Photos: Maria Fernanda June 2025
Surfing the Mentawais While Disabled, Jetlagged, and Questionably Pantsed
Let’s start with this: if you ever want to test your body, friendships, and gastrointestinal fortitude, might I recommend a surf trip to the Mentawai Islands in Indonesia? It’s two days from the nearest hospital, the mosquitoes may or may not carry exotic diseases, and the food? Well, the food will absolutely betray you when you least expect it.
But the waves? Buttery. Legendary. Basically the surfing version of French pastry - if French pastry could cut you. I was nervous to go: the reefs are sharp, the water shallow, and the crowd intense.
The first kneeboarder who inspired me was Mark “Mono” Stewart of Australia. He mentored me a bit in the early days and told me, “If you want barrels, go to the Mentawais.” I’ve dreamed of it ever since. Even Martin Dunn, the godfather of surf coaching, said, “The Mentawais are the best waves in the world.”
I had to try. For context, I surf on my knees because I’m partially paralyzed. I use a wheelchair often, but I can also walk a few steps with crutches, crawl or climb or bear-walk on hands and feet like a little ninja. And I’ll happily take a piggyback if I bribe the right surfer friends. In the travel world, I call it “functional ambiguity.” Airlines love it.
I’ve never been great at being the “face” of disability. I usually ask for little to no accommodations and just try to make it work, which means I often look more like a sunburnt, salt-crusted adventurer than a polished accessibility advocate in a blazer. But let’s face it: if you show up to a remote Indo island archipelago in a wheelchair, climb into a boat, and paddle out to solid surf, you’re kind of an ambassador whether you signed up for it or not. Huge thanks to Indy Club, who helped make this adventure possible and grateful for the support that turned this dream surf into reality and the towel that came along for the ride. 🫶
✈️ Step One: Get There Without Dying
Honolulu → Tokyo → Jakarta → Padang. Eight time zones, four kinds of airplane food, and one tragic pair of compression socks later, we arrived at a surf shop that was literally someone’s house. Kitchen on one side, board racks on the other, fuzzy kittens playing among the longboards. The toilet? Pit-style. Everything inexplicably wet. Classic.
We opted out of the karaoke party in the hotel basement and took a sunset cab to dinner, buying more bug spray and ‘researching’ local beers. At that point, I already knew I wanted to come back.
Next morning: 3-4 hour fast ferry. It’s called fast because the boat goes fast, not because anything else about the experience is efficient. I climbed aboard and took my seat at the front, popped the wheelchair wheels off (quick release, baby!), and stowed the chair frame on my lap. Twenty minutes into our assigned seats, I felt it. The stomach gurgle. The rising heat. The beading sweat on my forehead and the panic of a GI system whispering, “it’s go time.”
I asked my Hawaii surf friend, sailor, and fellow AccesSurf volunteer, KK, to scout the ferry bathroom. She returned with a grim face and haunted expression. Two flights of stairs down, twenty-five meters through the hull, another flight back up to the stern. Basically, she said, it was like a music festival porta-potty. Oh no.
Enter Tiffany: midlife surfista, sometime Nazaré surf photographer, and honorary CrossFit champ in my book. “I like to be useful,” she said protecting me from the awkward guilt of the “hello, I just met you, please carry me” piggyback ask, and saving me from a terrible fate.
I got there just in time and didn’t even care there was no toilet seat. And afterward? The sunshine brighter, ocean blues more vibrant. “Life is beautiful!” And indeed it is, after a consequence-free travel cleanse.
We finally arrived at Tua Pejat, a harbor shantytown. I bear-walked down the concrete ferry steps (hands, feet, dignity optional) to the skiff while everyone stared. Not in a mean way, more like curious. Just like in a crowded lineup: quietly assessing. “Wait…wtf is her deal? Is that girl here to surf?”
Yes. Yes, she is.
☀️ Ombak Tidur & The Great Pantsing
1st session Ombak Tidur. No crowd, but also no channel. Closeouts on the end section. Solid size. I was surfing my step up. “Welcome to the Mentawais! You’re gonna get smoked!” Jackie, a new friend, and I quipped.
I was a bit drained from the two days of travel, but keen to get out there. The sun was searing. I wore neoprene pants for reef rash and a long-sleeve sun shirt to avoid getting crispy red. First wave was a fast right with a steep end section. I pulled off clean. Amped from the adrenaline, I wanted another.
Second wave: decent turn, then I fell trying to land a finishing move. Came up and started paddling, duck dive after duck dive. Why am I moving so slowly… Jet lag? Dehydration? Am I really this out of shape?
Then I noticed: my legs and my lily-white Canadian bacon fully exposed to the sun…
I was paddling with a long sleeve on top, nothing on the bottom, Winnie-the-Pooh-ing it through the inside section. And that’s when I heard the buzz of the overhead drone filming. FML, it’s only day one! Every time I tried to fix my swimwear, I got pushed farther inside. Not ideal.
KK paddled over.
“May I assist you with your pants?” she asked with the calm of someone who has seen some things.
“I got it,” I said.
“You don’t. They’re fully inside out and dragging from your ankles…” like a sea anchor.
It became a team-building exercise we never trained for, but we nailed it. The rest of the surf session was amazing and I was careful to keep my wardrobe in place. I prepped for reef cuts, sunburn, and mosquitoes. I had not accounted for anchor pants.
Afterward, we motored to Tikus, a mellower wave in front of our lodging, for a second surf session. Warm tropical rain fell mid-session, and then a full rainbow arched across the sky. I looked over at Jackie. She looked at me. Pure shared moment unspoken of what it took to get here, how lucky we were.
🌀 Telescopes
The next morning, we paddled out at Suicides. And yes, it was as subtle as it sounds: barreling, shallow, and the kind of wave where you’re basically signing a liability waiver with the living reef. I managed to snag three waves among the intense crowd and get three visions of spinning blue tubes. Did I make it out? No. Did I enjoy the view? Absolutely. Did I want to go back every day with siren’s call of risky decisions? Oh yes… but I stayed with my crew.
Then we hit Telescopes.
Crowded. Clean. Glassy. Gorgeous. A big set swung wide, and suddenly it was me, my board, and the lil voice inside: “You’re in the best position for that bomb if you go now. Paddle like a psycho.” And naturally, I did.
The wave picked me up, steeper and steeper. My feet went above my head. Oh shit. I threw my momentum forward, popped to my knees, and the drop just kept going as I surfed down the face.
I did not choose the right line to get a lengthy ride, but I did surf a mountain of whitewater for a moment like a kneeboarding queen and jumped off in my awkward way. As the wave ragdolled me in the washing machine, I smiled underwater: It’s not as heavy as the North Shore. My next underwater thought: I think I can do this. And because the hold-down was long and the water so incredibly clear, I also had time to notice Ooo, a fish I haven’t seen before! At least someone’s thriving out here!”
When I popped back up from my little aquarium tour and paddled back through the crowd, an Indo surf guide clapped. A few surfer bros nodded. A girl with a nose ring whom I never met before said, “Sick wave.” Jackie beamed: “Tori, that was solid double overhead. I can’t believe you made it.”
Martin Dunn once told me, “You’ll know you’re surfing well when strangers start telling you.” His voice echoed in my head, and I realized that I’ve got this. All that training is paying off. I can handle the Mentawais. No reef cuts. No stitches. Only one surprise travel cleanse.
I can’t wait for the Hawaiian winter, and for a chance to come back to the Mentawais.
Bigger waves. Better barrels. Better pants. The best is yet to come.
