It’s 5:30 am when I descend the stairs of my lofted cabin. A bright, half-moon still hangs from the sky, but the faint glow of the creeping dawn is already stealing the lustre of the stars. Ambling along a sand track, neatly bound by parallel lines of coconut husks, I pass the roughly made shacks of the local families. Here on Masokut Island in the Mentawai chain, they make a living; fishing, processing cloves for Gudang cigarettes and trading coconuts. Of course, since the early 2000’s surfing has become an important player in the local economy.
I squint towards the waves rumbling across the reefs on the lagoon’s outer edge. It’s too early to really see what the swell is doing, and I wonder what hollow treasures the day will bring.
The track leads to the main ‘Uma’ (Indonesian house), which serves as the epicentre of activity at Hidden Bay, Resort. This super-sized version of the UMA is three stories high and features sturdy, log pillars, smooth wooden floorboards that feel the contours of your feet, and a traditional thatch-weave in the roof. It’s grand designs Indonesian style. “I built it from scratch,” Alex, the resort’s owner had boasted with a proud smile peeling across his sun-bronzed face.
When I reach the Uma’s main deck, the resort is already rumbling to life in anticipation of the forecasted waves. Alex strikes the large gong hanging from a rafter to signal it’s time to mobilise. Nine of the guests are prodigious grommets competing in a barrel riding event. A tube duel in the tropics where the best, hollow ride wins. As Alex whacks the gong with wide-grinning pleasure, the wave warriors scramble to get ready, appearing on the deck with a favoured ride under the arm and a pair of boardshorts in the other.
Scott, the bearded, spartan trainer leads us through a ten-minute warm-up routine before we snatch at fruit, coffee and crackers and load our gear onto the surf boats. Breakfast can wait when the waves are on. Soon the bow of our narrow, wooden boat is spearing through the cross-chop; the whirring acoustics of the engine delivering a familiar soundtrack to the daily wave hunting ritual. Anticipation runs high on the smell of diesel.
Fifteen minutes later we arrive in the channel at No-Kandui. A single, roping swell grips the top of the reef, before funnelling down the shelf at unfathomable speed. The curling wave bends and breathes as it sprints across the shallows, challenging any contender to try and keep up. Our crew are more than willing, leaping overboard to beat the crowds.
Anthony Walsh is the first to stroke into one. He chases down a gleaming blue wall like a shark pursuing a fish, every part of his movement is purposeful, refined and predatory. A Go Pro camera is gripped between his teeth as he slides into the tube. He’s built a career around being a hollow wave specialist who invites viewers to explore the inner-most limits with his POV, camera trickery. A day ago, he’d told me he’d been inspired by George Greenough’s groundbreaking inside-the-barrel footage from Crystal Voyager.
Anthony Walsh at Kandui.
After Walshy blurs past me, I turn to see the hordes coming, leaping off boats like soldiers spoiling for the fight, hearts full of wave lust and heads spinning with cunning tricks to do whatever is required to snag a wave…. I know the mindset all too well because I’m no different.
As the armada arrives, the tube duel kicks off. Five grommets paddle out with a US $1500 cash incentive to claim the deepest, heaviest, longest pit. Four-to-six-foot Nokandui is a worthy playing field for their jousting. If the crowd disapproves of their presence they don’t indicate it. The groms have no claim on the lineup, they’re just four extra bodies in the water. It’s not an official event where the water is cleared; it’s more relaxed than that – ‘just paddle out and try get a barrel’. Best one wins.
While the prodigious groms forage for waves, an Ozi tube hound claims a howling barrel right under their noses; the wave moves at a perfect pace as he hooks in for the length of the reef. He’s wearing a hooded, long-sleeve rash-vest that makes him look like a giant-pelican as he slides through multiple sections. The crowd hoots, he’s the everyman scoring the wave of a lifetime – exactly what they all came here for. When he kicks off, we get chatting and he explains he’s from the northern beaches and has just arrived from Bali. The full-length rashie is a desperate measure to cover up after he got baked on a long, shirtless day of surf in Bali.
Jackson Dorian – son of Shane Dorian – is in the event. Way up the reef, he swings late and parachutes from the lip on his backhand. The laws of physics are against him, but he has the compact frame and balance of an Olympic gymnast, and sticks the drop, before swinging hard off the bottom and throttling into a gaping barrel. Favourable genetics, a father’s footsteps to follow in, and a few months-straight in Indo all help him hold the line. Eventually the wave clamps, but the seventeen-year-old’s self-confidence and apparent ability are startling.
Jackson’s ride is matched by a lantern-jawed, blonde American who stuffs his lanky, surf-honed frame into a roaring pit that never quite offers an escape. Later, he earnestly gives me the moment-by-moment breakdown of the ride. The barrel is the only currency that counts out here and people take it seriously. Later, someone tells me the guy taught Erin Brooks how to surf back in Hawaii. I don’t doubt the reference, given how confidently rock-jaw navigates the line-up.
Meanwhile, at the top of the reef a helmeted figure with a bulky, impact vest waits stoically for the deepest sets. He looks like some kind of surfing ninja-turtle. You can’t fault his commitment, but he’s working on the law of averages; hurling his frame over the ledge, happy to take horror wipeouts until he makes one. Between sets, someone explains that he’s a regular in the Kandui lineup, a rich guy who’s made his money and is now content to dedicate his days to a masochistic pursuit of deep barrels, most way beyond his ability level.
Further down the line, I’m humbled by a teenage girl from Cronulla who swoops on inside runners, sets a rail and masterfully navigates the racy walls. On a crowded day she is finding gaps in the lineup, stroking in purposefully and having more fun than most. Dad watches on proudly, wondering if there’s anything better in the world than riding a few good waves with his daughter.
Eventually the wind ruffles and the crowd swells. It’s time to return to Hidden Bay for lunch. Sated by a wholesome plate of fresh fish, rice and salad I stroll back along the sandy, coconut-shell path to my room. The fierce, mid-day heat stifles my pace and my muscles ache with the morning’s efforts. The air is permeated by the sweet scent of fresh cloves, which have been laid out to dry alongside the path by the island locals. Climbing slowly up the stairs to my air-conditioned room, I can think only of the coolness inside, the book I will read from and the slow drift into afternoon sleep… horizontal recovery before heading out to do it all again in the afternoon.
