A Barney in Bali--Day 26 (double sesh), 03JULY2011 SUN

Milking It:


    Before we paddle out again, we watch others starting their morning sessions. They have no idea what’s out there. A tourist couple paddles out, there are yells that follow, and they catch a wave in. Some Sunday beachgoers start to fill up the beach, and some other travelers that we’ve already met arrive. There are two Aussies named Greg and John, and they have their families with them. Greg’s cool. I show him my battle wounds, and he takes note to watch out for his kids.

    John, on the other hand is making some funky comments about Hawaii, and why in the ASP that you can be from Hawaii and the US. My brother tells him, “It’s a pride thing.” The energy is getting weird, John can’t stop talking, so I decide to test the waters to see if it’s safe.

    I’m bare backing it again, and halfway out to the line up I’m stung in one of the worst places possible. A jelly gets me right under the throat at the base of my neck, right between the collar bones. It hurts, but I keep paddling. I see no other signs of them, so I sit to work the inside again.

    The session picks up where I left off, and it’s even a little bit better. The big sets are too fast at the top of the wave, and the shoulders hold right where I’m sitting. The drop ins are fast, and I start my rides with good speed, pumping down the line. I do some lame cutback attempts as usual, but I’m enjoying myself, and that’s all that matters. The tide is high enough to create some right handers. I split the peak with a tatted Aussie, but when I look behind me, he’s going right as well. The wave closes out on us, and I apologize when we resurface; he’s cool about it.

    As Randy paddles out, he sees me pop up on another good wave. “Yeah-heahhhh!” he yells as I ride past him. My timing’s off on the next couple waves. Instead of paddling out to the peak, I sit and wait for it to come to me. When I do, I’m too deep, and the lip pitches me over before I pop up. It’s a worthy wipe out and in front of the Balangan crowd. This happens twice. The Aussie I cut off earlier gives me a thumbs up on one. After that the waves stopped holding shape. The lowering tide shuts the place down, and we end the sesh there.



Javanese Grub:
 

    We are rarely done this early, so Randy suggests that we go to this Javanese restaurant in Seminyak. I haven’t been there since my first week here. The traffic is still manageable, and we make it in good time. It’s Panda Express style, where you go down the serving line and tell them what you want. Randy gets about four items, and I think I order seven. It’s good stuff, and for cheap. As we’re finishing up our plates, Randy’s friend Sky pulls up on his motorcycle. He doesn’t even know we’re there yet, and the expression he wears on his face is one of full confidence, borderline arrogance. He’s Randy’s buddy of high school, the first to make the Bali fantasy a reality. He’s been here for about thirteen years and owns Big Kahuna surf school.

    It’s a pleasant surprise to enjoy a meal with a friend. He’s been cool with me since I met him, and he asks me how my trip’s going. He speaks good Indonesian, as he places his order without a fumble in the native tongue.

    After the main course, Sky orders us our desserts, and he elaborates in detail how they need to make it for us, giving precise directions in this language that I can’t understand. It’s similar to the Filipino dessert halo-halo. There are some fruits in there that I’ve never had before. I take a picture.

    When it’s time to pay the bill, Sky demands that we get the VIP discount. Randy’s just like me, taking the back seat, watching the show, and speechless at Sky’s demeanor. Sky has an interesting personality, and the reason I bring him up is because I think everyone has “that friend” that’s just like him. I smile at the whole situation and tell Randy that I’m glad he has someone like him in his life. It’s good to have a friend that brings a different energy into your life. After all, if we all had friends that were just like us, wouldn’t that be boring?

Bali's ambassador of Maui.

Autopilot:


    I’m so tired. I’m slipping into food coma, plus yesterday’s events still leave their mark. I have to drive back into Kuta. Now when I drive, I don’t smile. Every movement is with a purpose. I grimace, straight mouthed; I think you kind of have to when you’re in traffic like this.

    At the motel, I clean up, try to reach Lauren, but she’s not on line. I try to start writing, but I need to start my list for souvenir shopping. Kadek agreed to do the bargaining for me, so I need to go over what I need to buy. Randy tells me to be there a little after 1700, as he plans to have a drink with his Balinese buddy. I walk up to BK as Randy is parking. Luzda is working there too.

    Kadek offers me a street cappuccino. I say, “Sure,” and Kadek gets a couple from a street vendor, a kid carrying around plastic bags and a cooler. Man, every cup of coffee I’ve had in this country is strong, even this cup off the street. Randy gets them a couple beers, and Randy donates some clothes to the guy I got the moped from. Randy’s iPod plays on the loudspeakers into the street, Cali and Hawaiian reggae fills the evening air as mobs of tourists file in and out of Poppies 1. I spot an Amazonian. She’s Caucasian, at least six feet tall. And . . . a little Balinese guy, barely over five feet tall, picks her up on his moped. She kisses him on the cheek. “Nice . . . good job,” I say. He’s doing something right.

    I take a picture with Luzda, and he offers to bring me to his friend’s shop to get the real prices on the souvenirs. It’s only a couple shops down, but he suggests that I jump on his moped. Only tourists walk in this country. So I find out that shirts are 30,000 and towels are 45,000. He doesn’t have the bottle openers that are shaped like huge cocks, but I’ll find them elsewhere.

    I still have a lot to write, so I say my goodbyes and head to the motel. It’s so hard to recall events if I don’t write them the same day, but I do my best. It’s getting late, I still haven’t had dinner, and I need to go to Chat Café to post my blog. As tired as I am, I hop on the moped and head back to Seminyak. I maneuver through the gauntlet that is Poppies 1 and make my way to the main highway. It’s one thing to drive tired in a car back in the states. I usually just drive slow in the right lane, letting people pass me that are in a rush. Driving tired in Bali is a very, very bad idea. I try to stay alert, especially at night because the potholes are harder to see. I don’t even look for landmarks; I’m just focuses on the roads and the traffic in front of me. I find my way without even trying; it’s effortless, a good sign that I’m learning my way around this town. I eat my dinner at Chat Café, it’s pricey, but I’m short on time, and I need to pleasure two holes with one finger.

Kadek

    When I’m done, I drive through the Kuta nightlife, but this time I take a closer look. Traffic is only slow because everyone’s people watching as they drive. Balinese go-go dancers are in front of one club, different songs blare in the streets every couple meters, an Aussie is restraining his other Aussie friend in the middle of the street. He’s saying, “Let me go! I’m going to kill him!” I drive around them thinking how funny it would be to stick my finger in his asshole as I drive by. The whole scene is chaos: Aussies, tourists, locals, they’re all in the streets, the bars, the clubs, drinking, and partying. I drive right through that shit; it’s not what I’m here for.

    I make it back to the hotel unscathed. I think about walking Poppies 1 for some dessert, but I hear a drunken argument in Indonesian, and it sounds like someone’s about to get stab. The streets are darker and less crowded. I opt to just go up to my room instead.

    In my room I hear a scuffle outside. An Aussie is drunk, passed out, and his friends are dragging him to the room across from mine. I’m on my balcony, it’s dark, I’m black, so they can’t see me. The guy carrying the drunk is giving directions to the motel staff on how to take care of him: “Make sure he’s by a toilet, give him water when he wakes up. . . .”

    The drunkee wakes in a rage and yells, “Let me go! I need a toilet!” and then he starts throwing up.
    A girl in their group says, “I’m going to be sick.”

    Wayan, the hotel guy that showed me my room, is approaching them with a large basin of water. I look across, and another surfer guy peers over this spectacle as well. Animals. I wonder if I was that bad. For what I can remember, when I was drunk, I was always a happy drunk, and I hated having people nurse me back to health. Thank goodness I’m here for the surf. Once again, I’m not here for that.

A Barney in Bali--Day 26, 03JULY2011 SUN

The Morning Baggage:


    I go to bed at a decent time. It’s a little after ten, I know I’ll have enough rest, and I’ll meet Randy at Dunkin’ Donuts on time.

    I wake up lying in my bed, it’s still dark out, and I tell myself to look at my watch to see what time it is. I don’t know how, but it seems like all I do is blink, and now there’s full blown light entering my room. Motherfucker! It’s 0650, my body’s not doing the natural alarm thing as expected.

    After getting all my shit together, I go to the gas station first. Instead of making the right turn where I’ve been missing my brother’s directions, I make a left, and another left. Fuckin’ A, I find the shortcut; it’s a small moment of triumph. Traffic is light since it’s Sunday morning, and I’m dumping my throttle the whole way to Dunkin’ Donuts. I slow down, take a look, and Randy’s bike’s not there. On to Balangan. I know I keep on saying it, but each day I feel more and more confident on the moped, and I’m taking more risks. Instead of hesitating, I’m gassing it in the opposite lane and passing cars, just moments before vehicles pass me head-on. It’s kind of unnecessary, maybe even a little stupid, but riding a motorbike here has been an experience itself with its own forms of progression.

    Randy’s sitting at Froggy’s. He says he had a late start as well, and that he’s only been there for fifteen minutes. It’s a beautiful day. There’s no wind, and the sun shines down on us where we’re sitting. From there we have a serious talk to start the morning. We talk about what’s going on in his life right now, and I get my reasons for leaving his home out in the open. It all leads to us discussing the shortcomings of our personalities. I don’t want to speak on Randy’s behalf because . . . well, this is kind of personal, so in respect, I’ll just speak from my experience alone.

    Living on Maui with my grandparents, I had an uncle that assumed we were trying to “de-throne” him. He was always over protective of our grandparents, thinking that we were trying to take advantage of them. I only had to deal with it for four years, but Randy was under his influence since age five. My uncle was controlling, and I lived life walking on eggshells every time he was around. Home life during high school was never stable. It’s either I was on his good side, or I was being scolded about something. I came home to notes on my door with threats about being kicked out because I’m not helping around the house, or I’d come upstairs for dinner with a cold piece of chicken waiting for me on my dinner plate, and then the ridiculing began as I ate.

    I was never physically abused; the damage was all psychological. I’m struggling to find the words with how controlling he was. I was being policed all the time for all my actions. His ideal nephew would be one who didn’t have a life outside of helping my grandfather with the cattle, all day on the weekends, and every day after school. On top of that, I was to clean the fucking house, a six bedroom house every weekend all by myself, and that’s not including all the yard work outside of our house and empty lot next door. I remember he put his hand under the cushion of the couch one day. When he pulled out his hand, it was dusty. He asked me if I was cleaning. I said yes. Then he said, “You’re cleaning is like shit!” I was in ninth grade.

    Naturally, I didn’t want to be home. My escapes were school, cruising on Front St., hanging out with a bad crowd, experimenting with drugs, drinking at the beach at night, and just doing the wrong things. If I wasn’t around, he’d get pissed, but it was all because of him, so it was a vicious cycle.

    I was finally kicked out during my senior year, or should I say that I came home on a late morning to find another one of his motivational and inspiring notes on my door, telling me to get the fuck out of the house after I graduate. That was the routine . . . wait for him to come home and get the verbal version of the note. I left, my aunt Elsie and my uncle Tim took me in; I’ll always love them for that.

    I have personal issues, and I’ve known it for the longest time. I’m a control freak, and sometimes I hurt the ones I love with this part of my personality. Everything has to be done a certain way, I’m always thinking ten steps ahead, ready to correct something that hasn’t even gone wrong yet. Only recently have I finally realized that, as much as I hate my uncle, I’ve become like him. I guess sometimes, against our wills, we become the things that oppress us.

    Also, I had the world’s greatest grandparents. My grandfather raised cattle even before I was born, and Randy and I were always his little helpers. As young men, we were his grown helpers. All of my best memories of him, lessons of life, fatherly influences, they all took place on those days after school, and on the weekends. He had seven different pastures. We’d drive past Honolua Bay on a daily basis to give feed, fix fence, fix a water line, maintain the corral, or to just check on the cows. I can see my grandfather now. The rich, orange, Maui soil coats his jeans and flannel. We’re crouched at the side of his work truck for shade. He takes off his blue construction helmet and tells me to take a break. We sit on the grass, and he hands me his red Coleman thermos for a drink before taking a drink for himself. He lectures me on the importance of breaks and not doing everything at once. “Little by little,” he says. We finish our work and drive back to Napili. The truck shakes, the bottomless pit of tools in the cab rattles the whole drive, and the sun’s low over Kapalua as we take the lower road home.

    My grandfather passed away from cancer after I moved back to Los Angeles with my mom. My uncle pushed me away from home, reducing the time I had with my grandfather. Those days with him were limited, I didn’t now, and I’ll never get them back. Not a day goes by that I don’t think about him; his memory still makes my eyes water.

    All that being said, Randy and I talked about forgiveness, and maybe I need to have the official man-to-man talk with him in order to get some kind of closure. I haven’t talked to him since my grandma‘s funeral, and he probably doesn’t feel like he’s done anything wrong, but I’m carrying the baggage anyway. I’ve been trying to change, it’s not easy, but maybe making my resentments known to him can at least help me move on.



Peanut Butter Jelly Time:


    It’s a morning filled with our own stories from years ago. Ghosts are resurrected and summoned, and old memories I’ve stashed away are relived. It’s a deep morning, too deep, so we get ready for a good surf to capitalize on removing the morning weight. I decide to bareback it to get some sun on my skin.

    I’ve said this before, but once again, it’s even smaller than the last time I said, “It’s the smallest day I’ve seen at Balangan yet.” The high tide has the smaller waves breaking closer to shore. The bigger sets are closing out, so we decide to catch the smaller ones which actually have shape.

    Mostly everyone is at the top of the wave, so we have the inside to ourselves. To our surprise, we’re catching fun little two foot rides (Randy scale). No, not throaty, vertical drops but shoulders to turn on for a change. It’s a playful morning. I mess around, walk the nose longboard style to keep momentum, and even do a couple failed catwalk spins on my board. 

    Way out on the ocean, there are a couple boats. There are a couple plastic bottles in the distance. It’s a shame to have such a beautiful place with random trash floating around, I think to myself. I finish catching a wave and paddle back out. I see a plastic bottle, some wrappers, trash, and then trails of an oily brown substance floating about. I paddle further and realize that a swarm of jellyfish are feeding on the trash. Immediately, I’m stung in different places simultaneously: my arms, my leg, my bicep.

    I yell, “Fuck, motherfucker! . . . Shiiiiit!” I’m trying to pull the tentacles out and escape, but everywhere I turn, I see more jellies. Without my rashguard I’m defenseless, which makes their presence more sinister. Those once harmless little bastards that I’d splash away are now unleashing their fury on me. It’s unavoidable. They’re right there; I’m getting stung. Fuckin’ boats. Those assholes dumped out their trash and sewage line; we’re in the middle of a trash and shit pool. The brown water looks like dissipating peanut butter, there are trails of it everywhere, and they’re connected. Randy’s stung, and everyone near us starts flailing their arms. In unison, everyone catches a wave in.

    Back at Froggy’s I shower off and think about all the nasty, invisible bacteria that’s coating my body. Randy and I look over our wounds, and the stings are starting to puff up.

    It’s a short sesh stopped short, right in the middle of having fun. We’re unfulfilled, so we sit and wait for another.

A Barney in Bali--Day 25 (double sesh), 02JULY2011 SAT

My First Legit Floater:


    It’s noon, which means it’s time to paddle out. I tell Randy that I’m only going out for an hour, so he decides to wait. The crowd at Froggy’s and the other warungs are starting to fill up. The white sand beach is filled with both locals and tourists. It’s a beautiful day that draws everyone out and about. High tide already peaked, so it’s going out fairly rapidly, but it’s still kind of high. I paddle out not expecting much. I don’t remember my first couple rides, but what I do remember is paddling back to the line and being in someone’s way as he’s dropping in on a wave. I try to steer left, and there’s room for him to make his drop without incident, but he’ll have to miss me by a foot. His drop is too vertical, and he falls forward. Expecting a collision, I go under and brace for the impact. We miss each other, but it’s close. I apologize to him, and he instead comments on his wipe out, oblivious that I’d feel any fault at all. This is another sign to me. I remember how I got pissed off at that one guy who was in my way; I need to stop doing that.

    As I’m sitting in the line up there’s a long lull. I look down, and see what looks like a big, bright, orange-brown, nugget like, mud chunk floating in front of me, right on top of my board. “Motherfucker,” I say out loud. Someone’s taking a shit in the line up. There’s a floater right in front of me, just chillin’ . . . marinating. I think about grabbing my camera, but as I’m looking at it, brown water is dissolving off of it and mixing in the water. I splash it away and paddle somewhere else instead. It is a pretty massive floater though, it would make a great picture capturing the moment, but its slimy texture and oily trails turn me off.


A Godsend:


    The way that the session is going, I’m not expecting much. Guys at the top of the wave are getting most of the waves, and I’m at the bottom hoping for a set that is too fast for their break. A set appears in the distance, and it’s a nice bump considering the lack of swell. Somehow, everyone on the inside doesn’t have position, the peak is too lined at the top, and the bottom has the shoulder. I paddle past the shoulder to catch it a little deep, and my timing‘s perfect. The wave is fast, but it’s opening up beautifully. The wave seems to be curling the whole ride. I imagine that Randy is watching, so I get a little loose. My knees are bent to feel the board on the wave, my arms move in sync with my legs on each pumping motion, and I’m surfing with the rail set the whole time. I try to emulate Andy Irons on “High Five” as he’s pumping down the line, but instead I’m going frontside and don’t have a barrel. I’m drawing the right lines, going high before the lip can start to break. A surfer on the inside doesn’t expect anyone to be on it. I see him paddling about to drop in, I let out a loud “WOOOOOOOOOOOOH!,“ and he backs out. I see I’m over shallow reef, I do a cutback but take too long to redirect, so the section leaves without me. It’s still a long ass ride; I’m past the channel and in front of the last warung.

    Talk about a wave that made the whole day. I’m stoked, taking a long paddle back to the bottom of the wave again. I turn around, but it’s hard to make out Randy from the distance. It looks like he’s watching, so I throw a shaka and keep going.

    I hate to say this. I know I said that I’d kill the ego, but it’s hard at times because there are crowds watching from the shore. They are either on the beach chairs, or watching the surf while the eat and drink. Every time someone has a good wave, everyone sees it. There’s a couple “hoots” and “hollers” that gets everyone’s attention, signaling them to look out. It’s not an epic day, but I have to say that I got one of the better waves of the day. It’s vain, but I’m not perfect, so I wonder if my ride got any honorable mentions or not.



  
    After that wave, it’s hard to get another ride to live up to it. My last wave is a close out which drags me towards the inside. For the first time today, I feel the reef under my feet, so I decide to play it safe. My session’s just under an hour, but I got a damn good ride, and I feel that I’m ending everything on a good note. I catch the white wash to shore and go up to Randy. “Did you see my long ass ride?” I ask.

    “Oh, noooo, I didn’t. I was talking to Chad.”

    Oh well. I laugh a little. It would’ve been nice to get that validation from him if he saw it, but the memory ingrained in my mind is all that counts.

Tearin' up that coconut!

The Misadventure:


    On the way home, Randy shows me the shortcut how to get back to my motel which unfortunately involves going the wrong way down a one way street. The locals do it, so . . . I guess it’s expected. Once we get to the motel, he says he’s gonna find somewhere to eat. I recommend Tree House Café since the price is right. He agrees.

Unflattering view in front of the cafe

    We sit at the counter, people watch, and shoot the shit. The food in the afternoon isn’t as good as it was last night. The gado gado portions are a bit smaller, so I feel kind of bad for the call I made.

    I’m out of rupiah and only have a hundred dollar bill that I need to exchange. Randy gives me directions on where to go before we part ways, so I pack up my laptop, plan on exchanging my money, and then hitting Chat Café in Seminyak.

    Too bad I didn’t pay close enough attention when listening to his directions because I’m not able to find it. I say fuck it and head towards the other legit currency exchange place on the way to Canggu. Traffic is a little thick, so I’m stressing, shaking my head, and cursing at the gridlock which engulfs me. I’m on Sunset Road at the intersection by the gas station. The light turns green, my back tire gets squirrelly, so I pull over to the shoulder to check it out. Fuck my ass, It’s a flat tire.



   I’m not sure what to do. I sit back on the bike, exhale, take a deep breath, relax, and absorb the situation. The gas station across the street has no mechanic, but it’s rush hour traffic anyway, how am I gonna get to the other side with a flat tire? I have no phone and can’t contact Randy. I pull out the paperwork for the bike which has a phone number and address. What the fuck am I gonna do with this? I look behind me and contemplate on going back to Kuta. If only I was there . . . I’d be up the street from the guy, and he could take care of it. There’s no fucking way. Traffic is way too brutal. All that bumper to bumper traffic, and I’ll be holding everyone up, fuck no. If I only had a phone. There’s another thought. I could find a repair shop, but what’s the going price for fixing a flat? It’s obvious that I’m bule. I imagine myself getting ripped off, finding out it actually costs pennies, and then hating myself for it later. I need to get to Randy.

    I’m not sure how far I am from Randy’s house, I know how to get there, and if anything it’ll just take some walking. I ride the soft shoulder and park in front of a local business. I lock up the bike and start to walk, but as I look at the shoulder I realize that I can drive a little further. I go back, grab the bike, and ride on the side of the road with the flat tire. I go as far as I can until I see a traffic light ahead. That’s not going to be safe, I think to myself. I park the bike again, walk, and realize that the intersection is where Chat Café is. People driving by watch me, as I’m clearly out of place walking the highway. I ride the shoulder again and wait for traffic to clear before I push forward. There’s loose gravel on the shoulder, and a woman on her moped takes a spill, the left side of her body skids across the rocks. She wasn’t going very fast, but it’s startling, and enough to stop traffic. A couple locals help her. She struggles to kickstart her bike, but she seems fine.


 
   I finally make it to Chat Café, but I still have no money to repair the flat. I start on foot into Seminyak’s shopping district to find a money changer. Randy just told me to ONLY go to legit, authorized money changers, that’s why he gave me specific directions on which one to go to. He said that a lot of the money changers will either charge commission or shortchange you, keeping some of your money for themselves. I look like a straight up foreigner, the way I used to look at tourists in Lahaina; I’m perfect bait.

Seminyak, a very nice town in Bali.

    Another problem with changing out the money is that I don’t know what the rate’s been like lately, so I’m reluctant to change my money at the first place I see. I pass currency listings that read 8450, 9901, 9950, etc. Anything in the 9900 range seems too good to be true. I walk so far that I’m deep in Seminyak, and I still haven’t found a legit establishment. The sun’s low but in my face, sweat beads off of my oily face, my shirt is soaked with sweat, and I got this laptop banging on my back with every step I take. I see money changer signs that claim no commission, but the arrow pointing to their locations are always down some empty alley. When I look down them, I see two fellows waiving me to come down. They look shady, so I keep walking. In desperation, I see one of these small money changers that some Asian tourists just finished using. I’m thinking, All right, some people just used it, they should be legit, and they’re on the street, not in some alley. The rate is 9450. I walk up. There are two fellows working the wooden booth. “You guys charging commission?“ I ask.

    “No, no commission,” the guy says. He whips out his calculator and asks how much.

    “One hundred,” I tell him. He does the calculations, shows me the calculator. It reads 945000. He asks for the money, but I ask for the rupiah first. I’m not liking this. His helper pulls out a wad full of 20000 bills, I have my hundred in hand, he tries to exchange it with me, but I ask him to count it first.

    “Twenty thousand, forty, sixty, eighty, one hundred thousand. . . .” He goes on, he’s watching me, I’m watching the money, I’m wondering if I’ve lost count and if his hands are quicker than my eyes; I’m fuckin’ vulnerable and desperate right now. He counts all the way up to 945000. I tell myself that I’m just being a paranoid tourist, that not all these guys are crooks, and that I need to stop judging people. “Where are you from?” The main guy asks. We have a little small talk about Hawaii, I grab the money, comment on the weather, thank them, and walk a little down the street. I’m so naïve and trusting that I feel ashamed to recount the money in front of them, so I wait until I’m away.

    I count, “Two, four, six, eight, one hundred. Two, four, six, eight, two hundred. . . .” I do this two times over, and I only have 645,000. I feel violated. I turn around, go back, tell him that I’m supposed to have 945,000.

    He smiles calmly and says, “No, we gave you 20000 bills. You have the money.”

    I wonder if I got the count wrong. I say, “Okay,” turn around, count the money three times over again, realize I’m not having a mathematical stupor, go back, and tell him that I only have 600,000. I whip out the wad and start counting out in front of him.

    He hands me back my hundred and says, “Okay, you can change your money somewhere else.” He takes his money back, but he looks pissed off like I’m an accusatory asshole.

    I keep walking until I find a place that actually has a counter with a guy behind some glass. The rate is 8450. He gives me a receipt; it’s a legit spot.

Scoop of ice cream in there

     I walk all the way back towards Chat Café, but I stop at Bali Delhi because their coffee leigois drink is the shit. I sit down and e-mail Randy my situation. I chat with Lauren for a little bit, but Randy sends me an e-mail stating that there is a bengkel (repair shop) right across the street, it should only cost 20000, and I need to get there before they close. I say bye to Lauren, and ride there, flat tire and all. I’m so grateful that they’re open. The Balinese guy has obviously done this a million times before, and he takes out his tools to start the work. Randy pulls up on his motorcycle to check on me. I tell him everything, and then I’m lectured on what I should have done: ask the locals how much this repair is, ask where the nearest Bengkel is, and he also rips me a new asshole for going to the shady money changers. He has a field day with this, but I don’t care. Instead, I see that my brother is there to check on me to make sure I’m all right. He talks to the mechanic to make sure I don’t get ripped off. He gets the repair down to 10000 rupiah, which is a buck and some change.  

Bengkel

On With the Show:

Because I can

After the afternoon’s events, I’m pretty drained. I ride across the street to Chat Café on my fixed tire, post a couple blogs, and head back to Kuta. I drive through the nightlife and witness it in full effect. The bars are packed, chicks are crossing the street, going back and forth from them everywhere. Taxi mopeds carry drunk Aussies in front of me, they’re drunk, and they’re shouting at every girl we drive by. Even through traffic is thick, it’s moving at a steady pace. I zip through Poppies 1 and still get passed by the moped taxi guys; they know how to drive.

    Back at my room I rinse off and look for some dinner. I decide to gamble on the Thai warung that my brother recommended. The Garden restaurant is next door, there’s a live band, they’re playing 80s rock, and the lead singer’s pretty damn good. I order the ice papaya drink. When it arrives, there’s no fucking ice in it. It’s good, but it’s warm, not what I hoped for. I order the spring roll appetizer. They are fried, small, but cheap. I actually hoped it would be like the Vietnamese ones. I order the chicken pad Thai. When I ordered it in Seminyak there was too much sauce. This place serves it too dry.

     It’s a small warung, but I enjoy the music next door, and I take in the atmosphere. Mopeds and cars go by at a slow speed, a headlight spots me here and there, an Aussie walks along with two giggling Balinese chicks, two older guys meet up at The Garden and exchange greetings like they haven’t seen each other in years. Despite everything that’s happened today, I’m all right, and still see it all as an experience.

  


    My bill is only 45000 rupiah, which comes out to $5.32 US. Not bad for an appetizer, main course, and a drink. I buy some water at the mini mart, go back to the hotel, try to write, but I’m too tired. It's an exhausting day in paradise.

A Barney in Bali--Day 25, 02JULY2011 SAT

Again:


    I sleep much better than I did the night before. I’m not attacked by mosquitoes, the bed and pillows are broken in, and I rack out by 2300.

    It’s 0400 when my body’s alarm clock goes off. Another hour and a half. I open my eyes again, and it’s just like yesterday. Light’s entering my room. “Fuck!” I say to myself. “I did it again.” It’s 0642, and I stumble around trying to prep my gear for the morning. Randy knows the deal. I walk downstairs, mount my equipment, and give my brother’s shortcut to Balangan (that I failed at yesterday) another shot. I fill up my bike with gas first and follow the road that I believe is the right one. Next think I know, I’m heading in the opposite direction just like yesterday. I shake my head. I bust a bitch, stop by Dunkin’ Donuts, Randy’s not there, so I keep riding to Balangan. Morning traffic is light, so I take more risks by aggressively passing other motorists. It’s my fastest ride to Balangan yet. I pull up and see Randy’s bike already parked. He’s waiting, the tide is going up, and there’s no rush.

Everyday we watch guys get caught on the inside that can't make it out.

Spirituality:


    The waves this morning are nothing special. The swell peaked yesterday, and was expected to drop. It’s the smallest day that I’ve seen at Balangan yet. As usual, there are always a couple good sets, but when and how long until they happen is another issue. I drink my Bali coffee and begin to change when Randy spots Chad. Randy’s sitting closer to Chad as I warm up, so I can’t hear everything they are talking about. I don’t want to give bad information, but I tried to confirm as much with Randy as I could afterwards.

    Randy said that he noticed a certain open minded spiritualness about Chad. “Usually yogis are like that after years of practice,” said Randy. Randy talked about some of his yoga friends that have the same energy about them. Randy asked him how he reached that level, and to his surprise, Chad got in touch with his spirituality before yoga; he got it from mountain climbing. Through competitive mountain climbing he put himself in so many near death situations that it changed him. Chad talked about opening his life to love, that he’s not “up there” everyday, and that some days are low. Randy also told me that that’s why a lot of yoga instructors stay single because they are so into their spiritual progression. They also talked about surfing. Chad said that he’s comfortable where he’s at as far as his level. Randy said that it’s rare for someone to know himself that well, that he can surf in the water and just “be.” I thought about it, and it made sense. All of my surfer buddies, myself included, are always pushing ourselves; not one of us are comfortable with where we’re at. Well, they hit it off pretty well and exchanged information. Before I leave I’ll probably end up telling him to hit me up when he surfs California and that I’ll have my couch ready for him. Other than military related travels, I haven’t really been on a journey as personal as this. But for a first real trip, it’s been a great privilege to meet some very interesting personalities along the way.

    My brother enlightened me a little more about how traveling alone for long periods of time changes you, and then I thought about other friends that tried to tell me this a long time ago, but I was too narrow minded to know what they meant. I have a friend, an old army buddy named Sterwin. We spent a whole year in Utah together in the remote desert. We also spent another year in the Sinai desert right after Utah. He always tells me that he misses those places. I never understood why, and I thought he was crazy. When I remember him during those deployments, he lived quietly, enjoyed his self time, and was always playing his guitar. I wasn’t much of a surfer then, but now I realize . . . everyone’s different, and the isolated desert to him is what the ocean is to me. And at the same time, despite my surf sabbatical, I’m still pretty limited. Chad does a lot of activities in the snow and the mountains too. It’s a little reality check. I feel as if I’ve credited myself for things that I’ve done only to find I haven’t really done much at all.

    Randy and I talked more about how Chad’s path in life isn’t easy. I thought about my own personality. I’d like to open myself up more and carry myself in a similar fashion, but I’ve always felt that I had a certain energy. I’m the guy that says, “Hi,” without getting a “hi“ back. I’m always defensive around strangers until I feel that I can at least trust them a little before I open up. I claim to be a positive person, but I’m pretty damn pessimistic as well. It guess to reach a certain level of spirituality, one can’t just flip a switch and change. It may take years of practice, time alone, and journeys away from home.

That's the man

    Chad runs a blog about his adventures and experiences at:  chadsayers.blogspot.com .


Dwindling:




    We complain about the water before we paddle out. The high tide makes everything bumpy, or what my brother calls “wonky.” I paddle out first and sit near the bottom of the wave but much further towards the inside. There are actually shoulders, but they are two footers, good for turns if you’re fast enough, but all I can do is pump and draw high lines to get the longest ride possible. 

Glassy

    Randy paddles out but gets some decent turns out of the small surf. My next wave is a little bigger with a section that stands up a little more. I see the face going vertical at about shoulder height, but I continue to pump down the line and practice my sorry excuse for a cutback. After the ride Randy says, “You had a good barrel section.” I know I saw the wave standing up, but I had no idea that it was good for a barrel, especially in this small surf. Barrel hunting is just entirely new to me; I still don’t know what to look for.

Random set

    The next couple waves are just okay compared to the big days that we’ve had. I search for barrel sections and linger by the pocket more, but the waves don’t seem to do it again. This blog is being written a little late, so I can’t remember all the details of the morning, but I remember that it wasn’t anything to light a match and stomp my feet over.

    We paddle back in and polished off a pancake each. For 15,000 rupiah you can’t go wrong.

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 24, 01JULY2011 FRI

Potato Sack:


    After my explosive diarrhea, it was just past midnight. I turned everything off and went to sleep. I woke up not even two hours later, itching all over my limbs. It was from getting mauled up by the mosquitoes during dinner. There’s no escape from them. Even air conditioned facilities have mosquitoes rushing in every time a door or window opens. So I’m lying there unsure if mosquitoes are munching on me right now, or if I’m itching from older bites. I force myself under the sheets, and I start to get hot. Also, the fucking pillows are hard. It feels like they are stuffed with someone’s lint collection; they’re hard and clumpy. I usually like to rest my head in between two soft pillows and just let my head sink in. I’m struggling all night. 0330, there’s pounding on the door. Someone’s speaking Indonesian. I’m jolted, nervous, and wondering if I’m going to get raped and sold to the sex slave market. I realize it’s coming from next door. This happens a couple more times until I wake. When my alarm goes off at 0530, I reset it for 0545. I wake up to sunlight peering through my window, it’s 0640; I overslept. I’m pissed off at myself, but I don’t rush. I’m sure Randy has come to the conclusion that I overslept and is heading to Balangan. I feel another shit coming on. Enough is enough. Yeah, yeah, there are two types of men in this world, but if you’ve had the gravy train going for a whole day already, it starts to get a little old.

    I’m downstairs, my bike is loaded, and I’m backing out of my parking spot when another dark surfer walks by.

    “Where are you surfing?” He asks.

    I’m a bit reluctant to give away my spot. I say, “Canggu.”

    He tells me he’s surfing at a Kuta Break called Halfways, and that it’s good in the mornings. I wish him well and head out. It’s my first time doing the Balangan trek from Kuta. I follow the directions my brother gave me, but I fucked up somewhere, and I take a longer route. I pull into Dunkin’ Donuts and see Randy’s bike there. I find him at the counter fingering through their calendars.

    “Sorry, bro,” I say. “I woke up late. How long have you been here?”

    “No worries. I’m already done with my coffee.”

    “All right, let’s just go.”

    The morning traffic is already starting to pick up. I tail Randy and stick close to him until we hit the country roads. I don’t feel that confident on the turns, so I relax and enjoy that scenic part of the journey.


Familiarity:
 

 

    As I unload my stuff at Froggy’s, there’s an SUV parked there with two guys unpacking. The tide is pretty high, but I’m in time to see a big set. I’ve already described the waves here numerous times. It’s a clean up set that peels fast from the top of the wave, slows down at the bottom of the wave, and then turns hollow at the inside section. There aren’t too many guys out, and some are wiping out trying to go for these behemoths. It looks fun, but as the tide is rising, the sections aren’t as clean; it’s getting a little werbly and bumpy.

    We talk to one of the guys from the SUV. His name is Nicholas. He’s another expat that’s been here since 1998.

    Nick says, “This used to be a secret spot ya know, back in 2000. There was only one restaurant here, the road was all dirt and rock, it took a couple hours just to get down here!”

    I can imagine the difference a decade can make. Randy’s friend Sky just visited Sri Lanka. He told me that that place is like Bali ten years back. Nicholas tells Randy that there’s no secret spots left. Randy keeps his mouth shut on the places he knows.

    Nick’s friend comes back dripping wet; he was barely out for twenty minutes. He says, “I went out there, there were like twenty jellies. It wasn’t worth it.” That’s a hell of an attitude to have being out here, I’m thinking. The guy has a fish, and there’s a psychedelic inspired design on it; it looks like something from the shortboard revolution. It turns out that the guy’s name is Justin, and he’s from Venice Beach. I go on and talk about all the local breaks back home. I probably say too much, being hyper finding someone from my neighborhood. We watch guys being swept away by the inside current. People are paddling out in front of the top of the wave, being swept in front of us by the bottom, and still being swept all the way by the last warung on the beach. I polish off my Bali coffee and tell Randy I’m paddling out.

    I’m a little nervous, since I have a small audience now. I don’t want to look like an idiot in front of our new acquaintances. The tide’s high, so a do some shallow duckdives, letting the inside whitewash roll over me. It’s a success. I’m nearing the line up, and I notice that there are a lot more jellyfish than usual. They seem to be everywhere, and a couple even get caught between my board and rashguard.

    At the line up I’m doing my usual thing, sitting on the outside waiting for the haymaker. I scratch out on a set and miss everything. I’m not very happy with myself but remain patient. I catch a wave on the next set, manage the drop, and get a couple pumps before it closes out. I straighten up instead of glory holing it. I should have kazid anyway. It’s still a decent first wave.

    Everyone in the water keeps splashing around them. The guys bare backing it have it worse. Some kid stops in mid paddle and thrashes the water around him, curding. They are getting stung. I’m grateful that I’m not, but a couple minutes later, I get a really bad sting on my right wrist. It hurts . . . a lot.

    Randy comes out to the line up and sits near the barrel section. Just then, an outside set gets revealed after the wave in front of us passes. It’s always an intense moment when it’s a surprise: I take a deep breath, my eyes become wide, I start looking for the peak and reference myself to it, and I start to paddle for the right position. The adrenaline alone tires me a little before I’m even on the wave. I’m behind the peak but still get enough speed on the drop to make the section. I’m pumping hard even though there’s a lip coming down in front of me. I ignore it and see if I can still make the high line. The lip spills on my board and knocks me off balance. Another thing I’m learning is that bigger waves have longer hold-down times. I know it sounds like common sense, but if you can’t kick out unscathed, then a big wave is gonna give you some kind of lickins one way or another. As I go down, I’m thinking that the explosion has passed of me, but since I’m on the face, I get sucked down with it. I’m being washed around, my heart is thumping, and my air’s running out. I feel my rash guard and shorts being yanked every which way. Through my eyelids I see flashes of bright blue and white. I’m kicking, kicking, and still kicking; it feels like a life time until I breech the surface. I take a gasp and clear the water from my eyes; surfing makes me feel more alive than anything else.

    I catch another outside set. It’s a T&G, and my drop in is late. I’m sliding down off balance, falling backwards a little. On the bottom turn I fucking recover. My body jerks awkwardly upright, an obvious save. The section’s running away, I pump to make the shoulder, but the next section is too long and spilling, so I wipe out. I take another trip into the deep, but I’m stoked with the way that the morning’s going.

    Sitting on the outside is working. I get a little brazen on the next wave and keep drawing a high line. As the sections are about to break in front of me, I careen off of the lips before they spill. Ideally, they’re good floater sections, but I’d rather practice a floater on something less critical. The wave closes out when I’m at mid face, and then it’s like zero gravity. It’s not a good place to be on the wave. I’m in a wall of water that turns upside down. My board and I are in suspended animation, it’s now next to me, and everything under my feet is gone; I’m both mid-air and mid-water. I can‘t tell you how long the plunge is, but these are just some of the moments that make surfing what it is. No, not everyone is wiping out all the time. It sounds crazy, but the epic wipeout experience still merits some kind of heroics, almost as much as catching that big wave.

    I paddle up to Randy. I want to be giddy, but I stop myself. He asks if I made the section, and I tell him that I didn’t. “You’re going for the big ones,” he says. “That’s good.” It feels good to hear that from him.


Thanks for Being an Asshole:


    I’m close to hitting the two hour mark. I still have another session for the afternoon, so I’m thinking about catching one in. My morning is going good. The only thing that would be better is a barrel. I’m catching waves from the bigger sets. It’s somewhat defining for me. I’m actually getting more comfortable in big surf. This day is marked in that long and infinite surfer learning curve.

    Buddha bless you, I’m paddling for another T&G, and it feels even steeper than the last one. It’s one of those straight vertical drops again, I’m on my board, I feel the building speed, and I’m thinking, Yes, yes, this is what life is all about! I look at the line I want to draw, and sure as shit, one of the morning surfers is at the base of the wave paddling out. I look at him, he looks at me, I say “Shiiiiiiit!” and I am forced to step off of rail where all the wave’s power is generating. You ever go to the laundry mat, and there are those big ass washing machines that cost like five bucks to use? I don’t get washed, I get super washed. I resurface, and he’s right in front of me towards shore. Fuckin guy ditched his board. I’m pissed, glaring at him. He is too, and he’s glaring at me. It’s a stale mate. I hold the stare a little bit longer to let him know that he fucked me on my wave. I just don’t understand it. I mean, it’s a left hand point break. It’s dead obvious that I’m going left; I can only go left! And instead of paddling to where the wave is breaking, he tries to paddle through the open face where I’m coming straight down. Unbelievable.

    In the water I calm myself down, but it’s hard. It’s a potentially dangerous situation, I’m robbed of the wave, but he’s not hurt, my board’s fine, I’m fine, so fuck it . . . forget about it. Randy’s paddling towards me and says, “What happened to that one?”

    “This guy was in my way,” I say. He’s right next to me.

    “Who?”

    “This guy right here!” I nod in his direction. He says nothing and paddles away.

I do my best to fumble with my camera every time I see something. It's not easy, but I do it for all of you!

    All right, I’m looking for my last fucking wave of the morning; I need to make up for that last mishap. I scratch out on a couple, and there’s this other guy that’s sitting by Randy and I. He looks old, a little chubby, neck length hair, balding a little on top, kind of like how a high school teacher that works at a porn shop would look like. My moment arrives. I’m on another big one. Yes, a big one because it is my fucking day! The section’s fast, so I’m trying to gain speed down the line. I look ahead of me, and that motherfuckin’ pervert, child-molesting looking motherfucker is paddling out in my fucking way! I don’t even comprehend how fucked up this is; it’s happening again. I see this fucking guy get nervous at the sight of me, slide his board to the side, and go under the water. I have to fade out of the wave to avoid him and his board. I look back at the section, it’s holding a big shoulder, and it’s running away. I yell, “FUUUUUUUCK!” as I straighten up at head towards the inside. I go all the way to shore, standing. Guys are watching from the beach, but they probably don’t know the mini drama going on in my head.  Randy paddles up, I vent, and he says, “Some guys just aren’t trained to paddle out of the way.”

    I order just one pancake this time, and we each order an orange juice. I still go back to the vision of that guy sliding off of his board. Oh well . . . you gotta deal with’m.

A Barney in Bali--Day 22 (double sesh), 29JUNE2011 WED

Pancakes:


    After the morning session I order a Bali coffee and one banana pancake. I don’t expect much, especially since each pancake is a buck-fifty. I expect something small, something I can just inhale in a second, leaving just as hungry. I say, “Fuck it,” and order two of those motherfuckers. I watch the surf, Froggy continues to get my attention every time some chicks walk by. Apparently, he’s seen me taking ass shots, so now he chooses to be an accessory to the crime. I’m forced to snap away, so as not to be rude to my Balinese host.

    The pancake arrives; it’s big. I assume that they combined both orders and made just one big pancake. “No problem,” I say to myself. No, it’s not an American pancake. Something is missing. It’s not fluffy; it’s dense and thick. It’s the size of the plate, there’s banana in it, and there’s a side of honey which I don’t spare. I polish it off and watch the surf. I’m definitely satisfied. Here comes Froggy again. “Banana pancake,” he says. Motherfucker, it’s the second one. I underestimated their portions because they’re cheap, and now I’m forced to do round two. I eat it, I’m stuffed, and it’s too much presurf fuel.

    The tide starts draining out fast, but it’s still inconsistent. Some guys leave the lineup. A couple good sets come, but the wait is long. I’m looking at my watch; it’s 1300. I think about the rush hour traffic. I don’t want that. I need to leave by 1430, that is the plan.

   
Water on the Neck:


    The reef dance is brutal as always. Thank goodness I don’t get grated. I hurdle a couple waves and make the mad dash to deeper water. Success! I’m sitting in the same area as the morning. I have a good solid hour, so I tell myself to make the best of it.

    The inconsistency kills me again. The waits are long, but a couple outside sets come through. I get a big wave, the section’s so fast it closes, I fade outside of the lip as it comes crashing down, I’m worried if I’m over shallow reef. I step off the rail, and the impact forces my head forward. I feel a couple mini cracks in my neck. The good news is that I don’t touch the bottom. It’s not a success, but the low tide has me a little apprehensive.

   
No Aloha from this Hawaiian:


    My brother’s friend’s friend is in the water. I don’t want to say his name, but for fuck sake, let’s call him Murf. He’s huge, from Maui, and I’d be surprised if his genetics aren’t mostly of Hawaiian blood. He reminds me of the big, scary, Hawaiians from my high school days. He’s freakin’ menacing, wearing short shorts, and on a long board. My brother knows him too, we haven’t been formally introduced, so I stay off his jock. He catches a wave, but something bad must’ve happened because I hear him say, “FOCK!” somewhere on the inside where I can’t see him. He’s intimidating. He paddles through the line up, stands on his long board exposing his full Polynesian physique, checks to see if any waves are coming, lies back down, and keeps paddling. Etiquette is not perfect at Balangan, but it’s pretty damn mellow for the most part. There’s another inside peak by the top of the wave. I’ve been watching people on it all day. There’s this little Aussie grom that’s been riding it. A wave comes, the grommie has the wave, and Murf knows this. He doesn’t even bother to look at the kid, paddles in with his huge long board, and cuts him off as if the kid didn’t exist. I hear the grom say, “Hey!”

    I can’t believe what I see. Are we in high school again? I mean . . . it’s so blatant, especially in a place like this. It’s unnecessary.

It is What it is:


    The rest of the session is frustrating. I have position for waves, but guys are on my inside with priority. Same thing as the morning, I’m too far on the outside. Nothing here is worth mentioning once again. I need clean up sets to equalize things, but they don’t come. I catch another one that’s glory hole worthy, but I straighten out and go back to shore. I need to beat traffic. As I’m doing the reef dance back, I notice Randy paddling out. We see each other and wave. He loves the low tide. We clearly missed each other today, but it’s all right. He knows I can find my way around, and we don’t have to be joined at the hip all the time. The walk back is just as long as the walk out. I turn around, see Randy on a wave, it’s hollow, he fades out, pulls in for second, and fades back out before the green room closes. Fuck, he’s on another level.

    I change and hit the road. I want to wait for Randy, but I’ve been there since 0900, and I can’t fuck with the whole Bali rush hour thing. I climb Balangan Hill, and when I reach the highway, traffic is manageable. There are only a few times that I have to ride the shoulder, but for the most part, it’s smooth sailing.

    There’s not much chicken curry at the house, so I decide to hit the café and find some chow. My time’s coming to an end in Bali. It’s such a great experience overall. I hope it’s going to make me a better surfer. So there’s been more spills than thrills, but the thrills could only have been experienced here, these thrills. No pressure, I got about a week left, I think I just need to focus on being stoked, that’s all that matters. Fun, just keep it simple. I’m a Barney in Bali.