by John Greet
At one forty-five, I drove to the prison as instructed and waited for a few minutes at a warung, watching the second hand on the watch I carried. At the rice paddy, I kept my motor running and unclipped the helmet to hand it to whoever would be arriving. I looked up at the guard tower: a uniformed guard sat inside, cradling an automatic rifle and watching television. I could hear the sounds of the actors’ voices and the dramatic music that accompanied the local soap operas. A farmer rode towards me on a bicycle. He wore a straw hat and carried a load of freshly harvested grass on his carry tray and handlebars. He made eye contact, nodded and rode past me. Something huge almost knocked me off my bike suddenly. It shot past my face like a flying trapeze artist and landed in the rice paddy, causing such a thud and splash that the ground moved beneath my bike and I was showered with a fine spray of mud. Then a figure, covered in grey paddy mud, like some apparition from a horror movie, emerged from the shallow water beside me. A hand went up and wiped the mud from the face. I knew the grin. It was Geno. I shuddered. Panic gripped me. I looked up to see that the guard was still absorbed in his television. I looked all around. Nobody had seen us. There was no one else there except for the disappearing farmer who couldn’t have seen Geno. Before I could open my mouth, he was on the passenger seat, pulling on his helmet. ‘Go man! Drive!’ he said. I hesitated, shocked into stillness. ‘For fuck’s sake, go!’ hissed Geno. We drove away from the prison towards the main road.
‘Back streets, man, take the alleys. You know the way. And don’t go too fast.’
‘Where are we going?’
‘To the beach by your hotel, man. I need to pick up my money. And don’t worry, I got a plan – that was best jump I ever make,’ he said in an ecstatic voice. ‘I tell you, man, if I’d made that jump in the Olympics I woulda got gold.’
‘You pole vaulted out of the prison?’
‘Exactly, man, exactly.’
‘How many people saw you?’ I asked in panic. I’d almost slowed the motorbike to a halt.
‘Keep driving, man. Not one of those motherfuckers saw me. I jump from behind the cell block. The only thing I left there is a piece of bamboo. They won’t know I’m gone until tomorrow, while taking head-count. Now, for fuck’s sake, drive, man, drive.’
‘I can’t take you to the hotel.’
‘Take me to Jimmy the Fish’s hut, and go get my money and bring it to me.’
I drove around the airport road, figuring that would be the least likely route to run into anyone we knew. The fierce onshore wind caused people to keep their heads down. I pulled up at the end of a track leading to Jimmy’s hut. The place was abandoned, as were several other fishermen’s huts in the dunes, all of them vacant on account of the weather, their boats pulled high above the waterline. I pushed my bike in behind some scrub and walked with Geno.
‘I’m fucking free, man. I did it. Every day I was training, man, to jump straight over the wall.’ Geno made a motion with his hand like a bird taking flight. ‘Like a fucking bird, man, like a fucking Olympic bird.’ When we entered the hut, his euphoric mood turned serious.
‘Okay, so far so good, but I have to get off this island quick. Now go get me the money and come back, like you taking a walk along the beach, okay? Then I tell you what we gonna do next.’
‘Geno, I can’t help anymore. I can’t do this. You have to get that into your head. I have my job, my family, and I can’t be involved in this shit. Please, man, let me out of this.’
‘Okay, okay, I understand.’ Geno flashed me a twisted smile as his green eyes zeroed in on mine. ‘Listen up, man, this is it. This is payback time, so do this small little thing for me, and you done, Adam. Do this, and you don’t owe me no more.’ I could still smell the rice paddy mud on him.
‘Now just get my money.’
I drove back to the still-empty Sandika. In my room, I dug out Geno’s money, tossed it into a beach bag, changed into shorts and a T-shirt and walked along the wind-torn beach, sand whipping my eyes. I found him huddled in a corner of the hut. He’d washed himself off and looked clean. He set his green eyes on mine once again and said, ‘Adam, man, now here comes the next thing you must do for me. If you help me, I live, man. If you don’t help me, I die by firing squad. You know that, right? The only way off this island is by boat, your boat. I got it figured. You know the jerrycans we use when we go out, yeah? I gonna need sixteen of them, full of gas and inside the boat. I gonna need Paolo’s and my surfboards, and I also need you.’
‘What? I told you, I’m out.’
‘You owe me, man. You gotta take me over the reef.’
I yelled above the roaring wind, pointing at the reef, ‘Look! Look at the size of those fucking waves! Have you ever seen them that big?’
‘Yeah, they big. I been looking at them, looking hard, and here’s what I figure. We stack the jerrycans up front, to give us weight in the bow. We don’t try to go over the wave, we go through it. We gonna come out the other side, trust me, man.’
‘And another thing, everybody will see us,’ I added, trying to think of anything I could to convince him of the madness he was suggesting.
‘I thought of that too, you know. We can get those straw hats that the local fishermen wear, the ones they tie on with white cloth. We gonna be fishermen going out for the night. Also we leave just at sunset, when it is hard to see and the waves are smaller. With this wind, nobody gonna be on the beach anyway.’
‘So you take the boat. What about me?’
‘Ah, that one easy. Once we over, we go along the beach, past the reef. You take Paolo’s surfboard and paddle in. It’s gonna be dark, man, so no one see you. Dump the board and walk home.’
‘Where will you be heading with the boat?’
‘G-Land, in Java. If I take it easy I can make it. Gonna sink the boat offshore, paddle in on my board and mix in with the surfers.’
I knew about the isolated but popular surf spot of G-Land in Banyuwangi province. I have heard many of our resident surfers speak of it. The thing Geno’s plan had in its favour was that all the local outrigger fishing craft looked the same. He had put a lot of thought into it, and so far nobody except Putu knew of my involvement in it. By moving quickly and using our spare Land Rover, I was sure I could get all the necessary stuff into our outrigger without being seen. The boat lay at the water line in front of the Sandika, so I could launch it easily on the incoming tide. I tried to think of less dangerous alternatives. There weren’t any. Geno had thought it through. If we had to get the boat out, then crossing the reef was our only option. We had to find a way through those waves. We couldn’t take the boat along the beach; it was way too heavy to transport, and if we tried by water the reef would form a horseshoe that came ashore further along the beach. What caused my throat to dry up every time I looked towards the reef was the size of the waves. Geno had picked the worst possible day to make his break. If the boat capsized, we would both be cut to shreds on coral and our chances of making it in alive would be slim.
‘I know, man, I know what you thinking, and I really sorry. I sorry for every fucking thing … For you, for Paolo, for the whole fucking thing!’ He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. ‘In prison, man, when you show me the photo of Paolo, I want to kill myself. I don’t care to live, and I don’t care about anything, but slowly I come back. A couple of things change my mind. You, man. Because you give a shit. And one more thing. I got something I gotta do, and after that I don’t care anymore what happen to me.’
‘Geno, you’re on your own. I’ll help you get the boat into the water, but I’m not going to do it. No amount of money is worth dying for. I’ll pay you what I owe you, but you can’t ask me to do this.’ He looked as if this was he answer he had been expecting. I thought of Janna; we would soon be sitting in our favourite warung and spending the night together.
‘Just listen, okay? I understand, but if you do this you are free. Free of me, and you won’t owe me nothing.’
‘No, Geno, you listen to
me. I’m not doing it.’
‘You know what this means?’
‘What?’
‘I gonna get caught, man. There’s no other way off this island.’
‘I know, I hear you, but this is your shit. I’ve done all I can for you. I didn’t do the coke thing, Geno! I wasn’t involved in that shit. You screwed up, not me, and to be honest with you, I still don’t really understand why I’ve helped you until now. I’m over it. I’m not going to get involved any more than I already am. I’m going to launch that boat for you, and then I’m out of here.’
‘Okay, okay, I hear you, man. You want to do it like that? But you should think about what gonna happen to you and Putu when I get caught? You think about that, eh? What they gonna do to you, man? We gonna be in that police cell together, man.’
I looked into his eyes, and for the first time I understood: I was caught in his trap. Yes, he would give me up. He’d do anything to save himself. He had me by the balls and he knew it. There was nothing in Geno: no friendship, no warmth, no empathy, just cold calculating self-preservation. Why hadn’t I seen this before? Or had I, but refused to acknowledge it? Or was it because Paolo wasn’t there to reign him in anymore? In Geno’s eyes I saw the same look the leopard cat had flashed me before it’d made its final dash for freedom. Geno broke our gaze and turned away.
‘Now you got it, eh? So let’s move it.’
* * *
I returned to the Bali Haj and told my head chef that he would have to cope without me as I had an urgent matter to attend to. I wanted to send someone over to Janna’s to tell her I wouldn’t be coming tonight but didn’t have time. I would get this thing done quickly, be shot of Geno forever and explain things to her later. Back at the Sandika, the grounds were deserted. I had to fight against the wind to strap the surfboards across the outrigger. I took the Land Rover and made four different gas stops so as not to attract attention; these I carried two by two to the boat and secured them up front with ropes. I then bought fisherman’s whites and two straw hats for myself and Geno at an out-of-the-way hardware shop. I also stocked the boat’s hull with a supply of tender coconuts, dried fish and anything edible I could find in the coffee-shop kitchen, plus a hand-held compass and sea chart from the tour offices.
I went back to the hut an hour before sunset and sat with Geno. I listened to him prattle on about his plans: he was sure the money would get wet on the way into G-Land, but that would be okay, because he could dry the notes. He would mix in with the surfers; the place being so remote, the news of his prison break would not have reached them. Geno would make his way out of Indonesia through the group of islands between Singapore and Jakarta and buy himself a passport from a traveller somewhere.
‘How did you pole vault out? I mean on what?’
‘Four pieces of bamboo, man, connected together on the inside with four pieces of rubber engine hose. I sat there for weeks carving my bamboo and fitting the rubber. Nobody knew what I was doing, and nobody guessed they fitted together. Even me, I never knew it work, but I knew that pole wouldn’t break. Man, I sailed over that wall an arm’s length above the barbed wire. When I let go of pole, I push it backwards. The only thing those motherfucker guards going to find tomorrow is long piece of bamboo lying there. They ain’t gonna figure that one, man.’
As dusk approached, we padded down the beach. I looked back towards the hotel as we boarded the outrigger. Nobody was around. A quick shove, and we were afloat. We paddled a short distance out of sight of the hotel before we fired up the motor. The wind had dropped slightly. I looked out at the reef. The waves seemed smaller, but were still some of the largest I’d seen in my time in Bali. Geno took the helm. From his years of surfing the reef, he knew every protruding coral head and every submerged cluster of rock in the lagoon. He steered the boat through the darkening water, heading towards the airport runway. Once near the reef, we intended to work our way back to the main break by manoeuvring through some dangerous shallows. This would allow us to reach the crossing point without having to deal with the rolling foam, the aftermath of these monster waves; this way we would be less noticeable to anyone who might see us from the shore. It was a risky plan, but if it worked we could sneak up on the crossing and move into our chosen wave side-on, then swing the helm into it at the last second before it broke. Dusk gave us cover, and the wind muffled the sound of the motor. Geno and I wore our straw hats tied on with white cloth. The surfboards were tied out of sight.
We soon lay close to the reef. The boat buffeted and swung in the eddies and foam. I took the helm. Geno braced himself in the bow. With a nylon rope, he’d tied two jerrycans full of gas together like saddle bags. He kept one eye on the waves to our port side while his hands worked frantically tying the knots. The rip beneath us pulled us closer to the crossing. We had to move soon. Massive waves pounded onto the reef as they broke, their noise deafening, their spray stinging our faces. We rose over them, bucking and weaving. I looked down and saw the jagged coral heads reaching out like black claws. I held the helm with one hand; the other gripped the throttle on the outboard, ready to jam it full on.
Seeing these waves from the shore had not given us the real picture of their size. As we sat below them on the outrigger, they rose like humongous walls of black water, the size of large buildings. They peeled away from the port side. The white water at their peak, illuminating their height, was whipped by the wind into a fine back spray. The water beneath us shifted wildly. I steadied the boat as best I could. We had to make our run now. I screamed at Geno. He raised his palm.
‘Wait!’ I saw his mouth move. I was deaf with fear. I felt myself weakening and wavering. My nerves caused me to shake. It began in my hand and crept up; I feared my trembling arms wouldn’t be able to control the helm. I felt myself being gripped by an icy paralysis.
‘Now!’ Geno yelled. The command brought me to my senses. I jammed the throttle full on, dug the helm in deep to make the outrigger turn. We motored sideways along the wave. We rose higher and higher, still breached. Then without waiting for Geno’s second order, I swung the helm. It took every bit of my strength to bring the outrigger around. She turned head on into the black water. My fears were realised. Instead of going into the wave as we had intended, the bow rose up. Within seconds, the outrigger canoe became almost perpendicular. The bow where Geno clutched on hovered directly above me. The outboard motor revved uncontrollably, its propeller out of water. The tender coconuts I’d put in the hull poured out like deadly missiles. One smashed into my shoulder, and another hit the side of my head. I braced myself into a crossbeam with one arm and tried to push the outboard into water with the other. Then, just as we were about to lose control, our bow came down. Racing water submerged us. With the boat underwater, I held desperately to the crossbeam. Within seconds, we popped out the other side of the wave, as if a hand had reached in and pulled us out. I wiped my eyes and looked towards the bow. Geno was gone. The wave had swept him away.
I looked ahead; another wave lay in my path, as large as the last. The motor had died underwater. I had to start the motor. I pulled the start cord. Nothing. I pulled again and almost ripped the cord out of its socket. The spark plug was wet. I ripped off the rubber cover that housed the plug and blew hard on it as the boat rose on the fast-moving wave and began to breach. I couldn’t deal with that now; I would have to get to the helm later. I had to focus on starting the motor now. My life depended on it. I jammed the spark plug cover back on. The motor spluttered and started on the second pull. I now had forward momentum; I swung the helm. We rose high, almost too high. Then the power of the motor pushed the boat over the peak of the breaking wave with only seconds to spare.
I’d made it. I motored over the next mound of water until I was out of danger. I looked back, trying to spot Geno. It was too dark. The boat rose over another forming wave as I motored forward. Then I heard a voice, ‘Help, motherfucker, help!’
I looked forward and saw nothing. I brushed sea spray from m
y face and saw a nylon rope move. It was stretched across the curve of the bow. I scrambled forward and looked down. Hanging from the bow, Geno clung to the rope with his head out of water. Over his shoulders, on another rope, which was hopelessly twisted around his neck, hung two jerrycans. I understood why we’d made it through the first wave: Geno had jumped off the bow with two jerrycans hung over his shoulders and clung to the bow by the nylon rope, forcing it down through the wave. This had saved our lives. I was about to help him when it came to me … Here was my chance: I could cut the rope and be free of Geno. The rip would pull him into the waves, which would kill him. I knew that. I’d been there myself. Geno couldn’t get back on the boat without my help. He saw my hesitation, and he understood. His challenging eyes stared up at me.
‘You think you got the conyos for that, eh?’
A stray wave knocked us sideways, the sea spray blinding me for a moment, then I caught sight of him again.
‘Do it, motherfucker. Now’s your chance … You got me.’ He laughed. It was a mad hyena cackle. ‘I come this far, I suffer, I fight and I get to here, and now it’s between you and me, man.’ He laughed again. ‘So make up your fucking mind!’ A wave submerged him. When he came up, I had my arm extended towards him. He latched onto it and would have pulled me in with him if I hadn’t had my legs braced inside the boat. I managed to get him aboard. He fell into the hull, spewing seawater and gasping.
