A Barney in Bali--Day 27, 04JULY2011 MON

The best Dunkin' Donuts, probably in the world!

Nusa Dua Reloaded:


    You’d think that after the night I had that I’d be sleeping in for a while. I wake up, it’s still dark out, and I look at my watch; it’s 0609. I get up in a hurry. This is the earliest I’ve been up so far. The plan for this morning is to take a gamble on Nusa Dua. Yesterday’s winds were light, so we’re hoping that today will be the same. The only thing with Nusas is that we don’t have Froggy to watch our stuff, so I pack light. Board and surf racks, I make the hump downstairs and start putting my bike together. Even though we’re supposed to meet at 0630, I’m hoping that I can at least get there before 0700. I pull out of Aya Beach to find the streets dead with only a few motorists. I go through the usual routine and fill up gas. The attendant’s an old man, and he asks me where I’m from. Usually Hawaii generates a positive response, but instead he laughs out loud and says, “Amerrr-ika, Amerrr-ika!” He keeps on saying it, as if he’s scoffing at me. It’s a little awkward, but he puts 7,000 worth, and I’m on my way.

    I pull up to Dunkin’ Donuts, and Randy’s no where to be found. “Fuck,” I say to myself. I hope didn’t leave. I order my breakfast special, skip the donut, and take a seat. Their TV is on, and I’m watching Indonesian Scooby Doo. It’s different. Scooby Doo’s talking Indonesian; I can’t put it together. I hear a bike pull up, I look outside, and it’s Randy. I actually beat him here, yesss! He orders his sandwich for take away while I scarf mine right there. I watch the commercials and tell him how Lauren got me into watching them, figuring out who’s the target audience, and what each one says about society. I bring up one of the latest Hilfiger commercials that I saw back home, how they dressed up little kids with their line of clothing, making them look like tiny douche bags.

    “But that’s how people want to look,” he says.

    We pound our coffee, and we each feel a shit coming on. I tell him to go for it because mine needs to brew a little bit longer.

    He leaves, comes back, and says, “I don‘t know, I stood up, and it was gone.”

    “I was thinking the same thing,” I reply. I feel it in there, but I don’t think the masterpiece is finished yet.

    We mount our bikes, and Randy feels it coming on again. He runs back in, I wait about five minutes, and then he comes out ready to surf. He tells me that we’re still making the right turn at KFC. We head down the road, I pull over in the right turning lane, but he keeps going straight. I move out of my lane, see that he’s waiting for me, I honk to get his attention, and we’re finally on the same track. We turn off the highway and make the drive that I’ve only ridden a couple times since I’ve been here; it’s my first time making the drive myself. It turns out that Nusas is the easiest place to get to because there are only a few turns involved.

    When we arrive at the lookout point by the temple, the wind is still dead. The still air makes the sun’s rays hotter. We look out through a clearing in the brush and see a set come through. The roar of white wash stampedes over the shallow reef after the waves break. Randy’s quiet, so am I . . . I’m nervous. It’s one of those situations where you see the surf from far away, it looks small, but you figure out that the two little dots that you see are surfers, and that it’s not so small after all. It’s so different from Balangan. No, no more long left handers. We are staring down at peaks. They are well defined, and . . . and Randy’s comment says the rest.

    “It’s big,” he says. “This is good.”

    He leads the charge, and we park lower by the warung. I’m a little nerve wracked. I always am when surfing somewhere new. It’s nice that we’re here. Day 1 Donny Duckbutter surfed Nusa Dua, and it’s time to see how day 27 Donny Duckbutter performs. I’m already psyching myself out, and that’s not good. I know comfort. I can paddle out at Trestles and feel unstoppable, but out here, I’ve felt like an underdog the whole time. I’ve only surfed this spot twice compared to Balangan and The Gu which I’ve spent weeks at. I know it’s big, but I try not to think about it.

    Randy takes note of the new construction that’s being done to the sand in front of the beach; he’s not happy. We walk down the path, the water is glassy, a couple fishermen gather their nets, the tide is coming up, and we’re walking the shoreline for a good spot to paddle out. We see two people doing the reef dance in front of us, but they’re about two hundred yards out.

It's hard to tell, but two guys are out there still walking on shallow reef.

    “We’re not doing the reef dance,” says Randy. “I got vana in my foot last time, and I can’t see over the white wash.”

    It’s a little refreshing to see that he’s not completely indestructible. He’s susceptible to the same mental woes as I, for the left hander at The Burg will remain a sea urchin infested spot to me forever.

    We start the long paddle. The tides high enough that we don’t have to walk, but it’s a long ways out. The white wash looks tiny from where we are. I look below and scan the reef as we’re paddling. I’m worried about touching something pokey, so I don’t bury my hands in the water. My rear delts and upper back muscles are starting to burn, Randy’s ahead of me and pulling away fast, so I try to keep pace. As we’re nearing the white water, small ripples begin to tilt me on my board. Once we’re in the white wash zone, I assume that I can start duckdiving, but when I look down, the reef is shallow again. I do my best to do shallow dives, I look for Randy, and he’s way out there already. It’s still hard to accept. Looking at the both of us, it’s hard to imagine that one possesses bionic paddling capabilities while the other one doesn’t.

    We’re actually at the northern most channel closest to land, so we make it out without incident, but the current and tide causes some waves to come in perpendicular against us. It’s really weird, and it slows my progress a bit. An outside set comes, I take a deep breath, but it breaks after it passes me. Randy, if you can imagine, is far enough to resemble a little surf figurine from my perspective. These are the days he warned me about, I think to myself. For Bali training, even while he was in Cali, he told me over and over again, specifically, to get my paddling up. He told me of paddles that are at least a mile out, while fighting current, and while fighting waves. He said that some guys will take boats out to the lineup it’s so far, but that it’s always better to work for it. And it is so . . . I maintain my stroke and breathe in rhythm each time my hand strikes the water. I do this until Randy sits, and I finally close the distance.

    The tide’s doing something weird to the water; it’s lumpy. On day 1, the water was glassy, and each peak was defined. Today, the peaks are big and sloppy, the shoulders are hard to read, and there’s a lot of movement in the water.

    Randy spots his friend Charles and says hi to him. He’s an older gentleman on a longer board, but he sits way outside, and he only goes for the big ones, nothing else. I’m picky. A couple big waves suddenly appear, but I paddle out to beat them. I’m wondering how they are breaking, where are the peaks, where should I sit, how far to take the wave, where is the reef shallow, how shallow is it, and how much time do I have before the sets?

    The two guys we saw doing the reef dance are an Aussie father and son. The son looks barely eighteen, a grom, and he’s going for it. He paddles out past me. I say, “Good morning.”

    “How’s it going?”

    “Oh, trying to get that first one.”

    He laughs. “How can you not get a wave out here?”

    Well, he said it. Fuck me. How can I NOT get a wave out here? Randy comes back after his ride, and we all talk a bit.

    “The next one that comes is yours,” the grom says.

    “Yeah, it’s only my second time here, so . . . I’m still trying to figure it out.”

    “It’s like my fourteenth time here. I love it.”

    Randy asks, “How long are you here ‘til?”

    The grom replies, “We leave on the eighth . . . it sucks. I want to live here for the rest of my life!”

    This kid is so stoked, his energy is good, he’s good people. He alerts us to a fish, the size of my torso, that’s swimming by him. I try to take a pic as he takes another wave.

    Randy looks at me and says, “You’re gonna have to get one.”

    Fuck, it’s my thoughts exactly. I’m a Barn, but I don’t want to look bad in front of the kid, especially if he’s offering waves. I haven’t caught a good right hander in weeks, but I get over the mental block and paddle for one. The face is different, I’m so used to Balangan now, everything is different: my position on the board, the fine peaky shape of the wave, and the length that it’s running. I play my first one safe, do a passive bottom turn, stall on the lip, and let the wave pass as it breaks over the reef. It’s not an epic ride, but it’s a start to the session. I tell Randy how I get what he means, that it’s easier to generate speed going front side, as I had problems staying with the section going backhand.



The Buffet is Now Open:

    In a strange turn of events, the movement in the water subsides, it’s not lumpy anymore, and it’s turning glassy. Randy even acknowledges and says, “It backed off a little.“ He’s referring to the drop in size. The sets are coming in easy, maybe two at a time with smaller waves in between. Using Randy’s scale, it’s only three feet. For Cali scale, it’s much bigger. The peaks are so defined, there are rights and lefts, and it takes some getting used to. I don’t take the peak directly, and I paddle in just to the side of it, but it doesn’t take away from my rides. I start taking lefts. The peaks are A-framing, I feel as if I’m gonna get pitched, but I angle my board, and manage steep drops. The waves are almost too peaky in that they taper off in size after the bottom turn, but they are still fun regardless. I pull off the best front side top turns that I ever have in my short surfing career. For the first time, without even needing a deep bottom turn, I’m carving with the tail, using my rear foot, leaning down into the pocket, and smoothly reentering the face. For me, it’s some of my best surfing yet. Balangan has the big long lefts that has standing sections. Nusas starts off peaky and then goes shouldery.

    The most beautiful thing this morning is the clarity of the water. On each of these lefts all I can see is the brown plant life on the reef. The water’s not even blue; it’s so clear it’s like surfing on Evian. The water is invisible if you can imagine. There’s only a sign of the water when my board breaks the integrity of it; there’s barely any depth perception at all.

    I’m not even eating shit; I’m feeling confident now. On one right, it’s reminiscent of Trestles. I get the steep drop, bottom turn, do a couple little pumps to set myself up, whack the lip, pump twice, and do it again.

    The whole morning, I’m respecting the reef, trying to end my rides just a hair early, and making it back out unscathed. It’s hard for me to pick one ride as the wave of the day; I’m getting so many. It’s the wave buffet I’ve been dreaming of. I’m already thinking about my blog post. This IS like the movies. I’m back at a spot that I couldn’t handle at day 1, only to come back at the end of my trip to conquer it. Yes, I have changed, I have surpassed Barney status, Bali changed me, I’m a better surfer now!



I’m sorry, sir, you forgot to pay. Your bill is your ass:


    I’m beyond confident; I’m having the time of my life. I’m totally doing my own thing, Randy’s doing his own thing, we’re on our own agendas, and he doesn’t have to watch over me.

    Randy motions out towards the tour boat that’s closing in on our spot. “Guys are getting dropped off,” he says.

Dropped the off right next to the father and son.

    I look, boards are being flung overboard, and four bodies enter the water. I’ve said that I want to be humble, but . . . after that long paddle out, I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at these guys. Words cross my mind: lazy, piece of shit, sorry ass motherfuckers. I have to be honest. I can’t stop these thoughts; I’m not perfect.

    The lineup’s a little more crowded now but not by much. Before these guys showed up, there were only seven guys in the water, and that’s amongst scattered peaks; we’re only on the edge of Nusa Dua’s breaks. I paddle further south to get some for myself, away from Randy. I’m still having a blast.

    After a wave, a freak set pops out of no where, it’s the first since we’ve paddled out. I’m far enough to beat it. It’s a clean up set. It’s three or four waves, the peak starts in the north without warning, it’s lip curling down before anyone has a chance. I watch the inside, and everyone’s caught. I see Randy, and he’s recovering his position on his board. One of the boat riders is on a long board, and he’s caught in the insde. Wow. Not me. Not today. Randy gave me another warning about Nusa Dua. It’s a deep water spot, so the waves will jack up out of flat water, unlike other spots where we see them form in the distance. Nusa Dua has no point to predict the sets.

    After the set, the wave buffet continues. It’s hard to be picky any more. The wise thing to do is ensure that there’s not a haymaker waiting for me after my ride, but I catch a right anyway, and I catch it too far. I don’t touch the bottom but can see the reef through the clear patches of whitewash under my board. I’m paddling over white marble, and some waves are breaking I front of me. No problem, I’m thinking. It’s been an easy morning thus far. I duckdive one, two, paddle, paddle, paddle . . . three. Holy shit. Behind these smaller waves I see bigger waves behind them, and it’s worse. Since I left Randy’s area, I’m between two peaks now, and at the moment they are both working . . . really, really well. At Balangan and The Gu I had the channel. With Nusas scattered peaks beginning to turn on, I have none. It’s like being tag teamed. I’m ducking diving waves from one peak, and there’s a wave just a couple yards behind it getting ready to break. I duckdive one, resurface, and get another one on the face. I can beat this, I can beat this. I’m looking for relief, but there is none. The sets are still coming, it’s the groundhog day effect, am I even moving? I’m still surrounded by marble water. No one else is caught, I’m the only one at my peak, the beating continues.

    I’m having a hard time making amends with the situation. But everything was going so well, I think to myself. I’m not even worried about the reef because I know I have room, but the marble zone seems endless, I’m struggling to get to blue water. Where the fuck is the lull!? I’m tiring out, and I find that my improved duckdive still needs improvement. I pride myself that at least I’m holding on to my board, but I get washed around and spun in the opposite direction.

    Finally, I’m past the white water, but there’s a wave forming in front of me. All I have to do is duck dive this one. It breaks in front of me, I tell myself that I’m going to make it, I go under it, feel it’s power pulling me back, and I’m sucked away in reverse. When I resurface there’s another set on the way. 

Boat rider going for a wave. Dammit, he looked in the camera, ruined the action shot.

Return to the Dark Side:


    “Arrrrrrrrrrrrghhhhhhhhhhhhh!” I yell out, but at who? I’m pissed. I hate everything again. I’m thinking about someone or some thing to place my hate on. Why am I here? I can’t blame Randy, it’s not his fault. The stoke has long drained from my veins. It’s a paddling marathon. I see Randy. He’s watching me, but I don’t want pity, I want revenge, but it’s not working. Each ounce of hate goes into my paddle, but it causes me to give up. I float on the inside during a lull; I’m frustrated. I paddle back slow and still get worked; it’s fucking endless.

    When it’s all over, Randy is still watching me from a distance. I’m floating on the outside, lying on my board, forehead on my deck. I’m tired but mostly angry. My only way to deal with it is to catch another wave. I get a big left which I catch all the way to Randy’s peak.

    “I saw you caught on the inside!” he says. “I thought you gave up and went in!”

    “Fuck. I was so fuckin’ pissed off.”

    “Man, you must’ve got like thirty on the head.”

    I’m silent.

    He says, “The other guy got like fifty. The guy with the gray hood.” He’s referring to the boat riding longboarder. “Yeah, I heard him on the inside. He was yelling. When he came back, his friends were all looking at him wondering if he was all right.”

    “It’ll do that to you. Fuck, I just went through that myself.”

    I’m trying to be positive, telling myself that I can’t have fun without having the struggles along the way as well. I catch a couple more waves, good ones, and I’m happy again. I even tell Randy, “Ya know . . . despite getting worked earlier, I’m still having a lot of fun. It’s a wave buffet out here.”

    “Yeah, but normally Nusas isn’t like this. There are usually two peaks, this one and that one, not like how it is today. There are a lot.”

    He tells me he thinks he’s done, and I tell him I’ll catch a couple more. I catch a right hander, and another set starts to come in. Not again. I’m paddling, Randy punches through and reaches the safe zone, and I’m taking beatings all over again. Randy catches another wave, passes me, has time to stop, and says, “I’m going in.”

    “All right,” I say, but I’m not. I’m paddling. I can’t end the session like this, not like this. It sounds like I’m exaggerating, but even Randy said that he thought I would’ve given up to let myself to get washed up on shore. On the second round of beatings I become delirious. I try different things to punch through the wave better, but they need practice. I’m almost back to the outside, but I see a big wave forming in front of me. Seething with anger, I yell at it: “YEAHHHHHH, YEAHHHHHHHH! FOCK YOUUUUUUUUU!” It’s ridiculous. I barely punch through, and I’m sitting at the line up again. The beatings now outweigh the fun that I had. My mission is one good wave; I need to end it on one good wave. A big let comes, I ride it wisely, no practicing turns, just staying on the face as long as possible. I straighten out and let the white wash take me as far as possible. I’m not satisfied. It was a “gimme” wave, or a freebee. It was as if Nusa Dua said, “All right you fuckin’ bitch. Here, take this fucking wave and stop your crying.”





How About a Little Salt in That Wound?:


    After the white wash fizzles away, I’m only half way to the shore. I sit on the inside, exhausted from. . . . I see Randy already near the shore. No waves are breaking where I am, so I must paddle. I head for the temple where we walked out to, but as I get closer I see that the water level is above the path. There’s a current on the inside, and it’s taking me north of the temple, but there’s no where to walk over there. I need to go south where the sand is. The current on the inside is so strong. I’m being dragged behind the temple. Each stroke barely covers any distance. I’m watching the foliage on the cliff to see if I’m moving; I can‘t even tell.

    I make it around the temple, and some little local kids are hanging out on some beach chairs. They’re watching me and laughing. I don’t blame them. It’s obvious. The look on my face says it all. I walk out of the water, a kid gives me a thumbs up and smiles, I give a thumbs up back, I plant my foot on the stairs, and I sway unbalanced.

    Randy’s almost done changing. I’m suffering from post beating afterburn. He knows I’m wiped. He says, “Man, today was small. Can you imagine six foot Nusa Dua and consistent?”

    I give his comment some thought. The epiphany sucks, but I accept it. “I’m not ready for Bali,” I reply.



Where the Fuck am I?:

    I find the shortcut back, but it’s my first time riding back alone via the shortcut. I make a wrong turn somewhere, and I’m looking for the road that runs parallel to the beach. I come to a dead end. What the fuck. Not only am I tired, but I don’t know where the fuck I am. I turn around, trace my route, and find the road I was initially looking for. Someone once said, the best way to know your way around is to get lost. Actually, I just made that up, but I’m sure that someone else has already said that.

The Wind Down:

   
    I get back to my motel room, go out to the balcony, eat a couple bean cakes, and drink some water. I shower, change, and go back to Heaven’s Club for some food. I splurge. I order the eggplant, tofu with tempe, egg, Indian potatoes, a side order of rice, and another avocado smoothie. I inhale it all. I go back to my room and sleep until 1630.

    I wake up, try to write, and do a little inspection on my surf board. Sure as fuck, there’s a crack on the tail’s glassing, and a piece is missing. I got Solarez but no sanding material. I walk my board to BK, talk to Kadek, but he used the last of his materials to fix my brother’s board. He tells me to go to a local shop by my motel and not to pay more than 30,000. When I show up, the guy points out two other dings on my board. I knew of them, but I was gonna ask my friend Rick to fix them when I got back to L.A. I decide to have it all done in one shot. He wants me to pay 70,000, but I talk him down to 50,000. It’s five bucks for three dings, it’s a good deal, but it won’t be done until tomorrow at 1000.

    I drive to Seminyak Chat Café, work on my blogs, and then drive to Cabe (Indo warung) around the corner. Coincidentally, Randy is there. We talk about tomorrow’s plans, he takes his food to go, and the splurging continues. I order the beef curry dish, gado-gado, and some Indo dessert. It barely comes out to seven bucks.

    My board won’t be ready until late in the morning, so I’m up late writing. Today is the fourth of July, but in Bali, it’s just another day. I had my ass handed to me today. I don’t know what this says for my surfing. I just need to accept it.
   

Another night at the chat cafe, posting my blogs.

A Barney in Bali--Day 24 (double sesh), 01JULY2011 FRI

He ain't friendly. . . .

The Motherfuckin' Saga Continues:


    It’s about noon, and I’m ready to paddle out again. Randy passes on the second session and heads back home. There’s been a little evolution on this trip. I was like Randy’s shadow the first ten days here, now I have my own place, and I can find my way around. I’m gad, it should be like this, and I’m sure Randy appreciates the freedom too. I’m about to wax my board when I feel a rumbling sensation in my stomach. Bali belly. Torrential shit-rain falls out of my asshole, and then I head to the sand. I’ve been watching guys fail the paddle-out all morning, and I don’t want to be next on the entertainment list, so I do my best to get to the line up. I make it there pretty quick. This Barney can at least get to the line up.

    There are more people in the water now, but I stick to my outside technique in hopes for something good. An outside set comes, but I scratch out on everything. There’s a moment that I almost get one, and on the lip the offshore wind sprays water in my face; I feel held up. It’s like the wave blew a load on me, didn’t even kiss me goodbye, and left without me. Asshole. I’m wondering if I’m just tired. I’m scratching out a lot and missing waves that I should have. I’m in position and start paddling for one. Just as it jacks up, I look down and see that same guy, the first guy that was in my way this morning. I pull out of the wave. It’s not intentional, but I still shake my head. Out of frustration, I go towards the inside more, and I’m in position for the next wave. A Balinese kid is paddling up to me from the inside, trying to get the wave. I’m scratching and kicking as hard as I can, and the kid actually backs off and lets me have it. It’s kamikaze time. I’m pumping down the line, and the face is going vertical. It’s suicide, but I crouch low and watch the lip curl over as I’m impacted with its force. I’d like to think it was good for a few “Oooohs” back at the Warung. On my next wave I pump down the line and jump over the wave to safety. It’s a superman that doesn’t count, but I’m happy with the results.


Everyone Must Suffer:


    I complained about there not being any clean up sets that last couple of days. I said, “You need them because they spread everyone out and even out the playing field.” I’ve been lucky to avoid or even catch some of them. My outside technique isn’t working as good, so I start drifting towards the inside. After a small wave passes, the horizon becomes visible again, and the first wave of a clean up set is already peeling outside by the top of the wave. It’s long section is building in front of me. I paddle over it and make it, but the next one is already starting to break, and it’s far away. And this is what I asked for. Oh well . . . hail Mary, every man for himself. Even though my duckdives are getting better, I don’t go deep enough under the mountain of foam that was once smooth ocean. I get violated on the first two and make it to safety on the third.


Remain Humble:

    The water’s so clear that I can see the masses of jellyfish everywhere, but there are also fish swimming in front of me. I whip out my camera and take a pic. It’s already happened a couple times when an outside set approaches as I’m fumbling with my camera; it’s not easy.

    It’s a battle to get my last wave. There’s a guy that seems to be mirroring my movements. We are both going for the same ones. Where I paddle, he paddles, and I can’t shake him. On one wave I start to get the slide, but he’s on my inside. I assume he has it, but he doesn’t get it, and the wave goes to waste. Randy says I can always just pull out on someone else’s ride, but it’s not something I want to maneuver on a big wave. We finally separate, and the guy gives out a loud, “FUCK!” on his next scratch out. He’s not the only one scratching out, but he’s the only one getting ugly about it. I think about his behavior, my behavior today, and realize I don’t want to be like that.

My view of the top of the wave.

    I’m reaching two hours again. The afternoon is not as good as the morning, but I’m grateful for everything. I forgot what happened on my last wave, but I ended up straightening and going towards the inside. When I fell off my board I hit shallow reef. I couldn’t get to my feet, so I was sliding over the rocks until the white wash dissipated. There’s a sharp pain under my foot, and I’m only starting to feel the stings on my legs from the jellies. As I hobble back over the reef, a tiny wave comes up behind me and smacks me on the ass. I chuckle. Mother Ocean, you fuckin’ bitch, thank you. Put the symbolism where you want, but the moment strikes me with irony and double, triple meanings.


Beat the Rush Hour:


    I’m dripping wet while paying Froggy and gathering all my belongings. I need to be on the road, pronto! I’m thinking that this schedule I’m on is good, that I can pull two early sessions and still get back lickity-split. The country road out of the Bukit is therapeutic; I’m on auto pilot taking the turns with ease. As soon as I hit the main road, traffic comes to a crawl. Like I said, “One extreme to the next.” Traffic opens up on some stretches. Every time I pass a car and squeeze between oncoming traffic it’s like a mini victory, but so much time is spent crawling in an endless line of bikes that the victories are erased. I gamble and get away from the shoulder, I’m shooting gaps between cars, but I’m halted when it gets too narrow. I follow a string of bikes that are riding in the opposite lane, whizzing past oncoming cars. It’s gut wrenching, I don’t believe my own luck sometimes. I’m first at a red light, when it turns green I go, and I almost get broadsided by a bike and a truck that ran their red light. I’m the only idiot that jumped the gun. I miss a turn that would take me directly into Kuta. I take the long route, but I still make it in one piece.

    I shower up, pull a piece of reef out of my foot, and go to the chat bar to talk to Lauren before she falls asleep. I order a chocolate shake and some French fries. Now it’s 1947, it’s dark outside, and my day’s coming to a close. I’m gonna go on an adventure to look for some dinner. Hopefully, I won’t be shitting my brains out again.

    For a moment . . . honestly . . . I truly am having the time of my life out here. Surf bumming it, living in this motel that has this ceiling fan whirling over my head. It’s hot, there is life outside, and I’m jumping into it. It’s a surf pilgrimage. I hope I’ll be shitting solid logs tonight.


Fuel:

    I’m a lot more tired than I realize. I walk down Poppies 1 towards the beach, the opposite direction from last night. Restaurants here double as cafes. I stop at two different ones, look at their menus, and they’re over charging. The third one is called Tree House Café, and it barely costs a tad bit more than the Indo warung I go to in Seminyak. There’s no TV, there are families, couples, packs of chicks, and a couple loner boners like me. I grab a table and just people watch. I’m getting tired.

    I start off with the vanilla banana milk shake. There’s nothing like starting off a meal with dessert; it’s the right way.

    I order the gado gado (peanut sauce salad with tofu and tempe) and the nasi goreng special (fried rice dish with all sorts of stuff thrown in there). I dust those off and order some mango juice. Jesus, the banana split is so cheap, but I don’t want to do over do it like last night, so I pass. Everything barely costs six American dollars. I’m telling you . . . if you EVER do a surf trip, you gotta come here. If you’re surfing everyday, you can get away with eating all the shit that I’ve been putting away. I’m going all out with main courses, desserts, smoothies, this place is a splurger’s dream!

A Barney in Bali--Day 19, 26JUNE2011 SUN

A Buffet on My Back:

   
    I had some weird dreams last night. The first dream was continuous the whole night long. It had to do with posting blog pictures, and I was pissed off about something not uploading right. Then the next dream was about my friends and I killing someone back home, the authorities were only after me, and I feared going to prison.

    I woke up at 0300 to intense itching. I woke up scratching my back and forearms. I felt the puffiness over my skin. Mosquitoes, blood sucking bastards. I went to the mirror to take a look, and this one bite on my back raised my skin in the shape of Tennessee. I went back to my bed and scanned the room. I saw one right there, glutinous, just marinating on my pillow. The fucker was so full from his feast that he couldn’t move. I whacked it with my towel, and it lay stunned on the mattress. I picked it up and squished it, and so much of my own blood burst out of it that you’d think I’d just cut myself. I looked around more, and I found another culprit on my bed. This guy was so full too, so I just picked him up and washed him down the sink. Nuisances.


It’s Catching Up:


    I wake up at 0530. I’m late. I hear Randy outside. I wake up, grab a glass of water, let him know I’m alive, brush my teeth, and slowly warm up. I’m so tired. I can’t believe how tired I am. My body feels like it needs another lay day, but gawd dammit, we just had one. I shouldn’t be this tired, but my body’s begging to curl back on the mattress and go back to sleep. My warm up is weak, and I give up half way through as soon as the tea’s ready. I’m on auto pilot stumbling to the kitchen. I grab my tea, have a seat next to Randy, and look at the swell report. I fall asleep with my tea in my hand. I wake up a moment later, chug it down, and start packing.


Routines:


    This morning’s different. It’s overcast, there’s a dissipating moisture in the air, and the wind’s already up. It’s about 0630 when we’re on the road. Traffic is light. There’s nothing like being groggy, still waking up, and then getting on a moped with the throttle wide open in the morning dawn. We get more gas, and speed off again. Randy pulls off to the left. I’m not ready for this, so I pull off too and realize we’re stopping at Dunkin’ Donuts.

    Initially, I thought I saw a Dunkin’ Donuts back home in L.A., but I realize that that’s impossible because my friend Hay’s let me know that there aren’t any in California. That’s a damn shame. Not only is their coffee good, but their donuts . . . mmm, mmm, mmmmmmmmmmmm! They’re so good that you’ll spooge in your pants if you eat them too slow. I’d take Dunkin’ over Starbucks any day. I can’t help myself. The Triple Chocolate Donut reels me in with its tractor beam of yummy goodness. Randy opts out on the donut, while I dip it into my coffee until it’s all gone. There’s no rush this morning because the tide is high, and Balangan works best on a low tide. We shoot the morning shit, and by the time we’re done the caffeine has me feeling like a new man. We ask the worker on the way out if they’ll sell me a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee mug, but he says no. I think I’ll have to come back and bribe him with a dollar and fifty cents.


Slick:


    I’m feeling more comfortable on the bike, day by day, but today is a new experience because the road is wet. As we reach higher elevation through the Bukit, the roads are slick. I notice other people taking it a lot easier on the turns. The last thing I want to do is skid out, so I’m cautious as well. It starts drizzling on us once we reach the winding roads of the countryside, but the second we drop in elevation, the road turns dry again.    

Signs:


    The same guy from yesterday is opening up Froggy’s. He tells us that a Brazilian woman with two Balinese chicks are hanging out here. They walk towards us from the beach, and the Brazilian chick doesn’t look at us. I feel bad for her. She’s probably just trying to enjoy her vacation, and everywhere she goes, there’s probably nothing but guys eye-boning her. The Balinese girls are more friendly. They smile as they walk by, and I give a “good morning” to return the kindness. Randy says, “Don’t let me stop you if you want to get out there.” For some reason, I’m really looking forward to the morning’s paddle out more than usual. I was tired earlier, but now I’m happy to be here. Making an odd move, I start suiting up while Randy kicks back, listens to his music, and watches the surf.

    Today’s the smallest day that I’ve seen Balangan. A couple big sets come through, but there are long lulls between them. The sets in between aren’t that big, but there are still barrels out there. The waves actually seem less shouldery and have more building sections.

    I paddle out, expecting the morning crowd to get thicker, but instead, the gloomy weather has people leaving the lineup. The surf gypsy guy is in the water, and his name is Chad. We exchange stories. It turns out that Chad is Canadian and lives in British Columbia. It’s his first time in Bali too, and he’s here for three weeks. He asks if I have the hook up for a good board because the one he bought out here sucks. I give him the bad news that I don’t. Just then, the first wave of a set appears. I go for it, make the drop, but it closes out as I reach the base. Another guy in the water talks to me. “How was that?” He asks.

    “Eh, kind of closed out.”

    “Yeah, they are fast.”

    I paddle by Chad, and he says, “At least you went for it.”

    Just then the most spectacular thing happens. It starts raining, but not just regular rain, it was torrential. It starts off light, gets stronger, and now everyone and the water is being pelted big heavy drops. The ocean turns into an orchestra of splashing. It almost seems instinctual to go underwater to escape it. The atmosphere is a pure sheet of rain. It still looks like there are waves, but I’m still paddling out. A little further and I’ll get the camera out. The second I unzip my boardshort pocket, the rain gets weaker to a faint drizzle. It barely lasted twenty seconds, but it’s a moment that will be ingrained in my memory forever.

    I meet Chad’s friend, Petra. He tells me specifically that he lives here, but he’s Indonesian, not Balinese. The mood in the water is so mellow. I’m here conversing with the guys around me, no one’s cutting anyone off, and there aren’t any hard looks or stares. Another set begins, and I go for the first wave again. This morning they are standing up very fast. My plan was just to have fun and take the shoulders, but it looks like trying to get barreled is all I can do. It’s a steep drop, I barely bottom turn because the lip’s about to throw out, so I just stay close to the face until my vision turns into a little hole of light before it goes black. My biggest fear is the reef. I know I have a little cushion of water between it, but I’m now in the impact zone, the rest of the set’s on the way, and I have to get out of here quick. Petra takes the next wave and doesn’t make the section. I try to duckdive it, but get washed around again. I take one more on the head before I’m in the safe zone. Chad says, “Yeah, it’s getting pretty shallow now. I’m think I’m going in.” I turn to find Petra doing the reef dance back to dry land.

    Randy, an Aussie dude, an Aussie chick, and I are the only surfers in the line up. The lulls are long, but with only four people in the water, it doesn’t matter. I take the first wave of the next set again, and there seems to be a shoulder to it. I pump down the line waiting for the soft face, but the wave stands up the whole ride. I take it as far as I can and jump into the face that’s crashing down. It’s a bad move, but it’s all so fast, and riding waves like this is very new to me. It occurs to me that this is not the morning for finding the shoulder to practice turns. Maybe it’s something in the swell direction, but the waves are trying to go hollow once they start to break.

    It’s my first legit wave buffet since being here. The Aussie chick left, so now there’s only three of us. I do another barrel attempt, but jump into the wave as the lip’s coming down. These are truly Barney moments. A guy I met from Frisco two days ago told me, “It’s Bali, if you can’t get barreled here, then. . . .” Fuck, so is it just me? Does everyone come to Bali and get barreled? If that’s the case, then I should be ashamed of myself. There are just so many factors involved, the main one being the reef. I know I keep repeating it, but you can see it under the wave and up ahead of you as it’s turning hollow. It’s my natural human reaction: fear. Randy has been telling me how to fall in the barrel and over the reef, but . . . I believe that it’s something that one can’t just pick up and master in a couple days, unless you got some “Slater” in your blood.

    My next wave has another well defined shoulder. My paddling is feeling good. I’m turning, kicking, and scratching for the best take off spot as soon as I see the bump. My pop up is so early that I have ample time to set myself up before the section jacks. It looks like it’s turning shouldery, so I’m pumping. My pumps are so deep that I’m bounding into the sections, keeping up with the wave. It looks like it’s gonna be more of a spilling wave, so I do a Barney cut back and transition towards the shoulder again. Now the section’s over the reef, I lose track of the shoulder, and the whole wave is standing up. A vet would pull in and just tuck in close to the face for a chance of a tube ride. I . . . I succumb to my body’s “eject button” to get out of harms way and jump over the lip behind the wave. I tell myself that there’s no chance I could’ve made that.

    I’m tired. Being in the impact zone, the adrenaline from going down the line, all the pumping, and fear generated from the morning’s buffet has me drained. I tell Randy that I’m catching one in. I get my last wave right away. I go down the line a little, it goes hollow, I straighten up, and catch the white wash to shallow water. In the stagnant pools I take notice of little reef crabs that crawl down there. They use the reef plants as camouflage for their shells. I spot a baby eel slithering around. I whip out my camera and take a pic before it completely vanishes behind a rock. A Balinese guy from one of the warungs is waving his arms from the sand, saying, “Photo, photo!” I assume he wants to take a picture of me since he sees my camera out.

    I say, “Nah, no thank you.” He continues to be persistent, and then I realize that he has photos of me on some waves. I walk to his warung, sit in front of his Mac, and he starts to create a folder of all my wave pics this morning. What I see is sad. It’s not on every wave, but on at least three, I see shots of me pulling into the barrel and diving into the wave too early, while the section stayed hollow ahead of me. Sure, some were close outs, but some were definitely makeable if I only had the courage to go balls out. On one shot, I saw that I faded outside of the barrel, but I didn’t pull in. Fuck . . . it was RIGHT THERE! This is my first time having close up pictures of myself readily available upon getting out of the water. Back home, I’ve heard people talk shit about surfers that have photographers. One guy referred to it as a total Barney move. But as I’m looking at these pics, I see the mistakes that I’m making, right there, honest, true, and unbiased. In this case, the picture doesn’t lie. I ask the photographer to keep the file, as I’ll be back again.

    Back at the warung, Randy orders an orange juice, me, a Bali coffee. I’m watching guys trying to get barreled and going for it. Randy says, “See, if you know how to fall right, then you can be just like that guy. He’s just staying with the face, going for it. His mentality is just to get barreled.” The guy doesn’t get barreled, he’s getting pinched every time, but he’s only riding the wave for that one purpose. Randy gives me more pointers about my weak duckdive as well. Fuck . . . so many bad habits, and they’re hard to break or change in this critical surf. And at the same time, I look at the guy sitting across from us. There are scars on his back, pale white, moist, unable to heal because he’s in the water too much.

    So today was a wave buffet, but I didn’t leave the line up with that triumphant stoke. I feel as if I’ve hit a wall. Today the waves were made for barrels, and I didn’t take advantage of them. I know I said that getting barreled wasn’t important to me, but sometimes life throws signs or hints at you indicating which choices you should make. In this case, it seems like the ocean was telling me something, to just go for it. I think I have eleven days left. I can‘t promise success, all I can promise is a story to tell.

LOONCH!

Sunday Night Life:

Nappy Poopskies!

    Christine, our maid, didn’t come into work today, so we have to grab dinner elsewhere. Randy’s tired as hell, so he naps right when we get home. I cruise through Seminyak and hit the Bin Tang Market. I find that they’ve restocked their shelves with bean cakes. I buy four packages of them. I wonder where I should eat, and I stumble upon Café Seminyak. I look at their menu, they have pad thai, I love pad thai noodles. I don’t even notice how the hostess is standing there as she waits for me to lift my gaze. She asks if I want to eat there. I look at their dessert menu, something says “three scoops of ice cream,” so I’m in.

    I sit and people watch. It’s such an interesting place. Cab drivers slow and honk at every bule walking the streets. Aussies, Japanese, Javanese, everyone’s out and about. I’m surprised at how many women are vacationing amongst themselves without men. It actually seems that there are more women than men. The hostess comes back and asks where I’m from and what I’m doing in Bali. She seems nice enough. The conversation is short, and my food arrives. I’m sorry to say that the Balinese don’t quite have the Thai recipes down packed. The noodles are too soft, there’s too much sauce, and there must be a shortage of shrimp in this country because they are tiny. I order a Seminyak smoothie which is just okay. Damn, that’s what I get for coming to an obviously expensive restaurant. Randy told me to stick to the local ones. Café Seminyak is obviously westernized with western prices. I skip out on the dessert, pay my bill, and it comes out to a whopping 96,000 Rupiah which is just over ten bucks. It’s not much, but I could’ve gotten twice as much food at some other places. Now I feel bamboozled. I go to Bali Deli and order an ice cream coffee and banana split. It’s so damn good.

After the plane ticket, everything else is inexpensive.

A Barney in Bali--Day 17, 24JUNE2011 FRI

Zula earth cafe

Pre Blog:


    I got home pretty late last night from Chat Café. Before I got to post yesterday’s blog, their internet went down. It was a hectic night just getting there. First, I went to this one café that Jessica and Randy recommended; it’s called Zula. It’s a vegetarian “earth café.” It was definitely earthy in there. When I walked in, a chick and this guy were in the middle of getting to know each other. They were both talking about surfing, and I over heard the names Canggu and Tugu. I almost chimed in and mentioned Balangan, but . . . I reconsidered. The energy of their conversation changed when the guy’s friend arrived, and they both tried to get her number and invite her out for drinks. She wasn’t havin’ it. Then more chicks started walking in, Aussies.

     I ordered a chocolate drink, and I found a thick black bristle in it. I thought it was a hair at first, but it was too wiry, and there was no follicle. If their internet wasn’t slow, I would’ve stayed. I paid, went to Chat Café, but when I got there I realized that I forgot my 220 Volt plug-in thingy at Zulas. I had to go back, then come back to Chat Café, and they had some issues with their wifi too.

   

     At 2300, I got home, ate some cold dinner, and had the hardest time going to bed because of all the caffeine.


Lay Day:


    I wake up at 0500. I can’t believe it’s already time to get up. I’m so tired; I feel it. I get up, and the thought of doing the reef dance and paddling out into the new swell hits me. I’m drained, and my body’s is really telling me that I need some rest. I fall back asleep until 0600. I open the door, and before I can even say good morning, Randy says, “Dude, I think we need to take a break today.”

    “I think that's a good idea.”

    “We’ll get massages instead, two hour massages.”

    He says that his shoulder hurts too, and it gets that way from too much surf. I don’t think the lay day is a bad call. I take a shower to dissolve the grease in my pores from last night’s adventure and go back to sleep.

    At 0800 I stumble out of my room to find Christine cleaning the place up, and I get more details from Randy about the massages. He says that it’s only $10 for two hours and that tip is not expected. I for one have never ever had a real  legit massage. I only know what I’ve seen on TV. I’ve had acupuncture for a slipped disc but never massage. In Los Angeles, it just seems like I have more important things to spend my money on, but for $10 how can you go wrong?

    We ride out just before 1000, and traffic is a little thick. Randy likes to shoot the gaps, but every time he does, the gap gets too critical when it’s my turn. I always end up several cars behind him, and I’m always racing to catch up. We’re nearing a red light, he waves his hand to keep going, and we both punch it. Randy’s the first to cross the intersection, and the traffic in our left comes to a steady halt as he’s running the light. Randy swerves, a van next to him swerves, the guy in the van’s pissed and starts honking, but we make it.

Now who in their right mind would want to take a gander at this guy's asshole?

    When we pull up to the massage place, I already have a coat of sweat from the stress of riding. I’ll have to say that at this point of my Bali vacation, riding a motor bike is the most stressful thing of all. Back home, I pride myself in my safe, defensive driving. But here . . . those things don’t help me. There’s no such thing as safe driving out here. Or should I say, safe driving is not driving “slow.” Safe driving is keeping with the flow of traffic, being fluid, fitting yourself into every and any opening in the direction that you’re traveling. One month isn’t enough to get this riding thing down over here. Every time I park and find myself in one piece, I consider myself grateful and lucky.

    We walk in, and Randy does the talking. It’s really modern, there’s an interior waterfall on the wall, and they give us some water before the festivities. We are led to our massagers. We each get a tiny Balinese woman. They look only strong enough to lift a purse, but I find out their true strength later.

Scene of the crime

    Randy goes off with his masseuse, so I’m left to fend for myself with the language barrier and what to do. I follow my masseuse to our little curtained off area. I snap a pic on the way there. It’s low lit with candles, there are all these fresh indescribable scents, and then she hands me this little black thing that looks like a hair bonnet. I’m quite mistaken, as she motions for me to put it on. Hmmmm, the thing is practically see-through, and it’s tiny. It’s funny how, being a military man, I’m so used to taking a shower with dozens of dudes, sometimes even sharing one shower head with two or three guys, but all of a sudden in this atmosphere I get shy and nervous. Well . . . when in Bali. . . .

    I open up the flimsy see-through thong thingy, and it’s so small that I can’t figure out which hole my legs or waist goes through. As I put it on, I barely get it around my waist without ripping it. Something doesn’t feel right. My right testicle is being squished, while my other walnut and worm are fully exposed to the left. Is this motherfucker on backwards or something? I force the mouse back in the house, and the masseuse comes back. I’m smiling and laughing, both hands up indicating that I’m an idiot. She laughs, pulls out another thong thingy, and holds it open right-side-up for me.

    I finally get this flimsy black thing on; and I struggle to keep it from going up my ass. I lie on the table as instructed, a cloth is draped over my back, and homegirl goes to town. Jessica’s and Randy’s advice is to relax and let go, so I do . . . or I try. I’m a bit surprised when she hops on the table and straddles me. She peels the cloth down to expose my whole back, but she goes even further to see my g-string action. Expected. Then she yanks down my thong to expose my bare ass cheeks before her. I’m wondering what she’s thinking. I know what I’d be thinking: Why, those are the thickest and longest anus hairs I’ve ever seen! And why is his ass so white compared to the rest of his body?

    This little woman . . . so harmless looking, how deceiving. Her fingers are like iron. She could be a member of the X-men. Code name: Death Nubs. All of my back muscles are tight. She goes over a muscle in the middle of my spine that makes me squirm in reaction to the pain. I tighten up, my nostrils flare, and I exhale in her mercy. I start to sweat again; it’s like torture. She knows it hurts, and she keeps going over it. There’s a spot like that too on my upper back, same thing. As she massages my lower back she keeps spreading my ass cheeks apart. I find this unnecessary, but she’s the one asking for it. It can’t be a pretty sight, I know that much. Oh well. Do your worst! I think to myself.

    Later, she flips me around and gets the lube going all over my chest. I don’t know why, but I find this hilarious. It seems something I’d do to myself in front of the fellas for a good laugh, but she’s really going for it. Now she’s pushing on my stomach, and I feel a couple farts brewing. I’m thankful that I took a shit before we left home.

    To top it off, she puts me in “the huckle buck.” She full nelsons me and swings me left and right to crack my back. I gotta give this girl credit. She sits me up, gets me into submission, and just manhandles me . . . all on the table.

    The session ends with a shower. It’s the fastest two hours I’ve ever had in my life, and despite my complaints of pain earlier, I feel like a car that had all the dents banged out of it. There’s some suffering in the process, but I feel brand new in the end, brand new and tired. I pay my ten bucks, and give about two dollars for tip which is totally optional.

    So one extreme is traded for the next. From being relaxed and ready for a nappy poo, we’re back on the bikes swerving through traffic. Randy takes me to this local Balinese restaurant for a local dish which is barely another two bucks. There’s tempe (Indo mix of nuts), vegetables, tofu, an egg, rice, and peanut sauce. It’s a really small hole in the wall spot filled with Aussies. We barely talk because we’re so drained. The nourishment is filling as it is scrumptious.

Lion face for my girlfriend Lauren. She likes it.

    We handle a couple errands and exchange some US dollars for more Indo Rupiah. I’m back at the Bali Delhi. I already had an almond coffee, fries, and now I’m working on another drink. I didn’t know what it was, but it’s a very strong ice coffee with a scoop of chocolate ice cream in it. This is my favorite internet café so far. Bob Marley’s “Jammin’” plays in the background, the sun hangs low outside the window, it’s air conditioned, and tonight’s spending won’t be more than six or seven bucks. So there’s no surf story today, but it’s a much needed lay day. Tomorrow we’ll hit it hard. The swell’s increased again, and I hope to get some nice, long lefts in.

Bali Deli

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