Not Just Another Indo Boat Trip
Posted on January 20, 2007 @ 2:38 PM
We arrive at Katiet just two days after Wadi’s accident, and hear Scott tell the
story of his tragic death. The accident had happened on the same day that we
were at Kandui, and it dawns on us that we were enjoying ourselves on the
same waves that a few miles away had brought immense sadness to an entire village. Scott
is still deeply shaken by the tragedy, still trying to come to terms with the death of a friend.
And for what? Surf. It seems a trivial thing to have wasted a life for. But surprisingly, Wadi’s
family carries no ill-will towards this foreigner who had played a hand in the death of their
son. To an Indonesian, death does not happen by chance; it is God’s will.
On this day at Lance’s Right the waves are a more manageable size, and 10 or so
surfers are trading off across the clean, glassy rights. Dark rainclouds loom over the village
of Katiet. A few minutes later the wind switches suddenly to sideshore and grows strong.
Within seconds the waves become lumpy, the clouds move overhead and the sun disappears.
A darkness descends and the rain hits like a sheet. The ominous scene only adds to the
apprehension we already feel after hearing Scott’s story, as though the rain had moved in for
dramatic effect.
Before long neither the island nor the waves are visible from the boat, enshrouded by
the driving torrent. Some of the surfers can be seen paddling back to nearby boats. The rain
falls for an hour, then dissipates as quickly as it came, and the sun pierces through the clouds
with blinding brilliance. The wind drops then switches offshore, and instantly the waves are
good again. The only difference now is that there are no surfers in the water at all.
Anthony is the first one off the boat. “Bastard!” someone says, envious that he’ll have
it all to himself until the rest of us can follow suit. Hans and I are next, about five minutes
behind Anthony. Daos, our local guide, takes us down the keyhole in the dinghy. But the lineup is mysteriously empty.
“Where’s Anthony?” asks Hans.
“I don’t know, maybe he got caught inside,” I answer.
“I don’t see him in there,” says Hans with worry.
We reach the inside section to see Anthony’s board tombstoning
on the most shallow part of the reef, nicknamed “the
Surgeon’s Table” because of its tendency to cut surfers to shreds.
Large, jagged coral heads are poking through the surface, with
deep channels between, and Anthony’s board is about half out of
the water, pointing straight up and rocking back and forth rapidly
in the surge.
“Daos!” shouts Hans. “Get us in close!” Both Hans and I dive off the side of the dinghy and stroke towards the thrashing board.
My heart is racing. If Anthony is still attached to his leash, he’s
been under the water for at least a few minutes. I am thinking of
Wadi’s limp body and hoping I don’t see my friend Anthony in the
same state at the bottom of the reef.
We reach the reef’s edge simultaneously but Hans stops
swimming and I hear him yell my name. I bring my head up. Hans
looks relieved. “He’s in there.” He points to the lagoon on the
inside of the reef, where I see Anthony treading water. I feel sick to
my stomach.
Daos picks Anthony up and returns for us. “Damn am I glad
to see you!” yells Hans as we climb over the gunwales. Anthony is
bleeding from every limb, but smiling. A deep gash runs from his
wrist to his elbow.
“I got caught inside and the current pulled me right in there.
Then my leash got wrapped around a coral head and I was held
down by four waves before I could get it off my damn foot.”
I swallow but can’t produce any words. “Thanks for coming
to get me,” he says.
We look out at the empty waves, which are incredibly
perfect. Hans and I grab the boards from the front of the dinghy
and hit the water. We catch a couple of waves each, but neither of
us can shake the fear from our minds. Big, glassy tubes race down the reef. Hans catches another wave and disappears from my
view. I paddle up a bit further, now alone in the lineup, to wait
for a set wave.
My feet dangle to the sides of my board in water so clear
that it almost appears that I am floating on air. Coral heads paint
the seafloor below, tainted aqua blue, spattering the bottom with
brilliant reds, yellows and whites. The jagged fingers look as
sharp as knife blades, millions of serrated edges that could cut
through flesh like a ginsu knife. Sealife pulses beneath me. Electric
blue parrot fish skitter through the crags of reef in small schools,
flashing like neon signs between the set waves.
Suddenly the horizon goes dark. A big set looms far outside. I
put my head down and paddle with all I have. The water starts to
move off the reef towards the approaching wave. My God, I think,
I was already sitting way outside, how big is this set? I crest the
next swell and see it. Terror seizes me.
Just before reaching the trough of the wave I realize that
I’m not going to make it. The lip is coming down in front of me.
I push my board aside and dive as deep as my leash will allow,
barely escaping the lip and surfacing behind it with my leash
gripping and tugging my ankle. My board pops through the
back of the wave behind me. I turn to see an even bigger wave
approaching, and realize I will not have time to reel my board
back in. Lamely I swim, my board dragging behind me, hoping
I can at least save my hide. The amount of concentrated energy
forming up in front of me has me in an utter panic. Again I dive
deep and this time the wave grabs me, pulling me backwards, but
I struggle against it with my leash straining and stretching. Then:
Pop! It breaks and my board is gone.
I surface and breathe in deeply, the salt air tasting even
sweeter than usual. No one is around, no one bore witness to my
nearly disastrous few seconds in the lineup at Lance’s Right. The
ocean has gone strangely calm, and it if weren’t for the lack of my
board, I would be wondering if it had happened at all. As I tread
water, regaining my breath, I think about how we surfers live for
moments like this. Why else would someone try to surf a deathdefying
wave? Because they give us a feeling of connection to the
powerful forces of nature, and through this connection we feel
more alive. When I consider the differences between our world
and that of the Mentawai people, I see that they live amongst the
rhythms of sea, while we are surrounded by an almost entirely
man-made environment. Small wonder that surfing reconnects us
to the things in life that are most important.
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