The Cellar Door Mystery/Investigation

Here’s a bad scan of the illustration recently stolen from the Cellar Door in Port Townsend.  Bad because, even on the third attempt to properly crop and square the drawing on my printer/scanner, I couldn’t get it quite right.

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AND YET, another copy of the original, a gift to Cellar Door owners, Stephen and Oceanna (last names on next post down), was deemed worthy of theft.

ALTHOUGH I told Steve I could get them another copy, he told me that Oceanna is very  determined to get that one, with date, authentication signature, and some sort of personalized ‘good luck’ message on the back, back.

SO, when Trish told me I’m sort of a sensation on Facebook, I was surprised that people are liking and commenting and doing whatever it is when one person spreads it to other groups- not quite viral, and not actually tracking all the subsequent hits back to realsurfers.net, but it is impressive that Oceanna is so concerned.

I decided to look through some of my scans, just to see if I had any other pieces that might fit in the underground location, theft-worthy or not.

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Excuse me; but is this the window to the CELLAR DOOR? So tantalizing and intriguing!

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Door frame, again, not crooked in the original.

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Meanwhile, here’s an update I did on the “Keep on Trucking” drawing, submitted to and rejected by the “New Yorker,” used with permission (and so stoked about that) of R. Crumb; who wrote that the “New Yorker” wouldn’t use it.  You might notice there’s some client’s phone number or something at the top.  Cropping.

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Since every drawing comes with a story; here’s the story on this one: Also not scanned until today; and then I had to up the resolution or whatever to 300 and use the ‘grayscale’ feature.  It was drawn as a submission to the “New Yorker” (or is it “The New Yorker”?). I spilled something on it (not unusual, my originals often have coffee cup rings, little dots of coffee shot from my mustache in bouts of mouth breathing, and such things- look closely).  My late sister, Melissa Lynch, way more talented an artist than I even dream of being, loved it.  I didn’t like the roughness/incompleteness of the door, and redrew it.  “No,” she said, “I want the other one’ the good one.”  The original caption was: “It was the suit, wasn’t it?”  It could just as well be, “This is the Cellar Door, I presume.”

Here’s three more of mine, just to be a little naughty.  They are from silkscreens done in the 1980s, found in my attic.  They do include windows if not doors.  The Cellar Door is more a nightclub than a restaurant, and has already featured live bands, karaoke nights, private functions, and Vaudeville (not sure what all that includes, but it sounds just a little naughty).

I should include a couple of paintings by Stephen R. Davis himself.  If the Cellar Door is going to be known as a place to see and/or steal artsy stuff, Steve’s stuff should be included.  They have their own stories.  If Oceanna gets the Cellar Door drawing back; yeah, another story; and a mystery, possibly, solved.

The Sincerest Form of Flattery- Theft

Someone stole my illustration for the Cellar Door from the Cellar Door.  It’s officially gone, stolen, no longer where it is legally supposed to be.  So, first; WHAT?  Second; Well, it was a copy of the original, which I still have, and hey; doesn’t this kind of mean someone thought it was worthy of stealing, like; there wasn’t an original Picasso or Manet or Monet, so why not grab an Original Erwin?

Okay, while I’m considering the ranks of artists I’m suddenly a part of… wait; I did have one of my Original Erwin t-shirts taken, on trust and a promise, and not only not paid for (only instance of this- all others were eventually paid for), but the person who picked it up denied having possession of it (hope it is being enjoyed)… first let me make sure I have a copy of the purloined illustration.

Oops; never scanned it.  Give me a second.  No; I’m a little depressed at the SEAHAWKS losing, at my missing some epic surf somewhere, that it’s supposed to snow and freeze in the immediate future (like the next week), and that a copy of the drawing I don’t want to scan right now was stolen; I’ll scan it in the morning, post something with just it.

The story of the artwork is as follows: When my friend, radical pig-dogger and/or casual surfboard slider (sometimes both on the same wave) Stephen R. Davis (R for Rad), told me he and girlfriend Oceanna Van Lelyveld, were opening a restaurant under the streets of Port Townsend, I instantly started on a drawing.

Oops, it’s not the UNDERGROUND?  So what do I do with the lettering I did for the UNDERGROUND?  Change it, add something.  Okay.

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Oh, it’s The Cellar Door? I started on a new illustration, suitable for advertising or menus or, evidently, stealing.

As far as waves go; I have been working or desperately trying to winterize (ie; get generator started, cover some exposed waterlines, but I did hear stories.  As local surfer/boat designer and legend Tim Nolan told me about the big ass North Pacific storm before the more current big a as North Pacific storm; “The waves have to hit somewhere.”

Indeed.  Next time.

Maybe in the morning.  The scan; talking about the scan.

Black and White and Psychedelic, Plus Polar Bear Wetsuits Flyer

Though I’m quite focused on finishing my novel, “SWAMIS,” surviving Winter and its lack of real revenue, and keeping my heart healthy enough to survive at least one more SEAHAWKS game; I have taken a little time to work on artsy stuff.

AND, partially due to a recent event in which I selfishly burned (as in took off on a wave next to but down the line from) a well known local surfer… Here’s the rule on that: Burn someone who is equally aggressive (and transgressive, etiquette-wise), or burn someone who is a relatively close friend; and you might be forgiven (plus, you have given that surfer the right to burn you on one [only] equally or better wave); but take off on someone who seems to follow all the rules (that is, is patient, passes up incredibly seductive set waves without whining, as in saying ‘wave of the day’ in the most sarcastic way, or splashing water); and, even if this surfer doesn’t instantly (and rightly) call you out for the callous, childish, greedy wave hog that you are; anyone else who witnesses your selfish move (and there’s always a witness) will; and if you cemented your own reputation for ruthless surf crimes, years ago, for burning, among others, this very same individual (even though you apologized and he said, “It’s all good.”  It’s never all good.  No one ever means this); and, even though you did, indeed, apologize for your most recent lineup infraction (this time he said, “You don’t really mean it,” and you- I mean me, of course- kind of lost the first person/second person narrative for a second- said, “No, I do,” and you meant that- mostly due to now realizing you’ve sentenced yourself to another seven years or so of bad karma and mandatory niceness/deference toward that individual any time you/I and he are in the same lineup); and partially due to my telling another local surfer (and witness) about how Trish, not surprised at my criminal behavior, would call this incident ‘just another greedy fat boy trick;’ and then I had to explain the history of that phrase; and partially due to Trish getting all excited (not about the incident) and suggesting I might write a series, possibly for future publication, entitled, “Erwin and His Greedy Fat Boy Tricks;” because of all this; I’m thinking about it.

It being my recalcitrant behavior, and, just to throw in another word I looked up just to make sure I spelled it correctly, yes, I must be, might just be, despite repeated claims to be changing my ways, a recidivist wave hog.

Again, trying to change.

The first and defining ‘greedy fat boy’ story would be this: Second eldest of seven children, with both parents working, I, partially because I seemed to be the one who got up earliest, made sack lunches for the nine of us from the age of twelve or so, about the time, coincidentally, that I started board surfing. Sandwiches.  Lots of peanut butter and jelly or lunchmeat, about a loaf a day.  My parents would bring home a bag of cookies each night, and it was my job to dispense them.  Evenly.  “Okay, eight cookies each.”  Crunch, crunch.  “Seven each.”  More crunching. I once did get down to three and a half each, but it might have been a smaller bag.

Greedy fat boy.

Other stories would have to include my insistence that I developed my bad (O could say unpopular but effective) surf techniques and (oh, I want to say skills- that would be wrong) skills, my ‘ghetto mentality,’ surfing in crowded city lineups.

“But you’re not in the city now,” you might counter. Hmmm.

“And then,” Trish said, “You can go with the greedy fat man.”  “Hey.” “It’d be all right; you’re only being self-deprecating.”  “Oh; okay then.”

Still love cookies.  Too many fucking cookies.

Okay, so here’s my latest illustration.  Yes, it’s all out black and white psychedelia.  Yes, I have told those who I’ve shown it to that, yes, I want people to wonder what kind of drugs the person who drew this is on.

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Here’s my fake flyer for fake wetsuit company, Polar Bear Wetsuits.  “Maximum stretch, minimum shrink.”

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MEANWHILE… Good etiquette has its rewards (or so they tell me).

Honoring A (Another) Classic Waterman

As surfers, we have what should be a requirement, definitely an obligation, to honor those who went before us.  The real surfers of the generation slightly before mine were surfing when that meant no or inadequate wetsuits, heavy and ungainly boards; and one could not even qualify to be counted as anything close to a real surfer if not skilled in body surfing, long distance paddling, and diving.  Fishing skills were also appreciated.  Many surfers increased their time in the lineup (imagine Windansea with three friends out) by fishing and diving for abalone and ‘bugs’ (lobster).

Yes, these things were legal in California until some time in the 60s, and aren’t now.  I have run into other surfers from that era; one who became a builder; another who opened a car dealership.  They had stories.  Stories.  We all have stories, stories with surfing as a recurring theme, hopefully; or, for those who no longer get in the water, a collection of wistful, romantic (in its way) memories.  Some of our best moments are spent in and around the water.

Here, with some minor editing, is what my friend Keith wrote about his father’s passing:

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Douglas Darrock, 1938-2019, passed away on the Winter Solstice near Port Townsend, Washington.  He was 81.  Doug grew up in La Jolla in the 40s and 50s, graduating from La Jolla High in 1956.

He was a waterman in the truest sense.

As a young man, he built his own paddleboards and spearguns to dive the kelp beds and reefs off La Jolla.  He surfed and bodysurfed often.  He later worked as a commercial abalone diver around La Jolla and as a research diver in the Sea of Cortez.

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After serving in the military, he moved north, to Oregon, in the 1960s.  He owned a bar and fished commercially for salmon out of Astoria.  It was there that he met his partner of 45 years, Lorraine Limardi.  They lived for a time in Cannon Beach and Manzanita, and, later, south in Yachats and Tenmile Creek.  It was along this coast that Doug and Lorraine raised their family and made many friends.

Doug loved the adventure of travel.  He took his family on long road trips; south to Baja California, Mainland Mexico, and Central America, escaping the long, wet Oregon winters; camping on the beach, exploring while living in a VW bus.

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The family spent a year sailing to Baja and into the Sea of Cortez aboard ‘Cecilia’, a thirty-four foot Benford Cutter until the money ran out and they were forced to sell the boat and limp back to the Oregon Coast in an old Volvo.

Doug and his family spent many years around Port Townsend, Marrowstone Island and the San Juan Islands.  He loved to sail these waters.  Never a career man, Doug, instead, made money as a farmer and renovating old houses, taking odd jobs when necessary.  His first and last jobs were as a lifeguard in La Jolla as a young man, and as a lifeguard in Port Townsend at the public pool in his 70s.

Life was never dull with Doug.  He is survived by his wife, Lorraine, son Keith Darrock (local librarian and extremely avid surfer), daughters Laura DuPont and Jessica Syska; along with many grandchildren.

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I don’t think I ever met Douglas Darrock.  He was part of the La Jolla crowd that included surfboard makers Gordon and Smith; some famous surfers, including Butch Van Artsdalen; and a non-famous surfer, Bill Irwin; who also lived a surfer/sailor life, and died about a year ago.

I never met the father, but I see him in the son.  Keith (that’s him on the back of his dad’s bike) makes adjustments to his life to include surfing.  I watched Keith recently, having arrived too late to get into my wetsuit and go out before the tight window would close.  He was (his word) gorging on the waves on offer.  When I talked to him on the beach I said the if he (rail thin and determined to stay that way) loved food as much as he loves waves, he’d be soooooooo fat.  Yes, I told him it’d show up here.

Stories.  Peace.