‘They didn’t rent off Ibu Ayu?’
‘Course not. They were lookin’ for the cheapest bikes.’
‘Yeah, right.’
The conversation slides on to surfing. When I was a kid the topic always coruscated inside me: the idea of unscoured coasts, unvisited villages, the wandering promise of adventure. Then, maybe on Namotu, something hardened. I got sick of the endless speculation that went with it, like: ‘You should’ve been here yesterday,’ ‘Lookin’ good for Thursday, Friday,’ ‘On its day.’
Better to live it, not to talk it. Better to let your surfing do the talking rather than your mouth. Dad had taught me that. But surfers can go on and on for hours and not bore.
I’m bored.
My eyes quickly assess the beer situation. The boys’ are still about half full. Shane’s is almost empty. I slip out of my seat and back to the bar. The difference between being a waitress and a hostess. Anticipating the needs of your guests, your boss. Not waiting to be asked. I look into the kitchen again but Kristi has disappeared with the cooks. I know what will happen, I’ll end up having to do the clean up later tonight, swaying on my feet from booze and weariness.
When I get back with Shane’s beer, the guys have warmed up, are now dangerously squeezing him.
‘So Shane, mate. How come you’ve named this wave out the front after yourself? When we were surfing up north this arvo and mentioned we surfed “Shane’s Sumatra” this morning, the local fellas didn’t have a clue what we were talking about. They said the right-hander out the front is called Karang Kepiting.’
‘Karang Kepiting?’ Shane repeats. ‘Never heard of it.’
‘What about that set up on the way to Padang? Supposed to be like a reverse Ulus. You know how we could find it?’
‘How you could find it? Get on a bike, take a map and drive.’ Shane leans toward the guys, ‘Once you’ve crossed the eighth river after the island, you’re getting close. If you get to Bintuhan, you’ve overshot.’
In my opinion, there are two types of surfers; those who tell – who by telling feel as if they have some power over their listeners, who can’t help but tell – and those who stay silent.
Shane disappoints. After a little more prodding, he explains exactly how to get there, exactly what tide to surf the reef on, exactly what wind, exactly what swell size and direction.
‘It’s fickle,’ he warns them. ‘There’s a good chance you’ll be skunked. If you like though, Penny can drive you there tomorrow.’
Shane pats his pocket, fumbles out a set of car keys.
‘Here. The fellas will wanna leave first thing.’
‘Sure.’
No doubt Matt’s unimpressed when he has to share his local with guys like these. They’re nice enough but young fellas’ tongues run quick.
Shane seems to me a little pathetic in that moment, bulk hunched over beer, currying favour with second-hand knowledge. And then he stands, challenges one of the guys to a game of pool. The one with the flirting, rum-black eyes. ‘Yeah, alright. Always keen for a bit of pool.’
Shane follows them to the table. There’s the clean crack of pool balls. The guys continue their easy, piss-taking chat.
‘Yeah, Rob! Sick one.’
‘Didn’t realise you were a pool shark, mate.’
‘What’s wrong with ya, Shane, beer’s supposed to make you more focused!’
Above Shane’s head, bloated bugs helicopter the lamps. He looks more than focused. His lips have thinned to a scar and there’s something in his eyes, something doubling and daft. I stand quietly. Watch him line up the cue, let it rest on the bridge of his fingers, test its slide. He’s three balls down. The guys fall silent, grip their beers. Shane jerks the cue. It smacks the jack. One of his balls spins toward a pocket then stops, a floss-line away.
There’s an agonising silence.
Shane’s fury swells the space, invisible, but palpable. And then he loses it. Snaps the pool cue against the edge of the table. Snaps it in half. The guys’ mouths paralyse in sneers of disbelief.
Shane turns on them. ‘What the fuck are you lookin’ at, hey? Hey?!’
The three guys are all shorter than Shane. None of them can stare him directly in the eyes.
The blond surf doll, Johnno, puts his hands up, palms out. ‘Nothin’ mate. We’re not lookin’ at nothin’.’
But Shane isn’t listening. The lines on his face are soluble as backstreet batik – in one instant distinct then rinsing soft as he moves into the light.
The guys back away, murmuring.
‘Might hit the sack now, eh.’
‘Not a bad idea.’
‘Wanna be up early for the dawnie.’
‘Yeah, for sure.’
Rob’s the first to turn away, pool cue still in hand, amusement in those dark eyes. Shane pins him with a look. And then sends a loaded Bintang bottle flipping toward the back of his head. It bumps his shoulder, bursts against the floor.
‘I asked what the fuck you were looking at!’ roars Shane.
The guy touches his shoulder, turns back around, slowly.
The three of them narrow their eyes like dogs.
Rob charges, swings the cue. It connects with Shane’s forehead. Shane drops to his knees. The other two guys kick him to his back. Kick him and kick him in the ribs and arse. Shane moans. For such an intimidating-looking bloke I can’t believe they’ve toppled him so quickly.
The guys are panting, with each kick they spit, ‘Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.’
I have to do something. But Kristi beats me to it. She’s running across the deck with a bucket of water. When she’s close enough, she throws it over them.
They stop, in shock. They’re breathing heavily. Water trembles from their lips, their eyelashes. Then they shake themselves off.
Shane moans again.
For a moment it looks like they’ll get stuck back in to him but instead, Rob delivers a quick parting kick, and then, without a glance at either Kristi or I, the three of them turn and head to their rooms.
Kristi already has Shane’s head on her lap, is turning his face from side to side and inspecting the lump rising red on his forehead.
I leave him with her and start gathering the empty Bintang bottles.
Tossing in bed later that night I think about how quickly Shane buckled. Did it have anything to do with the dukun’s spell? His temper turned so fast. After talking to the girls in the beauty salon I’d dismissed the possibility that he could have cut the fingers off that whore in Lampung. Perhaps I should have been more wary. Perhaps I should have listened to all the warnings I’ve had since I arrived. But you don’t listen to what you don’t want to hear. And I guess I have a hard time admitting when I’ve made a wrong decision.
57
My heart’s pummelling, matching a pummelling at the door. The dark is totally disconcerting – it could be near morning or still late at night.
‘Penny.’ The voice is unfamiliar.
‘Yeah …’ I stumble toward the door, clumsily tying on my sarong, pulling my sleep-pretzeled hair into a ponytail.
I unlock the door.
‘Hey Rob.’
‘Hey Penny. You ready to go?’
‘Give me five.’
Half an hour later I’m behind the wheel, easing the car up mountains, over landslides, around potholes. One of the potholes drops about four metres. A baby tree grows at the bottom. I can’t really recall Shane’s directions from the night before so I’m happy to be instructed by the guys. I caught Rob and Johnno’s names last night but the third guy, the one with the freckles, is named Andy. They’re all studying at uni in Adelaide but grew up on the Eyre Peninsula, an area notorious for its great whites, frigid water and heavy waves. They’re not here to muck around.
‘So is he always like that?’ Johnno’s in the passenger seat and his eyes take a pale, Vaseline slide from my face to chest.
‘I don’t know, I haven’t been working for him for long.’
&nb
sp; ‘What a hectic cunt,’ says Andy.
‘Yeah.’ Last night scared the hell out of me. And somehow, I don’t think Shane’s temper was even properly articulated. He capitulated too quick.
Rob echoes my thoughts, ‘I would’ve thought for a bloke his size, he would’ve had a bit more fight in him.’
I don’t answer.
‘Hey Pen, hang a left here. Let’s check this track,’ says Johnno. We cut through rice paddies toward the coast, end up on an empty black-sand beach watching glassy four-foot peaks. ‘This is us!’
‘Looks good, but it isn’t the reverse Ulus we’ve heard about. I’m keen for some reef,’ says Andy. ‘What d’you reckon, Rob?’
‘Whatever. Probably rather surf a reef.’
So it’s back in the car.
I’d forgotten about this. The maddening search. The way you can drive for an hour, check ten different spots, and end up back where you started. But today, I don’t let it bother me. I’m glad for an excuse to be away from Shane’s.
We check another few spots and then end up passing through a small fishing village. Smoke hangs above the bougainvillea and the wooden rooftops and there are trays of tiny fish drying in the sun. We stop at the village market for a quick snack then head on, mouths flushed with instant coffee and sharp with the tang of star fruit. The road peters out in a car park overlooking a bay.
‘Fuck yeah!’ says Andy.
It’s still no reverse Uluwatu but there’s a wave and it’s barrelling and it’s underscored with reef. The setup is unusual: a giant fist of rock is separated from the mainland by a twenty-five metre passage of water. The swell seems to be both pushing through the passage and around the rock, wedging in a heavy, fast right. We watch a few come through and it looks manageable. I might have had a crack, straight off the back of Fiji. Then a wave explodes over the rock and we all inhale sharply. A wedge jacks up, three times as big as any before it.
‘It’s just like Tchopes!’ Johnno jokes, even though the only similarity with Tahiti’s Teahupoo might be the thrill and terror of surfing it big. The other two snigger but don’t take their eyes off the wave; we’re all wondering if the reef will hold the size.
A perfect cylinder opens, big enough to park a garbage truck, or drop a donga in. We watch it curtain, reel down the line, and then spit, a powerful discharge of air and spray. The water seethes.
‘What the fuck’s that?’ Rob’s pointing.
‘What the fuck’s what?’ Andy’s squinting.
‘There’s guys up there on the cliff, fishing. See?’
‘Yeah. So?’
‘They’ve got their lines smack bang on the take-off. Look!’
He’s right, there’s a row of men crouched on the cliff above the wave; there’s the diagonal gleam of fishing lines.
‘Oh well. Guess we’ll just have to dodge ’em!’ Rob peels off his shirt.
Oh shit, I think, too nervous to appreciate the dark ripple of his abs. What if one of the guys ends up with his face rearranged on the reef, or with a fishing hook jammed through the back of his thigh?
‘Let’s hit it, then,’ says Johnno.
Without planning to, they time their paddle perfectly and end up out the back with dry hair at a rough approximation of the take-off point. The fishermen watch them. They watch the horizon. Behind us in the village, a local mosque crackles to life. Those shivery, keening Arabic vowels lift and seem to catch in the sea mist.
And nothing happens.
It’s as if the ocean has taken a long inward breath.
After a bit, I grab my sarong from the car, halve it, and lay it flat next to a tree. Next time I’ll bring a camera. If I had a good camera and took proper shots I could sell them. That’s what the kids do at Ulus, that’s what we did on Namotu. And it would be great to get some photos for the new website. But would there be a next time? If Shane threw a bottle at my head, there’d be no way Kristi would be running to the rescue with an icy bucket of water. Maybe the money isn’t worth it. Maybe it is time to cut and run. I’ve got enough to stay in Indo for a couple of months without working. I should go and talk to Dennis about it, maybe after I drop the guys off. They’ve got all their gear with them, so they’re probably planning on heading back to Batu Batur to find a new place to stay.
Out in the surf they’re getting impatient, bored. Rob disappears underwater, probably to check the depth. Johnno paddles closer to shore and waits for a smaller one. Hold your ground! I want to shout at him. It’s Indo, it’s long period, you’ll get got! But I hold my tongue. He’s too far out to hear me anyway. When a wave finally wraps around the rock, the first in a set of eight, they’re nowhere near where they should be for the take-off. Eight unridden barrels, from head-high to overhead, churn green and spit white.
And then the ocean starts to breathe.
Set after set curves around the rock and into the bay.
Although the first few are head-high, the take-off is still critical – a vertical drop, a quick race, a hand in as the curtain closes. Johnno and Andy are on their forehand, which means they’re facing the wave, but Rob is struggling on his backhand. On his first wave, he’s too slow taking off and the wave’s lip clips the back of his head and sends him flying, smacks him under. For a few horrifying moments his board tombstones white, then falls flat and he’s up.
Another few sets and they’re starting to read it, knowing exactly when to jump, pump, stall. They move deeper and now they’re dangerously close to the fishermen’s lines. In fact, Andy could just about reach out and touch one.
The next set is big and the third wave in the set is a bomb that cracks over the rock and swallows it entirely. Andy’s paddling for the horizon. A wedge grows: black, steep, and bigger than anything that’s come through this morning. The lip on it would snap a board clean. There’s no way Andy’s gunna make it over. He’s gunna cop this monster on the head. The top of the wave feathers. He starts to paddle up the face of it. Then abruptly, he swings his board. He’s going for it! He drops, vertical, and almost comes unstuck before the board finally connects with water. And then he’s enveloped. It’s not a perfect Indo barrel – far from it. It’s warped and rogue and gets bigger as it runs down the line. Andy’s inside for ten thrilling seconds then is spat out screaming high-pitched bliss.
That’s when the fishermen crack.
They’ve been composed up until this point, almost statuesque, patiently absorbed in the pursuit of pelagics, saturated in mid-morning sun. Now they’re on their feet, yelling, shaking their fists and drawing in their lines. They must think the guys scared away the fish.
Rob and Johnno don’t seem to notice. A small wave pushes through, but neither of them want it. They want a wave like Andy’s. They want a bomb.
The fishermen are moving in single file, marching down the ridgeline toward the beach. Andy’s seen them and he’s paddling for shore. I run to the edge of the water, shouting to attract Rob and Johnno’s attention, but they don’t see me, don’t hear me, they’re too far out. Andy puts his fingers in his mouth, loosing a shrill whistle. That gets their attention. He points at the fishermen. Rob and Johnno look lazily, but do nothing. It seems as if they’ll keep surfing. The fishermen are almost at the bottom of the cliff. They’re minutes away at most.
Just as I’m wondering whether Andy and I should jump into the car and leave them, Rob and then Johnno pick off small ones, race along the face, dive onto their bellies and glide the whitewater to shore. By the time they reach the car, I’ve got the engine running, the handbrake off and my foot quivering above the accelerator. There’s no time to strap the boards on the roof – they get thrust in the boot, spearing over the back seat so Andy and Rob have to fold around them. Johnno’s barely piled into the front seat when my foot falls and the car leaps forward.
‘Go Penny. Go, go, go!’
There’s a sound, like spit.
The back windscreen ripples, then folds.
We’re chased out by a blizzard of threats and rock
s.
It’s late afternoon by the time we get to Batu Batur. I drop the guys at Ibu Ayu’s. Ibu’s not around but Cahyati comes to the gate, smiling. I help the guys unpack and turn down Rob’s offer for afternoon beers, pretending not to notice his lingering eyes. They tell me they haven’t fixed up anyone for their rooms and are tempted not to pay at all, except that’d mean Shane would serve me shit when I got back, and they don’t want that. So they give me money for the rooms, the car hire and a bit toward the back windscreen. None of us have any idea what that might come to.
‘Guess I’ll see ya at Shane’s again next year!’ I call out the window as I reverse.
They crack quick grins then become serious again, contemplating the wax on their surfboards. It’s studded with white diamonds of windscreen glass.
58
As I pass the Circle K on my way out of town, I double-take. A man out the front lifts his hand. I almost veer into the path of a sand-loaded truck, nerves sparking. It’s Josh. Perth Josh. Boyfriend Josh. Josh is here. The truck blasts me. I pull over. Swing a U-turn. He looks totally out of place, red-cheeked and perspiring.
‘Pen,’ his voice, soft and loyal, lifts shingles of guilt along my neck.
‘Josh. What the fuck. What are you doing here?’
The whole thing seems completely surreal. To be pulled up outside the Circle K in Batu Batur with Josh standing there, my eyes full of truck grit, heart full of remonstration.
‘There’s something I want to tell you.’
‘To tell me?’
He doesn’t move forward. He doesn’t try to touch me.
I manage to stumble through the words, ‘Well, should we go for a coffee then?’ They sound stiff and awkward and formal.
‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Let’s do coffee.’
‘Do coffee,’ I think as he slides into the passenger seat. ‘Do coffee.’ Like I’m a fucking client. We drive in silence. At least if we were on a motorbike there might be some kind of forced intimacy. His chest warm along my back. A hand on my thigh. But then, I don’t know how I’d deal with this. And what is it he wants to tell me? Maybe he wants to tell me to come home with him. I start constructing the scenario in my head … not yet, I need independence, space. Actually, I have a lover. Actually, maybe we should be over. I’m flattered, I’ll say, I’m flattered you’ve come all this way for me. And I’ll mean it. And I’m terrified how he’ll react when I disappoint him. Then again, maybe he’s not going to tell me to come home with him, maybe he’s over for Christmas instead. It’ll be Christmas next week.
Troppo Page 16
