Monthly Archives: May 2025

Humbled and Humble and Remembering and Memorial Day and… You Know, Surf Stuff

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, old surfers, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, short stories on surfing, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf art, surf culture, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing illustrations, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing stories

Poem. Fear of Crying- “It takes a lot to make me cry, so please don’t try; and if you do, I promise you, I’ll try to make you smile.”

My finger, someone else’s wave.

What We Deserve- We all deserve better; or we believe we do; better or more; less stress, more success; less pain, more gain. Yeah, slogans; the salesperson’s pitch, the trap of new age clap trap; me-ism, we-ism, jingoism. And it’s not that I don’t buy into it. If I put off the work I should be doing, get up early, load up, and drive out for a minimum of half an hour, full of anticipation; by golly, I sort of believe I deserve waves; good waves, uncrowded waves, and lots of them. And I sort of know that belief has no basis… except I want my reward to be as great as my desire, as true as what I imagine it could be.

The Truth is- Sometimes we get skunked. Sometimes someone else gets the wave of the day; someone newer to the game, someone to whom a lucky make on a wave on which the surfer displayed no style, no sign of years of accumulated wave knowledge; and yet, that surfer’s dreams were surpassed. Blissfully so, because a ride like that deserves to be properly appreciated.

Humbled, Not Humble- My most recent surf expedition left me searching for excuses for why I performed so badly; and I hate excuses. Still, I have some: Pressed for time, mind set more on real life than surfing, chose the wrong place to paddle out, relentless set waves. Those are the easy ones. The more fear inducing mind fucks: It just might be true that waves I would have once relished seem daunting, dangerous even. Perhaps my age is catching up with my self-image as someone who tries, as hard as possible, to defy if not deny it.

Still, a Great Session, Other than the Surfing – I got to use my wheelie to pack my board down and back, I met an old friend, TYLER MEEKS, chatted with CHIMACUM TIM, and a couple of other surfers. In processing my latest embarrassment, not that it was witnessed, more that I haven’t been able to not talk about it, I have to go back and take a mental count on other times I’ve been treated unfairly by the ocean (not that, again the ocean plays favorites or that any surfer deserves favor), and there aren’t that many. Did I learn something from my failures? Yes. Do I count the times where I left the water because I lost a fin or was injured or caught three waves in an hour because of the crowd? No. But I can easily recall the sessions in which I was humbled, in which I didn’t live up to whatever standards I believed I had set for myself. Again, belief versus reality.

The John-John Effect- Perhaps you remember a World Surf League contest in France a few years ago: Roll-throughs, brutal death pit shore break; every reason to be intimidated if not scared shitless; and everyone is getting slaughtered… except John Florence. He was ripping the place like it was his back yard. I don’t need to add to that, do I? One surfer’s nightmare is another surfer’s dream.

Cold Comfort- Though I refuse to admit that there is any real value in talking about what I or you or anyone “Used to” do, I do, while wishing I could still ride a six foot board in six foot beachbreak, still wish I could spin and one-stroke into a late drop, crank a vicious hit on an oncoming section, or do a reverse flyaway kickout, and with full awareness that bragging about what I once did only shows what I can no longer do, I do take some solace in my own history; successes and failures.

What Failure Guarantees- A better next time.

Next Time, Man…   

ACTUALLY, I wanted to write something about friends, surf friends, close friends, not that kind of friends. The idea is that we have surf acquaintances, and often, our only thing we have in common is that we are surfers. Some, but not all, of my best friends are surfers. Yes, I have so many writing projects in the process of becoming something worthy of sharing. What I’ve been thinking about has some connection to my last humbling. The gist of the story is that I sort of stole PHILLIP HARPER’S car and drove it to a surf spot I was sure I was going to do well at. I didn’t. I lost my 9’9” Surfboards Hawaii noserider paddling out. Lesson- Hands tight on the rails when turning turtle, arms loose to make it through the turbulence. Other lesson, learned when Phillip, who gave me permission through his mother while he was ill and in bed at the motel adjacent to the Cantamar trailer park, Baja California, Easter Vacation, 1968, had a miraculous recovery when he realized that I was driving his Chevy Corvair with a desperate oil leak to K-38, a place where, on the way down, we saw multiple boards destroyed on the rocks. When I got out and up the cliff, all the other dudes, invited and self-invited, and a very angry Phillip, showed up. I don’t remember anyone asking how I did. Later in the week, an offshore wind made Cantamar, which I had tried to surf because I didn’t have a car and everyone else slept in, became rideable for a while; we surfed some blown out shit waves south of Ensenada, paddled out at a spot that was more crowded than it probably was in North San Diego County, and had some other, non-surfing adventures; fireworks, lack a proper bathroom/shower facilities, a lot of hanging out, and a bit of what folks would refer to as partying. Memorable trip for a sixteen-year-old.

What is interesting to me is that I forgot that I had stolen (borrowed) Phillip’s car until I was writing about this trip, fictionalized, as “Inside Break,” the alternate (in a way) coming of age novel that has been (is still being) transformed into “Swamis.” Because I was thinking about this, I accumulated a list of the cast of the actual incident. I’m listing them here because I will forget the names again. The trip was organized by Phillip’s stepfather, Vince Ross. Vince was borrowing a trailer. He and Phillip’s mother, Joy, and Phillip’s sister, Trish (not my Trish) were to stay at the adjacent motel. INVITEES: Phillip Harper, Ray Hicks, Erwin Dence, Melvin Glouser, Clint/Max Harper, Mark Ross. We were supposed to stay at the borrowed trailer, which did not, and this became an issue have a sewer hookup. But, because of the UNINVITED surfers, Dana Adler, Mark Metzger, and Billy McLean; Mel and Ray and Phil and I got to stay in tents outside the boundary, adjacent to a field of, I’m guessing, sugar cane. There were other American surfers also camped there; way cooler than we were.

If this is in some way connected to friends, Phillip was my first surf friend, Ray was a friend before he started surfing (classmate, Boy Scouts).  I am still in occasional contact with Ray, and credit him with inspiring me to get back into surfing at fifty, after an eight or ten year near drought. I haven’t been in contact with Phillip for years. While I’m fine with knowing something about what has happened with Mark and Billy and Dana, and others, I do feel bad that I might not have been a good enough friend to Phillip.

Tyler Meeks when he had the sorely missed DISCO BAY Equipment Exchange. His hair is longer now. I didn’t recognize him immediately when I last saw him. He is supposed to call me about t shirt opportunities. Call me, Tyler.

What We Don’t Know- DELANA is a DJ on the local Port Townsend public radio station, KPTZ. The program is ‘Music to my Ears,’ 4 to 5 pm on Wednesdays, repeated on Saturdays at 1pm. I’ve caught her show quite a few times when driving. Old tunes, little stories about the artists involved.  What gets me is that at the end, and I’m paraphrasing, she says, “Remember to be kind to those we meet. Each of us carries a burden that others do not see.” What we know about our surf friends is what we have in common; and sometimes surfing is pretty much it. And… that’s fine. In fact, it’s great.

The step parent of “Swamis,” different take on the same era. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. Oh, and Happy Memorial Day, and, oh, good luck, Sally Fitz. They may or may not hold the next round tonight. As with everything, we will see.

Of Course it’s Cool to be a Surfer, and…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, short stories on surfing, surf addiction, surf contests, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing, women surfers in the Northwest,, writings of Erwin Dence

…what is really important, if one of the supporting columns of your self image is that you are a surfer (hence part of the could-be-more-inclusive club), to be recognized as a surfer is quite obviously way better than being seen as, let’s say, because you are standing at the edge of an increasingly busy surf spot, fully dressed in your “I’m going to Costco outfit, and, yes, Walmart, on my way home, and, incidentally, I already surfed somewhere else (and I ripped, if I do say so myself), and I’m only here to make sure my friends who I know are here, because I saw their rigs on the road, and people have been known to exaggerate;” and, it seems, most of the surfers arriving or departing, some in groups, don’t recognize you, and you are, yes, old, and yes, kind of chunky… there might be some assumption on the part of these surfers, almost all of whom give you at least a nod, which is, at least, some sort of acknowledgement that you might not be some sort of pervert, having anyone believe that you are not, indeed, a real surfer, a member of the select group of proud wave riding enthusiasts might be… hurtful.

It’s really not worth defending yourself. Yes, I tried. True confession: Yes, I still try to convince people, surfers and non-surfers, that I have surfed and continue to surf.

Because my being forced to view myself as a greeter is based on a recent incident, I should add that on the same day I walked along the beach to where a better vantage point was available to check out the corner section of a long and closed out wall. The up the line view. A man was there, kicked back on a big driftwood log. I joined him. I, of course, got into my favorite game, “Who do you know?” It’s really, “Who do we know in common?” It turns out he is one of the pioneers of surfing in the northwest, Bill Truckenmiller. I had heard the name, most notably from Tom Burns, and have probably surfed with him. He is a few years older than me and has had issues with his shoulders. Common issue. He hasn’t surfed in a while but hasn’t given up on it. And he was checking out the surf from a great angle.

I have heard of surfers who, unable to surf for any number of reasons, want to be as far away from surf as possible. I haven’t met any of them.

SALLY FITZGIBBONS WATCH- I’ve kind of gotten onto this rooting for Sally thing; didn’t mean to, but, since I left the Margaret River contest on the big screen the other evening, went to sleep, woke up, watched Sally and Betty Lou Sakura Johnson, top two finishers at the Gold Coast contest, get sent to the elimination round. With THE CUT imminent, the next heat is vital, the stakes are high. I was ready to watch it unfold yesterday, 4:15 pm, PDST, but no; on hold. So, maybe today, Sally will not throw everything at each wave, and… we’ll see. On the men’s side… hard to keep track. But, there’s a reason why sports are best live.

Not promoting the WSL on purpose. Proof- Every venue has a particular setup. The judging seems to favor a certain approach to the wave; pretty much two turns on the outside, big finishing move. There is a redundancy to the whole thing, heightened when the surf is manufactured. Surf to the criteria, crank a bit harder turn, play the priority game. The game remains the same.

SURF AURA- I spend an inordinate amount of time pondering the allure of surfing, the pride one has in being counted as a surfer. There is, of course, the absolute bliss of getting an unexpectedly great ride and the hope for another. And another. But… are any of us better people because we did what it takes to be decent at paddling, at wave selection, at timing, at cranking a turn or staying this much closer to the power of a wave?

If I may make a sort of political comparison (not that I’m all that political), I heard something about MAGA folks and how resistant they are to believing they are supporting policies that are detrimental to the country, of course, and detrimental to the demographic they are part of (if they are blue collar workers, or social security/medicare beneficiaries, or veterans, or… okay, pretty much anyone who isn’t in the top, say 10% percent, income-wise); the point being made being they believe they are part of some group that actually knows more than the ‘elitists,’ which is, possibly, code for knowledgeable folks. SO, there’s a certain smugness, a certain arrogance that is very difficult to break through.

SO, does a surfer have to be smug and, possibly, arrogant?

ANSWERS: “No, but it doesn’t hurt;” or “Yes, it is part of the reward for challenging the ocean;” or “Yes, but the humbling reality is the ocean kind of levels this out; but still, yes;” or “Who the hell are you to ask me that?”

SALLY FITZ/Contest update: While I was pondering and writing, and taking a couple of phone calls, and drinking more coffee, and checking the buoys, I checked with the WSL; the contest is on hold until at least tomorrow. Oh, the anticipation.

WRITINGS of Erwin Dence update: No, I haven’t been working on a couple of little changes to “Swamis,” and no, I haven’t done more on “Love Songs for Cynics,” and no, I haven’t drawn anything for a while, BUT I did write a short story with characters from “Swamis,” particularly Joseph Atsushi DeFreines. It, like the other projects mentioned, is not quite ready. Hopefully by Wednesday.

SHIT! I gotta go. If you see waves… you know what to do. As far as arrogance goes; I’m holding on to mine as long as I can. If or when it gets to the point I can no longer float or bob or catch a wave, I’ll still have that knowledge that I almost learned the secret.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net See you out there!

And… greetings.

Asterisks on Mother’s Day: Nam Siu Recovering, Sally **Finals, Surf Route 101 Traffic ***Jams…

Posted on by under Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf culture, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing in Washington State, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

*Surfer, diver, spear fisher, foiler, skateboarder, snowboarder, guardian of the water quality in the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the branches thereof, Nam Siu is out of the hospital after a traumatic month long fight with toxic shock syndrome; essentially an infection that, shutting down vital organs, threatened to kill him. It didn’t, but, with his kidneys still not responding, his road to full, ripping recovery is still in is going to continue.

Photos by Megan Hintz-Eardley, recently married to the guy in the mask, Chris. I don’t know cards, but it appears Megan is holding a full house plus.

My friend George Takamoto is suffering from kidney failure. The need for dialysis three times a week is a daunting reality. Horrific. George is twice Nam’s age. While his situation is chronic, Nam’s is Acute, sudden onset. The prognosis for Nam’s kidneys to begin working is optimistic; as in possible, his situation for a transplant, should it be necessary, is good; he should be a good candidate. You can find out more on social media. You know how to do it.

** I might be a person who follows the World Surf League, watches it when possible, reads some of the commentary on the YouTube posts, and complains the least about the judging. Yes, I thought Felipe got overscored on the 9.10 in the final, the one scoring wave that didn’t get a replay (or three, one in slow motion), AND I have been rooting for Sally Fitz, the oldest woman on tour, AND she did compete her way into the final, SO… so, good. There’s still a lot of drama befopre the next contest, And there’s the dramatic CUT, so… so, go Sally.

Feral-ish cat, Joey. Obviously related to our sometimes-inside cat, Tony, I cannot yet get close enough to Joey. Yet. We do get other visitors. Teddy, a long legged tabby, and, if I leave food out and Joey doesn’t show up, Pedro O. Possum will invite himself. This is not to mention the occasional cruise through by bears and cougars. We used to get raccoons. I did mention the bears and cougars.

Speaking of cruising, the season for doing the 101 Loop is just getting going. Packs off overweight motorcyclists, log trucks and chip trucks, people forced to ‘go around’ because the Hood Canal Bridge is stuck open, Adam Wipeout or Soupy Dan going helter and/or skelter from or to the Hama Hama, me, occasionally. Note the RV holding up traffic on Surf Route 101. RVs are typically being driven, according to those stuck behind them, by “Free Time RVMFs.” Motor Folks, perhaps. But… free.

Quick story: I was heading up 101 when I saw a big yellow motorcycle behind me. Leader of the pack. He passed me, followed, on a sketchy stretch, by three pack members, hell bent in leather. Okay. I get onto Highway 20, and there they are, all pulled over, all off their rides. Apparently, the wild bunch head honcho had something on his sunglasses, like, I don’t know, a bug, and his buddies were trying to help. I thought about helping, thought about giving them the Easy Rider salute, but just kept putting on. I didn’t say it was a great story. Share the road… man.

****HAPPY MOTHERS’ DAY! I have mentioned this before, but I (probably) wouldn’t have ever started surfing if my my mother hadn’t been so willing to take her seven children to the beach. Often. Never often enough, but she was supportive. And other wannabe surfer’s moms. Thanks. And, despite surfing always being the ‘other woman’ in my life, Trish, the mother of our three distinctive, totally individualized, now-adult children, has almost always been… let’s say accepting of my obsession/addiction, and, if I’m particularly stressed, she might say, “You’re being a dick (more like asshole), you need to go surfing. Now.” “There are no waves.” “Oh, there’ll be waves.” “Okay.” Trisha, love of my life; love you to the moon and back!”

More on this and something I want to say about whether any of us deserve good waves. Next time. Meanwhile, please pull over if you’re holding up traffic. Free advice.

Just In- Keith’s Mexico Surfcation

Posted on by under northwest surfing, old surfers, perfect waves

Olympic Peninsula frothed-out ripper and (seemingly) mild mannered Port Townsend Librarian has agreed to send some photos and coverage during his trip to mainland Mexico. He set off early today to find a rumored left hand point break. It was about an hour’s walk and the waves were… “Mellow? Soft?” Keith invested, like, somewhere between a penny and five cents a minute to give me a call, freshly back from his early morning exploration. “No, it was barrelling” There were, he reported, several Mexican locals, maybe a tourist in a rented boat, and some guy, probably an ex-pat, who had his own boat. He just anchored and jumped in.

Keith did not jump in. “Wait, no board?” “No, no board.” “Painful.” “Yes.” Already stung by jellyfish and still bearing the broken ends of sea urchin spines, missing a firing, reeling, possibly righteous left hand point break had to be the most painful part of the adventure, almost particularly for Keith.

“Wait, was it harder than hiking into __*&^%$#__ or ___$#@!@#?” Yes, way harder. Next time, boat.

Official report from Keith:

Here’s a few photos from Chacala. I’m here looking for a left hand point that’s proving difficult to access without a boat. I have a rental car but it seems risky to drive it out there. I’ve made some progress talking to locals about renting a panga and connecting with some expat surfers here. This zone from here to San Blas is intriguing.

The little town is super pretty, sitting on a small jungle lined bay. Classic scene with lots of Mexican families hanging out on the beach. It’s nice to see that Mexico is still relatively unchanged.

Meanwhile, for those of us who aren’t surfing, even vicariously at the moment: I did drive through the now-weekly demonstration activity in Port Townsend yesterday. I had to go to the hardware store, and while waiting for a key for my van, I commented that with all the people who fit into my demographic out on the street, it was surprising to see so many in the store. The keymaker, grinding away, and who, incidentally, probably fit into the younger ranks of the older crowd, smiled but did not comment, possibly concerned I might be a closet Trumper. No, and fuckk, no!

Photo from the “Port Townsend Leader,” or the “Rainshadow Journal.” One of them.

Here’s another incident from yesterday: Reggie ran into this guy in a jeep with Trump stickers all over it yesterday morning. The guy said something that Reggie ignored, possibly testing to see if the multi-tattooed Reggie was sympathetic to guys with jeeps and stickers, and who was wearing a hat that said, “OBEY.”

Obey. Okay, so I looked it up. Reggie said it has something to do with skateboarding. Yes, an allusion to a film in which humans are secretly manipulated by aliens, the slogan/brand was designed, back in 2001, to be provocative, sort of a call to question authority. Here’s a quote from Wikipedia: “How did OBEY go from an anti-corporate, anti-MAN street un-brand to Made in China fratboy wear?”

Well; I’m sure I don’t know. Reggie said he would have confronted the dude, but he was with his wife and at least one kid. “Oh, so maybe the guy thinks his wife should obey him… something like that. You know, these guys who are so worried about their masculinity.” “I don’t know. Whatever. The guy kept pressing me, so…” So, because Reggie HAD to say something, “What I did say is, “Your hat says it all.”

All. Nothing. Hard to say.

I did honk, to the tune of “Louie, Louie,” something easily recognized by the thousands of sign-bearing (anti-genocide, anti-King, pro-rule-of-law, signs mentioning the various things Trump and his thugs should keep their hands off, a couple of references to Jesus, some clever puns and caricatures of our clown in chief) citizens along Sims Way. When I got to the only streetlight in Port Townsend, among the tourists, was a guy holding a sign that said, “Support Veterans.” Since my passenger side window was open, I thanked him for being there.

I do thank Keith for his photographs, all rights, I’m sure, reserved, but, one last thing; because I do pay attention to the stock market, oil prices, that kind of thing, one of the signs I noticed read, “I’m tariff-ied!” The China teriffs kicked in after the stock market closed on Friday. The number of cargo ships reaching America’s shores has already dropped significantly. The “two dolls instead of 30; and maybe they’ll cost a couple of bucks more’ president is calling for patience. Supply-Chain issues? Tomorrow we’ll see if any of this means anything to the investor class. “OBEY?” If it isn’t a question, it should be.

MEANWHILE, I’m sure Keith is checking into the cost of renting a boat for an all time session. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. As always.

In the Street, On the Road, Down the Road… MAY DAY/International Workers’ Day, and…

Posted on by under Uncategorized

…and sure, why not celebrate the folks who actually DO THINGS, BUILD THINGS, providing services to the folks who profit on the backs of workers. Not to be in any way political; it’s more like a cultural anthropological and historic question broken down to a harsher core: Do slaveholders support the slaves, or do the slaves support the slaveholders? Okay, change it to stockholders and CEOs, and workers.

If you are a worker, celebrate other workers… and yourself. In the midst of a hostile takeover of our fought-for, bled-for, died-for, always fragile democracy, it isn’t a bad time to take to the street in support of the former, supposedly, right wing ideals of rule of law, of due process, of independent and co-equal branches of government, of freedom of speech, of common fucking decency; not to mention, because I don’t want to go religious zealot here, but folks who boast about or even claim some loose connection to ANY religion or ideology that values treating other human beings with some amount of respect, how about a little fucking compassion?

INTERMISSION- SURF STUFF-

Olympic Peninsula ripper KEITH DARROCK is in Mexico, hoping to score at several mainland spots, and has agreed to represent.

“Waves all day right out front of where I’m staying. That’s Stinky’s, a mellow right hand reef. Pretty ideal for easy longboarding. Lots of surfers around. There are other spots nearby up the point and down that look bigger. It’s pretty chill except that I’ve already been stung by jellyfish and gotten some urchin spines in my foot. Not too stoked on that!”

STUFF I COULDN’T get right from Sunday:

A lovely spring day with no surf but lots of characters and sailboats and stuff, a cruise down Surf Route 101, a new sign on the Quilcene Historical Museum, also on 101.

INTERMISSION OVER, back to May Day:

Again, I am not a radical of any sort; and either are those on the street protesting; but there has been a shift in who believes what. Conservatives, out of fear, or hatred, or blindness, and perhaps this is what is meant by ‘staunch conservative,’ now embrace the lies, that, if you’re not someone who benefits from corporate greed, seems to not be in your best interest. That doesn’t seem really, um, uh, intelligent. AND, It is now radical to ask for the truth from those who deny it; to question the lies designed to further the interests and the accumulated wealth of… not workers, not folks who get W-2s, who pay into social security for years; nope, that money could be better served. Or, wait, is that a lie?

That’s my rant. Done. I have to go work. Because I mentioned the phrase, ‘down the road’ is a term I learned when I went to work painting Navy housing. It was late summer, 1971, families were being transferred, and painters were needed. It was a ‘temporary’ job. As the season wound down, less painters were necessary. Some were sent ‘down the road.’ It makes sense, and the fear if not acknowledgement of losing my job has always been there, and I did everything I could, learned all I could, because I wasn’t going to be selected for a layoff because I wasn’t good enough.

It’s May day, 2025, and… guess what? All work is temporary. Any worker can be replaced. But, any politician can be replaced, any CEO can be voted out, golden parachute and all. And, just because it’s so exhausting thinking about how dire our country’s position is right now, I have to mention that we are all here on a temporary basis. Again, not to go religious-ish, but when you do ‘down the road,’ where do you believe you’re going?

WORKS IN PROGRESS- Two from when I was waiting for a tire repair at Les Schwab, one from something else I’ve been working on.

That’s it. Happy International Workers’ Day! If you’re not getting waves today, I’m sure you will soon. They are out there. Thanks for checking out realsurfers. The drawings are subject to copyright restrictions, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.