Journey through Indonesia, Part IV: Finding Gold Alone at the End of the Road

Tuesday, July 19: Sumbawa

A surf trip is a many-splendored thing, but its true character is a direct function of the surf traveler in question.  For every feral grommet tube-quester, there is an elder statesman of the sport, someone who absorbs the culture, the characters, and the surprises as much as the surf experiences.  Personally, I fall somewhere in between the extreme and the enlightened center.  I cherish the people and places that provide the context to where my sport happens, but if I’m honest about what makes my blood rise, what pumps up my adrenal gland, what pushes a grin onto my face as I lie prostrate in my bed at the end of the day, it’s often the transcendental moments when I’m fully immersed in a ferocious foreign sea, when I’ve nothing but my judgment and my body to negotiate my way through spinning walls of water.

And if any surfer is really honest, there is a moment that trumps all others.  It happens when you’re traveling through a moving liquid cavern of water, and before it clamps closed on you, you escape through the always receding light at the end of the liquid tunnel.  It’s called a “tube,” a “barrel,” the “green room,” and even the “Pope’s living room.” Whatever euphemism you want to hurl at this otherworldly phenomenon, it’s simply one of the most invigorating experiences I’ve had in my 31 years. 

Today was the day that it happened in a way Hollywood couldn’t script better, and today is the day I will still remember 3,000 days from now.

The day begins as do so many others on this ten-day sojourn in Sumbawa.  We arise with the sun, climb over the mountain pass, and descend into the half moon bay that magnetizes any swell energy the Indian Ocean has to offer.  (As I write this ten days later, the days already seem to swirl together into general impressions, and the specifics of this morning are lost to me.)

We spend mid-morning with the California contingent, waiting to see if the most elusive and perfect wave in the area will come alive with the swell.  Sadly, she doesn’t oblige us, and the boys trade waves at a high-tide A-Frame called Playgrounds.  I take a pass and choose to sit in the shade and devour my summer reading assignment, James Michener’s Hawaii.

As we do every day in the early afternoon, we return to the beachfront warungs for tempe (crispy soy cakes), mondo-sized coconunts, and nasi goreng.  Then comes the moment of the truth.  Just as the boys are settling into a full-bellied afternoon of cards, jokes, and siestas, I make a call.  Forty-five minutes down the road there is an infamous jutting stretch of reef that offers fast, shallow, radical, cavernous, lefthanded tubes.  Half of the crew I’m with are regularfoots (left-foot forward), and as this wave has a bit of a nasty reputation, they don’t share my enthusiasm.  I vow to go alone. They all wish me luck.

It’s my personal mission now.  I hurry back to the room to apply sunscreen, strap on shoes, chug water, wax my board, and prepare my backpack.  Within minutes I’m flying up the coast solo to tackle an intimidating wave I’ve never surfed.  I race through mountain passes, across bamboo forests, under tree canopies, through bustling villages, and finally to the open plains of low-lying rice paddies that mark my destination.  I navigate through back roads that lead me to a monumental, jutting peninsula, fronted by a spectacular coral reef that extends a kilometer out to sea. 

I’m losing sunlight too quickly.  I park, strap on my rubber-soled booties, attach my Velcro leash to my board, and run to the beach.  The reef is totally bare at low-tide, and for a solid half-kilometer the bones of the reef are exposed.  Fishermen, women, and children clamber over the reef with nets, catching myriad creatures.  I wade and rock-dance past them to the opening at the edge of the reef.  It’s hard to tell what’s happening at the wave in the distance, but I see a handful of black dots shifting around, as well as a boat anchored in the channel on the inside.  There is already a crew here, and I’ve got about 100 minutes to make some magic happen.

I drop my 6’5” mini-gun, step-up board into the warm Indian Ocean and stroke for the horizon.  As I approach, I see the wave is gnarly.  It’s a low-tide drainer, rifling on the edge of a receding reef.  Also, it’s not perfect.  Some waves behave exactly the same way every time, but this is an unpredictable mutant, opening up perfectly on some waves, and imploding mercilessly on others.  If I had time, I could study the moods of this wave, but with no knowledge or experience of this reef, I’ll be playing Russian roulette.  The reward?  The barrel I’ve journeyed across the planet to catch.  The risk? Body-slam into dry reef.  The difference between success and failure?  Inches and milliseconds.  Game on.

With the sun sinking into the western-horizon, and sacred Mt. Anjing cutting a swath into the sky, I watch carefully as surfers wipe-out or steer clear of the juicy section of the wave.  I see the wave hold back for a few seconds, then throw its guts out over the shallow section of the reef for five to six seconds.  The gauntlet is open for the willing torero.

I paddle deeper than the pack by 50 meters to the farthest position outside.  By doing this, I am communicating one thing: If the big one comes, I will go, no matter what.  Shadows lengthen, the jungle awakens, and my fellow surfers in the water peer around with nervous exhilaration.

And then, the horizon moves.  The set we’ve all been waiting for lunges to the heavens and we all scratch for the outside.  I am running on my arms at full speed.  Over the first wave, and then the second, and finally, here she is: a beautiful, tapered, building, swinging wall of water about to unload full force.  I paddle straight for her heart, swing around, and free fall into the pocket.  The wave stands up for 50 meters and I pump high twice to set my line.  All eyes are on me, and my eyes are 100% focused on how to dance with my volatile wave partner.  The surfers in the water are cheering, and in the distance a charter boat of Aussie surfers is hooting encouragement.  I lean back, lock my hand into the wave face, and here we go. . .  The lip of the wave hurls over my body, as I stand at my full height of six feet.  I’m locked in, flying forward, thrilled, in full survival mode.  Driving, driving, driving, and out of the liquid tunnel!  I burn a little speed on my heels, re-set my rail, and it’s back on for the second time.  The wave envelops me again, wrapping her liquid tentacles completely around me, yet never touching.  Driving, driving, driving, and again, I fly out of the exit.  Nirvana.  The wave sets up for a third barrel, but I know the dry inside reef could transform all my exhilaration to disaster.  Ten seconds after locking into this ferocious tube, I point my board up, and launch ten feet into the air.

The next hour is a dream.  Incredibly, I find two more barrels, one faster, and the other one deeper, but neither as big.  The crowd is smiling and laughing for me, and I can’t believe my good fortune.  After my third wave, I do something that I rarely do: I decide my session is over and paddle in before I have to.  I am satisfied, content, completely.  I don’t need any more. 

As I head to shore, the boatload of Aussies merrily beckons me over.  “Mate, that was radical!”  “That was the barrel of our trip, for sure!”  “You bastard, that’s the one I was waiting for!”  “I’ve never bought a beer for anybody but Camel, but I’m going to do it now.”  I paddle to the bow of the ship and one of the Aussies tosses me an ice-cold Indonesian Bintang.  I float in the water, basking in the moment, trading banter.  The sun strikes golden rays into the sky; the moment is golden.

As dusk settles, I paddle the long distance back to shore.  When I arrive at my bike, the hypnotic drone of evening Muslim prayers emanates from the local mosque.  It’s a meditative and gorgeous Arabic poetry, and I feel transported by everything.  I race back through the buggy evening air, flying with similar grace through villages and around trucks, singing happy songs loudly the whole way.

As I pull in to my lodging, the California crew that stayed behind surrounds me and plies me with questions.  I try to restrain my over-indulgent joy, but the best I manage is: “Stand-up tubes.  Session of my trip.  I can return to America now.”  They are equally stoked for me, but dismayed that they didn’t come.

So ends a day I’ll never forget, the day I discovered the elusive a pot of gold I was looking for, alone at the end of an unknown road. . . .