Author Archives: Erwin A. Dence Jr.

The Boys are Back in Town, Watch Out for Dum Dum, and an Atsushi DeFreines Short Story

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf trips, surf-related short storties, surfing, surfing in Washington State, surfing novels, writings of Erwin Dence

If I even say Port Townsend surfers, you have every right to ask, “What?” or “Where?” It’s, like, 80 miles, as the seagull flies, from the open Pacific, about 120 miles, as the roads bend and curve, from the actual coast. How could there be waves? Sooo, surfers go elsewhere. Yearly trips to exotic locales in Mexico, or even farther, exotic-er. Lucky. But trips end.

Chris Eardley, fish and wildlife guy, and his wife, Megan, fish and wildlife woman, are returning from Massachusetts, AND he made the possible mistake of texting photos. SO, there’s your, possibly, I’m guessing, typical New England in summer beach scene; Chris with the hat, possibly tied on, and looking very white and kind of muscle-ey (this assessment from another surf friend who got the same photos- and I agree), and an explainer text after Chris wrote, “Watch out for Dum Dum.”

I do not see any discernible wave action in the aerial shot, but I did warn Chris about getting any three hundred yards rides, or any multiple of number-of-rides-to-distance-per-ride that would put him into the area where the tagged great white shark might be lurking.

Meanwhile, surfers in my relatively small group of associates have been spread out across the country. Some are due back from inland, and even way inland. Yeah, great to travel, but it has to be compared to being here, waiting, hoping, checking the forecast… from the comfort of home.

NAM SIU UPDATE- I tried to call Nam Siu, mostly because people keep asking me how his recovery from a devastating illness is going. And because I recently did some work for HOWARD TEAS. Howard was/is a diver, used to surf in the Santa Cruz area, and does some creek water testing. Yes, Nam Siu is another fish and wildlife person. BUT, when I called him, the message was something like, “I do not recognize this number and I will not answer. If it is important…” He did text me, on my other phone, later. AND yes, Nam is ready to surf. All he needs is some surf. “I hear you.”

Here is a short story I’ve been working on while not working on the novel, “Swamis.” My problem with the novel is that, having watched too many shows on Netflix and Prime, and Apple TV (on my computer, thanks to Dru), I’ve decided that I have little time for dilly-dallying and padding and over-exposition. This story has Joseph Atsushi DeFreines, the narrator and main character from “Swamis,” a few years later.

What is true of Joey and is true of me is that rendering horrific acts of violence just seems wrong. Real people turn away from real horrors. Maybe. Anyway, if it seems the style is chopped up… yeah. It is. NOW, I really don’t want to get into, ‘here’s what I was going for here,’ BUT I wrote the opening paragraphs, had a violent act in mind for the ending, and wrote myself into a corner, mostly because Joey’s ‘voice’ is different than it is in “Swamis.” Then again, I’m still working on “Swamis.”

                                    A Three Day Surf Trip to Porthclaw- Fiction by Erwin Dence

Everything I saw through the windshield, wipers half-scraping in an uneven mist, aware of the steep hill to my right and the row of steep shale roofs to my left, was in black and gray, gray on gray; the color of dreams; foggy, grainy, slightly out of focus.

If it was a dream, it was one I’d had before; scenes disassembled and altered each time.

I knew there was water beyond the tight row of dark houses. The ocean’s barely discernible horizon line disappeared as my head snapped back to the road, barely wider than the car in which I was a passenger, left side, front seat, sideslipped around a corner.

Context. “Car in which.” Ridiculous, as is describing this memory, or dream, at all. I knew where and how the story would end. I couldn’t stop it. 

“The brakes,” I thought, or said, in dream-speak, pumping an imagined pedal, hoping for pushback.

“The brakes are a little… rusty.” I turned just far enough to my right, toward the silhouette of the driver, Samuel Hubbard/Jones, the features of his face made recognizable in the glow from his cigarette.

“Hot boxing, Samuel?”

“Nervous, Atsushi?”

There was a squealing, metal to metal, and what was as much a feeling as a sound of tires sliding, almost catching on a wet surface I knew to be cobblestone rather than asphalt. There was a push forward. “Downshift!” The car jerked. It did slow. The cigarette was in front of me. I took it. Because of some not-completely-gone habit, I inhaled.

 “No. Maybe they’re… better.” Samuel laughed. “The brakes. Working.”

I exhaled, filling the car’s cabin with smoke.

Blink. …

Samuel’s car almost slammed against an ancient rock wall; mildewed, decorated with floats, chunks of the foam missing; with frayed ropes; with nets no longer worth mending. These and shark jaws and fish skeletons were secured to posts that had been thrown or pulled into the ocean; but had been returned, cast ashore; worn, bleached, worm-holed, the softer wood in the grain deteriorated. Between the posts there was a meant-to-be-artistic fencing of driftwood; delicate, stripped of bark, branches from trees miles inland.

Blink. I was outside, looking at the car, over-large, something short of a Bentley. Gravel road grime, a faded paint job, and a couple of unrepaired dings kept it from being embarrassingly showy. Still, ostentatious. There were two boards on a rusty rack. Mine was on top; a six-four Gordon and Smith twin fin. Samuel’s was a yellowed, almost browned-out, very thick, seven-two single fin. He had told me who custom shaped it. I’ve forgotten the name.  

“Only surf shop in this part of Wales, Atsushi. They do have gloves, hoods, shit a California surfer doesn’t need. Don’t talk; they might not be fond of… Hawaiians.”

“But posh wankers from some fancy, upper crust part of London are…?”

Samuel was very close. “You’re stalling, Joseph Atsushi DeFreines; get on with it.”

“Okay.”

…

No. More exposition, more stalling: It was 1976. Without a law degree, and despite having passed the bar, I had couldn’t practice law in California without a sponsor. A sort of apprenticeship. I had just completed a four-year stint with the San Diego County Public Defenders’ Office. Low level paper shuffling, ‘keep ‘em moving,’ hanging out at traffic court, urging poor people to plead out, pay the fine, stay out of trouble, switch ‘non guilty’ to ‘guilty with an explanation.’ “And… I will speak to the judge… for you. What’s your… story?”

“Sincere, contrite” was my advice, “This judge doesn’t appreciate sarcasm.”

This was true. Mostly, though everyone appreciates a bit if the hurtful part is aimed at someone else. I was learning, in my few moments in court, how to… court.

I will mention, to continue to avoid writing about the incident in the bathrooms on the dock, that I was in England because Julie was taking a course on international law she might never use, but one that would help in her not surprisingly quickly advancing career, and, because my storefront law office in Mission Beach was bleeding money, and because I had a passport and an invitation, I dutifully followed my wife.

I had run into Mr. Hubbard/Jones in the hallway of a university town hostel; me with my board in an old cloth Surfboards Hawaii bag. Because Samuel, having identified himself as a surfer, having given me a not-unimpressive list of places he had surfed, was willing to blow off the first three days of the classes, plans were made. I tried to hide my excitement.  

“Better off without the bag around these here parts, cowboy,” Samuel said in a Hollywood western drawl.

“Possibly not,” I said in a Michael Caine influenced rhythm.

“See,” Julie said, “another surfer.”

“Wales?”

“Yes. Waves in… Wales.”

…

I was, in this recurring dream, as I had been in real life, standing outside a dive shop that had only recently begun selling surf gear.  

Three young men in clothing appropriate to the drizzle were checking out the car, and the boards, and Samuel, and me. It all seemed friendly enough. “I’ve been here before. But… Joe DeFreines… hasn’t.” Samuel said, “He and I… we’re not… trust me, aiming to publicize any spots. Just visiting.”

“Looks cold,” I said, looking at the lines of waves raking the distant breakwater. The small harbor was occupied by commercial fishing boats, mostly, day-trippers; the colors muted. Serious. Two short wharfs, or docks, or piers; I’ve never been clear on the distinctions; framed the view, perpendiculars to the horizontal layers of clouds. The larger building, to the left, was wood, probably stained, gray, originally. The mildew growing on it, green or almost black, was almost orange in some spots. The signage on the Porth Claw Dive Shop, black on white, had aged to gray on gray. “Surf supplies” were listed on a separate, newer sign, along with “Bait, and almost unreadably faded sign that read, “Tackle. Gear. Tanks Refilled while you wait.”

A cinder block building on the dock to the right had an almost unreadably faded sign that read, “Public Toilets and Showers.” There were two entrances, each marked with the broken front two-thirds of a surfboard, bolted into the block, graffiti scrawled, and flyers taped to them: “Surfers,” on one, “Surf Babes” on the other.

…

“What did happen, Joey?” It was Julie’s voice. Time and space, in dreams, are puzzle pieces, seeking a fit. I could see her reflection when she came into the room at the hostel, two days late from a three day surf trip. She turned on the lights and disappeared. “Are you ever going to tell me?” My unwillingness to fully talk about, to render an accurate image of violent incidents, images my mind wouldn’t allow me to fully see; what Julie perceived as a lack of trust, a lack of faith in her, a wound to any notion of true intimacy, of true love; this had been a major point of contention during our first divorce. Only divorce.

…

I was aware that a young woman had come out of the shop: Bright yellow raincoat, long blonde hair.  “Claudia,” Samuel said. Claudia didn’t over acknowledge the greeting. Rather, she checked the expressions on the other locals. As did Samuel. As I did.

An old stepside pickup, the step long rusted out, backed in. There were crab pots in the truck bed. Or lobster pots. Cages, really, metal framework, netting. A metal tank took up most of the bed, extending onto the tailgate, water sloshing out of it. Four sets of scuba tanks were secured to the back posts for the racks. Two heavy diver’s wetsuits were flopping on the siderails. The locals looked over at the driver as he and another young man in the appropriately heavy clothing, got out.

“Claudia,” the driver said, as if it was a question, scanning between Claudia, me, Samuel, and the other three locals, “You know these… tourists?”

“Surfers, Ian,” one of the locals, tallest and skinniest of the three, said. “Passing through.” 

“You know these… tourists… Claudia?”

Claudia’s response was to take a breath and shake her head. Not a deep breath. Not a real head shake.

“You don’t know Claudia,” Ian said, walking toward Samuel but talking to the skinny local. “Air me up, please, Barry; if you would.” Barry was moving a high-pressure hose toward the back of the truck, Samuel was shaking his head when Ian asked, “Do you?”

“Everyone knows Claudia,” the young man from the passenger side of the truck, lowering the tailgate and pulling a set of tanks closer, and picking up a spanner, said. “Claudia, your former girlfriend. Former.”

“And… never yours… Ollie.” Ian gave Ollie the reverse peace sign, two finger, English version of flipping someone the bird.

I must have chuckled. Everyone seemed to turn toward me. “She… Claudia… She is in the brochure, for ‘lovely, friendly Porthclaw,’” I said. “I saw it… on the counter.”

Claudia nodded, gave Ian a double handed flipoff, and headed toward the bathrooms.

Ian pulled a set of scuba tanks off the rail, set them on the ground, grabbed the high-pressure hose from Barry and tried to turn the valve. “Still fucked, huh?” He turned toward his diving partner, put one hand out toward the wrench he was holding. “And… fuck you, Ollie. If Claudia’s too good for me… mate…”

Ian held the hose as Ollie used the wrench to turn the valve on and off, several times. “Way too good, Ian.”

…

I was in the overstocked shop, my hands on the front counter, one hand in a very heavy glove, a pair of diver’s booties between me and the older man, smiling, holding the other glove open. “You’ll appreciate the good of it when you get in the water… son.”

…

I was in the dark, dank bathroom, seemingly desperate to piss. Urinate. Someone was crying from the other half of the building. Someone yelled, “Get out!” There were sounds of a scuffle. Several voices. One of the voices belonged to Samuel Hubbard/Jones.

…

“You have to tell them the story, DeFreines.”

“We shouldn’t have been there, Samuel. That’s my story.”

…

“What happened, Joey? Atsushi, I love you. You have to tell me.” Julie.

“Have to? Julie… I… will.”

…

I was in the dark. Or I had my eyes closed. “Mr. DeFreines, the court acknowledges the difficulty one would reasonably have in describing such an abominable, heinous act perpetrated on another human being. Your written statement has been recorded and read to the jury. Would you now reconfirm that the descriptions of the attack, the beating, the sexual… assault with the use of the… If it please the court… Thank you, your honor. Mr. DeFreines?”

“I stand by my account.”

…

I was awake. Or I thought I was. I was alone.

“What is it you’re not allowing yourself to admit?” A different woman’s voice. Therapist. “You say it’s guilt. For what?”

“For being there. In… these… places, and for being… unable…”

“What else do you believe you could have done?”

“They… they call a wrench a spanner. I could have… maybe…”

“Taken it? Stopped it?”

…

I was back in Porthclaw. A misplaced ray of sunlight hit me as I stepped out of the ‘surfer’ side. I saw the air hose on the cracked concrete. Taut. “Is this what you want, Claudia?” It was Ian’s voice.

There was a rushing of air. On. Off. On.

Claudia was crying, “No, no. No. Ian!” between the sobs and before they became one continuous scream.

I was frozen.

“Joey,” Samuel yelled as he passed me. “Come on!” He jammed between Barry and the two other locals at the doorway to the ‘surf babes’ side. I seemed to unfreeze. I knocked Barry out of the way and pulled on the hose. One or both of the locals said, “Not me. Not me, man,” as I struck each of them, straight shots to their chests.

“Ian,” I said.

“Ian,” Ollie said. “Ian. No!”

Claudia was still screaming when Ian let her fall from the farthest, darkest corner. Samuel sliding on the wet floor, was on his knees when he reached her.

“Your fault, Ollie,” Ian said. “You love her? Do you? Her?”

I looked at the spanner in Ollie’s hand. I looked at Samuel. He shook his head. I looked at Claudia. She was turning away, both hands on her lower abdomen. I looked at Ian, defiant, for a moment. I heard the squeak of the hose nozzle, not quite all the way shut off.

…

It seems to me that it’s unnecessary if not wrong to describe the absolute… absolute wrongness of moment, the aftermath of an “Abominable, heinous act perpetrated on another human being.” It’s not that I don’t remember; it’s that I do. Guilt. Regret. Pieces I can’t fit back into the puzzle. Still, the next time I had this dream, I took the spanner from Ollie and used it on Ian and his defiant look.   

NOTICES- Original work by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. on realsurfers.net is protected by copyright. All rights reserved by the author. CONTACT- erwin@realsurfers.net

THANK YOU, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net WHETHER you’re here or there or somewhere else, get some waves when you can.

Texts and Incomplete Stories and Drop-Ins and Re-Entries and Joel Visits the North County and…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf contests, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf stories, surf trips, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

I got this text with the note, “Who’s burning whom?” Someone is definitely tucked into a small tube (a tuberoonie), and some, possibly entitled, dick is dropping in. This was kind of a ‘guess who’s on the wave’ and a ‘guess the spot’ thing. I immediately thought the surfer was Stephen R. Davis. I’ve seen him pig-dog barrels of any size many times. The kelp fooled me. “Oh? Really? Okay.” I certainly do not want to blow up the spot, which I am aware of, but, hearing it’s often crowded and because it would require a ferry ride, I haven’t attempted to surf there; so… Your turn; maybe you know the drop in dude. For the record, it wasn’t me.

FIRST- I am available at erwin@realsurfers.net

SECOND- You can ignore my previous post. It’s fine. I really don’t like to get political, but… ignoring reality doesn’t do anything to change it, or help us to be better prepared for whatever changes are coming. We all, eventually, must face hard truths that are true nonetheless. ANYWAY, just hyping myself up enough to write something someone might consider as opposing their position, thinking about what really angers/bothers/hurts me the most, I find it’s the level of hate that people who consider themselves good, Christian, American, patriotic (choose one or all- options include ‘white’ and ‘no way related to any immigrants,’ and ‘fuck you.’) are willing to spew, the lack of compassion, the apparently ease with which horrors inflicted on others somehow is some righteous vengeance for wrongs you believe were done to you. A HARD TRUTH I must accept is that I understand where some of this comes from, how easy it is to lose any sense of empathy or compassion, to put myself in another person’s shoes and then turn away when basic decency is ignored, or worse, if inhumane treatment of fellow humans is celebrated. It is, I would think, hard to be SAVED, redeemed, by the grace of GOD, AND to part of the hateful mob. I can’t help thinking about JESUS asking his, our, father to forgive the jeerers and the mob celebrants, “For they know not what they do.” YEAH, use the ‘I didn’t know; argument when you’re searching your soul.

Joel Carben (not carbon- “I’m not an essential element”) and his family are down at the San Elijo Campground. It seems like it’s an annual thing. He sent me this text with the line, “Name the spot.” Because my board surfing life started in North San Diego County, and because I’m just kind of a ‘know it all,’ I wrote back, “Cardiff Reef? It was once, yeats(sic) go, Cardiff Pier.” “Yes, Cardiff Reef, Swamis is peeling in the background.” I didn’t see anything peeling. “There is solid S swell forecasted for the weekend. What’s your call on S swell? It’s like 3 @202 degrees, peaking Saturday. I can surf anything from Cardiff to Swamis.” “I didn’t really study it when I lived down there. It was either waves, or no waves. I was never that fond of Cardiff because it’s always kind. of bbrokenbut you should probably try suicide reef, please. Form of a called seaside trailer. Park formerly called.”

On July fourth, Joel, who started his surf career on Long Island, New York, was a commuter/surfer living in Seattle before moving to the Olympic Peninsula, sent these: “My guess: somewhere between Cardiff and Pipes.” “Yessirf! Cardiff Reef left (not in the photo) Surfed it this AM, nicce S swell hitting.” “Nice. Innsider information. AThe beach, just south of Cardiff ws ccalled stretch mark beach because women who had babies would go there go there.” “LOL” “Also, since I’m sharing all this ancient historical stuff. There was no spot called brown house. A result (should have been ‘it was all called’) Swamis beachbreak. There was a pull out on 101 where the house or houses are now. Good place to check out the surf. Phil harper and I got Busted for sleeping in the back of his Truck. No, we told the cops we had our parents permissiannd they said we did not have their permission. And being 117, we drove away. And when we got back swamis’s was crowded. Of course.”

“Is all this going to be in the movie?” “Maybe” “Can I be Keith’s stunt double please (prayer imoge)” “There are no surfers your age h in the novel. Sorry Keith is not ibn iit either” “But he will be crushed Keith has to have a cameo or I’m boycotting it (Included is a photo of Keith Darrock doing a ‘dab’ cutback on a very small wave close to very big rocks) Or maybe that’s the follow up to your multi million dollar book and movie empire. Keith and his bannd of Strait chasers.” “Sounds good to me. I promised Stephen (R. Davis) he could play Gingerbread Fred. When he and I were speaking.”

“There’s the cover photo.” “Okay, Joel, there might be a tale or two.”

“First session ever at Seaside Reef (coral and wave emojis)” “I think I only served there one time and it was a Sunday and the only other surfer in the water was Donald Takiyama. I did not speak to him. But we did trade-off waves. And there might have beenn a couple of nods.” “Takayama is a legend.” “Takayama.”

Photo of Joel on a trip back to the alternate coast, representing. Most recent text: “I do enjoy surfing here but…”

Yes, there is more to every story. For example, that one time at Seaside Trailer Park… My not-yet brother-in-law and his first wife lived in Solana Beach. My vehicle must have been broken at the time. I got dropped off by Trisha’s mother. Trish was supposed to go but wasn’t up to it. Awkward ride there and back as my future mother-in-law wasn’t a big Erwin fan. Yet, and possibly, ever. Anyway… blah, blah, Takayama.

LASTLY, since I’ve kind of gotten into this Sally Fitzgibbons vortex; I stayed up the other night to watch some Challenger Series surfing from South Africa. Sally won her heat in the round of sixteen with some solid surfing and competitive skills, but some falls and some drama. The winners at the Ballito Pro become wildcards at the upcoming CT contest at Jeffrey’s Bay, so… not really stoked on the Challenger Series level of surfing, and because watching any sporting event live is better than a rehash (usually), I was rooting for Sally. I went to bed, but, luckily, woke up just in time for the quarterfinal heat. Again, some drama. Sally won.

Last night, semi-finals. I stayed up late enough to watch it. Sally was, in, leading with great wave selection, but the eventual winner of that heat, and of the contest, Nadia Erostarbe, got some really big scores on one-move re-entries. Not to be a sideline whiner, but there are quite a few surfers, particularly on the women’s side, who count on the bottom turn to re-entry move for seven or eight point rides, rather than the down-the-line rail-to-rail, with slashing, and freefalls, and stylish cutbacks surfing that garners six point rides, maybe. Anyway, I thought it would be a cool story for Sally… It takes the complete package to win at J-Bay. I will be checking it out, live or otherwise, but probably not until the elimination rounds. Stories. There are always stories.

I AM STILL working on the novel, “Swamis.” Not, like, full time. THANKS again for checking out realsurfers.net OH, and a south swell? Might not work for the Strait.

There is no Other America…

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, writings of Erwin Dence

…to save America… except America. If America needs saving from tyrants and kings and dictators, from an amazingly accelerating descent from a nation OF and BY and FOR the people to yet another country ruled by yet another unrestrained, disgustingly amoral, self-professed strong man; yet another country of people governed by lies and intimidation; characterized by fraud and deceit, hatred and bigotry, carrots for those willing to submit, sticks for those who don’t, a willingness to ignore or even condone unspeakable cruelty… If that is where we are headed, pushed toward living our lives under the ridiculously hateful and freedom oppressing agenda, not in anyway a new idea, but one long promoted in America by haters who claim some religious right to hate, by those who will strike out against anyone claiming those pushing this agenda are not ‘good people… If easy success is given to profiteers and grifters and scammers and… and the rest of us, who, not yet forced to bend a knee, hold our breath, hold our tongues, wait, in hope, that the American experiment of democracy, always fragile, never perfect, might survive.

If we get another chance to vote, we should. Meanwhile, I’m doing the most American thing I can think of; I’m going to work.

Not that surfing or looking for surf is in any way unpatriotic.

About the sketch. I had an idea, ran out of time. I’ll get back to it. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net

Casualty of the Cool and Casual, and a Haiku or 2

Posted on by under northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surfing satire, surfing stories, writings of Erwin Dence

I was thinking, yesterday, about casualness; specifically, about whether I have ever been casual about surfing. Maybe not. If casualness is being cool, that being something like indifferent; the answer is probably no. The closest I have come is deciding whether I want to paddle out in questionable conditions. If the conditions are even moderately surfable, and the options are getting skunked or trying to find somewhere else that might be marginally better, I have, historically (and it’s a long history) paddled out. Once in the water, my attitude has always been to surf as well as I am able.

Sometimes there is no decision. I have to go out. There is no way I’m not paddling out.

Because my love, respect, and a certain level of fear of waves has not diminished, I approach each session with anticipation, always hoping to get a wave or waves that offer that unmistakable level of thrill, those moments of barely controled weightlessness in a heavy, uncontrollable world.  Maybe it’s making a wave I shouldn’t have made, the lip hitting me as I was driving across the face, and somehow, I didn’t just crash. Whatever the moment is, or the moments are, I still want to be cool about it. Casual.  

Back to yesterday. I had a job to finish, and I’d spent some time writing, conscious of how much work I had and how much time I was willing to spend before I was scheduled to meet a possible client about a possible project. I took off, chatting on the phone with my daughter, Dru, about behind the scenes stuff concerning the movie, “Nosferatu,” which she had seen, alone, practically, in a theater, and I had screened the night before. Less than a mile away, a not-unfamiliar whump-whumping made me check my tires. Yep. Cruise back home, take the tire off, drop it off at Les Schwab. Should be quick.

It wasn’t. I am not a stranger to flat tires, or to changing them. Using the jack from my work van, I got the tire off. Because I had to shift gear to the van, I reached into the front seat. That’s when, because I was so casual that I didn’t believe I had to block the wheels…

Minor setback. I was able to get the jack out, lower it (slow process), block the tires (like, both front tires, blocks on both sides of each), get the back axle off the ground.

Shouldn’t have been THAT casual.

This, sadly, isn’t the first time I was irresponsibly casual about changing tires. Possibly inspired by the father in “A Christmas Story,” I once changed a tire in record time on a small pickup while Trish was watching. I think we were actually talking about the movie as I did the job. The next morning, leaving at the last minute to meet the vanpool to my job at the shipyard, a mile or so from home, I noticed a certain weirdness in the way the truck handled. I thought or said, “Probably forgot to tighten the lug nuts when the truck was lowered. Probably okay.”

Going down the last hill, my turn to the park and ride lot on my left and the van coming up to the stop sign, my back left tire came rolling up beside me as the axle hit the pavement, sparks flying, and all I could think of as I screeched and slid to a stop was, “I pretty much have control.”

A car pulled alongside me as I jumped out. A fairly freaked-out passenger asked, “Hey, are you all right?” “Yeah,” I said, “I gotta make that vanpool.”

I couldn’t, of course. And the only other vanpooler who lived in Quilcene was, not unsurprisingly, given the pre-dawn light show, reluctant to let me borrow his car.

It all worked out pretty well yesterday. There was a record lack of crowd at Les Schwab, and I was able to get my tire replaced quickly. It had a square drive screw in it, but… note… any driving on a pretty flat tire will ruin the sidewalls. I should remember that. As for the other incident, the truck required a replacement half-axle. ‘Dirty’ John McKinley (I didn’t give him the nickname) asked how it was I didn’t lose control and crash. “Lucky?” “Yeah. Lucky.”

HAIKU- I’ve been, in my attempt to fool other into believing I’m some sort of poet, been writing some Haiku (I believe Haiku is both singular and plural- don’t quote me). Enough so that I’m starting to think in five, seven, five syllable patterns. So, it is only natural that I write a few about surf spots.

REMEMBER, YOU can write to realsurfers, or submit your own story at erwin@realsurfers.net

Haiku for You- A few surf spots I would never blow up and a couple that are already blown

Cape Kiwanda-

Beachwalkers walking… There are multiple web cams… The empty waves roll.

Boats crash through the waves… Portland rippers are elsewhere… Short Sands or Seaside?

Short Sands or Seaside? Okay, Seaside-

The Cove, not the Point… You…get out of my lineup… I’ll kill for this wave.

Westport- 

You see my new board?… Got it custom, so special… It cost more than your car.

I learned to surf here… Jumping into the reforms… I’m an enforcer.

Friends left me stranded… Need a ride to Lake Union… Yes, Fremont’s okay

Sort of secret spot(s) on the Strait and/or the Northern Coast-

You claim there are waves… Is this the only way in?… Can’t be worth the hike

I know that I rip… I once made a long wave here… So, now it’s my spot

The parking lot’s full… So, the waves must be pumping… Can you drop me off?

There almost are waves… There are tourists a’plenty… Watch out for dog shit

I love the vibe here… Great brunches and campfires… And sometimes I surf

Locals aren’t friendly… With a tough reputation… I got a nod once

The surf’s always flat… The ferry waits are brutal… And gas isn’t free

Joe Roper Rules Kearney Mesa, Drop me a line at erwin@realsurfers.net, Please, and Not a Meme! Especially not THAT Meme!

Posted on by under aggressive surfers, classic surfboards, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, surf satire, surf sessions, surfing Southern California in the 60s, writings of Erwin Dence

“This calls for an investigation;” a man claiming to be from Lindell TV told her viewers; “People are posting scurrilous images of our Vice President, Jon Doe Vance, son, we now believe, and contrary to his own biography, Paddy ‘Loan’ Vance; and this cannot be tolerated in this here United States. If you cannot respect the man, respect the office; at least as much as our much maligned president, a true leader truly beloved by all the rightest, brightest, shiniest people, does.”

Now, it’s not like I even know how to watch the channel put out by My Pillow guy, loser in a multitude of defamation lawsuits. I was hepped to this by someone… Can’t reveal source. Seems like fun to me; the pillow guy, alternating between hugging and crying into his pillows made (using the Colonel Sanders playbook) by poor and desperate American widows. Maga Mike and the guy with some alleged ties to advanced couch… surfing (?) Alleged. But, NO, this might even be a conspiracy designed by secret cat lovers, unwed and otherwise. You know the type. I mean, yes, there are at least two illustrations of cats in the background. AND a wolf. Wolf? Russia? Yeah. Maybe it’s a coyote. Mexico?

After careful analysis, it seems like my nose is larger. And redder. If it’s Hegseth Red, it’s coincidental. Sunburn in my case. BUT, maybe with a little Maybelline, some botox, a bit of the Kristi Noem line of Revlon lip gloss, and… As our leader would say, backed up by the man most responsible for his very presence everywhere we look (make you own list: Include McConnell), I should just fucking get over it.

OKAY. Over it.

I saw a thing on YouTube about JOE ROPER celebrating fifty years as the preeminent ding repair guru in the San Diego area. Because I can’t help myself, while waiting for the ads that precede most videos to end, I check out the comments. The second one from about a guy who was mercilessly and purposefully slammed by Joe’s board and told to go back to Clairemont (maybe Joe called it ‘kookmont’ or ‘Shitmont’). The purpose was to dissuade non-locals, and the victim seemed to kind. of understand that, despite Clairemont Mesa being just over I-5 and way less than five miles from Pacific Beach.

I have a few connections to Joe Roper. I lived in Pacific Beach, very very close to Tourmaline Canyon Surf Park, from November, 1971, until the spring of 1973. I was twenty, Joe was probably 15, and he was one of the only surfers, back in my city surfing days, during which I developed my ‘ghetto mentality,’ whose name I knew; mostly because he was a standout surfer, and partially because I witnessed several incidents very similar to the one described in the comments. I did ask him why he full-board-to-the-full-body slammed the surfer in the shorebreak. You know the answer.

In a case of poor editing, let me now jump to the possibly ironic fact that the ding repair business that is celebrating fifty years in business is located beyond Clairemont Mesa. Next mesa over, Kearney Mesa, east of I-5 and ‘the’ 805. Not that I care.

I wrote several pieces for realsurfers on Mr. Roper. One was that he surfed Crystal Pier like it was Pipeline. Totally true. That he became a known name at Pipeline was not a fluke, though I was surprised, after a few years of living up the way, University City (slightly inland) and Encinitas (both east of I-5), when I saw Joe, in a Gordon and Smith ad, at Pipeline.

Another, even more tenuous connection, is that I have run into two other surfers who knew Joe. BIG DAVE RING was part of the ‘pier rats’ group Joe was a part of, if not the leader of. CHRIS BAUER, now building quality surfboards on the North Olympic Peninsula, got his start working for Mr. Roper. “All he let me do when I started was sand,” Chris told me. When I started telling my stories, Chris had to remind me that he and I are of different generations. “Yeah. I get it.”

This is kind of a quickie posting. I’m working on several other pieces for the bigger deal on Sunday. Topic: Casual Surfing; Myth or Fantasy?

I hope you’re doing some surfing, casual or intense. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.

erwin@realsurfers.net

Other People’s Surf Stories and…

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rrosurf session ealsurfers.net now has a dedicated email location. Not surprisingly, it’s erwin@realsurfers.net This gives you an opportunity to send your comments, good or, like, really good. It isn’t as if I’m out of stories, and every surf session, every surf trip is another opportunity. Still, it is obvious that I’m chronicling an objectively fickle little zone in a world of surf spots, and I have a limited number of close surf friends, and that I’m further limited in what I can write about by a host of self-centered and perfectly logical restrictions on what spots I can mention, and whether any of these unnamed destinations might ever have decent waves.

YES, I have tales yet untold from the last century; with less crowded waves, possibly more colorful characters, and yes, there is the drawing and the endlessly unfinished novel (“Swamis,” as a reminder), BUT, allow yourself the opportunity to have something published; your art, your story, your pithy and well-formed critique, or your clever commentary on anything related to surf culture. OR you can just write something like, “Hey, dude, you would have loved the session you missed at ______ the other day.” Feel free to blow up any spot not on the Olympic Peninsula, so… Ocean Shores south. No, you should think before you, you know, sell out somewhere you might want to surf again… but Westport is fair game.

AND, as a bonus, if having tens of readers from all over the world skim over or dive into your work isn’t enough, you can get a share of the money I take in (which is, so far, nothing- I have no control over those ads). So far. Note: When I had a poem (edited) in “Surfer” in 1968, I received $10 and a copy of the magazine. I have neither at this point, BUT once YOU’RE on the big web… Oh, yeah; fame will stck to you like something between a groovy tan and a bad sunburn. Still, better than a rash. Not that I know. I’m… guessing.

I’ll be checking my mail, erwin@realsurfers.net I’m not yet swamped. I’ll probably write back.

Images by Keith Darrock, who cruised down to Westport to hang with a friend from high school, caught some beach break waves, and broke his toe in a bicycle mishap. This didn’t totally curtail Keith’s surfing; boogie board and using his smallest board as a kneeboard (three uses of the word ‘board’ in one sentence- now four) is taking up some of the slack.

SAY- Surf injuries; another possible subject.

Adam Wipeout recently (vague) went up to help Soupy Dan build out this trailer. Since they were by the water… accidental score. Sure. Accidental? Or one of those times when all the plan works out? SIDE NOTE” That orange-ish board is on permanent loan to Adam after/while on permanent loan to me from Atsushi “Archie: Endo, he on longterm loan to Thailand.

The Ballad of Joey and Tony (Joey is in the photo, above)

I should tell the version I spewed, rapidly, while holding up the line at the Pet Smart, Trish on the cell phone giving the clerk the information on how they, according to their website, had a ninety-nine-dollar cat tree available for pickup. Simultaneously, the next person told me Costco has cat trees. “Thanks.” Getting the phone back, I said, “Trish. Costco…” “Fine.”

So:

“I’m not really a cat person. My wife is. We always had cats. The last one died… But these other two cats showed up in our driveway. We thought it was one cat. We’ve gotten other cats this way. Feral. Abandoned. Some of each. People… have you heard of this? People get these cats, get them neutered, then, snip off the end on one ear, and, like it’s kind or something, they let them go. We had a cat lady who lived nearby. But… it’s Quilcene. Dangerous. We’ve had bears… Once we had a cougar kill a raccoon… right in front of our Ring camera. So… Tony, the friendly one… I put a heat lamp in the mud room in the winter. Eventually, he became an indoor/outdoor cat.“

But the other one, Joey… we gave them androgenous names… I never could get close to Joey until, the other morning, he was out where I put the food. Dead.”

“Oh, my.”

“Except… he wasn’t. Tony, and they had to be related, he was scared shitless. After an hour or so, I go out in the mudroom with a cup of coffee, ready… And… he moved.”

“Moved?”

“Moved. I took him to the vet. Had to. He had come to us for help.”

“Did they help him?”

“No. I don’t know what I thought they could do. Adrenaline. Something.”

At about this time, another cashier showed up to open another register. My cashier tallied the treats and toys an inside cat might need. I paid, picked up the bag. The woman with the Costco suggestion moved her stuff up. I turned back.

“I told the people at the vets that I was practical enough to have put a shovel in my car.” I took two more steps. “What’s… something, something that still bothers me. A couple of people gave me shit for paying for a cat’s… you know, paying, when Joey wasn’t my cat.”

The woman just nodded. “Costco? Okay,” I said.

Tony? He’s… adapting.

I am working on some poetry. Yes, the acceptably pretentious kind… Except, I can’t seem to stay within the boundaries. I wanted to post something I’ve been working on, two poetry adjacent pieces. I opted to put out the more quickly written and not as precious story about Joey and Tony. No, a bit more refining. As a warning, I took the HAIKU format, and wrote five related, uh, haikus. One story. I did and I am still considering writing some sort of chorus. We’ll see.

Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net. I look forward to hearing from you. Meanwhile, hit some waves when you can!

No Comments, Parades, Waves, and the Fun Car Abides… Still… WAIT, new way to Comment

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf stories, writings of Erwin Dence

I signed up for an email account through Word Press. I tried it out, it seems to work. I can now be contacted by writing to erwin@realsurfers.net. Yeah, I guess that means I’ll kind of know who is sending me the love… or whatever. And yes, I can take criticism. Sort of. And no, I can’t really reveal when or where I’ve surfed recently. Still, I am open to publishing surf stories by others. And I have. Give it a shot when you get a chance. I’m actually pretty excited about this.

OOPS, I googled “Big parade yesterday.” Kim Jong Un, “Little Rocket Man,” may or may not have sent a message to his US counterpart; congratulatory or otherwise. I was actually not going to participate in the “No Kings” demonstration in Port Townsend yesterday (not PT in the photo), the deal set for the polite hours, noon to one, designed not to interrupt coffee, brunch, with lunch delayed, BUT, because I doddled and dilly-dallied, watching just ‘one more heat’ at the Big Show WSL event at Lower Trestles, and because I had to buy some stuff before going to a job, I got stuck driving past the early arrivers, and, because I said I might do this, I drove past the folks, mostly in my age demographic, lining both sides of Sims Way. AND, yes, I honked. And waved. Some anti-fascism, pro-rule-of-law, pro-democracy people may have noticed the beat to “Louie, Louie.”

Anyway, sorry Donny, that your party pooped out. Kind of surprised you didn’t wear some sort of uniform. Maybe you did. Nice of all the ‘suckers and losers’ to march on by. Not like Miss America contestants, but… I would have considered checking it out, but… no; I was busy. I am a bit curious about the size and shape of the cake.

ROY, THE RIGHT PERSON FOR THE JOB.

THE FUN CAR survives another scare. I had a ‘crank, no start’ episode that coincided with an oil leak from the 1994 940 Volvo wagon’s crank case. Mysterious. I fooled around with the wiring, pulling things off things, putting them back on. I called my mechanic friend, George Takamoto, no longer working on rigs because he has dialysis three times a week (though, good news, he is scheduled to go the University of Washington hospital soon with the hope of getting on the transplant list), from the counter at Napa Auto Parts. I had already bought a replacement coil from O’Reilly, whose motto should be, “Our parts are shitty, but we’ll replace them when they fail,” but was checking whether Napa had a Bosch part like the coil I’d taken off (because it was easily done and because I, somehow, trust Bosch more than O’Reilly. George was against wasting my money, suggested I get an electrical probe. I did. Less than four bucks.

I went back to the job where the fun car had failed to start, put the old Bosch back in with the help of the guy who was receiving all the furniture the next day for the house. The fun car was a blockage. It didn’t start. I left, checked out the possibility of surf sort of nearby, came back, and, in yet another miracle, it started right up. AND, knock on wood, it’s started every time since.

My daughter, Dru, asked me what I want for Fathers’ Day. Well, because my car is still stuck in Port Townsend, and because I am petrified to even attempt anything mechanical, and because she works across the street from a shop that worked on Volvos, and usually parks in front of it, I asked her if she ever sees people there. The rumor is that it’s only open two days a week or so. Because I had to give Dru some items that came to my house, I checked the place out, opened the door, and met Roy. Because it was a Volvo of a certain age, and because Roy had genuine Volvo gaskets around, and because I agreed to talk more softly, he agreed to replace the gasket.

I found a reason to come back the next day. The job was almost done. A buddy of Roy’s, Paul, who works on tugboats, was hanging out. It all would have been easier if I hadn’t asked Roy to replace the existing, blown head gasket surviving (thanks to Adam Wipeout) spark plugs with new one I had purchased but not installed because YouTube said it might be tricky. I gave up when the first one didn’t want to come out. SO, of course, the plug hardest to get to caused problems. Cursing, a prerequisite of wrenching, ensued. This tool, that trick… success!

SURF STUFF- I believe it’s only the second time I drove my big boy work van out to the Strait. I was that desperate. Damn the expense, I need waves! I may have gotten a few. Or a few more. And then…? And now, the Volvo’s (knocking on more wood) back. ALSO, I was a bit surprised to see Yago Dora and Betty Lou Sakura Johnson prevailing over the locals at Trestles. I did watch some of the early action, and post-watched a few recaps. What I didn’t do, but frequently do, is check out the comments, see who was under or over-scored, all that stuff.

SPEAKING OF COMMENTS, I got one from a guy with his own site, possibly drawn to realsurfers because I got a tiny bit political. He asked me to check his site. I did. He asked me to comment. I tried. I stopped the process when Word Press wanted my email address and, maybe I’m wrong, my password. NO; it’s not worth it. I do get some feedback, mostly at the beach or in the lineup, often directed at some one else. “Is that the guy who posts all kinds of stuff about spots on the Strait?” No. Which really means, ‘not any more.’ Learned that lesson.

It is painting season, and I haven’t had much time for drawing. I did this while waiting for my wife, Trish, at a doctor’s office. Sketch, meant to go along with my song, “Between Alone and Lonely.”

BECAUSE KEITH DARROCK’S MOM sent him a passport photo of Keith’s dad at 31 year old; and because I worked with JOEL CARBEN, and because I have this photo of my father from about the time I was born, and because it’s Fathers’ Day… some photos.

Because Chris Eardley said he would love to see a photo of me with hair and without a mustache, here is one of Trish and me from 1969. Or 1970. My or her Senior Prom. I could be wrong. I’ll ask Trish.

Incidentally, because I am usually one of the oldest surfers at any session, and because I have a damaged or lack of a filter, I too-frequently ask other surfers how old they are. “Whoa; you look way older.” This doesn’t get a great response, but I do follow up with, “Makes me wonder how the fuck old I look.” Most surfers are too polite to answer honestly.

Happy survived yesterday day. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.

No Kings Day…

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NO KINGS!

Shit’s happening. Parades and demonstrations, legislators and their spouses shot in Wisconsin, soldiers in the streets, tension levels spiking… Oh, yeah, and the contest is on at Trestles, tomorrow is fathers’ day, and I am trying to decide between panic and that pathetically sad rationalization that, some…

…some crazed asshole assassinating democrats is better, somehow, than the targets being people on the maga side of normal. What would the reaction be to that? Guaranteed screaming of, “See? See what we say about those radicals on the left?”

Is political murder in any way just? Of course not. Are there people happy to push the fear level up among those who worry about grifts and the blatant abuse of power, about the push and the slide toward control by fear? Sure.

Demonstrations are theater. Murder is murder.

Because I thought my biggest self debate today would be between whether I should watch surfing or go to Port Townsend to work and, perhaps, participate in the demonstration by, mostly, older Americans. I do, also, have work in town. So…

I turned off the WSL. I will let you know how it goes.

Also… Does the murderer believe he might just get a pardon?

In a Corner with Sally Fitzgibbons and Other Stuff Concerning Competition

Posted on by under aggressive surfers, Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf contests, surf culture, surf satire, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing stories, writings of Erwin Dence

photo from Facebook after Sally’s second place finish at the Burton Automotive Newcastle Surffest.

I’ve written a bit on how I’ve been rooting for Sally Fitzgibbons lately. It’s not all that important to me; and it isn’t like I should feel too bad about one of the most successful female surfers ever falling off the big tour, again, and having to fight her way back again. But, it’s a story. “I didn’t know I had that many tears to cry” is a quote I heard repeated in the broadcast. Is Sally a nice person? Supposedly. Is JOB as nice as he presents himself? I’ve heard otherwise. Is JJF on tour, or Steph? Or Gabriel? Have I rooted for Kelly while realizing he might be the ultimate sellout? Okay; no, I take that back. Did I root for nepo-surfer Kalohe? Or Cola bros study-to-the-test surf robots? How about gymnast-surfers?

Yes, no, sort of; hey, I’m just being realistic. Still, I was on a painting project yesterday for surfer/realtor Joel Carben, and I was aware I was missing finals day on the YouTube on the big screen at my house. “Oh, so you’d skip making money to watch a Challenger Series contest in Australia?” “We’re not talking that much money, Joel, and anyway, how many times have you skipped out on surf you know is happening to make money?” Joel was satisfied with the answer. I checked on my phone. Sally had won the quarter final heat. “Okay, another hour.”

The Big Show contest at Trestles starts tomorrow. Will I be rooting for Gaby? Probably not. Caty or that girl who claims she’s from Canada. Both have Oceanside connections. Jordy? Yes. Or… we’ll see how it plays out. I don’t have to watch it live. Work. Or, maybe, surf.

NOTE: Today (or so) marks my having survived 56 years as a painter. Trish doesn’t count my time as a sign painter’s apprentice, but I do. As I was telling Joel, if you can think of something I haven’t painted, let me know.

I have written several things lately. I might have to post them separately. BUT, here’s something I wrote because of my conversations while working with Joel, who, incidentally, is very proud to have participated in an invitational pro/am contest at Huntington Pier in the nineties. He is perfectly willing to list all the famous surfers and musicians he was among, and stoked to retell every detail of a ride that got him I (if I remember correctly) a 7.5.

Joel Carben (not Carbon- “I’m not an element.” “Oh, but… aren’t you?) representing the Northwest back on the East Coast

Competitive? Mindset or Personality Disorder? Like, How Would I Know?

My friend and my first surf co-conspirator not a member of my family, Phillip C. Harper, alerted me to the opportunity to participate in a high school contest sponsored by KGB (radio station) and the Windansea Surf Club, I instantly agreed. It was 1968, I was a junior at Fallbrook (20 miles inland, as the road winds), and had been riding actual surfboards for almost three years. So, sure, why not?

None of my contemporaries who had started surfing in the meantime joined in. Or even thought it was a good idea. Or even wanted to go to San Diego to watch. I ended up talking Donn Fransith(sp?) into driving me the first day, two girls going along (Bill Buel’s cousin and a girl whose name I’ve forgotten), neither because I was so cool. This is a hint: I drove myself the second day.

So, obviously I was masochistic and/or delusional, setting myself up for humiliation, defeat, and, by extension, not doing any other surfers from Fallbrook High any favors.

It isn’t as if I was overly or crazily competitive at any other sports. I didn’t have a shot for basketball, was afraid of the ball in football (freshman, fourth string replacement), wasn’t fast enough for track and field, didn’t want to wear bunhugger trunks or do the breaststroke the way the coach insisted it was to be done (and he was right). I did go out for wrestling. I had the moves, didn’t execute them on the mat with enough aggression.

Oh. Aggression.

I was, by the time I was a senior, aggressive enough at sports to hit or hip-check an opponent. Still not a great wrestler, I did earn a JV letter as a senior. Never collected it, never wore a lettermen’s jacket. Didn’t deserve to.

But surfing; that was different. It so quickly became a crucial part of my self-image. Not cool enough, being one of the few (most in my family) Seventh Day Adventists in my school had long set my position as (there’s a scale, and a variety of other categories) an outsider.

I was, mostly, accustomed to this position. No, I hadn’t been invited to Susie’s birthday party in the fourth grade, and that hurt… but being an outsider (and yes, everyone’s an outsider somewhere) offers some amount of freedom, socially, and may (may) have contributed to my overall sarcastic nature.

Different subject, perhaps; but it is worth mentioning that once I was in with other surfer wannabes, I felt the need to dress the part. “No, Mom, I need Levis and a nylon windbreaker; my friends say you dress me like a golfer.” “And if your friends think you should jump off a cliff?” “Thinking.”

What was important to me was that I surfed better than the guys who started after I did. In fact, from my earliest sessions, kooking it up at Tamarack, I would run fake heats; fifteen minutes, three to five waves.  I would ask my sister, Suellen, where I ranked in the lineup: Third best out of five? I did the same thing with my Fallbrook surf friends. Wherever I was ranked, I wanted to do better.

Better?

It doesn’t take long for anyone taking up surfing to realize it isn’t always easy, that even pretty good rides are hard to come by, that there’s always someone who surfs better than you do, and that the ocean wins. Already feeling apologetic for this level of introspection, I have to say that my desire to be better was not (just and/or only) to be better than other surfers, but to improve. Trial and error, wave knowledge, wave count, experience.

Still, some of my least satisfying surf sessions involved my being angry with myself, or the conditions, or the crowd, but mostly with my not living up to my own expectations.

Ridiculous.

My most satisfying sessions come down, frequently, to one ride in which I unexpectedly blast through a section or hang on the very top of a wall a split second longer, or sideslip down a wave face, or, even over the falls, hanging on in the surge.

Still, if I even attempt to present myself as strictly a soul surfer, the lie is obvious. Alone in the water, cruising, I will definitely push harder when someone else shows up. Two of the turns I made that I most remember were, one, when Dana Adler walked out on the south jetty at Oceanside and I cranked a full-ass roundhouse cutback, and, two, when three dudes showed up as a peak Tommy Robinson and I were sharing on the north side of the pier and I went into a rage-driven cutback, drop to straight up move, all in about six feet, left to right. Okay, I wasn’t enraged, more like irritated, but I was stoked that I pulled it off.

Competition.

A heat compresses the surf experience. Whatever the number of minutes, the stress to choose the right wave, to perform on that wave is as exhausting as a much longer free surf session. While we can watch a contest live or on a computer, being in one is… different.

Judging disagreements aside, the best surfer in a heat usually wins.

I didn’t win my first KGB/Windansea contest. I didn’t win the second on I was in, 1969, with three other surfers on the team. I did well enough to advance out of my first heat. Both times.

I washed out of my first heat at a smaller, North County contest at Moonlight Beach, 1969. I blamed Cheer Critchlow and local bias. I surfed in the Western Surfing Association after I moved to Pacific Beach in 1971, advanced to 2A, with enough points to go into the 3A level before giving it up, mostly due to the time spent competing versus my growing painting commitments, and because, like everything in surfing, it is kind of self-serving. Not arguing this right now, but, though I never won a contest, I made the finals every time but one, and I came in 7th in that one.

When fellow Bremerton shipyard worker Raphael Reda presented with the opportunity to surf in a Ricky Young sponsored longboard contest at Westport in the late 1980s, despite not owning a longboard, I agreed. I participated four times, never won a heat. The best I did was third or fourth in a division requiring twenty-year-old or older boards, no leash. I rode a Duke Kahanamoku popout I’d traded some work for. I have the trophy. Somewhere.

So, without arguing about how pure my love for surfing is, and being as old as shit, do I still feel competitive? Add up the asterisks, the answer is… let’s see.

Where We Come From, Where We’re Heading,,,

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…Who we meet along the way.

BUT FIRST- Reggie’s dog, Django (“The ‘J’ is silent”), and sometimes lunatic-al Reggie jumping off a forty foot cliff into freezing water at (I’m not sure this is even legal) some place called, if I remember correctly, the Devil’s Punch Bowl. Definitely not Hawaii.

SPIEL- I was born in Surf City, North Carolina. In a car. Delivered with the help of my father. I am happy to continue the possible or partial truth, or legend, that there was a hurricane and/or we were passing the beach. My parents did, oddly enough, have a waterfront house that, family lore has, they purchased for, like, a thousand dollars in the late forties, and sold it for the same amount in 1954 or so. It was, soon thereafter (again, lore) washed away in another hurricane.

I know we went to the beach often. Another North Carolina story is of me, maximum three years old, toddling down and having to be rescued by an Aunt from the shorebreak. I will get to mat surfing in a bit…

BUT FIRST… I was half under my Volvo at a beach parking lot (no surf), pulling a branch that had been stuck and was causing me stress/worry almost equal to that of my concern about an oil leak (possibly/hopefully from the valve cover gasket rather than anything worse, when a car pulls up. It’s the legendary TIM NOLAN, his wife (who I have met several times, but may not have been properly/formally introduced), and this tallish guy. It turns out it’s EMERSON SWANK, someone who Tim met while on a boat/surf trip in Alaska. And, it turns out, Emerson is from North Carolina. “Oh. I was born there… Surf City.” “That’s where Emerson’s from,” Mrs. Nolan says.

So, because I always forget I have two cell phones, each with a camera, I asked Tim to take a few shots of Emerson Swank, possible nickname ‘Extra Swank.’ Because the first two are East Coast, my best guess is Tim asked Extra Swank to send him a couple. AND I might not have made a big deal of the coincidence if I hadn’t told TRISH. She was amazed. Then again, Trish makes a deal out of the fact that, our fathers both in the Marine Corps, she was conceived in North Carolina, born in San Diego, lived on base at Camp Pendleton in the officer’s housing while my family was in the enlisted section (yeah, okay), and that we met, as fate would have it, in Fallbrook. Fate, coincidence. Yeah. Okay. The bottom photo is of Emerson on the Olympic Peninsula coast.

SURF MATS- I’m doing some work for surfer JOEL CARBON, originally from Long Island, New York. Reggie was working with me the other day when Joel showed up. He and Reggie did some surf bro talk about a session they had recently both been a part of. Shortly thereafter, Joel, with me unwilling to trade out for an inflatable SUP, suggested that I should consider, at my advanced age, switching to a surf mat. NOW, I know Joel realizes I loved surf matting, and continued doing it, with Trish, for a while after I started riding boards (1965). Still, not interested. Yet.

GEORGE GREENOUGH, hailed as surfing’s only genius (disregarding/disrespecting Tom Morey, possibly LibTech dude, Mike Olson, others you can add), who, famously, shot the inside the tube footage for “The Innermost Limits of Pure Fun” from a mat. Way before GoPro.

Joel on a mat on a tiny wave. I believe this is some secret Long Island spot. ALSO, something to add to my “Surf Injury” file. Here’s one of several Mat Mad texts from Joel:

“This thing is mind blowing! Just as XZanadu Rocket Fish open up my surfing 15 years ago to riding everything, the mat is opening up my perspective on wave riding in new waves. The speed and feel of being in (as opposed to on) the wave is really cool. It’s like bodysurfing on a thin layer of air… and the view riding low on the wave in the barrel is unreal, leaves me smiling every time. Yew!”

“Yeah, Joel, I remember.”

It is the heart of the painting season, and I have missed several opportunities to pursue the innermost limits of pure fun… including right now. I was discussing all (actually only) things surf related with surf obsessed Olympic Peninsula ripper, Keith Darrock, while trying to put this version of my ego centric blog together. l said I don’t really want realsurfers to be documentation of the last hurrah of my surf life. “Downward spiral,” he said; “Death spiral.” “Wow. Thanks, Keith.” “Maybe you can go surfing tomorrow… or something.”

I’m scheming. Always. Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net. AND, I don’t actually care what a real surfer rides (maybe one of those hand dealies for body surfing or an Alaia(sp?) might suggest to me that you are surfing a bit too much), with the possible exception of a blow up SUP, just, if you’re surfing… enjoy it to the limit.

OH, WAIT… ONE MORE THING: I was at the gas pumps recently, bemoaning that if I had purchased some petrol a few hours earlier, I could have saved twenty-one cents a gallon. This cool young man, in cool attire, with a cool hat, gassing up his cool VW van, said, “I’ve discovered that… (cool pause) everything costs something.” WOW! Thanks.