Time:
1015-1245
Conditions:
2-3, Occasional 4 FT
Fins:
Thrusters. JF-1
We start off the morning by going to the
communal kitchen at 0730. Yes, it’s late, but the tide’s too high right now.
The kitchen has had its fair share of travelers since we’ve arrived. Swiss, New
Zealand, France, fuckin’ Germany, Austria, Finland, Singapore, British, and . .
. the stuck up Americans. I’m not saying that Bri and I are stuck up, but
everyone else likes to hang out in the kitchen. Every meal of the day, there’s
a huge congregation there. I don’t know if I’m being wrong, but Bri and I are
on pretty much a couples surf trip. A lot of the vagabonds here are single and
ready to bone in the bushes first chance they get. Are Bri and I so wrong? We
have our Austrian homegirl Sonja, and she’s all we need.
There are cabinets for the guests to put
their food in, chalkboards in front of each one for people to write their names
down, but Bri and I don’t put our shit in there. Someone ate my fucking
bananas. No lie. To add insult to injury, they only left a sliver of a peel
left. Motherfuckers. I bet you anything it was that fucking French Ginger who
thought he was so funny with his American jokes. Once again, I’ll say it twice—foreigners
do not like Americans.
To kill more time, we go to get some wifi
at a hotel lobby around the corner. Save for the cigarette smoke and mosquitos,
it’s not a bad spot. We’re forced to order a couple drinks to enjoy the
technological privilege.
I’m not the Instagram whore that I used to
be, but I still post a few pics. One on Facebook, too, and I also email and
text a few people. Most importantly, I go on the Bleacher Report app to see
what’s the latest news with my Lakers.
It’s 1000 when we pull up to the point.
Surfing at this time of day is just different. I’m a dawn patroller by heart,
but right now the sun is high, the air and water’s hot, and did I mention how
fucking strong the sun is? I cake on a double layer of zinc on my face in hopes
that I won’t get burnt. Arms get a little bit of sunblock, but my arm and neck
tan will be a lost cause regardless. Oh, and my legs. They don’t get no love.
Those fuckers are darker than my Filipino sausage.
Instead of walking all the way out to the point,
I make Bri paddle with me all the way. The guys in the distance are tiny. I’d
like to call it a good quarter mile to the top of the wave. I call it the
“Spartan Paddle.” Lame . . .
With me and Bri out, that makes 11 in the
lineup, but as soon as we arrive, half the lineup leaves. Either the word is
out that I took a shit in the lineup a couple days ago, or people have already
been out and are calling it a morning.
There’s actually a guy from San Fran
traveling with a Swiss dude. When I had told him I was from Cali, too, he
instantly avoided us. Holy shit. That bad to socialize with your fellow
Americans, eh? Are our reps that bad? So San Fran and Swiss are out at the top
of the point along with non-etiquette having ass Boris and his girlfriend. Since
the surf is small, I sit inside and wait for a set to disperse everyone before
I move in.
The water’s not as chocolatey as it was
last time I was here, but there’s still that light brown tinge to it. However,
with the sun so high at this hour, the water appears clearer than usual.
Because this break is at a river mouth, the water leaves a smooth film over
your skin, nothing disgusting, but it’s like a warm coating that just kind of
sticks to you, kind of like everything else in Bali, the air, the smoke, the
smells.
I don’t make the section of my first wave.
Boris is on my outside where the face is open, but he still pulls out. Maybe
he’s learning. SF takes the next wave. Swiss asks me if I want the next, but I
tell him to go for it. They can say what they want about Americans, but I’ve
been sharing my ass off out here and showing decent surf etiquette.
With those two gay lovers gone, I can only
assume, it’s just us two couples left in the water. Good because it’s empty,
bad because I have to share the waves with this motherfucker.
What’s also annoying is that he has to push
his girlfriends into waves. It’s like, dude . . . let her surf the inside. As
much as I don’t like him, I don’t sit on his girlfriend in the lineup, but
every time that motherfucker gets a wave, I go straight to the top.
The wind is still offshore. With the tide
going down, the waves are starting to stand up a little more. With a decreasing
swell until Thursday, I’m surprised to see that four-foot sets are still coming
in. I get long rides all the way to the inside, and then I let the German
couple do their thing until Boris gets another wave. Bri’s doing well sitting
under the Germans, taking all the waves that Boris’s girlfriend misses.
Sometimes she gets into waves on her own, popping up into a wide waterbug
stance. Her issue is that she doesn’t know how to pump to get down the line.
She’s just frozen and in that phase where surfing to her is automatic, just pop
up and wherever the board takes you is surfing, but in reality she’s wasting
the potential of these near minute-long rides and going straight.
Surprisingly, this Cold War exchange works.
We all trade off like this for about forty-five minutes, having this spot to
ourselves.
When the Germans leave, I’m so happy.
Another couple comes out, but they’re not in the wave at all.
On my second to the last wave, I kick out
on the inside where the water is brown and hot, like bathwater hot, and that’s
when the session just sucks the life out of me. Combined with the noon sun, I
know I need a break.
 |
| Drained . . . |
Bri and I head back, shower, and eat lunch
at the wifi hotel. It’s not as good as the street food, but it’s tofu with
chicken curry and rice, still a dollar and some change each. Afterwards, we go
back to the same lady as yesterday to drink coconut water out of the coconut.
An old Indonesian man is asking me
questions. I reply, “Maaf. Saya tidak mengerti,” which means, “I don’t
understand.”
“Where you staying at,” says a local kid
who’s eating fried noodles at the next table over.
The wind is strong onshore at the harbor. A
gust of wind kicks up a sheet of sand that stops short of the small warung
we’re in. White caps of water are scattered along the ocean in the distance. I
reach for my camera. I want to take a picture of the old man, the old lady who
prepared our drinks with a machete. Hell, even the kid next to us eating
noodles out of a Styrofoam container. I want it all. To take the pictures and
save them for later when I know how much I’ll be missing this place.
#
Time:
1615-1730
Conditions:
2-3, Occasional 4 FT
Fins:
Quad. JF-1 side, Rusty Q-R trailers (small)
The main issue with the next window of
surfing is how we’re still full from lunch, another reason why dawn patrols
work out much better as far as food management.
I’m still full, Bri’s still full, but how
can we not paddle out? What the fuck are we doing here if we’re not surfing?
I’ll tell you what. Eating. Fuckin’ A, I mean . . . yeah, it cost $1,900 total
for our airfare to come here, but do you realize how inexpensive everything is
here? Food. So much legit Javanese cuisine served in places that would get a
triple F rating, shut down and burnt, from the L.A. County Health Department,
but that’s just the way shit is here, and the fucking food is delicious. Ummm,
eighty cents a pop? Yea-uhh?! Duhhh. Yet, you have to be a little adventurous.
For those who can only do the resort vacation type shit, East Java is not for
you. Stick to one of those Disney cruises or resorts or something, where
everyone’s paid to treat you right. Make no attempt to get to know a different
culture. Buy the jewelry from the gift shop. East Java won’t have anything to
do with you if you don’t at least TRY.
Getting to the point, people are leaving
once again. The lineup’s still a little crowded, but once the gangly grom crew
paddles out, they clear up the crowd. It’s so funny how the other foreigners
get frustrated with the locals. All you have to do is share waves with them,
sit wide for a while and let them have at it. They’re not stupid. They know you
could sit at the top if you wanted to and that you’re giving them their space.
Last but not least, smile. I’d rather surf with a bunch of stoked kids, yelling
at each other to crash when one of them gets a wave so the other can snag it,
than surf with greedy ass motherfuckers who are just here for a week.
The tide’s going high again. We’re actually
late for the second sesh, but since we really milked the first sesh, we had to
paddle out later.
The sun’s low over the mountains to the
east that make up half of the bay. The soft lighting from the sky gives the
water a metallic glassy shine, and the waves are also soft. Weak. I pop up on a
few insiders, and there’s just no umph to them at all. Need a longboard.
Gangly grom crew not sits towards the
inside. Starting to get dark. Time for them to leave. And then for some reason,
some three-to-four foot sets start popping up and breaking wide, super wide so
that Bri and I are the only ones in position to get them. Swiss Mark tries to
go on one, but he’s too deep, and the shoulder’s perfect where I am.
I haven’t ridden quads in almost a week,
and . . . I think I really have gotten more acquainted with thrusters here. The
quads have more speed going down the line, but my turns just aren’t as sharp.
Paddling back to the lineup, Mark and I
watch the next outside wave roll in. The groms know they’re deep, so they back
off, but Bri’s in the perfect spot. I watch the smooth metallic lip curl and
the base of the wave bend. “Go, Hun! Go!” I say. (I know, we call each other
Hun. That’s some gay relationship shit for you there.) She pops up. I duckdive
the closed out section behind her. Resurfacing, I watch her take the wave all
the way in. That’s her second set wave of the evening, much better than I’ve
done.
For dinner, we go to the night market and
hit up the Chicken Satay guy. It’s still empty. A few vendors haven’t opened
yet. Sitting down, Bri gets the usual stairs from the local Javanese.
After dinner, we debate on eating more. We
could do some fried tofu or tempeh, grab a roti bakar or grilled bread. No
bullshit, this dish called roti bakar has cheese and chocolate in it, kind of
like streetcart French toast sold in the loaves but crunchier. We decide that
we’ve eaten so much since we’ve been here that we’ll opt for ice cream at the
Indomaret instead.
Heading back to the compound, I avoid
potholes in the face of oncoming headlights. The air smells of grass and a hint
of cigarettes. We pass small warungs that are setup as tents. I can only wonder
how they survive. How can they make any money with more warungs a few meters
over?
The last stretch to the compound is a dark
road with no lights. The ocean breeze hits us in the face. Bri squeezes my
waist. I say, “Bump,” as we hit a rough patch of pavement going over a bridge.
The suspension’s so shoddy that it makes a loud bang every time we hit it. I
twist my wrist for more throttle. I feel Bri’s grip relax as we ride faster
down the road.
