a day in Bali

I wake up to some subtle light and the sound of pounding surf. In my pre-caffeinated state, the idea of getting out of bed is a bit repulsive, but the crashing waves are too great of an attraction. I slip on some flip-flops and look at my watch. 6:30, my average time for waking up in Bali. On two beds in the open-air common area outside my bedroom Clemi, an English sponger, and Ben, an Indonesian-speaking San Diego expat are still sleeping.

Downstairs, I smile a selamat pagi to Made (Maad-ee) and Ketuk, two of the four girls who run the warung from 6am until whenever people decide to go to bed, usually around midnight. The staff at the warung (called Robby and the Kid) are so friendly that I feel bad whenever I order any food or drink, and incredibly long hours and complete void of any days off do not seem to dampen their spirits or inclination to smile constantly. I'm not sure where Lolly and the other Made are, the other two girls working there, so I walk out to the beach to check the surf conditions.

The tide is fairly high but on the ebb, and looking north at some swells wrapping around the headland indicates that a dawn patrol at Balangan will be a suitable substitute for coffee, at least for now. Bali often suffers from morning sickness, which means that the winds stay onshore until mid-morning, when they start howling offshore and creating perfect conditions. This morning, though, the winds are already offshore, sending massive amounts of spray off the back of each breaking wave. It takes me about 10 seconds to adequately and favorably assess the surf, so I turn back inside to grab my board.

Already in my boardshorts, which has been the case since arriving two weeks ago, I pull on a neoprene vest to combat the morning chill, surprisingly prevalent despite our proximity to the equator. I pull my board off the rack on the wall, run a bar of surf wax over it, and grab my reef booties, a necessity for surfing the sharp reefs of Indonesia.

Walking down the beach towards the headland, the swell looks promising, and a slow adrenaline surge begins. I pull on the booties and wade into the water, slipping and stumbling over the rocks as bout after bout of whitewater hits me. I get waist-deep and wait for a set to pass me before committing and jumping on my board and sprint-paddling out past the lineup. Once a safe distance from the shore, I turn and begin the quarter mile paddle around the headland to the peak at Balangan, a reef/point break that is often uncrowded at this time of morning.

15 minutes later, I'm at Balangan's first peak with four other guys, all quiet, somberly staring out at the horizon, a demeanor commonly found in early morning lineups. A set materializes, and I stay to the outside, wanting to get my bearings before paddling into overhead waves steeply crashing onto shallow rock reef. Four waves later the lineup is empty and a fifth wave is on its way. I reevaluate, decide my bearings are sufficient, and paddle for the quickly-steepening wave.

A gust from the offshore wind sends a nice package of spray into my eyes as I feel the wave under me, temporarily blinding me. Fazed but still confident, I take a few more strokes than normal, feel that infinitesimal moment when gravity begins dictating your direction of travel, and I'm on my feet, left foot forward, back to the wave.

The sun is rising over the land in the distance and glaring right in my eyes. Looking down the face of the wave with the lip overhead, I can tell that it is going to close out, giving me two options - crouch and charge backside into a closeout barrel, probably resulting in a swift regurgitation over the reef, or straighten out into the flats and try to gracefully bail.

I choose the latter, point the nose toward the beach, and let the whitewater buck me off my board. Not knowing the water depth, I land flat and wait until the wave passes me to put my feet down. The water turns out to be knee deep, meaning I have to wade out until it is deep enough to paddle. As I do this and fight against the surging waves, I get swept by the current down the beach, making it a long paddle back to the peak.

This cycle repeats a few more times, and after an hour I paddle back to Dreamland, opting out of the walk because I want the exercise. Outside of Dreamland, the surf has picked up a little, and I catch one wave and again get hit hard by the wind's spray in my eyes. This time it completely blinds me before I can get to my feet, and I end up riding my board on my stomach, wiping the water out of my eyes and enjoying the ride despite the horizontal arrangement. Close to the shore, the wave suddenly reforms and I jump to my feet, duck into the barrel, and get whomped by the collapsing lip.

The wave ragdolls me, dumps me on the sand, and returns to the ocean. I stumble to my feet, feeling every cubic inch of my body teeming with euphoria, pick up my surfboard, crack my neck, and stumble up the beach to my warung, where I bid all present another selamat pagi, the morning being very good indeed.

I order a massive fruit salad and a Bali coffee. The coffee quickly makes friends with the other endorphins already entertaining my system from the morning surf, and the fruit salad, composed of bananas, papaya, pineapple, and melon goes down in a flash.

I head up to my bedroom, grab my helmet and keys, and go find my motorbike in the chaotic cluster of machinery known in Bali as a parking lot. I fire up the sad little 125cc engine and zoom up the rutted dirt track to the main road, fantasizing about riding my Santa Cruz in the hills above Port Angeles in a few months. On the paved road, I accelerate and in 10 minutes I'm at Swell, an internet cafe (emphasis on the cafe) that makes its presence obvious with a massive breaking wave built out of cement, complete with two surfboards. I smile yet another selamat pagi to the girl working there, and it is reciprocated with a beaming smile, a common sight in Indonesia. Indonesians, they say, have a smile for every emotion, which means that you have to take smiles just for what they are.

Sitting down at a computer, I put a bootleg copy of The Eminem Show into the CD drive and open up Gmail. The inbox is empty except for the daily message from my mom and some announcements and whatnot from the Honors Program. Early in my trip, I was disappointed when I checked my email and hadn't gotten anything from my friends and other acquaintances, but at some point between Morocco and Turkey my day-to-day happiness stopped being contingent on such exchanges. It took longer than it probably should have, but the change was liberating.

The email from my mom is replied to and the University announcements skimmed, and I say hello to a few friends on Gchat. Out of habit I open my blog and hastily scroll through it, as if someone else might have updated it, and browse through craigslist. There being nothing of particular interest, I chat for another 45 minutes while checking swell reports and log off. I pay a dollar for my hour on the computer, and jump back on my bike and roar towards Kuta, a 30 minute drive down hectic roads filled with swerving semis, families of four on a single scooter, and well-dressed women with pink and gray helmets stylishly maneuvering their motorbikes through narrow gaps between racing trucks and jeeps. As they pass, whiffs of perfume temporarily overpower the diesel fumes.

After a few turns of short radii and jaunts going the wrong way down a one way street, I am in the downtown of chaotic Kuta. I stop at the Rip Curl factory outlet where I browse through surf gear with my eyes glued on the surf flick playing on screens in every corner, and find a pair of boardshorts that are marked down to 50 thousand rupiah, about 6USD. They'd be 50USD anywhere else, and I grab them and a new tube of Dermatone, a 36SPF sunscreen spiked with zinc oxide favored by alpine climbers and ocean-going surfers. Outside of the store, I hand a guy 1000 rupiah for the parking fee and suddenly bored of Kuta, decide to head back to Dreamland. First, though, I whip along the waterfront, touts offering me taxis and motorbikes (note the irony) on one side and a chain of western staples like McDonalds, Dunkin Donuts, and Pizza Hut on the other. I turn right up Poppies II, a narrow street packed with surf shops and stores selling t-shirts with the Bintang (Balinese beer) logo or simply the word "Jiggy-jig." Don't ask.

I eye a few surfboards, tempted by the "Australian quality, Bali prices" proclamations but decide I want to get back to Dreamland. I race back, accustomed now to driving on the left side, and 25 minutes later I'm surprisingly still intact and back at the entrance gate. I hand the guards 2000 rupiah and bounce back to the parking lot.

I walk down the beach to my warung. The tide is high now and the narrow slip of sand remaining is barely enough room to accommodate the plethora of sunbathers. I grab my book, The Historian, my fifth since arriving, and spend a few hours reading, breaking up the chapters with short body surf sessions in the beachbreak. By 2pm the sun has wasted me, so I go back into the shade and order some nasi goreng, an Indonesian variety of fried rice, served with an egg on top. I down a liter of water and sit back and write for an hour, occasionally having to say "no thank you" to the vendors offering sarongs and massages.

By 4pm, the tide is getting low and the waves seem excited about the prospect of less water. I put down my book, grab my board, opting out of wearing anything on top this time, since the sun is still high enough in the sky to keep me warm, and dive through a few shorebreak waves. Paddling out, I feel strong and capable, at least more so than I did in my first session a week and a half ago. Just a few minutes later I'm at the peak, which sits a surprising distance from the shore. There are only a few surfers out now, and we establish peace with the universal gesture of a slight head nod. I know that in an hour there will be 25 guys sitting on this peak, so I set about getting some waves.

The first set shows up, and I paddle over the first two. I'm set up perfectly for the 3rd, and I start paddling for it. A longboarder is outside of me, and we both drop in. I give a little shout, he looks back and sees me, and ducks up over the top of the lip, leaving me with a head high virgin wave face in front of me, one of the most satisfying sights imaginable to surfers around the world. I make a few pumps to generate speed and head for the lip, doing a long top turn to cutback that returns me to the curl of the breaking wave. By now the water has gotten deep, though, and the wave suddenly dissipates in its present state, reforming as a smaller swell still en route to the shore.

I paddle back out feeling on top of the world and catch a few more waves. True to my prediction, there are soon two dozen guys jostling for space and its impossible to get a wave to yourself. Not wanting to sour my mood, I paddle for the shore, not at all tired but completely content.

I shower to rinse the salt and sand off, and put on a tank top. You know you're getting used to the tropics when the sleeves of a t-shirt seem oppressively confining, and so it has been since arriving on this delectable island. I grab my book again and settle into my favorite table, which sits right above the sand on the porch overlooking the ocean, and watch the silhouetted surfers race along the wave faces with the setting sun as a backdrop.

When you're near the equator, the sky turns black immediately after the sun dips below the horizon (no green flash this time!), and thus the offshore entertainment turns from surfing to the constellations of the southern sky, though the Big Dipper still hovers just above the horizon to the northwest. The lights of fishing boats slowly appear offshore as they return from or embark on their respective missions for tuna, Red Snapper, squid, prawns, and lobster.

Watching the boats makes me think about dinner, and ordering a tuna steak I wonder which one of the distant lights it was caught on the night before. At 27,000 rupiah, tuna steak is a splurge for Indonesia, but it equates to only 3USD, so I don't feel bad. The steak is fresh, tender, and delicious, so I savor it as I talk surfing with the other people sitting around the table.

As the evening progresses, the Chili Peppers, Offspring, Linkin Park, Jack Johnson, and 50 Cent frequent the warung's sound system, making me feel right at home and once again deliciously euphoric. Surfers and beachgoers sip their Bintangs and laugh at stories of each others various endeavors. I abstain from the drinking for another night, feeling incredibly healthy after not drinking since leaving Turkey several months ago, and the surfers, true to their relaxed nature, ask no questions. I can't resist another fruit salad, though, as it seems like the perfect way to top off another day on the Indonesian island of Bali, my new ideal for paradise.