Buried in the Sand, Dreaming of Secret Surf

I’m writing this with sand in places sand should never be. That’s the deal at my home break in LA: a beach break that sometimes shows up and sometimes doesn’t, a parking meter that eats quarters, and a lineup where the main hazard is a guy on a foamie named Kyle. I love it. I mean that. Getting to surf at all, on a Tuesday, before work, with the sun coming up over the 405, is a gift. I don’t take it for granted.

But every surfer has a second, secret lineup in their head. Mine is in Indonesia. And lately it has a boat.

The boat in my head

The boat belongs to Secret Surf, which runs luxury surf charters through Indonesia on a traditional phinisi yacht. Their site lists a long roll call of regions: Raja Ampat, Morotai, Papua, the Mentawais, the Telos, the Banyaks, Sumba, Rote “and beyond.” The pitch is uncrowded waves found by guides who know where to look, plus the kind of extras I usually only see in heist movies: luxury suites, a private chef, a massage therapist and, according to the yacht page, space for up to 13 guests.

I read that list the way some people read lottery numbers.

Where the dream goes surfing

Secret Surf splits the year by region. From March to October they work Sumba, Sumbawa and Komodo, where their surf page promises “perfect barreling point breaks” and gentle longboard waves, and name-checks Lakey Pipe on Sumbawa. Lakey Pipe is a hollow left over shallow reef, about 300 meters south of Lakey Peak at Hu’u, and surf guides describe it as a wave that gets heavy when it gets big. Naturally, this is the one I picture myself on. In real life I would probably get stuck on the inside and paddle for an hour. In the dream I am tucked in, dry hair, smiling.

From April to October there’s Rote and Savu, home of T-Land, a long left off Nemberala. Surfline says it was named after G-Land in Java and breaks along a long, flat reef with four sections: The Point, The Steeple, Magic Mountain and Inner Tubes. Four sections! At my beach I get one section and then a closeout that sounds like a dumpster lid.

October through March, the itineraries swing to Raja Ampat and West Papua, which they describe as frontier reef, point and beach breaks among more than 1,000 islands. November to April is Morotai and Halmahera, pitched as uncrowded breaks for all levels with WWII wrecks to snorkel. For the non-surfers on board there’s diving, snorkeling, kayaks, paddleboards, wakeboarding and fishing. They even mention swimming with whale sharks in Cendrawasih Bay and, on small days near Komodo, getting “face to face with ancient Komodo Dragons.” I have never been face to face with anything more ancient than the guy who sells churros by the pier.

The part where I check the price

To their credit, Secret Surf publishes its rates. For 2026, their rates page lists a full charter in Komodo, Sumba and Sumbawa at US$10,470 per night, or a double/twin cabin on an open trip at US$1,020 per person per night (US$1,120 for a suite). In Raja Ampat, Alor, Banda and Halmahera it lists US$9,010 per night for a full charter, US$880 per person per night for a cabin and US$980 for a suite. It’s per night. I read it three times. I did the math on my parking meter budget. The math did not want to talk about it.

So I can’t go. Not this year, and honestly not in any year I can see from here. That’s fine. That’s where the dream does its best work.

Buried up to my neck

Here’s how it plays out when I close my eyes. I’m on a white-sand beach somewhere past the end of the map. The phinisi is anchored out back, wooden and gorgeous. The swell is lit. And I am buried in the sand up to my neck. I don’t know who buried me. I suspect Kyle.

I can’t move. All I can do is watch. A set stands up on the reef and some impossibly calm surfer drops in, sets a high line and disappears into a barrel the color of mouthwash. They come out with the spit. Somebody on the boat claps. Somebody else is getting a massage. A chef is doing something wonderful to a fish. The next surfer pulls in deeper. I yell “GO!” with my whole face, because my face is the only part of me available.

And it’s great. Not bitter. Just stoked. Somebody gets to ride those waves, and knowing they’re out there peeling, empty and perfect, makes my Tuesday closeouts feel connected to something bigger. It’s the same ocean. Same salt. Mine just comes with a parking ticket.

Until then

If you’re one of the lucky ones who can actually book it, go, and please surf one for me. Their contact page takes enquiries directly. Everybody else: paddle out at whatever you’ve got this week. Grind out the closeouts. Keep the dream on the boat. I’ll be here, buried and happy, watching the barrels.

We have no affiliation with Secret Surf and weren’t paid or offered anything for this story. Prices and seasons are as published on their site on Oct 17, 2026, and can change, so check with them directly. Our narrator is a composite LA surfer, written for fun.