Access DENIED! Surf Tresspassing Etiquette

Posted on January 29, 2025 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Uncategorized

If surfing is important to your life; if your self image is as a surfer, there are few things more upsetting, when there are waves, than the lack of ACCESS. In California and Hawaii (not sure about Oregon), the beaches are public and there are constant lawsuits against super rich (obviously) beachfront owners, many of whom promised to provide access and then decided rude, noisy beach goers could just, to coin a phrase, ‘Pound sand.” Like, somewhere else. If you have enough beachfront, say like “The Ranch,” it might not be that difficult to keep surfers in their place. Some other place.

In Washington State, with our thousands of miles of saltwater frontage, the beaches and the valuable tidelands belong to the landowners. It’s not all tideflats rich in oysters and geoducks and all that; some people just agree with the opinion that beachgoers and surfers somehow wreck the view.

It’s not just that the surf is fickle, or that most surf spots on the Olympic Peninsula can only be reached with driving and hiking, and possibly climbing down cliffs, add in that there are spots visiting surfers cannot access. I have checked one break three times. Cops were called twice. The woman patrolling the zone and very proud of her efforts, was unapologetic. The surfers with me (two different ones) and I were apologetic. “Yeah, we just went across someone’s lawn to check it out. And… what about those two guys who are out?” They probably paddled from way around the point or boated in, “Yeah, I’m going to deal with them, too.” “Have a good day, Ma’am.” And we were out. Elsewhere.

Another spot, with much easier access, is, and this should be noted, private. I have run into the owner several times. I was SO POLITE. It’s just counterintuitive to be otherwise. Back to my motto: “I’m here to surf.”

Another quickie: I know of another spot I’ve surfed a couple of times. I was invited to park out on the point and surf there, but it was years ago. Since then, with some, um, people, doing damage to the property, or misbehaving, or camping, or whatever, cameras were installed. Not to check out the surf but to check on assholes.

ASSHOLES. So, here’s a recent deal. Spot on the coast. Private Property. Gated. Homeowner shows up, identifies himself as such. Surfers curse at him. A dick image is traced on the seasonal dirt on his car. He sees some other surfers closer to the beach, tells them it is private property and their Hobuck or La Push pass doesn’t cover this place. More cursing. More disrespect. SOLUTION: Better gate. DENY ACCESS!

IN THE PAST, surfers made deals with farmers and foresters, people who owned waterfront. Access was on a personal basis. Then someone spotted surf rigs, spread the word, and the next time there was a possibility the spot was breaking, more cars. The farmer or the forester sells the spot, homeowners move in, fuck a bunch of surfers; ACCESS DENIED!

THERE was, of course, the UNCLE DOUG (I never called him that) access. As someone who never paid to park and surf, I had no problem sliding five bucks into the can. It isn’t just that the property was disrespected, but Doug died, the ACCESS WAS DENIED!

I DO FEEL AS IF I should defend myself against charges of blowing up spots. I consciously try not to mention even well-known spots, try to not be too specific as to even WHEN I surfed. I’ve spent years trying to increase my chances of finding waves. THIS IS totally self-serving. While I appreciate the characters I’ve met over the years, if they all showed up at one time at one spot, it would be… soooo crowded.

ANYWAY, it would be helpful if you, as a visitor on someone else’s beach, pick up your trash, maybe someone else’s, be respectful, and, you know, don’t be an ASSHOLE.

Uptown characters.

THIS GUY called me off a porch on a main street in Port Townsend, I was painting. He asked if I wanted to paint for his movie. WHAT? Yeah, I would be interested if it was a legitimate offer. After ranting about car crashes and how he was changing his name, and his upcoming tour to promote the movie, with hius co-star, 36 compared to his 75 and OH, BABY!… and, when asked, he said the folders at his side were part of his latest law suit, worth millions, and… and… and… “Hey, whatever you said your name is… um, I gotta go.”

I should post this under “CRAZY RECOGNIZES CRAZY.”

This was after, stepping out of my van after eating a sandwich, this really old woman comes cruising up to me. She is pushing a walker and I make the mistake of saying, “Hey, you’re getting along pretty well.” Without missing a beat, she asks if I can help her. “OH, no!” Yeah, she hit me up for money. I didn’t want to go into my own issues, but begrudgingly gave her four bucks. “JESUS LOVES YOU,” she said. “Yes, I know that, but…” So, then the crazy guy, then the woman comes back and to the other side of my van. “I’m up here,” I said. “Can you help me?” “Already did. And, hey, I have a few questions. No time. She was gone.

I texted a photo of the filmmaker to a friend who works in the Uptown area, someone who must deal with the occasional Port Townsend fun people. He wrote back, “Avoid that guy at all costs.” In later discussion, we decided the dude is kind of like me in that he will talk to strangers. He is, hopefully and maybe, a bit more crazy-ish than I am. Yet.

UPDATE- Still Wednesday- My new friend and possibly future employer showed up at Dru’s workplace, revealing her with pretty much the same spiel he gave me. Did I tell you the movie’s A musical? Well, he told my daughter. And he added he was leading a singalong on Thursday. When she said she’s having surgery, he invited her to “zoom in.”

“Maybe.”

After half an hour, Dru’s said, “I gotta go.”

I GOTTA GO. Trisha’s and my daughter, DRU, is having more cancer-related surgery tomorrow. Thank you for your wishes. We’ll see how it goes. MAYBE giving the woman four bucks and the love from Jesus might help. GO,JESUS! and, oh yeah, FUCK CANCER!

MORE songs and poems from my previous collection, “LOVE SONGS FOR CYNICS,” and some newer stuff, all under consideration for my upcoming (definitely) book on SUNDAY. As far as “SWAMIS,” I’m regrouping after not getting my first choice of agents, HILLARY JACOBSON, and almost considering doing an e-book. NOT YET.

Meanwhile, try not to do anything you should apologize for.l And find some waves.

Occasional Run-Ins With Interesting Folks

Posted on January 26, 2025 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, learning to surf, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, Seattle surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, surf novels

WHOA! This came out kind of bigger than I would have thought. It’s COLE (if I ever heard a last name I forgot it), showing me his pupils aren’t dilated. I’ve seen Cole out on the Strait for years. This is the way it goes in a region that never should have waves, rarely does have waves, and, when there are waves, the dribblers are most likely scalloped or shredded by the fickle winds before they die, unceremoniously, on the jagged rocks.

I almost never search for waves without running into some interesting people I’ve hung out with in the past. Sometimes I meet new folks. It does take me several encounters before I remember most folks. “We’ve spoken before. Erwin.” “Oh. Okay; which one are you again?” Still, most people are friendly ON THE BEACH.

A MEMORABLE QUOTE from Cole from a few years back is,”I haven’t surfed in so long that my gills are dry.” Painful.

LIB TECH FOUNDER MIKE OLSON and Lib-rarian KEITH DARROCK. No doubt frustrated by the lack of surfable waves, Mike has become an ‘adult learner’ on foil boards. The key, he explained, is to do two sessions a day for, if I remember correctly (I was busy trying to take a photo with my phone while being amazed at how tall Mike is [I think I can call him Mike because we sort of bonded after i {allegedly} hit him with my board], while, simultaneously wondering why he’s doing this hand gesture rather than a friendlier shaka), 45 days. So, like 70 sessions and one is a full on foiler.

I didn’t take a photo of Mike attempting to ride his foil in some side-not-offshore wind. I kind of thought the design might be a secret. I would guess that Mike is probably about… No, I don’t want to judge. BUT, perhaps you’re looking forward to getting a genuine LIB TECH foil to add to your quiver.

If you’re considering getting a motorized foil and also considering yourself a real surfer, please reconsider.

Mike Olson from a few years ago, possibly on the day when my board may or may not have done damage to his shoulder, enjoying an overhead (Strait scale) wave while some cheating bastard on a Standup (no, it’s not me- way too thin) considers paddling to Canada. Mike talks at cattle auctioneer speed and always seems to be having a good time.

Coincidentally, on an outing in which Keith took a chance on taking me with him (and yes, the head gasket issue on my VOLVO is almost-maybe fixed), the only other non-kook surfer (counting Keith and me, though I fell over way more times than usual) in the chopped up water with the weak and wobbly waves was a guy who identified himself as PETE. He was riding a ten foot-ish HANSEN 50-50 LONG BOARD, so, of course, I had to ask him where he got it, not failing to mention that I was a SURFBOARDS HAWAII zealot, and that Hansen seems more interested in selling clothes than boards. Pete did, indeed, purchase the board in Encinitas for, like, $400.

IT TURNS OUT that Pete is PETE SAARI, credited as being a co-founder of LIB TECH. Pete must have passed Mike on the highway. Keith, who has surfed with Mike on some sketchier rock breaks, said we’d just surfed with LIB TECH NUMBER ONE. Mike said, “No; I’m still number one,” and explained a bit more of his company’s evolution than I was aware of. But, as part of my relentless and bothersome need to research, I googled and now see that, SHIT, Lib Tech is way bigger than I realized. So, if Mike Olson knows my name… it doesn’t hurt my feelings. Or ego.

Pete, when I asked, said he lives in Seattle but has a house in Agnew. “Oh, you know, the coolest hoodie one can have, other than a HAMA HAMA OYSTER hoodie or an ORIGINAL ERWIN, is one from the AGNEW GROCERY STORE.” “Yeah, I live near it.” Pete recognized Keith and asked me if I was also from Port Townsend, “No, Quilcene.” “Oh, I hear it’s a very hip place to live.” “Yeah. I’ve lived there since 1978, when I was 27, and the hipness is all about these young wanna be farmers, and…” “Okay, I’ll give you credit.”

ALL dialogue is paraphrased but accurate in content.

“SWAMIS” UPDATE- Keith and I also ran into STU (I should have taken a picture). He works part time at the NXNW SURF SHOP in Port Angeles. Stu’s wife has relatives in the San Diego North County area and has surfed some of the local spots. He said they thought of moving down there, but it’s so expensive. “And so crowded.” “Are you ever going to finish ‘Swamis’?” “Yeah.”

I sent out submissions/queries to agents about six week ago. The one I really wanted to represent me, and the reason I’ve been checking my hotmail, like, obsessively, Hillary Jacobson, with CAA, one of the biggies, just passed on my novel. She did, however, wish me the “best of luck finding an agent.” So, yeah, devastated. BUT, if you happen to know Hillary, please tell her it’s a big miss to pass on “Swamis.” Oh, and thanks.

So, yeah, still going. MEANWHILE, putting out some of my songs/poems. Here’s another:

IF IT’S OVER, then it’s over, guess we’re through, there’s no reason I should go on loving you, but you know it’s just exactly what I’ll do… If it’s over, then it’s over, guess we’re through, but I just can’t seem to let go of these blues.

Yes, I treated you unkindly, as you say, but I loved you, love you blindly, still today; it’s a love I’ll likely take right to my grave… If it’s. over, then it’s over, guess we’re through, but I just can’t seem to let go of these blues.

Like the clouds the winds have scattered, my love’s broken but not gone; like the coast the waves have battered, I’ve no choice but to hold on; like a river at the ocean, I’ll give in eventually, but I’ll hold on, long as I can, to the memory.

I can find the broken pieces of my heart; I can build myself a new one from the parts; need a new life, and it’s time for me to start… If it’s over, then it’s over, guess we’re through; but I just can’t seem to let go, gotta find a way to let go; I JUST CAN’T SEEM TO LET GO OF THESE BLUES.

Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net. Get some waves when you can.

You Don’t Know Dylan- Part One

Posted on January 21, 2025 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Uncategorized

I did this drawing in the mid-eighties. I wasn’t really stoked on it, but I did save it.

NOTE- After I posted this, late last night, I wanted to check ONE MORE THING, so I went to IMDB, and, accidentally, got to a bunch of comment/reviews. And then, I started reading a few of them, start and stop, scroll down. THE NET RESULT… TWO THINGS- One, I’m almost embarrassed to be asking you to read my take on all things BOB DYLAN, and Two, I may as well save those of you who are as high on the ADHD SPECTRUM as I am, and give you the short answer to my review of “A COMPLETE UNKNOWN.” It’s a movie best suited to folks who don’t believe they know a lot about Dylan.

OTHERWISE, I do think it’s worth the read or I wouldn’t have bothered.

You Don’t Know Dylan – Part One

My son James is quite fond of saving lines people say that become a part of any description of that person. If the quote is “We buy new,” I know who he’s talking about. James also comes up with terse phrases that work equally well. “Not enough sex, not enough car crashes” was my son’s review of a review a short story I’d written got from a guy we were working for who had, he claimed, Hollywood connections. My saved quote from the older gentleman, who had an office in the garage of his Pacific Northwest home, and was, unfortunately, dying of cancer, was what he kept telling himself; “Gotta get something going.”

The “You don’t know Dylan” quote came from Rusty, the father of a kid who was in the earliest lineup of a band my son James put together. The quartet was called the “Black-eyed Peas,” before they discovered there was another band by that name. When they would practice at the rhythm guitar player’s house, Rusty would (not because it was a special occasion, drink, break out his guitar, ask James if he knew any Dylan songs, and drink, and at some point, say, in a rusty (sorry, it’s true), barroom voice, “People think they know Dylan. I tell ‘em, ‘You don’t know Dylan.’”

Rusty was right.

My daughter Dru and I went to see “A Complete Unknown” at the ROSE THEATRE in Port Townsend, home to the hippest (self-proclaimed) and oldest (statistically proven) demographic in Washington State. Having heard that theatre goers had misbehaved, including talking over, and singing along, and fully aware that one cannot out in-depth PT Hipsters on any movie, much less one that strives to be a biography of someone so completely known, I did have a nagging fear that verbal fisticuffs might break out in the aisle.

IT DIDN’T HAPPEN, but I did explain a few critical points to Dru. “No, the ‘Judas’ thing, and the ‘I don’t believe you; you’re a liar,’ was from later, with The Band, and…” “Dad. Shhh.”

Everyone else, it seems, has reviewed the most recent attempt to capture the enigmatic, self-described song and dance man. If you figure I first heard of Bob Dylan, ten years older than me, at about twelve, so, like 1963; yeah; I’m a longtime fan. Still, I am but a mere Dylanophile when compared to rabid Dylanologists. Still, I have opinions.

Having seen part or all of a lot of YouTube clips, ‘beyond the scene’ and ‘making of’ features, and reviews by people neither I nor Dylan have heard of; and then, full of dread and anticipation, hoping I wouldn’t cry, or worse, sing along, and having paid the money and watched the film, I am obviously qualified to write as many words as possible about whether the essence and truth of the legendary minstrel was captured. Or not.

SURE.

“A Complete Unknown’ got a lot of the settings right. Probably. Long time ago. And Timothee Chalamet shuffles and mumbles and looks kind of like Dylan, if you don’t know Dylan. People who know Dylan say they don’t know him, so, huh, like we’re supposed to say, “Nailed it; break out the Oscar.” That was a question.

AN ADMISSION: I have seen Dylan. Live. Yes, Puyallup Fair, a while back. September 22,1998 (I googled it). Trish and I waded through the crowd, past the championship goats and the corn dog stands and the Carnival attractions. We took our folding seats (I was on the aisle) in, my guess, the same place they hold horse riding and steer roping events. I was so excited, this after years of hearing other concert goers tell me about their experiences seeing Dylan live. “I had binoculars,” a friend said, of his experience in the San Francisco area in the early 70s. “Had to put them down. Dylan was green.” “Yeah, I saw him once,” the ‘we buy new’ contractor told me, “He had to have been drunk or fucked up.”

Fuck those guys. “You can’t be super fucked up and remember all those lines” was my response. “Well, you’ll see, man. Maybe it’ll be worth it.”

Folks in the folding chairs near Trish and I were asking themselves about Lucinda Williams, the opening act. Since I listened to a progressive Seattle station, The Mountain (probably Country/western or religious nowadays), I said she was… I don’t remember who I thought she was. I was wrong. Should’ve said, “Yes, she does, ‘Cartwheels on a Gravel Road.’” That would also be incorrect, but, perhaps, better than the actual title of the Lucinda Williams song, “Car WHEELS on a Gravel Road.” Completely different vibe.

Anyway, BOB WAS WORTH IT. I was a bit mystified and quite annoyed when a lot of way younger audience members rushed the stage, getting way too excited when Bob (no harmonica or piano playing on this night) did a guitar solo. It seemed they were moshing to someone who shouldn’t be moshed to. A little reverence seemed more fitting.

I did almost talk myself into buying a t-shirt for, like thirty bucks. Should have. The HIGHLIGHT OF THE EVENING, for Trish, was, while following my lead block through the crowd, she came close enough to bumping into someone that they both had to stop and regroup. “I’m sure it was Jakob Dylan,” she said. “Almost positive.” “Why would he be in Puyallup?” “Because his father’s here.” “Sure.” “He had beautiful blue eyes.” “Okay, it was him, then.” Trish has kind of a habit of almost bumping into celebrities, and a definite habit of being right, so I’m more and more inclined to believe it was Jakob Dylan.

Trish and I saw JOAN BAEZ, also; early seventies, some venue in San Diego; sitting in folding chairs, close to the front. I don’t recall there being a stage. Cheap tickets for the time. Joan was singing, her voice clear and cuttingly beautiful. She was also talking human rights stuff, anti-war stuff. Nixon was president, Vietnam was still going on, and I could still, age-wise, be called into military service.

Toward the end of the event, guys were putting their draft cards into a pile. I didn’t. I was painting for the Navy, department of defense. If was an anti-war, which I was raised to be, I was also a hypocrite. At the very end, Joan said she appreciated the sentiment, but the cards could be picked up. Most probably were. Interesting thing about the show; no big, rude herding out by security.

TO BE CLEAR, Trish knew a lot more about Joan, her sister Mimi Farina, Mimi’s tragic death; about Dylan’s first wife, her kids, their kids, the relationship between Bob and Joan; all this stuff; and I don’t know exactly where Trish got all this info; but she’s passed on this sort of romantic notion that JOAN AND BOB have a bond that’s, you know, romantic, real.

I’m fine with it. The notion goes along with my theory that women love men who are sometimes assholes. If not ‘only’ love, then ‘tend’ to love.

TO GET BACK to the movie; didn’t buy Monica Barbaro, the actress portraying Joan so much. No offense: Just too much squeezed into each on screen minute. Did think Edward Norton captured Pete Seeger until I saw video of Pete Seeger. Again, the squeezing. Dru is a big Elle Fanning fan, and, since my knowledge of Suze Rotolo is mostly that she expanded Dylan’s study of other cultures and, you know, stuff, I think Elle nailed the part. Maybe a few too many seconds of closeups of her emoting, but… great. POSSIBLY my favorite character was Albert Grossman, played by Dan Fogler. Having seen Grossman in documentaries, looking more like a well-dressed bodyguard than a manager, it was a treat to see him leap out of a motel room bed.

If it’s a THUMB’S UP or THUMB’S DOWN thing, I’m giving it a DOUBLE SHAKA for production value, the truncated storyline, the settings; all the stuff movie people reward themselves with.

It isn’t all that disappointing to me that what is SO DIFFICULT TO CAPTURE is the absolute charisma that separates true artists from those of us trying to paint a portrait from a momentary glimpse.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers. Yes, I wrote more on Dylan. Couldn’t stop myself. I should apologize for this not being more surf related. I do have some surf-centric stuff coming up. SUNDAY. Meanwhile, watch for ice, stay warm, find waves if you can.

Dogs and Blue Devils, and Another Poem

Posted on January 19, 2025 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, classic surfboards, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, writings of Erwin Dence

If I say I’m easily distracted, it would be… wait a minute… What? Oh. Yeah, so I was trying to get a painting job done in the few hours in which it is reasonable to do so, when this guy walks by, notices I’m wearing a HOBIE hoodie that I shouldn’t have been wearing, one that already had too much paint on it, and asks if it’s, like, old. “A couple of years. Why?” “Oh. I used to have a Hobie.” “Uh huh.” NOW, I am always ready to make connections between people I’m talking with and surfing, so I go into a spiel about how I currently ride a Hobie, and my first board, actually my sister, Suellen’s, board, was a Hobie. 9’4″ stock model, purchased in 1964 from John Amsterdam and… I could go on, though I really had to get bak to work.

It turns out the man is JOHN HOLM. He asked me if I went to the most recent SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT. *”Yeah. I was one of the organizers. I did the poster.” It turns out that John had artwork on display and may or may not have given a presentation that I must have missed. “Did you get a lanyard?” “I did.” “My daughter made those.” “Oh.” I asked him if he remembered another older surfer, TIM NOLAN. “Yeah, the guy in the movie.” “No, that was me.” “Oh. Okay. You’re Erwin.” “Yes.” “I bought one of your t shirts, an Original Erwin.” “Thank you, John.”

John Holm was in advertising in Los Angeles, and did have a humorous story of how he had an filmed commercial he wanted to sell to an ad agency. “It’s called a ‘reel.'” NOW, there was, about this time, a famous porn star named JOHNNY ‘THE WAD’ HOLMES, and when John Holmes went to the agency, he wondered what the response was when it was announced that he was there to show them his reel.

*The quotes are more like paraphrasing. Obviously it’s difficult for people in their seventies to remember things exactly. I did remember that I always forget to take photos.

THERE MAY exist, somewhere, a photo of the house I grew up in on DEBBY STREET in Fallbrook, California, 20 miles as the road bends, to the nearest surf. The photo has most if not all of the 13 surfboards I and my family owned at one time.

Because I was raised as a Seventh Day Adventist, surfing on the Sabbath was kind of a sin. Too much fun, perhaps. SO, ONE SATURDAY, my father and I had to go home to, I don’t remember, pick up a side dish for a potluck or something, and there were two JEHOVAH WITNESS dudes, young guys on their mission, dressed, oddly, similarly to my dad and I, white shirts, ties, no coats. “Not interested.” “Oh. Okay. You have a lot of boards.” “Want to buy one?”

Five minutes later they were tying a well-thrashed board to the top of their car. It would have been pretty hypocritical of us to criticize the missionaries when we were selling a board on the Sabbath. Then again, one person’t hypocrisy is another’s fifteen bucks. Maybe more. I don’t remember, AND I didn’t get the money.

f you don’t have space on your living room walls to hang some classic surfboards, decorating your compound seems like a reasonable alternative. This is a friend of mine’s gated, protected version. I can speak from experience, BEWARE OF THE DOGS!

THIS IS ADAM WIPEOUT JAMES and JEN (Adam didn’t want to use her last name without her permission) at a secret surf adjacent campground near Neah Bay. There was a WARM CURRENT retreat last weekend, and because Jen is a dog groomer, people call her with dogs ready to be rescued. She tries to find homes for the obviously delightful and loveable furballs.

ADAM WIPEOUT with his new adorable and loveable furball. The dog’s name, in the language of the MAKAH tribe, evidently means ‘cow.’ Not sure why, but the dog’s nicckname, one that will probably stick, is PEACHES.

Adam is shown in his normal position, on the phone. In this case, over at my house in an attempt to save my VOLVO after it overheated, Adam is wrapping up a convo (note the hip talk) on another Oyster farmer’s problems. This knowledge and willingness to share his expertise is, no doubt, a part of the reason for the success of my neighbors down the Hood Canal, the HAMA HAMA OYSTER COMPANY.

As far as whether going through the steps to use BLUE DEVIL have been successful… I’ll get back to you on that. The oil, which was the color of chocolate milk with a lot of milk, after the process of draining it, changing the filter, adding the Blue Devil, running the car for an hour, changing the oil again running it some more, changing it a third time, is the proper color. STILL, with the engine not overheating, not using water, the oil staying the proper color, but with some steam still happening, we might do another runthrough.

AGAIN, THANKS ADAM.

Next time you’re cruising SURF ROUTE 101, stop in at Hama Hama. Maybe you’ll get some fresh seafood or some delicious soup from another surfer, ‘SOUPY DAN.’

BECAUSE I’m pushing my song/poetry writing, here is another one; MAY AS WELL RAIN.

The winds that move the clouds just keep on blowing, and the temperature keeps falling by degrees, it takes everything I’ve got to keep on going, and I’s swaying like a poplar in the breeze, and the wind can chill the blood right in your veins; it may as well rain, it may as well rain, it may as well rain.

It’s been forty days and forty nights I’ve wandered, and I’ve gone from place to place and town to town, I keep thinking ’bout the love she and I squandered, as I pick my lead feet up and lay them down, and I feel like I’ve been circling the drain; it may as well rain, it may as well rain, it may as well rain.

Now the thunder claps and rolls it’s getting nearer, all the power lines are hanging by a thread, and I thought that in the distance I could hear her, no, it’s the echo of the last words that she said; lightning strikes a twisting, turning weathervane; it may as well rain, it may as well rain, it may as well rain.

Let the heavens rip wide open and the rain come pouring down, thunder fills the streets and alleys of this wicked little town, and I’m clinging to a lamppost that’s cememted in the ground; and if I stay here much longer I know I will surely drown.

If it rains it might blow over by the morning; there’ll be rainbows and the sun just peeking through; I let this whole storm kind of hit me without warning; it takes more than sun to cure these kind of blues; water’s not enough to wash away these blues; it may as well rain, it may as well rain, it may as well rain.

NOTE: I went to see “A COMPLETE UNKNOWN” with my daughter Dru the other day. SInce everyone else has reviewed the movie, some even more DYLAN fanatics/followers than I am, I’m going to voice my opinion on WEDNESDAY. Plus, hopefully, some good news on the VOLVO and on “SWAMIS.”

Fast Eddie, Another Full Moon, A Private Conversation

Posted on January 15, 2025 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, aggressive surfers, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf stories, surfing, surfing novels, writings of Erwin Dence

Fast EDDIE ROTHMAN giving a gnarled finger welcome to all the North Shore visitors.

THE TIME DIFFERENCE between the Olympic Peninsula’s North Shore and Hawaii’s gave me a couple of extra opportunities to watch the 2025 DA HUI BACKDOOR SHOOTOUT. YouTube gave ma a chance to watch all the best rides without having to listen to the commentary, though the upside of long heats with few waves ridden was the chance to mind surf a few. “No, double-up closeout; I’d have…”

The truth is I wouldn’t have even attempted the paddle out on most, okay, any of the days (maybe the first day with the SUPers). I got home on the last day of the contest just in time to watch, with some of cleanest conditions and the most waves ridden per heat, Fast Eddie Rothman chat it up about… okay, rant it up about how the indigenous Hawaiians (not that he is actually one of these) can’t afford the $5,000 a month rent, and how the ruling gentry have done whatever they could to keep the DaHui contest from happening. And Fast Eddie had other complaints, all delivered with a growl and the kind of tough, thugish, grammatically strained manner that would give him the part in any prison yard scene, movie version, and, I would guess, real life version. I have every reason to believe he’s as tough as he seems. Legendary.

The Eddie remarks came after two of the contest commentators explained how the ‘BLACK SHORTS’ group of lineup regulators came to be, why localism, keeping crowds of disrespecting interlopers at bay (rather than in the way, dropping in, being kooky) is, if not, you know, good; it is necessary to allow those lucky enough to be locals, skilled enough to drop in under the lip… Shit; I just wanted to see some surfing.

Result-wise, Eddie’s middle son, KOA, whose “THIS IS LIVIN'” Videos I do, generally, watch, is this year’s individual winner. I’m not arguing. I might have gone CLAY MARZO, whether or not he completed all of the crazy in-the-barrel moves, or, really, anyone who competed.

It isn’t fear, exactly, that has kept me from going to Hawaii. Fear of disappointment, perhaps, after a lifetime of imagining; BUT, if I do go, I’m thinking I should buy some DaHui black trunks, a Florence rashguard (with hood), the most fucked-up looking car and board I can find, and, of course, show so much respect to the locals that someone might just…

Speaking of imagining… I have been working on my epic novel, “SWAMIS” for a long time. If surfing has always been the ‘other woman’ in my relationship with TRISH, my obsession with the manuscript, and with my other writing and drawing projects is the ‘other other woman.’ I am supposed to be working on what I can’t call remodeling our house; it’s more like saving it. Time and money. “When I sell my novel,” I say. Trish, with an annoying habit of being honest, said, “Yeah; we’ll be burying you with that —-ping novel.” She was laughing when she said it, and I only bleeped the adjective out because I wouldn’t want you thinking she ever fucking talks that way, And, anyway, if she does, on rare occasion, she will say she learned it from me. TRUE.

ANOTHER FULL MOON. That’s Archie Endo’s board stuck in the blackberries. Yes, I borrowed the fin. Small waves and big rocks.

In my continuing effort to establish myself as a lyricist (wow, sounds as pretentious as poet or songwriter), I am spending too much of the time I could be doing home repair writing new materiall and organizing some of the pieces I’ve written, the net result to be, eventually, a book, with illustrations. And, yes, it might be available before “Swamis.”

It was a PRIVATE CONVERSATION, words I was not yet meant to hear; thought I’d surprise you at the station, couldn’t have know that I was near,

Your words and tears shared with a stranger, someone you’ve met along the line; I should have know this was the dTanger, if I did not, the fault is mine.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry; I don’t know what to say.

“Time apart,” you said, “Brings sorrow,” now, I could barely hear your voice, you said that “Love’s something we borrow,” and “Freedom’s such a frightening choice,

You spoke of hopes and disappointments, small victories, great tragedies; in all the time we’ve been together, you’ve never disappointed me.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry; I don’t know what to say.

I saw the touch, but at a distance; saw how your fingers were entwined; you didn’t put up much resistance, offered a kiss you did decline.

And, yes, I ran out of the station; this is my last apology; you should need no more explanation, perhaps we’ve set each other free.

But that’s another conversation, a very frightening conversation; A PRIVATE CONVERSATION.

I am trying to keep track of the songs/poems I’ve posted on realsurfers. If this is a rerun; I’m sorry. SO, COPYRIGHT-wise, the photo of Fast Eddie seems to have several source credits. It’s not mine. The other stuff is. All rights reserved. Thanks, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

AS ALWAYS, thanks for checking out realsurfers. Good luck finding some uncrowded and awesome waves. SUNDAY, yeah, more; probably not before 10am

The Santana Winds

Posted on January 12, 2025 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, real surfers, short stories on surfing, surf fiction, surf stories, surfing novels, surfing Southern California in the 60s, writings of Erwin Dence

credit for photo- the “Guardian” Mark Edward Harriss/ZUMA/Press Wire/REX/shutterstock

Everyone who grew up in California is familiar with the Santa Ana or Santana winds. Hot and dry, they are associated with clear conditions, generally offshore, sometimes beneficial. A wind that starts out straight offshore can bend, through a day, into one that is too north, chopping most breaks into oblivion. Some of the most blown out conditions I’ve experienced were not from the dreaded south winds, but from the Santanas. If they are not Devil Winds, once the spark get going, it isn’t too difficult for even non-believers to imagine the Devil being, somehow, involved.

The devastation still going on in Los Angeles is, like so many things happening in the world, surprisingly bad, but not necessarily shocking. There is a pattern, and this part of the drought, wind, fire, rain, flooding, mudslides, rebuilding cycle is the latest… and the worst of my lifetime.

Hopes and prayers and all that; as someone who had a house burn down, I am aware of the trauma, the hopelessness, the lingering effects of losing so much. Not that it is any way soothing, but I have also felt what it is to realize that possessions are only worth so many tears. Trish saved our ten day old daughter from our second floor bedroom. I saved jackets from an antique coat rack because it was cold outside when I could have saved the rack. I took what I could outside where neighbors helped get possessions out of the way and volunteer firefighters scrambled to do something when nothing much could be done.

I joined the Quilcene Fire Department shortly after, possibly hoping to save something more than someone else’s foundation.

The hottest spot in the fire that destroyed my house was under the stairway. That’s where I had my little writing area. Almost everything I had written or painted or drawn up to the age of 29 was gone. Some of it might have been good.

Doesn’t matter; gone in the firestorm; another wave gone. We fucking move on.

I hadn’t planned on even thinking about this today.

That’s my thumb as I was trying to catch a shot of a friend’s pre-kickstall on a post-shaker smoothie in a short-fetch Santana wind situation at a California spot that was not quite around-the-corner enough. It is good to remember that waves are created by wind; Angel Winds, Devil Winds, energy goes somewhere.

Possibly related to the photo- Back when I worked on Camp Pendleton (1975-ish), up the hill from Lower Trestles, I often tried to beat the more northerly Santanas by going to Church; figuring the wind might be more favorable. It wasn’t. Or it wasn’t that much more offshore. Somehow I discovered what I should have already known: The lighting looking toward the shore of a west facing beach on a sunny afternoon is similar to the lighting when looking west in the morning. It might be that I remember thinking this on one of several attempts because the surf just didn’t work. If it was something more cosmic, I would say it was because I was at Church. Further off the point; when I switched from riding surf mats to boards (1965), it was at Pre-harbor-expansion Doheny that I discovered one sometimes has to paddle a board to catch waves. No, neither of these were eureka moments facilitated or enhanced by any kind of drugs.

Here is another song; possibly appropriate to these, or any, times:

Give me some GOOD NEWS, please, no more bad, You know I’m crazy, But I’m not mad; Guess disappointed’s the word I’d choose, I think you can give me some good news, Something that might shake away these blues.

We need some laughter, Don’t want to cry, From here on after, It’s you and I, And no more running, It’s time to cruise, I hope you can give me some good news, Something that might shake away these blues.

We need some romance, Get you alone, No more long distance, No telephone, You know you want this, You can’t refuse, I know you can give me some good news, Something that might shake away these blues.

Gimme now, gimme now, gimme now, you know what I need, I’ll give it back, give it back, give it back, I don’t want to plead; You know and I know, and we know and they know, The world has blown a fuse; and God ain’t grantin’ no more interviews;

Some come now and give me… Something that might shake away, something that might take away, I know we can break away from these blues; If only you would give me, gimme, gimme, gimme; I know you can give me… some… good news.

As always, thanks for checking out realsurfers. And, yes, I am still working on “SWAMIS,” more on that on WEDNESDAY. Meanwhile, cherish what is important in your life.

Dylan Hits Swamis, George Gets Free, Blues Mid-Week and… That’s Pretty Much It

Posted on January 7, 2025 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, real surfers, surf adventures, surf novels, surf sessions, Uncategorized

Trisha’s Brother’s son, *DYLAN SCOTT (and I’m claiming co-Nephew rights), out of focus after sampling a little THIRD POINT MALIBU. That’s not the story. After moving to ENCINITAS in August, Dylan had surfed BONEYARDS, other spots around the NORTH COUNTY, he had not surfed SWAMIS.

UNTIL YESTERDAY. I got this text: “Finally surfed Swamis this morning. It’s even better than it looks. I’m hooked.” Well, thanks for blowing up the spot some call ‘Swarmies,’ some call ‘The swamp;’ now all kinds of interlopers will show up hoping to score. I mean, SCORE!

BUT WAIT, tell me more, Dylan. “I have to thank (or curse) you for giving me a reason to paddle over there. I was sitting at Boneyards, catching nothing, thinking ‘My Uncle is writing a book about the spot, and it’s right there…'” So, yay!

“Yay? Another surfer in the lineup.” Yeah; guess so. SORRY to offend. “Another surfer who claims Swamis as his home break.” Yeah. 62,007 people lived in Encinitas, 2020 census. Divide that by… I don’t know, 3.14159… break down the surfers in the lineup into real surfers, sort of surfers, adult learners, tourists, interlopers… and, oh my! It is probably crowded right now! AND a certain number of the surfers will be named Dylan.
Dylan sent a video of him surfing the inside section. “What? Do you have your own Filmer?” “No. It’s from SURFLINE Rewind.” OKAY; so if you want to see Dylan surfing, assuming you have the package necessary, go to ‘January 6, Swamis.’ Maybe it’ll work. I’m hoping my nephew will email the footage so I can see it on a big enough screen. NOTE- Definitely not accusing SURFLINE of blowing up any spots with cameras shooting multiple angles, or, as I have done, forecasting awesome waves that send hordes but fail to deliver awesome surf; small, crappy, AND crowded.

IN A SORT OF CONNECTED story; several of my Northwest surfer friends have made sojourns down to North County, with tales of surfing spots I surfed before moving to the Great Northwest, my response always being, “That’s my spot.” “Oh, I thought _____ was your spot, or _____, or_______, or ________.” “Yes, and when I worked in Oceanside, my spots were _____, and _____, and whatever peak showed up. When I lived in P.B., my spots were ______, and _______, and _______. When I lived in Encinitas, I was working up the hill from Trestles, I rarely surfed Swamis. When we moved back to San Diego, proper, I cruised up to Swamis.”

ADAM WIPEOUT,, universal LOCAL, sent me some reports from a trip he took down there. Adam claims to have surfed decent Rincon and gotten waves, decent Malibu and gotten waves (combination of patience, charm, referencing some vague rules of etiquette, and begging, I’ve decided). Adam says he paddled to the OUTSIDE PEAK, ingratiated himself with the crew de jour, and got some rides. Not, he pointed out, in the ‘KIDDY POOL.’ “What?” Now I was offended. “You mean the INSIDE PEAK?”

Okay. Another discussion, another time, BUT if you paddle out at Swamis, be sure and ask someone who looks secure of his or her position in the pecking order, “Do you know Dylan?” See how that goes. Get back to me.

*Parents- Jim Scott, Greer Knopf-Scott, brother- Carson (equally cool despite not surfing).

Trisha’s and my longtime Friend, George Takamoto (doesn’t surf) at his last lunch after more than forty days spent at Saint Michael’s Hospital in Silverdale. Though George refers to it as ‘Saint Mike’s,’ he was pretty stoked to leave and move to a non-hospital in Poulsbo. George has been undergoing dialysis for two years, and has had some setbacks. It was pretty sketchy for a while, but he seems to be rallying.

IN OTHER medical news, my daughter (yes, Trisha’s and mine) Drucilla is going to St. Michael’s on Friday for more cancer-related surgery. Fuck Cancer! I’ll update on Sunday.

Because I’m trying to put together an anthology of my writing, I’m posting some samples while looking through my files for other examples of songs and poems and essays and short stories.

HOME BY MIDNIGHT, that’s all I ask, this job is over, I’ve done my task, Right now I’m driving, man, I’m dragging ass, home by midnight, that’s all I ask.

Home by midnight, perhaps before, I don’t know what I work this hard for; Do I want something, no, something more; home by midnight, perhaps before.

Home by midnight, the road’s so long, I pray for wisdom, and to be strong; What keeps me going’s a highway song; home by midnight, the road’s so long.

Other people’s castles, that’s where I spend my time; but when it comes to coffee break, I don’t even have a dime; when payday finally gets here, but the money’s all been spent, I have to get a side job just to try to pay the rent.

Home by midnight, and I can’t win, tomorrow get up, do this again; my wheel’s aren’t spinning, no, they just spin; home by midnight,, and I can’t win.

Home by midnight, perhaps before, now, I keep working, but I stay poor; just want to see you at our front door, home by midnight, home by midnight, home by midnight, I’ve got my foot pressed down, it’s right against the floor, home by midnight, perhaps… before.

AS ALWAYS, thanks for checking out realsurfers. Find some waves.

Stories, Epiphanies, Shoot-Outs, Poem de Jour…

Posted on January 5, 2025 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, Competitive surfing,, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, surf art, surf fiction, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing novels, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

… Oh, and all respect to Bethany Hamilton. Posting this was delayed a bit because I HAD to watch the highlights from the first day of the DA HUI BACKDOOR SHOOTOUT. I also had to have the live stream on the big screen all day yesterday. Ten plus minutes and pretty much every wave actually ridden was on the video.

It is pretty easy to criticize surfers for not catching more, or any, waves, but if you really put yourself in the water… Really? Almost every wave coming in, this visible from every camera angle, was a double-up, one swell overtaking another; and this isn’t factoring in backwash. So, couch hero, if you make the beyond vertical takeoff, get through a spitting barrel, you’re almost certainly facing a killer closeout section at mach speed.

But yes, I did question how much time I was spending watching, hoping someone would just GO! Someone who did was BETHANY HAMILTON! We’ve all followed her since her shark attack, a teenage girl with a bit of a lisp, almost worn out by the attention and constant press coverage before I ever saw an interview. Then the movie and the books and, wait, four kids. Four kids? So, proper respect.

NOTE to self: Never allow yourself to be photographed with two skinny guys. RANDALL, fat and old painter obviously hiding something under his sweatshirt, and QUINN.

Here’s the story of why I’m willing to post this now: I emailed holiday (Dead zone for painters) greetings/reminders that I’m still alive and working to my clients, and sent texts to all the surfers on my stealth phone contact list. I do appreciate all the responses, and, oddly, I didn’t get any snarky ones. Quinn, a reformed (as in former, as in non-practicing) Attorney, sent this one: “Back at you– many curves on the page and carves on the sea.”

NOW, I am as competitive as anyone, cleverness-wise, but I couldn’t come up with anything to compete, EXCEPT that, in conversations with Quinn, I did ask him why he no longer practices law. His explanation is that attorneys are, basically, agents, and agents are… “Oh, I get it, like, you know, gophers.” “Yes.” “Or maybe, to be crass…” “Yes.”

I did tell Quinn, as a “Swamis” update, that I sent submissions to a group of agents in December, and was hoping for a Christmas, then New Year’s miracle, a positive respose. My text, “Waiting.” Quinn’s, “Maybe you’ll get it for epiphany.”

OKAY. So, Trish and I both googled epiphany- The religious celebration “Commemorates the manifistation of Christ to the Gentiles as represented by the Magi,” is held, probably, today, officially, tomorrow. Hopefully, no one draws some comparison with anything political. No. Don’t.

The other definition is: “A moment of sudden realization or insight.”

HERE’S MINE, something that came to me when, after another series of dreams, little movies, I woke up an hour before I intended to: People have stories. People want to tell their stories. IF someone is willing to tell me a story that is important to them, I should be willing to listen. AND, people don’t always believe this; I do.

THIS FAR OUT

This far out, the sky, horizon to horizon, Can be one otherwise colorless shade of metallic grey, Platinum or pewter or steel or chrome or lead, Polished or pitted, from almost white to darkest black.

This far out, the wind-scarred dome can be broken, lightning torn, Here thunder cracks and rolls, cold laughter, This far out I can’t recall what it was that I was after.

This far out, I’ve heard stories, Of a light so bright that the blind can see, Of a sight in the sky like glass on fire, Of a tearing of the shroud, A glimpse of heaven reserved, we’re told, for the drowning and the dying. Some claim to have survived, returned, changed, no doubt, And some were, clearly, lying, Adrift, alone, I’m wondering How I got here, this far out.

This far out, the sea and sky can merge, Indistinguishable, A swirling battlefield, force against force, chaos Seeking direction to some stony, high-cliffed shore, Some distant, secret harbor.

This far out it makes no difference, If I scream or cry or wail, The only echoes are the questions, Accusations whispered by the waves, Waves that whish or scrape or crack or roar, Or scream out threats and curses, “What are you looking for?”

Even in the calmest seas, the skies almost transparent, Colors blended by the smooth, broad strokes of the cleanest brush, There’s a constant sound, subtle, in the silence, Bubbling from the deep, exploding on the surface, Mistaken, easily, for laughter, This far out I can’t recall what it was that I was after.

I am trying to add more poetry to my portfolio, which includes a collection of songs and poem I copyrighted a few years ago under the title, “LOVE SONGS FOR CYNICS.” As part of this plan, I am working on doing an illustration for each selected piece. If I do them in black and white; less expensive. This is the illustration for this poem, my most recent. I worked on it, writing, saving, rewriting, repeating the procedure. I made changes from what I thought was a complete version. I do not promise to not make further changes.

All original works on realsurfers.net are protected by copyright. Thank you for respecting that.

Meanwhile, if you find some waves, surf ’em.

Happy New Year, and No, I’m Not Worried

Posted on January 1, 2025 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under northwest surfing, real surfers, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

…Except when I am. Not right now. Or, if I am worried, I’m trying my best not to outright panic.

It is fitting that each new year starts so close to the shortest, darkest day of the year. So, if everything is bleak; better days are ahead. If new year’s day was in April, or worse July, we’d be forced to celebrate that slow roll into the uncertainty that is, for many of us, winter.

For surfers and snowsliders, of course, winter brings some increased hope of waves. It has been brought to my ATTENTION that I am, possibly, the only one consistently writing about the very fickle and utterly inconsistent waves on the STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA; this with the possible downside that my even mentioning the possibility might influence surfers to make their way to the Olympic Peninsula.

I DO CONFESS that, back in 2013, I did name a couple of spots that can, occasionally, get crowded. I stopped that practice, partially in my own self-interest. BUT, if someone asks you why you’re searching for waves out in this (let’s face it, the strait is a harbor) area, you should probably also confess. “Yes, Erwin seduced me into believing I could find such blissful happiness here.” ALTERNATE (and more realistic) RESPONSE- “Who?”

I have always written songs and, another confession, poetry. I’ve been concentrating on it a bit more lately. I am not sure if I posted this song (yes, it’s singable) before on realsurfers. If I have, PLEASE FORGIVE ME!

Nothing to worry about

OUT OF THE WIND

There’s something sublime, a soft summer breeze, But the cold gales of winter will bend you to your knees, Yes, you can resist, but you’ll never win, No matter how fierce, all storms have an end, But… I just want to get out of the wind, out of the wind, out of the wind.

Most colors will fade, some colors still shine, Other colors just refuse to stay within the lines, While some colors clash, still others will blend, Some take you to the clouds and back again, Still… I just want to get out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.

Small change is dirty, big money’s all clean, I just need some dollars that are somewhere in between, If there’s none to save, still need cash to spend, If money’s your love, please find a new friend, And… I just want to stay out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.

All truths remain true, all lies are still lies, Politicians smile and hit you right between the eyes, False stories they spread, still others defend, The damage, once done, is too hard to mend, So… I just want to stay out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.

Looking for justice, it’s always on sale, You won’t change the system if you know you’re bound to fail, The world isn’t fair, it never has been, The answer, my friend, got lost in the wind, And… I can’t seem to stay out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.

I sailed for safe harbor, I couldn’t outrun the squall, I’ve tried to live my life in Summer, but I’m heading for the Fall, You say there’s no sanctuary, well, I’m still willing to pretend, We’ve made it through so many winters, But winter’s coming ’round again…

THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT REALSURFERS. Important NOTES: I don’t get any money from whatever ads WordPress puts on my site. I wish I did. Remember- any original stuff is protected by copyright. All rights reserved by the author/artist, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

May we each get some rides worth putting in our ‘best of 2025’ memory files! Example- “This one time, Westport was sooooo good, and me and my crew, we was on it.” OKAY, now I’m blowing up Westport. I’d apologize, but…

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Monthly Archives: January 2025