Category Archives: learning to surf

Trisha’s Last Chemo (f%$# Cancer), Dru’s New Ride, and “Rejected,” The Old(er) Man and the Sea, No AI on this site, I won’t be performing at the T/Kennedy Center, Oh, and HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Posted on by under learning to surf, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf satire, surf sessions, writings of Erwin Dence

I chose this ‘fuck cancer’ because it looks like waves. TRISH got her 12th and last Chemo the day after Christmas. She still has to go through radiation, 6 plus weeks, but she gets a break. We are all touched by cancer. I have a new appreciation of how horrific the disease AND the cure are.

DRUCILLA and I went over to Edmonds to try to purchase a vehicle to replace her Honda Odyssey, recently totaled by a Yeti-sized deer. I will have a more in depth accounting next time. Short version; I hard bargained them down three hundred bucks and a full tank of gas. Something. Dru is stoked!

I am hoping that, early in the coming year, I will be able to come back from my latest session. Here’s the story: YOU CAN’T SURF IF CAN’T MAKE IT OUT

THIS piece is directly related to my most recent humbling. Not that I haven’t had my share. The OCEAN is not designed to keep one’s ego pumped up. We wish it could; not, maybe for others, but, yes, any time we go out, we want to rip, to excel, to improve on our best PERFORMANCES, to do better. BETTER, damn it.

NOT arguing the implications of ‘performance’ and ‘better’ here, though both words suggest something more than the SOUL SURFER paradigm, real or imagined.

ALSO not discussing the anthropomorphism of bodies of water and, specifically, waves. It’s hydro physics that rejected your undoubtedly pure desires to dominate and/or flow with the Universe, it’s not some assigned assassin wave that kicked your ass; it’s not personal. Seems personal, nonetheless.

I’ve told this story several times to non-surfers. The mystique and mythology around surfing contends, beyond that surfing is cool and that getting a five second ‘straight-hander’ with five friends is fun, that a surfer can ‘conquer’ a wave, and that one successful challenge can change his or her life. Though I want to say ‘doubtful,’ I’m reconsidering. So, ‘maybe.’

My recounting of my humiliation drew laughter more than sympathy. This was right. I wasn’t looking for anyone feeling sorry for the old dude who shouldn’t have gone out on a day in which… to quote fictional George Costanza, “The ocean was angry, my friend.”

The surf desperate old guy who couldn’t wait for a better tide, or for the swell to back off, was REJECTED. Me, ego-heavy wave hogging dude, humbled.

YES, I waited on the beach like Greg Noll at Pipeline (according to legend, his last surf), waiting for a lull. I started paddling at something close to one, waded into the shorebreak and… No there was not a lull, and…

Here is something about surf spots on the Peninsula: They are almost all connected to streams or rivers. The rivers and streams are all bloated lately, that push adding to any wave/tide related currents. I started out in my usual zone, quickly ended up in a wish/wash rip, sixty yards east of where I wanted to be. I couldn’t get to my knees to use my paddle, and was trying to push through the soup as each wave came at me. I was, I’m pretty sure, almost to cleaner water when a line I thought I’d punch through spun me around, and suddenly, I was heading, hurdling, ‘hell bent for leather’ (two people really appreciated the use of the phrase), toward the beach.

Rejected. NOT ONLY did I not make it out, but, for further drama, I was in the ‘boneyard,’  caught in a swirl (something less than a whirlpool), in eight feet of water ten feet from the beach. I had lost my grip on my paddle somewhere in the fifty yard, out of control, proning-in, I was leashed to a thirty-plus pound board alternating between crashing in on each new wave and floating back out in between waves. I climbed back on and decided to just take whatever wave would get me ashore.

Paddle and… BOOM! Straight in and onto the steep beach. Not the first time for this part of the show, though, sometimes I do make a nine-point slide, jump, move up the beach (three points if I was thirty years younger). Unable to jump up, getting pummeled in the shorebreak, I was crawling (I mean, like belly, then hands and knees crawling), pushing my board ahead of me.

There were, as Luck (change that to circumstance) would have it, a tourist couple, walking their dog in a little-green-bag-free-zone were witnesses. “You all right there?” “Yeah. Where’s your green bag?”

I was safe. No rescue needed. But three or four surfers (dressed out after their sessions in unfriendly conditions at what is typically, if breaking, a fairly user-friendly spot) arrived on scene. “Need me to carry your board?” “No. I lost my paddle.” “Tough break, man.”

I was ungrateful enough (or discourteous, or rude, or hyper-angry/embarrassed/humiliated enough) that they all ran back to the fire, leaving me to do a WALK OF SHAME (1) seventy yards or so back to my car.

Yes, it is a different thing if your moments of shame are not witnessed. No one notices you in or getting out of the water, your story can’t be disputed. “Yeeahh, doggies; that one wave… historic!” “Sorry I missed seeing it.”

WALK OF SHAME 2. Someone, a young guy on a short board, rescued my paddle. “THANKS.” All I had to do was walk another fifty yards, past all the other surfers, to retrieve it. AND THEN, was there anyone who thought, “He’s going to go back out, try to recapture some of his dignity.” ? Probably not.  

I did wait around, in my wetsuit, hoping the rips might subside, hoping for less outside roll-throughs, hoping the swells might clean up and hit the reef the way I know they can. I was ready for redemption. It will have to wait.

PART TWO- Discretion. I should have had some.

THREE- Age? Fuck you. I mean, no, not yet.

FOUR- Analyzing. Every surfer experiences the failures, the awkwardness, the wipeouts and beatdowns. When we start out, we’re just so excited to be surfing that these setbacks are part of the fun (okay, two-foot slop with four friends is big fun for kooks). If I admit that I have felt frustration in the past when my surfing didn’t come up to my artificial standards, I must also say that I was wrong in this. So far, I’ve managed to get thrashed, crashed, even hurt while surfing; I’ve come too close to drowning, too close to sharks and out of control kooks and crazies. I can recount many of the times I’ve been rejected by the ocean. BUT none of the beatdowns take away the times of total bliss.

And yes, I’m not above the occasional anthropomorphizing.  

erwin@realsurfers.net

Original material by Erwin Dence in realsurfers.net is protected by copyright. All right reserved by the author/artist. Thanks.

Good luck

The Fine Art of Falling

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, hipster surfers, learning to surf

It isn’t, of course, the falling that hurts or kills you. It is the sudden stop. Or it’s what you fall against. Every surfer has fallen, this getting more intense by having a wave actually causing us to fall, with force, and/or falling on us with more force. And then there is what we are falling into and/or slammed against: Reefs, rocks, gravel, and/or a combination of these, with or without added jaggedess. And then there is the added joy of having our board becoming a weapon that can provide blunt force trauma, a cut from a fin, and/or a stabbing-type wound. Might as well add in other people’s boards, and/or other people. Sounds dangerous.

I suddenly feel compelled to list every actual injury that can be connected to ladders in my fifty-six year (in June) career in painting. This excludes cuts and bruises from knives and scrapers, the smacking of a thumb or finger with a misaimed hammer, punctures from splinters, some quite long and quite deep, from sanding straight grain fir, and other injuries too common and/or ridiculous to list. None super serious.

Despite many sketchy ladder moves and spooky positioning, any of which could have had consequences, and the fact (or my line on the issue) that a ladder has 29 ways to hurt a person, and then one can fall, the number comes in at… tabulating… six. The list of injuries includes TWO sprained and/or broken ankles (never got x-rays) from missing a rung on now-illegal extension ladders that had a missing run on the ‘fly’ section; ONE chest-compression injury from trying to carry too much stuff down a ladder, facing out (heels don’t have the ‘purchase’ feet do); ONE ‘legs stretched to ballerinas-only position injury on a three-legged ‘picker’ ladder after one leg sank in a recent backfill, and one of my feet stayed on the rung; ONE injury from a ‘kick-out’ because the ‘stand-offs’ on the ladder were not on the roof (imagine teeter-totter); ONE accident, yesterday, when, and I’m still evaluating exactly what went wrong, I was coming down a ladder with two buckets of paint, avoiding tree branches, with the ladder in a less than ideal (though frequently necessary) position… AND, I swear, I would have been fine in the tumble if I hadn’t hit the edge of a planter pot.

I probably wouldn’t have gone to the JEFFERSON GENERAL HOSPITAL Emergency Room if there hadn’t been so much BLOOD. This is me in the outfit I was wearing when they released me. “Are you attached to these clothes?” I was asked as a nurse cut my two layers of shirts away. “No, they’re attached to me,” I said as I pulled the very long long sleeved shirt out of my pants (just in time, I was thinking). I was also wearing a beanie, but it got kind of ruined by my using it to hold pressure.

It’s actually quite a story, from my perspective, and I have people to thank: My clients- MARTI insisted I go to the ER. “You look like a Texas Chainsaw Massacre victim,” she said. I checked it in a mirror. She was right. ANDY drove me to the ER and waited until the stitching (20) was done, hung out until I was released, and drove me back to my car. Sorry about the blood in your car, Andy. DONITA, a nurse at Jefferson General, who, informed there was a bloodied painter with a head wound, instantly recognized me, from the back of my head. Donita, who Trish and I have known the entire time we havde lived in Quilcene, acted as a liaison with the staff, mostly saying, “No, he’s always like this. It’s (maniacal behavior and joking in the face of imminent catastrophe) normal… for him.” In exchange, I said, “Donita and my wife and I were all EMTs together. Donita always volunteered to be a victim. I never did.”

The attending physician, KEVIN R. BOWMAN, MD, should also be mentioned. As should that none of this bumping and bleeding was actually painful. Sticking needles into my head; that was. MEANWHILE Trish was calling and texting, the ER folks (of various ranks) were looking for the needles and thread and extractors and other tools, mostly unsuccessfully, some persistent but tiny artery was still pumping, and I was saying things, like, “Reminds me, for some reason, of ‘MASH,’ ‘big stitches.’ MEAN MEANWHILE, Dr. Bowman, having revealed he lives in Bellingham, left himself open to me discussing all things surfing. Him admitting he is trying to learn Wing Foiling led to more discussion of surf hierarchies and ‘adult learners,’ and why I find that in any way amusing.

When it was determined that I would survive despite my killer blood pressure, and while Dr. Bowman was still stitching (“Probably won’t leave a scar.” “Will I be sprouting new hair?” “No.”), I was trying to arrange a ride back to my car. My friend, Keith, who had recently received another (I’m not counting) big ass bruise (on his thigh) from bouncing off rocks, agreed to come get me when I was released, but a woman from the front came in and asked me if Andy could come back. “He’s been here the whole time?” Yeah. So he came back, and, while waiting, we chatted about all kinds of deeply and shallowly philosophical stuff, and Bob Dylan (Andy has a gre-eeat story about a friend of his at Newport, 1965, front row tickets courtesy of Joan Baez). I called Keith back.

This morning Keith texted to see if I am okay. I am. Just a cut. “Good. I was a little worried with the last minute ride cancellation and sort of giddiness on the phone.” Giddy? Me?

Since I’m oh so close to getting my novel, “Swamis,” ready to publish, and my songs/poems collection, “Love Songs For Cynics,” I decided to overwrite an overwrought poem. This one:

The bodies still strewn on the battlefield, fires, once flaring, still smoldering, blood, once pumping, pooled or seeping, quietly, from bodies, once soldiers or shoppers or farmers or children of this or some other tribe, the survivors were, briefly, giddy, out of ammo, fingers flexing and relaxing, adrenaline pushing, unrestrained, from every poor, paused a moment before reloading.

It seems to be a thing we participate in, the ranking of surfers based on criteria other than a person’s ability to ride waves. The ranking system varies but usually is skewed toward the person placing each of us into categories. It was once that the ultimate “Waterman” or water-person was skilled in multiple facets; yeah, but… I took this photo of ALLEN mostly because someone on the beach said it’s, with the roof extension lowered in this image, probably a hundred-thousand dollar rig. “No,” Allen bought it used for Forty grand (not sure if that’s with or without the camper). Points for Allen on one scale. “I traded out about fifteen-hundred worth of work for mine,” I said. I’m not claiming bonus points, but for $98,500 I can make a few trips searching for waves. Or maybe I can buy a newer board. Or…

Again, am I judging? Constantly, though I’m trying to quit. I told Trish that, in the movies, someone who hits something like a planter pot and busts upon his head, dies. “No,” she said, “Sometimes they wake up with amnesia.” She laughed. “You might wake up and not know where you are and ask, ‘how the hell’d I end up in this dump?'” It’s a long story, and with every story, I’m working on it.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. Wing Foilers, non-wing foilers, E bike riders, kite surfers, some e foil riders, some kayakers, shortboarders, longboarders, snow riders, skate boarders, any and all learners or almost masters, of any age, of the fine art of flowing and gliding and ripping and falling are welcome.

I am past the pissed off, embarrassed, relieved, and the giddiness phases. I am still cruising in the thankful phase. For every accident we are involved in, there are so many near misses, so many ‘could have beens,’ any of which would change our story. As Andy said, “There are miracles on both ends; we don’t remember our birth, and our death is still a mystery.” Yeah, I told you it was philosophical.

Occasional Run-Ins With Interesting Folks

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, learning to surf, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, Seattle surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, surf novels

WHOA! This came out kind of bigger than I would have thought. It’s COLE (if I ever heard a last name I forgot it), showing me his pupils aren’t dilated. I’ve seen Cole out on the Strait for years. This is the way it goes in a region that never should have waves, rarely does have waves, and, when there are waves, the dribblers are most likely scalloped or shredded by the fickle winds before they die, unceremoniously, on the jagged rocks.

I almost never search for waves without running into some interesting people I’ve hung out with in the past. Sometimes I meet new folks. It does take me several encounters before I remember most folks. “We’ve spoken before. Erwin.” “Oh. Okay; which one are you again?” Still, most people are friendly ON THE BEACH.

A MEMORABLE QUOTE from Cole from a few years back is,”I haven’t surfed in so long that my gills are dry.” Painful.

LIB TECH FOUNDER MIKE OLSON and Lib-rarian KEITH DARROCK. No doubt frustrated by the lack of surfable waves, Mike has become an ‘adult learner’ on foil boards. The key, he explained, is to do two sessions a day for, if I remember correctly (I was busy trying to take a photo with my phone while being amazed at how tall Mike is [I think I can call him Mike because we sort of bonded after i {allegedly} hit him with my board], while, simultaneously wondering why he’s doing this hand gesture rather than a friendlier shaka), 45 days. So, like 70 sessions and one is a full on foiler.

I didn’t take a photo of Mike attempting to ride his foil in some side-not-offshore wind. I kind of thought the design might be a secret. I would guess that Mike is probably about… No, I don’t want to judge. BUT, perhaps you’re looking forward to getting a genuine LIB TECH foil to add to your quiver.

If you’re considering getting a motorized foil and also considering yourself a real surfer, please reconsider.

Mike Olson from a few years ago, possibly on the day when my board may or may not have done damage to his shoulder, enjoying an overhead (Strait scale) wave while some cheating bastard on a Standup (no, it’s not me- way too thin) considers paddling to Canada. Mike talks at cattle auctioneer speed and always seems to be having a good time.

Coincidentally, on an outing in which Keith took a chance on taking me with him (and yes, the head gasket issue on my VOLVO is almost-maybe fixed), the only other non-kook surfer (counting Keith and me, though I fell over way more times than usual) in the chopped up water with the weak and wobbly waves was a guy who identified himself as PETE. He was riding a ten foot-ish HANSEN 50-50 LONG BOARD, so, of course, I had to ask him where he got it, not failing to mention that I was a SURFBOARDS HAWAII zealot, and that Hansen seems more interested in selling clothes than boards. Pete did, indeed, purchase the board in Encinitas for, like, $400.

IT TURNS OUT that Pete is PETE SAARI, credited as being a co-founder of LIB TECH. Pete must have passed Mike on the highway. Keith, who has surfed with Mike on some sketchier rock breaks, said we’d just surfed with LIB TECH NUMBER ONE. Mike said, “No; I’m still number one,” and explained a bit more of his company’s evolution than I was aware of. But, as part of my relentless and bothersome need to research, I googled and now see that, SHIT, Lib Tech is way bigger than I realized. So, if Mike Olson knows my name… it doesn’t hurt my feelings. Or ego.

Pete, when I asked, said he lives in Seattle but has a house in Agnew. “Oh, you know, the coolest hoodie one can have, other than a HAMA HAMA OYSTER hoodie or an ORIGINAL ERWIN, is one from the AGNEW GROCERY STORE.” “Yeah, I live near it.” Pete recognized Keith and asked me if I was also from Port Townsend, “No, Quilcene.” “Oh, I hear it’s a very hip place to live.” “Yeah. I’ve lived there since 1978, when I was 27, and the hipness is all about these young wanna be farmers, and…” “Okay, I’ll give you credit.”

ALL dialogue is paraphrased but accurate in content.

“SWAMIS” UPDATE- Keith and I also ran into STU (I should have taken a picture). He works part time at the NXNW SURF SHOP in Port Angeles. Stu’s wife has relatives in the San Diego North County area and has surfed some of the local spots. He said they thought of moving down there, but it’s so expensive. “And so crowded.” “Are you ever going to finish ‘Swamis’?” “Yeah.”

I sent out submissions/queries to agents about six week ago. The one I really wanted to represent me, and the reason I’ve been checking my hotmail, like, obsessively, Hillary Jacobson, with CAA, one of the biggies, just passed on my novel. She did, however, wish me the “best of luck finding an agent.” So, yeah, devastated. BUT, if you happen to know Hillary, please tell her it’s a big miss to pass on “Swamis.” Oh, and thanks.

So, yeah, still going. MEANWHILE, putting out some of my songs/poems. Here’s another:

IF IT’S OVER, then it’s over, guess we’re through, there’s no reason I should go on loving you, but you know it’s just exactly what I’ll do… If it’s over, then it’s over, guess we’re through, but I just can’t seem to let go of these blues.

Yes, I treated you unkindly, as you say, but I loved you, love you blindly, still today; it’s a love I’ll likely take right to my grave… If it’s. over, then it’s over, guess we’re through, but I just can’t seem to let go of these blues.

Like the clouds the winds have scattered, my love’s broken but not gone; like the coast the waves have battered, I’ve no choice but to hold on; like a river at the ocean, I’ll give in eventually, but I’ll hold on, long as I can, to the memory.

I can find the broken pieces of my heart; I can build myself a new one from the parts; need a new life, and it’s time for me to start… If it’s over, then it’s over, guess we’re through; but I just can’t seem to let go, gotta find a way to let go; I JUST CAN’T SEEM TO LET GO OF THESE BLUES.

Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net. Get some waves when you can.

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

‘STWAITING.’ Sometimes Getting Skunked is Preferable

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, hipster surfers, learning to surf, northwest surfing, old surfers, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, Seattle surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, surf novels, surf satire, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

‘STWAITING” (add a lisp to get the word right), the fine art of waiting around on the STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA for the swell to rotate, or the tide to drop, or rise, or the waves to just get a little bit bigger, a bit more consistent; and then, finally, going out just as the 13th squall blows it all out AND, catching four waves total, you are forced into doing The paddle of shame.

STILL, THERE’S ALWAYS A STORY- But first…

Trisha’s brother’s son, our nephew, DYLAN SCOTT. I sent him an ORIGINAL ERWIN shirt for his birthday and as a house warming present. He sent me a video from SURFLINE REWIND of him at one of his local ENCINITAS spots, D Street. Since I have the non-premium WordPress package, I can’t display it here, but in the clip Dylan tucks into an offshore-enhanced and throaty barrel, doggy-dooring it at the last possible moment, and doing what appears to be, on my phone, a non-claim claim. I did send the video on to the surfers on my stealth phone.

I TOLD this guy that, although it was early, he would, no doubt, be the fashion crusher of the day. It turned out he had a flat tire up the road, and, although he had a jack and a spare, he was waiting for triple A to come from civilization. I guessed he didn’t want to get grease on his poncho.

THE NEXT wanna surf person I saw (should have taken a picture) was suited up and ready to go out. “Really?” “They said it’s supposed to be good,” he said. “Who? Who said?”

TONY AND FIONA are from Vancouver, B.C. where you can get a wavestorm in different, Canada-only colors. Vancouver is kind of like Seattle in that it costs money and takes ferries to get to surf. Evidently it’s cheaper, or as cheap to go to, like, Westport, than it is to go to Tofino. They were camped at LaPush, but left because ‘they’ forecast, like, 16 foot (like, 5 meter) waves, so they left. Quite irritated that my own forecast was proving, possibly, wrong, I gave Tony and Fiona grief, as in, “SO, are you just going to get in everyone’s way when the waves start pumping? How long have you been surfing? Did you go to surf school?” Yes, I sort of apologized, promised to put them on my site with tens of followers in Canada AND throughout the free and unfree world. SO, promise kept. AND, since the waves were so shitty, I have to believe they had a great American time.

THE FADED RAINBOW seems to frame what could be a six foot set at a great distance. It isn’t. It’s a six inch set fairly close. AM I BLOWING UP THE SPOT? My argument is that, if you head out, frothed out by the forecast, expecting epic conditions… well, don’t. As much as I don’t trust forecasts, I think post-casts saying what was rather than what could be, are also dangerous. Since I’m going on years of experience, anecdotal evidence at best, and somewhat relying on actual buoy reports (which are trickier than you might think), and I get skunked… well, there are always waves in WESTPORT.

QUIRKY SCOTT, who does not like his nickname, even when I told him it really means ‘eccentric’, dominated on this day. I am actually a little shocked at how model-like he looks in this photo. NOW, when I say dominated, I mean he caught more tiny waves than any of the other beginning or desperate surfers. I’m in the second category, hopefully.

AT SOME POINT in my paddling for waves that disappeared or disappointed, a woman was staring at me. Wasn’t sure why. It turns out JOSIE (another no photo) heard me talking to Scott, and asked him if I’m that guy who posts stuff on the internet. He said, paraphrasing, “Erwin. Yeah. Tell him you recognize him; it’ll do something for his giant ego.” This wasn’t the first time I’ve been identified, the reaction usually negative. “I like the way you use words,” she said. “Uh, yeah; I know it seems like it’s all stream of consciousness, but, really, I work at, and, yeah, thanks.”

I also, to round out a day of stwaiting, talked to SEAN GOMEZ, Port Angeles teacher and ripper, who got some epic waves recently (I missed it- have friends who didn’t), and to Reggie, who missed out on reportedly epic coast waves in order to make a bunch of money (familiar story for me, newer for Reggie), and saw, on my way home, many more surfers headed to where I had been. “Good luck. They say it’s supposed to be good.”

MAYBE, and this is always the story, it got good after I left.

A photo of a moonset over the unseen Olympics from my front yard. A moment later the full moon was covered by clouds from the latest atmospheric river, a moment later, the moon was back. And then…

NON-POLITICAL STORY: As a decent American, I recycle. I devote what could be a tool shed to saving cardboard and plastic and paper. Enough so that I took half a van load to the QUILCENE transfer station. I’m putting the stuff in the proper bins when this dude comes up to me, looks in my big boy van and says, “Wow, you actually work out of this.” “Yes.” He has spoken to me before, the gist being he’s a painter, ready to work. He actually talks way faster than I do, and had a lot to say about wages and drunk and/or cheap contractors and stoned painters who don’t know shit. “Uh huh,uh huh.”

Somewhere in there he asks me how to register to vote locally. “I, um, got my ballot yesterday. I voted. I… don’t know. You could go to the courthouse, maybe.” “No, man; I don’t want that vote by mail shit. I’m an American. I want to vote in person.” “Well, I think… actually, if you’re voting for Trump, maybe you…” “Damn right I’m voting for Trump.” I tried to dissuade him, but his argument that ‘Kamala isn’t really black’ seemed to be stronger than my ‘Trump is a fucking crook who fucked over every contractor who worked for him’ counter.

He did the violin-playing gesture, usually with ‘cry me a river’ lyrics. I slammed the door to the van, but he, no doubt feeling tough and manly, jumped into his sub compact and drove off. On leaving, I saw MISTER BAKER, former Quilcene Science teacher over by the ‘paper’ bin. “I’m glad to see you survived that encounter,” he said. “Me, too. Yeah. I don’t usually talk politics, but…” “Seems like the last time I saw you, at the Post Office, you were in a heated political… discussion.” “Oh yeah. Mr. Hodgson; he was going on about how he was ‘woke.’ I had to tell him when people like him use ‘woke’ it’s always sarcastically, and if one isn’t smart enough to know being aware of the inequities in society is not a bad thing, one shouldn’t attempt sarcasm. Yeah, and now he’s on the school board and talking about banning books.”

ANYWAY, I didn’t argue with Mr Baker. I do, however, believe he knows where I stand based on the one time I was invited to a cheese and wine (cheese and crackers for me) thingie. And that was before citizen Trump de-evolved into whatever he is now.

IF YOU SEE ME, remind me to take your picture. ANOTHER sub-chapter of “SWAMIS” will be posted on Wednesday, along with whatever fun stuff happens in between. Tensions are only going to get worse between now and election day. Stay cool, surf ’em if you find ’em.

Black Flagging-It

Posted on by under learning to surf, real surfers, surf culture, surf sessions, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing stories, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

I’m not sure if this current flag, a sign keeping surfers out of a zone so non-boardies can float and bob and cavort, is the same one they used back when I was defying them.

blackballflag

I probably thought of this because I’ve been spending (somewhere between investing and wasting) some time watching the Supergirl Pro from Oceanside Pier. I did lose a portion of my interest when Stephanie Gilmore didn’t advance, a little more when the waves dropped off, but, hey, I did spend a lot of time at this pier.

It was the go-to spot for beach-going when I was a kid in Fallbrook, 20 miles away, wading out among the marines and their girlfriends (there was a lot of “From Here to Eternity” style romancing, I noticed), learning about the power and excitement of waves.

I did have to, sort of, get rescued, once, by neighbor mom, Arthella; when, around 8 years old or so, I pearled my styrofoam surfie, broke it in half with the collision between sand and stomach. Not that I really needed rescuing.

Fast forward to the party celebrating graduating from 6th grade. I was the almost-12 year old wearing the speedos, just like my Dad.  None of the other boys were wearing them. I would say more, but modesty…

Fast forward to 1965, the prestigious Oceanside Invitational happening, and, while my sister, Suellen, was (embarrassingly, for me) getting autographs from surfers on the beach (and the only name I remember is Mike Doyle, his mother bringing him a sack lunch), and despite my only having started board surfing a month or so before, I paddled right out among the warming-up competitors (embarrassing, no doubt, for Suellen). No, I had progressed to jams by this time.

What I didn’t know until last night, when Trish and I were google-mapping to see what the building I worked in, Buddy’s Sign Service, 1st and Tremont, looks like now; is that Trish was also at that contest, not getting autographs from surfers, not doing anything embarrassing.

Oh, got to go. Part II coming soon. Oh, second semi-final is on, but I have to go.

Story Somewhat Related to Bruce Brown…

Posted on by under learning to surf, old surfers, perfect waves, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, surfing, Uncategorized

Phillip Harper, Trish Harper, Ray Hicks, Bucky Davis, My Sister Suellen, My Mom, Bob Dylan, and The Endless Summer

Posted on February 16, 2014 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Uncategorized

“First of all,” I said, standing in the kitchen of Phillip Harper’s parents’ house, two bars of paraffin wax melting in a soup can on the stove, Phillip’s (second-ever, and not sun-browned like the first one) surf board, stripped and ready for a ‘pre-coat’, floating between two chairs and across the dining room table, “the theater was in no way ‘underground.’ Disappointing.”

Phillip and Ray Hicks seemed to be properly impressed that I, more country kid than either of them, had gone into the city for some other reason than to ride the escalators at Sears with my many brothers and sisters while my parents shopped.

It was at about this moment that Phillip’s sister, Trish (not my Trish- hadn’t met her yet), came in from the pantry (no one ever seemed to use the formal front door). She appeared noticeably disappointed that her brother and at least one of his geeky friends were there. Trish was followed in by her boyfriend, Bucky Davis. He was, perhaps, a bit less disappointed; a nod for Phillip, smaller one for Ray, even smaller one for me (standard cool reaction to over-amped groms). Bucky took a moment to check out the board (approvingly), then the wax melting on the stove.

“You have to be careful,” he said, both hands simulating an explosion. “A candle might be a better idea.” A single hand tipping an imaginary candle illustrated the point.

“Erwin went to see ‘The Endless Summer’ in San Diego,” Phillip said. “At an underground theater,” Ray added.

“The thing is,” I said, trying to be informative, and trying to be as cool as Phil and Ray “kind of disappointing; it wasn’t at all underground. Just a regular, um, theater. And…”

Phillip and Ray appeared less impressed than the first time they heard this. Of course; though they did seem to be checking Bucky’s reactions.

“On University Avenue?” Trish asked. I shrugged. I hadn’t driven. We’d gone down 395. It was somewhere near the Zoo.  “Well,” she said, “I saw it at State.” She paused, possibly to see if she had to add ‘San Diego State.’

No, I knew she had been spending some time down there, preparing to attend ‘State’ in the fall of 1967. Bucky would not be attending.  He was planning on going to Palomar Junior College; he’d have to go somewhere to stay out of the draft.

“When I saw it,” she continued, “Bruce Brown narrated it… himself. He was behind this curtain and…” She stopped because Bucky seemed a bit surprised at the news. At least that is what I thought, at the time, as if she had seen it without him. That would be sad, her and her new, big-city life and Bucky…

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[Let me add here, fifty years after this incident, three years after originally writing this piece, that, among my first surfing friends, Trish and Bucky were the perfect surfing couple.  That they didn’t remain a couple was, bits and pieces of the disconnection playing out over, and just beyond, my high school years, tragic; tragic in that teenager’s romanticized, love-lost way.

Part of the reason I started this blog was to record how I changed from total kook, over-stoked beginner, with Bucky one of my early surf heroes, to… I don’t know… over-stoked surfer out past high school, past the inside break; my friends scattered.

My opinion of surf heroes, with Bucky the best illustration, went, along with my connection to surfing, from a sort of ‘this is magic’ awe, to a more realistic view.  Bucky had some serious life challenges. He was a real person.

Still, what I loved about Phillip’s sister, that seeming-self confidence, that willingness to stand up as an equal, is part of what attracted me to my Trish.

Still… still an over-stoked surfer, awed by the magic… still I, somewhere in the part of me that never got past adolescent romantic, I’ve held out a notion that Bucky and Trish could… yeah, maybe I just hope they, and all my scattered surf heroes and friends, including Phillip and Ray… have been, mostly, happy.

And, I am grateful, while I’m anxiously awaiting my next surf adventure, that I have such great memories of interesting, and real, people. And someone to share current adventures with.]

I’m sure I was mostly trying to hide being impressed. And out-cooled. Again. Always by her.

“Bruce Brown? In person? That’s… cool.”

After all, it had been impossible for me to be really, even passably, cool, at the above-ground theater, hanging with my older sister, Suellen, AND my mother.

Still, hoping to in some way to compete with Trish Harper, I said, “Yeah, well; they had these previews for a movie with Bob Dylan, and…”

“’Don’t Look Back’,” Trish said.

“Huh?” Phillip and Bucky and Ray asked, pretty much at the same time.

“Uh huh,” I said; “and Bob Dylan’s, like… he’s holding up these…”

“Cue cards,” Trish said.

“I guess. Yeah. And my mom starts laughing.”

“Laughing?” Phillip and Trish and Bucky and Ray all asked.

“Yeah, laughing; and… I mean, not even Suellen is laughing. No one’s laughing.”

“Because it’s Dylan,” Trish said, serious and almost indignant.

“Yeah, Dylan; Bob Dylan. But, pretty soon, someone else starts laughing. And then more people are laughing; and then everyone’s laughing. And Bob Dyl… Dylan, he just keeps dropping the cards. And…”

By this time, in the kitchen, I was also laughing. Phillip started to laugh. Ray, studying Bucky’s face,  allowed himself to join in the laughter. Then Bucky looked over at his girlfriend (not laughing), maybe thought for a moment about how he didn’t see “The Endless Summer” at ‘State’ with her, with Bruce Brown personally narrating; and he laughed.

And then the wax exploded.

Bruce Brown, revealing the stoke and the magic and the awe to a larger world, stepping behind another curtain. Rest In Peace. And thank you.

The Line Between Respect and Pity

Posted on by under aggressive surfers, learning to surf, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing for life, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing stories, surfing Swamis, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, Uncategorized

I’ve been trying to get an image of how thick that line is for a couple of days; or even if this is the line I’m really concerned with. Maybe, probably, I’m a bit too sensitive to my own position, as I, um, mature… okay, we’ll just say ‘age,’ in the overall surfer lineup. Maybe? Definitely.  Actually, I always have been.

When I first started board surfing, I’d sneak into the pack at Tamarack as if I belonged there, a big, kook smile on my 13, almost 14 year old face. Soon I was paddling, head down and blind, into a wave at Swamis that, undoubtedly, had someone on it, with me as an impediment to a great ride. I did stay in the lagoon section at pre-jetty extension at Doheny, an eye on the surfers out on the reef. I was learning, frequently thrashed by waves, but always happy to be out there.

It wasn’t too long a time before I tried, hard, to be one of the better surfers out on any given day. Competitive.

This hasn’t changed in fifty-two years. Hasn’t changed yet. Yet, though I’ve always pushed them, I’ve always known my limitations. At least I knew there are limitations. When I was a kook, I knew it. If I didn’t, other surfers told me. I was told to go (by one guy in particular, but also by consensus) to the Carlsbad Slough to practice knee paddling when I pearled on an outside wave, causing four or five surfers to scramble. I didn’t go, but moved away from the main peak. I was sent to the south peak at Grandview when I lost my board in a failed kickout, putting a ding in John Amsterdam’s brand new Dewey Weber Performer. I did go, looking longingly back at the rights.

It’s not me, though I did once have a VW bus (and hair)

Another lost board incident, with a near miss with some stinkbug-stanced kook Marine swimming after his borrowed-or-rented board found him standing on my board in the shallows. “You like this board,” he asked, threatening to break it into “a million pieces if I ever tried to hit him with it again.” He had two friends to back him up; I had my second brother down, Philip. “Okay.” Still, I paddled back out, ten feet away from him and his friends, brave look on my face.

I persisted. With the nearest waves twenty miles from Fallbrook, I always went out. South wind, north wind, white-caps, big or small. There were setbacks, times I just couldn’t connect, couldn’t get into the rhythm; days where trying to get out for another closeout seemed like more work than it was worth; but I was improving.

Hey, this will have to be part one; I just have to go, and I don’t have the whole arc figured out. I’ll be sixty-six in August; I’m still as stoked (and as immature, emotionally) as ever; still want to be, during any given surf session, competitive.  I do admit to having more handicaps than I’d like.  I’ve adjusted. Bigger board, mostly.

I had two sessions this week; the first, at a mutant slab with a massive current. I was humbled.  While I was thrashed and sucked, others were thrashed and got some great rides. I would love to say I wasn’t embarrassed as much as disappointed in myself. That’s what I’d love to say; the truth is, again, I’m still working that out.   Possibly to make up for this, I went to a more user-friendly spot the next day. I didn’t suck.

just coming up. Photo by Jeffrey Vaughan.

Not really surprisingly, a couple of older surfers I’ve surfed with before showed up. When the waves went from almost flat to pretty darn good, one of them, as cool a surfer as one would meet, admitted that, when he sees great waves, “I just get giddy!”

This giddiness, something so profound that we can forget the posturing and coolness, is at the very heart of surfing. It’s something common to all real surfers. Maybe it takes a better wave to bring it out in some, but that bustable smile is there.  We’re all, occasionally, humbled.  The ocean always gets the last word.  Not actually ready to be humble, yet, I’m persisting.

 

If the Session Report is, “It was really pretty…”

Posted on by under Erwin Dence surf illustrations, learning to surf, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, SUP surfing, surf adventures, surf culture, surf illustrations, surf satire, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing drawings, surfing in Washington State, surfing satire, surfing stories, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, Uncategorized

…it, most likely, means the waves weren’t happening. It was very pretty yesterday.

I’ve long decided to include the trip there and back into any session report; and, in the Pacific Northwest, with the snow level moving up and down with the same systems that bring swell to some spots and not to others; well, the view of the Olympics, even from the Safeway gas station in Port Angeles, is ultra pretty.

We all try to be scientific, using all the information available, plus past experience (ie; at this angle, this tide, this size, this spot was working); but we always have to factor in the skunk factor (on a similar tide and swell angle, the same spot was not working), and the “Random Theory,” that being that sometimes, even when the factors all seem slightly off, random acts of surf magic can happen.

EDIT- And sometimes everyone gets skunked.

Throw in wishing and hoping and praying, and that it’s a weekend between a constant barrage of wet frontal systems, and you get way too many desperate surfers combing the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

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My original plan was to either hit West Riverdale at dawn, before the tide got too high, with the Wrench as a backup. Or, I could go to The Outfall a bit later, when the tide got high enough.  I had things to do in Sequim, and, really, I planned on going to work on a painting project later. The problem, pre-dawn, was, the angle just wasn’t there. Oh, the swell, which had been stubbornly southwesterly, was supposed to go more northerly during the day, coinciding with a drop in swell size.

So, I made what I thought was the best decision. Nope. Lots of people at West Riverdale, all on the beach, cars piled high with boards; one guy, Tim Nolan, in the water, and the tide already too high. BUT PRETTY. Vehicles were coming, heading out farther; the coast always an option for those with enough time. Some surfers were, evidently, deciding to wait out the tide. I went out anyway. Tim paddled past me, pointed to the horizon, said something about where the swell was actually going, and got out of the water. I snagged a few shorewashers and surrendered to reality, wetsuit-driving away.

Over at the Wrench, the parking lot was packed with multi-board vehicles and warriors suiting up or suiting down. I squeezed into the back row, asked the guy in the rig next to mine if he could get out. “Hi, Erwin,” he said. It turns out it was Darrin, who provided me a ride on his board when mine was caught in the rip on a big day in December. I was also caught in the rip, my daughter on the beach, on the phone to her mother.

“Thanks, Darrin,” I said, shaking his hand a second time. I had been unable to really thank him properly when I got back out (after Keith Darrock rescued my board, and because one must go back out after a thrashing); and all this gratitude didn’t stop me from (accidentally, I swear) taking off in front of him on my first ride at the Wrench.

Thinking I was doing allright among those surfing, many of them beginners, kneeboarding weak little waves into the creek; one of several guys on standup paddleboards, evidently trying to be civil, asked me if I was new to riding an SUP. “First time, today,” I answered; not like he was so good. “Oh, you’re doing great, then,” he said, “you really seem to have the physics down.” “Thanks.” This was kind of depressing, and the waves were dying anyway.

Deciding I’d switch to only riding erect, I took off on a solid eighteen incher when another SUP hero took off in front of me. When he saw me, he bailed. “No problem,” he said, as if it was my fault, after my board went under his. “I didn’t know you were going to go straight,” I said. Next weak wave, I paddled, standing up, all the way to the parking lot. High tide. Two sessions. I was done.

More surfers, some quite excited, some not even checking the waves, going by the ‘if surfers are out, it must be good,’ were headed for the wild surf as I got dressed and headed toward Costco, then home.

I got a call from Keith while waiting for my order at the Jack in the Box. It’s perfectly acceptable to talk about great waves ‘after’ you get out of the water. I’d made the wrong decision. “You would have loved them.” Yeah. If I hadn’t had stuff that needed refrigeration, if I hadn’t just ordered a milkshake for Trish, if I didn’t know for a fact (or pretty sure near-fact) that the waves Keith and a few others (others in on this super fickle secret spot) had gorged on would be gone before I could get there…

I left my board on the car, just in case. I’ve checked the buoys since 5:30. Nope; might as well go work on the project I didn’t get to yesterday (I did do the drawing, above). Still, hoping and wishing, I’ll leave it on the car, just in case. Okay, it’s 7:13; I’ll post this and check the buoys.

Oh, and Tim Nolan did get in on the waves that had missed West (and East) Riverdale.

The First Book Of Nick

Posted on by under aggressive surfers, learning to surf, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, secret surf spots on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, SUP surfing, surf adventures, surf culture, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing in Washington State, surfing satire, surfing tales, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

It was one of those days when the waves didn’t match the buoy readings. The direction and size recorded have produced decent waves in the past, but not this morning. At least not yet. Stephen Davis had called my cell phone (not allowed to bring it into bedroom after this) at 3:30 or so in the morning, said he was already at Fat Smitty’s, didn’t think he could wait for me.

And he didn’t. By the time I got to the pullout, most of the front row view spots were taken, and Stephen’s van was backed up to the bluff, he nowhere in sight. Other surfers, none suited-up, were drinking coffee, making breakfast on little camp stoves, or merely staring through foggy windshields. It was a lovely morning on the Strait of Juan de Fuca; clear, calm, the sun peaking over the little headland to the east; just typically weak semi-high tide waves, and (only) one guy out, he on a SUP.

Tom, up from Olympia, called me over to where he was standing with Jeffry, the longshoreman, with a, “Hey, you think it’s gonna work?” I hoped so, and had to comment on the number of surfers ready to get amped-up and hitting-it should even one decent set show up. “Evidently we all read the same forecasts, huh?”

About this time the SUPer caught a wave only a SUPer could catch, rode it to where it fizzled in the hole just offshore. Lacking any sense of proper restraint, I hooted and yelled, “Go! Go! Owwwww!” A bit surprisingly, several other surfers down the way joined in. The hooting, not the surfing. Tom and Jeff didn’t walk away; also surprising. They would go elsewhere, maybe back toward Port Angeles, while other surf rigs, doing the pull-off and drive-by check-out, and going by the surf truism of “It can’t be good; there’s only one guy out,” kept going west, to the coast if necessary (I assume).

I was the second surfer in the water. The first guy out said he hadn’t been surfing all that long, and possibly didn’t know all the rules. “Fine.” After he attempted to take off in front of me or did take off several times, I told him that I actually catch almost all of the waves I go for. “Oh, okay.”

A bit later, during a lull, I asked him what he likes about surfing. He had obviously starting as an adult (somewhere in his forties, I’d guess). “Well,” he said, when I’m on a wave, I feel like God.”

“Um; okay.”

Perhaps I should mention now that, though I didn’t recall meeting or seeing him before, he seemed to know who I am, and said something about my writing. Something positive. All right; so, here’s someone I can’t, like, hate (not that I’m into hating). And, we were the only two guys out, so, no problems.

Several wave exchanges later, I had to paddle over and ask, “So; when you say you feel like… did you mean ‘A’ god, or, like, um, uh, “The” God?”

“Well, Erwin (he may not have used my first name, but let’s say he did); if I’d said ‘A’ god, it would have an entirely different meaning; now, wouldn’t it?”

It would. “Okay then.”

A while later, as the tide dropped a bit and the waves came up a bit, an attractive blonde woman paddled out on a longboard. “Did you come out because you saw how I was ripping it up?” I asked. She said, with an Australian accent, “It (that being my ripping) was a bit impressive, actually.” She proceeded to catch a few waves, surfing well.

Then another guy came out. I’ll save some intrigue here; the guy was her boyfriend, and, I think, co-worker, and, while she had surfed most of her life, he was in his later forties and had been surfing for about a year (kind of the ‘power couple’ re-configured). “Are you out because it looks like we’re having so much fun?” I asked.

“I didn’t drive three hours to not have fun,” the guy said. Oh, her name is Emilie (or Emily), and his is… later heard, but didn’t retain his name; but, a few waves later, he asked, while eyeing, and then paddling for a wave I was also going for, “How do you feel about drop-ins?” “Not fond of them,” I said, riding behind him until, going too slow, the wave broke on him and I had to pull through.

Several waves later, with the waves continuing to improve, but only slightly, other surfers joined the party. Stephen woke up and paddled out.  I went for a (probably more like ‘another’) set wave, but The Boyfriend was paddling, head down and oblivious to me, for the same wave. It was either bail or run over Hugh (I was calling him Hugh; not sure why. I only learned his girlfriend was named Emily because I asked her if I could call her Sally. “No, not fond of Sally”).

Naturally, I bailed. But, there was a wave really close behind it. I took off, but, down the line, god (I refuse to use the capitalized version out of respect for and fear of, you know, the real God) took off. I rode behind him all the way to the shorebreak, then paddling back out, mentioned how, when I was learning to surf, as a thirteen year old, if I’d done that, I’d have heard about it.

I should say, when I did take off in front of people, I did hear about it.

“No, no,” he argued, “you went for the first wave and didn’t catch it. You lost priority.”

Maybe you can sort this out in your own mind or with others. There is more to this story, with a connection to “The Paddle Incident,” all coming up, with photos, in “The Second Book of Nick.” Soon. Coming soon. The Second. Coming.

Clinton Burks on Point Grenville, Me on Jeff Parrish and Tom Decker, and a new Illustration

Posted on by under aggressive surfers, Erwin Dence illustrations, learning to surf, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, surf illustrations, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing in Washington State, surfing Point Grenville in the 60s, surfing tales, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, surfing Westport Washington, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

I received this comment in response to one of the most popular, over time, posts, “Tom Decker and Jeff Parrish.” Noticing the consistent number of hits the piece seems to get, I thought either Tom Decker, well known to pretty much anyone who surfs at Westport over the last twenty-five years, is a name people google, then find my article; or Jeff sends friends to check out what I wrote about him. I’ve had a sort of suspicion that, always just trying the real story, I may have written something that would or should offend Jeff. Since Jeff’s wife, Ruth, has started surfing, and, actually, before that, he seems to have other people he prefers to surf with (and, yes, I am somewhat hurt by this, but no longer whine about it when I see Jeff’s father-in-law, Jim Hodgson, at the post office.). Because I got this comment, I checked.

Yeah, maybe Jeff had a tough outing, called-out by Mr. Decker; but he’s not alone in that. I do drop the name (Tom Decker, though I always ask people from Seattle if they know Jeff. “Which Jeff?” They all know at least one) with folks from Westport, or those who say they surf there a lot, when I see them looking for waves on the Strait. Maybe Tom has mellowed; other names are mentioned as enforcers at the Groins and the Jetty.

So, here’s the contribution:

Clinton Burks (@soloncircus)

Erwin,

If it’s of any value to the surfing community, I’d like to recite some first-hand oral history about Pt. Grenville.

I surfed there from 1967 to -69, when I was in high school. We just showed up with surfboards and camped for the weekend, without any fuss from “authorities.”

Then, in 1969, we showed up as usual, and a truck pulled up and a well-spoken, close-shaved Indian came over to us in an very authoritarian manner, and spoke to us ominously, “Where are you boys from?”

“Bremerton,” we said.

Then he looked at the rock cliffs covered in grafitti, and most of it was the names of various high schools painted in great big letters in a wide variety of colors.

He paused and said, “If I looked up at these rocks and saw ‘West Bremerton,’ or ‘East Bremerton’ written here, I’d arrest you and put you in jail. But as it is, you can just leave.”

So we got kicked out, and never went back. Good thing us Bremerton guys specialize more in thievery and violence, and “school spirit” was for “soces.” Besides, our writing skills were sketchy, anyway.

In 1970 I heard that some friends tried to go there, and the Quinaults confiscated their boards and they had to pay fines. I left the state in 1970, and have not heard anything about it since, except for your piece on this web page.

BTW, concerning Washington surfing at the time, I had the feeling that Pt. Grenville was the only place, because the waves were dependable. I wasn’t part of any big surfing “scene,” because there were so few of us, so I don’t know if there were many guys scouting all the coastline in the state, looking for a good break. In those days, I’d never heard of surfing at Westport. (What’s more, I lived the 1970s in San Francisco, and never heard of Mavericks, though no one else seemed to know about it, either.) People in Bremerton were always going there for more fishing. When we got out of high school, it seemed like everyone went to Hawaii, got jobs, and stayed for awhile.

Aside: We didn’t use wet suits. When I was aged 6 to 9, I spent the summers living in a tent and a beach cabin at La Push, because my father was a commercial fisherman out of there & Neah Bay. My mom told me, “Just wait till you get numb, and you can play in the surf all day.” She was right. Last time I did it was 2010.

Clint Burks

So, I really don’t know anything about Mr. Burks except that he must be about my age, possibly another member of the class of 1969. And I have heard a few stories about Point Grenville in the mid 1960s, some which might explain why the beach was closed. Still, the image of some waves peeling off that point…

Here’s my latest illustration:

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