Second Thoughts

The First Mission. Excerpts from the journal of Timmy Turner.

March 8. "Arrived in Indonesia, more luggage than ever: 10 surfboards each, two tripods, boxes and our bags." Next day: "Downtown. Dropped two boxes of new clothes in a shady alley. Kids, moms, grandmas and dads came out of their homes in the alley and grabbed new clothes." The crew shop for pots, pans, water and supplies. "We even bought live chickens."

March 11. Boat to peninsula. Crew unload their gear by canoe and set up camp. Timmy falls asleep beneath the stars, only "to wake up every 10 minutes." The reason why is hinted at in next day's entry: "The live chickens woke us up at the crack of dawn. We're already ready to eat them. All of us had expected this trip to be a training program. Paddling, hiking and fishing gives us the perfect full body exercise." Alas, zealous airport officials in Jakarta confiscated the team spearguns. So, "with sharpened sticks we walked the rock pools, looking for stingrays. Armed with two stingers for defense and a mind of aggression, stingrays make for an undesirable target. But we were armed with a taste for blood. Trapping the rays between us, we were able to strike at the same time, pinning the fish to the reef and avoiding the stingers." The chickens on death row cluck with relief.

Timmy complained constantly of pain in his ear and paddled with just one arm. However, all afternoon he still caught wave after wave at heaving SteroidNias, and took beating after beating. At night, we enjoyed replaying the day's footage, not only of Jakovich but also our own vid-bloke Mick Waters and Bill the Cook's steady handcam work. There were many mental moments, including Brett's Crucifix and Dylan Longbottom's 14-second shack, complete with coconut tree in the lip. Yet most hoots rose for Timmy's Ride to Armageddon. On rewind after rewind, Timmy fell into the pit lying back. Edge set, he stood up, stood tall, soul arched in fact, his head near trailing the wall behind him, the barrel around him cavernous. As the end section began to loom down, Timmy straightened out. He travelled for some 12 feet, still casually arched, before crashing into the inside of the lip. End result: blind slaughter. But damned stylish, maniacal slaughter.