Pops was not a diehard surfer for the most part, but in his recipe for travel, he did his best to incorporate the surf. His love for sailing had brought him too many area of the globe and some of his most cherished memories had taken place in South- East Asia.
Indonesia.
While the famed island of Bali has been on all surfers’ radar for years, even Pops quickly came to the conclusion that the “island of the Gods” was not the end all to getting on good surf. The early days of surfing Bali had already been prominently stamped by Gerry Lopez who had by 1972 set the screens and pages alight with images of warm water spinning tubes of Uluwatu. It did not take long before the hordes of surf rats had sniffed out the goods. While Bali was quickly succumbing to the ill effects of mass surf tourism, other destinations east of Bali proved to be just as lucrative in the way of waves.
Knowledge of the potential finds hidden within the cracks of the eastern Sundas archipelago came by way of taking part in the sailing regatta known as the Darwin to Ambon race. The 600 mile downwind race gave those involved a chance to acquire the legal papers to cruse and experience the vast Indonesian chain of islands.
In the mid-70s and in the aftermath of the race, a change out of charts took place. The crew on the 50 ft catamaran named the “Wombat” had now transition into another direction and purpose. Pops and Sid Evens and son Eric had left Timor where they had spent some time at a “marvelous” left hander. But while all of them knew they were reaping the rewards as the early pioneers, Eric was keen on heading west to a place he had visited a few years before. A place he claimed where voodoo black magic was still practiced, where mid evil like celebrations of jousting by horse still existed and where the dead were buried in concrete boxes and placed over surrounding hilltops. But more importantly was the wave. A wave according to Eric, could reach triple overhead with enough space to drive a car through. The chart was marked and the course was set and with hope and patience, they placed their sights to Sumba.
With sails set and dab of fine whisky shared, stories as they happen were traded during the cooling of the day. Pops recalled really enjoying that particular adventure not only for the waves they had but for the acute story telling abilities of Eric. Being an avid surfer of travel, Eric had pushed extensively throughout Indonesia, the Americas, and Hawaii. He had tackled the “big stuff” and claimed experiencing sparring charades going down in the lineups in Hawaii citing “as if trying to tackle 30 foot surf was not enough”. But in the timely manner of trying to shed light on what was possibly to come, Eric did his best to wet the appetite for his father and Pops by describing how he came to find the next chapter to fill our pages of adventure.
“Back in Bali, I was just feeling human again. I had been bed ridden from for a week due to Bali belly and spent the time lying dormant in Ubud. Once on my feet again, I stood at a corner in Kuta chaos overlooking the mash of humans moving all in and out of time with one another. I was tired and ready to call the trip quits when magic happened. Out of the maze of faces one of familiarity came into focus. We had met up in Nias a season back and instantly sat to share time. Within fifteen minutes I had handed to me a few names scribbles over a piece of paper. “Go and wait” was what I was told.
The entire journey to my destination would take a total of fifteen hours. Two hours by plane and the remainder of the trip by chaotic road. A charred and barren landscape at times briefly exposed the strain on the faces of all its inhabitants only to swiftly render them into ghosts as all was consumed with in the red shroud of road dust.
By nine pm the taxi driver turned the last bend and stalled the van into a complete stop. For a moment the silence was calming and the headlights obscured by falling clouds of dirt created a perfect transition between where I had just come from and where I was at. As moments passed the dim yellow head lights illuminated my welcome committee of two knife wielding locals at work dismembering a large buffalo. My arrival being barely noticed except for Chief Metibulu who walked me to a nearby hut, kicked away the dogs and rolled out a thatched mat. I was home and instantly was part of the farm.
The cool morning breeze carried with it a mix of burning clove cigarettes and wood. Peering out from my enclosure, random chickens, goats, and a lone calf wondered aimlessly in around everything and everyone. This was a scene that had been recycled for generations on end with an exception of occasional wanderer who stopped in for a wave.
As the rays of day lifted the light of day, to my surprise a small clan of surfers began staggering out into the open. Long faces and irritable tones filled the air and it was soon learned that this band had waited out three weeks for magic to happen. With no swell and living conditions on the poverty level, the day had come to move on from what all would consider a hell mission. They were going onto where the swell window was open and choices of waves were many.
As the horn call from the bimo taxi rounded its last turn, I flinched at the idea of going with. Bad food, malaria, and potential of ongoing flatness had me almost packing my bags, but then something inside told me to stay. I reasoned quickly that the swell for this place was overdue and that its time had to be close.
The trot to the break itself was an adventure. An initial decent through jungle led to a stream bed that flowed through three thatched huts that in turn sat facing an open rice field. The maze of foot paths ended under towering thirty foot palm grove where the floor remained littered with cannon ball coconuts. From there it was a sharp drop through low lying beach shrubs that housed clouds of biting sand flies. Once clear of that menace it was a one kilometer white sand beach that stretched south-east, out to the distant lime stone head land.
It had been two days since the band of surfers had left for Sumbawa. I sat in the early morning breeze sipping on my tea and enjoying the moments with the chief. No words exchanged but I soaked up the gratitude of how lucky I was to just share the space with such an old culture. But even then I knew my days were numbered and I would be getting a move on soon if the waves were going to be a no show. Gathering a few belonging I grabbed my 7’2 and headed down the trail and towards the point not yet realizing what I was about to experience.
Usually when the swell is pumping and you’re within a close proximity of the ocean, it’s not only the sound of the breaking waves that let you know what’s up but it’s also the salty haze in the atmosphere. My run to the ocean had not given me any of these clues to expect there were any waves but once I broke through the last bit of brush I knew I was in for a different kind of day.
The beach break itself was hitting in at 10 – 15 foot and absolutely detonating on the sand bar. But it was not till I hit the edge of the reef that I realized what was really going on. Frozen for a time in complete observation mode, I peered up the reef system at an almost sea level view and watched as freight train left handers spat continuously down the line towards me. I was in awe and very unsettled all the same.
My mind kept telling me that this is what it was all about. All the travel by road, boat, and air, all the bad food and musty old beds, all the waiting around in life, all this time and energy spent was all to be finally face to face with what I was standing and looking at. And yet I hesitated, frozen in disbelief as a lone surfer in the middle of nowhere, staring down the throat of a grinding left hand barreling wave.
Almost one hour went by and forty some waves with it. I was yelling out loud willing myself to move on the moment until finally I did. The paddle out was short as once you leave the water edge, the conveyor belt like current line brings you right out into the lineup. The swell was pushing set intervals about every five to eight minutes and for the first half hour nothing to big was coming in.
My first wave ended quickly and on the reef but once back to the surface, it was as if all the nerves had been slapped out of me. I paddled back out and knew mentally what the routine was to be. I called it the 1-2-3. Drop in off inside rail, pivot from outside rail and then back to the inside again. My next wave was a gem as where many over the next six hours. But there is always that one wave that sticks to the mind no matter how much time passes on.
I had just passed out of healthy barrel before the end section shut down. I was on the paddle back out when it looked as if there was a set on the approach. The first wave was big but I was still too far down the reef to get a proper ride off of it. Paddling over the shoulder of the first wave I remember clearly my breath leaving my body. My initial response was no way. But then I lowered my head and closed my eyes and yelled to myself that it was mine and I was going.
Turning around I began to paddle when I looked over my shoulder and realized the wave had snuck under me with more speed then I had anticipated. What resulted was an ultra-late drop to a gradual turn off the bottom and onto moments of riding within a large big blue tube all the while staring out onto the green hills of Chief Metibulus village. A sudden deep vacuum came against me before the whole wave exhaled me from within the vortex. A clean exit accompanied by mists of wave rain as I trailed off into the blue channel”.
