Danny Carney is a longtime user and commenter on Swellnet. Other longtime users and commenters will figure out who he is quick enough, but here's an intro for everyone. Dan is currently living and working in Bali, and, for the surf season at least, he'll be contributing to Swellnet. The brief isn't to chase the best waves or uncover 'the real Bali' but simply to, in Dan's words, "post up at the premiere wave on the island and let it all unfold."

In this, you can expect interviews with jaded travellers, hyped Brazilians, and tattooed Aussies, advice on an Ulu quiver, and what the local lads are riding. Pretty much whatever piques his curiousity. Feel free to chime in with suggestions.

The first instalment is Danny setting the scene at Ulus: the walk , the cave, the rogue set...

Nerves usually sharpen my senses. My focus hones in. A sort of tunnel vision develops. It's reliable enough that I can put any fears aside knowing that if things get tricky, this response will kick in when I need it most. When I'm climbing and working through a particularly awkward crux, I can feel my heart slow down and a sense of calm - fragile, admittedly - sweep over me as I concentrate on the rock wall above me. My first lecture to a hall full of undergraduates, something that still shakes me today, was delivered in a daze. It was as if I was observing myself deliver a confident and calm class from above, things coming out of my mouth without first passing through my consciousness.

Where this nerve-sharpening fails me, and where I'd most like it to appear, is in the surf. And few places make me as nervous as Uluwatu.

I haven't surfed Uluwatu for quite a few years, being drawn to other parts of Indonesia for school or work or just plain getting away from the crowds. I've spent time shoulder hopping in heavy slabs, and surfing unpredictable spots with no one else around. I've been scared plenty - heightened by the fact that I'm an incredibly average surfer, more likely get clipped in the head and hit the reef than feature in an “unknown surfer gets wave of the season” video. In those years away from Ulus I've all but forgotten any intricacies of the place. Heading down from my new home in the mountains, I lost an hour or more taking roads that led me in the wrong direction. So much had changed and my most reliable landmarks were hidden behind new hotels and villas. I lost another half an hour trying to find a fin key, then another looking for a leash loop, unpacking and repacking my bag twice over only to find them both in my pocket. By the time I was ready to walk up to the cliff top warungs I was scattered and sweating profusely despite the fact it had only just turned 8am. Nerves were kicking in, and not in a good way.

As I walked up the road with my board under my arm, the leftover Tasmanian wax already melting off in the sun, I was struck by how quiet it was. If Uluwatu is still the beating heart of surfing on Bali, why was the only sound I could hear the clanging of cow bells and a light breeze blowing from the north? I started foolishly believing that it might be uncrowded, and some of these nerves fell away. "One less thing to contend with" I thought. It wasn't until I had made my way down the stairs and into the maze of surf shops, ding repairs and photographers that I spied another surfer. Then another. Then another. My foolish hope in miraculously uncrowded four foot Uluwatu in late June evaporated: 43 surfers spread across Temples and the Peak and about 20 more headed for the cave.  

I chose to linger in the warungs looking over the expanse of sea in front of me. For first timers, Uluwatu on an average day is a bit of a disappointment. There's a popular imagination of a long left reef-point running for several hundred meters - a tropical, more critical Raglan, a left-handed Bells over reef. The reality is a series of left reefs that each has a character of their own. This morning looked small, head high or so, though I could see bigger sets on the horizon as I mentally prepared myself. The section of the reef looked to be most to my liking - a mix of quality and crowd density. I wear glasses and don't use contacts, so there's always a measured moment just before I take them off and start to head into the sea, half blind and lying to myself about one day getting the surgery.

I realised I was sweating a lot. Even though the waves are manageable, there's a definite power to the place. Though the cliff tops are developed, concreted and full of people, this human element can't entirely remove the dramatic power of the landscape. It is high tide in the cave, and so it is loud and thickly humid. A heavy sea-smell floods my nostrils. I want to dive into deeper water to clean this sweat off my skin, to wash away the nerves, but I must first negotiate the exit. Like a washing machine, water churns and spills unpredictably. As I pushed through the chop in the cave and exited into the sunny and wide open sea, I hoped for a swift current to whip me past the impact zone before a set could catch me on the inside corner.

Once out the back, those nerves disappeared. In deeper water, out of the way of both set waves and surfers, I was released from the pull of the sweep going south and drifting pleasantly on a glassy sea. The arena is awe-inspiring, vast and blue in the extreme. There is a clarity to the water that gives me comfort, so used to the often steely and murky waters of home. It crosses my mind that the first surfers here must have been overwhelmed by the size of it all. The excitement of the tapered long walls, the scores of unridden barrels going past them, the contrast between limestone cliffs and the tropical fish beneath their dangling feet . I followed these thoughts as I skirted the crowd at the Peak, wide enough to make it clear I was in transit rather than snaking my way to the top of the lineup. I was starting to feel at home.

It was about this time I realised I'd made a big mistake. On the paddle between the Peak and Temples I had cut a corner. I blame the two months without surfing, the lack of paddle fitness, and a desire to get my first waves under my belt. A set was approaching the lineup and not understanding the way the swell was moving across the reef I didn't know which way to go. So I just went straight towards it. Though my eyesight wasn't good enough to see the lip beginning to feather 100 metres in front of me, it was good enough to see that I was only in six foot of water with a six foot wave bearing down on me. A few moments of panic - some quick determined paddles towards the peak, the realisation that I'd just moved myself directly into the impact zone - and then accepting my fate, I took a quick look over my shoulder to make sure no one was behind me. "Fuck, fuck it, fuck," I said out loud to nobody in particular as I slid off the side of my board and flattened myself on the reef, my body tense in the knowledge the thickening weight of the Indian Ocean was about to land square on my back.

It wasn't as bad as I expected. And I was able to enjoy the rest of the session without mishap and several more enjoyable sessions since. I'm in Bali for 18 months as a volunteer under the DFAT program Australian Volunteers for International Development. My work has me in the Ubud area, with the occasional fieldwork jaunt to the bizarre and magical worlds of Nusa Tenggara Timur. Part of my decision-making process in deciding to sign on or not was the perennial question we all ask ourselves: what about the waves? I come from Tasmania - cold water, fickle conditions, but often empty surf in beautiful locations. Working the last few years in casual contracts at the university, I've enjoyed the surfing life of the early-retired (just without any of the money). How would I cope becoming a weekend warrior on an island so crowded with surfers that many self-respecting travellers bypass it completely? The only way, I figured, was acceptance. So rather than spend every weekend driving for six hours in the hope of scoring some quiet waves to myself, I am instead posting up at the premiere (and most crowded) wave on the island and letting it all unfold. There's a lot to take in at Uluwatu, and over the coming season I hope to be able to capture something of the place, of what it means to surfers and non-surfers alike, to understand how it has changed and is continuing to change, and hook into some of the big long lefts that continue to attract surfers here today.

//DANNY CARNEY