The beat still blared from Sky Garden, and the streets were still filled that night with drunken men and women looking for their escape. But for me it was silent, as the morning began with the loss of a comrade, though unknown to me before, and I could not help but ponder in silence the finality of his death. We had rented a driver and raced out to the eastern side of the island at six in the morning to try and catch a sunrise session near Nusa Dua before the wind picked up and closed out the waves. But even in our dawn arrival, the waves were too blown out to even attempt to paddle out. So I stood at the waters edge and measured the size of the waves against myself, sure that, had I the chance, I could handle them. They were breaking to the right after all. I turned as the sun crept above the clouds on the morning horizon and saw my sister squatting nearby in the sand, smoking a cigarette as though she were on the cover of an old black and white film. The morning started well, and quiet, as we each had our own space to stretch our minds and bodies on the beach, contemplating our next move.
To Uluwatu. On a smaller swell like this there was sure to be a crowd. But the waves would be a few feet bigger and, in sets, perhaps overhead and clean. Driving down the road, paved at times, but severely damaged by the rains of summers past, I was anxious to meet the infamous Uluwatu. Since the discovery of the break by surfers in the seventies, Uluwatu has been claiming lives on a regular basis. And surfers continue to make the pilgrimage there, as if called by some mysterious force, to brave the chance that they are the next offering to the ocean. I was among them this day, considering my fate as compared to the rest, and calculating my odds for survival. It was a small swell, and already there were thirty bodies bobbing up and down on their surfboards in the swell. Surely if one must be taken, I might be spared.
Then word got out as I was stretching, before making the journey through the terraced steps of the rugged cliffs, that one man’s life had already been claimed that morning. It was only seven thirty and the news hit me with mixed emotion. I felt relief as though I had been spared, perhaps until a later moment, and yet there was a mystery in this speculation. No body had been seen by anyone cliff side yet, though the locals were crowded around all ledges looking for the corpse that was undoubtedly mangled in the rocks from the surf. A morbid air hung over the cliff, stale and peculiar, and I doubted whether today was the day to surf Uluwatu.
But my friend was there next to me anxious to hit the water, and my sister had come all this way to watch me surf. I could not back out, regardless of the dire consequences. So we stepped down the steep steps toward the cave at the bottom of the cliff. We were the only ones headed down for now. It seems the morose news had either turned others away, or at least suspended them in their quickness to paddle out. We made it to the bottom of the cliff, still alone, and entered the cave one at a time. As I stared at the entrance to the cave, about twenty feet across and full of a rising tide that kept waves smacking angrily into its sides, several men in red and yellow lifeguard suits turned the corner dragging something cumbersome and stepping carefully as they walked. Another man carried two surfboards, and another man helped carry what appeared to be the body of the fallen.
I assumed that the man carrying the two surfboards was a friend of the dead, and I could see vomit still trailing from his beard from where the seriousness of the event must have rattled him at his core. The other bearded man carrying the corpse kept his composure until they reached the coral sand beach, only ten feet from where we stood, and then he ran his hands through his hair and murmured inaudible words over and over again that I interpreted to be words of disbelief or pleading for this just to be a bad dream.
Frightened at the prospect of paddling out, and paying homage to a fallen brother, we each stood still as the scene unfolded. Behind us were the voices of spectators now climbing down the cliff eager to see the sight of the dead body, no doubt so they could be the first to spread the news. In front of us the cave entrance cast an ominous visage. But there was only one thing to do - that which I had come here to accomplish. So I took a deep breath, bent down to strap my leash to my right ankle, and stood up to exhale. I followed my friend to the water’s edge and as a wave crashed down over a shallow rocky ledge, I leapt into the air and landed on my board with enough momentum to get me going toward the mouth of the cave.
It was a quick paddle to the cave’s entrance, but more difficult once I made open water. The ocean seemed greedy, in already having taken one life, but still seeming to want more. I followed my friend through the entrance of the cave and paddled to the right, away from the crests of waves that were breaking at several peaks to the left. I never stopped paddling until I had joined the crowd of surfers sitting in the line up deep into the outer break, and even then I could not stop thinking about the body I had seen.
Speculation said that the man was either pushed or that he tripped over the edge of the cliff and feel to his death. Others say that he jumped willfully to his death. Still further reports claim that he was taken by the ocean as he was trapped on the inside and worn out against the reef and the rocky shoreline. Regardless of how it happened, the finality of the event stuck with me with each stroke I took and each moment in which I sat up on my board and scanned the horizon. Some surfers seemed either unaware of the incident, or unaffected, but to me and my friend, the reality was as clear as the water beneath us.
As I sat patiently waiting for my first wave, I admired the beauty of the cliffs and the small restaurants and shops dug into its side. We were at Uluwatu, the rock on the end of the island, and if one had such imagination they could picture the continent of Antarctica with no obstructions between here and there. The waves were scattered that morning, making it extremely difficult to predict where the next wave would peak, or where it would turn to mush and lure you inside. I still had cringes of fear inside of me as I thought about being tricked inside in the jungle, and the consequences I faced when the sets rolled through. Still I knew that the only way to overcome the sinister atmosphere of the morning was to find my wave and to catch it.
So I did, a moment later, and with the adrenaline of dropping into it went my fears and worries for my life. The ocean was kind to me then, and I was kind in taking it easy on this wave, riding it as long as she would let me, but knowing that at some point the reef was waiting hungrily for me. Before the wave closed out I bailed out through the back of the wave and landed on my chest on the board with enough momentum already to carry me toward the line up again. I had done it. I had defeated my ominous premonitions and faced my fear.
To most out there that morning, and most surfers on Bali that day or any other, Uluwatu is not the most intimidating break. However, only two surfers began their session with the sight of a dead body that day. And for me and my friend, survival was always a priority. But I had survived, and as rain began to fall and calm the restless sea, I found greater peace in sitting undisturbed out on the reef. I could not fathom the pain that the death created for so many people I would never know. But for me it created a sense of survival within myself. I was reminded of my own frailty, my own defeat of self in the surf at the jungle, and I smiled to know that I had been given another chance.
As the morning ended, I caught only a handful of waves, and found myself trapped several times on the inside. But instead of panicking, I thought about what I had already experienced, what I had seen earlier in the morning, and what I knew I had left to do with my life. This day was not my day to go. I still had so many great thoughts about so many great things, so many people to meet and lives to change, and so many more opportunities to learn to live in the moment. If anything, the sight of the dead body reminded me of the sanctity of life, the purity we each have within us, and the perfection to which we should all strive to be in every moment. The ocean cleansed me that morning. Though I had failed at many things in life on many occasions, I was perfect on the water in that moment. The only thing that could destroy me would be myself, and I was confident that I was neither willing nor able to do anything more than to sit and enjoy the view of the rock at the end of the island waiting for my next wave…
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