A House On The Point

It’s a place that finds you when you’re not really looking.  I’d scoured the pages of my Indo surf guide, read between the lines, searching for clues to steer me in the right direction.  But Java hardly conjured the idyllic surfing image that has led many a man to give up everything to plant roots down where rice paddies were once green.

The house on the point faces one of the most consistent waves in Indonesia.  Wet season, dry season, all season; it delivers endless early mornings sessions full of non-descript barrels and long, caramel-smooth bottom turns.  But the wave is fractional compared to the spoils on land. 

Living here, soaking in a way of life so foreign to us foreigners, is intoxicating.  It’s refreshing to be reminded on a daily basis that life will and can go on if the kid’s don’t find that perfect costume for Halloween, or the washing has to be hung out on the line. 

The river flows down past the house, almost as an after thought, nearly forgotten as you stare mesmerized by the pulsing ocean swells peeling mechanically down the smooth boulder-point directly in front of the shaded porch.  But the river is alive. 

Lizards, the size of a small surfboard, slink about on the mud-tinged banks, disappearing under water momentarily in pursuit of sustenance.  Fisherman cast their nets for tiny baitfish, perforating the detergent laden water that carries 40,000 shits from villages upstream into the ocean.  The floating, makeshift bamboo bridge acts as a damn, collecting meters of random rubbish; used plastic bottles, candy wrappers, pairs of unpaired sandals, and empty packets of mie goring and pop mie. 

The river smells of detergent and brine, a milky-slick surface that upon repeated encounters makes you cringe.  But that is Java.  It’s not Disney clean or pristine and untouched.  It’s millions and millions of people living on one of the most densely populated islands in the world.

It’s rice paddies terraced in a river delta.  Redbrick homes with wood fired ovens inside casting a warm glow and billowing smoke into the late afternoon air.  Sounds of the muezzin call most into the mosque to face Mecca and pray to Allah.  “Aaaaallaaahh uuuuu aaaakkbaaar”.

It’s mango trees and pepper plantations, cloves and rubber trees dripping with latex, miles and miles of palm oil plantations where ancient stands of teak and mahogany once stood.  Cacophonies of stimuli hitting you from all sides if you open you’re eyes, ears, and nose. 

One of my favorite things to do here is hop on the back of a motorbike near sun down, and cruise the streets into town.  The mid-day heat has passed and the towns and villages are coming back to life.  Warungs selling bottles of water, packets of instant coffee, and a mystery of fried assortments line the streets.  A sea of motorbikes swallows the road, often with families of five along for the ride.  Dad’s usually driving, an infant pressed between him and Mom, the tail end filled out with respective siblings in order of proper decent, sometimes with cell phones out sending sms’s to the sky.

People are always everywhere.  Squatting along the road, in the road, barely taking notice of the chaotic symphony that surrounds them.  Smiling girls grin and giggle as you pass by, brown skinned with jet-black hair coifed with the typical shark fin inlay across the forehead. 

Fireworks blast off in the distance as children race past with rice-paper kites in tow.  Laughter and exhaust mix with the call to prayer, creating a patchwork of treble and bass, lacing the early evening air in full stereo surround sound.

It’s free and 100 percent pure entertainment that no reality TV show could ever hope to capture, life passing about. 

 

So Where Is Your Home Break?

Five years ago, I was scouting the coastlines of Lombok and Sumbawa.  On the south coast of Lombok, about an hour east of Kuta, Lombok, I'd heard of a claw-shaped bay that had a heavy right and left-hand reef break, peeling on adjacent sides of the bay.

On this particular morning, the swell wasn't substantial enough to get the far outside points working properly. The only option left for a surf was a mellow inside right-hander that was more directly open to the minimal south-west swell.

I'd left Kuta at dawn that morning with my girlfriend in tow.   After an hour driving on the kidney-shifting track to the mouth of the bay, she was not in the best of moods.  And I was hesitant to push on looking for better waves, with the risk of a potential female melt down decidedly near.  So I decided instead to check out the right-hander tucked inside the eastern fold of the bay.  

To access the wave, I hired a local fishing boat from the small village on the western shore of the bay.  The sun was rising over the mountains toward Bali, and the cool morning air was dancing off my cheeks as we motored offshore.  We approached the wave from the back and I spotted three guys already in the water, floating on their boards and giving me a bit of the stink eye. "Great" I thought.  Not only is it barely rideable, but the scantily layered line-up was laced with blow-in Indo locals. 

I sat in the boat and watched a set come through.  As the first wave broke, I noticed the peculiar location the three surfers had chosen to sit in--a good five meters too far inside of the peak.  Each time a ride was attempted, the same outcome ensued.  Barely managing to catch the wave, each of the three surfers stood on their boards, attempted a bottom turn (this, despite being already caught behind the foam ball of the wave), then proceeded to jump off their boards as the wave continued down the reef for another 50 meters.  

"No worries", I thought.  I've got the place to myself.  I waxed up my board, slathered on the sun block and told my girlfriend I'd be an hour or so.  There's a snorkel and mask is in my bag, have a look around down below.  

I paddled straight out to the peak and waited for the next set.  As I sat on my board, I listened as the three other surfers jabbered away in German.  "That's odd", I thought to myself.  I've never met a surfer from Germany. By this time the conversation had elevated to a higher decibel with the surfers barking out "Ichs" and "Eins" by the second. 

Damn, this is annoying, I thought.  An otherwise peaceful morning surf was turning into a German shouting match.  I had no idea what they where saying, but it I could tell it didn't have anything to do with the present conditions.  

So as the first wave of the set loomed on the horizon, I spun around and paddled into it.  It was a mellow entry, and I dropped in with a casual stance, eyeing up the next section to see what the wave was doing.  I cranked it off the bottom of the wave, carried the momentum of my bottom-turn through the next section and worked the growing wall of the wave a few times before kicking out over the top.  Cool, that was a fun little nugget.  

As I paddled back out, one of the German surfers yelled something in my direction.  I paddled over to him and said, "What was that you said?", to which he replied.  "Yaaa,  zis is my wave.  I am taking zis wave now so you can go in."  I thought for a moment, your wave eh?  Coming from someone that most likely started surfing a week ago, I was slightly shocked to be hearing the words come out of his mouth.  To clear things up about exactly whose break was whose, I asked him "where exactly is your home break in Deutschland, would it be the Munich River? I didn't wait for a response, and continued my paddle back to the line-up. 

There were no more verbal assaults from the Germans that day, but it marked a fundamental shift in surfing dynamics that I had never experienced before--the rise of the oft land-locked European surfer.

Fast forward five years.  I never did make it back to Bali, or the eastern islands after that trip. I found much better waves and uncrowded line-ups in Java and Sumatra. And, until a few years ago, these line-ups were bereft of Euros.  But the end is near.  This year in particular, I've noticed a phenomenal number of British, German, Dutch, Norwegian and Polish surfers in the water. And they're all beginners.  Now, I encourage anybody to take up the sport and reap the rewards of a lifetime spent in the water.  But what I've noticed is that 90 percent of the euro contingent is not really interested in the soul and the beauty of the sport.  

They want to surf because they've seen it in a magazine and it looks cool.  They want to come to Indonesia for two weeks, and return to their cold, wave-starved countries of origin with a lifetime of surfing history and experience.  

They don't understand wind and tide changes, swell direction and period.  And from what I can tell, they don't care either.  They want to walk up to a break after reading a manual that tells them where to enter the water, how to negotiate the reef, what type of accessories to wear and what board to ride.  Of course, these are all things that are best figured out by simply sitting on the beach and watching the surf.  By spending time in the water and surfing new waves.  By the countless hours, weeks, and years of invaluable experience and dedication that comes from a lifetime of surfing. This, they want to ingest on the plane ride from Berlin.  

So the next time I'm approached in the water by a Euro fresh off the boat--white as a ghost and sinking off the back of a brand new board-- with a sheepish grin and funny accent, asking me "So now I want to surfing in the barrel", I'll simply respond, "Then first, my friend, you should learn how to surf.  And beware, it won't happen overnight."

 

Samoan Cylinders

View pics from the trip here.

It was a trip I was looking forward to for weeks.  After four months of solo travel through Australia and Tahiti, I couldn't wait for a laid back escape mission to the island of Savaii, in Western Samoa, with my long-time wingman Jake, and his partner Sandy.  

Leaving the cold, schizo, sun-starved New Zealand winter behind for a week was all Sandy could think about, but Jake and I were fixated on an impressive set of storms developing in the Southern Ocean off the South coast of N-zed.  

Jake was calling for a moderate south swell to arrive midway through the week, with a much larger and substantial pulse near the end of our trip.  You couldn't ask for a better outlook, and it turned out to be a pretty accurate forecast.  

We enjoyed a week of head high, offshore, mechanical left and right barrels with just the two of us to share the fun.  The big pulse showed up a day late as we were flying back to New Zealand, and tempting as it was to change our return date, in the end we let the ocean do it's thing and stick to our original plans.  

Sometimes it's better to be content with what you have, and let mother nature run it's course. You can't always have it all.  

Round one highlights from the Billabong Pro 2009

East Coast Mission

Jake feeling the  drive of the Nugget.

After a week of all-time Kirra barrels, I finally managed to drag my tired bones back to New Zealand for some much needed R&R with my surrogate family.  

Perched high above the sandstone cliffs of Maori Bay on the northwest coast of the north island, Jake and Sandy's cottage has been a favorite resting stop of mine for years.  The exposed west coast beaches and bays are seldom flat, but finding the ideal conditions of wind, swell, tide, and sand can test your patience at times.  

Always the armchair swell forecaster, Jake had been tracking a developing low-pressure system off the east coast of the north island for a few days.  My arrival back to the "Zee" was timing up perfectly with a sizable storm on the east coast and favorable tide and wind conditions -  a lull in the work week for Jake was the necessary catalyst warranting a mid-week mission to Mangahwai Heads, on the east coast of the north island.

All road trips need good a crew.   This particular early morning it was the carpentry team of Jake, Matt and Townie, all playing hooky for the day, plus myself, the career truant, fumbling in the dark to strap down a forward-riding bogan stack of surfboards to the roof of Jakes CRiV.

The 90km drive from Muriwai to Mangawhai cuts across the rolling, pock-marked interior of the north island.  Honing his skills on the icy bus routes of Aspen , Jake was the designated pilot for this voyage.  A veteran of Jakes precise, sometimes heart-stopping driving, I logged zzz's as we crossed the country, but Townie was ready to spew by the time we reached the other side, soft Pommie that he is.  

This swell was adding up nicely on paper, but the east coast can be a fickle beast.  Even with all the elements in place you can never be sure of what awaits you until pulling up to the car-park. And this morning, as we spilled out of the thick-aired CRiV, sleep still in our eyes, was not to be.  

The oftentimes perfect sandbar created by the rivermouth at Mangawhai heads looked as if somebody had sprinkled a boatload of TNT the length of it, dicing the wave into a myriad of incoherent peaks.  The swell was pushing in as forecasted, the wind was fanning light offshore, the tide was just low enough and on the rise - the only thing missing a consistent sea-floor topography in the shape of a triangle.  

So you take what you can get.  We had a fun session at the bar, and found a playful right-hand peak breaking back into the channel.  At least the water was warm, with the sun was making it's standard kiwi cameo appearance, and it beats working for the day.  

Low Pressure = Deep Pits

  

more pics here

Kirra Perfection

This lucky grommet with a view to kill for.

This is where it all happens - Coolangatta, Surf City Australia.

A perfect Kirra drainpipe unloading down the sand bank.

After the Rip Curl Pro I was set to return to hobbit-land with my flight leaving Melbourne in two days.  The only snag was a mean low-pressure system developing in the central Tasman Sea that looked to bear fruit for the Gold Coast.  

A slight alteration to my plans and I was boarding a plane with Jordy Smith early Saturday morning heading north in search of warm gaffing pits.  

I'm glad I did.  

This morning I woke up to four-to-six foot drainpipes stacked to the horizon from Kirra to Snapper Rocks, with a ten-knot offshore breeze attenuating the gape factor.  

Swell reinforcement is forecasted for tomorrow with possible eight-foot sets pushing in by the afternoon.  I better get some rest.