Decoding Ghosts

Glimpses of the unique “Ghosts” phenomenon on the Bono river bore – with its brown, barreling aesthetic so starkly removed from the norm – occasionally rise to the fore on social media as the result of a well-documented adventure, only to once again subside, as if an online proxy of its own tidal status. It’s a freakish swell that – to Mr (Adam) Bennetts and his compadres – appeared better suited to a foil than a shortboard. There remained only one way to know for sure…

Words & Photos: Ben Tayler

This is a tale about venturing deep – so deep – into the unknown, where the road is as unpredictable as the destination. Imagine barreling through the night in torrential rain, trapped in a car that’s more sauna than vehicle. The windows are fogged, the air thick, and the doors refuse to budge. Every pothole feels like a free session with the chiropractor from hell. You start to wonder if escape is even an option. But then again, maybe that’s the point. It’s a story of foil-born friendship, forged through mutual respect for each other’s talent and an unrelenting hunt for the perfect wave. A friendship tempered in the crucible of risk and shared stoke, welded together by the foil.

And it’s about that moment – when the river goes still. The energy hides below the surface, coiled like the predators that are rumoured to lurk beneath. You don’t know what’s coming, not until it hits the next shallow bank. A palm tree floats past, silently, ominously. Then, as if the river takes a breath, a whole chunk of the bank collapses into the chocolate water, and it’s no longer quiet. Waves rise from nowhere, charging right at you. Your heart stops, and you mutter, “Oh my god. WTF.”

Adam Bennetts and Alex Hayes have been mates for years. Adam locked in this trip six months ago. But on the eve of the flight, his original wingman bailed. Enter Alex. Known for his spur-of-the-moment style – both in life and on the foil – Alex said yes before the question was even finished. Less than 24 hours later, the pair, along with myself, were 26 hours deep into a journey to the heart of the Indonesian jungle.

This river is no secret. Years ago, a big surf brand brought their pros here, hoping to crack its code. It’s a river full of mysteries – lefts, rights, tubes, endless walls – but the crew never really unlocked the gem they called “Seven Ghosts”. It was a wave that looked better suited for foil than a thruster. That’s why Adam and Alex were here: to decode Ghosts, to learn its quirks, its markers, its pulse, and to foil something that has long eluded the shortboard crowd.

Day one dawned electric, their anticipation thick as the air. The wave starts breaking at a precise time, rising from the depths and running two hours upstream before disappearing back into the ether. Miss a section, and you’re done, left floating mid-river until the boat swings by to scoop you up. The intensity? Palpable. They loaded up – a boat barely bigger than a bathtub and a jet ski that belonged in a museum – stuffed with boards, foils, and camera gear. The river mirrored glass, impossibly calm. It seemed unimaginable that a wave could exist here. But the shredded banks, the skeletal trees drifting by, told a different story. Crocs were said to haunt these waters, though none had shown themselves. Not yet. Still, the Ghosts were out there, waiting. And so were they.

Adam and Alex stood nervously on the muddy riverbank, watching the water. Time stretched out, thick with the weight of anticipation. Then, in a flash, they caught it – a quick glance across the mirror-smooth surface of the river – and there it was: a wall of whitewater, a full kilometer wide, charging toward them, its power unmistakable. With no time to waste, they jumped on the jet ski, throttling downriver about 500 meters to position themselves for the showdown. Heartbeats hammered in their chests as they cut the throttle and jumped off, standing firm in chest deep water, eyes locked on the coming freight train of whitewash which met them with full force and in no time they were up and riding a magical tidal bore.

Section one was mellow enough, a 10-minute dreamy right hander – perfect to find their feet after 26 hours of travel. Then they hit section two – the “dancing tree” section. The wave was pushing dangerously close to the riverbank, mowing down trees as tall as two-story apartment blocks. Vines whipped through the air, and spray shot so high it felt like standing inside a thunderstorm. It was chaos, a dance between man, wave, and the relentless power of nature. But the boys were in the zone. They tore through it, ripping the wave to pieces. It was a left-hander, a point break wrapping off the riverbank, then backing off into a series of pressure waves. No need to pump – just bottom turn off one wave, top turn into the next, and let the wave do the rest. It was surreal, a moment neither of them would ever forget.

“Crocs were said to haunt these waters, though none had shown themselves. Not yet.”

Then came the Ghost section. The Holy Grail. The one part of the wave they’d both been chasing. Trouble was, they didn’t know where it would break. They battled through the whitewash, and at a crucial moment, both of them went down, missing the entire section. By the time the jet ski picked them up, the wave had already pushed into section four – a long, stretched-out right-hander that ran for ten kilometers.

This was Adam’s favorite. Steep, rippable, the kind of wave you dream about. And the conditions were oil-slick glass, smooth as silk. It felt like they’d entered another dimension. But the river doesn’t slow down. Section five reformed next, a left wedge right next to a bank that looked like something out of Africa, a proper wave garden. For ten, maybe fifteen minutes, they ping-ponged around and were having the time of their lives.

But then, like all things, that part of the river died out and the deep water swallowed it whole. So, they loaded up the boat and ski and headed upstream to section six, another long right-hander. This one was mechanical, wave after wave, but after a few kilometers, the boys’ legs were burning, cramping up like they were about to lock.

And then came the final section, a moment that took everything to another level. They pulled into the last stretch, and there they were – local kids, all of them, lining the sandbank, eagerly waiting for that one wave to roll through. It was the last 500 meters before the wave exploded on the shallow sandbar, and these kids, full of stoke, were riding it like they’d been doing it for years. The energy was infectious, and for a brief, magical moment, they all shared the ride. It was a thing of beauty, raw and real.

The wave faded out, un-surfable, but the foils came through, taking them into the mist – the final section, the one Dylan Graves had pioneered. Adam had gone after it on the first day, and the water was so dark, so impenetrable, that he couldn’t even tell where he was. He thought he was dropping into the barrel section and ended up running straight into the sandbank, getting absolutely flogged. He needed the jet ski to rescue him as the current was so strong. Day one was over, and their minds were blown. What they’d just experienced was beyond any wave, any place, any ride they could’ve ever imagined. This first day in its entirety was a moment that would stay with them forever.

After the intensity of the first day, the next three unfolded with a routine that was equal parts calculated precision and chaotic thrill and no less intense than day one. Mornings started with steaming cups of hot, sugar-laden coffee, the kind that jolts you awake and keeps your nerves humming. Over the rim of those chipped mugs, we dissected every moment of the previous day’s runs. Footage was rewound and replayed, frame by frame, searching for markers – trees, bends, currents – anything that could help us lock in the perfect line. Timing was everything. A second too early and you’d miss the wave entirely; too late, and the river would have its way with you.

Our guide became a human GPS, sketching out sections of the river like he’d grown up in its veins. Every plan felt airtight until you were out there, staring at the frothing surge ahead. Then, all bets were off. We’d load onto the boat and jet ski, gear stacked in a tangled mess, and head downstream. The chatter and laughs faded as the first swell came into view. The boys jumped in and began another two hour adventure.

Your eyes adjusted, locking onto the shimmering glassy face of the wave. Every moment was a recalibration: picking the line, feeling the foil hum beneath your feet, and scanning for where the river would provide the next epic section. Every ride was a fresh shot at glory – a chance to get the perfect 10 minute right hander or barrelling left, the variety of waves in the river mindblowing.

But these sessions were no easy cruise. The river was a relentless teacher, handing out wipeouts like clockwork. You’d come off the foil just as the best part of the wave stood up, the perfect section rushing past like a missed opportunity. Running into huge dead floating trees and bottoming out on shallow mud flats. It was a constant battle: pushing the limits of what you could do on the wave or playing it safe to stay in position for the next critical section.

Alex, as always, had no chill. His air game was wild, his high-risk style making for some epic moments but also leading to lots of falls. But the rescue boat was quick, swooping in to haul him up and have him back in the mix before the next section. Out here, every wave was earned, and every session ended with sore muscles, wide smiles, and the unshakable pull to do it all again tomorrow.

“What they’d just experienced was beyond any wave, any place, any ride they could’ve ever imagined.”

Once the two hours of foiling were done each day and the adrenaline faded, the afternoons unfolded at a slower, more deliberate pace. Village life welcomed us like an open door. The rhythm here was unhurried, yet full of life – a stark contrast to the controlled chaos of the river.

Soccer was the first order of business. A makeshift field appeared wherever the kids could scrounge up space, and we found ourselves barefoot, running through dust and laughter. The kids played like pros, all quick feet and sly grins, as if the game had been coded into their DNA. A wonky ball and a couple of sticks for goalposts. Nothing else needed.

Later, we wandered through the market, a sensory overload of sights, smells, and sounds. Stalls bursting with fresh fruit, handwoven baskets, and the occasional colorfully painted chicken, their feathers a palette of blues, yellows, and reds. These weren't for show – they were proudly paraded, then sold to the highest bidder. We didn't ask too many questions about that part. By late afternoon, when the sun softened and the river glowed golden, we'd end up on the dock, legs dangling just above the water. A couple of fishermen were always there, their weathered faces stoic as they watched the river roll on. They’d exchange a quiet laugh, puff on a cigarette, and mutter something about the day’s haul – or lack of it. The river never stopped moving, carrying everything from tree limbs to plastic bottles in its lazy, unending current. Sitting there, the frenetic energy of the morning finally bled out. It was a kind of therapy, watching that timeless flow and realizing we were just passing through, while the river carried on, unchanged and eternal, carrying its secrets downstream.

​​The final day greeted us with cyclonic conditions – sideways rain slicing through the air and gloomy skies as dark as our dwindling hopes of scoring one last session. The river looked uninviting, a churning mess of whitecaps and debris, the kind of conditions that kill even the most persistent dreams of riding the Ghosts. Over steaming cups of coffee that morning, morale hit rock bottom. The crew sat in silence, watching sheets of rain whip past the windows, and there was even talk of calling it quits and heading straight to the airport. Wind, after all, is the ultimate assassin of this river wave. The foil needs smoothness, a clean surface to carve into, and today the river was anything but cooperative. Every minute that passed without a break in the weather felt like an eternity.

But just when it seemed all was lost, the river threw us a lifeline. Around mid-morning, as if answering some unspoken prayer, the wind dropped. The rain slowed to a drizzle, and the thick, brooding clouds began to crack open, revealing streaks of sunlight that lit up the river like a sign. It didn’t take long for the energy to shift.

Within minutes, the crew was frothing. Boards were pulled from racks, foils checked, and rashies yanked on with renewed purpose. The river had given us one last chance, and no one was about to waste it. You could feel the buzz, that electric mix of relief and anticipation. This was it – the final shot at taming the Ghosts. The day that had started in despair now carried the wild promise of redemption. All that was left to do was ride.

Groundhog Day kicked off once more as the vessels were loaded for one final shot at the Ghosts. We powered downriver, heads on a swivel, mentally marking every landmark and calculating where to be at the exact moment the Ghosts would rise. The stakes were high, and the crew knew it.

“The day that had started in despair now carried the wild promise of redemption. All that was left to do was ride.”

The first section was pure chaos, but the boys ripped it, setting the tone for what could be the session of a lifetime. By the second section, Adam was playing it smart. He knew that threading the needle cleanly was the only way to get his shot at riding the Ghosts. Alex, on the other hand, was Alex – charging full throttle. He dropped into a double-overhead, glassy right-hander, carving hard before catching an edge and wiping out in spectacular fashion. His board skittered downriver, bouncing alongside Adam for 500m, who was still locked in and focused on his foil.

The rescue boat, already ahead of the wave, couldn’t circle back for Alex. Meanwhile, the guide on the jet ski – where I was perched with his camera – insisted they turn back. But I had other ideas, yelling over the roar of the river, “Stay with Adam!” It was a now-or-never moment. If someone was going to foil the Ghosts and get it on film, it had to happen in the next few minutes.

Then it happened. Adam, calm and deliberate, was suddenly riding the Ghosts. It was surreal. Screams and cries of disbelief erupted as the realization sank in. The depth of this moment will be told at another time in another way, but it was a moment that will never be forgotten and in that moment, having almost forgotten Alex, having ridden the Ghosts, the crew turned around to go retrieve their hopefully in-one-piece friend. They found him in the middle of the post wave river chaos. Feet raised above the water, unscathed by crocodiles, and wearing a grin that said, “What took you so long?”. It was a moment that no one would ever forget.