Strange Rumblings in Mentawai 3

We have been at sea for a bit over a week. A whole chunk really. South of Gilitar. Cabin fever has set in. I clamber about the boat cherry red with bloodshot eyes. Sinuses jammed full of seawater. Pressurized. Ready to squirt. I ritualistically drain them in the afternoon. Like an influenza-ridden ostrich, I stick my head between my legs and wait for the primordial drip. Not much cable out here in the sticks. So I let it rip, putting on a show for the Crew. With a neck vein bulging on the brink of hemorrhage, my face turns a deeper shade of red. Ruby, Marooon maybe.

Then there is the coffee. Thick and muddy, its kept in a plastic jar at the back of the shelf. I ask Yuri, first mate and fishing extraordinaire, if I can have some of the “Crew Mix”.

He looks me up and down, with a big laugh and a wagging finger, “Nooo Bro, too strong. You can’t handle.”

I beg for a mug. “Come on Yuri, I wanna get weird man. I drink four cups a day back home.”

Yuri still seems unconvinced, “I don’t know bro, very strong. You are a guest of the Addiction, might be too much.”

“Aww come on, just one cup. Would you show me how to make it? I’ll be cruise, I promise.”

Yuri looks over his shoulder comically, saying with a giggle, “Ok but just one cup. Very strong.”

I agree with an excited nod. Watching Yuri fill the mug with eight heaping tablespoons of coffee grounds. Clicking on the instant kettle. We Listen to the machine hum and hahhh, rolling and rumbling. A click pops, the boiling water is officially scalding. Yuri pours the riled water; mixing up a whirling brown concoction. Raising a deep tan thumbs-up, he motions to the mug.

“Ok ready, Maybe try a few sips first?”

“Ya.Ya.Ya.” I say with a bigly grin, fist bumping Yuri. I take a consequential glug of hot brown mud coffee. Feeling grainy grounds on my teeth. Bitter. Dark. Beefy.

“Woooh that’s the good stuff.” I cackle, going in for another glug.

Yuri’s tremendous smile grows pearly white as he heads out to the aft. I clamber up to the second story deck, with the mug of mud sloshing. Ready to bug out and watch the turquoise blue spin along the reef passe.

The Indo coffee mix hits like a Volkswagen through the kitchen window. My eyes are wide as golf balls. I love it. The Crew watches through binoculars, whistling for the incoming set.

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I have formed the habit of timing my sessions inversely to the rest of the Crew. They all like to surf together. Cheering one another into waves. But the way I like to do it requires space from any sort of group or crowd. Even from the most game eyes which reside in the Crew. I like to get down and feel the lizard take over. Speak in tongues. Wriggle and jive. Howl at the midday sun. Let it all out. Soak into the scene. Become a feral goblin of the Indian ocean. Lose myself in the frothy mystic blue.

I have been working on the method since the tender age of seven, when my dad first began dropping me off at cockroach bay with my board back home. Making real progress on the Mentawai trip thus far. Experimenting with process, learning that indo mud coffee really primes the system for the sort of wild jittery rambling which I value more than anything these days…

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I scramble into position. Lining up with the stilt shack at the top of the passe. Turning my fresh green and purple fish. Daniel Jones. Sixer. Twinny. Magic. Sliding into a left, four feet tall bending around the reef for a hundred yards. I pull on the green rail. Once, twice, thrice, then feel the endless blue fold over my head. I hold my line. Driving now, feeling my hand skip and skim along the wall. The Indonesian wormhole keeps running while I hang on with clamped talons. Yanking on the keels. Going like hell. Flapping. Reeling. Totally blind on Indonesian nectar. Like a bat bursting through the canopy. Then suddenly and to my own surprise, I pop out the other end of the wormhole. Squealing in delight, I launch off the end bowl into the channel. The Crew roars from the boat. Incredulous and ecstatic. I let out a manic giggle, rat tat tatting along to the oceans flux and paddle back out for another trip down the passe.

Captain Dickinson blows the foghorn, pulling up the anchor with the mechanical clink of chain on a well-worn winch. Yuri blasts over to me in the yellow dingy, making the outboard whine in disapproval.

“Let’s go! Let’s go! Captain wants to check Green Bush.” Calls Yuri from the channel. I scramble over to the dinghy. Pulling myself over the gunnel in a disorganized fumble of fiberglass and neoprene. Watching Dickinson throttle Addiction out of the bay.

“We are gonna catch up to Captain. Hang on bro!” Yells Yuri, wrenching on the tiller throttle. Launching the little dinghy off oil glass swells. Landing with a thud.

Captain Dickinson stands with a wide stance. Hairy with faded tattoos and a scraggly beard that roars for the open ocean. A rough, thick hand always rests on the throttle and his sparkling grey eyes squint for the horizon. He’s From Niu Valley, but fell off the map sometime during the early 2000’s. Enamored by the Raw untold story of Mentawai. Captain Dickinson seems isolated in his very own fantasy. He laughs at jokes, and tells stories in a reserved sort of way, but something seems eerily wrong. Like he is supposed to be twenty-four, but suddenly aged twenty years without noticing. Escapism’s favorite son.

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I sit on the aft. Feeling the smoky, salt caked air crawl by. Dark bends of jungle look back upon us as we pass. Addiction bangs down from atop the swells with ever heavier thuds. I shiver in the tropic heat as the banging begins to shift. Captain Dickinson arcs around another turquoise passe. Sliding along the swells. The aft lifts and my guts fall out; losing the known world at the bottom of each passing swell. I feel it sliding away and think about letting go. But snap back to. Turning around to see pinnacles of water packed at the head of the bay, standing double that of anywhere else on the coastline. I spin in disorient as the water turns dark green, blending with the canopy. Creeping closer in predatory concentrate.

Two miles deep in the slithering green bay, Dickinson drops the anchor with a sudden release of chain, clattering into the dark green void. Three boat lengths from the slab stone shore. Howls and whistles whizz through the air. We are not alone.

On the cusp of dusk, Captain Dickinson points to a dead tree looming white in the vital green jungle.

“That’s Green bush right there. She’s awake today.”