California Style vs. Aussie Antics (Sumatra 2014)

 Attempting to conform to the California Style Manual,.  Sumatra 2014. . .Photo: "Moppy."

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.

"I reckon there's plenty more where that came from. . ."  Sumatra 2014.

Book Blurb: In Praise of THE VOLCANO TRILOGY by Quinn Haber

 

  In the manner of a dream, the prospect of living on a tropical island haunts the Western imagination.  To the cubicle-confined minions eager to trade corporate angst for balmy breezes, the idea evokes romantic escape.  We picture Paul Gauguin in Tahiti (or perhaps even Tom Hanks in Castaway) and think that with a little F-U money, we could ditch the cubicle for sunsets and mai tais.  Yet for most people, the dream of Expatica remains just that--a dream, something envisioned but never pursued.  For every hundred people that consider it, ten investigate, and of those ten, only one makes good the one-way ticket.

    The Volcano Trilogy, re-published by Phantasea Books in 2019 as an updated edition with additional photographs and postscript material, recounts how love for an island girl and steadfast commitment to a surf lifestyle enabled the author, Quinn Haber, to transform dream into reality.  Notably, Haber pursues his island dream while maintaining a full recognition of the downside to having a third-world address, as described in this excerpt from a chapter titled "A Fresh Coat of Paint:"

       Exotic, primeval, unsettling--no word can accurately describe the drive from the main highway to the beach.  In pasta-shaped convolutions, the badly deteriorating thoroughfare weaves through an impoverished village deeply ingrained in the surrounding hillside.  It's a hidden barrio of impossibly gnarled trees, houses made of scraps of anything, skinny people who seem to hide in their own shadows, and emaciated cattle standing in empty plots of dry dirt.  Here along the Philippines back roads, whole generations pass in utter poverty without the rest of the world ever seeing them or knowing they exist.  It's this very invisibility I find the most disturbing.  I know intellectually that ninety percent of the world's population make less that one U.S. dollar a day, and that poverty is relative by degrees of severity--after all, this is not widespread famine in the horn of Africa, and we do have a fair amount of poverty in the USA--but still, this shockingly visceral drive through the daily plight of the unknown Filipino is an experience I'll never forget.  There's absolutely no social welfare here, as far as I can see.

     To be aware of another's sufferings is to shade what might otherwise be a rosy backdrop in our lives.  Shall we simply cover the disturbing images with a fresh coat of paint, letting go of what we have seen, and move on?  Driving this road to Sabang reveals the hard struggle of developing nations, a reality most traveling surfers come into contact with at some point, or at many points, along their journeys.  As I watch the forlorn hinterlands disappear through the rear window, then turn to see a surfer's bounty of pristine beaches and waves, I feel humbled by the experience.

     Of course, confrontations with "otherness" comprise a key motif of travel literature, and few settings highlight otherness more than the poverty-stricken third world village.  For Haber, the confrontation evokes a sensitivity that establishes his credentials as a thoughtful commentator.  In the above passage, as throughout the book, Haber takes care to place descriptive detail within its social, historical, economic, and cultural context.

     As a surf travel memoir, the book places landscape and seascape front and center, but some scenes involve readers in Haber's mental landscape as well.  On occasion, the book recalls moments of personal challenge to which the author, in poetic fashion, attributes a metaphorical significance.  Haber's recollection of a cliff-dive, and the lesson it presents for his romantic aspirations, stands out as an example:

     Fraser takes me on a short but steep climb to the top of the promontory.  We walk out over the rocky cranium and look down at the water, some sixty feet below.

     "Jump" he says--or was that an order?

     "Really?  From here?"

     "Yeah mate.  I do it all the time."

     "It looks pretty far."

     "Only fifty feet or so , mate, depending on the tide."

     "Well, what's the tide now?"

     "I think it's coming up, mate."

     "How deep is it?"

     "Plenty deep, mate.  No worries.  No worries at all.  Just keep ye arms and legs together so they don't get torqued on impact, and cover ye pearls with ye hands."

     "My pearls?"

     "That's right, mate.  Ye jewels."

     "Are you going to jump?"

     "Nah, ya should jump mate!  I do it all the time.  It's really not as high as it looks."

     "I'll go if you go first."

     "That won't work, mate.  Who'll carry our shirts, hats, and sunglasses back?  Not to mention my wallet?"

     "You brought your wallet?"

    "Mate, in the Philippines, ya never know when ya'll need to prove yourself with some identification or a bribe.  So are ya going to jump or not, mate?  I haven't got all day."

     I look over the ledge and see a collage of blues delineating various patches of reef at differing water depths.

     "Are you sure I won't hit bottom?"

     "Ah, no dramas, mate!  It's at least eight meters deep."

     I hesitate, then slowly pull off my shirt and sunglasses and give them to the man that resembles Clint Eastwood now more than ever.  It's as if I'm handing the last of my personal belongings to my executioner.

     "Okay, Fraser," I mumble, "I guess I'm going."

     "Only if ya want to, mate.  I don't want to pressure ya."

     But by now, having removed my personal effects, I feel irrevocably committed.  I inch towards the ledge and peek over again.  There's nothing between me and the water but a great distance of air.  I begin to hesitate, but before I let my mind take over, I leap over the edge and feel the wind rushing up all around me.  I reach for my 'pearls' and soon am engulfed by the liquid blue.  I don't penetrate very deep and the whole thing is over quickly.  Fraser was right, it's an easy jump and drama isn't necessary.

     Going for things should be like this--once you decide to commit, you shouldn't hesitate and psyche yourself out, but just do it and jump!  I think that proposing to Janice, if that is ultimately what I decide, will require this same sort of leap.

    As revealed in the book's postscript material, the author did end up making the lifestyle leap, though it involved a path more circuitous and fraught with unexpected complications than anyone could have realized.  No spoilers here, other than this: the postscript material alone, with its overview of events that take place in years subsequent to those depicted in the narrative, makes the purchase price worthwhile.

     As a veteran of four trips to the Philippines, one completed as recently as 2019, I can attest to the accuracy of the book's back-cover synopsis, which touts Haber as a keen-eyed witness, whose "observations of the Philippines far north present a compelling view of Southeast Asian life, encompassing everything from local traditions, to courtship mores, to exquisite country surf and tourist sites."  The surf traveler, understandably interested in depictions of the "exquisite country surf," will find the following excerpt a representative sample of the play-by-play accounts:

     I pick up the binoculars and study the break again.  Star Tubes, a right-hander peeling off the  

It's a fast and hollow wave. . .Star Tubes, December 2001.  Photo: S. Jacques Stratton

tip of a reef shelf, is not known to handle too much size.  It's a fast and hollow wave, and quite shallow.  Today it is clearly off the Richter scale, with frequent, big sets thrusting over the shelf, their open faces reflecting the gleam of sunrise one second, then turning dark the next as they hollow out and detonate into the shallows.  After each bomb, the sound of the explosion resounds off the lodge walls seconds later, like an eerie aftershock evincing a mere afterthought of the wave's  true power.  Even from here, a half mile away, Star Tubes looks scary enough.  Moments later, I see Fraser walking out across the causeway, heading towards the bay with surfboard in hand.  I ponder what the hell to do. . .

 No pondering here.  Haber drops in to "Starries," December 2001.  Photo:  S Jacques Stratton

Accompanied by a cornucopia of photographs, such passages give the reader a front row seat to the action.

     As a "genre" the surf travel memoir remains obscure, a curiosity within the broader tradition of travel literature.  In part the obscurity stems from social attitudes, prevalent until recently, toward surf culture.  For decades dismissed by the mainstream as vagabonds unworthy of serious attention, surfers more frequently supplied stereotypes for film and T.V. (think Jeff Spiccoli from Fast Times at Ridgemont High) than interesting protagonists.  For its part, surf culture often encouraged its marginality, maintaining through slang and hatred of outsiders a tribal insularity enigmatic to the mainstream.  Knowing this dynamic, publishers regarded book-length surf travel narratives with skepticism, recognizing their extremely limited audience appeal.  In recent years this has begun to change.  Advertisements for products ranging from cars to beer now promote surfing as an desirable component in an adventure lifestyle, and the conflation of surfing with popular lifestyle fads (witness the profusion of Yoga/Surf retreats) brings surf culture into the mainstream.  In tandem with this trend, the surf travel memoir has begun to gain traction as a literary form, with prominent works such as Allan Weisbecker's In Search of Captain Zero setting the bar.  For its comprehensive exploration of a region still regarded as a surf frontier, Quinn Haber's Volcano Trilogy deserves honorable mention alongside such works, and I think fans of surf travel memoirs will find it a worthy addition to their bookshelves.

Adventures in the Pacific's Backwater Bars: Akane

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a bachelor ex-pat with spare time and money must be in search of romance.

     Though Jane Austen fans will no doubt cringe at my crass adaptation of one of literature's classic opening lines, I find it an apt (if generalized) characterization of the single-and-searching mehnwei men that, on the eve of the millennium, frequented Pohnpei's drinking establishments hoping for a fling.  (Lest readers interpret this characterization as a critique, let me state for the record that I include myself among the ranks of those hapless souls, and probably indulged in more embarrassing foolishness than most.  You won't get any holier-than-thou moral missives from me.)

     At first, love-lorn expats did not apply much selectivity when choosing a target for a passionate plot.  Some called it the "rainforest effect"--influenced by the primal nature of our surroundings, we gave in more easily to the primal nature of our libidos.  With time, however, even the most wide-ranging libertine succumbed to the gravitational pull of the women affiliated with the JOCV (Japanese Overseas Cooperation Volunteers).   To cast these women as Oriental playthings in a Western fantasy overstates their innocence.  They knew full well the power of their allure, and for socio-cultural reasons of their own, often made targets of us.

     A dozen or so of these ladies made the dim booths of Club Flamingo the center of their weekend nightlife.  Located just off the waterfront road, Club Flamingo commanded a view of the harbor and boasted an electric sign, status markers that added to its panache as the largest bar in the FSM.  Weekend crowds might overwhelm the parking area, spilling the overflow vehicles onto the road and contributing to the sense that Club Flamingo offered Pohnpei's closest approximation of a cosmopolitan experience.

     The following excerpt from Islands on the Fringe recollects an evening that began at Club Flamingo and shows that when pursuing romantic flings with the ladies of the JOCV, the scammer sometimes got scammed:

     

     In line for the bar at Club Flamingo, I meet her, the Japanese girl with the jasmine perfume.  She wears stiletto heels and a jade pendant that invites a glance toward her neckline.  Apart from her nose, of an aquiline variety slightly too large for her face, she exudes a refined beauty, a blend of Western style and Eastern mystique, and from the way a table of elder ex-pats eyes her, I can tell her effect extends through the room.  Seeing the empty glass in her hand, I offer to buy her a drink.

     "Oh, you genterman!" she says, her accent transforming l to r.  "From time I first see you, I know you genterman."

     "Well, I try," I say.  "What's your poison?"

     "Po-san?"

     "What would you like to drink?"

     "Oh.  I rike Bruddy Mary!"

     Together, we sidle up to the bar, and wait for the bartender to finish his prior orders.  As we wait, we exchange names.  She leans toward my ear.  "You my kind of man," she whispers.

     Eventually, I place the order, but get bad news:  no Bloody Mary mix.  The bartender advises us to visit the Village Hotel, purveyors of the best Bloody Marys on the island, all from fresh ingredients.  The recommendation excites Akane, who coyly transforms my drink offer into a dinner date.

     Though beyond my budget and a bit of a drive, the Village Hotel promises a romantic setting, and I acquiesce, lured by Akane's petite figure and flattering comments.

     Once at the hotel, I feel more like a charlatan than a gentleman.  Our table in the dining area places us alongside the upper-echelons of island visitors:  retirees on round-the-world trips, businessmen seeking deals with island moguls, and perhaps a few diplomatic types mingling with representatives from the FSM legislature--in short, people who spend in a day what I earn in a month. Then, remembering the credit card in my wallet, I settle more easily in my chair, order two Bloody Marys, and pretend not to notice when Akane orders the most expensive dish on the menu.

     "You my kind of man," Akane tells me again, when the waiter departs.  "You treat girl right."  Her smile, engineered for flattery, could make even the most committed cheapskate abandon his budget.

     But later, when the dinner arrives, I find Akane strangely changed.  Instead of flattery, I now only hear the clink of silverware.  The glances that she once reserved for me she now directs only to her plate.  And, later that night, after I pay the bill and drive her back to town--a drive which she seems to endure in awkward discomfort--my goodbye kiss meets only a grudgingly presented cheek.

     A week later, during a gathering at the Australian embassy, I see her by the pool, an empty cocktail glass in hand.  She pretends not to recognize me, instead reserving her attention for a dapper young member of the embassy staff.  Seeing her empty glass, he offers to get her a drink.

     "Oh, you genterman!" I hear her tell him.  "You my kind of man."