New Moon in G-Land (surf story)
From Surferpedia - The Wiki Encyclopedia of Surfing
Story by Monty Webber
I angle my way down the sandy slope away from the voices and the people finishing their meals. Down to the edge of the reef. It's about ten feet lower than the high tide water line that laps quite close to where my friends are drinking and talking. To stand here six hours ago, I would be fully submerged.
A new moon cuts a small hole in the dark sky and thousands of stars are sprinkled like a blanket of intergalactic dust. Standing on the tip of Java, you're on the edge of the world. Time and space seem illusions. Everything is perfect, the air temperature, the silence, even the bat that passes slowly in front of the moon.
I notice something just off to the right of where I'm standing - a small orange glow on the ground like a discarded cigarette butt. As I move toward it and my eyes adjust to the dark, I recognise its size and shape. A banana leaf has been folded into a shallow, four-inch lidless box. Inside, a frangipani, a teaspoon of rice, an unlit indonesian smoke and some burning incense.
The tiny Hindu offering on the edge of three kilometres of the wildest surfing reef known to man. Even now, outrageous barrels are cracking their way down the line. Shallow open tubes that will give you either the ride of your life or chew you over like a bite-sized chicken nugget. The sentiment seems nice. They don't want anyone to be hurt on the reef.
The thing, it seems, is to ride this bull with as much nerve as possible. Confidence is obviously the key. Though, there is a type of passiveness required as well. A Zen-like state of "letting everything go off around you", while, like the Matador, one avoids the horns with a casual elegance. Well . . . hopefully.
More often than not, you get stiff-armed by the lip and smashed through a horrific wipeout, mid soul-arch. It's a bitch. Actually, it's the wipeouts that everbody raves about in the evenings. The spectator value is increased by seeing someone get axed.
It's like watching a high speed motorcycle spinout. You don't just fall off, you get chucked into the air, rolled across the face for a bit, maybe connecting with your board before getting sucked up and over the falls! And if that doesn't get your mates howling, the next couple of waves on the head should suffice.
The Japanese are truly the soul masters of the wipeout. They can make a wipeout go on for ages, arms and legs reappearing for fractions of a second, like a hell rumble in a cartoon. Or the Tasmanian Devil cycloning his way past you. And they surface, glowing like they've done their family proud. As if it were tradition, or somehow honourable to get totally dusted.
One guy I saw had the ultimate move down pat. He would paddle into the peak of, say, an eight foot grinder and where a lesser man might jump to his feet, this guy would push his board straight out in front of him. Hell, not even to one side. Like a frustrated high diver who liked landing face first on the sharp, trailing edge of a bunch of fins! Fantastic!
And it's not just the Japanese. The danger element seems more intense when you're alone for a moment, standing and thinking back, here on the edge of the reef, to the days when hardly a soul would surf at low tide. Or, how often people would back off makeable waves. Nowadays, everyone takes everything, even when there is no chance of making it - as if to cement their reputation as a "hell man" in G-Land.
How tedious it becomes, having to drop in on yelling madmen miles up the line, when all they're really yelling is "Heey everybody, look at meee!!"
Earlier in the peace, G-Land was a more fearsome challenge, I'm afraid. The crowds, the beer, the great food and the showers do tend to take an edge off being really "out there". Though, as I stand thinking of the sights seen during the last couple of days, I am amazed that no one has been badly hurt.
Anyway, things have livened up back at the big table. It's somebody's birthday and out comes the cake and jungle juice. The Australians are amping., shooting power fists into the air - psyching everyone for a "hell night".
The barnstorming of big barrels is momentarily forgotten. It's party time - almost more dangerous than the surfing. Later, people will roll out of tree houses, try to surf the low tide reef and all make an effort to get onto the only girl in camp - ignored till now. These guys have regressed to animals, and they're having the time of their lives.
The incense burns on as I head back to the party. Yeah, sure, it's a small offering. But, it's a big religion. We should be alright. But, then again, it occurs to me, it's a Muslim country.
Copyright © Monty Webber
