Not Just Another Indo Boat Trip

Posted on January 20, 2007 @ 2:38 PM

He who consumes the most calories, wins. Or so
it seems onboard the Kiamana, our 100ft wooden
ship, with 10 hungry, surfed-out animals attacking
each meal as though it were their last. The moment food lands
on the table a feeding frenzy erupts that would shame a pack
of hyenas. After one particular lunch, as we lean back in our
chairs and rub our satiated bellies, a cry is heard below deck.

Anthony runs up the stairs. “There’s a fucking gila monster in
my room!”

We look at him like he is a little girl who just saw a furry
white mouse.

“Don’t gila monsters live in Japan or something?”

“I thought they were Pokemon creatures.”

“I’m serious, guys, go look for yourselves.”

A few of the guys go below to investigate. Seconds later
they run back up the stairs.

“He’s not kidding, it’s huge, like a small crocodile.”

“What? How the hell did it get on the boat?”

The table erupts into giddy conversation. “So where is it
now?” asks Shane, the boat’s owner.

“Well, uh, we locked it in your cabin, actually. It’s under
your bed.” Laughs all around.

Two of the Indonesian crewmen grab cleavers from the
kitchen and head downstairs wearing serious expressions.
Moments later they, too, run up the stairs like a couple of
schoolchildren, wide-eyed and giddy. No blood on the cleaver.

Daos shakes his head. “Very big lizard.”

Hans and I go downstairs to see for ourselves. Hans grew
up in the forests of Mendocino and is now a commercial
fisherman in Santa Cruz, so large creatures are in his repertoire.
Slowly, we open the door to Shane’s cabin. We hear a rustling
sound coming from under the bed and lean our heads in when
suddenly a large black reptile, at least 3ft in length, leaps out at
us. It lands on top of a pile of clothes by the door, then leaps
again, this time towards the window of the cabin, which it
bounces off. Hans slams the door.

“Holy shit!”

“What the hell is that thing?”

“I don’t know, but more importantly, how are we going to
get it off the damn boat?”

After a few minutes of discussion, Hans constructs a
makeshift noose out of some string and a fishing gaff, then
ducks below and opens Shane’s door once again. After a great
deal of noise and commotion, Hans suddenly comes leaping out
with a massive reptile bucking and writhing before him. He
puts the giant lizard on the floor of the galley, and the others
place a plastic laundry basket on top of it to contain it until we
can figure out what to do with it next.

“It’s a monitor lizard.”

“Man, look at the teeth on that thing!”

Daos and the other crewmen want to hack it up with
the cleaver, but we decide to turn the laundry basket into a
temporary cage, then to return the monitor lizard to shore
via the dinghy. After employing a bodyboard and an excessive
amount of duct tape, we believe we have fashioned a cage
sturdy enough for the task.

“Hey look, someone actually found a good use for a
bodyboard.”

“It’s probably as close to danger as it’s ever been.”

The cage is lowered carefully onto the bow of the dinghy
and Daos starts the motor. At the beach, we hand the cage
down to Daos, who has just disembarked, when suddenly he
drops it and runs up the sand and into the palm trees. The
monitor had managed to wriggle out of the laundry basket and
had landed at his feet. Daos had apparently decided that he
liked his toes the way they were, and high-tailed it for safety.
The monitor had disappeared completely.

We scan the beach but can see nothing, just white sand
and the shallow blue water of the lagoon. “It must have gone
into the water,” says Hans. “Some kind of water monitor.”

“Unbelievable,” I add.

We wait. After a few minutes I spot it coming in through
the shorebreak, its long neck peering out of the whitewater as
it bodysurfs towards shore. It runs up the sand and hides under
a log.

“Ever seen a lizard surf?” asks Hans. “You just did.”

Two days left in our trip, eight days of perfect surf already under
our belts. A storm brews and blows the surf out. The wind comes
from the northwest, ruining all prospects for surf in the area
where we are currently anchored. We have to make a choice: stick
around and hope for a change in weather conditions, or blaze to
another destination that will handle the wind? As the Bintangs pop
and the wind intensifies, we decide to look for greener pastures.
The journey northwards is extremely rough. The boat creaks
and moans as each wave jolts the bow. Even simple tasks become
painfully difficult as we toss and roll upon the uneven seas. This
is one evening when the beer will not taste so sweet. Finally we
retire, weary from trying to stay upright.

I share the forward-most cabin with Anthony, where we
have thus far managed to co-habit in a queen-size bunk with no
mistaken nighttime contact. Tonight I am kept awake by a sudden
homophobic paranoia. It’s like trying to sleep on horseback. I
am worried that a big wave will throw me into bed with my
bunkmate. Finally at 3am, I wander topside to get some fresh air.

The rain has quelled to a light drizzle. The bow cuts through
black water, slapping against the swell, and lightning flashes in
distant clouds. I sit in the rain and feel the cool mist on my face,
and wonder what the Indonesian crew must think of us, risking
our safety once again to look for surf. We could have stayed in our
last anchorage and waited for the weather to turn favorable again, but in our impatience decided to move onwards, despite the storm.
The boat was taking hard hits in these seas. I would guess that
most of these islanders would see us as foolish. To an Indonesian,
the sea often brings death, and is a force to be feared. How strange
that the same force is our main source of enjoyment.

I sit in the bow until I am wet, feeling the pulse of the
weather. Finally I sense the weight of my weariness and head to
the galley and stretch out on the sofa. I awake when I hear the
diesel engines slow, signaling our arrival at the next port of call.
The sun has just risen in the sky as I poke my head outside.
The waves are small, which after our stretch of perfect luck
almost seems a reminder that we are still on Earth, and not in
some surfer’s version of heaven. We spend the day snorkeling and
fishing. The next day, the last day of our trip, the waves come back
up, and we’re treated to a series of fun sessions at Nipussi.

The following morning we are in Padang, a teeming
Indonesian city on the west coast of Sumatra. The bemo carries us
to the airport, weaving through the busy, dusty streets, narrowly
avoiding the myriad bicycles, pedestrians and scooters that skirt in
and out of traffic.

The scene, to a westerner’s eyes, appears to be complete
mayhem. I notice one guy on a bicycle in front of us,
peddling along casually without a care in the world as cars
come within inches of him at every pass. Our bemo driver is being edged out of his lane by another car to his right, who is trying to
pass a bus to the other side of him, and up ahead I can see that
the bicyclist is directly in our path. I suck in my breath. The bemo
driver honks his horn at the car to his right, but nothing gives. A
group of cars approaches us from the other direction, seemingly in
a battle of nerves of all their own, and the whole entourage appears
doomed to a horrible, multiple-car collision.

I have seen this scene transpire time and again in Asian
countries, but for some reason I never can get used to it. I
am convinced every time that I am going to be flung through
the windshield. My cohorts in the bemo also look nervous.

Nonetheless, our driver does not let up on the gas, but instead
accelerates to try to pass the car on his right. The cyclist is now
just seconds from being run down by our car. Everyone tenses up
and prepares for impact. Our driver is gunning the engine and
doesn’t appear to be willing to give an inch, but at the last second,
the car to our right lets up and our bemo slides in front of him,
narrowly avoiding the bicyclist. I turn back to see the cyclist’s
face, utterly calm, either completely oblivious to the fact that
he was almost flattened by our bemo, or completely unworried
because if today was the day, it would have happened whether
he wanted it or not.

I think back to the way that Wadi’s family had handled the
news of their son’s death, and how in some strange way, their attitude mirrored that of the bicyclist in Padang. I realize that the
Indonesian culture does not worry about danger the way that
westerners do. We live in a society that is obsessed with safety,
force-fed statistics day and night, so much so that sometimes we
fear life itself. Our mortality has become an obsession. On the
contrary, Indonesians feel that if it is their day to be flattened by a
bemo or killed by a rogue wave, then there is nothing they can do
to avoid it. Perhaps we see this as naive, but then again, we are the
ones living in fear.

Maybe if I could adopt the attitude of a Padang bicyclist
I would have charged the surf that day at No Kandui. Perhaps,
without that western apprehension I would have paddled out and
gotten the best barrels of my life. Then again, maybe I would have
ended up getting pitched over the falls and bottom-trawling the
reef with my face. Endless scenarios to contemplate on the long
journey home.

Will Henry has been addicted to surfing since early childhood. Despite this,
he managed to attend Stanford University and actually graduate with a degree
in 1988, and later, from San Francisco Art Institute where he studied
photography. His photography has been exhibited internationally, as well as published
in numerous magazines. He currently lives and surfs on the coast of Central California,
working as a freelance photographer and writer, and also is the executive director
of Save the Waves Coalition, an environmental organization dedicated to the global
preservation of surf spots. http://www.williamhenry.com and http://www.savethewaves.org

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