UPDATES- NONE at the moment- Saturday, July 18.BUT…
Skip Frye and I, Skip Frye and Me- Several Anecdotes
INTRO-
A sudden, not-going-to-last obsession with classic surfer Skip Frye was triggered by an episode of “Pinch my Salt” showing up on YouTube. I’m fine watching a snippet of the pretty smarmy Sterling Spencer, but I’m never ready to spend an hour plus watching… anyone. This is what fast forward is for.
This episode promised an interview with Skip; but it did start without him. So, fast forward; though I had to watch a portion where Sterling claimed someone ‘picked his pocket.’ It turned out to be a not unusual ‘chat and steal.’ One of my standard moves. Or so I’ve been told.
Then, on to the interview. If someone personifies an eighty-three-year-old lifetime (not Skip’s, probably yours) San Diego surfer, no one better fills the role than Mr. Frye. The hosts were respectful, though Skip was pushed to say something negative about soft tops (he said someone gave him one, but he’d never ride it), surfers who put their names on popouts (almost did because Donald Takayama wanted him to make some real money, but died before it might, or might not have happened), and modern surfing competition, the toughest and truest thing he would say, though he did contests, is that the one winner ruthlessness takes something away from what is often referred to as soul surfing.
Skip, who tries to turn out six boards a week, none cheap, all highly sought after, is still the epitome of soul. Surfing or otherwise.
The other guy on the podcast, Sterling’s cousin Ryan Spencer, asked the viewers to pleas be nice to Skip in the comments. I checked. Not a negative comment in the bunch, and, when Skip pulled out a harmonica at the end and played a mellow version of, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” well, people broke into tears. Or so they said.
TAMARACK, 1965-
My family (seven kids, our mom) was parked in the lower lot, as always. I was a total beginner/kook, just switching over from mat to board. I was probably still sharing my older sister’s (Suellen’s) 9’4” stock Hobie. There had been some sort of contest. Surfers and their entourages were loading up, ready to head home. “Skip was robbed!” “Skip should’ve won!”
I have this image, real or not, in my permanent files: A blond-haired guy shrugging off the comments meant to reassure him.
PACIFIC BEACH, SAN DIEGO- 1971-1973- Later. I gotta go. But, coming… STEALING a design from TOM MOREY, surfing from Tourmaline to Crystal Pier ala Skip, finding nuggets in a crowded lineup, soul arching, ala Skip, just for the fun of it.
The Morey-Pope WATERSKATE, produced by Gordon & Smith; probably shaped by SKIP FRYE.
ULTRA CLASSIC TRIO- Photo by RON STONER, MICHAEL HYNSON paddling out, and SKIP (never not in trim) SKIP FRYE soul arching at THE RANCH.
I want to stress that I have been doing some research on this stuff. I have always been intrigued by the Hynson/Frye friendship, partially because they seem like such different individuals. If I give Hynson a lot of credit for downrail surfboards, prove me wrong. It was interesting to learn, from the podcast, that they were riding boards Michael had shaped for the 1966 Duke Kahanamoku contest. Cool.
I have some new stuff on PAGE VII, ‘”Erwin Talks to Strangers,” and on PAGE VIII, “Love Songs for Cynics.” I’m doing this as a new post, but will probably move these drawings to Page VIII later.
If I stop writing new material and re-re-re-editing older pieces, I have enough for a book. I need to look through my collection (not that there’s any real organization) of illustrations to find work that goes along with the songs and essays and… And, problem is so much is surf related and/or landscape rather than portrait, format-wise.
MEANWHILE, I ENJOY doing these border things and… I enjoy drawing. YEAH.
AND, more meanwhile, life continues to provide more material. Jeez, an annoying splotch on my. scanner. That isn’t a metaphor. No, ‘course it is. Get some surf. Keep your secret spots secret. Thanks for checking out my site.
Tuesday, June 30- TRISH IS CANCER FREE! She saw the Oncologist yesterday. The numbers are all good. Thank one and all for your concern, prayers. SHE IS NOT OUT OF THE WOODS AND BACK ON THE BEACH YET. Progress is being made. Trish is trying to regain lost strength. I have a new appreciation for the hardships endured by those stricken by cancer. As always, FUCK CANCER!
ALSO, there is a new post on. PAGE VII, ERWIN TALKS TO STRANGERS. Check it out.
– PAGE VI, Original Erwin art, as of Saturday, June 27, is up to all of 2015. Give it a scroll if you get the chance.
…some stuff on what I devised for the mural project at Port Townsend’s Seamus Skate Park, an upcoming Original Erwin Coloring Book, an upcoming album of poetry and essays and blues songs, “Love Songs for Cynics,” and a possible start for a poster for the next Occasional Surf Culture on the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the Salish Sea Event. AND, promising not to whine because I was not selected for the top three contestants/applicants for the Skate Park Project.
PEOPLE often stop in Port Gamble, close to where my daughter Dru (and Trish, still recovering from Cancer and Chemo) lives. The sunsets tend to be spectacular; often with that orange popsicle color. In Quilcene, the Eastern foothills of the Olympics dominate the view; that and all the trees.
SKATE PARK- I did get all jazzed up at the prospect of making big money for artistic… stuff; and got into doing some sketches. I did wait until the finalists were announced (whimper) before posting any.
I thought it would bee dramatic to have an action image on an inside corner of the low walls. I wasn’t sure how this would work, so I did a sketch, and bent it. Okay, that’s how it would work!
ORIGINAL ERWIN COLORING BOOK-
I am going through and placing artworks on a separate page. I have completed 2013, the first year of realsurfersnet, and 2014. I plan on selecting images and producing another limited edition. Soon.
“LOVE SONGS FOR CYNICS”-
My current plan is to have something that mimics a record album. I am in the process of formatting, all with an increasing awareness of the expense involved in getting an actual book together. For all the projects I have done in the past, including ORIGINAL ERWIN T SHIRTS, the artist got screwed and the publisher/manufacturer/whatever made (some) money. NOTE- Exclusivity has value. Hopefully.
SURF MUSIC AND…
If you are an actual musician, you know this isn’t actual music.
THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT my humble blog. Side note: I was kind of called out for ‘going political.’ Sorry. Couldn’t help it. I have a bit of a platform, I have fears and opinions, and, for now, freedom of speech. And you are free to not read… anything.
HIT some waves when you get the chance!
OH, and all original works by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. are copyright protected, all rights reserved. AND, no AI involved. Thanks.
I have done a few drawings lately. I need to get them to a print shop to reduce the size to work with my printer/scanner. At least one drawing is for a potential Original Erwin coloring book. Several are for a potential collection of poems and essays, “Love Songs or Cynics.” To that end, I contacted Port Townsend’s new Poet Laureate, and got her permission to send her some samples of my writing. The goal, for me, is to get some traction within the communty of serious writers.
Traction? Serious writing? What the fuck do I know about any of this? “Swamis” is done. This version. I haven’t looked at in a while; and I keep thinking about little changes I should make to make it better. Sellable. Marketable.
I am, meanwhile, trying to process not making the top three finalists among 17 submissions for a mural project at the Seamus Skate Park in Port Townsend. I wanted the opportunity. There is a ridiculous amount of money involved. For artists, almost all of whom paint and draw for little or no money, little or no recognition, so much of what is produced getting a quick glance, maybe a nod, this is a rare offer.
There’s a story of what was required in the submission process. To this point, the emphasis was not on ideas and visuals for the murals but on experience in doing this type of work. I believed, or wanted to believe, that 57 years (as of yesterday) as a professional sign painter, regular painter, might help. But, not having initially read the entire requirement page, I went full on into thinking about possibilities, doing sketches. Then, with so much help from my daughter, Dru, I worked on my resume’.
Again, processing; I got the email late last night. So, whining. Apologies. Submissions. Submitting, by definition, means you are being judged, that you have no control. No, it comes down to what is being judged. Part of the deal. Not good enough. Not what the deciders are looking for.
So?
So… I have to go. There’s a house to paint. I submitted a proposal, as I do, and, yeah, I got another job.
I’ll get some new stuff on here. Soon. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net
TRISH is undergoing radiation as part of the treatment for breast cancer. It is not fun. 21 trips to SAINT MICHAEL in Silverdale. Four have been completed. We are so very fortunate for the help of our daughter, DRU. She is, well, essential to this process. Since I am not needed or wanted in the rooms where Trish is being tortured, I have some time to… yeah, draw.
Not as much as I might want if I’m really into something, but enough to do some sketches. SKETCHES. I once took some (too much) offense when a surfer introduced me to his girlfriend as, “You know, he does t-shirts, and has that blog. I showed you.” “OH,” she said, “I really like some of your sketches.”
SO, yeah; thanks; these are sketches;
Port Townsend surfer/librarian Keith Darrock and I have not gotten it totally together in organizing the next OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA EVENT. However, it will be centered on the connection between surf and music, with, of course, surf artists and storytellers, as well as PETE RAAB, expert in all the background, history, and wonder of surf music. The event will be part of the summer library lineup, and… and we better get to work jockeying for position. This sketch probably won’t be part of the poster. SKETCH. We’ll see.
THIS SKETCH probably should be on PAGE II, NON-POLITICAL ERWIN. But here it is. Having been raised to be anti-war, and having studied enough of pasts wars, there seems to be a pattern in that some are sold with near-truths and some with outright lies. There are aggressors and defenders. There have been some shenanigans, such as one side claiming to be in the midst of negotiations and then… attacking. Infamy. And, of course, no war is complete without WAR CRIMES.
SHIT, now I’m going. If we don’t focus on the body count per acre of a war for land, or try to divine the math behind the cost in money and, yes, lives, of a blood for oil campaign; if we discount the suffering of the dispossessed and the seekers of refuge; turn away from scant news of scorched earth tactics; pretend ignorance of or an inability to imagine humans being capable of reported and, yes unimaginably inhuman, brutality; perhaps we know someone who served, survived, and is living with the consequences of ventures into man’s most telling feature; war.
I claim no one else’s valor. I got lucky, had a high draft number, missed out on my generation’s conflict. In a twist of fate, I was hired on to work for the U.S. Navy as a journeyman painter in 1971. Twenty years-old. Almost all the oldtimers were veterans of World War II. They had stories they weren’t keen on sharing with a punk ass, non-vet surfer, but, maybe on a payday afternoon, stories would be shared. I would listen. If painters are characterized as drunks, add a veteran who was under twenty years old at D Day, or Guadalcanal (my father and my father-in-law both served in the Marines, WWII and Korea), or an Irishman (“Don’t call me British”) who served with the British in North Africa, or a soldier who was there for the liberation of Nazi (still a dirty word to me) death camps; yes, I heard stories. I saw men damaged by what they saw and what they did.
Then there were the incoming Apprentice Painters. Vietnam vets. Some, no doubt gung ho at one time, were disenchanted. I would say most. Some were, whether they admitted it or not, broken. Spirit gone. For several in my time with the Navy including working on ships at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, their mental brokenness, while they were otherwise healthy, seems to have led to their deaths.
And now, forgive me, I’m thinking about two other stories. One guy thought he was fooling the government because they believed he had PTSD. He totally did. Though he seemed to trust me, I knew enough to not even come close to walking behind him. The second guy had been an officer, planned on getting enough knowledge of painting to go out on his own as a contractor. One day at lunch he announced to the crew that he had no trouble killing. “I could blow any of you away and go on eating.” “Well,” I said, “Would you mind eating somewhere else?”
My father, when presented with stories in the news (or movies that didn’t agree with his stance that he and those he served with served America, justly), told me that a lot of bad stuff happens. “You just have to live with it.”
I’m working on a song on this theme. Originally I was thinking of something to fit with the tune to “Makin’ Whoopee,” more recently (and not like recently recently- 1961) known as a theme for Pepsi commercials. “Now it’s Pepsi, for those who think young.” I DID, of course, get carried away. Doesn’t fit the tune.
Another lie, another war, One can’t help but wonder what we’re killing people for;
Another war, another lie, an eye for an eye for an eye for an eye; One has to wonder, has to wonder, has to wonder… why.
AS FAR AS NON-POLITICAL ERWIN, I’m thinking of this: REAL MEN DON’T HEGSETH!
I DO claim all rights to original sketches, and writing on realsurfers.net.
Contact me at erwin@realsurfers.net
The time I spent on this could have gone to my novel, “Swamis.” I did put in an hour or so, and I am on page 210 of 227. BIG FINISH! To be continued. Thanks for checking out realsurfers. If you like snow, better get on it! As far as surf… hmmm
No, of course I should not have had the laptop on a TV table, unstable enough that TONY could, bounding over to greet me, knock the table over and bend the plug in portion of the cable that connects the hand me down (from Dru) computer to the vital (because the screen portion of the laptop no longer works), and great, monitor.
Of course not.
Do I love trying to hunt and peck my way to a post on my tablet? It’s… Something.
I can’t add the new drawing or the new photos, and…
And, does Tony, begging for food an attention (the “pet me” and the “I’m so cute” his usual ruse, easily translated to “Feed me, Dude”) give even a single shit that I am trying to unbend the mini plug in part of the heavy cord?
Of course not.
So… I do have content. Just exactly like those sessions your friends get and you miss, classic, epic, all time awesome content.
But, hey, I have to go. Tony’s litter pan needs changing, his water filled, oh, and isn’t he adorable, jumping up in the middle of my drawing table, knocking off anything loose, and then punching me because I didn’t pet him quickly enough?
Actually, yes: quite adorable.
If you can figure out the surf forecast, when and where… Good luck. It will be EPIC!
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!
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.
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.
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.
Real Surfers 