[ FULL MOON IN THE MENTAWAIS ]

FULL MOON IN THE MENTAWAIS

13 years after discovering the place, Lance Knight returns to Lance’s Right, and finds how a decade of surf tourism has transformed the Mentawai Islands ...

By Tim Baker

THE JOURNEY - FRIDAY, DEPARTURE

Airports - I go to them seldom enough these days that I’ve grown to love ‘em again, by association. They are our portal to other worlds. Never mind the queues and customs and over-priced food and interminable waiting. You are going somewhere. And you are taking surfboards. How can that be bad? The airline lady says I can check my luggage all the way through to Padang, Sumatra, if I want. With an overnight stay in Singapore, I figure I want to at least sight my boards in transit to be confident of them turning up in Padang, whatever the hassle. Eight hours later, 11 pm Singapore time, 1 am my time, wanting only to go to bed, I’m not so thrilled to see my boards afterall. I drag them from one end of the airport to the other to find the stopover counter. They direct me to the next floor and back to the other end of the airport to check them in for tomorrow’s flight. I miss the bus to my hotel and wait half an hour for the next one. Then it’s a dreamy, sweaty mini-bus ride through night-time Singapore, past the towering skyscrapers and quaint old Chinatown shopfronts. By the time I get to my hotel, I’m almost too tired to sleep, feeling like Bill Murray in “Lost in Translation.” There’s even the bad cabaret singer in the sterile hotel bar. Scarlett Johansson, however, is nowhere to be seen. I eventually nod off in front of the Portugal/England match in Euro 2004, but can’t last ‘til the penalty shoot-out.

SINGAPORE - SATURDAY

The next morning I’m at the Hotel’s all-you-can eat smorgasbord breakfast surrounded by grey-paloured businessmen and elderly package holiday shoppers gorging on omelettes and pastries and noodles and strange little yellow sausages. Within 24 hours I’ll be in a remote island chain where the locals can barely feed themselves and kids die of malnutrition. Meanwhile, Australian politicians are brawling over the obesity crisis among our youth. At least the children of the Mentawais are safe from junk food advertising, for the time being anyhow. Will we deliver them from the perils of poverty only to thrust them into the perils of wealth? Padang already has a KFC. Singapore is shrouded in a smoke haze from forest fires in Sumatra. The air pollution level is reported each day on the front page of the newspaper. Yesterday was 62 on the PSI rating, in the moderate range. If it gets much worse they will have to close the schools. The fires are deliberately lit by plantation owners quickly and cheaply clearing their land. 10 forestry companies are facing lawsuits of up to $350 million for starting fires. There are about 300 fires blazing out of control, many quite close to my destination in West Sumatra. Singapore seems to be fading to grey under the haze.

The rest of the news in Singapore’s Straits Times is not much better. Korea is mourning Kim Sun Il, a 30-year-old engineer working in Iraq who was beheaded by Islamic extremists. England is mourning its elimination from the European Cup after David Beckham missed a penalty kick in its tied shoot out with Portugal. I kill time flicking channels in my room. CNN is trumpeting, “Countdown to Handover,” in Iraq, as it checks the “American pulse.” There’s lots of talkback and forums and interviews with all manner of supposed authorities about the Iraq situation, and a mounting sense of alarm at what the hell they have got themselves, and us, in to. A university professor in the audience asks a talkshow host to cite one historical example of the US actually doing some good in any of its international interventions. He can’t.

I flick to COPS, a gruesome reality TV show, in which an undercover policewoman is posing as a street prostitute and luring sad, fat, middle aged men driving huge pickup trucks into a car park behind a church. There they are pounced upon by a team of big burly cops and a TV crew, thrown to the ground, faces minced on the bitumen and humiliated on global TV. “Nice job,” the cops congratulate each other. “Good day. Took a lot of bad people off the streets.”

Back on CNN I see a woman interviewed from an organisation called Citizens for Global Solutions. They must be busy. The world has gone mad and I’m going surfing. I wait in the lobby for my airport transfer as the shoppers head out to accumulate electrical goods. I try to buy some mosquito repellant but shopkeepers keep fetching me some kind of muscle cream, which warns, “can cause convulsions.” I’m mystified until I realise they think I’m saying “muscular” instead of “mosquito”.

Singapore’s Changi Airport is perhaps my favourite airport in the world - with its wonderful, inexpensive food from all corners of Asia, masseurs, relaxation lounges, stunning consumer gadgetry. Cocooned in this artificial world it is possible to imagine a life totally detached from nature, seduced and sedated by consumerism, fresh noodles and Tiger Beer.

I find a quiet place to relax, where I happen to run into top Hawaiian surfer Rochelle Ballard, who is obviously already feeling very relaxed indeed. She offers me the comfortable armchair next to her. We lay back, side by side, groaning together in unison, waves of gentle pleasure surging through our systems. “Ooo, ooo, it’s working on my butt now,” Rochelle moans. This is how the rest of our travelling companions find us, reclined on adjacent, automated massage chairs, having all the knots and tensions of a day’s travel kneaded from our weary bodies. It is amazing. The mechanical fingers seem to sense every pressure point and tight muscle - like there is a little masseuse hiding inside the upholstery. The chairs are yours for a mere $6500 and can be shipped anywhere in the world. We discuss the possibility of a quick whip around to have one installed on our charter boat.

There are at least five boatloads of surfers in the departure lounge for the Silk Air Flight to Padang, including an all girls super crew of Lisa Andersen, Rochelle, Sofia Mulanovich, Chelsea Georgieson and Megan Abubo. Our blokes assemble, predictably enough, around an airport bar for a few send-off Tiger Beers. We’re all here, except Lance, and I pray the skipper from Yamba has made it this far. I needn’t worry. He’s already at the departure gate, amping to get out to the islands he helped discover. He’s brought a bag of tools for the locals as a gift. “Had a hell of a time getting them through Brisbane airport,” he reports, like Crocodile Dundee. The tool bag weighed in at 40 kilos and airport security had him spread out the contents - drills, saws, machetes, hammers, nails - on the airport floor and cull it down to 20 kg. “I don’t know what they thought,” he laughs.

The flight is delayed due to the smoke haze. When we finally take off it is into a vast grey void in all directions, as far as the eye can see. Deano appears to have stuffed nothing but chocolate in his hand luggage, and he offers me an array of sweet treats on the short flight to Padang. “I went and spent about 60 bucks. Gotta have a choccy stash,” he reasons.

What must Lance be thinking of the contrast to the last time he came here? He regales us with stories of that historic first trip. The mad bus ride from Medan. The local rock star he befriended. The light plane he hitched a ride on out to the islands with Dr Manoo. Then he was the only surfer, just about the only westerner in Padang. Today, he’s part of a well-worn, lucrative tourism route he unwittingly helped forge.

Lisa and Megan get a spontaneous round of applause from the mostly male passengers at the back of the plane when they return from a trip to the toilets. The mood back there is a bit like an end of season footy trip.

Little islands appear out of the greyness, fringed by whitewater just off the Sumatran mainland, where there is usually no swell. Optimistic surf forecasts are bandied about wildly. Then, suddenly, the lush green mountains which ring Padang appear out the window, so close our wings look like they might brush the lush green foliage as we bank past and come in to land.

PADANG

The new visa requirements for Indonesia cause havoc at Padang’s tiny airport. The entire planeload has to queue to first change money at one counter, then hand it over with passports at another counter, then collect passports in three separate stages that progress at a snail’s pace. Is this Indonesia’s revenge for our attacks on the Muslim world, Timor’s Independence, our plundering of Timor’s oil and gas? Most of our boards haven’t arrived and it puts the pro’s in a spin - tradesmen without their tools. They want to jump on the first plane back to Singapore and grab the boards and fly back. They want to charter light planes to fly them in. Ketut, our man on the ground, assures them he will get them here as soon as humanly possible, fly them to Medan and truck them to Padang if necessary, then put them on a speedboat out to the islands.

It is a wild stormy night and we are unlikely to set sail this evening anyway. As we drive into Padang from the airport and the classic Indo chaos unfolds on the road in front of us, I turn around and see Lance and Matt Wilko sat on the seat behind me, side by side - the Indo veteran and the Indo virgin, 37 years difference in age and a world of life experience apart, off together on an adventure, equally stoked and wide-eyed, taking it all in.

We get to Padang’s only international hotel, the Bumi Minang, running late for a reception by Surf Aid, to explain their humanitarian work out in the islands. The Surf Aid crew are a fascinating mix of locals and expats from Australia, NZ and the UK, bound by a common vision of good health and empowerment for the long-suffering Mentawai people. Dr Dave has some telling statistics - up to 50% of kids will die by the age of 5 in the worst areas. 65% of parents have lost at least one child. We watch shocking video footage of a man dying of cholera, positioned over a hole in the floor as a toilet, his family gathered helplessly around him and probably fated to succumb to the same disease, unaware that the milk of young coconuts - plentiful right outside their door - could keep them alive. It is this kind of knowledge Surf Aid wants to spread. There are some stirring case studies too - a little boy, stunted and sullen, brought back to good health after years of battling malaria, suddenly shooting up, luxurious hair growing long, running and playing, full of energy. The miracle treatment? A $10 mosquito net. For the first time in his young life, his system is not constantly battling the malaria parasites in his body.

A fierce storm is raging out to sea and everyone advises against crossing the strait tonight. The pro’s quickly grab the last remaining rooms at the swank Bumi Minang, and the SW team and Lance adjourn with the Surf Aid crew to a more humble but charming local hotel in a quaint converted old Dutch bank, the Batang Arau, named after the river it fronts. The downstairs bar is a kind of sanctuary for the Padang ex-pat community and Surf Aid extended family. A mad Englishman named Twisden plies us with vodka into the wee hours. Twizz is one of the owners of our charter boat, the Arimbi, and an early financial backer of Surf Aid. He made his money in clubs and pubs in London in the ‘90s then discovered surfing and pissed off with his girl for a year to go travelling and teach himself to surf in some of the world’s most perfect waves. He’s since started a finance company that supports his lifestyle, and got talked into investing in the great surf charter dream by the fallen surf travel pioneer, Paul King. When King fell on hard times, Twizz got together with his fellow shareholders in the Arimbi and took over the running of the boat, and now jumps aboard whenever he can. He is like a character from an Evelyn Waugh novel, Brideshead Revisited by the beach, and it amuses me no end listening to surf talk spill out in this plum, proper English accent. He is a deadset maniac on land but reckons he settles down at sea, which is just as well because he is coming out to the islands with us.

Christina, the manager of the hotel, is a wonderful American hostess. Her surf charter skipper boyfriend Chris is out at sea in the storm and she’s worried about the weather. By the end of the rowdy night we all feel like old friends. Christina is a classic Padang ex-pat - she was travelling around Asia as a young backpacker when a friend told her she’d been left in charge of this quaint old hotel in Sumatra by the eccentric German woman who owned it, and invited her to come and visit. She’s never left, met a surfer, fell in love, stayed on, and now manages a thriving business.

Lance is treated like a returning hero here. It seems like the first time anyone has made a fuss over the straight-shooting salty seadog from Yamba in his whole life. He is touched and a little embarrassed by the attention. “These blokes are the real pioneers,” he reckons, deferring credit to the several skippers gathered around our table. “They’re the ones who have made a go of it out here. I just stumbled on the place.” By the end of the night, Lance has several offers to skipper charter boats in the Mentawais, and an open ticket to jump aboard any of the boats free of charge whenever he returns with his two young boys. And it occurs to me, maybe these people wouldn’t even be here now if it wasn’t for Lance and his discovery. Surfers from all over the world have built lives here, married locals or met travellers and fallen in love, some have started families, businesses, built their homes here. Blokes like Albert, the skipper on Indies Trader 3, who’s married a local and started a coffee plantation and now supplies many hotels and charter boats in the area with the finest Sumatran coffee. This intermingling of cultures, this transplanting of lives on foreign soils, does more to bring us closer to our geographical neighbours in South-East Asia than any foreign affairs policies and press statements emanating from Canberra. Alexander Downer ought to sit down with Lance or Albert over a few Bintangs at this noisy ex-pats’ pub in Padang to help him understand our place in the region.

SUNDAY IN PADANG

We have an unscheduled day in Padang due to last night’s storm. We cruise the bustling streets and are adopted by the inevitable local kids who want to act as guides and translators. I buy a cheap guitar with a metallic blue paint job for 75,000 rupiah, about 12 bucks Aussie. We run into the local punk posse, a bunch of guys in their late teens, with tattoos and piercings, one with shock blue dyed hair, smoking ciggies and acting tough. They want me to play a bit of Rancid on the guitar and have never heard of Jack Johnson. Youth culture has hit Padang, which now has its own surf and skate shop, with a quite impressive ramp out the front, and regular skate comps. Easty lines up the Punk Posse in a grimy alleyway for some gritty portraits that would have made great album covers for the Ramones or the Sex Pistols back in the day. Lance buys a huge bag of rice to give to the locals at Katiet.

We go to the classic Padang restaurant for lunch and within minutes, and without ordering a thing, our table is covered with dozens of small dishes of all manner of local delicacies - fish, chicken, meat, vegetables, swimming in colourful chilli sauces. This is where Padang cooking originated and spread throughout Indonesia - the trademark bowls of pre-prepared food arranged in neat rows in restaurant shopfronts. The food sits their all day without refrigeration or heating. That no one gets sick is miraculous - the chilli acting as some kind of kill-all preservative. We pig out, including fresh squeezed tamarillo juices all round, for about six bucks a head.

We check out the local surf scene at the rivermouth of the Batang Arau - the muddy brown river that winds through the town and deposits its filth into the ocean. The surf spot at the rivermouth is known as Cholera Creek, where dozens of Padang kids surf on battered old boards left behind by western surfers. The wave’s look good - though a disturbing grey/brown in colour - a little peak with a long peeling left and shorter right. It’s two to three feet and 20 or more kids are surfing it pretty well. The beach is covered in litter, including a couple of dead pigs and a cat. If they ever start a local chapter of the Surfrider Foundation here they’ll have their work cut out for them.

Finally, it is time to board our boat, the Arimbi, which means “goddess of good fortune.” It used to belong to a “prominent Indonesian businessman,” who shall have to remain nameless, as a game fishing boat and has been the scene of some record breaking marlin catches and furious partying. We pile into mini-buses and wind our way to the harbour, out of the teeming town, into the rural outskirts, and on to the picturesque harbour - all lush mountainous jungle spilling to the sea, with ramshackle houses clinging to the coast, and a gargantuan industrial port on the opposite side of the bay. Kids are riding a tiny little reefbreak on broken boards in the golden afternoon light. The waves are less than a foot and the kids get washed up on the beach over and over. It’s as if our wake out in the islands is washing up here, spawning a whole new surf culture. They have uncanny natural balance. One kid is standing on the front half of a broken longboard, without fins, out the back of the break while he waits for waves, and gets washed in riding sideways.

This is the moment of truth for the surf charter passenger, when you first clap eyes on your floating home for the next 10 days and discover whether it actually resembles the impressive photos on the travel agent’s website. The Arimbi scrubs up all right and we clamber aboard, meet the crew, and claim bunks. Chivalrously, Hilton and I offer to share a double bunk bed so the young lovers, Deano and Alana, can have a cabin to themselves. The crew are classic, all-smiling, gracious, welcoming Indonesian family men in their 30s and 40s or beyond - it’s difficult to tell. They all make us feel immediately at home on the Arimbi.

MONDAY, JUNE 28

ANDY’S DIARY: Day 1 - Telescopes, two to three foot, SW swell, SE wind, good for most of the day, cross shore afternoon, head to Lance's at 3.10 am, arrive at 7 o’clock,

After motoring all night, we pull up at Telescopes just after dawn - a nicely tapered lefthand reef a few hundred metres off the inevitable palm-fringed island. It’s two to three feet, a little morning sick but fun for a warm up. We don’t know when the missing boards will turn up and there are barely enough sticks to go round, but everyone has fun riding borrowed equipment. Deano, in particular, goes to town on my old blue 6’8” single fin, throwing it round like it’s a small wave fish.

Halfway through our early session, a swarthy Brasilian goofyfoot paddles out straight past us up the reef, claiming locals’ rights. He’s been camped out on land for three months, and he and Lance strike up a conversation, presumably about the art of survival on these malaria-infested islands.

Mid-morning, Deano, Mitch and I are out trading a few lazy waves when Deano suddenly starts freaking. “Did ya’ see that?” he screams. Mitch sees it next and then I spot it - a fin splashing out of the water, as some kind of grey marine beast rolls on its side. Deano’s already paddling for the boat. I’m not sure what it is or what to do, but Deano’s in no doubt. “It’s a fucking shark,” he splutters. The accepted wisdom when you see a shark in the water is to “raft up,” all get close together so you present a larger object to the shark, who generally won’t attack something bigger than it. In the heat of the moment, though, we scatter in different directions, all paddling out of the lineup as a little wave rears up on the reef. I have no plan other than to catch the wave, but as I look over my shoulder the shark is clearly visible swimming at us in the wave face. It’s not huge, five or six feet maybe, but big enough to take a chunk. I turn and start paddling, not sure if I’m going to feel a chomp on my legs as I go. The whitewater picks me up. Mitch has ridden the wave out to the channel and is waving for the rubber duck. Deano stands up in the whitewater and falls. I ride the foam as long as it will carry me, in over the reef, wondering how shallow the water needs to be for safety.

Aleks drives the dinghy over to pick up Mitch and Dean and I have a long paddle over deep water to reach them in the channel. We’re all pretty spooked. Some of the boys had taken the boat for a fish up the reef earlier in the morning and Lance, the wise old sea dog, had warned against it. “You should never fish the reef you’re surfing,” he reckons. “You just don’t want to give sharks the message that injured fish are in the area.” Seems sensible enough. There’s no more sign of our shark and eventually a few of the others go back out.

Another boat pulls up and it gets kind of crowded. Even a canoe of local kids arrive with boards and get amongst it, surfing with crude but effective styles and offering to sell us some skanky local weed. They appear to have a pretty nice lifestyle, live on a nearby island, with their own canoe, an outboard motor, fishing and surfing all day. They’re young, in their late teens, early 20s maybe, and surfing must hold the promise of a new and exciting way of life.

Word reaches the Arimbi that night that the missing boards are on their way, as is a new swell. With the moon a few days off full, anticipation is high. The pro’s are like little kids the night before Christmas waiting for Santa to arrive. We anchor, have a feast of chilli chicken, prawns, rice and veges, the obligatory Bang Bang or Top chocolate bar for dessert, a couple of Bintangs, and a viewing of Kill Bill Vol. 2 on the DVD, and off to bed in air conditioned comfort. The boards arrive some time during the night, just like santa, and they are there when we wake.

TUESDAY - KHUSUS PAGI

ANDY’S DIARY: Day 2 - Lance’s, SW swell, some west, six to eight feet, some double trouble, morning and afternoon, high at midday, west wind at SW all day, arvo glass. Two boats ‘til two o’clock, four boats arvo. Crazy day. Anchor Gilligans

The crew are up early to get us to Lance’s Rights on first light to greet the new swell. In our half-sleep we register only the whine of the anchor winch and the engine coughing to life, then the roll of the boat coaxes us back to sleep. One by one we drift up on deck as a grey, stormy morning dawns. You can just make out the jungle coast. There doesn’t seem to be much sign of our swell but as Lance’s Rights and the village of Katiet comes into view there is mounting excitement. Black rain squalls are brewing up from the south. The wind is howling, raking the tops off the waves capping on the reef. Rain lashes down in sheets. I’m colder than I’ve ever been in Indo before. It’s tough to gauge the surf conditions from the back but Deano, a veteran of eight visits to these islands, is convinced it’s about six to eight feet. “Look, look, it’s doubling up,” he screams. He races to the top deck to get a board. He’s brought no fewer than 14 of them, in three boardbags, and leaves them strewn about the upper deck as he jumps off the side and strokes into the lineup. There’s a helmeted bodyboarder from land already out. As we draw alongside we can see that Deano’s right. Heaving walls unload on the reef, straining against the offshore and folding over into gaping caverns.

I watch Lance watching the surf and wonder what’s going through his mind - but only for a moment. Aleks has got the dinghy fired up and I jump in with a brand new 7’0” channel bottom for a ride out. Deano waves us away from the lineup, frothing like a maniac, not wanting any wake to distort the contoured faces of the rifling tubes, and quickly strokes into three long barrels in succession, with his perfect, compact style.

Lance is next out, in his helmet and trusty yellow semi-gun. There are some solid, intimidating sets, but Deano has it instantly wired. Lance gets pitched on his first wave and several others, but is charging, keen to get thoroughly re-acquainted. He has a couple of trips in over the reef and loses some skin. Welcome back. Within 20 minutes a second boat, Huey, has pulled up, looking like something out of McHales Navy, an ex-patrol boat with the full Hawaiian North Shore contingent onboard. The Wolf Pak, the Pipe Posse, whatever you want to call them - Kala Alexander, Myles Padaca, Brian Pacheco and all the boyz. Lance is a bit surprised by the instant crowd. “Hey, there are a few too many out here. Someone might have to go in,” he quips, good naturedly, unaware who he’s talking to. One of the larger Hawaiians chortles, “Change of shift, brah.” It feels like things could get tense, but the moment passes. Everyone shares happily enough. A sociologist would have a field day, as our two tribes settle into the lineup, make connections, establish a pecking order. Deano and Willsy are charging and Bottle’s getting some good ones, while Kala, Myles and their buddies look supremely comfortable. A West Oz surf guide on the Huey is pulling into some huge pits on his backhand, as deep as anyone. The Hawaiians all know Dean and Willsy, and they know Alana from Kauai, so the mood is friendly, but our groms have a hard time getting waves. Mitch snaps a board, and I’m a bit out of my depth in the conditions and the company. Hilts bobs around in the impact zone with his water housing and greets everyone chirpily, as is his way.

There’s no shortage of action for him to shoot. “Backdoor with a channel,” is Kala’s quick summation of the wave. I see more outrageous barrels in two hours than I’ve seen for a surf-starved month at home.

It’s Willsy’s first time here and he is blown out. “One of the best right handers in the world,” he reckons. Deano stays out for five hours, getting countless barrels. Gradually, word spreads among the Hawaiians that Lance is THE Lance - pioneer of this place, after whom the wave is named - and he’s given a bit of space in the lineup. Kala even calls him into a couple. But it’s a rugged welcome back just the same. I eventually retreat to the boat and watch.

A young Indo crewman comes over from Huey wanting to meet Deano. He’s a mad, frothing, surf-stoked grommet with dyed red hair, from Lakey Peak, Sumbawa. Says his name’s Jamaica. His real name’s long and tricky to pronounce but Aussie passengers have abbreviated it to Jamaica - the same lazy way we call Grajagan “G-land”.

“You know, Jamaica. Reggae, gunja, rastafari,” Jamaica babbles, in his rapid-fire broken English. He’s bought some wooden turtles for Deano as a gift, from the Katiet wood carvers who have quickly congregated around the back of our boat in their canoes. It’s a thriving local business now. Jamaica wants to gt his photo taken with Dean and the turtles. “I get photo blown up to put on my wall,” he says, keenly. He started surfing two years ago at Lakey. “I watch video of the pros and learn how they do their turns, their barrels, everything,” he chatters on to me and Bottle.

Gradually the tide fills in, the waves mellow and the crowds retreat. A few of us duck out for a relaxed high tide session with only four in the water. It’s fun after the morning’s drama. Deano’s still out. Jamaica’s going to be waiting a while.

Lance and I go into the beach to look for Hosen and his family, who looked after Lance all those years ago. We don’t even know if he’s still alive. Lance talks to a teenage boy on the beach and gets directions to Hosen’s place and before we know it, there he is, coming out of his house.

“Hosen, it’s Lance,” Lance announces warmly. Hosen lets out a loud cheer of recognition. They both seem a bit stunned, standing face to face, the realisation sinking in. Hosen is in his 60s, but looks fit as a fiddle, tall, proud, erect, not stooped at all, and he looks at Lance searchingly. “Lance?” he asks.

I want to capture the moment and watch it all on my little video viewfinder, mesmerised. They shakes hands, exchange a few words of Indonesian. “Lance, Lance,” Lance confirms, poking himself in the chest. Hosen looks about as if for witnesses to this wonder, puts an arm round him and rubs his back warmly. Lance has tears in his eyes. Hosen’s wife comes out.

“Lance!” Hosen tells her.

“Aaaaahhh,” she sighs in surprise.

There is much animated conversation, they invite us inside and give us cans of coke and cups of tea and crackers. They look to be prospering. Hosen has a solid timber and concrete two storey house, stores of food and drinks piled up in one room, guest accommodation upstairs, where four South Americans are currently staying. Lance unpacks his bag of gifts, tools, medicine, clothes for the kids, toys, and there is much exchanging of news in Lance’s broken Indo and their few words of English. Hosen takes us out the back to show off his new generator that provides the house with electricity. Surfing has clearly been good to them. They still remember the exact date Lance arrived in their village - March 18, 1991, the day surfing began in Katiet, and the catalyst for their new prosperity.

We go down to the beach to take some photos of the happy reunion, and there’s the wave, the source of their new wealth, still barrelling and spitting away. We say our farewells for the time being and head back to the boat.

The arvo session is gold, literally, the sun breaking through the clouds for the first time all day and bathing the pulsing lineup in the most heavenly golden light shining straight into the eye of the barrel. The photographers are euphoric. Everyone is stoked. The girls’ boat pulls up and several of them have a serious dig amid the testosterone-packed lineup - Chelsea Georgeson and Rochelle Ballard particularly impressing. Myles Padaca gets a couple of screamers, making one that appears unmakeable. Kala gets some bombs and is hooting and smiling in the water, calling Lance and our boys into waves. Willsy gets one unbelievable one that blows his mind - he comes out wobbly and rubbing his face in disbelief. Bottle perfects his high line pumping in the barrel, and Deano gets more, longer, deeper barrels than anyone. The sets are starting to do that double up thing, capping on an outside reef, then spilling and spewing and reforming on the inside reef into caves of outrageous proportions. Wilko and I watch Deano drive into one from so far back that we just stare at each other in disbelief as he pops out the end. Matt and Mitch get it sussed in the arvo and pull into some huge shacks, Wilko coming out of what he calls the barrel of his life, Mitch taking off way back and standing bolt upright, arms spread defiantly, in a couple of meaty close-outs.

Deano has told Lance he can have any wave he wants and Lance takes him at his word, accidentally dropping in on a screamer. Deano has to straighten out over the reef. Lance is devastated when he realises, but with the number of waves Deano’s had, everyone seems to think it’s pretty funny. “It’s his wave, he can do what he wants,” I hear one of the Hawaiians comment.

I manage to snap my new board, caught inside by an eight foot set and watch it wash in, in two pieces, howling to myself in anguish. It was a magic one, even though I’d only had two surfs and a handful of waves on it. I swim to the dinghy in the channel but the photographers aren’t about to leave their post to retrieve my board. I watch some local grommets seize on it in the shallows. The sun’s going down, malaria hour, and I’m not keen on swimming in to the beach on dusk. Plus, how do I paddle two halves of a broken board back out? I watch the kids disappear up the beach with the two pieces. It’s an amped boat that night. Day two and we’re all buzzing. Another unbelievable dinner of steak and mash and veges and calamari. Couple of cold Bintangs, much excited surf babble about the day, a few quiet reflective moments pissing and fishing off the side, star gazing, or up top chilling in what has become the hip hop lounge, and then bed. Sleep comes easily.

LANCE:

SW: So how was that day for your return?

Lance: One of the most special days of my life. I’ve never seen so much talent surfing such perfect waves concentrated in one arena in my life. It’s blown me out, you know. To speak Indo, “pagi khasus.” It’s a special day. It will always live in my memory as a special day. Pagi khasus - special day. To return after 13 years, 14 years, the emotion of meeting Hosen and his wife and his family, going in there and finding out that he’s still alive and still happy and healthy, it’s amazing. And they still remembered me, they remembered the day I arrived. He said the day I arrived was a special day to him and it’s lived in their family. And his son came out today and said the day I arrived has always been a special day for them. That’s the day surfing started for Katiet. Look what it’s given them. It’s obvious it’s brought them prosperity. When I came, the kids were all little dirty urchins in rags. That’s why I brought all those clothes for them. Today when I went in there, there’s kids riding brand new push bikes on their little road in there, the young guys are all well dressed, they’ve got name brand boardies on. This village has become prosperous because of surfing, so my coming here, I’ve done something good for them. Surf Aid has been started and that’s saved thousands of lives in these islands. I’m awed by it. I didn’t start it, I can’t claim that honour, but to be a part of what led to it happening is amazing. I’m totally over awed by it all.

To see that surfing today, to see those guys, exceptionally gifted surfers doing amazing things in those barrels, that in my wildest dreams I could never do. When I came here and sat out here on my own, I picked waves off at random, I was selective because I had all day. To see these guys pushing each other, and they did, I could see it in the water, everyone was calling guys in, amping each other up, the vibe out there was amazing.

SW: Having had it to yourself, coming back and seeing three or four boats, 30 guys in the lineup, did that bother you?

Lance: I must admit I was a bit apprehensive paddling out there with so much talent. To have to try and compete with those guys for waves is pretty awesome. But I’m happy just to see it happen. It was a unique day. So glad that I’m here to see all these people come together at this point, you know, and the fact that you’ve got the world’s best women’s surfers, the North Shore team, and you’ve got all these young guys, young professional surfers, Deano, Danny, these young groms, Bottle, it’s awesome. To see those waves, the most insane barrels I’ve seen in my life.

SW: And it seemed to mean something to everyone, having you here.

Lance: It may or may not have contributed to the vibes of the day. Maybe they saw it was a special day for me so they were happy. I was happy to see all these other happy people. No bad vibes at all, people sharing the waves, apart from me dropping in on Deano and I didn’t mean that. He did say I could have any wave.

SW: And he doesn’t say that too often.

Lance: I must admit, I’m probably the only man in the world that Deano’s said that to. The whole vibe of this trip, day two and already I’ve experienced as much bahiar, happiness, that I can for one day. So thanks to you guys for putting me here.

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 30

ANDY’S DIARY: Day 3 - Lance’s still six foot sets, SE 15 - 20 knots, cleaned up at 11 til 1.30 - Macca’s 4.30 pm. 4 foot clean good late, SW swell. New right, three to four feet, SW swell, SE wind, needs south swell and wind. Just Arimbi boys for the late fun session.

The next day dawns grey , rainy and windy. Andy, Bottle and I go for a paddle but its sideshore/onshore, a bit smaller, still some sets, but bumpy and hard to surf. I come in keen to go find my broken board - I’m a working family man and can’t afford to write off a brand new board. The crew seem to take a bit of convincing that this is a good idea. Eventually Aleks takes me in and we ask some kids about the board. They lead us in to the village, a growing entourage of grommets joining us on our way. We go to one house, then another, following leads from the villagers. We find half of Deano’s broken board, but he won’t want it - he’s got 13 intact ones left to go through. Eventually we find the back half. There is much commotion in the household at the arrival of the whitey. Aleks does the talking and I can’t tell what’s going on. A young boy goes into an adjoining house and fetches it while Aleks has a Gudang with the menfolk. I follow the kid next door. I’m surrounded by groms and women as the kid brings out the broken back half of my board from his bedroom. I ask about the front half but he doesn’t understand. We go back to Aleks and he translates and the kid goes and fetches the front half. Aleks confers with the men and gently suggests to me that maybe I could give them a few bucks, maybe 25,000 rupiah, four or five Australian dollars, for their trouble. I say, no problem. I’ve brought a couple of chocolate bars as a sweetener for the kids, and ask Aleks if it’s okay with the parents if I give the kid the chocolate. Aleks translates and they say no worries. I hand over the chocolate, and one of the older women starts yelling at me - can’t tell if she’s excited or angry or making a joke. As we head back to the boat it starts bucketing down in one of those sudden tropical downpours and we all get soaked. I feel bad for putting Aleks through it. Kids coming running out of their huts with umbrellas and hold them over us as we go back to the boat.

Maybe my karma is suffering from repossessing the board ‘cause I go for another little grovel out at Lance’s as the swell drops and manage to do something to my knee. I’m turning out the back of a little close-out when I feel a sharp shot of hot pain up the inside of my left knee. I’ve never had knee problems but everyone reckons it sounds like a strain or small tear to the medial ligament. Rest, ice, compression, elevation, is Willsy’s prescription. It’s a cruel blow - being on a surf charter boat out here, with waves, and unable to surf. Broken board, stuffed knee. I’m killing it.

We head to Macaronis for the afternoon session, a couple of hours motoring south. It’s small, grey, overcast, a bit bumpy but the groms are all over it. It’s the perfect contrast to yesterday’s dramatic surf - fun, playful, the ideal skatepark for the young blokes and their antics. Mitch and Matt are busting the fins out every top turn, launching airs and stuffing themselves into barrels like there’s no tomorrow. Willsy and Deano are sharp and precise as you’d expect. There are a couple of other boats of regular punters who seem happy enough to enjoy the show. It was pumping here too yesterday so everyone’s had their fill. Everyone except the groms, and the insatiable Deano.

“This is the best wave in the world, I don’t want to go in,” Matty babbles as it gets dark. He’s got a super elastic style, like a young Gary Green or Rob Machado, with his own little funky embellishments - wild flying kick outs and theatrical dismounts - that reflect a quirky, humorous character and an openness to the new. Mitch is more reserved, a touch shy even, but stronger, more brutal in the water, with that Parko or Cansdell-style whip to his turns. It’s only three to four foot, kind of crowded once the Hawaiians turn up, with flukey winds switching from side to offshore and glassing off for the late session, but the groms are more buzzed by it than yesterday. “I just want to wake up so it’s tomorrow. Even the tiny ones are so perfect it’s crazy,” Wilko raves as we tuck into another monumental dinner. Used to be you’d come to Indo and lose weight and get fit, or end up all gaunt and skinny. Nowadays, it’s possible to come here and get fat, especially when you’re out of the water.

THURSDAY -

ANDY’S DIARY: Day 4 - Macca’s - four to six foot, solid, west wind ‘til 9 o’clock, wind changed all day, swell still SW , light west wind on dark. Three boats and Barrenjoey with engine problems, midday solid and good conditions for three hours.

We wake at Macca’s to more rainy grey weather, onshore winds, and a slightly larger swell that cleans up as the morning progresses. The groms are on it early and going mental, hanging the fins out to dry and loving it.

Boat-bound as I am, observing the little nuances of shipboard life becomes my sport, as characters unfold and rituals are established. You learn things about people on a boat that a lifetime of friendship on land might not reveal. The unsavoury fact that Willsy has three poos before 9 am each day. The disturbing news of Matty G’s “nocturnal emissions”. The stark reality of the previous user’s digestive state put on show when you brave the ship’s toilet and wrestle with its temperamental flushing mechanism. The way Deano will watch Taylor Steele’s Campaign DVD on high rotation, repeating the Slater segment endlessly before and after every surf. Some time in the last 10 years, while I wasn’t paying attention, rap seems to have become the music of choice for the young surfers of the nation and I am shocked to find such a generational divide between myself and the almost unlistenable “young people’s music”. I hope my knee gets better soon - I think I am beginning to unsettle people with my constant, quiet staring and furious scribbling in my notepad.

FRIDAY -

ANDY’S DIARY: Day 5 - Macca’s two to three foot, no wind early, 7.30 head for Sikakap, leave Sikakap 1.15, arrive The Right three o’clock, three foot, epic. Thunders four to six foot, northerly, sideshore. The Right ‘til dark.

We wake to a smaller swell, and move on early to refuel at the town of Sikakap, a couple of hours motor away. The prospect of going ashore in this remote logging town is oddly exciting. We cruise into port past corrugated iron shanty towns of timber workers, enormous piles of logs and the strewn together shops and houses that cling to the shore and threaten to tumble into the sea at the slightest disturbance. We pull up next to a couple of local fishing boats and the refuelling gets underway, as we clamber over the neighbouring boats and on to dry land. A guy is pouring petrol from an enormous tank into a 44 gallon drum and smoking a cigarette while he does it. I hurry on, to avoid the imminent explosion, hobbling on my dodgy knee.

The town is one street, crammed with shops spilling over with all manner of consumer goods - bright and garish kids’ clothes, electrical products, simple restaurants and cafes, fruit and vegetable stalls, piles of chilli, dried fish, cloves spread out to dry, cages of chickens. There are a couple of smart houses with satellite dishes that stick out in the main street, which is barely wide enough for the trucks that push through the crowds of people. A tourist sign outside a military outpost extolls the region’s attractions: “Welcome to Sikikap - Native live. Jungle forest. Water world. Surf.” A solider comes out of the military post as I’m taking a photo of the sign. I think I’m going to get in trouble but he only wants me to take a photo of him.

A young local guy in the street asks me if I surf and tells me he is a surf guide. Must be an attractive career for a young bloke growing up in Sikakap. I wonder how surfing might transform their lives in time. We appear to be the only outsiders who come here, apart from the logging companies.

Twiz reckons the Indonesian government has made the decision to log the entire island of Siberut, despite its rainforests being declared a UNESCO world heritage biosphere. They contain four species of primates and hundreds of species of plants found nowhere else on earth. Dr Dave from Surf Aid reckons they probably contain 25 cures for cancers, and are the natural pharmacy of the Mentawai’s shaman. The remote rainforest tribes have survived the Dutch occupation of their islands, the missionaries, ruthless government policy from Jakarta that forbade their traditional religion, tattooing and rituals, enforced head shaving, re-location and even sterilisation. They have survived 10 years of surf tourism and some have even found themselves attractions in small scale eco-tours. But they are unlikely to survive the destruction of their forests - source of their food, medicine, spirituality, home of their ancestors. Local environmental groups have fought for years to save the Siberut rainforests. Conservationists and anthropologists around the world are aghast at the short-sighted destruction of this unique environment, culture and way of life. Never mind the fact that the island might very well wash away altogether with rain and erosion, stripped of its vegetation. The lure of the precious hardwoods found in its forests is too strong for the loggers to resist. Even if the Mentawaiians were to see some reasonable royalty from the logging, they would be wealthy beyond their wildest dreams and perhaps able to make the transition to some new way of life. But they see little from the enormous logging profits.

You can hardly blame the good citizens of Sikakap for wanting a better life for themselves and their children. I try to imagine remaining here, always, for this street and town and looming, doomed forest to be your entire world. The people are friendly, apparently happy enough, the kids calling out the ubiquitous, sing-song, “Hello mister,” where ever we go. Is it selfish of us to want to keep remote surf spots uncrowded and secret, the environment pristine, and deny the local communities the economic development they may crave? The original Mentawai surf charter skipper, Martin Daly, poses me a tough question: “In the west, we’ve cut down our forests to build our economies. Who are we to tell them not to cut down theirs?”

We have two hours in town and are on our way. Most of us are back on the boat well within the two hours, sheltering from the sweltering equatorial heat and third world clammer. Kids loiter around our boat baying for fruit juices or Coca Cola and Bottle buffs them out.

It’s a two hour motor back to Thunders with the chance of a late arvo surf but I’ve switched off, grovelling down in my cabin, nursing my knee, discovering the wonders of the iMovie programme on my Apple laptop, cutting together a little clip of Lance’s reunion with Hosen from the other day. I’ve got myself convinced I’m a budding Martin Scorcese. We check a little out of the way right and Deano jumps straight into it - apparently small, overcast, inconsistent. Willsy goes over for a look barely interested, reckons there’s one wave every 10 minutes, enough for one person only, but jumps in anyway. The others go over to Thunders which is bigger but more exposed to the wind. I take little interest in my cocooned edit suite downstairs. When Easty stumbles in a couple of hours later, eyes bulging, tongue flapping, barely able to get the words out about the life-altering session he’s just witnessed, I figure he’s joking. But he’s not. As soon as they got out there, the wind dropped, the sets pumped, and Willsy and Deano enjoyed their own private barrelfest, with Easty and Hilton on hand to shoot the steely, sheet glass drain pipes. “That was the session of the trip,” Easty babbles, a big call after Lance’s. “It was like Huey just said, righto, you two blokes have earnt this - the others have still got some dues to pay - and just turned it on for them.”

Willsy and Deano are similarly gobsmacked.

“This is like having those weird dreams of surfing perfect waves. It’s like being in heaven,” says Danny, not a man easily moved to such poetic outbursts. “I’ve just had the three best days’ surfing of my life.”

“That was just awesome, such a joke,” Deano concurs, shaking his head. “I won’t sleep tonight,” reckons Willsy. “I was wondering how we could follow up the other day.”

Wilko chips in: “Don’t worry. We had shitty lefts with heaps of sea lice.” Like some sceptical TV detective, I sit the boys down and get them to talk me through it from the start.

Satisfied that I have truly missed a life changing session, I return to the edit suite to lick my wounds. The trip, it seems, is now officially a corker. Anything beyond this is a bonus - though some sun would be nice for the cameramen. It’s weird to be surrounded by all this surf fever and yet be somehow removed from it, rendered impotent and useless, nuted by a crook knee. Willsy has given me some heat patches which help, and I vow if the waves get epic again I’ll strap it up and go for a trim.

We’re feeling like a bit of a team, now, like our combined auras are attracting good fortune. People are dropping their guards and showing themselves as we get to know each other - Twizz’s London club and pub days, Easty’s impressive and incongruous credentials in karate, accounting, surfing and photography, Matty G’s original hip hop/rap CD that gets everyone amped, my bawdy beer ballads from a bygone era that burst forth unexpectedly one evening after four Bintangs. Twiz has thrown himself into a video production of the trip, shooting each session and editing it altogether each evening, with a mad soundtrack of his favourite UK dance club hits. It’ll be the gayest surf video ever.

SATURDAY

ANDY’S DIARY: Day 6 - The Right, three foot strong NE wind, travel to Gilligans, 6 and half hours, 30 knot head winds.

It’s a stormy night with lots of rocking and not much sleep. We wake to yet another grey day and head back to the mental right to see if it’s working. The wind’s wrong, it’s wonky and shallow but cleaning up slowly and we sit it out to see what it’ll do. The Devil Wind springs up, like a nor-easter on the Gold Coast, Andy reckons. “Full-on movie day,” is his expert appraisal.

Easty and I go briefly into land for a wander. The jungle feels pre-historic. I walk a short distance inland and find myself in a forest of over-sized Pandanas trees, towering over me in twisted, improbable, groping branches, like something out of a Dr Seuss book. I feel kind of spooked - like a woolly mammoth could come bounding out of the undergrowth at any moment - and retreat to the beach.

The right never really does it. Twiz sits determinedly out there by himself for hours, trying to coax himself into the tiny sideshore death tubes breaking on almost dry reef. He is a mad bastard, the way he has flung himself into surfing headlong, and taught himself to surf over shallow reef. He knows he’ll be back in London before too long, sitting in finance meetings, dreaming of this place.

Deano has a brief go at it but even he’s not keen. Eventually, the decision is made that we may as well travel while the winds’ shitty and be somewhere desirable for the new day. It sounds sensible, except that travel involves six hours of slogging into a 30 knot headwind, banging over wind chop like ruts in a dirt road. A movie marathon ensues, until we are all too green to focus on the screen. “The Day After Tomorrow,” an epic Hollywood disaster movie about climate change-induced global chaos, is an unsettling choice. When Andy calls this the weirdest weather he has ever seen out here, I’m convinced the great global meltdown is upon us and we are all doomed. Only Hilts, Matty G and Bottle seem immune from queasiness, up on the top deck, blaring hip hop on the stereo, howling into the mounting storm - forming their own crew, the Sea Unit, which we will all hear much more of. Finally, mercifully, we find shelter for the evening and we slowly recover our senses. “I wanted to dive overboard at one point,” Alana whimpers.

SUNDAY

ANDY’S DIARY: Day 7 - Leave Gilligans 3.15 am, arrive playground 8.30, 40 knot NE wind horror trip. 4 bob two foot cross shore. Pussy 3.30 - north wind, two to four feet okay, six boats, pit stops one foot onshore.

Andy wants to get moving at three the next morning to reach the Playground by dawn but everyone’s dubious about another rough crossing. “I don’t think my body can take another day like that,” Deano protests. There’s much debate but the attraction of some new waves is too strong. Our dutiful crew up anchor at three am the next morning and it’s fine for the first couple of hours, but by 5 am the Devil Wind is back and the nightmare continues. We emerge from cabins one by one, greener than yesterday, wondering where on the boat the punishment might be lessened. Pak Nas is a freak, managing to make pancakes in the maelstrom, and none of the crew seem much the worse for wear.

We get to the Playground around 8.30 am, two hours longer than it normally takes, and gradually regain equilibrium. The swell is small and we anchor near Paul King’s abandoned island, where a luxury resort was to be built. His rival Rick Cameron’s planned resort at nearby E-Bay is also yet to materialise. Something seems to be stymying these grand plans for land camps. Kingy got as far as building a wharf on his island, only to watch it topple into the sea during the next storm. His workers fled when one got malaria. Some of the boys surf a tiny right before we move on to Bells, or Napussi, a swell magnet of a wave that breaks with a similar fat sluggishness to its Victorian namesake, at that inbetween size when it’s neither Bowl nor Rincon. Still, it’s overhead on the sets and our boys are close to snapping after the past 24 hours. There are two boats already there and eight blokes in the water. I feel sorry for them. They won’t know what’s hit them when Deano gets out there. He’s flipping after a day without waves and has announced that this may be the day to get drunk. Everyone is thrilled by this prospect, except perhaps Alana who rolls her eyes in foreboding. Mitch seems to have suffered the most in the rough weather, growing quiet and sullen. “Can’t wait to get home,” he wheezes. Willsy is like the seasoned veteran, the warrior, who’s been around the block and knows what’s up. “You got to pay a bit of a price for those waves,” he reasons cheerily.

Willsy shows me how to strap my knee and I decide to chance it, cruising on the single fin. The crew are very happy that I am going surfing. They have been concerned about my knee, asking about its progress every day and making sympathetic sounds as I hobble about. “You jealous, yes?” Iksan asks sadly, when everyone else goes surfing. They don’t want anyone going home unsatisfied with their great Mentawai surf holiday. The knee feels fine, a bit stiff but I don’t push it. The crew are delighted, ready to celebrate my brave comeback when I return to the boat. “No more jealous,” Iksan smiles, relieved.

By late arvo, there are no fewer than six boats at this unremarkable wave and a seventh arrives just as we push off for the night. Hilts, Bottle and Andy have been for a fish up around the corner, well away from the surfers this time, and Hilts hooks a decent size Trevally. Pak Nas prepares sashimi for dinner. Moods grow buoyant once more. Food is crucial in the mood management of a boatload of surfers, I come to realise. Beer and chocolate are in constant and abundant supply. Bread and butter, cheese and a variety of spreads, a toaster and a jaffle iron are laid out between meals. No one goes hungry. Pak Nas has been tying to cater to our perceived “western” tastes, with hamburgers, suspicious grey chicken nuggets, and even “KFC” as advertised on the kitchen whiteboard for lunch one day, oily fried chicken and chips. Eventually, we suggest politely that we’d like to eat more Indonesian style food and Nas seems relieved - bunging on the killer curries, nasi goreng and noodles that are his forte. We must eat a gross amount by Indonesian standards, though we have been a surprisingly mild crew on the Bintang count. Deano decides not to get drunk afterall, pulled back from the brink by a furious arvo session in which he catches more waves than the rest of the lineup put together. He actually likes the wave and its wobbly walls. “It helps you work your turns out. Every section needs a different sort of turn,” he reckons.

Deano is the most feverish surf addict I have ever seen, totally insatiable it seems. “I start to wig out after a couple of days without surf, get all itchy and stuff,” he says.

MONDAY - ANDY’S DIARY: Day 8 - anchor Playground. 15-20 knots N wind, Bells two to four feet, offshore.

A slow, lazy day. A couple of surfs at head high Bells with plenty of other blokes in the water. We head to E-Bay for a planned rendez-vous with the Surf Aid crew but they don’t show. They’ve been delayed a day and we arrange to meet them tomorrow, our last day. There’s a little wave round the corner that crew are keen to check, Pit Stops, but it’s a nothing wave, barely breaking. The funny thing is, this place has featured in a couple of surf videos, with Taj Burrow launching wild airs off its little ragged peaks, and now heaps of charter passengers ask to come here. The skippers and surf guides scoff at it, laughing at the power of suggestion and surf media mimicry we surfers seem to suffer.

Our trip is almost over. We decide this is really our last night in the islands, as we will be crossing the strait back to Padang tomorrow night. We figure it is time. Out comes the duty free, the Bintangs go on ice. Twiz premieres his surf movie epic of the trip. It sounds like a Manchester dance club in full swing, without the chemicals, but he’s done a sensational job. The waves on the big day at Lance’s are mad. Bottle is captured stroking into one towards the end of the day with a can of Bintang in hand, and getting thoroughly slotted as he holds the can up for the camera. Twiz, Hilt, Matty G and I hit the Cointreaus. Matty G and Hilts reveal their inner breakdancers, busting moves rarely attempted without a mat of cardboard underneath. I bust out that faithful old chestnut, the Air Hostess (picture it folks - here are the exits, here, here and here. This is the oxygen mask, and this is the elastic strap. This is the light, and this is the whistle to attract attention. Go on, try it at home). Suddenly, our Indo crew leap into action, taking over the dance floor and busting some moves of their own. Robyn retrieves a multi-coloured disco ball from downstairs, and it is - as they say - ALL ON. If there had been more than one woman aboard it would have been an excellent party. Matty Wilko shows what a good sport he is - paying his penance for losing three straight hands of Shithead by swimming nude around the boat in the dark. Willsy has taken to him with the scissors and given him the crudest western suburbs mullet this side of Campbelltown. Playing the part, Wilko has taken to wearing aviator sunnies and pouting a lot. All he needs is a pack of Winnie blues tucked up the sleeve of his t-shirt.

Someone has announced a cash prize for the best dancer and the Crew go into overdrive. After more than a week of waiting on this ragged pack of surfers, they are ready to blow off steam. Pak Nas stuns us with some inventive disco moves that seem to meld traditional Balinese dance with Saturday Night Fever. Robyn disappears and comes back in a skirt and bikini top he’s borrowed from Alana. “He’s not wearing those,” she draws the line, snatching back her bikini briefs. Fair enough, too.

Aleks and Pak Nas have some big moves, but Robyn takes the cake. He could be straight out of Les Girls in the Cross, minci