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Five years after Nias was first surfed by Peter Troy, Kevin Lovett and John Giesel, the rifling barrels of Lagundri Bay were still a kind of whispered truth. In this story Dick Hoole and Thornton Fallander go in search of the airbrushed right-hander, hoping to find a fitting setting to shoot a scene for Hoole and Jack McCoy’s work in progress ‘Storm Riders”. When the duo elects to travel overland and island-hop by boat, rather than run the gaunt- let with SMAC air, the trip descends into pure farce. It’s a compelling and often hilarious insight into the harsh realities of Indo travel just over 40-years ago. Dick Hoole thankfully supplied the original photos, some of them never seen before. Chasing empty waves all over the globe in search of classic discoveries in remote regions is not as romantic a quest as it first appears. We ventured deep into unknown areas to record our new movie Riders on the Storm, travelling to exotic locations inspired by visions of perfect point breaks, with mechanical precision and monotonous consistency. Framed of course by swaying palms. Our visions were pulled into sharp focus as Thornton Fallander and I arrived at Medan airport in North Sumatra, leaving the safe surfing sanctuary of Bali four hours behind us. The Garuda flight had transcended more than time and space when it depos- ited us in the middle of Medan’s madness. The experience of contact with different cultures had lost its appeal even before we left the airport.
We were hoping to connect with the daily flight to Nias but didn’t know that it was a nine-seater plane and that it was smart to book in advance. The flights oper- ated by SMAC airlines were fully booked for the next three days. Our image of a young, American ex-Vietnam pilot in the import-export business, our paranoia and the saving in time and money offered by an overland trip convinced us to travel to Sibolga on the south coast and catch a boat directly to the part of the island nearest our destination. That proved to be a disastrous decision.
Buses are the most common form of trans- port in Indonesia. They are cheap and they let passengers’ cargo ranging from pigs in baskets to market produce. Usually baggage fills every conceivable corner of the vehicle and people are hanging off the roof and windows. For the price of three tickets, a total of $600 for us both, the bus driver quickly ejected a middle aged Indo with wife and small kids, giving Thornton and myself two seats up front for the 12 hour trip ahead.
It takes six hours to get from Medan to Lake Toba. It’s a popular tourist spot as a result of its incredible natural beauty in contrast to much of the countryside of Sumatra. Toba is the centre of distribution for the Sumatran heads cultivated in these parts and it’s freely available in quantities ranging from an ounce to four kilos. And it all conforms to Government standards and price. After bouncing our way through half the journey the local herb made the remaining distance less painful. But other passengers had still managed to fall asleep, all over us and the guy behind looked like he had a healthy case of smallpox, vomit- ing continually over the back of our seats and over less fortunate passengers. It was a nightmare ride.
The view outside wasn’t too appealing either. Outside the broken window heavy black clouds indicated that our arrival had coincided with the monsoon season. The night skyline disappeared and rain started to seep through holes in the roof, forcing me to use my body as an umbrella to keep the camera equipment dry. I figured that without photos. No-one would believe what we were subjecting ourselves to. My visions of a tropical island with perfect waves and the blue water of the Indian Ocean were fading fast as we continued into the darkness.
The best thing the Indonesian handbook had to say about Sibolga was its location as a seaport with boats making a daily cross- ing to Nias. After a day spent searching the town for the Indonesian equivalent of a chiropractor to reconstruct our deranged anatomy after the bus ride, our one conclu- sion was that we could find nothing good to say about the place and the less time spent there the better.
Sibolga offers the last opportunity to change money and get a reasonable supply of fresh fruit, plus a few extras to add variety to Nias’ staples of rice, bananas and coconuts. I struggled with 20 kilos of camera equipment, tripods, water-housings and supplies. It was pouring with rain from the nightly thunderstorm as we reached our boat at the end of a wharf accessible only by clambering from one boat to another, over cargoes of unimaginable origins and aromas.
For an extra $10 Thornton organised a one by two metre cabin for each of us for the 12-hour boat crossing, which served as a locker compartment for the crews’ posses- sions when it wasn’t being rented out to dummies like ourselves. At least we had somewhere to lie down and Thornton’s fluent Indonesian was beginning to emerge as our greatest asset, as the four other western passengers and eight Indonesians crowded soaking wet inside the wheelhouse.
The captain and crew were arguing that their fare only included passage on deck and they and their belongings spent the night outside in the rain. Amidst the rock- ing of the boat, the noise from the ending below deck and the rain on the roof, we slept easily that night, unaware of the problems that would be facing us the next day.
We awoke at dawn to a clear sky and a view of a beautiful little island off the back of the boat. After repeated attempts to go out to sea and being forced back, the captain decided to take shelter behind the island as the ocean was too rough to attempt the crossing to Nias. It was good news for us, we had come this far to film big waves. But strangely, the surrounding sea looked more like Lake Placid than a set for Victory at Sea. Apart from last night’s storm, we couldn’t understand the captain’s apprehension about the crossing. We spent the day explor- ing the small atoll. The place looked like a barrier reef tourist pamphlet, complete with sandy beaches, fresh running pools, tropical rainforest and the sole inhabitant, an elderly Indonesian lady, serving meals of mie goreng and rice with tea and letting travellers sleep on the same tables that food was prepared over during the day.
On the morning of our third day on Gilli- gan’s Island we started to feel like prisoners in paradise. Respect for the captain and the gun he had in his cabin to substantiate his authority had diminished to thoughts of mutiny against that mad mutant of a Java man and his mindless crew. The passengers were demanding that he either proceed to Nias or return to Sibolga, the captain claim- ing the seas in both areas were too big. If it wasn’t for his decision to change anchorage, resulting in the crew losing the anchor in eight metres of water when the rope broke, and they were unable to retrieve it because they couldn’t swim, we would probably still be there.
In the spirit of true adventure and with a sign that our luck was changing, we left the same night on a government operated inter-island freighter headed for a port on Nias. We could have arrived there days ago with only two hours flight from Medan, but now we still had a second boat trip of nine hours, taking us to the southeast corner of the island. The town’s only hotel was opposite the wharves, and the owner’s son was hoping we had blue movies, seeing we had so much camera equipment.
Outside, loudspeakers were broadcasting Muslim prayers, subjecting everyone to their wailing tones. The next morning Thornton returned from the booking office for boats and found that there was a boat around lunchtime and was told to come back later. At midday our sanity was on the line as we returned to buy our tickets and found the same arsehole who wouldn’t let Thornton make bookings a few hours ago, was now telling us that the boat was full and that there would probably not be another for three days, due to Muslim holi- days. We were in shock. The thought of three days in this place didn’t do much for us so we spent that afternoon pleading with shipping agents who couldn’t help even with offers to pay ten times the normal fare. It soon appeared obvious that we weren’t meant to find our Shangri-La in the sun.
However good it was, it wasn’t worth the mental price we had to pay. As the insti- gator of the expedition, I had previously planned to be on the next morning’s flight to Medan, and hopefully back in Bali that night. The joy of discovering new spots, the exotic inedible meals, the rip-offs and rubbish sold as quality merchandise that self-destructs in an incredibly short time… the price was too much.
Our company motto ‘Hope for the best, expect the worst and be prepared for anything’ came to mind in a montage bordering on madness, when Thornton burst into the sleazy hotel room yelling something like “If we can get to the boat in time, we’ll meet a guy who might be able to get us on board!”
We weaved our way through the crowd of Indos, trying desperately to get on board just as we were. We produced tickets provided by a kid who worked on the boat. He was a surfer whose parents ran a losman on the magical point we were headed for. He had been turned on to surfing by Australians and other travellers during their stays over the last five years.
I made myself comfortable, stretched across the top of three, 44-gallon drums as the boat left the harbour under the cover of nightfall. Thornton’s Indonesian enabled him to turn our newfound friend onto many stories, magazines and treats to show our appreciation for his help. All the previ- ous hardships suffered to reach this point were easily forgotten. Our young friend was telling us of waves that would satisfy our expectations entirely. Noone knew for sure how long the boat trip would be. Time takes on a different dimension in Indone- sia and I only remember being awakened from dreams as passengers around me were organising their belongings to disembark at the harbour town of Telluktallam.
We encountered other surfers there who had come in from Lagundri – the most surfed, most popular place on the island – to stock up on what food was available and they shared their bemo with us, transport- ing our surfboards and camera equipment the 12 kms back to Lagundri, telling us of the surf over the last eight days, pump- ing 10 foot swells with awfully frequent 12 footers, waves of the quality most surfers dream about, double overhead, cleaned up by offshore winds. It had us on the edge of our seats with excitement. The unique- ness of Lagundri and the decision of where to stay was postponed as we threw our belongings in the room occupied by the guys in the bemo, as I grabbed lenses, tripod and camera body to follow Thornton’s rush to the point. The 20-minute walk around the coconut-palm-fringed bay was executed in six-minutes, swiftly crossing a small tidal river, peering from behind coconut palms to the majestic view of the point. Right before us, eight-foot feath- ering walls peeling along a perfect point, long hollow rights with each passing set as it progressed through the take-off area, gradually decreasing in size, ending in deep water after zippering across the inside reef. The ingredients were perfect, the sun was sparkling off the deep blue ocean, the wind offshore, and a camera on the beach to prove that it really happened.
I hate to romanticise, but arriving at any place and sliding into unreal condi- tions is an experience so rewarding that words inadequately express such a classic moment. While the rest of the world is fight- ing over some cold and crowded city beach break mush, Thornton Fallander and three other surf adventurers, who arrived before us, were the only people in the water for thousands of miles. You could afford to be choosey; nearly vertical take-offs called for a total commitment to the wave. Being only a few feet too far inside or any number of small judgement errors would invariably lead to being launched into the ever-present reef line. At medium to low tide it resulted in a sure scrape with the reef. Enjoying his surfing to the fullest, and countless waves later, Thornton finally paddled in suffering exposure from the blazing sun. The warm water of this equatorial latitude felt like a sauna, the only relief was to block the sun by holding his board facing the sun vertically with only the last quarter in the water. This at least gave a little shade and some relief from the tropical temperatures.
It was frustrating filming Thornton’s spectacular performance in the water, following every manoeuvre at high speed through the camera lens, as he banked off the bottom and punched off the lip against a back- ground of coconut palms.
The remainder of our stay was blessed with waves, even though it was a dropping swell and we had missed the peak period owing to the detours involved in finding the loca- tion. This winter Indonesia has had its most classic year of surf over the last decade, producing regular, large surf almost weekly through the tropical winter months. The monsoon season begins to emerge during August as cold fronts and large air masses move down off the Asian continent signal- ling the start of heavy, continuous rains. We had wonderful memories of our journey to this incredible island and were fortunate to experience the place: its purity and simplic- ity, the cowries and other beautiful shells scattered everywhere amongst the coral on a sweeping, sandy beach and the local kids who tried selling us coconuts, which were so plentiful it was difficult avoiding brain damage from falling coconuts on the walk back to the point.
The people we met along the way who shared the precious time spent in this tropical wonderland, living life to the full- est, enjoying and preserving every moment. With airlines chartering groups to every spot on the globe, few precious areas remain in the world where the spirit of travel still exists. The places we have filmed and visited for Riders On The Storm have not been found by looking them up in a book on “New Spots to Find in Foreign Lands.” Even now, because of the distances involved and the difficulty experienced in coordinating boat rides to different destinations, many of the best spots are completely unridden and hassles in the water haven’t yet been invented.
