Category Archives: Erwin Dence illustrations

Cold Plunge at the Selkie Reach Resort

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, short stories on surfing, surf culture, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, surfing, surfing art, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

Although I have yet to finish a seriously publishable version of my novel, “Swamis,” I put some thought and time into thinking about and writing a couple of ‘short’ stories with the same characters. Later. Because I have been considering Selkies recently, though I’ll have to think about what got me on the subject, I started working on a story that would include surfing and… Selkies. Here’s the start of it:

Cold Plunge at the Selkie Reach Resort

“No, can’t find an At… At…sush…i… DeFreines.” The woman behind the resort’s front desk looked between Julie and me. Not suspiciously, but for a bit too long. She was trying to connect the patient woman in an unnecessarily thick and long coat, given the conditions, and me, unnecessarily irritated, even with having to give way to four already checked-in and overly giddy older women, by which I mean, women somewhere around our age. 2016, so, late sixties.

One of the four may have been younger.  A sister, perhaps. Not that I cared. Not            immediately. Not before they started chatting it up.

The desk clerk was somewhere in her twenties, gray top under a darker gray sport coat, a pearl necklace that was almost a choker, hair that was almost straight, pulled back, black and shiny, but with an undertone that suggested it could go gray at any moment. Her eyes were dark. She could tell I was studying her. She sucked in her cheeks for a moment before showing her teeth. Very white. I’m sure she nodded as I looked away and at Julie, knowing my ex-wife had caught the young woman’s look and knowing she believed I deserved worse, staring and all. 

Fresh from the resort’s bar, each of the women was wearing a flannel coat and/or a scarf with a tartan pattern, something identifying some clan unknown to them. No, one woman, the leader, if not merely the most assertive, spent a certain amount of time presenting herself, with some Americanized version of a Scottish brogue, as, “Positively Scottish on my mother’s side. I’m, like, Sedona, Arizona’s representative for the Clan Adair.”

“Then, ‘failte.’ Welcome to the Selkie Reach Resort.”

“And… thanks. What clan might you be from, Love?”

I took the ‘Love’ part as something the woman had picked up from watching “Vera” on PBS. Yes, but it’s set in Northeast England rather than Scotland. Not to nitpick.

“I’m from Wales,” the clerk said, adding, “I’m here for the weather.”

The group took it as a joke. It might have been. Julie nodded and kicked at my backpack. I coughed and kicked at her three matching suitcases.

Since I’m wasting your time on wardrobe, I should say that I was dressed in an off-white cable knit sweater, fairly new Levis, waterproof hiking shoes. New sweater and shoes, hastily purchased from L.L. Bean. Online.

“We’re here for the cold plunge. Love.” It was the last of the group to pick up a room pass, one of the non-Adairs, unnecessarily showing her ID. “How far is the sauna from the water?”

“Too far at low tide. Big tidal shift here. Dangerously so. Flat beach. We have a safety line. If you can see it on a dry beach, don’t go. We have charts in the shower room and… Actually, our pool is plenty cold enough for most.”

When the women gave a unified groan, the clerk added, “Should be perfect tide, slack, in about an hour.” 

I stepped forward and set my passport on the counter. The clanswoman stepped in front of me. “The Selkies? The Sirens? Is there, like, any connection to, maybe, the moon?”

“I’ve heard tell… No, Love, I realize the older brochures might suggest some… Myths. And… not exactly here.” The clerk was looking at her computer rather than the woman. “Area’s called a ‘reach’ because it’s favorable sailing between the rocks at the north headland and the, the safe harbor. South, southwest. Sirens and Selkies were useful to lure tourists.”

“Based on ‘wreckers,’ that’s what I heard.”

“Myth. And, again, not here. Novels. Movies.”

“So, you’ve never seen a Selkie?”

“Seals. Plenty of seals. No Selkies, no Sirens. But…” The clerk handed the woman the room pass. “234. Yes. It’s in the original part, pre-renovation, and you’ll have a view of the water. There’s a telescope and… full moon tomorrow night. Okay?”

I stepped up to the counter as the cold plungers danced back toward the bar, a carved image of a Selkie over the doorway. “Joseph. Joseph A. DeFreines. Party of two.” The clerk looked at her computer and looked back at me, shaking her head.

Julie stepped past me. “Julia Cole-Wilson. Emailed… yesterday.”

“Oh, then,” the woman said, with a quick glance between me and Julie.

“I forgot, Atsushi. You paid for the flight. I just…”

“She didn’t forget, Miss…”

“Jones. We’re all named Jones where I’m from.”

“Right. Wales. I was down there… a few years ago. Quite a few years ago. Surfing.” Miss Jones may have mouthed ‘surfing.’ She blinked. Definitely.  “Lovely place, sad story… Otherwise, great, surfing wise.”  

Julia moved next to me. “We’re here for the disappearance.”

“A friend,” I said.

“Our goddaughter.”

The clerk tried to maintain her neutral expression. “Rita.” She failed. “Rita Longworthy?”

Her eyes were so dark, so moist.                                    

 Feedback- You’ve gone a bit David Sedaris… Love… in your advanced age. I thought this was going to be a ‘short’ story. Otherwise… okay. See you soon. Get the fuck better. Please! Your Trueheart, forever.                                                                                   

Image, obviously, ‘borrowed’ from Stablediffusionweb.com. It’s an AI prompt, as if I know what that means.

Then, again, maybe I’ve always made some connection. Unprompted. The first drawing was done in the late 1980s. I added the lettering more recently. Capturing the essence and the allure of the sea; I’ve never quite gotten it right. And… I keep trying.

As, I’m sure, you do.

All original works by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. are protected by copyright. All rights reserved. TO CONTACT, email erwin@realsurfers.net. Thanks or checking it out!

Thanksgiving Much? Surf Music, Ghosts, More

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, Original Erwin, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, surf culture events, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, writings of Erwin Dence

WORKING ON IT- Librarian/ripper Keith Darrock and I have been discussing having a SURF MUSIC theme for the next Occasional Surf Culture event. I am working on a poster. The above start, not nearly psychedelic enough, may be used once we get details sorted. If you have surf-centric music, let Keith know via the Port Townsend Public Library, or you could e-mail me at erwin@realsurfers.net

It’ll probably kick ff in, like, January, preesumed (but not always true)height of the local surf season.

Photo from Unsplash. After scrolling and scrolling, this one fit best. Could have scrolled on.

Vintage Victorian Sealskin coat. Out of stock. Photo from MODIG. 1900s Faux fur coat from New York Cloak and Coat House. SHIT! Fake? Evidently you can get real ones in Canada. Might be a tariff. And it might be illegal if immoral isn’t enough, And it’s not like I want one, I just wanted the fictional character to have one.

The Store Owners’ Daughter and the Hudson Street Whore

When the night got too harsh, she moved under the awning, in front of my parents’ hardware store, the Hudson Street whore. I’ve heard her singing.

She twirled for a bit, in the display window’s light, her long coat a part of the dance, “It’s old,” she said, “True, but it’s warm and I swear that it’s genuine fur,” It’s the same one her mother once wore, the Hudson Street whore. I’ve heard her singing.

How this Fiction/Poem was inspired by Chris Eardley, and… an explanation:

It was too cold and, more importantly, too damp to be painting this close to the water this close to sunset. If the fog was to come in… I know the risks of painting exteriors in November in this part of the world. Still, after painting on the covered porch, I pushed my luck a bit, putting a coat on some columns.

That’s when Chris Eardley walked by from his office (with an envy-worthy view of the bend in the Salish Sea between the Strait of Juan de Fuca and Puget Sound) in another building in the Port Hudson marina/building/boat yard complex. Chris is another surfer overqualified to live in a surf-starved area such as the inland waters of the Olympic Peninsula.

Maybe we yelled greetings across the road and past the heavy haul-out movable crane. Or not. Maybe a wave exchange. But… because I was there under circumstances that could be reduced to “I’m here for the money,” I felt a certain amount of something resembling… guilt.

This is me, a self-identified paint-whore.

The fiction part- First, I do a minor cringe using a term as harsh as ‘whore.’ After writing and rewriting a few verses, I decided to make the narrator a woman (girl, age-wise), hoping, if I get to a complete version, that there will be some suspense, perhaps, that the story continues. And, somewhere in my confused, ‘let’s see’ mind, I want to connect the Hudson Street Whore to the ocean, to the whole tradition of Selkies and Sirens. And I will.

I’ll let you know.          

The aforementioned Chris Eardley representing in some sunnier climes.

THANKFULNESS- Every wave is a gift. Even the ones you fall on, and the ones that fall on you.

The ghost in the laundromat dryer window is, yeah me, washing my paint-whore outfits.

SO, thanks for checking out my almost-humble blog; hope you’re enjoying the holiday, and, it’s not like we’re all a whore of some kind, but, as such, a surf-whore isn’t the worst thing.

“SWAMIS”- I’m almost through the first third of my latest re-write, front loading a bit more of the mystery aspect of the novel. I’m planning on publishing more here on a second page. Once I figure out how to do that. Stay tuned, stay frothy.

Not much to claim all rights to in this post, but, yes, I am on all original material. Thanks.

That “**&%$#@!! It All, I’m Gonna Go Surfin'” Moment

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, Original Erwin, real surfers, surf culture events, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, surfing, surfing art, surfing illustrations, writings of Erwin Dence

I was actually planning on leaving it at that. All clickbait, no content.

Not that I’m going surfing. Not today. Maybe you’re out there, hoping for the right window to open up: Tide and size and direction, cooperative wind, amiable crowd (or no crowd). It might work. It might be working now; more likely after you give up on one spot and cruise, along with others, to another spot, always hoping, anticipating,

Yep.

Just in case music is part of your surf life, some tune in your head as you search or surf, I want to mention that I’ve been discussing having SURF MUSIC as the dominant theme for the NEXT (It’s, like, the 6th or 7th, one virtual) OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA (I’m ready to drop the ‘Salish Sea’ part) EVENT with Your PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY dude (afraid to give him a title, but he may be the Head Librarian), and well known ripper, KEITH DARROCK.

It would probably be in JANUARY of 2026, and would include SURF-CENTRIC LOCAL ART, and SPECIAL GUESTS like… Working on it. I’ve already signed up PETE RAAB, non-surfer, but a man with an impressive knowledge and collection of SURF MUSIC, and I’ve approached Legend TIM NOLAN about performing with some of his friends.

Consider this an invitation to any OLYMPIC PENINSULA surf music performers, singer-songwriters or bands. We’re still at the ‘think about it phase,’ so… THINK ABOUT IT!

MEANWHILE, as your anticipation level spikes, here’s a surf song I wrote quite a while back:

I’ve got a whole lot of work, so I’ve just got a little time; got a whole lot of work, so I’ve just got a little time; now, they say everybody chooses their own mountain to climb.

I’m gonna climb that mountain, gonna start about four am; gonna climb that mountain, gonna start about four am; and I’ll stop about noon at a lake that I know for a swim.

When I get to the top, I’m gonna check out the other side; when I get to the top, I’m gonna check out the other side; and if I see the ocean, you know that I’ll be satisfied.

I JUST WANNA GO SURFIN’, now tell me, is that such a sin; I just wanna go surfin’, now, tell me, is that such a sin? When you know, damn well, it’s been a mighty long time since I’ve been.

I’m gonna take off late, freefall drop, cave off the bottom and fly off the top, locked in so tight the wave spits me out, hit the shoulder and turn one-eighty about, moving down the line like a water snake, saving my best moves for the inside break.

Hit the inside section, arching, hanging five, That’s when I’ll know that I’m still alive.

Yeah, I wanna go surfin’, and I’m gonna fine me some time; yeah, I wanna go surfin’, and I’m gonna find me some time; Now, if you get to go surfin’, and you need a good board… borrow mine.

NOTES: One- I previewed these lyrics to Pete Raab when I was working for him and on them. I need a rhyme for ‘inside break.’ Water snake? Yes. Works. Two- No one should borrow any board I own. I thrash my boards. Always have. That’s what they’re for. If your board is too, too precious to you; hang it on your wall. My motto, still, “I’m here to surf!”

I do continue to work on my novel, “Swamis.” I’m either going to have a second page on this site devoted to the book, or I will post chapters on Wednesdays. Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net

You can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net

All original works are copyright protected all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

See you.

Labor Day… Almost… Working on Stuff… And…

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, real surfers, surf adventures, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

ON THE FRIDAY before the big LABOR DAY weekend, this sailor decided to motor through the HOOD CANAL BRIDGE after, no doubt, enjoying the beauty and peaceful ambiance of the farther reaches of this tentacle of the greater Puget Sound. SOOOO, traffic, already snarled with the convergence of tourists ($$$) and working folks (hurrah! and hooray!) coming from the Kingston Ferry, the Bainbridge Ferry, and the folks who decided it was more efficient to drive around, ALL to get to the splendor and wonder of the OLYMPIC PENINSULA; all the RVs and Motorhomes and SUVs with bikes and kayaks and luggage (few surfboards as there is really really not much surf coming in) got the opportunity to wait and move and wait and move, all in the pursuit of just a little bit of ;uzocueaxx+$#@ relaxation.

Not me. I was going the other way, watching to see if the sails would be unfurled before the boat went out of sight and/or the bridge opened. No.

‘Erwin’ the five minute movie by ANNIE FERGERSON, will be shown, along with other, longer, short documentaries, at the 26TH ANNUAL PORT TOWNSEND FILM FESTIVAL, September 18-21. Actual screening times are: 9:30 pm, Friday, and 10:30 am Sunday at the American Legion Hall. The film, which, again, I was reluctant to participate in, though I did want to see a bit of footage of me (not uncommon among surfers), has been part of several other film festivals (Save the Waves, for one), so, like Australia… and, no, my head is already maxed-out, size wise.

Tickets for the PTFF go on sale on September 15. The film, and others, will be available for screening on September 22.

HERE’S HOW CHALLENGED I AM. I saw a photo of my old friend, STEPHEN R. DAVIS and me, and sometimes surfer, JASON QUEEN, shot on the day of the filming. Steve was aware of the shoot and was in the water with me. Initially it was crappy, the wind sideshore, with two other surfers out. It got better, somewhat. Then, with the camera set up on the reef, it rained. Then it cleared up. Then the rights started working. Then everything shut down. Then Jason showed up.

I tried to snag the photo for my site. Download didn’t work, print didn’t work. I went to Google search (or something) It wouldn’t give me the entire photo. It cut out part of Jason and all of Steve. NOW, Steve knows he was there. He needs to be included. Just to be honest, my ‘go to’ comment on Jason is that, if the surf is working for three days, he shows up on the fourth day; but hey, he’s in the movie. Final cut.

SO, all you have to do is put these three images together and you have… Yeah, it’s kind of like filmmaking. Editing and trickery.

Now, if Annie had only used the ‘skinny’ lens.

CONNECTING NON-SURFERS with real and otherwise surfers: MORT ROBINSON is a long time client of mine, painting-wise. Because I seem to update my life with anyone in any conversation, I told Mort about the film. I had a link that worked (until it didn’t). He checked it out. Here is his response:

Erwin, 

I enjoyed  the movie immensely. It Is so well done. I have difficulty putting my feelings into proper  words.  Perhaps I feel the same way about flying small airplanes and gliders as you do about surfing.   I am pushing 91 years of age, and  I’ve been flying since June 1952.  Every single day of my life, I think of going up in my airplane.  Indeed, it always puts a grin  on my face. I am master of my own fate/destiny.  For me, it’s unbelievable that I am able to sail along  as a free spirit in the 4 dimensions of space and time.  Hither t dither and yon.    I am actually able to do it at least two and sometimes three times a week. It always puts a smile on my face, not only do I feel I am a safer pilot now then when I was 40 or 50 years old, but,  because safety is correlates with proficiency,  I am indeed proficient.  I am very lucky to have an airplane within walking distance to my home, and I am happy and healthy enough To actually use it anytime I  desire. We may both be in the same boat, however, different strokes.

Take care, Mort

JEFFREY VAUGHN gave me a call last Sunday, which just happened to be my birthday, just to check up on me (and to get info from my last session- my guess). A LONGSHOREMAN by profession, Jeff has had three operations on his shoulder (occupational hazard). The first two were unsuccessful and led to a lot of time out of the water. Jeff is quite a bit younger than I am, grew up surfing in the South Bay area, and brought that South Bay longboarding style with him to the Northwest. He would show up when the waves were working, or might be working; something that, if I couldn’t get in the water, I would probably not do. I would undoubtedly, however, attempt to surf before my injuries were healed. I have a history of doing this: Ankle injuries, crushed ribs, detached retina, I’ve always thought I was ready before my body was in agreement.

When the subject of being objectively older surfers came up, Jeff said we are SO LUCKY to have memories of so many sessions in clean and uncrowded conditions, so many rides stored away; younger surfers are just building their mental libraries. Yeah, Jeff, lucky either way.

Jeffrey Vaughn riding a log on top of my car. NOT how he injured his shoulder.

WSL NEWS- I almost wish people wouldn’t start checking out realsurfers early on a Sunday. I’m trying to put this all together before the WSL FINALS get started. We know how THEY love to finish a contest on a holiday or a weekend. In, like, an hour… maybe. IF there’s no comp, I have to go work. If ITS ON, I’ll be watching, hoping I can get some stuff I promised done tomorrow. Labor Day; I work. I want the martyr points, even if I’m the only one counting them.

POETRY (subject to change)

This Chance to Meet

Around the corner, across the street, Under a leafless tree, under a cloudless sky, Two lovers took this chance to meet.

To meet As carpools and buses and delivery trucks and dog walkers paraded by, As children shrieked on the playground between us, Between you and me, Bundled against the bright, cold wind, My arm raised to block the worst of it from your face, And them, The lovers, somewhere in an early chapter of their story, He and she among us strangers, Bundled against each other, Reddened cheeks close, Their breaths visible, mingled into a single cloud.

“To love is… brave,” you said,“ Or foolish,” was my response.

You studied my eyes, a split second, You laughed and pulled the scarf from around your neck, Wrapped it around my neck and pulled me close, “Fools like us,” you said, your breath forming its own cloud.

Chill winds moved through the higher trees, The evergreens, their branches, in rhythm, Swaying to some ancient melody, A bicyclist, leaning too far over on the corner, Corrected, not gracefully, A tourist took photos, hurriedly, as if it was almost time to leave, Three teenage boys argued over who a special girl loved, Or loved more, And who they should believe, A box truck, making deliveries, stopped and started, Stopped in the middle of the street between us, Between them, the lovers, them, he and she, and us, you and me.

The truck started, pulled forward, They, the lovers, turned and looked at us, And we at them,

Your scarf still holding you and me together.

I threw my hands out in surrender, And they both did the same, The lovers, he and she.

NON THAT I’M POLITICAL STUFF-

MEANWHILE, thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers,net and remember, some of this stuff has rights reserved by me. HOPING SOME WAVES show up soon… see you out on Surf Route 101.

realsurfers magazine- Sunday, August 10

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf contests, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf trips, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing novels, writings of Erwin Dence

Chris Eardley and Keith Darrock (and Rico and Cougar Keith) hit the Westend, searching for new waves to conquer. If they didn’t find gold. Not that I was seriously invited, but I was told the wooden path does not go all the way to the beach PLUS four days food and a big ass board. Plus… a few more minuses. What they caught and where? Stories vary.

To complete the story of the church steeple painting, I convinced Reggie Smart to finish the middle of the side of the church I couldn’t reach with the 65 foot boom. This required putting a ladder on the roof, attaching a ledger partway up to secure another ladder. You can see the setup in the lower photo. This little peak would have required some psycho setting up from the roof. It took fifteen minutes of positioning of the manlift and most of the boom to get to the spot, fifteen minutes to put a coat on the surfaces.

It was not required that we paint the cross on the top of the steeple, though the congregation clearly wanted it to happen. The difference between going above the steeple’s roof and painting below it is about twelve feet up into the wild blue yonder. I thought having Reggie with me in the basket might boost my confidence. It did not. “I’m going to throw up,” I said. “Yeah, well,” Reggie said, suggesting he might just soil himself (note my resistance at using the actual quote). Still; I do feel some shame around ‘hairing-out.’ Almost a week out, less shame. I did get the window on the fun car, damaged when I backed into the manlift turret, replaced, and I did repair the damage caused when I hit a spot on the steeple… twice. If I had the feeling, in the lift, that I’d used up my chances on this project; well, I will have to live with that.

This is a display, evidently, at the Jefferson County Fair, taken by Librarian Keith (a proposed nickname, “STACKS,” as in library shelving, has never caught on). MEANWHILE, Adam Wipeout, prominently featured, was doing double duty; attending a wedding of one or two co-workers, somewhere, and participating in the WARM CURRENTS activities at La Push. Here’s the story:

The takeway, first: Most often we listen to our own advice. SO, Adam called me this morning at 7:06. He was on his way BACK to LaPush and wondered if I wanted to catch a ride. He was probably ten minutes down Surf Route 101 and I had just gotten up. “What? No.” I asked him what he had done with his scheduling conflict from Saturday. “Dude, I did both. Didn’t you see the photo from La Push?” “The one with a one foot wave ten feet off the beach?” “No, no; it was crazy. La Push has this sandbar, and on a rising tide…” “Yeah, yeah; I’m working today so, maybe, if a swell shows up…” NOTE: the …s probably mean info I shouldn’t put out.

Two drawings I started while waiting for the Volvo’s back window to be replaced.

WSL STUFF- I did, of course, watch a lot of the surfing contest from Tahiti. More like the morning stuff, with scary scary waves the first day. I watched most of the heats on Friday, and, bucking a popular trend, didn’t really have issues with the judging. It does become obvious that the difference between winning and not is often whether a competitor’s drive overcomes his or her fear. Though there are a lot of heats to get through on the men’s side, the finalists on the women’s side, Caitlin Simmers and Molly Picklum fit that description. One thing that might improve (might) is having a non-final final with two or four of the non-finalists. I would choose Erin Brooks and Vahine Fierro. Your choice? Up to you. We’ll see.

NOT that I’m in any way political:

COMPLICITOUS

We lack empathy because we’ve never experienced real horror, We lack sympathy because we refuse to believe the horror to be as bad as we know it to be, We lack compassion because we don’t want that real horror to find us.

We look away, Complicit.

If you pass a starving child and do nothing to help, you should feel the shame, If you purposefully starve a child, Bomb a child, Snipe a child, You are the horror.

We look away, Complicit.

FROM the Old Testament, Volume II, Third Book of Netanyahu; Chapter Two, Verse three: “We basically could have eliminated the entire population of Gaza.”

Whatever God is or isn’t, God set the rules, the boundaries, the limits, God plays the long game.

We haven’t the time, We posture and push and out position, Swagger and strut past the meek and indecisive, We invest in our desires, gamble on our instincts, Hard focused on our dreams, Fame and glory and wealth and power, Power on power and power for power, Hate for hate.

God plays the long game.

Success begets success, Power attracts power.

Buffed and polished, chrome and gold and mirrors, Our lust, once everything, Breaks, Our overstuffed pockets spill out, Deeds and bonds and diamonds, Our treasures are stashed offshore, vaults, buried Pirate chests, Molding, oxidized, crumpled and corrupted, Not to be touched.

God plays the long game.

Our heavens, our yachts and cars and mansions and land, List and leak and sink, Monuments to what others will never have, Museums dedicated to someone we never will be, And never were.

God plays the long game.

Our souls, we believe, Might be retrieved, Whole. Pure. Redeemed. This is not true. We know this is not true.

We cannot love ourselves, And others will not Truly Love us.

We are unworthy of real love, Slanderers and abusers and deniers, Cheats and frauds and Liars, Painted, plastic coated, polished, And yet, Senses dulled, synapses crackling, our minds questioning Every decision, Aware we are rotting, shrinking, slowing, failing, skin sliding on the bone, Unable to recognize ourselves in smoke clouded mirrors or gold framed portraits. We fear all others.

We have to, They want what we have.

Whatever God is or God isn’t, we are not gods.

We cannot play the long game.

We haven’t the time.

AS ALWAYS, thanks for checking out realsurfers.net

WHY DON’T YOU WRITE ME? erwin@realsurfers.net

Here’s what I’m claiming rights to today: The illustrations and the poems. Copyright 2025. All rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

MEANWHILE, I have some surf plans. I’m thinking, maybe, if… Maybe I’ll see you out and around or driving past me. Good luck!

Not a Hobie, Almost Apologies, Addition to Porthclaw Short Story w/illustration, OOPS…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, Hobie surfboards, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf sessions, surf-related short storties, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, writings of Erwin Dence

I am, not surprisingly, continuing to write/edit my Joseph Atsushi DeFreines short story about a surf trip to a spot in Wales. This is the second drawing I did to go along with the story. I then changed what I was planning to write to go along better with the illustration. BUT FIRST:

A thumbnail shot (forgive me for the thumb… and for thinking it’s funny) of THOR, left, and CONCRETE PETE, and a shot of REGGIE SMART delivering my new-to-me Surf Tech board. NOT a HOBIE.

UPDATE/OOPS- In my original posting, I failed to mention that Northwest surf pioneer TOM BURNS beat me in the race to being 74 years old. He did call me from Cannon Beach to give me the surf report with a subtle reminder, something like, “Yeah; not that great; lots of traffic; got some complaints from friend in Seaside about all the Washingtonians coming down; can’t get near Short Sands; and hey; you forgot my birthday.”

Tom Burns, a few years back, setting up for the next section

Not that it’s a competition, but I’ll catch up with Tom in late August, slightly ahead of Coach Pete Carroll, who, side story, Tom chatted with in the Westport parking lot a few years ago. “Wait, Pete surfs?” “Of course.” Going, still going.

A Little Heckling from the Back Pews

The belief that surfing is a spiritual form of expression, allowing one to move, gracefully, perhaps, through a greater energy, to flow with this gift, and, in a perfect moment, with the stars and the moon and the tides and the other elements aligned, and that the quest for this enlightenment can transform one into a better version of one’s self; this belief is great. And it is real. And I share this belief.

Two things often, to use a once cool phrase, harsh this paradigm: Surfing is fun, one, and two, the reality that even non-perfect waves frequently draw crowds means that too many others are in the water seeking spiritual awakenings, connections with the Universe, and moments of ultimate bliss.   

Your quest, their quest, everybody’s questing like crazy. And some are kooks. Not that this is, in itself, a sin.

But some are surfers you’ve surfed with before; surf acquaintances if not surf friends. And sometimes, the fun part includes getting loud, participating in what a guy in the water called heckling; as in: “Hey, you’re doing a lot of heckling. I just want to see you stand up on that board.” My response was, “No.” Hard no, perhaps.

Now, I really hadn’t singled that surfer out for heckling. It was more like I was acknowledging other surfers I’ve known for a long time, as in, “Tim’s on the wave. Tim’s wave! Hey, look around!” Or, if someone was taking off down the line from me, a simple, “Really?” Or, if a big roll through was approaching, “Take off! Be a hero!” Or, if I see three surfers going for one wave, “Everybody go! Everybody… go, go, go!” Or, if someone is directly in my line, I might say, “Paddle!” or “Don’t move!” Depends.

Whoa; maybe I do a bit of heckling.

But when I told this woman to “Paddle. Paddle!” and she got, evidently, a good ride, she mentioned I should have whistled. “You mean, like, ‘good ride’ kind of whistle?” “Yeah.” The next time I saw her complete a ride, I gave her the ‘both arms up’ signal.

When the guy who later, on the beach, claimed to be from Capitola, adding that he once almost burned Tom Curren at Rincon, mentioned my heckling, Thor, formerly of somewhere down Surf Route 101 from me, recently hanging at his sister’s place on Maui, said, “It’s not heckling, man, it’s hassling.”

I deny that.

It might actually be that I was having a lot of trouble adapting to my new-to-me Surf Tech Balboa model. The same length as my well-thrashed Hobie, but with clunkier rails, it almost refused to turn on my first three waves, and while trying a high line on another wave, the board broke free and I dropped, out of control, the trough. This gave me more to talk about when Reggie, who sold me the board, showed up and started dominating the inside waves. And then inventor/entrepreneur Mike Olson showed up, continuing to try to master his wing foil, so I had to try to say something to him on the way by. He said when he gets it on rail, “It really is like flying,” and he did mention how much fun he was having. Fun. Yeah.

So, yeah; a lot of banter/talking, made all the more annoying by my out at sea voice, that all the louder by both being hard of hearing and having to wear ear plugs.

Occasionally, and it seems to coincide with my catching a lot of waves and having a good time, I can’t help but feeling a bit apologetic. Not during, afterwords. Like, maybe, you take my loudness as abrasiveness. I get it. Nothing has come close to ruining a session for me like obnoxious surfers teaming up and disrespecting the true value of the gift of waves while I’m, in silence, praying for a bomb set wave with no shoulder hoppers.

I realize this sounds like a non-apology apology, but I do sincerely consider, as in think to about, briefly, how my being in the water might negatively affect others. Briefly.

Oh, so after Capitola guy and I exchanged a few stories on the beach, and I, as usual, pushed my blog, he mentioned again that he’d like to see me standing up on my board.    There may have been a bit of spitefulness, and I hope you’ll consider forgiving me, when I replied, “No, no, and… no.” And, yes, even though I punctuated this with a double flip-off, the friendly sort, and he seemed to take it in the friendly way in which I meant it, I did feel a bit… almost but not quite… apologetic.   

Here is the addition to my short story abbout a fictional surf trip to Wales in 1975. I’ve made significant changes, will make more. I will repost when I’m satisfied it works. SO:

Some events are so horrific that, even as they are happening, we wish them, desperately want them to be something else. Not real. In the aftermath we want them to not have happened, to have those few worst sessions to not be real.

But they are. Samuel Hubbard/Jones, in what I’ve long referred to as his ‘lord high barrister lingo,’ described what he witnessed, what we both became a part of, as “Discordant.”

“Discordant? Yeah. Okay.”

 “I just didn’t want to say ‘surreal.’ When… when we entered the bath/shower room on the pier at Porthclaw, Claudia… Claudia; she was smiling as if she wasn’t in… that much danger. As if it might be, still, a joke. What was happening.  With everything else dark, her attacker and… and she was wearing that summer dress… So bright.  I know why you’re asking me this, Joey. I mean, now. I’ve come to grips with it. The image… it’s still there, but it’s… I’ve had fifty years of other images of… of unspeakable violence. As have you. But I can describe every moment; and I have. It’s part of the process. You could… and don’t. This is why you can’t finish “Swamis.” I read… almost all of your most recent draft. Better. You cannot bear to go to those most monstrous, those darkest places, and you refuse to believe that those are the places readers insist upon your going. And, you don’t have to write this, so I understand. And… you’re right, fuck any readers who insist on cruelty rendered so they can imagine it while lying on their beds. You look for sense, for a story, for heroes and villains. For… justice. But, fuck, man, we’re… old. Why haven’t we learned that life is…”

“Discordant.”

“Discordant indeed.”

Have the perfect combination of fun and inspiration the next time you surf. Remember all original material on realsurfers.net is protected by copyright, all rights reserved by the author/artist, Erwin Dence. AND do write me at erwin@realsurfers.net with your high praise and anything else. So far, I’ve received mostly offers to improve my site for, I’m guessing, money. AND, as always, thanks for checking it out!

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

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.

Humbled and Humble and Remembering and Memorial Day and… You Know, Surf Stuff

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, old surfers, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, short stories on surfing, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf art, surf culture, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing illustrations, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing stories

Poem. Fear of Crying- “It takes a lot to make me cry, so please don’t try; and if you do, I promise you, I’ll try to make you smile.”

My finger, someone else’s wave.

What We Deserve- We all deserve better; or we believe we do; better or more; less stress, more success; less pain, more gain. Yeah, slogans; the salesperson’s pitch, the trap of new age clap trap; me-ism, we-ism, jingoism. And it’s not that I don’t buy into it. If I put off the work I should be doing, get up early, load up, and drive out for a minimum of half an hour, full of anticipation; by golly, I sort of believe I deserve waves; good waves, uncrowded waves, and lots of them. And I sort of know that belief has no basis… except I want my reward to be as great as my desire, as true as what I imagine it could be.

The Truth is- Sometimes we get skunked. Sometimes someone else gets the wave of the day; someone newer to the game, someone to whom a lucky make on a wave on which the surfer displayed no style, no sign of years of accumulated wave knowledge; and yet, that surfer’s dreams were surpassed. Blissfully so, because a ride like that deserves to be properly appreciated.

Humbled, Not Humble- My most recent surf expedition left me searching for excuses for why I performed so badly; and I hate excuses. Still, I have some: Pressed for time, mind set more on real life than surfing, chose the wrong place to paddle out, relentless set waves. Those are the easy ones. The more fear inducing mind fucks: It just might be true that waves I would have once relished seem daunting, dangerous even. Perhaps my age is catching up with my self-image as someone who tries, as hard as possible, to defy if not deny it.

Still, a Great Session, Other than the Surfing – I got to use my wheelie to pack my board down and back, I met an old friend, TYLER MEEKS, chatted with CHIMACUM TIM, and a couple of other surfers. In processing my latest embarrassment, not that it was witnessed, more that I haven’t been able to not talk about it, I have to go back and take a mental count on other times I’ve been treated unfairly by the ocean (not that, again the ocean plays favorites or that any surfer deserves favor), and there aren’t that many. Did I learn something from my failures? Yes. Do I count the times where I left the water because I lost a fin or was injured or caught three waves in an hour because of the crowd? No. But I can easily recall the sessions in which I was humbled, in which I didn’t live up to whatever standards I believed I had set for myself. Again, belief versus reality.

The John-John Effect- Perhaps you remember a World Surf League contest in France a few years ago: Roll-throughs, brutal death pit shore break; every reason to be intimidated if not scared shitless; and everyone is getting slaughtered… except John Florence. He was ripping the place like it was his back yard. I don’t need to add to that, do I? One surfer’s nightmare is another surfer’s dream.

Cold Comfort- Though I refuse to admit that there is any real value in talking about what I or you or anyone “Used to” do, I do, while wishing I could still ride a six foot board in six foot beachbreak, still wish I could spin and one-stroke into a late drop, crank a vicious hit on an oncoming section, or do a reverse flyaway kickout, and with full awareness that bragging about what I once did only shows what I can no longer do, I do take some solace in my own history; successes and failures.

What Failure Guarantees- A better next time.

Next Time, Man…   

ACTUALLY, I wanted to write something about friends, surf friends, close friends, not that kind of friends. The idea is that we have surf acquaintances, and often, our only thing we have in common is that we are surfers. Some, but not all, of my best friends are surfers. Yes, I have so many writing projects in the process of becoming something worthy of sharing. What I’ve been thinking about has some connection to my last humbling. The gist of the story is that I sort of stole PHILLIP HARPER’S car and drove it to a surf spot I was sure I was going to do well at. I didn’t. I lost my 9’9” Surfboards Hawaii noserider paddling out. Lesson- Hands tight on the rails when turning turtle, arms loose to make it through the turbulence. Other lesson, learned when Phillip, who gave me permission through his mother while he was ill and in bed at the motel adjacent to the Cantamar trailer park, Baja California, Easter Vacation, 1968, had a miraculous recovery when he realized that I was driving his Chevy Corvair with a desperate oil leak to K-38, a place where, on the way down, we saw multiple boards destroyed on the rocks. When I got out and up the cliff, all the other dudes, invited and self-invited, and a very angry Phillip, showed up. I don’t remember anyone asking how I did. Later in the week, an offshore wind made Cantamar, which I had tried to surf because I didn’t have a car and everyone else slept in, became rideable for a while; we surfed some blown out shit waves south of Ensenada, paddled out at a spot that was more crowded than it probably was in North San Diego County, and had some other, non-surfing adventures; fireworks, lack a proper bathroom/shower facilities, a lot of hanging out, and a bit of what folks would refer to as partying. Memorable trip for a sixteen-year-old.

What is interesting to me is that I forgot that I had stolen (borrowed) Phillip’s car until I was writing about this trip, fictionalized, as “Inside Break,” the alternate (in a way) coming of age novel that has been (is still being) transformed into “Swamis.” Because I was thinking about this, I accumulated a list of the cast of the actual incident. I’m listing them here because I will forget the names again. The trip was organized by Phillip’s stepfather, Vince Ross. Vince was borrowing a trailer. He and Phillip’s mother, Joy, and Phillip’s sister, Trish (not my Trish) were to stay at the adjacent motel. INVITEES: Phillip Harper, Ray Hicks, Erwin Dence, Melvin Glouser, Clint/Max Harper, Mark Ross. We were supposed to stay at the borrowed trailer, which did not, and this became an issue have a sewer hookup. But, because of the UNINVITED surfers, Dana Adler, Mark Metzger, and Billy McLean; Mel and Ray and Phil and I got to stay in tents outside the boundary, adjacent to a field of, I’m guessing, sugar cane. There were other American surfers also camped there; way cooler than we were.

If this is in some way connected to friends, Phillip was my first surf friend, Ray was a friend before he started surfing (classmate, Boy Scouts).  I am still in occasional contact with Ray, and credit him with inspiring me to get back into surfing at fifty, after an eight or ten year near drought. I haven’t been in contact with Phillip for years. While I’m fine with knowing something about what has happened with Mark and Billy and Dana, and others, I do feel bad that I might not have been a good enough friend to Phillip.

Tyler Meeks when he had the sorely missed DISCO BAY Equipment Exchange. His hair is longer now. I didn’t recognize him immediately when I last saw him. He is supposed to call me about t shirt opportunities. Call me, Tyler.

What We Don’t Know- DELANA is a DJ on the local Port Townsend public radio station, KPTZ. The program is ‘Music to my Ears,’ 4 to 5 pm on Wednesdays, repeated on Saturdays at 1pm. I’ve caught her show quite a few times when driving. Old tunes, little stories about the artists involved.  What gets me is that at the end, and I’m paraphrasing, she says, “Remember to be kind to those we meet. Each of us carries a burden that others do not see.” What we know about our surf friends is what we have in common; and sometimes surfing is pretty much it. And… that’s fine. In fact, it’s great.

The step parent of “Swamis,” different take on the same era. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. Oh, and Happy Memorial Day, and, oh, good luck, Sally Fitz. They may or may not hold the next round tonight. As with everything, we will see.

I Guess I’m Lucky… Occasionally

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence Cartoons, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, real surfers, surf adventures, surf art, surf culture events, surf fiction, surf novels, surf sessions, surf stories, surf trips, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing novels, surfing Swamis, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

There are some surf windows that become legendary; December of 1969 and August of 1975, California swells, one north, one south; epic enough to get a mention in *MATT WARSHAW’S “Encyclopedia of Surfing,” and extremely memorable to me because I was out for both of them; the first at Swamis, the second at Upper Trestles.

And then there are the legendary sessions we miss. Waves are breaking, brown-green slop to sparkling barrels, all over the world; and it is easy to believe even the most fickle spot gets something rideable to all time, some time. Rather than tales told in parking lots and over coffee or beer, or perhaps, in the bread section of a grocery store, YouTube and Instagram pushes almost-live images that are so much easier to find than the waves themselves. Trip to Bali because you saw something? Hawaii? Maybe, if you’re lucky, you can hit something all time in Australia or France. Gee, Mundaka and Uluwatu look fun. Malibu? Sure, and maybe a few leg burners at Rincon or Jeffry’s Bay. It would be so awesome to hit Cloudbreak on, you know, an almost survivable size. Yeah!

Maybe. Time and money and, even if you study the forecasts and hack Kelly Slater’s schedule, luck. The WSL’s version of a Pipeline contest has been on hold for… a while; one day’s competition in self-admitted beachbreak-like conditions. Still, it’ll get better. Hopefully.

Getting back to me; it’s not like I dominated SWAMIS in ’69, with overhead waves as barreling, offshore winds as strong as I ever experienced there, and with a certain amount of pre-internet hype and publicity adding to the crowd of takers and watchers. No on the domination. Swamis was, for the time, extra crowded, this exacerbated by the fact that when the surf gets big, the places one can reasonably surf in San DIego County gets reduced to Swamis, Cardiff, Windansea, Sunset Cliffs, maybe that non-surf spot, La Jolla Cove. Remember, I did say ‘reasonably;’ as in get out, catch more than one wave. Undergunned on the first day of a five or six day run, I did better as the waves evened out and the crowds diminished. A week or two later, the surf was just as big, less hype, less crowded. I went out, feeling lucky.

TRESTLES: Warshaw quoted MICKY MUNOZ as saying the south swell in August 1975 was as clean as any he remembered. Mr. Munoz was the first person I saw when I paddled out on my round-nosed, small wave board at Upper Trestles. I, admittedly, shoulder-hopped the first few waves, my fin just vibrating. Still, I made a few waves. I feel, this many years on, so lucky that I had the opportunity to work up the hill from a classic spot, park on the beach, and surf it, from barely breaking on, with what would seem an absurdly small crowd.

LOCAL OR LUCKY, it’s a term that comes up often out here on the fickle-as-shit Olympic Peninsula. The sessions worth remembering do happen. As they do everywhere. Maybe not as often. It’s probably acceptable to savor, or even recount the magic of the best sessions while waiting for the next one. I mean, not like bragging. It just seems like bragging.

Okay, maybe it is bragging, but, hey, you have stories I might not totally believe. Tell me those next time I run into you at Costco or Fast Taco or… wherever.

*Port Townsend Librarian Keith Darrock would love to get (now)Seattle-based surf historian/writer for the next OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA EVENT. Not the only reason he is mentioned here.

I’m working on my collection of songs and (I always kind of chuckle when I say this) poetry, and used some of my winter down time to do a potential cover. I should apologize here for posting “If It’s Over” twice. So… Sorry. If you stick with me, we’ll get to “I Guess I’m Lucky.”

I’m not (all that) political, but I do pay attention.

I would have done it in color, but that might make me seem… political.

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

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

Dream of tomorrow, you sacrifice all your todays; You’re so busy workin’, you haven’t got time just to play; But you still have to crawl on your knees to pick up your pay; Though I’m selling my blood just to pay up my Union dues; I still count myself lucky because I never get the blues.

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

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

PHOTO voluntarily REMOVED.

All original work on realsusrfers.net, unless otherwise attributed, is covered by copyright protections, all rights reserved by the author/artist, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

YOU WON’T get lucky without trying. Find some surf, get on it! MORE stuff on Sunday, and yes, I’m, like, 170 pages out of 214 or so on my latest rewrite of “Swamis,” suddenly concerned that I did not, perhaps, put in enough description of the characters. You know, like, “Roger and Gary were both blonde, both assumed a stance that said, ‘casual,’ both with expressions that said, ‘cool.’ For the most part they maintained the image.” I have been, so far, realizing it’s almost a requirement for a novel, resisted describing the breasts of the women in the novel. So far.