I must be buying into the hype. Definitely feeling the anxiety; Seahawks and Forty-Niners. There’s too much history. It says something that three teams from the NFC West are in the playoffs. There was no way it wasn’t going to be us against San Francisco or, maybe worse, Los Angeles. This is part of the reason I’m doing this today rather than after the… whatever happens five hours or so from now.
This drawing was inspired by a photo by RON STONER of BARRY KANAIAUPUNI, Malibu, 1965. I remembered seeing a video (film) of the stylemaster and power surfer executing a ride at Malibu, ending it with a perfect kickout-to-knee paddle. I was looking for a photo sequence of him (or anyone) executing an in-the-tube island pullout. When I compare my drawing with the photo… Tough with pen and ink to get an image as smooth and glassy as a Stoner photo.
Mike Doyle doing a STANDING ISLAND PULLOUT at Makaha. Photo by JOHN SEVERSON.
No one seems to have the island pullout as part of their surf repertoire. Along with a flyaway kickout, the island pullout was one of my favorite moves. Usually done from a crouch, one version involves (possibly) grabbing the outside rail and rotating the nose of the board into the wave until the fin pops out. The island pullout has largely been replaced by airs and off-the-lip maneuvers, those descendants of the 60s era ‘roller coaster.’ Nowadays, when I have to bail on my SUP; I try to fall forward and crank. It sort of works.
UNTIL DYLAN LAUGHS (Not AI)
I haven’t had one of these dreams in a while. Dreams are meant to vanish, and most do; except that, these dreams leave an impression that is more like a memory of something real. I had one of these dreams last night.
There are several specific categories of these false memory dreams, some frightening, others annoyingly repetitious, each seemingly rotating in randomly, as if they’re on shuffle.
In the Dylan-specific dream category, I’m, and not for the first time, at some gathering in a dark room, a dining room or a motel room or a café. I’ve always had the impression that the location is somewhere up in Bakersfield or San Bernardino, though neither of these cities have been ‘up’ for me in many a year.
There are five or six of us sitting at a table, mostly men, playing cards in a lazy sort of way. There is a woman, an unlit cigarette in her mouth, one over to my right. Dylan is straight across from me, pulling in a loose scattering of chips and a pocket watch.
“Lucky,” someone says.
Dylan nods and pushes the watch toward the middle of the table.
Others in the room are shadows in the hazy background, sitting on couches or leaning in toward each other. Over the muffled conversations and clinking glasses I can hear, vaguely, another woman, one I cannot see, singing. She finishes up a tangly, cowboy sort of song, her guitar backed by at least one other, with la la las rather than lyrics.
Then silence.
Dylan is nodding. He looks to my right, to my left, then directly at me.
This is Dylan somewhere just before, perhaps, he took on the Salvador Dali look.
He takes off his sunglasses, squints, looks at his hands, looks back at me. His expression seems to be asking if I have something to say. Or ask.
He is waiting; but he won’t wait for long.
“I, um, It’s just that I’ve always wondered what kind of person can just… sing, sing in front of… I mean, even in front of a few friends… Not to mention… even more… people.”
There is, of course, a hush. Waiting.
Then Dylan speaks. “I’ve… I’ve just always wondered…” Dylan was mocking me. Had to have been. But he was smiling. His speaking voice, and I’ve always noticed this, is exactly like my brother Jon’s. There were some background chuckles. “I’ve wondered… how someone can just… show up… in another person’s dreams.”
Pause.
“You… You invited me.
It took a few moments, hiking up the beach, to realize this wasn’t what my brain said it was; a jetty where there had not been a jetty. Optical illusion. If it appears there are rideable waves; no, also an illusion. The log was jammed into the rocks during the recent KING TIDES. For now, it provides a convenient spot for celebrating.
LET’S look for something worth celebrating.
SO, The non artificial intelligence generated (so, I guess, real) illustration and piece on Dylan are copyright protected, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
NON-POLITICAL ERWIN- I’m going check into doing a second page. I’d really prefer to not get involved in all the disturbing shit going on, ICE-TAPO, GREENLAND LUST, PEDOPHILE PROTECTORS, HEALTH CARE FUCK STORIES, CONGRESSIONAL SURRENDER, SUPREME COURT DISFUNCTION, EPSTEIN SKIDS, FIRST AMENDMENT THREATS, NOBEL PRIZE REGIFTING, EGO STROKING, EPSTEIN, EPSTEIN, Yeah, shit like that. Not that I have any strong opinions.
And if I do, they are, thankfully, protected by the U.S. Constitution.
No, of course I should not have had the laptop on a TV table, unstable enough that TONY could, bounding over to greet me, knock the table over and bend the plug in portion of the cable that connects the hand me down (from Dru) computer to the vital (because the screen portion of the laptop no longer works), and great, monitor.
Of course not.
Do I love trying to hunt and peck my way to a post on my tablet? It’s… Something.
I can’t add the new drawing or the new photos, and…
And, does Tony, begging for food an attention (the “pet me” and the “I’m so cute” his usual ruse, easily translated to “Feed me, Dude”) give even a single shit that I am trying to unbend the mini plug in part of the heavy cord?
Of course not.
So… I do have content. Just exactly like those sessions your friends get and you miss, classic, epic, all time awesome content.
But, hey, I have to go. Tony’s litter pan needs changing, his water filled, oh, and isn’t he adorable, jumping up in the middle of my drawing table, knocking off anything loose, and then punching me because I didn’t pet him quickly enough?
Actually, yes: quite adorable.
If you can figure out the surf forecast, when and where… Good luck. It will be EPIC!
SAN CLEMENTE, CALIFORNIA – SEPTEMBER 8: Seven-time WSL Champion Stephanie Gilmore of Australia after winning the World Title at the Rip Curl WSL Finals on September 8, 2022 at San Clemente, California. (Photo by Pat Nolan/World Surf League). I watched every heat.
9/11.2001 photo by Gulnara Samoilova originally published in the Guardian
Dan Nieman called me at an ungodly early hour to discuss a painting job in progress. “Hey, something’s happening in New York.” I watched the second plane hit, everything thereafter.
Photo of 9/11 Insurrection from Spectrum News
Trump and his cronies were still making speeches when I turned on the TV. Then, folks ambling toward the capital like tourists. Then… Undeniable, unpardonable, treasonous insurrection. Then… and since, denial, pardons, lies. And either those who propagate the lies don’t care if we know the truth or they believe enough Americans are like those citizens who, and I believe this, were innocent bystanders… unless they didn’t realize this was a criminal act and turned away. They share some guilt, not quite as much as those who realize the lie of the whitewash and fail to say it is that.
SHIMMER AND SHINE
It’s the shimmer, always was, the shimmer and the shine, Shimmer and shine, those were the goals, yours and mine, To be weightless, caught up in and part of the shimmer, Bathing in the shimmer and dancing in the shine.
We’ve seen the thinnest slice of light, The glimmer, faintest speck of hope, Pulsing on the horizon, Flashes between us and what’s beyond, Wind ripped sky reflecting, imperfectly, The chaos between us, pressed against each other As the layers of the firmament, clouds, sheets and blankets, Are unfurled toward us and past us.
The universe, the further beyond, Its twinkling starry map unreadable to us, Ancient braille. Marking the route, perhaps, to Heaven.
Messengers and seekers and those perilously balancing, Too close to drowning, Those downed by regret, broken by fear, scarred by sorrow, Exhausted byy repeated failures, Mourn for lives too long lost, Pray for rescue, Look for some distant beacon, Imagine the veil of darkness pierced, Imagine or remember Bathing in the shimmer and dancing in the shine.
There’s too much to consider, Holding you this close, Standing this close to a raging sea, This far from a twisted sky.
I’m certain you’ve seen it, I’ve seen, in your eyes, Flashes of light, Sparkling, Glistening, Hopeful, The shimmer and the shine,
And we are… still… dancing.
Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. Contact: erwin@realsurfers.net Shimmer and Shine, Copyright 2026, All rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
Borrowed from Sheridan Media. There are a lot of images with wolves if you dance on over to Google. The moon is responsible for the globe-wide waves that are the tides. King tides and low pressure and a swell have produced some classic conditions and total beach reformation in the past. Maybe there’s a swell you can get to. Good luck.
I got a call from TOM BURNS, longtime surfer, California to the Northwest the other morning. “Is that your daughter’s cat on King 5 News?” “What?” “Yeah, it said the photo was from Drucilla D. Has to be her.” It was a photo of her cat, NICHOLAS, sent because they were showing other cats “Not nearly as cute as my Nicholas.” WELL, Nick, who is extra wary of me since I had to assist in a cliff-hanger removal operation, got a repeat the next day with no competition.
I can’t upload videos on my site without upgrading, though I do have the video, so this is a shot TRISH sent to Dru, Dru to me, me to you. Yes, he’s adorable, though I described his expression, the one he usually gives me, as “Disgruntled,” possibly because he wasn’t supposed to be there.
DRU brought me along last week to help negotiate for a new (to her) vehicle to replace the Honda Odyssey totaled in the Yeti/deer attack. Not that I am in any way skilled in the art of the (or any) deal, but, after pretty much telling DAN, our contact at Doug’s Hyundai (not an endorsement, just where the car that fit what Dru wanted/needed was located, found through one of those car finding sites) because the real salesman, Mike, was overbooked (judging from Mike’s, who only talked to Dru for a moment, stress-reddened face, I believed it), that I totally don’t trust salespeople. I softened this by adding that I do not want to identify myself as a salesman, but, yes, we’re all in sales (and I’m still working).
Anyway, after threatening to leave and go check out another van at another dealer along the PACIFIC AVENUE STRIP, and asking for a two thousand dollar price cut, and after dropping several ‘add-ons’ from their first, second, and third quotes (all sent from mysterious guy behind the curtain- cubicle wall, actually), we arrived at a price reduction of $300 and a full tank of gas (Seattle prices). AND coffee and a small chocolate for me, hot chocolate for Dru.
THEN it was time to meet the FINANCE MANAGER. He discovered that if Dru paid $500 more on the downn payment, she could, because it was a one-owner car with low mileage (a major selling point, the van obviously a trade in), she could get a great warranty.
STOKED to be done with the ordeal, Dru promised DANIEL PILON and MAKSIM MARTEMYANOV that she would put in a good word on social judging media. I said, after Dan checked out realsurfers.net during a lull, that I would put something on the site… today. So, keeping my promise:
SEAHAWKS NEWS: It may be that all the swells of late have been very south, south-west at best, that PT charger Keith Darrock has gotten his feet wet on watching football. Because TRISH cannot tough it out, endure the tension and drama that are the only reason to watch ANY sport, I watched it without her. I did exchange some commentary (“Lots of missed opportunities,” “Seems like they should be up by three touchdowns instead of one.” I did call Keith during the last three minutes, with victory pretty much assured, and called Trish when victory was official. “Really? They won?”
Because I listened to the first quarter on the radio, and because I have regretted the times I watched games instead of doing something, like, more rewarding, I would really love to hear Steve Raible’s take on the end of the game. “Holy catfish!”
“SWAMIS” CHAPTER FOUR- WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 23, 1968
Christmas vacation. I had surfed, but I wanted a few more rides. Or many more. I had the time, and I had the second-best parking spot in the almost full lot at Swamis: Front row, two cars off center. It was cool but sunny. My short john wetsuit was pulled down. I was in front of the Falcon, dead center, leaning over the hood. I checked my diver’s watch. It was fogged up. I shook my wrist, removed the watch, and set it directly over the radiator, the face of the watch facing the ocean and the sun.
There was, on the beach towel I had spread out on the hood, a quart of chocolate milk in a waxed cardboard container, the spout open; a lunch sack, light blue, open; an apple; a partial pack of Marlboros, hard pack, open, a book of paper matches inside; three Pee-Chee folders. One of the folders was open. A red notebook, writing on both sides of most pages, was open, five or six pages from the back.
A car stopped immediately behind the Falcon. Three doors slammed. Three teenagers, a year or so younger than me, ran down the left side of my car and to the bluff. Jumping and gesturing, each shouted assessments of the conditions. “Epic!” and “So… bitchin’!”
The three surf hopefuls looked over me and at their car, driverless, idling in the lane. They looked at me. The tallest of the three, with a bad complexion, his hair parted in the middle, shirtless, with three strands of love beads around his neck, took a step toward me. “Hey, man,” He said in an artificially lowered voice, “Going out or been out?”
“Both.” I added a bit of hoarseness to my voice. “Man.”
“Both?” Love Beads moved closer, patting his beads. “Both. Uh huh.”
“Good spot,” the visitor with bottle bleached hair, a striped Beach Boys shirt, and cut off cords, said. I nodded. Politely. I smiled, politely, and looked back at my notebooks.
The surfer I assumed to be the Driver; big 50s horn-rimmed glasses, a button-up shirt, khakis and leather shoes, asked, “You a local?”
I shifted the notebooks, took out the one on the bottom, light blue, opened it, turned, half sat on my car, and looked out at the lineup, half hoping my non-answer was enough for the obvious non-locals.
A car honked. Love Beads pushed Striped Shirt into me as he tried to pass by. I shoved him away with my right hip and shoulder. He regained his balance, put his hands out, continued toward his car. Big Glasses, evidently not the Driver, raised both hands out to signal he hadn’t done the pushing. Behind him, Love Beads said, “You fuckers down here are fuckin’ greedy.”
“Fuck you, Brian,” Striped Shirt said before running out and into the lane, followed by Big Glasses.
Brian moved directly in front of me. He puffed out his chest a bit. He looked a bit fierce. Or he attempted to. “You sure you’re not leaving?”
I twisted my left arm behind my back and picked up my watch. When I brought my arm back around, very quickly, Brian twitched. I smiled. I held my watch by the band, close to its face. I shook it. Hard. Three quick strokes, then tapped it, three times, with the end of the nail on the pointer finger of my right hand. “The joke, you see, Brian, is that, once it gets filled with water, no more can get in. Hence, Waterproof.” I put the watch on. “And… nope, Brian, don’t have to leave yet.”
Big Glasses, a surfboard under each arm, squeezed between the Falcon and the car next to it. Brian, glowering, still looking at me, threw his left hand out as his surf friend walked past. He hit the board, instantly pulling his hand back. I chuckled. Brian moved his right hand closer to my face, pointer finger up.
I moved my face closer to his hand, then leaned back, feigning an inability to focus. “Brian,” I said, “I have a history…” Brian smirked. “I would… strike … when I felt threatened.” I blinked. “Quite violently.”
Brian looked around as if Big Glasses, having set the two boards down at the edge of the bluff, might back him up. I looked Big Glasses off. He shook his head. Brian turned back toward me. “Quite violently?”
“Suddenly and violently.” I nodded and rolled my eyes. “But now… My father taught me there are times to react and times to… take a moment, assess the situation, but… be ready. It’s like gunfights… in the movies. If someone… is ready to… strike, I strike first. I mean, I can. Because I’m… ready.” I moved my face back from Brian’s and smiled. “Everyone… people are hoping the surfing is… helping. I am not… sure. I’m on… probation, currently; I get to go to La Jolla every Monday, talk to a… shrink. Court ordered. So…” I took a deep breath, gave Brian a peace sign, and whispered, “Back the fuck off, Brian.”
“Brian,” Big Glasses said, “we’ll get a spot.”
“Wind’s coming up, Brian,” I said, pointing to the boards. “Better get on it.”
“Oh, I have your permission. No! Fuck you, Jap!” Brian moved back and into some version of a fighting stance as he said it.
“Brian. I’m, uh, assessing.” I folded my hands across my chest. “And Brian, trying to surf is good for your… complexion.” Brian’s face reddened further. “Osmosis. The water in your skin cells, compared to salt water…”
Brian moved even closer, his mouth moving, his face out of focus; background, overlapped by, superimposed with, a succession of bullies with faces too close to mine; kids from school, third grade to high school. I couldn’t hear them, either. Taunts. I knew the words: “Retard!” “Idiot!” “What’s wrong with you?”
My father’s voice cut through the others. “Jody. It’s all a joke. Laugh.”
In this vision, or spell, or episode, each of my alleged tormentors, all of them boys, fell away. Each face was bracketed by and punctuated with a flash of a red light.
One face belonged to a nine-year-old boy, a look of shock that would become pain on his face. He was falling back and down, blood coming out of his mouth. Two teeth in his cupped hand. I looked at the school drinking fountain. A bit of blood. I looked around. All the other kids were afraid. Of me.
The lighting changed. More silver than blue. Cold light. I saw my father’s face, and mine, in the bathroom mirror. Faces; his short blond hair, eyes impossibly blue; my hair straight and black, my eyes almost black. “Jody, just… smile.,” he said. I did. Big smile. “No, son; not that smile. Frightening.”
I smiled. That smile. Frightening.
Brian’s face came back into focus. I looked past him, out to the kelp beds and beyond. “Wind’s picking up.” I paused. “Wait. Did I already say that… Brian?”
I turned toward the Falcon, closed the red notebook, set it on one side of the open Pee-Chee, picked up the blue notebook from the other side. There were crude sketches of dark waves and cartoonish surfers on the cover. I opened it and started writing.
“Wind is picking up.” I may have spun around a bit quickly, hands in a pre-fight position. It was Rincon Ronny in a shortjohn wetsuit, a board under his arm. Ronny nodded toward the stairs. “Fun guys.” He leaned away and laughed. I relaxed my hands and my stance. “The one dude, with the Hippie beads. Shirtless.”
“I almost said something about his… pimples. Brian. Shirtless.”
“Don’t care about his name.” There was a delay. “Fuck, man; Shirtless was scared shitless.”
“It’ll wear off.” I held the notebook up, showed Ronny the page with ‘Brian and friends’ written in larger-than-necessary block letters, scratched out ‘Brian,’ and closed the notebook. “By the time they get back to wherever they’re from, Shitless Shirtless would’ve kicked my ass.” I looked around to see if any of Ronny’s friends were with him. “I was… polite, Rincon Ronny.”
“Polite. Yeah. From what I saw. Yeah. And… it’s just Ronny. Now.”
“Could be Swamis Ronny, or Moonlight Ronny.”
“Or Ronny Ronny.”
“Ronny.” I had to think about what Ronny might have seen, how long I was in whatever state I was in. Out. I started gathering my belongings, pulling up the edges of my towel. “I just didn’t want to give my spot to… fuckers. Where are you… parked?”
“I… walked.”
I had to smile and nod. “You… walked.”
“One thing, Junior; those… fuckers, they won’t fuck with you in the water.”
“Joey,” I said. “And… Ronny, someone will.”
Ronny mouthed, “Joey,” and did a combination blink/nod. “Yeah. It’s… Swamis. Joey.”
Ronny looked at the waves, back at me. A gust of west wind blew the cover of my green notebook open. “Julie” was written in almost unreadably psychedelic letters across pages eight and nine. “Julie.” Hopefully unreadable.
I repeated Ronny’s words mentally, careful not to mouth them. “From what I saw.” And “Joey.”
CONTACT- erwin@realsurfers.net
COPYRIGHT protected material. All rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr,
Get some waves, Go Sea…Hawks, and Fuck Cancer. No comment (yet) on war and peace and all that. It’s a NEW YEAR. So… new dramas, new tensions, AND the same old ones. Best Wishes!
Real Surfers 