Impossible Dreams of Uluwatu

As part of my retirement plan, I've been doing very little in the way of moving around. I'm a bit ashamed to admit this, but since arriving in Bali over three weeks ago I've not ventured farther than the local grocery store, which is no more than 2km from the front steps of my hotel room. Call me lazy if you must.
Not all has been lost, however, because I've made up for my lack of locomotion by spending an ample amount of time in the water. I can't say for certain, but I'd hazard it's even possible that I've swum a greater distance than I've walked, which is truly uncharacteristic of my explorative nature.

So finally, after 20+ days of roosting in the rather diminutive ecosystem I've carved out consisting of my room, the beach and a handful of nearby restaurants, I decided to take a road trip. Jackson, Sarah and I hired a cab for the day, strapped our surfboards to the roof and headed out, Southeast along the coast towards Bali's most famous and formidable ocean break: Uluwatu.
Once we were underway I immediately felt the thrill of doing something new and exciting. I felt as a dog must when he gets a rare car ride, and I had to fight a strong desire to stick my head out the window and let my tongue flap around in the slipstream. Bali is beautiful, so green that it must look like a giant teardrop-shaped emerald from above. It's a short hop skip and a jump from Kuta to Uluwatu but the roads are narrow and curvy and go through a smattering of tiny villages, where life is traditional and no one is trying to woo you with their enormous selection of fake-ass Billabong t-shirts.

A five minute descent down some steps takes you from the parking lot at Uluwatu to the cliffs overlooking the breaks below. We left our surfboards in the care of our cab driver, a precaution that would ensure we'd live to see another day. The reason for this is that ULUWATU IS INSANE. And to surf there, you'd have to be, too. The waves start at around 10ft high but can often surge to more than 20. The currents are violent and actually getting to the break requires a 20 minute paddle against the flow. And of course let's not forget the sea floor: it's shallow and littered with jagged rocks that wait with a geological patience to turn your spine into an accordion should you crash.
It should be apparent then that our decision to stay dry was a no-brainer. But I wasn't disappointed. For hours we sat in the relative safety of a viewing area, watching the prostars do their thing. It's quite a sensation to see someone paddle into a 13ft wave, catch it on the vertical (which on waves of that magnitude means a momentary freefall), turn on a dime, disappear behind a barrel and reappear 100m further on, then exit the wavecrest with a 360 degree spin courtesy of the air you get from a perfectly-timed dismount. It's beautiful. It got all emotional.

After an hour or so of this, we began to get antsy. We needed to catch a few of our own waves - ones that wouldn't leave us in the infirmary - so we hopped back in the cab and headed to another hotspot called Dreamland. Our timing wasn't good, though. In surfing you're always at the mercy of the tides, and there was no action whatsoever when we arrived. No apparent bother, because we saw a few heads in the water at another spot a mile down the beach, and paddled over to take a look.
Immediately I knew I was over my head. Literally, because the first thing I did was get introduced to the art of underwater gymnastics by a 9-footer that broke before I was able to dive under it. Then I spent the next hour falling off my board in what had become my most fruitless attempt at surfing since the first day I got on a board. Jackson fared better - he caught a couple of nice ones and rode them all the way to shore, though in one instance his board pearled (that's when the nose goes under the surface as you attempt to stand up, meaning you're toast) and he was deposited ass-first onto the rocks. Don't worry girls, he's still bootylicious. Either way, we were a tad out of our league in this spot - and it's hardly a surprise considering the name of the break: Impossibles.
One last try. We headed back to Dreamland, which by this point had picked up, and spent our last remaining microjoules of energy trying to catch just about anything. Not to be outdone by Jackson's respectable crash, I decided that my right arm had too much skin on it and took several layers of it off using the rocky sea floor as an abrasive. All this at 30km/hr. Exhausted, beat down, sunburned and choking on sea water, we emerged from the ocean, took a good deep breath, and agreed that it had been an excellent surf day. One for the history books. Satisfied, we headed back to Kuta, already looking forward to surfing on its gentle sandbars the following day.

That's all, but before I go, I'd like to make the following service announcement. Ladies! Listen up.

Now I know that many of you have expressed your extreme heartfelt disappointment that you've been unable to get any love from THIS GUY, but please, please do not despair, for though I may be a one-woman man I still can't help but want each and every one of you to be happy. And so in accordance with that, I recommend that you turn your lovely eyes to my cousin. Ladies, let me introduce you to Matt Hudson.
He's not tall, he certainly isn't dark, but (inasmuch as he's a dead ringer for me) he's devilishly handsome, not to mention chalk full of Winnipeggy goodness! Now I ain't sayin you a golddigger, but this boy is soon to be minted, courtesy of his fledgling career with top accounting firm Ernst & Young. He's calm, cool and collected, always respected, uninfected, fully inspected, fuel-injected and never, ever rejected! So don't be a skeptic. Give him a call, and all your dreams will come true. The number is 1-204-555-HUNK. He's a Hudson, ladies, so ye shall not regret it. (Must have full set of teeth to apply).

Thank you and
"Goodnight, sweet ladies
Ladies, goodnight.
It's time to say bye-bye. Bye-bye!" -Lou Reed