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grows amongst the coral heads, a slimy green, stringy plant that they carried in baskets, then dried in the sun on hand-woven reed mats. I learned that this was the islanders' main source of income; the seaweed fetches a premium in the sushi markets of Japan. Even here in the remote reaches of the Indonesian archipelago, we could not escape reminders of the ever-encroaching global economy. One day the swell came up huge. The reef was nearly maxed out, with big funneling walls and spitting tubes. The fishing boats remained on the beach and the men nervously eyed the water. These were seas that none of them were willing to brave. Angus could hardly control his excitement. He waxed up his big board at a frantic pace. I started a fire in the pit to make coffee, waving a piece of cardboard to stoke last night's coals. Wisps of smoke mixed with the miSty morning air, and broken shafts of sunlight streamed through the canopy of palm trees above us. The fire flared into orange flame, and I stacked a few pieces of bamboo and coconut husk to draw the flame higher. I filled our blackened tin pot with water from a plastic water jug, then stirred in the finely ground beans to make a thick coffee soup-Indo style. "You want some java, Gus?" There was a long delay before he answered. "Na. Save it for later. " He picked his board up off the sand and wrapped the legrope around the tail. 'TIl see y'out there, Seppo." His face wore an expression that I had not seen before, like a dog that first hears the distant howl of a coyote. He ducked into the misty morning sun and ran down the beach out of sight. I tried to relax and Sip my coffee, gently swinging in the hammock, listening to the thunder of surf on the outside reef. The butterflies were having a rave party inside my stomach. The surf was big, and while I had tackled waves of equal size at home, the conditions here gave me cause for worry. The razor-sharp reefs, the Swirling currents, the lack of local surfer knowledge, and most of all the distance from any form of decent medical facility were enough to make me hesitate. Call me chicken, but I'd heard too many gruesome surf stories from this part of the world to throw caution to the wind. Still, I took a deep breath and rolled out of the hammock, waxed my board and walked out onto the beach, my knees feeling as though they were filled with Jell-O. As I neared the reef I realized that the surf was even bigger than I had thought. Huge swells were heaving onto the reef, sending plumes of water high into the air. There seemed to be no lull in the sets, as one wave after the other jacked up and reeled down the reef, finally erupting into chaotic froth in the channel. The rip current was running like a river, roaring past me and then skimming the edge of the death reef to my right. Where was Angus? I couldn't imagine that he'd been crazy enough to paddle out. But then, where else would he be? I remembered the wild look in his eyes when he left me at the hut. A set of waves appeared on the outside, and for a second I saw a figure bob over the top of the first wave as it broke. Angus was out there all alone. I spent a nerve-racking hour there on the beach, occaSionally catching sight of Angus as he crested an outside wave. The surf seemed to be growing bigger every minute. Most of the village had gathered on the beach and together we watched the lone surfer intently. There was nothing any of us could do. Suddenly Angus did the unthinkable. A huge set capped on the reef, and Angus paddled over the first three waves. On the fourth, he turned and stroked hard. The wave lurched forward and threw a massive lip, and Angus dropped in with his arms extended above his head. His board slightly disconnected with the wave's face but somehow he kept his balance, landing and starting a bottom turn. I could see the board chattering ferociously under his feet. The wave loomed up behind him, a massive frothing tube threatening to run him over like a speeding train. He crouched low and aimed straight towards the shoulder of the wave, trying to outrun it. He rode it like that all the way to the channel, barely escaping the madness that was erupting behind him. As the wave started to close out, Angus proned and aimed towards the beach to my left. The lip behind him threw out and landed squarely on his back, catapulting him away from his board. He disappeared into the froth, then resurfaced and swam towards his board. But it was already too late. The rip was pulling him straight towards the death reef, where massive waves were looming up and breaking onto dry coral. The villagers were in a frantic state, screaming and waving their arms. Angus grabbed his board and stroked hard towards the beach, but it was a lost cause. The current was too strong. He turned and paddled with the current, angling towards the death reef. It was his last chance at salvation-if he didn't get to shore, the current would drag him past the reef and straight out to sea-but it seemed a bit like ejecting from an airplane without a parachute on. Another set loomed on the outside as he fought the current. The waves exploded onto the reef, sending massive walls of whitewater that thundered briefly along before sucking back up into the face of the next wave. The last wave of the set rolled in behind him and he gave it all he had, stroking for the last patch of reef on the island. The wave picked him up and for a moment he was suspended in the lip, clutching the rails of his board, looking down at the razor-sharp coral below him. Angus came down with the lip. He was swallowed, then surfaced, no longer holding his board. The wave spread him across the reef like peanut butter. He bounced and rolled across the coral and finally came to rest on dry reef. The villagers ran out on the reef and lifted him up, cut and bleeding, and carried him into town. They were chanting strange songs I had not heard before. I followed close behind. Blood dripped from his wounds and spattered in the sand in front of me. They took him to a small hut and laid him on a soft reed mattress. I stood just outside the door, not wanting to get in the way, nervously chewing my fingernails. Women came and cleaned his wounds, dressing them with leaves that were covered with a black, tarlike substance, an astringent balm made from the sap of a native plant. Then I didn't know what to do. OutSide, the entire village seemed to be watching. The women were surrounding the hut with burning incense and blossoms, and the men were singing a haunting song in the island's dialect. "Is that you, SeppoT Angus suddenly blurted out. "Yeah, it's me," I answered. "What's going on here, mateT "I don't really know, man," I replied. I entered the hut and stood by his bed. "I guess they think you're some kind of a surf god." • ***** I received a letter from Angus just the other day. It's been more than ten years now since our adventure. He told me that he's been back to the island nearly every year since then. He doesn't even bother with Kuta anymore. The islanders arrange a boat for him every time he comes. They give him his own hut, cook for him, wash his clothes-treatment fit for a surf god. I hear he's even picked up a bit of the native tongue. 79