Stephen Davis Gets a Barrel (Roll)…

HEY, REALSURFERS, my site is a mess. I’m aware of this. I decided it might be easier to just do a monthly thing, adding new stuff when it comes up; probably not a good idea, but… hey, here’s something I came across in my many-times-daily search for whatever information I can find to determine when I can best avoid getting skunked.  IS IT A GHOST SURFER, or someone who went out in storm surf, found a corner of a wave in the corner of the bay, and got on camera?  I don’t know; couldn’t help but share it.

OKAY, and, incidentally, it’s also Barrel-roll Stephen Davis’s birthday; and he’s lucky to have made it to this one. Read on; there’s other new stuff.

…ADAM WIPEOUT wades into the crowds in Southern California; ARCHIE ENDO heads back to Thailand; the (UNOFFICIAL) PORT TOWNSEND CREW (with HamaHama backup/alternate) hike (to a non-secret-but-unnamed spot) in, separately and together, and score; MANY SURFERS travel and get skunked; ANOTHER BEACH ACCESS IS SHUT DOWN, another ACCESS IS THREATENED; I sneak in a few sliders before THE WESTPHALIANS show up;  and other news that doesn’t include revealing any secret spots on the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

Steve at one of his day jobs, pre-roll.

But first… Headed up a Big Island highway at six in the morning on Friday the 13th, en route to his job (one of his jobs) as a crew member (and guy who swims with dolphins AND tourists) on a catamaran built and owned by legendary surfer Woody Brown; Hydrosexual STEPHEN DAVIS, in his words, “Nearly met my maker.”

“Oh,” I said, Saturday afternoon, Steve having called me back while I was on a slippery roof trying to finish a paint job; “But you’re okay. Right.” “Kind of. I’ll send you some photos.” “Okay. I mean, but you’re okay.”

“Mostly. The first thing I did when I got out of the car was say, ‘Mother-fucker!'”

We both laughed. Since he was okay, I was imagining Steve’s impression of me in boss mode, crouching-down, hands splayed-out, saying, “What the fuck?” Yeah, it’s pretty accurate; at work; never in the water- very chill, not as chill as Steve.

I didn’t look at the photos until a couple hours later. Steve’s quick reactions, no doubt, saved his life. A DISTRACTED DRIVER was in Steve’s lane, head-on. Steve swerved, the other car hit him in more of a glancing blow.

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WAIT! WHAT! Yeah, a glancing blow that…WHAT! I had to text Stephen. It went like this:

“Did your rig flip?” “Several flips and spins. It was upside down when it came to rest. Had to kick the door open all laying on my head.” “Geez, man, just had a chance to look at the photos. thank you Jesus. Trish and I are en route to Mass.” “Ya. Super grateful.(emojis) Will you thank God for me please?” “Sure, already working on it, and trish has a bit more clout, and I’m sure your appreciation is noted. You were definitely barreled.”  “Gracias. (more emojis).”  A bit later; “Okay, mentioned your accident to the Priest. You’re all set. Be strong. No, you are strong.”  “Mahalo (emojis).”

Now, please don’t think I’m like, super religious; but I am a believer in something mysterious and beyond our understanding.  I think Stephen ‘Barrel-roll’ Davis is, too. I was ready to drop the ‘hydrosexual’ part of Steve’s nickname anyway; getting too many spam attacks from porno promoters.

OKAY, I have to go. I’ll get back to the other alluded-to news; but, ARCHIE seems to be stronger than when he arrived in the northwest after over 90 days in the hospital after a stroke in Thailand. Part of this has to be due to the above-mentioned Stephen Davis taking him to the pool in Sequim. “He lit up like Christmas,” Steve said. AND Archie is talking about getting back in the surf. Better. He better.

ADAM JAMES, on a surf-and-oyster-sales-related trip, surfed Pipes, twice at Swamis, another time at San Onofre (that I know of), tried to teach northwest-style surf etiquette to my old surfing grounds.

WAIT, here’s an UPDATE (October 16)- Now Adam has added MALIBU, VENTURA POINT, AND COUNTY LINE to his list of Southern California conquests. Nice business trip.

County Line from the rental van.

SO, parking in someone’s yard to access a rivermouth break west of Port Angeles, which has been shut down before, is shut down again. Plans for a Land Trust parking area are stalled, on hold, or just not happening, and the alternative is a long walk. When some surfers from Port Townsend hiked in from one direction recently, they found other surfers from Town who hiked in from the other direction.

AND, AGAIN, people who camp out overnight in a parking area/access to another rivermouth spot are SERIOUSLY RISKING the closure of this area. IT IS PRIVATE PROPERTY. Park somewhere else. Please.  Thanks. As far as surf etiquette is concerned; it takes some nerves to tell a local at any break that, “Hey, that was my wave.” And, I think Adam is planning on hitting Malibu before he comes back home. “Excuse me, but; you know; I’ve been waiting, and…”

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new, revised, or redrawn images

I’m preparing to add some more images to the realsurfers coloring book, getting them resized, adding some lines; redrawing a few. Here are some I’ve been working on:

Image (79)Image (78)Image (80)Image (81)Image (82)And here’s a backstory on the drawing of the guy on the nose. I’ve drawn it several times, had it all finished, but it didn’t seem right. I went back to the drawing I took this from, realized the surfer’s left arm is supposed to be in front of his face. Oops. And now it’s a bit darker. If I could, on occasion, sort of duplicate the silky, magic-lighting look of classic John Severson photos, I would. Maybe this is as close as I’ll get (not that I won’t keep trying).

Hey, it’s all just lines and dots. Suddenly I’m not sure if I reported on how the poetry/singing/book selling event went with “Awkward Guy” writer Franco Bertucci and I… it went well, probably better than expected. We’re not done. I’ll let you know.

“Awkward Guy” and, um, me…

…that would be Franco Bertucci, and I are getting ready for an event, Thursday, June 29, 7pm, Port Townsend Library. This is a flyer I passed on to PT Librarian Keith Darrock so he could do some publicity. First he has to add the copy. Glad it’s him; I can’t seem to keep it simple.

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I did some illustrations for Franco’s book a couple of winters ago, opting, because I have a lot of faith in Franco, and his chances for success, to take a percentage (sort of vague on that) of the profits. Because, in order to get it out there in some form, he did a Kendle book; all fine, and you can buy one, and some have; or, if you’re an Amazon Prime person, you can just download it for free; or, it seems, you can just look at it for free.

http://www.amazon.com/Awkward-Guy-Poems-embarrassing-things-ebook/dp/B01EIOLDI6/ref=sr_1_3?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1461706483&sr=1-3&keywords=awkward+guy

I think that’s a link. Check it out; free; if you can.

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I’ve been getting my drawings for the “Realsurfers Coloring Book” together while searching for the originals I did for “Awkward Guy” (evidently I scanned them to a computer that no longer is alive- but Franco has the color versions). The plan is to have both of these available in a paper, hold-it-in-your-hands version for the event. And this might be where I get into trouble in describing, simply, what Franco and I plan on presenting to whoever shows up. The leader of “Locust Street Taxi,” a very tight and professional group, Franco is a talented musician.

So, the deal is, since I have a lot of songs, copyrighted under the title “Love Songs for Cynics,” and though I play an acceptable harmonica, my singing stylings are, one could say, underappreciated; Franco has agreed to sing at least one of my songs, and, in return, I’ll read or recite several of his poems. And a couple of mine.

That was my idea. Franco’s was to open with Q&A and go from there.

 

Real Surfers “Real-ly” For Surf Literature

…the first one, ever; goes to William Finnegan for “Barbarian Days.”

I’m sure he would be stoked. Okay, maybe mildly amused. Maybe just cool about the whole thing. I just heard the last of the hourly NPR newscast the other day, announcing the winner of some award. Didn’t hear what award, but something literary.  I was excited. I called up Port Townsend librarian (and surfer) Keith Darrock, who had saved the book for me when they got it in. I may have been the second one to check it out. My friend Archie Endo also mentioned the book was out. Real life surf writer/editor Drew Kampion endorsed Finnegan as a writer, quite impressed he had written a two issue (unheard of in its rarity) “New Yorker” piece on Doc Renneker, legendary surfer. “Yeah, he’s legit.”

So, I read it. Not straight through; but as straight through as I could manage.

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s the Booker Prize. Don’t they have something like that?”

No, I found out; it’s the Pulitzer! Whoa. Now, that’s something.

It might be that part of the reason I loved the book so much more than some other books on surfing I’ve read, or started to read, or scimmed and abandoned, is that Mr. Finnegan is a real writer; a really good writer. And…he’s been there; surfing and other war zones; and he can maintain a coolness that most of us cannot; he can put into words what we can feel, not explain, and yet recognize as authentic. Passion and critical situations are sometimes best described from just a bit of distance;  with the right amount of objectivity. “Yeah, that’s it. He got it right.”

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The explanation for why the book had a bigger impact on me than it seems to have had on Keith is, perhaps, that Finnegan and I are contemporaries. I looked it up, he’s actually a year younger than I am; started surfing at a similar time. He is able to describe the beginnings of what his reviewers always seem to call “a lifelong passion;” trying to learn, to improve, to fit into whatever tribe one finds himself among.

While he was exploring now-well known spots around the world, I was surfing now-way-more-crowded spots in a less crowded Southern California. That doesn’t mean I don’t want to hear how that went for him.

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I actually was impressed enough to hold off of returning the book after I’d read it, asking Keith what would happen if I went over the deadline. And (this is actually unusual) I watched a video of Mr. Finnegan doing a reading at some event in New York City, with non-surfers making up most of the audience.

And he was cool; not talking down, now rolling his eyes, not even, noticeably smirking as he looked back to the page he was reading.

I have to admit I take some (probably improper) solace in knowing that, possibly to make up for his wanderings during his youth, he’s still working. Of course, when he’s not, he might be snagging a few tubes at Tavarua, staying at the now-known island, with a real bed and untainted water.  So, a minor honor, indeed, but the first ever “Real-ly” is for you, Mr. William Finnegan, Jr.

What Are You Looking At? Some Color Added

I’m not sure how to get the colors, which are certainly bright and vivid enough on the drawings, transferred to the screen with the same intensity. I did probably over-color this drawing, and yet… by comparison, it still seems a bit washed-out.

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Now, if I tilt the screen backwards… oh, too much. I recently took a batch of drawings to The Printery in Port Townsend (shout out because I have the most annoying requests, cause them to spend a lot of time, and pay very little for the service- and I appreciate it), getting them reduced and centered. I’m hoping to frame up some of them, maybe see if I can, well, sell a few.

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Down Surf Route 101 at the HamaHama

I did a little project for the HamaHama Seafood Company, family-owned-and-run for five generations. The business is located about halfway down the portion of Surf Route 101 that snakes between the back side of the Olympic mountains and the Hood Canal.

If I wanted to be clever (and I do), I should add that the Hood Canal is, itself one of those TENTACLES that reach from the ocean, SURFROUTE 101 widely used by surfers coming up to the Strait, or down to the various surf opportunities to our south.

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SO, here’s some old guy sitting on the toilet in one of two bathrooms (easily available for customers, and there’s a sani-can outside) now sporting octopus graphics. I’m pretty proud of this illustration, adapted from drawings provided by a designer, but the second bathroom’s drawing…. WELL, my original contact at the HamaHama, Adam ‘Wipeout’ James, fifth generation of loggers and seafood folks (with a sixth growing up quickly) said, of the second illustration, a reverse of this one; “Now you’re really killing it… (or something similar- hip and positive and suggesting that one was even better- ‘crushing it,’ maybe).

ACTUALLY, I was working for Adam’s sister, Lissa. The second I showed up to start the painting portion of the store renovation project I got a call from Keith Darrock. Something about buoy readings and wave possibilities. I told Keith I was working for Adam Wipeout’s sister, Lissa Wipeout.

“ACTUALLY,” Lissa said later, “it’s more like Lissa Freakout.” This may have been a bit of pre-employment intimidation (possibly based on what Adam may have told his sister about my pre-surf mind games- guessing); Lissa has only been gracious to me.

IN FACT, everyone at the HamaHama, from those who work the tides, the folks in the retail store; those workers who shuck oysters, and prepare them for markets all over; those who talk to bigtime clients; Louie Lakeness (who grew up in the oyster business up the canal in Quilcene, and who does several jobs AND is a childhood friend of my son James- JJ to him); and Adam’s sister-in-law, Kendra, who his brother, Tom, met while earning a PHD in Forestry at Yale, and who is now the CEO; they all seem so… so HAPPY in their work. WIERD.

I mean Weird. Unusual. Happy. ALL I’M SAYING IS, when you’re headed up or down 101, stop in. If you have boards on your rig and Adam is around, expect him to talk you up on where you’re going or where you’ve been; what you expect or what you surfed.

ONE MORE THING. We were told, when driving over those two double bridges (look like the bridge at Haleiwa, huh?), it’s good luck to repeat “Hamahamahamahama…” as many times as you can on each one. Maybe it’s to distract you from the narrowness and the log truck coming at you, but… try it.

OH. There is a more flattering photo of me, on Facebook; but I don’t do Facebook, but my wife, and Adam’s newest Friend, Trish, won’t let me download it from her Page. OH, and there are less flattering photos you’ll never see.

Hydrosexual Stephen Davis Pig-Dogs One

More than one, actually. John the Calendar Guy took some photos of a rare northwest break. Hey, I have to go. I’ll get back to this. There is a story. Yeah, always a story. Here’s 1,000 words…

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Okay, so Stephen, whose wave riding posture is more typically a casual stand-and-almost-slouch (hope you’re imagining a confident, defiant, hips-forward, wave-challenging stance), but, on these little bombettes, was just tucking-in from the takeoff. Some he made, and on some the wave won; not that getting rolled while inside a tube isn’t the very best way to not make a wave.  If being absolutely parallel to the wave would give you a score of 100, I’m giving Stephen 105. Hey, do your own scoring.

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So, on the right, on the same day, in one of several photos taken by John the Calendar Guy, Librarian/surfer (totally alternate egos) Keith Darrock in his typical posture, tucked-and-driving. I’m saying 95, but, if you’re on the shoulder, hoping to take off, and don’t think Keith will make the section, think again.

And, thinking again, on the left, some unnamed spot on the Far Northwest Coast, with whiplash offshores; and because I like to give people nicknames, and a nickname just won’t stick if it doesn’t ring true, and “Stay at Home Nate” obviously didn’t, and I don’t actually know Nate’s last name; I would like to offer “Seventy-five percent Nate” as an alternative. Oh, yes; “75% thinks he’s barreled.” If I get called on this, I’ll probably cave. “Eight-two percent Nate;” no, doesn’t sound right. “Big Bic Nate?”

No, that’s right; Adam Wipeout told me it’s not a Bic.

 

Adam Wipeout and the Lost Skeg

I’m crawling around, sanding and painting baseboards on a project in Silverdale when the cell phone rings. Adam starts in with the story without a ‘hello.’ “So, I just had this feeling…” He had been in bed, he said, and possibly because he was still suffering the effects of what he had referred to as ‘the crud,’ he felt the same way he did when he got the most memorable ride of his last session, the session he had to get in despite his cold. Importantly, he chose surfing as an alternative to going to ELK CAMP. Elk Camp is, it must be said, quite important to someone born and raised in one of the wilder parts of the Olympic Peninsula. And, no, they don’t hunt the elk that show up frequently in his brother’s yard.

Adam had jumped out of bed, into his car, and driven quite a distance (about 52 miles) to the spot where he had lost one of his two Mark Richards’ designed fins. Adam James knows the tides. It’s part of his job as a key member of the Hama Hama Seafood operation, down Surf Route 101 on the Hood Canal. It was dead low tide, the middle of the night, with a gale blowing down the Strait; sideways rain. No biggie. “What?” That was my response. “And this was, like, three in the morning?”

“Yeah; about.” Adam told me he figured, in his haste to get in the water, he hadn’t fully secured the fin, and it was either in the sand, where it would be difficult to find; in the rocks near shore, where kelp and such would might hide it; or out where he had been sitting and waiting, and probably just fell off from being loose.

On this same day Adam lost one of his fins, the end of the single fin on Keith Darrock’s  board snapped off from contact with one of the rudely-placed and overly-large (this is the home of two foot waves and three foot rocks) rocks that populate the point. At this point, I must add that Keith, in, I’m guessing, a discussion on the beach concerning lost and broken fins, told Adam that he had also, once, lost a (complete) fin at this break; but found it at low tide, wedged between some of those wave-forming, board-dinging, wetsuit-slicing, gloveless finger-cutting rocks. Yeah, I’m listing a few of my discoveries, including, from the day before the fin-breaking/losing event, that, if you wipe out, roll under your board, smash your lower back/ass against one of those rocks, be grateful you didn’t hit your head. Add in a few too many surfers in a tight takeoff zone and… yeah, big time fun!

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Back to Adam’s story. “And where was it?” I asked, leaning into a window to lessen the echo in the empty room.

“Where I was sitting and waiting.” Yeah.

What I had to ask Adam is whether his wife has just given up on worrying about his sanity. I mean, if I told Trish I just ‘had a feeling’ and took off to look for a lost… anything. BUT, when I read her an email from Adam, she said it was so cool that he had that sort of psychic connection, and… geez, I don’t know. Maybe she’s right; Adam does seem to get the sessions with ‘chest high’ waves while I get the none-to-one (but glassy). I am working on finishing the story of my lost paddle. Oddly, my wife, when my paddle was stuck in the pilings, said I’d get it back. She just ‘had a feeling.”

UPDATE: I’ll write about my fin-breaking, fin-losing-not-finding stuff another time. We all have stories about treasures lost or found in the ocean. I’m not sure about Adam’s psychic powers, but, what he does work on, constantly, is his network. “I heard,” he’ll say, “that it was flat on the Strait on _____” (some day I had not gone, but had been considered it). Unlike me, Adam is genuinely nice, just laughs when I make rude remarks (example: Adam- “We have to come to grips with the fact that we’ll never be really really good.” Me- “Oh, I have come to grips with the fact that you’ll never be really really good.”), remembers the names and stories of those he meets (I’m more apt to remember the stories), and doesn’t seem to offend other surfers in the water. If I’m coming back into cell phone range after a session, I’m very apt to give him a report. “None to one, but glassy.” Always. If it isn’t flat.

Surfing Oregon Vicariously With Keith and Too Many Portland Hipsters

Port Townsend librarian Keith Darrock took a trip down south right after Labor Day. It was a family vacation/surfari, with his wife, Marley, and their daughter (I’ll add her name when Keith gets back to me- forgot it. Sorry. She was a baby the first time I met her father, checking for surf near PT on another ‘could have been but wasn’t’ day), though only Keith surfs.  He and I had discussed whether he should risk getting skunked on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. No, too risky, though Stephen Davis and I did hit the first feelers of a swell that lasted into the next day, followed by the usual flatness.

So, good choice overall. The photos are mostly from Oregon, and none of the spots are secret, and, truthfully, I’m a bit confused about which spot is which. What I did get from the texts and calls was that Oregon is becoming more like (Keith’s perception of) California, as in crowded; and though Keith is still well under forty, youngish by Strait standards, most of the folks on the beach were described as “Portland Hipsters.”

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That’s the Darrock family surf rig in the foreground. Keith sent photos of Short Sands (“13 Hipsters”) and some other spot, both protected by the prevailing northwest wind (but not the fog- it’s either one or the other). I told him the surf didn’t look too impressive. “No, it was fun.”

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Okay, he only had to share the spot on the left with a couple of Hipsters, unless this is the place where the surfers looked like real northwest surfers, which is to say, blue collar guys (usually carpenters up here, maybe a window washer or the odd painting contractor), unlike, and even Marley commented on this, people who stand around with new boards, in new boardbags, in new wetsuits, brand-central caps, maybe drinking a crafted micro-brew, discussing the upcoming season of “Portlandia” and how they, like, know, exactly, people who so precisely fit the various characters, and, “is it supposed to be, like, ironic, because… I don’t get that part,” posing rather than actually, like, getting wet; or at least longer than it might take to recycle some of that crafted, hand-filtered micro-brew.

Yeah, ‘recycle,’ as in the way they recycle pee in Victoria. Flush. They’ll wash out their wetsuits and their boards once they get back to the City; board back in the bag, wetsuit over the condo railing. And, yes, I know, “The City” once referred to (this was something I heard back when I was a hipster myself, from Steve Penn, who lived across a bridge, in San Raphael- so, maybe not a worldwide usage) San Francisco; I was using it ironically; not that I blame anyone for living where the work is.

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Quick caption, left to right: a little dog about to leave a little poo; a photo by Marley of her husband at Oceanside, Oregon; Keith with his longboard. At one of the hip Oregon beaches, getting out of the water, a woman about to enter the surf with her brand new Donald Takayama funboard, asked what asked Keith name brand board he was riding. He had to hold it out and read it. “Something with a W in it.”

I did once live in a city, San Diego, and, when I had just turned 27, and I’d just been given ‘Permanent’ status (I think the term is actually ‘made permanent,’ as in the Mafia’s ‘made man.’ Kind of similar, though I did eventually get out alive) as a civil service painter. Trish and I had already decided we didn’t want to raise children in the (I should say ‘that’ or ‘any’) city; we were already looking at other places I could now transfer to. Somewhere with surf, hopefully. I was sneaking out at lunchtime to do some surfing on a fine almost-fall day, having already determined that  I distinctly remember walking toward the pier in Ocean Beach, looking up at the hipsters hanging in the lot, others in groups at the bottom of the bluff, looked at the surfers bobbing in the not-too-impressive waves, and thought, maybe, I was too old for thisshit. Yeah, ‘thisshit,’ it’s a conjunction. Not a hip conjunction.

Keith did say he sent me at least one shot of Manzanita, where he found the best waves of the trip, but I never got it. So, that’s kind of like not revealing it. And maybe it was a lucky session.

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Caption, bottom right (from “Portlandia”- couldn’t resist)- “Hey, like, this surfing is so great. Nature, music, getting in touch with… um, did anyone remember to bring, you know, surfboards? Wetsuits? Wax? Oh, Portia/Clarina; you… no, not that kind of wax, but… hey, we can still do the wetless surf. Zen it.”

Otherwise, we’ve got cliffs, steep trails; just no hip places to hang out. And, just to finish this up; Trish asked me the other evening where the surf was happening. “Not around here. It’s all a bit too south, too small, too… why do you ask?” “On my way back from (a, not the) city, I saw a rig with boards headed up the Center Road.” Yeah, it was Keith and Marley and their daughter, name to be filled-in later. My daughter, Dru, when I told her about the Portlandia hipster thing, said, if Keith wanted to be Portland-hip, looking at his little trailer, “Maybe he should just put a bird on it.” No, I didn’t get it either.

I googled it. If the folks at “Portlandia” find this piece because I tagged “Portlandia surfers,” well… wait, the host of “Live Wire Radio,” from Portland, is actually hosted by Luke Burbank, and he recently moved to Port Townsend from Seattle, seems to brag about it (and PY’s hipness, real or imagined- but definitely promoted), and, maybe the “Portlandia” folks can contact him, he can turn them on to Keith Darrock at the PT Public Library, and voila, we can see an overlong skit that parodies hip Portland surfers. “No, of course we’ll spa on the way back; it’s all annotated on the itinerary, silly surfer you.”

NEWSFLASH- I’ll be in Westport next weekend to help judge the Surfrider Cleanwater Surf Contest. It’s always a scene down there, and I’m sure there’ll be some fun.

Chasing the Diamonds; Quilted, Kenetic, Allusive

My sister, Melissa Lynch, the real artist in the family, scolded me for being in any way apologetic for my drawings. Yeah, well; I would like to be honest. If I could capture the building blocks of always-moving water, figure out how to weave a seamless shadowed/reflective/glimmering/black/white/multi-hued image I would.

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If I could.

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Since I can’t; yet; I’ll keep trying.

Meanwhile, I’m still in the thinking-it-through phase of a piece I must write under the working title of: “Are All Surfers Sociopaths; or Just the Good Ones?”

Three Acts: ACT ONE- several highschool surfing buddies and I surf Swamis after school. The only other surfers out are three (also high school age) members of the Surfboards Hawaii Surf Team. On the drive home, my friends complain they couldn’t catch any (or enough) waves. I hadn’t noticed, being busy catching waves and watching incredible longboard surfing. ONE, PART 2- One of my friends (Ray Hicks, most likely) points out (I think this was the day I ripped out my pants and had to borrow a pair of Levis from Billy McLean) that, when encountering other surfers of about our age, I seem to puff out my chest. “Maybe you’re intimidated.” “Yeah; probably.” “It’s, uh, like a gorilla.” “You mean, like, primal?” “Yeah, probably.”

ACT TWO- During the last week of my job up the hill from Trestles, taking an hour and a half break during my half hour official lunchtime, some surfer (I’ve always believed he was a Marine Officer) burned me and everyone else (I still got some, but not as many as usual waves). When I checked back at my half hour afternoon (supposed to be ten minutes) break, the guy was still out, still burning surfers mercilessly. I didn’t hate him; maybe he was going somewhere sucky, where a rifle was mandatory, for a while.

ACT THREE- My friend Stephen Davis, last time I spoke with him on the phone, mostly about his upcoming trip to the Oregon Coast and the chance I might meet him somewhere (probably won’t happen); had to, (had to) mention how I fell out of favor with many members of the Port Townsend surfing crew (very unofficial) because, over-amped, I (accidentally, I swear)wave-hogged on a day almost two years ago. Two years ago. Jeez. When I mentioned this on the phone this morning with Keith Darrock, and that I’m no more a sociopath than he is, and I do have empathy, whatever that is, he had to (had to) mention his observation that I’m kind of loud and possibly abrasive (see how he was tactful about this?) in the water, and, also, incidentally, I do seem to “kind of strut in the parking lot.” “WHAT? ME? No, it’s just being friendly.” (I am laughing at this point, but, also, thinking. Is he right?) “Like a rooster. And, oh,” he adds, has to add, “You kind of stick out your chest. And…and it seems like you want to dominate (I’m adding ‘even in’) the parking lot.”

There is no ACT FOUR where I try to change my ways, get all friendly and nice; empathize with those who won’t (before hand) or didn’t get enough waves. Empathize. I did tell Keith I’d rather attempt to empathize than be one of those who didn’t get enough waves. Maybe they’ll get points toward sainthood. No true contrition. Sorry. At least not so far. But, I am thinking; and since I can’t afford professional help, I’ll have to self-diagnose.

STEP ONE-“Yes, it’s all true.” See you in the parking lot.