CAUGHT INSIDE # 126

As you can see by our cover, this issue is all about the power of surfing. The power of top flight surfers, the power of dreams, the power of children, the power of women, the power of art, the power of travel, the power of love and as always, the power of Indonesia. Because that is what Surftime has always been about. To put our own face on our own surfing. To speak in context from the inside out, from the Indonesian point of view. And to not leave it to the foreign visiting press to tell us who we are. Even now, in Rio Waida, we have a contender on the WCT and that‘s not something that just any countries can say. In this issue, yes, Indonesian pride is running through its veins and if you read closely enough and really spend some time with the extraordinary images from the best photographers in the world, then you too will smell the blood. Our blood. Pumping as sure as the waves. In this issue we take you into many worlds. One being the Mentawai, the crown surfing jewel of the planet where we get inside the head of a surf guide and his very personal journey through the power of love. We spend a day at Keramas, the best righthander on Bali, where we visit with the eclectic crew that makes the place one of the most powerful spots in the surfing world. Gene Kreyd, Bali’s surf artist-in-residence is entering a new phase of his work and man, oh man, has he given us some color. Check out his mini portfolio for a mind blowing vision of the waves we ride and of course his famed skull portrait. “I painted that imagining that the skull was actually thinking about surfing”. Wow. In another story, we visit with Mason Ho, who shares with us one of the most powerful experiences in his life. The day he dropped into the giant wave at Waimea Bay that would have won him the 2016 Eddie Aikau Invitational. But with a nagging injury, he only made it halfway down the face on his big gun before ejecting off into oblivion. Still, knowing Mason, he came up laughing, and paddled back out for more. And of course we have the results of our Grom Photo Contest, meant to inspire our next generation to learn how to work with professional Photographers. The results range from exhilarating to adorable. But it is clear evidence that the next generation is coming on. So we ask you to regard this issue, to take it all in, with the power of surfing on your mind. The power of Indonesian surfing. Because the truth behind all the aspects of Indonesian surfing it is growing in strength. And together, we will prevail.

-Matt George, Editor-in-Chief

Cover photo: Currently number 16 on the World Championship Tour, Rio Waida is growing in power and strength and so far is odds-on for rookie of the year. With the hopes of Indonesia squarely on his shoulders, the man from Jimbaran is both exceeding expectations and serving as an example of the success that comes when you combine hard discipline with powerful dreams. Photography by Liquid Barrel.

Nothing to be fooled with, the more powerful breaks of the Mentawai can crush bone and foam. Yet the absolute predictability of their perfection make it easier to make a game plan in the line-up. The Surf Guide, out alone in a pre-dawn session before the guests awake, going for the next one, living the dream as a living.

Pulau Karangmajat, Mentawai Islands, January, 2023, 1610hrs

The surf guide stands on the foredeck coiling the dripping lines, keeping his mind busy. He has to. She is close. Ashore not more than quarter mile away at the surf camp. He shakes his thoughts loose of her for the thousandth time. It’s over and he knows it. Still, the thoughts cycle back. Her hair, that laugh, the weird trip to India, her silky skin. She was supposed to go home after the breakup, said they were living his Mentawai dreams, not her dreams. She was supposed to go home to her dreams. Yet here she still was. And rumor had it she was gonna stay, work for the surf camp. He winces at the thought, hissing through his teeth. Ach, man, not good, not good. He unwinds and coils the same line for a second time. Fool! He stops and looks toward shore, toward the surf camp. She is there. He’s half a mind to swim in and have it out. Again.

He had been in the Mentawai as a surf guide on a million different boats for a decade now. Though he wouldn’t say it himself, he was the best there was. Knowing the islands and the waves and conditions and the languages and the secret ways of the Mentawai that still possess great mystery. He lived out in the islands on a small catamaran, only making the crossing on the ferry to the mainland when absolutely necessary. Supplies, electronics, boat parts, booze. Even though he was dry, six months into a vow not to touch the stuff for a year. It had been a good idea and he was three kilos lighter now and much more nimble in the surf. The boat he was currently serving on was a real beauty. A forty six foot luxury Cat. The owner, a big Hollywood producer apparently, had saved up for it all his life and was now sailing it himself around the world, taking friends and family aboard in different ports. The producer had been dreaming of a Mentawai trip all his life and now he was here having sailed his vessel the long way around all the way from France. The surf guide respected this and so went the extra mile to keep things ship shape, help the crew, step to it. There were two crew on board, a skipper and a first mate, old friends that used be, of all things, professional razor scooter riders. Then there were the brothers, sixties, former pro surfers, journalists and filmmakers. They had the stories that kept the dinners lively. The voyage had been perfect so far. Luck had it that everybody got along, dinners were filled with wonder and laughter. And the waves had been perfect for this group. The shoulder season in the Mentawai. Most the fleet dry-docked in January. Thailand, Sibolga, Jakarta, Singapore. This time of year could be rainy and overcast and wild out in the Mentawai, but also dependably mild with smaller, manageable swell and empty surf and none of the crowds and the boat wars of the high season. The surf guide had been putting this group on the best of the northern sector and everyone seemed fulfilled. He always looked for the signs of the disgruntled, and couldn’t see any here. At least there was that to make things easier on him.

The surf guide finished up with the lines and looked around for something, anything else to do. He could smell the roasting garlic coming from the galley. Maybe he would go help with lunch. He looked toward shore again knowing he had to stop doing that. It made him think of home. South Africa. An ocean and a lifetime away. A hard country filled with hard work and a hard, strong people.

Access to the Mentawai has never been easier and families are taking full advantage of it. No longer are the line ups only for grown-ups. Pete Matthews, threading through the grid and headed for the checkered flag on the Rifles straightaway, showing the kids how it’s done. Photography by Kandui Resort.

Clockwise from top left:

The siren’s call.

Photography by Liquid Barrel

Christie Carter in deep

Photography by Liquid Barrel

The Kandui Resort child tribe

Photography by Matt George

Land camp nocturnal visitor

Photography by Mike McDonnell

Lunch

Photography by Matt George

His people. Cultured and true and tough and sharp as a broken seashell. He thought of home often, knew who he was, still had the strong accent. But the guiding was both a choice and a good living, he was proud to be inside the tropical surf dream. He didn’t own a pair of sandals, rarely wore a shirt, didn’t need them. And he loved his surfing, and he was enlightened, knew his job, giving waves to the guests, and as a former pro photographer, shooting them when he felt like dusting off his old talents. He always kept his mind busy, learning everything about his trade, navigation, boat handling, every knot on earth. Currently, along with his abstinence, he had been reading philosophy in his downtime. Particularly the tenets of the pre-Columbian Toltecs. He was doing his best to put them into practice. He recited them now. Be Impeccable With Your Word. Don’t Take Anything Personally. Don’t Make Assumptions. Always Do Your Best. One had to challenge the mind in his line of work. After all, one could only dream so much.

He connected a hose and grabbed a long handled brush and began scrubbing the mud off the anchor chain. It didn’t really need to be done, but the tenets were with him and so was she, not a quarter mile away. Dammit, how they haunt. Don’t take anything personally, goddammit, be impeccable with your word, the thing is already settled, what are you going to do? Remind her she was supposed to go home? She’s all grown up and not yours anymore. She’s flown. It’s over. He straightens up, shakes loose again, turns off the hose, stows the brush, looks out to sea. The owner of the boat is the only surfer in the line-up. To hell with lunch. The surf guide grabs his swims fins and goes over the side in an explosion of gin clear bubbles. He thinks, The ocean swallows the wrongs of people.

The surf guide swims strongly for the line-up, almost punishing himself, reciting Always Do Your Best, over and over to the rhythm of his strokes. He deeply believed bodysurfing could heal any woe. Certainly postpone it. The crystal clear waters and the perfectly shaped waves called him out into the line-ups without his board from time to time. For him it was the same pull that made him seek out and stand behind waterfalls. A moving picture of moving water moving utterly before your very eyes. For him the waves of the Mentawai at swim level came at him like running cheetah, perfect in their economy of movement, sure of their result. And he knew this sight, seen running cheetah by the score back home. The spinning cylinders of the Mentawai dream filled him with elation. He found himself like this, teasing its perfection, ducking under the guillotine lip at the last possible moment, avoiding the blade of the lip by millimeters, feeling the drag and pull of each wave, slipping into a miraculous union. Despite the power and the chaos, he was safe from human foibles and desire here. Underwater, it was like standing next to a stampede and watching the bulls thunder by. Knowing only surfers like he could get to this place and see this and play with it, understand it. Knowing that photos and films of surfing from underwater could never capture the sounds and sensations that came to him immersed. The tug of power, the muffled roar of the impact, the wind chime of the reef stirring in the passing turbulence, the hiss of surfboard fins as they streak by, their contrails left on the concave face, the dangerous pleasure of air held deep your in your lungs. And that is when it came to him. He was swimming on the other side of the mirror, swimming in the very molten blood of the planet. Playing within the original source of human life, heedless among moving cylinders of water so perfect that it was like being in a glass blowing factory, with he inside the glass. It was a type of home for him, an understanding of why he left all common responsibility behind in South Africa. The surf guide surfaces, a great breath, a snort of the nose. The ocean gone calm. He floats and breathes and looks toward shore for long moments and she comes flooding back, his mind a sponge for the memories, the desires. She is there. Not a quarter mile away. The desire and the heat and the disaster waiting still. Waiting again. He struggles with the urge to swim to shore. To her. To the hell of confusion and doubts and yearning. Be impeccable with your word.

The surf guide turns to the sea. A large set of waves approach. He swims out to meet them. He swims out and dives under the first. Diving toward peace, toward forgiveness. Swimming out, not in.

It’s over. Be impeccable with your word.

Despite the glaring differences of life of on each side of the river, for the faithful locals, the song remains the same.

When the President of the Asian Surf Cooperative paddles out, the line-up parts out of respect for what the ASC has achieved over the long years. Tipi Jabrik, ripping into his forties, taking what is his due.

The twins seem to have the uncanny knack of always showing up for the best conditions of the day. For so long, the only way to tell these identical twins apart is by the sponsors stickers on the nose of their boards. Still, their story unfolds as individuals, evidenced here by their very different approaches to the same Keramas section. Blerong with his thigh burning carve and Tonjo with his hyperspeed layback. One can not help but wonder what it would be like to share your very being with another,. They both have shared the same womb, and now share the spotlight at Bali’s best righthander. Is it possible to share a dream? It certainly looks like it here.

A stalwart performer on any day, Betet Merta seems as much a part of Keramas as the waves themselves. Surfing each wave as if it were his last, Betet’s surfing resembles a Samurai in battle, slashing his way through the multitude with a singing blade. That’s the thing about Keramas, the older crew gets due respect and so it becomes the scene where they can really turn up the heat. A man on fire, Betet Merta’s scorching slashbacks are more then just a maneuver, they serve as an ambitious goal for the young.

Clockwise: On any Sunday Keramas is both a family playground and a firing line. 1. The family Studer showing up with very personal equipment and the right vibe. 2. Not surprising, our young ladies are establishing growing presence in the line-up. 3. Lempog Jackson, ultimate local, showing why he remains at the top of the heap. Even Rio gives him all the room he needs. 4. “I am so lucky to have Keramas on my island”, Rio Waida says, “It is a perfect training ground for the WCT”. He’s certainly made that point.

Our venerable master, the evergreen Rizal Tandjung, has surfed this wave since before it was on the map. And today, every time he paddles out, he still throws the kind of spray that inspires both envy and admiration from all. Long may he, and Keramas, live.