Meanwhile, on the other side of the island. . . A jungle trek leads to a hidden cove
     Dangled for dramatic effect, the phrase carries overtones of intrigue, suggesting mysterious possibility beyond the constraints of ordinary experience.
     Consider the following usage:
     "The surf camp patrons, staring despondently at the ankle slappers that lapped the reef outside their bungalows, returned to their hammocks or the distractions of the pool table.  Meanwhile, on the other side of the island. . . Here, we wonder if the conditions at the surf camp convey a true picture of that day's surf potential.
     With a bit of gumption, a daypack of provisions, and a liberal application of bug repellent, the intrepid surf explorer eager to impersonate Indiana Jones can enter the jungle and, after struggling through suffocating humidity and mud-marred paths, emerge from the shadows to find a place where the constraints of ordinary experience not only diminish but give way to paradise visions.  One may find, for example, a deserted cove, untrodden sand edging an emerald sea, where balmy breezes carry an echo of the dreamtime.  There, an apparently perfect left spins beyond the lagoon, a fantasy wave, its shoreward surge like the frolic of a winged horse in a meadow of the gods.
Sumatran secret. . .Photo:  S. Jacques Stratton     When I first saw the wave it seemed surreal, as though the jungle trek had somehow warped the fabric of space-time and confronted me with a scene from the primordial Earth.  Under the sheen of sweat and bug repellent coating my face, I could feel my expression contort into that wide-eyed, open-mouthed variety that signals bewilderment.  In part, this expression resulted from my recognition of a perplexing irony:  during the run of swell over the prior week, charter yacht crowds battled for waves seemingly half as good.  To find a dream wave going off under the radar screen on a day deemed flat by the standard metrics seemed beyond strange.  Additionally, the irony had a personal dimension that seemed more cruel with each successive wave that spun down the reef.  I didn't have a board. . .
     Why would I?  Observing the languid waters fronting the surf camp, I, like the other patrons, wrote off the day's surf potential and made other arrangements.  When my wife the anthropologist enlisted me on a jungle trek to photograph monkeys, I planned my equipment needs accordingly-- Mystery monkey. . .Photo: S. Jacques Strattondaypack, bottled water, camera accessories, and hiking boots.  The idea that I should add my surf gear to the equipment list, on the rare chance that I might stumble across a dream wave in The Land That Time Forgot, simply never occurred to me.
     Well, that was about to change. . .  One nagging detail--a consolation of sorts--kept me from kicking the sand in frustration and calling myself an idiot. Lacking reference points, I had no sense of the wave height.  Subjecting the scene to the scrutiny of the camera's zoom lens offered little clarification.  I couldn't tell if the ruler-edged peelers that came into focus represented knee-high reef scrapers or double-overhead bombs with board snapping potential.  I couldn't tell, but I knew I had to find out. . .
     To her credit, Mer recognized the call of the sea in my anxious expression and absolved me of further wildlife photography duties.  Though well intended, this selfless gesture only increased my anxiety, causing me to contemplate the sense of foolishness that would no doubt afflict me if, after a sweaty slog back and forth through the jungle, I returned with my surf gear, only to find the vision of fantasy surf shattered by different tide and wind conditions.  I'd heard tales of Indonesian reefs that, once in a Blue Moon, turned on as tidal forces pushed water over special coral contours, and I wondered if this spot might fit that profile.  My mind a-whirl with such speculations, I set a feverish pace back to the bungalows.  In my haste I lost an appreciation for potential trail hazards, one of which, a brown snake whose presence I discerned thanks to my wife's shouted warning, slithered into the bracken as I passed by.
     Back at the camp, a profusion of empty beer bottles and the lethargic sprawl of my fellow guests indicated I'd have difficulty generating interest in a formally organized surf expedition, but the close encounter with the snake reminded me of my position on the world's wild edge and the benefit of companions.  Specifically, I hoped to drum up a skiff and a surf guide, and thus avoid another jungle trek.  Unfortunately, the camp crew had all embarked on errands, and the most interest I could generate in my fellow campers was a bemused "good on ya, mate!" from an Australian, who clearly regarded my report of perfect surf on the other side of the island as the raving of a madman.  Recognizing the implication of these disappointments, my wife, again to her credit, agreed to accompany me back to the cove.  If my determination to surf alone at an isolated reef ended in tragedy, she could at east give the authorities a proper accounting.  (A dedicated rule follower, she often displayed excessive concern for the importance of governmental oversight, and felt certain that some village chief, if not a badge-toting Indonesian official, would consider my venture some sort of trespass and materialize from the jungle to issue a citation.)
Meanwhile, on the other side of the island. . .     After another jungle jaunt that depleted a good portion of the calories I needed for surfing, we returned to the hidden cove.
We returned to the hidden cove. . .Photo: S. Jacques Stratton With a cackle of glee I mocked my wife's concerns about governmental oversight.  The pace clearly lay within the jurisdiction of pagan powers.  The only recognizable banner of authority belonged not to human institutions but to the surf gods, who unfurled another "I'm out there!. . .In truth, I had no sense of the wave height.magical set for my appreciation.  "I'm out there!" I intoned, intending to make up through enthusiasm the calories lost during the jungle trek.
     The first part of the paddle-out went easily enough.  Between the beach and the fringing reef, a waist-deep lagoon, its clear waters a sanctuary for colorful fish, offered an inviting paddling path.  Yet here I encountered a surprise indication that I had indeed stumbled upon the primordial edge, where expected forms acquire unexpected dimension.  The lagoon proved wider than I initially judged--much wider.  When I finally reached the shallows of the fringing reef and stood on the coral, I looked back to see my wife as a small speck on a distant beach.  The surprise width of the lagoon foreshadowed the surprise width of the reef, whose sharp corrugations I now traversed carefully, treading my booties through a minefield of urchins, anemones, fire coral, and other toxic terrors.  Eventually, I reached the point where the bubbly aftermath of the oncoming waves surged against my shins, and there discovered another surprise:  what from the beach looked like playful splashes of foam resolved, upon closer inspection, into hissing whitewater cauldrons powerful enough to blast me off my feet.  "Holy s--t!" I muttered to myself.  "It's bigger than I thought."
     Rather than pause to reassess the situation, I did what most surfers would do when presented with a lull between sets--I paddled hurriedly seaward and angled my way toward the take-off area.  And now, lured fully into the surf zone, I finally understood why I had such difficulty determining wave height from the beach.  As a dark shadow formed in the sea off the headland, a great suction of water dredged off the shallows, leaving the reef almost dry.  Where shadow and suction met, a lip pitched forward, impacting below sea level just inches from the exposed coral.  Invisible from the beach, the full scope of this dynamic did not become clear until witnessed from a waterfront seat. Perfect, or perfectly deadly?  That lip is impacting below sea level, inches from  exposed coral.  Photo: S. Jacques Stratton
     Driven more by a sense of showmanship than a real interest in riding the dredging demons, I waited on the periphery, hoping an amiable shoulder would offer an entry point that didn't entail a vision of my body impaled upon coral heads.  That game soon ended when I padded for, backed out of, and nearly got sucked over the falls on a wave I initially judged as head high but which morphed into a 10' face.  Deciding to make discretion the better part of valor, I made my way back to the beach.     It's out there, if you want it--the jungle path, the hidden cove, the perfect (and perhaps perfectly deadly) wave.  You won't know until you go.  My advice:  bring a helmet, and don't surf alone.