Recap of “Swamis” plus Ch.6,Part One, plus More

Posted on September 28, 2024 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, aggressive surfers, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, hipster surfers, northwest surfing, old surfers, Original Erwin t-shirts, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf sessions, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

This drawing will, of course, have to be reversed, white-to-black, to go on (future) t-shirts. There are some new hoodies and long-sleeved shirts ready at D&L LOGOS on Monday. I’m pretty excited, as is TRISH. She special ordered one for her, “cost just a little bit more… honey.” “Sure.”

This design, a little larger than the practice ones I had printed. I have to figure out how much they’re costing me, and then… some will be available. I got one xxl, for me, but I may have already sold it.

OKAY, a lot of stuff this week. If your time is limited, SKIP the story. Not classic, all time. Next time… Do read the “Swamis” chapter. Thanks.

IN the ‘every session’s a story’ catagory… I had to go surfing the other day, last chance before my third eye surgery. I was aware, because, despite the rules, news of waves breaking and being ridden spreads, and I missed opportunities because my once-repaired but re-damaged fin box on my beloved but abused HOBIE needed repair, and I was focused on working and trying to buy another board. BUT, the dude with a board within reasonable driving distance wanted too much (as in, it’s listed for $500, out there for 8 weeks, and he won’t take less) for a board that is actually heavier than mine. SO, I purchase resin, hot cure catalyst, and some glass, cut the box loose, fill the hole with glass and resin, slam it back in, half-glass the whole unit in, fin and all. Foolish, knowing how the small waves and big rocks on the STRAIT eat fins.

I did all this on a painting job, the board on the rack of my VOLVO. It dried, I retied it to the rack AND I was ready for the next day’s pre-dawn takeoff. Enroute, I passed an accident on 112, almost to Joyce, a car on its top in the ditch, and it had been there long enough that there were cones and people with signs, and a lit-up display that read, “Accident Ahead.” It turns out three people, none wearing seatbelts, were hurt, two flown out. SO, maybe I should slow down.

AND I DID, but… you know how straps can be noisy? Mine were, increasingly so. It was a while after I arrived at my destinatiion, three people in the water, that I noticed my board was… Ever see people driving down the road with mattresses poorly tied to the roof? YEAH. But I was lucky. And the waves were what we… okay me, what I call FUN. I knew most of the dawn patrollers, met Ian’s wife (forgot her name- sorry; four syllables- don’t want to guess), and KEVIN, a Port Townsend surfer I had heard about. Iron man, stayed out about four hours straight.

SINCE, evidently, surfing is more dangerous after eye surgery than heavy lifting, I can hold on to memories of a decent session until… next time.

BECAUSE IT IS DIFFICULT to go back and pick up the earlier chapters, I am going to provide a recap of “SWAMIS.” Yes, even the ‘catchup’ is a lot of reading.

“Swamis” Recap

CHAPTER ONE -Monday, Nov 13, 1968-

Seventeen-year-old JOEY DeFREINES is talking with his court appointed psychologist, DR. SUSAN PETERS. Joey’s father, San Diego County Sheriff’s Office DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT JOSEPH DE FREINES made the deal following an afterschool incident at Fallbrook Union High School during which Joey put his foot on GRANT MURDOCH’s neck. Dr. Peters asks if, once bullied, Joey has become a bully.

TWO- Saturday, August 14, 1965-

13-year-old Joey tries surfing at PIPES. JULIA COLE is out, already accomplished. She says boy surfers are assholes, surfing is hard, and she stays away from cops and cop’s kids.

THREE- Sunday, September 15, 1968-

Joey tricks SID and other locals in the lineup at GRANDVIEW, gets a set wave. Sid burns Joey and tells him he broke the ‘locals rule,’ that being that locals rule.

Joey, driving his FALCON station wagon, comes upon a VW VAN. Locals DUNCAN, MONICA, AND RINCON RONNY are looking at the smoking engine. They are unresponsive if not hostile to Joey, but Julie (to her friends) asks Joey if he’s a mechanic or an attorney. “Not yet,” he says. There is an attraction between Julie and Joey that seems irritating to, in particular, Duncan.

FOUR- Wednesday, December 23, 1968-

Joey has a front row spot at SWAMIS. He has already surfed and is studying, notebooks on the hood of the Falcon. Arriving out of town surfers want the spot. Joey, hassled by one of them, informs BRIAN that he has a history of striking out violently when threatened, and says he’s on probation. Joey has an episode remembering past encounters, witnessed by the out-of-town surfers and Rincon Ronny, who seems impressed and says those kooks won’t bother Joey in the water. “Someone will,” Joey says, “It’s Swamis.”

FIVE- Thursday, February 27ut-

At breakfast at home in Fallbrook, Joseph DeFreines confronts his son (who he calls JODY) about an acceptance letter from Stanford University Joey hid. Joey’s father is also upset with his wife, RUTH, for some reason, and leaves in a huff, saying he’ll take care of it.

Joey and his younger brother, FREDDY, get a ride home from surf friend, GARY, and Gary’s sister, THE PRINCESS. Ruth is loading the Falcon, says she spoke on the phone with DETECTIVE SERGEANT LARRY WENDALL, and says she will, as always, be back. Freddy blames Joey. Their father calls as their mother pulls away. Joey, looking for the keys to his mother’s VOLVO, speaks briefly, somewhat rudely, with his father. Freddy says he’ll wait for their father. The phone rings. It’s ‘uncle’ Larry. Joey runs toward the Volvo.

SIX- Tuesday, March 4, 1968. PART ONE-

There is a post-funeral wake/memorial/potluck at the DeFreines house. Joey, avoiding the guests, is standing in the big west-facing window. MISTER DEWEY, a teacher at Fallbrook High, says he is surprised that Joey’s ex-Marine, ‘practically a John Bircher,’ father is married to a Japanese woman. “Traditional,” Joey says, “Kill the men, take the women.” Mister Dewey expresses interest in the property Joey’s father never had the time to work on.

A delivery van from ‘Flowers by Hayes’ comes up the driveway, guarded, for the wake, by DEPUTY SCOTT WILSON. The driver of the van is CHULO, a surfer several years older than Joey. Chulo was arrested along with JUMPER HAYES for stealing avocados. Chulo was crippled during the arrest, went to work camp, became a beach evangelist.

Joey has an episode, during which he replays the accident in which, while driving the Volvo, he follows the Falcon and another car around the smoking JESUS SAVES BUS. Joey’s father, in an unmarked car, passes very close to him and pulls off the highway at high speed. JeJ

Chulo was driving the Jesus Saves bus.

Detective Wendall and DETECTIVE SERGEANT DANIEL DICKSON are at a makeshift bar in the living room. ORANGE COUNTY SHERIFF’S OFFICE DETECTIVE LIEUTENANT BRICE LANGDON, dressed in a just out of fashion Nehru jacket and rat-stabber shoes, isn’t popular with the two remaining detectives from the VISTA SUBSTATION, or with the other civilians and deputies from the San Diego Sheriff’s Office.

THERESA WENDALL, putting out food, tries to talk to her husband. He avoids her. Their two boys are running through playing cowboys-and-Indians as Langdon seems to corner Chulo.

CHAPTER SIX- TUESDAY, MARCH 4, 1969

It was still early afternoon. I was in the living room, ignoring everything behind me, facing but not really seeing anything out the west-facing window. A Santa Ana condition had broken down, and a thousand-foot-high wall of fog had pushed its way up the valleys. The house was situated high enough that the cloud would occasionally clear away, the sun brighter than ever. The heat and humidity, raised by the number of people in our house, caused a fog of condensation on the plate glass.

Below me, cars were parked in a mostly random way in the area between the house and the separate and unfinished garage, and the corral. Continued use had created a de facto circular driveway up the slight rise from the worn and pitted gravel driveway, across the struggling lawn, and up to the concrete pad at the foot of the wooden steps and front porch.

A bright yellow 1964 Cadillac Coupe De Ville convertible, black top up, was parked closest to the door. Other vehicles were arranged on the clumpy grass that filled in areas of ignored earth. Later arrivals parked on the lower area. The Falcon was parked close to the county road in keeping with my parking obsession; with getting in, getting out, getting away.

I was vaguely aware of the music coming from the turntable built into the Danish modern console in the living room. Stereo. Big speakers in opposite corners of the room, the volume where my father had set it, too low to compete with the conversations among the increasing crowd, the little groups spread around the room. Some were louder than others. Praise and sympathy, laughs cut short out of respect. Decorum.

Someone had put on a record of piano music; Liberace, or someone. My father’s choice would have been from the cowboy side of country/western; high octave voices capable of yodeling, lonesome trails and tumbling tumbleweeds, the occasional polka. My mother preferred show tunes with duets and ballads by men with deep, resonant voices, voices like her husband’s, Joseph Jeremiah DeFreines.

These would not have been my father’s choice of mourners. “Funerals,” he would say, “Are better than weddings.” He would pause, appropriately, before adding, “You don’t need an invite or a gift.”

Someone behind me repeated that line, mistiming the pause, his voice scratchy and high. I turned around. It was Mister Dewey. A high school social studies teacher, he sold insurance policies out of his rented house on Alvarado. His right hand was out. I didn’t believe shaking hands was expected of me on this day.

“You know my daughter, Penelope,” he said, dropping his hand.

“Penny,” I said. “Yes, since… third grade.” Penny, in a black dress, was beside Mr. Dewey, her awkwardness so much more obvious than that of the other mourners. I did shake her hand. “Penny, thanks for coming.” I did try to smile, politely. Penny tried not to. Braces.

I looked at Mr. Dewey too closely, for too long, trying to determine if he and I were remembering the same incident I was. His expression said he was.

When I refocused, Mister Dewey and the two people he had been talking with previously, a man and Mrs. Dewey, were several feet over from where they had been. I half-smiled at the woman. She half-smiled and turned away. She wasn’t the first to react this way. If I didn’t know how to look at the mourners, many of them did not know how to look at me, troubled son of the deceased detective.

If I was troubled, I wasn’t trying too hard to hide it. I was trying to maintain control. “Don’t spaz out,” I whispered, to myself. It wasn’t a time to retreat into memory, not at the memorial for my father. The wake.

Too late.

“Bleeding heart liberal, that Mister Dewey,” my father was telling my mother, ten-thirty on a school night, me still studying at the dinette table. “He figures we should teach sex education. I told him that we don’t teach swimming in school, and that, for most people, sex… comes… naturally. That didn’t get much of a laugh at the school board meeting.”

“Teenage pregnancies, Joe.”

“Yes, Ruth.” My father touched his wife on the cheek. “Those… happen.”

“Freddy and I both took swimming lessons at Potter Junior High, Dad. Not part of the curriculum, but…”

“Save it for college debate class, Jody. We grownups… aren’t talking about swimming.”

Taking a deep breath, my hope was that the mourners might think it was grief rather than some affliction. Out the big window, a San Diego Sheriff’s Office patrol car was parked near where our driveway hit the county road. The uniformed Deputy, still called “New Guy,” assigned to stand there, motioned a car in. He looked around, went to the downhill side of his patrol car. He opened both side doors and, it had to be, took a leak between them. Practical.

The next vehicle, thirty seconds later, was a delivery van painted a brighter yellow than the Hayes’ Cadillac. Deputy New Guy waved it through. I noticed two fat, early sixties popout surfboards on the roof, nine-foot-six or longer, skegs in the outdated ‘d’ style. One was an ugly green, fading, the other, once a bright red, was almost pink. Decorations, obviously, they appeared to be permanently attached to a bolted-on rack. The van was halfway to the house before I got a chance to read the side. “Flowers by Hayes brighten your days.” Leucadia phone number.

Hayes, as in Gustavo and Consuela Hayes. As in Jumper Hayes.

A man got out of the van’s driver’s seat, almost directly below me. Chulo. I knew him from the beach. Surfer. Jumper’s partner in ‘the great avocado robbery’ that sent them both away, Chulo returning, reborn, evangelizing on the beach, with a permanent limp.

Chulo’s long black hair was pulled back and tied; his beard tied with a piece of leather. He was wearing black jeans, sandals, and a day-glow, almost chartreuse t-shirt with “Flowers by Hayes” in white. Chulo looked up at the window, just for a moment, before reaching back into the front seat, pulling out an artist’s style smock in a softer yellow. He pulled it over his head, looked up for another moment before limping toward the back of the van.

The immediate image I pulled from my mental file was of Chulo on the beach, dressed in his Jesus Saves attire: The dirty robe, rope belt, oversized wooden cross around his neck. Same sandals. No socks.

Looking into the glare, I closed my eyes. Though I was in the window with forty-six people behind me, I was gone. Elsewhere.

…

I was tapping on the steering wheel of my mother’s gray Volvo, two cars behind my Falcon, four cars behind a converted school bus with “Follow me” painted in rough letters on the diesel smoke stained back. The Jesus Saves bus was heading into a setting sun, white smoke coming out of the tailpipes. Our caravan was just east of the Bonsall Bridge, the bus to the right of the lane, moving slowly.

My mother, in the Falcon, followed another car around the bus. Another car followed her, all of them disappearing into the glare. I gunned it.

I was in the glare. There was a red light, pulsating, coming straight at me. There was a sound, a siren, blaring. I was floating. My father’s face was to my left, looking at me. Jesus was to my right, pointing forward.

This wasn’t real. I had to pull out of this. I couldn’t.

The Jesus Saves bus stopped on the side of the road, front tires in the ditch. The Volvo was stopped at a crazy angle in front of the bus. I was frantic, confused. I heard honking. Chulo, ion the Jesus Saves bus. He gave me a signal to go. Go. I backed the Volvo up, spun a turn toward the highway. I looked for my father’s car. I didn’t see it. The traffic was stopped. I was in trouble. My mother, in the Falcon, was still ahead of me. She didn’t know. I pulled into the westbound lane, into the glare, and gunned it.

When I opened my eyes, a loose section of the fog was like a gauze over the sun. I knew where I was. I knew Chulo, the Jesus Saves bus’s driver, delivering flowers for my father’s memorial, knew the truth.

…

Various accounts of the accident had appeared in both San Diego papers and Oceanside’s Blade Tribune. The Fallbrook Enterprise wouldn’t have its version until the next day, Wednesday, as would the North County Free Press. All the papers had or would have the basic truth of what happened. What was unknown was who was driving the car that Detective Lieutenant Joseph Jeremiah DeFreines avoided. “A gray sedan, possibly European” seemed to be the description the papers used.

”The San Diego Sheriff’s Office and the California Highway Patrol share jurisdiction over this part of the highway. Detective Lieutenant Brice Langdon of the Orange County Sheriff’s Office is acting as a liaison with the Highway Patrol in investigating the fatal incident.”

Despite the distractions, what I was thinking was that Chulo knew the truth.

Chulo would be depositing the four new bouquets in the foyer, flowers already filling one wall. I looked in that direction, panning across the mourners. The groups in the living room were almost all men. Most were drinking rather than eating. Most of the groups of women were gathered in the kitchen.

A woman wearing a white apron over a black dress brought out a side dish of, my guess, some sort of yam/sweet potato thing. Because I was looking at her, she looked at the dish and looked at me, her combination of expression and gesture inviting me to “try some.” There was, I believed, an “It’s delicious” in there. Orange and dark green things, drowning in a white sauce.

“Looks delicious, Mrs. Wendall.”

Two kids, around ten and twelve, both out of breath, suddenly appeared at the big table, both grabbing cookies, the elder sibling tossing a powdered sugar-covered brownie, whole, into his mouth, the younger brother giving a cross-eyed assessment of his mother’s casserole.

“Larry Junior,” Mrs. Wendall half-whispered as she shooed her sons out the door. She looked at her husband, leaning against a sideboard serving as a bar. He followed his boys out the door with the drink in his hand, half-smiled at his wife, as if children running through a wake is normal; and was no reason to break from chatting with the other detective at the Vista substation, Daniel Dickson, and one of the ‘College Joe’ detectives from Downtown. War stories, shop talk. Enjoyable. Ties were loosened and coats unbuttoned, the straps for shoulder holsters occasionally visible.

“Just like on TV” my father would have said. “Ridiculous.”

Freddy, out of breath, came out of the kitchen, weaving through the wives and daughters who were busily bussing and washing and making plates and silverware available for new guests. I handed him two cookies before he grabbed them. He grabbed two more.

“They went thataway, Freddy,” Detective Dickson said, pointing to the foyer.

Freddy pushed the screen door open, sidestepped Chulo, and leapt, shoeless, from the porch to what passed for our lawn, Bermuda grass taking a better hold in our decomposed granite than the Kentucky bluegrass and the failing dichondra.

Chulo, holding a metal five-gallon bucket in each hand, walked through the open door and into the foyer. He was greeted by a thin man in a black suit coat worn over a black shirt with a Nehru collar. The man had light brown hair, slicked back, and no facial hair. He was wearing shoes my father would refer to as, “Italian rat-stabbers.” Showy. Pretentious. Expensive fashion investments that needed to be worn to get one’s money’s worth.

Chulo had looked at me, looked at the man, and lowered his head. The man looked at me. I didn’t lower my gaze. I tried to give him the same expression he’d given me. Not acknowledgement. Questioning, perhaps.

Langdon. He must have been at the funeral, but I hadn’t felt obligated to look any of the attendees in the eye. “Langdon,” one of the non-cop people from the Downtown Sheriff’s Office, records clerks and such, whispered. “Brice Langdon. DeFreines called anyone from Orange County ‘Disneycops.’” Chuckles. “They put people in ‘Disney jail’,” another non-deputy said.

“Joint investigation guy,” one of the background voices said. “Joint,” another one added. Three people chuckled. Glasses tinkled. Someone scraped someone else’s serving spatula over another someone else’s special event side dish. Probably not the yams.

Chulo took the arrangements out of the buckets and rearranged the vases against the wall and those narrowing the opening to the living room. He plucked some dead leaves and flowers, tossed them in one of the buckets, backed out onto the porch, closed the door. I became aware that I had looked in that direction for too long. Self-consciousness or not, people were, indeed, looking at me. Most looked away when I made eye contact.

“If you have to look at people, look them straight in the eye,” my father told me, “Nothing scares people more than that.”

Langdon looked away first, turning toward the two remaining detectives at the Vista substation, Wendall and Dickson, Larry and Dan. They both looked at Langdon, critically assessing the Orange County detective’s fashion choices. I didn’t see Langdon’s reaction.

My father’s partners had changed out of the dress uniforms they had worn at the funeral and into suits reserved for public speaking events and promotions, dark-but-not-black. Both wore black ties, thinner or wider, a year or two behind whatever the trend was. Both had cop haircuts, sideburns a little longer over time. Both had cop mustaches, cropped at the corners of their mouths, and bellies reflecting their age and their relative status. Both had changed out of the dress uniforms they’d worn at the funeral

Wendall was, in some slight apology for his height, hunched over a bit, still standing next to the sideboard that usually held my mother’s collection of display items; photos and not-to-be-eaten-off-of dishes. Dickson was acting as official bartender. The hard stuff, some wine, borrowed glasses. The beer was in the back yard.

Langdon had brought his own bottle. Fancy label, obviously expensive wine, cork removed, a third of it gone. Langdon’s thin fingers around the bottle’s neck, he offered it to Dickson. Smiling, politely, Dickson took a slug and reoffered it to Langdon. Langdon declined. Dickson pushed the bottle into a forest of hard liquor and Ernest and Julio’s finest. Langdon shrugged and looked around the room. Dickson displayed the smirk he’d saved, caught by Wendall and me.

Langdon saw my expression and turned back toward Dickson. The smirk had disappeared. Langdon walked toward me. He smiled; so, I smiled.

“I’ve heard about you,” he said. The reaction I had prepared and practiced disappeared. I was pretty much just frozen. “I see you know…” He nodded toward the foyer. “…Julio Lopez.” Langdon didn’t wait for a response. “From the beach?” No response. “Surfers.” No response. “You and I will have to talk… soon.”

I had to respond. “How old are you, Detective Lieutenant Langdon?”

“I’m… twice your age.” I nodded. He nodded. “College. College… Joe.” He smiled.

I may have smiled as I looked around Langdon at Dickson and Wendall; both, like my father, twelve or more years older than Langdon, this assuming he knew I was seventeen. I did, of course consider why he would know this. Wendall gave me a questioning smile. Dickson was mid-drink.

“I don’t know if you know this… Joseph: Your father was involved an investigation… cross-county thing, involving… me.” Langdon was, again, looking straight into my eyes. I blinked and nodded, slightly. “Yes. So… if there is any irony in my being… here, it is that Joseph DeFreines was, ultimately…” Langdon was nodding. I was nodding. Stupidly. “…a fair man.”

Langdon did a sort of European head bow, snap down, snap back, and tapped me on the shoulder. I had half expected to hear the heels on his rat-stabber shoes click.

THANKS, AS ALWAYS, for checking out realsurfers.net. Get some waves when you get the chance! And remember, sharing is… caring; that set bomb you let some kook take and blow the takeoff on… well, that was nice. OH, and, just remembered, the controversy on whether it’s justified to drop in on someone who took your wave continues. I saw it, I tried it. Twice. AND I felt… kind of justified. AND, when two guys dropped in on an alleged backpaddler, I was left outside with undisputed priority. GREAT!

Enduring the Dog Days, and “Tightening”

Posted on August 18, 2024 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, surf art, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing novels, writings of Erwin Dence

It’s a sort of positive for me that the summer drought on the Strait of Juan de Fuca coincides with painting season. More like consolation, with even driving to the coast not a guarantee of finding waves. Busy now, it gets crazier in September when people start panicking about getting their castle dolled-up before the rains start getting more consistent. Finding time to devote to my other passions, including drawing and writing, becomes more challenging.

BUT I do have time while scraping and painting and second-coating to think, THINKING, IMAGINING being the most crucial component in each of these activities. Imagine what the drawing COULD look like, imagine WHAT I want to convey.

IT’S A PROCESS. Not dissimilar to house painting, actually. To use the project I am currently working on as an examlple, the homeowner has a vision of what she wants her Victorian home to look like; I have my own ideas. A few color changes later, we do it her way,. with eventual agreement that it works AND it’s what the person paying me wants.

SO… I prep and paint, and it’s never one coat of any color. I paint, and then TIGHTEN UP the paint, picking up missed spots (‘holidays’ in the vernacular), making sure the transitions are crisp and clean, the result being a job I can be proud of and the client will both pay me for and recommend me to others because I did it (right).

BRIEF SURFING INTERJECTION- Having missed one opportunity summer surf, and being pissed because I could have gone and didn’t, I did get a few waves recently. Just enough, with passing fancy rigs with boards on them on a daily basis along SURF ROUTE 101, to cause me to want more. MORE.

TIGHTENING. I am going to a memorial later today for a person I have been bumping into for years on the PORT TOWNSEND. I have a story I told his widow I would tell, and I’m going to try to write it out rather than ramble on in some fashion that might embarrass the others as well as me.

BUT FIRST, “SWAMIS,” the novel I’ve been thinking about, writing, rewriting, tightening for way too long. Having thought about how I needed to tighten a SCENE with the protagonist, JOEY, and the closest character to an antagonist, BRICE LANGDON, I tried to devote a bit of time to it yesterday, but got an urgent text: THE floor guys didn’t show up, could I PLEASE do some painting. PRAYER EMOJI. Shit! Fuck! I made the changes, pulled out the thumb drive. The emergency painting and looking at another project pretty much did the day in. OH, and then thunder and lightening; the weather kind. I went to bed and did not get up early… enough.

ORIGINAL ERWIN NEWS- I paid back some seed money I was loaned by local master builder/climber/skier/hiker/all kinds of other stuff, JIM HAMILTON; the money intended for my investment in getting some t shirts going, which, four months later, I did. Most are gone now. Thanks, Jim. BUT, DWAYNE at D&L LOGOS has been working on a FULL COLOR DESIGN, and I am SOOOO excited to see the results.

DWAYNE did some digital editing and had eight of the image printed up. They are heat-transferred, in a modern, way-better version of the hated ‘iron on’ process. I have to wait to see what the my cost will be. SEVERAL are already promised. WE’LL SEE. I will get back to you on it.

IN A NOT-UNRELATED STORY, I showed my most recent illustration to the clients I met with yesterday, friends of ANNIE FERGERSON, the woman behind the recent documentary about, you know, me. NOW, I REALLY BELIEVED folks would have to have a copy. I had forty printed up, two sizes. I have 38 left, BUT, hey, sales is not what I’m good at.

Although I haven’t given them an estimate, I did get a text back saying, “this would make a great t shirt.” “Open for discussion,” I texted back. I should have included the PRAYER EMOJI, way more convincing when the two hands come together. WE’LL SEE.

ADDING TOO MUCH CONTENT to make the best use of my semi-free minute, here is a poem/song I’ve been working on. THE PROCESS is, again, the IDEA- overhearing a conversation about you; the FIRST DRAFT- this includes singing verses, trying out rhymes. This takes some time; usually when driving to or from a job; harmonica to see if there is a tune. It has to flow. And repetition to make sure I have it memorized. WRITING- Putting it on the thumb drive. REWRITING, EDITING, CHANGING- making sure it tells the story. TIGHTENING, TIGHTENING, TIGHTENING.

AGAIN, THIS is an imagined scene. Fiction. Maybe it’s a song I’ll never sing in public, a poem I’ll never recite; I don’t know; I wrote it and it’s part of the driving song collection, along with favorites by others, the result of many years of song writing.

I HAVE TO GO, and I still have to write something about the late PETER BADAME. Get some waves, huh? See you on the highway. OH, and I do claim and reserve all rights to my work, so…

A PRIVATE CONVERSATION

an excerpt from some longer story

It was a private conversation, words I was not yet meant to hear,

Thought I’d surprise you at the station, couldn’t have known that I was near.

Your words and tears shared with a stranger, someone you’ve met along the line,

I should have known this was a danger, if I did not the fault is mine,

I’m sorry, so sorry.

You spoke of time apart and sorrow, now… I could barely hear your voice,

You said that love’s something we borrow, said freedom is a frightening choice.

You spoke of hope and disappointment, small victories, great tragedy,

In all the time we’ve been together, you never disappointed me.

Not ever, not ever.

I saw the touch, though at a distance, saw how your fingers were entwined,

You didn’t put up much resistance, offered a kiss, you did decline.

That’s when I walked out of the station, this is my last apology,

You should need no more explanation, perhaps we’ve set each other free.

It’s frightening… so frightening.

But that’s another conversation, a private conversation, a very frightening conversation,

A private conversation

This version: August 9, 2024. Some changes August 17, August 18, 2024. AND YES, I did make a couple of changes after I put it on this page. FLOW.

The Big Event, Babies, and CoinciDENCES

Posted on July 7, 2024 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, oregon surfing, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, surf adventures, surf culture events, surf trips

It’s the big Sunday edition. FIRST, a reminder that the FOURTH OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT is coming up on Wednesday, July 17, 6-8pm, Port Townsend Public Library. Special guests, art, and an emphasis on ‘TALKING STORY.’

BABIES- Ripper Mikel ‘Squintz’ Cumiskey, seemingly ping-ponging between Florida, the Pacific Northwest, and the Big Island (currently), and his wife, Kelsey (sp), had a second child. Since Mike sent texts to every surfer on his contact lists, it seems it might be worth spreading the word farther. It might have been, you know, nice if he had included more info, but… yeah, congratulations!

CoinciDENCES

My sister, Suellen, masterminded a reunion of her brothers and sisters in Long Beach, Washington, near Chinook, the last place our father lived, and meant to coincide with what would have been ERWIN ALLEN DENCE, SENIOR’S one hundredth birthday. He had every intent to make it to this landmark, but, having survived World War II, Korea, eight children and three wives, he did not. Our sister, Melissa, passed on several years ago, and the thought is this might be the last chance the rest of us have to see each other.

If it had all worked out perfectly. It did not. I had a short window of availability and missed seeing my brothers Jonathan and Philip. I did see Suellen, Mary Jane, and our youngest brother, Edwin (who assures me that, no, Erwin and Edwin are not variations of the same name… as in, ‘I’m Darrell, this is my brother, Daryl, and my other brother, Derrell.’)

Edwin lives most of the year in the “Chinook House,” and has done extensive remodeling on the place a block from Surf Route 101 (on which I live 290 plus miles away by the “Loop,” much, much closer via McCleary Cutoff), a block from the Columbia River. Chinook is the closest town on the Washington side to the Astoria Bridge. I made some (not enough) trips down when our father was alive, almost always heading over to Seaside (or Short Sands) for a few waves.

It is nice to have a place to stay down that way. There was a tradition of Peninsula surfers heading down when a northwest swell just isn’t happening, and, of course, ever friendly, ever sharing Seaside locals heading up to the Strait of Juan de Fuca when there is some rumor of, you know, waves. The friendliness, stay-at-a-friend’s-house factor may have deteriorated somewhat over the years.

I did, of course, as is my tradition, trek over to Seaside while down there. I had some notion that I might find a used SUP to back up my dinged-to-shit Hobie. Enough so that I didn’t bring it. I did check out the Cove and the Point. Northwest wind, weak swell, no one in the water two days before the fourth of July. Disappointing. Similar conditions on the Strait would probably have enticed surfers to attempt surfing.

Neither shop in Seaside had SUPs designed for surfing. “We have some of the… flat water kind. It’s just not that popular here.” Nor do they, possibly, wish it to be.

Because I had taken off so early and had plans to meet my siblings at the Pig N’ Pancake in Astoria, I hung around the shops a bit longer than I ordinarily would, eventually purchasing a t shirt from each; one for grandson, Tristen, and one for his son, Zander, due to come down on the Fourth with my daughter, Dru, our ex-daughter-in-law, Karrie, Tristen, his wife Aisha (sp?), and their daughter (complicated- Trish keeps track for me), and take over the room Suellen had set up for me at the RESORT (time share).

WHEN I go into a surf shop, I have always, and evidently still do feel like a KOOK. I did admit that to the three salespeople behind the counter, adding that if one works at a surf shop, one is, one, automatically cool, and two, automatically assumed to be a great surfer. They all nodded.

I had already talked to the guy in that group, 26 years old and self-identified as a Seaside resident. He said he is all right with the tourists and, of course, if the Point is pumping, he can, by status or skill level, join the local rippers hanging out in a private lot partway up, allowing locals the position to encourage interlopers to not take photos and to surf the Cove. Or go home. “Nothing too serious.”

“Of course not,” I said, recounting how I was yelled at for paddling past a local (for a look, only- I swear). “If you think the locals are… serious… here, it’s nothing like the localism on the Strait.”

To those of you who are… serious; you’re welcome.

With time, still, to kill, I went to the Costco in Warrington to pick up a watermelon for Suellen, some ground coffee (because I’m too cheap or stubborn to buy from a stand), and a Costco-sized container of Churros/donut holes, the intention being to turn them over to Dru and the crew from Idaho (yeah, Idaho- our son, James, went to college there, and stayed). I didn’t. I finished the last churro yesterday.

ANYWAY, the parking lot at the Costco is huge, and I could not remember where I parked the Volvo, exactly, so I headed out for the farthest reaches. No Volve, but I did start chatting with another self-identified lifelong local, a woman probably in her late fifties, of course, trying to separate myself from the Costco-sized tourists, mentioning that my had father lived in Chinook.

“We all surf here,” she said. “Probably started about eighth grade.”

“Oh, that’s about when I started board surfing.”

It isn’t so remarkable that I ran into someone in a legitimate surf town who surfed or surfs (and I’m always ready to make some surfing connection with anyone I meet). What is worthy of note is that, if she was behind the counter, or a customer, at a surf shop, I would totally believe she, one, surfs, and two, surfs well. I’m always disappointed in myself when I miss an opportunity to take a picture. It, of course, last longer. I did get a couple of shots at the Astoria Pig N’ Pancake.

LEFT TO RIGHT: A possibly exasperated or exhausted (it was between breakfast and lunch crowds) waitperson; me; Suellen’s grandson, Yurick (sp?); my brother, ED; brother-in-law, Stan; sisters Mary Jane (Janie) and Suellen. I’m sort of questioning whether to use this photo. In real life, Edwin is way bigger than me, and what’s the deal with my serious expression? I should add that Suellen did surf and, in fact, got me involved in board surfing, BUT, if any of us showed up in a surf shop…

DRU AND THE CREW did make it back from the coast late last night. I have to process all the adventures. All of them love the coast. Well. Yeah.

T SHIRTS: I will definitely have more on the upcoming EVENT later in the week. I will have some ORIGINAL ERWIN T-shirts available. AGAIN, More, later.

Doors, Panels, Screens, Artsy Dealies, My Most Recent Obsessions, Eye, Eye, Eye, AND BIG DAVE Stuff

Posted on June 2, 2024 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, mind surfing, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf art, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing novels, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

Trish wasI, as always, correct when she said I had become obsessed with these door panels I have been working on; four by-fold doors rescued/salvaged/pack-ratted from some job. My theory was, because everyone has limited wall space for art, these would serve as screens, or even, doors.

Yes, there’s an inside and an outside, and I kind of lost track of what was on one side when I was painting the other side. It wasn’t all, like, thematic. Maybe a little. Obviously I have some sort of fascination with waves. And color. I would start out, get to something that was not what I envisioned and… here’s the obsessive part; I would keep going until l was a high percentage of satisfied. The fear at some point is that I could then screw the whole thing up. A line too far. Or a color. Or… something.

I want to thank Joel and Rachel Carben, owners of the COLAB in Port Townsend, for allowing me to have my art in their space. Although I paint houses for a living, my artistic leanings have been toward drawing.

SO, I am not at all sure what to do with these panels now. Hanging out for three of the monthly Port Townsend ARTWALKS has reinforced my belief that marketing is not my strong suit. Not even close. SO, do I tell myself that the joy of art is in the process? That is true, but… but, but, but…

Captions: Stephen R. Davis approaching the wall of doors at the COLAB;Joel Carben and Steve; a framed painting that caused Steve to comment,”It’s nice that you’re finally going for fine art,”; various panels taken where they were painted (a Costco/White Trash garage). OHHH, and then there’s BIG DAVE.

I took this a week or so ago at the Home Depot in Sequim. I had already heard a rumor that Legendary Surfer BIG DAVE RING was giving up surfing due to arthritis in his knees. I did write about this. The rumor was confirmed. *Sort of. Quickly, Dave was raised in Pacific Beach, San Diego, and was part of the pack of “Pier Rats” that included standout, Joe Roper. Dave, currently 66, was fourteen when I moved to PB in late 1971. I was twenty. Not a big talker in the lineup, not a guy who hangs out and chats it up on the beach, part of the reason I found out any info at all is because we have been mistaken for each other, as in: “I read your last thing on your blog,” to Dave, or “I heard you were ripping the other day,” to me.

Most of this was back when Dave was merely rocking a big-ass mustache. We both were riding big boards (Dave a 12′ SUP as a regular surfboard), and we both caught a lot of waves, from the outside, or scrapping for insiders. Dave is a master of the late takeoff and the sideslip, and plows through sections I would dodge..

A notable quote that got back to me was, “I rolled up and the Walrus and the Beast were both out. I went somewhere else. Though I’m almost more comfortable with being referred to as ‘That asshole wavehog, kneeboards on a SUP,” and I’ve been doing my best to increase the size of my mustache, I must agree with those who say Big Dave is the Walrus. Coo coo ca choo, coo coo ca choo.

*Having already, in a pattern that seems to hold true among older surfers, moved from popping up automatically, to knee boarding the takeoff and standing up after the first section, to kneeboarding the entire wave, Dave expressed little interest in belly boarding. “No, but…” I could tell Dave was imagining the perfect pre dawn session, sneaking out, lining up a few bombers.

“It is amazng,” he said, “what I’ve gotten done because I’m not always putting stuff off to go surfing.”

I get it, Dave.

EYE and LEG UPDATE- I’m finally through with the wound care for the gouge on my right calf. Pretty impressive scar. I am going to have my eye checked out on Friday, with surgery to remove the clear oil inside it, hopefully, scheduled for… soon. It isn’t as if I can’t work, it’s just annoying. I sort of attacked a woman in a parking lot the other day because she had a bandage over one eye. “Hey, what happened to you?” Different deal. Worse than mine. Nice conversation. ANYWAY, I did tell Trish that, because of the glare in the water, I might not surf until the oil in my eye is exchanged for (I asked) saline solution, that to be replaced by the proper bodily-produced fluid.

BUT, but, but… when I check the forecast…

Moving on. Back to another of my obsessions. After I post this, my plan is to get back to “Swamis.” I had friends attempt to read earlier versions. I know where I have to make changes, and I have been working on it. That’s my process. Evidently. Obsession, distraction; what we have to do and what we want to do and what we really really want to do.

Good luck with your obsessions.

Getting Back to You

Posted on March 3, 2024 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, northwest surfing, old surfers, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, Uncategorized

My most recent post featured some of my latest drawings, contenders for a spot as an ORIGINAL ERWIN t-shirt. UNFORTUNATELY, one of them got lost in the scuffle. But, good news, I got the images rescanned and now….

There are the images, here’s the story (Optional), bottom to top:

Here’s a mockup of a shirt design I did for the Port Townsend PUBLIC Library (officially for the ‘Friends of the…’) SUMMER READING Project. It would be clearer on the actual shirt, and the colors… different.

Here’s me attempting to look fierce in a French Beret someone left on a fencepost after some Port Townsend hipster, evidently, lost it in a fit of utter euphoria. I’m holding Stephen R. Davis’s hammer, total prop. There is a story here involving some injuries I incurred taking a (stupid) fall off a ladder and onto two open paint cans. Crushed them, cut the back of both of my legs. Ten days later I got to go to Urgent Care for an (even stupider) infection (swelling, red lines down my leg, that kind of stuff) I have photos, best not shared. Antibiotics and Advil, I’m on the mend.

THIS leads us to the top two images. SO, NINE days after my fall, STEPHEN R. DAVIS and I are out on the Strait, and getting skunked. OF COURSE. But, I had my thumb drive with me, and on it was the top image that, for some technical reason, I was not able to transfer to my computer. AND there was a print shop on the way out of Port Angeles.

SO I cruise in there and get a reversal (2nd image) of the drawing. SINCE we’re skunked and it’s still early, we cruise up Lincoln to the NXNW surf shop. I’ve talked to the new owner (Frank Crippen’s successor) about selling some of my stuff and he’s been agreeable. There are a couple of other surfers in the shop, obviously skunked. I set the copy on the counter and one of the guys is just staring at it, running fingers down the various lines, muttering “Oh” and “Whoa” long enough that I had to say, “Hey, man, it’s just lines and dots.” “Whoa!”

I’m still leaning on this one for the next shirt. I’ll definitely keep you posted. MEANWHILE, surf ’em if (and when you find ’em. More stuff on Wednesday.

NEW Original Erwin T Shirts and… yeah… more

Posted on February 18, 2024 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Erwin Dence illustrations, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, surf art, surf illustrations, surfing art

I haven’t done any t shirts in a while. There has been a lot of interest and I have done other drawings that are not included here because… I haven’t scanned them yet. I am trying to make my illustrations simpler, but, somewhere in the process, they all go a bit psychedelic.

All the shirts I’ve done and sold or given away (Trisha’s idea, to her friends, some to clients) are gone, and, as mine are, probably wearing out. If you have one, hold on to it. It’s not just my ego saying this. Okay, mostly that, but they are all truly limited editions.

Limited by my having to put out the money all at once, the return coming in… slower.

But, I do have some limited backing, have discussed some potential local outlets, and I am ready to go!

The three toward the bottom are designs I’ve done. I will probably not do the one immediately below, and, as far as color, it’s way more expensive unless I go with a sort of modern day version of iron on, and then… I’m obviously not someone who deals in percentages and wholesale/retail, nor do I really want to be. I just want to keep drawing simple little pen and ink illustrations and… I WILL HAVE a few more examples next time. WEDNESDAY.

OH, I am going to do the one below the “Locals” one first; white on black. It seems kind of, you know, graphic and only semi-psychedelic.

MEANWHILE, I just (as in yesterday) had a bit of a fall; ladder slipped, I started falling, grabbed onto ladder with one hand, slowing my descent, hit metal railing with my back, landed on stairway and two open paint cans, totally destroying them and cutting and bruising the shit out of the back of both legs, and spilling the two colors I’m using on a Victorian I have the least of. SO, rather like any fall you see on any skateboarding video. I ALSO destroyed my work cellphone, its screen already cracked. SO, that’s not good. Trying to figure out what to do about that. SWAP sim card with new phone like they do in every spy movie? Meanwhile, the message says I’ll get back to you and… Yeah, Ibuprofen.

There are waves… somewhere. Hope you find some.

Original Erwin and Erwin Originals

Posted on January 20, 2024 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, northwest surfing, surf novels, surf posters, surfing art, surfing illustrations, surfing novels, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

I’ve been busy drawing. I have several reasons for doing so. New designs for t shirts, some work for the PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY’s upcoming SUMMER READ, and, just because I enjoy it.

SO, LET’S SEE HOW MY LATEST scans look on the screen:

THERE ARE MORE, but should save some copyrighted original stuff for next time. WEDNESDAY… MORE! (sorry about the explanation point; not that a show of enthusiasm isn’t appropriate. MEANWHILE, thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers. See you out on Surf Route 101.

IF I HAVE TO BLAME something for the prolific-ness, it’s the recent far-eeez-ing weather. AND I have been sa-soww-ly getting cal-lose-er finishing my novel, “Swamis.”

!!!

Merry Whatever You’re Celebrating, and…

Posted on December 24, 2023 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Erwin Dence surf illustrations, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, surf art

…and really, not that much else. I hope everyone is getting some miracle waves, and… yeah, that’s about it. With all the shoreline around the world, a great wave is still a gift. Share a few. Surfers should have a bond built through sharing the experience of actually learning how to deal with a force as powerful and tricky as the ocean. Throw in crowds and rocks and tides and winds, all the variables, and.. yes, there should be a certain es-prit’ de surf… and sometimes it is lacking.

The difference between having a magical session and a go-out where frustration with other surfers, or lack of waves, or one’s own performance leads to anger, is so often, attitude. The mental game is as integral as wave knowledge. I have forgotten to have fun too many times.

My worst surf session, was, by any measure… valuable; in retrospect, great.

We made it past the dark solstice. Waves are in the forecast. Somewhere surfers will be enjoying the magic.

OH, about the ILLUSTRATION: I got this scanned at COHO PRINTING in Port Townsend. RANDY is so, so concerned about making the print better than the original. I totally appreciate it. I have done a color version, maybe a bit to psychedelic; but, since I have it on a thumb drive, I can have more opportunities to get it… better… not perfect… but…

HAPPY EVERYTHING!

On Not Judging While Judging

Posted on September 10, 2023 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, hipster surfers, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations

It isn’t that I want to ridicule or make fun of or hate on people who want to engage in the exciting world/culture/sport/lifestyle, imagined or real, that is SURFING. I just want to understand some of the folks I see heading for waves, or hanging out near or on the beach, bobbing and/or weaving in the water.

Motivation. I know mine. I just want to ride waves.

Not party waves, and most likely better waves, bigger waves, and as always, I want to ride them better. “Better than whom” is a good question. Better than me. Mostly. Better than you. Yes, if possible. BUT, if you rip, great; I am always ready to identify and appreciate and applaud shredding and ripping and cruising and flowing; surfing done well. I’m really, and this has been true throughout my surfing, uh, life, trying to surf as well as I can during any session and given any and all other factors.

And yes, I am aware of my limitations, and that, to some young hipster I might seem worthy of… let’s say, assessment.

Fair game. See you in the water.

SO, I have been missing a bet by not photographing some of the people I see. Particularly ones I have some conversation with. I have the stories; I need the images.

This is a non-rendering of the guy I saw recently; walking across the entire length of the parking area to, maybe, check out whether there were some waves up thataway. There weren’t. In doing the drawing, I didn’t allow room for his sidekick. Now, It isn’t like anyone can really tell if someone is a good surfer by their outfit, or posture, or by what they say. BUT, if I judged this Grizzley Adams dude harshly, despite his tricked-out surf rig, with overhead sleeping deal AND bike/cooler/campstove rear bumper setup, and his quiver of board-bagged boards, and I shouldn’t have, I did judge his sidekick as a, um, newcomer. Neophyte in, potentially, neoprene. Hard to say. Dudes paraded back across, hopped in the rig, and skedaddled. Maybe you saw them.

Okay. So, yeah, something that connects most of us is a desire to be considered/judged as cool/hip, maybe even rad/whatever the current word is WHILE also trying to be… better. Me too. WHEW! Wow, confession is so… so something. I’m thinking about that. But, Coolness; never achieved it; still trying to get, you know, like, better at it.

Meanwhile, thanks for checking out realsurfers.net and remember that the next chapter of “SWAMIS” on Wednesday. I think we’re up to Joey going to Swamis a few days after Chulo was killed. If so, because I have each chapter covering a single day, that chapter is a three-parter, mostly so it doesn’t not overwhelm any potential reader. Be one of them. And another thanks.

Almost This and Almost That

Posted on June 4, 2023 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, northwest surfing, Original Erwin t-shirts, perfect waves, real surfers, surf art

Always trying to improve, I have decided (or am deciding) that the advice I gave lip service to years ago was, often, right. My commercial art professor treated drawings we students believed to be high art as sketches, with mistakes that could be improved with the next attempt, or the attempt after that. “Two-Coat” Charlie Barnett (I didn’t call him that until later) was right that two coats of paint is almost always the way to go. Maybe someone should have told me that nothing we write is perfect, even after multiple drafts. Art, life, surfing; ten point rides, ten point anything is rare.

STILL, we try. I tried for years as a sign painter to try to get my block letters perfect, only to be out-performed by computer technology. I try to please my customers by making their house look, well, as good as possible. Some are perfectionists. Great. Here is my line on that: Perfection is very difficult to attain, and impossible to mainain.

SO, and maybe it’s because I’m stubborn, I have put some more time into previous ‘sketches.’

SO, the first image is a possible ORIGINAL ERWIN t shirt design, totally redrawn after my first attempt. Because I draw these in reverse (white and black), I don’t really know how they will look until I go to the PRINTERY in Port Townsend. First one, guy’s arm too long, I didn’t like the lettering. This one… yeah, lettering doesn’t stand out enough. Maybe I’ll… yeah, probably a redraw coming up.

THE BOTTLE. On the top one, I colored in the white lines on the reverse image of the original white and black illustration. Second one, water-color on the original and then reversed. Third one, to show the difference; I used colored pencils on the original. I am quite excited about the process of reversing the color spectrum, but I think I went to yellow on a night sky because I figured out how to get it. Purple, darker the better.

THERE ARE, as always things I like about each of the attempts. Attempts. More to follow.

MEANWHILE, in preparation for the upcoming SURF CULURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT, I am trying to get a collection of (the best of) my years of art stuff together and scanned, the hoped-for result a sort of powerpoint thing that can be displayed on one of two screens in the PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY, 6pm, Friday, June 30.

At least seven other Olympic Peninsula surfer/artists will be displaying their work. I am planning on reciting at least two surf-related poems (actually songs, but I will try not to sing them). Other stuff going on, music, food, readings, are still in the getting-there phase, all under the management of surfer/librarian Keith Darrock.

MORE NEXT SUNDAY.

Remember that I do claim all rights to my work, perfect or not. THANKS, and by all means, get some waves when you can. Perfect or not.

Real Surfers

Shoulder-hoppers and name-droppers

Category Archives: Erwin Dence surf illustrations