Change.

You cannot stop it… you cannot control it… it belongs to no one.

We must accept… we must adapt… we must endure.

If you had it once… consider yourself fortunate.

Nothing lasts forever… except the spirit.

*featured image courtesy of John Haymes.

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Welcome

As the car crawls up the hill towards the Balangan crossroads the phone starts beeping… I read the text and understand the Captain’s back into town from Java for the weekend. I immediately make a sharp u-turn and head back down the hill. It’s a detour worth taking. 

Finally outside the rusted gates, I spy that signature skull and cross-bones through the green foliage – it’s a welcomed sight. Stepping over some potholes I note the trades are blowing, but with an ankle still lame and the Captain back in town – surfing can always happen later. Suddenly I see that unmistakable silhouette in the doorway. I approach and shake that coarse hand: ”Howzit goin mate?”. It’s a familiar feeling.

After I grab a seat, it’s not long before a few other misfits blow in – including Mr. Wade and Greg from across the street. Soon the coffee’s brewing and stories are flowing. The main topic was the life and crimes in that port in Merak. This is where the Captain’s vessel’s been parked the last month for servicing. Spending time living in a polluted hell hole smothered by soviet coal factories, local pirates and beetle-nut politics can take its toll. So it’s no surprise the Captain finally fled to Bali for the weekend – those kind of places can really hurt you.

After an hour of catch up, it was time for a splash. The others decided to move on, while the Captain grabbed a board and joined me in the truck. The original mission was back on… next stop Uluwatu.

Later as we squeeze past the bamboo gates and lurk up the road to that old abandoned hotel – we finally enter Sulaban’s last real accessible check spot. This rotting relic feels like Captain Kurtz’s temple at the end of the river. Another Bukit dream gone wrong… another monument to all the problems out here.

Carefully dodging some broken glass and those wafts of stale urine.. we make our way to the cliff’s edge. It’s mid tide with a 4ft south-west swell running. There’s texture on the water and plenty of heads in the line up – I can’t see this happening today. We finally surrender and continue with the Captain’s program of visiting the Barrenjoey family around the corner at Padang.

Before long… we’re pulling into arguably the Bukit’s most prestigious address, overlooking its most famous bay. Getting out of the car the Captain jokes with pak Made. There’s a few more chuckles, as I follow the Captain down through this incredibly lush estate. This signature residence is fairly impressive, one can marvel at the quality – not to mention the glorious aspect. Turning another corner we’re finally greeted by John, Belinda and their kids. This is us.

To describe the Barrenjoey family, you’d be describing a contemporary version of the ‘Swiss family Robinson’. These folk live onboard a 70ft steel ketch that runs surf charters along west coast of Sumatra. These are people firmly in control of an envious lifestyle and are certainly no strangers to adventure. But for now its all about a well-earned break in Bali, enjoying the hospitality of one of the Bukit’s premier digs.

Life is very beautiful in this little corner of the universe – and its a pleasure to participate.

Gazing beyond the terraced gardens, I absorb the epic bird’s-eye view as swell lines run down the reef – it’s 2-3ft with just a few guys out – not bad. John and the Captain make the call and soon I’m following them down the cliff stairs and straight into the line up. My fitness still remains embarrassing after 10 months recovering from an ankle injury – but every surf makes you stronger  - and nothing is bad when you got waves, sunshine and good company.

Examining today’s vehicles it was a fairly mixed affair. John was sporting a 9 ft red beast of a gun, me on the Mitchell Rae hybrid and the Captain on a bloody toothpick. After paddling across the reef like a penguin, I finally managed to catch two waves that didn’t section. John definitely got his fair share, while the Captain (as per usual) burgled most of the gold. Some things never change.

Returning to surfing (post rehab) has been pretty challenging… but also very rewarding. But the real value today wasn’t the waves but the conversation between sets. It was particularly interesting to hear – first hand – the fine details about Brett Archibald’s Mentawai rescue. Listening to the unedited version from those who were involved, definitely beats any media report. But for me, the ultimate  moment was the Captain’s recollection of surfing here at ‘Impossibles’ back in the early’ish 70′s – back when nobody really surfed it. As the story goes, one particular afternoon Mr Harvey and himself encountered a solid wrapping swell folding into the bay, producing a barrage of flawless barrels the entire stretch of the reef: “..it was like Burleigh in reverse mate… so many f%kin barrels…we surfed until our legs fell off..” Then after this historical session, there was that arduous trek back along the whispered trail from Padang to Sulaban.. that hike through cow paddocks in the dark… and finally arriving to bemo cramped full of snarling mates – all waiting to go home. Things were different back then – no proper roads anywhere – just jagged dirt tracks – bush-bashing your way to new discoveries. You had to earn it. Almost impossible to visualize it now beneath all the concrete and chaos – much has changed in the last 40 years.

Finally the day’s session came to a close, John and the Captain began fading south, with my pulsing ankle not far behind. Back at the Chateau, it was quick dip in that epic pool and then back in the on the road to reality. As I finally exited those volcanic gates – it was with a head full of big dreams… past.. present.. and future…

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Life is good

Good company

These days it seems like almost every foreigner in Bali is either renting, buying or building a villa. As far as I know, Mr Elliot was the first to use the word ‘villa’ to describe residential accomodation in Bali, way back when Seminyak was still all rice fields. Now the term seems to apply to almost any modern home here, regardless of the size or quality. Unfortunately many of these ‘villas’ are just sub-standard architectural disasters that end up as cancerous eye sores; and even sadder is that few reflect anything really Balinese, except for the odd dumbed down design accent.
Recently I saw this house (pictured) that definitely was not a villa, but I reckon it qualifies as a excellent expression of where the island’s headed… and in my humble opinion deserves first prize for pure authenticity and outright honesty.
You be the judge…

Every year people bitch about the increasing crowds, but as soon as a real swell hits the island and the tide drops… the problems all fade away. With only a day remaining before that first of the season hits the west coast… one hopes it will be a year to remember.

*image of Sulaban from yesterday – hijacked from Alain the Spaniard.

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Not for everyone

The account

It’s been eight months.

Eight months without an ankle.

Eight months without a wave.

Eight months of going insane.

Eight months of watching the world go by, eight months of listening to stories about the best waves in a decade. Eight months of pretending it didn’t matter, eight months of denial.

Eight months of dreams about empty waves at dawn. Eight months of depression, eight months of anger, eight months of fragility. Eight months of considering life without the life… eight months of letting go.

It’s been a sobering experience… and now the journey has ended.

Let there be light… let there be waves.

Saltwater is back.

Along with this monumental resurrection comes a fresh sense, appreciation and acceptance. Tragedy happens regardless of aspirations. Whether we like it or not, we cant control the force of nature… we must go with it.

Life happens.

Surfing is the same. A wave has its own will and we must flow in unison – not against. To achieve the ultimate ride… we, the board and the wave must all be one in perfect harmony.

It’s simple but true.

When the mind and body are one with the world… the spirit can shine.

Life becomes beautiful.

Very beautiful…

Time to get wet.

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Farewell season

The outsiders

Life

Everyone loves a comeback, its key to the hero myth… the idea someone can overcome absolute adversity and save the day. In this case, it was Australian surfer Tim Rogers saving himself.

After suffering a severe stroke in January, some thought Timmy was done. When you’re a surfer in your 60′s and you suffer a critical injury like this, the odds are usually against you.

With loss of speech and most of his motor skills, Timmy spent many months in Macksville hospital facing eternal darkness. For his mates it was a troubling state of affairs. But for this die-hard surfer – who’d lived the short board revolution and much of Indonesia’s surfing story – he wasn’t about to surrender what he loved most.

As each month passed, the stories coming out of Macksville were occasionally hopeful but generally bleak. Nobody really knew how it would end, nobody accept Timmy – who refused to surrender.

About a month ago, I heard whispers a miracle was occurring – Lazarus was apparently on the mend. Against all doctors predictions, Timmy was regaining full speech and movement.  Few could believe it… but all felt the joy.

The man was back.

One of Tim’s oldest mates – Michael Owen (aka Big Dog) – recently sent in a few words describing what’s probably the most memorable session in their collective surf histories…

- There was no hesitation no scrambling around, just pure determination in his mind he was going out for a surf.   
So on a sunny autumn day Timmy Rogers paddled out for the first time in 5 months proving all doctors prognosis reports wrong. Still weak on the right side didn’t lessen the smiles all around as a huge milestone had just been overcome.

*featured photo – High Noon Paddle-out with Timmy. Valla beach, Nambucca Heads NSW

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Tim Rogers

As Bali’s drive for expansion continues, chronic Jakarta-style traffic jams are fast becoming the daily ritual, especially in the south of the island. If you’re going to endure this growing cancer, you need to maintain an open mind and develop some considerable patience. While the Bukit peninsular isn’t nearly as bad as town, its slowly getting there… and once that new Benoa freeway opens up, God help the Bukit’s modest little roads.
Today’s traffic experience occurred on a normally jam-free Bukit backroad. The lumber jacks (pictured) not only managed to cause gridlock for 30 minutes, but also took out the district power lines – a solid effort. To their credit they did a decent job of directing traffic – once they’d cleared up the mess – offering an inferred apology through that iconic Bali smile.

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Driving me crazy Pt.1

Driving me crazy Pt.2

Indo is a dangerously beautiful place.

Whether you’re landing an hour before another plane crashes into the ocean… or hearing tales about being left for dead at sea… suddenly personal ills – like 8 months without surfing – seem pretty trivial.

The islands never let you forget – life could always be worse – just ask Brett Archibald… he knows.

After falling off a charter boat in the Mentawais around 3:15am, it was many hours before anyone knew Brett was missing. He spent the next 27 hours lost at sea, circled by sharks, pecked by seagulls…until all hope disintegrated. Finally at death’s door, the charter boat ‘Barrenjoey’ appeared with none other than the infamous ‘Captain’ (aka Doris) at the helm. The Captain led the charge to find Brett after the alert went out he was lost. At the end of an exhaustive 18+ hour search, the impossible had happened – a life was saved.

The world is a better place knowing people like the ‘Captain’ still exist. Blokes who’d do anything for someone they never met… and expect nothing in return – accept a few cold beers and a handshake.

Good on you mate…

* image of the Captain from The Surfer’s Journal – issue 22.1 – by Bukit Bear

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Good company

Sometimes we get to see how the other half lives…

Powder swirls in every direction as I gaze through frosted glass at planes disappearing beneath a blanket of snow. Inside the airport conversations rage in German Arabic English French Mandarin Hindi Spanish Italian and Russian all busy with the subject of departure. Cancelled bookings lost reservations non-refundable tickets broken promises wedding plans birthdays business meetings all buried beneath a European blizzard.

An Arab gentleman enters with a duty free bag producing some portable speakers that his friend connects to an iPhone. Arabian music suddenly fills the room as the men grin and the American passengers to my left cringe. I turn to the broadcast about the identity of the new Pope as an announcement goes out across the P.A. – “all passengers on Egypt Air flying to Cairo please make your way to gate 32″ – the Arab men don’t react while their music continues to interfere with a German business meeting. I glance up from my keyboard as a young blonde wearing a tight shirt in low-cut denim jeans and platform shoes with pink toe nails walks towards me. Close behind is a large middle-aged man with short grey hair wearing a black leather jacket tweed trousers and dusted brown shoes. They drop their bags next to me as I register the Russian accents while the man grunts commands to the girl who abandons her duty free gifts and walks towards the buffet. The Arabs turn off their music and begin tossing salted cashews into their mouths while a Sikh gentleman speaks loudly into a phone as the storm throws another bucket at the window. The girl returns without any food smiling nervously as her keeper holds a half peeled banana in his hand and pauses before plunging it into his mouth. I get up and go to the toilet and return to the sounds of George Michael’s ‘careless whisper’ as the Arabian men nod and smile. I plug in the earphones and press play on ‘All along the watchtower’ while the Russian girl massages her phone and her keeper smothers another generous amount of cream cheese over his dark bread. I look up at the clock and realize my flight leaves soon and collect my luggage as the Russian girl speaks – “Sir.. you left something behind”. I glance at the duty free bag that once held those headphones – “Don’t worry… its empty”.

Arriving at the gate I realize my plane is no longer boarding and speak to the lady in an orange jacket who explains there will be further delays. I spot a restaurant called ‘Deli Bros’ and approach while this waiter in a checkered flannel shirt and braces asks if I’d like a table. I nod as he whispers “you’re lucky this one in the front is free”. I sit as he exclaims “it’s all about timing” – I smile – “especially tonight”. I take the menu and order spaghetti with king prawns and semi-dried tomatoes accompanied by a glass of Riesling. I watch the clock and enjoy my dinner while listening to the ‘Best of Billy Holiday’. Consuming the rest of the wine I ask for the check and leave a generous tip.
Back at the gate I discover its empty. I look about and see some passengers at a counter and recognize those Arab gentlemen with the music. I join the crowd gathered around a calm but inwardly stressed female consultant who’s doing her best to field questions from passengers who’ve waited 5 hours for a flight that’s now been cancelled.

Oh well…

I listen to each enquiry that’s not in English when suddenly a German lady carrying a backpack pushes past me while stepping on my good foot. Her demands are ignored as the Korean man continues his questions in Deutsch. I finally understand that everyone must re-enter immigration and go back to the ticket counter and get reassigned to another flight that might leave tomorrow weather depending. I head to immigration where the officer gives me the third degree about an emergency passport which I’m using because mine was stolen two days before departing on this trip a couple of weeks back. I finally pass customs and look for the airline service desk while thousands of passengers form dozens of queues in every possible direction.

The reality slowly sinks in.

Eventually I find my desk where a queue about 2 km long has formed. I go to the end behind a Chinese couple when suddenly two large German women in their mid 50′s with masculine hair cuts shove their bags in front of me. I stare into their black eyes behind those thick beer bottle glasses and attempt to explain there’s a queue and their place is right behind me. I immediately receive dismissive chuckles and some muttered German that sounds suspiciously derogatory. Before I waste anymore energy on these women I do the math on my increasingly dire situation as a neon sign obscured by the raging blizzard slowly reveals the word ‘Hotel’. I decide to abandon the queue and head towards a bridge that leads to possibly my only chance at a warm bed for the night. Approaching the escalator the phone vibrates as I speak to the girl who kissed me goodbye seven hours ago and explain plan B while she suggests plan C which is an hour train ride to her home and bed. I uploaded the offer while passing a row of stewardesses seated outside the hotel reception chatting in Mandarin. Now I am standing in another line as I ask the Frenchmen in front of me if there’s any rooms available but they’re not sure. Two Canadians join the queue and ask me the same question and I give them the same answer. Suddenly the phone with only 9% battery life vibrates as my companion asks for the latest status report. I decide to abandon the Canadians and locate the baggage claim and collect my luggage. Across the bridge down the escalator down the stairs down another escalator and I see my suit case.
I follow symbols to the train station and locate a ticket machine with an English menu that won’t enter my destination no matter how many times I try until this guy with black earrings bad skin and pin holes for eyes starts helping me. I appreciate his generosity for securing me a ticket on the 8.53 pm train but realize he’s still lurking because he wants 10 euro to get back home. I reach into my wallet and hand over the cash while looking into those troubled eyes wondering where platform 5 might be located.
Dragging my suitcase down ice-covered steps I try not to break my neck as frozen hands struggle to grip the luggage covered in snow. On the platform the phone vibrates again as my companion understands I’m on the way. Suddenly I remember there’s a warm winter jacket in that black duffel bag that she lent me for the flight back home. I immediately reach for the zipper and find its secured by a 3 digit padlock. As the frozen air tears at my face I hold the phone with 1% charge and begin dialing just before it goes dead. Looking again at the padlock I consider the other version of reality that could’ve been mine but is now one that I will surely never forget for as long as I live…