Category Archives: real surfers

“Not Without Incident” Incidents

Posted on by under northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

Let me see if I can tell this quickly. It isn’t as if I haven’t told the story to pretty much everyone I’ve spoken to for longer than the “Yes, I found what I wanted (corn dogs); thank you” at the QFC.

I roll up to an unnamed beach. It’s early, but not pre-dawn early. Waves, but small. But waves. There’s one guy in the water on a giant longboard, and he’s getting out. He comes up the beach toward his (of course) white sprinter van. The woman sitting on a beach chair in front of the van reading a book, that, judging by the gold-edged pages might be a Bible, or not, jumps up to help him up to the van, then helps him pull his wetsuit off his shoulders. Nice.

He’s a BIG guy, possibly bigger than me, so I am sorely (subtle Bible reference) tempted to yell, “Hey, get back out there! I don’t want to be the fattest guy in the water.” I don’t.

I’m trying to get into my own wetsuit (not the front zip with the patches, particularly the one on the, um, butthole-adjacent area), which, top this point, I have not donned without some assistance. I see this guy headed over to the sani-can. “Hey… a little help if you would. Old guys… you know. Now, on the velcro… Thanks. You going out?” “When the tide gets a little higher.” “Supposed to get windy.” “Yeah.”

By the time I grab my board there’s one surfer out on the lefts and two guys heading over to the rights, one of whom is doing warmup moves. The other one waves at me. “Oh, it’s Sean.” I wave back.

I paddle up to the one guy at the lefts, nod, and, polietly, say, “I’m going to back-paddle you.” He doesn’t respond. I move over about twenty yards, turn, and catch a wave. The guy is down the line and paddling for it. I don’t, like, yell. Maybe I say, “Hey” or “Whoa.” he backs off. I ride on. Paddling back, I say, “Maybe I was rude.” “That’s obvious; taking the first set wave.” I didn’t ask, “That was a set wave?” Instead I explained that, because of injury and eye surgery, I hadn’t surfed in two months.

Since we were the only ones out and there weren’t more set ‘bombs’ on the way, the guy said, “Oh. I read your blog; I thought you were all over that.” “The eye, yes; the wound… ongoing.”

So, then he’s talking about how difficult it is to predict waves on the Strait. “It’s like… magic,” he says. “Sometimes this spot breaks, sometimes another spot.” “It is magic. Sometimes everywhere is breaking, sometimes no where. Any waves are a… gift.” Bear in mind, I’m still sitting deeper than my new friend is, and, perhaps, I actually have some legitimate claim on priority. I would have caught his name if he had stayed out longer.

Meanwhile, the guy who helped me with the wetsuit, and another guy, both wearing boonie hats, with straps, and a woman, with a wetsuit hood, paddle out and are sitting in what would be the inside section of a wave if a wave actually lined up. Several do, and I’m kind of weaving between the three a couple of times, waving nicely as I do.

Another dude, average size, maybe kind of tall, out on a super long board, takes off in front of me, twice. the first time I didn’t make the first section, so… okay. The second time, I did, and I ride behind him for quite a while before he kind of looks around. “Might as well keep going,” I said. He didn’t respond.

My goal was to make sure I could still surf, and to surf. So, mission accomplished, I get out of the water, and, after drinking some coffee, head over to where Sean is parked. He’s pretty much dressed and chatting with someone who may or may not be Bricky. I do ask, politely, if I can hang out with some local hipsters for a minute. Sean says, “For a guy who’s so smooth in the water, you kind of looked like a sea monster when you got to land.” “Yeah. All I was thinking was, ‘shit, when did the beach get so steep? Where did all these rocks come from?'”

Because I had stayed up late and gotten up early, my plan was to take a nap, in my wetsuit, maybe surf again. Meanwhile other surfers entered the water, and a series of squalls brought in side chop and brief periods of heavy rain.

Because I’m trying to diet (because I was actually put on scales and my blood pressure recorded), I have been avoiding ice cream and Little Debbies, and going for high fibre foods. Because of this, there was a necessity to… anyway, I would need more help with the wetsuit if I was to go for a second session.

This time I elicited help from a woman who had just come in. “Yeah, the velcro, it’s… yeah thanks. You get some good… waves?” At this time, the wind was, I swear, offshore. “Yeah. Great! It was supposed to get windy.” “Well, it probably will. Gifts, huh?”

My goal was to get ten waves. There are four or five guys out and the wind switches back to sideshore. I blow my first takeoff, my board popping up close. “Peripheral vision,” I said. I go for a second wave. Two guys, one doing that windmill, head down, ‘I’m a kook’ paddle, take off in front of me. I ride past both of them, in the soup, the kook doing that ‘Oh my God, arms straight out, hope I don’t pearl’ thing. I keep going until the wave cleans up.

On the way back out, I notice Brett is out. I haven’t seen him in a while, so we’re chatting. Somewhere in there I mention that it was way cleaner earlier. One of the two drop-in dudes turns around and asks, “Oh, so you were out… earlier?” I asked, politely, if he was inferring (or implying, whichever is correct) that I had, perhaps, gotten my share of the waves. “You almost ran over us,” he said. “You dropped in on me, man.” “No, I was already paddling.”

That explanation has never worked for me. I have tried. I wanted to tell the dude he should go back and read the rule book. I didn’t. Meanwhile, the water starting to show whitecaps, Brett says, “I will burn you, Erwin.” I respond that I haven’t forgotten that he gave me the biggest burn of my career. He may have said, “You’re welcome.” If not, I’m sure he meant to.

I got a couple more rides (eight total, not ten), several of which went near the two guys in the boonie hats and the woman, all of whom were, one, still out, and all of whom had moved closer to the real lineup, and, I’d witnessed, were catching and riding waves. “Keep this up and you’ll be ripping,” I said before I got to shore, sea-monstering my way to my car.

NEXT TIME- Stephen R. Davis goes to the card show in San Francisco.

Surf, Music, Dance, Poetry… STUFF

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, real surfers, surf novels, writings of Erwin Dence

THIS is a silkscreen I did in the 1980s. I’m not apologizing for it being, perhaps, sexist or something bad by today’s standards. It doesn’t go so much with a poem I’ve been working on, but nothing I found in a search did either. I COULD, of course, draw something that does connect better, but… I haven’t.

I AM ALWAYS working on something, art-wise, story-wise, song-wise, otherwise. I have been working recently on a song that starts out, “It was a private conversation, Words I was not yet meant to hear, She had been to long at the station, Couldn’t have known that I was near…”

WHAT I DO is keep working on these songs, and everything I do until it’s… better. SURF-WRITING-WISE, I am always trying to push some comparison between the best moments and music, even dance. Not all dancing is graceful, Stephanie Gilmore style pretty. AND she also incorporates solidly radical, powerful moves into her repertoire. Similarly, there is something esthetically pleasing about a vicious power hack.

MUSIC-WISE, please try to convince me that you don’t have some tune or beat going through your head when you’re paddling for and surfing a wave. If you don’t, well…

Too much explaining.

                        A Private Conversation

I was coming up the stairway, two bags of groceries pressed against my chest, She was dancing on the landing, third floor, Sun from the distant windows lit her hair on fire, Her shadow moving with her on the sidewall.

Six stairs below her, I leaned against the inside rail.

She was moving to music, music I could not hear.

Her movements made the music real. Slink and slide and step and stop, Step and stop, slink and slide, one arm always at her side, The other, gliding, raised then lowered, Free, and spelling or signing or reflecting, Words or images or memories or dreams,   Real to her.

Real to her, private.

Sunset music, light, a tinkling rhythm beat under the woodwinds, Only fleeting hints of nightfall.

I should not have been a witness, Seeing her, dancing, silent, hair on fire,  In some soft and private conversation with some distant, absent, loved one.

Loved one, someone else dancing with her on the landing, Sharing her space.

The background, The air and the light and the wallpaper and the paint were as alive as she was, Slinking and sliding and stepping and slowing, Listening, perhaps, briefly, The dance resumed as response.

Her other arm became the free one, Sending the code, The secret, private messages in our most ancient language.

I should not have been there.

I couldn’t face facing her, Couldn’t imagine her trying to explain, Not to some neighbor, some stranger three doors down.

Setting my bags on the third step from the landing, Sitting two stairs below that, Alone in the dark, with vague shadows of someone dancing, Projected on the stairwell wall.

I envied her for dancing, dancing alone in the hallway, Music swirling in her head.

Waiting in the stairwell,   Waiting long after her door closed, Long after the light moved up the wall and softened, And darkened, I waited long until her music faded.  

My steps up became drums, not heavy, Step, step, step,

If I imagined a saxophone solo, Sad squeaks and missed notes, Looking out the window at a screaming orange sunset, I couldn’t stop myself from sliding one foot across the worn oak floor, And then the other, My grocery bags shifting, side to side, In some rhythm that made some sense… to me.

THANKS FOR READING. Original material, of course, protected by copyright, all rights reserved by the author/artist, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

AS ALWAYS, IF YOU CAN’T BE NICE, BE REAL.

I FULLY expect to not tell you about a surf session in the next posting. AND, yes, I am still working on my novel, “SWAMIS.”

Time Out of Water, Not out of Mind

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

BECAUSE I fell off a ladder, because I didn’t treat a leg wound quickly or seriously in time, because I had a detached retina that necessitated an operation, I have been out of the water for well over a month. BECAUSE my being forced to go to a doctor (forced as in, I lost sight in the bottom fourth of my left eye, as in I could not operate on my swollen leg) for the first time in twelve years or so, with conditions there was no way for me to treat, I also discovered my blood pressure was high enough that there was some doubt as to whether I was a decent candidate for the eye surgery, AND, meanest thing that was done to me, I was weighed.

TWO THINGS: Adam “WIPEOUT” James, forced to help me zip up my wetsuit a while back, asked me, “Do you have to have ice cream every night?” Keith Darrock has been bugging me for a while to lose weight, claiming that if I lost 75 pounds, I could “Dominate even more. Maybe, like, pop up.”

Seventy-five pounds is not enough.

NOW, with the eye almost totally restored to its previous state, the leg wound/infection being treated with $600 a tube ointment and round-the-clock wearing of compression socks, my blood pressure being monitored daily, a shift in my eating habits (more fibre, less coffee, no Little Debbie’s, no ice cream, no chocolate- yet), and the possibility of waves, like, maybe, maybe, an hour ago, I’m still out of the water, I want to assert that I will be back, and, when I’m out, I’ll be frothed-out, and, as alway, there to surf.

Fair warning. Catch them when you can. I’m not looking for sympathy. Injuries happen. I’m not looking for excuses. I’m not quitting. And no, I don’t want to go watch others surf. Again, “I’M HERE TO SURF!”

Be real if you can’t be nice.

ART Walking, Talking, Talking, Talkinnnggg

Posted on by under Port townsend surfing, real surfers, surf art, surf culture, surf illustrations, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

JOEL and RACHEL CARBEN are the proprietors of the COLAB in downtown Port Townsend. Colab as in Collaborative Work Space. Joel is one of the members (if there is such a thing) of the rabid-if-desperate and frequently-disappointed Olympic Peninsula/Strait of Juan de Fuca surf community. There is an ART WALK each month in PT (I’ve never gone on one), so, partially in the interest of promoting the COLAB enterprise (more people hanging out with laptops and connections), why not have me and two other artists show our stuff? I mean, after all, Joel does actually own the cedar art piece/surfboard shown below. Long story. I was supposed to spray paint “Locals Only” on it or something, but…

ARTISTS, huh?

As usual, I didn’t do everything right. I had a whole room to display my stuff. I didn’t put prices on things, didn’t put business cards out. And, I didn’t hang out in the room, charming the folks who came in. BUT, I now realize, the main thing I did wrong is that I didn’t take some photos of STEPHEN R. DAVIS, KEITH DARROCK, and, yeah, me, cruising around to the various galleries.

If I had you could see LIBRARIAN KEITH, as rabid a surf fanatic as I have ever run into (or been burned by), but a solid citizen, mingling with the tourists and the artists, and in the company of two, perhaps… no, I don’t know how to describe Steve and I except we’re probably not as out-there as we believe ourselves to be. I mean, I’m as CITIZEN as the next person, but Steve? ARTISTS, huh?

And we’re checking out everyone else’s art, chatting with artists, partaking in the free snacks (no wine for me, not that I’m bragging. A nice expresso would have been… appreciated).

AND IT kind of worked out. EXAMPLE- We’re at the fanciest gallery in PT (prices fancier, also- wine from bottles with, probably, recognizable names for wine aficionados- no, not Ernest & Julio), and Steve is kind of (I thought) kissing up to this artist with the tiniest possible ponytail (so high concept/fashion), and I see this kid sitting on a bench with a sweatshirt with a logo from CHRIS BAUER SURFBOARDS. “Hey, where’d you get that sweatshirt, kid?” “He’s my dad. Chris Bauer.” “Oh.” When one of the board members (because fancy galleries have boards and directors) comes over and says I’m getting a bit rowdy, I acknowledge this and ask her if he knows KEITH.

THEY chat and I go outside. Again, as with my leaving first at other venues, I sort of think, as I acknowledged, that, if I still smoked, I’d be having one at this point. OUTSIDE the gallery.

I am not a marketer. Particularly not of my stuff.

HERE’S WHERE STEPHEN R. DAVIS got it right. I was critiquing and moving, asking quick, real questions of the folks showing and explaining and (you have to guess) trying to sell their works, questions such as: “How much are the dues? How much floor time do you have to put in? Do you sell enough to make it worth it? Meanwhile, Steve, a bundle of his cards in his hand, was showing his stuff, handing out samples as business cards, making, you know, inroads into the PT art scene.

NOW WE’RE on to the post event CRITIQUE, as in, what did I do wrong? What can I do NOW? I probably should have hung around in the space at the COLAB, charminig the folks who stumbled in, maybe selling

EVEN WITH THE BARAT, would you buy art from this double-chinned fat guy in the sweatshirt for the OLYMPIC MUSIC FESTIVAL (though several people thought OMF stood for Old M F-er)?

Here’s a shot of Keith, Joel, me (hiding the double chin), and Adam “Wipeout” James.

Here’s Steve on his boat from a few years ago. AGAIN, I should have taken a few photos from the ART WALK.

BUT I did, because I was displaying some drawings I did years ago of houses in Port Townsend, get an opportunity to draw one for someone. AND I DO OWE a big thank you to JOEL and RACHEL for the opportunity. TRISH says I should give them a piece of my art. “WHY? He already has the surfboard?”

So, BIG THANK YOU! Heart emoji, hang loose emoji.

MARKETING. I’m working on it. AND I did actually have a good time, chatting it up with people I don’t know, running into some I do know (shout out to Ian), hanging with friends.

Perhaps, on Wednesday, I’ll go over how I’m getting over and/or dealing with the detached retina, the infection in my leg, both related, possibly, to a fall, and a high blood pressure situation I discovered because I just had no choice but to go to a doctor; and the double chin thing. I am totally ready to get back in the water. TAKE THIS AS A WARNING.

Good luck. And, again, if you can’t be nice, be real.

Privileged, Entitled, Narcissistic, Irrefutably Sociopathic… and Here to Surf

Posted on by under mind surfing, real surfers, surf culture, surf satire, surfing blogs

Or… Namedropping and Trolling, and sniping.

I YouTubed the latest BEACH GRIT Saturday morning. Not the hour plus version, a more user friendly ten minutes (or so) edit (I’m assuming), the first three minutes (or so) an advertisement for a solar watch I just have to purchase. The topic was… I don’t remember. Oh, yeah, it was a response to letters to the editor (sorry, emails from the blog-ets); in this case, what a surf dude should wear to get married in, from arbiters of all things surfing, David Lee Scales and Chas Smith (and I apologize for calling David Lee Seales last time). Good stuff. Not what I was intending to write about.

I got this image from “Mariska and Fernando something something.” Congratuations!

’ll get to that. FIRST, I must say I was kind of jazzed that, according to my tablet, the post had been, you know, posted, like, forty-two minutes earlier AND had, at that time, no comments. Not that I ever comment. I think it requires signing in somewhere, and emojis, and misspellings, and pretty horrific grammatic usage. BUT, I must add, I am a fan of surf-centric content, though I’ve seen enough that I fast-forward frequently; especially when (even) one of my cosmic, cloud-breaking, globe-floating surf heroes (even Nate or Jamie or any of the Koas) start hyping product and/or starts being too whiny or obsequiously and, possibly, phony-ly nice. AND I have yet to subscribe to any channel or blog. BUT, if you subscribe to worldwide (honestly, they keep track and I check… daily) non-phenomenon… realsurfers, I’m not going to beg, but so many, many thanks, many congrats on your, um, discernment (insert virtual kiss emoji here).

I DO HOPE following Dave and Chas and then commenting on their commentary doesn’t make me a troll, BUT TODAY’S TROLLING is because their recent identifying/outing TYLER WRIGHT as an entitled, privileged, ‘I’m a victim,’ narcissist got me thinking. Yes, I was kind of taken aback, while watching hours of a WSL contest from somewhere, that she mentioned, you know, menstruation and its effects on heat strategy, but I didn’t get more involved than that. BUT I don’t have the insider access D and C have.

WAIT, aren’t most sports stars a little bit… that? Aren’t most, even non-world-class surfers somewhere on the self-centered spectrum? Since I’ve long been of the opinion that most who surf with a skill level over day three surf camp (day two, private lesson) are, placed in the competitive petri dish arena at any decent surf spot, SOCIOPATHS, adding a bit of the victimhood aspect doesn’t faze me at all. OR HURT ME.

ANY OF us who have taken and/or can take the time to develop skills in a difficult sport, often performing (or trying to snag a wave if not a set bomb) in crowded conditions, might be considered Privileged, Entitled, Narcissistic, Irrefutably Sociopathic Headcases (PENIS HEADS, for short). Enjoying the activity… Separate issue. Separate posting. Later.

“Me, Me!” Mine, Mine!” “Going Right!” “Going Left!” “Going Straight!” “MeMeMine!”

TAKE THIS TEST: If you’re surfing like shit, is it someone else’s fault? Of course. Or the wrong board, or the wrong wax, or some backpaddling assholes and/or drop-in bitches (bitches in the non-gender way)? For the non-surfers, think about navigating heavy traffic (your choice of vehicle), OR the lineup at the multi-pump COSTCO. If you picked the gas tank on the right side line because you know the hose will make it AND the line is shorter, BUT some asshole decides to take his or her (formerly correct way to say ‘their’ as identifying something singular) sweet ass time topping off their Hummer or checking their mileage… whatever, YES, it is their fault that you’re late to the barbeque, their fault the guacamole went brown in your artisan sidedish.

NOT TO MAKE THIS overlong, a greater privilege for the truly entitled is to be able to write and post sarcastic, sniping commentary on, you know, like, whatever.

HOWEVER, I must add that I harbor no ill will toward Tyler, John Peck, or pretty much anyone else. WAIT. Thinking. There are, not that I’m bent too far over in a direction a reader might recognize, a few politicians I wouldn’t want to hang out with, clowns who make me a bit gRUMPy.

BY WAY of confession; when I do get up to the gas pumps, I do take my sweet-ass time.  Let’s see; 281.5 miles divided by 12.5 gallons equals 22.5 mpg. YEA! Thanks, Volvo.

AND, as with every time I see a post from Nathan or the quickie (only) from Keith Olbermann, or the first (surfing) half of a video from Mason Ho, when I next see something with David Lee and Chas; NO NEED TO ADD BAIT- Oh yes… CLICK.

NEXT TIME (maybe), Why we all want to be realer than other surfers.

Meanwhile, if you can’t be nice, be real.

Name Dropping: Chas Smith, Jimbo, Tyler Wright… PART ONE

Posted on by under hipster surfers, northwest surfing, real surfers

Pushed into it by my friend, Olympic Peninsula ripper/librarian KEITH DARROCK, I’ve become, reluctantly, a sort of (UNSUBSCRIBED) fan of CHAS SMITH. He first came into my narrow world as a writer/columnist at what was “Surfing” until it transformed into “Trans-World Surf” or whatever, his photo with a cigarette (so rebellious) and one of those haircuts I’ve always associated with hipness, one that one must constantly push out of one’s eyes (the first such do I noted was on Twyla Tharp when I was in Junior College, well before I lost my own forelock in my twenties). ANYWAY, if DREW KAMPION pushed the boundaries, as in, if he was critical of some things in surf culture, contest situations, corporate holding companies, and, ‘oh, my god,’ individual surf stars, CHAS is taking it to new frontiers.

Not that there isn’t a lot to criticize/snipe at in the WSL, the branding of surfing while dropping support of actual surfers, etc. etc. etc. And, along with DAVID LEE SEALES, Chas, on BEACH GRIT, SURF SPLENDOR (I’m not sure how many sites, but my YOUTUBE does seem to sort them out), get to name and shame and drop surfers such as: JIMBO, TYLER WRIGHT, FELIPE TOLEDO, KELLY SLATER, and, of course, JOHN PECK.

Not that I don’t want to. And not that I’m in any way saying the criticism isn’t justified, and I do claim that many surfers have kind of sociopathic… tendencies, including me; David Lee Seales and Chas Smith might go a little mean on… I’m particularly thinking of their stories on JIMBO; funny he lost his board, not so much he lost his arm, and the ‘shit stain’ thing. I did kind of feel sorry for the guy whose main sin seems to be that he’s fat and loud and obnoxious. LIKE THERE’S SOMETHING REALLY SINFUL about that?

Maybe what continues to intrigue me is… A lot. I’ll get to it in PART TWO.

BUTtttT… what the overlong pod/blogcasts seem to really be is folks talking the way real surfers do, going on about who is, in reality, a REAL SURFER. One thing I gleaned from my most recent listening is that, if you can’t surf for some reason for a while, if you miss the actual surfing more than the more social aspects of the activity, you are, perhaps, possibly, more likely to be considered, you know, like, real.

NExt time… probably apologies. HIT SOME SURF when you can. Be real when possible.

Additions and Corrections and, Yeah, More

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, real surfers, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing art, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing Swamis

“SWAMIS” UPDATE- Working on it. Here is a quickie flyer for a fictional Newspaper. I can’t say that there wasn’t such a weekly paper back in the time my novel covers, 1969. My guess, yes. I do know, based on a story I heard, later, like 1971, when I went to work in the Big City, San Diego, from an older guy, that there were Free Clinics, or, at least, one. “So, I picked up this hitchhiking Hippie chick, and I’m thinking… you know, free sex and all that, and she says she’s trying to get to the free clinic.”

Also not related, directly: I noticed, on occasional trips south, in the narrow strip that is Mission Beach, a storefront law office that, real or imagined, seemed to offer free services. Hard to imagine that now. Parking, incidentally, was pretty much as bad then as it is now.

If writing, journalism or fiction, or drawing, or any form of art is someone trying to transfer imagination to paper or wood or film or any other medium, images stored and remembered are the critical ingredient.

Although I haven’t quite gotten to THE END of the fourth or fifth rewrite of “Swamis,” I do have plans, beyond it, for the main characters. The storefront law office might be part of that.

MEANWHILE, I am still recovering from cuts and an infection on my leg, the treatment keeping me out of the water for at least the rest of this week. SO, IF THERE ARE WAVES, I won’t be competing for them. GOOD LUCK.

SCREW UP of the day- I did write something, using Microsoft Word, filling in some omissions from my last posting. Halfway through this, I realized I hadn’t copied it. Not wanting to lose what I had, I… well, I’ll get back to you on what is partially “Guilty with an explanation” stuff.

In the “I’M NOT POLITICAL, BUT…” category, something about the delays in the trials of the former president, and the inability of some other citizens to see a grift when it’s reaching into their pockets, caused me to draw… this:

It’s already, liike, last week’s news. Ordinarily I claim all rights to my work, but, this time, in the spirit of freedom, free press, all that, if you want to borrow it… FEEL FREE.

International Women’s (Surfing) Day and…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, Melissa Lynch illustrations, old surfers, real surfers, surf illustrations, surfing art

…and when, perhaps, men are going to catch up or on. If ever.

When I started board surfing in 1965, almost fourteen-years-old, there were girls and women who surfed. Not that many, and those who were good at it were known by name. In San Diego’s North County, Barbie Barron from Oceanside, and Margo Godfrey were the main contenders.

It would be totally wrong if I didn’t mention that my older sister, Suellen, got me into board surfing. If Suellen had romantic notions about what surfing is, and she did, and we all do, the truth is that sometimes surfing lives up to those notions.

Trish went to Junior High with Barbie and was a member of an upstart Oceanside Girls Surfing Club before Trisha’s father got transferred to Philadelphia. I would run into Barbie frequently when I got out of High School, 1969, and did a lot of pre-work, dawn patrol surfing at the short jetty south of Oceanside harbor. Trish, who came back west in 1968 with a lot of east coast sophistication and a touch of the vibe (so alluring to a rube from Fallbrook), would ask if I actually spoke to her. No. Barbie did own the Offshore Surf Shop in Carlsbad for years. I reached out shortly after she retired. So, still no.

My only live almost interaction with Margo Godfrey was a big-but-blown out afternoon at Swamis, Scott Sutton, Jeff Officer, and I stuck with that situation because we had to wait for Scott’s father to do whatever he had to do that was more important than taking kids surfing. Margo and Cheer Critchlow were walking out, so casually, hitting the outside lineup, while we were going for the insiders.

I did write about my one interaction with the most famous woman surfer of that generation, Joyce Hoffman, from Christmas of 1970, the piece entitled “Joyce Hoffman’s Bra.” It is Google-able. I checked.

Oh, and I threw in a shot of Silvana Lima to represent women surfers who rip but don’t, perhaps, fit into the ‘image’ that sponsors are looking for. The image issue is, to a lesser extent, perhaps, also true on the men’s competitive side.

This is probably the right time to apologize for my attitude toward women. I love women, and my realization that boys and men treat women, um, rudely, and artists, trying to capture something of the beauty and wonder of women are insensitive if not clueless. So, yeah, one of those “I didn’t know, I don’t know, I’m working on it” kind of man-pologies.

Here’s how this post happened: I wanted to write about women who surf. Not finding anything I was stoked on in a quick web image search, I decided to check out my own media library. These are images that have appeared on this site. Some of the silk screen images are from the 1980s when I thought it was completely a good thing to do nudes. You know, like, tasteful.

Because of the way I put this post together, the writing is as disjointed as the images. Still:

Margo Godfrey, Santa Cruz, Oct 1969
from pinterest
taken from Matt Warshaw’s Encyclopedia of Surfing

The second from the bottom drawing was done by my youngest sister, Melissa. She died of metastatic breast cancer a few years ago. She did surf. She was so committed to producing high quality, high emotion images. I endeavor to live up to her standards, knowing I have a long way to go.

The last image is of my favorite surfer girl, Trish.

All original art works are protected by copyright, all rights reserved. Thanks for respecting that. AND… I have more to say about macho-ness and all that. Quick shout out to WARM CURRENTS. Check them out.

Dreams and Other Stop Gap Measures…

Posted on by under mind surfing, northwest surfing, real surfers, surf-related short storties, surfing, surfing tales, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

…for dealing with a lack of surf and/or a lack of opportunities to surf. Subtle difference, same result: Surf Withdrawal Syndrome (SWS).

I HAD THIS DREAM last night, so this image coming from “DREAMTIME” copyright theirs, is quite appropriate, though, in my dream, rather than the Great Smokey Mountains (where, incidentally, my mother was raised), and in my dream, that evidently, in a dream-typical way, seemed to sort of tell a story in which I was supposed to go surfing with this guy, possibly based on Olympic Peninsula surf pathfinder Darrell Wood, BUT… THERE WERE COMPLICATIONS; we had to check out some house where the dude there (couldn’t pick him out in a lineup) wanted to add on to his house AND was having trouble with a son who was getting in trouble. The Darrell character had advice on both, but I was aware that I had to call TRISH and give her an update, and that it was getting late, surf trip-wise. SO I ASKED the homeowner if he had a phone. HE DID, but he was on it. LANDLINE. I chased him through a really big house, at one point asking him if there was a bathroom, all while he’s unfurling phone cord behind him. “Do you really need to add on, man?” SUDDENLY, I’m outside, and I’m getting into a vehicle with ADAM “WIPEOUT” JAMES, and I’m asking him if it’s too late to surf. “If you ride with someone else…” he said as we drove toward a setting sun over low mountains, the Pacific Ocean somewhere over them.

“If you ride with someone else… WHAT?”

INCIDENTALLY, 45 years ago, when I first ran into Darrell Wood, he said he’d invite me to go to spots he knew of, but, if he called, I had to be out the door within 15 minutes (or so), his house being 45 Hwy 101 minutes away from mine. So, I got to ride with him… once. I was late, but when we got to waves I thought were spectacular, Darrell turned them down, saying it gets way better. “When?” “Sometimes.”

My guess, my analysis of my dream, based on various couldhavebeen surf attempts in which time ran out is… I don’t know; FRUSTRATION? I’m currently dealing with an injury, knowing I have missed some opportunities, and, looking at the forecast for the STRAIT, ALWAYS IFFY, is not encouraging.

ALSO, I have had SUPER, MAGICAL SESSIONS riding with Trish, with our kids, with friends (including ADAM WIPEOUT) to find surf. It’s not always the SURFING, sometimes it’s the trip.

ENJOY THE TRIP. It is part of the story. AND there’s always a story.

Getting Back to You

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

My most recent post featured some of my latest drawings, contenders for a spot as an ORIGINAL ERWIN t-shirt. UNFORTUNATELY, one of them got lost in the scuffle. But, good news, I got the images rescanned and now….

There are the images, here’s the story (Optional), bottom to top:

Here’s a mockup of a shirt design I did for the Port Townsend PUBLIC Library (officially for the ‘Friends of the…’) SUMMER READING Project. It would be clearer on the actual shirt, and the colors… different.

Here’s me attempting to look fierce in a French Beret someone left on a fencepost after some Port Townsend hipster, evidently, lost it in a fit of utter euphoria. I’m holding Stephen R. Davis’s hammer, total prop. There is a story here involving some injuries I incurred taking a (stupid) fall off a ladder and onto two open paint cans. Crushed them, cut the back of both of my legs. Ten days later I got to go to Urgent Care for an (even stupider) infection (swelling, red lines down my leg, that kind of stuff) I have photos, best not shared. Antibiotics and Advil, I’m on the mend.

THIS leads us to the top two images. SO, NINE days after my fall, STEPHEN R. DAVIS and I are out on the Strait, and getting skunked. OF COURSE. But, I had my thumb drive with me, and on it was the top image that, for some technical reason, I was not able to transfer to my computer. AND there was a print shop on the way out of Port Angeles.

SO I cruise in there and get a reversal (2nd image) of the drawing. SINCE we’re skunked and it’s still early, we cruise up Lincoln to the NXNW surf shop. I’ve talked to the new owner (Frank Crippen’s successor) about selling some of my stuff and he’s been agreeable. There are a couple of other surfers in the shop, obviously skunked. I set the copy on the counter and one of the guys is just staring at it, running fingers down the various lines, muttering “Oh” and “Whoa” long enough that I had to say, “Hey, man, it’s just lines and dots.” “Whoa!”

I’m still leaning on this one for the next shirt. I’ll definitely keep you posted. MEANWHILE, surf ’em if (and when you find ’em. More stuff on Wednesday.

Oh, yeah, and all ORIGINAL ERWIN images are copyrighted, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.