50.5 – Bali Series
Over a year ago, May 5, 2014 to be exact, I met with an old high school friend for lunch in Midtown Atlanta. The restaurant occupied the space of the former Outwrite Bookstore and Coffee House, which was perhaps the only LGBT bookstore in 1994 when it opened its doors to an 18-year run before it closed in bankruptcy. I’m sure it was not the first tenant after Outwrite’s departure. It was strange relaxing in that fresh-aired space, listening to the sounds of city progress (along with some construction noises), and enjoying a delicious meal. My friend and I go “way back,” and we don’t see each other often because he works oversees in the airline industry and lives with his partner; they’ve been together the same time as my husband and I. Time seems to fly, but good friends, even when I see them every five years or so, are for always. I have been very fortunate to have had some great relationships that span the decades.
At this lunch, I mentioned that I had seen my friend’s Facebook posts of him surfing in Bali where I knew he vacationed. I told him that it was so cool that at his age he was surfing and that I would put a surfing lesson on my “bucket list” to achieve by the time I turn 50.5. Something about turning 50 doesn’t sound as good as 50.5—in my mind, one should ease into that mid-century point and celebrate later. For the record, I’ve never been one to resist aging. I think it’s because I did many things (good and bad) every decade of my life. I don’t need to turn back time. Grey hair, wrinkles, weight gain, poor eye sight, arthritic knees…they all come with the territory of aging. My spirit, or “Badass” attitude, need not suffer in the process. However, my lust for the rigor of bucket list items altered as I approached the post-half-century mark—for example, I crossed the thrill of sky diving off my bucket list a few years ago because I thought I might just break in two at the landing somehow. Funny how my mind works. I also think I want to be the one doing the bucket list item more than being escorted through it.
When I was thinking of a surfing lesson, I imagined a spring break trip with my children to Florida, so I had a little over a year to figure out the details. However, my friend said over lunch, “well, if you’re going to have a surfing lesson, you have to do it in Bali.” If food or drink had been in my mouth, I would have spit it out—the idea was pretty absurd. I didn’t have money. I am not sure I had time. Actually, I didn’t even know where or what Bali was. Seriously, later, after the idea took form, I had to look it up on Google maps to figure out where this 36-hour-away place was on the map! My friend actually rents a place in Bali, so he added fuel to the fire saying that if I could get there, I would have a place to stay. This is when I tell all who are reading this narrative that I have a habit of taking people up on their offers to stay with them—so be warned: only offer an idea or a place to stay if you are serious; I could be on your doorstep soon after the invitation!
It’s a long story from here. I started dreaming. I started talking to others. I invited my husband to think about going. He didn’t want to. But I did think of a fellow adventurous friend to invite along. She agreed. I was hoping my friend in Bali would be there. He would be in the States ironically. I didn’t want to fly there directly because age dictated the number of hours I could stay in flight anywhere. I chose Japan as a pit stop—another place another generous friend offered a place to lay my head the days I would spend there.
When I turned 50, I asked friends/family to give me money instead of gifts to defray costs of this trip. I used frequent flyer points to go roundtrip to Japan. I would use my gift money to buy my Bali/Japan roundtrip ticket. I just had to prepare mentally for surfing, being in Japan on my own, and living in places I did not speak the language (but if you really know me, that’s not much of an obstacle—isn’t food the internationally-approved world language?). I did have to save money, but it was a reasonable amount in the end. I would not have an opportunity like this again—I had to do it.
And so I did. I’ll write more about the trip, which was life-changing, beautiful, and elaborate. But I did get my surfing lesson in Bali. I was supposed to have it at the beginning of the time in Bali, but I had taken a big fall on some temple steps in Kyoto, Japan that left me with a sore calf, bloodied knees, and a bruised right elbow. I also developed swollen ankles when I flew, so I decided to leave the surfing lesson to one of the last two days. Unfortunately, the lesson almost didn’t happen because the surf was starting to “swell” and it was not really safe conditions for a beginner like me (age and all). I was starting to despair. My instructor texted “How about Tuesday?” I replied, “I leave Sunday before that.” He said, “No worries; next time!” I texted “No next time. I won’t be back.” Everyone in Bali says “when you come next time….” Everyone. And I wanted to believe that, but as much as I am a dreamer, I’m a realist. Two kids will be going to college. We have very little retirement saved. This was my ONLY time I’d be in Bali; I had successfully put on hold those nagging internal thoughts of “you should be saving for x (mortgage), y (college), z(retirement) and not on a trip across the globe to go surfing” I was very glad when my instructor Alvin let me know that we would try it Saturday. No promises. I told myself to go no matter what, even if it meant just meeting Alvin and taking photos of surfers. But inside, I was thinking that I may have truly messed up my planning. Could I come back home without doing the very thing I went there to do? No.
The day of the lesson came; my friend who met me in Bali for the trip took her camera to record the event—she would be having dinner with me later and then she’d head for the airport to end her adventure. I would have one more full day.
Alvin met me on the beach. At first when I went to the beach, I looked around for a surfing school, and I asked a gathered group of folks, with surf boards nearby, if they knew Alvin to which one of them said, “I’ll be Alvin.” There was no “school of surfing” there as I imagined, just surfers, and beach bums (said in the most positive way—I’d kill to be a beach bum!). I called Alvin on the cell phone I borrowed from our driver that week (it was a miracle that I achieved an actual phone call because I could not figure out how to use it—it was from cell phones passed—before the flip phone even!). We finally met.
And the lesson began! The surf was crazy. Huge undertows. I kept telling myself that even if the lesson was for minutes, I would have had a lesson! We’d start on land. Alvin wanted to know what foot I would lead on (he leads with his left). He told me to stand on the board, look out toward the surf, which I did. He was behind me and pushed me forward so I would not have time to think about it. My left foot went first. I’m a left-rider! Then Alvin went through the parts of getting up on the board. Look straight and only straight. Raise the chest. Put the hands by the body next to the chest area. Feet must be at the end of the board. Once all of that is in place, lift up into a cobra pose (Yoga, damned that cult!), then stick the butt up in the air. One, bring right foot under and place it perpendicular to the board—solid, not with heal lifted, toward center of board (remember those feet were at the back first). Two, quickly get left foot in front of right in center of board at a 30 degree angle—think warrior pose-ish. Left arm goes toward the target, right arm comes in angled (balance, balance, balance). Last, knees stay bent with the torso rotating it like you can swing a hula hoop on the board. That’s all you need to do! HA!
After multiple tries on land, it was time to go to the surf. I attached my board to my right ankle, carried it to the water, and followed Alvin like a puppy. I learned to keep my right hand on the back of the board to tilt it up while my left hand would force the board over any waves or rough surf. The current was oppressive. Just walking out to the starting point (and we were not even in water higher than the waste—ever) was like walking toward nothing. The force of one wave, if not met with a very strong resistance, could send anyone toward the shore with no hope of stopping. It was not a “beginner’s day.” However, Alvin would take the board from me sometimes, and I’d try to stay close because my foot was tethered to the board. I made multiple attempts, without much success. I was good at looking straight, breathing, going into cobra pose, and even sticking my butt in the air, but the two-feet maneuver and arms in right positions, well, those were really too difficult.
But I did make it up about 3 times for perhaps .25 of a second! And my friend nicely documented the event. I had to take two separate breaks by going in because my legs were so tired from working against the current, not from trying to get on the board! On the second break, we went out, but it was clear the surf had hit some very high and dangerous levels—the lifeguard was even calling folks in. So after a final fall and a bloodied knee, Alvin and I headed in to call it a day. As I followed Alvin back to the area where my friend awaited with her camera, I was crying. Yes, I cry when I realize I accomplished something I didn't think I would ever do. Alvin had made the lesson a reality; my high-school friend had been a generous host (in absentia); and my visiting friend had been there to document everything. I was, and am, a very fortunate person. For my final pose, I stood in front of the board with the typical surfer hand signal. This Badass claimed another small victory. And so…Hang Ten Everyone.
Photos courtesy of Susan C. Hines
