April 03 2020 Friday at 04:31 PM

Gone Surping

Some lucky son of a guns got to leave the temples embrace last week and venture out into the wilderness that is Lombok. I however was not one of these lucky few, but don't fret, a guest blogger was along for the ride and the following is his tale of events... (The following text is by former Nylon Magazine editor Adam Sherrett) It's not everyday the Deus crew gets to Lombok for virgin waves and and little pura vida. It's also not everyday that they get a guest blogger to document a surf trip. Last weekend, Dustin rounded up a motley crew of surfers and grease junkies in hopes of scoring some virgin waves amidst the jungles of the neighboring island. (more after the jump) The celebrity clientele included Steve Titus, Tyler Mars, Nicole Gozzer, Phil Carrall and his son Dede - who was on his first airplane ride - and myself, freshly in from the US the day before. New stories were written, a few sliders were found, and we all discovered the magic of Lombok's Irish bars, local coconut grog, Tyler's "Dirty Indo" beer-cocktails (a beer, lime and sambal concoction inspired by the Mexican "michelada"), and of course all the adventure that's nestled into the quiet island of singing temples and scooter jockeys. With six riders and one photographer, we arrived in Lombok via prop plane, serenaded by the sweet sounds of Kenny G soundtracking Phil's legendary (and often hilariously obscene) stories and Dede's firm orders for us all to shut off our cell phones. We immediately hopped our scooters, hired the canoe and headed out, landing a perfect first afternoon as we had Dustin's favorite lagoon as our playground. Nothing and nobody except the smell of salt and the sting of sea lice, all framed by majestic cliffs and untouched palms. Dede's wiry frame catching countless waves on the inside (he claimed 20 total) while the rest of us flopped and yelled on the outside sets. If you've ever had a wave for just you and your friends, you can appreciate the ridiculousness of our setting and childish behavior. A few hours later, we were out of the water and off to dinner, our gang of seven racing and zipping around like fireflies in the night. All that was missing was skeleton onesies and endless Karate Kid references. We ate, drank, and found that middle-ground of discussions on Mad Max, Blazing Saddles and Monty Python, all of which have a magical way of surpassing all age and social class. Phil picked his teeth with his dentures ("saves on tooth picks!"), the Bintangs disappeared like water and we all laughed and gorged to the pleasure of the house chef (yes, we were the only guests). The following morning we armed ourselves for dawn patrol, riding into the violet dawn of ghostly mountains, singing roosters and naked children staring as we rode by. With the moon at our backs and the sun in our face we took to the water to find glassy surf and welcoming offshore breezes. The small crowd we encountered were far from local, and we as a group believe someone stamped my board with a pass for others to "drop in anytime." But in a setting like this, there's really no room to complain. After the morning session we were off again on scooters, racing over to Maui, stalling bikes on the occasional hillside and wishing we had some Deus 225's at our disposal. We discovered secluded beaches, homemade guitars, and some locals named Dean, Andy, John and a Linda who seemed to think her winks and repeated "you like Linda" had a effect on our pocket books. Steve bought a guitar. We bought sarongs and coconuts. Linda win. With the surf blown out, Steve and I did what any well-versed local would do and hit the "Irish bar" next to our hotel. With a couple Jim Beam's and not a single Guiness in sight we found a little "Irish" luck and received an invite to join the bartender (Danny) at his friends home for a "true Lombok sunset." While some (like Dustin) may consider this a recipe for waking up in an ice bath with one kidney, we took a chance, grabbed some smoked fish and headed into the jungle, driving and sliding along along hidden dirt roads into the night. Phil ate shit. I laughed and then ate shit. We arrived to a welcoming community of friends with makeshift guitars, water-jug drums and a campfire music session that broke all language barriers. Local pink coconut moonshine was the beverage of choice, providing a unique refreshment the put out the the fires of homemade sambal and Steve's shoddy rhythm section. After Tyler almost losing a lip to a village chicken, we departed, refreshed and ready to get back to dinner at Cafe 7 for some live music, pizza and a new definition for the "really slow food" movement that seems to permeate the local hospitality industry. We drank into the night, finding ourselves back at the Irish bar, coming full circle as the warm rains came and set the perfect backdrop for Tyler to step behind the bar and sling "Dirty Indo's" as the locals laughed and ran for cover. We crawled out of bed for our last morning session, Steve departed for the US and we headed out to score a few more waves, gambling with sun stroke and our continued addiction to the water and a bit of adventure. We packed up, caught our prop plane out, swayed to Kenny G, and arrived back in Bali exhausted and confident, knowing we all part ways, but always find common ground in the ever-evolving priesthood we call enthusiasm.