By PHIL JARRATT
IT was a beautiful Sunday morning in Bali after an unseasonal week of rain, clear and cool with the sun not high enough to hurt, and local families setting up for their ceremonies and games along the sand.
Out on the reef the tide was a bit low but it looked do-able, so I paddled out in the channel without really thinking about it too much. Halfway out I did a double take as a set closed out the length of the reef a hundred or so metres farther out. Magic Seaweed was forecasting five to eight feet, and this was definitely at the upper range of that, if not beyond. But the soupy trails diminished as I reached the line-up and it was calm and inviting again.
I picked up the second wave of a mid-sized set and rode it through to the end of the second section, about halfway back to the beach. Then I turned and paddled back. I saw the set feathering on the indicator reef and quickly changed direction, going wide to avoid it. This was my first mistake. At low tide there is a keyhole section of the reef where the impact of the breaking wave is less, but I had paddled past it, and even as I streaked as hard as I could for the horizon, I knew I wasn’t going to make it.
The lip ripped my board out of my hands and I gave myself up to the washing machine effect, trying to conserve energy. I popped up and the second wave was upon me. Down again, eyes open, swimming away from the light. The third wave ripped my leash plug out, and as I dived again to get under the fourth, I wondered what I could do for an encore.
I broke the surface and was relieved to find that the set had finished, but I was a spent force, gasping for air while trying to float on my back to relax myself. I knew that if I could drift south and get over the reef, the breaking waves would wash me in, but the current was taking me north, out into the middle of the bay. I would have to go with it and hope that I could reach the beach in the next cove.
“You okay, mate?” He was a long-haired Aussie kid on a tiny board. My pride, my 55 years of surfing experience wanted to say yes, I’m fine. But survival trumps pride, any day of the week. Hell, I’m 65! I should be playing bowls!
“I need a rest,” I croaked, only then realising that I could barely speak. I slumped across his board as he unfastened his leash. “Is that pink board yours?” he asked. I nodded. “It’s floating out to sea. You take mine in and I’ll swim out and get it.” He was stroking away from me before I could even acknowledge his kindness.
I struggled to paddle the little wafer into the impact zone where a wave picked me up and hurtled me towards the beach. I lay on the wet black sand, closed my eyes and counted my blessings. In no time at all, the young man was in front of me, holding my board. I thanked him and shook his hand. What else can you do?
“Ah, it’s nothing mate. Look after yourself.” He jumped in and began the long paddle back out.
I like to think I’m pretty fit for my age, but last Sunday was a bit of a wake-up call. The ocean is a fast-moving playing field, particularly here where Indian Ocean swells travel a long way and pack a real punch. Things can change in an instant, and you have to be ready. I wasn’t. I don’t know what the current statistics are, but in the two years I was researching and writing my book, Bali Heaven and Hell, 11 Australian surfers over the age of 50 drowned in Indonesia.
That’s food for thought.
CRAFT (can’t remember a frickin’ thing)
I wrote last week about my problems of recall as I write a surfing memoir. Well, I thought I had my school days pretty much right, but this week I ran into (not literally) old school and surfing pal Tye Bronneberg in the surf and we got together over a good pinot noir dinner and compared notes from more than 50 years ago.
Turns out I have a different recollection of those years too! As we got into the second bottle, Tye remembered us being chased out of the water by a great white at our home beach, as well as all sorts of juvenile delinquency that was probably better forgotten. Seeing as he was a “head-shrink” (his term, not mine) before seeking his fortune in the coffee business, and therefore well-versed in past lives therapy, I’ll have to go with his accounts rather than mine.
So as you read this, I’ll be in a jungle surf camp in West Java, revising, revising.
