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| The return of the avocado smoothie! Reese is behind it. |
Backhanded:
In the morning, Randy comes to my room and
says, “Hey, Matt. Since you like these
kinds of shirts, here you go.” He hands me a Volcom T-shirt with the word
Hawaii written across the chest. “You can keep it or give it to Ryan (the kid
who does maintenance here), but if you give it to him, give it to him in
person.”
“Sure,” I say. His comment is a backhanded
one. You see, I like the Maui Built shirts that say Napili across the front
because I like to represent my tiny hometown. Since Maui Tropix stopped making
them, I’ll settle for any Maui Built shirt. My sister who goes back home to
visit every year got me a shirt that has the Hawaiian Islands on it. So now,
since then, according to my brother, I am the type of person that likes loud
ass shirts with Hawaiian logos on them. He doesn’t of course, which is why he wore
a tank top yesterday that has the whole front side covered with the design of a
Hawaiian Flag. Backhanded comments. . . Reminds me of my high school days,
living under the same roof of my controlling and abusive uncle. Ahhhh yes, memories.
. .
Secret Surf
Spots:
Since the left isn’t quite working yet at
Machines, and because there are a lot of pros there, Reese makes the suggestion
to head back to the area that we explored on day three. He says that he saw a
right-hand point break off of the highway one day. It’s near a fishing village,
and maybe we can pay someone to take us there on his boat. We got skunked the
last time we went, and the idea of scoring a secret spot, after all the riding
that we’ve done thus far, seems a little farfetched. None the less, we’re in
Indo, and who’s to say that such discoveries aren’t possible?
Randy, Al, Grant, Reese, and I take off on
our mopeds, taking up the road like we’re some kind of surfer biker gang. Once
we reach the spot, we see that the tide is too high. The point isn’t working.
There’s a solid piece of shit coiled up on the sand. Its texture is similar to
the scales of a snake; it’s a healthy turd, and I curse myself for forgetting
my camera this morning.
Randy suggests that we take a vote on what
to do next. I suggest that we check some of those secluded spots that we
checked on day three. There’s a chance that they might be working with the
bigger swell that’s here.
We check three out of the four spots again
and find nothing. Reese says, “This part of Java isn’t known for surf, just
Machines and the river mouth in front of the compound.” I sense the frustration
in Al. This is not what we came here for, not what we had idealized in our minds
for a surf trip to Indo. I even find myself thinking, is this it, just a critical
slab over razor sharp reef and the surf break in front of the compound? I tell
Al that no matter what, we’re getting wet today, even if it’s the river mouth
that no one’s too thrilled to surf.
In defeat, we head back towards the
compound. Searching for surf has taken up the whole morning, so we’re back in
Indo-Napili by lunch time. We head back to Padangs. I go for the chicken curry,
rice, eggplant, tempe, and some Javanese potato dish that I don’t know the name
of.
The early afternoon wind is strong onshore,
so to kill some time, Grant and Reese show us the restaurant in town that has
wifi, where I find my beloved avocado smoothie. The last time I had one was in
Bali.
Internet has been a bitch over here. Randy
gave me a thumb-drive modem to use, but it’s so remote over here that picking
up a network signal close to the water is impossible. So today I finally get to
chat with Bri and see how she’s doing. She says that she’s been worried. Since
I’ve been gone, she’s taken my wagon out for solo surf sessions in the South
Bay. She’s keeping my apartment nice and clean, and she sniffs my shirts becauseshe misses my man aroma.
Chocolate
Point:
By 1530, we head to the infamous river
mouth. It is literally five minutes from the compound. Water Buffalos graze
right next to the dirt road that skirts the beach line. Some villagers are
fishing when we reach the end of the road.
The main wave is a left hand point break.
Since the swell isn’t hitting here, there’s a peak on the inside that’s
producing a quick right hander. But . . . the water is muddy, pure chocolate
milk, and it smells like an ashtray. I think about the local surf back home in
the South Bay. Every time it rains, they say to stay out of the water for at
least seventy-two hours. Unfortunately, the infrastructure in Indonesia isn’t
set up well when it comes to trash and pollution. It’s typical for the tide
line to be riddled with a trail of garbage. Even in the ocean, there are
wrappers, light bulbs, plastic bags, and all kinds of nasty stuff. Just like
Bali, here they burn their trash. I don’t believe there is a recycling program
here, since things we usually recycle like cans, plastic bottles, and Styrofoam
just get chucked into the trashcan. So the river mouth . . . who knows what’s
flowed into the ocean from it.
Al loves rights. I see my brother sitting
out there solo. It looks doable, but I’m all about the left. Now the surf is
small. It looks crumbly, but there’s some shape. Al and I paddle out to where
my brother is. We hit the water with power, sliding over the incoming white
wash with our boards. The water’s warm as diluted diarrhea. I tell myself not
to drink the water. We’re paddling hard, duckdiving the consistent inside.
“Matt,” says Al. He stands up in calf deep water. My hands hit the sand bottom.
We both stand up and realize that the current has pushed us back to the shore
line. On the sand, a surfer chick sits next to her board, also unable to paddle
out against the current. Further towards the point, another surfer chick is
struggling on the inside. Al and I look at each other, totally understanding
what we’re both thinking: We’re pussies.
With a stronger effort, we finally make it
to the lineup. Al paddles closer towards my brother. Reese paddles out to join
us too. I’m looking at the point break in the distance. One surfer is sitting
out there. It looks small from where I am, but it’s far away. “How’s it up
there?” I ask Reese.
“I can’t tell, but I reckon I’ll make a
move up there,” says the Aussie.
Away from Al and my bro, we both paddle to
the point. I don’t realize how far it actually is. It takes forever to get
there. The waves seem more surfable as I get closer. I have to duckdive some
waves on the way there. A diaper floats right by me. I paddle faster.
Quad:
The other day I used a tri-fin
configuration on my barrel board, my Lost Mini Driver. Today I changed the fins
to a quad setup to see how it feels.
Now this wave doesn’t seem like much, maybe
two to three feet. The peaks are fat and slow, but once I get into the wave,
the section grows long and stands up. The face is not critical, but it’s
three-feet and rampy. I pump with speed to the open face where the wave still
peels slowly. If I go too far, I’ll lose the wave, so I work the face from top
to bottom, drawing a series of top turns. This wave is actually playful, but
it’s so damn hard to turn this wide ass board. Also, this quad setup isn’t
working as well as I had hoped. It’s gripping the wave too much and feels stiff
on the turns. I wish I had brought my Channel Islands Motorboat Too; it was
made for these kinds of waves.
It gets dark here by about 1730, and as the
day comes to an end, the water becomes glassier and the waves more consistent.
Without the sun’s reflection, the water doesn’t look as dirty.
I paddle back towards Al. He’s surfing with
Grant. My brother’s been long gone. The little rights they were surfing have
turned into fast four footers. Al and Grant are laughing, both trying to snake
each other on the waves. I catch a closeout in and head back to my moped.
Soldier
Care:
“Your brother called me out in the lineup,”
says Al.
“What?” I say. “What happened?”
“I think I might have snaked him on
accident. He said, ‘Did you learn that in California?’”
I tell him that it should be fine, and I
hope that it’s nothing serious.
Randy had let me know that he’ll be busy
tonight with some errands, and that Al and I are on our own to find food. I
head upstairs to his room and ask him how to get to the market that we ate at
last night. He’s very short with me, but tells me where to go. I notice that he
doesn’t smile that much anymore; he smiled more when I visited him in Bali. The
other night he did when we were joking and goofing off at the Indomaret before
dinner. I was happy to see him in a good mood. He also smiles whenever he talks
to his friends, but definitely not with me. Even when I comment on something
small, he doesn’t reply. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells with him. Better
not to say anything at all I guess.
Al and I have a new neighbor downstairs,
some chick. She’s sitting down in the common area smoking a cigarette. We don’t
say hi to her and start up our bikes to head to Compound Two. We were invited
to have some beers with Grant and Reese. When we get there, we find that they
already left for dinner. With two big bottles of Bin Tangs, we kill them both
off in the dark.
Gayun, the local kid who’s an assistant manager
at the compound tells us that our new neighbor doesn’t know her way around town
yet, so Al and I head back and invite her to ride with us so she can go to the
store and grab something to eat. Her name is Ana. When we grab dinner at the
market, we learn that she is twenty one, from Germany, and has been traveling
for months in the US, South America, Sri Lanka, and now here in Indo. She’s
tomboyish, chain smokes, and has stars tattooed on her neck. Al says she
reminds him of his little sister.
Back at the compound Al and I turn in
early. Despite the failed surf recon in the morning, it was nice to finally
surf the river mouth that’s right here in front of where we’re staying; it’s so
convenient. Also, we’re lucky to have my brother to show us around as well as
Grant and Reese. The least we can do is pass that good energy along by helping
our new neighbor. I’m sure she’ll fit in fine with all the other people staying
here. Germans . . . they play their part.
