A Barney in Bali--Day 21 (double sesh), 28JUNE2011 TUE

Mini Breakthrough:

    It’s 1300, and I keep telling myself that the tide will start going up again, but the reef gets more and more exposed by the minute. Chad, the Canadian Surf Gypsy, spots me and has a seat. I’m jealous at the news he bears. Apparently, yesterday evening he got his first barrel. He said the wave was over head, he made himself small in the wave, he felt like he was going to get pinched, but he pulled out of it unscathed. He said, “It felt so smooth coming out of it.” Fuck. I tell him that I’ve been looking for that feeling lately. I’m envious, but I congratulate him. He says he’s been staying at the warung for 100,000 Rupiah a night, which is somewhere around $11. I tell him that I saw him laying out in the sand next to some chick. He says that she’s German, traveling alone, and just doing her own surf thing. He invites me to go cruising around to explore the other surf breaks on our mopeds, but I pass because I don’t feel like getting lost.

    I wait until 1400 to let my sandwich go down. The tide is the lowest that I’ve ever seen it, but I still see people getting rides, so I figure I’ll just play it safe and wait for the outside sets. The reef dance is brutal, but I run into Edward the eel again, so I take another photo of him. I’m caught in knee deep water as waves start breaking on the inside. I hurdle two of them before I start paddling. I have no doubt that the crowds at the warungs are watching to see me get pounded; I disappoint them.

    A big set rolls through as I paddle to the peak. From there I sit and wait for the next one. Too bad for me it’s a long ass wait. One rogue set appears, and I paddle out for it. A couple T&G waves roll by, but they don’t feel right, so I pass them up. Of course, I regret that decision later. I look back and see people walking out, just short of the line up. I’m sitting on the outside hoping to catch a wave early, but they’re only breaking on the inside. The tide still gets lower. “Ain’t no way I’m catching an inside wave,” I tell myself. Guys are standing in shallow water at the end of their rides. Too risky, no way. No outside sets come for a while. I’m already into the second hour and still . . . nothing. The top of the wave is still working, but I don’t like that wave because each ride ends in the impact zone; there’s no channel like the bottom of the wave. Plus it’s more crowded. There’s one guy over there getting barreled like a pro. He’s regular foot, his trailing arm is inside the wall, he’s crouched so low that all I see is his head and shoulders, he’s grabbing rail, and his whole body is perfectly slanted in the small, angled almond. He’s so deep that his black hair makes the barrel look even darker, but he still makes it out. Inspiring.

    A rare set breaks on the outside. I catch it, but there are two problems. One, there’s a dick on the inside, right where I need to draw my line for my bottom turn. Two, some guy drops in on me anyway, and since the first guy’s in my way, I lose the wave. So I’m forced to jump off my board and eat shit, but something awesome happens. I’m in the impact zone, the rest of the set is coming, and this is usually where I get my anus tapped. However, on my first duckdive, I mange to keep my foot stuck to my tail on the whole motion, and I actually punch through the roaring white wash. The second wave hits me, I tilt to tail too much too soon, I shoot straight up, uncontrolled, but it’s better than getting washed around. These are my cleanest duckdives ever; it’s some kind of progression for me. I spend more time taking beatings that riding waves, so maybe now I can have more energy to surf. All I need to get down now is how to fall safely on the kamikazes.

    The tide bottoms out, so now there’s a little bit of tide push. With the tide push, comes more sets, but it’s twice as crowded into the early evening. There’s a flying barracuda that keeps busting airs from the water. Surfers nearby are caught off guard and flinch. I’m in position for a set wave, but as I’m going down the line, there’s a ballheaded guy in my way paddling out. Fuck, second time already. I let out a “Shiiiiiiit!” as I draw a line right over him and jump off. Somehow, I miss him, but it’s another good wave gone to waste. I catch a series of closeouts. I’m frustrated, and I’m looking to end the session on a good note. I’m passed the two hour mark. I don’t mean for the session to last this long, but it’s so hard to get out. I’m in position just behind the shoulder on my next wave, but some longhaired fuck drops in on me. At this point I’m short on being humble and kind. I feel the aggro inside of me, but I try my best to suppress it. Just then, Chad paddles in front of me. He says, “Hey, Matt, how’s it goin’ over here?”

    “Eh, frustrating.”

    “Awww, man. Well, hey, I’ll rub some of my good luck off on you.”

    I give him a thumbs up as he heads to the top of the wave. I think he is good luck because a set comes my way, but I scratch out. A Balinese guy gets the wave, I’m in position for the next one, but that same Balinese guy paddles back and takes that one too. What the fuck!

    Well, it’s just not my afternoon. I catch a last ride that turns hollow, but it’s over shallow reef, so I straighten up and belly ride as far as possible. It’s a beautiful evening. I pay my bill at Froggy’s and start packing up. It would’ve been nice to have an epic session, but a couple things were accomplished. I got more familiar with failed barrels, and my duckdive got a little better.

Dogs playing on the beach.

   
Real Stress:


    I had this in the back of my mind the whole day, that if I stayed too long I’d catch rush hour traffic. I cruise out of the Bukit, but I’m met with a sea of vehicles on the highway. It’s fuckin’ brutal. I weave in between cars, reach gaps too narrow, work my way to the shoulder, and inch my way forward with all the bikes. We’re like lemurs: stampeding, pushing, shoving, to our fate. But in this case, we’re all just trying to get where we have to go. It’s stressful. Not only am I trying to squeeze in and flow with traffic, but I’m doing it with a surfboard next to me. It’s constant stop and go, my foot hits the ground for balance just as much as I’m on the throttle. It’s completely dark by the time I’m home. I know I’ve said it before, but I have to reemphasize it: every time I make it back home safe and unscathed, I take off my helmet, wipe the sweat off my brow, and feel lucky to be alive.

A Barney in Bali--Day 21, 28JUNE2011 TUE

No, no, just a Bali coffee, no buns please.

Refreshed and Ready:

    After yesterday’s lay day, I wake up and feel fully charged. There’s no need to rush because the mornings have been high tide. Randy opens my door at 0630. I take my pills, start warming up, and have some morning tea. After that, things get rather brutal and ugly (I can’t write what, but it’s going on record). We hit the road, fill up our tanks, and traffic is already getting thick because of our late start. The ride starts with a little bit of weaving around other bikes and cars, but we make it to Froggy’s in one piece. The tide is high because the reef isn’t exposed. Randy waits for the tide to get lower. Me, I can’t wait much longer. I put on the day’s paint, wax my board, change, and I’m paddling out to the line up. Today’s the smallest day in the swell forecast, and it shows. There are longboarders surfing the inside over the reef and some in the line up as well. I’m paddling next to a longboarder until he disappears. He paddles by me in the line up and says in a French accent, “It’s so hard coming out here. But you! You are fast!” I laugh at his statement and tell him that he made it, and that’s all that counts. 

    I don’t know if it’s because of the small surf, but the line up is pretty crowded. This morning, the top of the wave is working better than the bottom. Everyone’s wearing their name brand surf gear, but there’s this one short, little, gangly Balinese kid. He’s wearing these tattered brown shorts that look more like they’re for working than surfing. He’s surfing the top of the wave with so much ease, dropping in smooth, drawing a high line, pumping, bottom turning, snapping the lip, and as the wave jacks up before it closes out, he finishes off with an air. No, they aren’t massive airs, but he is in full view from the pack that I’m sitting in. An Aussie grom tries to compete and match his wave rides; it doesn’t work. One great thing about this art is: your surfing is what really does the talking in the end. Regardless of cool looking apparel, name brand surfboards, or physical appearance, surfing is in one’s soul, and it’s represented on the water. You can’t buy that, not with money, only with time, adversity, diligence, consistency, and in some cases, blood.

    It’s a long wait for the sets, and I scratch out on the first couple. A tall, thin, blond haired, clean shaven guy that I’ve seen for the past week paddles up to me. He says, “I’m having a good day today, I actually got one.”

    “Oh, how was it yesterday?”

    “I just paddled around and didn’t catch anything. If you see me going for it, just go. I don’t want to take anyone’s waves.”


 Kamikaze:


    It’s a nice way to start the morning. A friendly gesture from another Canadian surfer. Randy says that a lot of Canadians go backpacking in this country, more so than the Americans. Who knew? My first wave is a close out, no surprise. I still manage to have a decent wave count but most of my rides are failed barrel attempts. Actually, almost all of my rides are. It’s a common sight. From my perspective it’s all a steep drop, a look down the line to make sure I’m clear, a couple pumps, a look at the lip, and it’s already coming down. I tuck in before the pinch on a couple, and I dive into the base of the wave on the rest. On an outside set, I race beyond the lineup to catch it. It’s a turn-and-go (T&G) wave, and this time I don’t let it pass me. I turn and paddle where I usually feel too deep for it, but I go anyway. It’s an instant vertical drop, and as I pop up I feel as if I’m standing with the wave. I should be getting pitched, but the steep angle sends me flying down the line. I see the lip coming down, I can’t tell if there’s any green room, but I tuck close to the face anyway, and I eat it. It was a gutsy wave regardless, and I wasn’t going for the shoulder. I surface to see Randy on the inside paddling out. He’s smiling, but I’m not. The wave held me under for a while, so I’m gasping for air. The second set-wave crashes on me before I can grab my board. I’m holding my breath again; I don’t think my lungs are conditioned for back to back beatings. I take them and paddle back out.

    Randy works the inside line and does his barrel hunting thing. For me it’s another day of failed attempts. I think about it while I’m out there, and I’m actually getting a little used to it. I’m more like a kamikaze instead of a surfer. I’m going for glory in the face of an inevitable pounding, purely self inflicted. To me it almost seems like some kind of sick game. Normal people are sitting at home, eating a bowl of chips, watching TV, or shopping at the mall. Me? I’m taking steep drops into oblivion expecting not to make it, but I must. I’d like to think that this is just life, prebarrel life.

    I get another T&G, it’s from a big set, the tide’s getting lower, so I’m a bit weary to go for the gold. Instead, I race against the section and pump all the way to the channel. It’s not as thrilling, but it’s still fun because the wave is standing the whole way. I’m generating speed each time my knees bend and push  down on the board; it’s the feeling of ultimate fluidity with the water.

    When I get back to the line, Randy is going for his last wave. I catch my last one, straighten up before it closes out, and belly-ride it all the way to shore. I’m still paying dues and taking beatings, but I’m stoked, so the session is considered a good one.

Fisherman

    Randy gets ready to head back home. I decide to hang out for another session and order a Bali coffee. I walk around, take some pics, and go to the photog guy to see my file. He’s busy with another customer, so I take that as a sign not to buy any pics today.

    Randy leaves, and I order a club sandwich to refuel for the afternoon. It’s a beautiful place to be. I’m on Bali, how can’t I do a double session? I don’t have much time here. I might as well soak it in while I can. It’s a still a Bali dream no matter what; I enjoy it here.

A Barney in Bali--Day 20, 27JUNE2011 MON

Rain:

    Last night I watched some of my old surf movies. It’s funny how you watch surf porn different as your skill level progresses (not that I’m that great, but I definitely sucked more before). I watched one of my all time favorites, Snapt 2. I watched some of the barrel riding in the “Young Hawaiians” sequence and some of Bruce and Andy’s old footage. Then I put on some SAE and watched the Haleiwa sequence. Those barrels looked perfect, but everything looks easy on TV. I shut out the lights at 2300 and woke up to monsoon-like rain at 0300. After we woke up, Randy and I stared out of the window and watched how his front yard was being flooded by rain, boards and all.

    We waited until the late afternoon but conditions didn’t improve. Day 20 ended up being a forced lay day because of the weather conditions. Balangan is about forty-five minutes away and not an easy ride in heavy rain plus traffic. I spent the rest of the day reading Matt Warshaw’s “The History of Surfing.” I’m on page three-hundred; it’s a thick ass book. I stopped on the short board revolution chapter. As I read I thought about what our surfing predecessors went through while the art was constantly evolving. George Greenough called the barrel “the green room.” I hope to get me some green room time too.
    It was a lay day, no surfing, that’s all I have, nothing to report.