Not Just Another Indo Boat Trip
Posted on January 20, 2007 @ 2:38 PM
Words and Photos by Will Henry
The channel today was dangerous. Between the islands is a distance of only two or three miles – not far, but the currents can be treacherous, especially when combined with such a big swell. Nonetheless Wadi assured Scott that they could make it across. “Are you sure?” asked Scott, not wanting to put anyone’s life at risk just for a good day of surfing.
“No worry, Scott,” said Wadi. He smiled, proud that he was undertaking such an important task. This white man was a frequent visitor to his village during the dry season, and Wadi admired him for his bravery and skill at riding waves. “The swell is awful big,” replied Scott, even though he sensed he couldn’t change Wadi’s mind.
Wadi had grown up in a village on a small island in the Mentawai chain, and had been taught to navigate by his father, a man with many years upon the sea. He knew the reefs well, how to read the color of the water, the ripples of current on the surface, how to run across the swell so as not to capsize the canoe. His father had faith in his abilities, and now, at age 14, he was entrusted to pilot the large boat, which he had crafted with his father after felling a large tree in the nearby jungle. The family had saved enough money to buy a powerful outboard motor, which made it the fastest boat in their village, of which Wadi was very proud. “It’s okay, Wadi,” said Scott. “We can wait until tomorrow.”
But he knew the decision had been made.
In the channel the waves were very large indeed. The wind was light but a big groundswell was running, and as it moved against the outgoing tidal currents they grew into waves of immense size and steepness. Wadi couldn’t remember a time when he had seen the swells so big in the channel, but he read the waves with confidence and weaved the canoe safely through.
Just 30 minutes after leaving the shore of his island, they drew near to the reef pass that would lead them into Katiet. Wadi could see the backs of the waves breaking on the reef, the place now famous amongst the white men, the place they call Lance’s Right, or Hollow Trees. The day was sunny, but a sweaty mist hung in the air and made the shoreline difficult to see.
The keyhole, an area of deep water next to the reef, was the only safe path to the beach. Wadi slowed the engine and steered into the keyhole, cautiously eyeing the swells behind him. There were no surfers in the lineup, no boats anchored in the channel like they usually were. “Must be too big to surf,” said Scott nervously.
Large swells were rolling through the keyhole and passing under the boat. Normally the reef would dissipate most of the swell’s energy, but today the waves were crashing heavily on the sand. After several minutes a lull came and Wadi revved the outboard motor. The boat’s bow touched the sand gently, allowing Scott to exit safely to the beach.
Wadi revved the engine in reverse to back away from the shore, but the water surged back violently behind him and the bow stuck in the sand. Suddenly the boat was dry-docked on the steep beach with a river of shallow current running down the sand into the next wave behind the stern. The boat listed sideways as it slipped backwards. Scott stood helplessly on the dry sand, just feet away from Wadi but powerless to help. “Jump!” he yelled, but Wadi was struggling to keep the boat from capsizing.
The wave behind him drew back and spilled onto the boat with great fury, and the boat pitched further sideways, fl ipping upside down and throwing Wadi into the water beneath it.
The surging wave leapt up the beach and Wadi surfaced next to it. Scott ran down but couldn’t get close enough to grab him. Wadi clung to the side of the canoe, desperately trying to right it, but Scott could tell it was futile. “No, Wadi! No!” But Wadi still clung on. The next surge pounded on top of him, flipping the boat over again. When the water ran back down the beach, Scott could see Wadi’s body beside it, limp and lifeless. The waves crashed again and again and Wadi did not surface. Moments later Scott pulled his body from the water, but the color had left his skin. He tried to resuscitate him but Wadi’s world had already gone black.
The following day Wadi’s body was returned to his village, where a service was held to remember his short life. His family accepted the news with sadness but no anger. His father spoke at the funeral, and said that the night before Wadi passed away, he had had a dream that Wadi would die that day. The villagers seemed to understand that it was his time to go.
Our boat arrives in the predawn light, dropping anchor in the dark water of the channel. The conditions are amazing: light offshores grooming deep Antarctic lines that have journeyed thousands of unfettered miles across the Indian Ocean to Siberut, the northernmost island in the Mentawai chain. We had studied the wave charts before we left – a massive storm system swinging around Cape Horn was predicted to produce the largest swell event so far this season.
The swell had apparently arrived with us – waves and surfers meeting halfway on their voyage across the globe.
We stand on the bow in temporary silence. A semi-conscious fog clouds my head and I try to rub the sleep from my bleary eyes, just risen from a careening bunk fi lled with jet-lagged dreams, an anemic rest from the channel-crossing. The sky is overcast and the air heavy with warmth and moisture. As the first set wave breaks on the outside section of reef, my companions on the deck point excitedly and make their predictions.
“It looks perfect.”
“It’s not too big, I think.”
“No, it looks like a fun size, shoulder-high, let’s get out there and make a few turns!”
We are a group of surfers from Santa Cruz and San Francisco, a loose-knit troop of friends that are all somewhere around our 40th birthdays, possibly approaching some kind of surfing mid-life crisis and in need of solid Indo barrels to cure us of any potential future tomfoolery. Most of us have never been to the Mentawais, but had promised ourselves that at some point in our lives, we would. We aren’t getting any younger, so let’s just do it before we can’t surf the waves properly anymore. Now we find ourselves staring face-to-face with a wave of consequence, and no doubt I’m not the only one contemplating my mortality.
As the first surfer reaches the take-off zone he turns and drops in. Gasps and exclamations erupt on deck from those remaining onboard. The surfer nearly free-falls down the face but luckily catches an edge and pulls up under the curtain. The wave is easily twice his height and we can see him racing the falling lip until he disappears into the barrel and vanishes from sight. A few seconds later, the wave spits forth a plume of mist from its innards and then collapses onto near-dry reef. The surfer still can’t be seen, but his board is tomb-stoning near where he had disappeared. Just before the next wave lands on top of him, we see him surface and then quickly disappear under the next wall.
Kandui is not a wave to be taken lightly at any size. Often called “No Kandui” because of the ever-increasing speed of its barrels, it is scary even at head-high. I have no idea what the name means in Indonesian, although I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised to learn that it meant “Man-Eating Reef” or something similar. Needless to say, at double-overhead, it is downright terrifying.
My stomach is in knots. My muscles feel flaccid and weak, no doubt a result of a twomonth flat spell at home and an overload of work, and I worry that my condition is no match for the ferocity of this reefbreak. I begin searching for a valid excuse not to paddle out. Fortunately some of my colleagues are of a similar mind. As the rest of the set pours down the point all but obliterating the handful of guys who try to ride them, excuses begin to pour forth like prayers in a mosque.
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