Author Archives: Erwin A. Dence Jr.

The Last Saturday Surf Session of Summer

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waikiki-crowdsIt seems to be important to me, because I’m self employed, because I don’t HAVE to be a WEEKEND WARRIOR; that I avoid surfing on the weekends. However, and there’s always a HOWEVER, sometimes the swell peaks on a Saturday. This is not just true on the Straits of Juan de Fuca; it’s true at the beaches you want to surf. So, on the last weekend of summer, to mitigate the situation with everyone checking out the same forecasts, making the same decisions, and because Trish was out of town, I got up at four am on a Saturday, checked the buoys, loaded up my stuff (if the buoys had looked more promising, I would have done this the night before), fooled around enough to determine if the swell had already peaked, and headed out.

I arrived at my (current) favorite spot before the sun. DAWN PATROL. I probably favor this spot because no hiking on trails and down cliffs is required, my vehicle is in sight from the lineup,  and usually (if there are waves) there are easy paddle-outs around the waves rather than through. There were four other rigs in the parking area when I pulled in, four other surfers suiting up. I leaped (why is ‘leapt’ incorrect?), glanced over at the rights which I’ve called ‘slow motion Malibu’ at their (almost) best (full speed at the very best), and saw it was breaking, so, naturally, I asked the others, almost suited-up, where they were headed.

“Oh, the rights look good.” “No, no; it’s deceiving. They’re really only, like, ankle high.”

So, here’s the thing about doing the dawn patrol: You get a few waves and then more and more surfers join you. When there aren’t that many waves and those who arrive are trying, as you are, to get in a maximum number of waves before… before whatever they have planned, you can get a bit anxious, perhaps irritated; and, if that is irrational, uncool, non-mellow, maybe resentful; man; that doesn’t mean you don’t have these feelings. Really, only two other surfers came over to the rights while I was there, but, on the lefts, which are longer, a crowd was beginning to grow. And the parking area was filling up with other surfers waiting for the right signal before entering the water- a bigger set, a few waves breaking on the outside indicator, perhaps waiting for their fast and/or ferry food to settle down.

Because I’m self employed, and because the other reason I went so early was because this wasn’t a weekend for me, I had to go back and work; I was looking for a good wave to go in on. I got one; one of those ‘to the parking lot’ rights, but…

…but I wanted a few more waves, so I moved over to the lefts. Usually featuring long walls, the more crowded side seemed to be offer slightly bigger waves. I caught a few, but had to share each wave with others. I caught a few more. With several sections and quite a few other surfers of varying skill levels vying for each wave, of the ten or so I caught, none were solo rides. If I got into one early, another surfer might catch it farther in but closer to the reef. I’d try to allow room, make a section, be alone for a moment until someone else took off inside. Fine. At least no one yelled, “PARTY WAVE.”

There was kind of a party atmosphere; and I did try to go with that. I’m sure my smile looked genuine. “Waikiki!” I’ve yelled in similar circumstances, tight to the wave with two people paddling just beyond the next section, one I would have every intention to make.

Just wanting this last wave to go in on, and already standing, a guy who had done this to me already turned around to do the ‘take off behind’ thing again immediately to my right. “That’s not right” I said, paused just a moment, sped into a section, turned, and made it all the way to the parking lot, at least two shoulder hoppers backing off as I, spontaneously, rather than the “f___k, f___k, f___k” I’d muttered (probably) a little loud in the last similar circumstance, broke into the classic soul song, “I know you want to leave me, boom, boom, boom…”. I should have been happy with the ‘to the parking lot’ ride. Actually, I was; but, discussing the situation in the parking lot with Clint, a boat repair guy from Port Townsend, with whom I’d had a bit of a non-race race with in the traffic lights in Port Angeles, he said he was just about through with this spot.

It gets crowded, not just because sometimes (in answer to someone else’s prayer) a swell sometimes peaks on a weekend, but because this spot is so user friendly. Everyone else is there for the same reason I go there.

And I don’t want to be is the angry guy, willing to get hostile over knee high waves. Maybe I’m ready for more challenging waves. I asked one of the guys who moved their car into a beach side spot next to mine when someone else left why they didn’t go all the way to the coast where the same swell would no doubt be producing overhead, maybe ten foot waves. “I’m scared of ten foot waves,” he said. “Oh.”  I have other excuses; time, um, a certain amount of, possibly, laziness.

But, right now; I’m planning, scheming, getting ready. There’s a swell forecast that’s too south in direction to make it to the Straits; long period, overhead. The first swell of fall. I’ll let you know how that goes. Meanwhile, Clint went back out, trying the lefts, the party atmosphere continued, someone pulled into the spot I left beachside, I passed at least eight board-topped rigs headed out on my way to go to work. Later, Clint surfed a secret(ish) spot near Port Townsend with one other surfer out.

 

Trestles- In Progress

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TRESTLES- UP AND DOWN- IN PROGRESS

lowers_2011_ellis_01

This photo was taken by Grant Ellis for SURFER MAGAZINE in 2011. It’s pretty much the view I had from the maintenance shed for the San Onofre Housing Area on Camp Pendleton. I worked there from the spring on 1975 to the early summer of 1976, painting interiors when marines and their families were transferred elsewhere. The actual view was from higher and a bit to the left. I could easily crop out the freeway as I was checking out the surf, almost an equally spectacular view from most of the housing area. You might as well delete most of the crowd. Okay. Now focus for a moment on that visible patch of beach. That was about where I’d park, extending my official half hour lunch to an hour and a half, depending (you know what it was depending on). I could have easily been busted by the Military Police or my Civil Service co-workers. Luckily, they were more interested in other activities.

MY ORIGINAL INTENT was to add to the TRESTLES STORY, Trestles from my particular vantage point, and, rather than have Part II, Part III, out of sequence, move the added-to piece up to the first spot with each additional update; but now that I have the photo… we’ll see.

“YOU CAN JUST GET GOING SO FAST…” I told my surfing buddy on the phone. Surely I was as excited in describing my latest surf story as I am when I do so now. Definitely. By this time, 1976, my friend Phil had just become, or was about to become, Doctor Phillip Colby Harper. Back in the conversation, with the tendency, still-with-me, to talk over others, I continued “…going so fast that you go up the wave, then freefall back to the bottom, like… um, it’s like dropping, sideways, with the lip… like, even, inside the lip; then back up again; over and… and… yeah, Trestles. Every day. Extended lunch. Yeah!”

THE FIRST TIME Phillip and I saw Trestles was in 1967. I guess, really, it was Church; we were riding with Bucky Davis, a few years older than us, way ahead of us in surfing, and the boyfriend of Phillip’s sister, Trish. He turned right instead of left past the creek, away from our destination of San Onofre, and up along the beach. He stopped the VW bus when we saw a Marine Corps Military Police jeep on the beach, perpendicular to the water, waiting patiently for the two or three surfers in the water to come in.

“Some day, maybe,” Bucky said. “Not today.” Phillip and I, following Bucky’s lead, flipped off the M.P.s (not so they would notice); the van made a three point turn and we headed around the cove.

THERE WAS a local TV show about that time, on channel 9, possibly titled “Surf’s Up.” It may have come from Santa Barbara rather than Los Angeles. From Fallbrook, North San Diego County, we got that city’s three stations, 6, 8, and 10, and a couple from LA, but the TV Guide listed this surfing program, and, the one time I enlisted my brothers to move the antenna on the roof, I got a blurred, fuzzy image of a segment that happened to feature the magical and forbidden waves of Trestles. “They just roll on and on,” the commentator said, “spinning, like a washing machine.”

Memorial Ceremony for Someone (Evidently) Very Special

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The story is, Stephen Davis, seen kite surfing in the photo, 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.

Hydrosexual Stephen Davis (he snow skis, plays ice hockey, surfs, kite surfs, paddleboards [the open ocean version], and, well, swims) was working with me twenty five miles away from this secret (and infrequent) surf spot north of Port Townsend when he got a call from… (EDIT- Evidently the person making the call, the person in the photograph, responded negatively to the possibility that a few people might associate him, and his name, with any sort of publicity involving, well, I’m not clear on this; I haven’t spoken with the now-unnamed person, and probably won’t. But, if you haven’t read this post previously, you may never know. EDITED OUT), 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. “You better go,” I must have said, “and now;” and he did; arriving this close to sundown, close enough to snap a series of photos of unnamed kite-surfer, already in the midst of what turned out to be a magically shared and mystical experience. With people yelling, waving, and pointing, the mystery kiter had kite-surfed close to a passing pod of Orcas beyond the surfline. The yelling and pointing and waving was being done by a group of people holding a Straits-side memorial for a recently departed 94 year old woman. The kiter felt compelled to surf close to the pod (not TOO close). Amazing. AND there was this unusually spectacular sunset. Though Stephen didn’t see the pod of whales, he was, later, 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, the other kite-surfer, the whales, the sunset, were all part of the ceremony.
Who’s to say where, when, or why magic sails in?
Being part of that possibly-Cosmically-arranged event surely added to the magic for Steve and his friend.

The Smell of Fear on a Brand New T Shirt

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This is an update to the previous story. The original deal was that I would receive some sort of monetary reward for doing the drawing for the Quilcene Shin-Dig tee shirts. Fine, but things evolve. It ended up that I did the drawing, got some copies made, added some color. This became the poster. I paid for the printing of ten full sized and twenty flyer sized copies, distributed a few, at the cost of somewhere around $52.00, and traded this for three t-shirts, which would sell for $60.00 at the event; and then bought another, last year’s version, by a different artist, for another $20.00. Then, on the day of the event, because these shirts make such fine gifts, and because the image of the guitar player carving is based on our son, Jaymz, my wife, Trish, insisted I purchase more. $80.00 worth.

So, speaking to our daughter, Dru, on the phone this morning, and, before I had a chance to tell her she would be receiving a shirt, and before I could rant about the actual event, she quoted her mother quoting me saying, “It was the most expensive piece of art I’ve ever done.” Well, yeah; no, not really; but, let me get to the part where I actually performed.

Actually, I’ve not quite recovered from that, performing two original songs (“You Never Said Goodbye” and “I Guess I’m Lucky”) to a small crowd standing in the rain, with an uninvited, retired music teacher standing at the next microphone, totally unaware of what I was planning to do, interjecting little… I don’t know what he was singing, or scatting, or saying… he said he was going to ‘wing it.’

My vision was limited to… I guess I was trying to look at my harmonica… that’s as far as my vision seemed to go. I couldn’t really hear myself; I could hear the occasional interjections, sort of, on the periphery.  I continued with something akin to muscle memory; songs performed so many times driving to or from a job, or a distant surf spot, one hand on the wheel.

When it was over, I walked through the building, tried not to let loose on Mr. Hodgson; walked around the block to my car, and drove home. When I arrived, Trish said I smelled funny. Maybe it was because I had been sitting in the just-started rain for a while in my (advertising, Trish said) orange Shin-Dig t-shirt before I went on. Maybe that’s just what fear smells like… rain, fear ahead of the performance, something like total confusion and embarrassment afterword; all mixed with the smell of me still thinking, somewhere in my brain, maybe from that place that told me I have these songs and someone should perform them, and if it had to be me… that perhaps-self-delusional bit of wiring; that thought had me holding out some hope that my audience, mostly made up of musicians who had performed or would perform later, might realize the lyrics are worthwhile, useful… possibly in their band.

Later, trying to get back to sleep, I was still mulling, still asking, “Just what where you thinking, Jim?”  His answer, out near the street, his truck parked across Surf Route 101 in the Post Office parking lot, had been, “I was calming you down. I was helping.” My response since, not to him, is that I was ready to succeed or fail on my own. As with most things in life, I’m still not sure which is true, but I know there’s a big * next to anyone’s perception of the performance. And that includes my own.

If could compare it to something in surfing, it would have to be that my actual thoughts in riding the biggest barrel I was ever in, at Sunset Cliffs, was not some time-slowed-down version of joy; but was fear; that peripheral vision of the actual cliffs, too close, through the curtain. The joy, or, at least, satisfaction, would be added later. Edited. Like words on a computer. “Backspace.”

Illustration for Musical Event On Surf Route 101

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Here’s how this poster came about:

shindigIllustration 001

I was asked by musician Franko Bertucci (who heads up his touring band, Locust Street Taxi, participates in other musical groupings including “The Village Idiots,” and with his wife, Arianna, doing most of the work, has a small farm)  to ‘draw up’ a t shirt design for the ninth annual “Shin-Dig,” a musical event in the town of Quilcene, Washington. If you’ve driven ‘the loop’ that US Highway 101 makes from down at the Columbia River, Chinook, the small town my Dad lives in, and go up the coast (sort of, more woods than waves), possibly making a detour to hit La Push, another turn at Sappho to check out Neah Bay, stay on 112 instead while heading toward Port Angeles, then head East and South; and you get to about mile marker 294, you’ll have passed my house and found yourself having to slow down once again for some small town before heading up and over Mount Walker and down the Hood Canal, the east side of the Olympic Mountains still on your right; well, that big curve is Quilcene, and exactly on the apex of that curve is where the Shin-Dig will be happening this coming Saturday.

So, since the event is held just outside what was once a theater, next to what was once a church, on that curve was once the center of what was once a thriving lumber town, with a railroad line that actually cut across what is now my property, and that former theater is now home to Waltz Lumber, a business that sells slabs of wood (for things like coffee tables) and other exotic wood products (like maple for guitars and such), I thought it might be good to have a drawing of a wood carving (this is just in case you don’t get it from the drawing), and, since my son Jaymz (formerly J.J., actually James) is a lead guitar player and professional musician, I thought a wood carving of… anyway, the whole thing ended up looking more like a poster than a t shirt design, so… I did the black and white, got some copies, added some color and… poster.

So, if you’re headed up or down Surf Route 101 on Saturday, this Labor Day weekend, and you just happen to get to Quilcene between noon and dark; stop in; it’s free, and, well; I have been threatening to participate, possibly to play harmonica and sing something like… “It’s a hard 1,200 miles; that old surf route 101; some are headed for the clouds, some are searching for the sun…”

 

Breaking the Lines

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It may say something about me, about my life; that I drew a larger version of this, got it copied in black and white, added the color to the original, had both versions reduced to a printer-friendly size, gave one to my friend, Port Townsend librarian and surfer, Keith Darrock, just as I was finishing up one painting job, rushing to another, and, not for the first time, I threw my thermos into the bin in the passenger seat, only to discover, once I arrived at Beckett Point, that I had coffee spilled on my going-home t shirt, on the original copy of a poster I'd recently finished, and... on this. Maybe it's just another line I keep breaking; another reminder that so much is temporary. Or maybe it... I don't know; here it is, stains and all

It may say something about me, about my life; that I drew a larger version of this, got it copied in black and white, added the color to the original, had both versions reduced to a printer-friendly size, gave one to my friend, Port Townsend librarian and surfer, Keith Darrock, just as I was finishing up one painting job, rushing to another, and, not for the first time, I threw my thermos into the bin in the passenger seat, only to discover, once I arrived at Beckett Point, that I had coffee spilled on my going-home t shirt, on the original copy of a poster I’d recently finished, and… on this.
Maybe it’s just another line I keep breaking; another reminder that so much is temporary. Or maybe it… I don’t know; here it is, stains and all

You Should Have Been There an Hour Later

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fatguy setting up

Thanks to Jeff Vaughan for the photo of the guy on the unbroken wave that, also, looks like it might not break. Jeff is a longshoreman, loads ships all over Puget Sound, down to Aberdeen. On this day he was working an afternoon shift in Port Angeles. I was the first one out in waves that would have been difficult to catch on a regular long board. The tide was a little too low for the slow-motion-Malibu rights.

A little later, though, the tide came up, pushing (I don’t always believe this surfer theory) the swell up a bit. By the time I’d  caught a bunch of dribblers, and some other surfers came out, the lefts on the other side of the little bay, totally flat at dawn, were starting to work. Honest. Lined up, spinning, I caught a few before I had to, had to go to work.

As did Jeff. But first he took a few shots of waves hitting the outside indicator. Maybe he’ll send those to me. Oh, sorry; if you’ve never surfed the Straits of Juan de Fuca, this is really as big as it gets. Oh, and, I guess Jeff missed my cutback, set up bottom turn, sidestep to the nose. Maybe next time.

ADRIFT- Chapter, I Don’t Know, Like, Maybe, Four

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Stephen Davis is, evidently, headed back home from several months working in the Midwest. His son, Emmett, with him, they apparently took the train from the Chicago area, down to Ohio, picked up a car from an Aunt, kind of a replacement for the car Steve gave to his Psychic in an earlier chapter of his life. I'm guessing it was valuable father/son bonding time, but it doesn't look like he scored epic San Onofre. That would be using the surfer logic, "It can't be good; no one's out." I'm looking forward to Stephen's return. We have a plan to hit an elusive spot on Cape Flattery when he returns.

Stephen Davis is, evidently, headed back home from several months working in the Midwest. His son, Emmett, with him, they apparently took the train from the Chicago area, down to Ohio, picked up a car from an Aunt, kind of a replacement for the car Steve gave to his Psychic in an earlier chapter of his life.
I’m guessing it was valuable father/son bonding time, but it doesn’t look like he scored epic San Onofre. That would be using the surfer logic, “It can’t be good; no one’s out.” I’m looking forward to Stephen’s return. We have a plan to    hit an elusive spot on Cape Flattery.                                                                                                                                                   Wait, maybe there’s one person out, and, way over to the left, that might be just the edge of someone. This is a different angle of the whole San Onofre/Church/Trestles area than I saw, back when we’d trek there from Fallbrook. This is quite a ways south of the power plant in the area where, back in the pre-I-5, Slaughter Alley days, cops and/or Marines would often be seen escorting surfers off this same beach; possibly, if the surfers were lucky, just back to their vehicles parked off Surf Route 101- possibly minus surfboards. If they were even luckier, the surfers may have scored some epic Camp Pendleton waves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eight at Eight Feet (Hawaiian)

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So, this is a photo, borrowed from the Port Townsend Leader (thanks), of Arrow Lumber's main guy in our area, Cadian. Maybe I read or heard his last name once, but... What's pertinent is that, every time I've gone in there, if he's around the counter, there's surf talk. And I've been going there, first for pellets for my stove, then, when that went into broke-mode, for building supplies. I should mention that Arrow Lumber has the lead on the coolness meter for such places, totally thrashing The Depot, largely because the people working there (and originally there was only Cadian, PT local) seem to give a shit. And they give back, evidenced by the photo. Not that is really pertinent. Cadian has surfed the legendary and mysterious surf spot, Green Point... and I haven't. But I will. So, on my most recent trip, purchasing some 2 by 4s so I can get a roof on the greenhouse/studio I'm building with a lot of windows I got from a job where they replaced all of them because two had lost their seal, Cadian and this other guy started telling me I should be surfing on such a fine hot day. "But there's no surf," I said, "even on the coast." "There's surf in Maui," this other guy, always up on the latest blue collar gossip, said, "and Kauai. Last time I was there..." "And on the north shore," Cadian added. "I've been there, and the waves are sooo..." Then, after I mentioned the US Open was held in ankle snappers at Huntington Pier, we had to discuss wave size. I held my hand even with my chin. "Four foot, Californian." "I saw these waves at Sunset Beach," Cadian said, "and I said, 'got to be eight feet.' This Hawaiian guy said, 'No, Bra, four feet... Hawaiian.' So... um, Erwin, what did you want again?" "Eight 2 by 4s, 12." After another customer approached the counter, Cadian added that maybe I wanted nine, I had to say, "No, eight twelve footers. (pause) That's eight foot Hawaiian."

So, this is a photo, borrowed from the Port Townsend Leader (thanks), of Arrow Lumber’s main guy in our area, Cadian. Maybe I read or heard his last name once, but…(okay, research; it’s Hendricks).
What’s pertinent is that, every time I’ve gone in there, if he’s around the counter, there’s surf talk. And I’ve been going there, first for pellets for my stove, then, when that went into broke-mode, for building supplies.
I should mention that Arrow Lumber has the lead on the coolness meter for such places, totally thrashing The Depot, largely because the people working there (and originally there was only Cadian, PT local) seem to give a shit.
And they give back, evidenced by the photo.
Not that the company’s generosity is really pertinent. What is is that Cadian has surfed the legendary and mysterious surf spot, Green Point… and I haven’t.
But I will.
So, on my most recent trip, I’m bent on purchasing some 2 by 4s so I can get a roof on the greenhouse/studio I’m building before the rains return. And they will. I’m taking advantage of having a bunch of windows I got from a job where they replaced all of them because two had lost their seal. But, mid-decision on my part on the number of boards needed, Cadian and this other guy (okay- same research lumber yard trip- it’s Jerrod) started telling me I should be surfing on such a fine hot day.
“But there’s no surf,” I said, “even on the coast.”
“There’s surf in Maui,” this other guy, Jerrod, always up on the latest blue collar gossip, said, “and Kauai. Last time I was there…”
“And on the north shore,” Cadian added. “I’ve been there, and the waves are sooo…”
Then, possibly because I mentioned the US Open was completed the day before in ankle snappers at Huntington Pier, we had to discuss wave size. I held my hand even with my chin. “Four foot, Californian.” (that would really be, like, five feet- I’ve measured)
“I saw these waves at Sunset Beach,” Cadian continued, “and I said, ‘got to be eight feet.’ This Hawaiian guy said, ‘No, Bra, four feet… Hawaiian.’ So… um, Erwin, what did you want again?”
“Eight 2 by 4s, 12.”
After another customer approached the counter, Cadian added that maybe I wanted nine, and I had to say, “No, eight twelve footers. (pause) That’s eight foot Hawaiian.”

 UPDATE- August 24- It’s Cadian Hendricks. The other guy is named Jerrod. The guy I got on the phone when I posted the piece, who said he’d pass on the information, kind of like free advertising for Arrow Lumber, never did; and I called him out on it yesterday, in to buy some plywood. “We don’t have time for surfing the internet,” the guy whose name I didn’t catch, though he’s been friendly and helpful in the past, said, “but I do remember you called.” So, I left a note, another employee put it on the bosses’ (Cadian’s) desk, and, well, I guess everything’s fine. We’ll see. Meanwhile, as always, looking for a swell, scheming, dreaming of side-slipping through a few green ones.