Bulek Eye

Surfers are loath to offer up intelligence on good waves, even when far from their home waters. So a week and a half ago when I ran into Zach —sun-crisped, 30-odd years old, on a tour from Mendicino, Calif — and he explained how pleased he was to pass up the legendary breaks in Bali for those 20 minutes from our house, I snapped to attention.

“You don’t even know how good you got it,” said Zach, shaking his head. We were standing watching elephants play soccer, a local traveling show that packed a couple thousand people into a makeshift stadium in the beach village of Lampuuk. He had already been on the water for several hours that morning. “There’s a right breaking on a reef just past the rivermouth here that formed a 150-yard long barrel.”
“And there’s no-body out,” he added.

Four days later, my buddy Graham and I strapped our surfboards to the side of our motorbikes and headed south. The initial plan was to surf the more tame sand beaches in Lhok Nga (sounds like lock na). I’d been on the board I was carrying just once and Graham and I were still getting used to the local surf. But when we crossed the one-lane bridge over the river, I thought we should at least look at the reef break Zach had mentioned.

On the other side of the river, we tried the first dirt track off the main road and followed it along the empty bank. The flattened dunes were dotted with rows of saplings planted by reconstruction crews. In 500 meters, we came to the back of the beach — white sand, with a creeping, leafy vine above high tide.

Out in the water, some small waves lined up behind what looked like a reef. They were aways offshore, maybe another half a kilometer. They welled up quickly, cleanly, crisply and broke to the right. There was no one around. This looked like the spot.

Between the beach and reef was a deeper channel where the water swept in front of us and then out to sea. That aside, I was rapidly getting used to the idea that a couple of greenhorns could try the break. The surf wasn’t pounding too hard and I could see a route to paddle out. There looked to be a little warm-up wave left of the bigger lineup.

“Think we should do it?” I asked Graham. I was getting that same intestinal sensation I feel when looking over the edge of the high dive.

“Sure,” Graham said, shrugging. He goes about 6’4”, 200, did turns in Darfur and Uzbekistan and doesn’t seem afraid of much.

We made it across the channel from the beach without too much effort. Then we skirted left of the whitewater on the reef to where that smaller peak was breaking. When the first set of waves came in, they looked double the height I expected them to be — maybe five feet or bigger (They always look small on the beach). As each wave walled up, it sucked up a slab of dark calm water over the knobby coral underneath then exploded quickly down the line to the right. In one clear, shimmering face I saw a silver tuna speeding across.

The scene seemed a little intimidating — all the more so because nobody was riding these half-pipes.

I paddled slowly into a couple waves and looked down their steep faces before pulling up.

“I need bigger nuts,” I said to Graham. He was looking over the situation, too.

I spied a medium sized glossy and turned my board to face the beach. If I didn’t give it a good shot, I’d be up all night thinking about it.

Three quick strokes. The wave picked me up quickly but just gently enough so I could get to my feet. I floated down to the bottom, in happy disbelief.

And then: this boulder loomed clearly just under the surface, right in my path. Luckily, I had enough time to dodge left.

The wave petered out a few seconds later.

I paddled back out past Graham, spitting seawater and a mashed recap. “There’s this huge rock it was awesome we gotta move down the line that thing was quick and steep I don’t know how I got up…”

Going back out, I saw our friend, the rock, swirling in the meat of each new wave. I set up next time far from it and any other swirls. Otherwise, the bottom was deeper than me. I know because chasing successive waves, I went for a spin cycle under a few crashing lips.

I caught a few more — each one a clear wall of blue around me for a split second. They were clearer, I think, than any waves I’ve seen in person. The paddles out were tough each time; the whitewater on the reef tended to swirl and push and prevent any progress. We figured out how to return left outside the edge of the reef and then back right into the lineup. Resting once in the middle of a paddle, I saw a big skate skirting the edge of the reef.

After an hour or so, Graham floated in to try the beach break. I went back out for one more wave.

Sitting there alone, waiting, the ocean felt massive. On the small breakwater at the rivermouth, I could see the sillouettes of three guys with long surf casting rods. Behind them the few hagard fir trees swayed lightly, the leftover from what was once a huge grove. In the distance were the new roofs of the village — the concrete houses, shiny new mosque, school — and the radio towers with the tsunami sirens. Would I be able to get to shore in time? Maybe. But the fishermen were still there, casting.

The first heavy winds rippled across the tops of the waves: time to get one before they got mushy. I took off farther north than before and it paid off: up on my board, the whole line of the wave stretched out before me to my right. I rode on its shoulder for 15, 20, 30 seconds, carving easy turns. It collapsed just before the end of the reef.

Looking back out at the spot from beach, my shoulders tired, my blood running rich and salty, I had an answer for Zach: We did have an idea about how good we had it.

And its only fair that I pay it forward, for what it’s worth.

Take care until next time,
Oakley