A Barney in Bali--Day 19, 26JUNE2011 SUN

A Buffet on My Back:

   
    I had some weird dreams last night. The first dream was continuous the whole night long. It had to do with posting blog pictures, and I was pissed off about something not uploading right. Then the next dream was about my friends and I killing someone back home, the authorities were only after me, and I feared going to prison.

    I woke up at 0300 to intense itching. I woke up scratching my back and forearms. I felt the puffiness over my skin. Mosquitoes, blood sucking bastards. I went to the mirror to take a look, and this one bite on my back raised my skin in the shape of Tennessee. I went back to my bed and scanned the room. I saw one right there, glutinous, just marinating on my pillow. The fucker was so full from his feast that he couldn’t move. I whacked it with my towel, and it lay stunned on the mattress. I picked it up and squished it, and so much of my own blood burst out of it that you’d think I’d just cut myself. I looked around more, and I found another culprit on my bed. This guy was so full too, so I just picked him up and washed him down the sink. Nuisances.


It’s Catching Up:


    I wake up at 0530. I’m late. I hear Randy outside. I wake up, grab a glass of water, let him know I’m alive, brush my teeth, and slowly warm up. I’m so tired. I can’t believe how tired I am. My body feels like it needs another lay day, but gawd dammit, we just had one. I shouldn’t be this tired, but my body’s begging to curl back on the mattress and go back to sleep. My warm up is weak, and I give up half way through as soon as the tea’s ready. I’m on auto pilot stumbling to the kitchen. I grab my tea, have a seat next to Randy, and look at the swell report. I fall asleep with my tea in my hand. I wake up a moment later, chug it down, and start packing.


Routines:


    This morning’s different. It’s overcast, there’s a dissipating moisture in the air, and the wind’s already up. It’s about 0630 when we’re on the road. Traffic is light. There’s nothing like being groggy, still waking up, and then getting on a moped with the throttle wide open in the morning dawn. We get more gas, and speed off again. Randy pulls off to the left. I’m not ready for this, so I pull off too and realize we’re stopping at Dunkin’ Donuts.

    Initially, I thought I saw a Dunkin’ Donuts back home in L.A., but I realize that that’s impossible because my friend Hay’s let me know that there aren’t any in California. That’s a damn shame. Not only is their coffee good, but their donuts . . . mmm, mmm, mmmmmmmmmmmm! They’re so good that you’ll spooge in your pants if you eat them too slow. I’d take Dunkin’ over Starbucks any day. I can’t help myself. The Triple Chocolate Donut reels me in with its tractor beam of yummy goodness. Randy opts out on the donut, while I dip it into my coffee until it’s all gone. There’s no rush this morning because the tide is high, and Balangan works best on a low tide. We shoot the morning shit, and by the time we’re done the caffeine has me feeling like a new man. We ask the worker on the way out if they’ll sell me a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee mug, but he says no. I think I’ll have to come back and bribe him with a dollar and fifty cents.


Slick:


    I’m feeling more comfortable on the bike, day by day, but today is a new experience because the road is wet. As we reach higher elevation through the Bukit, the roads are slick. I notice other people taking it a lot easier on the turns. The last thing I want to do is skid out, so I’m cautious as well. It starts drizzling on us once we reach the winding roads of the countryside, but the second we drop in elevation, the road turns dry again.    

Signs:


    The same guy from yesterday is opening up Froggy’s. He tells us that a Brazilian woman with two Balinese chicks are hanging out here. They walk towards us from the beach, and the Brazilian chick doesn’t look at us. I feel bad for her. She’s probably just trying to enjoy her vacation, and everywhere she goes, there’s probably nothing but guys eye-boning her. The Balinese girls are more friendly. They smile as they walk by, and I give a “good morning” to return the kindness. Randy says, “Don’t let me stop you if you want to get out there.” For some reason, I’m really looking forward to the morning’s paddle out more than usual. I was tired earlier, but now I’m happy to be here. Making an odd move, I start suiting up while Randy kicks back, listens to his music, and watches the surf.

    Today’s the smallest day that I’ve seen Balangan. A couple big sets come through, but there are long lulls between them. The sets in between aren’t that big, but there are still barrels out there. The waves actually seem less shouldery and have more building sections.

    I paddle out, expecting the morning crowd to get thicker, but instead, the gloomy weather has people leaving the lineup. The surf gypsy guy is in the water, and his name is Chad. We exchange stories. It turns out that Chad is Canadian and lives in British Columbia. It’s his first time in Bali too, and he’s here for three weeks. He asks if I have the hook up for a good board because the one he bought out here sucks. I give him the bad news that I don’t. Just then, the first wave of a set appears. I go for it, make the drop, but it closes out as I reach the base. Another guy in the water talks to me. “How was that?” He asks.

    “Eh, kind of closed out.”

    “Yeah, they are fast.”

    I paddle by Chad, and he says, “At least you went for it.”

    Just then the most spectacular thing happens. It starts raining, but not just regular rain, it was torrential. It starts off light, gets stronger, and now everyone and the water is being pelted big heavy drops. The ocean turns into an orchestra of splashing. It almost seems instinctual to go underwater to escape it. The atmosphere is a pure sheet of rain. It still looks like there are waves, but I’m still paddling out. A little further and I’ll get the camera out. The second I unzip my boardshort pocket, the rain gets weaker to a faint drizzle. It barely lasted twenty seconds, but it’s a moment that will be ingrained in my memory forever.

    I meet Chad’s friend, Petra. He tells me specifically that he lives here, but he’s Indonesian, not Balinese. The mood in the water is so mellow. I’m here conversing with the guys around me, no one’s cutting anyone off, and there aren’t any hard looks or stares. Another set begins, and I go for the first wave again. This morning they are standing up very fast. My plan was just to have fun and take the shoulders, but it looks like trying to get barreled is all I can do. It’s a steep drop, I barely bottom turn because the lip’s about to throw out, so I just stay close to the face until my vision turns into a little hole of light before it goes black. My biggest fear is the reef. I know I have a little cushion of water between it, but I’m now in the impact zone, the rest of the set’s on the way, and I have to get out of here quick. Petra takes the next wave and doesn’t make the section. I try to duckdive it, but get washed around again. I take one more on the head before I’m in the safe zone. Chad says, “Yeah, it’s getting pretty shallow now. I’m think I’m going in.” I turn to find Petra doing the reef dance back to dry land.

    Randy, an Aussie dude, an Aussie chick, and I are the only surfers in the line up. The lulls are long, but with only four people in the water, it doesn’t matter. I take the first wave of the next set again, and there seems to be a shoulder to it. I pump down the line waiting for the soft face, but the wave stands up the whole ride. I take it as far as I can and jump into the face that’s crashing down. It’s a bad move, but it’s all so fast, and riding waves like this is very new to me. It occurs to me that this is not the morning for finding the shoulder to practice turns. Maybe it’s something in the swell direction, but the waves are trying to go hollow once they start to break.

    It’s my first legit wave buffet since being here. The Aussie chick left, so now there’s only three of us. I do another barrel attempt, but jump into the wave as the lip’s coming down. These are truly Barney moments. A guy I met from Frisco two days ago told me, “It’s Bali, if you can’t get barreled here, then. . . .” Fuck, so is it just me? Does everyone come to Bali and get barreled? If that’s the case, then I should be ashamed of myself. There are just so many factors involved, the main one being the reef. I know I keep repeating it, but you can see it under the wave and up ahead of you as it’s turning hollow. It’s my natural human reaction: fear. Randy has been telling me how to fall in the barrel and over the reef, but . . . I believe that it’s something that one can’t just pick up and master in a couple days, unless you got some “Slater” in your blood.

    My next wave has another well defined shoulder. My paddling is feeling good. I’m turning, kicking, and scratching for the best take off spot as soon as I see the bump. My pop up is so early that I have ample time to set myself up before the section jacks. It looks like it’s turning shouldery, so I’m pumping. My pumps are so deep that I’m bounding into the sections, keeping up with the wave. It looks like it’s gonna be more of a spilling wave, so I do a Barney cut back and transition towards the shoulder again. Now the section’s over the reef, I lose track of the shoulder, and the whole wave is standing up. A vet would pull in and just tuck in close to the face for a chance of a tube ride. I . . . I succumb to my body’s “eject button” to get out of harms way and jump over the lip behind the wave. I tell myself that there’s no chance I could’ve made that.

    I’m tired. Being in the impact zone, the adrenaline from going down the line, all the pumping, and fear generated from the morning’s buffet has me drained. I tell Randy that I’m catching one in. I get my last wave right away. I go down the line a little, it goes hollow, I straighten up, and catch the white wash to shallow water. In the stagnant pools I take notice of little reef crabs that crawl down there. They use the reef plants as camouflage for their shells. I spot a baby eel slithering around. I whip out my camera and take a pic before it completely vanishes behind a rock. A Balinese guy from one of the warungs is waving his arms from the sand, saying, “Photo, photo!” I assume he wants to take a picture of me since he sees my camera out.

    I say, “Nah, no thank you.” He continues to be persistent, and then I realize that he has photos of me on some waves. I walk to his warung, sit in front of his Mac, and he starts to create a folder of all my wave pics this morning. What I see is sad. It’s not on every wave, but on at least three, I see shots of me pulling into the barrel and diving into the wave too early, while the section stayed hollow ahead of me. Sure, some were close outs, but some were definitely makeable if I only had the courage to go balls out. On one shot, I saw that I faded outside of the barrel, but I didn’t pull in. Fuck . . . it was RIGHT THERE! This is my first time having close up pictures of myself readily available upon getting out of the water. Back home, I’ve heard people talk shit about surfers that have photographers. One guy referred to it as a total Barney move. But as I’m looking at these pics, I see the mistakes that I’m making, right there, honest, true, and unbiased. In this case, the picture doesn’t lie. I ask the photographer to keep the file, as I’ll be back again.

    Back at the warung, Randy orders an orange juice, me, a Bali coffee. I’m watching guys trying to get barreled and going for it. Randy says, “See, if you know how to fall right, then you can be just like that guy. He’s just staying with the face, going for it. His mentality is just to get barreled.” The guy doesn’t get barreled, he’s getting pinched every time, but he’s only riding the wave for that one purpose. Randy gives me more pointers about my weak duckdive as well. Fuck . . . so many bad habits, and they’re hard to break or change in this critical surf. And at the same time, I look at the guy sitting across from us. There are scars on his back, pale white, moist, unable to heal because he’s in the water too much.

    So today was a wave buffet, but I didn’t leave the line up with that triumphant stoke. I feel as if I’ve hit a wall. Today the waves were made for barrels, and I didn’t take advantage of them. I know I said that getting barreled wasn’t important to me, but sometimes life throws signs or hints at you indicating which choices you should make. In this case, it seems like the ocean was telling me something, to just go for it. I think I have eleven days left. I can‘t promise success, all I can promise is a story to tell.

LOONCH!

Sunday Night Life:

Nappy Poopskies!

    Christine, our maid, didn’t come into work today, so we have to grab dinner elsewhere. Randy’s tired as hell, so he naps right when we get home. I cruise through Seminyak and hit the Bin Tang Market. I find that they’ve restocked their shelves with bean cakes. I buy four packages of them. I wonder where I should eat, and I stumble upon Café Seminyak. I look at their menu, they have pad thai, I love pad thai noodles. I don’t even notice how the hostess is standing there as she waits for me to lift my gaze. She asks if I want to eat there. I look at their dessert menu, something says “three scoops of ice cream,” so I’m in.

    I sit and people watch. It’s such an interesting place. Cab drivers slow and honk at every bule walking the streets. Aussies, Japanese, Javanese, everyone’s out and about. I’m surprised at how many women are vacationing amongst themselves without men. It actually seems that there are more women than men. The hostess comes back and asks where I’m from and what I’m doing in Bali. She seems nice enough. The conversation is short, and my food arrives. I’m sorry to say that the Balinese don’t quite have the Thai recipes down packed. The noodles are too soft, there’s too much sauce, and there must be a shortage of shrimp in this country because they are tiny. I order a Seminyak smoothie which is just okay. Damn, that’s what I get for coming to an obviously expensive restaurant. Randy told me to stick to the local ones. Café Seminyak is obviously westernized with western prices. I skip out on the dessert, pay my bill, and it comes out to a whopping 96,000 Rupiah which is just over ten bucks. It’s not much, but I could’ve gotten twice as much food at some other places. Now I feel bamboozled. I go to Bali Deli and order an ice cream coffee and banana split. It’s so damn good.

After the plane ticket, everything else is inexpensive.

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.