Category Archives: old surfers

Dogs and Blue Devils, and Another Poem

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, classic surfboards, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, writings of Erwin Dence

If I say I’m easily distracted, it would be… wait a minute… What? Oh. Yeah, so I was trying to get a painting job done in the few hours in which it is reasonable to do so, when this guy walks by, notices I’m wearing a HOBIE hoodie that I shouldn’t have been wearing, one that already had too much paint on it, and asks if it’s, like, old. “A couple of years. Why?” “Oh. I used to have a Hobie.” “Uh huh.” NOW, I am always ready to make connections between people I’m talking with and surfing, so I go into a spiel about how I currently ride a Hobie, and my first board, actually my sister, Suellen’s, board, was a Hobie. 9’4″ stock model, purchased in 1964 from John Amsterdam and… I could go on, though I really had to get bak to work.

It turns out the man is JOHN HOLM. He asked me if I went to the most recent SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT. *”Yeah. I was one of the organizers. I did the poster.” It turns out that John had artwork on display and may or may not have given a presentation that I must have missed. “Did you get a lanyard?” “I did.” “My daughter made those.” “Oh.” I asked him if he remembered another older surfer, TIM NOLAN. “Yeah, the guy in the movie.” “No, that was me.” “Oh. Okay. You’re Erwin.” “Yes.” “I bought one of your t shirts, an Original Erwin.” “Thank you, John.”

John Holm was in advertising in Los Angeles, and did have a humorous story of how he had an filmed commercial he wanted to sell to an ad agency. “It’s called a ‘reel.'” NOW, there was, about this time, a famous porn star named JOHNNY ‘THE WAD’ HOLMES, and when John Holmes went to the agency, he wondered what the response was when it was announced that he was there to show them his reel.

*The quotes are more like paraphrasing. Obviously it’s difficult for people in their seventies to remember things exactly. I did remember that I always forget to take photos.

THERE MAY exist, somewhere, a photo of the house I grew up in on DEBBY STREET in Fallbrook, California, 20 miles as the road bends, to the nearest surf. The photo has most if not all of the 13 surfboards I and my family owned at one time.

Because I was raised as a Seventh Day Adventist, surfing on the Sabbath was kind of a sin. Too much fun, perhaps. SO, ONE SATURDAY, my father and I had to go home to, I don’t remember, pick up a side dish for a potluck or something, and there were two JEHOVAH WITNESS dudes, young guys on their mission, dressed, oddly, similarly to my dad and I, white shirts, ties, no coats. “Not interested.” “Oh. Okay. You have a lot of boards.” “Want to buy one?”

Five minutes later they were tying a well-thrashed board to the top of their car. It would have been pretty hypocritical of us to criticize the missionaries when we were selling a board on the Sabbath. Then again, one person’t hypocrisy is another’s fifteen bucks. Maybe more. I don’t remember, AND I didn’t get the money.

f you don’t have space on your living room walls to hang some classic surfboards, decorating your compound seems like a reasonable alternative. This is a friend of mine’s gated, protected version. I can speak from experience, BEWARE OF THE DOGS!

THIS IS ADAM WIPEOUT JAMES and JEN (Adam didn’t want to use her last name without her permission) at a secret surf adjacent campground near Neah Bay. There was a WARM CURRENT retreat last weekend, and because Jen is a dog groomer, people call her with dogs ready to be rescued. She tries to find homes for the obviously delightful and loveable furballs.

ADAM WIPEOUT with his new adorable and loveable furball. The dog’s name, in the language of the MAKAH tribe, evidently means ‘cow.’ Not sure why, but the dog’s nicckname, one that will probably stick, is PEACHES.

Adam is shown in his normal position, on the phone. In this case, over at my house in an attempt to save my VOLVO after it overheated, Adam is wrapping up a convo (note the hip talk) on another Oyster farmer’s problems. This knowledge and willingness to share his expertise is, no doubt, a part of the reason for the success of my neighbors down the Hood Canal, the HAMA HAMA OYSTER COMPANY.

As far as whether going through the steps to use BLUE DEVIL have been successful… I’ll get back to you on that. The oil, which was the color of chocolate milk with a lot of milk, after the process of draining it, changing the filter, adding the Blue Devil, running the car for an hour, changing the oil again running it some more, changing it a third time, is the proper color. STILL, with the engine not overheating, not using water, the oil staying the proper color, but with some steam still happening, we might do another runthrough.

AGAIN, THANKS ADAM.

Next time you’re cruising SURF ROUTE 101, stop in at Hama Hama. Maybe you’ll get some fresh seafood or some delicious soup from another surfer, ‘SOUPY DAN.’

BECAUSE I’m pushing my song/poetry writing, here is another one; MAY AS WELL RAIN.

The winds that move the clouds just keep on blowing, and the temperature keeps falling by degrees, it takes everything I’ve got to keep on going, and I’s swaying like a poplar in the breeze, and the wind can chill the blood right in your veins; it may as well rain, it may as well rain, it may as well rain.

It’s been forty days and forty nights I’ve wandered, and I’ve gone from place to place and town to town, I keep thinking ’bout the love she and I squandered, as I pick my lead feet up and lay them down, and I feel like I’ve been circling the drain; it may as well rain, it may as well rain, it may as well rain.

Now the thunder claps and rolls it’s getting nearer, all the power lines are hanging by a thread, and I thought that in the distance I could hear her, no, it’s the echo of the last words that she said; lightning strikes a twisting, turning weathervane; it may as well rain, it may as well rain, it may as well rain.

Let the heavens rip wide open and the rain come pouring down, thunder fills the streets and alleys of this wicked little town, and I’m clinging to a lamppost that’s cememted in the ground; and if I stay here much longer I know I will surely drown.

If it rains it might blow over by the morning; there’ll be rainbows and the sun just peeking through; I let this whole storm kind of hit me without warning; it takes more than sun to cure these kind of blues; water’s not enough to wash away these blues; it may as well rain, it may as well rain, it may as well rain.

As always, thanks for checking out realsurfers. As always, hoping you get some waves. And, yes, everything in today’s post is protected by copyright. All rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

NOTE: I went to see “A COMPLETE UNKNOWN” with my daughter Dru the other day. SInce everyone else has reviewed the movie, some even more DYLAN fanatics/followers than I am, I’m going to voice my opinion on WEDNESDAY. Plus, hopefully, some good news on the VOLVO and on “SWAMIS.”

Fast Eddie, Another Full Moon, A Private Conversation

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, aggressive surfers, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf stories, surfing, surfing novels, writings of Erwin Dence

Fast EDDIE ROTHMAN giving a gnarled finger welcome to all the North Shore visitors.

THE TIME DIFFERENCE between the Olympic Peninsula’s North Shore and Hawaii’s gave me a couple of extra opportunities to watch the 2025 DA HUI BACKDOOR SHOOTOUT. YouTube gave ma a chance to watch all the best rides without having to listen to the commentary, though the upside of long heats with few waves ridden was the chance to mind surf a few. “No, double-up closeout; I’d have…”

The truth is I wouldn’t have even attempted the paddle out on most, okay, any of the days (maybe the first day with the SUPers). I got home on the last day of the contest just in time to watch, with some of cleanest conditions and the most waves ridden per heat, Fast Eddie Rothman chat it up about… okay, rant it up about how the indigenous Hawaiians (not that he is actually one of these) can’t afford the $5,000 a month rent, and how the ruling gentry have done whatever they could to keep the DaHui contest from happening. And Fast Eddie had other complaints, all delivered with a growl and the kind of tough, thugish, grammatically strained manner that would give him the part in any prison yard scene, movie version, and, I would guess, real life version. I have every reason to believe he’s as tough as he seems. Legendary.

The Eddie remarks came after two of the contest commentators explained how the ‘BLACK SHORTS’ group of lineup regulators came to be, why localism, keeping crowds of disrespecting interlopers at bay (rather than in the way, dropping in, being kooky) is, if not, you know, good; it is necessary to allow those lucky enough to be locals, skilled enough to drop in under the lip… Shit; I just wanted to see some surfing.

Result-wise, Eddie’s middle son, KOA, whose “THIS IS LIVIN'” Videos I do, generally, watch, is this year’s individual winner. I’m not arguing. I might have gone CLAY MARZO, whether or not he completed all of the crazy in-the-barrel moves, or, really, anyone who competed.

It isn’t fear, exactly, that has kept me from going to Hawaii. Fear of disappointment, perhaps, after a lifetime of imagining; BUT, if I do go, I’m thinking I should buy some DaHui black trunks, a Florence rashguard (with hood), the most fucked-up looking car and board I can find, and, of course, show so much respect to the locals that someone might just…

Speaking of imagining… I have been working on my epic novel, “SWAMIS” for a long time. If surfing has always been the ‘other woman’ in my relationship with TRISH, my obsession with the manuscript, and with my other writing and drawing projects is the ‘other other woman.’ I am supposed to be working on what I can’t call remodeling our house; it’s more like saving it. Time and money. “When I sell my novel,” I say. Trish, with an annoying habit of being honest, said, “Yeah; we’ll be burying you with that —-ping novel.” She was laughing when she said it, and I only bleeped the adjective out because I wouldn’t want you thinking she ever fucking talks that way, And, anyway, if she does, on rare occasion, she will say she learned it from me. TRUE.

ANOTHER FULL MOON. That’s Archie Endo’s board stuck in the blackberries. Yes, I borrowed the fin. Small waves and big rocks.

In my continuing effort to establish myself as a lyricist (wow, sounds as pretentious as poet or songwriter), I am spending too much of the time I could be doing home repair writing new materiall and organizing some of the pieces I’ve written, the net result to be, eventually, a book, with illustrations. And, yes, it might be available before “Swamis.”

It was a PRIVATE CONVERSATION, words I was not yet meant to hear; thought I’d surprise you at the station, couldn’t have know that I was near,

Your words and tears shared with a stranger, someone you’ve met along the line; I should have know this was the dTanger, if I did not, the fault is mine.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry; I don’t know what to say.

“Time apart,” you said, “Brings sorrow,” now, I could barely hear your voice, you said that “Love’s something we borrow,” and “Freedom’s such a frightening choice,

You spoke of hopes and disappointments, small victories, great tragedies; in all the time we’ve been together, you’ve never disappointed me.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry; I don’t know what to say.

I saw the touch, but at a distance; saw how your fingers were entwined; you didn’t put up much resistance, offered a kiss you did decline.

And, yes, I ran out of the station; this is my last apology; you should need no more explanation, perhaps we’ve set each other free.

But that’s another conversation, a very frightening conversation; A PRIVATE CONVERSATION.

I am trying to keep track of the songs/poems I’ve posted on realsurfers. If this is a rerun; I’m sorry. SO, COPYRIGHT-wise, the photo of Fast Eddie seems to have several source credits. It’s not mine. The other stuff is. All rights reserved. Thanks, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

AS ALWAYS, thanks for checking out realsurfers. Good luck finding some uncrowded and awesome waves. SUNDAY, yeah, more; probably not before 10am

Stories, Epiphanies, Shoot-Outs, Poem de Jour…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Competitive surfing,, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, surf art, surf fiction, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing novels, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

… Oh, and all respect to Bethany Hamilton. Posting this was delayed a bit because I HAD to watch the highlights from the first day of the DA HUI BACKDOOR SHOOTOUT. I also had to have the live stream on the big screen all day yesterday. Ten plus minutes and pretty much every wave actually ridden was on the video.

It is pretty easy to criticize surfers for not catching more, or any, waves, but if you really put yourself in the water… Really? Almost every wave coming in, this visible from every camera angle, was a double-up, one swell overtaking another; and this isn’t factoring in backwash. So, couch hero, if you make the beyond vertical takeoff, get through a spitting barrel, you’re almost certainly facing a killer closeout section at mach speed.

But yes, I did question how much time I was spending watching, hoping someone would just GO! Someone who did was BETHANY HAMILTON! We’ve all followed her since her shark attack, a teenage girl with a bit of a lisp, almost worn out by the attention and constant press coverage before I ever saw an interview. Then the movie and the books and, wait, four kids. Four kids? So, proper respect.

NOTE to self: Never allow yourself to be photographed with two skinny guys. RANDALL, fat and old painter obviously hiding something under his sweatshirt, and QUINN.

Here’s the story of why I’m willing to post this now: I emailed holiday (Dead zone for painters) greetings/reminders that I’m still alive and working to my clients, and sent texts to all the surfers on my stealth phone contact list. I do appreciate all the responses, and, oddly, I didn’t get any snarky ones. Quinn, a reformed (as in former, as in non-practicing) Attorney, sent this one: “Back at you– many curves on the page and carves on the sea.”

NOW, I am as competitive as anyone, cleverness-wise, but I couldn’t come up with anything to compete, EXCEPT that, in conversations with Quinn, I did ask him why he no longer practices law. His explanation is that attorneys are, basically, agents, and agents are… “Oh, I get it, like, you know, gophers.” “Yes.” “Or maybe, to be crass…” “Yes.”

I did tell Quinn, as a “Swamis” update, that I sent submissions to a group of agents in December, and was hoping for a Christmas, then New Year’s miracle, a positive respose. My text, “Waiting.” Quinn’s, “Maybe you’ll get it for epiphany.”

OKAY. So, Trish and I both googled epiphany- The religious celebration “Commemorates the manifistation of Christ to the Gentiles as represented by the Magi,” is held, probably, today, officially, tomorrow. Hopefully, no one draws some comparison with anything political. No. Don’t.

The other definition is: “A moment of sudden realization or insight.”

HERE’S MINE, something that came to me when, after another series of dreams, little movies, I woke up an hour before I intended to: People have stories. People want to tell their stories. IF someone is willing to tell me a story that is important to them, I should be willing to listen. AND, people don’t always believe this; I do.

                                                 THIS FAR OUT

This far out, the sky, horizon to horizon, Can be one otherwise colorless shade of metallic grey, Platinum or pewter or steel or chrome or lead, Polished or pitted, from almost white to darkest black.

This far out, the wind-scarred dome can be broken, lightning torn, Here thunder cracks and rolls, cold laughter, This far out I can’t recall what it was that I was after.

This far out, I’ve heard stories, Of a light so bright that the blind can see, Of a sight in the sky like glass on fire, Of a tearing of the shroud, A glimpse of heaven reserved, we’re told, for the drowning and the dying. Some claim to have survived, returned, changed, no doubt, And some were, clearly, lying, Adrift, alone, I’m wondering How I got here, this far out.

This far out, the sea and sky can merge, Indistinguishable, A swirling battlefield, force against force, chaos Seeking direction to some stony, high-cliffed shore, Some distant, secret harbor.

This far out it makes no difference, If I scream or cry or wail, The only echoes are the questions, Accusations whispered by the waves, Waves that whish or scrape or crack or roar, Or scream out threats and curses, “What are you looking for?”

Even in the calmest seas, the skies almost transparent, Colors blended by the smooth, broad strokes of the cleanest brush, There’s a constant sound, subtle, in the silence, Bubbling from the deep, exploding on the surface, Mistaken, easily, for laughter, This far out I can’t recall what it was that I was after.

I am trying to add more poetry to my portfolio, which includes a collection of songs and poem I copyrighted a few years ago under the title, “LOVE SONGS FOR CYNICS.” As part of this plan, I am working on doing an illustration for each selected piece. If I do them in black and white; less expensive. This is the illustration for this poem, my most recent. I worked on it, writing, saving, rewriting, repeating the procedure. I made changes from what I thought was a complete version. I do not promise to not make further changes.

All original works on realsurfers.net are protected by copyright. Thank you for respecting that.

Meanwhile, if you find some waves, surf ’em.

The Very Delayed Eddie Swell, New Illustrations

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, hipster surfers, northwest surfing, old surfers, perfect waves, real surfers, Seattle surfers, surf adventures, surf art, surf fiction, surf novels, surf satire, surf stories, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing illustrations, surfing in Washington State, surfing novels, surfing Swamis, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

“Dark Cutback”- Pen and Ink, “Come In”- Pencil, pen and ink

                  Meanwhile, on a Strait Far Away…

It was the day before Christmas and all along the Strait, Surfers were sick of the Eddie Swell wait,

And the planning and loading in the dark of the night, All frothed-up and hoping you’d hit it just right,

Get through holiday traffic and ferry lines long, Just to find out the forecasters got it all wrong,

No six to eight-foot faces, with stiff offshore winds, But side chop and flatness, too many surf friends,

All those kooks who got wetsuits and leashes as gifts, And promised pure awesomeness, maybe, when the tide shifts,

Or the currents reset, or the stars realign, Which they haven’t done yet, so you’ll have to resign Yourself to some chilling with the parking lot crew, Having artisan breakfasts and customized brew,

With the burnouts and geezers who still dream of the past, With retired accountants who’ve heard surfing’s a blast, With newbies who ruled in the surf camp’s real water lessons, Who count the wave pool rides as real surfing sessions,

With the hodads and show dads and their sons and their daughters, Influencers and surf tourists who don’t get in the waters,

Cell phones at the ready, all waiting for action, They’ll be hooting and filming, with a deep satisfaction,

Witness to butt-hurt back-paddlers, shoulder-hoppers, and snakers, Heroes and villains, GoPro-ers and fakers, Buzzed-out dudes blowing takeoffs, laughing, pearling and falling, Occasional barrels and turns worth recalling.

They’ll soon be Youtubing a post of their Christmas surf strike, So hit the “subscribe” button, comment, and like,

And save it, repost it, it is something to share, When you watch it again, it’s as if you were there.

Yes, I hope you got waves, I did, too, and in the best Christmas spirit, If you have a great story, I would so love to hear it,

The next time we’re together, facing a skunking, so tragic, You can tell me the tale of your holiday magic.

“You should have been there, Dude; you would have loved it.” “You could have called me.” “You should have known. Are you angry?” “No. It’s just surfing, man; almost all of the magic is… well, you know.”

Color versions, and I slipped in a couple of photos from an ultra fickle spot where rideable waves are mostly imagined. Yes, that’s pretty much every spot on the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

I HAVE HEARD a couple of stories of the usual situations that occur with too many surfers and not enough waves; confrontations that went way farther than they should have. They are not my stories, and, although I LOVE to hear them, AND retell them, if they’re good enough, you will hear them eventually. Maybe from me, but not here. What I will say is, “That wave is gone.”

NEXT.

This is as true when the story is of epic, magical, all-time, best-ever stories. Your joyful stories, perfect moments in an imperfect world; the ones that make you smile; those are the ones to to savor; those are the images to save, to replay.

The illustrations are protected by copyright, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

OH, AND I am, of course, still polishing my novel, “Swamis,” and I’m working on a piece for SUNDAY on the LAWS OF ETIQUETTE. Look for it. In the meanwhile, there are a lot of YouTube videos of super crowds at Swamis and elsewhere. Yeah, crowds.

Eddie, Surfline, Waves, Wind Direction, Day After the Solstice, Christmas Greetings, and More

Posted on by under Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf contests, surf culture, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, surfing Westport Washington, writings of Erwin Dence

I have the EDDIE on the big screen in the living room. LIVE!

I HAVE a separate stream on my tablet, and I’ll probably (as in definitely) look for another stream to watch on the laptop after I post this. If NATHAN FLORENCE repeats the ‘you’re part of the crew’ type coverage he had for the PIPE MASTERS, yes, big screen.

A couple of questions need to be answered about the event: Why don’t those surfers go for the inside waves? Is Waimea just a big drop with no wall? Can I surf those waves? Should some of those free surfers even be out there, fancy vests and all?

They’re all afraid of getting caught inside of the forecasted forty foot closeouts. Yes, mostly drop in with four or five others and get covered by the soup, maybe getting picked up by one of those jet skies; either way you’re a hero for even making it out. Yes, or maybe, or maybe in my younger days, or no. I saw some raw footage Friday, yesterday (SOLSTICE- today’s one second longer, daylight-wise), and I watched some coverage of JAWS and MAVERICK’S, and, and, and… for as absolutely horrifyingly frightening PIPELINE was, these deep channel peaks seemed, almost, doable.

Something else about JAWS: There were six or seven paddle-in surfers and SO many ski-ins. Though the assisted surfers could get in so much earlier, the wakes made it SO much choppier than it would have been.

SO, WHY am I watching TV rather than searching the STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA for waves I can actually ride? Answer; sometimes SURFLINE and other forecast sites get it wrong. Here’s one thing: The east wind is not offshore. Maybe it is on the coast, though a south wind… usually bad. OKAY, now I feel wrong for giving that hint. Just trying to save someone some time.

HEY, I’m way too distracted to continue right now. PERHAPS it’s because I really should just mute the over-enthusiastic commentator on SURFERS OF HAWAII, WAIMEA DANNY, who, annoyingly, keeps pimping for donations.

PLEASE have a great HOLIDAY SEASON! I will have a bigger post on Christmas Eve. Wednesday. And, yeah, maybe we’ll see each other on the road, on the beach, not believing Surfline but out anyway.

Dream Journal, Surfer’s Journal, “Is that Reggie?”

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, hipster surfers, mind surfing, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing, surfing art, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

CHRIS EARDLEY texted me this photo with the caption, “Is this Reggie on my bag of Inca Corn Snacks?” “Definitely Reggie, switch stance.” It does resemble REGGIE SMART on the bag of hipster-friendly chips (available on Amazon and I don’t know where else. Co-Op, maybe). Reggie, in addition to being a licensed painting contractor, has rented a space in Port Townsend and is available for your tattooing needs. I know he’s on social media.

CHRISTMAS is coming, and I did my yearly assist in decorating DRU’S house in Port Gamble. Because the town is so, let’s say, quaint, decorating for the various seasons and for whatever other reasons is sort of mandatory. Dru works part time at WISH, a wonderful card and gift shop over by the haunted house and the other vintage attractions. Check it out on your way to or from the Hood Canal Bridge or the Kingston Ferry.

It’s a joke between TRISH and Dru and I that, in movies, when there’s a moon, “It’s always a full moon.” I took this shot over my house last night. Trees could have been in the photo, but were not. In the ‘should have taken a photo’ category- After midnight, when the moon was scientifically at it’s fullest, I looked up in the living room skylight, and the moon was visible through the bare branches of a vine maple. I opened my wallet and did the pagan chant that, once I started doing it, has become as mandatory as any ritual, and as such, must be followed religiously. “Oh moon, beautiful moon; fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” MAYBE the ‘er part is some American-ish bastardization, but, hey, that’s how I leart it.

SWAMIS TO “SWAMIS”- While I am waiting for responses from literary agents, I have decided that I should submit something to “SURFER’S JOURNAL.” Before it all hits the big time, my favorite surviving surf-centric magazine could have something on my struggle to capture the magic of a particular time and place through fiction so cutting edge that… Yeah, and art-wise, my stuff, I can hopefully convince them, should grace the magazine’s slick pages.

To that end, I am super editing my submission; as in, I’ve already cut out more than I’m keeping in. OH AND I’m going through my final final version of the manuscript. One more time. A POLISH as they say in the biz. Shit, I want it ready to be glassed and polished.

MEANWHILE, because it’s off off season for painters and the darkest time of the year, I’ve been sleeping more, which mean dreaming more. Not all are worth keeping track of or even attempting to remember, even fewer worthy of trying to figure out some sort of meaning. SO, Here’s:

                                    A Series of Dreams before Christmas

Second dream first- I was surfing, dropping into a left, turning hard off the bottom, going down the line. You know the angle; mine; close to the wall, the creases of the wave threatening, folding; and I’m climbing, too high, dropping, side-slipping, redirecting, racing into the glare.

Suddenly, dream time wise, I’m trying to get dressed, hurriedly, because I’m supposed to be somewhere, somewhere else. I pull on a t shirt with some sort of logo on it. I say, “I don’t work there.” I may add, “Anymore.” Dream talk. I put the shirt on anyway and look down several wide marble stairs. Almost landings. And, yes, marble, everything is marble, white with a very light green tinge. Or the greenness could be because there’s glass to the right, water behind it. An aquarium, perhaps, and possibly connected to a wave pool. Makes sense. Dream sense. Another view of surfers and waves. No, I didn’t see dolphins pressing close to the glass. I can imagine them, but I won’t add them as if they were there.

There is a woman sort of sprawled on the lowest stair, long black hair disappearing in all black clothing. All I can really see is her right hand and her face, in profile, very white, as I drop down and closer. Her reflection is on the glass and the walls between us. The walls, perhaps, are tiles, shiny, like the tile work in the Paris subways, but rectangular, horizontal.

“Did you see my ride?” Because the woman doesn’t answer I add, “I thought it was pretty good. My bottom turn was…” No answer. Her head turns a bit more toward me. “I figured, you probably don’t surf, so you might be…”

“Why do you think I don’t surf?”

“You’re very white.”

“Oh?”

“I mean, the sun isn’t… always…”

“Healthy? No. Not always.” The woman turns back toward the glass.

I notice there’s an above and a below the waterline. The last push of a wave hits the glass, pushing up above our ceiling.  The woman seems to smile as she watches the bubbles rising and dissipating into an unseen sky, some of the greenness transferred to her face.

“I did see your ride. It was… from the perspective of a very white non-surfer, not as good as you probably thought, but… if you’re happy with it…” She turned toward me again. “Do you work there?”

I looked down at the shirt. “No.”

Different scene, same dream- It’s still very bright, but I’m driving in some flat, open country. Big windshield. Truck, I’m dream thinking. And I’m late. Probably the surfing. I hard turn into a driveway. No grass, no trees. A house. Covered porch all the way across the front. Imagine Australian Outback. Dust flies as I jump out of the vehicle. Trish appears at the front door, her hands on the opposite arms.

“I’m late,” I say, breathlessly.

“Oh?”

Oh? I feel in my back right pocket. I pull out a cell phone. “Oh.”

“If I were worried, I’d have called you. You know that, right?”

“Right.”

“Where’d you get that shirt?”

GOOD LUCK on finding and surfing some memorable waves. STAY WARM! Remember all original material in realsurfers.net is protected by copyright. All rights reserved by someone, my stuff by me, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

December 10th and The Play’s… it’s the Thing

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, how to draw a nearly nakd woman near the beach, in profile, with a towel, Melissa Lynch illustrations, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, Seattle surfers, surf novels, surfing, surfing art, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

Lorraine and Myrna Orbea after their first performance in “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever,” at the theatre in Port Gamble, pictured here with a couple of aunts and therir grandmother. Lorraine and Myrna are the children of Pete and Mollie, Mollie being, probably, the main reason Drucilla, daughter of Erwin and Trisha Dence, lives in the former mill town on one of the routes between Seattle and the Olympic Peninsula.

Two days after this performance, very well done, incidentally, production-wise, and, particularly, with amazing performances by all the kids, Adam Wipeout James and the Wipeout family cruised down Surf Route 101 to attend an off-Seattle performance of “The Nutcracker” in Shelton.

Yes, it’ community theater season. All of the Dence family members, also including sons James and Sean, participated in various projects in Quilcene (also on Surf Route 101) in the past. Everyone did pretty well. Sean could incredibly well, memorizing and delivering every line perfectly. I had great stage presence and a great deal of trouble remembering my lines.

It was great fun, but I only remember one line from the four or five plays we were in. “This must be the place…” Line. Trish, possibly a bit miffed because she was to play a male’s role (lack of male volunteer actors) asked the director, “So, what’s the deal? I’m supposed to play the Sheriff of Mulecock?

DECEMBER TENTH- I’ve told a few folks that this is the traditional end of paint projects for any given year. Not that I plan or want it to be; it’s just, over the thirty-four years or so that I’ve been out here “on the edge of the ledge” (another seemingly accidental line from Trish), I seem to run out of jobs like… yesterday.

December 10th is also my late sister Melissa’s birthday. She was the first of my three brothers, three sisters, and a half-sister to pass. She was my youngest sibling and, though it’s somehow wrong to say it, closest to me because she was an amazing artist. I continue to think of her whenever I attempt to draw or paint. She once asked me, “Do you want it fast or do you want it perfect?” “Both.” “Yeah, both would be nice.”

I sthought of her briefly yesterday when I was helping Dru hang Christmas lights and decorations. A couple of years ago Melissa and Jerome Lynch’s son, Fergus, was on hand for this task. He seemed to be amazed at how I was free-forming the lighting, this string here, that there. “What?” “Well, it’s… great. My mom would spend… days. Everything had to be precise. And you just…” “Yeah; I do. Just…”

Two works by MELISSA JOANNA MARIA MARLENA DENCE LYNCH. Melissa Jo. Our mother added the rest as a sort of lullaby.

A couple of nights ago I woke up with the lines, “You thought I forgot. I did not.” Middle of the night lines most often disappear. Because, while trying to sell my novel, “Swamis,” I’ve been concentrating a bit on poetry. Not that I’m a poet; more like songwriter, and I can pretty much promise that the words will change, I wrote this with my sister in mind, although it might also speak to loss of friends. Our father died around Christmas.

                                                      If I Thought I forgot

If I thought I forgot. I did not.

I could not, cannot, will not forget about you.

I have no desire to.

Of my memories gone, thrown out or abandoned,

Sun-dried into dust,  

Plowed under, half buried,

Dissolved in deep waters,  

Obscured by mildew or rust,

Illegible scraps

Caught in the brambles,

Too deep in the thicket,

Hidden,

Somewhere, in boxes and closets and drawers,

None are of you.

Some files are too disruptive,

Some memories too painful,

Grief and beauty overwhelming.

Still,

I save them close at hand,

Easily accessed.  

Still,

If I trip on some reminder,

Stumble across some image,

The tiniest clue,

Something that, for some reason, reminds me of you,

It all comes back,

Suddenly, painfully, beautifully.

So, no,

If I thought I forgot about you,

I did not.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers. I will have updates on my dead SUPER FUN CAR, a possible replacement surf rig, on waves and rides and gossip and rumor. SUNDAY. And please remember original works on realsurfers.net are protected by copyright, all rights reserved.

Good luck in you search. Focus on the trip as well as the destination. A full memory bank is all we really own.

Bomb Cyclone meets Atmospheric River meets…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels

I kind of forgot it’s Wednesday. I did say I was going to give an update on my attempts to sell my novel, “SWAMIS.” No, I’m not ready. I am waiting for feedback on my original query letter because, try as I may, though I can go on at length about each character and any and all of the plot points in the manuscript, it has proven extremely daunting to write one page that will convince an agent or publisher that he or she HAS to read it, buy it, print it. Still, I try.

Two illustrations by Scott Quirky (not his actual last name): “Heart of the Sun” and “Globular Raven,” though, he wrote, “They really actually have no names. I let the viewer see what they see..” Really and actually? Okay, I’m seeing…

I did just write a little essay in which a non-surfer has some sarcastic observations about how surfers can go on (or go off) about how awesome wave riding can be. I’ll save if for Sunday.

TODAY is the many-third anniversary of Trisha’s marriage ceremony. SO…

                       Gary and Roger were my closest surf friends. Roger started board surfing the summer I did, 1965. Gary started the next summer. By the time we were seniors, many others had tried surfing. Most didn’t stick with it for long. Though Roger lived closer to me, Gary offered to give me a ride home.

So, of course, my computer skills fail me. This is a ‘cut’ from “Swamis” I didn’t mean to ‘paste’ here. Inside scoop: Gary and Roger were my neighbors when I lived in Fallbrook. Their family had a bomb shelter; ours didn’t. The characters in the novel are actually based on my friends, Phillip Harper and Ray Hicks, though I kind of get confused in the writing as to which is which. I, sadly, lost contact with Phil years ago. I just spoke to Ray, who I give a lot of credit for getting me back into surfing, last night.

Okay. Out and Back.

                                    Rainy Days in Real Life

An old wives’ tale is that rainy day marriages last. Who better to know the truth of this? 

Paul Simon, married several times in real life, wrote: “We were married on a rainy day, the sky was yellow and the grass was gray; filled out some papers and we drove away; I do it for your love, I do it for your love.”

November is the rainiest month in the Great Northwest. We’re somewhere in the eye (or not) of a bomb cyclone/atmospheric river event, so, if you’re planning on getting hitched, hustle it up. Or consult the almanac and set a date.

It was raining on this day, November 10, 1971, when Trish, nineteen-years and eleven days old married me, twenty-years and almost three months old. We thought we were pretty grown up. Still do. We weren’t ‘that’ grown up. Still aren’t.

That any relationship can survive over time is genuinely amazing, A-maz-ing! People who haven’t met Trish want to meet her. Most often, when asked, it’s to see what kind of woman could possibly put up with me.

I already said ‘amazing,’ twice. So, ‘beyond amazing.’

Our daughter, Drucilla, asked me yesterday if I, notorious for not giving Trish gifts, was going to, perhaps, write a poem or something in honor of the occasion. “You mean, like, something new?”

I’m not sure what to write about someone who cries for no reason obvious to me; who refuses to cry when there is good reason; who might panic over some small thing but is strong and determined amid disasters; someone who is wise and decisive, rational in a situation, offering a solution, an attitude adjustment away from anger and frustration.

In all the big decisions we have made in our relationship, me arguing against most of them, Trish has rarely been wrong. All right, almost never. And yet, she has always had faith in me. Not blind faith. True faith. I’m still trying to make that a correct choice.

Here are a few lines from ‘Honey Days.’

“Is it love that gets us through the constant storms, is it love that gets us through that dark December? Love is love, but love can take so many forms; there’s love that’s felt and there is love that is remembered. Years have passed, endless rains, broken glass and empty trains, yet it’s our love that sustains through honey days… I remember.”    

I did write a verse for a song a while back, one verse in need of a chorus and two more verses. I very recently came up with a second verse. And no, the ‘honey’ thing, not a theme.

“Hold off on that sugar, Honey, I don’t want to die, I just need a taste of something sweet to get me by; Honey, you should know by now that I might never be, someone who’s as good for you as you have been for me.

I still can’t believe it, Honey, you have been so sweet; didn’t know I needed you to make my life complete; Honey there are universes dancing in your eyes; it’s not just that, it’s so much more that keeps me hypnotized.”

It is tempting to put other examples of Trish-inspired songs/poems. I have them. Julie, one of two lead characters in my novel, “Swamis,” is Trish-influenced. Definitely. Julie has that inner strength; she is intuitive, always seeking the truth, and able to sort through the bullshit to find it.

So, yeah, everything I do other than, perhaps, my ongoing affair with the other woman in our relationship, surfing, “I do it for your love.” And, not to think too much about this, but I did love surfing first. If Trish is, then, my mistress… Well, so be it.

This is actually before we got married; Trish seeming to be wondering what she could possibly see in me. I still have no answer.

Quick Reggie Smart Update: He and Jasmin and two kids are headed to Maui for a eight days, hoping, of course, to get some surf. I have to mention JASMIN because Reggie says she reads realsurfers, like, all the time. SO, thanks, Jasmin, and thank you for checking it out.

I should mention that the rights to Scott’s stuff are his. NEW STUFF ON SUNDAY! If you see some waves, get out there!

Memorable Surf Sessions, When and Why

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, old surfers, perfect waves, real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf culture, surf novels

The most recent full moon on the Salish Sea. Perfect evening for a paddle.

                                    Sessions Worthy of Remembrance

There are several things that can make a surf session memorable, memorable enough to last years: That time you surfed an often crowded spot alone; that special ride on an otherwise not-special day; that trip with a friend (or potential lover) or friends that you remember more for the friendship (or the movement from potential) than the time in the water; that time where the waves were solidly pumping and you were ripping at the very peak of your ability… and, and, and- yeah, those times.

Think of a spot you’ve surfed, once or many times. Or think of a friend you surf or have surfed with. Think of the music that was playing in the car or in your head. Think of fog, or sideshore winds, or dawn patrols, or skunkings, or the road to here or there, or where you ate on the way home from somewhere you did or didn’t find waves. Think of anything that leads you back to a magical adventure, or ride, or session.

Okay, why was one session, or one ride during the session memorable?

I can’t speak to the adrenalin and dopamine and endorphins, and whatever our bodies and minds create when we anticipate what could be, some fantasy session; and remember or imagine when you find that dream setup, and then you’re in it. If it takes some time, hours, even days, to come down from the high, it takes years before you are unable to bring the memory out of your vault.

You’ve felt it, clueless kook to wherever you are on your journey; the rare-but-there moments are what surfers live for, why surfers ride crappy waves and call it ‘practice.’ The waves are working, you got into the lineup, jockeyed or waited for position, you’re on the wave, committed, driving… and you’ll make the wave… or you won’t.

If you’re not surfing for the thrill of it, the magic of it, please, just take up another hobby.

A memorable session:

Mostly I remember being cold, getting out of the water at Grandview with the sun already down, silver lines on a silver platter. This session was memorable enough that it became part of the reason I started writing, “Inside Break,” the precursor to “Swamis.” It was a different take on my early surfing life, one not much different than any surfer who started before he or she could drive; riding with your parents or someone else’s, then begging older surfers to take you along.

Phillip Harper and I, possibly sophomores, got to go, after school in Fallbrook, with Bucky Davis and Phil’s sister, Trish (not my Trish- different Trish). Backseat. She was driving, headed to modeling school in Encinitas. They were, to me, the perfect surfer couple. Not that she surfed. Maybe she did later, years after that romance ended. Maybe. I tend to push things toward the romantic.

To me, having learned at Tamarack, with some trips to ruin real surfers waves at Pipes and Swamis, Grandview was a surf spot I knew about. I also knew I was not going to be welcomed by the locals and the older inlanders for whom it was their chosen North County spot. Phil, who had surfed there, told me.

Nevertheless, we were there and I was going to show Bucky… something. The waves were “Not good enough,” he said, “Not yet.” This was just before he pushed me into the washout that was the way down to the beach, long filled-in, replaced by a house and fence.

Before it glassed off (alternate title for ‘Inside Break,’ ‘Afternoon Glassoff’), Phil and I went out, only ones in the lineup. Bucky paddled out. We surfed. It got dark. I was bragging about my nose rides. “No,” Bucky said, but only later, Trish now driving, heater maxed out, “you… he, he kind of slides up to the nose. If you want to be a real surfer, you have to go foot over foot.”

“Yeah,” Phil said, “Foot over foot.” Real surfer. Yeah.

Hama Hama News- Adam “Wipeout” James got into a a group text sort of bemoaning that he had done a lot of driving, hadn’t scored great waves, BUT, good news, his son Emmet (Adam spelled it with one ‘t’, so I will also do so) got (may have said ‘bagged’) his first buck.

Congratulations! Adam has another son, Calvin. One is nicknamed ‘Boomer.’ I believe it’s Calvin. NOW, hunting and fishing and all that is kind of a deal down here on the Hood Canal section of SURF ROUTE 101; up there with first Bigfoot and/or UFO sightings; so I had to respond. I said I got it with a ’59 Chevy, but it was probably with a Toyota. Crushed front quarter panel. Dead dear. My older son, James, got his buck with a Buick; big ass Buick Trish pushed him to buy because it seemed safe. Deer over the windshield, James… safe.

CHIMACUM TIMACUM NEWS- For the second time ever, the last being ten years ago, Tim and I were in the water at the same time. I don’t think either of us burned the other. Next time…

“Swamis” NEWS- In looking for an agent, I wrote a query letter, sent it to several people whose judgment I trust to check out. THEN, panicked it wasn’t good enough, I started editing the hell out of it. THEN KEITH, after I told him to wait for a better version, said he liked it. SINCE I am not that stoked on the rewrites… yes, he can send it back, and then… I am not changing the first ten pages, and will post another chapter or sub-chapter on WEDNESDAY..

I’M NOT POLITICAL STUFF- I’m considering getting an alias. BUSTER WALLS came to mind because I wanted something that suggests but can’t seem to remember that term for the subversive, covert kind of sarcastic attack that I have often been accused of.

ANYWAY, I hope you find some waves, and if you don’t, hope you have a great time looking. Don’t steal my stuff. Thanks for reading.

Three Degrees of Skunk

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, mind surfing, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf culture, surf novels, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing Swamis, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

There is the no waves skunk; the wait for hours for waves to show up and then go out in waves that are or become way worse than the waves you could have ridden; and the show up with good waves but suffer some breakdown (ie; broken and lost fin) or run out of time before you can get out because you have to, HAVE TO LEAVE. We could add the times you just know it’s going off and you just cannot, this or that obligation, go, BUT you will hear about how awesome it was. Somehow being there and not surfing is more painful; what could have been for you and was for… them. Yeah, that’s petty. We all should be accustomed to this and not harbor resentment. Should. Jimbo and Buster got waves, supposedly, allegedly ‘All time, Epic, etc.’ You were working on your resume, trying to make yourself seem a bit more regime-friendly. Worth it.

                  Right Decisions, Wrong Decisions, Indecision, and/or Three  Degrees of Skunk

“Time and tide wait for no man.” I don’t know who to credit the quote to, and frankly, I’m not motivated enough to even try to look it up. Here’s another quote, from me, probably said earlier, possibly better, by someone else: “There are good and bad decisions; sometimes the worst decision is indecision.”

I have missed more waves through indecision than bad decisions. I could trade this possible aphorism, as it relates to my most recent attempt at finding and riding waves to, “Always listen to Trish,” and/or “Trish is almost always right.”

Yesterday was my wife’s birthday. Always a year and a bit behind me, age-wise, always ahead of me, decision-wise. YES, Trish knew the election was getting blown out while I still  held on to some desperate belief that even people I am going to say are fooled rather than that they are fools might vote self-interest over grievance, YES, Trish said I shouldn’t agree to go with ADAM “WIPEOUT’ JAMES if he had to get back to HamaHama by 11 am. YES, Trish did say, when I got home at 10am, that I should just go back out. YES, Trish was right.

The, let me see, 1971… 2024… 53rd wedding anniversary (I was 20, Trish was 19 years and eleven days old) is coming up; you’d think I’d believe her by now.

I am extremely bad at giving presents. To anyone. If giving a compliment on, say, a surfer’s, even a friend’s ride or style, is a sort of gift; I’m stingy enough to never give false praise. RUDE SARCASM, yes, though, since you should believe Trish, she says… well, a lot; all of it honest. “You always try to be cool. Give it up!”  This was when we were first dating; still holds up. “You say you’re just joking. No, you almost always mean it.” Okay. “You never listen.” No. What? “You’re an asshole and you’re never sorry.” Okay, there Trish is wrong. I am sorry. Sometimes.

I’m sorry right now. Sorry for myself that I didn’t set up an alternate plan, ride back with someone else, sorry I actually (broke a rule here) got word that a spot that wasn’t working pre-dawn was working (hence regret for now heading back out), and I found out, way after the fact, that I could have abandoned Adam, surfed the spot that was working at dawn and beyond, and gotten a ride back. So, TRISH. Right.

Some SOLACE, me trying to lessen the pain of carting my gear all the way to the beach with a thirty-minute window to change, surf, change again, head for the car. Since donning a wetsuit is approximately a ten-minute process, getting out of it, another ten to twelve; there was, realistically, only time to watch surfers catch and not catch waves. OH, and a chance to look like the guy…

SO, there’s the paddle of shame; paddling rather than surfing in because the waves went away (frequent and forgivable on the fickle Strait) or because you are, perhaps daunted by the surf at hand (semi-forgivable if you’ve been surfing for three hours and there’s a seven-wave set approaching); and then there’s the greater shame of being all set to go and then not going out because the waves are not what you are prepared to ride.

This was not the case, and, no, I don’t want to be that guy, OR the old guy who dispenses ‘back in my day’ stories rather than subjecting himself to paddling out and providing proof that this is not his (apologies for using the masculine) day.  

RIDING WITH ADAM, I have to say, is very enjoyable. He has great stories that go way beyond surfing, BUT, as I told Adam when we were hightailing it back to his car, me with my bag of dry wetsuit and supplies, Adam with a fresh ding in his latest favorite board of all time, if I had made a deal to get a ride back with KEITH and RICO, I’d have abandoned him in a fucking heartbeat and gone out. I WASN”T JOKING.

Wipout-wise, REGGIE SMART did suffer an injury recently; his board smacking him in the jaw, teeth going through his lip. He drove himself to the emergency room and, in true Reggie style, wouldn’t let the nurse touch him after she touched way too many things with her gloved hands, turned down a stitch from the doctor, saying he had ‘peroxided and denatured the shit’ out of the wound, and couldn’t he just shave off his soul patch and put, like, one of those butterfly things on it? Sure. Did he want vicadin? “No, I’m good.” I’m not all over instagram, but Reggie is. Check him out.

I WROTE a first verse of this poem and/or song (song) a while back. I have been working on a second verse. And a chorus. One I know but one that doesn’t actually fit is something that someone in my family of seven kids came up with. Not sure who should get credit.

Cookies and candy and ice cream and cake, donuts and brownies and pie, and for dessert, Jello.

Hold off on that sugar, Honey, I don’t want to die, I just need a taste of something sweet to get me by; Honey, you should know by now that I might never be, Someone who’s as good for you as you have been for me.

I still can’t believe it, Honey, you have been so sweet, Didn’t know I needed you to make my life complete; Honey, there are universes dancing in your eyes; It’s not just that, it’s so much more that’s kept me hypnotized.

The world of surf, what it is and what we believe it to be, and surfers, real and otherwise, keeps spinning. Some can articulate the range of emotions and sensations flowing through a surfer in the most magical, intimate moments. The addiction is the desire to feel that release again. And… again.

ANYWAY, more to come. I am almost done, like 15 pages from my latest edit of my novel, “SWAMIS,” and I did talk on the phone to the president/owner/whatever of a Seattle publisher. I’ll get to that on Wednesday. RIGHT NOW I am considering whether to take off and look for waves with a dropping swell or… I’ll check with Trish and get back to you.

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