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On the seventh day the "Big Guy" brought swell.
Lots of swell.
The Big Guy was no Neptune, nor Kahuna, Hawaiian God of the sea.
He was more like fierce Indonesian god Garuda, armed to the teeth with razor-edged coral and deep swells that could break your back with a contemptuous flick of a curling fist.
But was there enough time to tap this rich vein of adrenaline?
Oh yes.
For the next seven days, the intrepid skipper of our vessel Indies Explorer, Gideon "Golla" Malherbe, ferried us back and forth across the Mentawai, Telo and Hinakos islands of Indonesia.
Steaming through inky seas at night, the throaty hum of the diesel a constant lullaby, we miraculously woke up to each new spot in the early morning light.
Jumping with excited urgency off the 115' ironwood ketch, where we stayed for two weeks, we tasted the exotic delights of
a
board-breaking
island. We flew down the face of the clean walls of
a
place
some
call
Rudigahn reef, hooting like surf rats at each spray-spitting barrel.
There were nervous giggles in huge double-storey swells at
Ant Island, as we rode the waves with Hawaiian legends Gerry Lopez and Darrick Doener. The average age on their $450-a-day luxury crusier, the Indies Trader III, was 53.
We were fired out of the rapid tubes of
Gunshots, a surf spot that God made by taking Supertubes at Jeffreys Bay and hitting the fast forward button. We even managed two surf sessions at the legendary waves of Lagundri Bay, Nias, during a victualling stop.
We flopped on to our bunks at night, arms like spaghetti, sweating and jerking as we dreamed of subduing the big waves, the rolling, yawing boat inspiring our dreams with movement and sound effects.
The ghosts of the Bugis men, whose descendents built the boat in 1999, could not pierce the armour of our exhausted, sunburnt slumber.
In
the
old
days,
this clan of Sulawesi sailors and shipwrights were fierce pirates.
They savaged their way across the seas, ambushing and pillaging the spice traders of the West,
using superior maritime skills and a ferocity that
gave
Victorians
cause
to
fear
the
"boogey man".
At the end, we cruised clean 4' walls at Telescopes, where we held a board meeting during our last sunset,
clustered
together
in
the
lineup,
drinking cold beer and hooting like grommets surfing their first wave.
What were the highlights, we asked ourselves as the tropical sun set fire to the horizon.
The tubes. The waves that curl into endless revolving cylinders over the reefs. There were fast ones. Slow ones. Angry ones. Playful ones. Ones that ground over the "Nuclear Zone" at
Ant
Island
like a meat mincer straining to flay you alive over the dry reef as another 10' phalanx of whitewater dissolved and growled and sucked back over a ledge that dropped off into deep ocean.
To ride them, sometimes you had to slow down, arm digging in the wall, feet back, as the lip spewed over your head. Sometimes you quickly dragged your board towards your chest as you took off, already encased in a crystal curtain, palm skimming the smooth, turning surface.
Other times, it was a quick slither, a burst of speed, then pumping like a maniac down the line, faster and faster and faster, tearing past the beckoning reef, the concave wall mutating before you. Then holding your line, crouching. Flying. Thinking: "Gees, I'm getting getted tubed off my face!"
As for our skipper, it was not enough for him to take off on the deepest, thickest beasts, pulling into the fattest, ugliest closeouts. He
evolved
before
our
eyes
from
Harry
the
Snapper
to
Tommy
the
Tubemeister.
At
Gunshots, he took our breath away when he pulled into the longest tube ride many of us had ever
seen,
on
this
planet
anyway.
He
took
off ridiculously deep on a 6' set wave at the apex of the point. Too deep. He's headed for a face-plant on the reef.
But wait, there's more. He's doing weird things with his arms.
Winding
windows
in
the
green
room.
Patting dogs ... furiously.
Klapping
poor
canines.
The
SPCA
will
be
upset.
Golla's
arms
are
flailing
like
a
toddler
in
a
tantrum.
Flapping
arms
at
an
unseen
aerobics
instructor. But
it all helps. He's built up phenomenal speed. He's jerking his surfboard up and down at 20 revolutions a second, pumping it, winding it, determined, eyes wide shut.
Flying through each crazily rotating section, he disappears I swear about 25 yards inside the wave. Even beyond the foamball. He's actually behind a warp - a kink - obscured from sight. Locked in another
dimension.
It's
Warp
Factor
Fuuuuuuck!
Hope there's waves there ... where Golla is. They probably break endlessly in that dimension, perpetual tubes where cosmic dieties hold council
while
crystal curtains sparkle around them.
What's that ... a nose of a board? The tip of his board is back in view. He's still in the tube. He's still
pumping.
Still winding
windows.
Still moering
dogs.
Still doing aerobics to very fast rave music.
Flying.
There's a trail of dead dogs behind him, dissolving into foamy spumes.
The wave warps for the third time and he's gone again. Back
beyond the crystal curtain. Maybe this time he's gone to Planet Pigdog, a goofyfooter's paradise where
huge left-breaking
waves, without the nuclear
zone,
break 24-7.
Then for one never-ending split-second, Golla threatens to exit. But the wave has other ideas. No you don't. Come to mamma. He's gone, forever I fear. The final warp takes him to the comfortable spongey world of Foamball, where boards don't get dinged and everyone rides 10-foot logs on two-foot bands of whitewater every day.
Luckily, Golla
is not consigned there. He exits into the sauna air, perfectly crouched in dry style.
"Not a water out of place
bru!" he shouts later.
Other highlights?
Massive crabs from the mangroves. Each gargantuan claw is a full meal for one hungry surfer. The crew cooked them for
us.
Then there is the falling about. Big bruises. The salty spray makes the deck slippery.
What
about
the day the skipper mourned the death of a coral trout he dispatched with his spear gun after hunter and hunted played a stalking game for three years on the same stretch of
reef?
"It was kind of sad to finally pot it," he said, crestfallen, the gleaming fish at his feet.
Tasted good though. We braaied it on board.
When we arrived at Lagundri Bay one night to stock up on our provisions, there were big blobs of luminescent green on the radar signifying big sets breaking on the reef. Look
like
phosphorescent
"doekies"
-
Frank's
seppo
term
for
turds.
It was amazing. Waves big enough to show up on a radar screen? Holy Cannaloni. Sometimes, as the radar made another pass, a new blob appeared. Ohmygod. There were 10 waves in that set!
Durbanite Shaun Delport breaks his board. A scrawny Aussie feral paddles past and says smugly "The POWER OF BAWA MATE".
Shaun kills him with a swift
vicious
headbutt,
and
tosses
the
body
aside.
He paddles back to the
boat,
two
boards
snapped. Only one left. He
must
ride
his
Fish
for
the
next
few
days.
He
borrows
a
board
from
Nic.
Snaps
that
one
too.
The
offers
begin
drying
up!
"Ugh. Aaaagh. Urk. Splutter. Gag!" That's the sound of Ryan Hurter, a marketer
for
Quiksilver, as he schnacks a large blob of wasabi.
"I thought it was
avo
cuz," he says, face pink and eyes watering.
The skipper's wife Chantal bravely fights off cerebral malaria. Breaking from her delirium after five days, she's just in time for the swell. "What year is it?" she yawns, like Rip Van Winkel.
A classic quote from husband Golla, who dismisses the sudden threatening arrival of the Indies Trader III, where we fear a pleasure-killing rent-a-crowd lurks: "Don't worry about the okes on that boat. The only guys who can afford US$450-a-day are old, fat stockbrokers. They won't go out in waves like these (10-12'
Ant
Island)."
Later that day, in the water at 10-12'
Ant
Island
and between scratching for the horizon and not taking off on any waves, I ask Gerry Lopez as he paddles past: "Ever been a stockbroker?"
He smiles a mystic smile, then smoothly massages another vertical wall of glass, smiling and scratching his nose as he drops on air down a 20' face.
Before this session at
Ant
Island, we had talked on the boat about the vicious inside ledge, which sucks dry. When the wave reaches it, it opens up like a mutant Pipeline can-opener, and gyrates across dry reef, sounding like thunder. The jungle reveberates on a big set.
I listen. I hear the words of warning. Numerous times. Does it sink in? Kind of.
"Watch out for the inside bru. It's not called the Nuclear Zone for nothing. It sucks dry there. It's dangerous. You can die there. Kick out before you get to the inside."
After
an
hour
sitting
out
the
back,
I
pluck
up
the
courage
and
take
my
first
wave.
It's
a 10 footer. It sort of pops up out of nowhere. A wide swinger.
"Shit, why me?" I ask, as
a
vertical
wall
of
glass looms before me. I wasn't supposed to catch any waves. I suffered from the delusion of being alive that night.But I feel obliged. Kahuna's representatives are here. Can't let the Big Guy down. Besides, my memory chips need input. "Feed me," says a small metallic voice in my head.
I
paddle
into
it.
I take off. Wow. This wave is neat. Kief takeoff bru. Big, carvy shoulder. There's a roar behind
me -- 2,500 Sumatran tigers amplified through The Big Guy's stratospheric amplifier.
The
Nuclear
Zone looms. I can see
the
inside
start
to
suck. I kick
out
on
a
shoulder
before
it
throws. Safe. Yahooooooo!
Now I am on top of the world. This is a cynch! The next wave is a breeze. It's smaller, under 10 feet. Easier takeoff. Not quite as vertical. Lekkker by die see! Up to the top, I carve a wide turn, oozing self-belief. Life is clean and breezy.
The Nuclear Zone looms. A shapeshifter
begins to work his magic. But I am lost in some pigdog fantasy. This is so cool. Look, ma, I can pigdog! I crouch,
holding
the
rail,
as the mellow beast of burden beneath me slowly undergoes a character transplant.
Before you can say: "Oh Fuck", it's a venemous spitting beast, bucking and rearing ... angry. Some redneck turned up the speed on the bull. Oops. The bottom has dropped out. No way I can kick out. I'll just bounce off and get klapped by a ton of water.
The wall in front becomes an unrecognizable mass of buckled whitewater and foam. It's starting to detonate. I bottom out. Gee, this is fun. Kind of like waterskiing through shaving foam.
It's a brief thought.
An explosion reverberates around my head, and the sparkling tropical sunshine becomes a whirlpool of dimly lit white mush. Suddenly, i realize ... you broke the cardinal rule, you
fuckin'
idiot. Perhaps death will come swiftly.
My board is gone. I am afloat in a huge pot of boiling water. Hundreds of metres of reef begins to move towards the ocean. The backwash is pulling me towards the ledge.
As the water gains
momentum, patches of reef
surface around
me. I plant my feet in front, skimming the
coral
with my
booties.
Catching a clump,
I
wedge
my
feet.
It's
like
a thigh
machine in the gym.
Good
workout
on
the
thighs.
The backwash
surges from behind, washing over my head and
shoulders,
pushing. This
is
what
it's
like
being
dragged
backwards
by
a
powerful
speedboat,
I
think.
I become a little concerned when I see an eight foot wall of water rushing towards me like a flash flood.
Oh my Gah..... BAM!
Another cycle in the washing machine. Then the wedging process is repeated, feet against the reef, water rushing over me, white wall looming.
Another cycle hits. This time, while I am clear of the reef, I just start swimming, arms spinning like a windmill in a badly made cartoon. But
I
feel
wooden.
I'm
tired.
My
arms
are
slow.
It's
almost
like
a
nightmare,
when
your
legs
won't
work
and
you
know
the
four-eyed
beast is breathing down your neck.
But
it's
just
enough to get me off the ledge and into deep water. Nic and Al are beckoning from the rubber duck.
They're
coming
to
haul
me
out.
I look back, trying to see where my seven oh gun has gone. They're signalling frantically, "Don't even think about it!"say the gestures.
I feel foolish. |
