I was talking art, and, in particular, t shirts, with Tyler Meeks over at the Disco Bay Outdoor Exchange on my way back from getting Strait-skunked (again). I had found way more wind than swell in my attempt to beat the big weekend (they’re all big weekends in the summer, summerish, summerush) rush to the Olympic Peninsula (and it’s still on, with the going-back-to-civilization slog still to come).

We’re working on some ideas for silkscreened wearable art. He’s more interested in the landscapes, my ‘still wild’ series; than surf illustrations. That’s fine. He said, “If you had some scanned…” “Wait, I do; and not on my always-crooked home version, but professionally.”

So, yeah; here are three from my most recent scanning of oversized, retro, 1980s attic-finds:

I guess I mentioned a secret spot. Well, maybe not secret, but certainly fickle (fickle-er than other fickle spots on the Strait). I did have the good fortune to get an hour or so in on very small peelers at a spot I’ve actually witnessed, once, but never surfed (by the time I talked myself into going out, it was gone- Poof!). But now I have, with cuts on both hands to prove it. NOTE TO SELF: Wear gloves on shallow reefs.

MEANWHILE: I’m already late headed across the Hood Canal Bridge to do some work in helping to gentrify Bremerton. I probably passed you yesterday as you headed west, and I’ll probably pass you this evening on my way back. Or tomorrow evening. You’ll be in the backup, quite possibly surf-sated from several days at…(fill in the spot).

Civilized? No, “STILL WILD.” Coming soon.

“Yeah, but did you get that other picture I e-mailed you?” “Hey, I’m hanging on a 28 foot ladder, Steve; I haven’t seen any e-mails. What’s it of?” “Well… chuckle, chuckle (not the words, just the ‘hu, hu, huh’)… you’ll just have to see it.”

Yeah, Steve, was evidently not being chased by Big Island volcanic magma, and was, in fact, just out of the water after surfing (okay, I didn’t forget where, but my brain kind of went out, like the spotty cell phone connection, when he said the name); and, evidently,  had done some carpentry work, but was not painting Cap’s catamaran, which, apparently, the new buyer will purchase pretty much ‘as is’.

“Did I tell you someone found my stolen kiteboard, out on the Coyle?” “No. What?” “Yeah, someone, maybe; was breaking into this other guy’s house, and, maybe it dropped out of a pickup or something. Are you working out that way?” “No.” “Okay” “Hey, Steve; what about the…” “Hey, I’ll let you go (people always act like it’s not them who wants off the phone, but a favor to you, or, in this, and other cases, me), you’re kind of breaking up.” “No, I’m not; I can hear you…” Click. Fine.

So, here’s Stephen doing an El Pollo (again, pronounced el poy-yo’), not in the tube.

Here’s a wave, breaking, somewhere, but, evidently, not on the Strait of Juan de Fuca (pronounced, since I’m being a bit pedantic, ‘whan- day-Fuke-ahhhhh’). Adios (okay, ah-de’-ose).

Stephen Davis sent out this photo of him of him on “A gut bomb on Cap’s 10’0″.”

I think the message AND the photo are a bit tongue-in-cheek, hence my title for the piece.  Evidently Stephen is not in immediate danger from the volcanic eruptions. But, yeah; the water looks so warm, and I was, indeed, sucked-in by the comment.

It looks like Steve and “Cap” (maybe Stephen doesn’t actually know Cap’s real name- or isn’t allowed to share it- or maybe not with me) seem to be riding a few chunky waves; taking a break from painting Cap’s catamaran. Steve has been doing some crew work on the legendary vessel built by Woody Brown (also legendary), and the boat is, again, evidently, being sold.

Steve did offer me an opportunity to go over and participate in the painting, but, one, I’m too busy painting here, and two, I might not look really good in board shorts.

And, three; if I go to Hawaii, I might not want to work. Aloha.

“Oh, and you’re so grown up.”

Let me try to make my point here, before I get off track: Mothers are people who see our faults and our potential. They try to guide us toward being responsible grownups.

Or, they see past our faults.

You have, no doubt, noticed that even (people generally identified as) grownups act a bit like children around their parents. A bit bratty, perhaps. An expectation of acceptance and forgiveness is sort of built into parenting. It may, wait a minute, be the very description of parenting.

No, wait; the expectation of acceptance and forgiveness (by our parents) and love (conditional, we’re lead to believe) is the very description of being a child. Being forced/required/expected to be accepting and forgiving and (unconditionally) loving is the description of parenting.

Whoa; that almost requires being a grownup. Grown up.

I would like to, right here, get into a whole deal about how my Mother, once I started board surfing, would, on most Sundays, load her seven children into the station wagon, various well-used surfboards on the rack, perhaps Phillip Harper along for the ride, and head for Tamarack. Later, Pipes (before the park), Swamis, maybe Grandview would be the destination. On the way home, we’d inevitably (or usually) stop by the garage in Oceanside where my Dad worked his second job, pick up a few bucks for ice cream or something.

On one particular Sunday, my Mom said we couldn’t go. “What? But…”

“Well, Junior (no, I am named after my father), you have to learn that life is hard; we can’t always get what we want.”

So, I did what I still do, what I’m doing right now with a northwest swell and an over-booked work schedule; I whined. I moped; I kicked the tires on the car. I looked wistfully toward the west; glancing, occasionally, back toward the house to see if this dejected-ness was being noticed.

Soon, we were enroute. I don’t remember if it was good. Didn’t matter.

You must be glad I didn’t get into that; though I add that my mother actually (and thoroughly) enjoyed the Sunday surf trips and told others so. “The housekeeping will still be there,” she told another mother at the beach (before this was in any way cool), big smile on her face. When I started going with friends, or driving myself, my older sister went to college, because our siblings didn’t have the same surf addiction, the trips tapered off. My mother died when I was eighteen.

“Mother’s Day is very tricky.” Adam “Wipeout” James, who, typically, plans some surf activity on Sundays, but, with his wife, Andrea, the mother of their two sons (this is the same person), his mother and her mother all in the general vicinity… yeah, he’ll figure something out.

“Erwin doesn’t give me anything for Mother’s Day. Never has. He says I’m not his mother.” Trisha Scott Dence.

Okay, so, she’s right. I don’t. And, is it Mother’s Day, or Mothers’ Day? She is, of course, the mother of our three children; the one they turn to for wisdom and acceptance and understanding (I sort of think my love for them is understood).

I have to hurry; want to get to the transfer station, get to a job; so, look; I’ve known Trish for very close to fifty years. I went to her 16^th birthday party (I was 17, so…not too pervy). Only now realizing how young we were, she and I have grown up together. If I say she’s more a grownup than I am would just be too obvious…

…and not totally true. Yes, I whined to her that the surf was going to happen and circumstances and obligations would not allow me to go. Unless?

I wasn’t looking for someone to give me permission; I’m enough of a grownup to realize overbooking is, in some way, a sign of success (hey, it’s painting season) and surfing or not was my decision. And besides, next time there’s a swell, mid-week; I’m going. For sure. All those weekenders can just… not go. Vent, vent, whine; looking wistfully toward the west.

With our parents gone, orphaned, as most of us become; Trish and I have each other to be our sounding boards, to vent to, complain to. I’m not sure how much we’ve matured in these years; but, if we occasionally act like something other than fully adult, it’s probably with each other. We can disagree, argue; and it’s over.

Wait, maybe that’s more mature than holding in resentments.

To have Trish in my life is a gift to me; along with the acceptance of my faults, a still-there hope I have some (highly advertised [by me], yet-unreached) potential; and her love. Yeah, the love.

Okay; that’s it. Tomorrow, on Mother’s’ Day, as sort of a gift; I’ll drive George Takamoto to Sea-Tac. Of course, it kind of fits into my plan of painting in Silverdale on the way back; but, if Trish thinks it’s a gift… great.

And I hope all you surfers are enjoying the swell. Looks like fog on the coast. Next time. Next….time. And, shit; spent too much time on this; I’ll do the dump run on Monday.

This is another one of the ‘attic finds’ from the 1980s. I was never sure what to do with it, didn’t want to get too involved with shading in the water; but, in adding a border, well; came up with the ‘water’, then, hey… this.

Since I strongly support the Surfrider and its efforts toward clean water, and… wait a minute, how about Adam “Wipeout” (or “Roundhouse”) James and the folks down the Hood Canal at HamaHama Oysters? They might be interested.

It’s really Lissa who has to be convinced. “Yeah,” Adam told me, “She runs the show.” I will be adding color later, but, hmm? Um; what’d’ya think?