Treasure Islands

A brilliant equatorial sunset somewhere in the Mentawai islands off Sumatra. Photo: Kimiro Kondo

Samudra is a place of dreams, untold riches, and natural wonders. The name Samudra comes from an ancient Sanskrit word, meaning ocean. Early traders from India gave it that name a long time ago. However in 1292, a European traveler named Marco Polo, coming from the court of Kublai Khan, visited this beautiful place for five months. In his reports back to his own people in Italy, the name Samudra was misinterpreted as Sumatra, and Sumatra it has been ever since.

It is a paradise of many sorts. Home to early man as far back as 4,000 years ago, it hosted the development of a number of diverse people and their unique cultures. Many of these people are still there; some, like the indigenous groups in the Mentawai Islands, remained untouched by outside civilization until only this century. Others, like the Bataks, are not far from their days of headhunting and ritualistic cannibalism.

This island, the sixth largest in the world, is also home to a variety of wonderful animals, including tigers, rhinoceroses, elephants, and sun bears, as well as numerous species of monkeys, apes, and giant lizards. Its natural resources include oil and natural gas in great supply as well as vast forests of valuable timber. The fertile soil and plentiful rainfall make the cultivation of rubber, palm oil, tea, coffee, cocoa beans, tobacco, cloves, and black pepper a bountiful and lucrative proposition.

Divided neatly in half by the equator, Sumatra is a land of diversely beautiful terrain, from its lush islands with stunning white sand beaches to the magnificent Bukit Barisan mountains, the regal volcanic lake Danau Toba, and around one hundred volcanoes of which fifteen are active. The country of Indonesia is, in large part, supported financially by the wealth of Sumatra. It is indeed a treasure island. For a surfer, it is a place where dreams come true, because another thing Sumatra is rich in is good waves.

Ours is a group of old friends who have made a life of surfing and of seeking out new surf spots far from the beaten path. Most of us were there in the beginning when surfing first came to Bali. We were there in the beginning when G-Land became the world’s first surf camp. And we were there throughout it all when both places, as well as almost everything else in the immediate area, became so popular that we thought paradise was lost forever.

The Indies Trader II was a luxurious way to travel around looking for surf, not that one had to look far in the Mentawais. Photo: Kimiro Kondo

Surfing being what it is, one can always find solace in the waves no matter how many other people are there, but like meditation, the fewer the distractions, the easier the task. So we set our sights on new horizons, going farther afield than ever before, foregoing the tried-and-proven areas in search of new breaks. We knew we could get skunked and find nothing, but we believed in ourselves enough to know that whatever we found, it would include enjoyment and fulfillment as well.

The average age of our group is fifty years old. We’ve been through a lot, most of it hard and some of it downright miserable. Some would say we’ve become spoiled; I would call it refined. We want to do everything as enthusiastically as ever, but why rough it when it’s possible to go in style and comfort.

We all have families now, others to answer to. The days of intense surfing are still here, but the motto of “damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead” has been replaced by the more mature approach of pacing ourselves. We surf so we can surf again tomorrow, not like there is no tomorrow. Pacing ourselves isn’t just when we’re in the water; it’s the complete lifestyle. It includes healthy food, rest and recuperation, and good sleep. It also includes being vigilant in protecting ourselves from malaria. This area is a red zone for malaria, a deadly disease carried by a tiny mosquito. It can kill a person; it has and, with great regularity, still does kill unaware or ignorant surfers.

Traveling to find surf can only be done effectively and efficiently by boat. With the growing interest in finding uncrowded surf, especially in this area, there is a multitude of boats for hire. We’ve always gone with Martin Daly on his Indies Trader fleet. For this season he had a new addition, the Indies Trader III, and it was available to us.

The Indies III is a beautiful ship. For surfers hunting waves, it’s more of a floating palace. Built originally for conducting surveys on the ocean floor, it has become the number one surf ship on the seven seas. With a 7,000-mile range and full-time water-making capabilities, we would probably run out of food before we ran out of fuel or hot showers. Completely air-conditioned, it was, especially for this old G-Land crew, as first class as it gets.

We went from ten- to twenty-plus-hour flights on our respective airplanes straight to this wonderful paradise afloat. We started in Padang, where Dutch traders settled in the early seventeenth century among the local Minangkabau tribes. Here in this seaport that traded with ancient kingdoms and forgotten civilizations, our journey begins. Once our gear is aboard and stowed away, we shove off into the setting sun.

Our team leader and benefactor is Tommy ‘Tuna’ Pfleger, a professional sport-fishing operator, environmental crusader, and full-time champion of preserving and managing the oceans and all the life within it. Head lifeguard and big-wave scout is Darrick Doerner also known as ‘Double D’ or ‘DD.’ Regular foots include Victor ‘Daddy’ Lopez and ‘Brother Bill’ Boyum from Maui. From Australia come the goofyfooters Peter McCabe of Newcastle and ex-Kiwi Allan ‘AB’ Byrne of Queensland. Kimiro Kondo is here to photograph the moments, and I am here to write about the events.

A log of our surf experiences over the next two weeks reads like a fairy tale. Even reading back afterward, the record of it seems too good to be true, but that’s how it is sometimes: Surf is where and when you find it. Our first day is small and easy—the best way to break into the whole rhythm of Indo surf in the equatorial zone. Sunburned eyes for Allan and a quick roll over a dry reef for Peter are our first casualties, relatively minor but a price to be paid. We jump back aboard ship with the jet lag washed off and head off to find more surf.

Day two is a mild surprise after the two- to three-foot surf the day before. Sets look like they might be eight feet. But it’s offshore and peeling, and we find ourselves completely alone on the outside lineup. The other surfers here seem to be surfing the inside peak, which, while it may be more hollow, is also a lot smaller. We have fun for several hours until we notice the sets are growing bigger.

Our Aussie cook rings the lunch bell, and we come aboard for a gourmet lunch while we cruise over to the next island where a good left awaits. As we motor up to the left, the onshore wind miraculously dies, and the sight of this fast long left reeling down the reef rallies the whole crew for an afternoon session that lasts until the sun sets. The left is six foot, fast and fun. The sunset explodes colors into the darkening sky and dazzles us after an already dazzling day of surf.

We spend the night and on first light are rewarded with the sight of a golden morning set of very large waves peeling down the reef. We are in the water quickly and find the surf to be an excellent eight to ten feet, very fast, very long, and ending in what the locals call the Nuclear Zone, a suck-out disaster on a dry reef. DD finds himself locked into a big one, and I watch helplessly from the shoulder as he tries to dive off in the barrel. He gets slammed straight into the reef, shredding his back. Darrick is our strongman, the youngest and fittest member of the group. The sight of his raw, bleeding back is a sobering reminder to all of us of the dangers we face. We surf from dawn until late afternoon, when a sea breeze finally comes in, not enough to wreck the waves but just enough to ruffle the faces from the earlier perfection. We take this as our cue to leave and ship out for our next destination.

We awake somewhere else, and as beautiful and perfect as yesterday’s wave was, today’s wave is even better. Nobody has a name for it; as far as we know it’s only been surfed a few times. We dive into the surf as quick as we can. Breakfast? Who said anything about eating food when there are waves like these to feast on. Maybe it’s just that surfers have short memories of great surf past, but I keep pinching myself to see if I’m really dreaming or not.

This may be the most user-friendly right I’ve ever surfed. Long and fast, with a surprisingly workable face and several hollow sections that are textbook backdoor setups. We end up calling this place the Bank because every wave we get is like money in the bank; there aren’t any bad waves at all, only better ones. We spend several days surfing ourselves silly on this place before another boatload of surfers show up and we turn over the Bank to them.

It’s been a week of this; again we wake up in someplace new and beautiful. There is a small right off a little point. Peter dives right into it. A couple of surfers come out from the island and are as surprised to see Peter as he is to see them. We notice other signs of life: A small airplane takes off from what looks like jungle, we see telephone poles through a gap in the trees, a car drives down a road—we move on.

We unlimber the jet ski for the first time and tow out to a big mushy left for a trial run. Moving on to the next island, we see a right that as we get closer, turns into something unbelievable. Perfectly peeling round right cylinders lure us quickly into the lineup. It looks six feet, but as we get into the water, the waves appear to be bigger. A set rolls in and we paddle for our lives.

A wave of epic proportions confronts us, perhaps only twelve feet tall but all of sixty feet thick at the base. It sucks down all the water for ten yards in front of the wave, making a giant trench. The first set we just paddle away from as fast as we can even though the wave stands and breaks in a huge perfect peak that immediately funnels into a fast-peeling wall.

A few sets more, a little less gun shy, and a little closer to trying to catch one, it becomes increasingly apparent that our boards are too small to paddle into any of the big ones safely. We consider the small ones, but reason that it would be disastrous to get caught inside. No one wants to wait inside, and we dance around the sets outside until it is evident that we can’t catch any.

We fool ourselves for another hour before Daddy gets smart and goes for the jet ski. While DD changes the foot straps over to regular foot, Daddy tows me into a set on my 7’0”. I realize too late I’ve made a mistake. I get in early but way deep so I draw a fast line toward safety. But it feels like my board is dragging a bucket. I look down to see if something is wrong with the board. It looks fine. Next, I look back and see that I’m way too far out on the shoulder; no wonder the board feels funny and slow moving.

But as I turn back, the curl behind not only catches me, but suddenly I’m deeply locked in. I grab my rail and pray for daylight. I know I don’t want to fall here so I hang on for dear life. Faster and faster, my board accelerates through the tube until I slowly get ahead of the curl enough to ease over the lip. I make it, but the wave behind is bigger and I’m trapped. Thinking I’m finished, I surrender, dive off my board, and start hyperventilating in anticipation of getting creamed. I failed to realize that by making the first wave, I rode far enough into the bay to escape the heavy grinding barrel. Down here on the end, it’s a thin-lipped spinning tube, much less severe than the deadly pit out on the point. I try to get back on my board and paddle, but it’s too late. The barrel is still superhollow but thin and nowhere as strong or violent as the beginning of the wave. I easily dive under, and Daddy is there with the jet ski for the pickup. I have him tow me right back to the tin-boat where Kondo is shooting from and DD is waiting for the rope.

The tin boat was a nice way to paddle out without getting wet. Photo: Kimiro Kondo

The next hour we are all treated to a spectacle. First Daddy pulls DD steadily deeper into wave after wave. The lines he draws and the speed he travels makes it seem like he is toying with this wave that seemed so deadly only a few minutes ago. He comes in from so far behind the section that it appears unmakeable from our vantage. One turn later and he’s too far ahead, the wave not fast enough for his speed. He continually outruns the tube, turning the grinding barrel into a playground for on-the-face maneuvers, cutting and slashing up, down and back around. It is a stunning display. Daddy finally gets his turn on the rope, a few sets, more high-speed carving, and before we know it, the sun begins to set and another great day comes to its close.

Day eight finds us traveling back to the Bank, but the swell has dropped, and compared to the last time we were here, coming back is a letdown. We drop anchor just around the corner at what looks like a small left. DD and Daddy are still running on yesterday’s juice and take it easy, but the rest of us paddle in to a fun, fast left. So fast in fact that one slip and it passes the hapless surfer by. But when we pump it perfectly, we zing down the line, covering ground in big gulps, slipping through, but only barely. Some waves are perfect and easy to make, but others are like whirling dervishes, leaving us behind like we’re standing still. We surf from noon till sunset. Today’s spot is small boards, large maneuvers, and big fun. We don’t even have a name for this place.

We’re back the next morning. It’s bigger and even harder to make but the perfect ones are … well, they’re perfect. Some look good and we pull in only to get mugged. There are lots of waves, the whole gang is getting plenty, and everyone’s spirits are soaring. The only problem will be trying to remember just some of what is becoming a total sensory overload. When so many good waves come, one forgets to remember any but the most outstanding. We try to savor the moments—the events preceding the wave and the whole ride from takeoff until end, the afterglow paddling back out—but facing the sight of another perfect wave is just too much. Pacing ourselves, there is enough energy to paddle out for another one even though we will almost certainly forget it as soon as the ride is over.

The sun is the real enemy, and we use any and all protection: sunscreen, long sleeve rash guards, hats, goggles, staying underwater as much as possible. We can always surrender to the air-conditioned lounge with an ice-cold drink. But we can do that when the surf gets shitty. It just seems like that never happens. Three days of this same left and every day a little bigger, a bit different, and somehow even better.

The third day, everyone seems to have found their groove, applying the lines they feel best with, revealing this canvas as being wide open to any style of surfing artist. Impressionistic, art nouveaux, classical: anything goes. We surf ourselves into a sunburned, sated state. Finally we drag ourselves aboard the ship to a hot shower, hot meal, and a cool bunk.

Day eleven would have to begin with some more thoughts about day ten. I remember Brother Bill bailing out when we found ourselves too far in on a big set. I was out ahead and duck-dived under it, but only barely. Billy got creamed. There were some hall of fame tubes but mostly just high-speed racing to stay ahead—an extremely challenging wave and the nature of each wave entirely its own. The most common trait was that the water was wet; from that point almost everything else was different. It was a hard wave to make, too fast to get out over the lip. The only escape was a Hawaiian pullout and to hope there wasn’t a bigger one behind. If the one behind planted us, it was a long although quick wash all the way in. But that was yesterday, and today we are back at the Bank and it looks worth a go-out.

The wave at the Bank is forced to wrap in quite dramatically, draining a lot of juice from the swell, but the peel is near perfect. The wind comes onshore and some of us take a much-needed rest from the sun. We haul anchor and motor into another small group of islands with several lefts and another perfect right. DD and AB find the right to their liking and kill it all afternoon while the rest of us watch movies and sip ice-cold drinks.

We are all daydreaming about what we’ve had when we pull up next to the best-looking left we’ve seen in days, hours—well, at least since the last left anyway. There are villagers fishing out of their little canoes, and they come over and stare at this giant ship parked in their little backyard. Some French surfers come out from the village and surf with us. They have been here the past four days, and it’s been just like this, perfect, four to six foot and totally ripable, sometimes tubing, but all the time peeling.

We are the first surfers they have seen while they’ve been here. Another perfect setup and we are all tuned up and feeling very comfortable with our boards. With lots of waves to choose from, we surf composed and sure-footed. Everyone gets a memorable wave or plenty. Tommy Tuna says some are the best waves of his life but he has been saying that everyday.

Kondo sets up from the water and fires off some great shots. At one point, he, Peter, and I get ourselves trapped by the biggest wave as Tom rides by. We get planted. The fact that we were all in it together makes it OK. After we all get plenty of waves, we ship out again.

A few hours later and we are back at the first big right and it’s really big now. Breaking out in the deep blue water with the thick rolling whitewater, it looks absolutely magnificent. We dash out to find it a solid ten feet, but thick and roly-poly. There are some fun drops on big, rolling mountains of water. It is a fitting end to another epic day.

Day thirteen starts out uneventful; everything looks mushy or rough. Finally, in the afternoon we end up at the same little left we started out on thirteen days ago. It’s much bigger and breaking in a lot more places. We go out to the innermost break, and it’s eight feet on the sets. It is fun, long, and fast rides on the most startling blue-colored waves. Everyone gets more than a few waves and then we get called back aboard: It’s time to ship out. Our final stop is Padang and the end of the trip.

Anytime I go surfing can be a religious experience if I let it. It is an up close encounter with one of our world’s greatest natural wonders. Out here on the edge of the known world, far from the distractions of civilization, I can more easily find this space. But in reality any of us can find it anywhere because we carry it inside us everywhere we go. During the course of our ordinary day, information from the senses bombards one’s mind. This pulls the mind outward. It is only when we still the mind that we are able to turn it inward where joy and wisdom lies. In this inner space we find how to live in peace and harmony.

Surfing teaches us about this inner space and these inner moments because they occur regularly during the surfing experience. Crowded waves, dirty water, and bad vibes can distract us from those magic moments to the point of being unaware even while those moments are upon us. Surf trips like the one I’ve just described do wonders for reacquainting us with that inner space. The moments of enlightenment are pure and personal, but better when they are shared with good old friends. And the most amazing thing is that every time it gets better than before, it makes me wonder how long it can continue to do so. That we will be here doing it all over again next year goes without saying.