Bali 1978

In 1978 I was a living, breathing affront to the work ethic. I was making some sort of a living as a freelance surf photographer and writer, but even that was little more than a cover for simply going surfing. The ratio of photography to wave riding, low at the best of times, was sinking as fast as my interest in the world of pro surfing. Somehow I just couldn't get with the program of increasing Coca-Cola's market share.



I had been on the road for about two years, covering contests, doing the North Shore scene and generally following the circus. Everywhere I went it was the same set of faces. It was as if I'd never left home and it all became so old so fast I couldn't quite believe it. The quantity and quality of the waves were some compensation for dealing with all those puffed up egos, but my heart wasn't in it anymore.



I had grown up with people for whom surfing was almost an act of rebellion. The media of the day put us in the same category as bikie gangs and I liked it that way. It gave us a distinct identity and despite our rough exteriors, I think we were good people anyway. So when the pro surfers I was mixing with started explaining that their secret dream, worthy as it may seem to some, was to make surfing "..just like golf and tennis" , I knew I was in the wrong business.

A three week "assignment" to Bali was the escape route I chose. Three months later, for all the obvious reasons, I was still there. It was late in the season and just about everyone had gone home. I was hanging out with some Queensland guys whose names I forgot a long time ago and a Kiwi or two. We were about the only people out there on bigger days so it made sense to go surfing together.



We had had a pretty epic run and the bemo was getting less crowded every morning. I think it was down to three of us that day. Three extremely brown, extremely thin, highly motivated surf maniacs bumping around with our boards in the back of one of those old style bemos with wooden seats along the side and a very necessary rail to hang onto. Whatever the surfing conditions the bemo ride was definitely the high risk part of the day. The road was adequate to the airport but as soon as you took that turn up the hill, where you can look back at the swell pouring into Kuta and the reefs around the airport, all resemblance to a real road was lost.

The tar was one vehicle wide with ragged edges and an infinite number of potholes. Dogs and chickens regarded it as their space and were extremely hostile to the intrusion of vehicles, but the real problem was on coming traffic. It was a point of honour to force the other driver off the tar and the closer the drivers came to a head on, the more pleased they seemed to be So we bumped and swerved up to that limestone plateau, intermittently harassing the driver, continuously waving to the swarms of kids that lurked behind every bush and speculating wildly about the exact nature of the surfing treats ahead.



If you've ever driven up that hill and looked back on a big day you'll know the feeling. The whole Indian Ocean is riding up the channel in thick long rows so oblique to the coast that huge left walls appear wherever it strikes a reef. And the ocean itself, bathed in the tropical light reflected from the limestone, is so blue. So blue it burns a hole in your memory that sits there forever.

But you lose sight of it quickly and as we did a moments silence fell over the vehicle, like a little moment of meditation to set our heads right for the day. It's a deep, weird feeling knowing you are going to ride good, big waves, off by yourselves, faraway from everything except the ocean. It was still like that then at Uluwatu and Padang Padang and everywhere else on the island with the possible exception of Kuta. The crowd, if it happened, was never more than a dozen and in this butt-end of the season, I couldn't remember when we had last seen that number in the water.

Nyoman Kopur, who had shared board carrying duties with his brother Made all season, was waiting at the side of the road. He must have only been about 12 that year, but he always set a cracking pace on the track and was relentlessly enthusiastic.

"No-one here yet Larwee, Padang Padang OK?"

No-one on the whole peninsula. Not one other surfer and a perfect swell that had to be at least 8-10ft at Padang and bigger again at Uluwatu. We slipped into step, marching down those narrow, thorn-lined paths between the fields of brown Bali cattle all the way to that sheltered bay where the boat sheds sit tucked up at the top of the beach . And when we arrived it was perfect. Big, blue peeling walls, no-one out. Everything you could ask for, except something indefinable. Perhaps the swell was a little too oblique or was carrying too much water. Whatever the reason, it was perfect but not quite that pitch of absolute perfection I had expected.

When I visualise it now it's the best looking surf I've seen in a long time but everything is relative and that day it didn't seem so great. So we surfed it and it was almost too easy. The last section that usually loomed up like the end of the world just kept opening up. There was no pressure and somehow its absence was more constraining than its presence ever had been. In between sets I kept looking up the coast to Uluwatu where set after empty set was peeling off Outside Corner. The tide was still too high but it was majestic anyway. I surfed for an hour or maybe two but went in long before the others and found Nyoman asleep in the deep shade below one of the fishing boats. So I slept too.

I woke up when the others came in. It was about two o'clock and the bemo wasn't due back until five. One of the drink girls, Made, turned up so we sat in the shade drinking cola and eating tiny packets of peanuts and cheap Indonesian biscuits until we had consumed her entire supply. We were all still hungry and I was thinking about Outside Corner so we walked back to Uluwatu. The closer we got the better it looked. The tide was most of the way down now, exposing the whole rock platform and the big peak below the cave was standing up and peeling half way back to Padang.



It's still the best I've ever seen it, ten to twelve foot, smooth as smooth can be and peeling with that absolutely constant motion that makes it a truly great wave. If you've never surfed it I suppose you might think it would have to be a classic barrel to deserve that rating but it isn't. It's not like Desert Point or G-Land or even Padang, it's a great big wide open face, sheer and steep but never really round. It's that great rarity, a truly rippable big wave. If I had lacked some motivation at Padang, I was ready to give this my all. The others, having just surfed for four hours straight, crawled into the shade deep at the back of the cave and went to sleep.



I walked out through the cave and made my way carefully across the rock platform. A few of the local women were collecting shellfish. They were the only people I could see. So I paddled out to what was probably the most memorable surf I've ever had. It would have been memorable if there had been fifty people in the water. One wave would have made it so. But there was nobody, not then, not hours later when I came in.



I love that wave anyway, the way it lets you drop so vertically out from under the lip and the way the bottom just curves so sweetly as you sit back into your turn. There is only one maneuver sequence that works backhand. Race the lip to the bottom, fade just behind the lip line, wrap your turn so it runs back onto the face then pull it vertical and crank harder at the top than you did at the bottom, then do it all over again. Five times a wave ? Ten times a wave ? Who's counting anyway? It's like a musical exercise, variations on a theme.



I've surfed quite a lot by myself over the years. There are still long stretches of coast in New South Wales where the biggest problem can be finding someone to surf with. I've never really worried about it too much. I go out anyway. It's like a little purity test. If there's no-one there, the only reason to do it is because you love it for itself, for its intrinsic value. There's no competitive element, no ego, just you and the waves. And I've surfed Outside Corner almost as good once or twice over the years. It's always the same, as soon as I take off the whole thing comes back to me, the basic rhythm. It's always crowded these days but somehow it never matters that much. I get a few waves and they make me very happy.

I don't have many ambitions left in surfing but I think that maybe I've got one more perfect session in me, by myself, somewhere down the road. But then again, maybe I was lucky to even get that one.