MY BARREL YEAR, MON 31AUG2015

Loc: Manhattan Beach

Time: 0620- 0900     

Conditions: 5-6 FT, consistent, low tide, clean, heaving

Board: Lost Mini Driver, 5’10, quads

     Waking up that morning, I didn’t know what I was truly preparing for, but even though I didn’t know, I was already doing everything right. First off, I got a good night’s sleep, so I woke up at about 0515, made myself some coffee, and ate a small bowl of cereal. Pulling out of my parking stall, I felt well rested and unrushed. I knew there would be a free parking spot waiting for me, and there was.

     I hadn’t been paying much attention to the surf forecast because nothing really stood out. Today was supposed to be another poor-to-fair morning. I expected some windswell and south ground swell possibly in the mix but nothing too spectacular. If anything, I was expecting a decent but typical morning of surf.

     Since it was still dark out, especially with the recent overcast, I couldn’t see the waves. As I crossed the strand in the morning darkness, that’s when I was able to see what was going on out there.

     The base of the waves, from the low tide, was dark and bending. Sizewise, it was head high, the biggest surf I’ve encountered since being back from Indo. I had said before that big waves are scarier when they’re perfectly shaped. I can’t recount what I had written before, but in relation to that Monday morning, as big as it was, the surf was not completely closed out. I didn’t bother to eye the rights, but the lefts. As walled as the waves looked, there were tapering shoulders with shape. The way they bent, I could tell that they were worthy of pulling into, and that’s where the scariness comes in. My mind, my body, little did I know that I had already made the commitment to pulling into these beasts before even paddling out.

     Young Mike was just south of the 26^th Street tower, accompanied by a no-namer I had never seen before. Besides them, only three high school groms were chillin’ at the tower before the rest of the surf team arrived.

     Young Mike caught a smaller left. It was racy. He popped a little frontside air.

     When I paddled out, I timed it right. I didn’t take any bombs on the head. In fact, it wasn’t one of those mornings when it’s dangerously thumping. It was consistent, but there were those small lull windows that were deceiving.

     It barely took a minute to make it out. The low tide made the paddle short, and before I knew it I was in position for a wave. I looked at my watch just to see what time it was. 0622. Then, out back, coming right to me, was one of those scary monsters that I had described above, and this is where a moment of fear kicks in. Fear because I’m human, I never said I was good at getting barreled, I’ve never been barreled at home, and as gnarly as that wave looked, I knew, dead or alive, I was about to paddle into it.

     If anything, I’ve learned that easy barrels aren’t easy to come by. There are those days when they happen. I know I caught a day like that earlier this year at the Huntington Cliffs, and I’ve never caught another day like that since. On most days, especially in the South Bay, barrels are hard, at least if you’re not advanced or expert (I’m speaking for average surfers). Take Porto for instance, it’s usually on walled and gnarly days in the winter when there’s legit barrel potential, and most guys aren’t even making it out. Sure, I’ve seen Tyler do it, but he’s a pro. There aren’t a dozen Tylers in the lineup getting consistently tubed at Porto. Most are like me, either running for the pillow tops or plain eating shit.

     So back to the story, what I’m saying is that sometimes you get what you ask for. You want to get barreled, but there are the South Bay challenges that come with it.

     As the wave was approaching, its size was already unmistakable. I’ve surfed bigger waves here but messier ones, messy to the point that you know you’re just gonna pull in and get pinched. But this wave actually had a legit shoulder on it, so there would be more work involved. Closeouts are easy to catch because there’s not much expected out of you, performance wise. You pull in, a buddy sees, you get gobbled up, you resurface, a friend hoots, and you paddle back out. Problem was, I’ve only caught so many few makeable barrels that I hadn’t had much experience for what comes next.

     My positioning was already perfect. No excuses. No one else around me on that dark dawn morning. If I was going to puss out, I literally would be failing myself. With caution, I picked the shoulder just outside of the peak to paddle into. There was that moment when the wave was gentle and lightly sloped, and I’m talking about three strokes into it, and believe me, I was paddling as deep and hard as I could with more purpose than ever because I knew I’d at least have the first part of the ride down.

     When I popped up, the wave still had some slope to it, and then the drop happened. Bottom turning, the shoulder just stood up and stretched out. This is where everything goes silent for a moment. Usually, what follows this silence is an explosion, and me being sucked under, wondering what the fuck just happened. But this time, I did exactly what my instincts allowed. I pulled in and just held my line. The heavy lip curled over me and left my dry and driving in the tube.

     I don’t know what else to compare this to. Maybe a wild theme-park ride that only lasts a few seconds, when you’re unstrapping your safety belt just as soon as you had put it on.

     I remember driving, seeing the dull dawn light reflecting off of that liquid cavern, and seeing that swirling exit at the end. Once again, I was thinking, I could actually make it out of this motherfucker.

     What happened next? I don’t know if it was instinct or luck, but I somehow squeaked out of a chandelier section, and I know it was so because I did not have a clean exit. I did not come flying out triumphantly like I hope to one day, but instead I narrowly escaped. For another split second, I was straightened out into the flats, looking at the sand, The Strand, the orange horizon of the Manhattan Beach homes. I had made it. I escaped the fucking tube. I just got fucking barreled. And then, the fucking wave just detonated behind me, devouring me down with it.

A Barney in Bali--Day 18 (double sesh), 25JUNE2011 SAT

Hawaiian or Not?:


    Randy takes off, and I watch the waves while I drink my Bali coffee. I watch how other guys ride the waves to see if there’s anything there that can help me out. Another Aussie guy that we talked to earlier has his whole family with him. His name is Peter, another expat.

    Peter says, “Between you and your brother, who’s the better surfer?”

    “Oh, my brother, definitely.”

    “Oh, because my buddy was watching you guys, and he was like, ‘The Hawaiians are getting all the good waves!’”

    Damn, I don’t think Peter’s buddy was watching my surfing that closely. The distinction between Randy and I is clear. But Peter had me thinking about another subject. I have roots in Hawaii, but I’ve never considered myself Hawaiian. What people don’t realize is . . . well, if you’re not of Hawaiian blood but you live in Hawaii (or even born there), that you’re not considered “Hawaiian,” but you’re referred to as a “local,” as in the local Japanese guy, the local haole guy, local Filipino, etc. To gain “local” status itself isn’t given. Mainlanders that move there, buy huge houses, and throw their money around, aren’t local. Another example, do you think that the Tongans and Samoans refer to themselves as “Hawaiian” just because they live in Hawaii? There are other issues of cultural pride associated too. I’m going off into another topic here, but Peter had my mind going. Back to what I was saying earlier, I have roots in Hawaii, but I haven’t lived there since I graduated from high school, and I don’t feel worthy of the “Hawaiian” designation. My grandfather came from the Philippines to work in the pineapple fields after WWII. He worked for Maui Land & Pineapple Co. until he retired as did my father. Before I was born, my family was part of the Honolua Plantation Community before they had to tear it down to make room for the golf courses. Those are my roots from Hawaii. I’m from a town called Napili that got it‘s first and only traffic light barely a decade ago.


Dues, Dues, Dues:


    I’m solo this time around. The tide is low, and the afternoon lineups seem just as light as the morning. I’m surprised that this Saturday hasn’t turned into a Balangan rager with it being the summer.

    As I walk out, Peter says, “All right, we’ll be watching you!”

    His wife says, “No pressure!”

    I reply with, “You won’t be that entertained watching me!”

    I do the reef dance, taking my sweetest time, but it pays off. Some sets are coming in and exploding on the edge of the reef. I stop my progress and wait for the lull before walking any further. I paddle out in thigh deep water, taking small waves over my head as I make my way out. Now I sit . . . and wait. I see a slight bump in the surface. It doesn’t look like I’m in position for it, but I still paddle a little further out because I’m weary of the clean up set. Once that wave passes, sure as shit, the first wave of the clean up set is already peaking in the distance. I should’ve paddled further out. The top of the wave is breaking, I’m far from it, it’s hopeless, I’m getting washed. These rogue sets are big waves that break so damn far out. They aren’t hollow on the outside, but they plow through with a tall, rushing, layer of white wash. My California duckdives are no match. It’s a struggle being tossed off of my board over and over again, getting back on, paddling, and catching my breath, only to succumb to the same thing at least three more times before I start punching through. I set my stopwatch. I’m gonna time these things, I think to myself. At least I’ll be ready for the next one.

    Then . . . there’s a lull. There’s a couple average sets in between but nothing major. I’m looking at my watch, it’s been twenty minutes without a big set. I’m apprehensive to turn around, as the sets usually come as soon as I break for the inside. I take off on a couple waves, but they are too fast and close out. A couple more people show up. Everyone’s face tells the story: we want waves. A “turn-and-go” set approaches, and I scratch out on the first two. I paddle for the third, feel the wave letting me in, but there’s a guy on my inside that gets it. I’m getting frustrated, as it dawns on me that I may go home catching nothing but close outs.

    When the next set comes, the same guy that was on my inside gets the wave. What he doesn’t realize is that he pays so much attention to me that he’s actually cutting another guy off that’s about to run into him. I don’t know what happens to them because as soon as I turn around, the fucking clean up set is back. I glance at my watch, it’s been forty-three minutes since the last one. “Of course,” I say to myself. It’s another episode of getting my ass kicked; everyone is getting their ass kicked. I resurface to find one of the Ecuadorian guys right behind me going through the same shit. The water changes to foam and fizz. I look around and only see a couple guys paddling as I am, everyone else is washed away somewhere behind. Another inconsistency happens, not even ten minutes later and another clean up set pops up. I give up on timing the sets.

    I’m still searching for one good wave. I see a peak in the distance, I’m in good position, I start paddling, I’m lifting, but something’s not right. Usually I’m sliding by now, but I’m still on the lip. This is a wave that I should have, but for some reason I’m hung up as the lip is curling; I’m brought down with the ship.

    First worry: I feel my board drop from under me as I’m freefalling straight down. I’m nervous and worried that I’m landing on my fins. I miss my fins, but now I’m underwater, and I’m going deeper.

    My second worry is that I’m gonna be grated against the reef, but I don’t feel it.

    Third worry: I hit the water so hard that my rashguard comes up and over my head; I’m binded by it. I have a hard time swimming to the surface because my face is covered, and my arms are caught up in it as well. At this point, it feels more like a straight jacket as I struggle to take it off. I’m released, I resurface, and another wave is about to break on me.

    Fourth worry: my rash guard is wrapped around my right arm and hand which means I can’t grab the rail to duckdive. I have to take this wave on the head.

    I don’t expect my rashguard to get away from me because there’s a loop on it that attaches to my boardshorts, but I resurface to find my rashguard behind me. I swim back to it and meet the glance of another surfer paddling out. He grins. I secure the rashguard and paddle back in the middle of the crowd bare chested; I’m embarrassed. No ego, I’m thinking. I wonder what happened to the tie that secures my rashguard to my shorts; it was ripped in the fall. I patiently put it back on, trying not to notice everyone noticing how I just got thrashed.

    With the turn of events, I should just paddle back in and go home, but I’m still searching for a wave more than ever. A defined peak shows up, and I make my exit on it, pumping, making it to the open face, and taking it as far as I can go.

    I walk back to Froggy’s, and there’s a new crowd watching the surf. I keep my head down, expecting that I’m “that guy” at the moment.

    Peter says, “How was it out there!” Actually, he doesn’t say it, he yells it. Everyone hears and awaits a response.

    “I got brutalized,” I reply.
    “What?”

    “I got worked.”

    Froggy’s is getting crowded, and there are enough Aussie chicks to legitimize the place as an actual bar. I wear a face that reflects the second session’s struggles. I pay for my stuff, load up, say by to Pete, and ride up the steep, unpaved hill. I stop at the top to grab a drink of water, and then it hits me. The wind is so refreshing, there’s not a building around me, I’m surrounded by banana trees and other trees that I can’t identify, and there’s a gulch in front of me with thicker vegetation. I drink my water, put it away, and take another moment to live. I feel . . . peace.

A surfer's journey on a Bali trail.

    The ride through the Bukit to the main highway is taken with ease. I’m not stressing out trying to catch up with Randy, so I’m just cruising along feeling free, enjoying the free spirit of being on a moped on a third world countryside. Once I reach the main highway, I ride on the shoulder with the other bikes, and I even manage to pass a bunch of people wherever the traffic clears. I arrive at home unscathed. It’s my best moped ride so far since being here.

A Barney in Bali--Day 18, 25JUNE2011 SAT

Pre Blog: I can’t believe it’s been eighteen days. And then again, what’s eighteen days or thirty days, really, once a surfer adds up his time in the water in the end? If we all look back to day one, we’ll probably find someone who couldn’t even sit on a board. So with that respect, each day/increment is worth something. So how much of an impact can thirty days of surf travel have? Not just Bali, there are so many other surf destinations in the world. What I’m doing isn’t new. It’s kind of a surf pilgrimage, or as I heard an Aussie refer to it in the line up: a sabbatical. I can’t expect my surfing to totally change in the thirty day period that I’m out here, but as I fight post nappy-poo discombobulation, I feel the toll on my body: my once snug shorts drape lower from so much activity, my hands are weak from all the duckdive gripping, and discontent scabs that aren’t given a chance to heal sting at my knees and fingers. In the midst of all this, the show goes on, and every day has it’s own tests and lessons. Today I try something new and open a door which further reveals the little I knew in the first place.

Looking for something else:


    For the last couple of days, Randy has been explaining what to look for in the barrel section and the best ways to “fall.” I’m so used to the El Porto “step off the rail ass plant,” and doing that’s not a good idea over reef. He tells me to either dive into the base of the wave to shoot out the back, or to shoot forward in the barrel if I’m getting pinched. Seeing his barrel shots make it look easy, and we’ve all watched hours of compiled footage of guys doing the same. So it looks easy and never really is. From what I can tell, I need to stay near the pocket instead of pumping just to get to the safe zone, fade out, grab my balls, and just pull in. This morning would be dedicated to this task.


The Trial:


    I’m woken up by Randy opening my door. It’s 0520; I overslept. Too much caffeine at the internet cafes has me up too late. I lethargically pack all my gear, and we are on the road just after 0600. Ten thousand Indo Rupiahs later, and my gas tank is full. Randy asks if I want Dunkin’ Donuts, but I choose to skip this portion to get straight to the surf instead. We park at Froggy’s and are greeted by the worker, the one addicted to cigarettes. We offload our gear and grab a front row seat to the morning’s surf. The surf has definitely tapered off in size a little. There are some good sets coming through, but not as frequent, and the top of the wave seems to be working best. It’s mid tide and getting lower. We watch three Aussies doing the reef dance. They start paddling south near the cliff. I watch them drift all the way in front of us and get worked over the reef by the white wash. One guy drifts even further north, and is trying to duckdive where it’s barely a foot deep. He finally stands up, turns around, and sits on the shore, defeated. His buddies follow suit a couple minutes later. I can’t help but empathize with the guy. I actually want to talk to him, let him know that I just went through the same shit days ago, and guarantee him a ticket to the line up if he’s willing to follow me out. And then again, these are just dues that everyone pays, and this ain’t the Make a Wish Foundation, so I go on to prep my gear.

    Since it’s not low tide yet, I paddle out pretty fast. Surprisingly, the lineup is quite empty for a Saturday morning. I tell Randy that everyone must’ve been partying last night. We sit at the bottom of the wave. I’m surrounded by jellyfish again, but Randy’s been telling me that it’s sea fleas that have been stinging me, and not the gelatinous fellows. I’m stung everywhere: my stomach, my balls, and my anus. I go for my first wave which has a long, slight, descending line for a shoulder. I manage the drop-in, angle myself down the wave, and see the enveloping lip coming down. I dive into the base of the wave; it works. I’m not dragged further back, and I paddle to Randy.

    “Warm up wave . . . the local guys on Maui used to do that,” he says.

    “What, just go for the close out?”

    “Yeah, for the first wave, just to get things goin’.”

    I paddle for another wave; same thing.

    “Stop going for the closeouts,” says Randy.

    I’m looking at the next set and not going for it. This morning it’s just hard for me to tell what’s closing out and what’s going to open. “They all look like their closing out,” I say.

    Randy shakes his head, points behind him, referring to a couple guys that got some longer rides towards the inside. He says, “If you’re gonna sit there, you gotta go for the big ones.”

    A couple minutes later, I hear Randy talking to himself. He splashes water, and then he uses the front of his board to splash something away; it’s clearly out of character.

    “What is it?” I ask. His actions are making me nervous.

    He paddles away from his spot. I follow. He says, “Sea snake.”    

    “Water snake?”

    “Sea snake.”

    “No shit!” I look around myself to see if there’s anything. “Are they poisonous?” I ask.

    “Yeah. It was a long striped one. First time.”

    I spend the rest of the session wondering if that slithery little bastard is coming back or not.

    It’s hard for me to be patient; I really want a wave. I tell myself that I’m just gonna go for whatever. An outside set approaches, and I paddle outside to beat it. There’s a “turn-and-go” wave, but I don’t feel comfortable with the last second task, so it passes me up.

    Randy paddles up and says, “Maaaaan, you passed up a good one!”
    “I know.”

    “I saw that, I was like . . . shaking my head.”

    Yes, I know I passed it up, and I’m already hard on myself as I have been every time that I’ve done the same thing since I’ve been out here. It’s really not what I need to hear, especially in a disappointed tone.

    I’m even more eager now to make up for my foible. On the next wave I paddle a little deeper, away from the shoulder, to get some lift. I get the slide and see the section building up; there’s an open shoulder. Instead of pumping to race the section, I fade out a bit and linger just outside the pocket. I’m not in the wave as much as I’m riding right next to it. Time seems critical, as I’m watching for the section to turn hollow, but it doesn’t, and the shoulder is getting farther and farther away. Still, it’s not getting hollow, but the lip is beginning to feather. In a desperate effort, I pull in near the face of the wave and hope that it will magically barrel with the lip throwing over me. I can’t tell you what happens next because all I see is blue water before everything turns black; I wipe out.

    Another hard thing about this new experiment. Since I don’t get a long ride, I’m not in the safety of the channel, and I’m in the impact zone. I linger here for a while getting washed around before the set’s over.

    I paddle back to Randy, explaining that I tried. I’m thinking to myself that that wasn’t easy. For me it’s a sacrifice. There’s a perfectly good shoulder up ahead, while I’m risking eating shit trying to fade out and pull into something hollow. Yes, not easy, but today seems like a good day to experiment, all at the possibility of achieving a milestone. Why not?

    My next wave, I try the same thing. The section is opening up beautifully to another forgiving shoulder. It’s fast, but I get a couple good pumps to catch up to the pocket while a couple surfers back off as they see me coming. Once again, this all happens sooo fast. I’m fading, hanging near the pocket, waiting, and the wave just closes out on me. Fuck . . . I can’t even tell you if I tried to tuck into the face or not. This barrel business is kicking my ass. What’s worse is that there went two nice shouldery waves that I chose to forego for glory. I’m not blaming anyone because I definitely want the tube ride. But at the same time I hear Pabs’s voice in the back of my mind, “Don’t force anything.”

    On my third attempt I come undone. The section opens up, but this time I pump to the shoulder, making the barrel mission secondary. It’s a good ride, I take it towards the inside and see the wave building up. Shit, should I wait to see if it goes hollow?! I’m caught in my indecisiveness and dive straight into the high part of the lip that brings me down with it. Luckily, I penetrate enough that I don’t get sucked down deep. I resurface, and Randy’s right there pissed. He’s telling me again to dive at the base of the wave, and that my lapse of judgment will get my ass hurt. I’m frustrated. I know he’s trying to help, and he’s probably mad because it looks like I’m not following his advice, but all these pointers are new that I can’t perfect in one session. His tone is mad and serious, so I paddle away.  “Look at me!” he says.

    Constructive criticism is good but not when it‘s condescending. It's an ugly moment. I accept him for who he is, he‘ll never change, it's part of being a younger brother, so I paddle away to give us distance.

    I was on some good waves, but I was looking for something else in them, something that my experience and ability wasn’t primed for yet. I could’ve made the open section and just worked on my turns, but I’m grateful for the experience and challenge at trying something new. Getting yelled at earlier kind of ruined my vibe. I catch a clean, long wave in, but I’m not stoked.

    I find Randy chillin’ at Froggy’s. We act like nothing happened; it’s water under the bridge. I order a banana-cheese jaffel and a Bali coffee. As I munch on my breakfast, I can’t decide if I actually like this banana and cheese combination or not, but I know that I’m starving, so I don’t care.

    Randy says that he needs to head back home to watch Jaya while Jessica gets a massage. He feels confident that I can find my way back, so he recommends that I paddle back out after the tide bottoms out.


Surf Gypsies:


     We watch this guy paddle in. He sounds American, but I can’t be sure. He nods his head towards us in a friendly gesture as we both wave. He’s blond, long haired, ripped, and traveling alone. Randy and I saw this guy arrive at camp a couple days ago when we were buying our photos. He didn’t even drive here. He showed up with a rolling suitcase, greeted everyone, and then told the worker that he needed a place to stay. So since then he’s just been cruising, borrowing a board, and surfing his brains out . . . alone. I talked to him in the line up after a clean up set. He was the only one that didn’t get washed away. I was astonished by his humble and kind character.  “That’s the way to do it,” Randy says as the guy passes us. This guy doesn’t even have a board, no bike, was probably dropped off, and he’s traveling in surf country with only the belongings that fit into his bag. It’s the way to do it, indeed.

A Barney in Bali--Day 16, 23JUNE2011 THU

  
    When I was a freshman at Lahainaluna High School, this huge Hawaiian guy overheard that I was Randy’s younger brother. He walked up, towering over me in his shadow.

    He asked, “You Randy’s braddah?”

    I said, “Yeah.”

    He took off his shades, held out his hand, and said, “Brah, we call your braddah ‘Da Shreddah.’”



Lessons on Barreling:



    Last night we were D-U-N, done. Randy told me that we needed to get to Balangan early to catch the low tide. The plan was to wake up at 0500.

    0542, I look under my door and see the that light isn’t on. I turn over on my pillow and go back to sleep. Around 0600 I open the door to find Randy warming up.

    “I set my alarm, but Jessica still had to wake me up,” he says.

    Shit, he doesn’t need to explain. I’m grateful for the extra rest. As I warm up I feel my body ache; even my calves are sore. These recent sessions have taken their toll on me. Even more, my waist continues to slim. I was a size 32 when I got here, and lately I’ve been wearing Randy’s 31s. My waist hasn’t been this small since basic training at Ft. Knox.

What a way to start the session. That triple choco donut looks rich!

    The sun’s out when we jump on our bikes; it’s a late start for us. We stop at Dunkin’ Donuts. I’m a bad influence on Randy. He’s drinking coffee again. I reach for a donut, and he reaches for the triple chocolate one. Oh well, it’s a guilty pleasure that’s hard to pass up. We shoot the shit about the week’s surf, talk more about Bali, finish off our coffee, and hit the road. The traffic’s a little heavier, but it’s still manageable.

Front row parking

    When we reach Balangan, Randy leads us onto a backroad that takes us all the way to Froggy’s; it’s front row parking, no more hills or stairs. Froggy is still opening up shop. We take a look out at the surf, and it’s significantly smaller than yesterday. Randy says that today is a west swell. I look at the line up, and I can see what he means. Since there’s less of an angle, the waves are coming straight on. They are faster, racier, and a little more walled. The plus sized sets are less consistent, but there are still waves to be had. Personally, I’m kind of looking forward to an easier day, a break. We are both thinking that this will be a day for turns.

    We watch the waves for a while, hoping that the incoming tide will bring in some size. We paddle out at about 0835. The reef dance is easy since the surf isn’t as brutal. There’s about eight heads at the bottom of the wave, and the top has a small handful. Randy starts getting his waves without delay. I, on the other hand, take a while to get going (as always). Unfortunately, today’s not my day. I’ve never been so tired paddling for waves that I don’t get. It’s so exhausting paddling and kicking, only to have the wave roll away from you. The crowd gets even thicker, and I try to work the outside line to see if I can get a set wave. I continue to scratch out on perfect waves. Randy even calls me on to some, but they are “turn and go” waves, and I feel too rushed to get them. In frustration, I paddle further away from everyone and sit at the peak. I’m thinking that it will be a guaranteed ride because I’ll take off late. Well, I do get guaranteed rides, at least four of them. The only problem is that I can’t make the sections.

    I look at Randy, and he says, “Too deep.”

    He’s right. I am sitting way too deep, but I don’t feel like paddling with the pack. I just want to get the wave early, but I’m paying the price by eating the lip. For the first time, I’m having legit wipeout/fumbles at Balangan. On one wave, I pop up, but I’m too far up on the board, and I bury my nose as I’m dropping in.

    This is a short write up. I look for the wave to make the session, but I don’t get it. Instead, there are jellyfish everywhere, and I’m getting stung. I’m not the only one. Other guys are splashing the water away from them, cursing, and rubbing their limbs. The top of the wave is working. I’m watching surfers get some pretty long rides. There are chicks out there too, and they’re in shape, charging.

    Randy catches his last wave in, and I spend another twenty minutes searching for what I don’t get. I even work the inside, but the inside is fast and goes over the reef. I paddle in as much as I hate to admit it.

    Well, I can’t expect everyday to be a great session. This is real life, not the movies, and everything changes. Randy has a Bali coffee as we watch the waves and hang out a little. We go next door to Jeffery’s Photo to see if he got any pics of us. It turns out that somebody got four barrels today.

Did you say, "Barrel over shallow reef?" It's no problem for this guy.

    On the ride back home, Randy has to stop by Carr Four (Bali’s K-Mart), so I make the ride home solo. There’s so much traffic. I’m stuck behind cars and can’t merge with the bikes. It’s frustrating. Every Western driving instinct hinders my reactions. I get home just a couple minutes before Randy. I spend the rest of the evening writing. I chat with Lauren online, and she’s upset that I’ve been out of touch. I don’t mean to, it‘s just been pretty hectic. I apologize and tell her I‘ll make the effort. It’s 2250. I am tired.