Some East Java Profanity...

Wednesday July 14, 2010 9:10 PM East Java Time

A summary of first half reflections:

I have really been struggling lately as I look around the camp and try to figure out myself. I am surrounded by some very interesting people who have traveled from all parts of the world – the United States, Brazil, Australia, Scotland, to name a few – to surf what is considered to be one of the top 5 surf breaks in the world, and here I am. I paddled out today again, to a break called Money Trees, to try to prove to myself and to my new friend Jeff that I could surf with the best of them. I was supposed to surf this spot with him in the morning before the new swell arrived, and then take an hour’s rest before heading down to a mellower break called Tiger Tracks about an hour’s walk north of the camp.

Jeff got tied up in the observation tower with the camp photographer, so instead of waiting I geared up and paddled out from in front of a break called Kongs to Money Trees. Just paddling out was a challenge for me, seeing the reef only a foot or two beneath me for the quarter mile paddle to the inside sets. Then, knowing that white water now scares the living shit out of me, I braved the inside and managed to squeeze my way into the lineup in the outside break just before another set moved in.

I had walked the reef the night before, trying to get to “know my enemy,” and since it was now mid-tide with the tide coming in, I knew that my enemy was closer than ever. But I also knew that I had to give it another shot. Why I felt I had to do so, I still do not know or understand. But I had to prove to someone – to Jeff, the Photographer, Myself, You – that I could get on a world class wave and overcome my fears.

So I paddled outside and the bigger sets rolled through. Taking no chances, I stayed deeper than most to avoid the “cleanup sets” that came through every now and then and cleaned up anyone on the inside. But in sitting further outside, I knew that the only waves I could attempt to catch would be the bigger waves. I often joke with my surfing friends back home that when you sit farther outside it is like fishing with bigger bait. You often wait a long time, but when it hits, it’s a big one. After about ten minutes of sitting and watching some bigger sets move through, I decided that I was wasting my time by sitting there. So, knowing the risk that I was taking in paddling back inside, I decided that the only chance I had to catch a wave was to sit inside and grab one between the bigger sets. In a way, I gave myself an ultimatum: catch a wave and ride it the length of the break to safety, or eat shit again and wish you had. Several waves came and I paddled after them. But they were lazy where I was, and breaking slightly to the south. A trick, I knew, that the reef was playing to draw me further up the break. I fell for it anyway remembering my ultimatum: you will not be here long, or you will be sorry.

So I paddled after one or two and actually had a chance to drop in on an 8 or 9 foot face, but backed out at the last minute. The reef was not exposed beneath me, but I knew that it was there, and waiting. Two more waves passed that I had no ability to catch and then my worst fear reared its head again. Beyond the next two waves I could see a stack of water piled up nearly two stories high and moving in for the kill. Instead of praying, as I should have, I said a slur of four-letter words and then paddled as hard as I could to the right in trying to make the edge of the shoulder and not the face. It was not going to happen.

Ten feet in front of me a wall of water twice my size came tumbling down with force that had been building for a thousand miles in the middle of the Indian Ocean and combined with gravity to create an avalanche of white water. With a 7’8” board, duck diving was rather difficult. But with a wave of this size, duck diving would not have saved even the best of surfers. The last words I said before I took my last breath were “Fuc*. Breathe.” I am not going to lie. What I was up against was profane. It was the least I could do to clear my lungs for one last breath before that most horrifying feeling of being carried away, tossed around like a rag doll, and pulled down despite my every attempt to stay on top.

There is an eerie sound that the water makes when you are swirling beneath the surface. It is indescribable, but has come to be my greatest fear. Just the sound makes my heart beat faster. And that sound surrounded me again for fifteen or twenty seconds. I was not counting; I just knew the spacing between waves was longer with a bigger swell moving in. I tried not to panic as much this time as I had two days before. Somehow I had survived before. I must find a way to survive again. So I clawed my way to the surface, my first breath being of foam that had the unique stench of death. That too became a trigger of fear for me. The marine animals in the reef, and the reef itself, were getting mauled beneath the waves just as I was, and with time you could smell their death in the frothy foam after a cleanup wave rolled through and pounded through its depths to the bottom.

My second breath was half a lung full of air, quickly exhaled with the words “Fuc*. Breathe.” again, as the next wave in the set toppled down on me. This time I clung to my board in a “turtle roll,” knowing that the rolling back over was not to occur, but perhaps – just perhaps – if I could hold onto my board through the tumultuous wave, then perhaps – just perhaps – my board might buoy me toward the surface. With luck, or great fortune, my grip never ceased and, with less difficulty than the wave before, I managed to pull myself up for air a second time. Again, the smell of death permeated my lungs. But I was forced closer toward land, toward the shallower part of the reef which, to some, would sound suicidal. But to me, the reef was the least of my concerns. Being closer to the reef meant that the cleanup waves had further to travel to reach me, which meant that more of their energy was spent in traveling the extra distance, which meant less of it was left to throw me around.

A third wave came and, having mounted my board and already begun the process of paddling toward the reef and the shoulder of the wave, I decided that rather than turtle roll or duck dive, I would see if I could just catch the white-water break and get pushed further in and away from the monster cleanup set. It worked, in my head. But on the reef, the third wave was the largest and it hit me from behind with such power that it knocked the air out of me. I stayed on my board for a brief moment as I went racing toward the reef with no control whatsoever over my fate. Very quickly the force of the wave pushed the nose of my board down and I pearled face first into the depths of the reef. Still less afraid of the reef than surviving the power of the broken wave, I reached down for the reef hoping to make contact. If I could hang on, despite the cuts I might incur, perhaps I could steady myself in the torrent of the passing wave and then position myself to kick upward when the swirling reduced. This again, in theory, occurred in my brain within milliseconds of what actually took place. With luck, or good fortune, the swirling mass of water pulled me to the surface upside down. I recognized the brief lack of wetness on my back to mean air and immediately rolled over to grab a quick breath before being sucked back into the whirlpool of madness that had become my life. Do not panic. Do not panic. Do not panic.

The phrase repeated inside my head until again I managed to claw myself to the surface. Taking one small breath, I prepared for another impact and then, fearfully, I turned my neck to see what was coming next.

The set had ended and I had a few seconds to rest, paddle myself closer to the reef, and plan my next escape. This, so it seemed, would be the same plan as the last. I could not face another wave head on. That method had failed me miserably. I had to get away from the break and the quickest way I found was to remain on my board and to try and ride the white water toward the shore. Fortunately this wave was slightly less energetic and, while it tried to pearl me again, my body was responsive to the changing balance and adjusted itself to remain on my board. The wave took me nearly to shore as I breathed slower and deeper, making up for lost breaths.

So, in reading this, you are asking, “What in the hell were you thinking, in going out there again?” And, in writing this, I refer you to my first three paragraphs. I have been at this camp now for four days. The first day I paddled out into surf that was comparable to a decent day at Mavericks and floated in amusement and wonder. The second day I moved into position to try to ride a wave and was completely annihilated. The third day I gave up on the bigger surf and headed to Tiger Tracks for a mellow two hour session in which I caught three dozen waves and had a great time. But the culmination of these three days left me feeling unfulfilled.

You only get pictures if you ride the beasts that live outside at Money Trees. You only get in barrels if you battle your demons on top of the reef and drop in outside at Money Trees. You only get the wave of your life if you face your fears and confront the powerful waves outside at Money Trees. You only know if you can do it if you ride the outside waves at Money Tree.

Part of me felt emasculated by my prior lack of success at Money Trees. Part of me felt like fear had taken over my life and had consumed me in my first three days. Part of me felt I had more pride in myself than what I was able to accomplish those first three days. Part of me simply wanted to say that I had ridden the best waves with the best surfers and had survived. But are any of these reasons to paddle to the outside for a third time, knowing what dangers lay ahead?

I have learned quite a bit here, in studying myself and my reaction to near-drowning and in conversations with Jeff. He assures me that the effort I have put in has more than paid for my trip here, and that I am dealing with waves that only the best of the best will attempt to surf. And as much as I want to feel consoled by his words, I still feel a deep desire to catch a wave at Money Trees before I leave. Maybe I have something to prove to you. Maybe I have something to prove to Jeff, or the Photographer, or my neighbors here who have heard my stories of failure and have been kind enough to console me as well. Maybe I have something to prove to myself. But at what cost?

I realized several things tonight as I have thought deeply about my time here. First, some people here have been surfing big waves their entire life. This 15 foot swell is just another walk in the park for them. Second, some of these people spend the winter swell session surfing the North Shore or the northern California breaks, and the rest of the year surfing the Indonesian breaks. Practice makes perfect, so the saying goes. Third, and perhaps most convincing and profound, we were all made to do something incredibly well. For some it is surfing. For others it is teaching.

It is this third realization that has me on balance about the underlying motivation for surfing Money Trees one last time before I go. I know that I was made to teach and, perhaps, to write. I do not know that I was made to surf. Guys like Corey Lopez and Kelly Slater were born with a talent to surf that far exceeds their talent to teach. They would be wasting their lives if they were not on the water riding the big waves and inspiring young kids to get out and start early. Guys like me had the opportunity to start young, but instead chose to live a life full of a variety of experiences that ultimately shaped me into the person I am, that has formed me into the teacher that I have become and the storyteller I aspire to be. So on which side of the razor should I fall on Friday, my last day at camp, when I plan to paddle out to Money Trees one last time? Should I condemn my chances of riding a world class break and lock my fears inside of me to make them permanent within? Or should I face these fears and put destiny aside, if for just one moment, not to pursue the life of a champion surfer, but to pursue the mindset of a man who has overcome his fear?

So, what have I to prove on Friday? And to whom? We will see which way the hand that guides me leads. I hate fear. I hate knowing that something that may or may not ever come to be might so control my life that I am afraid to even try. But at what cost must I overcome this fear? Fuc*… breathe…