A Barney in Bali--Day 29, 06JULY2011 WED

Goodbye Dunkin' Donuts. Thanks to your strong coffee, my bro and I were able to get to a strong start to our mornings.

One More for the Road:   

Breakfast special. 12,000 rupiah

Last night my brother gave me the option of where I wanted to surf. He said that Daz was down for a paddle out as well. The options were either Nusa Dua or Uluwatu again. It was kind of a big decision. Should I score a crowded, world class wave on my last day, or should I go somewhere that I can have all to myself? The swell was predicted to drop again, so it’s not like the surf would be epic anywhere. But I’ve learned since being here that no matter how flat the prediction, there are places that will at least be a solid Bali three feet no matter what. We decide on meeting at Dunkin’ Donuts at 0630.

  
    I went to sleep at about 0100 last night. I wake up, look at my watch, and it’s 0527. Fuck, I could just get up now, but I’m so tired. I close my eyes, open them again, and it’s 0540. I consider it a blessing that my body’s woken itself up this early; this is the earliest since I’ve been at the Ayu Beach Inn. I take my time, get my gear ready, and head out in the morning darkness. It’s the last morning, surf session, ride that I’ll be doing in a while. I try to absorb the moment. There are only a few taxis and mopeds on the road, a few street lamps and neon lights illuminate the street, shadows grow darker away from the road, the cool air hits my face, and the hum of the motor is all I can hear. I fill up the tank and head to Dunkin’. Randy’s not there. Today is a holiday, or the “Indonesian Christmas.” The workers are wearing celebratory clothing, and they’re still opening the store.

    I grab my coffee, skip the donut again, and start to eat my breakfast sandwich. The TV is off, which sucks. Television in other countries intrigues me, and who can’t resist Indonesian Scooby Doo? Just as I dust off my sandwich, I see Randy pull up. He says that Daz is running late, but that we’ll check out Nusas without him.

    We start off the morning with another episode of “What Would Randy Do?” Traveling to Bali has really opened my eyes and made me curious about other possible surf adventures. I ask him, “If you had an opportunity to travel somewhere and sit on a spot for about a month, where would it be?”

    Without hesitation, he says, “Sumbawa . . . Sumbawa, Lakey Peak.”

    I wonder if he’s understood my question because I intended to find out where he’d go other than Bali or Indo. He then explains to me about why Indo is so good.

    He says, “I know that you’re thinking Thailand, Matt, but Thailand is seasonal.” He sits up in his chair, looks at the table, and mimics the motion of his hand chopping something. “You can surf there, but there’s only surf in the wet season.”

    “What about PI?”

    “PI, too. There’s waves, but it’s not year round. The thing about Bali is that we get swell during the wet season, and we get swells during the dry season from Australia in the summer. The other places don‘t do that.”

    His insight on the matter kind of kills my drifter fantasy. I really wanted to see those countries and knock out surf at the same time, and despite the seasonal issue, these other places don’t really compare when it comes to surf. So is it be better to travel and sightsee while surfing waves that won’t put you to the test, or is it better to make surfing the priority and go where the waves are heavy?

    Randy goes on about Sumbawa. He says, “The wave is like this.”  He pulls up his hand and shapes a “C” with it. “But that’s strictly a surf spot. Once you land, the surf is right there. You don’t have to go anywhere.”

    We switch the subject and talk about my trip since I’ve been here. I ask him, “Have I seen six feet in Bali . . . at all!?”

    Randy looks down, shakes his head, and says, “Nah . . . maybe . . . five feet at the most.”

    I’m not surprised. He feels like getting another coffee. I tell him I’ll get one with him, but we look at the clock and decide to start the morning. I go to release the morning mud before we leave. The toilet has one of those faucet things with the water spout that shoots up into your bunghole. I’m already sold on rinsing my anus off with the sprayer thing, so I give this contraption a try. I turn the knob for pressure, but I open it too much. The water pressure misses my asshole, hit’s the inside rim of the toilet bowl, and water ricochets all over my face and lips. I shut the water off and this time open the valve slowly, but it’s no use, the sights are off. I’m not sure if any shit germs are now on my face, but I wipe myself off and check the toilet paper; there are no brown marks.

    We head out to Nusa Dua. In the villages, all the locals are dressed up and heading somewhere. There’s a holiday feel in the air, but not one based on consumerism. The last couple days, there was no traffic from people rushing to get last minute gifts. They are mostly carrying food, and it seems that their presence alone is enough. It reminds me of going to little Filipino parties, growing up on Maui, but this is a much larger scale.

    We can’t park at our usual lookout point because there’s a party at the temple. A Balinese woman calls for her dog that prances in front of Randy and I. It jumps over the small wall onto the next lot, but it’s about a seven foot drop down. The woman gasps, but then we see the dog prancing around again in the distance. She’s relieved. It was a weird sight to see it just jump over the wall like that, almost suicide-like.

Low Tide

    We can see waves breaking, there’s definitely surf there, but the reef is completely drained. It looks like a long walk out to the line up.

    “I’ve never seen it this low,” says Randy.

    He dismounts to take a piss behind a wall. We watch two surfers to see if they catch anything. They don’t.

    “Okay,” says Randy. “Here’s the deal. We can either go to Uluwatu and surf cleaner, crowded, waves . . . or we can surf this.”

    “I’m just worried about the tide, if it’s breaking too close or not.” It’s a moment of indecisiveness. Uluwatu is so tempting. It’s such a beautiful place, I’ve only surfed it once, I know for sure that there are good waves there, but again, I don’t want to have to deal with crowds on my last day. “Let’s just surf here.”

    Randy gets on his phone and sends a last line of communication to let Daz know what we’re doing. “Daz will probably be turned off by this,” he says.

    I contemplate for another moment. “Okay, we can surf Ulus I say.”

    “What, you sure?”

    I’m reluctant, a couple seconds pass. I look back out. “I know you don’t want to surf here.”

    “Bro, it’s up to you. It’s your last day. I can do either. We can surf here if you want.”

    “Okay, let’s do it.”



Interesting Characters:


    We park down by the one empty warung. I’ve never seen the place packed, but they’ll watch your stuff for you if you got valuables. Half way through preparation, a guy pulls up on a moped. He says hi to us, and we start talking about the surf. His name is Carlos, and (interesting enough) he’s a surf traveler from the Dominican Republic of all places. All the dialogue is just small talk, but his insights on certain things resonate with me. He has bandages all over his ankles.

    Randy asks, “Ohhh! What happened?!”

    “Ahhh. I try to wear reef booties to protect the reef. But instead, the reef kicked my ass.” He looks down at the gauze around both ankles. There is so much that he looks like a muay Thai fighter.

    We start talking about the surf today and how the tide is low. Carlos says that he’ll probably never surf Bali on a low tide again. He has a trip planned for the Mentawais, but he says that he’s “over it,” and that he’d just rather stay in Bali. Randy asks why, and Carlos says that you’ll definitely score, but that after you’re done surfing, there’s nothing to do.

    Carlos says, “After the surf, you just sit on the boat, and then what? There’s no restaurant, no womenz! Just eat oatmeal everyday.”

    I think to myself . . . Mentawais sounds awesome, but I’m sure he’s right. That would be a trip just for surf, strictly for surf. And with all the good food in town, it would be hard to be limited oatmeal for a week.

    Carlos also fills us in on the crowds, that nowadays there are more surf boat trips, and that when they see your boat, other boats just dock next to it. “At least fourteen people in the water when you pull up,” he says.

    Randy was adamant that I keep the details out of their next conversation. They talked about the “secret spots” that they both know. It turns out that Carlos is waiting for Daz, and he’s part of Randy’s surf circle, so they share the info. It sounds intense. “It’s round,” says Carlos. He makes a “C” shape with his hand. I guess everyone does out here. “Even two feet, the wave is round. It stands up so much. You not getting barreled, but it feel like you getting barreled.”

    Randy’s already frothing at this point, and they agree to hit up the spots together in the future.

One Last Reef Dance?:


    The tide is so low that you can only walk to the line up, just short of where the waves are breaking. If you haven’t been able to tell from the Nusa Dua pics, it’s pretty far. Randy says that that’s why it’s barely packed there. No one wants to make that long ass paddle when the tide is up. And of course, reef dancing has its challenges.

    Our walk has different depths. One moment we’re waist deep and the next we are fully exposed. Randy’s especially careful after his vana incident, but he’s still three or four car lengths ahead of me. Randy spots things on the way there. “Baby lobster!” he shouts back at me. A couple paces later he says, “Sea snake!” I thought I was the explorer, I’m thinkin’. I’m so worried to step on something. The last thing I want is to have to title my next blog “Nusa Dua’s Revenge,” so I completely miss everything my brother finds.

    Randy says the one word that slows me down even more, “Vana!” I look down a couple paces later, and they’re everywhere. Every little dark patch that looks like a shadow is a sea urchin. We’re nearing the white wash, the water’s moving around, I lose visibility, so I can only pray that my feet will do the rest.



Classic Brotherly Moments:


    My grandpa had a pasture in the West Maui mountains. It was pretty high up there past the pineapple fields. It was the biggest and most beautiful out of all the ones that we maintained. He worked for Maui Land & Pineapple Co., so he had access to all the gates.

    It’s not uncommon for people to “grow” in Maui. My brother was still in high school, and I was probably in sixth grade on some school break vacation visiting from L.A. My brother and I hopped over the barbed wire fence which bordered the pasture. We walked into some dense vegetation, dark, canopied by the forest. I forgot what happened with the plants, if we saw them, planted them, checked on them, or left with them. What I do remember was hearing a wild boar snorting around in the bushes around us.

    We both froze in panic. Randy was in front of me. He put his arm out to stop me at the shoulder and said, “Wait!”

    Being a young pussy and scared shitless, I held my breath as Randy approached the bush with only a metal ditch digging pipe to defend himself. As he neared the bush, the whole fucking thing started shaking. He took a step back and held the pipe, but the boar wasn’t coming out. Randy turned to me and said to run on his signal.

    I was thinking the worst, running full speed, chubby and dumb, heading back to the safety of the barbed wire. We MacGuyver-hopped that fence. I don’t think he ever told my grandpa what happened.

    On this very morning, decades later, we stand in ankle deep water on pokey reef staring at some big sets breaking right in front of the shelf. The white wash comes in, raises the sea level, and we’re knocked backwards, awkwardly struggling to maintain footing.

    “Woooooooh!” Randy shouts. He’s smiling and being pushed back with me. It’s out of character. Usually he’s stone cold, sober as a judge, and cool as a cucumber when we’re in the water. Whenever he’s calm, I feel calm. This doesn’t mean he’s scared, but I barely see this from him, so I’m expecting that this situation may be somewhat heavy.

    “Okay,” he says. “We’re going to have to time this!” Another set crashes, white wash explodes, we’re in knee deep water from the rush, then it goes ankle deep again. “We can paddle out here!”

    I look down and see hard reef, brown plants growing on it, a couple purple things, and some green slimy stuff. Right here.

    “We just gotta get past that shelf,” he says. “So . . . just paddle your ass off.” We brace the next set. “Are you ready!?” he asks.

    Do I really have a choice? Of course not. What a question filled with contradiction. They should replace “are you ready” with “we’re going.”

    The white wash crashes, it lifts us. “GO!” he says.

    I’m paddling, the shelf is right below us, and it’s so shallow. We’re paddling through foam, and all I can do is look in the distance, waiting for that bump that’ll make my back look like grated cheddar. The water’s getting deeper, the wave in front of us is small, and by the time we have to duckdive we’re in deep water.

    When we reach the outside, Randy lets out another “Wooooooh!” He’s smiling again as he looks behind us at the crashing set. “We made it!”

    My heartbeat starts to settle. We made it. I’m glad we did.



Surf Closure:


    It’s not the wave buffet that it was two days ago. The swell has dropped so much, but there are still some sets to start the sesh. Not all the waves have shape.

    “If you go right, watch out for the shelf,” says Randy.

    Out of naïve inexperience, I paddle for a right that has a shoulder. It’s a big tilting wave, but by the time I finish dropping in and try to set up my bottom turn, the section’s about to curl over me. I thought it had a shoulder. I look down and see the brown plant life. I’m thinking about the reef. Oh God, here it comes. I try to ass plant at the base as it closes out, doing everything to stay behind the wave and not in front. It crashes, I’m swirling, but it’s controlled. I don’t know how, but I never feel the bottom. I paddle back out to Randy.

    “You went for the right,” he says.

    “Yeah . . . I can’t believe I didn’t hit the shelf.”

    I can’t bullshit myself. I’m freaked out. I think I’m lucky. The wave closed out right over the shelf. It was a set wave; I should’ve been torn to shreds. I’m humbled and cautious. A perfect A-frame appears out of no where, but we’re both out of position.

    “Awwwww! That’s the one I’ve been waiting for!” says Randy.

    We adjust and sit in that spot. Another one comes, I’m in perfect position right in the middle of the peak.

    “Go!” Randy yells.

    I’m one stroke away, see the section building, but I pull out. Randy catches the next left while I bob on the outside.

    He comes back and says, “Don’t be afraid to go for the bombs.”

    I sit and think. I’m already frustrated at myself, but the reef just has me freaked out. It’s still shallow. “I’m not afraid.” I say.

    “You passed up a good one.”

    I know I did, it‘s a backhanded comment that I don‘t really need. I smile defensively, pause, and say, “I know I missed it. It‘s obvious. I’m just a little worried about the reef.”

    “You’re thinking too much.”

    I’m going for the next one, I’m thinking. I catch a left, but the waves are a little fast for me this morning. I can only angle as I’m dropping, and then I have to safely fall as the wave closes. I catch a small handful, but I don’t get any turns. Randy’s good, he rides them much longer, and kicks out over the shoulder, unscathed, on the inside.

    One more bomb comes in, but we’re both out of position again. Two boats come to drop off some surfers, but they’re going to another spot. From there, the surf goes dead. It may be the rising tide, but Nusa Dua may as well be a tiny day at Porto. We can see the other peaks working, but they are really far away.

    It’s my last surf session of the trip. It’s not an epic one, but it’s quiet, no ones around, it’s peaceful, it’s not gnarly, and I’m spending it with my one and only blood brother. I was always concerned about getting seriously injured by the surf out here, and this session was more like a sense of closure. I’ve had my fun, faced ball shrinking conditions, obliterated the zones of my comfort level, and here I am now, perfectly fine.

    I tell Randy that I’m good. I need to check out of the hotel anyway. I catch my last Nusa Dua wave. It’s shapeless, but I use it to straighten out and take me in. I’m a little sad. Not for the lack of surf but that all these surf adventures have officially come to an end.



Time To Go:


    Instead of a long walk back, it’s now a long paddle back. I paddle in way ahead of Randy; I don’t see him anywhere. And yet, as soon as I touch the sand, the fuckin’ guy is right behind me. Damn him and his bionic paddle!

    Daz waits for us near the stairs as we walk in. 

    Daz says, “Boys, we seen you out there. We’ve been watching, but the other guys went to go grab something to eat.” He’s wearing a faded pink shirt and an old baseball cap. He’ll never be confused for a fashion model; he’s all surf addict.

    He asks how it was, but I figure if he was watching that he probably saw me eating shit. Daz says he’s not gonna do it; it’s not his style. I say my farewells to him, say it’s been a pleasure, and that next time I’ll be better prepared to charge with him.

    “Yeah,” Daz says. “I tried to invite you guys to Sumbawa.”

    I’m thinking in my mind, I would’ve probably died at Sumbawa, especially after I’ve heard it pumped up by every surfer  here. Next time.

    The drive back is significant. It’s the last time that I’ll be on this machine, salt encrusted, plastered by Vertra, wedgied by my wet boardshorts, and feeling the Bali wind in my face. Sky said something to me that really stuck, it was from the first day I met him. I told him about how driving here scares the shit out of me.

    He replied, “All my friends that I talk to back home, when they talk about Bali, this is what they miss. Driving around here, being on the bike, heading out for an early morning surf, the trails, the roads.”

    Yeah . . . I can see that.

    I check out at the motel, stop by BK, say goodbye to Wulan and Citri, and I take a couple pics with them. Wulan apologizes that her husband Kadek can’t take me to the airport, but I tell her that she’s apologizing for nothing. She thanks me for the clothes and donations that I brought for them. I tell her that I’ll have a better Michael Jackson dance when I return.

Wulan, Citri, and their family have treated me like their own blood. Until next time.

    I’m riding with my board, suitcase, and backpack so stuffed that the zippers are bulging. I’m worried for that one accident to put the rotten cherry on top of the trip, but I make it to Randy’s without incident.

Jaya will be big the next time I see him.

    I unload the bike, shower, play with Jaya for a little bit, and then Randy and I head out for two hour massages, again, only for $10. This was planned. After all, what better way to prepare for a long international flight?








  

    Randy tells the people at the counter, “I want someone strong!”

    I’m worried at hearing this. HE wants someone strong. I just want a “massage.” When we enter the hallway there are two chicks. One has a pleasant smile, greeting me with a hand gesture to sit down. The second one is older, who’s face tells tales of war. She has an involuntary grimace. She’s not heavy, but her cheeks weigh down, and her expression has a grim quality. Fuck that, I’m thinking. I sit down with the first chick.

     I know what to expect now. She cleans off my feet, leads me upstairs, and it’s G-string time again. I learn that my upper back and calves are tight. She goes over them, feels the knots, sees that I’m squirming, and dedicates herself to indulging in my pain. Not only does she go over the knots, but she digs her fingers into them; they feel more like pressure points. And when I think that the worst is over, she’ll dig her finger above the painful spots, run it down slowly, and work out the knots again with each stroke. It’s like she’s ironing out wrinkles over my body.

    When I turn over I fall asleep as soon as she starts caressing my chest. She doesn’t put me in the “huckle buck” like the last person, but my body feels so loose and relaxed that I’m ready for a nap.

    We stop at the Javanese warung on the way home. It’s my official last splurge in Bali, so I get a big plate with dessert again. Back at the house, Randy asks me if I did everything that I wanted to do. I tell him that I didn’t get the barrel, but I accept that I don’t have the wave knowledge yet, and that I’ll just have to work on that.

    “Does Huntington barrel at all?” I ask. It was his favorite spot since moving from Oceanside.

    He lowers his eyebrows and nods his head. “Yeah, there’s barrels there. It’s a high performance wave.”

    He tells me that I should surf there if I want to improve and train for the next trip, and HB has the current and good combo swells when the conditions are right.

Last banana split shot, I pomise.

    There’s a little downtime before I fly. I’m already packed, I’m still full from dinner, so I go to Chat Café one last time to post the Uluwatu blog. It takes longer than I expect, and by the time I get back, Jessica and Jaya are in bed. Randy’s up, he coordinates a cab for me, and I’m a little rushed to shower and put my bags outside. I regret not having a chance to shoot the shit with my brother a little bit more, but we come from an unemotional family, and we’ve spent the whole day together anyway. There are no cabs available because of the holiday, so he has to ride around town on the bike to flag one down.

  

    It’s dark, there are no street lights, and mosquitoes buzz about. I feel the loose dirt and gravel under my slippers, and the light from the blue Yaris taxi brightens the road. I tell Randy I love him, thank him, and that we’ll surf again. I give him a big hug, he hugs me back, but I barely feel it. I say, “Squeeze me, God dammit!” He does. My big, shreddah, brother in Bali, my role model. I will truly miss him.



Denpasar:


    The cab driver’s a nice guy. I tell him how much I love Bali, and he tells me how much I look Japanese. My brother said to only tip 2,000 rupiah, but my western senses make that really hard. He’s grateful for the two thousand, but I give him another two Gs. It makes me happy to make this guy’s night.

    International airports. I think Cairo was the worst one that I’ve traveled through. There are no signs for China Air, and I have one big suitcase and Klaude’s boardbag that I’m lugging around. After walking back and forth, someone tells me where to stand; the counter’s not open yet. Once it does open, I check my bags in, and I hand the guy my credit card. He swipes it, pauses, and a concerned look overcomes his face.

    “Is this the only card you have?” He says.

    “It’s not working?”

    “No. This card no work.”

    Fuck . . . I grab my Visa debit card and hand it to him.

    He looks at it, flips it around, and asks, “Is this debit?”
    “Yes.”

    “Debit no work, need credit.”

    Fuck my life. I’m feeling pretty damn vulnerable right now. “How much in rupiah?” I ask.
    “Five-hundred-fifty-thousand.”

    I pull out my dwindling wad of rupiah. I’m over two-hundred-thousand short. “Is there ATM here?” I ask.

    “Yes.” He points outside and gives me my baggage claim tickets. “Show them this at the door the come back inside.”

    Damn . . . I’m thinking about the worst case scenario. I picture myself frantically contacting my brother, asking him for some money to borrow. And then again, how the fuck would I get a hold of him? Also, what the fuck is wrong with my fucking credit card? I’m cursing Bank of America and their Hawaiian miles. Assholes.

    When I get to the exit, there’s an airport security guy sitting by the door. I tell him that I need to use the ATM. He points to a sign stating that once passengers check-in they can’t leave. I tell him I need to pay for my luggage.

    He says, “Okay, I help you.” He opens the door, but just as we’re stepping outside, an Asian tourist starts running up to the door, yelling his goodbyes to a family member inside the terminal. It catches the both of us off guard. I wait, the guard is looking at me, then he has to stop the Asian guy, and THEN the guard just gets overwhelmed. He grabs me by the arm, points to where the ATM is and says, “I help you, you help me,” then he turns and deals with the other guy.

    The whole situation is weird. Does he want a bribe, am I going to have to pay this guy just to get back in? Thank goodness, my debit card works at the ATM, but I can only withdraw rupiah. To avoid this from happening again, I take out more than I need. I go through security again and take a wide route back to China Air, avoiding the guard. I pay my rupiah, go upstairs, pay another 150,000 exit fee, and then I have one more counter to go through.

    I whip out my camera, take a pic, and the guy at the counter yells, “Hey, no photo!”

    “Oops, I’m sorry.” I shove my camera back in my pocket and approach.

    “You delete picture!” he says.

    “Ummmm,” I have to think fast. I barely use my flash. “No flash, I didn’t take picture.”

    He puts a sticker on my boarding pass and I head towards my gate. It’s midnight. Day 29 is over.

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 5, 12JUNE2011 SUN



The Pre Blog:


     It’s 0500 in the morning, and the wind is dead outside. That’s good news. It means that we’ll either go to Nusa Dua or a new spot on the other side of the island. I woke up about fifteen minutes ago, and since then I’ve done my morning routine with more of an awareness: brushing my teeth, drinking my water, etc. Outside is still pure darkness with a faint blue haze in the sky. I peer through the tinted windows to look at the palm tree that isn’t moving. It kind of hits me then: Bali . . . my expectations were ridiculous. Deep inside, I expected a fun playground of perfect waves. I hoped that I’d over stress on the thought, build a monster, and be welcomed with gradual waves that would let me in, then throw out over my head only when I was in the right position for the barrel. No . . . it’s not that at all. Bali can be that way for someone already seasoned or at least saltier than I; that is the truth. My brother said his favorite spot is a spot that only barrels; every wave is nothing but a barrel. We haven’t been there yet, and honestly . . . I won’t be surprised if I don’t see it, not on this trip.

     I had ridiculous visions of returning to California, stepping off of that plane, like an enlightened monk that’s returned after a long journey from the Shaolin temple. I would turn to my friends with the look of wisdom and say: “Yes, I’ve seen the light. I know now, my friends, I know. I know it all. Barrels, big waves, everything; I know the secrets to surfing.” If there’s anything that I’ve gained so far, it’s perspective. The only thing I know is what I need to be, and I am not there yet. In reality, I may step off the plane, let out a sigh of releif, and say, “Fuckin’ A . . . I made it. . . . My balls are still between my legs, and I’m home.” A Barney in Bali, it’s a bit of irony I guess. A random title, but I see that it actually fits. I am the Barney at your leisure, and I will report the trials and the tribulations of a Barney in Bali.--0512

Skunked:


     My brother checks on me as I’m writing this. He tells me that the wind’s dead, and that our best bet is to gamble on a spot called Sanur. He starts his warm up ritual in the living room, and I do mine in my bedroom. We are in a bit of a rush to leave; the energy is off a little. It’s probably because I struggle with posting my last blog before it’s time to go. We hope that the wind stays like this, and we ride to Dunkin’ Donuts for their breakfast special. It’s too early to wear our shades, so dust and bugs irritate our eyes. We shoot the shit, look outside, and still see that there’s no sway in the trees. We grab our sandwiches to go and head to the Bukit (the small head of Bali where Nusa Dua and Uluwatu are). The traffic is light, Randy gives an extra twist to the throttle, and my glasses and helmet are unstable from the rushing air. We reach the village towns again as we escape the busy city. Trash is burning.

No waves! Randy angry!

     There’s waves, but they’re being knocked down by the wind. That smooth reef that we walked across on day two has white wash over it. We gamble, we lose. It turns out that Canggu was the right call, but we both wanted something different, especially after two consecutive, choppy, and blown-out sessions there. Either way, Canggu is in the opposite direction, and we’d have to backtrack to get their--inconvenient.

     Randy takes me sight seeing to another spot which is a secret and could only be posted in the pics. Because of the wind, these spots aren’t working, but the left barrels when the conditions are right. The sights are beautiful, and I snap some photos regardless.

Dhyana Pura:


      That local break in Seminyak that we looked at yesterday evening is called Dhyana Pura. It’s our best bet because it’s on the way home. By the time we’re driving back through Kuta again, everyone is heading to work, so there’s a lot more jockeying involved to get through, and more ass-clenching on my part. We arrive to find only three Balinese locals in the water. The water’s glassy, and the wind hasn’t reached that part of the island yet. It’s amazing how a little distance makes a difference.

     “It’s not gonna last,” says Randy.

     I find it hard to believe. “But it’s so beautiful out!” I reply.

     The water’s smooth, glassy, silky, and it’s sunny and hot, but there is one major problem: there’s not much shape to the break. Randy warned me the other day, that we’d only surf here if we just needed the quick fix. We lost on a gamble, and this is the consequence. The locals make it look fun, as they catch some quick shoulders for some decent rides. In between the sets, the water is so motionless that it looks like a flat mirror all the way to the horizon. But when some of shoulderless sets come, the crashing lips looks like lines of exploding dynamite. It would be a picky session.

     We paddle out and Randy identifies our landmarks. He calls me into the first wave, and surprisingly it’s a left hander with a peeling shoulder. I pop up late but fail to get the drop. I’m stuck on the highline. I even do the “California shuffle” to the nose of my board and only drop in to mid face before the wave closes out. What a shame . . . a good wave gone to waste.

     Randy does his normal thing as the locals watch him feast on their waves. I paddle for waves that are close outs. He tells me to practice hitting the lip or even doing a floater to end my ride. I paddle, I try, but the lip always seems to be curling the whole time I’m chasing it. The plus sets are about four feet in the distance. I work and duckdive to get past them. Two chicks paddle out, and then four more are on long boards, probably Aussies. One paddles in front of Randy and I and starts giggling. We smile back and look at each other like “WTF?” For all you single guys out there, I think you’d like Bali.

     I don’t know how long we surfed. I’ve taken a step back from timing my sessions; I’m on vacation. After about an hour the wind arrives as Randy predicted. It’s not blowing hard, but the texture’s in the water. The local boys start hooting at every set, but it’s not the type of hoot you’d here in a Cali line-up. Randy gets some long rides that I still find hard to fathom given the conditions. My rides are short bottom turns that go nowhere. There’s a long lull while we wait to catch one in. I go first. Just like my first wave, my last has shape. It’s not pretty, but I trim down the line for a long ride and do three half-assed top turns.

     We kill off our sandwiches while we dry off. Sure, not the best session, but at least we paddled out. I’ve always said that I can do nothing all day long, but as long as I surfed, I feel like I’ve accomplished something.

     We go home, get cleaned up, and eat Dum Sum after. We cruise through the surf ghetto to do some shopping. The streets are so narrow that you literally browse each store front while sitting on your motorcycle. In the evening, the whole family and Randy’s friend go out to eat at an Indian buffet. Tomorrow is another early morning. The swell is dropping off, but the wind will still be there. The call will be Canggu. Maybe we can catch it before the wind picks up. Being a Monday, it shouldn’t be crowded.

A Barney in Bali--Day 2, 09JUNE2011

Riding on the back of Randy’s motorcycle, I ask him, “Why did we just run that red light?”

     He responds, “Because the other guy did.”

View in front of Randy's Bali home, the day begins.

 

The First Session: Nusa Dua

     Last night I went to bed at 2100. I was trying my best to finish day one’s blog, but I couldn’t. The jet lag finally caught up to me, and I expected to be conked out for hours. I woke up with a bad headache. I checked my watch--2330. Damn, I was barely asleep for a couple hours. I already knew what that meant: dehydration. I pounded some water and lied back down. The fan was blowing full blast; I needed it. I woke up again still feeling like shit. It was 0300. Randy would be up soon since he wanted to dawn patrol it, and I didn’t like the feel of my physical state. Randy warned me of dehydration during the first few days in country. Actually, he forced me to kill off a bottled drink right before leaving the airport. Even though I’ve been dehydration‘s victim in my past travels, I didn’t make an active effort to hydrate--mistake. I chugged more water and took a piss. The smell of the sulfur water and white tile actually reminded me of Egypt. I hoped to feel better in the morning.

     0500--I wake up, open my bedroom door, and Randy’s already up doing his pre surf warm up. He tells me that as soon as we reach Nusa Dua that we’re just gonna jump in the water. Warm up now, stretch after. I tell him about my pounding headache. He sounds concerned, but I don’t want to worry him. I say that it’s nothing and ask if he has some Advil. “Nope.” He makes us a special Balinese local style ginseng tea mixed with other spices and ingredients; I forget the name. I warm up while drinking more water in between.
0600--He says we’re meeting up with his homeboy Daz, and at where? Why, Dunkin’ Donuts of all places!

     He says that there’s a breakfast special for a buck-fifty. We step outside, and the sun is still barely peeking over the horizon. The morning is damp. The tile steps outside, the door mat, and our slippers have moisture. Randy grabs some funky curved bars from the yard and inserts them into the side of his bike, securing them with pins and straps--motorcycle surfboard racks. I snap a couple pics during the process, and we’re off. I’m thankful for the morning commute being much thinner than the traffic I experienced previously. The morning air is now filled with what reminds me of the mosquito repellent that I used to buy in Maui as a kid, the kind that you burn and it leaves a sort of smoky scent. Randy fills me in and says that they burn trash here every morning. I actually have time to relax a little bit and take in the sights. I can’t help but notice that the red lights aren’t completely obeyed. The signal lights have a timer letting drivers know when the light will turn green. However, when perpendicular traffic is none existent, some people are still crossing the intersection when the light’s red. Randy does the same.

     We arrive at Dunkin’ Donuts, and to my surprise, this Dunkin’ Donuts could pass for being in a luxury hotel. It is in fact the nicest Dunkin’ Donuts, or donut shop for that matter, that I’ve ever been to in my life. There is indoor and outdoor seating, small pools of water at the base of each window, the inside is spacious, the furniture is a vibrant orange and new, the back wall is a waterfall, and the place smells like an ice cream parlor. We are their first visitors of the morning. Daz shows up shortly after, and we order together. Daz is a Reno born, Aussie raised, international traveler, big wave charger, and local swell chaser. He’s my brother’s surfing buddy out here in Bali. He sounds like a native Californian. Weather beaten and dressed as if he’s been on the road questing for waves, we exchange kind greetings.


Bali Time:

     The conventions of a western society betray me, as I keep glancing at the counter wondering where the hell our coffee and food are. My brother, cut from the same cloth as me, seems just as impatient as I. It leads to our next conversation. I remind Randy about the slow service in Puerto Rico, and then we started talking about Hawaiian time.

     “No . . . it’s worse than Hawaiian time, it’s even longer,” says Randy. Then I notice how nice it is to not be rushed. A flashback popped up in my head. I was at a Starbucks in Irvine. This lady with designer clothes, purse, and still wearing her shades inside the store, was yelling at the barista, demanding the manager and owner’s information because she had to much ice in her drink. Then she demanded to know what Starbuck’s “policy” was on ice. She cursed, giving no consideration to a mother and young child behind her.
There is nothing like that in this place. Daz says, “Too bad it’s crowded in here.” I look around. There is just one guy in the corner. The coffee exceeds expectation, and it’s time for us to go. We grab our sandwiches and mount up. Daz takes off way ahead of us. Traffic is still light, and I am much more relaxed.

     A bike pulls directly in front of traffic and causes the whole swarm to shift. “Fuck, gotta deal with some stupid drivers out here,” says Randy. The traffic gets lighter and lighter, and pretty soon we are passing small villages which are defined by small shops and homes in the background. In between the homes are vacant lots with cattle grazing on small patches of brush. I tell Randy the sights and smells of the area are reminiscent to the early mornings that we loaded up in our grandpa’s truck to go to the pasture.

And can you believe, I was the only one creaming in my pants when got to this beautiful sight

     We go over a hill, and I finally see Nusa Dua. It looks like a green countryside by the ocean--tropical, but there are a lot of construction projects going on that are impossible not to notice. We turn into a tiny road which leads to a resort, a vacant resort. They explain that most of the crowds want to be where the clubs and bars are. We reach a shaded overlook high above the beach. The sight exceeds what I imagined. The air is so warm yet the sun so low. There is no wind. The water looks glassy as ever, and there are over a hundred yards of shallow reef to cross before you can paddle out. I could make out the peaks in the distance. I’m so excited to take a pic that I fail to notice a metal pipe sticking out of the ground. I trip over it and scrape my shin; I’m cut open but just a little. I’m embarrassed to tell the homies. Normally I’d call this a bad omen, but I don’t want to be negative, at least not yet. Daz devours his sandwich. A white sauce marinates on the corner of his mouth. I look at my brother, and then I realize . . . I am the only one stoked. They explain that this is “small” to them. I explain that if this was California, let’s just say that California can’t get this beautiful. They comment on the size of the waves, which they call 2-3 feet. But they also point out the main peak which seems to be giving a head high right-hander. What’s the difference between Balinese scale and Hawaiian scale? I only know one thing. Unless you’re surfing Mavericks, California scale is always more generous. A Barney in Bali, a South Bay surfer in Bali, an El Porto Surfer in Bali, or whatever you want to call it, I would finally get my feet wet and live the dream that few surfers do. Daz says my stoke is bringing up his stoke, so we mount up and park closer to the water. Another motorists shows up. My brother knows him. A guy shows up in a van with his two kids; guys from Maui, my brother knows them too.

    
     On the slight descent down the path to the sand, the warm air catches me by surprise once again. Am I really going to just “trunk it?” The last time I wore board shorts in the water was at 26^th St., and that was in October of last year! The sand is grainy but soft. The specks of sand are round like Quinoa. The tide is so low that only inches of water cover the reef on the inside. They explain not to step on the seaweed because the local fisherman harvest and sell it. The beach is vacant with only one fisherman, a small child, and a Japanese tourist chick venturing in the little caves taking pictures. The water on the inside is literally like a pool. The wind is unbelievably dead, as the only ripples are our own. We walk . . . I mean we really walk. The journey to the line up is more of what Daz refers to as a “reef dance” than it is a paddle out. We reach thigh deep water, paddle around the fishing fences, reach shallow water again, walk, and repeat this a couple times. By the time we reach the end of the shallow reef, I can see the break clearly. Indeed, it isn‘t ball wrenching gigantic, but I’ve never seen water so blue and clear, it is more of a tropical bluish turquoise. A couple clean right-handers peel on the inside, maybe only three feet, but with baby almonds, seeming hollow enough to hunker down inside. The coffee kicks in, and I can’t get to the line up soon enough.
 
    



I bet you thought that we were already paddling out to the line-up, huh? Nope, still doing the reef dance!


We paddle to the left of the reef or north, north east. I paddle for my first wave and scratch out. Randy tells me that I should be kicking my feet at the same time. I bring up the lame excuse that I tried that in Cali, but it throws off my paddling rhythm. Not a good time to try to practice something new. I try anyway, and scratch out on more waves. Randy takes off on a right and releases a bucket. Buzz and his kids (from the parking lot) join us in the line up. Buzz, probably in his mid fifties, looks like he should be playing golf or power walking with bright yellow headphones. But no . . . not this old guy. The fucking guy is CHARGING the plus set waves. The bigger waves come in at head high. I feel put to shame.

     A shoulder high wave appears. I paddle for it and pop up at the peak, but the section is so fast that it’s running away. As I’m kicking out I can see the white wash bouncing off the water’s smooth surface. It looks like glass, as the reef below is purely visible.

     Another set wave approaches; it’s a right. For the first time I am on a wave that is long, but not as fast, and builds down the line. Seeing the reef below me, I choose to play it safe. I don’t go for the aggressive top turns, but I still hit the lip, pump to keep up with the section, hit the lip once more, and then jump ship. I can’t help but be nervous at the sight of the reef. It looks so shallow, but there’s enough water that allows me to “starfish” over it and resurface. I paddle back to the line to find that the set’s not over. This is my nightmare. I’ve said before that perfect waves punch a little different. Try perfect waves in Bali on for size. Since the waves are a little hollow, there is no feathery mooshy section to duckdive. In the impact zone, I’m facing head high lips that are crashing straight down. I push the nose of the board down and go under. Like zero gravity, my momentum stops and freezes, real time changes to slow motion, and my board and I are bitch slapped backwards and upside down. This can’t be good, I think to myself. My feet touch the reef, I retrieve my board. I punch through a little deeper but still get my momentum halted. While underneath I can see everything: my board, the marine life, the violent submerged explosion of wave. I later find this to be an advantage. For the rest of the session I actually watch to see what’s happening underneath to gauge how much room that I have, see the wave go over me, and help improve my technique.

     It’s a humbling session. I’m still scratching out, and a lot of the waves are too fast for me to keep up with. I think about that last wave I got, how it may have been hollow, and if I should go for a tube ride or not. What happens next is a series of mistakes. I force myself into the face hoping I can get barreled. Going backside I grab rail, tuck into the face, and see the whole line build up and chomp down on me. I do it again with the same results. Going frontside, the lip shuts me out before I could scoot in, which leaves me completely missing the section and being forced to jump ship again.

     Daz chooses a peak further north, a peak which is bigger and holds shape better. Randy is with me to keep me company while I get my first dirty lickins from Bali. I have more than I can chew on and enough to ponder over for the rest of the day. I think about all the sessions that I pulled at Trestles and the South Bay only to realize that the true training starts now; those spots could not season me enough. I think about Buzz and see that his ability makes youth irrelevant. It’s overwhelming and a lot to take in my first day. The whole time in Cali, did I really expect to just paddle out here and get barreled?
 
     I see large fish swimming by under the water, a small group of fish expose their top fins right in front of me, and the empty line-up serene and peaceful. I think more about everything. In an arena with perfect waves, one can’t blame the waves for his surfing. On this very morning, the waves are good, and the struggle becomes with the surfer’s true ability himself. Humbling . . . I see my true worth. Instead of forcing the spray I need to just focus on getting into the wave, making the sections, and making it down the line if possible.
Daz paddles down to us and asks, “Are you guys ready to do the reef dance?” The walk back in is twice as hard as the walk to the line up. Randy tells me he stepped on a sea urchin on the way out, and he spots them and tells me go walk somewhere else. We paddle, get up, walk, hurt our feet, paddle again, find deeper water, reach shallow water, become off balance, fall (at least I do), and paddle again.

     Back at the motorcycle I kill off my sandwich from Dunkin’ Donuts. I thank Daz for choosing to be an addition to my first paddle out in Bali, and that I‘ll never forget him because he‘s a part of my experience.
We skip the evening session because we choose to go to Wulan’s birthday party. I eat homemade Indonesian food until I am full. Then I participate in a game that I lose in, and the consequence is me dancing to Michael Jackson’s song “Black and White.” I’m embarrassed, just like my surfing. I can do better than that.