FIRST-CLASS FERAL
Bad Odors and Great Rides On the Indonesian Frontier

For the rest of the week we dodged snakes in the jungle grass and continued to ride the wave, forgetting to even name it

But in true Aussie form, after a few warm beers, he began to show improvement. His ass was hamburgered and he was bruised so bad that he didn’t surf the rest of the trip, but at least he could walk. It’s frightening to think what could happen if something truly horrific went down. What do you do if you’re miles from nowhere and your best friend’s bleeding to death from a fin cut?

As swells are apt to do, the one we’d been enjoying eventually fizzled out. The timing couldn’t have been any better, as everybody was beat down, sore, sunburned, severely lacking a source of protein and in much need of a shower. Some surf trips seem to reach a natural conclusion, and this was it. It was also around this time that we’d planned for Boss to meet us in the tiny village. We were miles from any asphalt, street signs or 7-11s. But at exactly four o’clock in the afternoon on the day of our scheduled extraction Boss, cigarette hanging from his smiling lips, pulled into town with a convoy of cars behind him. Mud was caked up to the windows of all the cars. Boss explained to Travis that they had to be pulled down the muddy road by ox and that we should get going if we were to make it out before dark.

“I thought for sure we’d be waiting for a few more days,” commented Brett. “You know, taking into account Indo time and all.” Our adventure had ended. I had to get back to the magazine, and Micah had to get back for several contests in Orange County. Travis, Brett, Brandon and Ben were bound for the next phase of their journey, headed to Nias, chasing another reported swell that had been texted to Travis. Daniel was meeting a mate Bali, then, if he was able, hopefully heading to G-Land before jumping on a Mentawai trip. Conley was also bound for the Mentawais for a photo trip with one of his sponsors. Kicking the dirt and shaking hands on the outskirts of a sugar cane field, we loaded our gear into the vehicles, all headed in separate directions.

Back in the baggage claim department of Los Angeles International Airport, as I watched the six yuppified surfers wheel their board bags out of the terminal, all of these freshly made memories flashed through my mind. I guess we probably could have scraped together enough pennies to go first-class, but what fun would that have been?