Category Archives: real surfers

Solstice, “Swamis,” and Nothing Remotely Political

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, non-political Erwin,, real surfers, surf fiction, surf novels, surf stories, surfing blogs, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

We’ve almost made it to the WINTER SOLSTICE. Almost. The atmospheric rivers continue to hit, SO, if you want snow, there may be some, good luck getting there. If you want waves… take a chance. The windows are as small as the days are short. BUUTTT, the celebration is justified; the days are getting longer and… YEA! And good luck.

Photo from the FULTON LIBRARY. Shadows. GINGERBREAD FRED, one of my characters in my when-the-hell-is-is-going-to-be-done novel, “Swamis,” goes to the parking lot every evening to watch the sun set. A burned-out veteran (helicopter pilot- medivac) of Korea, wounded and pushed farther into craziness in Vietnam (gunship), who “Crashed twice, shot down once,” and who is also a legendary surfer from the fifties, having pioneered waves at the Tijuana Sloughs and outside La Jolla reefs, says, about night; “It’s not dark, really. It’s shadow. The curtain drops and it’s a different show. An encore.”

Gingerbread Fred is, I hope, as I hope of all the players, someone a reader can visualize. Not a stereotype but a mix of real people I have come across. And he is critical to the plot. If we are all Alice in Wonderland, Candide, any narrator in a Franz Kafka story, and I believe we are, those characters, those people. we remember we remember because they are part of our story.

Anyway, not sure if this is bragging or apologizing, but here’s more from “Swamis.”

CHAPTER THREE- SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1968

My nine-six Surfboards Hawaii pintail was on the 1994 Falcon station wagon’s factory racks, as much rust as chrome. The seven-eight Sunset board I’d bought off the used rack was inside, the back seat lowered to accommodate it. It’s not like I ever had riders other than my brother. I was headed from Grandview to Moonlight Beach on Neptune. The bluff side was either garage and fence or hedge, tight to the road. There were few views of the water. I was, no doubt, smiling, remembering something from that morning’s session.

There had been six surfers, including me, at the preferred takeoff spot. Some of them recognized me, and I them, but they all knew each other. There was no way the local crew and acceptable friends would allow me to catch a set wave. No; maybe a wave all of them missed or none of them wanted. If I paddled for a wave, one of the crew would act as if he was going to take off, even if he didn’t, just to keep me off it. And then turn toward his friends to receive credit for the act.

The first one in the water, before dawn, I had surfed the peak, selecting the wave I thought might be the best of a set. Two other surfers came out. Okay. Three more surfers came out. One of them, Sid, paddled up and sat next to me without looking at me. I was the farthest one out in a triangular cluster that matched the peak of most of the approaching waves. I knew who Sid was. Older. Out of school. A set wave came in. It was my wave. I paddled for it and took off.  Sid dropped in on me. I said something like, “Hey!” 

Rather than speed down the line or pull out, Sid said, “Hey,” louder, and stalled. He cranked a turn. It was either hit him or bail. I fell onto my board, wrapped my arms around it. My board and I went over the falls, pushed sideways until I rolled with it and got out of the soup.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, paddling, following Sid back toward the lineup.

The four other surfers held their laughter until Sid paddled past them, maneuvered his board around, laughed, and said, “Wrong? Junior broke the locals rule.” Sid pointed to the lefts, the waves perceived as not being as good, on the other side of a real or imagined channel. “Local’s rule. Get it?” Sid turned to the other surfers. “Watch this guy, guys. Daddy’s a cop. You know him; DeFreines. Married a Jap-a-nese… woman. Junior’s probably a fucking narc. Hide your stash!”

Trying to ignore the taunts of the others, I caught an insider and moved over.

After three lefts, surfed, I believed, with a certain urgency and a definite aggression, I prone-paddled back to the rights, tacking back and forth. A decently sized set wave was approaching. I wanted it. 

“Outside!” I yelled, loud enough that the pack, including Sid, started paddling for the horizon. I paddled at an angle, lined up the wave at the peak. Though the takeoff was late, I made the drop, rode the wave into the closeout section, pulling off the highest roller coaster I had ever even attempted. I dropped to my board and proned in. I kept my back to the water as I exited, not daring to look back at the surfers in the water or to look up at the witnesses on the bluff. I did hear them hooting.

I grabbed my towel from where it was stashed, visible from the water, on the low part of the bluff, my keys and wallet and cigarettes rolled up in it. Tromping up the washout to Neptune, I tried not to look at the surfers, tried not to smile as I leaned my board on the Falcon and unlocked the front door.  

…

Almost to Moonlight Beach, there was a late fifties model Volkswagen camper van, two-tone, white over gray, blocking the southbound lane. Black smoke was coming out of the open engine compartment. Three teenagers, my age, were standing behind the bus: Duncan Burgess and Rincon Ronny on the right side, Monica, on the left. Locals. Names divulged by second tier gremmies. Or from observing them on the beach or in the water.   

I pulled over on the northbound lane side, squeezed out between the door and someone’s bougainvillea hedge, and walked into the middle of the street, fifteen feet behind the van. “Can I help?” 

Duncan, Ronny, and Monica were dressed as if they had surfed but were going to check somewhere else: Nylon windbreakers, towels around their waists. Duncan’s and Monica’s jackets were red with white, horizontal stripes that differed in number and thickness. Ronny was wearing a dark blue windbreaker with a white, vertical strip, a “Yater” patch sewn on. Each of the three looked at me, and looked back at each other, then at the smoking engine. The movement of their heads said, “No.”

Someone stepped out of an opening in the hedge on the bluff side of the road, pretty much even with me. I was startled. I took three sideways steps before I regained my balance.

Julia Cole. Perfectly balanced. She was wearing an oversized V-neck sweater that almost covered boys’ nylon trunks. Her legs were bare, tan, her feet undersized for the huarache sandals she was pushing across the asphalt. She looked upset, but more angry than sad. Or even worried. But then… she almost laughed. I managed a smile.

“It’s you,” she said, almost laughing. I smiled. “Are you a mechanic?” I shook my head, took another step toward the middle of the road, away from her. “An Angel?” Another head shake, another step. She took two more shuffling steps toward me. We were close. She seemed to be studying me, moving her head and eyes as if she might learn more from an only slightly different angle. “You’ve gotten… better.”

“Better? Yes, that’s what I tell people. Better.”

Julia Cole shook her head. She was still smiling. I was studying her. Staring. I looked past her. Her friends looked at her, then looked at each other, then looked, again, at the subsiding smoke and the growing pool of oil on the pavement.

“We saw what you did,” she whispered. I turned toward her. “From the bluff.” She raised both arms, the left arm higher, pointing with her right hand, and yelled, “Outside!” She and I looked at her friends, then back at each other. She said, “Outside,” again, softer.

“It… worked.”

“Once. Maybe you believe Sid appreciated it.” She shook her head.

I shook my head, still focusing on Julia Cole’s eyes. “I had to do it.”

“Of course.” By the time I shifted my focus from Julia Cole’s face to her right hand, it had become a fist, soft rather than tight. “Challenge the… hierarchy.”

I had no response. Julia Cole moved her arm slowly across her body, stopping for a moment just under the parts of her sweater dampened by her bathing suit top. Breasts. I looked back into her eyes for the next moment. Green. Translucent. She moved her right hand, just away from her body and up. She cupped her chin, thumb on one cheek, fingers drumming, pinkie finger first, on her lips. “You. I could use you, Junior, if you…” She pulled her hand away from her face, moving it toward mine. 

“Julie!” It was Duncan. Julie, Julia Cole didn’t look around. She lowered her hand and took another step closer to me. In a ridiculous overreaction, I jerked away from her.

“I was going to say, Junior…” Julia looked, if anything, irritated. Stupid me. “If you were an attorney… then…”

“I’m not… Not… yet.”

Julia Cole loosened the tie holding her hair in a ponytail. Sun-bleached at the ends, dirty blonde at the roots. She used the fingers of both hands to move her hair to both sides of her face.

“I can… give you a ride… Julie, I mean… Julia… Cole.”

“Look, Fallbrook…” It was Duncan. Again. He walked toward Julia Cole and me. “We’re fine.” He extended a hand toward Julia. She did a half-turn, sidestep. Fluid. Duncan kept looking at me. Not in a friendly way. He put his right hand on Julia Cole’s left shoulder.

Julia Cole allowed it. Her expression suggested I was confused.

“Phone booth? If you need one. There’s one at… I’m heading for Swamis.”

Julia Cole shook her head, smiled, did a sort of almost blink, then looked, briefly, toward the house closest to the bus. I twisted my mouth and nodded. “Oh. Okay.”

            A car come up behind me. I wasn’t aware. Rincon Ronny and Monica watched it. Duncan backed toward the shoulder. Julia and I looked at each other for another moment. “You really should get out of the street, Junior.”

            “Joey,” I said. “Joey.”

            She could have said, “Julie.” Or “Julia.” She said neither. She could have said, “Joey.”     I checked out Beacons and Stone Steps and Swamis. The VW bus was gone when I drove back by. Dirt from under someone’s hedge was scattered over the oil, some of it seeping throughCHAPTER THREE- SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1968

My nine-six Surfboards Hawaii pintail was on the 1994 Falcon station wagon’s factory racks, as much rust as chrome. The seven-eight Sunset board I’d bought off the used rack was inside, the back seat lowered to accommodate it. It’s not like I ever had riders other than my brother. I was headed from Grandview to Moonlight Beach on Neptune. The bluff side was either garage and fence or hedge, tight to the road. There were few views of the water. I was, no doubt, smiling, remembering something from that morning’s session.

There had been six surfers, including me, at the preferred takeoff spot. Some of them recognized me, and I them, but they all knew each other. There was no way the local crew and acceptable friends would allow me to catch a set wave. No; maybe a wave all of them missed or none of them wanted. If I paddled for a wave, one of the crew would act as if he was going to take off, even if he didn’t, just to keep me off it. And then turn toward his friends to receive credit for the act.

The first one in the water, before dawn, I had surfed the peak, selecting the wave I thought might be the best of a set. Two other surfers came out. Okay. Three more surfers came out. One of them, Sid, paddled up and sat next to me without looking at me. I was the farthest one out in a triangular cluster that matched the peak of most of the approaching waves. I knew who Sid was. Older. Out of school. A set wave came in. It was my wave. I paddled for it and took off.  Sid dropped in on me. I said something like, “Hey!” 

Rather than speed down the line or pull out, Sid said, “Hey,” louder, and stalled. He cranked a turn. It was either hit him or bail. I fell onto my board, wrapped my arms around it. My board and I went over the falls, pushed sideways until I rolled with it and got out of the soup.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, paddling, following Sid back toward the lineup.

The four other surfers held their laughter until Sid paddled past them, maneuvered his board around, laughed, and said, “Wrong? Junior broke the locals rule.” Sid pointed to the lefts, the waves perceived as not being as good, on the other side of a real or imagined channel. “Local’s rule. Get it?” Sid turned to the other surfers. “Watch this guy, guys. Daddy’s a cop. You know him; DeFreines. Married a Jap-a-nese… woman. Junior’s probably a fucking narc. Hide your stash!”

Trying to ignore the taunts of the others, I caught an insider and moved over.

After three lefts, surfed, I believed, with a certain urgency and a definite aggression, I prone-paddled back to the rights, tacking back and forth. A decently sized set wave was approaching. I wanted it. 

“Outside!” I yelled, loud enough that the pack, including Sid, started paddling for the horizon. I paddled at an angle, lined up the wave at the peak. Though the takeoff was late, I made the drop, rode the wave into the closeout section, pulling off the highest roller coaster I had ever even attempted. I dropped to my board and proned in. I kept my back to the water as I exited, not daring to look back at the surfers in the water or to look up at the witnesses on the bluff. I did hear them hooting.

I grabbed my towel from where it was stashed, visible from the water, on the low part of the bluff, my keys and wallet and cigarettes rolled up in it. Tromping up the washout to Neptune, I tried not to look at the surfers, tried not to smile as I leaned my board on the Falcon and unlocked the front door.  

…

Almost to Moonlight Beach, there was a late fifties model Volkswagen camper van, two-tone, white over gray, blocking the southbound lane. Black smoke was coming out of the open engine compartment. Three teenagers, my age, were standing behind the bus: Duncan Burgess and Rincon Ronny on the right side, Monica, on the left. Locals. Names divulged by second tier gremmies. Or from observing them on the beach or in the water.   

I pulled over on the northbound lane side, squeezed out between the door and someone’s bougainvillea hedge, and walked into the middle of the street, fifteen feet behind the van. “Can I help?” 

Duncan, Ronny, and Monica were dressed as if they had surfed but were going to check somewhere else: Nylon windbreakers, towels around their waists. Duncan’s and Monica’s jackets were red with white, horizontal stripes that differed in number and thickness. Ronny was wearing a dark blue windbreaker with a white, vertical strip, a “Yater” patch sewn on. Each of the three looked at me, and looked back at each other, then at the smoking engine. The movement of their heads said, “No.”

Someone stepped out of an opening in the hedge on the bluff side of the road, pretty much even with me. I was startled. I took three sideways steps before I regained my balance.

Julia Cole. Perfectly balanced. She was wearing an oversized V-neck sweater that almost covered boys’ nylon trunks. Her legs were bare, tan, her feet undersized for the huarache sandals she was pushing across the asphalt. She looked upset, but more angry than sad. Or even worried. But then… she almost laughed. I managed a smile.

“It’s you,” she said, almost laughing. I smiled. “Are you a mechanic?” I shook my head, took another step toward the middle of the road, away from her. “An Angel?” Another head shake, another step. She took two more shuffling steps toward me. We were close. She seemed to be studying me, moving her head and eyes as if she might learn more from an only slightly different angle. “You’ve gotten… better.”

“Better? Yes, that’s what I tell people. Better.”

Julia Cole shook her head. She was still smiling. I was studying her. Staring. I looked past her. Her friends looked at her, then looked at each other, then looked, again, at the subsiding smoke and the growing pool of oil on the pavement.

“We saw what you did,” she whispered. I turned toward her. “From the bluff.” She raised both arms, the left arm higher, pointing with her right hand, and yelled, “Outside!” She and I looked at her friends, then back at each other. She said, “Outside,” again, softer.

“It… worked.”

“Once. Maybe you believe Sid appreciated it.” She shook her head.

I shook my head, still focusing on Julia Cole’s eyes. “I had to do it.”

“Of course.” By the time I shifted my focus from Julia Cole’s face to her right hand, it had become a fist, soft rather than tight. “Challenge the… hierarchy.”

I had no response. Julia Cole moved her arm slowly across her body, stopping for a moment just under the parts of her sweater dampened by her bathing suit top. Breasts. I looked back into her eyes for the next moment. Green. Translucent. She moved her right hand, just away from her body and up. She cupped her chin, thumb on one cheek, fingers drumming, pinkie finger first, on her lips. “You. I could use you, Junior, if you…” She pulled her hand away from her face, moving it toward mine. 

“Julie!” It was Duncan. Julie, Julia Cole didn’t look around. She lowered her hand and took another step closer to me. In a ridiculous overreaction, I jerked away from her.

“I was going to say, Junior…” Julia looked, if anything, irritated. Stupid me. “If you were an attorney… then…”

“I’m not… Not… yet.”

Julia Cole loosened the tie holding her hair in a ponytail. Sun-bleached at the ends, dirty blonde at the roots. She used the fingers of both hands to move her hair to both sides of her face.

“I can… give you a ride… Julie, I mean… Julia… Cole.”

“Look, Fallbrook…” It was Duncan. Again. He walked toward Julia Cole and me. “We’re fine.” He extended a hand toward Julia. She did a half-turn, sidestep. Fluid. Duncan kept looking at me. Not in a friendly way. He put his right hand on Julia Cole’s left shoulder.

Julia Cole allowed it. Her expression suggested I was confused.

“Phone booth? If you need one. There’s one at… I’m heading for Swamis.”

Julia Cole shook her head, smiled, did a sort of almost blink, then looked, briefly, toward the house closest to the bus. I twisted my mouth and nodded. “Oh. Okay.”

            A car come up behind me. I wasn’t aware. Rincon Ronny and Monica watched it. Duncan backed toward the shoulder. Julia and I looked at each other for another moment. “You really should get out of the street, Junior.”

            “Joey,” I said. “Joey.”

            She could have said, “Julie.” Or “Julia.” She said neither. She could have said, “Joey.”     I checked out Beacons and Stone Steps and Swamis. The VW bus was gone when I drove back by. Dirt from under someone’s hedge was scattered over the oil, some of it seeping through

CONTACT erwin@realsurfers.net

COPYRIGHT protected material. All rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

HAPPY SOLSTICE AND WHATEVER ELSE YOU CELEBRATE!

Whale Songs and Bargains Made

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Melissa Lynch illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf culture events, surf novels, writings of Erwin Dence

An illustration by my late sister, Melissa Jo Dence Lynch. Copyrighted. All rights reserved by her estate and Jerome Lynch. No, Melissa didn’t drown… unless cancer is a sort of drowning. Fuck Cancer!

I’ve gotten into a bit of a thing, lately, Selkies and dark mysteries. Drowning is a part of it. For a surfer, to not consider this is… to not be prepared. SO, I was supposed to use some available time to work on actually completing my novel, “Swamis,” BUT I’m also working on some songs for the still-in-the-planning stage next Surff Culture on the Strait of Juan de Fuca event, to be held in late January or early February of 2026. AND I am still working on collecting and editing material for a possible song/poetry/essay book.

YES, Trish is correct in saying that writing and drawing have affected my life. For years. I’ve given up opportunities to make actual money to pursue these passions, which are now, evidently, replacing surfing as the ‘other woman.’ STILL, Trish has some faith in my novel. “It’s a good story; can’t you concentrate on that?” Yes.

Having just spent some time thinking about and starting to write a post-“Swamis” story, I kind of committed myself to working on the novel last night. BUT THEN, after doing some real world computer work, and wanting to post something decent on a Sunday, I got caught up in the following piece. An essay, I guess, and I made some changes this morning, pasted it on the site, made more changes. OBSESSIVE? Yeah.

Breaching Whale by Stephen R. Davis. All rights reserved by the artist.

                                    DROWNED OUT

What the drowning person hears. Silence? No. The thrashing, if nothing else, creates a sound. Chaotic. Bubbles rising, air to air.

Perhaps the kelp or the sawgrass make a muffled rustling sound as they sway to the rhythm of the river or the tide. The air escaping the lungs whistles, holding back a scream.

There are voices beyond the panic; a song, a whale calling from some unknown distance, or music, crazed and discordant, from some unseen orchestra. The pounding heart sounds the beat. Desperate.

The symphony ends, or will end, in a soft surrender. Peaceful, we’re told.

We don’t believe this. Clawing, kicking, we breach as high into the air as we can; choking, gasping, grasping at the surface of the water as if it is safe. Solid.

We do not return the whale song. We are not whales. We do not understand their language. If a whale heard our scream, it is one among many, many among millions, with a constant war of machines whirring and growling and belching and breaking on the land and in the air. No rhythm, No melody. Chaos.

I don’t wish to drown. Yet, knowing something about drowning, I go into the sea.

Away from sea, I bargain, trade time for time, to get back into it.  

I’m reachable: erwin@realsurfers.net Thanks for checking out my humble site. “Drowned Out” is protected by copyright, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

WAVES? I’ve heard some stories, but, for skiers and surfers on the Olympic Peninsula, atmospheric rivers are not what we’re looking for. If you are looking, GOOD LUCK!

Cold Plunge at the Selkie Reach Resort

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

Although I have yet to finish a seriously publishable version of my novel, “Swamis,” I put some thought and time into thinking about and writing a couple of ‘short’ stories with the same characters. Later. Because I have been considering Selkies recently, though I’ll have to think about what got me on the subject, I started working on a story that would include surfing and… Selkies. Here’s the start of it:

Cold Plunge at the Selkie Reach Resort

“No, can’t find an At… At…sush…i… DeFreines.” The woman behind the resort’s front desk looked between Julie and me. Not suspiciously, but for a bit too long. She was trying to connect the patient woman in an unnecessarily thick and long coat, given the conditions, and me, unnecessarily irritated, even with having to give way to four already checked-in and overly giddy older women, by which I mean, women somewhere around our age. 2016, so, late sixties.

One of the four may have been younger.  A sister, perhaps. Not that I cared. Not            immediately. Not before they started chatting it up.

The desk clerk was somewhere in her twenties, gray top under a darker gray sport coat, a pearl necklace that was almost a choker, hair that was almost straight, pulled back, black and shiny, but with an undertone that suggested it could go gray at any moment. Her eyes were dark. She could tell I was studying her. She sucked in her cheeks for a moment before showing her teeth. Very white. I’m sure she nodded as I looked away and at Julie, knowing my ex-wife had caught the young woman’s look and knowing she believed I deserved worse, staring and all. 

Fresh from the resort’s bar, each of the women was wearing a flannel coat and/or a scarf with a tartan pattern, something identifying some clan unknown to them. No, one woman, the leader, if not merely the most assertive, spent a certain amount of time presenting herself, with some Americanized version of a Scottish brogue, as, “Positively Scottish on my mother’s side. I’m, like, Sedona, Arizona’s representative for the Clan Adair.”

“Then, ‘failte.’ Welcome to the Selkie Reach Resort.”

“And… thanks. What clan might you be from, Love?”

I took the ‘Love’ part as something the woman had picked up from watching “Vera” on PBS. Yes, but it’s set in Northeast England rather than Scotland. Not to nitpick.

“I’m from Wales,” the clerk said, adding, “I’m here for the weather.”

The group took it as a joke. It might have been. Julie nodded and kicked at my backpack. I coughed and kicked at her three matching suitcases.

Since I’m wasting your time on wardrobe, I should say that I was dressed in an off-white cable knit sweater, fairly new Levis, waterproof hiking shoes. New sweater and shoes, hastily purchased from L.L. Bean. Online.

“We’re here for the cold plunge. Love.” It was the last of the group to pick up a room pass, one of the non-Adairs, unnecessarily showing her ID. “How far is the sauna from the water?”

“Too far at low tide. Big tidal shift here. Dangerously so. Flat beach. We have a safety line. If you can see it on a dry beach, don’t go. We have charts in the shower room and… Actually, our pool is plenty cold enough for most.”

When the women gave a unified groan, the clerk added, “Should be perfect tide, slack, in about an hour.” 

I stepped forward and set my passport on the counter. The clanswoman stepped in front of me. “The Selkies? The Sirens? Is there, like, any connection to, maybe, the moon?”

“I’ve heard tell… No, Love, I realize the older brochures might suggest some… Myths. And… not exactly here.” The clerk was looking at her computer rather than the woman. “Area’s called a ‘reach’ because it’s favorable sailing between the rocks at the north headland and the, the safe harbor. South, southwest. Sirens and Selkies were useful to lure tourists.”

“Based on ‘wreckers,’ that’s what I heard.”

“Myth. And, again, not here. Novels. Movies.”

“So, you’ve never seen a Selkie?”

“Seals. Plenty of seals. No Selkies, no Sirens. But…” The clerk handed the woman the room pass. “234. Yes. It’s in the original part, pre-renovation, and you’ll have a view of the water. There’s a telescope and… full moon tomorrow night. Okay?”

I stepped up to the counter as the cold plungers danced back toward the bar, a carved image of a Selkie over the doorway. “Joseph. Joseph A. DeFreines. Party of two.” The clerk looked at her computer and looked back at me, shaking her head.

Julie stepped past me. “Julia Cole-Wilson. Emailed… yesterday.”

“Oh, then,” the woman said, with a quick glance between me and Julie.

“I forgot, Atsushi. You paid for the flight. I just…”

“She didn’t forget, Miss…”

“Jones. We’re all named Jones where I’m from.”

“Right. Wales. I was down there… a few years ago. Quite a few years ago. Surfing.” Miss Jones may have mouthed ‘surfing.’ She blinked. Definitely.  “Lovely place, sad story… Otherwise, great, surfing wise.”  

Julia moved next to me. “We’re here for the disappearance.”

“A friend,” I said.

“Our goddaughter.”

The clerk tried to maintain her neutral expression. “Rita.” She failed. “Rita Longworthy?”

Her eyes were so dark, so moist.                                    

 Feedback- You’ve gone a bit David Sedaris… Love… in your advanced age. I thought this was going to be a ‘short’ story. Otherwise… okay. See you soon. Get the fuck better. Please! Your Trueheart, forever.                                                                                   

Image, obviously, ‘borrowed’ from Stablediffusionweb.com. It’s an AI prompt, as if I know what that means.

Then, again, maybe I’ve always made some connection. Unprompted. The first drawing was done in the late 1980s. I added the lettering more recently. Capturing the essence and the allure of the sea; I’ve never quite gotten it right. And… I keep trying.

As, I’m sure, you do.

All original works by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. are protected by copyright. All rights reserved. TO CONTACT, email erwin@realsurfers.net. Thanks or checking it out!

If Ben Gravy Surfed Epstein’s Island…

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

…I want to see the video! I mean, man, do I! Maybe he found the list while scouting out whatever breaks are available. THAT would be some clickable content.

Okay, so here’s my thinking on this: I’ve been fooled into checking out a few videos on YouTube because non Andy Irons AI algor-rhythms (or is it Al Gore rhythms) believe, because I watch, like, every Nate Florence or Mason Ho post, and most Koa Rothman and Jamie O’Brian offerings, I must want some of these other pretenders to the “Yes, I make a living surfing and providing content” hierarchy, sub-title “And I still, and myyy management team will confirm this, don’t consider myself a sell out. Oh, and buy some of this super body wash. I use it myself.”

In researching New Jersey surfer Mr. Gravy (not his real name), I discovered his cover story is that he started the video thing when he quit drinking, as a way to stay sober. Good work. I mean, not like giving it up to run the Department of War and Manliness, but… something. SHIT! Never really a devoted drinker, I quit the cult in 1990. Mostly I keep not drinking to stay sober. Seems to work.

When watching surf videos, I do fast forward the more obvious ads (out of respect, more like not losing more respect for the surfer). One obvious effect big time sponsorship has had is cutting down the swearing count from surfers who previously, and, I’m assuming, in real life, dropped f-bombs more often than they dropped in on, yes, bombs. And surfers who might, might be unapproachable assholes must, must project a friendly, nice guy image. And, realness wise, I am aware that I am, possibly, competitive if not ruthless in the water, frequently grumpy, and always sarcastic on land, and, you are correct; my little blog ain’t shit in the scheme of things. Fuck!

Now, if I had someone sponsor me to paddle around Little Saint James Island, located in the American VIRGIN Islands, in the Caribbean, looking for surf, I’d do it. Great content. Possible surf. I would have to recheck the maps, make sure it’s not too close to Venezuela.

Warning! Almost political stuff. Don’t read further and/or delete from your history after reading.

Anyway, I’m not aiming to hop onto the Vlog gravy train. I do want to keep the Epstein thing alive. With the “Kill them all,” and the health care/food affordability crises, and with the “I’ll take it in gold” Trump Cavalcade of Incompetence and Corruption on a constant march toward… maybe you know where; a little thing like old rich people molesting children gets lost.

Or I’ll delete it.

Oh, and fuck cancer!

Reggie Blows Up, Chimacum Tim Outer Reefs It, and Cold Plunge at the Siren’s Reach Resort

Posted on by under hipster surfers, mind surfing, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, perfect waves, real surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, writings of Erwin Dence

I shouldn’t tell you where or when some guy, a ripper on an SUP, took these photos of REGGIE SMART, this after the ripper’s wife took photos of the ripper, and yes, I did see photographic proof that the photographer does, indeed, rip… oh, and I saw some photos of HAWAIIAN BRIAN, yes again, ripping, but, if seeing is believing (not always true; proof being shots of a rare lined up wave at any random beach break), but, as some other Olympic Peninsula surfers who saw the photos somewhere on the world wide web, over ripe with content and revelations, have saiid, “Yeah, great wave, great positioning”… shit like that, SO, yeah, kudos to Reg on forcing himself, with a definite lack of funding (check almost in the mail- not from me- different story) to cruise out to some unnamed coastal sometimes-heaven, sometimes not, spot and… wail.

The sign is another Reggie piece of art. His Port Townsend tattoo parlor’s new location is in the McCurdy building. Hey, it’s not my job to pimp out Reggie, but give him a call for all your body decorating needs.

CHIMACUM TIM took some free time, in between shifts on the Washington State Ferries, to do a stealth strike to Maui. Interestingly enough, at the very time he was doing a half mile paddle out to hit some outer reefs there, big time North Shore Oahu web stars, safety and camera crews and drones with them, were creating content there, and yes, I watched some of it.

The difference being, they didn’t send me exclusive photos and stories. Thanks, Tim.

I got this image from a resort on Lopez Island. I am intrigued by the whole hipster (possibly) fad of cold plunging. It’s a thing. Because I am still working on “The Hudson Street Whore,” about a possible landlocked SELKIE, and I’ve done some research on the whole Selkie, Siren, Mermaid mythology, and because my mind just keeps grinding away, I’m in the imagining stage of writing a dark (of course) piece that combines surfing with the rest of what I’m under-describing here, and includes surfing and ATSUSHI DEFREINES, the character from “SWAMIS.” The tentative title is, “Cold Plunge at the Siren’s Reach Resort.”

Meanwhile, I’m looking at doppler images, buoy reports, and forecasts, and trying to finish an exterior or two between atmospheric rivers and the usual doses of drama, spending some (not enough) time on the writing and drawing. Hopefully your too-close-to-winter time is going well. Hit the surf when you can. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net

Don’t be afraid email me, erwin@realsurfers.net, and you have my permssion to blow up my humble blog. I can take it.

Thanksgiving Much? Surf Music, Ghosts, More

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, Original Erwin, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, surf culture events, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, writings of Erwin Dence

WORKING ON IT- Librarian/ripper Keith Darrock and I have been discussing having a SURF MUSIC theme for the next Occasional Surf Culture event. I am working on a poster. The above start, not nearly psychedelic enough, may be used once we get details sorted. If you have surf-centric music, let Keith know via the Port Townsend Public Library, or you could e-mail me at erwin@realsurfers.net

It’ll probably kick ff in, like, January, preesumed (but not always true)height of the local surf season.

Photo from Unsplash. After scrolling and scrolling, this one fit best. Could have scrolled on.

Vintage Victorian Sealskin coat. Out of stock. Photo from MODIG. 1900s Faux fur coat from New York Cloak and Coat House. SHIT! Fake? Evidently you can get real ones in Canada. Might be a tariff. And it might be illegal if immoral isn’t enough, And it’s not like I want one, I just wanted the fictional character to have one.

The Store Owners’ Daughter and the Hudson Street Whore

When the night got too harsh, she moved under the awning, in front of my parents’ hardware store, the Hudson Street whore. I’ve heard her singing.

She twirled for a bit, in the display window’s light, her long coat a part of the dance, “It’s old,” she said, “True, but it’s warm and I swear that it’s genuine fur,” It’s the same one her mother once wore, the Hudson Street whore. I’ve heard her singing.

How this Fiction/Poem was inspired by Chris Eardley, and… an explanation:

It was too cold and, more importantly, too damp to be painting this close to the water this close to sunset. If the fog was to come in… I know the risks of painting exteriors in November in this part of the world. Still, after painting on the covered porch, I pushed my luck a bit, putting a coat on some columns.

That’s when Chris Eardley walked by from his office (with an envy-worthy view of the bend in the Salish Sea between the Strait of Juan de Fuca and Puget Sound) in another building in the Port Hudson marina/building/boat yard complex. Chris is another surfer overqualified to live in a surf-starved area such as the inland waters of the Olympic Peninsula.

Maybe we yelled greetings across the road and past the heavy haul-out movable crane. Or not. Maybe a wave exchange. But… because I was there under circumstances that could be reduced to “I’m here for the money,” I felt a certain amount of something resembling… guilt.

This is me, a self-identified paint-whore.

The fiction part- First, I do a minor cringe using a term as harsh as ‘whore.’ After writing and rewriting a few verses, I decided to make the narrator a woman (girl, age-wise), hoping, if I get to a complete version, that there will be some suspense, perhaps, that the story continues. And, somewhere in my confused, ‘let’s see’ mind, I want to connect the Hudson Street Whore to the ocean, to the whole tradition of Selkies and Sirens. And I will.

I’ll let you know.          

The aforementioned Chris Eardley representing in some sunnier climes.

THANKFULNESS- Every wave is a gift. Even the ones you fall on, and the ones that fall on you.

The ghost in the laundromat dryer window is, yeah me, washing my paint-whore outfits.

SO, thanks for checking out my almost-humble blog; hope you’re enjoying the holiday, and, it’s not like we’re all a whore of some kind, but, as such, a surf-whore isn’t the worst thing.

“SWAMIS”- I’m almost through the first third of my latest re-write, front loading a bit more of the mystery aspect of the novel. I’m planning on publishing more here on a second page. Once I figure out how to do that. Stay tuned, stay frothy.

Not much to claim all rights to in this post, but, yes, I am on all original material. Thanks.

That “**&%$#@!! It All, I’m Gonna Go Surfin'” Moment

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, Original Erwin, real surfers, surf culture events, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, surfing, surfing art, surfing illustrations, writings of Erwin Dence

I was actually planning on leaving it at that. All clickbait, no content.

Not that I’m going surfing. Not today. Maybe you’re out there, hoping for the right window to open up: Tide and size and direction, cooperative wind, amiable crowd (or no crowd). It might work. It might be working now; more likely after you give up on one spot and cruise, along with others, to another spot, always hoping, anticipating,

Yep.

Just in case music is part of your surf life, some tune in your head as you search or surf, I want to mention that I’ve been discussing having SURF MUSIC as the dominant theme for the NEXT (It’s, like, the 6th or 7th, one virtual) OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA (I’m ready to drop the ‘Salish Sea’ part) EVENT with Your PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY dude (afraid to give him a title, but he may be the Head Librarian), and well known ripper, KEITH DARROCK.

It would probably be in JANUARY of 2026, and would include SURF-CENTRIC LOCAL ART, and SPECIAL GUESTS like… Working on it. I’ve already signed up PETE RAAB, non-surfer, but a man with an impressive knowledge and collection of SURF MUSIC, and I’ve approached Legend TIM NOLAN about performing with some of his friends.

Consider this an invitation to any OLYMPIC PENINSULA surf music performers, singer-songwriters or bands. We’re still at the ‘think about it phase,’ so… THINK ABOUT IT!

MEANWHILE, as your anticipation level spikes, here’s a surf song I wrote quite a while back:

I’ve got a whole lot of work, so I’ve just got a little time; got a whole lot of work, so I’ve just got a little time; now, they say everybody chooses their own mountain to climb.

I’m gonna climb that mountain, gonna start about four am; gonna climb that mountain, gonna start about four am; and I’ll stop about noon at a lake that I know for a swim.

When I get to the top, I’m gonna check out the other side; when I get to the top, I’m gonna check out the other side; and if I see the ocean, you know that I’ll be satisfied.

I JUST WANNA GO SURFIN’, now tell me, is that such a sin; I just wanna go surfin’, now, tell me, is that such a sin? When you know, damn well, it’s been a mighty long time since I’ve been.

I’m gonna take off late, freefall drop, cave off the bottom and fly off the top, locked in so tight the wave spits me out, hit the shoulder and turn one-eighty about, moving down the line like a water snake, saving my best moves for the inside break.

Hit the inside section, arching, hanging five, That’s when I’ll know that I’m still alive.

Yeah, I wanna go surfin’, and I’m gonna fine me some time; yeah, I wanna go surfin’, and I’m gonna find me some time; Now, if you get to go surfin’, and you need a good board… borrow mine.

NOTES: One- I previewed these lyrics to Pete Raab when I was working for him and on them. I need a rhyme for ‘inside break.’ Water snake? Yes. Works. Two- No one should borrow any board I own. I thrash my boards. Always have. That’s what they’re for. If your board is too, too precious to you; hang it on your wall. My motto, still, “I’m here to surf!”

I do continue to work on my novel, “Swamis.” I’m either going to have a second page on this site devoted to the book, or I will post chapters on Wednesdays. Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net

You can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net

All original works are copyright protected all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

See you.

Possible Yeti Totals Dru’s Honda

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, Original Erwin, real surfers

It may or may not still be rutting (breeding) season for deer, it may or may not be hunting season for deer; either of which might explain crazy activities by, um, deer. It’s always deer-hitting season in these here parts, and it might actually be a right of passage (whether in a truck, RV. or passenger car) to hit or nearly hit a deer. Extra points for elk, max points for a bear (not as if one looks for points- that would be creepy).

Last Sunday, after a football-watching Sunday Funday in Bremerton, a Marty Party, Dru, who, having gone to college in Chicago, never had a license or a car until she moved back, was driving home, well after dark, when, out of nowhere, some animal leapt out of the foliage and…

…totalled Dru’s first motor vehicle, and, evidence shows, tried to join her in the front seat. Because she was close to her house, and because, even with a bent frame, she was able, Dru drove home without checking on the status of the attacking animal. She did, quickly, call the State Patrol to report the incident. When I was in the neighborhood a couple of days later, no sign of the incident other than some pieces of safety glass, shimmering, near the fog line. Suspicious.

What was left of the passenger side front window. the license plate was removed to save the Seahawks frame, the liittle sticker on the largest remaining piece of glass was posed here, for effect.

DRU, coming to terms with coming of age, deer-wise.

IF YOU SCROLL DOWN to the previous. post, there’s a piece had written a while ago, then worked on again. The poem dealt with fog and Angels and such stuff. I posted it on Friday morning (or really late Wednesday) after I worked on the end of the Coyle Peninsula, tried to finish before dark, didn’t, and drove the twenty or so miles home (Coyle is part of Quilcene) on winding roads with no fog lines, eight miles of which was in minimal visibility fog, with cars and trucks coming at me with all lights blazing. I found an illustration that worked, but, if I had waited until Saturday, a shot of the lineup at fogged-in LaPush would have served as well. Or better.

My clients (still), VERN and DIANE, sent me this photo of me painting their Port Townsend victorian thirty years ago. Jeez, I seem to remember having more hair. There were a couple of stories of note:

ONE, I was painting that lower bump out late into the evening on a day threatening rain; in fact it was raining. But the wind was off the water, so, a couple of colors at a time, I continued. The wind shifted. The next day… repainted. Not a total loss.

TWO, on the side to my left (higher, steep dropoff), I decided, to save time, to lower one ladder (note the multi ladder technique) from the top of the other ladder, all while Vern was watching. Mistake. The top (fly) portion of the ladder dropped, out of control. Somehow I ended up under one of the ladders, holding on by one hand. I didn’t fall. When I got to the ground, I told Vern I always wondered if I could do that. I did; pretty sure I can no longer perform that acrobatic feat. Not that I’d try.

A couple of drawings:

The upper drawing is a possible t-shirt or Original Erwin Coloring Book possible, the other two are a sort of commission for Keith, taken from a spot he surfed in Oregon when he lived there, and more recently, visiting some of his old surf friends. the intention is to make a placemat, one image on one side, the other on the other side. Laminated, they work well. I’ve done it before. Not everyone has room on their walls, but most of us have room at the table.

REMEMBER, you can write me, erwin@realsurfers.net And, of course, original works are copyright protected, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

WATCH FOR SURF, DEARS, and Yetis and bears and whatever. AND WAVES. Be deer wise. And thanks for checking out my site. I plan to post another bit of “Swamis” on Wednesday. Watch for that, also.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Surfing, if you haven’t guessed.

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

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

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

“Like Kids in the Park”

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

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

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

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

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

“How long ago was this… hooting?”

“About noon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

                                    CHAPTER ONE- MONDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1969

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

            “I am aware. Just humor me.”

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

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

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

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

            “Rusty… He charged at you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

ALMOST SERIOUS POETRY

                  The Psychic and his Sidekick

The psychic and his sidekick, Sedrick,

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

Cindy was the bride, Archie was the groom,

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

*One Thousandth Posting and Much More

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

*I’ve been doing this blog for almost thirteen years, and because I’ve been checking on my stats a lot lately, and have actually been in contact with the platform realsurfers shakily is built on, I discovered this would be post number 1,000. NOW, the explanation for this is that not-quite-perfectionist that I am (mediocratist, high end, is more like it), I typically edit each post, like, multiple times. NEVERTHELESS, it’s some sort of milestone. OR a testament to stubbornness.

This image, possibly taken by Peninsula ripper, Chris Eardley, has already appeared on instagram. NO, Mikel Squintz, it is not anywhere, secret or not, on the Strait. Some sort of Hurricane, so, different body of water. STILL, offshore winds and possibly makeable waves does make one less worried about the rocks as well as envious.

Reggie Smart’s dog, Django, looking, well… smart. “Who’s a Smart dog?” Photo by… you know, Django’s owner. Not totally unchained. But smart. Reggie is opening a new Tattoo shop in Port Townsend. Look him up on the social if you need a little body decorating.

JOHN PECK died this week. I get the word on surfer deaths, typically, via texts from my contemporary, TOM BURNS. My story on Mr. Peck is this: Back in the late 60s, when signature model surfboards became a thing, my Fallbrook surf friends (and some kook semi-surfers) and I would share the latest “Surfer” bi-monthly. PHILLIP HARPER may have had a subscription. So, Phil, RAY HICKS, and BILL BUEL (who I still consider more of a surf-adjacent dude- Sorry) were over at Phil’s house perving out on the mag. Not like all at once. There was an ad for the MOREY-POPE designed PENETRATOR; all well and good, and an ad for several other signature boards. When Phil’s mom came into the dining room, Buel said, “Look, Mrs. Harper, there’s a board called the RAPER.” Because I was, possibly, more pedantic than I am now, and to reassure Phillip’s mom, I corrected Bill, effecting a French-ish accent. “I believe it’s pronounced, ‘Ra-pe’-air,’ like, like a sword.” And yes, I definitely went into a swashbuckling stance, which, oddly enough, is goofy-foot.

John Peck, a legendary surfer, doing a bit of kneeboarding. Photo by Nathan Oldfields. Find it, if nowhere else, at mollusksurfshopscom

SONNY OWENS also died recently. Here’s a bit on Sonny from Tom Burns: “My friend and former surf judge passed on at his home in CANNON BEACH. He was an early HUNTINGTON PIER standout in the late 60s, early 70s and migrated up here to the PNW, We surfed and judged contests over the years. Truly a good friend and a gentle soul who will be missed.”

I did meet Sonny on the Strait a year or so before my ill-fated foray into surf contest judging. Sonny and a woman I assumed to be his wife were at a barely-breaking, almost flooded-out spot, and despite being somewhat crippled, he went out. When I was at the contest in Westport, trying to fit in, I mentioned the sighting to one of the real judges. “Oh yeah? Sonny, Erwin here says he saw you surfing at ______ _____.” “Yeah, I did. Once,” To paraphrase Tom Burns, “If you’re lucky enough to surf long enough, you’re going to end up kneeboarding.” Agreed.

Let’s just say I’m posting this sideways to be less… shocking. Not true. Maybe, when I edit…

Me at Trisha’s most recent Chemo session. Photo by Trish. I’m really not supposed to make a deal out of my wife of almost 54 years undergoing treatment for breast cancer. I was not allowed to take her photo, in the chair, or later, when she was checking out and selecting a wig. Usually our daughter, DRU, herself a two time cancer survivor, takes Trish over for this kind of thing, as Trish did for her. Dru was off at a conference for organizations such as the OLYMPIC MUSIC FESTIVAL, with EMELIE BAKER (not sure what her married name is or how, exactly, to spell Emelie). So, I got the opportunity to share in the ordeal.

I try not to get too gushy about these things, but I am amazed at how strong Trish AND Dru have been, how positive. I do realize, we all have our struggles, injuries, afflictions, physical, mental, spiritual; many of which are crippling. We always hear “Fight cancer.” Yes. Yes. Allow me to repeat, “Fuck Cancer!”

I AM WORKING ON “SWAMIS,” and I promise to back off on the neurotic/obsessive re-writing. AND I’m continuing to write new songs and poems while collecting some of the old ones. Here’s one of each:

                                    EMPTY

 Empty stairwell, empty halls, Empty paintings on empty walls, Desperate conversations on the telephone, You say my heart is empty, but it’s heavy as a stone.

You know I don’t believe it, You know it can’t be true, How can my heart be empty when it’s filled with love for you.

Empty blankets, empty sheets, Empty sidewalks and empty streets, Looking out the window, I see I’m still all alone, You say my heart is empty, but it’s heavy as a stone.

You know I don’t believe it, You know it can’t be true, How can my heart be empty when it’s filled with love for you.

Empty like those scattered wishes, Empty like those shattered dishes, Empty like my old broken cup, If I’m so empty, Fill me up.

Empty ocean, empty skies, Empty faces with empty eyes, Thinking ‘bout those sins for which I just can’t atone, You say my heart is empty, but it’s heavy as a stone.

You know I don’t believe it, You know it can’t be true, How can my heart be empty when it’s filled with love for you.

Empty me, empty me, I’m as empty as I can be, I’m empty like my old broken cup, If I’m so empty, If I’m so empty, If I’m so empty… fill… me… up.

                  The Psychic and his Sidekick

The psychic and his sidekick, Sedrick,

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

Cindy was the bride, Archie was the groom,

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

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

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

“Shocking,” Cindy said, placing flowers on the headstone,

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

I DO TRY TO GIVE PROPER CREDIT for photos and such. Please respect my rights to my original, copyrighted work.

OH, AND NOTE you can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net. AND, HOWEVER YOU’RE RIDING WAVES, KEEP GOING!