The Ocean, and the Wave...

Monday July 12, 2010 1:15 PM East Java Time

Two day recap of my trip to G-land, starting with the most recent and going backward…

I almost died today, between twenty feet of water and the reef, and I found it such an excruciatingly painful experience that I attempted it twice more just to make sure that I appreciated my life. Of course, this is all in good jest, in looking back. But at the time, I felt so hopeless and alone, and I knew that I did not want to die.

It started yesterday, around 9 AM after a 7 hour drive from Kuta to G-land on East Java. It was a bumpy ride, and though my chair all reclined to about 30 degrees, I slept only as much as the curves in the road would allow. I arrived around 8 and settled into my bungalow. As an upgrade, it has air conditioning that does not work and mosquito nets covering two twin beds. I was told to keep the doors and windows shut as the monkeys like to break into rooms and ransack them for any goodies they can find. I just have Kit- Kats, but I imagine chocolate suites their palate very well.

Shortly after unpacking, I threw down some banana pancakes and scrambled eggs and shared more conversation with Jeff, a teacher from Los Angeles who I met one morning out on Middle reef in Kuta over a week before. Talk about a small world. We made our way to the observation tower after breakfast, a three story wooden complex aimed at three of the major breaks here. In the distance, like pepper grains scattered in a bathtub, little heads bobbed up and down on surf boards waiting on the sets. I took the size of the wave for granted at first, as the distance between the tower and the break made everything out there seem smaller. But when one of those little heads grabbed the shoulder of a wave and dropped in on it, I could see just how insignificant we are in the grand scheme of things.

I felt confident, however, that with just the right angle on just the right shoulder of just the right wave, I could surf with the best of them. This was the reason I was here, to become the best. But this confidence would hold only 5 minutes after jumping out of a boat that ran us from the shore to the outer break. When I paddled into the lineup and a swell rolled through, it was mesmerizing to feel my body lift up to the crest of the wave where I could look down some twenty to thirty feet at nearly 50 other surfers all scrambling to get out of the inside break, and then feel the gentle awkwardness of weightlessness as the wave set me back down. I was in pure awe, and terrified as the gentle swell pushed through.

In well over twenty feet of water, I was confident that I was not so much afraid of the reef. The waves, however, were another thing. They spilled over in the distance and, like an avalanche, advanced forward with the misperceived notion that the white wash was calm and gentle, when in fact it was furious. I paddled deeper than everyone else and further down the line so that I had a clear view of the break as well as the smattering of bodies across the reef. If I paddled hard enough to drop in on a wave from there, I could ride it for five hundred feet before having to bail out on the shallow reef. But instead I just watched, and paddled back into position when the current pulled me north.

I spent four hours on the ocean that day, simply watching and paddling back into position. Though afraid at first, I grew restless and anxious to catch my wave. It is not uncommon for even the best surfers to spend three hours on the water and only catch three or four waves here. I just wanted one. But as the tide dropped, the side-shore current became stronger and I was forced to paddle more just to stay in the same place. Eventually I fell behind the current and gave up on trying to gain position on a wave. Though I felt confident that I could make the twenty foot drop, the ocean would not allow me the opportunity.

So over the afternoon and evening I stewed about my initial cowardice. Jeff called it “caution.” But in my mind, it was cowardice. I once told a friend to just “pull the trigger” and drop into waves that clearly intimidated him. All I could think of out there was to “pull the trigger.” I just couldn’t do it.

So this morning I was alert and vengeful for my first day. It was the only day in my brief history of surfing where I did not catch one wave, let alone a last wave toward the shore. I always caught one last wave. It was something my father taught me, and one of the few things I kept sacred when on the ocean. I hated myself for paddling in without a wave, and vowed that I would, within the first set of the new day, pull the trigger and drop into my first wave. The waves were just as big as the day before, some reaching nearly 25 feet at their face just before breaking, as measured by the number of body lengths one could fit into the face of a wave when someone else dropped in. But today there was a slight offshore wind and the tubes were opened and hollow inside. It was the most spectacular wave I have ever seen, bending over itself to form a horseshoe as it broke. And the tube was big enough you could nearly fit a truck inside, and so full of air that when it finally collapsed there was a monstrous hiss and pop as the air pressure increased so great and then pushed its way through the top of the crashing wave. I had no plans to be inside a tube when it collapsed. I just wanted to drop in and ride the magnificent wave until it would not let me anymore.

So, true to my word, within 5 minutes of sitting in the lineup, a little closer inside than some, I had my first opportunity to drop in. I paddled hard, knowing that the monstrous wave will suck you from below and place you at its crest just before it bends over and breaks. I had to paddle like I had never paddled before just to give myself a shot. And it worked, except as I felt myself being tugged backward and up, and as the sight of the string of surfers on the inside lineup grew smaller, I realized I could not make the drop and I backed myself out. Twice this happened.
I vowed that there would not be a third time, and the ocean was sure to see of that. Certain that I did not want to drop in on a twenty foot face, I paddled inside a little and to the left. I had been trapped many times on the inside at Middle Reef because I was too far left in front of the break. Here I felt positioned to move on any wave that the outside surfers could not, or would not, catch. And then it came, before I was even ready, and I should have known better because everyone to my right began to paddle furiously out toward the approaching set and to the right. I was farther left than anyone else, and so I had to paddle twice as fast if I were going to make it.
As waves approach, they suck the water in front of them into their face and build vertically before they break. Within a short time, nearly to the edge of the break and to safety, I felt a horrible feeling in my gut as I felt myself being pulled into a wave that was on the edge of breaking. Like a weightless elevator, I lifted to the crest of the wave and tried my hardest to duck dive at the last minute to push through the wave and punch out of the other side. But instead an even worse feeling emerged as I felt myself weightless for an indefinite time, staring upward at a clear blue sky, knowing that the reef waited patiently beneath me for its mid-morning snack, and the white-powder break was all around me like a white-out blizzard.

And then it happened. I landed on my back in the ocean, with no idea which way was up or down, or where my surfboard was. I felt a stretching at my ankle, letting me know that it was there somewhere, but as to where I was uncertain. The fall was, I imagine, just as hard as it would be to jump out of a two story building, and my initial fear was the reef. Within a second I would wish that the reef were my greatest fear. Instead, I felt what little air I could grab as I fell squashed out of me as the weight of the wave fell on top of me. Then, darkness and chaos.

Immediately I reached for my ankle, hoping that my board was within reach and near enough to the surface that I could pull myself up. This was always my emergency plan. If submerged, trust the buoyancy of my board to climb my leash to safety. But I was awash beneath the wave, tumbling more times than I could count, and growing more anxious by the second. I started to try and claw my way to the surface, literally, wherever the surface might have been. I guessed a direction and stretched my arms as high as I could and pulled myself in what I hope to be the up direction. Like a child who has no competency at swimming, I clawed and scraped and kicked furiously as I continued to spin beneath the wave. In my head this whole time I told myself, “do not panic.” But the reality was, I was panicking. If I had been pulling in the wrong direction, I would eventually have reached the reef, in which case it would be welcomed relief to know which way was down and then use the reef to push in the opposite direction up toward air. But I never reached the reef, and I worried that perhaps I was clawing horizontally to the surface and the reef, but ten feet beneath the surface. Running out of air, I clawed even more furiously and thoughts of death began to consume me.

There was a light at one point, just enough to reach for, and when I did I felt the miraculous emptiness of air upon my outstretched hand. Surface! I was close! I just had to claw once more and perhaps I would be free. And so I did. And so I was, at least temporarily, free.

The reason I did not die in that first, massive wave was not because of anything that I did. I just did what anyone facing drowning would do: I kicked and pulled and paddled in every direction I could until I reached the surface. There was no art to it, no beauty in overcoming insurmountable odds. It was survival, pure and simple. Rather, what saved me was the fact that the swell that was producing these monstrous waves had a period of about 17 seconds, as timed by Jeff and I before we paddled out. Which means that, on average, one wave should pass by every 17 seconds. Which means if I came up for air at 16 seconds, I would have only one second before I was pounded by another wave. Fortunately for me, while I was passed by no fewer than two waves while underwater, I reached the surface between waves. This gave me just five or so seconds to spit the salt water from my mouth and fill my lungs with as much air as I possibly could before the next inevitable tumble beneath the ocean.

Ironically, it was the size of the waves that saved my life… the first time. It was the reef that saved me the second time. This wave, equally as large as the one from which I had toppled, had the added inconvenience that a surfer was gliding down its face right at me, he in control and me utterly helpless. The last thing I saw before I was pulled down again were the red fins of the surfboard and a look mixed between excitement and fear on the surfer’s passing face.

With what little air I had inside my lung, I told myself “do not panic.” But again I felt helpless as the water moved over me, causing me to spin uncontrollably beneath the surface at mercy of the ocean. As I tumbled, I again told myself to start clawing in the direction you think is up. So I clawed away and was, incidentally, assisted by the circular tumbling motion of the wave to the surface, just briefly enough to exhale and grab a short breath before being pulled back down. I reached for my leash, hoping it would lead me to safety, and again felt no sign of assistance from it. For all I knew, it was broken and sinking beneath the wash with me. And then, in my clawing, I punched a piece of coral and was relieved. Down! I knew now where I was, but not how far down. And so I positioned myself quickly to push up with all my might, hoping that the combination of my push and my clawing would free me from this underwater prison. Within seconds it did. Temporarily.

I was thrown back down again by a third wave, the sixth or seventh in the set, and had even less air than the last. This, I thought, was the end. This was hell. It was being so close to the freedom and the safety of the surface, and yet so far away. I hated the ocean as I breathed it into my nose involuntarily. I hated myself for coming to Indonesia. I did not want to die this way, not even having ridden the damn wave that would cause my demise. I did not want to die.

Panic was the least of my emotions beneath this third wave. Fear had toppled panic. And beyond fear was an emotion indescribable. This was my moment, the moment of all moments in my life, and the feeling was truly unique. They say when you are about to die you often see a light, or a tunnel, or Jesus standing with his arms outstretched in peaceful invitation. I saw none of that.

They say that your life will flash beneath your eyes and the most memorable of moments will be your last. I saw none of that either. I saw darkness and felt wet. I felt my legs being pulled in one direction, my arms in another, and my torso being squashed in between. I felt ready to give up, if surviving this wave meant that another one was on its way, and involuntarily inhaled some more seawater. I knew that when the body started to “breathe” water, the situation was hopeless. The only thing I could think about, in terms of survival, was that somebody in one of the boats nearby taking pictures saw me go down and never saw me come up. My hope was that they would brave the inside break, if they could, and pull me to the safety of boat to try to bring me back to life. I did not give up on clawing and kicking. But with each outstretched arm and each kick of my leg, I felt less and less energy and motivation, and more and more fatigue and acceptance that this was the way I would die.

And then the thought came to my head, not of my life nor of the afterlife, but that nobody would ever know the thoughts inside my head when my body washed ashore. All of the greatness I believed was inside of me, waiting to be shared with the world, would be lost beneath twenty feet of angry, hissing ocean. Everything I could have been, my future, was now so utterly and uncomfortably crammed into my present that I could think of nothing else but survival. Not yet ocean. I have not lived my life yet. There are things I have not even finished, and so many more I have not even begun.

Light did save me this time. With eyes in pain from being open and searching for signs of up and down, I finally sensed daylight just three feet above my outstretched arms. If only I could reach just a few more times. If only I could reach… If only… Air!

My board was close by, and I pulled it with the last remaining strength in my body. Still without breath, I pulled my chest to the board, clinging with all of my life, and noticed that the outside was flat for the time being. Then, just as involuntarily as I had breathed it in, I vomited a liter or so of salt water in a burning, painful purge. Coughing followed, which I knew was a natural response by my body to bring air back into my lungs and get oxygen to my brain, and exhaustion. But, for the present moment, I was alive. With cramps in both of my legs, I kicked myself onto my board and used the last strength I had to paddle horizontally along the shore, trying to escape the inside break. I could see the boats ahead of me, but they hadn’t seemed to notice me. Other surfers went about their routine of scouting waves and paddling into position.

Nobody else was there with me in my moment but me. But at least I could see clearly now why life was so valuable.

I do now know the total amount of time I was underwater, whether it be significant or not. I was not trying to break records for holding my breath, nor was I hoping for survival so I could tell this story a thousand times to people who may or may not care. But I know that in that last moment, when I was ready to concede defeat to the ocean, one thing was perfectly clear: it is not my time.

In the moments that followed, I paddled to safety and eventually had the strength to sit upright on my board. I thought about what had just happened, why it had happened, and how I could prevent it from happening again. Every surfer has their horror story, similar and often worse than mine. But this was my moment. And I realized that I was made to teach. I was made to help others realize what they were made to do, while I tinkered and explored with other possible purposes for my life. I was not like the other surfers in the lineup on that day. I had no idea for what purpose they lived, or what their final thoughts would be had they been drug down beside me. I just knew what I was supposed to do with my life, and with such clarify and focus that it would permanently be ingrained into my heart and my mind.

The ocean holds great wisdom from nearly four billion years of existence in her grasp, and she transferred some of that to me in my quiet moment alone with her. While others were here and there with her, riding her waves or floating in the lineup, she held me down until the point was clear: I am here to help you, in some way, to become what you have been created to become. You might be made to be a surfer, as I hoped I held the potential inside of me to become. Or perhaps you were made to be a great musician. Maybe your fate is as simple as mine, to put your life aside for others. Whatever your purpose in life, I am here to be a part of it with you. Call me a facilitator, if you will, or a middleman between your potential and your reality. Perhaps my words can be the weight of the ocean bearing down on you, and you will be spared the desperate finality of impending death beneath the ocean. Or perhaps they can be the wave that you ride to greatness in your endeavor to be the best. Whatever they are, they are words of truth revealed to me through the sober wisdom of the ocean, and I hope that they in some way inspire you to become better today than you were yesterday…