I almost don’t want to write about this last couple of weeks.
You might expect a surf trip to a remote tropical paradise to be just that, paradise, and it was, but the time inside your own head also gives you many moments to reflect, but more of that later.
The Banyaks are a small group of islands tucked in just above Nias, off northern Sumatra in Indonesia. To get there from Australia you fly to Kuala Lumpur, get a linking flight to Medan on the Sumatran coast, and then a 12 seater aircraft... with 3 seats removed... 8 surfers and 24 surfboards, all in the one coffin..er... cabin, out to the island of Simeulue.
This flight was punctuated by the pilot giving us a 100 foot fly by of the breaks up the Simeulue coast. He was actually a bit of a gun, and the aircraft brand new, so the picture I paint is more due to my slightly claustrophobic reaction.. I’m just not that good in tiny planes. On landing we were met by our boat captain Marcus, and then on to the port town of Sinebang and our home for the next 12 days, the good ship Gaia.
Simeulue was hit by the tsunami of 04, not a heavy loss of life but everywhere is evidence of rebuilding. New roads, houses and infrastructure, and still evidence of buildings ruined by the quakes.
The people are friendly, curious and modest, as you would expect in a Muslim area, with some of the girls and women covering their faces as we passed.
Sinebang itself is a very poor, but bustling little town. It now has it’s own supermarket which seems to be as source of much joy, though I’m told no one knows how to use the cash registers yet. It has the feeling Bali had in the mid seventies or earlier, but with a different feeling too, as it lacks the Balinese cultural artistry, that being replaced by the mixed influences of Dutch colonial, Acehnese and the local culture. My meeting with it all was very brief, as we were on to the boat immediately.
Some of us jumped straight into the drink, to shake of the travel weariness and rest after, by then 15 hours of travel. The water up there is around 30C, so it’s a bit like jumping into thick warm air, that air occupied now by three lolling old fart surfers, and a green turtle, who decided to rise up and take a look at us. As we did so we listened to the serenade of the Call to Prayer as the mullahs proclaimed the Greatness of God. I had to agree he got the water temp pretty damn right indeed.
The next 12 days were pretty much wake up, eat, surf for 4 hours, eat, surf for 4 hours, eat, have a beer and talk, sleep. Repeat.
The waves in the area are incredible. Critically fast and hollow, glassy, and all on razor sharp coral reefs, with water depths ranging from shallow to near dry reef. It gave us all cause for pause, and tempered the exuberant attack you might apply to a similar wave on a sand bottom.
We all lost bark, to varying degrees, none too bad, with the odd stitch here and there to colour the days. Luckily two of our group were doctors. One, Hec, was a GP while Jamie (a wave magnet) was a gastro intestinal surgeon. This was of intense interest to me as a week before leaving I’d had an unexpected gallstone attack and was pretty concerned about the consequences of same out in the middle of nowhere.
“Don’t worry Mick... I have a plan”
Gulp.
Fortune favours the brave and Jamie’s plan, thank God, never saw the light of day.
Swell size started quite solid, nudging 6 feet, extreme quality, but inconsistent as it was a dying swell and a very long distance one too. Sometimes an hour of near flatness, followed by an intense 10 minutes or so, then another hour. Here and there it’d increase in consistency, but that, if anything, was our only frustration as we were all desperate to get our share.
A tight group of breaks, suiting a variety of wind and swell conditions, meant we had little real traveling to do, once we got there.
Three lefts, two at a place called the Bay of Plenty, and two rights made up our menu, with three breaks in particular serving up the courses that left the biggest impressions.
Cobra Logs was a flogger of a left, at times almost backless, and if you got a good one it was the ride of your life. If you got one with a tail though it could end in pain.
I had a lot of trouble with the under the lip angled take off you need at these places, at first anyway, and the mind game that accompanies this dogged me for most of the trip.
There were days and waves when it all came together, and I swear I had some of the best rides of my life.
I also took a couple of hits at another place called Whistlebird that were so hard they shook me to my core, physically and psychologically, needing sleep and a couple of neurophen to allow an aching frame to regroup for the next day. At 54 you just don’t take it as easily as at 24, and the idea of pulling in to a near dry end section tube at the end of a 200 yard high speed run, not sure you’ll make it out or get scraped across the coral, meant oftimes you’d pull out instead of going hard. it seemed the wiser choice give our remoteness, but eventually you find your moment when it looks the goods and you go.
Surfing great Miki Dora once made the observation that riding a wave can seen as a metaphor for life, the troubles of life being washed away behind you, or thrown onto the reef as you shoot along the wave, to pull out and start all over again.
My take with the tube ride, particularly the one over coral, is perhaps a little different. The light is the goal, sometimes elusive, sometimes clear and bright and other times flickering, closing, or receding, just out of reach. So many times on this trip I found myself just not quite making it, I’d have to wash away the frustration and fear of consequence, and paddle back out, make another ridiculous takeoff, or not, race along a wall that allowed no cutbacks, no pauses in that speed to the zone where you pulled in, watched the lip fold over you, gurgling over near dry reef and sometimes, sometimes, I made it out the end, into the light.
I have to do more of that.
The pic is a spread from my daily diary. A little painting and a muse everyday. Just between surfs.
Last Sunday I mentioned a surf at Bells and a young Spanish girl on the beach who'd snapped some shots of me on a couple of waves.
Maria sent me the shots, and there were some beauties (for me) amongst them.
One, however got me thinking.
At first glance I went Yay!!, then I noticed a board in mid air behind me. Took the gloss off it for me a bit. I don't remember stuffing anyone, but given my deep history, and the nature of Bells, it's entirely possible. It's just one of those places, with a big playing field, when even when you think you're Johnny on the Spot, someone is behind you.
So, apologies blue board guy, I really wasn't trying to do the dirty.
In the deep past though, growing up on Victoria's Mornington Peninsula, I was a shocker. You kind of had to be... it was a pretty intense area, and the local board club (Peninsula Boardriders) had an award called the Wolfman, for the best at you know what.
Year after year I was told I nearly won it, but always, always, thankfully, there was someone worse. There were some pretty legendary Wolfmen 'round them parts. Truth be known it'd be the only thing I did win as I was totally crap at contests. ("Shit everyone is watching me!!!!.'"Then proceed to fuck up every wave until the hooter went.. then the pressure would come off and I'd get a good one. How many times I got told..."Mick if you got another one like that during the heat you'da won it!" Yeah right)
So today I fly off to where there's absolutely no pressure.
I'm feeling better and the Banyaks is on!! I leave in an hour.
To Alex and Maria, have a great world trip. It sounds fantastic.
To everyone else... I hope the shots come out so that I can share some more.... (Oh God...camera anxiety..)
I've come over as sick as a dog. I hope it passes before I need to leave on my much awaited surf trip to the Banyaks, otherwise said trip will be dust.
A Sunday jaunt amidst rain and cold turned into a special little surf today.
Well, we got down, the rain had stopped, the sun was coming out and there was plenty of swell, albeit a little inconsistent. Into the wettie, board out of bag and d'oh, no legrope. Now Bells is a long swim so I wasn't happy, but Rich coerced me to ask the girl in the camper van parked next to us if they had a loaner.
Turns out she and her boyfriend (both from Spain) were doing the grand surf tour of Oz, and had got lucky so far. He was paddling out at pretty damn good Bells and they were off to Indo for another couple of months once they did the east coast run over the next month or so.
Lucky for some. Oh to be young again.
So she found me a leash, and out I went.
Turned into a great session even though over nearly three hours I only got about 6 waves. A couple of duffed takeoffs not withstanding, I managed a 200 yard screamer from outside Rincon all the way through the bowl, and three belters from outside Bells, with lots of fun and games through to the shorey.
And, as is my predilection, I had a nice cup of tea and chat out the back with wizened surf guru, sage and writer Jack Finlay. Almost the best part of the whole surf.
To top it off my last wave wasn't half bad, finishing off with a nice reentry into the dump and prone to the beach. Got in and discovered my Spanish maiden leg rope loaner was also a pretty handy photographer and had managed to capture said reo on camera.
Joy of joys.
I then discovered, while feeling a bit full of myself, that my friend Stefan, who'd caught the wave just after mine, had scored a filthy pigdog barrel. Not bad in itself, in fact pretty fine indeed, even better when you think he's just recovered from open heart surgery and a new valve that was the result of acute endocarditis, a bacterial heart infection that nearly killed him. More power to you mate.
Anyway, I traded emails with my new friends from Spain and with luck at a date in the not too distant future I'll be able to share my good fortune.
Next week the water will be 29 degrees C and the air... about the same. If only I didn't feel so guilty about going.
Here's hoping I snag a bit more work this week to keep the hounds at bay.
PS: The shot is just a phone snap before I paddled out... it was way better than it looked.
That feels better. Nothing like a bit of self flagellation to set the tone for a bit of banter. Sorry for the gap folks... and Dad. Just been a bit preoccupied.
Over the last couple of weeks, at least, I've been trying to get the extras done for the film, and make a buck. We've edited all the bits we want to put in, like Finned and Finless so that the waves that hit the cutting room floor through no fault of their own might see the light of day. As well, we've done a little feature section on Warren Pfeiffer on his mat, because everyone that sees it loves it. I thinks it might be the intriguing simplicity of the form.
Also, an extra music section to show want went down when Richard Tognetti arced up on his violectra... sort of Hendrix meets Paganini. A great fun piece.
And for the shaping boffins we've got a bit of the mid event reshaping as some new ideas, and interesting glassing techniques, were employed to advance the finless cause. On the spot R&D if you like.
With all of these I'm doing a voice over, to give some background on who, what, where and why with the spanner in the works being time.
Like the other day I'm halfway through recording one... I'm doing them quietly by myself at home (no stage nerves there) and in bursts the number one son.
"Hey Dad, whatcha doing'? Why are you talking to yourself?"
I suppose I could have said its what you do when you're old, but I was too busy swearing.
Anyway I hope to finish all that this week. I hope.
The end of next week, ie: the beginning of May, I'm off to the Banyaks for a short surf trip.
For practice, as if I needed an excuse, Joey and I headed down for a Father/Son surf today. We scored a lovely little left/right peak, mostly by ourselves, only about three feet, but great fun, and he filmed the end of one on the phone when he came in.
Terrible quality, and the picture isn't that flash either, but with two to four guys out, it was a great little session.
