Surf Is Where You Find It (Revised and Expanded)

G-Land was the most challenging wave and also my favorite spot of all the places that I’ve surfed. Photo: Erik Aeder

Many of my close encounters with my inner self while surfing have taken place at the surf spots I like and frequent the most. G-Land is one of my favorite places. Every time I return, I feel a definite warm feeling permeate my entire being the moment I set foot ashore. This feeling is hard to describe. It’s a stronger feeling of home than I get when I go back to my real home. This feeling says to me: This is where I should be, this is where I belong.

But as familiar and comfortable as G-Land feels when I first get there, there is a different feeling I must face every time I paddle out on a big day. It is a feeling of trepidation and great apprehension. G-Land is incredibly long and fast breaking, and it is very tricky to line up and pick a good wave. Even the paddle out is a hard and treacherous process that requires perfect timing, strong paddling, and a bit of luck.

The way G-Land is set up to receive the swell is a miracle in itself. The beach faces straight west, a wonderful direction to view the spectacular sunsets. The easterly flank of Grajagan Bay rolls around to become the southeastern tip of Java. It is ideally situated to catch the southerly swells as they march in.

A submarine canyon lying just offshore further assists the waves. This undersea trench is one of many in the area. Some, like the Lombok Trench and the Java Trench, are among the deepest in the world. These underwater canyons allow the swell to expand its energy in the deep water. When it exits the trench, the energy is then compressed as the swell moves into the shallow water near shore. This magnifies the size and power of the surf. There are always bigger, stronger, and more consistent waves at G-Land compared to Uluwatu and the Bukit on Bali just sixty miles to the east.

This is an interesting phenomenon as the west-facing aspects of both spots are the same and only a short distance apart, yet the surf at G-Land is always larger. Not only are the waves at G-Land bigger but sometimes certain waves in a set will be quite a bit larger than the average set wave that day.

A new swell arrived the morning of a particularly good day and the boys were stoked. Not that the surf before had been bad, but a new swell is always a cause for rejoicing. This new energy, reinforcing and reintensifying the surf energy already in abundance there, put a giddy feeling into the pit of every surfer’s stomach.

The present surf camp at G-Land is comfortable and accessible. Often surfers without the skills to match the surf fill the lineup. No longer the hard-core surf camp it once was, G-Land has become a regular stopping point on the Indo surf tour circuit. There can be over a hundred people out on a crowded day. A good-size swell has the effect of tempering the enthusiasm of the less skilled, keeping some of them out of the lineup to watch from the safety of the beach.

But for even the most adept, the paddle out is preceded by a moment of mental preparation for the ordeal of breaching the surfline to reach the lineup. Not penetrating the surfline can have disastrous consequences. The long lineup and the strong sweep of the waves wrapping in can pound even the most skilled surfer all the way from Kong’s through Moneytrees and finally down onto the barbecue grill of Speed Reef, almost before he can come up for air. The sets move down the line and if his timing is bad, a surfer will be dragged all the way down the unforgiving reef.

The worst aspect of this experience is that the further down inside a person gets swept, the shallower and more dangerous the whole situation becomes. Inside Speed Reef is not only shallow, but it also has big outcroppings and jagged coral fissures, unlike the relatively flat reef inside Moneytrees and Kong’s. On a low tide, inside Speedies can be sheer terror and lots of bloody cuts.

Even with water on the reef, it’s no picnic. The surf grows in size and power on the lower end of the reef. Those unfortunate enough to be stuck inside in that area better have their wallets open because they are going to pay in one form or another.

To be caught in there after riding a wave is one thing, there is adrenaline in the system and some power to deal with the situation. But to be dragged all the way down there while attempting to paddle out is utterly demoralizing. The only hope is to somehow hang on, and if lucky, get dragged down to the boat channel without getting ripped apart or hung up on a coral head.

If this is a person’s fate—if he does end up in the channel, terrorized from the ordeal, out of breath, energy, and everything else—one of two things will happen. He will wish he had started from the boat channel in the first place, taking the longer but easier way out. And if the pounding was bad enough, from then on, he will always paddle out from the channel, and be safe rather than sorry.

Or he will really study the paddle out and figure out how to do it correctly. Years of doing it, with the attendant bad moments tossed in, have taught me the value of doing it right. Patience is key. Waves always come in sets with lulls between them. One never knows how long a lull will last; it’s all about making one’s move at the right moment. Sometimes it’s a sweet paddle out with no drama. Yet, twenty feet behind a guy who’s having it easy, another surfer might be on the edge of terror, skirting disaster by only inches.

The next step is the tricky task of lining-up, trying to find a good position to start from on this long and challenging wave that appears to have no beginning place. After resolving that comes the most difficult part: paddling into the first wave of the day.

The very first time Peter McCabe and I went to G-Land was by boat from Bali, long before any surfers camped onshore. We started from outside the waves and spent the entire week paddling up and down the surfline looking for something to line up on. It was frustrating; we never did find a good place to catch a wave. It wasn’t until we stayed on the beach and watched the waves from the inside that we saw the spots where it looked like the wave had a good beginning.

One spot was right in front of a small tree on the beach with leaves that were shiny and the same colors as the Indonesian currency. We called it the Moneytree and set up the mess hall there with a bright orange tarp for a roof. We could see the orange tarp from out in the surf; this really helped our positioning. We later became familiar with the reef and wave and didn’t need it anymore.

The early days at the surf camp were right on the edge … of the jungle taking it all back. Photos: Don King

The other spot was further inside; it was a definite peak that we named the Launching Pad because it would launch us into the run at Speed Reef. There were several tall trees in the jungle that we could use to line up on the Launching Pad once we could recognize them at a glance. A definite lineup to position on is critical in any surf, but at G-Land it was paramount. To take off too far back and have to straighten out often meant a long trip around the horn. The whole set would peel off outside with us trapped inside, helpless to do anything except watch, take the pounding, and hang on until it was over.

In the early days we didn’t surf at low tide; no one had booties to walk over the dry reef. We timed all our trips to coincide with the new and full moon tides. We would wait until there was enough water to paddle out and would have to come back in before the tide ran out too much. Of course we began to overstay our tide window, and eventually we discovered a soft, mostly sandy trail in over the reef. Here we could walk slowly without cutting up our feet after paddling in as far as we could on our boards turned upside down.

Tom Parrish came with us one time and liked the solitude of the low-tide lineup, when the rest of us were resting on the beach. The second day he came back cut to shreds by the reef. It took us hours to bandage all his wounds. No one went out at low tide again for the next several years.

Scott McClelland, a friend from Maui, and I were there by ourselves a few years later. He kept watching the waves at low tide. I hardly looked out there until there was enough water to paddle. But the waves, indifferent to the tides, peeled perfectly.

I was reading a book, not paying any attention, when finally he looked at me in exasperation and said, “You see how good those waves are, why the hell are we just sitting here?”

I looked up at the still dry reef and said, “Relax, the tide’s still too low, just wait for the tide.”

“What do you mean relax? The waves in Maui never get this good, I’m going out,” said Scott. He put on his slippers, grabbed his board, and started walking out over the reef.

“Stick them in the back of my shorts,” he yelled back, already well out on the reef.

I couldn’t concentrate on my book anymore. I got out the binoculars. Scott got to the edge of the reef, waited for a lull, and slipped out quicker than I’d ever seen it done. I watched him get tuberide after tuberide until I couldn’t stand it anymore, got my slippers and surfboard, and followed him out.

I remember watching him ride a good-size wave not more than fifty feet from where I was standing on the edge of the reef. He gave me the sign as he went by, middle finger extended.

The whitewater from his wave dissipated to a trickle as it got to where I was standing. I jumped off the reef and paddled out without getting my hair wet. It was the easiest paddle out I ever had. We discovered that the waves were breaking in about the same depth of water that they broke at high tide. The lesser volume of water inside made the waves thinner, cleaner, and more defined—lining up was much easier.

He was right. We both lost our slippers but found there were little cracks in the reef that we could ride up into with the whitewater. It was high and dry on both sides. As long as we stayed in the crack, we could stay afloat until the whitewater stopped. Then we could climb up on the reef well inside of where the waves were bashing. It was a startling discovery that refuted the low-tide myth. We were both shocked by the discovery. It was a slow walk on bare feet over the dry reef back to the beach but we didn’t mind.

We further discovered a high-tide cache of rubber slippers back on the beach. The high tide had swirled in and deposited a pile of lost slippers above the high water line. They must have come all the way from the ferry town of Banyuwangi and the Bali Strait. Here was a treasure trove of slippers that we could pick from everyday to walk out over the reef, discard, and then paddle out to our new low-tide spot.

Later we would bring booties to walk out to the low-tide surf. Once in deep enough water to paddle, we took them off and shoved them down in our wetsuits or Speedos to surf in our bare feet. Coming in was just the reverse. We surfed up into one of the cracks, which were smooth from centuries of surf washing through them at low tide, put the booties back on, and walked in.

Over the years and countless sessions, we learned these small things that made it all a little easier. That is the thing I find so stimulating about surfing: that learning process never ends. Every time I go out, if I can stay open and aware, something I didn’t know before or maybe I’ve forgotten reveals itself. Often these lessons can be applied to life in general. When the light goes on, these lessons can have a profound effect on one’s life. This is the process of surf realization, and the more we are aware of it, the better our lives will be.

The surf was up at G-Land and we had successfully negotiated the treacherous paddle out. We always started out up the beach to give ourselves plenty of room to be swept down in case we encountered a strong set due to poor timing. Once outside, we relaxed as the current drifted us into our lineup spot.

I caught a few waves at Moneytrees. On one particularly good one, I rode right through the Launch Pad and all the way to the end of Speedies. I paddled back out to the crowd that was waiting at the Pad and pulled up to see what the sets were like there. If Moneytrees is surfable, I usually assume that Speedies is not consistent or big enough. I have a hard time sitting down there, watching all those great waves break up the line at Moneytrees with nothing much coming down to Speedies.

It was no different this day. Beautiful waves were pouring in at Moneytrees, but by the time they got down to the Launching Pad they were less than half as big and pretty much dissipated. The real wave at the Launch Pad is an entirely different set than what comes in at Moneytrees. The Launch Pad sets swing far to the right and are often missed because everyone is watching up the line to the left. The wide arc of the set that peaks at the Launch Pad is what gives Speed Reef its formidable size and power.

I sat in the lineup talking to Betet, one of the great young surfers from Bali. He had come over with Rizal Tanjung, the first Balinese professional surfer, to visit and surf with us in the surf camp. Like the rest of the crowd, we too were looking left when all of a sudden there came a big set at the Pad. As soon as we saw it everyone started paddling like mad to escape, but too late. The wave broke in front of us and we had to duck-dive underneath it.

Betet with his small board got down deep, but with my bigger board, I couldn’t penetrate enough. Underwater I felt the wave pulling me back in. I wasn’t in any danger on this wave, but I lost ground as the surge got a grip on my legs. I surfaced twenty feet inside of Betet, but at a glance, I could see the next wave was smaller. I paddled furiously, got a good duck dive this time, and felt myself come cleanly through the other side. The sight that greeted me when I surfaced is one I don’t want to see again.

Outside, I saw what had to be the biggest wave that had come through all day. I saw at a glance that I was caught. I was way too far inside to attempt to paddle out. I was dead center of the huge, wide Launch Pad peak; I was flanked on either side, so there was no escape around it. I quickly looked toward shore and saw that I was still in pretty deep water but was on the edge of where it starts to get shallow. Meanwhile, the wave was moving in, gathering steam as it came.

My mind was ticking like a time bomb as I ran through my options. I found no solace in any of them; there didn’t appear to be any escape from this imminent pounding. Cold fear washed through me as I realized that I couldn’t even abandon ship and dive underwater. It was just deep enough that this much whitewater was going to tumble me for a long distance down the point, into all the pain and suffering that lay that way.

For a moment I wondered where this wave could have come from. It was half again as big as any wave that had come through at Moneytrees, and twice as big as what had been hitting the Launch Pad. It was a rogue wave, a one of a kind. But as that thought crossed my mind, it dawned on me that it could be a rogue set with maybe more of the same behind it.

I groaned with helplessness. I had no options. I was in the worst place anyone could be. That thought made me weak. I was still sitting on my board, I hadn’t moved since the first sight of this monster. And this monster was coming to chew me to pieces. I knew that even trying to paddle further in was only going to make it worse because it got shallower and the hungry reef got closer. I was frozen in place, not doing anything, just sitting there dead in the water.

My mind was on the edge of panic. I was seriously worried about surviving this mountain of water that was poised to slam into me. And the whole time the wave just marched in toward me. I didn’t even see anyone else; it was just me and the wave. Closer and closer it came and I still didn’t have a plan.

What do I do? What do I do? That question was echoing through my mind, but no answer came. I watched the wave break, exploding with a detonation that I felt deep down inside me. The whitewater was a boiling cauldron headed right at me. It was like the maelstrom of the ancient mariners, the whirlpool of death from which no one escapes.

The moment before impact, without any conscious thought, I turned my board toward shore, facing away from the monster wave. I sat there gripping the rails with my hands and legs, and waited for the impending collision. I took a deep breath, I think I even closed my eyes. Despite expecting the crash, I was shocked by the power. It was like being hit from behind by a train traveling at full speed.

The blast knocked me and my board up in the air and out ahead of the wave. My surfboard was immediately gone from under me, and I tumbled over and over. I realized that I wasn’t getting ground into the bottom, and by the lack of pressure on my ears I could tell I was near the surface. Over, under, sideways, down I went until I felt the power easing up a little. I grabbed my leash and started climbing up it. My surfboard was afloat, and I pulled myself to the surface using it as a buoy. As I broke through, I quickly sucked in some air and looked behind to see what was next. As I feared, the wave behind was just as big and coming hard. I had time to climb on my board.

I thought that sitting on the board, facing shore, worked so well the first time, I would try it again. I turned away from the wave and hung on, but I felt better than I had with the first wave. The impact was as bad as the first time and the scenario was the same. I tumbled through space, climbed up the leash when it started to calm, and before I knew it, I was back up above the surface. I looked outside as I climbed on my surfboard and realized that I was far enough inside that I could safely duck-dive the next wave. I dove under the rest of the set and then I was down near the boat channel where I could easily paddle back out.

Once outside the surf, I stopped and started thinking about what had just happened. At first I started giggling and then I was laughing out loud. Other guys paddled by me; they must have thought I was crazy the way I was laughing to myself. They had no idea what I had just experienced.

As I thought about it, I understood how near the edge I had been. Total panic was just around the corner, but somehow I didn’t go there. When there were no options available, when I absolutely didn’t know what to do, I did what a total beginner would have done: I sat on my board and turned to face the shore. I kooked-out, but it certainly turned out to be the right thing to do.

It made me think that maybe sometimes we have to go back to the beginning to find the answers to the questions we have at the end. The answer may be so simple that it is easily overlooked. If one believes that the truth lies within, faith dictates that it will reveal itself when it is most needed. It’s there, so keep paddling where it leads.