A Barney in Bali--Day 9, 16JUNE2011 THU

     After yesterday morning’s Barney beat down, I really wanted to redeem myself by getting some good rides. In the evening the tide was drained out. We checked out a different spot called in Berawa. Randy told me that the spot can get crowded, but I underestimated his warning. As we pulled up I noticed that the break is in front of a resort. A mass of motorbikes were parked in the area. When we walked out to see the break, a lot of guys from Canggu were there checking it out too; the same Aussie rippers that I’ve seen tearing up the sand bar. I didn’t want to pull out my camera because I would’ve been taking pics right in front of everyone. I have to pick and choose good times to play tourist, and I didn’t feel like that was one of them. I saw a thick crowd waiting for one peak that didn’t seem to break. To our right, there was a consistent right hander going off at a solid three to four feet. It looked fun, but it was awfully packed. The shoulder was clean and peeled all the way into a channel, but for some reason, there were a lot of guys caught on the inside. It looked dangerous out there with so many people in the way. Over the crowd, we checked out Tugu, and the low tide shut the place down. We ended up at Canggu overlooking the sand bar. There were ten people out despite the conditions. Burgers was dead flat, and River Mouth wasn’t holding shape. I opted not to fight the crowd for that one peak that was working, but we watched it and saw some guys get fast little three foot barrels.

     After yesterday I realized that I just want uncrowded surf. I don’t care about overhead waves or barrels at this point. Just beat the crowd, that’s all I want to do. Get a couple waves to myself without it being a constant battle, like how we scored Nusa Dua my first surf there. Even in Cali, I don’t mind scoring a spot where the surf isn’t as good, just so long as I don’t have to deal with the crowd.


The Tour:


     I open my eyes and check my watch--0551. Randy’s making tea, and we go over the morning options. The wind is dead. We discuss Canggu or a gamble on Sanur. Desperate to get away from the crowds, I support the gamble.

     On the back of the bike I’m watching the trees for any signs of wind. I hope for no wind at all. Half way there, Randy points out some roadside banners that are flapping full stream.

     “Look at the wind,” he says.

     We pull over; I’m bummed. He continues: “Do you wanna keep going?”

      "It’s gonna be windy like this in Sanur?”

     “Yeah. . . . The tide is high right now, so it’s either we go back to Canggu and surf fat, clean waves, or we surf uncrowded waves like this.” He’s referring to the wind.

     I think about the crowds and how I’m dying to find something new. The gamble seems so worth it to find surf to ourselves. “Nah, lets keep going,” I reply.

     It’s my first time in Sanur. Everything is new: the highway, the shops, the landscape, and the community on the way. We pass through the town ceremony. Something smells mighty good.

     “It’s probably goat,” says Randy.

     He told me the night before that these spots are secret, so I can’t name them. Just short of the spot, we are halted by a closed gate.

     “That wasn’t there before,” says Randy. “Fuck . . . how’s that? Take a picture of that shit.”



     I reach for my camera. We park and walk the beach route for a look. The wind is strong onshore, and the gamble . . . was a complete loss. The wind could be manageable, but the swell is nonexistent on this side of the island. He points out where the peaks usually are. I snap photos. An island in the distance reminds of the view from my hometown Napili where Lanai and Molokai seem a swim away. Despite the negative surf, I’m still stoked for the experience to have seen something new.




     On the way back we stop at a different Dunkin’ Donuts and shoot the shit over some morning java. The following conversation ensues.


The Western Effects:


     Randy points out the Balinese programming on the TV. The woman is light skinned, so is her male counterpart.

     I say, “It’s kind of like Mexican TV, huh? They show the lighter skinned people.” I sip my coffee. “Like how on Mexican programming they show chicks with the blonde hair, light skin, or more Spanish features.”
Randy nods his head, drinks his coffee.

     I continue, “There’s irony on how cultures complain how they’ve been vanquished by invaders, but look who they put on TV. That’s not how the indigenous people look like.”

     “Well, they are getting more western here; looking western is a sign of wealth.”

     “That sucks . . . eventually their culture will get watered down too.”

     Done with a sip, Randy sets down his coffee. “I’ll have to disagree.” He turns and looks at the street. “In Hawaii where do you see the culture?”

     I laugh. “At the luaus . . . the hotels.”

     “Yeah, exactly, and over here I see in every town they still do their religious offerings. They still wear their cultural clothes and do their practices. In every town, I see them making offerings to the shrines. It’s part of their religion, and religion is strong here.”

     I make the connection in my head. He’s right in a sense. The Balinese can still adopt aspects of western culture but still hold true to their beliefs and practices. Just as easy as they can change into western clothing, they can also return home and continue their same practices that they’ve been doing for generations. And I’ve seen this. I’ve seen the festivals, the offerings at the shrines, villagers dressed in traditional garb, and all this just on the way to surf.

     I say, “So they have a religious ideology. . . . The culture will stay strong because they have to practice it.”

     “Yeah, like take Hawaii for example. You don’t see them wearing the lava-lavas.”

     “And they don’t worship their old gods. Now it’s just commercial . . . entertainment. Luaus, at the hotels; it’s just folkore . . . stories, hula dancers at the airport.”

     Randy gives further examples of how the Balinese culture is “in your face.” The topic ends on his final note: “And that’s why I love this place.”


Wet Season VS Dry Season:


     We also talk about surf conditions and why we’ve been sticking to Canggu. Right now Bali is in its dry season. During the dry season, the spots on the eastern half of the island get blown out, such as Nusa Dua, Sanur, and a couple other secret spots I was shown days ago and today. My very first surf session, we scored at Nusa Dua. It turns out that that was never supposed to happen. The winds were supposed to be on it, but on that fine day, I guess the surf gods wanted me to surf there. Ever since then, Nusa Dua and the other spots we’ve been gambling on have been torn by the wind.

     Uluwatu is protected. What do you think of when you hear the word Uluwatu? For me, I think of old surf footage, uncrowded surf, and left hand barrels. According to my brother, it’s a fuckin’ scene over there; it’s jam packed to full capacity. We discussed checking it out before I leave. That is one spot that if I don’t surf, I at least have to see it.

     So . . . where does that leave me? My only options are crowded Ulus, the beach breaks along Kuta and Seminyak, Berawa, Tugu, and Canggu. Or, there are places that would probably land me in a hospital because they are too gnarly for me. Besides the latter, Canggu breaks the best out of all of them, so Canggu is what I‘ll mostly be surfing. My first impression of Bali was that uncrowded spots like Nusa Dua would be a given, but I’d have to be here during the wet season for that.

     I’ve heard it, it was hard to believe, but it’s true: Bali is crowded. Imagine El Porto on a crowded day, but almost everyone’s Aussie, and they all fuckin’ RIIIIP. Even the chicks and little kids will put you to shame. Well, that is if you’re a Barney, a Bali Barney.


Message Overkill:


     We have a late start surfing because of the morning’s gamble. It’s about noon, the sun is roasting everything, and the wind is up. I can see Burgers working, and there’s only a couple people out. River Mouth . . . why do I even bother talking about Rivers? It’s packed, and guys are putting on a clinic over there, most of them are young bucks; I’ll never surf it. The sand bar seems to be working, but there are people there. Randy says that he’s “over” Burgers, he’s surfing the sand bar, but that I should just surf Burgers. I tell him I can surf the sand bar, but I’ve never had a good session there, so he’s right.

     At The Burger there’s that same guy that I was in a paddle battle with yesterday. I paddle out, he catches a right, and I go for a left. The left doesn’t hold; it closes out. Since the ride is short, I’m in the impact zone over the rocks . . . those damn rocks and whatever else is down there that’s waiting for me to step on. Motherfucker. The waves aren’t that big, but they are a little lined and fat from the post high tide. Well, who am I kidding? I don‘t know what scale to use anymore. I should switch to: easy, could get your ass kicked, beatings, guaranteed beatings, and suicide. It’s a Bali three feet, the water’s choppy, the wind is howling, the current pulls north, and there’s a rip; it’s unclean funky surf. I duck dive the next wave of the set, I get knocked back, I feel the rocks, I pick up my feet, starfish, get back on my board, and the next wave comes. I do the underwater boogaloo again and take two more before the set’s over.

     I thought my humbling session was yesterday, but apparently Canggu’s not done with me. I got the message already, but it’s still being beaten into me. I decide not to go for the lefts anymore; I stick to the rights.

     The first right is my only solid wave. The wind makes the wave break weird, it stands up as the top is crumbling, I choose a high line to make the section, bottom turn, and get one good top turn. From there, my wave bogs out, and it reforms into a building section in front of me, but the peak forms way ahead.

     There’s people parked near by, and I’m the lab rat for their decision to surf or not. I put on a dismal performance. I have a couple decent wipeouts. I think to myself if there was such a thing as wipeout surf porn, I’d be sponsored.

     I don’t even care about the details for the rest of the session. The other guy left after my first wave. Alone in the water, I have a lot of time to sit and think about everything. It’s probably pretty lame to read this, but I have to write the truth. It’s easy for the reader to say, “What a pussy, just get out there and surf.” Do you want to know the truth? I’ve gotten away with a lot surfing Porto, HB, DMJ, Churches, and Trestles. I’ve been able to have a half-ass duckdive, get pounded on the sand, shake it off, and keep on paddling. At Trestles, I’ve been able to ride forgiving gradual waves that let me make one or two mistakes before regaining composure. But this . . . this is all new. I’ve never been pounded by waves while there’s reef, sea urchin, and rocks to get dragged across. Okay, there’s cobblestones at Trestles, but that’s totally different. I had the dream of coming here to get barreled. OMG, really? What the fuck was I thinking? Barrels aren’t happening, at least not on this trip. I’m sure I’ll see barrels, but not from within them.

     Still, out there, I paddle, fight the current, sit, wait for a wave, think, question my identity. Does every surfer go through this at some point?

     I surf The Burg for a good solid hour. Walking back to the bike, the river mouth is giving good rights. Groms, they’re pumping and doing airs at the end of the wave, 360s even. We ride back to the pad, clean up a bit, and go out for Japanese food in town. It doesn’t occur to me to take a picture.

     This is a lot to take in. I‘m not the surfer I thought I was. Do I want fun waves, or do I want the ability to have fun on waves? The line is blurring.

A Barney in Bali--Day 8, 15JUNE2011 WED



Soul Surfer Haven:


     Last night Randy took me for a cruise to check out the surrounding areas around Seminyak. I asked questions about places that surf bums can live. He tells me that there are places where you can get a small room, a small kitchen, and a bathroom for only $7/day, and that’s with a free breakfast too. It sounds like a no-brainer for any surf bum that wants to chase waves. Being here with Randy, Jessica, and baby Jaya, has made me realize a lot of things. In their home, they only have the essentials; nothing in their home is just for show or shits and giggles. Everything they have, they use; it has a purpose. Thinking of this, I think about my apartment in El Segundo and all the extra crap I have collecting dust and shit that I’m just hanging on to. They could pick up, leave, and resettle at the gentle drop of a pube.

     Also, Balinese culture is so different. When we ride through the streets, we merge into on-coming and flowing traffic, and no one maliciously speeds up, tries to cut us off, or gets road rage. Everywhere we go they have smiles. They stare a lot, but that’s just because they’re checking out who you are, and then when you draw eye contact they smile again. No one’s out here flossing and trying to “one-up” each other. No one’s putting on the flashy jewelry, designer clothes, or going out of their way to buy nice cars. My first night here, I asked my brother what the poverty level was like, and he said that depends on what your definition of poverty is.

     He said, “They grow their own food and breed their own livestock. They have food, shelter, and clothing; they have what they need.”

     I can see why there are expats here. The cost of living is inexpensive. I’ve changed a lot over the last couple years, and I know that I’m not a fan of the rat race. The super-structure is inescapable, our sense of agency is false, and yet we’re all trying to climb the same ladder to get that same piece of the pie. It’s a romantic thought to come out here alone, carrying what you have on your back, to live an aesthetic life, and redefine yourself and your world. Bali . . . you can lose yourself and find something new that you’d never find otherwise.


If I Ever Had an Ego, It’s Dead Now:


     Because of the wind we’ve been staying local in Canggu. Well, Seminyak is local, but Canggu is a short, bumpy ride away. There’s no use to go to the Bukit with all the wind, unless we’re surfing Uluwatu, but my bro has been waiting for the right conditions to score that area. Either way, he’s warned me about overhead Ulus. I hardly doubt that pulling into an overhead, left-hand barrel is as easy as Gerry Lopez has made it look in old surf footage. For now, we wait.

Raindbows. Not so durable after all.

     The plan is to be in the water by 0530. We wake up at 0445 and start warming up. There’s no time for tea. In the morning darkness, I feel mosquitoes munch on my ankles as I attach the surf racks to the Yamaha. Randy uses his clear lens Oakley knock-offs that he bought in the surf ghetto the other day, while I’m using my military-issue goggles. We ride through the barren streets under the waning moonlight. The horizon is changing from black to purple. Through the rice fields, we ride through a sea of bugs that are drawn-in by our headlight. Air rushes against us as we pierce the morning darkness. Bugs shoot through the gaps in my goggles, and now they are trapped, buzzing in front of my eyes. We are almost there.

Pic taken as we were leaving. High tide made things really swampy.

     We don’t arrive at 0530, but it’s not even 0600 yet, and there are already surfers in the line up. It is crucial to surf early because of the full moon: today’s low and high tides change drastically in a short time. It’s mid-tide, and the goal is to catch that surfing window before things get swampy. We rush the burger because the other peaks are already filling up.

     At The Burger, there are only two guys and one chicks. The waves are about shoulder high and consistent. I start off by catching two rights, but the lefts are much better, as I only get one top turn before the rights moosh out. The crowd is thin, so I feel confident paddling into waves. I catch my first left which has a building wall. It’s a bit of a tease. It looks like it’s going to get hollow, but the size isn’t there. I kick out early before the wave closes out over the rocks. I resurface to find that I kicked out too early and caught the first wave of a big set. The chick is pumping fast down the line on a bigger wave right in front of me; I’m in the impact zone. I get pummeled by the wall of white wash, recover, and try to make it back out. Here comes my brother on a wave just as big. This time I’m closer to the channel, but I still eat the crashing lip. The chick and my brother are back at the line-up while I’m still sucking wind. Randy comments on my troubles . . . I catch my breath.

     Thankful for the lull, I’m ready for the next left. It’s fast with more of a shoulder, and I enjoy drawing good lines; my body feels fluid with my board‘s movement. More people show up, now there are six. The next series of events set the tone for the morning.

     It’s a little harder to catch waves with more people around. I guess everyone’s aware of the “window” to surf. The pack scatters as a set approaches. A guy is on my inside, we both paddle for the left, I back out thinking that he has the wave, but he scratches out. Fuck, I think to myself. Next one. We both paddle, I’m sure he’s on the wave, but he misses it again. Fuck my life. He catches the third wave. Now I’m sitting towards the outside all by myself because everyone else either caught a wave, or they’re out of place from the chase. More sulking. I look out and see that the sea is flat; I’ve lost my opportunity. I hear the lesson in my mind from my brother a couple days ago: “Always paddle for it, don’t pull out.” I failed. I look at the horizon again. There’s a bump. It’s more than a bump, it’s a rogue wave bigger than the set, and it’s coming my way; I’m all by my lonesome. I hear splashes of paddling behind me; others are trying to beat the wave before it closes.

     Randy calls me out whenever I’m sitting on the shoulder. “You need to be on the peak,” was also a lesson from a couple days ago. I have the option to paddle into the safer shoulder, or take the peak that’s already starting to break. I go for the challenge. It’s a good old fashion “dump rider special.” This wave is head high, the lip tosses me as I’m popping up, and I stubbornly stand on the rear of my board to see if I can stick the landing like an Olympic tumbler. It almost feels as if I’m air dropping. The landing is an explosion in front of a live audience.

     Surfers know what kind of wave this is; it’s the redeemer. During a period of frustration, it’s the breakthrough wave that can define the session, and also make for a good story: the old triumphant tale of man versus the sea, succumbing to nature’s fury, to finally conquer and ride out her death dealing blow. There is no such tale for I. The under dog remained so. I brushed it off and kept my defeat internal.
Headcount back at the peak: 10 heads. Another rogue wave appears in the horizon, I’m too far on the inside, so I prepare for battle. The lip crashes on me while I’m under water. I get wiped back like a crumb gets wiped off a table. I run into something that’s moving with me; it’s another surfer. We roll and tumble together. I can’t even remember if I held on to my board or not.

     We resurface, he says, “I’m sorry.”

     “Don’t worry about it,” I reply. “Are you all right?”

     “Yeah.”

     How the hell did we not get tangled, banged up, or sliced by our fins? My board’s in tact. It could’ve been worse.

     New headcount: 13 heads. By now everyone is surfing with their best buds. A few alpha males paddle aggressively into the set waves. I scratch out a lot, the tide is high, the conditions are changing, and it’s getting inconsistent.

     Randy’s over the session and catches his last wave. No details are needed for my last wave. I tried. I scratched out or got out paddled. I hate myself. I just want to catch one in but can’t. I take the cowards way out by paddling in. I paddled in at Bali and disrespected “the sport of kings.”

     It’s a quiet ride back. I don’t flinch when coming within inches of other motorists; I’m reflecting. It’s so humbling it’s almost like meditating, reaching a level of awareness through humility and suffering. Who was I to ever have an ego when it came to surfing. I think about the days back home in the line up, the times I was “on point,” felt like my shit tasted so deliciously nutty, and thought that my shit was harder and larger than John Holmes, all because I launched a couple sprays on some mooshy waves that a caveman could paddle into. In a surfer’s existence, today I feel small. No more egos.



I'm not a fan of taking boring pics of myself, but in this case, it's appropriate. This is me after my Bali beatdown.



A Barney in Bali--Day 7, 14JUNE2011 TUE

We pulled off of the highway to meet Daz and saw this. 

Surf Celeb:


     I wake up a bit late, 0621. I spring up from bed, and my brother’s already been up since 0500. I guess I didn’t rest that well. Last night when we returned, there was a power outage. It wasn’t until about a quarter to midnight that we were able to shower off remnants from the evening’s session. Also, it was pretty hot, and it was rough sleeping without the fan.

     The wind is still dead in the morning, so we attempt to gamble on Sanur. We meet Daz on the main highway. Daz has spent the last week in Lombok to chase that swell that was supposed to hit. Unfortunately, the forecast was off, so he didn’t get what he set out for. Daz tells us that he’s heard that Sanur’s been blown out the last few days. We part ways. We figure that it’s not worth the drive if the spot’s blown out. We ride to Dhyana Pura to see what the swell’s doing. The tide is high, there’s not much size, it’s crowded, and there isn’t much shape. It looks mooshy all around.

     We go back home to do a couple things before we head out again. So far, the morning’s not looking too good for surf. The wind is picking up, so we stick to Canggu. He tells me that Uluwatu is probably the only area protected by the wind, but it’s always crowded, and it’s not worth it without the right swell. Canggu is a good wave, and I still need my practice to prepare for the big swells to come anyhow.

     We pull into our parking spot by the cows, and there’s a black truck parked there already. The guy in the truck is by himself, wearing shades, is dark, and has long hair. I wave, as I would greet any stranger out here. He waves back. I already know who it is the second that I see him; it’s Mikala Jones.

     My brother parks and walks up to him. They’ve already been communicating via e-mail because they have a mutual friend from Hawaii. They start off on small talk about the waves, and then Randy lets him know that he’s the “Randy” from the e-mails. They immediately hit it off and discuss business that they’ve already been communicating about. Randy introduces me, and I shake Mikala’s hand.

     My brother gave me his collection of surf porn a long time ago. The first time I saw Mikala surf was from the movie “Snapt 2.” More recently, his surfing is also on the extras from “Castles in the Sky,” and he has a surf sequence on “Innersections.”

     Their conversation moves on to the local surf, and Mikala fills my brother in on some local knowledge. I want to chime in some kind of tidbit to add to the conversation, but everything that crosses my mind would make me sound like an idiot. I just nod my head in approval to whatever the hell they are talking about, and keep my mouth closed.

     Randy says that we’re gonna go and paddle out. They shake hands, but I can’t let the opportunity pass.
I say, “Hey, is it cool if I get a picture with you?”
“Yeah, sure,” says Mikala.

     I hand the camera to Randy, and he suggests we move into better lighting. We both throw up shakas, as the camera clicks.

     I tell him, “Cool, man, thanks.” Then I say too much: “I liked your sequence in Innersections. Cool song by the way. I was thinking of it this morning.”

     “Oh yeah?” He replies.

Totarry Rawsome!

 
     One more goodbye, Randy and I change, and then we throw him one more shaka for the road. Damn, I can’t help but think about how stupid I must’ve sounded, but I’m not ashamed of it. It’s not everyday I meet a pro surfer or free surfer. They guy’s surfing is awesome, and I really do dig his part from “Innersections,” I wasn’t just saying it.

     There’s a couple pulses in the water, but they’re not consistently rolling in. The crowd is thinner than yesterday morning, but the peak in front of the resort, Sand Bar, and the River Mouth still have a lot of heads. We walk to The Burger again; there’s only three guys out.

     I think about my brother’s surfing advice that he gave me last night, and I want to take this opportunity to surf harder. The tide’s sucking back out, and it’s happening fast.

     “This is gonna have to be a fast one,” says Randy.

     With the lack of swell, side shore wind, and draining tide, we have a one hour window before the break shuts down.

     Surfing harder doesn’t come as easy as planned. I try to duckdive a set wave and get tossed underwater. I kick my feet while paddling into waves, but my rhythm is still broken. Despite all that, I still get two nice lefts to start the session. I attempted a cut back on one wave, but it’s fast, so I just pump on down the line. For the second wave, I take a page out of my friend Klaude’s book, and concentrate on surfing with my back foot. The small crowd is mellow, and we strike a conversation with one of the Aussies in the water. Not too long after, the break starts to shut down. The sets become more inconsistent, the water’s now choppier, and the wind is still howling. I catch a couple rights that bog out towards the inside. After that, I get a “turkey” on my next three waves, meaning that I eat shit on all of them. Randy is paddling out as he sees me do a dump rider special on a right. I stick the drop, but there’s too much momentum, and I fall backwards. I get pitched over on the next left. On my last wave, my board purls. I did my best not to touch the bottom, especially with the tide going out so fast; I didn’t want another sea urchin mishap. At this point, we both struggle to catch our last waves. I get a right which gives me one top turn before it bogs out on the inside. Randy spends another five minutes trying to catch something in, but the spot has turned off.

The river mouth

     Today’s session was a short one. I’m hoping that the conditions clean up and that there’ll be some lulls in the wind. Either way, I got to meet Mikala Jones. Mikala fuckin’ Jones . . . awesome.