THE SURFTIME JOURNAL 22.1 SEPTEMBER - NOVEMBER 2023

SURFTIME THE JOURNAL

ULUWATU: WHAT IS LOVE?

SUPERGROMS: AMBITIONS WILL RISE

RIO WAIDA: A ROOKIE YEAR

SIMON DOBBY: INSIGHT OUT

CAUGHT INSIDE # 129

Caught inside indeed. One look at this photo, the contents caught inside the stomach of our local sea turtles, and Surftime realizes that our work is not done. Not by a long shot. Sure, our magazine is here to cheer things up, to promote Indonesian surfing, to expound on the paradise that is our surfing lives here in Indonesia. But we also must never shirk our responsibility to remind one and all that paradise comes at a price. A price that we are not paying. We are stealing from the ocean. We realize how tiresome it is to be scolded about the environment and what we must do to keep it healthy. We realize this. But just look at this photo again. Take a good long look. Would you want that in your stomach? In your children’s stomachs? We surfers take so much pleasure from the ocean yet we do so little to protect it. And we, us surfers, are the front line. And yet we are so useless, letting the enemy pass through our ranks without a fight. But remember, the whole concept of us saving the

world is a false one. The world does not need our help. It just needs us to get gone. Think about it. Our world has survived ice ages, catastrophic events, giant meteor strikes, die offs…and yet it survives through the millennia. Just on a different time scale. The Amazon forest being destroyed? What’s that to the earth? As soon as we are gone, it will rebuild and regrow, but all in its own time. And that is the point here. What about our time? When we pollute we are not destroying the earth, we are destroying our ourselves. Our time. So take a good look at what is happening to just a single species of the sea. The way things are going, you’re not far behind. The question is, as usual, what the hell are you going to do about it?

Here’s a start: https://sungai.watch/pages/about-us Do something. Do something now.

-Matt George, Editor-in-Chief

Cover photo: Bronson Meydi blasting off a Keramas ramp. The only way to get out of a radical position is to put yourself there in the first place. Photography by Pete Frieden.

The Uluwatu express. Sweet dreams are made of this. Photography Jason Childs

ULUWATU:

Rebirth

At The Temple Of The Last Stone

By Ella Boyd

Uluwatu: the rock at land’s end, the wave at the edge of the earth. There is a divinity here. The ground is littered with palm-leaf trays of flower petals, smoke curling up from sticks of incense. Towards the sky, the temple on the cliff forever reaching towards the spirits. Balinese tradition floats melded in this sweet, clean air.

Like a shaman’s journey to the lower world, surfers make slow descents to glistening waves, growing more and more hollow as coral peeks out. Coral, alive atop lava which was once a molten layer of death and destruction. Reef, which has birthed the perfect waves beckoning people to experience their magic. Life and death and destruction leading to creation. Life is illusion, these cycles are eternal. Somewhere beyond these births and deaths and rebirths is a merging with the universe.

I join them, happily tied down by the promise of physical pleasure just beyond this cave. The reef’s silvery pools reflect the lights of warungs and the people in them, spanning from across the world, gathered here to watch the speed and power and flow drawn across these perfect lines stretched out to the horizon. The long rides of the outside peak. The inside peaks, and especially the predictable rides of temples, lineups held down by locals and grey-haired men in white Bintang shirts. The hollow, winding tubes of Racetracks. The fight for the drop, the comforting and thrilling and seemingly never-ending energetic pockets.

Cement stairs twist down to the cave, past GoGo mending a ding in his colorful repair shop, past the open-air room full of surfers hunched over computer screens gazing at their newest shots, past two workers grinding dust from a roof. These stairs guide our methodical march. My thoughts are not with these people. Right now, I think only of the monkeys jeering down from rooftops, the crabs skittering back into their cave holes. The lefts racing by through the opening beneath us. This journey encompasses mind and body, it is impossible not to be present in a place so demanding of one’s full attention. There is no need for prayer. We are breathing in, letting the golden light pass through well-trained lungs.

Cutting though this serenity is the final jump to sand. Influencers, sculpture-like, flash faces into mirrorless reflections of their own plastic bodies. Groms dart through the crowd, hooting and jeering and bumping into tourist families that stand no match for the pure, unspoiled joy of boyhood. Girls sit together, laughing and fixing their layouts of sandy towels.

There is a darkness, too, threatening to jump out from the cracks in the damp, sharp caves. There is a defaced sign reminding beachgoers of impending foreign development, cliffside. Kids with sugar mouths and grimy hands. Vendors seated on colorful rugs, weaving hats with knitting needles, watch with silent eyes.

Master of the Uluwatu Universe, Alik Rudiarta, feeling the racetrack rush. Photography Trevor Murphy

Evidence of the only mechanized surf community in the world. Photography Ella Boyd.

Made Lana, an unquestioned leader. Photography Trevor Murphy.

ULUWATU:

I walk through it all. The cave is quiet even with the water’s frenzied movements. G. Wayne Thomas echoes through my head, I am once again reminded of Alby Falzon’s discovery of this place and its beauty in the ‘70s. Stop, Velcro my leash to my ankle. It has been quite a few decades since Alby and Steve Cooney and Rusty Miller’s initial gaze over the cliff and onto paradise found below; things are different now. Though no longer virgin, vines hang, dreamlike, connecting caves. The same waves reel by, still perfectly paced, hollow on the right tide, glimmering under today’s soft clouds.

It is no surprise this place runs wild with the lore of those who filled these sands with steps before: Ketut Menda, Gerry Lopez, Gede Narmada, Peter McCabe, Made Kasim, Peter Crawford, Terry Fitzgerald, Jim Banks. Some, of course, still surf here. Sometimes I look up at the cliffs and wonder if Jim’s looking down, watching to see if anyone’s riding his boards at Secrets. He claims he can’t tell, but I fantasize differently.

Immediately, I trip over a low spot on the reef. The tide is low, and as I stumble to my feet, Rio screams past me on a chunky wall, throws spray, kicks out. There’s chatter all around us, fast mouths and slow footwork across sharp ground. This is another normal day; Rio is calm, doesn’t talk much, doesn’t smile. I saw him win the Sydney Surf Pro in 2022 in Manly. He smiled then, the red and white flag catching the bitter breeze above his upthrown arms as the roaring crowd carried him across the beach.

I join the lineup and suddenly the ocean breaths, there is calm. The people in the warungs of the cliffs, usually the audience of the natural amphitheater, seem to pause too, as if in intermission. And then, rhythmically, lines fill in on the horizon and once again everyone is jockeying for position, boards stacking three, four deep, movements hectic and animated.

All of this is to be expected. Tides fill and drain, the moon waxes, wanes, disappears. Swells come up and they drop off. The cyclical nature of life is reminded to us by the temple on the cliff. And all of the life force in it whispers that while Uluwatu has grown busier and busier it, someday, will be quiet again. And so, the end of this day is not an end at all, even as the sun dissolves, incense sticks burn to ash, and the last surfer paddles in.

Amid the chaos. the simple pleasures thrive. Photography Ella Boyd.

Tumbling Sudiarta scrubbing off speed for the army of local photographers on the cliff. Photography by Thecnic Surf Photo.

Agus Setiawan as comfortable as only a local boy can be. Photography Trevor Murphy

Komang Yuda Kopral lining up the consequences on a day of consequence. Photography Thecnic Surf Photo.

ULUWATU:

ON THE RUN RIO WAIDA'S ROOKIE YEAR

It’s a dream come true for Tipi Jabrik and Tim Hain, our stalwart organizers of Indonesian competitive surfing. Their Asian Surf Cooperative has been tirelessly fueling the growth of competitive surfers and competitive surfing in Indonesia and the Asian Region for 18 years now. And finally, the fruit of their labor in one man. Finally, the first completed year of an elite Indonesian competitive surfer on the global stage. Think of Tim and Tipi on all those countless windy Sunday finals days staring out into the glare of all those exotic Asian locations. As far flung as the Maldives, Taiwan and India. And finally, Rio Waida has done it. Ripped through a full year on the WCT tour with class, enthusiasm and without missing a single event. Showing up fit and ready, surfing hard and clean and smart in every ocean served up to him. Never mind the unlikely rising star of an Indonesian surfer, and never mind the incredible sight of an Indonesian surfer in a full wetsuit, this would be a proud rookie year for anyone on the planet. Just look at the numbers.

Billabong Pro Pipeline 9th, 3,320 points, Defeated by Joao Chianca

Hurley Pro Sunset Beach 17th: 1,330 points, Defeated by Gabriel Medina

MEO Rip Curl Portugal Pro 5th: 4,745 points Defeated byJack Robinson

Rip Curl Pro Bells Beach 33rd: 265 points Defeated by Barron Mamiya

Margaret River Pro 33rd: 265 points Defeated by Reef Heazlewood

Surf Ranch Pro 17th: 1,330 points Defeated by Griffin Colapinto

Surf City

El Salvador Pro 9th: 3,320 points Defeated by Filipe Toledo

VIVO Rio Pro 17th: 1,330 points Defeated by Leonardo Fioravanti

Corona Open J-Bay 9th: 3,320 points Defeated by Filipe Toledo

SHISEIDO Tahiti Pro 9th: 3,320 points Defeated by John John Florence

Total points: 19, 555

And never mind all the surfers that Rio defeated, just take look at the list of the cats it took to stop him. It reads like a hall of fame. There are two multiple world champions on that list, a single title holder and three potential new ones. Rio faced the best there has ever been. Kelly Slater, John John Florence, Gabriel Medina, Felipe Toledo, the list goes on. And Rio has put up almost 20,000 points on the big board. Not bad for a boy from humble beginnings on the shores of Jimbaran Bay. Rio Waida did it. And he will continue to do it. Clearly the man of our hour. An Olympian. A man who with the help of his team, and the belief of all of us, is poised to take his place in the record books forever. Do yourself a favor. Rio is our first. Tip your hat when he walks by.

Photography by Pete Frieden

ON THE RUN

Hopes and comparisons are becoming obvious. Could the American statue of Kelly Slater wearing the colors of the Indonesian national flag be a portent of Rio’s future?

A JEWEL IN THE CROWN

A MEDITATION ON 20 YEARS OF THE RIP CURL CUP

Photography by Nate Lawrence

Ziggy Mackenzie, 2023 warm-up session, carving out her place in the line-up and leveling the playing field with the men.

A JEWEL IN THE CROWN

As you walk down the old cut stone stairs to the most beautiful beach on earth, you feel a sense of pride, of glee, that the Rip Curl Cup did not run this year. Its motto is sincere and unlike so many other contests, honest. “It’s on when it’s on” is not just something on a collectible t-shirt. It’s a belief. And perhaps more this year than any other, it was imperative for Rip Curl to hold their ground. To wait for real deal waves in what is clearly the most spectacular surf contest venue in the world. The stairs, the ancient temple standing rampart over the scene, the troupes of wild monkeys, the off camber cave entry, cool and claustrophobic, that forces one to lose their balance and touch her black limestone walls worn smooth from decades of pilgrims hands. The opening to the blond sand beach and the impossible sight of a fantasy ocean groomed by the tradewinds. The great valley behind full of tangled vines and ghostly whispers of the spirits, the source of the very fresh water that tumbles into the sea and cuts the groove into the reef and opens up the small baylet that forms the phenomenal wave itself. You stand on the sand and shade your eyes and look out into the glare and just beyond the fishermen atop the stone spires with their bamboo poles, not 50 meters away from them, the ferocious wave that is Padang Padang steamrolls through. Is it such a wild call to know this is the most astonishing sight for a surf contest on earth? Where better? Pipeline?

Where you cower on a thin strip of beach with your back up against a row of million dollar homes filled with people who wish you would leave? Waimea? A wave that, as huge as it is, you can only see by risking your life standing in the unfinished gutter on the edge of a congested highway? J-Bay? No. Of course not. Maybe, just maybe Bells Beach, but the wave can’t hold a candle to Padang Padang when it comes to drama. So there it is. Padang Padang. Spiritual, exquisite, even delicate, until that first set roars through and the ocean and you yourself come alive. Here is where you find the belonging to Padang Padang. One like no other. And it is one that has been on competitve offer from Rip Curl for 20 years. And now, proudly entering the modern age, even making room for female competitors in their own separate division. A chance for women to belong too. A natural element in a surf tournament that has always been natural in its evolution. And so that pride thing come back to you as you stand on that beach. Pride in the fact that this is no silly contest to be held in blown out Sunday finals just to get it over with. This is a contest that demands waves that define a champion. Now both male and female. This is a contest with its chin up. Always. Whether the waves come or not. This is a contest proud to be different. Proud to be patient. Proud to be spiritual. Proud to be breathtakingly beautiful. Proud to be Indonesian. And, waves or no waves, that is where its power will always lie.

Local Garut Widiarta salutes visitor Mason Ho. For 20 years, the Rip Curl Cup has always been about international brotherhood and hands clasped across the seas.

INSIGHT OUT: THE SIMON DOBBY PORTFOLIO

Definitely one of the best people to have out surfing if you’re swimming around with a camera. Kian has almost supernatural ability in the tube, on the rail and in the air and in general just makes it all look fun. We always seem to get one crazy link up and this was the one from this session a few months back on the Bulan Baru Vessel.

Photographs and Captions by Simon Dobby

INSIGHT OUT:

It had been a long time since Marlon Gerber and I had been on a secret mission. This was in the middle of nowhere and this was the first wave he took off on. Marlon has those subtle movements and ease on the wave that always makes shots stand out, some natural footed Gerry Lopez grace going on. I got to share this wave with just me and him a couple of times this trip. The shot of him backside was a big day at temples during an empty Covid Session. Those were the days.

INSIGHT OUT:

Left: Did you get my shot? At pumping Padang Padang, privacy is impossible.

Above: Kayu foam dancing around the corner a couple of months back. This wave was featured in the movie Foamdance. Kayu is such an underrated surfer. Definitely one of our best ever. He makes the radical look clean.

BACK TO THE FUTURE

OUR NEW CROP OF GROMS IS GROWING UP

Western Hirst

Aggressive, Confident, Powerful

Homegrounds: Padang padang

Surftime Call: He knows how to apply his size to the power ratio needed for meaningful maneuvers. This kid is going to be one of our shining stars. Guaranteed.

Photography by Antonio Vargas

Phillip Duke Graceful, Smooth, Explosive Homegrounds: Sandbar Lefts Surftime Call: Phillip is a very intelligent surfer. He reads the wave on take-off and has a plan. Like a F1 driver, always thinking ahead. He will be deadly in competition. Photography by Antonio Vargas

Jamie Vaglio

Strong, Disciplined, Fast Homegrounds: Everywhere

Surftime Call: A real speed generator, this kid. And speed is the key to all great surfing. He also already has his equipment dialed., which is putting him ahead of the pack.

I

Wayan Apta Nata

Fearless, Stylish, Flexibleaggressive, Confident, Mentawai Trained Homegrounds: Any place that is pumping.

Surftime Call: Courage in the big stuff as a little kid has always been a signal that a boy is going to charge all his life. Get this kid a gun.

Photography by Paul Viney

Photography by Julius Wauwau

Strong,

Homegrounds: Beachbreak specialist

Kayla Tani Martin

Fit, Hungry

Surftime Call: This young lady trusts herself on a wave and it shows. Rarely wiping out is the sign of a surfer in control. Kalyla also uses her size to her advantage, smoothing out the bumps, making the rough edges of a wave look smooth. There is that trust thing again. Photography by Jon Tadashi

Clean, thoughtful, ambitious

Homegrounds: Hollow lefts

Surftime Call: Being born a talented goofy foot in Indonesia is a gift from the gods. And this surfer is taking full adbantage of it. Both her style and her power are in a crucial development stage and it looks like she is right on target. Photography by Paul Viney

Nala Rabik

Vertical, bright, ready Homegrounds: Anywhere

Surftime Call: Capable of fin bending turns when this young lady gets her power in line she pulls some of the heaviest turns of the young female crew. Her fins show on every maneuver and that means total committment. A rising star for sure.

Wild, creative, brave Homegrounds: Anywhere

Rahni Radita

Photography by Daniela Nikijuluw

Marshanda Nikijuluw

Surftime Call: To see this surfer racing down the line and setting up a savage cutback is a sight to behold. With this kind of aggression and courage, we predict an invite to the Rip Curl Cup in her future. Photography by Antionio Vargas

The fisherman knows not how old he is, but he is feeling every bit of it. He pulls the blue nylon anchor rope tight, knots and snugs it against the bow and then opens and closes both his hands a few times, looking at what his age has done. His palms and knuckles are as calloused as the pads of his bare feet. He readies his boat in the pre-dawn dark with the rest of the surf taxi’s. His friends and enemies all rigging and prepping and praying that their bastard outboard motors will work for another day. It is August and a swell is running and the day is sure to bring plenty of business. Surfers of all colors, faces puffy with sleep but with eyes keen as owls as they peer out into the darkness of the surf they can hear but not see yet out on the reef. He bends backwards with his hands on his hips and then stretches his arms toward the sky and breathes deep. It’s something his wife had him do a few times every morning. He opens his eyes and looks for her in the stars that are just starting to fade with the coming dawn. He knows she is watching and he sighs with a loneliness that he hides. An airplane roars onto the runway to the south. More surfers, he thinks. And they never get any older. He thinks about it. The Fisherman figures he must himself be in his mid 60’s by now. Still strong of back and taller than most and unbent, but with more aches and pains these days.

Mega Arthana, perrenial performer at the most overlooked perfection on the island, transects the sunset gold of life on the edge of the airport.

Photography by Thiago Okazuka

Top:

On what is Bali’s only urban wave, bordered by an international airport and the wild west surf town of Kuta, world class waves and rides abound within plain sight of the visiting hoards and veteran fisherman alike. Its just a matter believing that perfect waves actually exists in such close proximity to the madness. Sima Rai believing it on a midtide afternoon.

Left:

The boat driver and the timeless wait for us to get just one more.

Right:

You will always find the local crews treating Kuta Reef like their own private wave pool. The crew on their way to the machine like perfection in the middle of their hometown.

Bottom: With a sky full of clouds made for daydreams, cutting back into the energy can fulfill a few terrestrial dreams too. Sima Rai returning for more.

the best

IN PLAIN SIGHT

A friend whistles, another boat is ready and loaded. He walks over with the others to help push it into the sea. The surfers help too. It’s easy with all these strong backs. The surfers clamber in and his friend rips the cord once, twice and the outboard catches on the third and they are on their way out into the dark. He walks back to his boat. The eastern rim of the sky is blood red, like a blanket being lifted to light the stars are winking out one by one from east to west. The sky is purple now. His grandson arrives with his group of surfers in the big white van. His grandson now a guide for the Japanese. The fisherman’s boat is smaller than most. But more dependable. He likes it that way. Less room, but easier to handle, less gas and more money to go around. The surfers are so excited they look like fleas jumping around. The surfboards are loaded into the boat and he whistles and his friends come over to help him get his boat into the sea. The surfers help too, always in a hurry, desperately looking over their shoulders at the other boats filling up and striking out. The fisherman’s outboard, the new one, catches on the first pull and he adjusts the choke and then puts the spurs to her. The bow lifts and parts the sea and the surfers smile and hang on to anything they can find. The sky is pink now. He feels his way through the reef as he has done for 40 years. The medium tide helps. He steers with his foot and starts to prepare a handline and he looks back at Bali and the jetties and the airport and the skyline that is about to burst open with the sun. The salt spray comes in over the

bow and slaps the surfers awake and they smile and joke and run wax on their surfboards and gaze out into the sea. It’s a big group today and so the grandson is smiling too. His grandson smiles at him and the fisherman nods and smiles back. They round the corner of the reef and the fisherman cuts the speed and they glide for a while. All eyes are on the sea. The sky is yellow now with enormous clouds and you can see the waves with a few surfers bobbing and waiting for them. The fisherman cuts the engine and glides his boat expertly to his mooring, three algae covered empty plastic water jugs, and his grandson fishes the line out and ties off. That quiet that only a boat can give falls over everybody. Then a group of waves come in and the surfers see them break in unity and the surfers howl and smear sunscreen on their cheeks and dive overboard with their surfboards. The fisherman watches the waves march in and break in perfect unity hard against the freshening trade winds. The waves crack and hiss and roll and the surfers scramble toward them on their bellies like insects to sugar. His grandson smiles again, the tips will be good today. And then the sun bursts over the eastern horizon and the fisherman looks back and can see the first rays hitting the top of Mt. Agung. It is the start of another day on earth. Yet the fisherman knows not how old he is. So he baits and drops his handline over the side and watches it sink until the line goes slack, and he hops it up and down slowly as he waits and watches the shadows form on Mt. Agung, hoping for a coral trout.

Despite

conditions, most visitors can’t take the mid day heat and their heart stopping sunburns. But it’s all in an easy days work for Sima Rai.

Mikala Jones was a source of pride in Indonesia and Bali in particular. In honor of Mikala Jones tragic passing in the Mentawai, pursuing what he loved most, here is what the last look at the man was like. Mg,

Bali, 2023

Surrounded by spirits of the past in the remembrance center of the Bali cemetery and crematorium, members of the Bali surf community sat quietly in the pews, whispering and murmuring to each other in sorrowful sentences. The tragic passing of Mikala Jones had sent seismic shock waves through those in attendance. In one of the largest gatherings of the Bali surf community ever witnessed, they waited for Mikala to arrive. The ambulance turned through the gates and approached, and as it did, every soul, children and adults alike, stood up in unison and silence. The ambulance came to stop under the covered pavilion and the rear hatch was opened and all could see the white casket that held the mortal coil of their friend or relative or father or husband or son. It seemed like there was a hundred pallbearers that carried the flower festooned casket to its resting place in front of the congregation. And then the casket was opened, awaiting the time for the final viewing.

For long moments all that could be heard were the summer winds sifting through the surrounding trees of the graveyard and the soft songs of the colorful finches that called this place home. And tears. One could hear those. It was a very human silence that fell. Tucked against their mothers chests, not even babies in swaddling fussed. Looking around in this time of reflection one could see the family and every surfer of note, both young and old, that the island had to offer. Even Mick Fanning, just flown in, sat nobly and alone in one of the back pews drawing no attention to himself. And the gathering sensed this and gave him none. Everyone was bonded and equal today.

A very brave Love Hodel, close family friend of the Jones’s, who led the team effort of recovering Mikala and bringing him to Bali from the scene of the tragedy in the Mentawai, took to the microphone and handled the eulogy. He invited any and all to share their stories and remembrances. And as many did, with stories filled with laughter and adventures, it became fact that Mikala Jones was not only truly loved and truly respected, but that most of all, Mikala was understood.

THE ASCENSION OF MIKALA JONES

By Matt George

Mikala Jones, slicing through greener pastures. He wasn’t just a tube-rider, his skills included them all. Photography by Brad Masters

Understood for his drive and passion for getting himself into countless remote barrels. For his love of family and friends, and for his significance that came with both. Balancing his life on land with an overwhelming devotion and belonging to that rare place all surfers seek. Those barrels. Those impossibly perfect barrels. Seeking it time and time again until his time ran out. There must have more than just his camera’s he brought back into that most private of places for a surfer. That place inside those waves where human existence rises to another plane of existence, exhilarating and spiritual. A belonging that must be felt. It must be. For so many of us. And so it was for Mikala on a grand scale in a grand arena.

And yet the miracle of his satisfying this longing for these moments, lush with wild, ultimate thoughts, is that he shared it all with us. Here was an artist speaking to us in the silent language of images. Our secret language. A language flush with all the colors that lie between us and the deep blue sea. Mikala captured forever the Holiest of all surfing doctrines: life as freedom. Part explorer, part artist and all surfer, he moved through our world with eyes as mirrors. To him the waves he sought were bathed in the magical light of magical moments. Not documenting but reflecting, not taking, but capturing those breathless moments that are lodged in our minds as long as we live. That haunting that both liberates and enslaves us as surfers. Those profound images that inspire hopes and aching envies. Mikala brought to light that which we surfers most secretly like to think of ourselves.

That we are heroes. He beheld moments that even a mystic would crave. He put time in a bottle. Our time.

Such thoughts come to one when gazing upon Mikala for the last time. With he at rest in his casket, surrounded by friends and family and the fragrance of the remembrance flowers heaped upon his chest. He was one of us. Fallen yet remembered so completely, so sincerely, so well. Out on the grassy grounds of the parking area, the final touches of a huge paddle out in Canggu was being planned for the following day.

Later, with a multitude making their way out of the cemetery in a long line of scooters and cars, most carrying surfboards, the casket, attended only by Mikala’s close family, was moved into the cremation chamber and the final fire was lit.

One friend, Pete Matthews, was sitting in the passenger seat of his van for the first time in years. He thought it best if his girlfriend drove for awhile. And Pete turned in his seat and looked back and could see the smoke from the crematorium ascending into the heavens, whisping toward the sea, carried on its way by the tradewinds. And with eye’s welling, Pete wasn’t thinking of Mikala’s great ascension to heaven but of Mikala the man himself. There was no question that god had given Mikala uncommon gifts, and no question that Mikala went where they took him. We might live with our weaknesses, Pete thought, but if we are lucky, really lucky, we die of our strengths.

Mikala slaying the dragons in Java. His ultra wide angle perspectives belied the massive size of the barrels he found himself in. Photography by Jason Childs

A-LIST

THE TOM SERVAIS PORTFOLIO (PART TWO)

Photos and Captions by Tom Servais

Kelly Slater. How many times has he felt this high?

Bruce Irons on the right tool for the job at Giant Cloud Break.

Dave Rastovich, graceful and calm, yet applying pressure dynamics that would test any board.

Kelly and Kai, two celestial stars who have transcended into the mythological realm.

A-LIST

Kai Lenny and the kind of garage that is both the stuff of dreams and the stuff of dream makers.

John John Florence on afterburners during a visit to Eastside Bali.

THE ART AND SOUL OF ROB MACHADO

By Matt George

An excerpt from the new book IN DEEP: The collected surf writings of Matt George, Di Angelo Publications, 2023

CARDIFF BY THE SEA, California, 1996

Rob Machado is weeping quietly. He sits on his parents’ back porch, gently holding his eyes in the heels of his hands, his head bowed. On the table before him is a small portable stereo. He is listening to Beethoven’s “Moonlight Sonata.” I stand, looking out at him from inside his parents’ house. To my left, From out of the kitchen and onto the porch walks Corrina, Rob’s longtime girlfriend. She goes to Rob. He looks up. I can see her eyes and they look into his. There is an understanding. She sits on his lap and enfolds him in her arms, slowly rocking him. I glance down at a piece of paper in my hand. The sky turns blue as the sun reflects off the sea the trees that once stood tall stand in peace around me the winds blow as if it were its last day as I watch the clouds drift further and further away

It was one of the Rob’s poems that he gave me as a gift. I reach down, pick up my bags, and head for the front door. And for a few moments, I understand.

I had arrived days earlier at the Machado compound and was invited to stay while Rob and I worked together. Like most houses in Cardiff, California, the place was an open affair. Up on the hill. A back deck, a big backyard. Outdoor jacuzzi, no pool. Coastal cool. Lots of trees and plants that had been there long before the house was built. The kind of place in the kind of neighborhood where locking the doors when you went to the market wouldn’t cross your mind. I was to spend a few days with Rob during the Pro Tour break before his Hawaiian campaign. It was a much-needed rest period for Rob, having charged his way into world title contention once again over the past year. He was going to spend it re-energizing with his family. Despite owning two houses of his own nearby, Rob still stayed here with his parents when he was home. After seeing how close-knit the Machado clan really was, after seeing how warm and loving they are toward each other, I didn’t blame him one bit. Rob and I fell into a rhythm. Surfing when we felt like it, dinners with the family, a few errands here and there. By the time was I headed north on the interstate for home, I had learned that his was not as secretive a world as most people currently thought. I had learned that it was just a quiet one. And steeped in the aspect of a deep thinker. In the the isolation of a poet. In the loneliness of a musician and the ambitions of an extraordinarily gifted athlete, with no choice but to prove it all. I also learned that great music of any kind could bring him to tears.

For More visit https://www.diangelopublications.com/books/in-deep

HEART SOUL BLOOD GLEE

Mason Ho North Shore riased facing North shore power and glory at Bali’s Backdoor.

Photography by Pete Frieden

HEART SOUL BLOOD GLEE

Corok in a moment of delicate dance. It’s that front hand, like an acceptance of what is to come. A thanks. Photography by Paul Vinman

HEART SOUL BLOOD GLEE

Rizal Tandjung. One wonders if the spray we throw are as individual as snowflakes.

Photography by Pete Frieden

HEART SOUL BLOOD GLEE

Mattia Morri. It is his calm in the eyes of the storms that bring his mastery to a pinpoint at his beloved Desert Point.

Photography by Pete Frieden

ELECTRIC EEL A VINTAGE ECHO BEACH GROOVE

Opened 7 July 2023, Electric Eel is a new beachside bistro with an irresistibly homey vintage vibe overlooking the surf at Echo Beach in Canggu, Bali.

For Electric Eel, the latest venue by Bali hospitality favourites Tai “Buddha” Graham and Adam McAsey, finding the right way to reference the past was key. The design takes a nuanced approach, highlighting custom marble tables, amber corduroy couches, wood panelling, travertine stone touches, black and white stone chequered floor, artwork by Jakey Pedro, and an abundance of plants (including a hanging plant wall) for a subtle retro vibe.

“People are looking for something laid back, but polished and are finding it in pleasures from a simpler time, a golden age. We wanted to create a portal to the past, layering authentic references and furniture” - says Graham. Spread out over two floors, this 80 seat restaurant features a downstairs chefs counter plus dining room, and an upstairs coastal lounge with bar and terrace that is a true depiction of the urban island feel. The chef’s counter invites diners day and night to get a front row seat to the culinary action while coastal seating upstairs provides the perfect view for sunsets over the Indian Ocean with cocktails in hand. In the evening, the lights go down, dinner is served to the sounds of crashing waves from the beach below, and great bottles of world-renowned wines are opened.

CLOSE OUT: LOOKING BACK THE LUCKY ONES

My Khe Beach in Vietnam is not all that far from Kuta Beach. But in history it’s more than a world away. Especially in the early 70’s, right around the time our great surf in Bali was being discovered by the outside world. Surf was being discovered at My Khe too. But under completely different circumstances. The Vietnam war was in full swing. And it’s blood ran right into the line-up at My Khe. A beach that the western servicemen called China Beach. Think about the following the next time you paddle out.

From the Encyclopedia of Surfing by Matt Warshaw:

“You’d be surprised how perfect China Beach would get,” US Serviceman Larry Martin recalls. “The monsoon season was unreal, with huge waves up to 12 feet′”. For Martin, China Beach was a serviceman’s dream. “A guy’s been in the jungle for six weeks, tensed up the whole time, shot at, then he comes in and finds a surfboard. He paddles out and forgets about Vietnam. It makes him remember the old days in California. It didn’t look like you were in ’Nam, except for the lack of women on the beach.” To a lot of Marines, China Beach had the look and feel of the beach area at Camp Pendleton. If you squinted hard enough, the gun emplacements, tents, barbed wire, and sandbags might blend into the beach. If you could somehow ignore the gunships floating out past the lineup and the helicopters headed in-country, it might, just might, seem a bit like home. But these servicemen were never allowed to forget for any real length of time that they were in Vietnam; even at China Beach they were surrounded at all times by a bewildering war.

“I remember buying my first surfboard in Vietnam,” Martin recalls. “A nurse who was leaving had a beer party, and said she’d sell me her board for $80. We were walking up to her compound at the hospital to get it and as we crossed the landing pad these helicopters started bringing in wounded. Right in front of us they start pulling out guys who were all shot up. Medical people are running out with surgical clamps hanging all over their shirts, and they started jamming them into the open wounds, trying to stop

the bleeding. I was walking between the choppers and I couldn’t believe it”. Told to get out of the way, Martin picked up his board, a 9’6″ Surfboards by Phil, and ran across the landing pad as more helicopters swarmed in. He stopped and stood there with his new board under his arm and watched. “Here were these guys who’d been in the jungle an hour earlier, getting shot at and killed, and there I was buying a surfboard. When I got back to the beach the surf was about 5 foot. Offshore too. But I just sat on the beach by my board. Picking at the wax. I didn’t go out that day.” That’s how it went. China Beach was like Shangri-La, right up until the moment it wasn’t. One morning Martin walked across the airstrip and saw flag-draped coffins stacked in rows, waiting to be flown home. He saw Vietnamese war dead wash up on the beach. Now and then the “enemy” would infiltrate the compound with hand grenades. “We were out surfing one afternoon, sitting outside a few hundred yards. We heard rockets coming in and felt the compressions as they exploded. You’d see a rocket hit and count to four, then hear the sound. Boom! The Marine base up the beach was getting hit. Helicopters were trying to lift off and get clear, tents were collapsing and there were flashes from explosions. My buddy and I just sat there watching it all. All of a sudden the machinegun fire started walking across the water toward us. Some “enemy” on from the beach were trying to shoot us. We paddled straight out and stayed out of range for four hours until we heard our guys on the beach hollering that it was safe to come in. It was spooky out there; it was dark, man. Finally we heard our guys on the beach hollering that it was safe to paddle in. But we knew it wasn’t.”

No movie captured the madness of the Vietnam War better than “Apocalypse now”. And writer John Milius’s beloved Yater spoon represented both the madness of the conflict and the length surfers will go to keep the feeling of individual freedom in their lives.

The clubhouse. Within mortar range of the enemy.

A very rare China Beach Surf Club Patch.