The Last Mile

By: Collected Writings | Photography by Brady Clarke | June 05, 2009 | Travel

On July 17 of last year, eight surfers met in the West Sumatran port city of Padang to embark by boat on an experimental voyage to the Mentawai islands 100 miles offshore. The surfers — seven American university students and a photojournalist from British Columbia — were taking part in an academic expedition, completing a fully accredited surf journalism course while delivering humanitarian aid to the most remote villages of the island chain.

The brainchild of Chris Faucher, a surfer and professional educator, and Matt George, senior contributing editor of Surfer magazine, this floating college course was unique for its relevant education and humanitarian components. Under the flag of Last Mile Operations, George and Faucher’s humanitarian nonprofit organization, these students would be learning the art of surf journalism as well as how to effectively deliver aid supplies one-on-one to the villagers still affected by the devastating 2004 tsunami. This academic surf journalism expedition would be led and instructed by George and his brother, and former editor of Surfer magazine, Sam George.

Joining them on board the KM D’Bora would be two female Islamic educators who would serve as Sumatran cultural ambassadors and translators. The expedition’s curriculum during its two-week sojourn was designed as a 24-hour total immersion into surf culture, writing and photography. It included daily instruction, lecture sessions, open forums, on-board writing and reading assignments, and daily satellite-aided blogs. In order to receive a final grade and three college units toward their degree, each student was also required to produce a full-length magazine travel feature chronicling their experiences.

This special Last Mile Operations program was dubbed Surfer’s Education and Relief Force, or SERF. The following are excerpts from the students’ final projects:





NICK MESTRE, 19
Freshman, Cal Poly San Luis Obispo,
From his article titled Going Deeper

(On setting sail)

By 5 a.m., the storm had passed, the rainwater stopped funneling into the khaki-colored Muara River, and Padang’s river harbor ceased to resemble Class Four rapids. As we motored toward the ocean, our bow cutting through oil glass water in the silent calm, the people of Padang were awakened by a song they have heard their entire lives. The adzan did not merely slice through the still air; it replaced it, echoing off the river, the jungle, the fishing boats and the crumbling Dutch warehouses that line the shore. With multiple mosques playing the Islamic call to prayer, the air became a rainbow of foreign songs. The people of this region have been called by this adzan since the 11th century, and they have always answered back. Almost a thousand years before Indonesia saw its first surfer, and another thousand after it has seen its last, the call to prayer has and will always resound over these steadfast people.

But the song speaks to surfers as well.

At the same time this Islamic song called all of Padang’s people to face west and kneel and pray toward their Holy Land, our boat also looked west, straight toward the Mentawai Island reef passes and the swells that make up surfing’s own mecca.

(On his impressions of the KM D’bora’s surf guide)

I’ve never seen a more uncomfortable man.

On the patio of the Batang Arau hotel in Padang, he sits awkwardly folded up in a deck chair, one seat away from anyone else. Something about the way he sits, the way his eyes look straight through everything in front of him — John did not belong here. He belonged out there. His shirtless body was a battleground. The skin on his face, back and arms telling of untold years of salt and sand and razor-sharp reefs, countless years of jungle and ocean survival, and a millennium of sunlight.

And then there were his eyes.

They had more vitality and power than the rest of him, as if they were their own being, incessantly searching for something.

Though not yet 30, his eyes had the insatiable yearning of an old captain racing to catch a horizon he could never reach.





BRADY CLARKE, 32,
Tofino, British Columbia, Photojournalist
From his article titled Plotting a New Course

(On administering first aid)

July 25, 2008: Siakap Village, Mentawai islands, Western Sumatra

“You’re gonna wanna take a look at this,” I say to expedition leader Matt George, who was busy dressing the infected wound of a young Indonesian girl across the cramped and dank room. An older Mentawai teenager had just sat down and discarded a filthy, blood-caked bandana to reveal a gangrenous wound festering on his shin. I clench my jaw, fighting back a wave of nausea. The odor of rotting flesh hangs heavy in the air. This might be more than we bargained for. Matt finished up with the girl and stepped over to look at this new wound.

He too fought back a gag.

“Who here cares about this boy? I want to talk to that person.” He directed this question to the large group of onlookers. “Who will take this boy to a hospital, right now and how much will it cost?”

Then Matt sat the young man down in a chair and explained very clearly that this was going to hurt like hell. He looked the boy in the eyes, nodded and began to clean the wound, rotting maggot eggs and all.

After it was over, a man stepped forward. It would take 40 bucks’ worth of fuel to get his kid to a hospital by local fishing boat.

No hesitation.

I reached into the wax pocket of my board shorts and grabbed the money I had been saving for a few beers in Padang. It was a small fortune to these people.

And it might have meant saving a young man’s leg.

In that moment, my life was forever set on a new course.





RACHEL McCARTY, 20
Sophomore, University of Rhode Island,
From her article titled Rediscovery

(On an impromptu concert)

Siakap, Part 1

I follow their eye line to the two surfers sitting on a wooden bench in front of the shop. Will Taylor and Sevren Smith are silhouetted against a backdrop of electronics and Indonesian pop-music videos — the Radio Shack of the Far East and far removed. Smith cradles a Chinese Yamaha knockoff in his hands. The guitar is badly out of tune, the cheap neck bending with each tightening of the strings until one snaps. The shop owner sits on a bench next to them, tuning another guitar, his long fingernails tender with the strings. He hands the guitar to Taylor, inviting him to play. Taylor strums the guitar once.

“Nope,” smiles Taylor, brushing a curly strand of hair out of his eyes, “but here goes.”

(On surfing with new eyes)

“The only real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” — Marcel Proust

While we may not have been the first to set our sights on the crystalline waters and verdant shorelines, our own journey was a first in its own right: eight students with different backgrounds and motivations living aboard the KM D’Bora in Indonesian waters, learning surf journalism and delivering aid. The two weeks of uninterrupted swell produced much more than just epic surf sessions. It fostered creative endeavors that will be acted on for a lifetime.



DAVID ENLOE, 19
Sophomore, Cal Poly San Luis Obispo
From his article titled The Haunted

(On the ghost that is rumored to haunt the Batang Arau Hotel in Padang)

Last night, we had been told that we would be sleeping with her.

Everyone I had met so far had confirmed her existence. And sure enough, she had been there. Emma is the ghost that inhabits our room at the Batang Arau. The hotel is an old converted Dutch bank, and Emma is the ghost of a beautiful woman who was killed in the vault room long ago, the room in which we had slept. She is said to haunt surfers, and sure enough, she spent two weeks haunting me. I didn’t believe in ghosts, but Emma is real, so I do now. She is the haunting spirit of this place and God knows everyone here is haunted. It’s a requirement for getting in the door. The Batang Arau has no sign hanging above its entrance and it needs none; the only type of people it admits already know where it is.

(On being invited to sit at the “Table of Truth” with a group of legendary surf charter captains).

The table is full of famous captains, each having played his part in the Mentawai infiltration, and each, I notice, is a bit insane. They all have eyes that seem to follow every movement happening in this one moment in the Batang Arau Hotel, eyes that have seen the first world, the Third World and a type of war.



LAWRENCE WILL TAYLOR, 21
Junior, Cal Poly San Luis Obispo
From his article titled Fresh Take

(On setting sail)

I wake up and the world is spinning.

I realize the boat is turning to head down river. I stumble to the upper deck. It is still dark when I reach the stern. I feel the cool, humid air. I hear words sing out over the city from a thousand loudspeakers. I realize it’s the Muslim Morning Prayer.

They float across the city like phantoms. It seems like it is the prayers and not the river that is carrying us out into the ocean and to the surf beyond.



TYSON METIVER, 21
Junior, Cal Poly San Luis Obispo
From his article titled Something Different

(On going home)

With closed eyes, the chaos of Padang’s traffic makes sense as we make our way to the airport and home. There is a rhythm, a melody to it. Horns ring out if only for the joy of making noise. Faint voices travel through the murmur of moving tires and the trumpeting of loud exhaust pipes. The city is a symphony with the insect hum of motorbikes. With eyes still closed, I notice the smells. The air has a scent of a damp rag, cleaning off the surface of the city. Sometimes there is hint of sea air; other times just suspended dust hanging in Padang’s morning light.

I open my eyes.

Cars swerve into lanes that don’t exist, motorbikes show no mercy, and pedestrians walk into it all, casually risking their lives. But it has a feeling for me — that beat. Our part in the song is no different; we came and added new instrumentals and solos to the rhythm, a different way of playing things. Our part will always be remembered not only by us but also by those others who listened and enjoyed.



JORDAN STERN, 19
Sophomore, Cal Poly San Luis Obispo
From his article titled Classroom Far From Home

(On the beach)

Stepping upon the desolate beach I found that it was alive.

As I walked forward, hermit crabs ran out of the way, insects buzzed for safety. In front and behind me is complete stillness, but as I trod across the beach like Gulliver, everything in close proximity to my ankles scurries and scatters to make way a path.

(On aid work)

We unloaded our dinghy and began our trek over a broken coral pathway in search of the schoolhouse in the center of the village. Sweat dripped from every pore of my body under the high noon with a 25-pound pound bag of books slung over my shoulder. There, in the center of the village, was the schoolhouse — one long building with an arched roof that was divided into five rooms. Megha, our Sumatran ambassador, talked to the principal about our plans to give these kids books, paper, pencils and chalkboards. We went from classroom to classroom introducing ourselves, listening to the kids sing us songs, and passing out the supplies.

The chalkboard these kids used looked like it had been milled straight from the ground. A new one served them beautifully. We went from classroom to classroom and passed out pounds and pounds of school supplies.

And the look on these kids’ faces?

I will never take so much as a pencil for granted ever again.





SEVREN SMITH, 20
Sophomore, Cal Poly San Luis Obispo
From his article titled So Much From So Little (On the two cultural ambassadors’, Patra Dewi and Megha Fasrini, attempt at surfing)

You want to touch them, but you can’t. Their culture forbids it.

No handshakes, hugs, high-fives or assisting them into or out of a boat. One must maintain a 24-inch distance from them at all times. It is so difficult because of who they are on the inside. The two of them have such a loving and caring personality, the purest of hearts and the brightest of smiles. And because of the humanitarian work these ladies do in Padang, they are an inspiration. Our Islamic cultural ambassadors, Patra and Megha, add a sense of sisterly love to our ship. Their generosity is real, and their dedication and courage to help those in need is beyond admirable. What is so special about Patra and Megha’s experience is that in their religion, women are never supposed to do anything like surfing. But they did. Towing behind the dinghy like novice water skiers, wearing lifejackets over their full jilbab veils in the water, they had the courage not to just get in the ocean without knowing how to swim, but to do things Islamic women would never, in any lifetime, be allowed to do. They both want to do it again, but next time, they told me, “We’re standing up.”

(On Humanitarianism)

I was glad to have given so much to a place where surfing has taken so much and has left only Western names for Eastern reefs.

We came to act. We came as Last Mile Operations.

And I learned that giving a damn doesn’t have to be some huge humanitarian quest to some faraway place. Anything to help anyone on any level at any distance can do so much.

Life is short, but a lot can be done.

What can you fix?



Patra Dewi , 32
Padang, West Sumatra, cultural ambassador
Open Letter to the students

(On surfing)

I start falling in love with surfing life.

I begin to understand terms like drop-in, cutback, and 6’6”

It is not too late to dream about surfing.

I will be a surfer someday.

Thank you, surfers.































Visit http://www.lastmileexpeditions.com and www. lastmileoperations.org for more information.

Bookmarks: Page 1 of 1 pages