It was going to be my last wave of another magic session. The barrel lined up, so I decided to relax a bit, then boom. My board went straight into the lip and we both went up and over the falls. Shit. My fin box had popped out. Still attached but lying flat against the board. Time to write a story…
The pandemic petered out. Fishing boat lights loomed large in the straits. My fishing prowess of the last two years seemed to vanish. I couldn’t catch a cold. The cruising yachts who’d called the islands home during the pandemic began to sail away over the horizon, taking newfound friends with them. There were no goodbyes. As one of the yachties explained, it was easier to just sail away. There were no more beach barbecues, volleyball games or just hanging out. Camps, resorts, villas, and charter boats all began to fill up. We, the locked down expats, all went back to business.
The Social Media Machine had kept the masses dreaming during the pandemic. When they opened the gates, surfers – notably pro surfers – were first to jump in. Those who managed to get in early were rewarded with uncrowded perfection.
I jumped on the Barrenjoey for her inaugural 2022 charter. My aim was to check the cogs were oiled. A few boats had sunk due to lack of maintenance and there were ongoing breakdowns amongst the fleet. It had been a tough two years, but I was fortunate to be able keep my crew and maintain the good ol’ BJ.
Wes is our new surf guide. He was floating around during the pandemic on his private yacht and like many, needed to make some money. Was he up to the task? His first wave sent him face-first onto the Surgeon’s Table. Eight staples and several sutures to his face and noggin had me dusting off my rudimentary surgery skills. He hung in there for the trip, photographed the Pommies and didn’t whinge once. A keeper. The guests were stoked to be aboard. The crew were stoked to have them aboard. We were sailing.
I hadn’t been south of Maccas in three years and noticed there was a lot of regrowth on the small islands. Some of these little sandy atolls were awash on the higher tide. Now sand had built up and the hardy mangroves were taking hold. The reefs were alive. New colourful coral and baby clams everywhere. Without people, nature heals quickly.
The waves were cooking. The general vibe was friendly. There was the underlying stoke to be travelling again. Every surfer wanting to tell his story from being locked down in the Australian penal colony to losing two flight tickets over two years. One group had booked to come in 2021, knowing full well they would score uncrowded conditions. They had factored in the five-day quarantine until the Indonesian Government increased it to 12 days. The group just could not wing it and had to roll over to this year. From solo sessions with just our guys, beer-swilling fishing runs, to watching the flight path of Gabriel Medina at a light onshore left. Four meals a day. Fourteen different waves surfed over a 10-day period. BJ was back! I jumped off BJ at the end of the trip and went back to family life and helping B homeschool the kids. Then the first real swell of the season banged in.
The third reef was breaking top-to-bottom. There were even a couple that spat. Never seen that before. These powerful chunks of white water would roll over us and then suck up and break again, heaving all in their way. Most would get dragged into this heavy impact zone, hoping the following waves would wash you straight to the beach. If you still had your board.
On one occasion my legrope snapped under the first wave of what I think was a 10-wave set. I was held in that impact zone for a few waves. At one stage I was struggling for air. Nothing to bring me to the surface and whitewater churning me around and around and down. After been directed to a cauldron at the Surgeon’s Table, I managed to divert to the beach where I sat for quite a while and gathered myself.
Everyone was a bit nervous, including some Nazaré legends, Ian Cosenza and Maya Gabeira. There was a team of young Red Bull pros being chaperoned by Adriano de Souza. A polite Balinese kid named Bronson Meydi showed absolutely flawless surfing, taking off under the lip on the double-ups, showing beautiful poise in the caverns. Between sets, Maya was asking me for tips. I looked at her and said, “Mate, this is not Nazaré, just go and hold on.” Well, she did, scoring one of the biggest backhand barrels I’ve seen here.
Back home on the island, Duke was out at his favourite spot when the swell was building. Legitimate eight-foot waves breaking on a reef we call Suicides. Not the most user-friendly wave. His confidence was there from previous sessions till he bailed and got sucked up and over and deposited on the coral. More of a bounce than a scrape up so he kept surfing till one of those sets got him. Out of breath, he decided, when he surfaced, to head back to the boat and watch the show that Nathan Florence was giving all and sundry with legit double and triple barrel rides from way up the reef. Impressive stuff.
Meanwhile my other son, Fynn found himself amongst shallow, sharp coral with a couple of eight-footers bearing down on him. Arms, feet, boardshorts and arse were all lacerated. I saw him paddling back, pissed off at me, his board, the reef. Usual teenage angst. My wife, B continued to longboard her secluded wave that was also becoming a booming go-to spot for the resorts.
We did not have the leisure and pleasure of uncrowded surf anymore. We could not sit and wait for the right wave. My family’s surfing skills were honed during the last two years here… now they must adapt to the changing lineups. Unfortunately, every operator was advertising the same thing. Come and experience uncrowded perfection before the crowds return. Well, it seems everyone came to experience it at the same time. Fortunately for all, the good ol’ Indian Ocean roared to life, welcoming all back after two years.
Surfing reality hit when I rounded the point at Sao and saw five charter boats anchored at The Office. I heard it was crowded, but figured with the increasing swell, people would be looking elsewhere. Big Lance’s is not every punter’s cup of tea. Conditions were perfect. The waves looked solid. There was a sea of bodies in the lineup. A quick count put it at about 45 surfers. There was an overwhelming urgency amongst the surfers. Like they were playing catch up for all those waves missed over the past two years. One had to be patient, or you’d paddle in depressed with the crowds.
The swells kept coming and scattered the lineups. Crowds jumped in, but as with most real swells, solid waves tend to scatter most. Those that waited and were prepared were rewarded with the waves of their lives. Different levels for different surfers. All pure Indo magic.
There were butterflies after seeing the sets roar down the reef at Telescopes. Two lots of eight-wave sets. Ten-by-ten feet, maybe bigger. Quadruple spits in the one wave… dare I say quintuple. I’d snagged the first wave of these sets and just made the ride to what I thought was the channel. Ended up scratching hard to get into deeper water while dinghies revved to get out of its way. Those surfers who wore it were unceremoniously washed into the Telescopes mayhem.
Mark Paarman, old school big-wave Saffa legend, was one such unfortunate. Heavier than any hold-down he’d had at Cloudbreak in his last two years of lockdown on his yacht. The rest of the lineup paddled in. The charter boats pulled their picks and drove away. I was left out there with Diggsy. It was like being back in the pandemic. No-one out. The wind began ruffling it from the north, so we caught a bumpy one each and had a laugh at a bombie breaking in the bay. Never seen that. The late session, Golla and one other surfed by themselves in what he described as 10-foot perfectly scary Telescopes. No boats. No cameras. No bullshit.
Roll into the next surf show down at The Office with Nathan and Ivan Florence and a Spanish guy named Hugo. While Kandui and Telescopes and I’d imagine the rest of the archipelago were putting on their epics. Just the four of us out for a couple of hours. Amazing to watch these brothers take it apart on their little boards while I was struggling on my big board.
It was about the sixth hour of this session that I scraped in late and leapt out of the lip in an attempt to get out of the way of my heavy Dylan-shaped 7’6”. Another rinsing to the beach. Bert Taylor was waiting with a chuckle. You haven’t surfed this place till you’ve had a real rinsing. Like young Lucas from Bawley Point, who was stripped of everything, boardies, rashie and booties on his rinse this day. Bert and I bantered for a bit. The talk turned to our ageing selves and how long we could keep taking on heavy Office? Left unanswered, I paddled back out to my speedboat to fuel up and change legropes.
The session slowed from there. Well, I did. Sunburned eyes Indo style for the drive home. Gotta love this place.
