A sharp learning
curve
The slats of our Lombok shack pressed into my
shoulders. In the dark, I could hear
Bezza was awake and not happy. “Bro, where’s your bog roll?” An important lesson: always know where your torch is. I flicked it on, and scanned the wicker room.
“Here!” offering him the white
gold. He grabbed it and bolted into the pre-dawn. I lay there staring into the dark of the palm
leaf ceiling. Outside, barrels cracked
on the reef. There was no point in
trying to sleep anymore.
It was nearly dawn as stood on the shore. Behind me, the muezzins called the faithful
to prayer. In front of me, lit by the crescent
moon of Islam, another sickled curve drew me.
It was 4-6 and world class.
Easily the best waves I’d ever seen in person. The take-off actually didn’t look too
bad. Then it got bigger, hollower and
faster as it ran down before a mandatory kick-out.
A short hooded figure appeared next to me. I looked down into the shadow where a face
should have been. That, with the
minarets wailing behind me put me on edge.
“Hey, bru…” My words disappeared into the abyss. A local kid?
Or a Djinn from the underworld
here to warn me of my ill fate? It let
out a high-pitched cackle, deriding the fear it sensed. That broke into a more mischievous laugh, and
the boy dropped his hood, revealing a naughty face. I’d been had.
Twenty years younger and he’d made me a fool. His victory assured he disappeared into the
night to taunt some other unfortunate tourist.
Bezza appeared back from the bush somewhere. His body language told me he was a bit more
comfortable and bit lighter. “Hey,
bru. You should have seen what just
happened.” and I retold the story. His
humour improved and he turned to the sea, with the moonlight sparkling off the
reaming sets. Excitement built in him
and soon the same light glinted in his eyes.
Behind us dawn was beginning to show.
Somewhere, an iman bowed to
Mecca. In front of us, the purpose of
our own faith beckoned. “Let’s do it,
mate!”
Back at the hut, we took turns to hold each other’s boards,
muffling the resonant scraping as we waxed up.
Silently we slipped off the end of the point and into world class
surf. But very soon, stars waned, the
sky pinked and a pack appeared alongside us.
That session did not go well for me. I was not to be the hero I was promised. Barrels are not awarded to the unready. I stacked a few take-offs and the others recognised
a weak surfer, someone out of his depth. My head hung as I picked my way over the
coral. While I had a sense of failure, I
could take something away. I knew that
with some more time, I could do it. A
flame was lit.
 |
| Perfect Deserts. Unless you're still learning, in which case: Terrifying Deserts |
On land, the circus was gearing up. Cars with board coffins had parked on the
edge of the beach. Guys stood with
crossed arms surveying the scene. A crew
of steroidal Hawaiians had brought their testosterone attitude with them. Hordes of hustling Brazilians were thick on
the ground as well. Maybe Garuda had
lost their manners in transit, maybe they just never packed them. By the time the sun was high enough to think
about a hat, there were 50 guys out.
Them, and the wave, weren’t giving an inch. I was done for the day. The next day saw a similar scene on a
dropping swell. With a glance over my
shoulder, we headed back to the Bukit.
Next episode: The switch. coming soon...
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