…water.  I’ve been calling my friend ‘Hydrosexual’ Stephen Davis for a while, and, I know because I asked, he’s kind of okay with the nickname. It is appropriate because he loves all (and participates in many) sports having to do with water: Skiing, snowboarding, kite surfing, surfing, ice hockey; he owns a sailboat, works occasionally on a famous catamaran on the Big Island.

BUT, there are, I’m sure, problems related with being a hydrosexual. Some people just don’t understand. AND, realsurfers.net has the problem of spammers, keying off the sexual part of hydrosexual, sending all sorts of fake comments on cheap pills, various enhancements, air jordens (not sure what unseemly thing that might be), knockoff watches, busty babes in backwater bayous, Trump/Putin love notes, ways to win at Russian Roulette… I don’t know; I’m afraid to click on any of them.

AND, WordPress has, one, identified them as spam, and, two, won’t let me open most of them (not that I’ve tried, but, once, sliding the cursor a bit too slowly…). Nothing shocking, just a ‘404’ or some code that means, “If you don’t want to blow up your laptop and/or skew the mid-term elections… move your cursor away… now. NOW!”

Of course, I exaggerate. Nevertheless, forget Hydrosexuality; we’re moving Stephen to Hydrophilia. So, um, let’s see how this sounds: “Hydrophiliac Stephen Davis.” Here’s a couple of shots he sent me, finally, of his Big Island Big Boy Bike. I think, in the outside shot, out there in the glare, there might be waves. Waves!

All right, maybe all real surfers are hydrophiliacs.  I will be checking my “Comment” and “Spam” sections to see if this stirs up Trolls or Trotsky-ites.

MEANWHILE; I have been remiss in reporting Archie Endo is home from in Discovery Bay for a while, continuing to recuperate from the stroke he suffered while working in the fishing industry in Thailand. Archie is a devoted longboarder and an expert in salmon, in particular, as well as other species. He is still working as a middleman, mostly, I think, in Tuna processing and distribution.  He is recovering; and, if we have some chance at actual waves, I plan on taking him with me.

When Archie was last here, Stephen took him to the public pool in Sequim. It did him a lot of good. Sorry, I don’t do pools.

The once and future Archie.

So, Trish opened the Facebook the other evening. I was sitting kind of caddy-cornered, probably about “Jeopardy” (dvr’d) time (so, some time after 8pm), and Trish lets out one of those “Eeeee-ahhh-yuck” kind of not-really-quite-a-scream, twists the laptop around on the TV table, asks, “Do you know this guy?”

“Where’d it come from?”

“Stephen Davis sent it. He says it’s someone… Wade. You know a Wade?”

“Wade. Yeah. He used to live in Port Townsend; another kite surfer; moved to Puerto Rico.”

Evidently Wade was surfing, out alone, and… well; faceplant.

So, I wrote Stephen, still on the Big Island, still hasn’t sent me a photo of his surf-set-up bike…

this just points out what a pussy I was with my minor head hit.

I would love to put the photo on my site.

I do remember Wade didn’t want the (great)

photo of him kite surfing posted.

But, whoaaaa; ouch.

Trish was going through the hotmail,

found this really big photo closeup.

Shocking.

“Do you know this guy?”  I checked out the photo; hairline.

“Um, yeah; Wade; he’s in Puerto Rico… guess he has power.”

“They have big waves there?”

“Evidently.”

Talk to you soon. Send bike photo. Get waves. DOn’t face plant. Erwin

WAIT, There’s More: Since Wade will be upset anyway, even though Stephen says, “It was on Facebook; it’s out there.” Okay, so now here is the photo of Wade and the piece that went with it. Good luck Wade.

The story is, Stephen Davis was working for me twenty five miles away from the secret surf spot north of Port Townsend when he got a call from Wade, telling him the winds were perfect on the Straits. It was already past seven, with little or no wind on the finger of Puget Sound where we were painting. “Take off,” I must have said; and he did; arriving very close to sundown, doing all the arranging of kite and lines and wetsuits. Wade was already in the midst of what turned out to be a bit of a mystical experience. He had kite-surfed close to a pod of Orcas beyond the surfline, this observed by a group of people holding a Straits-side memorial for a recently departed 94 year old woman. And a sunset that was particularly special. Though Stephen didn’t see the pod of whales, he was, coming in by the light from vehicles and the one light in the parking lot, wrapping up the lines and organizing the gear, surprised when a woman from the memorial party thanked him for gliding, flying across the waves… as if he, Wade, the whales, the sunset, were all part of the ceremony. Who’s to say? And that added to the magic for Steve.

Please forgive the redundancies. Wade, please forgive the publicity. Russian hackers and American conspirators (just in case you care about surf-centric sites; fuck you.

Okay, this isn’t me in this photo; it’s Deon Wilson at Dungeons, Cape Town, South Africa, courtesy (thank you) of “The Telegraph.” I’m sure he was trying his best to appear casual as he went down the line, all cool and ready to rip it up.

Something went wrong. If he’d just surfed, let’s say, ‘routinely,’ safely, ridden toward the shoulder, ahead of the curl, maybe making a few adjustments, swoops rather than carves, he probably would have made the wave. Oh, but no; Deon decided to throw it up toward the lip, no doubt thinking, “This’ll be exciting, this’ll be cool.”

Okay, I have a whole real life (as in ‘out of the water’) story to go with this possibly-overwrought, definitely-stretched metaphor; but I have to go to work to make up for the money I didn’t make this week, partially (and again) due to my just appearing to be too damn casual, doing it (after almost 49 years) my way.

Later. Oh, and just like Deon, I’ll remember the wipeout longer than I’d remember a nice, safe, routine ride.  And, though I’m perfectly capable of uncontrolled enthusiasm, I do plan on, mostly, staying casual.

Casualness is a form of rebellion. Okay, I’ll be rethinking this a bit before I add to this post.

Life is all a work in progress. When I was trying to scan a sketch of my new character, Captain Kreepee (the lettering above the drawing already ripped, not cut, off); thinking what I’d say about it, I suddenly thought, “Hey, maybe Captain Sketchee might be a better name for the wannabe surf garb purveyor (whoa; and purveyor sounds kind of similar to pervert, which he may just be).”

So, I’ll redraw; tighten it up; and then he’ll be back. Yeah, better research double-breasted suits, also.

MEANWHILE, still tightening-up potential t-shirt art. Here’s where the cheater five drawing is currently: The one top right is the latest.

I’ve suddenly gotten really busy with work; but I’ve been thinking (way too much) about the current political and social state of things. I wanted to do a (more complete) drawing, or series, on creepy old guys (hoping I don’t fit comfortably in the uncomfortable category).

Maybe I thought of this because, after surfing the last time I did, wanting to surf some more, and knowing I was expected to go back to someone’s house to continue painting; and the surf not working at the second spot; then checking a third spot that also wasn’t breaking; I had a dilemma. I might look like a pervert if I tried changing out of my wetsuit there, very close to dark and no other surfers (or surf) to kind of explain what I was doing.

So, I chose to go to a park close to the house I was working at. Okay, so, it’s almost dark and… oops, a sign on the bathroom says, “Sorry, Closed for the winter.” Now I’m thinking about changing outside my car at a landlocked park. Not a good choice. Then two parents (not together), each with a young child, show up. I mean, who takes their tyke to a park when it’s (as I mentioned) almost dark.

Now, I could have gone to the clients’ house; but then, what? It’s, like, new construction. Possible. Or, “Um, uh, you know I went surfing, and…” People aren’t really fond of sand and whatever else comes out of a full wetsuit in their shower. Or their living room.

No. So, about this time, Trish calls. “What’cha doing?” She was almost done shopping, heading home. “No, I don’t think I’m going to go back to painting. Tomorrow.”

So, I decided to drive home in my wetsuit. Fine. I’ve done this before; but there always seems to be some problem: The time I went home from Trestles to Encinitas in just a towel- flat tire on I-5. The time I stopped at the Jack-in-the-Box in Sequim in my wetsuit- screwed-up order, couldn’t back up, had to get out. “Hey,” the guy behind me in line said, “Did you find some waves?”

Okay, so I get home. Trish isn’t home yet. SO, since I have no neighbors close by (best part of having acreage- at least a good part), I strip out of my wetsuit on the (frozen) front lawn, grab a handful of clothing, keys, and head for the house and a warm shower.

Kind of glad we don’t have outside cameras. Creeeee-py.

…and pity. It was, and I’m trying to remember, not my first wipeout of the day, and, I’m pretty sure, not my first tumble underwater. After three or four waves where I was pitched on the takeoff, one where I just couldn’t pull the nose up enough to make the drop, five or six times where I got knocked off my board; this was a wave I tried to back out of.

I should mention that I also got six or seven ‘corner shots,’ quick drops and out to the non-shoulder; one wave where, the lip about to blast me, I hung on, sideslipped quite a ways, sort of recovered; and I got a couple of air drops and a couple of waves I was pretty happy with; and I got two I was really stoked on. Screamers.

And it wasn’t like I was the only one getting worked. Everyone got a share. There were up to six surfers vying for position in a lineup that’s essentially ten feet left to right and five feet inside to outside. Every surfer had a certain success/wipeout ratio, with, I’m guessing, each one happy with this drop or that tube.

And, maybe there’s some connection with my hitting the bottom with this: After the last time I visited this spot, the tide still not high enough to make it, um, slightly less sketchy (didn’t go out- no room for a big board), Trish, viewing the photos on my phone, asked, “Do you have a helmet?”

That’s exactly what I was thinking when I hit the rocks. That, Trish and her warning about the big rocks throughout the lineup, and hoping I didn’t hit hard enough to get knocked out or something.

So, I was actually ready to go in. After an earlier working, separated from my board, Chris, himself washed to the inside, asked if I was all right. “Yeah,” I said, yelling over the noise, “I’m just trying to stay out long enough to save (I probably meant keep) face.” “What?” I caught a couple more quick in-and-outs, missed an outside wave Aaron was yelling for me to go on, caught a decent wave and then…

Yes, I’m going on a bit too much for a common wipeout, but, really, I can’t remember the last time I tried to back out of a wave, then went over the falls. I’m sure it was the second tumble that put me in contact with the gravel, and the smaller rocks. When I came up, I still couldn’t stand up. Too much current pushing around the inside bar; flopping around like a twice-whacked fish on the deck.

Seeing someone on the beach, I motioned to the top of my head. Seeing a guy holding a kid, who I mistakenly thought was Mike Squintz (as opposed to Mike-E, who prefers not to be nick-named ‘Smoker Mike’, though he still smokes), and, when I staggered closer to the steep beach, I (I’m blaming the head wound) yelled, “Fuck, yeah I hit my head!” Sorry kid.

So, I pulled back my hood. “Am I bleeding?” “Not bad,” Keith said. By this point there were only two surfers in the water; then just Short Board Aaron. This isn’t a spot you can surf on an outgoing tide. Then Derrick showed up, fresh, evidently, from some kite surfing. “Are we going to have to take Erwin to the hospital?” “No, I’m all right. Contributed a little skin.”

Okay, so this is where age comes in. I don’t (or, more like, don’t allow myself to admit that I) seek respect from my peers, but I definitely don’t seek pity.  “Hey, everyone got worked. Huh?” “Sure. How old are you, again?” “Yeah. Old… old-er.”

No, wait, maybe I thought I’d get a bit of pity from Trish. Not really. There’s no shame in getting wiped out in the tube. Getting sucked over the falls when you’re trying to back out of a wave. Thinking. Thinking what I’d think if it was someone else.