ARCHIPELAGO
1.
Zoomed in on Google Earth we huddled around, eagerly clutching cold Bintangs, sweating over the keyboard. We could all see it. In the dim warm glow of the citronella lamp we could see it. I was going. I didn’t know about anybody else, but I was definitely going.
In Bali, you hear a lot of whispers. Murmurings of Indonesia’s longest right (there must be at least a couple dozen of those) or some left that makes Desert Point look like Medewi.
Truth is, a lot of the whispers have merit. Sometimes it’ll be a place that is so remote and so fickle that only a handful of surfers will ever get to score it on. Some will travel all that way, stake it out for 2 or 3 weeks and just get totally skunked. Best they had it was 2ft onshore and sectiony. They’ll tell their friends it’s a hoax and neither they nor their friends will ever return…much to the delight of the shiney-eyed weather-beaten searcher who’s totally dialled in to what makes it tick and has lied through his teeth to keep it a secret his whole life.
This is a story about one such wave. We found it on Google Earth, and although it didn’t really look like a good wave from the photo, I thought the potential was there: the shape of the land, the angle of the approaching swells; it looked the goods. Some of the crew were sceptical about whether the swell could get in there. No doubt it would require a decent swell from the right direction, but the waters leading to it were deep. Energy conservation.
2.
We’d been in Bali just over 2 weeks. Me, Jutzy, Bingo and Irish. We’d surfed heaps – from Ulus to Canggu and beyond on the west coast, and even scored a few fun, light onshore sessions at a couple of lesser-known rights on the east coast.
But we’d also partied heaps. It’s Bali. You try to say no; actually your mouth says no – but the rest of you says ‘yes’. And so it is, from Single Fin to Potato Head, from La Favela to Deus Ex Machina and almost everywhere inbetween (yes we went to Sky Garden, it need not be mentioned, and NO we didn’t go to Bounty. Well, some of us did.) we drank, danced, romanced and spent a lot of Aussie Dollars and Euros on having a fucking amazing time to be quite honest.
But that’s over now. We are rock ‘n rolled out. It’s time to get pure, tap into our adventurous sides and get the hell away from this traffic. And get barreled off our respective melons.
3.
So there are four of us.
Myself and Jutzy (aka Jason Juttenthorpe) have secured 2 months worth of paid holiday, so we’re stoked and very relaxed. It’s got a bit of “world is your oyster” type feel about it.
Bingo (Ben Ingleton, PhD), on the other hand, only has 3 more days of hedonistic bliss before he returns to the plush leather swivel chair from whence he came to convince white people that life is actually good. And back into the arms of his loving wife (hello Katina) and his three young grommets who no doubt are enjoying eating their cereal in the living room.
And then there’s Irish. I don’t actually remember his real name, but what I do remember is my first viewing of him, from the beer-soaked floor of a jumping, extremely enthusiastic bar in Donegal. Me propped up on one hand, while the other maintained an iron grip on a cherished pint of Ireland’s darkest and my hip and leg soaked up the hoppy goodness, I craned my neck upwards, knowing I should be heading that way, and what I saw was Irish, up on stage, obstructing views of the band with a gorgeous Japanese girl in one arm, and what appeared to be a leprechaun in the other – which actually turned out to be his mum (sorry Aggie). He was the lord of the dance, and his fleet-footed wonder-strokes left us bedazzled and inspired. Needless to say I inevitably managed to drag my less- than-peak-dancing-form carcass up off the stewy quagmire and leaped straight up at the stage in an effort to, not only support, but indeed augment this more than worthy display of joy, skill and energy. Mid-flight, eyes wide with enthusiasm, I ploughed shin-first into the sharp edge of the wooden stage. I got the other foot up there. But that wasn’t enough. When I fell back, I hit my head and knocked myself out.
After spending the night at the hospital, I awoke not knowing where or exactly who I was. There was just one familiar face googling and grinning at me from the corner of the room. Irish.
“Where the fuck are your friends!? Some fuckin’ friends youuuu’ve got ay!?” That is what he said, and then we became friends.
Irish surfs, and damn well at that. And he charges. Loves the big stuff. He’s got just two weeks left in tropical waters before he’s back to run the pub for his old man.
Game on.
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