misery loves company

Tails of dinner at Yanuca Island

I prefer to travel with someone. Misery loves company. That way when its flat you have someone to complain to. Go drinking with. Someone to bitch at for snoring too loud. All that stuff. And when its going off, you have someone to talk about that set wave you fucked up, the barrel you missed, or how the fin snapped off in your ass.

It can't be just anyone either. I need to travel within my group of pre-approved surf trip compadres. Or my wife, but she cuts down on the water time. Although the fringe benefits of having her there are sometimes worth it. Especially if it is flat. Or when that fin snaps off in your ass.

Skeets "pre-approved surf buddy" Coyle, stoked on Fiji

So when Bill called and said we are going to Fiji. I said, "Not me." Its too expensive and I would be traveling alone due to financial and geographic reasons. But Bill insisted. "How often do you turn 40? You gotta go. Skeets is going!" So I said okay since at least once I was in Namotu, two of my top pre-approved surf trip fail-safes would be there to buy me beer.

Highlight of the week at Christmas Island

On the flight over we stopped on Christmas Island. I was excited to get out and see this tiny island in the middle of nowhere since we had a couple hour layover. They opened the doors and the humid stagnant and completely un-Christmasy air filled the cabin. "Please remain seated. You will not be getting off the plane," the captain said. Then they proceeded to walk up and down the aisle spraying toxic bug killer in our faces. Twice. A saved christian woman was singing and spackeling jesus-filth at everyone in ear shot. I noticed one particular fella getting an ear-full. He was smiling and listening with accommodating body english, but his eyes said, "For the love of all things sane, kill me. Or kill her. Please."

So off to Fiji with a sweaty smell, lungs full of PCB's and the hideous chorus from a christian sing-a-long bashing my frontal lobe. At some point we landed. Handles of bourbon were really cheap. So I stocked up. My first stop was a solo mission to a camp near Frigates. It was a two hour drive, and then another hour or so by boat to get you to the camp. I knew I would need a drink.

It was late at night and I only saw one other board bag in the airport. When the driver from the camp showed up I realized the other board bag, and more importantly, the owner, his girl and all of their gear were going too. Which made things a bit tight. After about ten minutes of the drive, I really needed a drink. The like-minded Aussie must have smelt what I was thinking and handed me a soda to mix with my bourbon as he and his girl did the same in the back seat. I remember chatting to them and the driver and pounding non-stop drinkies. I woke up when the van stopped, with a drink spilled in my lap, drool all over my face and no idea where I was.

We crashed in a hotel for the night and woke early to ponga out to the outer islands. As soon as I stepped outside it started to rain. By the time we were actually out in the ocean, it was opaque squall conditions. The couple both looked terrified and ready to puke. You couldn't see five feet in front of the boat and it seemed like hours since we last saw any land mass. But the ponga driver was all smiles. So I hunkered down watching all my gear getting soaked, shivering, dreaming of a dry towel or a cup of coffee. But we smashed on through the chop and wind and rain until we finally saw an island. Not the right island, motioned the driver. And onward into the grey we went.

Team Libido in one of the few non-uncomfortable moments

After a handful of days on Yanuca no swell had shown. The rain poured and the only people on the island besides me and the couple from the drunken drive was a slightly overzealous camp owner and the icy-cool boat driver. The driver spoke no english and the english the owner was speaking made me run and hide. I tried to relax and snorkel and all that stuff. But it isn't in my nature to sit idle for days on end. I got on with the aussie guy well, but he and his chick were about to be separated forever. So they had no use for me and spent most of their time humping in their private room or practicing foreplay in the common area. I bailed for the main island with only one sub-par session at Frigates, to grab a long ride back up the coast for a boat ride out to Namotu.

Yanuca Island School's Lali

I had trouble finding my driver. He was off drinking or praying or smoking cloves. I don't know. When we found him after hours of banging on doors and making phone calls, he was nice enough to yell for me to hurry up. I asked repeatedly if he knew where we were going. "I have family there," "There is only one road," and "Please do not worry," were his responses. He got lost. He refused to ask for directions and wouldn't use his phone. When I finally pulled up at the boat launch for Namotu Island, they were literally launching the ponga without me. I smiled at the driver and told him, "Fuck you very much," then ran yelling for the boat. Me and my gear got on at the very last moment.

Welcome to Namotu, hope you like to go left

On Namotu I caught up with the boys, met some people and got settled. We had a dorm style room that we shared with a couple very entertaining folks. Mike the boat captain in particular kept us in tears with his stories of being "Tore up from the floor up, " and "Beat up from the feet up." He smuggled weed into Fiji and snored like donkey. We were covered in ridiculous Mardi Gras beads and laughing at his stories the whole time.

Captain Mike, the dog, Mardi Gras beads, drinks, friends and enough laughs to almost shit your pants

A couple of the SoCal boys didn't seem to like me very much. It was actually their trip, their crew. So I tried to ignore the comments - both out loud and under their breath. But as is the case most times, all that got sorted out in the water. One guy in particular felt the need impart his personal lip service on me, and dropped in on me a few times in the first few sessions. This was not a accident. He didn't kick out. He was trying to push me and my boys around. I guess, to paraphrase Charlie Murphy, "I look like the guy to steal on." Once the waves got beyond a certain size, the talk needs to be replaced by the walk. Sad part is that the waves weren't even big. But when it was good, my boys were the ones on the peak taking the bombs while he and his crew sat and watched from the shoulder.

Hard charger Victor Lozano at Despos

We met three guys from Hawaii, Jim, Victor and Mike. Those guys were 100% aloha and keen for some waves. We hit it off. Part of it was the common bond of Hawaii, but also a desire to have some space on a tiny island that was being rented by a mildly possessive group of old friends. Jim took me fishing and told everyone I caught a Papio even though he caught it. He even made get a photo with it. Turns out Jim was the overly nice guy on the plane at Christmas Island listening to the jesus-babbler. And there were some fishermen there too. One complete knucklehead became my unofficial brother when I showed him a photo of me with a mullet. Everyone thought that was awesome, and weirdly, that photo broke the ice with the SoCal crew.

My new brother-from-another-mother asks, "Can you hold my balls?"

On the last day at Namotu, everyone on the island had to leave to make room for the next group. Except me. I didn't have to leave since I wasn't going to the airport. The waves were cooking and I enjoyed a final session before the new group arrived and took over. I hopped in a boat and motored to another spot on the main island and checked into a crappy hotel room. On the way I chatted up the boys who just surfed with me. They filled me in with the basics for scoring surf from that area.

I looked into booking a boat for the next few days to get out to the reefs. It was going to be more expensive to stay in this shit hole and book a boat than to stay at the 4-star resort of Namotu. And I was alone. Again. I walked around to sus out what the right call was. First stop, the bar. I heard the familiar aussie slang and saw the obvious surf brands, so I pulled up a stool and started a chat. My inquiries were met with surf mag vomit and obvious attempts to spew any legit lingo without a real clue what any of it meant. A pet peeve of mine. In mid-sentence about proper foil for advanced entry rocker as applied to a reefbreak versus beach break, I drifted outside. Another Aussie fella invited me over. His energy was calmer and subdued. So I began the questions. He was leaving the next day but filled me in on where and how. I asked pertinent questions to determine the validity of his opinion. He knew his stuff so I rented some internet time and checked the swell forecast and local weather. The wind was going to be slightly off and the only spot that would be good was a long, crowded and expensive ride. This fella reckoned it was crowded when everywhere was breaking. So the following day would be "rooted." Sweet. At least I was alone and this place is foul. But with no one there to complain to, I was forced to push on.

Nadi sites and my guide to kava induced stupor

I choose to do the tourist thing instead of surf. I tried to go several places that were closed and finally settled on Nadi. I saw the market, ate some odd food, and looked into the sites. I met a nice guide and he eventually led me to his shop. I had my guard up because like Bali, everyone is trying to sell you something. But this guy kept telling me about history and political turmoil. He was Fijian. The Fijian and Indians are at each other's throats. So I was surprised to walk into his shop and meet his partner, an Indian. We spoke for many, many hours about global issues, Fijian struggles, American Imperialism, the fate of children in the world and marriage. We drank so much kava my head shrank like Beetlejuice. When it got late, my new friend helped me find transport back to the shit box hotel. He never asked me to buy anything. I gave him a donation to assist in their personal struggle to fund schools. He insisted I take paintings the children made, and then gave me a carved turtle necklace for my wife.

On the entire three week trip the surf never really got epic. We caught super fun pits at Despos, one good size day and a handful of fun sessions at the lefts. And that was it. I made some great new friends. Some guy broke his hip fishing. That was cool. Bill got a concussion and Jim tried to kill him. Which is still funny. And even the SoCal guys lightened up and were super nice by the end. We actually ended up getting along good. It was a blast meeting those guys, partying with a couple my oldest, dearest friends and seeing lots of Fiji. All in all a good time, but not uncrowded. Fun, but expensive. Difficult, yet pampered. I wouldn't do it again, but I might, if my wife goes with me this time.•

Bill "pre-approved surf buddy" Gloyd on a nugget at Namotu

Dog Days

Typically, a surf session during a New England winter is cold. This day was excruciatingly cold. The kind of cold that makes a fifth generation Maine lobsterman say, "Holy crap, it facking cold!" But I was excited. There was surf. The wind was offshore. And I was going surfing for the first time in almost five months. Plus we were going to one of my favorite places, Long Beach in Gloucester.

In Cape Ann, at the end of a long road, far from anything yet somehow right next to everything, sits a point break. Jay surfs it alone in the middle of the winter a lot. I just happen to check it one day when he was going out.

During the painfully flat and arm-pit-hot summer prior to this day, I took alcohol a lot. There were many occasions that Gutterboy and I drank the Spaldings from the previous night's activities as soon as we got to the surf shop. This was just to keep from being sick. Which sounds sick, maybe even retarded, but hair of the dog is a good option when you plan on drinking all day anyway. May as well go ahead and have a drink, right? So as we were cleaning up broken hangers, Jager empties, Goldschlager glittery spills, and funky half ashtray/half beer cans from every crevice of the surf shop, we drank. So what if you haven't been sober for a minute in something like 40 days? There hadn't been any surf.

I had met a girl during this run of debauchery. Actually, whore is more appropriate. Well, no, I never paid. Anyway. It should have been a red flag that this girl thought that my lifestyle was fun. But like I said, I was drunk, so why would I care? In order to ply this female with adequate intoxicants to make me more interesting and her clothes easily detachable, I set up a evening with my friend Mike, the heavy metal-ist, drug ingesting, English teacher. We ate. We drank. Everyone ate pills of some sort except me. Not a fan. Really.

We found ourselves at a bar at some point. When the bouncer stopped my companion for i.d. I could see this not working out as I planned. She was just shy of drunk to perfection. So I questioned the overzealous fellow about his reasoning. Bad idea.

As I laid in the gutter waiting for a cab to take me to the hospital I saw down her shirt as she comforted me. That was when the pain really set in. I should have eaten some of those pills.

There are characters in every beach town who rip balls. You have never heard of any of them. Kadri Kurgun owns it. Now you know.

Fastforward and here it is, winter. Surf season. Crutches gone. Rehab almost finished. And I was sitting in a crowded car full of gear and cigarettes and New England surfer stink. Staring at the perfect head-high tubes. There was one car in the lot and it owner was out solo. He's a nice enough guy who has a couple dogs he takes with him everywhere. And I love dogs. So this guy is cool in my book. Everything looked perfect. Except…

I gotta shit.

Just like that. Good surf gets me fired up and a lot of the time the tirds just start rushing. I have no options. Gotta go. Now. I opened the door and everyone cursed the cold, or more specifically, they cursed me for letting cold in the stench-mobile. I dashed around like a mad man looking for cover. The beach houses were empty so I ran behind them and backed up against a snow drift about six feet high. I actually felt bad to be crapping on someone's back patio, but fuck it. They wouldn't be around for another few months. I think my shit should be gone by then. And I had no options. I dropped my pants, squatted and the adrenalized fun-factory pumped out yesterday's New York Pizza at high velocity. As I ached through the intense cold of being pantless squating in a snow drift while 20 mph northwest wind stung my balls I started to get bummed. It was intensely unpleasant and I was already frozen. I hadn't even paddled out yet and I was cold. I started to dwell on it when the dogs ran around the house and trotted up to me for a sniff-and-greet. I struck myself clean and patted the dogs hello as they went about dog stuff unaware of how fucking cold it was. My attitude began to change as I pondered their attitude. They didn't give shit that it was 10 degrees out. They just want to…

Wait.

They just ate my shit!

Holy crap. They saw a steaming hot tird and gobbled it up in a nanosecond! My eyes almost popped out. I had to do the look away and look back to see if it was real. Holy shit balls, the dogs ate my poop! I gagged back whatever was left of breakfast and hustled back to the car. I told the boys what happened and we all laughed until the foul smells of wetsuits, feet, booty sludge and cigarette butts snapped us back to reality.

Jean Pierre Knight's Long Beach floater on the shorter, closed-out-but-punchier right. Kadri hacking the shoulder inside the rocks at the end of the left at the far right.

The session was short but nice. The waves were a bit soft but a good first day back after a long stint dry-docked. As I sat aching in the water between waves my mind jumped back and forth between the shit-eating dogs and my needs to get my own shit together. I hatched grandiose plans to self improve. No more all-day drinking, no more lighting each other on fire, no more wine tastings for 3 hours during work, no more… But it was just too brutal. After changing out of a wet wetsuit in 10 degree weather with numb appendages, I said fuck it, stopped at Taco Bell, then grabbed a 12 pack, a pack of smokes and headed back to Boston.