Indo. Indonesia. A destination every surfer wants tattooed on their soul. A place where other body tattoos come free from "burn" or lacerations - that quickly turn septic - when they're dragged across coral reefs. Sometimes those leave life-long scars, a badge of honour.
Knowing that all too well, I still wanted something more untamed than Bali. I was in my mid-50s, silver-haired, my surf-fitness starting to see its vanishing point. South Sumatra seemed just the ticket. But the ride I got was one I hadn't seen coming.
For starters, on the plane from Kuala Lumpur, the passenger in front of me was flip-flopping around in his seat. Airsick, I thought? Heart attack? Then I noticed most of the bolts meant to secure his seat to the floor were missing. The pilot dropped to tree-top level as we approached the huge island. "Preparing to land," I thought. But we flew for hours, skimming dense forests and tiny, isolated hamlets.From the airport at Bandar Lampung, it took six hours on a jungle dirt road infested with massive, overloaded logging trucks driving with the sensitivity of minibus taxis, to reach the hallowed Ujung Bocur. Still 1km away, I heard a persistent roar like thunder, or mining, or a herd of wild trumpeting elephants. My driver laughed, "Waves. Very big waves."
I'd previously believed the speed of waves in surf-movie footage was speeded up. Then I saw these. They were even faster - and the size of a double-storey building, almost triple overhead in surfer parlance. My sphincter snapped shut.
A HEAD RIPPED OPEN
Damai Bungalows is one of the best of a handful of surf camps lining the beach/reef. All have a deck - a viewing platform - overlooking the break, where surfers taking a breather can watch, and judge, others out there.
I foolishly had just one surfboard with me. If that snapped, so would my holiday. As I signed in to Damai, I overheard two Aussie surfers: "Did you see that bloke yesterday? Nutted the reef." "Yeah, ripped his head right open. Could practically see his brains. Been casevaced by medical chopper to Darwin."
My heart went the same way as my sphincter.
"Is there anywhere smaller to surf?" I asked. They looked at me as if I was mad, "No, mate. That's why we're here."
So I had to put on my big boy baggies and go for it. That's all you wear, surfing the tropics: a pair of baggies and booties to protect your feet from the reefs. A rip current from a channel in the reef made getting out easy. Only then, at the backline, I realised I was in serious trouble, out of my depth in every which way.How to get back to land? The swell was massive - and crowded. The only way out was to catch a wave, ride it 'til it broke, then belly-surf the foamie over the reef back to the beach. I waited and waited until what I thought was a smaller wave thundered up. I paddled for it. The wave snatched me, thrust me up its face like a rocket, then spat me off its lip over the falls, into a free-fall straight down to the reef, which was covered in only shin-high water.
FLYING SQUIRREL
I spread myself out like a flying squirrel hoping to lessen the impact and maybe be cushioned by the thin layer of water. I must have blacked out briefly when the monster slammed me down onto the reef. When I came to, I was floating on my back in the shallow water - completely naked.
My baggies, booties and the leash attaching me to my board had all been ripped off. I was - astonishingly - unscathed, not even a reef scratch. The missing goods were bobbing close by, my board also miraculously unbroken. I gathered them and my dignity and dashed for the beach.
A wizened local fisherman mending his nets, guffawing, his mouth filled with gaps, hailed me over. "This," he said, "is Reef of Iron. No good old man surfing."
THAT OLD TOPPIE
I couldn't face my fellow campers just yet, discretion being the better part of valour and all that. So I headed down the beach to where some South Africans I'd met earlier were building a surf camp. I'd hoped they'd been too busy working to see what had happened. No such luck.
"Yissus, bru," said one, handing me a cold beer, "Did you see that old toppie's spectacular wipe-out. Bet he's on the medic chopper out of here." A pause. Realisation stuck, "You! That was you!" They flashed up a braai to celebrate my survival.
After that, for the rest of my stay, I hired a scooter with homemade board racks and surfed a much smaller break on the far side of town. With age, comes wisdom.
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