Around the Lens - Jimmy's Teeth

I could feel his trepidation as I sat a few hundred meters away under the protective shade of a short coconut palm.  I too had those exact feelings before paddling out at this spot for the first time almost a month ago.  But I’d never be standing where he’s standing.

Another set approached the reef seemingly dredging the dark blues from where it was spawned in the storm ravaged open ocean, transporting them to this beautiful aquamarine place.  The wave grew exponentially and darkened further before expelling itself onto the colourful reef only meters from where the surfer anxiously waited.  A smarter man would have entered the safety of a deep water channel closer to the beach instead of defiantly staring this wave directly in the face.

I knew all too well the amazing power of this particular place.  Two days previous, I was paddling into a glistening blue monster of perfection when disaster struck.  A late takeoff sent me plummeting from twice my height onto the serrated coral shelf only 18 inches below the surface.  The pressure from tens of tons of water driven by a long forgotten storm thousands of kilometres away turned my ankle bone into a wedge driving upwards splitting my fibula as it went, then trowed my limp body across the jagged reef like fleshy mortar.  Instead of a four hour drive inland to a small a outpost village and their ill-equipped forgotten hospital, I opted for a tape cast expertly woven by my friend Adam which was slowly cutting off circulation to my foot as my leg continued to swell in the extreme tropical heat.

With a break in the waves, the surfer made an awkward dash across the remaining twenty meters of reef, gingerly looking for the flattest bits of dead coral to step on.  Reaching the edge, he leapt off the shelf just as a meter high wall of whitewash tumbled towards him, dragging him back over the reef where he had just come.  Paddling hard, he just squeaked over the ledge as the whitewash receded.  Lumps of water reared up, but the surfer managed once again to avoid the clutches of the sea by diving deep enough below the surface of the wave.  The next wave was bigger than the first and as I watched with bated breath, he dove again.  A few seconds later, the wall of water feathered and pitched.  Amidst the chaos, I could faintly see something in the lip of the wave - red board shorts.

- September 2010

Around the Lens - The Crotch Beetles of South Sumatra

For most of the month that Justin and I spent in Sumatra, we each had our own motorbikes.  The family we rented our bikes from only take the steep and barely maintained but surfaced road snaking its way through the coastal barrier mountains to Liwa once a week at the most.  Today, they needed a bike for the 4 hour round trip, so I happily offered mine and Justin and I would share his bike.  Since we were doubling and would stand out more than usual, we decided to augment our daily adventure with matching blue and brown striped board shorts.  

Two grown men with surfboards trying to navigate a road occupied by cows, goats, dogs, people, chickens, and other bikes erratically darting in all directions is no small task.  I trust Justin completely and am not concerned watching him thread a tight line between different species as we make our way past small concrete homes backed by dense tropical jungle silently dangling in the light early morning mist.  I do however start to break a sweat when we swerve quickly as Justin folds over the handlebars grasping at his chest.

Justin manages to get the bike stopped at the side of the road and tells me that something about the size of a hummingbird flew out of the jungle and hit him in the chest.  We take a few minutes as a large bull saunters past, seemingly unaware of our presence.  Justin seems okay, albeit a little rattled, so we continue towards the beach.  We had come across this remote beach break a few days ago while exploring the coastline in between surf sessions at one of our favorite reefs.  We weave our way along a muddy track through tall coconut palms and over slippery dew soaked grass before popping out onto the beach.  The deep fine sand is too much for our heavily laden bike, so I get off and walk.

As I make my way down towards the water, I watch as perfect A frames march in from the Indian ocean in regimented succession.  Luckily the sandbanks haven’t been washed away with the monsoon rains and heavy swell of the past few days.  I make my way down to where Justin has propped our motorbike up against a log and we survey the waves.  Out of nowhere, he starts screaming and swatting at his cloths.  

“Holy shit, what is it man!?!?”  I say.  “A bee, what??”

Frantically jumping up and down, Justin is clawing at the draw strings of his shorts.  When he finally undoes the ties and yanks his shorts to the ground, he delivers a furious slap between his legs.  

Breathing heavily with his shorts around his ankles, he stands over a gigantic beetle at least 3 inches long.  Large black pinschers and spiky spindly legs protrude from a shiny purple and teal metallic looking shell which is straight out of a futuristic sci-fi movie.  He looks at me stunned and says

“That thing just latched onto my cock!”

Laughing, we deduce that this must have been the creature that hit Justin in the chest, then had fallen into his tank top and somehow made its way into his shorts.  Relief slowly settles in as we calm down and after a few minutes, we head out into the warm, empty waves.

- September 2010

Around the Lens - Tsunami Surf Session

Every surfer has thought about surfing a tsunami.  Fantasizing their way out of certain death by grabbing their board along with cute local village girls under each arm and riding a twenty story wall of water to the safety of a jungle wrapped mountain top.  But the thought that we might actually get to surf a real tsunami scared the shit out of me.  

The captain of our 40 foot converted Indonesian fishing boat (now a 1 star surf charter boat), looked like he was 16 years old.  Adamant that he had at least that number of years of experience sailing and fishing these volatile waters, we had no choice but to trust him.  Either way, he had skillfully navigated our craft along the south coast of Lombok finding really good waves for us to surf along the way.  

A few hours ago, report had come in over the VHF marine radio that a 7. something earthquake had just treated java and sumatra like a pair of maracas and raised the sea floor by a meter.  Heading our way was a series of waves of unknown size and destructive force and our captain was now suggesting we find a spot to surf them!  Moving empty Bintang bottles off the table, he laid a chart out in front of us and began pointing out where the waves might make landfall.  To me, the idea was difficult to wrap my head around and really, sounded a bit insane.

After much discussion and deliberation, and the captain claiming that this happens on a somewhat regular basis, we decided to head to a big wave spot called outside ekas.  A large remote bay where the boat could stay in the safety of deep water and we could risk our lives waiting in the water for a tsunami to arrive.  Sounds great.

Even though the ocean was calm - forebodingly calm, I couldn’t sleep and was relieved by the faint purple hint of dawn.  Sometime during the night we had moored at the foot of imposing vertical sandstone cliffs leading to a feral palm fringed beach a kilometer deeper inside the bay.  There was no sign of the wave.  We waited until 8:00 before jumping into the water and paddling over to the gentle waves peeling peacefully along the blocky rock reef.  The sun was shining, the water was body temperature and crystal clear, and not a breath of wind was disturbing its surface.  

Gradually, the subtle rise and fall of the swell increased and large lumps of water appeared on the horizon.  I started paddling out towards sea as green walls rose from the depths, hanging in silence before crashing a few meters in front of me.  Taking in as much air as my lungs could manage, I swam for the seaweed, but just as I thought I was in the clear, I was pulled backwards into the foamy maelstrom by my leg rope and thrashed violently.  Disoriented, I swam for the surface and got a short breath in before being plunged back down, deeper than before.  The vicious cycle repeated 3 more times and then it was calm.  All that remained was the hissing of billions of tiny bubbles popping on the foamy surface.

Amazed that I was still attached to my board, I paddled back out to deeper water to catch my breath as another set of waves reared up before exploding on the reef.  They were incredible to watch from the shoulder - big beautiful beasts of water energetically making their way down the reef in structured military processions.  Seeing that all my shipmates were accounted for albeit spread over a large distance - some smiling, and some with eyes wide with fear, I edged my way in closer to catch a few tsunamis of my own as the energy from the earthquake slowly diminished.

- November 2008

Around the Lens - Monsoon Taxi

I always like being the only foreigner on the plane (*disclaimer - there were two of us traveling together, so I wasn’t really the only foreigner...).  But, it’s an affirmation that we were getting off the well worn tourist path to hopefully find something more authentic, and uncrowded waves of course!  Our landing point happened to be one of the sleaziest cities in Indonesia where the sex trade had a strong grip on the local economy, and our ride was no where to be seen.  The smell of car exhaust and clove cigarettes loitered stagnantly in the thick humid air as Justin and I sat waiting outside the small airport, perched atop our bloated surfboard bags, sweating in the late afternoon heat.   With camera gear and enough cash for a month of jungle living, we sweated even more profusely.

There was no lack of interest and inquisitive eyes on our situation as we were less than conspicuous on the concrete sidewalk outside the airport.  We had slews of inquiries as to where we were going and offers to get us there for extortionist prices, but with no phone number for our bungalow, there was not much we could do, except wait for our ride and dismiss the offers.  After an hour, and with the sun dipping behind the jungle covered hills, we needed to get out of town.  I asked the most respectable looking cabbie about getting to the coast and he was quickly pushed aside by a large sweaty man with lazy puffy eyes who obviously wanted our business.  An argument ensued which escalated into shoves, but was immediately extinguished by the other cabbies while the armed guards at the ATM sat watching idly.  

Not knowing what to do at this point, a short, unassuming man, Wayan, approached us and mentioned the name of the town near where we were heading.  We hastily loaded boards into his taxi as we were rapidly becoming encased by angry cabbies.  Merging into the mass of traffic, he turned abruptly into a dusty alleyway, cutting off a dump truck and sending chickens flying in every direction.  “I just have to pick up my brother, two minutes…” Wayan said.

 “Hold on, what?”

 “I need second driver.  Very far, very late.”

Justin and I looked at each other, but there was not much we could do now.  We had to put our trust in Wayan, and ideally not get robbed in the process.  I touched the small leatherman in my pocket and gazed out the window, trying not to think about the possible gruesome outcomes.  The setting sun painted serene red and pink hues on the rusting tin roofs and crumbling concrete walls of tightly packed houses lining the shabby narrow street.  We stopped in front of a turquoise house with cracked concrete steps leading up to a small porch and screened door.  Out came Wayan’s entire family - his parents, wife, three kids, and his brother.  Before I knew it, I was holding his youngest daughter.  We strapped the surfboards to the roof and began weaving through the narrow backstreets finally heading out of town.  This was when I managed to snap a few frames of Wayan's eyes surveying the traffic in the rear view mirror.

After hours of circumspect vigilance, we started to relax and settle into the 6 hour drive ahead of us.  Then it started to rain.  It didn’t just start to rain, a monsoon had enveloped us obscuring the landscape as we headed up a steep winding road into the dark jungle.  A trickle of water promptly turned into a steady stream, marching its way down the straps holding our boards onto the roof, through the closed window and onto the back seat, soaking us within a few short minutes.  Our world was compressed into the narrow beam of headlights illuminating thick tropical foliage and streaks of water pouring down from the canopy.

The first time we unintentionally connected to the jungle was around 10:30.  I was dozing off as we attempted to pass a truck around a blind corner, nothing out of the ordinary.  We skidded on the mud slicked road as half the car dove into a thicket of vines, branches, and leaves striking the side of the car at high speed.  I jolted back to reality as our driver managed to pull us back onto the road and continued up the mountain.  Small mudslides blocked parts of the road, but were easily skirted if seen in time (they weren’t always seen in time).  Many more times, the entanglement of leaves would appear much too close for comfort, grazing the foggy windows.

The second time was well past midnight and again I had half dozed off only to be jarred awake as we hurtled over a ditch onto a grassy yard, once again scattering chickens through the headlights.  Unfazed, Wayan knocked on the door to ask directions to our accomodation which, as it turns out, was right around the corner.  We pulled up beside a wooden sign saying “Paradise Surf Bungalows” and could finally breathe a sigh of relief.  We said our goodbyes and thanked Wayan and his brother as a sleepy middle aged Indonesian woman showed us to our very basic bamboo hut. We were greeted with spiders the size of my hand, but not caring I crawled under the pink mosquito net exhausted but elated, and instantly fell a sleep to the drumming of a gentle rain on the palm thatched roof.

- September 2010