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| That's Jonas, leaving and heading back home. French Sophi in the background, gearing up for a sesh. |
Time:
1200-1420
Conditions:
6 FT+
Fins:
JF-1 Thruster
The plan. . . Today the second solid swell
since we’ve been here will be coming in. Again, we’ll be doing a Trestles
invasion style siege over Choco Point. We plan accordingly, sleeping and
resting well, buying snacks and drinks for later, and sharing one lunch from
Padang’s for nourishment.
While at Padangs, we run into Jonas and his
girlfriend. “Prefilling for the sesh?” she says. That’s funny. Surf bums. We’re
on to each other. She and Jonas say that they’re leaving today, going back home
to Sweden. It was nice having them around. Back at the compound, I get his FB
info and take a pic with him, Sophi in the background gearing up for her sesh.
Looks like everyone has the same plan.
Choco Point is packed. The Aussie Hoard is out there, the two-man Japanese
team, the German asshole couple, and new faces I’ve never seen before. A van’s
already parked here. A surfer dripping wet approaches it. So that’s one van
with fresh faces. Wonder where they came from.
Randy pulls up, looks at the crowd, and
he’s over it. “See you guys at four,” he says before riding away. Just as he
disappears, another van emerges from the brush. Fuck. The Aussies from the
other day are back. Imagine that. You’re at a great break that’s already
crowded, and then a van with boards stacked on top pulls up. Fuckers.
The same bloke who talked to us last time
steps up to us. He looks like an older Joel Parkinson on steroids. Balder and
hulkier. “Looks like they’s some good ones out ‘der,” he says.
I’m all small talk in my reply. I don’t want
them here. His mates step out of the van like barbarians entering a peaceful
village ready to rape everything moving. They’re a bunch of burley fucks. One
guy’s bald with a long beard like ZZ Top.
They’ve come from the local heavy break
that I had nicknamed Machines. Since this swell is solid, Machines must be too
big. That’s the usual reason why people from Machines venture out from their
abodes. They need to find a spot holding. The problem is that our village
already has a hierarchy, even the people I can’t stand have a certain level of
respect that we won’t just burn each other outright, but when outsiders come
in, and you know they’re just here until the swell at Machines is manageable, they’ll
take every wave they can get.
Six foot lines are already breaking outside
and wide. Guys sitting at the main take off zone are too deep. No Spartan
Paddle today. Bri and I walk to the point.
About ten people are out, but they’re
sitting way too inside for some reason. Maybe they know something I don’t.
I sit outside, so as not to just insert
myself into their congregation. A few insiders pass, and then, a nice bump
sprouts up on the outside, right at the top of the wave. One good thing about
solid swells here is that the surf gets consistent, and the peaks become
scattered. You don’t have to sit at the top. You can sit inside, wide, way wide
outside, or at the main takeoff spot. No matter where you are, you will catch
something.
On the first wave of the set, I turn and go
with ease. People on the inside rush the shoulder to get out of my line. It’s
the perfect way to start the session. As I had said, with these bigger waves,
especially on a short 5’6, the goal isn’t to shred, it’s to not fall, or should
I say, shred with balance in mind not eating it. There’s a whole beach full of
people also watching. Don’t be that guy where everyone says, “Ohhhh!” when you
wipeout. Big and steep is the only way I can describe it, yet shouldery.
There’s so much face with each pump it’s like snowboarding the side of a mountain.
You don’t even need mustard on the turns, just doing a carve by itself
displaces water out the back. I get about five turns before kicking out.
Stoked.
Now the Barbarians from Machines are making
their way out. I catch a long inside wave. One of them gives me a nod of
approval as I pop up. After that, the pillaging begins. These fucking
barbarians sit at the top, one by one, they take each wave of the next set. I
can only counter this by shifting around. Since peaks are kind of scattered, I sit
wide and outside, taking the bombs that others are too deep for, but some of
the waves are so big that they race away across this half of the bay. I do
still manage to get lucky. When people don’t make the sections, I’m there for
the cleanup job, double-turners at least. I even sit deep inside sometimes, but
it’s hard to settle for the smaller waves when you know that set is eventually
gonna come and swing wide.
Bri . . . I don’t know how she’s doing it,
but I barely see her the whole session. She’s doing her Donny Duckbutter
impression, using my own tactics against the lineup. Every time I spot her,
she’s either popping up on a good inside wave or paddling all the way back from
shore.
“Did you see my turn?” she constantly asks
every time I see her. I have to tell her I haven’t seen any of her turns
because I’m losing track of her.
One of the McGillicutty’s paddles up to me,
he’s a foreign dude who had dropped in on me about three days ago. He says,
“You let me have a wave yesterday.”
“I did?” I say
“Yes.”
“You sure it was me?”
“Yes,” he says again, smiling. “It was the
best wave of my life.”
I’m awkward. One, I don’t remember giving
him the wave. Two, I now feel like such an asshole for calling him Kooks
McGilicutty. “You’re welcome,” I say. I motion towards the outside. “Go, go get
another one.”
He smiles and paddles away.
Tom’s with a different McGilicutty, who’s
on a longboard. He’s beefier than Tom. They could be twins, except his brother
doesn’t surf. A set wave’s building on the outside, and everyone is darting to
get out of the way. Tom looks back and motions towards his brother to paddle
harder. He’s trying, but he’s about to get obliterated. These waves aren’t
gnarly at all, but for a first time surfer, I bet all he sees are gigantic walls
coming at him. Something strikes me while watching. I don’t see Tom as a greedy
Aussie or his brother as a kook. What I see is a man concerned for his brother,
a bond.
An hour and a half in, and the pillaging is
done. The tide’s bottoming out, so the surf is dropping just a hair in size.
The usual suspects are at the lineup again, but everyone’s already drained from
the chaos earlier. I run into Bri again. She’s laying her head on her board
like she’s ready for a nap. Too many waves for her. What a nice problem to
have.
I call our next waves in, and she gets
another good one before I do. Sitting out back, I already see her heading to
our moped while I’m still waiting.
I catch one in. She’s rummaging through our
snack bag. “Those guys left,” she says. They had asked her about her Sideways
board, said it was an Aussie board, and asked her where she got it. She said it
was Randy’s.
“Did they say there were coming back?”
“No, but they said, ‘See you later.’”
We chill on the scooter, eat our bread, and
drink three vitamin drinks between us. After twenty minutes, Bri says she’s
done. She can’t surf another session, so I bring her back on the bike.
#
Time:
1500-1710
Conditions:
6 FT+
Coming back to Choco Point, I’m rushed by
Supri and Rian AKA Neon Rian. I’m putting on a fresh coat of zinc. “Can I have
some?” they ask. I’m surprised. The locals don’t use shit for sunblock, nor
wax. That’s a bule (foreigner) thing.
“Sure,” I say.
Rian takes the stick and motions with his
fingers. “It’s okay?”
He wants to know if he can scrape some off.
“Yeah! Go for it!”
So I found out Supri doesn’t speak much
Indonesian or English. He’s pure Javanese. Rumor has it, there was an issue
with him securing his Ripcurl sponsorship because one of the stipulations was
for him to study Bahasa Indonesia, but work, obligations, and other matters
prevented him from doing so. Regardless, I get nothing but positive vibes from
him. I try, try, and try to communicate with him any way I can. You think I’m
dark? Guy is three times darker than I am, and that’s two shades darker than
Randy.
After Rian and Supri hit the water, I’m now
approached by an older tourist couple.
“Good wave?” the husband says. After a
minute, I realize he has a Spanish accent.
“Habla Espanol?” I ask.
He says yes, but that he’s Brazilian. From
there, I start using my broken up Spanish, trying to leave out the “Guey” that
my homies use back home. We talk Gabriel Medina, Felipe Toledo, and I fill him
in on everything that my Spanish will allow about the local surf here.
Finally paddling out, a selfish feeling
overwhelms me. It’s different surfing without Bri. Randy’s not here yet, so
this is a true solo sesh. I’ve only had a few since being here. It’s that same
feeling I have when I do the solo trips to Trestles. Selfish. All about me. My
waves. Despite the selfishness, I’m also tired. The first session was
frustrating, but I still did get a lot of waves.
The local heavies are out now. Augus. He’s
the guy who almost got into a fight during my first paddle out. Gapang. He’s
the guy with long hair and gray stubble on his chin. Lately, I’ve loved it when
these guys are out. They’re crowd control. Whenever people are too greedy, they
regulate by taking every wave. So far, my technique’s worked. Sit wide, let
them burn everyone and put the hive in disarray. I take the insiders and the
double-wides.
The Barbarians return, but surprisingly
they only stay for about a half hour.
I rarely have to sit at the top. Surf is so
consistent and sporadic, that I’m on waves that no one is in position for.
Controlled cutbacks, carves, and conservative snaps on the waves with size. I
even practice my layback carves and stick a few of them. Issue is riding out of
them. Sometimes I come out of the maneuver at such a sharp angle that I’m too
slow at getting the board back under my feet and redirecting, but the attempts
are good for me. They feel natural, especially on the end sections, unforced.
Brennan from San Francisco paddles up next
to me. I give up one of the bombs for him. He comes back and says that was his
wave of the day.
At 1630 Edo and Randy finally make it out.
By this time, I’m tired. Randy falls on an outside wave, and I turn and go,
catching the rest of it to shore. It’s my best wave of the afternoon.
The sun has set. The lineup’s thin. Edo
gives me a wave. I fall behind the section and lose it. Randy gives me one.
Same thing. That’s how I know I’m tired. I’m surfing like shit.
I get a bomb on the next set, unmolested. I
get a couple cutbacks and a weak carve to end it. Looking out back, the main
lineup looks so far away. I could paddle back out and go for another one. I’d
like to, but I face the shore and catch the whitewash in. No more.
For dinner that night, Bri, Randy, and I go
to the night market. Randy orders food from three different vendors—tempe
penyet, nasi uduk (coconut rice), and bakwon goreng (fried goodies). The whole
time I can barely speak. They both say I look drained and that my eyes are
bloodshod red.
We end the evening at Indomaret with some
ice cream. Back at the bungalow, I fall asleep early, but I toss and turn the
whole night. I haven’t stretched once since being here. Even lying still, my
shoulder muscles ache like hell.
At dinner, my brother had asked me how I
would rate the session. Even though there were barbarians to deal with along
with the crowd, fuck I caught so many waves. I had told him it was probably my
best one. Sitting there, tired and drowned with stoke, in my mind all I could
see was wave after wave.
