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Uluwatu Surfing

Thursday April 27, 2006

Posted In: Indonesia | Comments: 14 | Written By: Kai Conragan

Waves peel through the Racetrack at Uluwatu.

The waves short but almost mechanical in their perfection. I’d surfed out there a couple times now and the waves were fun, indeed, they would have been epic back home. But they weren’t what I had come for. I looked further south and could just make out an explosion of whitewater at the furthest point visible. I walked back up the rickety path to our bungalow at Lynee’s, strapped my surfboard to the rack of my $4-a-day motor scooter, and headed off. The going was slow at first. The unseasonal rains had left the dirt roads a muddy, soupy mess.

Yes, in case you were wondering, I know I look like an absolute bafoon.

Standing on the cliffs that overlook the mythical reef of Uluwatu, I experienced a sense of disconnect. It wasn’t so much that I couldn’t believe that, after years of dreaming, I was finally here. The disconnect resulted from my mind attempting to put together two disparate images of the scene which unfolded before me, and my presence loomed somewhere in between. Long had I constructed a mental image of Uluwatu – magazine articles, photos, stories told from other surfers – had all been synthesized into an idealistic vision of a surfing mecca. Hawaii has long been the true surfers’ mecca, the place where a surfer must go to test himself against the power of the ocean as well as the legacy of those who came before him. But Bali – and at the heart of the island, Uluwatu- emerged as sort of a younger sibling to Hawaii, and what it lacked in grit and consequence, it made up for in mysticim and sheer perfection. It was every surfers’ dream to climb down to the fabled cave, it’s dark walls framing the perfect waves beyond, and paddle out into the blue horizon that awaits. Somewhere, along the rugged cliffs and reef-hewn barrels, a surfer finds himself here. Yet standing here now, the vision was blurred and finally replaced by what was before me: 40 surfers lined the 150 yards of lineup, and as I stood in the sweltering sun, two Balinese women approached me and shouted ‘t-shirts, you buy, cheap, cheap’.

The mysticism has died, but the wave remains the same.

A solid 6-8 foot swell was pushing through lineup. The outer reefs would come alive with whitewater, signaling to the surfers inside that a set was approaching. I made my way through the pack of surfers looking for, as I always do when it’s crowded, a seam in the lineup. Gone are the days when surfers took turns swapping waves in the lineup. There used to be, though it can still be found in lower profile lineups or on those rare uncrowded days, an unspoken knowing of who’s turn it is on the next wave. Surfers would fall into a rhythmic timing, guided by the pattern of the sets and pull of the tide. At a certain level that model can’t work anymore: statistically, on a good day at an average surfspot, there are more surfers in the lineup than waves. As such, surfers must compete—through skill and often times simple physical intimidation—to get a good set wave. While this competition can at times be healthy, it usually results in flaired tempers and, most importantly, mistakes. My strategy with this new lineup was to sit just inside of the main pack and let the alpha-male surfers jockey. I knew eventualy one of them would take off too far back, or not make the drop, and I would take the opportunity to turn and go. My plan worked as no more than 5 minutes later I found myself gliding into my first wave.

Mid-way through my session, as I was paddling back out from an earlier ride, I saw a set wave swing wide in the lineup. I followed the course of the wave, it’s height building as the reef grew shallower. The wave had gone too far over on the reef for the surfers back at the main take-off area. In fact, this wave looked like it was swinging too wide even for me. I turned and took a couple hard paddles down the face. The peak of the wave was quickly moving down the line. I angled my board sideways as I stood up, knowing I’d never make the wave if I allowed myself to go to the bottom. Turning sideways as the wave crested, I took a few quick pumps down the line and then ducked under the lip as the wave broke out in front of me. The barrel was tight at first, and I could feel the whitewater swirling beneath my board. I hung on for a few yards when, suddenly, the wave opened up and gave me a room with a view. I took a couple more quick pumps, trying to get my speed up, and with a last surge forward, emerged out of tube and drifted up and over the shoulder. Welcome to Uluwatu.

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