I used to live in Bali. It feels like a fucking decade ago when it was just in April.
There’s this magic to Bali. I didn’t think I would ever care for that sort of shit, that hippie-yoga-surfing-nature-organic-coffee vibe, but it’s exactly what I needed for that month in my life. I’d wake up at 7am, meditate, masturbate, hit the gym (the standard). Then at 11am I’d jump onto my motorbike and turn left onto Nakula and take that all the way down until it hit the ocean.
In the mornings, the waves along Double Six Beach were too small to surf. They’d grow larger throughout the day and become enormous by sunset, crashing into the coast, bouncing, crashing once more. I’d go at 11am because that was amateur hour for us beginner surfers on our immense 10ft foam longboards. Wayan would be there, setting up his surfboard rental booth on the beach.
(I asked Wayan, “When do people usually switch to a shortboard?” “Normally it takes 2 to 3 months,” he replied. “Then I’ll do it in 2 to 3 weeks,” I said, as he rolled his eyes. I sucked shit and was stuck on a longboard the entire month. Somehow, I was worse at surfing by the time I left Bali than when I flew there in the first place.)
I’d surf for an hour. Sometimes 90 minutes. But after that, I was exhausted, spent. I would plead the gods for mercy as I stumbled from the water and collapsed on the sand. And then I would look down at my thick abs and round shoulders and be all hooollllllllyyyyyy shit.
After returning my surfboard to Wayan’s shack where he stored them, we would sit on lawn chairs and look at the horizon, where the ocean met the sky. It was a good life, and I fucking knew it.
Most of the time, I’d eat lunch at a warung on the way back home, a simple, local restaurant with a hot table where you point at what you want to eat, they stack it onto a plate, then charge you based on what you chose using some unknown calculation. I’d mostly get the same items but the price would change daily (but who cares, it was always between $2-$3). I’d be ravenous after surfing, and would hunch over my food and eat with my fingers, my wet swimming trunks soaking the wooden bench and the sun toasting my thoroughly tanned back.
And then I would write. I would sit at one of the three cafes that I frequented and write like a motherfucker for 4 to 6 hours. I would write and edit – over and over again – stories about dating, about girls who broke me and about the girls who I broke; about the women who graced my life like a blessing and about the women who wrecked my life like a fucking hurricane.
I wrote and wrote and wrote and wrote until I looked up and the sun was setting which meant the waves would be crashing on Seminyak Beach. Sometimes I’d continue writing, sometimes I’d head to the beach, sometimes I’d go home and watch Netflix and sometimes I’d…
Jesus fuck, this sucks.