Monthly Archives: March 2026

Second Hand Stoke

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, real surfers, surf art, surf novels, surfing art, surfing blogs, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

A couple of photos from CHIMACUM TIMACUM of his view during his recent trip to TORTOLA. Not to blow up the spot, but Tim claims waist to chest high most days. SO, perfect Erwin size surf. 80 degree water and air. And… yeah, yeah, yeah…It is kind of like bragging.

Not that I mind. But, as much as I enjoy hearing about someone else’s exploits, am I surfing vicariously and soaking in the mellow vibes? No.

There’s reporting, there’s bragging, and there is gloating. Not that I don’t feel some sort of desire to gloat my ass off on those occasions when I am the one scoring.

My SURF FRIENDS seem to love letting me know about scores they have, um, scored; magical sessions, narrow windows of surf perfection they were not mere witnesses to, but active participants in. I am, apparently, expected to be that guy on the beach, jumping up and down, that guy on the shoulder, both arms up. in celebration. “YEA!”

Then I get a call or a text or run into another surf friend. “Yes, I heard about it.”

YEAH and YEA and “I am so happy for you… or him… or her… or anyone who scores. I AM STOKED.” Second hand stoke.

BUT, really, I’d rather be the frothed than the frothee, the stoked rather than the stokee. YEAH.

AND, MY GUESS, so would you.

FROM THE EMAILBOX: erwin@realsurfers.net

I got the first image from legendary waterman TIM NOLAN. Tim uses a technique in which he bleaches out the colors from a photo, then uses water colors to bring a new vision of the image.

The middle image is the photo taken by RICO MOORE of KEITH DARROCK. If it wasn’t a great shot, neither Tim nor I would have been drawn to it. The bottom image is my take on the scene; Keith coming in, a fire, a coffee cup. Yes, I do love Tim’s color selection. Yes, I could have blended the colored pencil colors a little more smoothly.

I have been doing some recording of original Erwin songs for my Instagram account. I have decided, since I should not sing but do, and because I have songs worth sharing (my opinion), I am just going to sing and play harmonica.

UPDATE/UPDATE/UPDATE- March 26- If I stop and watch and listen to any of my one take, usually while driving videos, I will probably not post it. The harmonica sounds shrill, my voice sounds… pick any word to describe the sentiment, “That guy should never sing.” STILL, I have songs people should hear. SO, I will continue to try to improve. YEAH, I did kind of believe people might forgive my voice because of my age. Maybe, but I haven’t. Not yet.

Here are the lyrics to my most recent tune:

Before the wind comes up, Before the clouds blow in, Before the sun goes dark, Before the rain begins, Before the lights go out along the avenue, I’m gonna load up my tools and head on home to you. Home to you, home to you, gonna pack up my van and hurry home to you.

REMEMBER Saturday is NO KINGS DAY.

Shit’s at stake. Participate!

Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net

Waiting Room Sketches

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surfing in Washington State, writings of Erwin Dence

TRISH is undergoing radiation as part of the treatment for breast cancer. It is not fun. 21 trips to SAINT MICHAEL in Silverdale. Four have been completed. We are so very fortunate for the help of our daughter, DRU. She is, well, essential to this process. Since I am not needed or wanted in the rooms where Trish is being tortured, I have some time to… yeah, draw.

Not as much as I might want if I’m really into something, but enough to do some sketches. SKETCHES. I once took some (too much) offense when a surfer introduced me to his girlfriend as, “You know, he does t-shirts, and has that blog. I showed you.” “OH,” she said, “I really like some of your sketches.”

SO, yeah; thanks; these are sketches;

Port Townsend surfer/librarian Keith Darrock and I have not gotten it totally together in organizing the next OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA EVENT. However, it will be centered on the connection between surf and music, with, of course, surf artists and storytellers, as well as PETE RAAB, expert in all the background, history, and wonder of surf music. The event will be part of the summer library lineup, and… and we better get to work jockeying for position. This sketch probably won’t be part of the poster. SKETCH. We’ll see.

THIS SKETCH probably should be on PAGE II, NON-POLITICAL ERWIN. But here it is. Having been raised to be anti-war, and having studied enough of pasts wars, there seems to be a pattern in that some are sold with near-truths and some with outright lies. There are aggressors and defenders. There have been some shenanigans, such as one side claiming to be in the midst of negotiations and then… attacking. Infamy. And, of course, no war is complete without WAR CRIMES.

SHIT, now I’m going. If we don’t focus on the body count per acre of a war for land, or try to divine the math behind the cost in money and, yes, lives, of a blood for oil campaign; if we discount the suffering of the dispossessed and the seekers of refuge; turn away from scant news of scorched earth tactics; pretend ignorance of or an inability to imagine humans being capable of reported and, yes unimaginably inhuman, brutality; perhaps we know someone who served, survived, and is living with the consequences of ventures into man’s most telling feature; war.

I claim no one else’s valor. I got lucky, had a high draft number, missed out on my generation’s conflict. In a twist of fate, I was hired on to work for the U.S. Navy as a journeyman painter in 1971. Twenty years-old. Almost all the oldtimers were veterans of World War II. They had stories they weren’t keen on sharing with a punk ass, non-vet surfer, but, maybe on a payday afternoon, stories would be shared. I would listen. If painters are characterized as drunks, add a veteran who was under twenty years old at D Day, or Guadalcanal (my father and my father-in-law both served in the Marines, WWII and Korea), or an Irishman (“Don’t call me British”) who served with the British in North Africa, or a soldier who was there for the liberation of Nazi (still a dirty word to me) death camps; yes, I heard stories. I saw men damaged by what they saw and what they did.

Then there were the incoming Apprentice Painters. Vietnam vets. Some, no doubt gung ho at one time, were disenchanted. I would say most. Some were, whether they admitted it or not, broken. Spirit gone. For several in my time with the Navy including working on ships at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, their mental brokenness, while they were otherwise healthy, seems to have led to their deaths.

And now, forgive me, I’m thinking about two other stories. One guy thought he was fooling the government because they believed he had PTSD. He totally did. Though he seemed to trust me, I knew enough to not even come close to walking behind him. The second guy had been an officer, planned on getting enough knowledge of painting to go out on his own as a contractor. One day at lunch he announced to the crew that he had no trouble killing. “I could blow any of you away and go on eating.” “Well,” I said, “Would you mind eating somewhere else?”

My father, when presented with stories in the news (or movies that didn’t agree with his stance that he and those he served with served America, justly), told me that a lot of bad stuff happens. “You just have to live with it.”

I’m working on a song on this theme. Originally I was thinking of something to fit with the tune to “Makin’ Whoopee,” more recently (and not like recently recently- 1961) known as a theme for Pepsi commercials. “Now it’s Pepsi, for those who think young.” I DID, of course, get carried away. Doesn’t fit the tune.

Another lie, another war, One can’t help but wonder what we’re killing people for;

Another war, another lie, an eye for an eye for an eye for an eye; One has to wonder, has to wonder, has to wonder… why.

AS FAR AS NON-POLITICAL ERWIN, I’m thinking of this: REAL MEN DON’T HEGSETH!

I DO claim all rights to original sketches, and writing on realsurfers.net.

Contact me at erwin@realsurfers.net

The time I spent on this could have gone to my novel, “Swamis.” I did put in an hour or so, and I am on page 210 of 227. BIG FINISH! To be continued. Thanks for checking out realsurfers. If you like snow, better get on it! As far as surf… hmmm

Heavy TRAFFIC and the Full Hand Flipoff

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, aggressive surfers, learning to surf, northwest surfing blog,, real surfers, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf satire, surfing, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

                                    Crowd Surfing and City Driving: A Comparison

IT isn’t some brilliant or sudden or unique thought that driving in traffic is very much like surfing in a crowded lineup. Still, I have some thoughts.

Photo from San Diego Surf School.

FUCKERS cut you off; DICKWADS on oversized boards drop in way outside of you; over stimulated shortboard PUNKS backpaddle and drop in, at the last moment, with you obviously desiring a certain wave; oblivious ADULT LEARNERS blindly paddle for the shoulder on a wave you might, just possibly, thrash; BACKOFF BOBS and BETTYS add a chandelier to a section you would have made; a PACK OF possibly local, definitely friends act as a TEAM/GANG to dominate a peak, blocking your attempts to crack the lineup… EVEN WHEN you are SO, SO patient, respectful, almost ready to forget your hard earned sense of dignity and beg for just  ONE chance,  ONE non-set, not-a-bomb wave. Looking around the playing field at the greedy movers and shakers, the ‘just-happy-to-be-out-here’ enthusiasts; checking out and the seemingly omnipresent surf-adjacent crew of onlookers, color commentators, judges, cheerleaders, coaches, filmers; are they pleased that you’re frustrated? Fuck, yeah, and fuck you; maybe next time you’ll bring your own crew. OR…

from MUMMY TALES, a wordpress site/blog.

THE GREAT EQUALIZER- Not talking Colt 45 here, or any violent road rage insanity, and it’s not an avocado-to-mango comparison, but ANY MOTORIZED VEHICLE (even hybrid or electric) is capable of doing the same maneuvers as your ride of choice, attain the same speeds as your work rig or your Camry; and, additionally, a motorcycle (or Vespa or overpowered electric bike) can weave through lane changes and backups way better than a jacked-up, offroad diesel burning MAN truck, the modern incarnation of a Corvette, regardless of how many lights and wenches and flags and scary decals the man-mobile is sporting. ANYONE’S GRANDMA in a coupe, even without a spoiler and noisy muffler, any WHIMP, regardless of party or sexual affiliation, can cut you off in the collector/distributer lane, whip into the parking spot at Costco that, though not close to the entrance, is (was) close to a cart return. OH, IF ONLY you had a handicapped sticker.

SIGNALS- Yes, it is still rude to be yelling, “MY WAVE, MINE, MINE, MINE!!!” However, it is sometimes helpful to signal your intensions. Subtly. Softly. “Excuse me, but I am going on the second wave of the incoming set. Feel free to discuss the first wave among yourselves. And… Did you not hear me? My wave… mine, mine, MINE!!!!!”


5/10/2011 – Jay Janner/AMERICAN-STATESMAN – Emily McLean is stuck in a traffic jam on Colorado Street after President Barack Obama gave a speech at ACL Live at the Moody Theater on Tuesday May 10, 2011. She got stuck waiting to turn onto Cesar Chavez Street. The street was closed for about half an hour for the president’s motorcade. NOTE- I liked the photo.

THE FULL HAND FLIPOFF- Here’s how this civilized screed (I’m not checking if it can be both a screed and civilized) came to be: I have this bad habit of not using my car’s turn signals. This is how my daughter Dru and I decided it was her driving Trisha’s Highlander when a traffic camera in Poulsbo caught it running a light. Signals. Still, I, as the registered owner, got the ticket. In the mail. I thought it was a scam. No. They want real money. SO,

I’m in a hurry, going from here to there in Port Townsend. Not that I’m ever not in a hurry (when I’m behind the wheel. MAYBE, slight interjection, when I’m on my way home from surfing. SO, I make a left onto a busy street over by the school with the pool and the food bank on Wednesdays. It may or may not have been a Wednesday, but, as I’m making a right hander onto San Juan, I notice a woman, evidently waiting to turn left from San Juan, in a dark car. She is raising her left hand up, fingers spread. The back her hand is up near or against the window. As I ease around the corner, I can’t help but focus on the woman and the gesture. Was she waving? Do I know her? No. She may or may not have smacking the back of her hand against the window, but her frustration was obvious. Or should have been.

WHILE I’M THINKING ABOUT all this; you know when there’s some reason, known or unknown, for a backup, and the right lane is moving faster, relying on the kindness of strangers to let them in at the last moment? Well, I have been known to position my vehicle in such a position that these late mergers can’t, cannot merge. Similarly, I have either yelled out, “GO… whoever” when another surfer is about to be dropped in on (again) AND/OR I have blocked a shoulder hopper. Not that this is any way noble. I have had surfers cut across my bow (sailor lingo) to keep me off a wave.  

Be patient, be safe. It’s only surfing, or traffic, or any situation in which a horde is keeping you from that which you desire. Now I’m thinking about checkout lines and Disneyland and imagining an empty lineup with wonderful waves and… no, I’m back to remembering the full hand flip off. Deserved. Sorry, Ma’am.  

I HAVE BEEN offering an incorrect email address. erwin@realsurfers.net will work. Don’t be afraid.

SURFWISE- There may or may not have been waves in this off most charts zone. As always. It is March, coming in, as the poets say, ‘like a lion.’ Wind, surprise snow, generally crappy weather. The snow is happening. While several of the local Olympic Peninsula surfers are elsewhere, including Chimacum Tim in some exotic spot close to Epstein’s Island. Surfer/snowboarders are hitting the slopes. I will have more on how snowboarding and skiing are better than surfing NEXT TIME.

MEANWHILE, try really hard to relax. Yes, it’s a lot of work staying calm, not freaking the fuck out. Try a mantra, repeated until your mind if free from panic-inflaming reality. This might not be proper, but you can use mine: NOTHING, NOThing, NOthing, nothing, nothing… nothing… …nothing… AH!

All work and no play make Jack a dull boy… All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy All work and no play make… You can’t handle the truth! No. Wait. All work and no play make… Chinatown… No, no, it’s… you see, it’s like this: I… No, no. All work and no play… no play… no… nothing, nothing, nothing. Not a damn thing. You got that? No? Okay. Nothing, nothing, nothingnothingnothing.

How’s Your Week Going? Words, photos, stories

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, adam wipeout, northwest surfing, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf fiction, surfing blogs, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

Here is another example of why I should be ready to take photos with my camera: I was in my last surviving vehicle at a parking lot that faces the Strait. There were no waves, but there was cell phone coverage. I may have been feeling particularly down, not to panic-depression levels; but, having lived a large chunk of my life on the edge (my choice to be a self-employed painter in the Northwest), and sharing with some unknown but large portion of the citizenry the pain of war and suddenly crazy gas prices, and, perhaps some lack of real confidence in our leaders…

Anyway, I see this old person (I’m guessing a man) being led by a younger, taller, person down the easiest incline from the parking lot to the narrow stretch of beach. My thought is he wanted to see the ocean, that perhaps he hadn’t seen it in a while, perhaps, even, he had some fear he might not have another opportunity. I don’t know; I make up stories.

He shuffles out. There’s a slight but cold west wind. There are rocks and driftwood and kelp to navigate. He did not last long. I imagined him saying to his companion, coming back up the berm, “Yeah; just like I remembered it.”

Close as I could get, image-wise. Borrowed from ruveyda

A screen tracks trading on the floor at the New York Stock Exchange (NYSE) after the closing bell in New York City, U.S., April 4, 2025. REUTERS/Brendan McDermid

I should apologize for not putting this on NON-POLITICAL ERWIN. No. On a more personal note:

There is, of course a story. SO, top to bottom: After several issues with the VOLVO, alternately known as the “Super Fun Car,” I managed to get it to 200,000 miles (note the crustiness of the steering column and the harmonicas). NEXT, Dru’s house in Port Gamble is a stopping off point for Canadian Geese (note the shadows of the Volvo, with surfboard, and me). NEXT, Full moon, or fullish, last Monday night (note Dru’s new car, replacement for Honda attacked by mutant deer). NEXT, Dru’s cat, Nicholas, and the very rich cake Dru made for her lifetime friend, Mollie Orbea (who lives down the street).

BEFORE I get to the bottom shot, my work van being towed (for the many-ith time) from the parking area at Highway 104 and Center Road, I will enlighten you on the latest wound to the Volvo. YES, as in every movie that shows the moon, it was full. And it was Mollie’s birthday. And, because TRISH is recovering from Chemotherapy very very slowly, I was sent to represent. Also, I did not have my hearing aids with me. Awkward in any social situation, forcing kids and grownups to yell and/or repeat is… rude. At least. BUT, while leaving, I mentioned to Mollie’s husband, Pete, the person who pretty much runs the activities in Port Gamble, AND the person who conducts the ghost tours, that the Volvo reached this milestone. And then, looking for some wood to knock on, I selected a wheel from a ship that was mounted on the wall.

“You should know,” Pete said, “that wheel came from a Japanese vessel sunk in World War II. Now, the ghosts might follow you home.” Maybe they did. It’s about 20 miles, and when I turned into my driveway, the car stalled. And wouldn’t start. Blown head gasket. AVID readers of realsurfers.net might recall that Adam James helped me with using some Blue Devil when the Volvo overheated about twenty or thirty thousand miles ago. Now, according to my mechanical guru, George Takamoto, I will have to replace the headgasket. Not happening immediately, but I do plan on getting it done. AND I thought I was very lucky that the car stopped in my driveway.

Not the same luck two nights later when the gauges stopped working on van.

LIFE is, of course, a combination of good luck, bad luck, and shit we cannot control. I try very hard not to just freak the fuck out. I do have almost enough faith to believe, with the setbacks and traumas and dramas, the cruel, profane wars of choice, the inhumane treatment of those we share this fragile existence with, that there is a reckoning coming, that my complaints are not really significant.

I guess I’m lucky, because I never get the blues; Oh yes, I’m quite lucky, because I never get the blues; Now I might get suspicious, and sometimes I’m anxious, too; I might even get desperate and tear up a thing or two, but I count myself lucky because I Never get the blues.

Please don’t tell me your problems and think that I can relate; I don’t harbor jealousy and I won’t subsidize hate; If you want to complain, you can just go to Helen Waite; Don’t be telling me gossip and acting as if it’s news, ‘Cause I can’t share your problem and I want no part of your blues.

Dream of tomorrow, we sacrifice all our todays; We’re so busy working, we don’t take the time to just play; Though I’m selling my blood just to pay up my union dues; I still count myself lucky because I never get the blues.

My old truck’s still running, My dog didn’t die, Not in love with a woman who told me ‘goodbye,’ And my mama still talks of her baby with pride, And I can’t remember the last time I cried.

But then… I’m lucky, because I never get the blues; Oh yes, I’m quite lucky, because I never get the blues; Yes, sometimes I get angry, and sometimes I’m hurtin’, too; I might even get lonely, but not like most people do; Then again, I’m just lucky; Yes, I count myself lucky; Hell yes, I’m quite lucky because I… never get… the… blues.

Contact- erwin@realsurfersdotnet

All rights reserved for “I Guess I’m Lucky,” Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

THANKS, as always, for checking out my site. Good luck, get some waves.