Category Archives: northwest surfing

A Short Story (Not Directly Connected to Surfing)

Posted on by under northwest surfing, real surfers, short stories on surfing, surf novels

A few years ago I wrote a series of stories and, yes, poems that I put together in a collection I titled, “Mistaken for Angels.” Yes, I got a copyright. Vanity. Ego. Just in case. As with everything I have written, my plan for a novel or interconnected stories lost some of the connective-ness, random ideas popping in to complicate matters.

The underlying premise was that the story is more important than the telling, the style and the proper adjectives and structure less memorable than the absolute desire each of us has to tell our story.

It’s not my story; it’s fiction; and my remembering this story caused me to search through multiple thumb drives. The current portion of ancient struggles caused me to remember that I had written it; not about a particular place or time, but of many places and many times.

Tragedy begets tragedy.

I was raised to be a pacifist; yet, turning the channel, turning away, I do nothing. Nothing except, perhaps, to try to calm if not control my own confusion, my own outrage, my own anger.

OH, since the location could be anywhere, on this (new) illustration (sketch if you must), I put in some waves in the background, making, possibly, A GOOD HOUSE that much better.

A Good House

We had a good house. This, you see, was the problem. It was, also, too close to the border. Some, those who think themselves brave, who think others will follow them, they call the disputed land on which the good house sits the ‘frontier.’ I call it ‘bloodlands.’ There has always been trouble. Wars go this way, then back; like waves on a lake.

My Father, he went to war- one of the wars- he pushed forward very bravely (so we were told), but came back very broken. The next wave took him for good.

Wave. Yes. Like a wave. We all knew he was already drowned. He was waiting for the next wave to wash his body away from… This is difficult to explain. “No faith left” he would say, staring toward the horizon.

My Mother, she had faith, and, with it, that certainty… I have heard it called fatalism. Ah, fancy term, that. It’s that knowledge that the darkness comes to each of us, to all of us. Fate and faith, they are, I think, related. “To have faith,” my Mother told us, my Sister and me, after our Brothers went, or were taken, made to fight, “you must have faith.”

This means, I think, that you must believe that having the faith sometimes works. Sometimes what we have the faith in, that things will be all right, can happen. I don’t know if I do believe this. My Mother did. Truly.

The snipers had done damage to the troops from our country. That is why they, our Soldiers, took to the houses. “Like a jar of water,” one of them told my Grandfather, who was weak and old, and had survived, he said, by never flying anyone’s flag, never taking a side. The Soldier held my Grandfather’s head against the rocks of the fireplace. He tapped it with a branch meant for the fire. He, the Soldier, explained this thing to my Mother, who, because she refused to cower as her Mother was, obviously was in charge.

He threw his hands apart to describe how a sniper’s bullet reacted with a soldier’s skull. “pheuuuuuuuh!” Then he laughed and let my Grandfather go.

“Okay,” he said, “your land; you don’t care what country it’s in. Fine.”

There was blood on this Soldier’s uniform. It (blood) dries almost black on the green. He smelled of gunpowder and body odor and death. They all carried sometimes multiple guns, and each had what you might call a machete. They called them something that would be more like ‘sword,’ and attributed a certain righteousness to its use. The Soldiers burned the blood from the blades in our fire, ate our food, complained about my Sister’s crying, and waited.

Soldiers, I now know, spend much time waiting. This is where their brains tell them many stories of why they should be afraid. They tell each other that they are not afraid, should not be afraid, they are and must be men. Yet, I could see these Soldiers had fear. Fear, someone else’s, looks like anger. I could feel my own fear. Like the Soldiers, I would hide it. I made my fear look like calmness. I could see everyone’s fear. Except my mother’s. She had the faith. I wanted to have the faith. I was ashamed to have, instead, the fear.

Fear is like a prayer, I think; or, maybe like a heavy, dark blanket, wrapped like a cloak, ready to be cast off, cast off quickly, when it is bravery that is needed.

Bravery, I’m afraid, is the ability to disregard what is known to be right. Bravery is a vicious thing. I no longer wish to be brave.

For some, it is better to be dead than brave.

Sorry. I must laugh a bit. The brave and cowardly are often thrown into the same grave.

“This is a very nice house,” another of the Soldiers said. He stood close to the window, lit a cigarette. “I think,” he said, “after the war, when we are free, I will take this house.” It was then the sniper’s bullet hit his neck. Both sides at once, it seemed. He was still smiling his dirty smile when his head snapped back. He rocked only a bit, and fell, crumpled, beside me where I sat. The cigarette was still in his mouth.

The first Soldier, and the others, ran outside, then away, leaving the dead one, blood splattered on our walls, making pools on our floor. We could hear guns going off, closer, then farther away. We thought, we hoped we were safe.

Briefly, we were.

These were the, it gets confusing; you might call them counter-insurgents. At dawn the insurgents came closer. Same smell, same uniforms (I thought at the time), different caps. They laughed when they saw how poor we were at trying to drag the body out. They kicked at it, shot it several more times, took things from it, threw it onto a truck with other bodies, some not in uniforms.

You can tell when the soul is gone, when a person becomes a body. Less. Almost nothing.

I don’t know where a soul goes. Somewhere better. I have seen those whose souls are gone, their bodies still…walking, eyes too wide open, too squinted down.

We would have been all right if the war had not slowed, the fighting ‘bogged-down’ in the hills; if the troops of our country had not fought so fiercely; if we had not had such a good house.

We had new guests not of our country. They thought themselves of a better country; bigger, older. This was not actually true, the bigger part, except for this short while. How small and pitiful our country must be, they said, to be so easily conquered.

I have no patience to explain why things went wrong. My Sister cried too much. It became night. Perhaps it was the darkness, the length of the nights. One of the soldiers said his grandfather might have worked on the masonry on our house, back when our country was still grand.

“If so,” my Grandfather said, “I would have paid him well. I always paid the workers well. They ate at our table.”

The mason’s Grandson looked at our table, smiled, but not nicely. Another Soldier, suddenly angry, perhaps because of how his Grandfather was treated, because of where his Grandfather took his meals, grabbed my Grandfather and pulled him outside. My Mother knew what this meant, and begged for her Father’s life. The Soldier slapped her for begging. Because she stood at the door and screamed “Butchers, murderers,” my grandmother was also pulled into the darkness. My Sister, holding onto our mother, kept crying. My Mother did not.

This is the fatalism of which I spoke, the belief that all will be tested.

And most fail.

I also did not cry. This is the faith, faith I had because my Mother had faith. The mason’s Grandson pulled my Sister away, shoved her toward me, told me, in my own language (they are really only slightly different) to keep her quiet. He moved his face close to my Mother’s, touched her breast. He said, Whores beg. Are you, then, a whore?” This was to humiliate her further.

I have learned this from war: To kill is not enough for some. To only, to merely kill is not enough to make the anger and the fear and the hatred cease.

“If I must be,” she said.

At this he laughed. “I am also the whore,” he said.

“My Children,” my Mother said to him. It was like a question. He, and the other Soldiers, now back from outside and leaning against our walls, shrugged and laughed together. The mason’s Grandson took his pistol belt off, holding the pistol in his left hand, moving it close to my Mother’s cheek.

“God will send a miracle,” she said to me. “Turn away,” she said.

I almost cried out at this moment. My Sister did. I put my hand over her mouth and prayed that I could have a man’s strength.

Prayers. Excuse me for laughing; just a little. Prayers are not answered as we expect.

It’s rare, I have learned, that a first mortar round can hit precisely. This one did, precisely where it was intended to land, and when I asked for it. The Soldier’s Grandfather had not been a roofer. No, not at all. Ha!

Like a jar of water, burst.

I kicked at his body when it was over, when the others ran, when more mortars rained down on the houses on the frontier.

Of prayer, I should add, speaking of the partial nature of the realization of prayer; my Mother did not survive this…this…I don’t know what they call this. It’s a tide, a tide, and we are the shore. I carved our Family’s name onto the mantel, underneath, to mark a claim when I return. I took the Soldier’s machete. After I’d chopped him with it; splattered his blood with it, I burned his blood from the blade in the fire.

By the time the Peacekeepers came, the roof was already patched, by my Grandfather and me. We also buried my Mother, dragged the soldiers’ bodies away from the house. My Grandparents would not leave. This was their home. That they were not soldiers was honored. That time. My Sister became one of the many refugees. Refuge means safety, of course. I prayed she would be safe. Yes. I told myself she was safe and fed and happy. That was my hope. Perhaps it is partially true. I became, as you know, a Soldier, a brave one, they say. I am still a Soldier; I wait, but I do not fear. I no longer even hate. I know what bravery is.

Oh, I see you don’t believe there could have been two miracles, two dead Soldiers in one house. Well, perhaps I lie. The results would be the same; the dried blood as black. Prayers answered.

When I was captured that first time, taken like a fool during one of the many truces, they called me John Doe number four hundred and thirty-four. I was, I now guess, eleven years old.

“It’s Not the Destination,” He Said, Ruefully

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, real surfers, surf novels, surf sessions

Permission to use this photo, here, was given to me by a client, Lana. It is pretty much the (or a) view one might get traveling to or from the Olympic Peninsula to or from Whidbey Island. I liked the shimmer on the ruffled water, the too-deep-to-be-real sky color, and the gauzy clouds aimed toward distant, partially shrouded mountains. AH, THE JOURNEY.

If you are someone who occasionally makes this journey, you can probably identify where this is.

What I get to see is, hopefully, a dark road, one traffic light, more road, more traffic lights, school zones, curvy roads, maybe that one forty mile per hour town, curves,, log trucks, the possibility of waves.

OR, big ass and blinding sun just over the horizon, lighting up every highway sign in front of me, and I’m trying to outrun the glaring sun on a stretch that is basically in line with it.

OR, the sun hitting clouds and that ragged ridge lines of the Easternmost Olympics, and I’m trying to race it to the corner. At one point, a twisting S curve, dropping, easing into the uphill recurve, there is a perfectly framed image, trees on both sides, and a mountain impossibly high (this is one of my favorite descriptions, used because it is true).

OR, MAYBE, thinking of going to Westport or down toward Chinook, where my father lived, the journey could be broken into its parts: Hood Canal, McClary cutoff, watching the power plant stacks go from distant to even to behind, and then the roads, the speed trap town, the lack of reception, and/or, bays and bays and curves, and, as always, THE ANTICIPATION.

BEAUTIFUL.

STILL, any beauty along the way is tangential; nice, but. I go surfing to surf, and though I will surf anything I can catch, getting skunked is disappointing. OH, I should throw in traveling with someone else. Not something I do often; my tendency to get caught in the Sequim vortex too well known, my tendency to avoid long, steep hikes better known, but conversation does shorten the trip, even if you’re the one of three in the back seat. There is a social aspect to surfing, and conversations on the beach are often the highlight of a trip. Again, not as great as great waves.

CHIMACUM TIM let me know, recently, that he went to every spot he knew, paddled out at one as far as he was willing to go on this day, and caught it good “For about forty minutes. How’d you do?” I was lucky (luckier, perhaps), got forty minutes of mediocre waves (realistic analysis) five miles from where I was working. I was quite happy to get them.

OH, and, the last time I was skunked, the conditions were perfect: Tide, wind, lack of clouds, swell angle; just no waves. OTHERWISE…

Enough rationalizing. What’s important, and I’m not, hopefully, sermonizing, is, coming, going, in the water, to remember that each of us has had moments on waves that we long to repeat. The few times I forgot this and allowed myself to be over-frustrated, are regrettable. Not that many.

THANKFULLY.

LOOK FOR the next installment of “Swamis” on Wednesday. I have to admit to still making changes in chapters I have already posted. It’s all to make the manuscript tighter, more readable, hopefully, saleable. If I get to an acceptable end, I will print up some advanced copies. A pre-first edition, limited number, signed, of “Swamis” would make a great gift for the holiday season. SHIT, I better get on it1

This Time of Year

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, surf novels

Autumn and the opportunity for, rather the chance of multiple swell angles, leftover summer pushes, and, of particular interest on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the possibility that some errant low might produce something. Some thing. Meanwhile, east winds work magic with what might ordinarily be closeout beachbreak. Westport, perhaps? I can’t be sure. I have heard stories.

What the shorter days do to me is, short term, while I’m busily running from here to there, catching up on leftover projects, trying to finish others, and enjoying the days that are actually perfect for exterior house painting, I’m losing out on the time I could be writing. Or drawing. And I do have projects.

Yes, I know that the shorter daytime hours will soon reduce my time outside, rain and fog and all that, and if I just realize that and concentrate on ‘making hay,’ one of my most heard comments by others who do not make metaphorical hay themselves, not that I do; if I am patient, the time to dabble and write and jump into all the deferred projects will come. This is without even mentioning all the home repair projects I have put off, some for years. That leaky spot on the roof, that… and this, and… okay, I’ll stop whining.

And, no, I’m not forgetting surf. It’s coming. But, if you look at the forecasts we all look at, studying them, searching for the right angle and tide level and wind conditions, that, it just seems tough to figure which of several options to make that one strike mission, always hoping waves might show up at a beach adjacent to a work project. Always hoping.

Now, “Swamis,” the manuscript, though I’ve fine tuned chapters ell past Chapter 12, is currently kind of caught in that space. In my endeavor to focus, novelize the overwhelming and only-partially-plot-centric little insights and stories I long to tell, I am… well, working on it. Once done, it will, or should, or must cut down the verbiage later on. I am committed to keeping the manuscript under 100,000 words. So far, after shortening the time span, successful.

I will be posting the final subchapter on Wednesday.

Meanwhile, here are a couple of sketches. Other than my decorating my Volvo and starting on several other to-be-continued projects, this is what I’ve taken the time to do.

It is probably not worth saying these are copyright protected. I will, anyway.

Good luck in finding the waves you want and the time you need. OH, Maybe I’ll post a couple of shots of my formerly stealth surf rig. Wednesday.

Slightly After the Equinox

Posted on by under Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, oregon surfing, real surfers, writings of Erwin Dence

I spent too much time trying to get the photo I took of Brian Nijo, second place winner in the 40-49 men’s division at the recent Cape Kiwanda Longboard Event, from my new phone to this site. Maybe I can figure it out and get it posted.

MEANWHILE, P.T. Librarian and world surfer Keith ran into the guy, who he only knows as “Z,” winner of the 50-59 men’s division, who Keith described as stoked that he won, AND Z had a story about crashing into his fin on a wipeout in a preliminary heat, pushing the fin through the board (with, of course, some damage to his leg), getting it (the board) patched up before the finals, and… winning. I have never, to my knowledge, run into Z, and I did ask Keith to take a photo next time he sees him, sending it to me. THEN, maybe, if it’s okay with Z, posting it here. Like, hopefully.

This is a poem I have been working on. It seems to fit the season. I do reserve, as always, the right to make changes.

                                    OUT OF THE WIND

There’s something sublime, a soft summer breeze, But the chill gales of winter will bend you to your knees, Yes, you can resist, but you’ll never win, No matter how fierce, all storms have an end, But… I just want to get out of the wind, out of the wind, out of the wind.

While most colors fade, some colors still shine, Other colors just refuse to stay within the lines, Some colors will clash, while others will blend, Some colors take you to the clouds and back again, Still… I just want to get out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.

Small change is dirty, big money’s all clean, I just need some dollars that are somewhere in between, If there’s none to save, need some cash to spend, If money’s your love, you need a new friend, And… I just want to get out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.

All truth is still truth, all lies are still lies, Politicians laugh and hit you right between the eyes, The stories they spread, others will defend, The damage, they say, costs too much to mend, So… I just want to get out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.

Looking for justice, it’s always on sale, You can’t change the system if you know you’re going to fail, The world isn’t fair, it never has been, The answer, my friend, is lost in the wind, Seems… I can’t seem to stay out of the wind, out of the wind, out of the wind.

Sailing for safe harbor, couldn’t outrun the squall, I’ve tried to live my life in Summer, but I’m heading for the Fall, If there’s no sanctuary, I’m happy to pretend, I’ve survived so many Winters, Winter’s coming back again,

Warm wind’s slowing, soft wind’s going, new wind’s growing, cold wind’s blowing, raining, snowing; I don’t know, I’m somewhere, hiding, somehow knowing, there’s no way to stay out of the wind, Out of the wind, out of the… wind.

Copyright Erwin A. Dence, Jr. All rights reserved

HAPPY AUTUMN!

On Not Judging While Judging

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, hipster surfers, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations

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

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

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

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

Fair game. See you in the water.

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

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

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

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

All content on realsurfers.net is covered by copyright protection. All rights reserved by the author/artist.

What You Get Out of What You Put In

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf fiction

ROAD TRIPS, it’s all a journey from where we are to where we hope the waves are. Pretty much all of my friends have hit the road recently, to various destinations. And I ventured out on the roads, despite the summer road closures and the annoying number of traffic accidents involving folks, not realizing the journey is part of the story, hitting the road just a bit too fast, too aggressively, and often, stupidly. That’ll fuck up one’s zen. Not mine.

Get there; get waves (or not); enjoy (or not) others in the water, the trails, the parking area; check out some other spots on the way home; go to Costco/Home Depot/QFC (not optional for me) and maybe FRUGALS Drive Through (part of the deal when I had to beg friends to take me with them, before my new stealth rig got roadworthy- not included if I’m alone); get home.

MEANWHILE, and all during and after the trip- We are anticipating, enjoying, assessing, picking out the most relevant waves, rides, interactions in the water, quotes worth repeating (Me, after backing off wave-“Did you really think you were going to make that section?” Guy who yelled at me but didn’t make the section-“I was trying to.”) when we tell the adventure story.

And somewhere, some time, if it’s comparing notes with another surfer who surfed different spots, or with non surfers who ask if we’ve been surfing lately, we will.

Maybe we find waves, maybe we find the sort of experience that enriches us spiritually, purifies us, transports us, changes us into someone… better.

Probably not.

I always have and can’t seem to stop taking mental notes on surf vehicles and Kooks and costumes and first class equipment owned by Kooks in costumes, rather than pretend my best ride was, like, world class, and that an old guy on a thrashed board might have a touch more soul than… yeah, I am working on all that stuff. Despite my pettiness, I can and do appreciate any surfer who gets a great ride. Mostly, faking humility, I’m just happy I can catch some waves and make some sections.

I was looking for an image of surf vehicles stuck in traffic. This photo from Heckle Photography was too cool to pass up.

MY ORIGINAL thought for this piece was what I got out of a recent video of NATHAN FLORENCE. I am a huge fan- more because of his froth/stoke/enjoyment level than that he makes money surfing killer slabs all over the world- he earns his money. Nate and his brother, IVAN, and his support crew, and his mom, and his wife, were at SKELETON BAY in Namibia, long lefts with long walk-backs. Rather than focusing on the rides, he kept track of, and went on about the workout. True enough, very impressive. At one point he had surfed and walked (or ran) a marathon distance. And then he kept going.

After years of surfing before or after work, or taking a break from work, I do try to dedicate an entire day to any surf adventure. During that day, I do try to exhaust my surf lust, build up my wave count. This is, partially, economics- waves per dollar. It is also a sort of reserve, not knowing when my next adventure might happen. No real surfer has even been SURFED OUT.

Still, I could mention surf exhaustion is part of my story. The good kind of exhaustion. In the next chapter…

SPEAKING OF CHAPTERS, I have moved ahead in the latest, hopefully final rewrite of my novel, “SWAMIS.” I will be posting Chapter Nine on Wednesday. Joey’s surf friends Gary and Roger call him from Swamis. Chulo had been killed there the night before.

Film at eleven.

Check it out.

NOW, I usually put something about copyrights with each post. This one, yeah, if you want to take it and say you wrote it for some or any reason, go ahead. OTHERWISE, see you out on the road.

After the (successful) Event

Posted on by under northwest surfing, real surfers

Oops; me, slightly before the Salish Sea Event. Portrait by CHIMACUM TIM(acum). Love the cropping; no visible baldness.

REGGIE SMART’S display. It’s not like Reggie disappeared into the crowd. He did have an RV (for sale) parked out on the street. Private tours, perhaps.

STEPHEN R. DAVIS’S wife, SIERRA, in the foreground, her husband’s painting on the back wall, with TUGBOAT BILL (red shirt, next to clam wood and, damn, I have some photos- I’ll put them in on Wednesday). ADAM ‘WIPEOUT’ JAMES is in the middle of the frame, talking story with JEFFRY VAUGHN. A couple of paintings by JESSE JOSHUA (I substitute Merle for his middle name, after the bluegrass musician, so I can remember it) WATSON are visible on the wall to the right. I didn’t take any photos, so I’m using shots by others. Oh, and the young VIOLINIST (REBECCA, I think) who played her heart out and was, mostly ignored. Good job, hope she was compensated. She is, incidentally, also involved in a young musician’s workshop that is connected with the OLYMPIC MUSIC FESTIVAL, which, coincidentally, my daughter, DRUCILLA, works for.

CHRISTIAN COXEN in the very foreground, NAM SIU beyond him, and one of my illustrations projected onto the screen. My daughter, DRU (Drucilla- I only have one daughter), set up my presentation, for which I thanked her almost enough times, and also set up slide shows from thumb drives for REGGIE, photographer DOUGLAS FIR (name de art, from his middle name, Christopher- forgot his last name), and did a little assist for the presentation for TIM NOLAN.

DRU and I (I’m in the Hawaiian shirt I wore to the other two events, probably was wearing for the Zoom event during Covid, and never otherwise wear) semi-hiding out next to NAM SIU’S display when I was supposed to be speaking. Too many people. I did speak later when a woman from Port Townsend, who I don’t know, but who knew so many people I have worked for, semi-shamed me (and semi-complimented me, saying I am [somewhat] famous for talking, talking, talking) into speaking to a smaller crowd.

TIM NOLAN speaking after I did. The crowd is all squeezed into this half of the big room, and, according to ADAM, paying rapt attention to two elder dudes. Yes, well received.

THE FOUR people who claim some stake in the board (bottom shown here, top equally fantastic)-Librarian/ripper KEITH DARROCK (who put the board back together and did some refining of the shape after he SHORTBOARD AARON, CHRIS EARDLY, and maybe JOEL CARBON tried to ride it); realtor/ripper JOEL CARBON (who was given the board with the thought being to sacrifice it on the Summer solstice, last and then this year), me (I finished the sanding, stained and painted and varnished it with what Keith now calls ‘leftover paint,’ all in what he now calls ‘spare time.’) and ADAM JAMES, who cut down the cedar tree, took the slam (and maybe other slabs- it was originally going to be a coffee table) to Seattle to be milled, spent time (spare?) shaping the board, attaching fins.

Unseen in the photo; our lawyers. SO, during the EVENT, a woman came up to Adam and asked what the board might be sold for (she may have offered $250- accounts vary). Adam told her she’d have to ask ERWIN. I said, quickly (and my imagined value on the board went up with every coat of varnish and/or paint, and even more with every compliment), “three thousand dollars.” She said, “Oh, but I’m a local.” Okay. “Actually, I’m from Washington… DC.” “Thirty-five hundred.” She didn’t write a check.

There has been discussion on what to do with the board. Keith said, “If she’d offered a thousand, you would have take it.” Yes. Probably, and then sort out who owns what percentage. But she didn’t. The board will be at the PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY for a while. IF IT COULD BE auctioned off for a decent amount of money for some charity, I am pretty sure the stakeholders would be pleased. Sort of.

MEANWHILE, if you absolutely need It, and are willing to pay the three grand, contact Keith at the library. I sort of trust him, though I once gave him a board (5’9″ BIC) he was supposed to pass on to MIKE NORMAN as partial payment for finishing the shaping on and glassing a board for me; short version, Mike never got around to shaping the board, CHRIS BAUER would have (if he didn’t put his name on it), I shaped and glassed and painted the board, and when I asked Keith what happened to the Bic, he said he sold it. “WHAT?” “Well, a guy wanted it, and I did give you some plywood.” “Oh.” Jeez, it was leftover plywood Keith gave me in his spare time.

HEY, check out realsurfers on Wednesday. I’ll have some photos on the specialty wood TUGBOAT BILL brought to the Event. And more. To all those who attended the EVENT, mucho thanks. Great fun, no backpaddling.

Almost This and Almost That

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MORE NEXT SUNDAY.

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

Reggie Smart Art

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, surf art

If I had to choose just one image from those Reggie sent me, it would probably be the tattoo on, like, a live person. I’ve known Reggie a while, worked with him a lot, surfed with him many times, and he is still kind of an enigma to me. He always has a quick answer to anything rude or sarcastic I’ve ever said to him, and his self-identifying stories (and I’m not challenging them; sure, maybe he was named after a dealer on Third and Broadway [hope I got that right]) have a sort of (effective) shock value to me, someone who considers himself worldly.

Proud enough of his Irish genes to have a big “Ireland” tattoo on his body, Reggie’s forebears must have included some Leprechauns, and (yes, I looked this up) maybe a Kelpie (known for luring others into the water and the out-surfing them) or two. Reggie has this habit of showing up at my job sites and, more worthy of not here, at surf spots when I’m there. Sometimes we both actually score. I have been trying to not greet his paddling into the lineup with a “Fuck you, Reggie!” and/or a flip-off, single or double.

FRIENDLY GESTURE, I insist. BUT, Reggie has also filmed me on his phone, then, through super clever editing, made something amusing or funny for his many instagram followers. Evidently the secrecy part is crucial. He may refer to me as “Erwhistle,” something like that, but when another surfer in a parking lot referred to me by that name, I did resist sharing the FRIENDLY GESTURE with him. “Yeah; friend of Reggie’s, huh?”

SO, without further commentary, here are some selections of REGGIE SMART ART:

OKAY, so, um, not sure who this is, or what story the images selected tells, but I am pretty sure it isn’t Reggie. One of the nicknames earned through a careful diet (ask him, I’m obviously on a different regimen- vitamins and Oreos) is Reggie Good-Abs. No offense to this guy. ALSO, remember Reggie’s original art is copyright protected.

I do plan on having new posts on Sundays. I do plan on having other artists represented. TWO WEEKS AGO I did the once-only thing of texting everyone on my smart phone’s contact list with a message about TIM NOLAN’S artwork. It worked pretty well, hit-wise. LAST WEEK I featured NAM SIU. I have received a lot of text feedback. One recent one was, “DIGGING THE NEW ART.” I texted back, “What about the old (like, mine) art?” No response. YET.

NOW, I WILL ALMOST DEFINITELY add some of my art, as well as some recent outtakes from “SWAMIS” sometime this week. OKAY, Wednesday; let’s shoot for that. I am posting this one early, and remember, you can just scroll down… down, down, old art.

OH, AND if you see Reggie and can’t help but give him a FRIENDLY GESTURE, you might expect a response like, “Oh, you saw my stuff on Erwhistle’s site, huh?”

Tim Nolan and the Color and the Magic

Posted on by under northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, SUP surfing, surf art

Tim Nolan, legendary boat designer and surfer/paddler/explorer of the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the world, just returned from another adventure. A naval architect by trade, dealing with exact measurements, he says, “After all these years, I gave myself permission to do something artistic.”

It seems reasonable to point out that boats, like surfboards, are not all straight lines. It takes curve to flow in the water. No matter how precise and exact the measurements are, it takes an artist to even visualize what might work in waves and wind and chop. In the end, a perfect board or a perfect boat, or a perfect painting, or a perfect ride looks… simple.

SIMPLE? No. Accurate. Correct. Right, obviously right.

So, with permission, Tim moved his rapidograph pen (the modern version, not the clog-o-matic version used by artists such as RICK GRIFFIN, who, incidentally, went to the same high school as Tim, and, not incidentally, was a major influence on me and any other person who decided to do cartoons and cross-hatch pen-and-ink from the mid-sixties on) to water color paper. With simple-but-defining lines and washes of color, Tim found some MAGIC.

So much of what we seek as surfers is trying to recapture or recreated some perfect moment from our past. If you have, as I do, some memory of a wave so clear that it was transparent… well, Tim captured it.

It’s all about the lighting, the shimmer, the sheen.

TIM NOLAN, backlit, perfectly-positioned.

Photo taken at a Baja point break by Bryce Evans of Seaside, Oregon, This image and the images of art works by Tim Nolan are protected by copyright and used on realsurfers.net with permission.

Thanks, Tim. I can’t stop myself from mentioning that when I met Tim, years ago, when he was so much older than I was (evidently he stopped counting birthdays), he said my best surfing experiences were still to come. In our most recent conversation he said, “If anyone had told me I’d be getting the best waves of my life at my age…” Yeah, I believe you.