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!
*I’ve been doing this blog for almost thirteen years, and because I’ve been checking on my stats a lot lately, and have actually been in contact with the platform realsurfers shakily is built on, I discovered this would be post number 1,000. NOW, the explanation for this is that not-quite-perfectionist that I am (mediocratist, high end, is more like it), I typically edit each post, like, multiple times. NEVERTHELESS, it’s some sort of milestone. OR a testament to stubbornness.
This image, possibly taken by Peninsula ripper, Chris Eardley, has already appeared on instagram. NO, Mikel Squintz, it is not anywhere, secret or not, on the Strait. Some sort of Hurricane, so, different body of water. STILL, offshore winds and possibly makeable waves does make one less worried about the rocks as well as envious.
Reggie Smart’s dog, Django, looking, well… smart. “Who’s a Smart dog?” Photo by… you know, Django’s owner. Not totally unchained. But smart. Reggie is opening a new Tattoo shop in Port Townsend. Look him up on the social if you need a little body decorating.
JOHN PECK died this week. I get the word on surfer deaths, typically, via texts from my contemporary, TOM BURNS. My story on Mr. Peck is this: Back in the late 60s, when signature model surfboards became a thing, my Fallbrook surf friends (and some kook semi-surfers) and I would share the latest “Surfer” bi-monthly. PHILLIP HARPER may have had a subscription. So, Phil, RAY HICKS, and BILL BUEL (who I still consider more of a surf-adjacent dude- Sorry) were over at Phil’s house perving out on the mag. Not like all at once. There was an ad for the MOREY-POPE designed PENETRATOR; all well and good, and an ad for several other signature boards. When Phil’s mom came into the dining room, Buel said, “Look, Mrs. Harper, there’s a board called the RAPER.” Because I was, possibly, more pedantic than I am now, and to reassure Phillip’s mom, I corrected Bill, effecting a French-ish accent. “I believe it’s pronounced, ‘Ra-pe’-air,’ like, like a sword.” And yes, I definitely went into a swashbuckling stance, which, oddly enough, is goofy-foot.
John Peck, a legendary surfer, doing a bit of kneeboarding. Photo by Nathan Oldfields. Find it, if nowhere else, at mollusksurfshopscom
SONNY OWENS also died recently. Here’s a bit on Sonny from Tom Burns: “My friend and former surf judge passed on at his home in CANNON BEACH. He was an early HUNTINGTON PIER standout in the late 60s, early 70s and migrated up here to the PNW, We surfed and judged contests over the years. Truly a good friend and a gentle soul who will be missed.”
I did meet Sonny on the Strait a year or so before my ill-fated foray into surf contest judging. Sonny and a woman I assumed to be his wife were at a barely-breaking, almost flooded-out spot, and despite being somewhat crippled, he went out. When I was at the contest in Westport, trying to fit in, I mentioned the sighting to one of the real judges. “Oh yeah? Sonny, Erwin here says he saw you surfing at ______ _____.” “Yeah, I did. Once,” To paraphrase Tom Burns, “If you’re lucky enough to surf long enough, you’re going to end up kneeboarding.” Agreed.
Let’s just say I’m posting this sideways to be less… shocking. Not true. Maybe, when I edit…
Me at Trisha’s most recent Chemo session. Photo by Trish. I’m really not supposed to make a deal out of my wife of almost 54 years undergoing treatment for breast cancer. I was not allowed to take her photo, in the chair, or later, when she was checking out and selecting a wig. Usually our daughter, DRU, herself a two time cancer survivor, takes Trish over for this kind of thing, as Trish did for her. Dru was off at a conference for organizations such as the OLYMPIC MUSIC FESTIVAL, with EMELIE BAKER (not sure what her married name is or how, exactly, to spell Emelie). So, I got the opportunity to share in the ordeal.
I try not to get too gushy about these things, but I am amazed at how strong Trish AND Dru have been, how positive. I do realize, we all have our struggles, injuries, afflictions, physical, mental, spiritual; many of which are crippling. We always hear “Fight cancer.” Yes. Yes. Allow me to repeat, “Fuck Cancer!”
I AM WORKING ON “SWAMIS,” and I promise to back off on the neurotic/obsessive re-writing. AND I’m continuing to write new songs and poems while collecting some of the old ones. Here’s one of each:
EMPTY
Empty stairwell, empty halls, Empty paintings on empty walls, Desperate conversations on the telephone, You say my heart is empty, but it’s heavy as a stone.
You know I don’t believe it, You know it can’t be true, How can my heart be empty when it’s filled with love for you.
Empty blankets, empty sheets, Empty sidewalks and empty streets, Looking out the window, I see I’m still all alone, You say my heart is empty, but it’s heavy as a stone.
You know I don’t believe it, You know it can’t be true, How can my heart be empty when it’s filled with love for you.
Empty like those scattered wishes, Empty like those shattered dishes, Empty like my old broken cup, If I’m so empty, Fill me up.
Empty ocean, empty skies, Empty faces with empty eyes, Thinking ‘bout those sins for which I just can’t atone, You say my heart is empty, but it’s heavy as a stone.
You know I don’t believe it, You know it can’t be true, How can my heart be empty when it’s filled with love for you.
Empty me, empty me, I’m as empty as I can be, I’m empty like my old broken cup, If I’m so empty, If I’m so empty, If I’m so empty… fill… me… up.
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, “Not to offend my friend.”
“Shocking,” Cindy said, placing flowers on the headstone,
“Indeed,” Sedrick said, adding, “Are you here alone?”
I DO TRY TO GIVE PROPER CREDIT for photos and such. Please respect my rights to my original, copyrighted work.
OH, AND NOTE you can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net. AND, HOWEVER YOU’RE RIDING WAVES, KEEP GOING!
WORDPRESS KEEPS STATS on how many folks find my humble (not because I’m particularly humble- though often humbled) blog/site. Lately,affter twelve years of pushing and pumping out eclectic and not-always-surf-centric content, and for no reason I can discern, I’m getting more hits. Significantly more. From all over the world. I’m grateful, and, for no reason I can explain, kind of worried.
“So, Mr. Kotter; there was a locker check. Am I in trouble?” “Well, I don’t know, Epstein, maybe it was something you wrote in your notebook.” “Oh. No. Nothing to see there.” “Well, Juan, truth will out. Huh?” “Huh?”
ANYWAY; GRATEFUL. THANKS. And, I have finnally gone back to working on my novel, “SWAMIS.” I checked it out, and, surprise, it’s fucking good. Just a few… tweaks and… yeah. Swamis.
I’ve also been working on my competitive poetry. I do have an extensive portfolio, way more songs than upper crust, pretentincous (sp?) poems, Here’s one from way back:
REDEMPTION CENTER
Though Little Joanie’s pregnant, she still dressed all in white, The Bridegroom told me they’d already had their wedding night, Joanie’s Grandma clutched a bag of rice, then threw it, just or spite, And the veil was left out on the Elks Lodge floor, Pardon me, but haven’t we seen this before?
Two Coat Charlie’s asking me for an advance in pay, Charlie ran into Fast Betty, Betty took his stash away, He was naked when he ran out, he was begging her to stay, When he left he must have closed the motel door, Now Betty’s checking at the Family Grocery Store.
I called Ken the Banker sleazy when he disapproved my loan, Kenny sent his cousin Leonard out to disconnect my phone, But I saw Ken at the Tavern, and he was not there alone, He was hanging onto Betty for dear life, I don’t feel so bad now, having done Ken’s Wife.
Reverend Bob was crying for forgiveness at the wake, Bob told us all that it was such a terrible mistake, Still, Bob swears he’d seen the Devil wielding OId Joe Conner’s rake, Now a white cross marks where Debra Conner fell, And I, for one, believe Bob, what the hell.
Seems it’s either sex or money, that is, when the truth gets told, Sometimes drugs are mentioned, though not from whom they’re bought or sold, Me, I told tales in the city, and my business just went cold, Man, the gossip blows like dust right through this town, Hey, you must be new, I ain’t seen you around.
No, the freeway don’t go through here, and the locals congregate, Checking our post office boxes, though the mail is often late, It seems like everyone’s related to at least someone you hate, As it is, we know the players very well, These ain’t half of all the stories I could tell.
Redemption Center, there’s Saints and Sinners, You’ll see us all on Sunday, heads bowed down, Redemption Center, Losers and Winners, But you have to laugh, it’s just like your home town.
NOTES- It’s not, like, viral; just kind of a minor cold. Still, I appreciate it. Thanks, and to all the s, real or otherwise, surf on!
And, of course, I reserve all rights to my original content. Other people’s… thanks for letting me borrow.
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.
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.
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.
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.
I haven’t worked on my novel, “Swamis,” in a while. Long enough to run changes through my mind, the main one being that I need to stop over explaining stuff. I went through an outtake that would be part of a much longer version. And it’s a bit long itself. These scenes take place just after Joey and Julie have a bit of a romantic moment in the otherwise empty dark room at Palomar Junior College. Reminder, this is 1969, Joseph DeFreines’ father, a detective, had recently died in a car accident; Chulo, a surfer/drug dealer/evangelist, had been murdered at Swamis, and Joey is obsessed with solving the case, and has long been obsessed with surfer Julia Cole. Julie’s family is connected to the burgeoning marijuana trade. The connections in the North County were, obviously, closer then than at any time since.
What got me interested enough to do some more editing and posting this excerpt/outtake is the relevance it may or may not have with events we are still dealing with today. No more explanation.
But first:
Owen Wright at Cloudbreak, Fiji, from a few years back. EPIC. This year’s final five event. I believe the WSL may have cut off commentary. I got home in time to miss the first women’s heat. Caroline won, low scoring, against Molly (Pickles to some). Okay. I did watch Griff losing to Yago (is Yag the hipster version?). After, evidently, beating the other down-raters, it was one and done, Format wise, if Griff had won the first heat, two more heats were necessary to win the crown. Steph did it a few years ago; if the San Clemente surf-trained/programmed surfer had made the barrel at the last moment… Maybe. So, pretty exciting. Not to take anything away from Yags (Aussie version, perhaps, though Yago kind of fits), but Griffo was showing fatigue. And, not to take anything away from Picks, clearly in the Zone and ripping, but Caro seemed to not care enough. Or something.
The thrill of watching any sporting activity live, even golf, even Canadian Ice Bowling, comes down to the intensity of competitors, the make-or-break moments. I checked the results for the earlier heats, haven’t watched any of them, yet. And I gave up watching the post event awards stuff years ago. Not taking anything away from Joey and the crew thanking their sponsors and such. STILL, if I can stream a close heat live, like Kelly and John-John, or whichever of them went on to go against Gabriel… Yes; and I’ll be so happy I did.
Scam, Scheme, Schema, Schemata, Schematic, and the Crowded Lineup
You can learn a lot on PBS. Too much information, evidently, for the current administration. Not that I’m political, but truth seems very liberal to idiots and bigots and, basically, all the ‘ists. This isn’t me, devout hypocrite, saying some folks are idiots; that wouldn’t be kind. And it might be dangerous. However, if you have a chance to know the truth, to gain real knowledge, but you refuse the opportunity and try to block the opportunity for others, you are, by definition, ignorant. Being ignorant might, arguably, be more common among those who, through no fault of their own (not involving myself in the ‘nature or nurture’ discussion/controversy), be pretty fucking stupid. No offense meant.
Here’s the hypocritical part: What I learned by watching “Professor T” on PBS, is the word ‘SCHEMATA,’ in that instance applied to psychology. That I also watched the series in the original German is more because my hearing is so bad I read subtitles; the language less important; and this practice (also love “Astrid” in the original French) doesn’t necessarily make me that much cooler. Don’t fuckin’ call me an ‘elitist.’ Thanks.
Okay, so Professor Tempest, brilliant and quirky/damaged (obligatory for all detectives and such folks) criminologist, uses the word (singular form is ‘SCHEMA’) to describe how we, humans, from birth, learn, over time, patterns of behavior in others. This knowledge allows us to instantly discern whether someone is being honest, hostile, even dangerous. Further, we (as humans) can instantly know something about crowd behavior.
Okay, so here’s the actual hypocritical part: Want more waves in a crowded lineup? Yes. I’m guessing. Do you check out the surfers (competition) on the beach, guessing (with some clues) who is going to be a challenge in the water? Do you scan the lineup, checking out who is catching the most waves or the best waves? Do you use the information to your advantage once you’re in the lineup?
Also, it is important to evaluate yourself, your skill level in the conditions available, as honestly as possible, bearing in mind that very few surfers are as awesome as we like to think we are. Yeah, being able to get out at a spot doesn’t mean you’ll rip. There are the waves and there is the pecking order in the lineup. Not being the pecker doesn’t mean you have to be the peck-ie. VERY IMPORTANT- When you get your chance, don’t fuck up. No pressure.
Bear in mind, it’s okay to deny that you have some self-centered motives. You have a SCHEME, a plan; once you use tactics to take other surfer’s waves; yeah, then you’re SCAMMING. Some tactics are tolerated; blatant burning is, however, not generally a crowd-pleasing activity.
While I was thinking about what to write on this subject, not planning to write anything negative about any political regime, it suddenly occurred to me that a SCHEMATIC is what a wiring diagram is called. Wow! Knowledge. But, whoa! Project 2025, a plan, a scheme, drawn out in great detail, denied, denied, and denied, then… implemented.
I am not claiming ignorance of etiquette or innocence. With my motto (still) being “I’m here to surf,” I will take advantage of some advantages (wave knowledge, lineup management, bigger board) gathered over many years. AND, here’s where old school rules come into play: If a surfer blows a couple of takeoffs, doesn’t catch waves he or she paddles for, doesn’t make makeable sections due to lack of skill, I have been known to venture into the territory some might call SCAMMING.
More often I will use the time-honored traditions of SHARKING THE LINEUP and SNAGGING a wave someone else didn’t make the section on or fell on. This, in case you don’t know, might also be referred to as ‘SCRAPPING.’ I’m totally not immune to using the technique. I am here to surf.
Julie Cole reached to the right of the lightlock door and hit the light switch. The light over the door went out. She set the stack of contact prints just under the blow up from Beacons, dropped her bag just under the table. In the light of overhead fluorescent tubes and indirect sunlight, Julie did seem self-conscious. She set her glasses on top of my two PeeChee folders, put her left arm across her chest, set the sunglasses next to the prescription pair, pulled her sweater from the back of the chair, held it in front of her with both hands.
“Oh. Yeah. Admissions forms. Draft. It’s school or Vietnam. So, temporarily…”
Julie pulled the sweater over her head, watched my eyes as she pulled It down. I looked toward the table. “I noticed you… have….” I laughed. “More. Prints. Contact prints.”
“Thanks for noticing. But Joey…” She put a finger on the folders. “One’s thicker.” She looked in my eyes for an answer. I pulled the thicker folder out from under the glasses as Julie reached her hand toward it. “Julia Cole” was written, in ink, on the thinner folder.
“Not a… explanation. Apology.”
“You were going to… leave it?” I didn’t have to answer. “Can I read it?”
I picked it up. “Not now. No!”
Julie pulled her hair out of the sweater and pushed it back, put on her glasses, and walked to the table. She started spreading out the sheets, thirty-five-millimeter contact prints, several misaligned segments of film on each page.
“Mrs. Tony has… bosoms. I have… yeah, contact prints.”
I leaned over the table. “They look… nice. Prints.”
“Joey. Stop it! I am not trying to… just… Please… Your imagination.”
“Then quit… pleasing… my… imagination.”
“Please.”
“Okay. Sorry. Word play. So, uh, Julie; I believe… I don’t so much… imagine as remember. You… you’re the… imaginer.”
Julie took another step toward me. She squinted, half-smiled. “Just… I don’t want you to think I’m coming on you.”
“No; couldn’t even imagine it.” I tapped my head with three fingers of my right hand and showed Julie my blankest expression. “I do have to ask, though; where is Allen Broderick?”
“He insists on being called… Broderick. He’s… he has a class at ten; he’s probably…”
“Chasing another student, hoping his former student, current wife doesn’t… find out.”
“Possible.” Julie set the stack on the table, started pushing them off, spreading them to our right. I set the stack of seven notepads just past the contact prints. “Luckily,” Julie said, “I’m not his type.” She stopped the shuffling, looked down at her outfit. Loose sweater, gray cords, chukka boots. “I mean, in case you might have thought that we, we being he and I…” She was looking at me as she slid several more contact prints off the pile.
“Wait!” I put my hand down, hard, on the fourth sheet of photo paper. I leaned in.
“What?”
“Black car.” I grabbed the sheet. “Do you remember it? Do you have more? The guys. Do you have any… When, exactly, was this taken?”
Julie pointed to the lightlock door. “I have dates… on the cans. The film canisters. And I have, on the camera… dates.” Both of us were leaning over the sheet of tiny photographs.
“We should… Was this before or after Chulo’s…?”
“Julie.” A different voice. I turned. It was Allen Broderick, standing behind me and to my right. To his left was a young woman, giggling. I looked just long enough to get the impression she was an American Indian. Or she wanted to look like she was. Her right arm was under Broderick’s left. Her straight black hair was held in place with a headband of braided ribbons of different colors. She was wearing some sort of post Hippie garb, almost a dress, quite colorful, low cut. Braless. I did notice that. She was barefoot.
Broderick almost pushed off the woman to get next to the counter. He stood next to me. “You found something?”
Julie and I looked at each other. “No,” we said, simultaneously.
“Not really,” Julie said, looking around me and at the photography instructor.
The young woman had moved up next to Broderick and was leaning across him, looking at me. I glanced, smiled, politely, and turned back toward Julie.
Julie restacked the contract print sheets. I slipped in the one from my hand and shuffled in three from the bottom of the pile. “No, Broderick,” Julie said, “Joey. You know Joey. You spied on him.” Both Broderick and I nodded. “Joey just got a little… excited when he saw the sheet… incident at Beacons.” Swinging her left arm toward the enlargement by the light lock door, Julie turned toward the woman. Both of them smiled as if someone should introduce them.
The woman was still staring at me. Broderick broke away when he saw the edges of the two notepads hanging out of my pocket. He pointed with both hands. “Are those… those your father’s?”
“Do you remember me, Jody?” I turned my head toward the young woman. “Cynthia. Seventh grade. We were in the same home room.” I turned toward her. Allen Broderick stepped back. Cynthia stepped closer. I put my left hand on the table. Cynthia put her right hand to her nose and pushed it downward. “Cynthia.”
Dropping my left hand to the table and putting weight on it, I said, “Cynthia,” and froze.
…
Cynthia was in front of me, talking. I could see her, and the seventh grade Cynthia, at the desk next to mine, crying. There was laughter in the background. “The way the other kids treated you, I did. I… understood.”
In my memory version, the homeroom teacher, Mrs. Macintyre, in her last year of teaching, went behind seventh grade Cynthia’s chair, put her arms around Cynthia, and glared at me. She stepped to one side, half-lifted Cynthia from the chair, and walked her through a hushed classroom. Cynthia and Mrs. Macintyre looked back at me from the door. Mrs. Macintyre began to cry. Cynthia no longer was. I scanned the classroom, quickly passing over the faces of my classmates. All of them were looking at me. A boy one row of desks behind me said, “Way to go, Jap!”
The images faded. Both of Julie’s hands were over her face, middle fingers touching the inside corner of her eyes. She pulled at what might have been tears, slid her hands down and apart, and turned her eyes toward Cynthia.
I looked from Julie and Cynthia. Unaware that I had been, I continued crying. Cynthia’s expression was somewhere between curious and confused, possibly even concerned. “Cyn-thi-a, I… I am… so… so… ashamed.”
Cynthia placed her right hand on my left shoulder. “You are aware that, Jody, that your nose is… running?”
I wiped at my nose with the thumb side of my right hand. “You transferred… out. I’ve hoped… ever since… Did things get… better?”
Julie came up next to Cynthia. Shoulder to shoulder. “What did you do, Joey?”
“Navajo,” Cynthia said. “Jody wasn’t the first person to do… this.” Cynthia pulled down on her nose with her right hand. She turned toward me. “It was just… I didn’t expect it from… you.”
I had no response.
“I knew how badly you wanted to be… cool, Jody; to be… in… with the cool crowd.”
“That… never happened, Cynthia.” She gave me a half smile. “I am so, so… ashamed.”
“Good. Then, you should do the honorable… Japanese-ey thing.” Cynthia took a step back, pantomimed sticking a knife into her abdomen.
Julie said, “Hari-kari,” almost as a question.
Broderick laughed. Then Cynthia. Then Julie. Then me.
“Cynthia and I,” Broderick said, “We’re doing some…”
“Publicity shots.” Cynthia said, stepping away from Julie and me and putting her hands up to frame her face. “For my…” She threw her hands out. “…Professional… Agent!”
“So… fucking… groovy!” Julie froze. “Sorry. I never say… that, but…” Both of Julie’s hands were shaking as she reached out, not quite touching Cynthia. “I saw you, heard you. The VFW Hall. Vista. Teen dance. Last year. You were…”
Cynthia stepped forward into a hug. It took a moment before Julie allowed her hands to wrap around Cynthia. When she did, she looked at me.
Broderick put his right arm around Cynthia’s shoulder. His left hand was on Julie’s. “Cynthia’s fucking fantastic, Jody!”
The hug over, Cynthia turned toward me. “Funny thing, Jody; suddenly the cool people think I’m… I don’t know. Pretty. Different kind of pretty.” Cynthia gave Julie a sideways but intense look. “Teen dance? I would have noticed… you.”
“Probably not. Not really a… dancer.” Julie turned toward me. “Duncan.” She turned back toward Cynthia. “Big fan. He was… dancing.”
Cynthia looked from Julie to me. “Duncan?”
“Duncan,” I said, “Boyfriend.”
“Not… like that. Duncan…” Julie stopped but continued to blush. “Different.”
“You’re… her.” Cynthia pointed at Julie and turned toward me with a huge smile. “Is she her? She’s her, isn’t she?” I wiped my nose and eyes with the sleeve of my t shirt and shook my head. “The surfer girl. You drew her!” Cynthia was looking between Julie and me. I couldn’t see Julie’s face. “Crappy drawings. Grant; he started drawing because you… drew.”
“Grant. Still drawing.”
“But… now, here you both are; surfer girl and… you. Whoa!”
Whatever expression I gave Cynthia was taken as affirmation.
“Well,” Broderick said, “This is all kinds of fun.” I turned around. He was holding the contact prints up, close to his face, with both hands, raising and lowering them in a sort of peekaboo way. I grabbed the stack in the middle. I pulled them away quickly enough that I half spun toward Cynthia and Julie. They were looking toward the front of the classroom. I followed their eyes.
“Allen?” It was the woman I had seen at the San Elijo Grocery store. Allen Broderick’s picnic date. Or, possibly, Mrs. Broderick. High school class of ’67 was my guess. Dark hair. Pixie cut. Knee length skirt, matching top. Obviously pregnant. She raised a camera with both hands, and, without looking though the viewfinder, snapped several photos. “And this girl? Student or… another… client?”
Broderick said, “Andrea. No.” Andrea kept taking photos.
Cynthia posed rather provocatively. “Client. But I am… I’m flattered, Mrs. Broderick.”
“Not quite Mrs. Broderick… yet.” Andrea moved closer, aimed the camera at me. “You,” she said. “The detective’s son. Allen made me go with him… to see you.”
“At Mrs. Tony’s. Sure. Picnic.”
Allen Broderick moved closer to Andrea. He placed his hand on her left shoulder. She lowered the camera and pulled his hand off. “Picnic. Yes.”
“I am here with… Julia Cole. Julie. She is… taking… I would say, she’s taking advantage of the… college.” Keeping the contact prints against my chest, I swung my left arm around in the direction of the light lock door. “Julie and I are going to find out who killed Chulo Lopez. But, like you, Andrea, I don’t totally trust your husband to… We have to keep this all… secret.”
“All what?” Allen Broderick asked, extending both hands toward me.
Cynthia found another chair with an attached desktop area, sat down, put both elbows on the flat surface, both hands to her face, looked at me and said, “I can keep a secret.” She laughed. “Allen is… consumed with… this case,” Andrea said. “His life is so boring without the war and the killing. But he is pretty good at keeping secrets. A little too good, maybe.”
Allen stepped closer to Andrea. He put one hand on her shoulder, the other on her camera. She lowered it. “What would you rather have me consumed with, Andrea?”
“Me, Allen.”
Cynthia clapped her hands, very quietly. She pointed at Julie with her left hand, and me with her right. She crossed each finger over the other several times, then put the right finger under her nose, pushed it up, laughed, and said, as she stood up, “This is all kinds of fun, but… You guys look over my… head shots. I’ll trust you… Andrea. Whichever one you think is best. Broderick can call my… hooray for me… my agent.”
Andrea stood up, walked to the lightlock door, turned, took three quick photos of Broderick, Cynthia, Julie and me.
Cynthia said, “Sorry about your father, Jody.” She ran three fingers down Julie’s left arm, mouthed, “Surfer girl.” She half-sang, “Consumed,” as she walked into the brightness, in an exaggerated walk, her left hand moving in a beauty queen’s wave. “Oh, and Jody; a million ‘fuck you’s’ for being a. bullying fuck, and one ‘good luck’ for being ashamed.”
Broderick, next to the lightlock door, next to Andrea, looked at his watch. “I have a class. You can come back at noon. Or, if you trust me, I can do the contacts. Up to you.”
Julie nodded. I shrugged. Allen hit the switch for the red light and squeezed into the lightlock door, pushing his belly against Andrea’s.
…
Julie was sitting to my right at a large table in the history section of the Palomar Library. Admission application forms, partially filled out, were sitting on a PeeChee folder with. “For Julie” written on it. There were two sheets of contact prints in front of us. My stack, her stack. A large magnifying glass was in front of me, something that looked like an upside-down shot glass was in front of Julie.
“You comfortable now, Joey?”
I looked around. “Libraries. The wisdom of the world; categorized, filed, accessible. The Student Union. Noise. People. Disjointed conversations with a lack of… context.”
“Disjointed? Yeah, and you might run into someone else you… know.”
“You mean… offended. Or beat up. Never run into those folks in a library.”
“Palomar. They take… anyone. It is like failure to you. It’s not… Stanford?” Julie didn’t wait. “Yeah. I know shit. Stanford; got that from Judith, she from Portia, she from… your mom. Third hand. But… true or not true, Atsushi?”
“True… heart.” I slid the top sheet from my pile. “Going would have been a bigger failure.” Julie shook her head. “Irregardless, we’re looking for the black car, one of those muscle cars, and/or the two guys…”
Julie laughed, too loud, pulled it back, and said, “Irregardless.” I couldn’t help laughing. Julie leaned against me as if she couldn’t help herself.
Silence. Julie moved away, slowly, her left arm on my right. She picked up several photos from my stack. “These are from the Saturday. After. Early. If you notice, I wrote the dates on the photo paper before I exposed them.” She looked at me. “Didn’t notice? Okay.” Julie slid her right pointer finger down a row of prints. “You talking to that East Indian guy, the gardener; you getting your tape deck smashed; you getting hit by Dickson; him flipping us off before they let us go.”
“Dickson. You, um, made a… gesture, with your camera.”
“I did. Wish I had a longer lens. Prick like him…” Julie looked up. I looked up. “What was Detective… Dickson, Dick the Dick; what was he trying to… prove?”
“Dicky Bird, my dad called him.” I looked around the library, then back at Julie. My reflection was bouncing in the lenses of her glasses. “I think Dickson was trying to keep me… away. Maybe he thought he was doing a favor. For Wendall. He… I’m trying to be brief; he’s had… romantic notions about my mother… for a while.”
“Romantic notions? How…?”
“Quaint? Old fashioned? Un… um, hip? Wrong? Sorry.”
“No. Proof that you’re a… romantic.”
Silence. “Regardless, Julie; what about photos from… Wednesday, Thursday, Friday?”
“Sure.” Julie put her first two fingers up to her lips, kissed them, turned her hand around and moved it toward me. “Over… here.” Julie pulled up the top right-hand corner on five sheets, set them to one side. “So, Broderick. You didn’t trust him, and now…”
“Broderick’s knowing that I don’t trust him is good. For us. My mother… the photographers she works with… she says war’s ruined them for everything else except… more war. The game. And… he’s on our side.”
Julie looked into my eyes for a moment, then slid her chair to her right, noisily. “Our side?” She pulled the left sleeve of her sweater up with her right hand and checked her watch. “I didn’t ask to be in this game.” She let her tortoise-framed, oval glasses fall from her face.
I caught Julie’s glasses and put them on. “Whoa!” I handed them to Julie. “You. You’re as frightened, and confused, and… excited as I am; and you are… in the game.”
Julie chair scraped across the floor when she stood up. “I am… in it, Joey.” She kept her eyes on me as she crab-walked to the far side of the table. “You don’t have to be. You have to get that.”
“I… do get that. Or that you believe that. We’re not…” I wanted to say ‘friends.’ I wanted to say, ‘I love you.’ I said neither.
“This isn’t hypothetical or theoretical, Joey; you shouldn’t have any…. romantic notions about my life, who I am.”
“No.” I stood up, picked up the magnifying glass, and looked at the sheet on top of my stack, “Either should you. About me.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Your mother knows… I was driving my mother’s car… when my father pulled off the road…”
Julie’s expression said she didn’t know. She mouthed, “Sorry. So sorry,” leaned onto the table, and slid both forearms toward me.
I dropped the magnifying glass and took the ends of her fingers in mine. “I was… responsible.” I let her fingers go. ”And because of the accident, Langdon…” I sat back down.
…
If I was somewhere else, I don’t know where or for how long. Julie was, suddenly, it seemed, back in the chair to my right, leaning toward me. She took in a deep breath. “The guy… at Beacons, is Jonathan Barnhouse. It’s his brother in your dad’s notes. Sabastian Barnhouse, Junior. Dad’s a banker. North County Savings and Loan.” I forced my chair to pivot to get a closer view. “Went by Seb, or… Barney. He told me how lucky it was that a Jew like my dad could get accepted into…”
“The… country club?”
“Yeah. And he told me how beautiful I looked in a dress. Don’t… help me here. I have to… He said, no doubt, he was going to be rich; said he’d had a lot of success with girls. High school, and even more at San Diego State. Said he’d popped a lot of cherries. Yeah. And he told me I should feel honored that he was paying attention to a tomboy surfer chick like me.”
Julie was studying my reactions as she spoke.
“Women’s bathroom. There weren’t women around on a Wednesday. Golfers. I didn’t… lure… him in. I told him I was, I was fifteen. When I… turned him down, he…” Julie’s face was flushed. Her breathing quick and shallow. She was tapping on the table with the fingers of both hands. Little finger to index finger. “He said Cristine wouldn’t have.”
I let out more air than I thought I had in my lungs. I put my hands over Julie’s. “It’s… terrible. I… What happened? I mean…”
Julie pulled her left hand out and put it on top of my hands. “It’s… anti-climactic.” She pulled her head back, slightly, smiled, slightly. She looked around the library. I did the same. Our faces were close again. “So, Barney, Junior. He…” Julie’s smile was real. It was bigger, almost frightening. “At least, metaphorically, he got his cherry…”
At the very moment Julie scattered both piles of photos into each other, she sucked in her bottom lip, popped it out loudly enough that we both had to straighten up and look around.
“Popped!” I wanted to reach out to Julie, grab both sides of her face, kiss her. I didn’t. I did imagine it. I did, instantly imagine five different ways she could have done in real life what she did metaphorically. “My girl,” I said, way too loudly.
“Woman,” Julie said. “There were… repercussions, Joey. Both directions.”
“May I… guess?” Julie nodded. Her normal color was returning to her cheeks. Not instantly. “I know that… I have to whisper…” Julie and I moved toward each other. She pulled her hair back from her left ear. “Your father… maybe you thought the Twins… Swamis… were federal. I know… believe you looked.” She shrugged. “Orange County. You told me he said Certified Public Accountants don’t handle… money. Cash. Bankers do. Grocery stores… do. My guess is, molest the daughter of a CPA at your risk. I’m… shit, I don’t know.”
Julie turned her head toward me and came closer. She made a slight popping sound before our lips met. I made a similar sound, louder, after we had kissed.
…
Julie Cole and I were sitting together, scanning our separate stacks of contact print sheets. “Reverse shot-glass and full-on Sherlock,” I said, turning my traditional magnifying glass toward her.
“It was just a kiss, Joey.”
No, it was the kiss I have, since compared every kiss to. “What about… Duncan?”
“Duncan?” Julie’s head did a kind of sideways bobble. “Duncan needs me… more than…” She gave me a ‘you don’t get it’ expression. “Friend. Forever.”
“But he… loves… you.”
“He does.” Julie set the shot-glass down, put her left hand close to her mouth, and let out a breath. “I’m right about you.” She picked up the magnifier, held it against the right eye’s lens of her glasses, looked at me through it. “Besides being a genuine romantic, you believe you’re… funny.”
“To be more precise… precise-er…” I put the Sherlock up against the Shot-glass. “I’d rather be clever than… funny.”
“Keep trying, then.”
Julie checked my reaction. “Did I hurt your feelings?” She put a finger close to my lips.
I kissed her finger. “You did something to them, Trueheart.”
“Quit it.” She put her finger to her lips. “Later. Maybe…”
“Maybe?”
Julie blindly reached for her stack of contact prints, pulled one off the top, moved it in front of her, and set the shot-glass back on top of it. “Black car, Joey; remember?”
“Oh. Yeah.” I pulled a sheet from my pile, ran the Sherlock up and down the three strips. “Crowd. Wednesday morning. Lee Anne Ransom.”
“It was light by the time she got there.”
There’s… Do you recognize any of these people, Julie?”
Julie leaned toward me. She shook her head and pulled the sheet closer to her. “Okay, there’s… Jumper and… Sid. Must have walked past the… Petey Blodgett told me they wouldn’t let anyone into the lot.” She slid the shot-glass away and pulled the Sherlock out of my hand, fingers of her right hand on the frame. She grabbed the handle with her right hand, floated it over the images.
“We’re looking for two guys; one’s Mexican, the other white. From the loud black car. So, big… tailpipe… or pipes. And the other guys; also a Mexican and… critical, probably; the guys who brought Chulo to Swamis in a white pickup with duel back wheels. The white guy, he’s…”
Julie said, “Dulies” as she dropped the magnifying glasses. She took off her glasses as she stood up. She put the sheets we had looked at on top of my stack, that stack on hers. She grabbed the PeeChee folder with ‘For Julie’ on it, stuffed the photo sheets into the folder, that into her big gray bag. “These are mine, Joey. I have to go.”
“What did I do?”
Julie shook her head. She threw the reverse shot-glass and the magnifying glass into her bag, picking it up with her left hand, and spun away from me. “You should have listened to everyone, Joey.” She took two steps and stopped. “You should have stayed out of this.”
I leapt up, took the two steps, put my left hand on her shoulder. She stiffened. I circled around and in front of her. She pulled the hair from the right side of her head over her face.
“I don’t… understand.”
“No,” she said. “Not yet.” She looked at me for just a moment. There were tears. “Please, Joey; let me go.”
Julie did look at me outside the library’s main entrance. It was late afternoon. The sun’s rays, oranged-out like an old photograph by the northwest wind driven smog, was hitting her at a severe angle. “Atsushi.” She kissed me. “We were never…” With an expression somewhere beyond Julia Cold, Julie, pushing off me, was somewhere between panic and resolve.
Everything had changed. Again.
LATEST ATTEMPT AT SERIOUS POETRY-
An Accidental Smile
It was an accidental smile from a random, chance encounter, A passing glance at a passing stranger, Not inexplicable, just unexplained, It wouldn’t have been right to look back.
Of course I did.
It wasn’t you, It was someone too like you, Not you.
I thought that I forgot, I have not, Not yet, Not with the lightning quickness of synapses, firing, Triggered by unexplained chance, A random passing, An accidental smile.
What could I know from a moment, a first glance? Perhaps nothing, But, perhaps I’d passed someone I thought I forgot, Or, perhaps, I looked too like someone she once knew And believed she had forgotten.
Memories, then, images jumping around the neural passages, Lightning quick, faster than a heart beating, Too many, too fast, colliding.
I looked back, The woman who wasn’t you had stopped, Both of us smiled, shook our heads, and turned away.
I thought I couldn’t cry, I knew I wouldn’t try.
Why try?
Yet, safely away from the street, Most of those in the crowd dancing To too many rhythms, Their focus elsewhere, I had to lower my head, Knowing no one would notice.
Not on purpose.
Accidentally, maybe.
ALTERNATE ERWIN-
The photos of Owen Wright and the crowd in, I believe, France, are ‘borrowed.’ “Swamis,” the original pieces, the illustrations are copyrighted material, all rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
Ready to welcome Autumn. Hoping for some swell. See you out there.
WAIT! I am working on stuff. If you are reading this paragraph, check back later. I mean, if you would be so kind. Thanks. Working on it. EMERGENCY UPDATE (1 pm) It’s my birthday (13 plus sixty, if I base it on when I started board surfing), and I’m not going to have some of the new stuff I was planning on posting (surf, resistance stuff on Gaza, Epstein, Normalization of pedophilia and the discounting of damage to children, Hypocrisy in General, Selective Moral Blindness, Authoritarian/Fascist use of Gestapo/Mafia tactics, Fear, Fear Mongering, Hunger and Famine and Genocide and Ethnic/Religous Cleansing, and, oh yeah, Cowardice.
If I had a good reason to talk about surfing, present tense, I would. Past tense, I have been responding to some birthday texts that included questions about surf spots and such; future (hopefully) perfect tense, the WSL finals in Fiji are coming up and I’ve seen some videos. SO… hoping. No predictions, but some of the best tube riders are in the mix.
If you want to get a hold of me (other than by the neck), Please write me, erwin@realsurfers.net
“ERWIN” the film news: The short film by ANNIE FERGERSON has been making the rounds of art/surf film events, and will be shown twice at the upcoming PORT TOWNSEND FILM FESTIVAL (PTFF). If you can’t make it, I will post a link when I figure out how to do it. The VIMEO link I had no lonnger works. Sorry.
POETRY/SHORT STORY SECTION:In the course of a conversation with a woman I’ve worked for several times, me blathering on with stories, attempting to be clever if not amusing, my client, a few years younger than I am, said people younger than she and I do not understand sarcasm; that it’s dead.
“Replaced by what? Like, awkward situation humor?” “Maybe.”
“Well. Sarcasm is kind of, sometimes, mean spirited, BUT…”
Whoa! I thinkj I might need some therapy, or an intervention. I’ve pretty much been sarcastic as long as I remember, and, so far, no one has physically kicked my ass. Figuratively, yes; I have worked with masters of the craft of verbal repartee/battle; some of whom didn’t stop when the other participant surrendered.
That is, of course, wrong.
Now, I have said things like, “You win. I’m utterly destroyed by your superior putdowns.” It was a ploy. I didn’t mean it.
Occasionally I write something kind of snarky. Frequently I use sarcasm. Habit. If I say being passive aggressive is a defense strategy, I would be denying the times I’ve said mean things, said I was joking. Trisha’s response to this, on one occasion, was, “No, you always mean it; you’re an asshole, and you’re never sorry.” “Oh,” I said, “I am sorry; and anyway, if you say I’m passive aggressive, what about you? I mean…” “No. I’m not passive aggressive; I’m regular aggressive.” “You win,” I said. “I love you.” I mean both these things.
Here is a piece that may or may not contain sarcasm: Or, maybe I don’t really understand sarcasm.
Or the Midnight Amaretto
You dropped two dollars in the tip jar with an offhand, “I love you,” So casual, so smooth. The Barista smiled and said, “Oh, yeah?” Then, “Sure; okay… love you, too.” You winked. At me. I shrugged… at you. “Casual,” I said. “Smooth.”
You turned to the woman who’d given you her place in line, And asked, politely, if she had used the time to finally decide. The woman said, “I haven’t, so I guess the House Blend’s fine. Or, no, I’ll have half decaf, and half Valdez Valley’s Pride.” “Juan Valdez,” you said. “Classic allusion.”
The woman looked to me for reassurance, or, maybe, an explanation. She said, “I bought a house nearby, when I came here on vacation.” “I can’t help with your selection, Ma’am, I’m an artisanal ‘fail,’ I make my own, at home, most days, it’s ‘whatever is on Sale.’” “Like Maxwell House,” you said, nodding.
“I’ll take a half ‘Midnight Amaretto’, Love” you said, stepping in, “And half ‘Pirate Captain’s Blend.’ You well know I’d get a dipped biscotti if I had more cash to spend.” “Well know,” the Barista said. “Of course.”
The Barista, quite attractive, as Baristas tend to be, Looked around the crowded shop, tourists and regulars… a few dogs, She leaned in close to me. “You should ‘well’ know,” she said, “folks are serious here, you could just play the game. But…” and this she whispered, “To me, and please, keep my secret, All coffee’s pretty much the same. If I add whipped cream and chocolate, though it’d prefer whiskey or rum, I can put up with fake compliments and with those from whom they come.” “From whom they come,” I said. “Well said.”
She pulled back her hair, and I, undoubtedly blushing, Whispered, “I work for some of these same folks, I get it, the game and all, but I really must be rushing. So, I’ll have a dipped biscotti, please.” I leaned away and added, “And one for my old friend, And I’ll have whichever’s the larger size of the ‘Pirate Captain’s Blend.’”
The Barista said, “Then you’ll need whipped cream and chocolate, And may I recommend a double?” I said, “I’d prefer vodka, thank you, and I hope it’s not too much trouble.” “Not at all, Sir,” she said. “My pleasure.”
My friend and his new friend, Half Decaf, seemed curious or, maybe, jealous, I gave the new neighbor, Half Decaf, my biscotti when she said, “She whispered something… the Barista; don’t you think that you should tell us?” “Please don’t ask,” I said. “It’s… a secret.”
“Hey, man,” I said, “I’m heading out,” one foot pushing on the door, “I’m going to hang a while,” you said, “Have a good day,” And “Love you.” What I could have said was, “Sure, man… love you more.” Smiling appropriately, in keeping with the ambient ambiance, I said, instead, “Thanks for the invite, my… friend,” While stirring the double shot of chocolate, ethically sourced, The swirling foam, on the largest size, of my Pirate Captain’s Blend.
THE END
The original story and, I guess, all original (as in, by me) realsurfers.net content is copyrighted material, all rights reserved by the author/illustrator, Erwin A. Dence, Jr. If you want to use it, drop a line, erwin@realsurfers.net
Thanks to all who check out realsurfers. If you surf, good luck; if you don’t, today’s a perfect day to continue not surfing. It’s frustrating, crowded, and many surfers are, I must say, honestly, rather rude and possibly sarcastic individuals. DAMN, shouldn’t have said that; we all want to be individuals… together.
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!
Real Surfers 