We got up pretty early but they’d beaten us to the airport and as we approached the counter you could see the unmistakeable body language of someone dropping their head as they utter “fuck”. They ended up having to split ranks with one of them taking himself and his boards onto another airline. Our eight-hour torment the previous day had ensured our gear would be on and we had boarding passes thrust into our hands the instant we got to the desk. Ashamed to make eye contact, we skulked off knowing how much more sup hatred we just created, but inside feeling stoked that we were on. We saw our boards next to the plane about to be loaded, but as we approached on the bus my heart sank – I could see my two board bags were headed back to the terminal. Depression didn’t totally take hold until we’d actually landed on the island and the reality that my boards weren’t making it sunk in. I was deathly silent for the two-hour drive, muffling the stoke the others must have been feeling, but didn’t dare express in remorse for me I guess. I was pure negative energy. Seeing the beauty of the island unfold and the wave that Pete showed us on his phone in Bali lifted me slightly, but it was hard to shake the fact that I’d come this far and had no boards. And what was to guarantee they’d even make it at all?
