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My friend was watching to see if there was anyone walking. I had to dig for 20, 30 minutes to find it, and then I grabbed the stuff, put it in the waist of my shorts and walked out to my friend. He says to me, 'Fuck, there's been two guys, real dodgy, look like coppers, Indonesian, they asked me what I was doing here. And I say, I was with a friend who is pissing in the plants. One of those guys there.'

They were walking towards us. I say, 'Fuck, let's go to the beach,' and we walk into the ocean, and then they walk behind us, follow us, and stop. And they pretend they were talking, and I thought, Fuck man, these guys are coppers. I'm not walking out of the ocean, because in here it's safe. If I see the guys come running, 'Hey police,' I can just rip the bags and it's gone in the water. No evidence. So I tell my friend, 'I'm not walking back to the beach. If they grab me, they can grab the evidence.' I was in the water almost to my waist, and he was on the edge of the ocean, and I say, 'Let's walk to Kuta.'

Alberto started wading in the surf, as his friend paddled along in the shallows. The stretch of beach was intermittently lit up by bars and hotels shining lights on the water for effect. But the swaying palm trees cast long dark shadows and between restaurants there were black spots. Alberto could see the two men walking along the sand, fading in and out with the lights. He noticed them suddenly stop, as another two came out of the shadows from the opposite direction. In the surf, clinging to his bags of blow, Alberto was getting more and more panicky, propelling his legs faster and faster through the water, and keeping a keen eye on the multiply-ing dark figures on the beach, certain they were Intel police.

They have the look, little moustache and angry face, they looked dodgy. And I could tell, just the way they walk, you know. Then suddenly I saw another two and another two. I was . . . fuck man, now

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