“Resilient,” my sister Mary Jane (always Janie to me) said when she called with the news, expected but still unwanted, on Tuesday morning, five days before Christmas; “that’s how he held out so long.” “Yeah, he’s, was,” I said, “always that.” Resilient.
Here’s what my father gave me: His name, half of my DNA (let me add that he pulled the car over, short of the hospital, and aided in my birth), and, though I never wanted it, and told him so, his work ethic; that belief that something must always be accomplished. Something.
I inherited,  hopefully, some of my father’s strength, his stubborn commitment to move forward, to carry on, which he did; despite injuries and setbacks, tragedies and disasters, two wars and the grind of getting up each day, going from his full time job to his ‘two nights a week and Sundays’ job, or to one or another of his part time gigs, working to support his family. Seven of us.
Resilience? Yeah; and, as I already stated, a certain stubbornness.
If there is honor in hard work, my father was honorable. I have, even recently, bragged that, at ninety-two years old, he was still working on repairing other people’s clocks, and he did up until even more recently. There are several clocks he didn’t quite get to (the owners were notified); and that, I know, bothered him. Not being strong, fully able, and being, eventually, dependent on others; that probably bothered him the most. Angered him, even.
APPRECIATIONS:
Fortunately, my brother Ed, and my sisters, and, in particular, Janie, a registered nurse, were able to stay with our father as his health deteriorated. Very grateful for that. The rest of his children, and our half-sister from our father’s first, brief marriage, were able to visit and hang out with my father over the last month. And my dad had a support group of friends he made over his years in Southwest Washington. And, since I’m giving ‘shout outs,’ the doctors and staff at Columbia Memorial Hospital in Astoria did a tremendous job helping my Dad and dealing with his extended family and friends. Sorry we made so much noise during that Seahawks game.
STORIES AND LIES:
I have to add (adding, again) that my father was quick to laugh, and ever ready to tell even a self-deprecating story. Here’s one of his: This guy says, ‘Hey, Dence, what’d’ya know?’ And I say, ‘Not much,” and, as I’m walking away, I hear him say, ‘That’s for sure.’. And my Dad would chuckle, check for reactions. He was also capable of giving a look that would back Clint Eastwood down. A child didn’t want to see that look directed at him or her, a look more of disappointment than anger. One especially wouldn’t want to see that look twice for the same offense. Anger, I’ve since learned, is most often at or with oneself.
Lying. This was, both my parents said, “Worse than stealing.” Another story: “So, Dad; remember that time my stupid surfing friends were supposed to stay in our motel room in Leucadia, and they said we’d sleep on the beach, and we went down to the campground, and… when you had to come pick up all five of us at the Sheriff’s office in Carlsbad; and I said we were looking for vending machines…” “Yeah.” “And you said we must have been looking for girls…” “Uh huh.” “And Mom said, ‘no, if they said they were looking for vending machines…’ Well… we were looking for girls.” “Knew it.” “Yeah, I know you did. Thanks for not pushing it.”
Anyone who knows even a few things about my father’s life would have to say he was as lucky as he was tough, resilient. He survived war and illness (malaria, twice), and accidents, at least one ‘incident’ in which he had a large chain wrapped around his head and shoulders. He never really talked to me about his war experiences, from Guadacanal to Korea. I know much of it was horrific; but his attitude, even stated (in reference to increased focus on PTSD), was that, “You just have to get past it.” I’m not saying one can; he carried scars, wounds. He and I have never spoken of the car accident in which my mother died. I do remember we went into the back yard, his face still heavily bruised. I read everything on his face, and, I have to assume, he read mine as well.
SOMETHING ELSE I feel compelled to add: If I have a regret, and it’s probably more common than not; with my father being ‘at work’ for most of my childhood, it’s that I was so busy ‘working’ over the last years, with him three and a half hours away. I’d call, sporadically, talk to him until he said he had to go. When I did go to visit, he was still busy with his clocks, I had nothing I had to do down there, and usually went surfing while he worked. We’d meet up to go the the Pig N Pancake (where he was well known), or watch an old western or something (not Fox News, which he preferred) on TV. It was great.
I did, I must, must add, get only half my DNA from my father.

Erwin A. Dence, Sr. about the age he was when I was born. I wouldn’t recommend taking off in front of him (either).

HERE’S A BONUS STORY: I read the above piece to Trish, who has known my father since 1968; and she reminded me of another story, from when she and I had been dating about eight months.  My Mother was, perhaps, more embarrassed because Trish was there. It was my brother Jon’s birthday, a Saturday, and my Dad brought home a tiny, cheap cake; the cheapness pointed out by my Mom. My dad said something about money. Money? Yeah. Money. Suddenly, a karate chop split the 50s era dinette table, two halves crashing down. Trish and I disagree as to whether the cake was also chopped, but, after my Dad fixed the table, he went back to town, came back with… yeah… the same cake. No one said a word about cheapness or money. Happy birthday, Jon.
I think I have mentioned the stubbornness, sort of not getting too much into the passion and the pride. But now, now I am thinking about it. Gifts.

That LOVE is real, resilient, persistent… this is what we all CELEBRATE. May you catch a few waves that push you, propel you, maybe even briefly cover you, down the line.  May you have those moments where all the pettiness and ugliness and worry and posturing and resentment… whoosh… gone; you’re weightless, floating, drifting, slipping; and you can’t help but scream, even if it’s inaudible… even if it isn’t.

…Mostly stuff that’s in it, with some new drawing added (there are, um, uh, 60 drawings, plus the cover, so, 4 more) and some color versions, at least two of which, sorry to admit, I colored-in before I scanned the black and white versions. I’ve had problems adapting to the new editor at WordPress, mostly that I can’t seem to put images in to a piece at less than full size. So, I went back to the older editing version.

We’ll see how this works. I just printed 18 (would have been 20 but the copy machine jammed and the woman, Liz, at the Printery in Port Townsend, who has been very very helpful, seemed stressed to the max, so, “Hey, you know; 18 is probably enough.” This is the Christmas, 2016 edition, and some are already promised.

I will be getting back to the continuing saga of Stephen Davis, not giving me much in the way of photos from Hawaii; possibly wanting to return some time, and, really, it’s not California; secrets have been kept… but, if you have to have a copy, and you do (and I’m still figuring out if I should risk setting up a PayPal account… you can contact me at realsurfersdotnet@gmail.com

…we celebrate the waves we rode. Expand that to sessions. I went down to the Southern Washington/Columbia River area a few days ago because my 92 year old father has been in and out of hospitals over the past months, and was in the hospital in Astoria, just over the bridge from Chinook, Washington, where he’s lived for the past thirty years or so.

And I got some waves. Don’t ask me where, but, by a unique and unusual circumstance, Adam Wipeout James and Clint (formerly of PT, now of PA) were also in the area, as was a particular set of tide/swell/wind factors that… that, with some magic and a rented board (while Adam was on the one he is selling me, not paid for yet), allowed me to join them, while my Dad was resting in between visits from  various groupings of five of his eight children, a grandson, a son-in-law, for what turned out to be a great session.

So… great. I might have missed the session if I hadn’t rented a board, I might have given up when the wind was squalling sideshore; but I hung in long enough for the conditions to clean up and, even if Adam hadn’t said I ‘may’ have had the wave of the session, it was all great. It was my wave of the session, the kind of session that might, and should hold a surfer through a week of winds blowing totally the wrong way, lack of swell, lack of opportunity to go even if there was a swell.

SHOULD. My backup plan had been to go somewhere closer on Monday. Monday night I get a photo, texted from one friend who got it from another. I was somewhere I could have been, but wasn’t. Hence the question.

Even during the session on Sunday, I saw a local do the classic surfer thing; looking over the really nice wave he was on to see what the next wave was doing.

MEANWHILE, I’m trying to stick to my ‘no naming’ policy, particularly on this site.  Adam Wipeout, possibly feeling some guilt about having revealed, in the past, and strictly in confidence, something about not-quite-secret spots to a few ‘friends’ (and, confession, I did lose out in the bargain with Clint and Adam, spilled the guts about a spot four hours away the next day, but only in exchange for other inside information. It’s not like fifty friends are headed down there any time soon.)… anyway, Adam has done a little policing of folks who instagram photos and  short but breathy reviews of spots, sort of a “NO PIMPING POLICY.” Maybe Seattle Surfers on Facebook could adopt something like this.

MEANWHILE, it’s ski season; I don’t ski; but man, it looks like fun. Where should I go? When? Is there a cool apres’ ski hangout spot? What should I wear to, you know, be like, like I belong there?

OH, and the guy I rented the board from tried to push a soft top on me. No way, man. Looked me up and down. “I’ve been board surfing since 1965.” He showed me to his store room, pulled a board off a lower rack. Not quite the Hobie, but, yeah, it worked.

OH, and, really, we all want to share surf stories with our friends, including where we went, the conditions under which the spot seemed to work; maybe the key is to have fewer FRIENDS.