Strange Rumblings in Mentawai 2

Five days later. The Crew pops out the stinkier end of quarantine. Huck-it Henry presses the gas pedal well beyond the line of sanity. Sending our full van through a shitstorm of blinkerless zig zags and jams. Aimed for the harbor outside of Padang, my fingers twist against premature explosion. We are meeting the legendary Captain Dickinson upon impact. Boarding the Addiction, 65 feet of aluminum and aggression. The fastest cat in Mentawai. Our plan is to conduct ourselves as pirates. Go feral. Gulp down mugs of coffee and line drive through craggled reef slabs. Skin will be lost. Necks will snap. Heads will crack. But fuck ‘em we are going to the promised land. Hells Bells baby. It’s all there for the taking, just over the horizon.

Diesel marks the harbor. Mopeds whine and boats chug. Sweat and seawater mix into the engine fumes. The Crew skids to a stop in the heart of the smellscape, stepping onto the dock with shaky knees.

Huck-it Henry flashes a grin in the rearview, “Welcome to Addiction.”

Massive stud roosters peck and bob, four feet tall. Swaggering along the radius of wire leashes. Jacked and ruffled. Looking for a fight. Surrounding the harbor, lifting and setting long talons in eye watering green fields. Dark jungle crawls up the cliffs and down everything else. Six sunken ships lay at the head of the pier. Crackled blue and white paint. Crumpled afts and sterns, tied off to the dock with fresh line. An insurance hustle some local captains organized.

My stomach gulps in anticipation. I have been to this harbor once before. The last trip turned to shit. Devil winds and Bali belly two times. Hurling and squirting for ten days. Twelve pounds lighter I scurried back home whimpering. Mentawai slammed me from the top rope. But now I’m back, and rearing for another round. Perfect timing really… Indonesia glows red on the map. Hotspot for the newest and most contagious strain of COVID. The notorious and powerful Delta Variant.

The Crew waddles board bags down the dock, getting our first good look at the Addiction. It is spectacular and heavily discounted due to instability and health crisis in the region. Three stories of A/C, bunk beds and cold hard aluminum. The diesel engine grumbles beneath our feet. Like a bull waiting to rip into a matador. Waiting for Captain Dickinson to open up the throttle, and roar into the horizon. The First Mate, Yuri, welcomes us aboard with a big pearly white smile. I charade in gangly dialect. Yuri uses fist bumps to bridge the language gap.

Captain Dickinson clambers down from the cockpit. Laying out a very thin set of boat rules, “You guys know the deal stay off the aft at night, try to use the head when we are moving. Also go easy on the toilet paper. Use the hose instead. Boat plumbing doesn’t like eating through all that paper.”

Toby, the elder of the Crew, grey with sun weathered good looks asks, “Captain… How’s the forecast looking?”

Captain Dickinson replies in a bullish tone, “Oh we are gonna score hundred percent, ten feet of raw swell hitting in a few days. Good wind and no one for fifty square miles.”

The Crew murmurs with nerves and excitement. Consensus being that ten feet is an awful lot of swell. Then murmuring steadily rises into a flurry of shoulder slaps and shoves.

“Fuck yeah we go.” I knock myself on the chin a few times and pound my chest like a deranged orangutan. The Crew digs my vibe.

Captain Dickinson makes his way back up to the cockpit; announcing in his gravelly voice, “Ok let’s get rolling, I wanna get you boys to Hollow Trees by morning.”

The Spring lines are tossed, and fenders are stowed. We split up the cabins. I bunk with James upstairs. Tossing my bag at the foot of the bed. Laying out on crispy sheets. Sending a message to Sylvie, before losing service for the next few weeks. She sends me back a video of jellyfish at the Monterey aquarium and an update of the day’s happenings. My heart clambers around before regaining its rhythm. I read and reread the texts. Sending back pictures and updates of the trip. Grinning all the while. Feeling the boat lurch forward and the engine growl.

“Ok! Losing service, I’ll talk to ya soon!!” I text as the cell bars fall away.

Tobacco smoke billows from the second story deck. Toby and Bryce are rolling cigarettes and taking tremendous pulls as we roar out of the harbor. Dark heavy valleys slowly turn, watching us pass with sinister intention. Lines of smoke rise from the canopy into the muggy equatorial ether.

“Yeah Ri! Grab a seat. You want a hit?” Bryce offers his cigarette. Toby looks at me curiously as he licks a corner of rolling paper.

“Uhhh, I’m all good Uncle Bryce. Thank you though.” I stammer awkwardly.

Bryce laughs invitingly, “Yeah, good boy Ri. Don’t get on this shit, Me and Tobes are only smoking on the trip. This Indo tobacco is just too good.” Looking down at the pinched cigarette between his fingers. Motioning towards the stringy amber mix on the table. I lean in to smell the half-filled baggy. Feeling it swirl through my nose with resounding fullness.

“That smells insane.”

Toby nods in rocking agreement, sucking an ember bright orange through cupped lips.

Bryce cracks the cooler, “Grab a drink and cruise Ri, Tobes has got a story or two for us.” Looking over at Toby with a leading glint in his eye.

Toby raises his eyebrows into a handsome wrinkled forehead. “Well, I can tell you about Amsterdam in the seventies…”