch one in but can’t. I take the cowards way out by paddling in. I paddled in at Bali and disrespected “the sport of kings.”

     It’s a quiet ride back. I don’t flinch when coming within inches of other motorists; I’m reflecting. It’s so humbling it’s almost like meditating, reaching a level of awareness through humility and suffering. Who was I to ever have an ego when it came to surfing. I think about the days back home in the line up, the times I was “on point,” felt like my shit tasted so deliciously nutty, and thought that my shit was harder and larger than John Holmes, all because I launched a couple sprays on some mooshy waves that a caveman could paddle into. In a surfer’s existence, today I feel small. No more egos.



I'm not a fan of taking boring pics of myself, but in this case, it's appropriate. This is me after my Bali beatdown.



A Barney in Bali--Day 7, 14JUNE2011 TUE

We pulled off of the highway to meet Daz and saw this. 

Surf Celeb:


     I wake up a bit late, 0621. I spring up from bed, and my brother’s already been up since 0500. I guess I didn’t rest that well. Last night when we returned, there was a power outage. It wasn’t until about a quarter to midnight that we were able to shower off remnants from the evening’s session. Also, it was pretty hot, and it was rough sleeping without the fan.

     The wind is still dead in the morning, so we attempt to gamble on Sanur. We meet Daz on the main highway. Daz has spent the last week in Lombok to chase that swell that was supposed to hit. Unfortunately, the forecast was off, so he didn’t get what he set out for. Daz tells us that he’s heard that Sanur’s been blown out the last few days. We part ways. We figure that it’s not worth the drive if the spot’s blown out. We ride to Dhyana Pura to see what the swell’s doing. The tide is high, there’s not much size, it’s crowded, and there isn’t much shape. It looks mooshy all around.

     We go back home to do a couple things before we head out again. So far, the morning’s not looking too good for surf. The wind is picking up, so we stick to Canggu. He tells me that Uluwatu is probably the only area protected by the wind, but it’s always crowded, and it’s not worth it without the right swell. Canggu is a good wave, and I still need my practice to prepare for the big swells to come anyhow.

     We pull into our parking spot by the cows, and there’s a black truck parked there already. The guy in the truck is by himself, wearing shades, is dark, and has long hair. I wave, as I would greet any stranger out here. He waves back. I already know who it is the second that I see him; it’s Mikala Jones.

     My brother parks and walks up to him. They’ve already been communicating via e-mail because they have a mutual friend from Hawaii. They start off on small talk about the waves, and then Randy lets him know that he’s the “Randy” from the e-mails. They immediately hit it off and discuss business that they’ve already been communicating about. Randy introduces me, and I shake Mikala’s hand.

     My brother gave me his collection of surf porn a long time ago. The first time I saw Mikala surf was from the movie “Snapt 2.” More recently, his surfing is also on the extras from “Castles in the Sky,” and he has a surf sequence on “Innersections.”

     Their conversation moves on to the local surf, and Mikala fills my brother in on some local knowledge. I want to chime in some kind of tidbit to add to the conversation, but everything that crosses my mind would make me sound like an idiot. I just nod my head in approval to whatever the hell they are talking about, and keep my mouth closed.

     Randy says that we’re gonna go and paddle out. They shake hands, but I can’t let the opportunity pass.
I say, “Hey, is it cool if I get a picture with you?”
“Yeah, sure,” says Mikala.

     I hand the camera to Randy, and he suggests we move into better lighting. We both throw up shakas, as the camera clicks.

     I tell him, “Cool, man, thanks.” Then I say too much: “I liked your sequence in Innersections. Cool song by the way. I was thinking of it this morning.”

     “Oh yeah?” He replies.

Totarry Rawsome!

 
     One more goodbye, Randy and I change, and then we throw him one more shaka for the road. Damn, I can’t help but think about how stupid I must’ve sounded, but I’m not ashamed of it. It’s not everyday I meet a pro surfer or free surfer. They guy’s surfing is awesome, and I really do dig his part from “Innersections,” I wasn’t just saying it.

     There’s a couple pulses in the water, but they’re not consistently rolling in. The crowd is thinner than yesterday morning, but the peak in front of the resort, Sand Bar, and the River Mouth still have a lot of heads. We walk to The Burger again; there’s only three guys out.

     I think about my brother’s surfing advice that he gave me last night, and I want to take this opportunity to surf harder. The tide’s sucking back out, and it’s happening fast.

     “This is gonna have to be a fast one,” says Randy.

     With the lack of swell, side shore wind, and draining tide, we have a one hour window before the break shuts down.

     Surfing harder doesn’t come as easy as planned. I try to duckdive a set wave and get tossed underwater. I kick my feet while paddling into waves, but my rhythm is still broken. Despite all that, I still get two nice lefts to start the session. I attempted a cut back on one wave, but it’s fast, so I just pump on down the line. For the second wave, I take a page out of my friend Klaude’s book, and concentrate on surfing with my back foot. The small crowd is mellow, and we strike a conversation with one of the Aussies in the water. Not too long after, the break starts to shut down. The sets become more inconsistent, the water’s now choppier, and the wind is still howling. I catch a couple rights that bog out towards the inside. After that, I get a “turkey” on my next three waves, meaning that I eat shit on all of them. Randy is paddling out as he sees me do a dump rider special on a right. I stick the drop, but there’s too much momentum, and I fall backwards. I get pitched over on the next left. On my last wave, my board purls. I did my best not to touch the bottom, especially with the tide going out so fast; I didn’t want another sea urchin mishap. At this point, we both struggle to catch our last waves. I get a right which gives me one top turn before it bogs out on the inside. Randy spends another five minutes trying to catch something in, but the spot has turned off.

The river mouth

     Today’s session was a short one. I’m hoping that the conditions clean up and that there’ll be some lulls in the wind. Either way, I got to meet Mikala Jones. Mikala fuckin’ Jones . . . awesome.

A Barney in Bali--Day 6 (double sesh), 13JUNE2011 MON

Delicious mangostine! Not sure if I'm spelling this right.

Bean cakes, so yummy!

    
    
     After the morning session, we cruise around town and head back to the market. I notice that Pepperidge Farm cookies are around a whopping eight dollars. Randy explains that things imported are going to cost a lot more.

     We head back, eat Christina’s cooking, and power nap until about 1330. The wind has gotten stronger, and the verdict is that Canggu is no doubt going to be blown out. We make the call to head to Dhyana Pura at mid tide and just stay local. When we get there it’s completely shut down. The tide’s still too low, the swell from the morning is gone, and there’s no shape. I suggest we call it a day if we know Canggu’s gonna be the same, but Randy says that he wants to show me a spot near it called Tugu. Tugu is known for being more of a slopey long board wave, easy, and good to practice turns on. He says it’s more protected from the wind. It’s a hell of a decision to make. The sun’s already low and traffic’s a bitch.

Bad camera shot.

     On the way there, I witness the thickest traffic I’ve seen so far since being here. An intersection is an ocean of motor bikes around vehicles that are bumper to bumper. I hold my breath when we cut right through it.

     “It gets worse than this,” says Randy.

Tugu

     Tugu has a lot of wind on it, mostly side shore from the south. I see what he’s talking about. It’s a long ass paddle out, but there is a left that’s consistent, but it’s barely three feet.



     A Balinese chick appears out of no where wearing a tight green dress, holding a bottle of wine, two wine glasses, and wanders the shoreline as if she’s looking for someone. It’s an odd sight that we did not expect. The next break over is The Gu again, so we go there.

     The Sand Bar seems to be working, but there are about six heads on it. It’s small and choppy, but we figure that we just want to paddle out and get wet anyway, so it doesn’t matter. On the way out, Randy catches a wave on the inside. I continue and sit outside the main peak. I catch my first right which actually produces an open shoulder, but I lose balance on my top turn and fall. The break in front of the resort is giving the cleanest lefts, but it’s a locals only spot this evening, as six gangly looking dudes are trading off. I want to share the peak at the Sand Bar, but I continue to get some random rights, none as good as the first wave. The right seems just a little hollow but closes out fast. Randy works the inside the whole session getting both lefts and rights. It’s amazing what you can do with a strong paddle. I insert myself into the lineup but fail to get any of their waves. One of the Aussies is tearing it up with a single fin.



     The sun’s already down, and it’s hard to make out shapes in the surface. We catch our last waves in. It turns dark, the moon’s bright, and we realize we forgot to bring clear glasses. We ride away through screens of bugs. One gets in my left eye and remains a nuisance the whole way home. When we arrive, there’s a power outage, and we eat in the dark, talking about surfing.

     I’m given words of encouragement to push myself harder and try new things in the water now that I have Bali at my fingertips. I hope I don’t let myself down.

A Barney in Bali--Day 6, 13JUNE2011 MON

The Wave that Rocked my Anus:

     Posting blogs last night was ridiculously frustrating. I gave up at about 2230, and then I woke up at 0330 to give it another shot. Tasks which could be done in fifteen minutes took hours. With a slight lack of sleep, Randy wakes up on cue and starts the morning rituals. The wind is dead.

      We check out two different online swell and wind forecast sites to find out what’s in store. According to the forecasts, today is supposed to be smaller than yesterday. We contemplate on gambling on Sanur but determine that a small swell is not worth going out of our way for--another day. We deliberate on Canggu which sounds good, but the tide is high. We know for sure that we can catch The Gu before the wind picks up, while Sanur is a gamble. The Gu it is.
    
     Some of the sights are beginning to get familiar to me now. I name things on the way. There’s that nice stretch of road where there’s nothing but vegetation on each side: The Canggu Mile. There’s this hill that always hurts my ass every time we go over it: Ass Clench Hill. I fumble for my camera to snap some pics of the countryside, but the road is too bumpy, and I need both hands to save my ass.

     A van with about five boards on top of it drives by and heads in the opposite direction. We both know that’s not good. I mention the wind already picking up, and Randy looks at the trees to validate this himself. When we pull up we have low expectations. I see the slight texture on the water before we even go over the hill, but what we see next is a surprise.

The left in front of the Warung (restaurant). Seems to be working this morning.

    River Mouth is jam packed for being so early in the morning. I learn that the southern peak is actually called The Sand Bar, and that the locals usually dominate it. On this morning, Sand Bars is a little swamped by the tide, but the peaks are still well defined. The southern break next to Sand Bars is called Warung because it’s right in front of the resort. I haven’t surfed there yet, but we’re in time to see a good set roll through. The rights are long and lined, but the left breaks perfectly with a small hollow shoulder. Only two guys are on it. The sets are lined up one after the other, the take off spot in the exact same place each time; it looks like a wave machine.

The Sand Bar

     “Did you just see that guy get shacked!” says Randy.

     He’s motioning towards River Mouth. I missed it, but I watch others fail in their attempts to get barreled. I’ve never seen The Gu working like this; it’s impressive. We take a look at The Burg. There’s only three guys out.

     “We’ll definitely get waves at the Burger,” says Randy. I point out the break in front of the resort, but he says, “Look.” I turn my head and see four more guys paddling out, and there are already a couple more people out there.

     I’m still stoked, so we walk to The Burg. The river mouth is deeper than usual. Some Westerners walk by with their dogs. The dogs howl at the test before them to pass the deep, fast, river water. A gray dog is missing a hind leg. He struggles, but he makes it across.

     I now have a feel for that peak, at least where to sit and where to paddle out. We get sucked out through the channel as a set approaches. I’m in prime position for a four foot (Bali scale) wave, the wave jacks up in front of me. Randy yells for me to go, and then he lets off another sound when I pass it up. I felt like I was too deep. Another wave just the same pops up, he tells me to go again, I see a guy on my inside paddling for it, I back out of the wave, and the guy doesn’t even get the slide.

     Randy says, “You gotta go for it. Just paddle for it. Don’t pull out.”

     A little bit of sulking starts the session. I now curse myself for not going for the first and that last wave. The    current and rip sucks us out and north; everyone is out of position. Another set appears, the pocket begins to darken, and Randy says, “GO!” Yes, his words are said with a purpose, as I paddle with a purpose. I’m not good at kicking my feet when I paddle, but I’ve been trying. I am indeed right on the peak. It’s a left with a steep mooshy drop with a juicy shoulder to work with. I pop up, but there’s a problem. I have toes like fingers, in fact, they’ve been called “eagle claws” on more occasions than I can mention. My praying mantis toes actually catch my leash when I pop up, so I’m riding my board frontside, with my leash caught between my big and middle toe on my front foot. I have no slack to spread my stance, so I am forced to ride the back of the board. I still pull off the bottom turn, but my top turns don‘t have the right weight distribution to be clean. However, it‘s still a long ride, and I milk it for what it‘s worth, eagle claws or not.

     I get back to the peak. There are now six guys at The Burger. I catch a right hander. God damn . . . on this mooshy, high tide morning the set waves are big (for me), but the mooshiness reminds me of Trestles. My confidence boosts, but it could also mean my downfall too. It looks like a carbon copy of a juicy right hander at Lowers. When I pop up and set up for my bottom turn, two Aussies are on the shoulder watching, on the brink of dropping in. I bottom turn and hit the lip to ward them off. I’m not sure what the spray factor was, but it felt good; I felt alive. I transition into a sloppy backside cut back and hit the lip again. When I straighten up from the turn, an Aussie is paddling out and in my path. I am forced to eat shit to avoid him. Staying positive, I resurface and paddle back. I hear him yell something. I turn around. He congratulates me on my ride.

     Back at The Burg, everyone wants to sit at the same place; every position is covered. I hate crowds, but for some reason it’s manageable out here. I take the situation as a good practice opportunity. I scratch out on a couple rights, and then Randy tells me to stop sitting on the shoulder. He was right. I get another set wave going left. I’m weary of the sea urchin farm hiding down there and of the rocks. Randy says that Burgers barrels on a good swell, and I see the potential first hand. I’m pumping down the line and approaching the shallows. I stall for a second before I penetrate out the back. The wave stands up, but this time, the shoulder remains. For a split second, I see the wave throw out over me. I can either stay tucked in, earn my barrel badge, and retire. Or . . . I can get barreled and get dragged across the shallow rocks that I’m already riding over. I choose the third option and punch through the back.

     I paddle back to Randy, excited like a little kid that just had something awesome happen to him. The next left stands up as I’m sliding down. Randy later tells me that the wave hit’s a shelf and barrels on big days. It looks like it’s turning hollow. I tuck myself close to the face and get pinched.

     My daily debacle happens on my last left. It’s a wave from another juicy set, but it breaks weird. I’m on the peak, but it doesn’t break first. The left hand section in front of me breaks, so I’m behind it trying to catch it. I fail, and a roaring bed of white wash stampedes over me. I’m where the sea urchins are, so I try to fight the washing machine and stay near the surface. Instead, I’m tumbling backwards and my anus lands on a hard, blunt rock. Let me type that again: I landed hard, on my ass, the round edge of a rock literally TAPPED MY ANUS . . . hard . . . in an ungentle manner. The whole time I’m thinking, sea urchin sea urchin sea urchin! I get dragged a little further and get the top of my shins and legs a little banged up. I resurface and see Randy paddling back out, most likely off of one of his smooth stylish, non ass-raping waves. I groan in pain and share my experience with him. Despite my tampered anus, I am grateful: I’m not cut open at all, but it definitely shakes me up.

The Burg's getting crowded.

     Other guys in the water over hear my rape tale, as they glance at me curiously as I paddle pass. I no longer want a piece of the left. Burger my ass. . . . While I was getting violated, more people paddled out, including two chicks. There’s about a dozen heads out. Everyone’s distracted by the poon in the water, so we sneak back to the peak. Randy turns to me and says, “Hold your position.” It’s kind of funny. The other ten surfers don’t realize that they’ve drifted too far north. Well, the joke’s on us because the tide makes The Burg inconsistent. We paddle for the sets that are now breaking closer to the inside; we miss them. The other’s are now alerted, and we are now all nut-to-butt like a carton of eggs. We agree to call the session and hunt for our last waves. Two waves come, but I pass on jockeying for them. A surprise bump appears, and I catch a right-hander back to shore. I get one top turn before it turns mooshy. It reforms on the inside, but I step off the rail to walk back to shore.
    

The Burg

     River Mouth is still going off, and all the local Balinese guys are there, even little kids. That spot is at least twice as packed as Burgers, with people working the outside, middle, and inside. Gangly, little kids playfully hoot for each other and ride left after left, unmoved by the foreign presence.

My girlfriend Lauren will kill me for this pic. I took this one strictly for the fellas that read my blog. Please leave a comment in appreciation to keep me out of trouble.

Randy, Burg in the background.

     Randy catches a right in and says that one guy got in his way twice, and that that last wave turned into a battle. Well, we’re on the sand, unscathed, and happy with our decision to go to The Gu. Just then, good, solid, consistent sets roll through. We watch guys get pinched in the barrel, others gouge the lip releasing massive sprays. We marvel at natures gifts, smiling, satisfied.

Right hander at River Mouth

    

I prepare my camera for the ride back and take pictures of “the sights that sold my brother on Bali.” I’ll post them. You can decide for yourself.

Ass Clench Hill