“Swamis” Update, Two Chapters, and a Special Offer

Okay, here’s the UPDATE: Although I edited the shit out of the manuscript as I went along, once I (finally) got to THE END, I began re-editing.  Now, I did think this process would be easy and quick.  Not really; it’s kind of like work.  And, it’s not really getting shorter.  I was at about 110 thousand words and somewhere around 240 pages.  Now, having re-edited, “Swamis” is up to 114,000 or so words and I’m up to about page 60, so, somewhere around a fourth of the way through.                                                                    And, the thing is, every time I open it up I want to make some sort of change, including when I moved two chapters over here, somehow managing to get four copies of what I copied, this forcing me to either backspace or highlight and delete.  I couldn’t help reading a bit, couldn’t help thinking this could be just a bit… better.

I’ve included TWO CHAPTERS from fairly early on in the manuscript.  I did, previously, put the first so many chapters on this site, but, one, finding them might require scrolling down quite a ways, and two, they’ve been changed.                                                                  By way of explanation, the notes at the beginning of each chapter are those, supposedly taken at the time, of the fictional author of the fake memoir.

Since I am sure that “Swamis,” once published, will have significant changes from whatever the manuscript, once I take my hands off the keyboard and get, once again, to THE END, and because I’m always looking for some way to support my writing/drawing/surfing/surviving addictions, other than painting my ass off; I am seriously considering printing up TEN COPIES of “SWAMIS,” including some of the illustrations, all on cheap white paper, probably using both sides, putting them in a cardboard, three-hole binder (as one would a screenplay), maybe printing up the color version of the “Swamis” title page, glue-sticking it on the cover of the binder, signing and numbering each one, and offering them for a cool $100.00 each, American currency.     Again, this will be the original manuscript; unexpurgated, uncensored.                                 I say this is an investment, and like all investments, it’s a gamble.                                         When others are binge watching episodes on Netflix or Amazon, the proud owner of the manuscript will have the opportunity to say; “Oh, here’s another place where they Hollywoodized the shit out of “Swamis.”

Anyway, I’ve been betting on this for a while. MEANWHILE, I do plan on reading something from it at the PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY on THURSDAY, MARCH 5, 6:00 PM.  Whoa, that’s coming up; I better get to editing.

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WEDNESDAY, JUNE 25, 1969- BEANERS

-Grndvw, 2-4, bigger sets. 2 swim-ins. Jumper at Grocery. He knows Tony. Check cashing f/workers. Hung posters in my new room-

It was mid-afternoon, early in my shift at the San Elijo Grocery in Cardiff; and I was bagging groceries for a particularly talkative woman; somewhat older than my mother, dressed in a house dress, some sort of white scarf thing on her head, curlers bulging in some sort of random alignment under it. So, since women my mom’s age tried to look younger, hipper; this woman was, yes, older.

“Durn Texans,” she said, “worst kind of tourists.” She was talking more to the similarly aged checker, Tony’s sister-in-law, Doris. Doris was nodding politely, looking at price tags on some items (most she knew), hitting keys. It was more than halfway through Doris’s shift and some of her willingness to chit-chat enthusiastically had worn off. “Surfers,” the customer said, kind of looking at me. “Surfers from… Texas. Texas? What do you think… (looking at the name tag on my apron) Jody? Jody?”

“Jody?” I mouthed, looking at the nametag on my bright green apron; acting as if it wasn’t my name. It wasn’t. I’d been looking for another, better nickname for years. Jody was my father’s joke. Jody.

“Jody’s got your girlfriend,” my father would say, drill instructor voice pop-pop-popping the cadence. “One-two, one-two, one-two-three-four… one-two…three-four.” Jody.

I shrugged, said “Texas,” pretty much under my breath. I had noticed the woman had some sort of east coast accent; northeast, not that I could discern Philadelphia from New Jersey from anywhere else; but she hadn’t lost the European edge, that inflection; rhythm, maybe.

She pulled several items out of the bag I had, probably, overloaded. “I would rather make more trips… Jody. If I had big muscles, like you…” She smiled. I opened another bag. She put her heavy purse on the counter. “They all seem to have money. They want to rent by the week. They get sand in the shower; make a mess. Drink; leave cigarette butts on the patio.”

Paw’-tee-oh.

She looked from me to Doris, Doris now looking for the original price on a dented can of string beans. “One threw up on the sidewalk. Awful.” Back to me. “And… and they chase around our young girls. Believe me, if I didn’t need to keep my rooms rented, I’d…”

I was distracted, not sufficiently interested. I did nod, but the woman could tell I wasn’t even pretending to listen. Still I could tell she was looking me over; me; Jody, in the apron, my hair not long enough to pull back (but parted in the middle), my attempt at a mustache more like peach fuzz. She turned back toward Doris. “Believe me, Doris, if I didn’t charge them Texicans extra, I’d never…” She kept talking; I continued bagging, but I wasn’t listening.

No, I was listening enough to hear when the East Coast Woman whispered something to Doris.

I heard Doris say, “He’s Hawaiian.”

The woman said something about Hawaiian statehood and 1958 and passports.

Jumper Hayes, over by the big front windows, was talking to Tony, the owner of San Elijo Grocery. They, obviously, knew each other. I guessed this might be the first time they’d seen each other since Jumper’s return; each with a hand on the other man’s shoulder; laughing at… laughing at things that weren’t actually funny: Weather, traffic, the effects of the I-5 freeway. Laughing.

Jumper pulled up the left sleeve of his t shirt, poked at a scar on his bicep with his right hand, laughed. Tony started to roll up his right pant leg, stopped, sort of grabbed at it, kicked it out to show it still worked. They both looked over as two young men entered the south doors, each in lightweight white pants and shirts, clothing appropriate for working in hothouses (though more than I would have worn in that wet heat), moving, then standing, obviously nervous, closer to the big bags of dog food, fertilizer, and charcoal; each with a piece of paper, possibly a check, in his hand, each with his straw version of the cowboy hat in the other.

“Wetbacks,” the woman, Motel Owner, said. “Beaners,” she added, louder, in case Doris or I hadn’t gotten it. I put her ice cream in a white, insulated paper bag, placed it in with her TV dinners. “Guess they can’t just go to the bank like regular folks, and…”

Tony, an older man (in his mid-40s, I now calculate, well within my category of ‘older’ then) with a bow tie, a vest, and one side of his dress shirt untucked, did his sort of half-limp walk over to the other register, opened it with one of the keys on his belt. Jumper followed him, stood beside him. The two workers, on a signal from him, backed up by a nod from Jumper, approached. Jumper handed one a pen, pointed to the back of the check.

“Y’all need some help out with that, Ma’am?” It was the closest I could come to a Texas accent.

A woman with two children, one in the cart, her free arm holding the older child’s right arm pretty much straight up; approached the other register. She looked at the two men taking their cash. Each one folded and pocketed the bills, nodded toward Tony, then Jumper, put on his hat, nodded, slightly, to the woman before backing up and stepping away. The woman looked at Tony, rearranging bills in his cash drawer. She looked concerned. She looked at Jumper.

Jumper gave her a sort of matador ‘you’re next’ sweep, stepped back. Tony stuck his hand out, grasped Jumper’s, looked at the woman, put his other hand on Jumper’s shoulder.

“You’re next, ma’am,” Tony said, brushing his hand across the counter in a lesser version of the matador sweep.

Jumper smiled at the child in the cart, smiled at the kid not yet released from his mother’s grasp. He nodded at Tony and smiled (no more than a friendly smile) at the woman.

I may have neglected to mention that Jumper Hayes was quite handsome. The woman smiled back, let go of the bratty child, who, immediately, grabbed a candy bar from a nearby rack, stuck it, wrapper and all, in his mouth.

“Walter Maxwell McKay,” she said, a bit louder than she’d probably expected it to be. She gave Jumper an apologetic smile. He gave her an understanding smile. Tony gave me and Doris and the Motel Owner a different kind of understanding smile. He then gave me a nod that meant I would be helping the Motel Owner out to her car.

Jumper, Tony, Walter Maxwell’s mother, and her two children; with Walter Maxwell now back in the cart; seemed to be enjoying the moment. I didn’t look over as the Motel Owner and I passed Tony’s register. “I went to Hawaii once,” she said, “On the ‘Matsonia.’ Me and my… my husband.” Just past the only other checkout station at San Elijo Grocery, she stopped, pointed toward the north exit. We got to pass Tony, Jumper, Mrs. McKay, her two kids again, Motel Owner clutching the strap of her purse, her receipt, and her green stamps in one hand, close to her body, her other hand on the cart. As if I needed her help.

FRIDAY, JUNE 27, 1969- CHUBASCO

Pre-dawn chk Grndvw; Closed out. Chubasco. Jumper. Talked. Clld me bagboy. Swamis. 6-8. 3 tubes. Mostly inside peak, some connected f/outside. Jmpr told some locals I’m his neighbor, might be allright-

I was taking one last look from the bluff at Grandview, trunks and towel over my board; just in case the waves were not what they sounded like in the dark; the loud crack of an outside wave over the almost constant roar of those already broken.   It had to be surf from some distant storm, some hurricane, some chubasco off Baja, or… I didn’t really know; I had heard some swells come from as far away as New Zealand. The fetch. Energy. Traveling. Hitting islands, wrapping around headlands; peeling; like the images from the magazines; perfect, a slideshow in my mind.

No, this wasn’t that; this was disorganized energy spread out, waves overtaking other waves, closing out in deep water on a couple of miles of fairly even shoreline.

I was listening to the heavy ocean rhythm, peering into the darkness, watching the slideshow.

“One thousand seven, one thousand eight.” Fingers snapped close to my right ear. Someone’s face was very close to mine. Too close. “Oh. Okay.”

“What?” I blinked. The face was gone.

“Bagboy.” He may have said it more than once. “Bagboy; it’s closed-out.” I didn’t respond. “Fallbrook.”

“What?” I turned to my right.

Jumper Hayes stepped around, from my left, and was almost in front of me. “Fallbrook. Bagboy. You.”

“Don’t live in Fallbrook anymore. After graduation, we…” He cut me off with a swipe of a hand.

“Man,” he said, “you were just so… focused. I circled you three times.” He held three fingers pretty close to my face. “Focused.”

“Guess so.”

“But you’re back now?”

“Yeah.” I blinked a few times.

“Pretty scary. The staring. I’ve seen that kind of thing before.”

“I was, um, thinking. Focused, I guess; like you said.”

“Focused then. Sure. Thought maybe you were stoned out.”

I shook my head, chuckled at the very idea. Stoned out. “Three times, huh?” He nodded, put the three fingers back up. “Not stoned out.”

“All right.” There were conversational delays, pretty typical. Coolness etiquette requires one not to be too rushed, too enthusiastic. Surfers were expected to be cooler than most. Jumper was skilled in coolness etiquette. Though we had never been introduced, and neither of us introduced ourselves at that time, we both acted as if we had. “So, not a valley cowboy; huh?” He bowed his legs in a sort of stage cowboy movement.

“Never was.”

“But you did live in Fallbrook. Right?” I nodded. “Maybe your daddy knew enough to not live where he worked.” I probably looked suspicious, guarded. I was suspicious of anyone who mentioned my father. Apprehensive would be more accurate. “Don’t blame him.” I didn’t have time to respond. “You going out here, Bagboy?”

“I, um… it’s pretty, uh, big. Got to be tough to get out. Not too many lulls. Maybe it’ll…” I stopped myself. With there now just enough light, though pretty much only in shades of gray, I could see long, almost unbroken lines, ugly green gray, no discernible peak, closing out farther out than I’d ever surfed. “You?”

“Hey, Fallbrook; I will if you will.”

“Really?” I may have been a little too thrilled (or petrified) by this statement.

“Fuck no, bagboy; it’s fuckin’ closed out. There’s no glory in surfing this shit.”

“I guess not,” I said. ‘Glory?’ I thought. I would rerun this brief conversation, as I do with almost every conversation, back through my mind. Later. Always. Glory?

“Now, Swamis…” He waited a second. I tried to nod slowly, like I hadn’t already thought of Swamis. “Tide’s dropping. Swamis should be… fun.”

Jumper turned, walked away. I followed. He turned around, walking backward, about halfway to the street, at the place where I could go down the washout or back to my car. “Should be,” I said, breaking into a run as I passed him.

“Swamis,” copywrite 2020. Erwin A. Dence, Jr.                                                                              If you are interested in a copy of the original, you can email me at rainshadowranch@hotmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Joyously

I write a monthly column for Quilcene’s Community Center. You probably don’t get it in your inbox.  Luckily, here’s the latest, only slightly past it’s ‘new’ date.  For an update, political reality keeps getting more intense; if you pay attention.  SO:

Hibernating, Hunkering, Hallmark Channel Binging

I’ll try to keep this simple. Not that anything in life is simple. Not that we really like simple. While I’m writing this, it’s still January, and we have had, this month, some snow; but mostly we have had, and are still having, record rain; constant, November-like rain. There are deep ruts in the gravelly-ist driveways, puddles large enough to have names and an attendant flock of waterfowl; birds stuck, mid-migration, and indecisive, as likely to fly east or west as north or south.

Not really. They might be thinking of just staying here in Quilcene. The snow levels in the mountains, Olympics and Cascades, seem to go up and down with some sort of rhythm. Mostly it’s rain, rain, rain, rain. Yeah, I know, next line is, “Oh my pillow’s soaking wet.” I don’t want to look it up.

Not that I could decipher the beat as I, to name-check a song title, “listen to the rhythm of the pouring rain” (okay, I did look this up. It was originally done by the Cascades, they being- didn’t look this up, from San Diego- no Cascades nearby). Still, we all dance to that rhythm.

Not necessarily gracefully.

So, if we had cold-to-freeeezing but clear weather in November, and if I can’t really remember what the weather was like in December (I’m guessing rain, but could have had some sun- no more than six hours maximum- pretty sure on that), and we had the rain in January, what about February?

Well, let’s hope for the best.

Hope.

I feel compelled to mention that Valentine’s Day and Groundhog Day are both in February. I think. Again, don’t want to look it up, but we are talking about romance and, again, some sort of hope in how long we have to wait for, you know, spring, and with it, yes, spring rains.

Meanwhile, many of us have done some amount of hibernating, some hunkering-down. Referencing, again, the romance angle, there is the opportunity to binge watch romance (as a genre) movies on, for example, the Hallmark Channel. One would, of course, as in the case with an overlarge box of chocolates, have to offset this sweetness with, perhaps, as an example, seasons one and two of ‘Jack Ryan’ on Amazon Prime. Action (another genre).

Or, for even more confrontational action, riveting conversation, dramatic intrigue, with passionate speeches and soliloquys (a soliloquy being a speech no one is, theoretically, actually listening to) one could tune into the Impeachment Show; the hours of testimony and rebuttal tied together and relentlessly covered in whatever remains of each day by the commentators on and explainers of (because this is America, durn it) your choice.

Now, I have heard that some people read, like, poetry, short story collections, novels, or listen to them, or listen to podcasts. I’ve worked in a lot of weekend houses, and, evidently, based on every one of them being stocked with shelves of puzzles and board games, I have to believe some folks put together or play with whatever is in those boxes.

I don’t wish to judge what anyone else does in the privacy of his or her home; but whatever one does in hibernation season, I can only hope one does it joyously.

I have included the illustration I modified for use as a Christmas/Holiday (and I will defend the slash mark if pushed) card. Since we didn’t send too many of those out, it was modified again to be used as New Year’s cards.

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It fits, however, so neatly as a Hibernation Season card, the tagline being: “If you can’t hibernate peacefully, celebrate joyously.”

If we were celebrating rain, joyously; whoa; we’d be so overjoyed.

It’s simple. Really.

ONE MORE THING: I wrote a fake “Cowboy Poetry” piece, actually mine being “Cowboy Fiction,” which I may be reading, along with a bit from my fake memoir, “Swamis,” at 6pm, Thursday, March 5th, Uptown Port Townsend.  We’ll see.  I’m currently about 40 some pages through a front to back edit of the currently 240 pages of “Swamis.” Working on it.

 

And Now in Color…

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If I wanted the original drawing to be black and white psychedelic, I wanted the colored (over colored) version to chase after if not capture stained glass.

Actually, I didn’t think of that until I saw the image on the computer screen.

I’m in the tightening-up phase of my manuscript, “Swamis,” and right now, instead of chasing the latest possible surf/wind event hitting the northwest corner, I’ll be waiting, again, for the satellite guy.  Very nice; makes big bucks; replaced our failed ten year old HD box on Wednesday (after two pm on the 12-4 wait time) with one that didn’t fail for a day and a half.  He freaked our cat out.  She, Angelina, hid out for a day and a half.  Yeah, the same day and a half.

Spent another hour plus convincing various prompts that, indeed, I had tried to reset, unplug-plug, prayer, “the fucking thing won’t fucking work, fucker” (that was me to the evasive prompts; way nicer to Laura, who, eventually, spoke to me).  “Yes, if that’s what happening, you may be correct, sir, Erwin; the unit may be, as you say, toast.”

So, sometime today, between noon and forever.

Waiting.

No, I’ve got shit to do.  I did a stint at THE CELLAR DOOR last night, stand-in doorman tasked with collecting a five dollar cover.  I was standing in for my daughter, Dru, who is sick, being cared for by Trish.  Mixed reviews.  On the band and the doorman.  Person.

I would blather on, but I’ve already reduced the time I can spend on “Swamis,” and, with Trish still at our daughter’s place, I’m most concerned about our cat, Angelina, obviously more Trisha’s cat than mine, and where I’m going to put her when the big bad highly-paid (great benefits, too; 20 free phones, all gone, with unlimited everything) installer comes to call.

Oh, text update: Sometime between 1:45 and forever.

If I hadn’t gotten home so late, maybe…

Wait; something else about “Swamis,” other than I will be reading from it on Thursday, March 5, sometime after 6pm, Port Townsend Public Library.  Thanks to Keith Darrock.

I was discussing how the 110,000 word manuscript is now, about a fourth of the way through my editing process, over a hundred and twelve thousand words.  “Maybe,” my friend Stephen Davis (co owner of the Cellar Door) said, it’s become your ‘War and Peace.'”  “It’s at least my ‘Moby Dick,'” I replied.

You might not believe this, but the manuscript veers off the course a detective novel might adhere to.  Genre-bending.  Frequently.  I have to tell myself it’s okay because “Swamis” is more like a memoir.  Fake memoir.

My bigger fear is, since I can’t help thinking of how cool “Swamis” would be as an Amazon or Netflix mini-series (possibly provoked and furthered by watching Roku rather than DVRd “Jeopardy” and Colbert), is that each chapter is just too fucking (remember, I’m just typing, keystrokes on a computer, sending them out to whoever happens upon them- kind of like responding to a prompt) cute, too neatly packaged and wrapped.

And all the tightening might be making each chapter, and the entire manuscript more so.  Cuter.  I’m kind of thinking the more off-course chapters could be printed on pages of another color with a disclaimer/warning like, “If you want just the mystery story, skip this.”  That might be clever; might be, again, too cute.

If I was talking to you in person I’d probably say the same fucking thing: Beware, “Swamis” just might be too fucking cute.

Yeah, Steve and I, cruising between Port Townsend’s Goodwill (so I could get some proper doorman clothes and not have to go home between painting and manning) and the ultra-hip Co-Op (haven’t been there since right after it opened and I was no where near hip enough), did, at the “Moby Dick” comment, possibly giggle.  So immature.

Okay, thinking about locking Isabella in the bathroom when the guy shows up, thinking about why no wind is showing on a buoy (there’s always wind), thinking about when I’ll surf again (not today), thinking about “Swamis,” real and imagined.

 

The End of “Swamis” and Two Psychedelic-in-B&Ws in Color

It’s not finished, but earlier today I got to the last line (unless it changes) of  “Swamis,” the mystery/romance/coming-of-age/fake memoir/novel I’ve been working on for, if I’m counting the experiences that have gone into it, all my life.  It’s at 110,100 words on 02/02/20, subject to editing for inconsistencies, redundancies, contradictions, and just plain bad (inadequately great) writing.  Hopefully not too much of that.

I’m not sure how long this process will take, though I have been obsessively attacking the work lately, taking advantage of time afforded me (not that I can afford it) by the slowdown of work in winter.  And then I have several people I want to read it.  And then…

Hopeful.  Always.

But, maybe before I get to that point, I am planning on having at least one public reading.  One is already scheduled.  Thursday, March 5, 6pm (I think), Port Townsend Public Library.  This is part of a program set up by PT ripper and librarian Keith Darrock.

I’ll update this, and will, no doubt, mention it with every new posting.

MEANWHILE, continuing my “Psychedelic Period,” I have colored two recent drawings.  They and others, along with some Original Erwin t-shirts are available at Tyler Meeks’ DISCO BAY OUTDOOR EXCHANGE.  All are limited editions, numbers limited by, um, me.

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I should mention that the Disco Bay is open, winter hours, ten am to six pm, Thursday through Sunday, with gear for all your action activities on the Olympic Peninsula.

Also, in the should mention category, I have some prints available, including some from earlier periods, at THE CELLAR DOOR in Port Townsend, open nights, so, pretty much there after six pm for sure.

The Truth Sideslips in the Balance

A handful of surfers may determine the final tally. It’s critical. There’s a lot of pressure. So far, though I keep telling everyone that I want to hear the truth, all the truth, from all of the pertinent witnesses; insisting I haven’t made a final decision, that I’m not closed off, I’m not stonewalling, not denying the facts; though I’ve tried to sidestep (and sideslip- love a good sideslip), and, in the opinion of some, tried, desperately, to evade answering the main and constantly-asked question with a straightforward admission that there may, indeed, on some rare occasions, with some perfect alignment of the moon and stars; some elusive but correct formula, some fortuitous recipe of the primary ingredients, wind and swell and tide and period and direction; one might, with repeated trips, most resulting in severe skunkings (a lesser skunking meaning surfing weak and sloppy closeouts), and, one might, after trekking down slippery trails, enduring the death stares (aka stink eye) of fellow surfriding enthusiasts who consider themselves more prepared or more deserving (the metrics of this ranking system vary and sometimes include who has the more expensive surf rig, who lives marginally closer to any waterfront considered coastline, who once almost went out at Rocky Point) might find a few minute’s worth (all windows close, most quickly) of barely-rideable waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca; despite all that, I may be forced, by socio-political pressures I cannot fully explain without revealing myself to be a total sellout, little more than a spineless piece of shit, comparable, perhaps, to landmines left behind by some dogs-must-be-free proponent who let his or her Papered-and-Pedigreed Purebred Showdog (great, glad to hear it) or Mixed-breed-Rescue-Animal (revealing the owner to be the animal’s savior- super great) leave several piles of (let’s say ‘scat’) shit (it was too late- I’d already said ‘shit’ for ‘scat’) for some future beachcomber, inexplicably excited and almost into his or her wetsuit, to step in (“Fuck!”- might as well say it, already said shit), because, possibly, as you profess, you have an allergy to putting plastic on your hand, and, anyway, you were planning on throwing any poop you were forced to collect (only because someone was observing), plastic bag (oh, plastic) and all, into the ocean, the bone-chillingly cold water that just might, might, might possibly have…

Oh, I can’t say it. Could you just quit asking?  Waves.  Talking about waves.

“Evidence,” you say. “What evidence?”  I ask.  OH. Evidence of wave activity in the Strait is frowned upon, photographic images in particular; and particularly when displayed, breathlessly (as in “I scored! Me! ME! MEEEEEEE!”) on social media; and, even more so when accompanied by such revelations as when and where you lucked into a few side-chopped and… Oh I forgot to mention the rocks… waves. Lots of small rocks between the big fin-snappers. Ride a one-foot wave with a one-foot fin in one foot of rock-riddled waters, and, yeah; you’ll lose the occasional skeg. Oh, and while you’re revealing not-necessarily-secret surf locations to others too busy deciding the exact last moment he or she should pull out of the stock market to actually do any real research, you may as well let anyone onto your feed (are you on theirs, are they on yours- confusing) whose fashion you were wearing, in and out of the water, which artisan brew and/or bud you were enjoying, and which custom board from your extensive quiver (has to be more than three to qualify as a quiver) you were riding.

Oh, wait; I seem to be sounding a little cynical here. Sorry. That’s not like me. I love dogs. Do I have a fear someone, some turncoat, some former proponent of the ‘let’s keep it our secret’ philosophy, possibly with some hidden agenda or some soon-to-be released book will blow the whistle; go on Rachel Maddow and reveal endless days of endless swell wrapping endlessly around an almost endless succession of perfect points and reefs?

Yes. Definitely. But I know the truth. If you want to know; here it is: I could head to the Strait today.  I would love to go surfing, and I would if I thought there was any real chance of real waves. Or maybe I’m not telling the truth.

I really wanted to write some hopefully-clever piece actually about the frustrating impeachment situation.  Bring in the witnesses; get the truth out there.  That truth.

 

Illustrations for “Swamis,” the Novel

The manuscript for “Swamis” is up to somewhere over one hundred thousand words.  It’s a lot of words considering that, when I was told a novel should be over sixty thousand, I didn’t think I could get there.

Not that I did anything that I would call padding, I am now at the exciting conclusion, and need another five thousand or so to wrap it all up.

I had been considering the last line possibilities for quite some time.  Originally it was going to be, “They say I might be getting out of here sometime soon.”  Then it was… well, I think it will still be a different line, but, now, I’m thinking about adding one more line.  Here it is: “I didn’t ask if he was killed with a twenty-two or a forty-five.”

Yeah.  There must be lots of exciting stuff going on before this.

Since “Swamis” is, supposedly, a memoir written by Joseph DeFreines, Junior, and, just to make sure no one confuses him with me, I have put Erwin, someone of about the same age; another surfing inland cowboy from Fallbrook, North San Diego County, in the book as a character.

That Erwin is doing some illustrations for the eventual book.  Here are three drawings toward that goal:  One references a character very early on, Sid, whose last name neither I or my character can remember.  Sid was a team rider for Surfboards Hawaii at the time the story takes place, 1969, was featured hanging ten in an earlier black and white ad in “Surfer” magazine, and, as revealed by in the used board room at the Surfboards Hawaii shop in Encinitas, he was known to thrash his boards.

The second illustration is meant to represent the portion of the old stairs at Swamis, about two thirds of the way up, where a bigger deck offered a perfect view of the waves. This is where I was, on one of those days that starts out mediocre and becomes great, and from where I witnessed, in 1968 or so, a flawless cutback-to off-the-foam to bottom-turn to top-turn by Billy Hamilton.  This is where “Old men stop here” was dug into the railing, and it is where Gingerbread Fred’s body ends up.  In the novel.

The third illustration became, because of the way it turned out (compared to how it was intended) as a representation of one of the main characters, Chulo; whose death by immolation (love that word) next to the Self Realization Fellowship wall is critical to the story.  Chulo is described as looking like a limping (he has an actual limp) Jesus.  I scanned the drawing before adding a beard.  Just in case.

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I have put some of the early “Swamis” chapters on this site, but, one, you’d have to scroll a long ways down to find them, and, two, my propensity for changing and editing makes them different.  At least.  I’m not saying it all might be different in the future.  It might.

I’m just hoping Joseph DeFreines, Junior doesn’t fire me as illustrator.

On Edge

I’m not sure if I should credit the reference photos for my drawings.  They aren’t tracings or blowups from the originals, but attempts to catch the feel and the flow.  If I did try, and, oh, I do, to render… wait, let me look that up.  Does one render?  There’s ‘Render unto Caesar,’ often misinterpreted, according to the various references on my search engine, as some justification for following ridiculous leaders.  Then there’s…

Oh.  Yes, there’s render as extracting by a melting-down process, as in rendering metals or, um, fat; and, in the surprisingly varied definitions of the word, there is also ‘rendition,’ as in ‘extraordinary rendition,’ a phrase created and designed to, if not outright justify it, make sending some prisoner to some harsh place to be ‘interrogated’ seem kind of all right and/or legal.

There’s also a noun, render being the first coat of plaster applied to a brick or stone surface.  I hadn’t heard this, and, so, looked it up.  Scratch coat,  brown coat, white (or finish) coat, according (giving references) to Bob Vila.com.

So, apologizing for taking this side road; but, all right; referencing a photograph of Jock Sutherland cranking one off the bottom switch-foot at Sunset Beach (or is he switch-foot at Pipeline), here is my, hmm, hmm, rendering; scratched on a piece of paper.  Card stock to be more precise.

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I have done a color version, way too much color, but have to get it reduced to fit on my scanner.  Rendered scanner-ready, perhaps.  I won’t get into it.

Meanwhile, hope you’re getting some mountain snow activity in.  Evidently there are few if any secret established ski spots in the Cascades, and one must purchase a lift ticket well before arriving.  Too many skiers and snowboarders.  Evidently.

Meanwhile, before I get back to trying to finish (as in get to ‘the end’) of “Swamis,” the novel, I should mention some of my illustrations that Oceanna and Stephen have been so kind to allow me to display (hopefully sell) at THE CELLAR DOOR, downtown Port Townsend:

 

The Cellar Door Mystery/Investigation

Here’s a bad scan of the illustration recently stolen from the Cellar Door in Port Townsend.  Bad because, even on the third attempt to properly crop and square the drawing on my printer/scanner, I couldn’t get it quite right.

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AND YET, another copy of the original, a gift to Cellar Door owners, Stephen and Oceanna (last names on next post down), was deemed worthy of theft.

ALTHOUGH I told Steve I could get them another copy, he told me that Oceanna is very  determined to get that one, with date, authentication signature, and some sort of personalized ‘good luck’ message on the back, back.

SO, when Trish told me I’m sort of a sensation on Facebook, I was surprised that people are liking and commenting and doing whatever it is when one person spreads it to other groups- not quite viral, and not actually tracking all the subsequent hits back to realsurfers.net, but it is impressive that Oceanna is so concerned.

I decided to look through some of my scans, just to see if I had any other pieces that might fit in the underground location, theft-worthy or not.

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Excuse me; but is this the window to the CELLAR DOOR? So tantalizing and intriguing!

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Door frame, again, not crooked in the original.

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Meanwhile, here’s an update I did on the “Keep on Trucking” drawing, submitted to and rejected by the “New Yorker,” used with permission (and so stoked about that) of R. Crumb; who wrote that the “New Yorker” wouldn’t use it.  You might notice there’s some client’s phone number or something at the top.  Cropping.

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Since every drawing comes with a story; here’s the story on this one: Also not scanned until today; and then I had to up the resolution or whatever to 300 and use the ‘grayscale’ feature.  It was drawn as a submission to the “New Yorker” (or is it “The New Yorker”?). I spilled something on it (not unusual, my originals often have coffee cup rings, little dots of coffee shot from my mustache in bouts of mouth breathing, and such things- look closely).  My late sister, Melissa Lynch, way more talented an artist than I even dream of being, loved it.  I didn’t like the roughness/incompleteness of the door, and redrew it.  “No,” she said, “I want the other one’ the good one.”  The original caption was: “It was the suit, wasn’t it?”  It could just as well be, “This is the Cellar Door, I presume.”

Here’s three more of mine, just to be a little naughty.  They are from silkscreens done in the 1980s, found in my attic.  They do include windows if not doors.  The Cellar Door is more a nightclub than a restaurant, and has already featured live bands, karaoke nights, private functions, and Vaudeville (not sure what all that includes, but it sounds just a little naughty).

I should include a couple of paintings by Stephen R. Davis himself.  If the Cellar Door is going to be known as a place to see and/or steal artsy stuff, Steve’s stuff should be included.  They have their own stories.  If Oceanna gets the Cellar Door drawing back; yeah, another story; and a mystery, possibly, solved.

The Sincerest Form of Flattery- Theft

Someone stole my illustration for the Cellar Door from the Cellar Door.  It’s officially gone, stolen, no longer where it is legally supposed to be.  So, first; WHAT?  Second; Well, it was a copy of the original, which I still have, and hey; doesn’t this kind of mean someone thought it was worthy of stealing, like; there wasn’t an original Picasso or Manet or Monet, so why not grab an Original Erwin?

Okay, while I’m considering the ranks of artists I’m suddenly a part of… wait; I did have one of my Original Erwin t-shirts taken, on trust and a promise, and not only not paid for (only instance of this- all others were eventually paid for), but the person who picked it up denied having possession of it (hope it is being enjoyed)… first let me make sure I have a copy of the purloined illustration.

Oops; never scanned it.  Give me a second.  No; I’m a little depressed at the SEAHAWKS losing, at my missing some epic surf somewhere, that it’s supposed to snow and freeze in the immediate future (like the next week), and that a copy of the drawing I don’t want to scan right now was stolen; I’ll scan it in the morning, post something with just it.

The story of the artwork is as follows: When my friend, radical pig-dogger and/or casual surfboard slider (sometimes both on the same wave) Stephen R. Davis (R for Rad), told me he and girlfriend Oceanna Van Lelyveld, were opening a restaurant under the streets of Port Townsend, I instantly started on a drawing.

Oops, it’s not the UNDERGROUND?  So what do I do with the lettering I did for the UNDERGROUND?  Change it, add something.  Okay.

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Oh, it’s The Cellar Door? I started on a new illustration, suitable for advertising or menus or, evidently, stealing.

As far as waves go; I have been working or desperately trying to winterize (ie; get generator started, cover some exposed waterlines, but I did hear stories.  As local surfer/boat designer and legend Tim Nolan told me about the big ass North Pacific storm before the more current big a as North Pacific storm; “The waves have to hit somewhere.”

Indeed.  Next time.

Maybe in the morning.  The scan; talking about the scan.

Honoring A (Another) Classic Waterman

As surfers, we have what should be a requirement, definitely an obligation, to honor those who went before us.  The real surfers of the generation slightly before mine were surfing when that meant no or inadequate wetsuits, heavy and ungainly boards; and one could not even qualify to be counted as anything close to a real surfer if not skilled in body surfing, long distance paddling, and diving.  Fishing skills were also appreciated.  Many surfers increased their time in the lineup (imagine Windansea with three friends out) by fishing and diving for abalone and ‘bugs’ (lobster).

Yes, these things were legal in California until some time in the 60s, and aren’t now.  I have run into other surfers from that era; one who became a builder; another who opened a car dealership.  They had stories.  Stories.  We all have stories, stories with surfing as a recurring theme, hopefully; or, for those who no longer get in the water, a collection of wistful, romantic (in its way) memories.  Some of our best moments are spent in and around the water.

Here, with some minor editing, is what my friend Keith wrote about his father’s passing:

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Douglas Darrock, 1938-2019, passed away on the Winter Solstice near Port Townsend, Washington.  He was 81.  Doug grew up in La Jolla in the 40s and 50s, graduating from La Jolla High in 1956.

He was a waterman in the truest sense.

As a young man, he built his own paddleboards and spearguns to dive the kelp beds and reefs off La Jolla.  He surfed and bodysurfed often.  He later worked as a commercial abalone diver around La Jolla and as a research diver in the Sea of Cortez.

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After serving in the military, he moved north, to Oregon, in the 1960s.  He owned a bar and fished commercially for salmon out of Astoria.  It was there that he met his partner of 45 years, Lorraine Limardi.  They lived for a time in Cannon Beach and Manzanita, and, later, south in Yachats and Tenmile Creek.  It was along this coast that Doug and Lorraine raised their family and made many friends.

Doug loved the adventure of travel.  He took his family on long road trips; south to Baja California, Mainland Mexico, and Central America, escaping the long, wet Oregon winters; camping on the beach, exploring while living in a VW bus.

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The family spent a year sailing to Baja and into the Sea of Cortez aboard ‘Cecilia’, a thirty-four foot Benford Cutter until the money ran out and they were forced to sell the boat and limp back to the Oregon Coast in an old Volvo.

Doug and his family spent many years around Port Townsend, Marrowstone Island and the San Juan Islands.  He loved to sail these waters.  Never a career man, Doug, instead, made money as a farmer and renovating old houses, taking odd jobs when necessary.  His first and last jobs were as a lifeguard in La Jolla as a young man, and as a lifeguard in Port Townsend at the public pool in his 70s.

Life was never dull with Doug.  He is survived by his wife, Lorraine, son Keith Darrock (local librarian and extremely avid surfer), daughters Laura DuPont and Jessica Syska; along with many grandchildren.

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I don’t think I ever met Douglas Darrock.  He was part of the La Jolla crowd that included surfboard makers Gordon and Smith; some famous surfers, including Butch Van Artsdalen; and a non-famous surfer, Bill Irwin; who also lived a surfer/sailor life, and died about a year ago.

I never met the father, but I see him in the son.  Keith (that’s him on the back of his dad’s bike) makes adjustments to his life to include surfing.  I watched Keith recently, having arrived too late to get into my wetsuit and go out before the tight window would close.  He was (his word) gorging on the waves on offer.  When I talked to him on the beach I said the if he (rail thin and determined to stay that way) loved food as much as he loves waves, he’d be soooooooo fat.  Yes, I told him it’d show up here.

Stories.  Peace.