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Attempting to conform to the California Style Manual,. Sumatra 2014. . .Photo: "Moppy."
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This break was strictly fun-zone, a peeling wedge into a palm-lined bay, and unlike the nearby reefs, it concealed no critical sections where the difference between anguish and ecstasy depends on one's ability to dodge coral crags shallow enough to grind fins into powder. . . in other words, a break designed specifically for that brand of surfer whose predominant aesthetic perceives waves as skateboard ramps.
The island that plays home to this break (and its more frequently photographed sibling further up the headland) has an imagistic legacy well represented in surf mags. Yet while the tentacles of surf tourism have long groped toward it, the island retains the atmosphere of a frontier outpost, and still harbors a few secrets.
I well remember this particular session. A handful of us--two Australians, a dilettante Swiss couple (skiers really, dabbling for a summer in the romance of surf travel) and myself--arrived via skiff from the beach camp. A light overcast hung in the air, with enough density to spread a reflection of gray hues on the surface of the sea. I watched the play of these hues in the wake that spun off the bow of the skiff. The wake had a hypnotic effect, inducing in me the listless stupor that travelers to the tropics often experience. Accordingly, the sight of a surf charter yacht anchored near the line up elicited, on my part, no more that a lackadaisical shrug. I thought the tropical stupor which afflicted me would at some point descend on the charter yacht and similarly afflict its entourage of pampered surf rats.
As it turned out, the charter yacht posed little competition. Its passengers, like a pack of lions sated from an earlier feast, watched our arrival with disinterest, and when they later ventured surfward, exhibited a preference for the aforementioned frequently-photographed break further up the headland. Accordingly, the five of us from the beach camp had the skatepark arena of the inside wedge to ourselves.
The dilettante Swiss exhibited a lack of surf sense that meant they spent more time paddling than riding waves, but nevertheless exuded an enthusiasm that made me reflect fondly on my own days as a grommet, when the small details of the surfing experience--the fruity scent of fresh board wax, the silky feel of a glassy sea, the sudden acceleration of paddling into a wave--provided a delight to the senses. The two Australians, happy for a respite from Perth's winter chill, surfed with a happy-go-lucky silliness that made me wonder if they too might be in the throes of a tropical stupor. Arnie, riding a longboard, tried a fin-first takeoff on a prime set wave, and as the board spun into a 180-degree turn, casually attempted a switch-stance the opposite direction. The move proved too ambitious, and as I watched Arnie succumb to an inevitable wipeout, I doubted the move's functionality. Long a devotee of the California Style Manual, which dictates that making the wave counts for more than making the move, I directed some lighthearted criticism toward Arnie as he emerged from the froth: "What are you? A whirling dervish?" In reply, Arnie flashed me a grin that told me he didn't give a damn about California surfing aesthetics and that his allegiance lay with a different dictum, one which posits that the best approach to wave riding is the one that provides the most fun. "Ah, no worries, mate! I reckon there's plenty more where that came from," he said.
In the end, it didn't really matter what particular surfing aesthetic we sought to uphold. We all had fun, so much so that when afternoon brought the arrival of another charter yacht, we looked on with disinterest and returned to the skiff, like lions sated from feast.
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| "I reckon there's plenty more where that came from. . ." Sumatra 2014. |
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