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Perched on my small
fold out seat with the brain numbing
drone of the twin props slowly driving
all thought from my head, I peeped
through into the cockpit as the co-pilot
re adjusted his sunvisor, suckering it
back onto the windscreen with a
satisfied grunt. There I was, stuck in
the middle of a scene from "Air
America", board coffins stacked and
strapped onto the floor along one side
of the aircraft, as the passengers
huddled together on the other side. The
smell of benzine wafted through the
cabin and empty oil cans rolled across
the cockpit floor like children playing
kissing-catches around the pilots feet.
This was a genuine surf adventure, the
type of trip most surfers dream of. My
stomach had been writhing with
anticipation since my name first
appeared on the Quiksilver Crossing's
passenger list and by now I felt like I
was about to wake from a cruel,
prolonged dream. I found myself
swallowing the swell of excitement and
looking forward to my first glimpse of
an ice blue tube reeling off the edge of
a coral reef below.
After waiting two hours at a makeshift
harbour, I prepared myself to accept
that it was all too good to be true. The
boat was nowhere to be seen, and I began
having visions of us crashing in our
boardbags on the dock that night. The
army of flies and mozzies multiplied as
the sun fell and more and more curious
locals filtered down the dirt road to
look at the invaders who were each
travelling with more possessions than
the locals even owned. I had to try and
find out what the hang-up was and made
my way towards what looked like a
telephone outside a grubby street store.
Halfway there the boys started whistling
to me and I turned my head to see them
all on their feet and pointing at
something approaching the harbour (aka a
concrete jetty). There it was - the
famous boat that had featured in so many
surf vids and articles, the huge
Quiksilver logo and the distinguishable
blue/orange tattoo-style livery
announcing the arrival of the Indies
trader.
The Rader, as the massive 85 tonne
mono-hull was originally known, was
built back in 1972 as a salvage vessel,
operating the shipwrecks off Papua New
Guinea and Indonesia. It's destiny as
the worlds most famous surf-adventure
boat was sealed in 1986 when Martin
Daly, a keen surfer who'd spent three
years on board as part of the diving
crew, offered to purchase the vessel.
Daly re-badged her as the MV Indies
Trader, and slowly moved his business
from treasure hunting to commercial
diving and finally to surf exploration.
In late 1998 it was dry-docked and
customized for the greatest surfing
adventure of all time. The refitted,
revamped and repainted vessel set sail
as the Crossing on Saturday March 20
1999. Take a piece of paper, write down
everything you could hope to have at
your disposal, now add a few extras to
that list, and you're on board the MV
Indies Trader.
The objective of the Quiksilver Crossing
is to discover and surf remote areas
within 21 degrees of the equator. New
spots are mapped through video and
photos, but actual locations remain a
closely guarded secret due to a
confidentiality clause all passengers
sign upon boarding the boat (the captain
wouldn't even show us the GPS
co-ordinates of our trip. A bummer for
us, but in a way that's probably the
project's biggest plus). The Crossing
crews guesstimate is that they've
discovered more that thirty world class
waves that had never been surfed or
photographed before.
Aside from the surfers and lensmen, the
guest list normally includes a dedicated
marine biologist from Reef Check, a
United Nations project that educates
local communities about the value of
coral reefs and hopes to manage them.
While discovering surf spots in such
remote locations, Quiksilver are also
chipping in their bit for the
"rainforests of the sea".
The captain introduced himself to the
South Africans with one of those quirky
surfer handshakes and an ice cold beer.
The crew on board our Crossing were
three Aussies, John the captain, his
girlfriend Belinda who took care of any
admin and Mick the cook. They were
assisted by three Indonesian deckhands,
Kasmin, Ismat and Jack. Then of course
the passengers, Jason Ribbink, Justin
Sanders, Dane Patterson, Lee Bisset,
Gigs Celliers, image collector Doug
Cockwell and yours truly, the Zag artist
who had somehow landed the job of
documenting a day trip to this
seldom-surfed corner of the world.
ROLL THE FILM Four in the morning, wide
eyed thanks to jet lag and excitement.
The occasional electric burst from a far
off storm silhouettes the island
alongside us as the Indies Trader glides
through these still waters seeking and
tracking morning spot where we can
satisfy our appetites. We finally power
down at sunrise. The rest of the crew
are woken by the gentle rocking of the
boat and the grinding of the falling
anchor. We're moored off a small island
with a perfect right hander breaking
towards the boat. It needed more swell,
but still threw up a tight, almond
shaped barrel and gave the okes the
opportunity to wax up and stretch their
travel legs. I couldn't help but stare
into the thick jungle in front of us
wondering if the cloud sliding amongst
the tree tops was morning mist or smoke
from local headhunters. After a few
small and very shallow barrels and my
first brush with the reef, we motored
out in search of more.
I squinted through the cabin door. It
was early afternoon, steaming hot with
not enough wind to knock the shimmer off
the ocean. We were approaching another
right hander, definitely bigger and
racier than the last spot, but not as
hollow. To the side a dark blue channel
that offered ideal anchorage. Gigs,
Jason and Patto were already going flat
out in the tinboat while I was furiously
trying to screw in my fins and find a
leash.
This place was incredible. Staring into
the thick jungle wall only thirty metres
away, with an uninhabited rainforest
crackling in the heat, you could almost
imagine David Attenborough's voice:
"a prime example of untouched
tropical rainforest, the dark depths
hosting an uncromprehensible number of
animal species, some known and some
unknown."
A fast wave that unzipped across a
shallow reef, with a rippable inside
bowl section. Biscuit kept saying to me
in the water, "Just look where we
are, look around..."
SHARKS, GASHES AND BULLET WOUNDS
"It's all good, mate!" a
phrase bouncing among us in the water
and on the Trader to describe just about
everything so far. There's a kind of
electric energy snapping between
everyone on board. After another world
class gourmet meal from Mick and a few
VB's (Victorian Bitter), we start
swapping war stories.
Sharks are the topic of conversation, a
few horror stories about "friends
of friends" are traded, but it was
Justins personal account that left the
Aussies wide eyed. The 4m Zambezi
circled, then charged, it's fin waking
and then subbing just before him. After
passing underneath it proceeded to nudge
him, almost lifting Justin out the
water. For a moment the shark was
distracted, a small wave, a chance to
get to shore but unluckily fading out in
the midbreak where the shark regained
interest and circled again. Another wave
and Justin was ashore. The Zambezi
cruised up and down for a few minutes
before flickering out to sea. The Ozzies
suddenly weren't so keen on traveling
top Africa anymore.
The subject changed from war stories to
war wounds. It came to a showdown
between Jason's scalping at Backdoor and
bullet wounds, versus Captain John's
multiple reef scars, one of which I
swear looks like it could have torn his
leg off. I called it a split decision.
Jason's comment after he left the
wheelhouse, "Judging by the scars
on his feet, I reckon we got the right
ou on board, obviously taking us to some
shallow reefs!"
BURNING THE KNEELO Every spot here seems
to break alongside cliffs or in the
shadow of huge overhanging palms.
Fatland was the nickname we'd given this
particular righthander, a reference to
it's lack of barrel sections, but a name
that didn't really do justice to how
good a wave it was.
The swell had picked up and the midday
glass-off produced some of the best and
cleanest waves I've ever seen. While
DugPhoto shot from the tinnie, Gigs
pulled out the video housing to try some
new angles from the water, paddling out
on his knee-board with it wedged under
his chin.
"Look, look this ou's mad." I
hear Jason say as Gigs paddles into a
four footer screaming at Lee, "Drop
in! Drop in!" He takes off deep on
the peak, half way down reaches into the
back of his rashie to rip out the water
housing, starts his bottom turn while
flipping it around the right way and
films Lee carving back at him.
I remember paddling back in darkness
towards the Indies Trader, completely
surfed out. To my left the faint glow of
the dying sun flirting with the glassy
surface and to my right the usual
evening display of pyrotechnic flashes
rippling up huge dark columns of cloud.
FRIENDS OF FRIENDS A wave drought, flat
and rainy, flat and windy or flat and
calm. You name it, we had it. The one
common denominator was the lack of surf.
We surfed another two unnamed spots, and
again potential. Beautiful white beaches
and jungle rock backdrops but someone
left the swell hardener at home. All we
need is a few drops from the big guy in
the sky.
In the hope of finding more exposed
reefs. The captain sets sail for a
particular group of islands, known to
suck swell from even the calmest ocean.
We are greeted by another small but
perfect setup. A few inconsistent sets
tease us with a barrel or two, but not
enough stamina to carry us all the way
down the line. Heading off again after
the onshore picks up, still optimistic
that we'll catch an afternoon session at
a bowly right hander off one of the
other islands. These are the first waves
we've shared with other surfers since
leaving home. There are a few friendly
locals in the water surfing on travelers'
hand-me-downs. After hearing we come
from South Africa, one of them asks if
we know Twiggy - adding to his rap of
the hardest surfing man in the business.
MIRAGE We've left behind the surf camps
and are heading for a chain of 25
islets. Captain John takes advantage of
a small port on one of the larger
islands to gas up. Thank God for
technology, I thought while cracking an
ice cold Bintang and loading up the DVD
player.
John's gone to negotiate prices with the
harbour master which inevitable takes a
few hours to settle on a reasonable
bribery fee. After the DVD's and a bit
of fishing (which produced a
buck-toothed Trigger fish and a pale eel
from the muddy depths of the harbour),
the captain returns and moves us in for
re-fuelling. Everything operates at half
pace here. Eventually at the end of the
day, diesel loaded and gas bottles full
we set off, leaving behind the
"fuel truck" which looks more
like one of those rusted chassis you see
ditched alongside a gravel road in the
Transkei somewhere. I would have bet
against the engine turning over. Never
mind it transporting three tonnes of
fuel to our boat.
More epic line-ups with the now common
saying: "imagine this with
swell". A crescent-shaped reef with
nothing more than wake lines peeling
around it had me squinting, wishing for
a freak four footer and wondering if I'd
expected too much from the trip? Biscuit
paddles out and makes the flimsy lefts
look surfable. Well, almost surfable.
A few more hours of sailing, staring
through the binocs at foam cornered
islands reveals nothing bigger than
anklesnapper. A severe case of "nextpointitis".
Almost losing hope for a surf that day
we rounded the cliffed side of a large
island, expecting to find nothing more
than a waveless bay and a calm
anchorage. The setup blew us away -
glassy 3ft peaks that stand up and run
both ways before washing up onto a
mangrove beach. Not your typical reef in
these parts - more of a beach break with
a few clumps of coral - but perfect for
DugPhoto to put some film through the
burner while Patto and Justin bust out.
Warm afternoon lighting, offshore winds
and the typical warm water. A perfect
studio shoot.
A BOER MAAK A PLAN We're scheduled to
fly out the same day a fresh swell is
predicted to hit. A few beers down and
an idea starts taking shape. Jason was
on the satellite phone to the Quiksilver
kingpin in South Africa who agrees to
extend our trip by five days to catch
the predicted swell.
As a sacrifice to the surf gods (or is
it Murphy's Law?) we all get clouted on
a case of Myanmar rum. Best way to
ensure good waves is to wake up with a
throbbing hangover. Good call. Fatland
delivered the goods, with 4-5 footers
hugging the rim of the reef pass. The
swell is back.
QUIK BOUT OF MALARIA, THEN OFF TO THE
OFFICE For the extended leg of the trip
the captains taking us to more exposed
areas in the South, to a favorite wave
of his that he calls "the
office". Biscuit, or Smudge (a new
nickname that stuck to Lee) emerges from
the morning session feeling weak, and
subsequently asks the captain what the
symptoms of malaria are. While John and
Belinda sympathetically try telling Lee
he doesn't have Malaria, Jason feeds the
paranoia by describing all the different
strains of the deadly disease, including
"genital Malaria". Eventually
Smudge can't take any more of Jason's
stories with a "Jason does it hurt
when you say something serious?"
The overnight journey is going to take
us straight into the middle of a clean
ground swell, according to the
wavecharts downloaded during the daily
five minute on-line time. We have an
appointment to keep, a meeting at the
office.
GETTING WHAT WE CAME FOR Approaching the
wave from the back it looks small and
crisp, the sun just starting to rise
through the cloud behind us. But as the
boat moves into the channel, we realize
those "gentle three footers"
are every inch of 6ft by 6ft. A set
peels towards us, spitting twice before
fading into a deep lagoon. Easily as
shallow as the rock on low tide, but
twice as hollow.
Again, caught finless and leashless, I
am scratching around the deck while
Patto, Gigs and Jason bail off the side
and paddle into the line-up.
Patto (who had now become known as
Papsmear) drops into his first wave and
threads his way through one of the
blackest pits of the trip. Partly skill,
partly the realisation that there is a
fat slab of coral beneath him with
"Papsmear" written all over
it. Behind him Gigs drops into one that
is even more perfect, lipping top to
bottom, start to finish. My scratching
becomes frantic. Despite all the
missioning, the rearranging, the flat
spells that have tested our patience,
the highs and lows of the trip, that
same old phrase pops back into my head:
"It's all good mate!"
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