Reading Time: 5 minutes
Surrounded by spirits of the past in the remembrance center of the Bali cemetery and crematorium, members of the Bali surf community sat quietly in the pews, whispering and murmuring to each other in sorrowful sentences. The tragic passing of Mikala Jones had sent seismic shock waves through those in attendance. In one of the largest gatherings of the Bali surf community ever witnessed, they waited for Mikala to arrive. The ambulance turned through the gates and approached, and as it did, every soul, children and adults alike, stood up in unison and silence. The ambulance came to stop under the covered pavilion and the rear hatch was opened and all could see the white casket that held the mortal coil of their friend or relative or father or husband or son. It seemed like there was a hundred pallbearers that carried the flower festooned casket to its resting place in front of the congregation. And then the casket was opened, awaiting the time for the final viewing. For long moments all that could be heard were the summer winds sifting through the surrounding trees of the graveyard and the soft songs of the small birds that called this place home. And tears. One could hear those. It was a very human silence that fell. Tucked against their mothers chests, not even babies in swaddling fussed. Â Â Â Â Â Â Â Â
Looking around in this time of reflection one could see the family and every surfer of note, both young and old, that the island had to offer. Even Mick Fanning, just flown in, sat nobly and alone in one of the back pews drawing no attention to himself. And the gathering sensed this and gave him none. Everyone was bonded and equal today.
A very brave Love Hodel, close family friend of the Jones’s, who led the team effort of recovering Mikala and bringing him here from the scene of the tragedy in the Mentawai, took to the microphone and handled the eulogy. He invited any and all to share their stories and remembrances. And as many did, with stories filled with laughter and adventures, it became fact that Mikala Jones was not only truly loved and truly respected, but that most of all, Mikala was understood. Understood for his drive and passion for getting himself into countless remote barrels. For his love of family and friends, and for his significance that came with both. Balancing his life on land with an overwhelming devotion and belonging to that rare place all surfers seek. Those barrels. Those impossibly perfect barrels. Time and time again until his time ran out. There must have more than just his cameras he brought back into that most private of places for a surfer. That place inside those waves where existence rises to another plane of existence, both exhilarating and spiritual. A belonging that must be felt. It must be. For so many of us. And so it was for Mikala on a grand scale in a grand arena. And yet the miracle of his satisfying this longing for these moments, lush with wild, ultimate thoughts, is that he shared it all with us. Here was an artist speaking to us in the silent language of images. Our secret language. A language flush with all the colours that lie between us and the deep blue sea. Mikala captured forever the Holiest of all surfing doctrines: life as freedom. Part explorer, part artist and all surfer, he moved through our world with eyes as mirrors. To him the waves he sought were bathed in the magical light of magical moments. Not documenting but reflecting, not taking, but capturing those breathless moments that live in our minds as long as we live. That haunting that both liberates and enslaves us as surfers. Those profound images that inspire hopes and aching envies. Mikala brought to light that which we surfers most secretly like to think of ourselves. That we are heroes. Mikala beheld moments that even a mystic would crave. He put time in a bottle. Our time.
Such thoughts come to one when gazing upon Mikala for the last time. With he at rest in his casket, surrounded by friends and family and the fragrance of the remembrance flowers heaped upon his chest. He was one of us. Fallen yet remembered so completely, so sincerely, so well. Out near the grassy grounds of the parking area, the final touches of a huge paddle out was being planned for the following day.
Later, with a multitude making their way out of the cemetery in a long line of scooters and cars, most carrying surfboards, the casket, attended only by Mikala’s close family, was moved into the cremation chamber and the final fire was lit.
One friend, Pete Matthews, was sitting in the passenger seat of his van for the first time in years. He thought it best if his girlfriend drove for awhile. And Pete turned in his seat and looked back and could see the smoke from the crematorium ascending into the heavens, whisping toward the sea, carried on its way by the tradewinds. And with eye’s welling, Pete wasn’t thinking of Mikala’s great ascension to heaven but of Mikala the man himself. There was no question that god had given Mikala uncommon gifts, and no question that Mikala went where they took him. We might live with our weaknesses, Pete thought, but if we are lucky, really lucky, we die of our strengths.
