WELCOME TO NEW READERS/PERUSERS/CHECKING-IT-OUTERS. I’m looking for some reasonable explanation for why the viewership, worldwide clickers on the worldwide web, for my esoteric content on realsurfers.net should suddenly expand exponentially; like crazy multipliers.
NOW, I must admit I’m a bit excited about this. One theory is the worldwide phenomena of the SAVE THE WAVES FESTIVAL, and my appearance in the short documentary film, “ERWIN,” produced by Annie Fergerson. YES, I am that charismatic oldster kneeboarding and voice-overing, and YES, I am the Erwin behind realsurfers.net.
I did have a link to the film, but… I don’t know, maybe there’s an ownership dispute or something; the link stopped working. Because I was never compensated for participating in the production, ‘lending’ my image and ridiculousness to the film, if my blog could be… somewhat… successful, I would probably consider that fair payment. NOTE- This isn’t a legal document; I said, ‘probably.’
ANYWAY, if you are someone new to my site, and not a person or company or bot trying to sell me ways to improve my viewership, perhaps you could send me a quick email, erwin@realsurfers.net to say where you are, who you are, and why you’re checking out my blog. I will respond AND put your message on this here site, viewed worldwide by, I’m hoping, real people.
WORDPRESS KEEPS STATS on how many folks find my humble (not because I’m particularly humble- though often humbled) blog/site. Lately,affter twelve years of pushing and pumping out eclectic and not-always-surf-centric content, and for no reason I can discern, I’m getting more hits. Significantly more. From all over the world. I’m grateful, and, for no reason I can explain, kind of worried.
“So, Mr. Kotter; there was a locker check. Am I in trouble?” “Well, I don’t know, Epstein, maybe it was something you wrote in your notebook.” “Oh. No. Nothing to see there.” “Well, Juan, truth will out. Huh?” “Huh?”
ANYWAY; GRATEFUL. THANKS. And, I have finnally gone back to working on my novel, “SWAMIS.” I checked it out, and, surprise, it’s fucking good. Just a few… tweaks and… yeah. Swamis.
I’ve also been working on my competitive poetry. I do have an extensive portfolio, way more songs than upper crust, pretentincous (sp?) poems, Here’s one from way back:
REDEMPTION CENTER
Though Little Joanie’s pregnant, she still dressed all in white, The Bridegroom told me they’d already had their wedding night, Joanie’s Grandma clutched a bag of rice, then threw it, just or spite, And the veil was left out on the Elks Lodge floor, Pardon me, but haven’t we seen this before?
Two Coat Charlie’s asking me for an advance in pay, Charlie ran into Fast Betty, Betty took his stash away, He was naked when he ran out, he was begging her to stay, When he left he must have closed the motel door, Now Betty’s checking at the Family Grocery Store.
I called Ken the Banker sleazy when he disapproved my loan, Kenny sent his cousin Leonard out to disconnect my phone, But I saw Ken at the Tavern, and he was not there alone, He was hanging onto Betty for dear life, I don’t feel so bad now, having done Ken’s Wife.
Reverend Bob was crying for forgiveness at the wake, Bob told us all that it was such a terrible mistake, Still, Bob swears he’d seen the Devil wielding OId Joe Conner’s rake, Now a white cross marks where Debra Conner fell, And I, for one, believe Bob, what the hell.
Seems it’s either sex or money, that is, when the truth gets told, Sometimes drugs are mentioned, though not from whom they’re bought or sold, Me, I told tales in the city, and my business just went cold, Man, the gossip blows like dust right through this town, Hey, you must be new, I ain’t seen you around.
No, the freeway don’t go through here, and the locals congregate, Checking our post office boxes, though the mail is often late, It seems like everyone’s related to at least someone you hate, As it is, we know the players very well, These ain’t half of all the stories I could tell.
Redemption Center, there’s Saints and Sinners, You’ll see us all on Sunday, heads bowed down, Redemption Center, Losers and Winners, But you have to laugh, it’s just like your home town.
NOTES- It’s not, like, viral; just kind of a minor cold. Still, I appreciate it. Thanks, and to all the s, real or otherwise, surf on!
And, of course, I reserve all rights to my original content. Other people’s… thanks for letting me borrow.
On the computer, the clouds were swirling, down and around the Olympics, up the Hood Canal and Puget Sound. I’m pretty much at the left of the flash blowout, catching the curl of the my-golly-durn atmospheric river maelstrom. I’m fine. Not sure how this affects the surf at Westport.
NOT A POLITICAL THING, BUT I think it’s a bit ironic that this bad-ass lifted, four-wheel drive, manly to the Mad Max degree truck is parked in the handicapped spot. The messages reflect, perhaps, a sort of hard right mindset. So manly. One of the stickers says something about people who disrespect the flag. All fine, for sure; the flag is a symbol of our country. If this outsized, yelled-out ‘patriotism’ display is meant to elicit a response, mine might be, “Yeah, but those who disrespect the Constitution… huh?”
ALSO, and maybe it’s the camera angle, but “TACO” appears to be highlighted on the tailgate. Doesn’t that refer to some meme, like “Tump Always Chickens Out?” Maybe. I hope the owner can climb into the cab of the rig without too much discomfort.
MY DAUGHTER, DRU, and I met up at the Hama Hama Oyster Bar with my late sister, Melissa’s (hurts to say this) widow, Jerome Lynch, their son, Fergus, and his girlfriend, Kelsi. Jerome, who lives in his native Ireland, spends some time working in these here United States. Down south, mostly, where the name Lynch draws instant attention from the locals.
Adam “Wipeout” James was not there, off with his boys, and, I believe, Soupy Dan’s kids, getting skunked catfish hunting somewhere between eight and ten hours east, over by the Snake River.
The luncheon went pretty well. Three trays of oysters mostly went to Fergus and Jerome. Dru had clams. Kelsi and I had the grilled cheese sandwiches. She had one oyster, on a dare.
Not that I really should mention this, but the most awkward moment came when Jerome, talking about how he was doing the ‘cold plunge,’ followed, as is proper, by a sauna (not like most of the lunatics do this in Port Townsend), hinted he had a girlfriend. “You mad bastard,” I may have said. It was okay. Maybe I was joking. Jerome, who Trish and I (and Dru) adore, deserves to not be what he called “the lonely guy,” and he did wait six years. SO, okay; I take the ‘mad bastard’ back.
Our niece, Emma, who lives in Ireland, and was, for a time, Dru’s room mate in Chicago, is getting married next may. Her fiance, Barry, surfs. I met him. I like him. Dru is definitely going. Trish and I, I told Jerome, would love to go to Ireland. We’d love to move to Ireland. “How long is the shortest day over there?” “Gets light about eight, dark by half-four.” “Oh. Good to know.” “Farther north.”
I threw in a photo Jerome or Fergus took from Mount Walker, near Quilcene, and one of several photos Fergus took at a very localized spot a few years ago. He was told this was forbidden, asked if he got a decent shot of the local. He did.
RICO MOORE’S LATEST- Rico, local PT coffee shop critic and poet/surfer, just had an article published in the “MARGIN.” He contacted surfers via group text. I tried to look at the piece about allegations of abuse and contaminated water and, of course, corruption at an ICE facility in Tacoma. I say I tried to look at it. My phone froze up. Hard freeze; take the battery out freeze. Wow. Rico’s out there. I looked at it on my tablet, but got bogged down. There is a lot of research, obviously, that went into the reporting, and, having dabbled in the discipline of journalism, I have to ask where the poet fits into this.
I know the answer; it’s trying to fit the humanity, or lack thereof, into the narrative, trying to make the reader feel. Rico succeeded. Check it out. Be careful.
It’s happened before; my voice getting raspier, then croakier, then… worse. It’s some combination of postnasal drip and my body trying to maintain some temperature control as I’m alternating between sweating while working and chilling down when I stop. The result, the supposedly always-talking me not talking.
Swamis, 1967, the Sunday before what was then referred to as Easter Vacation. Phillip C. Harper may have had his driver’s license. I did not. We were riding with my sister, Suellen, and were surfing small (barely breaking) waves without a crowd. It was dark and dreary, and we’d surfed all day. My throat was getting noticeably sore. In my memory there may have been a fire on the beach. Probably not, just towels, maybe a coat. Phillip was going to Lake Tahoe with his family for the coming week. I was hoping to do some more suring. But…
Here’s the ‘but:’ Phillip, who started surfing pretty much the same time I did, had a new Surfboards Hawaii V bottom board, and when he went back out, he was surfing really well.
Well, I couldn’t have that. I had to go back out. Competitive and petty.
Two days later, Phil is at Lake Tahoe and I’m sick. I lost my voice; not partially, as I had a few times before, times I was not that unhappy that I had a sort of humorous froggy voice. No voice, and my throat hurt.
My mom took me to the doctor. “Worst case I’ve ever seen,” he said. I had open sores in my throat. I got some sort of prescription, told to gargle and not speak. I croaked out an, “How long?” “Until you can,” he may have said.
“He didn’t say what it’s the worst case of,” my mother said as we were leaving. I would have said, “Erwin Syndrome” if I had been able.
When Phillip got back, he asked what he had missed.
“I have no idea,” I probably answered in my regular, deep and resonant monotone.
A DRAWING by my late sister MELISSA JOANNA MARIA MARLENA DENCE LYNCH. Some of the names were added by our mother, the Lynch is from Jerome.
ORIGINAL POEM that would fit into my collection, “Mistaken for Angels.”
That Knowing Angel Smile
Angels, you tell me you’ve seen Angels, An Angel riding on the L train, one hand on the pole, An Angel, backseat in a car, idling, one lane over, outside the Dollar Store, Turning, just for a moment, and smiling, An Angel squeezing random avocados at the Uptown Street Fair, Handing one to you, An Angel, down in Nogales, Sweeping the gravel with a wide, rough broom, Leaning into the strokes, Dust, like smoke, twirling in the wind, And the Angel looked through the whirlwind, at you, With that knowing, Angel smile.
You know that Angel smile, you tell me, It’s a smile of recognition, and you can’t just look away.
No one should.
But I do, I look away, coughing into my hand, Hiding my smile until the elevator doors close.
THANKS FOR checking out my site. Remember you can email me at erwin@realsurfers.net AND don’t let anything keep you out of the water for longer than prescribed and/or necessary.
All original artwork and writings are protected by copyright. All rights reserved.
“So, then, Mr. Kotter, this underage punk… you know, like my age, he totally snaked me… You know what i mean? He, like, starts paddling toward me, pushing me toward the peak. Yo, like, we’re both going for it, but he… I’m too far over, he jumps up; I go over the falls.” “That’s an interesting story, Epstein; did i tell you about the time I got snaked? Real snakes. It was….”
The Erwin File, and Welcome to It, Plus Drop-ins, Burns, Snakes, Mental Lists
I wasn’t the first person, obviously, from a quick search, to wonder about the character Juan Luis Pedro Filippo de Huevos Epstein, and whether there is a missing file somewhere; secrets and such. The actor, Robert Hegyes, who played Juan Epstein, one of the group of ne’er do well students self-named ‘the Sweathogs,’ on the 1970s show, “Welcome Back Kotter, and I were both born in 1951. There could have been some chance (fictionalizing here) circumstance under which he and I were in the same place; like, for instance, he might have surfed (he was from New Jersey) wandered down the coast to San Diego County, and, let’s say, I might have, accidentally, burned him in the water.
Maybe he kept a list. Maybe I’m on it. Okay, maybe just a description: “Another punk, underage asshole forced me too deep, then let me go over the falls,” for example.
I may never know. Mr. Hegyes died at sixty-years-old. Not mysterious, evidently. But still… What did Robert have to say about John Travolta? What about Marcia Strassman? She played Julie Kotter. I thought she was pretty cute. Wait a moment. Checking. Shit, she’s dead, also. Sad. What about Gabe Kaplan? Still alive, professional poker player. Okay, I’m through looking.
It only seems right that Pam Bondi or someone official like that should look into the Epstein File. Congress, they’re not doing anything; one of those increasingly irrelevant persons could take up the cause. Transparency, baby; truth and justice. Maybe there’s a buck in it for some influencer/deflector. It ain’t me, babe; I do this for free. If I’m on the list, I’m ready to do whatever penance God and the Constitution of this, this nation demand.
Just to be candid: I have a mental list of surfers who callously and wrongly and blatantly burned me. Most are descriptions (ie; obvious Orange County interloper), but famous photographer Warren Bolster is on there. I forgive him, because, partially, he is also deceased, and because I’ve long since theorized that after photographing other surfers ripping and riding and blowing takeoffs at Swamis, he just wasn’t ready to let a wave he could catch go by, etiquette be damned.
To be more candid: Not just because I might be on other surfer’s lists for etiquette violations, I have pretty much mentally burned most of the transgressions, forgiven all the transgressors, except, perhaps that Marine officer [I imagined] who burned me and everyone else on one of my last sessions at Trestles, and, more annoyingly, when I cruised down a couple hours later, he was still dominating [there might be some jealousy in here].
So, if I’m on your list; please forgive me. Even if I haven’t burned you, if you tell me I did, I’ll be really careful not to do it again. No, really. Unless I can’t help it.
Now, about my permanent record: I’ll get back to you on that.
This is kind of a surprise posting. I just got through with my run of antibiotics for an infection that knocked me down, and spent a tough week trying to catch up, and now, kind of out of the blue, and without feeling particularly unwell I’ve, and this might shock those who know me, I’ve lost my voice. I suddenly sound like a 94 year old rather than the 24 year old I’d like to believe I sound like. SOOOO, I was going to write about the time I just had to keep surfing with a sore throat and ended up missing out on a week or more of surf because of it. Yeah, next time. I didn’t mean realsurfers.net, which I started in 2013, to be a chronicle of the wounds and illness and other landmarks on my way to… somewhere.
I will not be silenced… for long. Get some waves. Thanks for checking the site. Remember you can contact me at erwin@realsurfers.net
Photo courtesy of non-government-funded NATIONAL PUBLIC RADIO. One of thousands of NO KINGS demonstrations, all off them peaceful, across the beloved and besieged U S of f’in’ A.
John Deere Vance watches the fun as I-5, on which 800,000 vehicles pass per day, is shut down. It’s not clear if the LIVE-FIRE exercise (my God, like missiles and shit, like the movies… whoa!) included live rounds going over the freeway, the main and only coast route, but Gavin (is his nickname ‘GovGav’?) may have pointed out the latest in Vance’s machismo/vacation tour shenanigans by shutting down the freeway for four hours. “Hey, man,” an unofficial White House spokesperson may have said, “Don’cha want our military prepared for full invasion slash assault? I mean, like, if it works on this stretch… who knows?”
I’m only writing about this because I once commuted from Encinitas to the Trestles end of the 17 mile stretch, 1975, and remember riding on the old 101, Pre-I-5, nicknamed “Slaughter Alley,” and distinctly remember seeinng surfers, parked on the side of the road, being rounded up by Marines and turned over to the California Highway Patrol. I knew there had to be some awesome waves on the other side o the bluffs. Waiting for the official report from JD. If I get an AdVance note, I’ll pass it on, though I won’t believe anything about him shredding and or ripping. Or wave size. Nope.
ODD THOUGHT- It’s impossible not to notice how all the sycophant/loser trump appointees have to hold a pose of non-commitment, or even belief when trump or one of his chosen flock speak. This stifling of emotion, forced non-rolling of the eyes must be just so, so difficult. It reminds me (though I try to resist) of the Presidential feature at Disneyland. Video animatronics. Pretty basic back when you had coupons and it was this or another swirl n the teacups, but, say, Lincoln was unmoved, stone-faced, like he hadn’t heard a whopper from Douglas, until… whoa! Lifelike. And I’m still waiting for someone, any of these toadies, to just fall down laughing. Not yet.
Keith Does Oregon for Real- Peninsula ripper Keith Darrock is from, among other places, Yachats, Oregon. He recently took a trip down there, did some surfing (undocumented or un-shared). His takeaway; surfing on the Strait is, possibly, less ‘real’ than the hiking, rock-jumping, and generally unfriendly waves on the, you know, coast. It’s not that I disagree. Incidentally, my dad lived across the river from the Astoria bridge. Chinook.
“Don’t Tell Me You’re a Poet” from “Love Songs for Cynics.”
Don’t tell me you’re a poet, I saw you at the laundry, Your costume in the dryer and your quarters keeping time, We made small talk conversation, I’d expected something grander, I mixed my whites and colors, you traded quarters for my dimes.
You know, I saw you at the reading, your performance so dramatic, And the lighting was just perfect, all words in the present tense, And you listed your credentials, said you’d weave a world of moments, That’s when I stashed my poem away for it just seemed to make no sense.
I know that you’re a poet, you wear sorrow like a garment, You have words on scraps of paper in the pockets of your clothes, Which are washed and dried and folded, sorted neatly on the table, Though the words I’ve heard so far are not quite poetry, but prose.
I can’t say I’m a poet, I’m a casual observer, Looking over someone’s shoulder at last Sunday’s New York Times, But the Laundry’s glass doors shudder, there’s a world pressing against them While you’re busy with the syntax, with the rhythm and the rhyme,
And all I know for certain is that I got four quarters for five nickels and six dimes.
Copyright Erwin A. Dence, Jr. All rights reserved. I wrote this folksy piece many years ago, immediately after attending a CENTRUM performance that was a culmination of a weeklong Poetry thing attended by our older son, James, his friends Brian Pitts and Adam Larm. Performance art. My response, appreciation and sarcasm, possibly made stronger when I criticized something to the main instructor and she responded with something I took as, “You think you could do better?” Probably not.
Bonus Photo-
ON NO KINGS DAY, I was driving out in the wilds of the Coyle Peninsula, and couldn’t help but notice this house. I followed the one sign’s advice, and drove slow enough to take this photo. I figured not honking was the closest I could get to peaceful protest. Gosh, such a resistor.
Hey, get some real waves where and when you can. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net and remember you can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net
There once was a KING of Malibu, A. warrior king with a wicked smile, He danced to the nose, chucked his board at his foes, and, I don’t know, he’s been dead a while.
There is no royal succession. If Citizen Dora hadn’t been such an outstanding surfer, he would have just been another asshole. He had no power if he wasn’t in the water. Yes, he had grievances with inland cowboys and other interlopers, but he also was an extra in surf-exploitation movies, and, and, and… as kings do, he’s gone. Maybe there’s a current king of Malibu. I could give a fuck. NO KINGS, NO KINGS, NO KINGS, NO KINGS. FOR GOD’S SAKE, FOR AMERICAN DEMOCRACY’S SAKE, NOOOOOOO KINGS.
Stay safe, catch a few waves, call out (nicely) anyone who believes they rule the waves, even if it’s me. Oh, and you can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net
“Line of… succession? What? Oh, line. Yeah… no; I never did a line of that… whatever. You have some.”
Totally made up line, but, to recap; fuck a bunch of dictatorial assholes.
I will be back soon. Just a… Hey, have you noticed how dehydrating surfing is? So is working, and, not that I’m thinking too deeply about this, so is life- weakness partial explanation on how long term dehydration was a factor in my illness. Debilitating. Knockout severe. Sleep, wake up, minutes later, sleep. Bizarre dreams. Wake up…
What is somewhat surprising is how an infection can affect… Everything. My brain functions, definitely. In fact, even though I went to the urgent care, found out it wasn’t any of several way worse conditions I had imagined (and more, even worse Trish came up with), and got a prescription for antibiotics.
Although I’ve only taken two, I, um, uh, have to wonder if this is making sense. I’m down, but I am coming back, baby! Yeah, I am still ill, I never say “baby,” even to babies.
I will write about the fever dreams later. Get some tubes, stay hydrated.
UPDATE/EDIT/CORRECTIONS- There was a it of discussion among surfers willing to include me in their group text chatter about how blurry my photos are. Okay, so I thought I was cleaning the lens on my phone; evidently it was the window thingie over the battery. SO, JOEL sent me this photo of Rico and Keith and some fat, Hobbit-like dude. Way too realistic. SO he sent this modified version. “burred,’ he wrote. Not sure if he meant blurred or burned. Not enough o either. Still… better. thanks.
ALSO, CHRIS EARDLEY, who seemed to know almost everyone in attendance on Friday night, says. the guy I identy as Matt is actually named Gus. Keith filled me in on the names of other important folks who were at the event. This was over the phone, so, naturally, I’ve forgotten the names. No disrespect intended.
OKAY, SO… SAVE THE WAVES
So many events in life are the result of circumstance. Timing and opportunity. We know there are no waves in Port Townsend, but, because the beautiful Northwest Maritime Center at the end of Water Street was available, and because LUKE (apologies for not having his last name- can’t we just go by first names or nicknames?), who MC’ed the event, is a member of the Save the Waves group, the Surfrider Foundation, AND, evidently has a connection to the Maritime Center (YEA!) a part of the worldwide festival was held in a surf town with a notoriously rabid and frequently frustrated group of surfers, and, again, no surf.
The short documentary, “Erwin,” is part of the worldwide festival, and, as my daughter, Dru, informed me, later, it was the only one filmed in the US. More on this coming. I had to be there. I wanted the event to be a success, and it was. Without a lot of publicity, enough people showed up that more chairs had to be brought out. It proved to be an opportunity for surfers to chat somewhere other than the lineup or the beach. And everyone was well behaved.
LUKE and another important guy (more apologies) announcing ahead of the short documentaries.
Legendary Olympic Peninsula path(wave)finder Darryl Wood (please forgive me if his name is misspelled), chatting with the important guy from the first photo. Darryl was the first surfer I met when I moved to the northwest in late 1978. The Hood Canal Bridge sank on Tuesday, February 13th. The state set up a passenger only ferry service, and Darryl and I were part of the first day’s riders on Monday, February 19. He was working for a contractor at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, I was a painter. He did mention something about Jesus to someone, not me, and must have said something about surfing, because, the next Saturday, February 24, decked out in a diver’s suit, crotch strap and all, with no hood, no booties, my sister’s surfboard (I’d sold all of mine), California wax, I was in the lineup at a spot you can no longer (legally) access directly. It was 38 degrees on the beach and my board kept flying out from between my legs. I caught a couple of waves, but he drop was so quick, I ended up kneeboarding. Yeah, sign of things to come.
At some point Trisha’s supposed-to-be family station wagon became our Kitsap County side car pool vehicle (nicknamed the scum car pool by Darryl, no reference to the riders). Darryl and I, and the other 6 or 7 riders all have stories from the commute. Enough so that, having been on the receiving end (“Thank you, Officer.”) of three speeding tickets in one year on the Clear Creek Road (this was before the freeway sections), trying to make the five-something ferry, I was deemed ineligible to drive when Jefferson County set up a van pool. Relief for everyone.
“Pass ’em, Erwin!” Both stories hinge on this. FIRST- At my co-pilot’s urging, I passed a slowpoke on the onramp on his right. The next day (I was off), the scumcar pool was pulled over. “Mr. Dence?” “Not here, Officer; but he’s a very careful driver.” SECOND- A woman was pouring her heart out about life and problems, and Jesus; and Darryl was, of course, listening intently. I was listening accidentally. She was at the point where she said something like, “All I could think of to do was sing, ‘Jesus loves you, yes he does…'” Yes, the distraught woman was singing. We were close to the ferry turnoff on a shortcut, time was short, and there was someone unconcerned about getting home in front of us. I passed them, dropped off my passengers so they could make the boat, and missed it because I had to park the car. “Yes, he does,” I may or may not have sung.
I only see Darryl occasionally, but, I consider him a friend. I asked him fairly recently why he never tried to talk about Jesus with me. “I didn’t think I had to.”
ARNOLD, Darryl’s longtime surf partner, explaining that no one has ever seen a wave this high in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. OR, because these photos are not in sequence, he may have said, “Yes, my wife did win the LIB-TECH surfboard. If you really need one…” I reminded Arnold of the time, not all that long ago, when he was out and I was the third-oldest surfer in the water. He said something like, “Wow.”
Someone I don’t know, RICO (looking surprised I was taking his picture), and the back of CHRIS EARDLEY. The guy in the background in the black hat came up to me later. “Remember me?” “No. Sorry.” “It’s Tim… you called me ‘Tim from Sequim.'” “Oh. well. Look over there, it’s Chimacum Timacum.” The woman with him introduced herself. Forgot her name. Sorry. If she had a nickname…
My daughter, Dru, someone poking himself in the eye, some out of focus guy looking a bit ominous.
The moon over Admiralty Inlet as the short documentaries were playing.
CHIMACUM TIM not looking at all like a guy with a Philadelphia/Jersey Shore confrontation-ready attitude, and ANDREA. I did send Tim the photo and did ask if it was okay to post it. I am so non-confrontational. He said it was kind of out of focus. Yeah, well, most times part of my finger would be over your face, Tim.
Rico, KEITH, and JOEL on the backwall discussing, obviously, how flat is flat, while, in the chairs, Jasmine, a. guy (just to seem cynical, may have once seen. Pete Seeger live- okay, I take it back), two people who seem, possibly, hypnotized, and KATE, not hypnotized. Kate, her husband, SEAN, and their son, sorry on the name, all surf. Family dynamic. I once witnessed them switching boards because Sean had left her with one with a broken fin. On several occasions Kate, paddling out, asked how much longer I was going to be out. Oh. “Not much longer.”
Chris and MATT at the tabe with the raffle prizes. Matt was a judge at the old Cleanwater Classic contest in Westport the year I talked TOM BURNS (not at this event) into allowing me to judge. I may be wrong about that. I helped out three times. Once I helped out with the Surfrider Foundation, selling copies of my REALSURFERS COLORING BOOK (outt of print- sorry), once I was supposed to help out with the flags on the beach (but I decided to be a spotter for the judges, denying others their turns), and, the time I did judge, everyone, evidently, had too much fun for the. head judge’s taste, I refused to call what I thought was a four point ride a six.five- whatever. I did try harder on Sunday. Too late. Sorry, Tom, didn’t mean to get you fired… also). Matt said he had a great time. As did I. WESTPORT. Everyone should go there. Oh, they do.
In the background, over Chris’s shoulder, there’s a woman talking to the guy in the yellow beanie (I had no interaction with him), and over Matt’s shoulder is her husband/lover… man. The came up to me later. He mostly lives in Costa Rica or somewhere with warm water, but he reads my blog. “Oh, so you’re the one,” I said. Not clever. So… like, send me a note, erwin@realsurfers.net and I’ll edit you in.
Newlyweds MEGAN and Chris eyeing the TODD FISCHER prints on offer at the prize table.
Winner! Yeah, I know; why do I have so many photos of Chris? His house needs painting might be one reason. Damn; should have taken a shot of Dru winning possibly the best prize of the evening, a bunch of stuff from Yeti. In the WSL, you have to get a ten point ride to score that. Good work, Dru!
POETRY STUFF-
BECAUSE I have been working toward, maybe, hopefully, selling some of the songs and poems I’ve collected over the years, AND because I’v been concentrating (using all my angst) on writing serious, pretentious, condescending poems of late, I felt compelled to attend a lecture at the Jefferson County Library featuring the Washington State Poet Laureate, Derek Sheffield, and a former wooden boat builder, now poet/mental health counselor, Matthew Nienow.
So, there’s hope. I mean, don’t ask me for mental health advice, but… I will throw down… poetry-wise.
What got me was how willing poets are to quote other poets. Quote Whitman and several audience members almost get giddy. To use a surf simile, it was kind of like when I saw MIKE DOYLE surfing at Stone Steps, 1970 or so, tucking his big frame into tiny barrels. It wasn’t Sunset, but all I could think was, “He’s not all that good.” Again, not Sunset. This was Hadlock/Irondale and I was, as I always am, amazed at how people can be in front of an audience and be… smooth.
To his credit, in my estimation, Laureate Derek seemed to be trying to bring a bit of lightness into the presentation. When no one clapped at his guest’s rendition of someone else’s poem, he did the beatnik thing of snapping the fingers of both raised hands. I so wanted, longed to join in. Maynard G. Crebs.
What I did do is wrote down a question, the dignified way to do a question-and-answer, required in this instance. I was a bit stoked when my question was chosen. Edited a bit, it was: “Are poets preachers, or reporters, or… (last second addition) cheerleaders.” I wasn’t giddy, but I did want to snap my fingers, at least once.
To quote my song, “Don’t Tell Me You’re a Poet,” … I’m a casual observer, looking over someone’s shoulder at last Sunday’s ‘New York Times…”
REGGIE SMART AND ‘ERWIN’- Reggie and I have worked together quite a bit over the past seven or eight years. At some point, Reggie started secretly filming me, then editing the phone videos down to some brief moments where I did or said something ridiculous. he then posted the clips on social media. SKIP AHEAD. He was helping me on a project on a watefront home on Dabob Bay that belongs to Annie Fergerson. NOW, I had been working on the project before Reggie came on scene, so she was sort of aware that I surf, and that I’m (often described as) a ‘character.’ All this was reinforced by Reggie’s ‘Erwhistle’ clips.
I would love to, but cannot discount Reggie’s role in my being in the documentary. I did resist it for a couple of years. Annie, a videographer for the Bill and Melinda Gates (now just Melinda, I guess) Foundation, was busy, I didn’t want to blow up any not-reallyy-secret spots, but, again, being honest, I did want to see some slow motion videos of me ripping across a long wall.
“Erwin” turned out to be a bit too true. And now it’s reaching a relatively small but worldwide audience, and it evidently ‘resonates’ (poet-ish word) with people; a ridiculous old fat guy insisting on pursuing his dreams.
So, thanks, Reggie, thanks, Annie, and thank you to the tens of folks who check out realsurfers.net on occasion.
I might edit in a reasonable poem by me if I find one decent enough. See you! get waves!
REGGIE SMART doing a side of the road deal with my. new(er) board.
Real Surfers 