A Barney in Bali--Day 28, 05JULY2011 TUE

Decisions:


    Last night I stayed out until around two in the morning. I had to post my blogs at Chat Café. I decided to take the scenic route home through the city. I took the tourist roads from Seminyak to the surf ghetto. I ended up on Poppies 2 searching for Poppies 1. I never found it, but what I did find was random alley way bars, drunk chicks walking around, drunk guys that could barely walk, and a bunch of shady Balinese guys lurking in the shadows. It was eerie. I was a little lost, and I was putting off the energy that I didn’t know where I was driving. It’s one thing to cruise around during the day, but at night the animals come out to play.

    I wake up at 0630. My body needs more rest, but it’s been used to waking up around this time. My board repair won’t be done until 1000 anyway, so I sleep until 0900. I force myself out of bed, take a cold shower since there’s no hot water, and eat breakfast at the hotel which is a rarity.

    There’s a surf group traveling together, and they’re eating at the table next to me. They’re from America, some from Hawaii, and there are guys and girls. They are talking about how much they love Bali, and how there are no whores here like Thailand. It’s kind of like what my brother said. The girl that’s talking says that they pray and do offerings here, not prostitute themselves. It’s an interesting thought to start the morning. I kill off my coffee, watermelon, toast, jam, and eggs. I walk to BK to say hi to Wulan. She doesn’t see me approaching, so I start doing a funky dance behind her until she turns around. She jumps, I startle her, it’s a success. I give my morning greetings and walk to Kuta beach for a look at the surf.

    It’s not great, but it’s better than the last time. The tide is at mid height. I see Citri taking photos for BK. Luzda is giving some guy some surf lessons, which means he’s pushing some guy into some whitewash waves. Luzda cheers for every wave the guys gets, one footers, wipeouts, and all. I wonder if Luzda is truly stoked or if this is just a routine for him. Either way, it’s funny. Citri returns to BK, I say hi as she passes by, and I ponder on the day’s call.

    I hate driving in traffic, that’s why I love trying to start my sessions here early. That way, I only catch traffic on the way home at least. Yesterday’s board damage put a wrench in my plans. By the time I get it, it will be 1000, and I’m going to catch the worst traffic on the way home. Where should I surf? Randy suggested that I explore Uluwatu today. The swell is dying even more tomorrow, and if I want to surf it with some size, then I have to do it now. I think about the possible crowds there, I’ve never been there, and I’d be on a solo monkey hunt. Or I could just play it safe, surf Kuta, stay local, and just surf Ulus tomorrow . . . when it’s smaller.

    I go to the board repair shop, they are still working on it, so I tell them I’ll come back. I go to my room and contemplate some more. Fifteen minutes later my board is done. They do good work, and it’s only 50,000 rupiah for the three dings that they sealed. On the way back to the hotel, the surf group is in the lobby packed up and ready to leave. I need to buy some water from the front desk. As I approach this guy asks, “How was it?” All eyes meet me.

    I turn while holding my board and say, “I didn’t surf today. I just got a repair. It got dinged yesterday at Nusa Dua.”    

    He asks me where I’m from. Turns out he’s an Oahu transplant from Barstow. We talk about the ice problem on the islands, I buy my water, and go up to my room.

    The guy next door asks, “Hey, brah, how were the waves today?”

    I go through the whole rigormorrig again. He and his roommate are on their way to Balangan tomorrow. I tell them everything I know about the spot, and they thank me. It’s a good feeling to actually have some knowledge on the spots here. I’m no Bali master, but I know more than they do; I’m not as green as I was when I first arrived.

    Back at my room I’m still wondering what to do. A decision needs to be made fast. Kuta . . . it’s the easy route, a no brainer.



Adventure Time:
 

    I can’t stay in Kuta all day. Just being in the streets, the whole surf ghetto atmosphere is interesting, but I need to get away. I pack up my things, secure my surf racks, mount my poor excuse for a stallion, and weave through the crowds on Poppies 1. I’m going to Uluwatu goddamit!

    As I’m driving I’m wondering if this is a wise decision. I’m close to going home, I’ve survived the trip, and it wouldn’t be a bad call to play it safe and go home in one piece. But there’s always that sense of the unknown. I know I’m going to hit traffic, I’m going to be in crowded surf, and it’s going to be stressful trying to find my way there. But still . . . I’m dumping the throttle and racing forward to do something I’ve never done before.

    The gas station around the corner is closed, so I have to fill up at the Bukit. I’m surprised at how light traffic is, and then I remember that Wulan told me tomorrow is an Indonesian holiday; people are already preparing for their day off. I still can’t relax. Every time I do, there’s always that one turn where I see a mile of cars, bumper to bumper.

    The way to Uluwatu is just like the route to Balangan, with the exception of a couple different turns at the end, and it‘s longer. I pull into the gas station. There’s a long line of bule, so I pull to the empty pump, but the attendant sends me back over with the foreigners. The locals pull up to her pump; they take care of their own, and I can’t blame them. My tank’s full, I continue my route, and I pass the right turn that I usually make to go to Balangan. Randy told me to look for signs that read Blue Point, but I instead follow the signs that say Uluwatu.

    The whole drive is still wide open with just a couple vehicles here and there. I’m still clenched, waiting to hit the sea of traffic, but it doesn’t happen. The whole ride is pleasant. Most of the shops are closed, it’s bright, sunny, high noon gives hard light to all of my surroundings, and the winding roads are canvassed by trees. It’s too good to be true, so I can’t completely let go, there has to be a catch somewhere.

    The road to Uluwatu is idiot proof; there are signs everywhere. I take the road all the way to the end where I find a couple taxis and motorbikes parked. I see a sign that says I need to pay 3,000 to park; Randy already warned me. As I’m waiting to pay, a vendor aggressively tries to sell a tourist some clothes. The tourist woman refuses and says she doesn’t like any of her stuff. An altercation starts, and the vendor who’s an elderly Balinese woman starts yelling, “You bad luck!”

    The tourist says, “Now I’m really glad that I didn’t buy anything from you.”

    I just want to pay my shit and check this place out. I imagined that Uluwatu would be smack dab in my face as soon I pull up, but that’s not the case. I park at the top of the stairs, there’s a valley with thick vegetation that I can’t see through, and I can’t even see down the stairs because they curve away from the lot. I gamble on leaving my board with my bike so I can travel light.

 

    As I turn the corner walking down, there are more stairs. A body boarder is coming up. I ask him how the surf was. He says it was bigger yesterday, and there’s some side shore wind. He sounds French, definitely not Aussie. I thank him for the info and walk down. I can finally make out the water through a little clearing. I walk all the way down where a dry stream bed lies under a bridge. In between the rock formations leading up the side of the mountain, I see the first of the man made structures.

    It’s a narrow path, but to my right are several warungs, they’re built one on top of the other lining the whole cliff. Once I get to higher ground I see it. It’s breathtaking, all that I imagined. I feel the energy of this place. This is Uluwatu. I walk to the last warung at the edge of the cliff for a better look. I can see three peaks working. A set rolls through, it A frames, there are lulls between the sets, it doesn’t look gnarly, the rides are long, and they look fun. There’s only one major problem. I’m watching guys drop in on each other; it’s fucking packed!

The nicer warungs have more people. It’s a show, just like Balangan, but it’s more of a scene here. Everyone’s watching, and you can be recognized on your walk back if you’ve put on a good performance. Whatever this place was when Gerry Lopez first surfed here, it’s definitely not anymore. They’ve capitalized on Ulu’s natural wonders, and now there are gift shops, surf schools, board repair shops, photo shops, and warungs burrowed in on the side of the cliff. I walk back down and search for where to paddle out. It’s like nothing I’ve seen before.

    There are steps that lead even lower to a cave. There’s a hole that leads out to the ocean, a huge rock is right in the middle of it, and water is violently rushing in as a female surfer enters, belly riding her surfboard back in. Two guys have their boards, waiting for the right moment to “hit the hole.”

    The walk back up to the moped is a frickin’ workout. I get back to the top, my board is still there, and I gulp down my water from the hotel. A couple walks out of a taxi and asks where they can stay for cheap. I direct them to Balangan. They thank me and leave. I overhear a father telling his sons to leave their stuff on top and that they’ll get it later. I interrupt him and say, “No, get it now.”

    “Is it a long walk?” he asks.

    I point to the beads of sweat on my tank top and the coat of grease on my arms. He turns to grab his gear.

    I walk back down with all my equipment. One of the photographers recognizes me; he’s one of the guys from Balangan. We exchange a little small talk, and I start my search for a warung. The ones with the best views are all the way at the top, but they are fancy, modern, crowded, and their prices probably reflect that too. I enter one on the lower part of the cliff. It’s empty. An elderly woman is sweeping the floor. “Are you guys open?” I ask.

    “Yes, yes!” she says. “Grab the basket. You can put your stuff.” She points towards the wooden surfboard racks.

    The place is empty, it’s a surprise, but it’s me. I don’t want the crowd. I sit at my table, gaze out at the open ocean, and order fries and an orange juice.

In the Company of Strangers:


    The owner of the warung introduces herself. Her name is Wayan. She asks if I’m from Hawaii. I tell her she’s right.

    She laughs and says, “You almost look Japanese, but your skin, your skin is like mine!”

    She’s sitting at the table next to me as I munch on my fries. We exchange a word or two between sets. My eyes are still fixed on the ocean.

    An Aussie walks in, they both know each other. He says that he’s just there to say hi. He turns to me and introduces himself.     “My name’s Collin,” he says as he offers his hand.

    “Hello, I’m Matt.” I shake it.

    “Good, now that’s two people’s names that I know,” he says. He tells me that he just broke his board paddling back into the cave. He says, “As I entered the cave, I could see the two guys in front of me. They went like this!” He opens his eyes wide while raising his eyebrows. “A wave came out of nowhere! It’s rare that they break inside the cave, but it was going to slam me against the rocks, so it was either me or my board!”

    I’m nodding my head, already freaked out by the site of the cave, Collin isn’t helping. I listen intently.

    He says, “So before I hit the wall, I put up my board like this.” He gestures with his hands, holding both palms facing out and away from him. “And my board just got slammed against the rocks. The whole underside is ripped open, foam sticking out everywhere! It was a brand new board, my first surf with it!”

    I tell him I’m sorry for his troubles, but he says that he lives here, married a local girl, and his boards are at home.

    He tells me that he’ll be up top at the bar and that I should join him later. He says, “I like to watch people miss the cave as they’re paddling back in.”

    I had no idea, but he informs me about the current. Apparently, if you miss the cave, it’s impossible to fight the pull, and you’ll have to go out and around again. This doesn’t sound good.

    I check my watch; it’s time. I have a little bit of Vertra face paint left. I try to use the whole thing but fail. The stick never runs out, I tried to use it all up, and now my face is so white that I look like a geisha.



    I’m bare backing it again. My camera’s in my pocket, and I’m walking down the stairs to the cave. The stairs are steep, and the tide’s even higher. Water is rushing in way beyond the hole. Water sucks out exposing the huge rock then waves crash in. I can’t believe this shit is real. I look to my right and see a kid walking to a board, and wouldn’t ya know, it’s the same grom that I met at Nusa Dua yesterday. I say, “Hey, man, what’s up?! I saw you at Nusas!”

    He returns the same smiling gesture and replies, “Aww roiyt, man, how are ya!?”

    “I’m all right. It’s my first time here, man. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m following you!”

    His name is Dillon. He gives me some rapid 411 as we walk closer to the hole. He tells me that you don’t really need reef booties here, and at low tide you still barely touch the bottom. We stand and watch the water’s angry fists pound the cave’s entrance.

    “This is the highest I’ve evah seen the tide!” he says. “Aww roiyt, we’ah goin’ ta wait ‘til the water sucks out, then we’ah goin’ ta jump in and let it take us!”

    I can’t move on my own. He moves, I move. Just as we’re about to jump in, we hear a scream from behind us. We turn around, it’s a woman, but we don’t see the woman, we see two tan, bare titties staring right at us. We’re not even at the lineup yet, and we’re already faced with a nice set. I look back at Dillon, he looks at me, and then we look back at the titties. We’ve missed our window. A wave comes in, knocks the both of us backwards, as I almost run into the rock wall to our side. The chick was probably frolicking near the waterline when the wave hit her; it ripped her top right off. They were just there. Nobody planned it, but from the way that the morning went, from the perfect drive on the way over, to the coincidence of running into Dillon at the bottom of this cave . . . did God want us to see these titties? The nipples were short and stubby, like an eraser from a fresh #2 pencil. She turns to cover herself. No one else is here, and I assume she’s looking for her top. I don’t see it anywhere.

Dead men tell no tales.

    Dillon and I say to each other, “What the fuck was that!?” Okay . . . round two. The cave is so loud that we have to shout at each other. The water starts sucking out again. I’m in fear of another wave lurking around the corner, but he’s right. We hit the water as soon as ir rushes out. We’re sucked right out into the open, and we’re paddling towards the middle of the peak.

    I thank him for all his help, and then he says, “Oh, and by the way. I’m not just one of those guys that puts stickers on his boards.” He nods downward, and there’s a Quiksilver sticker on his deck towards the nose. “I met a guy from Quiksilver, and I might get sponsored.”

    “Hey, man, I ain’t judging you. I’ve seen your surfing!” What a great kid, such positive energy from a guy who owes me nothing. I’m grateful. I tell him I’ll see him later and try to get a feel for the water.



I Must Ride One:

   I’m watching the line up, there’s a long continuous string of surfers from the top, middle, and bottom of the wave. Generally, there appears to be three peaks. The temple is one; it’s far. The middle is where everyone is sitting, and the bottom is basically leftovers from the middle or smaller waves that break near the inside. I sit on the outside of the middle and finally make my way in the pack. Fuck it, it’s Uluwatu, and it’s the first and last time I’ll surf this place until I come back. Minimizing my state of mind, I’m sure that almost everyone around me has the same thought. Obviously, I don’t know this wave at all. A peak forms in front of the mass, I turn, paddle, I’m in good position, but I scratch out. The energy is somewhat mellow; there aren’t any bad vibes yet. I scratch out on another one. On a third one, an old Balinese guy on a longboard asks if I’m going. I tell him to go, he paddles, and scratches out too.

    “No good,“ he says.

    I’m a little frustrated. Waves don’t come easy in this place because there are so many people, and I missed three opportunities. There’s also the crowd to deal with. I can’t sit where I want to because I don’t want someone to take my current position to take the next wave; it’s like a game of chess. Another peak forms in front of the pack, I turn and paddle early; I’m not scratching out this time. I’m have to go deep. I can’t scratch out. Two guys are on my inside watching me, I’m paddling, the lip is about to curl, and I’m still on the wave.

    I don’t expect the wave to be big, but the drop feels steep. I’m sliding down fast, and I’m doing my best to get to the open face, I’m fading out uncontrollably. I pull in to the shoulder, but the lip is coming down.

    It’s a glory hole situation, but I don’t know the reef here, so I jump into the base of the wave. The ride was basically a drop, but it’s a good way to start the session. Guys have been out here for hours, probably only getting a couple. I’ve barely been out for fifteen minutes, and I got one under my belt.

    My next wave is another steeper, but two guys drop in on me. It doesn’t really matter because I’m so deep I don’t have a chance anyway. On my third wave there’s too much speed. I’m fading out so fast that I’m trying to set my rail to get back towards the shoulder. I’m falling, almost parallel to the water, but there is so much G-force that my feet are still planted. I fall.

    My third wave is a desperation wave. It’s a smaller one on the inside, but it holds. It’s good for a couple pumps and weak turns off of the lip. It’s not epic, but it counts. I’ve officially caught a wave at Uluwatu.

    A longboarder enters the line up, and this guy is catching waves easy; he must know this spot. On two waves I’m about to slide down the face, but he’s on my inside; he has priority. I can’t compete with that. I paddle between the top and middle of the wave. Sitting the furthest out from the pack when I see a jelly fish in front of me. I’m not threatened because it’s an Uluwatu jelly fish. It’s not like those asshole jelly fish at Balangan. All of a sudden I feel the sharp, deep, sting on my left knee. “Fuck!” I yell. It’s unexpected in the crowd, as the lull was silent until my vulgar rendition. I’m splashing the water away, holding my knee, and rubbing it as I grimace in pain. About fifteen seconds later, I feel another sting on the bend of my right leg, behind my knee. “Fuck!” I yell again. I splash the water and paddle further out. I turn to the line up, and everyone’s watching me. Fuckin A. I’m stung twice by the same jelly fish, a lone jelly fish.

    I see the next bump in the surface. It’s a smaller one, but since I’m so far away from everyone I have it to myself. I barely make the pitchy drop, I bottom turn, and hold just under the lip. I’m off balance, arms are flailing, the line up is watching me from behind the wave, I recover, and reenter the wave. I do a couple half ass turns and belly ride as far as I can to the cave.

    I’m skirting the cliffs making sure that I don’t miss the entrance because I don’t want to be the subject of entertainment at the warungs. I get too close and feel my fins graze some huge rocks over shallow water. I make a sharp turn and make it. The tide is lower, and I’m already walking before I reach that huge rock in the middle.

    As I walk up the cliffs the photog guys tell me that they have pictures of me. I tell them that I wiped out on the big ones, and that they’re not that good.

    “Big set,” he says. “I have picture.”

    I nod my head and say, “Okay.”

    I’m at his computer, and he has my first couple waves, but what I see sends a grave disappointment through my body. That first big wave that I got. Again, just like Balangan, it got hollow and opened up. I failed to recognize it. Instead of pulling in I jumped in the wave. What the fuck happened? I try to recall it. It was fast. By the time I bottom turned I saw a workable face there, but the lip was coming down, and it looked lined up like it was going to close out. I’m upset at myself, but I purchase the first three shots of the sequence anyway. I pass the other photog guy from Balangan, and he has pics of the two smaller waves that I got. I purchase some from him as well. Woof . . . I’m ugly on waves. I look at my posture. It feels so natural, but I definitely have an ugly style. I like to open my body up whenever I get momentum. I do the same thing when I’m snowboarding; I can’t help it.

    When I see the pic of the missed barrel, I want to paddle back out. The thought stings more than the jellyfish. I told myself when I got to Uluwatu that I just wanted to get some fun long rides, but if I did get barreled it would’ve been the perfect ending to my trip. I think about it over and over and try to reason with myself. It’s just not my time for that yet. Barrel knowledge, I just don’t have it right now. I have to credit those guys that are barrel chargers; it’s not as easy as it looks.

    Back at the warung, I pack up, say bye to Wayan, and head up the stairs. It’s quiet, mellow, no one’s walking down, and the parking lot only has a few patrons. The drive back is just as peaceful as the drive up. I think about what would’ve happened if I stayed in Kuta. I never would’ve had this experience. I hate to sound cliché, but I feel as if this experience was meant for me; it couldn’t have worked out any better. I found Ulus on my own, experienced it, caught waves there, and came back on my own again. I’m at peace. I’m fine with just existing and getting those waves. Barrel or no barrel, I’m grateful for all of this. What started off on a one foot wave that I caught, on Rick Amador’s nine footer at El Porto’s jetty, led me up to this point. I surfed Uluwatu of all places, catching waves in the middle of a crowded line up. My love for surfing brought me here.



Bye Bye to Splurging:


    I drop my gear off and head to Randy’s. I say hi to Jessica and see baby Jaya. It’s been a while; I missed him. I pick up the rest of my cheese, head to the bank to exchange my money, and shop for some souvenirs. I’ll save the details, but I get a good deal on some shirts. The vendor’s happy, I’m happy, and his wife is happy. It’s all serious negotiating at first, but once we agree on a price, it’s all love.

    I walk Poppies 1 looking for a place to eat. I find some crowded, fancy places that can pass for stateside restaurants, but that’s not what I want. I want small, hole in the wall, where the regulars go, spots that the locals know, and cheap.


    I go down a road I haven’t walked down before. It’s dark, there are a couple people at the end, and only a few lights, but I go anyway. It curves to the left. Two guys are in the shadows. As I walk past them they walk behind me. I find myself in front of a huge hotel; it’s in the middle of no where. At this intersection I see night life on both sides. I turn left. I see a sign on a little street on the side; it’s an Indo, Chinese, Thai restaurant. It’s small with just a few tables, open air, with just a couple customers. I glance at the menu, and almost everything is under two American dollars.


    I start off with the vanilla milkshake because it’s the only way I know how. I love Thai food, and I’ve been eating mostly Indo food anyway, so I order the tom yum gai and beef pad Thai. The soup’s good, spicy, but bearable. The pad Thai tastes like it has a lot of MSG in it, kind of like Chinese chow fun. It doesn’t pass Thai town standards, but it’s good. As I sit at my table I look at the walls. There are pics of expats and their families; they all know the owner. It’s hitting me hard for the first time. I’m going to miss this place.


   
    Now I’m back at the Chat Café. I ordered an ice coffee and a banana split the second I got in here. I just polished off a chocolate milkshake as well. One more day to go.

A Barney in Bali--Day 27, 04JULY2011 MON

The best Dunkin' Donuts, probably in the world!

Nusa Dua Reloaded:


    You’d think that after the night I had that I’d be sleeping in for a while. I wake up, it’s still dark out, and I look at my watch; it’s 0609. I get up in a hurry. This is the earliest I’ve been up so far. The plan for this morning is to take a gamble on Nusa Dua. Yesterday’s winds were light, so we’re hoping that today will be the same. The only thing with Nusas is that we don’t have Froggy to watch our stuff, so I pack light. Board and surf racks, I make the hump downstairs and start putting my bike together. Even though we’re supposed to meet at 0630, I’m hoping that I can at least get there before 0700. I pull out of Aya Beach to find the streets dead with only a few motorists. I go through the usual routine and fill up gas. The attendant’s an old man, and he asks me where I’m from. Usually Hawaii generates a positive response, but instead he laughs out loud and says, “Amerrr-ika, Amerrr-ika!” He keeps on saying it, as if he’s scoffing at me. It’s a little awkward, but he puts 7,000 worth, and I’m on my way.

    I pull up to Dunkin’ Donuts, and Randy’s no where to be found. “Fuck,” I say to myself. I hope didn’t leave. I order my breakfast special, skip the donut, and take a seat. Their TV is on, and I’m watching Indonesian Scooby Doo. It’s different. Scooby Doo’s talking Indonesian; I can’t put it together. I hear a bike pull up, I look outside, and it’s Randy. I actually beat him here, yesss! He orders his sandwich for take away while I scarf mine right there. I watch the commercials and tell him how Lauren got me into watching them, figuring out who’s the target audience, and what each one says about society. I bring up one of the latest Hilfiger commercials that I saw back home, how they dressed up little kids with their line of clothing, making them look like tiny douche bags.

    “But that’s how people want to look,” he says.

    We pound our coffee, and we each feel a shit coming on. I tell him to go for it because mine needs to brew a little bit longer.

    He leaves, comes back, and says, “I don‘t know, I stood up, and it was gone.”

    “I was thinking the same thing,” I reply. I feel it in there, but I don’t think the masterpiece is finished yet.

    We mount our bikes, and Randy feels it coming on again. He runs back in, I wait about five minutes, and then he comes out ready to surf. He tells me that we’re still making the right turn at KFC. We head down the road, I pull over in the right turning lane, but he keeps going straight. I move out of my lane, see that he’s waiting for me, I honk to get his attention, and we’re finally on the same track. We turn off the highway and make the drive that I’ve only ridden a couple times since I’ve been here; it’s my first time making the drive myself. It turns out that Nusas is the easiest place to get to because there are only a few turns involved.

    When we arrive at the lookout point by the temple, the wind is still dead. The still air makes the sun’s rays hotter. We look out through a clearing in the brush and see a set come through. The roar of white wash stampedes over the shallow reef after the waves break. Randy’s quiet, so am I . . . I’m nervous. It’s one of those situations where you see the surf from far away, it looks small, but you figure out that the two little dots that you see are surfers, and that it’s not so small after all. It’s so different from Balangan. No, no more long left handers. We are staring down at peaks. They are well defined, and . . . and Randy’s comment says the rest.

    “It’s big,” he says. “This is good.”

    He leads the charge, and we park lower by the warung. I’m a little nerve wracked. I always am when surfing somewhere new. It’s nice that we’re here. Day 1 Donny Duckbutter surfed Nusa Dua, and it’s time to see how day 27 Donny Duckbutter performs. I’m already psyching myself out, and that’s not good. I know comfort. I can paddle out at Trestles and feel unstoppable, but out here, I’ve felt like an underdog the whole time. I’ve only surfed this spot twice compared to Balangan and The Gu which I’ve spent weeks at. I know it’s big, but I try not to think about it.

    Randy takes note of the new construction that’s being done to the sand in front of the beach; he’s not happy. We walk down the path, the water is glassy, a couple fishermen gather their nets, the tide is coming up, and we’re walking the shoreline for a good spot to paddle out. We see two people doing the reef dance in front of us, but they’re about two hundred yards out.

It's hard to tell, but two guys are out there still walking on shallow reef.

    “We’re not doing the reef dance,” says Randy. “I got vana in my foot last time, and I can’t see over the white wash.”

    It’s a little refreshing to see that he’s not completely indestructible. He’s susceptible to the same mental woes as I, for the left hander at The Burg will remain a sea urchin infested spot to me forever.

    We start the long paddle. The tides high enough that we don’t have to walk, but it’s a long ways out. The white wash looks tiny from where we are. I look below and scan the reef as we’re paddling. I’m worried about touching something pokey, so I don’t bury my hands in the water. My rear delts and upper back muscles are starting to burn, Randy’s ahead of me and pulling away fast, so I try to keep pace. As we’re nearing the white water, small ripples begin to tilt me on my board. Once we’re in the white wash zone, I assume that I can start duckdiving, but when I look down, the reef is shallow again. I do my best to do shallow dives, I look for Randy, and he’s way out there already. It’s still hard to accept. Looking at the both of us, it’s hard to imagine that one possesses bionic paddling capabilities while the other one doesn’t.

    We’re actually at the northern most channel closest to land, so we make it out without incident, but the current and tide causes some waves to come in perpendicular against us. It’s really weird, and it slows my progress a bit. An outside set comes, I take a deep breath, but it breaks after it passes me. Randy, if you can imagine, is far enough to resemble a little surf figurine from my perspective. These are the days he warned me about, I think to myself. For Bali training, even while he was in Cali, he told me over and over again, specifically, to get my paddling up. He told me of paddles that are at least a mile out, while fighting current, and while fighting waves. He said that some guys will take boats out to the lineup it’s so far, but that it’s always better to work for it. And it is so . . . I maintain my stroke and breathe in rhythm each time my hand strikes the water. I do this until Randy sits, and I finally close the distance.

    The tide’s doing something weird to the water; it’s lumpy. On day 1, the water was glassy, and each peak was defined. Today, the peaks are big and sloppy, the shoulders are hard to read, and there’s a lot of movement in the water.

    Randy spots his friend Charles and says hi to him. He’s an older gentleman on a longer board, but he sits way outside, and he only goes for the big ones, nothing else. I’m picky. A couple big waves suddenly appear, but I paddle out to beat them. I’m wondering how they are breaking, where are the peaks, where should I sit, how far to take the wave, where is the reef shallow, how shallow is it, and how much time do I have before the sets?

    The two guys we saw doing the reef dance are an Aussie father and son. The son looks barely eighteen, a grom, and he’s going for it. He paddles out past me. I say, “Good morning.”

    “How’s it going?”

    “Oh, trying to get that first one.”

    He laughs. “How can you not get a wave out here?”

    Well, he said it. Fuck me. How can I NOT get a wave out here? Randy comes back after his ride, and we all talk a bit.

    “The next one that comes is yours,” the grom says.

    “Yeah, it’s only my second time here, so . . . I’m still trying to figure it out.”

    “It’s like my fourteenth time here. I love it.”

    Randy asks, “How long are you here ‘til?”

    The grom replies, “We leave on the eighth . . . it sucks. I want to live here for the rest of my life!”

    This kid is so stoked, his energy is good, he’s good people. He alerts us to a fish, the size of my torso, that’s swimming by him. I try to take a pic as he takes another wave.

    Randy looks at me and says, “You’re gonna have to get one.”

    Fuck, it’s my thoughts exactly. I’m a Barn, but I don’t want to look bad in front of the kid, especially if he’s offering waves. I haven’t caught a good right hander in weeks, but I get over the mental block and paddle for one. The face is different, I’m so used to Balangan now, everything is different: my position on the board, the fine peaky shape of the wave, and the length that it’s running. I play my first one safe, do a passive bottom turn, stall on the lip, and let the wave pass as it breaks over the reef. It’s not an epic ride, but it’s a start to the session. I tell Randy how I get what he means, that it’s easier to generate speed going front side, as I had problems staying with the section going backhand.



The Buffet is Now Open:

    In a strange turn of events, the movement in the water subsides, it’s not lumpy anymore, and it’s turning glassy. Randy even acknowledges and says, “It backed off a little.“ He’s referring to the drop in size. The sets are coming in easy, maybe two at a time with smaller waves in between. Using Randy’s scale, it’s only three feet. For Cali scale, it’s much bigger. The peaks are so defined, there are rights and lefts, and it takes some getting used to. I don’t take the peak directly, and I paddle in just to the side of it, but it doesn’t take away from my rides. I start taking lefts. The peaks are A-framing, I feel as if I’m gonna get pitched, but I angle my board, and manage steep drops. The waves are almost too peaky in that they taper off in size after the bottom turn, but they are still fun regardless. I pull off the best front side top turns that I ever have in my short surfing career. For the first time, without even needing a deep bottom turn, I’m carving with the tail, using my rear foot, leaning down into the pocket, and smoothly reentering the face. For me, it’s some of my best surfing yet. Balangan has the big long lefts that has standing sections. Nusas starts off peaky and then goes shouldery.

    The most beautiful thing this morning is the clarity of the water. On each of these lefts all I can see is the brown plant life on the reef. The water’s not even blue; it’s so clear it’s like surfing on Evian. The water is invisible if you can imagine. There’s only a sign of the water when my board breaks the integrity of it; there’s barely any depth perception at all.

    I’m not even eating shit; I’m feeling confident now. On one right, it’s reminiscent of Trestles. I get the steep drop, bottom turn, do a couple little pumps to set myself up, whack the lip, pump twice, and do it again.

    The whole morning, I’m respecting the reef, trying to end my rides just a hair early, and making it back out unscathed. It’s hard for me to pick one ride as the wave of the day; I’m getting so many. It’s the wave buffet I’ve been dreaming of. I’m already thinking about my blog post. This IS like the movies. I’m back at a spot that I couldn’t handle at day 1, only to come back at the end of my trip to conquer it. Yes, I have changed, I have surpassed Barney status, Bali changed me, I’m a better surfer now!



I’m sorry, sir, you forgot to pay. Your bill is your ass:


    I’m beyond confident; I’m having the time of my life. I’m totally doing my own thing, Randy’s doing his own thing, we’re on our own agendas, and he doesn’t have to watch over me.

    Randy motions out towards the tour boat that’s closing in on our spot. “Guys are getting dropped off,” he says.

Dropped the off right next to the father and son.

    I look, boards are being flung overboard, and four bodies enter the water. I’ve said that I want to be humble, but . . . after that long paddle out, I can’t help but raise an eyebrow at these guys. Words cross my mind: lazy, piece of shit, sorry ass motherfuckers. I have to be honest. I can’t stop these thoughts; I’m not perfect.

    The lineup’s a little more crowded now but not by much. Before these guys showed up, there were only seven guys in the water, and that’s amongst scattered peaks; we’re only on the edge of Nusa Dua’s breaks. I paddle further south to get some for myself, away from Randy. I’m still having a blast.

    After a wave, a freak set pops out of no where, it’s the first since we’ve paddled out. I’m far enough to beat it. It’s a clean up set. It’s three or four waves, the peak starts in the north without warning, it’s lip curling down before anyone has a chance. I watch the inside, and everyone’s caught. I see Randy, and he’s recovering his position on his board. One of the boat riders is on a long board, and he’s caught in the insde. Wow. Not me. Not today. Randy gave me another warning about Nusa Dua. It’s a deep water spot, so the waves will jack up out of flat water, unlike other spots where we see them form in the distance. Nusa Dua has no point to predict the sets.

    After the set, the wave buffet continues. It’s hard to be picky any more. The wise thing to do is ensure that there’s not a haymaker waiting for me after my ride, but I catch a right anyway, and I catch it too far. I don’t touch the bottom but can see the reef through the clear patches of whitewash under my board. I’m paddling over white marble, and some waves are breaking I front of me. No problem, I’m thinking. It’s been an easy morning thus far. I duckdive one, two, paddle, paddle, paddle . . . three. Holy shit. Behind these smaller waves I see bigger waves behind them, and it’s worse. Since I left Randy’s area, I’m between two peaks now, and at the moment they are both working . . . really, really well. At Balangan and The Gu I had the channel. With Nusas scattered peaks beginning to turn on, I have none. It’s like being tag teamed. I’m ducking diving waves from one peak, and there’s a wave just a couple yards behind it getting ready to break. I duckdive one, resurface, and get another one on the face. I can beat this, I can beat this. I’m looking for relief, but there is none. The sets are still coming, it’s the groundhog day effect, am I even moving? I’m still surrounded by marble water. No one else is caught, I’m the only one at my peak, the beating continues.

    I’m having a hard time making amends with the situation. But everything was going so well, I think to myself. I’m not even worried about the reef because I know I have room, but the marble zone seems endless, I’m struggling to get to blue water. Where the fuck is the lull!? I’m tiring out, and I find that my improved duckdive still needs improvement. I pride myself that at least I’m holding on to my board, but I get washed around and spun in the opposite direction.

    Finally, I’m past the white water, but there’s a wave forming in front of me. All I have to do is duck dive this one. It breaks in front of me, I tell myself that I’m going to make it, I go under it, feel it’s power pulling me back, and I’m sucked away in reverse. When I resurface there’s another set on the way. 

Boat rider going for a wave. Dammit, he looked in the camera, ruined the action shot.

Return to the Dark Side:


    “Arrrrrrrrrrrrghhhhhhhhhhhhh!” I yell out, but at who? I’m pissed. I hate everything again. I’m thinking about someone or some thing to place my hate on. Why am I here? I can’t blame Randy, it’s not his fault. The stoke has long drained from my veins. It’s a paddling marathon. I see Randy. He’s watching me, but I don’t want pity, I want revenge, but it’s not working. Each ounce of hate goes into my paddle, but it causes me to give up. I float on the inside during a lull; I’m frustrated. I paddle back slow and still get worked; it’s fucking endless.

    When it’s all over, Randy is still watching me from a distance. I’m floating on the outside, lying on my board, forehead on my deck. I’m tired but mostly angry. My only way to deal with it is to catch another wave. I get a big left which I catch all the way to Randy’s peak.

    “I saw you caught on the inside!” he says. “I thought you gave up and went in!”

    “Fuck. I was so fuckin’ pissed off.”

    “Man, you must’ve got like thirty on the head.”

    I’m silent.

    He says, “The other guy got like fifty. The guy with the gray hood.” He’s referring to the boat riding longboarder. “Yeah, I heard him on the inside. He was yelling. When he came back, his friends were all looking at him wondering if he was all right.”

    “It’ll do that to you. Fuck, I just went through that myself.”

    I’m trying to be positive, telling myself that I can’t have fun without having the struggles along the way as well. I catch a couple more waves, good ones, and I’m happy again. I even tell Randy, “Ya know . . . despite getting worked earlier, I’m still having a lot of fun. It’s a wave buffet out here.”

    “Yeah, but normally Nusas isn’t like this. There are usually two peaks, this one and that one, not like how it is today. There are a lot.”

    He tells me he thinks he’s done, and I tell him I’ll catch a couple more. I catch a right hander, and another set starts to come in. Not again. I’m paddling, Randy punches through and reaches the safe zone, and I’m taking beatings all over again. Randy catches another wave, passes me, has time to stop, and says, “I’m going in.”

    “All right,” I say, but I’m not. I’m paddling. I can’t end the session like this, not like this. It sounds like I’m exaggerating, but even Randy said that he thought I would’ve given up to let myself to get washed up on shore. On the second round of beatings I become delirious. I try different things to punch through the wave better, but they need practice. I’m almost back to the outside, but I see a big wave forming in front of me. Seething with anger, I yell at it: “YEAHHHHHH, YEAHHHHHHHH! FOCK YOUUUUUUUUU!” It’s ridiculous. I barely punch through, and I’m sitting at the line up again. The beatings now outweigh the fun that I had. My mission is one good wave; I need to end it on one good wave. A big let comes, I ride it wisely, no practicing turns, just staying on the face as long as possible. I straighten out and let the white wash take me as far as possible. I’m not satisfied. It was a “gimme” wave, or a freebee. It was as if Nusa Dua said, “All right you fuckin’ bitch. Here, take this fucking wave and stop your crying.”





How About a Little Salt in That Wound?:


    After the white wash fizzles away, I’m only half way to the shore. I sit on the inside, exhausted from. . . . I see Randy already near the shore. No waves are breaking where I am, so I must paddle. I head for the temple where we walked out to, but as I get closer I see that the water level is above the path. There’s a current on the inside, and it’s taking me north of the temple, but there’s no where to walk over there. I need to go south where the sand is. The current on the inside is so strong. I’m being dragged behind the temple. Each stroke barely covers any distance. I’m watching the foliage on the cliff to see if I’m moving; I can‘t even tell.

    I make it around the temple, and some little local kids are hanging out on some beach chairs. They’re watching me and laughing. I don’t blame them. It’s obvious. The look on my face says it all. I walk out of the water, a kid gives me a thumbs up and smiles, I give a thumbs up back, I plant my foot on the stairs, and I sway unbalanced.

    Randy’s almost done changing. I’m suffering from post beating afterburn. He knows I’m wiped. He says, “Man, today was small. Can you imagine six foot Nusa Dua and consistent?”

    I give his comment some thought. The epiphany sucks, but I accept it. “I’m not ready for Bali,” I reply.



Where the Fuck am I?:

    I find the shortcut back, but it’s my first time riding back alone via the shortcut. I make a wrong turn somewhere, and I’m looking for the road that runs parallel to the beach. I come to a dead end. What the fuck. Not only am I tired, but I don’t know where the fuck I am. I turn around, trace my route, and find the road I was initially looking for. Someone once said, the best way to know your way around is to get lost. Actually, I just made that up, but I’m sure that someone else has already said that.

The Wind Down:

   
    I get back to my motel room, go out to the balcony, eat a couple bean cakes, and drink some water. I shower, change, and go back to Heaven’s Club for some food. I splurge. I order the eggplant, tofu with tempe, egg, Indian potatoes, a side order of rice, and another avocado smoothie. I inhale it all. I go back to my room and sleep until 1630.

    I wake up, try to write, and do a little inspection on my surf board. Sure as fuck, there’s a crack on the tail’s glassing, and a piece is missing. I got Solarez but no sanding material. I walk my board to BK, talk to Kadek, but he used the last of his materials to fix my brother’s board. He tells me to go to a local shop by my motel and not to pay more than 30,000. When I show up, the guy points out two other dings on my board. I knew of them, but I was gonna ask my friend Rick to fix them when I got back to L.A. I decide to have it all done in one shot. He wants me to pay 70,000, but I talk him down to 50,000. It’s five bucks for three dings, it’s a good deal, but it won’t be done until tomorrow at 1000.

    I drive to Seminyak Chat Café, work on my blogs, and then drive to Cabe (Indo warung) around the corner. Coincidentally, Randy is there. We talk about tomorrow’s plans, he takes his food to go, and the splurging continues. I order the beef curry dish, gado-gado, and some Indo dessert. It barely comes out to seven bucks.

    My board won’t be ready until late in the morning, so I’m up late writing. Today is the fourth of July, but in Bali, it’s just another day. I had my ass handed to me today. I don’t know what this says for my surfing. I just need to accept it.
   

Another night at the chat cafe, posting my blogs.

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

Milking It:


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

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

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

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

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



Javanese Grub:
 

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

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

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

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

Bali's ambassador of Maui.

Autopilot:


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

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

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

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

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

Kadek

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

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

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

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

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