Category Archives: northwest surfing

Trisha’s Birthday, Like Kids in the Park, F**CK Cancer, Beaver Moon, Snow in the Mountains, Gillnetters in the Canal, Chapter One, “Swamis,” many-ith rewrite. Sunday, November 9th

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf sessions, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

I went to a party at TRISHA SCOTT’S house in Fallbrook, November 9, 1969. She was turning sixteen. I had been seventeen for a little less than three months. Part of the invitation, delivered in a phone call to my house from one of Trisha’s friends, included a request to talk my way more popular friends, Ray Hicks, Phillip Harper, and Dana Adler, into coming. “Her father is in Vietnam and her mother will be playing cards. Supposedly her brother is going to chaperone, but…”

No ‘but,’ I was going. As were my friends.

Trish was one of those new girls at Fallbrook, daughters of Marines, trying to fit in with students who had gone to public schools since kindergarten. BUT, she had contacts; she had lived in Oceanside as well as Philadelphia. While the local girls had spray-frozen beehive haircuts, she had a Vidal Sassoon sophisticated do, wore monogrammed sweaters (KPS); she was blonde, tall, thin, AND she had surfed (boards, while I was riding mats).

None of this was as important to me as my belief that she was absolutely unimpressed with me; this reinforced when she came up to me at a party in Janie Pollack’s (one of Trisha’s contacts, one time girlfriend of Phillip’s) barn. I mean, yes, I was rude, and possibly still drunk (peer pressure and some depression that I had lost in the first round of a contest at Moonlight Beach- Cheer Critchlow one of the biased judges), but, I mean… why didn’t she like me?

TRISH AND I count November 10 as the anniversary of our, you know, boyfriend/girlfriend thing. Powerful, all-consuming, and yet, one has to learn how to navigate a, or any relationship; and we were so so young. We have a photo in the living room of Trish and her father at our wedding. So young. Trish was nineteen years and eleven days old, I was twenty and almost three months old. Long time ago.

I’m trying to not get too sentimental, but we’ve been through a lot. You don’t need a list, but our house burning down is on there. Throughout, Trish has been… the only word is resilient. This doesn’t mean she doesn’t (temporarily) freak the fuck out when her husband does something like quit a government job with paid days off to pursue some dream of being self-employed, and, ultimately, a professional writer. And, of course, there’s the other woman in our relationship.

Surfing, if you haven’t guessed.

TODAY, three days after getting another round of post-surgery chemo (fifth, I think), Trish is at the low point in this horrific cycle. On her birthday. She is living at Dru’s, house, having gone over there to help our daughter with her own battles with cancer. I’m twenty miles away, not fixing up our house as I’m supposed to, making it comfortable for when Trish can come home.

Writing. This may be the real other woman. Trish and I have discussed it. “Rich and famous” was my line fifty plus years ago. Dream. And I’ve written and drawn and painted and… spent time on a screenplay and short stories and songs and murals… time I could have been insuring that I’d be successful, at least, at house painting. And maybe I have been. Work comes first. STILL… The dream persists. I can’t really express how grateful I am that the true love of my life has stuck with me, me trying to convince her, all these years later, that she should love me.

My love for Trish is a given; there before we first spoke in the barn. She is my ocean and my sky.

“Like Kids in the Park”

Forgive me, often-accused (frequently guilty) backpaddler, for being vague about some details in this story. I surfed at a spot that is close to private homes. Not a thing, necessarily; beach access in Washington state is not a right. So, let’s say there’s a sort of public area at this spot, and, because I was working at one of these private homes, I didn’t feel like a total intruder/interloper surfing there. It turned out there were other surfers I knew out or hanging on the beach.

I surfed; I went back to work. There is a certain distraction level associated with being close to possible waves, so, taking a break, I returned to the scene of me, MR. LOUD and obnoxious, dealing with the other surfers, in and out of the water. No, I didn’t purposefully backpaddle a ‘more’ local surfer to get my wave of the day. Yes, I did backpaddle others, but I only purposefully burned one guy. Payback.

Yes, there were still surfable waves. Not as crowded, but I had work, and I was tired, and my wetsuit was wet. AND…

There were two older women (not older than me) on the beach, one of them taking pictures. Of course I warned them about posting them on social media, and, looking at a very small but perfectly peeling wave, offshore wind making it even prettier, I said, “I hope you appreciate how rare this is.”

“Sure,” the one without a camera said. “We were gardening. We came over because we heard all this hooting. I sounded like kids in a park. We had to come over.”

“How long ago was this… hooting?”

“About noon.”

“Okay. I was part of that. Oh, and you’re exactly right; kids in the park.”

“Wake up, Donnie, shit’s going down.” Photo from Just Jared, quote from anonymous American. “Fuck cancer.” Quote from anyone who has had or knows anyone who has or has had or died from a disease that says, “I’m in charge. We do it my way.” NO. Fight cancer.

NO KING, NO CAMERA: I had opportunity, two cell phones with cameras, and I saw a sign where someone with a spray can had changed a No Parking sign into “NO …KING.” No, it wasn’t me vandalizing, but if I don’t approve of the act, I did appreciate the sentiment.

I DIDN’T take any photos when I, in my continuing efforts to present myself as a serious (mostly) poet, attended a poetry reading/ book launch for NICK HILL at the Port Townsend Public Library. I did get real poet, GARY LEMONS (look him up), also presenting his poetry, and someone I’ve known, off and on, for many years, to check out a sampling of my stuff. My real attempt was to get myself in on the reading opportunity. Didn’t work. I get it.

Nick’s book is, on the surface, about a sport rather like baseball, played throughout ancient Mexico and Central America, but his poetry seemmed to be a chance to comment on current political craziness. Gary’s poetry, mostly, is based on struggle and loss, and getting past or learning from tough circumstance. With some almost shocking humor thrown in.

Text from Gary: “…also I really liked your work a lot and I can see how you said that it is songwriting as much as it is poetry- I don’t know if you play guitar, but I could certainly see some of these pieces put to rhythm- sort of a folk/alt kind of thing like Fleet Foxes.” No guitar, Gary; harmonica. SO, inroads; if I could only fucking sing.

Top to bottom: Beaver moon from my front yard; my front yard; gillnetters on the Hood Canal from someone else’s back porch (waterfront people call the water side the front, but…); and a shot courtesy of Keith Darrock of the Olympics over the hedge and the fog- Yeah, Autumn, we’re in it. Waves on the Strait? No comment, no images. Another example of when not sharing is a practical alternative to total denial. Still, no waves is policy as well as almost always true.

“SWAMIS” A novel by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

            The surf, the murder and the mystery, all the other stories; “Swamis” was always going to be about Julie. And me. Julie and me. And… Magic.

                                    CHAPTER ONE- MONDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1969

            “Notes. I take a lot of… notes. Your stack is bigger. Is that my… permanent record?”

            “Ah. Humor. Yes, Joey, I guess it is. But you, and your… copious notes… Do you write them as a… an aide? Visual.” 

            “As my own record. Some time I might not remember. Correctly.”

            “You brought them into the office; so, can I assume that your mother drove you?”

            “We took my car. The Falcon. I drove. My mother… snoops.”

            “Detective’s wife. Sure. Would you read me something from one of your notebooks? Your choice. Maybe something about… surfing.”

            “Kind of boring, but… give me a second. Okay. ‘The allure of waves was too much, I’m told, for an almost three-year-old, running, naked, into them. I remember how the light shone through the shorebreak waves; the streaks of foam sucked into them. I remember the shock of cold water and the force with which the third wave knocked me down, the pressure that held me down, my struggle for air, my mother clutching me out and into the glare by one arm.’ It’s more a story. What I thought I remembered.”

            “You wrote this after the accident? Of course you did. What you think you remember?”

            “Yes, Doctor Peters; it’s me… creating a story from fragments, from what an aunt or my mother told me. Or from dreams. Seems real.”

            “We can’t know how much of life is created from… fragments. But, please, Joey; the basketball practice story; I didn’t get a chance to write it down. So, the guy…”

            “I’m not here because of that… offense.”

            “I am aware. Just humor me.”

            “Basketball. Freshman team. Locker room. They staggered practice. I was… slow… getting dressed. Bus schedules. He… FFA guy… Future Farmers. JV. Tall, skinny, naked, foot up on a bench; he said I had a pretty big… dick… for a Jap. I said, ‘Thank you, Rusty,’ just as the Varsity players came in. Most stood behind him. He said, ‘Oh, that’s right; your daddy; he’s all dick.’ Big laugh.”

“’Detective,’ I said. ‘Rusty, I am sorry about your brother at the water fountain.’ I kind of… whistled, stuck out my upper teeth. Bigger laugh. Varsity guys were going, ‘Whoa!’ Rusty was… embarrassed. His brother… That incident’s in the records. Fourth grade. Three broken teeth. Year after I… came back. That’s why the… Shouldn’t have done the whistle; thought I was… resisting, standing up for myself.”

            “Joey. You’re picturing it… the incident. You are.”

“No. I… Yes. I quite vividly picture, or imagine, perhaps… incidents. In both of those cases, I tried to do what my father taught me; tried and failed. ‘Walking away is not backing down,’ he said. Anyway. Basketball. I never had a shot. Good passer, great hip check.”

            “Rusty… He charged at you?”

            “He closed his eyes. I didn’t. Another thing I got from my father. ‘Eyes open, Jody!’ Some other freshman, Umberto, squealed. No one else did. Rusty and I denied anything happened. It didn’t make us… friends.”

            “All right. So, so, so… Let’s talk about the incident for which you are here. You had a foot on… a student’s throat. Yes? Yes. He was, as you confirm, already on the ground, faking having a seizure. He wasn’t a threat to you; wasn’t charging at you. Have you considered…?”

            “The bullied becomes the bully? It’s… easy, simple, logical… not new; and I have… considered it. Let’s just say it’s true. My story is… I’m trying to mend my ways. Look, Grant’s dad alleges… assault. I’m… I get it; I’m almost eighteen. Grant claims he and his buddies were just… fooling around; adolescent… fun; I can, conceivably… claim, and I have, the same.”

            “But it wasn’t… fun… for you?”

            “It… kind of… was. Time’s up. My mom’s… waiting.”

            “Joey I am, I can be… the bully here. So… sit the fuck back down!”

ALMOST SERIOUS POETRY

                  The Psychic and his Sidekick

The psychic and his sidekick, Sedrick,

Shared an Uber home from the wedding of a mutual friend.

Cindy was the bride, Archie was the groom,

The psychic said he knew the marriage was, “Quite doomed,”

Sedrick thought so, also, but he was willing to pretend,

Mostly, he said, at the Psychic’s funeral, “So as not to offend my friend.”

“Shocking,” Cindy said, as she placed flowers on the headstone,

“Indeed,” Sedrick said, adding, “Are you here alone?”

THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT realsurfers.net. REMEMBER you can reach me at erwin@realsurfers.net on the worldwide net. Original works by Erwin Dence are protected by copyright. All rights reserved.

LAST WORD- When I was working in my government job, dreaming of something freer, I had some level of respect for those who were complacent in their position, counting how many days until retirement, how much money they would have. TO THE DAY, TO THE PENNY. So, if you’re on the edge of the ledge, look out and forward, but, for God’s sake, lean back!

Atmospheric Maelstrom, Erwin Loses His Voice Again, Visitors, ‘Patriot Parking,’ Mistaken for Angels Poem, and, uh… Stuff

Posted on by under northwest surfing, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surfing, surfing blogs, writings of Erwin Dence

On the computer, the clouds were swirling, down and around the Olympics, up the Hood Canal and Puget Sound. I’m pretty much at the left of the flash blowout, catching the curl of the my-golly-durn atmospheric river maelstrom. I’m fine. Not sure how this affects the surf at Westport.

NOT A POLITICAL THING, BUT I think it’s a bit ironic that this bad-ass lifted, four-wheel drive, manly to the Mad Max degree truck is parked in the handicapped spot. The messages reflect, perhaps, a sort of hard right mindset. So manly. One of the stickers says something about people who disrespect the flag. All fine, for sure; the flag is a symbol of our country. If this outsized, yelled-out ‘patriotism’ display is meant to elicit a response, mine might be, “Yeah, but those who disrespect the Constitution… huh?”

ALSO, and maybe it’s the camera angle, but “TACO” appears to be highlighted on the tailgate. Doesn’t that refer to some meme, like “Tump Always Chickens Out?” Maybe. I hope the owner can climb into the cab of the rig without too much discomfort.

MY DAUGHTER, DRU, and I met up at the Hama Hama Oyster Bar with my late sister, Melissa’s (hurts to say this) widow, Jerome Lynch, their son, Fergus, and his girlfriend, Kelsi. Jerome, who lives in his native Ireland, spends some time working in these here United States. Down south, mostly, where the name Lynch draws instant attention from the locals.

Adam “Wipeout” James was not there, off with his boys, and, I believe, Soupy Dan’s kids, getting skunked catfish hunting somewhere between eight and ten hours east, over by the Snake River.

The luncheon went pretty well. Three trays of oysters mostly went to Fergus and Jerome. Dru had clams. Kelsi and I had the grilled cheese sandwiches. She had one oyster, on a dare.

Not that I really should mention this, but the most awkward moment came when Jerome, talking about how he was doing the ‘cold plunge,’ followed, as is proper, by a sauna (not like most of the lunatics do this in Port Townsend), hinted he had a girlfriend. “You mad bastard,” I may have said. It was okay. Maybe I was joking. Jerome, who Trish and I (and Dru) adore, deserves to not be what he called “the lonely guy,” and he did wait six years. SO, okay; I take the ‘mad bastard’ back.

Our niece, Emma, who lives in Ireland, and was, for a time, Dru’s room mate in Chicago, is getting married next may. Her fiance, Barry, surfs. I met him. I like him. Dru is definitely going. Trish and I, I told Jerome, would love to go to Ireland. We’d love to move to Ireland. “How long is the shortest day over there?” “Gets light about eight, dark by half-four.” “Oh. Good to know.” “Farther north.”

I threw in a photo Jerome or Fergus took from Mount Walker, near Quilcene, and one of several photos Fergus took at a very localized spot a few years ago. He was told this was forbidden, asked if he got a decent shot of the local. He did.

RICO MOORE’S LATEST- Rico, local PT coffee shop critic and poet/surfer, just had an article published in the “MARGIN.” He contacted surfers via group text. I tried to look at the piece about allegations of abuse and contaminated water and, of course, corruption at an ICE facility in Tacoma. I say I tried to look at it. My phone froze up. Hard freeze; take the battery out freeze. Wow. Rico’s out there. I looked at it on my tablet, but got bogged down. There is a lot of research, obviously, that went into the reporting, and, having dabbled in the discipline of journalism, I have to ask where the poet fits into this.

I know the answer; it’s trying to fit the humanity, or lack thereof, into the narrative, trying to make the reader feel. Rico succeeded. Check it out. Be careful.

https://themargin.us/features/licensed-to-contaminate

Erwin Will Not be Silenced… For Long

It’s happened before; my voice getting raspier, then croakier, then… worse. It’s some combination of postnasal drip and my body trying to maintain some temperature control as I’m alternating between sweating while working and chilling down when I stop. The result, the supposedly always-talking me not talking.

Swamis, 1967, the Sunday before what was then referred to as Easter Vacation. Phillip C. Harper may have had his driver’s license. I did not. We were riding with my sister, Suellen, and were surfing small (barely breaking) waves without a crowd. It was dark and dreary, and we’d surfed all day. My throat was getting noticeably sore. In my memory there may have been a fire on the beach. Probably not, just towels, maybe a coat. Phillip was going to Lake Tahoe with his family for the coming week. I was hoping to do some more suring. But…

Here’s the ‘but:’ Phillip, who started surfing pretty much the same time I did, had a new Surfboards Hawaii V bottom board, and when he went back out, he was surfing really well.

Well, I couldn’t have that. I had to go back out. Competitive and petty.

Two days later, Phil is at Lake Tahoe and I’m sick. I lost my voice; not partially, as I had a few times before, times I was not that unhappy that I had a sort of humorous froggy voice. No voice, and my throat hurt.

My mom took me to the doctor. “Worst case I’ve ever seen,” he said. I had open sores in my throat. I got some sort of prescription, told to gargle and not speak. I croaked out an, “How long?”  “Until you can,” he may have said.

“He didn’t say what it’s the worst case of,” my mother said as we were leaving. I would have said, “Erwin Syndrome” if I had been able.

When Phillip got back, he asked what he had missed.

“I have no idea,” I probably answered in my regular, deep and resonant monotone.

A DRAWING by my late sister MELISSA JOANNA MARIA MARLENA DENCE LYNCH. Some of the names were added by our mother, the Lynch is from Jerome.

ORIGINAL POEM that would fit into my collection, “Mistaken for Angels.”

                  That Knowing Angel Smile     

Angels, you tell me you’ve seen Angels, An Angel riding on the L train, one hand on the pole, An Angel, backseat in a car, idling, one lane over, outside the Dollar Store, Turning, just for a moment, and smiling, An Angel squeezing random avocados at the Uptown Street Fair, Handing one to you, An Angel, down in Nogales, Sweeping the gravel with a wide, rough broom, Leaning into the strokes, Dust, like smoke, twirling in the wind, And the Angel looked through the whirlwind, at you, With that knowing, Angel smile.

You know that Angel smile, you tell me, It’s a smile of recognition, and you can’t just look away.

No one should.

But I do, I look away, coughing into my hand, Hiding my smile until the elevator doors close.

THANKS FOR checking out my site. Remember you can email me at erwin@realsurfers.net AND don’t let anything keep you out of the water for longer than prescribed and/or necessary.

All original artwork and writings are protected by copyright. All rights reserved.

My Aunt Tifa on Protests, J.D. Vance don’t surf, and… Other Non-Surf and Yes-Surf Free Speech Stuff and Sort of Anti-Poet Poetry

Posted on by under northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, writings of Erwin Dence

Photo courtesy of non-government-funded NATIONAL PUBLIC RADIO. One of thousands of NO KINGS demonstrations, all off them peaceful, across the beloved and besieged U S of f’in’ A.

John Deere Vance watches the fun as I-5, on which 800,000 vehicles pass per day, is shut down. It’s not clear if the LIVE-FIRE exercise (my God, like missiles and shit, like the movies… whoa!) included live rounds going over the freeway, the main and only coast route, but Gavin (is his nickname ‘GovGav’?) may have pointed out the latest in Vance’s machismo/vacation tour shenanigans by shutting down the freeway for four hours. “Hey, man,” an unofficial White House spokesperson may have said, “Don’cha want our military prepared for full invasion slash assault? I mean, like, if it works on this stretch… who knows?”

I’m only writing about this because I once commuted from Encinitas to the Trestles end of the 17 mile stretch, 1975, and remember riding on the old 101, Pre-I-5, nicknamed “Slaughter Alley,” and distinctly remember seeinng surfers, parked on the side of the road, being rounded up by Marines and turned over to the California Highway Patrol. I knew there had to be some awesome waves on the other side o the bluffs. Waiting for the official report from JD. If I get an AdVance note, I’ll pass it on, though I won’t believe anything about him shredding and or ripping. Or wave size. Nope.

ODD THOUGHT- It’s impossible not to notice how all the sycophant/loser trump appointees have to hold a pose of non-commitment, or even belief when trump or one of his chosen flock speak. This stifling of emotion, forced non-rolling of the eyes must be just so, so difficult. It reminds me (though I try to resist) of the Presidential feature at Disneyland. Video animatronics. Pretty basic back when you had coupons and it was this or another swirl n the teacups, but, say, Lincoln was unmoved, stone-faced, like he hadn’t heard a whopper from Douglas, until… whoa! Lifelike. And I’m still waiting for someone, any of these toadies, to just fall down laughing. Not yet.

Keith Does Oregon for Real- Peninsula ripper Keith Darrock is from, among other places, Yachats, Oregon. He recently took a trip down there, did some surfing (undocumented or un-shared). His takeaway; surfing on the Strait is, possibly, less ‘real’ than the hiking, rock-jumping, and generally unfriendly waves on the, you know, coast. It’s not that I disagree. Incidentally, my dad lived across the river from the Astoria bridge. Chinook.

“Don’t Tell Me You’re a Poet” from “Love Songs for Cynics.”

Don’t tell me you’re a poet, I saw you at the laundry, Your costume in the dryer and your quarters keeping time, We made small talk conversation, I’d expected something grander, I mixed my whites and colors, you traded quarters for my dimes.

You know, I saw you at the reading, your performance so dramatic, And the lighting was just perfect, all words in the present tense, And you listed your credentials, said you’d weave a world of moments, That’s when I stashed my poem away for it just seemed to make no sense.

I know that you’re a poet, you wear sorrow like a garment, You have words on scraps of paper in the pockets of your clothes, Which are washed and dried and folded, sorted neatly on the table, Though the words I’ve heard so far are not quite poetry, but prose.

I can’t say I’m a poet, I’m a casual observer, Looking over someone’s shoulder at last Sunday’s New York Times, But the Laundry’s glass doors shudder, there’s a world pressing against them While you’re busy with the syntax, with the rhythm and the rhyme,

And all I know for certain is that I got four quarters for five nickels and six dimes.

Copyright Erwin A. Dence, Jr. All rights reserved. I wrote this folksy piece many years ago, immediately after attending a CENTRUM performance that was a culmination of a weeklong Poetry thing attended by our older son, James, his friends Brian Pitts and Adam Larm. Performance art. My response, appreciation and sarcasm, possibly made stronger when I criticized something to the main instructor and she responded with something I took as, “You think you could do better?” Probably not.

Bonus Photo-

ON NO KINGS DAY, I was driving out in the wilds of the Coyle Peninsula, and couldn’t help but notice this house. I followed the one sign’s advice, and drove slow enough to take this photo. I figured not honking was the closest I could get to peaceful protest. Gosh, such a resistor.

Hey, get some real waves where and when you can. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net and remember you can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net

Save the Waves in PT , How Reggie is to blame for ‘Erwin,’ Hangin’ with Poets

Posted on by under northwest surfing, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, Port townsend surfing, real surfers, real surfers coloring book, surf culture, surf culture events, surfing blogs, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

UPDATE/EDIT/CORRECTIONS- There was a it of discussion among surfers willing to include me in their group text chatter about how blurry my photos are. Okay, so I thought I was cleaning the lens on my phone; evidently it was the window thingie over the battery. SO, JOEL sent me this photo of Rico and Keith and some fat, Hobbit-like dude. Way too realistic. SO he sent this modified version. “burred,’ he wrote. Not sure if he meant blurred or burned. Not enough o either. Still… better. thanks.

ALSO, CHRIS EARDLEY, who seemed to know almost everyone in attendance on Friday night, says. the guy I identy as Matt is actually named Gus. Keith filled me in on the names of other important folks who were at the event. This was over the phone, so, naturally, I’ve forgotten the names. No disrespect intended.

OKAY, SO… SAVE THE WAVES

So many events in life are the result of circumstance. Timing and opportunity. We know there are no waves in Port Townsend, but, because the beautiful Northwest Maritime Center at the end of Water Street was available, and because LUKE (apologies for not having his last name- can’t we just go by first names or nicknames?), who MC’ed the event, is a member of the Save the Waves group, the Surfrider Foundation, AND, evidently has a connection to the Maritime Center (YEA!) a part of the worldwide festival was held in a surf town with a notoriously rabid and frequently frustrated group of surfers, and, again, no surf.

The short documentary, “Erwin,” is part of the worldwide festival, and, as my daughter, Dru, informed me, later, it was the only one filmed in the US. More on this coming. I had to be there. I wanted the event to be a success, and it was. Without a lot of publicity, enough people showed up that more chairs had to be brought out. It proved to be an opportunity for surfers to chat somewhere other than the lineup or the beach. And everyone was well behaved.

LUKE and another important guy (more apologies) announcing ahead of the short documentaries.

Legendary Olympic Peninsula path(wave)finder Darryl Wood (please forgive me if his name is misspelled), chatting with the important guy from the first photo. Darryl was the first surfer I met when I moved to the northwest in late 1978. The Hood Canal Bridge sank on Tuesday, February 13th. The state set up a passenger only ferry service, and Darryl and I were part of the first day’s riders on Monday, February 19. He was working for a contractor at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, I was a painter. He did mention something about Jesus to someone, not me, and must have said something about surfing, because, the next Saturday, February 24, decked out in a diver’s suit, crotch strap and all, with no hood, no booties, my sister’s surfboard (I’d sold all of mine), California wax, I was in the lineup at a spot you can no longer (legally) access directly. It was 38 degrees on the beach and my board kept flying out from between my legs. I caught a couple of waves, but he drop was so quick, I ended up kneeboarding. Yeah, sign of things to come.

At some point Trisha’s supposed-to-be family station wagon became our Kitsap County side car pool vehicle (nicknamed the scum car pool by Darryl, no reference to the riders). Darryl and I, and the other 6 or 7 riders all have stories from the commute. Enough so that, having been on the receiving end (“Thank you, Officer.”) of three speeding tickets in one year on the Clear Creek Road (this was before the freeway sections), trying to make the five-something ferry, I was deemed ineligible to drive when Jefferson County set up a van pool. Relief for everyone.

“Pass ’em, Erwin!” Both stories hinge on this. FIRST- At my co-pilot’s urging, I passed a slowpoke on the onramp on his right. The next day (I was off), the scumcar pool was pulled over. “Mr. Dence?” “Not here, Officer; but he’s a very careful driver.” SECOND- A woman was pouring her heart out about life and problems, and Jesus; and Darryl was, of course, listening intently. I was listening accidentally. She was at the point where she said something like, “All I could think of to do was sing, ‘Jesus loves you, yes he does…'” Yes, the distraught woman was singing. We were close to the ferry turnoff on a shortcut, time was short, and there was someone unconcerned about getting home in front of us. I passed them, dropped off my passengers so they could make the boat, and missed it because I had to park the car. “Yes, he does,” I may or may not have sung.

I only see Darryl occasionally, but, I consider him a friend. I asked him fairly recently why he never tried to talk about Jesus with me. “I didn’t think I had to.”

ARNOLD, Darryl’s longtime surf partner, explaining that no one has ever seen a wave this high in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. OR, because these photos are not in sequence, he may have said, “Yes, my wife did win the LIB-TECH surfboard. If you really need one…” I reminded Arnold of the time, not all that long ago, when he was out and I was the third-oldest surfer in the water. He said something like, “Wow.”

Someone I don’t know, RICO (looking surprised I was taking his picture), and the back of CHRIS EARDLEY. The guy in the background in the black hat came up to me later. “Remember me?” “No. Sorry.” “It’s Tim… you called me ‘Tim from Sequim.'” “Oh. well. Look over there, it’s Chimacum Timacum.” The woman with him introduced herself. Forgot her name. Sorry. If she had a nickname…

My daughter, Dru, someone poking himself in the eye, some out of focus guy looking a bit ominous.

The moon over Admiralty Inlet as the short documentaries were playing.

CHIMACUM TIM not looking at all like a guy with a Philadelphia/Jersey Shore confrontation-ready attitude, and ANDREA. I did send Tim the photo and did ask if it was okay to post it. I am so non-confrontational. He said it was kind of out of focus. Yeah, well, most times part of my finger would be over your face, Tim.

Rico, KEITH, and JOEL on the backwall discussing, obviously, how flat is flat, while, in the chairs, Jasmine, a. guy (just to seem cynical, may have once seen. Pete Seeger live- okay, I take it back), two people who seem, possibly, hypnotized, and KATE, not hypnotized. Kate, her husband, SEAN, and their son, sorry on the name, all surf. Family dynamic. I once witnessed them switching boards because Sean had left her with one with a broken fin. On several occasions Kate, paddling out, asked how much longer I was going to be out. Oh. “Not much longer.”

Chris and MATT at the tabe with the raffle prizes. Matt was a judge at the old Cleanwater Classic contest in Westport the year I talked TOM BURNS (not at this event) into allowing me to judge. I may be wrong about that. I helped out three times. Once I helped out with the Surfrider Foundation, selling copies of my REALSURFERS COLORING BOOK (outt of print- sorry), once I was supposed to help out with the flags on the beach (but I decided to be a spotter for the judges, denying others their turns), and, the time I did judge, everyone, evidently, had too much fun for the. head judge’s taste, I refused to call what I thought was a four point ride a six.five- whatever. I did try harder on Sunday. Too late. Sorry, Tom, didn’t mean to get you fired… also). Matt said he had a great time. As did I. WESTPORT. Everyone should go there. Oh, they do.

In the background, over Chris’s shoulder, there’s a woman talking to the guy in the yellow beanie (I had no interaction with him), and over Matt’s shoulder is her husband/lover… man. The came up to me later. He mostly lives in Costa Rica or somewhere with warm water, but he reads my blog. “Oh, so you’re the one,” I said. Not clever. So… like, send me a note, erwin@realsurfers.net and I’ll edit you in.

Newlyweds MEGAN and Chris eyeing the TODD FISCHER prints on offer at the prize table.

Winner! Yeah, I know; why do I have so many photos of Chris? His house needs painting might be one reason. Damn; should have taken a shot of Dru winning possibly the best prize of the evening, a bunch of stuff from Yeti. In the WSL, you have to get a ten point ride to score that. Good work, Dru!

POETRY STUFF-

BECAUSE I have been working toward, maybe, hopefully, selling some of the songs and poems I’ve collected over the years, AND because I’v been concentrating (using all my angst) on writing serious, pretentious, condescending poems of late, I felt compelled to attend a lecture at the Jefferson County Library featuring the Washington State Poet Laureate, Derek Sheffield, and a former wooden boat builder, now poet/mental health counselor, Matthew Nienow.

So, there’s hope. I mean, don’t ask me for mental health advice, but… I will throw down… poetry-wise.

What got me was how willing poets are to quote other poets. Quote Whitman and several audience members almost get giddy. To use a surf simile, it was kind of like when I saw MIKE DOYLE surfing at Stone Steps, 1970 or so, tucking his big frame into tiny barrels. It wasn’t Sunset, but all I could think was, “He’s not all that good.” Again, not Sunset. This was Hadlock/Irondale and I was, as I always am, amazed at how people can be in front of an audience and be… smooth.

To his credit, in my estimation, Laureate Derek seemed to be trying to bring a bit of lightness into the presentation. When no one clapped at his guest’s rendition of someone else’s poem, he did the beatnik thing of snapping the fingers of both raised hands. I so wanted, longed to join in. Maynard G. Crebs.

What I did do is wrote down a question, the dignified way to do a question-and-answer, required in this instance. I was a bit stoked when my question was chosen. Edited a bit, it was: “Are poets preachers, or reporters, or… (last second addition) cheerleaders.” I wasn’t giddy, but I did want to snap my fingers, at least once.

To quote my song, “Don’t Tell Me You’re a Poet,” … I’m a casual observer, looking over someone’s shoulder at last Sunday’s ‘New York Times…”

REGGIE SMART AND ‘ERWIN’- Reggie and I have worked together quite a bit over the past seven or eight years. At some point, Reggie started secretly filming me, then editing the phone videos down to some brief moments where I did or said something ridiculous. he then posted the clips on social media. SKIP AHEAD. He was helping me on a project on a watefront home on Dabob Bay that belongs to Annie Fergerson. NOW, I had been working on the project before Reggie came on scene, so she was sort of aware that I surf, and that I’m (often described as) a ‘character.’ All this was reinforced by Reggie’s ‘Erwhistle’ clips.

I would love to, but cannot discount Reggie’s role in my being in the documentary. I did resist it for a couple of years. Annie, a videographer for the Bill and Melinda Gates (now just Melinda, I guess) Foundation, was busy, I didn’t want to blow up any not-reallyy-secret spots, but, again, being honest, I did want to see some slow motion videos of me ripping across a long wall.

“Erwin” turned out to be a bit too true. And now it’s reaching a relatively small but worldwide audience, and it evidently ‘resonates’ (poet-ish word) with people; a ridiculous old fat guy insisting on pursuing his dreams.

So, thanks, Reggie, thanks, Annie, and thank you to the tens of folks who check out realsurfers.net on occasion.

I might edit in a reasonable poem by me if I find one decent enough. See you! get waves!

REGGIE SMART doing a side of the road deal with my. new(er) board.

“Save the Waves” in Port Townsend, Surf Angst and Drama and Severe Accidents, Rico on “Erwin,” More- Big Ass Magazine for September 28

Posted on by under northwest surfing, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, Port townsend surfing, real surfers, surf adventures, surf culture events, surf sessions, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

It is actually pretty exciting tha the “Save the Waves” festival, which has been all around the world, is coming to Port Townsend, a place that has way more surfers than waves; in fact, no waves… ever… no how, no way. BUT, yeah; it’ll be here on Friday, October 3rd at the Northwest Maritime Center, end of Water Street. Doors open at 6pm. The event is sponsored by the Olympic Peninsula Chapter of SURFRIDER. Tickets are $10 in advance, $15 at the door. Look all this up on line.

It may or may not influence you, but the (too) short documentary, “Erwin,” by Annie Fergerson is part of the world tour. I may or may not be getting the chance to further embarrass myself and any and all real surfers by saying something about the film, just recently part of the Port Townsend Film Festival. We’ll see.

Allowed to participate in the post-screening discussion with the producers of the other, very serious films (cinemafotographer Nicolai Crane is to my right, producer Annie Fergerson to my left on the actual stage), I couldn’t resist. I know it looks like I’m hogging the purple spotlight, but, and I did think this was pretty cool of me, I thanked Annie for forcing me to be the superstar subject of a film that revealed my true ridiculousness, handed her the mic, and went back to my seat, head down (fake humbleness).

I had watched the films at the Friday night screening with my daughter, Dru, her friends and neighbors, Pete and Molly Orbea, and (kinda freeloader Reggie Smart). At the Sunday showing, Keith Darrock sat through the other films, took this photo, and showed me that we could (and did) snuck out the back door.

My five minutes of fame were over. But… are they? See you on Friday!

Scott Sullivan, owner of Strait Pizza in Port Angeles, was injured recently body surfing in Brazil. All surfers, and in particular, body surfers, are susceptible to this type of injury. Rides rarely end with a kickout. Scott was fortunate that there is no paralysis, and is recovering. There’s a GoFundMe set up. Google it.

I would feel a bit hypocritical if I didn’t mention that I had a run-in with Mr. Sullivan during a session in which the waves got more and more crowded, and, according to witness, Mikel “Squintz” Cumiskey, Scott and I were getting most of the waves (code for wave hogging). I ‘inadvertently’ dropped in on a wave he turned and took off on at the last moment, pulled out immediately when I saw him, caught the next one, and, while paddling back, noticed (because of big arm gestures) that he was berating Squintz for my sin. “He’s not even from around here,” was one of the points made. This despite Scott having moved here from somewhere on the East Coast, Mike hailing from Florida, and my having lived on Surf Route 101 since 1979. Not a local local to a local local. Still, when I paddled past Mr. Sullivan and offered an explanation if not an apology, he said, “That’s what I surf to get away from.” “Yeah. We all do” I said as I paddled past him.

I wouldn’t be honest if I didn’t admit Mr. Sullivan seems, at a distance, to have a pretty cool lifestyle going on. Inviable. Nice mustache. Still, best of luck in your recovery, Scott. When I see you in the water next time…

DRAMA, SURF ANGST, DEADHEADS, ETC. Every surf session becomes another story. I love that. But, yes, I missed a recent window, and it wasn’t work this time. Keith didn’t miss it, and was willing to share some stories. A guy came up to him with a bleeding and crooked nose. “Is it straight?” “No.” The surfer grabbed it and cranked it over. “Yeah, better.” Still bleeding. Some guy burned Sean’s son on a wave and said it was okay because Sean is a standup paddleboarder. Sean, a great surfer and a local in that area, and not on a SUP (and neither was his son) continued the discussion on the beach. Keith ran into a floating log (deadhead?), dinged his board, and, more importantly, ruined his ride. The ANGST part, that’s surfers’ frustration at missing sessions, or watching surfers or attempting to ride hitting super weak waves. The only cure is getting a few waves. This could be called SURF LUST. All passion, all lust, all hunger, I heard in Psychology 101, seeks to eliminate itself. Again; the cure is… known.

Reggie and I on the progress on our portions of the project to decorate the fence around Port Townsend’s Memorial Field beore they tear it down. Not totally stoked on our possibly-finished panels, both Reggie and I really want to do another. Competitive, huh?

I can’t remember if this is the photo of RICO, writer/poet/surfer/coffee shop connoisseur, that he didn’t want posted on my silly blog, but I told him I’m a journalist, darn it, and I have something we once called freedom of speech, oh, and, if one doesn’t have some corporate overlord, freedom of the press… and…

SO, because of the movie thing, and some notion that I was kind of like famous (ish), there has been some text stuff about, yes, my wave-snagging technique. “Circle, distract, swoop” was one comment. “Seagull strategy” was another. Then Rico got involved:

“Like an eagle swooping low and swift across the water toward unsuspecting otters on a rock just gnashing with their teeth a fresh-caught sculpin, Erwin cruised around the lineup of longboard lolly gaggers on his board, feathering the water with his paddle so as not to distract them from his siren song, even as he saw, barely perceptible on the horizon, and just now pulsing the furthest kelp bed, A WAVE.

“Erwin contemplated what number it would be. 7? 10? He questioned himself. No matter, he thought, his icy blue eyes turned toward the lineup, all of whom were somewhat bemused at his placid paddling around them, his exegesis of the Ocean Book they now found themselves rising and falling on, pulled into his song, even as THE WAVE grew from the depths, circling energetically toward them, against the bathymetry of the reef and sand into its final becoming, its meeting with the epoxied edges of Erwin’s board, its destiny fulfilled, its energy fulfilling the prophecy Erwin spoke to a lolly gagging longboard lineup.”

I did get Rico’s permission to post this. My response was: “Deep thought. In reality, everyone’s just gagging on their own awesomeness, including me, caught up in the wonderfulness of just being out there, that’s ‘there’ in parentheses, and perhaps, catching a wave is of less importance for them and has less value to them than it does for me.” 2nd text- “Sociopathic kook philosophy.” 3rd text- “Even with what seems like unlimited opportunities, it doesn’t take much to realize that opportunities must be taken advantage of, or, at the very least, totally appreciated. I think we all factor in some flexibility in our lives that allows us to be there when the waves may or may not happen. Old guy fucking philosophy.” 4th text- “And I have to go to work. Fucking reality.”

I got ‘loved’ for the texts from Rico. And yes, I am competitive in things I strive to be better at. Not an apology. And yes, I do realize that my chickenshit little blog concentrates on a very small section of the surf world. Thanks for checking it out.

Possible Bonus- I have been working on my poetry stuff. I keep planning on putting samples on my site on, say, Wednesday; and then I don’t. This is a piece I have gone back to several times.

                                    Magic in the Movements

I saw her from the lobby, two bags of groceries pressed against my chest, Above me, on the landing, third floor, My floor.

The sun from the distant windows lit her hair on fire.

Six stairs below her, I leaned against the inside rail And watched her shadow dance.

She was moving to music, music I could not hear.

Her movements made the music real.

Slink and slide and step and stop, Step and stop, slink and slide, one arm always at her side, The other, gliding, raised then lowered, Free, spelling or signing or reflecting, Words or images or memories or dreams,  Real to her.

Sunset music, light, a tinkling under the woodwinds, A violin and bass adding fleeting, then deeper, hints of nightfall.

I should not have been a witness, Seeing her dancing, silent, hair on fire,  In some soft and secret, And private conversation with some distant, absent, loved one.

Loved one, someone else dancing with her on the landing, Sharing the space between her and her shadow.

The background, The air and the light and the wallpaper and the paint were as alive as she was, Slinking and sliding and stepping and slowing, Listening, perhaps, briefly, as if there could be a response.

None but the traffic outside. The dance resumed, Her other arm became the free one, Sending the secret, private message in our most ancient language.

I should not have been there.

I couldn’t face facing her, Couldn’t imagine her trying to explain, Not to some neighbor, some stranger three doors down.

Perhaps she wouldn’t be embarrassed.

I would be.

Setting my bags on the third step from the landing, I sat down two stairs below that, Alone in the dark, with vague shadows of someone, dancing, Projected on the stairwell wall.

I envied her for dancing, dancing alone on the landing, Music swirling in her head.

Long after her door closed and her lock clicked, Long after the light from outside moved up the wall and softened, And faded, darkened, And the inside lights came on, Long after her music was gone, Replaced by the whirr and the squeal of the outside streets, I picked up my bags and listened, for a moment, to the city’s symphony.  

My steps became drums, a plodding, heavy step, step, step, Heavy, tired, And I imagined a saxophone solo, Sad squeaks and missed notes.

Looking out the window at the remnants of a screaming orange sunset, My shadow split and diffused on the worn oak floor, I couldn’t stop myself from sliding, one foot, And then the other, Bouncing my grocery bags in some rhythm that made some sense to me.

Thanks, again. I have to check the buoys. All original stuff by me is copyright protected All rights are reserved.

“Erwin” the Film, Text Threads, Gumbo Brain

Posted on by under northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing blogs, surfing for life, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

This is JAY, a member of the group, tens of people, who follow my… cough… blog. Thanks, Jay. He introduced himself while I was contemplating whether or not I had damaged JEFF VAUGHN’S girlfriend by changing into my wetsuit (sans towel or available dry robe), knowing Jeff was on the beach, between Jeff’s van and a fence, not realizing she was inside. OOPS! Erwin’s ass exposed again. I mean, I got over it, but… sorry.

Jay is originally from Torrence, and because I was trying to coffee up after a session, I sicced him on Jeff, currently and again out of the water with shoulder issues. “Jeff’s from the South Bay.” Jeff, in turn, after discovering Jay grew up in the harbor where Jeff’s father was a harbormaster (I hope I got that right, I was only kind of listening), told dawn patroller TIM NOLAN he should talk to Jay. While Jeff is years younger, Jay is between me and Tim, age-wise, and Tim grew up in Palos Verdes. So… connections.

The short documentary wraps up it second showing this morning. KEITH DARROCK and I may be going. I went to the first showing on Friday night with my daughter, DRU. Her treat. PETE and MOLLY ORBEA, Molly being a lifetime friend of Dru’s, and Pete being a fancy attendee with a season pass lanyard because whatever Port Gamble corporation he works for is a big sponsor, also came. Ripper/artist REGGIE SMART got in for free (of course) courtesy of Pete, and ‘bounced’ after laughing almost uncontrollably during the almost five minutes ‘Erwin’ was on the screen.

Pete and Molly left after the next feature. Dru and I stayed until the end, including the discussion part. Since ANNIE FERGERSON, the producer of the film, wasn’t there, Dru thought I should go up on stage and represent. I didn’t. I should have. I could have said, “Yes, I realize I don’t live up to the sort of self image I would prefer to have; and, yes, the film is… pretty accurate.” I would love to take myself as seriously as the other participants seem to do.

Since I do most of my house painting in Port Townsend, and because I’m kind of competitive, I decided to participate (Reggie is also planning to add something) in the decorating of the fence around Memorial Field. This is the sketch portion of the deal. I had primer and black and white paint with me. More to come, including a couple of encounters with other artists, one of whom, when I offered friendly criticism, gave me an equally friendly, “Fuck YOU!” No, really; friendly and deserved.

Me, being serious. Photo by Jeffry Vaughn. Love the outide indicator going off while I’m navigating a trecherous inside ledge.

Jeff on the beach, Tim in the water.

Old fat guy trimming.

HEY, I have more stuff. If Keith doesn’t decide to go surfing instead, we’ll be checking out the movie. Thanks for checking out realsurfers. Send me shit at erwin@realsurfers.net

NOTE- The surf spot shown is somewhere near Westport.


Original Erwin, but Not Quite…

Posted on by under how to draw a nearly nakd woman near the beach, in profile, with a towel, northwest surfing, old surfers, Original Erwin, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, surf art, surf culture, surf illustrations, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing illustrations, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

…t-shirt ready. A bit too confusing, not graphic enough to be instantly recognizable, particularly in the black and white version. I should, perhaps, do an Original Erwin coloring book. A thought.

Tragic Lost at Sea Story, Photos from an Almost or Actually Epic Day, More in the Realsurfers Magazine, August 17, 2025

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, getting barrelled, northwest surfing, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf art, surf novels, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, Uncategorized, women surfers in the Northwest,, writings of Erwin Dence

JOEL KAWAHARA’S boat, the “Karolee,” being towed into Humboldt Bay on August 14. Mr. Kawahara set out from Neah Bay the week before. After there was no contact, a helicopter flew over the boat. All the rescue gear was on board. The boat was on auto pilot for some unknown period of time, heading south at four knots. Joel is missing and presumed drowned. Quoting the Coast Guard report, “…a search was started in the waters off the Pacific Northwest. Multiple U.S. Coast Guard crews, including fixed-wing, hjelicopter, cutters, and small boat, searched for the man over nearly 24 hours… scouring an area of 2,100 miles, including 430 miles of trackline.” The report stated how difficult it is to call off a search.

I mention this here because Mr. Kawahara lived in Quilcene. I ran into him several times. We have mutual friends including the people who live on Lindsey Beach. I initially found out about the incident when working for one of his neighbors. Mr. Kawahara had a connection with Fish and Wildlife. Chris Eardley is my connection there. “I know of him. He was very active on the fisheries management council. Very sad turn of events. He was well liked here in PT.”

Very tragic indeed.

A Day at the Beach

                                   

TOP TO BOTTOM: Scroll as necessary.

Three participants in a WARM CURRENTS event at La Push. Natalie, in the middle, is from Port Townsend, and may have been a bit miffed I didn’t recognize her. “You looked taller before,” I said, “You probably shouldn’t stand next to such a tall person.” I don’t know who he tall guy is, but the woman on the right, Majia, is from the surf destination of Minnesota. “Great.”

This rig hit a dear on the way out on 112. Yet another reason to never go on 112. For California surf hunters, never go on THE 112.

The last time I saw this older gentleman he was on a kayak. “Nice mustache,” I said. “Walrus,” he called me. “No, that’s a different guy.”

Bill Truckenmiller, a pathfinder of Olympic Peninsula surfing, deciding if this was the place to surf on this particular summer day. I had seen him fairly recently, different spot, didn’t get a photo.

Kim Hoppe, formerly of Port Townsend, just visiting from some town in California near Rincon. An interior designer, Kim said she’s making a living mostly doing art. “Art. Really?” I told her, when I arrived, that she was in my spot. Perhaps as payback for my not recognizing her, she told Tom Burns, who was supposed to be saving my preferred spot, that she once had to rescue me when some tourist thought I was drowning. “See,” I told Tom, “My stories are true. Cops showed up.” When I asked Kim if there were any of the PT crew she wanted me to pass on a ‘hello’ to she said Shortboard Aaron and Keith. In that order. And, no, she didn’t ‘save’ save me, she just carried my board to my van. Embarrassing enough. But… true. Making a living selling art. Whoa!

Somewhere during the day, Gianna Andrews was parked next to me. She had a painting on the inside of her van’s back door. “Oh, you do art?” I asked. She gave me this sticker. Gianna is a serious artist with a very professional website. Check it out. Again, making a living producing and selling art. Wow!

Tom Burns asked me to send this photo to him, then asked me not to post it. I assume he was kidding. I mean, Tom, it’s got that superhero kind of perspective. No one will notice the glare.

Me after all the SPF70 sunscreen went into my eyeballs. And, no, the color is not enhanced; my nose really is that purple.

Me and Nam Siu. If you’re wondering how he’s doing since nearly dying of this and that and sepsis and organ shutdown; he’s fine, working his way back up to being ready to continue our non-grudge match. I think we’re at one each, best two out of three. Or four out of seven. Depends.

Photos I wish I had gotten: Two dudes with big ass beards. “Amish surf bros” would have been the caption; Dude who thought it was cool to go out in trunks because, man, like it’s hot on the beach; old guy (not that I’m not) in really fancy surf fishing gear, lasted about ten minutes; large combined family also planning on fishing, kid with a toy pole, no line or hooks, asked me if I am a lifeguard (possibly because of the sunglasses, yellow shirt, purple nose). “Yes, yes kid I am. Just… stay out of the water.”

WSL CONTEST SCENE-

Of course I watched some heats; last contest before the big final final at Cloudbreak. Did I have favorites? Yes. Missed the women’s final live, but when I saw the score, I didn’t bother to watch the replay. I did see the men’s final. Robbo vs. Griff; not quite Kelly vs. John-John or Medina.

ESSAY/DIATRIBE gone soft

One Surfer’s ‘Epic’

Some surf lineups are objectively great enough to make my list of places I would love to surf. Dream scenarios. Epic: Lined up Jeffrey’s or Honolua Bay, or Rincon, or Malibu, or any number of “Surfer’s Journal” worthy, world class breaks.  I should add that the dream situation would not include crowds. Some dreams remain dreams.

The dream list endures.

I have been fortunate enough to have been present and in the water for some historically epic swells: December of 1969- Swamis, July of 1975- Upper Trestles. There were others, swells that didn’t make it into the “Encyclopedia of Surfing,” sessions I put on my most memorable/most epic ‘up until now’ list.

While I think about this, please feel free to work up your own favorite up-to-now list of most epic individual waves and/or sessions; this distinction necessary because your best ever ride might have come in sub-epic conditions.

One ride can make a session you’ll remember: A surprising, step-off-on-the-sand, longest beach break wave ever: An accidental and frightening barrel at Sunset Cliffs; a ride on which I got wiped out on the inside section at Windansea, someone putting my board up on one of the rocks; a hundred-yard, totally in position ride at a not-quite secret Northwest spot; enough other favorite rides or sessions or days that I can’t help but feel lucky. Or blessed. Grateful, for sure.  

Perhaps you have an actual list: Day, time, tide conditions, swell height, angle, and period; number of waves you caught, etc.

Cool.

I was ready to write something snarky about crowds at any spot deemed worthy, about quality waves being wasted on kooks, but… I guess, once into the subject, I changed my mind. It’s the ‘gratefulness’ thing, probably. Let’s say it is. Epic.  

ATTEMPTED POETIC-ISH PIECE

                                    “Dream,” You Said

If it was a dream, and it may have been… You were in it. But then, you were my dream, are my dream. Don’t laugh.

Your right arm was stretched toward me. Your hand was close, delicate fingers tightly squeezed together. My focus, even as you moved your hand away from your face, remained on your palm; life line and wish line and dream line and fate line.

You rotated your hand, slightly, at the wrist. Your little finger, closest to me, curled in. The others followed. One, two, three, four. The fingers came together, straightened together. One, two, three, four. And again. One, two, three.

A twist of the wrist ended the rhythm. You were pointing at me.

The last knuckle of your pointer finger moved, slightly, then re-straightened. Your thumb remained up, like a hammer on a pistol. You pulled it back with the thumb and first finger of your left hand. The word ‘yes’ was part of a laugh.

You moved your left hand away as the imaginary pistol recoiled. The fingers on both hands exploded out. You laughed. “Poof” was the word within this laugh.

Your right hand moved against your lips, fingers, wrapped over your nose and left eye, moved, slightly, to your rhythm: One, two, three, four.

Porcelain nails, jade green with ivory tips; ivory, ivory with a coral tinge; were almost tapping.

“Dream?”

“Dream,” you said, as you slid your hand down your face, the first two fingers following the ridge of your upper lip: Pulling, but only softly, on your bottom lip. Revlon red lips, since I’m naming colors. Your eyes, fully open, narrowed. Green. Of course, green; translucent, with electric lines of yellow and blue. More blue or more yellow, but always green.

Your right eye widened, a half-breath ahead of the left, to fully open.

“Dream, then,” I said.

Your right hand twisted and opened, almost like a wave. I’ll rephrase.  It was almost as if you were waving, but, as you pulled your fingers in, one, two, three, four, I heard, or imagined, a sound, a wave, breaking; up, over; the wave becoming a fist. Open, repeat; one, two, three.

“After the fourth wave,” I said, “You threw your fingers out; like… like a magician, or… or like a wave exploding against a cliff. Perhaps.”

“It could be, perhaps,” you said, something like a laugh, but softer, within the words, “That it’s you, that it’s you; that you’re in my dream.”    

“Then” I said, “Keep dreaming.”

“WHY DON’T YOU WRITE ME? I’m out in the jungle, “I’m hungry to hear you…” Paul Simon. You can’t get Paul, but, if you email erwin@realsurfers.net you’ll get… me. I’ll probably write back if you’re not trying to sell me improvements on my site.

AS ALWAYS, THANKS for checking out realsurfers. I checked on line and I’m not in the top fifty surf centric blogs. I’m going to add the tag, ‘Best surf blog from the northern reaches of Surf Route 101,” or something similar. Only the two essay/poem pieces are worth reserving the rights to. And I do. THANKS. Get some surf when you can. It’ll be EPIC!

realsurfers magazine- Sunday, August 10

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NOT that I’m in any way political:

COMPLICITOUS

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

We look away, Complicit.

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

We look away, Complicit.

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

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

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

God plays the long game.

Success begets success, Power attracts power.

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

God plays the long game.

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

God plays the long game.

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

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

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

We have to, They want what we have.

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

We cannot play the long game.

We haven’t the time.

AS ALWAYS, thanks for checking out realsurfers.net

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

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

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

Summertime, and the Living is… Easy

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf contests, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf stories, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing in Washington State, surfing novels, surfing Oceanside in the late 1960s,, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

Faith, Hope, Confidence, Broken Window, Sally and Courtney, and Somewhere on the Coast, Somewhere on the Net… and on Being Hard to Follow

IT’S SUMMER. The odds of having waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca is slim-to-flat. Several of my surf friends are currently out on the West End on a hike/camp/surf adventure, but, even though it’s the actual Pacific Ocean, the swell forecast isn’t stellar. Knowing the players, they’ll find waves AND there will be stories.

One of those players, in a recent cellular conversation (yeah, could have said ‘convo’), when I brought up something I had told him before, said, “Sometimes you’re kind of hard to follow.” Today’s posting will prove his point.

I have been watching the WSL contest from Huntington Beach a bit, catching up when I get home. In fact, it’s finals day and I just turned off the tablet… too distracting. I’m not sure what the WSL online complainants have to say about, say, scoring or that some glory-hogging CT surfers are involving themselves, but… highlights: Kind of rooted for nepo surfer Kalohe “Get it right” Andino; he’s out. Always root for Sally Fitzgibbons. She was number two in the Challenger Series ranking going into the event, and the number one was eliminated early. Earlier. Sally’s out. I did find out that the surfer Trish rooted for, Courtney Conlogue, is not in the contest but is working as a lifeguard in Huntington Beach and mentoring a surfer in the event (eliminated). “Good for her,” Trish said.

I did notice that a lot of the surfers, male and female, are on the Simone Biles side of Jordy Smith. Gymnast-sized hydrobats. Just an observation; no judgment.  

I’VE BEEN surfing long enough that SURFER’S JOURNAL’s section that focuses on old timey surf stories is pretty much up to the era when I switched from surf mats to surfboards. SO, okay, like it’s 1969, I’m working at Buddy’s Sign Service, 1st and Tremont; close to the Oceanside Pier, one block off this stop-lighted section of Surf Route 101. The shop, in the gutted former newspaper building, a glorious place to work for a recent Fallbrook High School graduate, was also one block south and west of the then notorious Tenderloin downtown section. With the Vietnam War in full escalation mode, Commanders of Camp Pendleton were constantly threatening to not allow Marines to go to Oceanside, with the hawkers and prostitutes. Most of the Marines my age, many from small towns, they were enroute to war, yes, but Oceanside… maybe too dangerous, too scary.

Again, for me… glorious. Still, scary.

There were reasons Oceanside and Imperial Beach offered the cheapest oceanfront and ocean adjacent properties south of Orange County.

But, in the summer I had to sign up for the draft, and for classes at Palomar Junior college, with my surf friends scattering; I had a job (apprentice/nub), I had a girlfriend (Trish, same girl fifty-six years later), I had a semi-reliable car (Morris minor), and I was figuring out how to manage the fickle, sometimes frightening waves at the pier and the various other spots. I would surf before or after work, or head to Swamis or Grandview or Pipes.

Sorry. Exposition, scene setting. The freedom I felt is the very basis for my never-quite-done novel, “Swamis,” the magic I felt is the magic I want to convey. Working on it.

I convinced myself I was getting better known in the North County surf scene beyond Tamarack and Oceanside. I was becoming a regular. What I noticed, and this was discussed when I actually spoke to other surfers, that there was an influx of surfers from Texas. Texas? Yeah. According to actual locals, these dudes seemed to have money. They would stay at the motels in the Leucadia area, chase the local girls. More irritating, they’d catch some. Or the locals imagined they had.  And they’d add to the congestion in the lineup, more irritating than the kooks from West Covina, only slightly less irritating than seeing the pros and magazine stars coming down from the north. I mean, like, “Fuck, man, that’s Billy fuckin’ Hamilton.”

SO, one afternoon, I’m checking out the waves at Grandview from the bluff. Four to five, maybe, and glassing off. Two guys come up to me. I shouldn’t try to copy or mimic their accents, but the waves seemed big to them, and they questioned why I’d paddle out.

FAITH.

Faith, foremost, in my ability to challenge a situation out of my comfort zone. This is a faith learned through attempting and failing, retrying and almost succeeding.

FAITH ONLY WORKS IF WE BELIEVE HAVING FAITH WORKS.

Not to get religious-ey on this, but ‘blind faith?’ No. Jesus praised those who were not witness to his miracles and yet believed. Fine. But surfers don’t take other surfer’s word for things: “Do you have any photos? Witnesses?” “Yeah.” “Oh, and I’m supposed to believe that guy; dude who said it was eight feet when it was… I was out… more like six feet?”

There is a difference between having the confidence to believe you can paddle out and ride a few waves and the wisdom to decide you probably shouldn’t try. It’s learned, usually the hard way. A lot of experience may or may not give one a bit of knowledge.

EQUIPMENT- Almost immediately on starting work at Buddy’s I was sent out (alone) to repaint some metal structures that hold interior lit plexiglass signs. One of the first ones I attempted was on a severe slope. Daunting. Ladders require an even footing. I figured it out, got it painted despite being scared shitless, and got questioned (chewed out) on how long it took. “What?”

Next challenge- a forty-foot ladder. Like a kook paddling with too much nose in the air, a rookie ladder person will try to make the clime less steep. There I was on the main drag in Oceanside, the angle probably 45 degrees. Boing, boing. Next challenge- Manlift. The guy from Federal signs was operating the boom. I was painting the pole with aluminum paint, and the cross at the top with white. I worked my way up. Okay. Take it slow. Got to the cross. Switched paint. Started at the top. When I reached for the cross, it moved. A lot. Almost lost my balance, almost lost my breakfast. “You okay, kid?” “I don’t know.” The man was laughing. “Yeah, you’re fine.”

SLOW FORWARD to now; I’m working on a job (with Reggie Smart- he’s on social- look him up) I would have been happy not doing. A church steeple that requires the use of a manlift with a 65-70 foot boom. SCARY.

But I have faith in the equipment. So far, and I’m almost done, the faith is well founded. I only bumped into the building, softly, a couple of times… OH, but I did back the fun car into the turret. Shattered but intact. Fuck! The white trash, duct tape fix didn’t make it from Port Townsend to Quilcene. I’m getting it replaced on Wednesday, hopefully just in time for the next pulse of waves. I’ll let you know. I mean, after the fact.

It is summer, but… after faith comes HOPE.

Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net AND, with your praise and your own stories, please (if you’re not a site-builder or content consultant) fly me a line at erwin@realsurfers.net

Let’s see- I borrowed the surfing photo. All others and the content is original, so, protected by copyright UPDATE- I would have thought Kanoa would win. Despite my not rooting for him, he was just eliminated. On to Tahiti!

Get some waves!