I spent too much time trying to get the photo I took of Brian Nijo, second place winner in the 40-49 men’s division at the recent Cape Kiwanda Longboard Event, from my new phone to this site. Maybe I can figure it out and get it posted.
MEANWHILE, P.T. Librarian and world surfer Keith ran into the guy, who he only knows as “Z,” winner of the 50-59 men’s division, who Keith described as stoked that he won, AND Z had a story about crashing into his fin on a wipeout in a preliminary heat, pushing the fin through the board (with, of course, some damage to his leg), getting it (the board) patched up before the finals, and… winning. I have never, to my knowledge, run into Z, and I did ask Keith to take a photo next time he sees him, sending it to me. THEN, maybe, if it’s okay with Z, posting it here. Like, hopefully.
This is a poem I have been working on. It seems to fit the season. I do reserve, as always, the right to make changes.
OUT OF THE WIND
There’s something sublime, a soft summer breeze, But the chill gales of winter will bend you to your knees, Yes, you can resist, but you’ll never win, No matter how fierce, all storms have an end, But… I just want to get out of the wind, out of the wind, out of the wind.
While most colors fade, some colors still shine, Other colors just refuse to stay within the lines, Some colors will clash, while others will blend, Some colors take you to the clouds and back again, Still… I just want to get out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.
Small change is dirty, big money’s all clean, I just need some dollars that are somewhere in between, If there’s none to save, need some cash to spend, If money’s your love, you need a new friend, And… I just want to get out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.
All truth is still truth, all lies are still lies, Politicians laugh and hit you right between the eyes, The stories they spread, others will defend, The damage, they say, costs too much to mend, So… I just want to get out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.
Looking for justice, it’s always on sale, You can’t change the system if you know you’re going to fail, The world isn’t fair, it never has been, The answer, my friend, is lost in the wind, Seems… I can’t seem to stay out of the wind, out of the wind, out of the wind.
Sailing for safe harbor, couldn’t outrun the squall, I’ve tried to live my life in Summer, but I’m heading for the Fall, If there’s no sanctuary, I’m happy to pretend, I’ve survived so many Winters, Winter’s coming back again,
Warm wind’s slowing, soft wind’s going, new wind’s growing, cold wind’s blowing, raining, snowing; I don’t know, I’m somewhere, hiding, somehow knowing, there’s no way to stay out of the wind, Out of the wind, out of the… wind.
…looking for clues to Chulo’s murder. He talks with witness, possible suspect Baadal Singh. Because each chapter follows a specific day, this day had to be split into three parts.
CHAPTER TWELVE- PART ONE- SATURDAY, MARCH 29, 1969
I couldn’t say for certain if I had slept at all. I was outside the house at five. I had my lunch, in its pastel blue paper bag, in one hand, my dad’s big flashlight in the other. The Falcon was pointed toward the road. Getaway position. My new board was inside, my nine-six pintail on the by-this-time rusted-on factory racks. I carefully closed the driver’s side door, rolled the car down the driveway, turned the ignition key, popping the clutch, in second gear, at the county road. I turned on the headlights and retrieved a half a pack of Marlboros from under several Pee-Chee folders, those stacked on top of a four-track tape player, that set in the middle of the bench seat.
Waiting for a truck to pass before I could turn left onto Mission Road, I reached into the inside pocket of my windbreaker for matches. I had considered, briefly, pulling out ahead of the truck. I grabbed the flashlight from the dashboard, shined it on my fogged-up watch. “Should have left earlier.” I passed the truck on the last straightaway before Bonsall.
The wood-sided Mom-and-Pop store in Leucadia, perilously close to the southbound side of 101, didn’t open until six. It was parked in the pullout just past it at five-fifty-two. I reran the TV coverage from the previous nights, waited for the lights in the window to go on. Hostess donettes, frosted, a quart of chocolate milk, a tiny can of lighter fluid, and package of flints.
I pulled into the Swamis parking lot, did a soft left, and looped into a hard right. I stopped the car, shone my lights on the portion of the wall where Chulo had been killed. It looked the same as it always had. White, not even gray, not even yellowed by the headlights, low or high beams. I backed up and away, made a big lazy arc in the very middle of the empty lot, and pulled into a perfect spot, ten spaces over from the stairs. Optimum location. I leapt out, stood at the bluff. Not loud enough to suggest waves of any height. I exhaled the smoke from my third cigarette of the day. “South wind. Fuck!”
…
The Laura Nyro tape re-running the songs from side one of “Eli and the Thirteenth Confession.” It wasn’t the tape. It was the player. Side one of albums from the bargain bin, Leonard Cohen and Harry Nilsson and the Moody Blues, side one of The Doors.
I looked at my increasingly water-logged diving watch each time another car pulled in, each time car doors slammed, each time a surfer or surfers walked out onto the bluff, peered into the darkness, and decided to go elsewhere.
It was still an hour before sunrise, overcast, almost drizzly. I stuck my father’s flashlight under my left arm and walked straight across the pavement, across the grass. I followed the Self Realization Fellowship compound toward the highway, toward the forty-five-degree curve to where the compound’s original entrance had been. There were two large pillars, gold lotus topped, an arch between them, the wrought iron gates long secured with long rusted chains.
Two bushes had been replaced with full-sized plants. The soil around them, the grass next to them, were new. It would all blend in. Quickly. I touched the wall. I looked at my hand. Dry. Perfect, as if no one had been burned to death there.
Backing away from the wall. I walked across the wet grass and onto the pavement at the entrance to the Swamis parking lot. This was where the crowd had assembled, where the sawhorses and rope had been. Unlike the compound side, there were cigarette butts and candy wrappers and straws and smashed paper cups on the rough pavement, scattered and stepped on and run over.
Clues, I thought. Killers returning to the scene of the crime, blending in, hanging on the ropes. Missed clues. I pulled out the Marlboro hard pack from the inside pocket of my windbreaker, stuck the third to the last cigarette in my mouth, lit it with two matches held together. I turned on the flashlight, held each new clue close I had picked up to the beam.
Cigarette butts. Various brands. Lipstick on two of them. A partial pack of matches. “Carlsbad Liquor. Beer, Wine, and Spirits.” I opened it. “Left-handed,” I said. I pulled out several of the remaining matches. They left a red streak when I tried to light them. “Too wet.”
I put selected cigarette butts and the pack of matches into the Marlboro hard pack. I moved back and forth along the de facto line, established where dead center was. I crouched down to study the patch of debris in front of me. “Menthol.” I picked up a butt with a gray, slightly longer filter. I blinked, possibly from my own cigarette smoke in my eyes. “Different.”
There was a noise. Slight. Footsteps. Pulling my flashlight out from under my arm with my right hand, I stood up, right foot sliding back.
“Gauloises Bleaues,” a man, ten feet away, said.
I flipped the flashlight around and into my right hand. The beam hit just below his head.
“Picasso smokes these. Jim Morrison and John Lennon smoke these.” I slid my right foot up and even with my left and lowered the flashlight. The man was holding a push broom. Stiff bristles. “My uncle imports these. I smoke these.” I nodded toward the broom. “You and I spoke… before. You gave me a… sort of… newspaper.”
“I did? Okay. So, no one cleaned… here, behind the… the line.”
“So, you. You. Here. Scene of the crime, eh?”
“Me? Here? Yeah. I don’t know… why.”
The man took two steps, closer. “Joe DeFreines, Junior. You surf. You work at a grocery store, Cardiff, weekends.” I leaned back. “I look a bit different than… I did.” He nodded toward the west end of the wall. “Meditation garden.”
I flashed to that time. Four seconds, at the most. “Swami,” I said.
“No. Not nearly. Gardener. I was with a Swami.”
The gardener’s beard and hair were tucked into a dark coat. The man’s eyes were almost the only part of his face showing. He had a bandana pulled up and covering most of his face. He had on the type of felt hats older men still wore; probably brown, pulled down around his ears.
“Lost most of my eyebrows. Eyelashes just got a good curling. Singed. Still there.”
“No! Shit!” I took half a step back. “It was… you.”
“No shit.” The man extended his hands. He had a leather glove, dirtied calfskin, on his left hand. He had a white cotton glove on his right hand. His first two fingers taped together, as were the other two, and, separately, his thumb. The bandaging wrapped around the main part of his hand and was taped at his wrist. Three of his fingers showed stains that were either, I thought, something that had seeped through, ointment or blood. I was staring. “Second degree,” the gardener said, “Flash burns. Fools.”
I turned and looked toward the highway. There was a late step-side pickup in the spot closest to the telephone booth on the highway side of the original parking lot. There was a three-legged fruit picker’s ladder on the rack over the bed, gardening tools bundled upright against the cab, the handle of a lawn mower hanging over the tailgate.
“You must have gone to the… hospital, Mister… You know my name. Mister…?”
“Singh. Baadal Singh. Baa, like ‘baa, baa, black sheep,’ sing like… sing.” I nodded. Baadal Singh laughed. “No hospital. They keep… records.” This seemed amusing to Mr. Singh. “I was two full days… downtown. Not in a cell. Interview room. Just… Dickson calls you Jody.” I nodded. “Your father… sorry about him, incidentally. Wendall, he calls your father Gunny.”
“They both do. Marines. Wendall and my… dad. Not Dickson. Why would they even mention… me?”
“They didn’t. Downtown detectives. One of them said… I am under the impression he was giving Wendall some… grief. And Langdon, he said…”
“Langdon?”
“Langdon. Yes. Fuck him.”
“But, Mister Singh, you were a witness; not a… suspect.”
“Witness. Yes. Suspects have rights.” Baadal Singh looked at the little pile of cigarette butts and candy wrappers he had pushed close to my feet, then at me. I squatted to look more closely. Baadal Singh lowered the bandana that had been over his nose. “’Nice sunburn’ one of the detectives told me. ‘Hard to tell,” Dickson… said.”
Mr. Singh pushed the broom handle toward me. It leaned against my chest as I turned off the flashlight and stuck it back under my left arm. “Marines, you say?” Mr. Singh pulled the glove from his left hand with his teeth. He pulled back his coat. He reached into his coat and took a thin box of cigarettes from the coat’s breast pocket with his bandaged right hand. He laughed. The glove fell to the ground. I slid my right hand down the broom handle and picked up the glove.
Baadal Singh took a cigarette out of the pack. “Gauloisis Bleaues” he said. He showed me a book of matches from the Courthouse Bar and Grill. “Downtown. Langdon treated me to lunch on my… second day. Clientele of lawyers and bail bondsmen and cops and criminals. He told me I would, eventually, be charged with Chulo’s murder.” Though he didn’t laugh, Mr. Singh did smile. He pulled out three matches from the right-hand side with his right hand. “Right-handed,” he said, striking the three matches as one, and lighting the cigarette. “All clues that make me what Langdon called ‘completely convictable.’”
I didn’t react. I was playing back what Mr. Singh had just done.
“Joe. Chulo wasn’t a Marine, though, was he?”
I had, evidently, forgotten to inhale. My Marlboro was down to the filter. I spit it out on the clean part of the asphalt. I stomped on it. Too much information, too quickly. I was starting to hyperventilate. Baadal Singh put his left hand on my right shoulder.
“Chulo? No.”
“You’re calm. Right?” I nodded. “This is how real coppers work, Joe. Blackmail. Bluemail, maybe. Information is currency. You know that.” I coughed and took in a more normal breath. “Langdon… not really the other guys, he wants everything I know in exchange for… temporary, at least, freedom. What I know is there is too much money around. Cash. Fine for small… purchases. Someone needs to… Do you… understand? Good citizens. Businesspeople.”
“I don’t know anything.”
“You’re looking, though. Langdon was right about that. You get enough clues and you… analyze, you imagine.”
“I don’t… imagine. I… memorize. I… remember.”
“Yes. Some… another day; you’ll have to tell me the difference.”
“So, Mr. Singh; you told them what you know?”
Baadal laughed. “Not even close, mate.”
…
It was closer to sunrise. I had been talking with Baadal Singh a while. “White pickup,” he said. “Farm truck. Double wheels in the back.”
“White pickup. Farm truck. Double wheels in the back. Duelies, I think they’re called. The other vehicle, black car, loud muffler. Straight pipes. Made a rumbling sort of sound.”
“Right. And?”
“And Chulo had been in the white truck with a Mexican and a tall, skinny, white guy. Chulo had already been beaten. You believe the Mexican and the skinny white guy were taking Chulo to the Jesus Saves bus, but if they had, they would have had to face… Portia. So, they knew her?”
“Drugs, Joe. You had to have known… that. Portia and Chulo? Marijuana?”
“I told you, Mr. Singh. I just… didn’t pay attention.” Baadal Singh shook his head. “You weren’t a friend… of Chulo’s?”
“Not… really.”
“So, again; why are you telling me all… any of this?”
“Because, if I… disappear, I want someone to know the truth.”
“Not me. Not a good choice.”
“You’re my only choice, though. So… remember.”
“So, the black car pulled in. Lights off. Two guys jumped out. Also a Mexican and a white guy. There was an argument. Between the two… groups.”
Baadal Singh, with me following, stopped between the phone booth and his truck. “The two white guys…” he said, “The one from the car pushes the skinny cowboy dude over here. He says, ‘We have customers lined up. They are serious. Call someone. Now! You need change, A-hole?’ Meanwhile, the Mexican guy… from the black car, he kicks Chulo a few more times, drags him across the parking lot.”
“Where were you, Mr. Singh?”
“Call me Baadal. Please.” Baadal pointed toward the concrete shower/bathroom facility. “Cowardly. Yeah.” Baadal stood by the door to the booth. “So, the… let’s call them gangsters… White gangster is outside, cowboy’s dialing. I see him… he kind of ducking, looking up…”
Baadal stepped away from the booth, looked across the street, past the railroad tracks, and up the hill. “Not sure if that is relevant.” Baadal turned toward me. “I’m just trying to understand this myself, Joe.”
“Okay, Baadal. So, whatever was said on the phone, it wasn’t what the gangsters wanted to hear. Obviously. A-hole, he’s still on the phone, right?” Baadal nodded. ”You’re still thinking it was a joke?” Baadal shook his head. “No. The white gangster goes to… your truck?”
“My truck. It was on the highway. Chulo’s gets dragged all the way to the wall. Skinny white guy… whoever was on the line must have hung up on him. He slams the phone, chases after the white gangster, meets up with him halfway across the lot. The gangster stops, sets the petrol can down, looks way over where the bus is parked. I sneak over to… here, the phone booth. Chulo, he’s… sitting, back to the wall. He sees me. He yells… something.”
“You couldn’t hear him?”
“I could. He’s saying, ‘No! Not her!’ That’s when I, I ran past the two guys and over to the grass. I yelled out that I had called the cops.”
“Had you?”
“No. That’s when the Mexican gangster poured the petrol; my petrol, on him. Chulo.”
Two vehicles pulled into the lot and passed us. I recognized both vehicles. One from Tamarack, one from Swamis. Both had surfboards on the roofs. The second car’s exhaust was louder. “Rumble,” I said.
Baadal Singh shook his head. “Louder.” We both nodded. “I fancied myself a revolutionary back in London. I didn’t run away so much as I was… banished. Sent… here.” Baadal put his right hand over the place where his inside pocket was on his coat. He looked at me for a moment before he flattened his hand as if it was a sort of pledge. I am not a killer, Joe. Remember I told you… the truth.” He smiled. “Not all of it, of course.”
“This isn’t over, is it?”
“This? No. Here is the… a secret part, Joe. I… so stupid. I walked up to Chulo, got down on my knees.” Baadal took a deep breath. “Do you want… to know?” I closed my eyes. I envisioned something I had seen in a magazine, a black and white photo of a Buddhist monk on fire. I opened my eyes. Baadal Singh was close to me. “The white gangster was talking to the cowboy. He said, ‘You know Chulo is a narc. Right?’”
“Narc. Chulo?”
“That’s how the guys from the truck responded.” Baadal Singh didn’t move his head. “At first.” He kept his eyes on me as he half-forced the calfskin glove onto his left hand. I must have looked away for a moment. I might have been elsewhere for a moment. Seconds.
Baadal Singh was somewhere else.
“Mr. Singh. Baadal; may I ask you… why were you at Swamis… that night?”
Baadal reached for his boom. He grabbed it in the middle, moved it up and down several times. “Another time, Joe. You have a lot to… memorize.” Baadal and then I turned toward the latest car pulling into the Swamis lot, Petey Blodget’s once-fancy fifties era four door Mercedes. It had a diesel engine sound and smell. There was a single pile of five boards on a rack, a browned and battered kneeboard on the top of the pile. I shifted my focus to the girl sitting in the middle of the front seat. Julia Cole. Baadal Singh looked up at the palm fronds, swaying in the trees above us. He hit my shoulder with his left hand. “Another time.”
“Wait. Baadal.”
I wanted more information, but I couldn’t help but follow the Mercedes as it pulled in, clockwise, and backed into a spot two spaces closer to us than the Falcon. Surfers bailed from three of the doors. Julia Cole was the second person out of the front door on the passenger side. The guy riding shotgun was Petey’s son. My age. Nicknamed Buzz. The four kids from the back seat ware all too young to drive themselves.
While the others rushed to the bluff, Julia Cole looked at me through the space between the stack of boards and the roof. At me. Not for very long. Petey was looking at Baadal Singh and I from the driver’s seat. He slowly opened the door, slowly pulled his feet out and onto the pavement. Julia Cole pulled her big gray bag out of the Mercedes as Petey walked toward the bathrooms.
Baadal Singh backed up a step. I took two steps toward him. ‘Gingerbread Fred. Fred Thompson, did you see him?”
“Later. Only. I was… busy.”
“But he saw… them?”
“He did.” Baadal lit up another cigarette with three matches and handed me the pack. “And they saw him.”
“Did he seem to… recognize… any of them?”
“You mean, did I?” I nodded. “No one I had seen before. But… I will never forget them.” Baadal Singh moved his face very close to mine. “Since you claim you don’t… imagine. Maybe you… guessed. I am not here… legally. More to it than that. I am, in England, legally… dead.”
There was no way to hide or disguise my confusion. “They… Langdon, he let you go.”
Baadal Singh chuckled. “Bait. Yes. It’s a game, Joey; but you were right. Langdon did ask me, as you did, why I was at Swamis… that night.” Baadal Singh shook his head as he backed away. “And… if you know more about me you’ll know more about why.” He laughed as he turned away. He turned his head slightly as he let out smoke from the Gauloisis Bleaues cigarette. “Again, Joe, it’s Langdon I lied to; not… you.”
-All rights to “Swamis” and changes to the original copyrighted manuscript are reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr. Thanks for respecting this.
REMEMBER to check out realsurfers.net on Sunday for non-Swamis content.
It isn’t that I want to ridicule or make fun of or hate on people who want to engage in the exciting world/culture/sport/lifestyle, imagined or real, that is SURFING. I just want to understand some of the folks I see heading for waves, or hanging out near or on the beach, bobbing and/or weaving in the water.
Motivation. I know mine. I just want to ride waves.
Not party waves, and most likely better waves, bigger waves, and as always, I want to ride them better. “Better than whom” is a good question. Better than me. Mostly. Better than you. Yes, if possible. BUT, if you rip, great; I am always ready to identify and appreciate and applaud shredding and ripping and cruising and flowing; surfing done well. I’m really, and this has been true throughout my surfing, uh, life, trying to surf as well as I can during any session and given any and all other factors.
And yes, I am aware of my limitations, and that, to some young hipster I might seem worthy of… let’s say, assessment.
Fair game. See you in the water.
SO, I have been missing a bet by not photographing some of the people I see. Particularly ones I have some conversation with. I have the stories; I need the images.
This is a non-rendering of the guy I saw recently; walking across the entire length of the parking area to, maybe, check out whether there were some waves up thataway. There weren’t. In doing the drawing, I didn’t allow room for his sidekick. Now, It isn’t like anyone can really tell if someone is a good surfer by their outfit, or posture, or by what they say. BUT, if I judged this Grizzley Adams dude harshly, despite his tricked-out surf rig, with overhead sleeping deal AND bike/cooler/campstove rear bumper setup, and his quiver of board-bagged boards, and I shouldn’t have, I did judge his sidekick as a, um, newcomer. Neophyte in, potentially, neoprene. Hard to say. Dudes paraded back across, hopped in the rig, and skedaddled. Maybe you saw them.
Okay. So, yeah, something that connects most of us is a desire to be considered/judged as cool/hip, maybe even rad/whatever the current word is WHILE also trying to be… better. Me too. WHEW! Wow, confession is so… so something. I’m thinking about that. But, Coolness; never achieved it; still trying to get, you know, like, better at it.
Meanwhile, thanks for checking out realsurfers.net and remember that the next chapter of “SWAMIS” on Wednesday. I think we’re up to Joey going to Swamis a few days after Chulo was killed. If so, because I have each chapter covering a single day, that chapter is a three-parter, mostly so it doesn’t not overwhelm any potential reader. Be one of them. And another thanks.
All content on realsurfers.net is covered by copyright protection. All rights reserved by the author/artist.
HAPPY LABOR DAY, I guess, sorry I’m, like twelve hours late with a Sunday posting. One hour, actually, since I woke up from going to bed early to work on this. I have, since I started working, fifty-four years ago, or so, traditionally worked on Labor Day. Yeah, poor me. I spent most of the accumulated martyr points going surfing when other people were working. Poor them.
YES, I did go on a scientifically based, surf forecast driven, search for surfable waves. And it wasn’t just me. People who surf, folks with all levels of skill and expertise and stoke, head out on three day weekends, value added and backups (traffic, ferry waits, Gorst, Tacoma) avoided (maybe) by starting on Thursday and/or heading back to civilization on Tuesday, pack up their board-bagged quivers and their surf-slick modified rigs, their pop-tops, and roof tents.
NO, I can’t really tell you where I went or what I found, wave-wise. This isn’t a self-imposed rule; there have been, um, reminders that blowing up spots is not in the best interest of someone who lives on the Olympic Peninsula. WHAT I CAN SAY is that, and mostly because we all look at the same forecasts, I did see a lot of CHARACTERS,
THIS ISN’T NEW. And, yes, I might put on my lucky HOBIE shirt, try to do a bit of posturing on the beach, trying, and failing, to look, you know, cool. I mean, as cool as someone who just turned 72 can manage.
YOU DO KNOW. Thought so.
FORECASTS- If one looked beyond the numbers, one could find that the swell numbers were one thing, the overall direction of the waves another. There is a real explanation as to why a long period swell might avoid the (relatively) shallower water and cruise on past the relatively narrow entrance to the Strait. I just don’t have it. And either do the many many enthusiasts who pull into the parking and/or viewing areas for known spots, discuss it among the other members of their crew, and move on. And, of course, on.
BECAUSE I’ve been doing this for so long, spent so much time in pull outs and lots, I almost always run into people I’ve seen in the past. This is usually great; reliving stories, waiting for the swell to change direction slightly, the tide to rise or fall appropriately.
BECAUSE I have seen such a wide variety of surf… people, I thought that I am missing a bet by not taking a few cell phone photos of interesting folks. WHAT really prompted this was seeing this one dude, big, bushy brown beard, distinctive hat, some sort of beverage in one hand, wearing shorts to best show off his calf tattoos, some short of shirt that matched his beard; and he’s cruising across the rocks with his, I’m guessing, sidekick, not as hipsterly dressed, and they’re heading up the beach to determine, I guess, if the waves are actually larger than they appear. Something. I don’t know. They weren’t gone long. Before I could get my shit together and chase them down, they were back in their custom surf rig and moving on.
OPPORTUNITY MISSED. Regroup. I will get a HIPSTER OF THE WEEK thing going soon. MAYBE not every week. ANYWAY, I took a photo of these guys to hold us over.
Okay, so it’s BARRY, whose name I remember because my son Sean’s cat is also named Barry, and who wondered that, not only I didn’t remember him, but the legendary TIM NOLAN also didn’t remember him, specifically, when they crossed paths recently. “I had longer hair,” he said. “Oh. Okay.” Next to him (and I did point out the double beach chair) is… no, not sure of his name. Didn’t get enough clues. Both of those guys had little kids who they would deck out in kid-sized suits and take out to challenge the waves. I did take a photo, but it might reveal the actual spot, and it might look as if there were actual waves. On the right is MIKE, who I’ve seen for years. Same van. I called him STU. No, not Stu, who, coincidentally, I ran into later at what was FRANK CRIPPEN’S surf shop, NORTH BY NORTHWEST, in Port Angeles.
IF I can’t collect photos, I do collect stories. For all the surf enthusiasts who got to if not into the water, you also have stories. Adventures. I tried to wave at all the surf rigs I passed on my way back down Surf Route 101. HEY, I DON”T know, maybe that change in tide and/or angle might have set the stage for someone’s awesome tale.
Surf rigs from some not so distant past. I kind of thought Mike’s VW might have been in this shot. I do remember there was one more there before I decided to take the photo. That’s my now-deceased Toyota wagon. I think all these surfers are saying, “Hey, Dude, don’t blow up the spot!” Or, “Hey, man, does this place ever have good waves?” No.
SO, do try to check out realsurfers on Wednesdays for the continuation of “Swamis.”
There were, at Fallbrook Union High School, three large, rectangular, concrete planters between the administration buildings and the band room and the gravel student parking lots on one side, the Senior Area and the majority of the school’s classrooms on the other. The planters featured flat tops for seating. The sides were angled in for leg dangling. The gymnasium, cafeteria, and the boys’ locker rooms were on the downhill side, beyond a paved parking lot. Closer to the planters were two trailers that offered chips, pre-made sandwiches, and ice cream bars, and milk, and apples, at lunch time and the mid-morning ‘nutrition’ break.
Since my sophomore year, I was the ‘fly’ part of ‘you fly I’ll buy.’ I usually went up the ‘out’ side of the shortest line. I was only challenged a few times, never twice by the same boy. Reputation, mostly. Most acted as if they were fine with it.
The express service happened often enough that it became a standard for me to offer the girl who let me cut the line a creamsicle or a fudgesicle, her choice, with a nod toward my friends, Gary and Roger. “On him,” I would say. If the girl asked which one, I would answer, “Your choice.” One or both of my friends would smile, perhaps flipping the offended girl a peace sign, often returned with a giggle for any other girl in the line and a sort of stern look toward me. I returned any thank you with a “not my money.”
From my first days in high school, I spent most of my non-class time, non-library time standing, usually with a book or notebook in my hands, next to the spindly tree closest to the action; studying, memorizing, and not-exactly-secretly observing the rites and rituals, the fights and romances, the cliques and the loners. Eventually this became the spot where the surf crowd, those who tried it and gave up, those who stuck with it, friends of my very few friends, hung out. On, but not in the planter. That was my spot.
It was lunch time. Murder was the topic. Gary was talking. A crowd had gathered and grown. Too big. I pulled Gary up onto the downhill side of the planter. I moved over to my tree, a Pee-Chee open, listening, trying to appear as if I wasn’t. Gary continued talking about the blackened wall and the cops and the TV crews; not loud, but for Gary, who rarely broke his cool, he was borderline enthusiastic.
And Gary was receiving great feedback. There was a rhythm. Words, response. The volume was increasing, the pace quickening. Enthusiasm building.
Someone jumped up next to Gary, pumping his arms as if he had been in the Swamis parking lot. The rhythm was broken. Gary looked at the chubby kid with the big, black-rimmed glasses. “Squintz?”
“Ray Saunders.”
“Oh, sorry… Ray Saunders; did I call you… Squintz?”
Some in the crowd repeated, “Squintz.” Ray Saunders couldn’t just jump back down. He took two blind steps backwards, into the dirt and redwood bark, bumping against me.
Gary, resuming his story, said something about the lingering smell of burnt flesh. The crowd reacted. Ray Saunders and I didn’t join in. “Brain DeFreines,” he said, “you’re the head dude of the surf dudes; why weren’t you there?”
“Because, Ray Saunders,” I said as I looked down at his feet, one of his wing-tipped shoes crushing one of the ground cover plants, “I was here.”
“Sorry, Joey,” Ray Saunders said, moving his foot off the plant, removing his glasses, leaning in toward me. I may have shrugged. I did close the folder. Ray put his glasses back on, looked at the top of the folded Free Press that was sticking out of the top of the PeeChee. “Are you in this week’s… edition?”
“Not by choice.”
“So, Joseph DeFreines, Junior; you, all cool and shit; you probably blew your GPA by not giving your oral… presentation in Poly Sci.”
“I don’t do oral… presentations. Ray Saunders.”
“Today’s mine.” I nodded. “You’re afraid? You?” I nodded again. “Well, Brain DeFreines, I am scared shitless; and I’m doing mine… anyway.”
“Call me… not that. Ray Saunders, you are… too close to me. And you are staring.”
“Kindergarten. Before your… accident. Morning classes.” I was staring. “We were friends. You, me, Frankie Terrazas, Danny Turner, and, oh yeah, Grant Murdoch. Friends. Do you remember… anything about… us?”
I visualized a tall kindergartner pulling a red wagon with a much smaller kid inside; another kid, in glasses, running alongside, carrying a too-big-for-him American flag.
I tried to see past the reflection in Ray’s lenses; “What was I… like?”
“You were five. We were all… five.”
“Frankie Trousers,” I said, after a longer than usual delay. “What happened to him?”
“Terrazas.” Ray hit me on the shoulder. “Shit, man… Joey; you do remember.”
“Bits and pieces.” I looked at the students below Ray and me. Several were looking at us. “Don’t do that…” I hit Ray on his shoulder with my left hand. “…again.” We both shook our heads. Slightly. “But, Ray, we were all… friends?”
“Then? Yes. You know… Fallbrook. Dads get transferred… other shit.” He took a big breath, adjusted his glasses. “Grant turns into a dick. Shit like that.”
The rhythm of Gary’s lines, and the crowd’s reactions, had been ongoing.
Carefully avoiding the plants, I stepped around Ray Saunders, onto the flat concrete surface, and next to Gary. Gary stopped talking. The crowd noise stopped. I pulled Ray forward and pushed him against Gary. “New nickname for Squintz,” I whispered.
Gary looked at Ray Saunders, looked at me. “Joey DeFreines has an announcement.”
“Fucker,” I whispered, putting my left hand up and over my eyes as if it was to lessen the glare. “Ray Saunders… here…” I raised my voice. “He will be… hereafter, known as ‘X-Ray.’” There was no immediate response. “Oral presentation,” I whispered to Ray as I took a step back into the bark, aware of where the plants were.
Dangerous Doug and then one of the Billys, Billy ‘The Hawk,’ started chanting, “X-Ray.” Others followed. Ray Saunders raised both arms. Gary pushed him off the planter. The two students closest to the falling students separated. X-Ray, stumbling forward, caught his balance by crashing into the Hawk in a sort of full-frontal hug. The crowd reacted. The Hawk spun Ray around, grabbed him around the waist and lifted him up. X-Ray flexed his arms again.
The response, the loudest to that point, was almost instantly muted. Someone said, “Greenwald.” Most of the students looked toward the administration building.
The crowd of students parted. The vice principal, coatless, came through. “Gary. I saw you on TV. Where’s your running mate?” Gary pointed behind his back at me. “The other one.” Gary didn’t move. Greenwald pointed at me. “DeFreines, out of the planter.”
Other students moved aside to reveal Roger, sitting with a sophomore girl, one who had chosen creamsicle, on the Senior Area side of the planter. Gary did a hang five pose on the edge of the planter, slid his right foot up to make it a hang ten pose, with a bit of an arch, and jumped down. Roger leaned over, gave the sophomore girl a kiss on the forehead. The Hawk yelled out, “Overshow,” looked at Vice Principal Greenwald, and whispered, “Overshow.”
The sophomore girl ran around the far end of the planter and joined three giggling classmates. She held her next giggle for no more than three seconds. Roger approached the Vice Principal with his hands out in front of him, wrists together and up. Greenwald shook his head, looked at Gary, then looked up at me.
The bell announcing the end of lunch rang. “DeFreines, out of the planter.” I started to do a salute, dropped my hand onto my chest instead. The Hawk shouted “Freedom!” Dangerous Doug shoved him aside. Greenwald led Gary and Roger toward the administration building. Neither of my surf friends looked back at me.
X-Ray Squintz Saunders hung back near some wooden benches, looked at me. I walked to the corner of the planter, squatted, and jumped, both feet even. I said, “Parallel stance.” Ray Saunders chuckled as if he knew what I had meant.
…
The arrow in this map of the actual Fallbrook Union High School campus pretty much points to the place where most of this chapter in the fictional story takes place.
…
Ray Saunders and I turned into a breezeway in the middle of the second block of classrooms. Lockers, two high, lined both sides. The locker I had claimed since my freshman year was in the middle, top row, west side. Optimum location. Scotch taped to the door was a drawing, pencil and ink, partially colored in, scotch taped to the door. It was almost a cartoon, someone behind a window, expressionless. “Surf’s down, Jody” was written at the bottom in red crayon.
Ray moved closer to the drawing, pulling up his glasses. “Oh. Grant fucking Murdoch.”
“Yeah.” My books and notebooks were tucked under my left arm. I pulled out the latest North County Free Press from one of the folders with my right hand, stuck it under Ray’s right arm. He took it out, unfolded it, held the front page up to the locker next to mine. He looked at the photo of me at the window during the wake for my father, looked at me. I tucked two fingers under the right side of the drawing and pulled. I allowed the drawing to roll up and fall to the concrete. I turned the combination lock, opened the locker.
I put my stuff, and the drawing, into an already stuffed locker. I took out a yellow notebook, “Political Science” on the cover. I pulled out several other newspapers, handed them to Ray. He looked at them quickly, folded them neatly, handed them back. I tried not to slam my locker but did.
“Lee Ransom didn’t have any photos from the murder.” I took a breath.
“You could just read yours… your presentation.” Ray took a breath. “You probably have it memorized. You could… Hey, Joey; I know you’re going to go… to the scene. Can I, maybe…? I have a car. I could act like I don’t know you.”
“No. Ray. See…? I am glad we were friends, Ray, back… then.”
“X-Ray. Yeah. Then. I get it. You’re… you surf, you’re cool. You have enough friends. You…” Ray took several breaths. “Everyone is afraid of you. You know that… don’t you?”
“Are you?” Ray shook his head. I moved closer. My eyes were close to his glasses. “I have hurt people; I have struck out… because…” I closed the locker, spun the combination lock. “You see it, don’t you… X-Ray? Life. I’m scared shitless… and I’m doing it… anyway.”
All rights to “Swamis,” copyright 2020, and all subsequent changes to the manuscript are claimed by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr. Please respect these rights. Thanks.
ALL RIGHT, now that the internet at my house is back and running at its usual speed, it is as if the three day lull was easy. SPEAKING OF LULLS… Hope to have some surf-related stuff available on Sunday. Meanwhile, spending too much time on SURF ROUTE 101.
ROAD TRIPS, it’s all a journey from where we are to where we hope the waves are. Pretty much all of my friends have hit the road recently, to various destinations. And I ventured out on the roads, despite the summer road closures and the annoying number of traffic accidents involving folks, not realizing the journey is part of the story, hitting the road just a bit too fast, too aggressively, and often, stupidly. That’ll fuck up one’s zen. Not mine.
Get there; get waves (or not); enjoy (or not) others in the water, the trails, the parking area; check out some other spots on the way home; go to Costco/Home Depot/QFC (not optional for me) and maybe FRUGALS Drive Through (part of the deal when I had to beg friends to take me with them, before my new stealth rig got roadworthy- not included if I’m alone); get home.
MEANWHILE, and all during and after the trip- We are anticipating, enjoying, assessing, picking out the most relevant waves, rides, interactions in the water, quotes worth repeating (Me, after backing off wave-“Did you really think you were going to make that section?” Guy who yelled at me but didn’t make the section-“I was trying to.”) when we tell the adventure story.
And somewhere, some time, if it’s comparing notes with another surfer who surfed different spots, or with non surfers who ask if we’ve been surfing lately, we will.
Maybe we find waves, maybe we find the sort of experience that enriches us spiritually, purifies us, transports us, changes us into someone… better.
Probably not.
I always have and can’t seem to stop taking mental notes on surf vehicles and Kooks and costumes and first class equipment owned by Kooks in costumes, rather than pretend my best ride was, like, world class, and that an old guy on a thrashed board might have a touch more soul than… yeah, I am working on all that stuff. Despite my pettiness, I can and do appreciate any surfer who gets a great ride. Mostly, faking humility, I’m just happy I can catch some waves and make some sections.
I was looking for an image of surf vehicles stuck in traffic. This photo from Heckle Photography was too cool to pass up.
MY ORIGINAL thought for this piece was what I got out of a recent video of NATHAN FLORENCE. I am a huge fan- more because of his froth/stoke/enjoyment level than that he makes money surfing killer slabs all over the world- he earns his money. Nate and his brother, IVAN, and his support crew, and his mom, and his wife, were at SKELETON BAY in Namibia, long lefts with long walk-backs. Rather than focusing on the rides, he kept track of, and went on about the workout. True enough, very impressive. At one point he had surfed and walked (or ran) a marathon distance. And then he kept going.
After years of surfing before or after work, or taking a break from work, I do try to dedicate an entire day to any surf adventure. During that day, I do try to exhaust my surf lust, build up my wave count. This is, partially, economics- waves per dollar. It is also a sort of reserve, not knowing when my next adventure might happen. No real surfer has even been SURFED OUT.
Still, I could mention surf exhaustion is part of my story. The good kind of exhaustion. In the next chapter…
SPEAKING OF CHAPTERS, I have moved ahead in the latest, hopefully final rewrite of my novel, “SWAMIS.” I will be posting Chapter Nine on Wednesday. Joey’s surf friends Gary and Roger call him from Swamis. Chulo had been killed there the night before.
Film at eleven.
Check it out.
NOW, I usually put something about copyrights with each post. This one, yeah, if you want to take it and say you wrote it for some or any reason, go ahead. OTHERWISE, see you out on the road.
I transformed a rusted, ugly-color-painted lamp post into this, something that Trump (or Trump devotees) would definitely give a second look, probably a wink, and possibly a touchy/feel; all in exchange for a twenty-nine year old vehicle that had been parked under a tree for a couple of years. This car will soon, hopefully, be my new surf rig, latest in a long line of old cars and vans, most of which died of blunt trauma or were just driven until the cost of repairing the latest mechanical dealie to fail (and they all fail eventually) was greater than the replacement cost.
Or… maybe not. My last surf rig, a hard-to-kill Toyota, gave me well over a hundred thousand miles of mostly worry free driving (discounting when it broke down in front of Frank Krippen’s NxNW surf shop, mice damage in the dashboard, and I had to bribe the repair shop to get someone to reach a hand in there) before the waterpump (YouTubed as an expensive repair) went out and… yeah, if I were in any way mechanically inclined (not even a latent gearhead), or if I could get someone to work on it, I would probably not have given it to my favorite local tow-truck driver (shout out to Kirky).
What seems like MAGIC is when something that should work the first time actually works the second (or third) time.
SO, happy as (going through a list of possible metaphors, almost all of them too political) can be, I picked up the newly revived rig, drove it straight to JiffyLube, got a couple of lightbulbs replaced, oil change, new wipers, and advice on replacing the cap for the pressure relief bottle (the only way to refill the radiator on this model- weird). OKAY. So, fresh gas and on to O’Reilly’s, where, magically, they had the part AND it worked.
Drive home, wash the car, open all the windows so some of the overwhelming mildew smell might dissipate. NEXT DAY, move it over by my work van to transfer some tools. NOPE, wouldn’t start and was stuck in the driveway. OKAY, break out the Costco jumpstarter box. Started. Move it out of the driveway, call GEORGE TAKAMOTO, longtime friend and mechanic now with medical issues that backup his desire to not be working on and under other people’s broken rigs. ADVICE, yes. NEW BATTERY. “That should do it. Definitely. One hundred percent.” Okay. Costco. In the work van.
NEXT DAY (or the day after), the new battery installed, take the rig, surfboard on top on a (hopefully temporary) SOFT RACK. Cruise here, there, work, everything’s fine. Go to check out a sort of surf spot, down where the cell phones don’t work, and all these lights start coming on, the gages start failing.
SO, not the battery. ALTERNATOR, surfers who are also disappointed at the lack of even hope of something rideable say.
I’m skipping the part where I was afraid to drive it back to Quilcene. In the old days, yes, but even this car will start running rough (then not at all) if there isn’t enough juice to the COMPUTER. So, I parked it at a friend’s house, called my daughter, DRU, to rescue me for the (she and Trish keep count) sixth time. Trish did rescue me in Port Angeles with the surf shop breakdown. Trish said this was too much to ask, why didn’t I call my friend STEPHEN R. DAVIS for a ride home. Okay. Thanks, Steve.
So, order an alternator from O’Reilly’s, pick it up the next day, jump start the car at the previously mentioned and unnamed (because he wasn’t thrilled at my rig being there, even less thrilled that I might want to work on it there) friend’s house, cruise it over (barely made it- computer shutdown) to Steve’s place, install the rebuilt alternator. Not as easy as the last one I replaced myself, 1975 Chevy truck.
LITTLE HICCUP HERE. The cheaper alternator came without a pulley and, try as Steve and I did, we couldn’t get the old one off. SO, I went to three different places to see if they could. NOPE. OUT TO LUNCH. Okay, so I went to a guy who specializes in car electric shit, and he zipped the pulley off, no problem, said, “It doesn’t have a fan,” and added it would burn out quickly without one. SO, he added a turbo fan, reinstalled the pulley. Shout out to COLLINN (yeah, two ‘n’s, just like on his shirt, not sure about the ‘l’s).
Install. Hook up the battery and the tester. Boom. Worked. WAIT! No. NOOOO!
TESTING, testing. The next plan was for me to install the evidently-not-dead and recharged old battery, and either George or I would drive it to Quilcene after his dialysis appointment (part of the reason for his reluctance to wrench). BUT FIRST, test. “NOPE, alternator’s dead.” We left it, again, still, at Steve’s.
NEXT DAY- Back to O’REILLY’S. Trade out. Tomorrow. Morning.
I would have given COLLINN the pulley and the turbo fan, but he doesn’t work Fridays and doesn’t accept walk-ins after 12:30 on the days he does work. Too much chatter, not enough work.
I would give a shout out to O’Reilly’s for not charging me extra for the upgraded alternator, with fan and pulley, but that would mean forgiving them for selling me a bogus part the first time (and this wasn’t the first time- bad fuel pump for my van- drop the gas tank a second time- nightmare).
REINSTALL. Check the feedback with the tester thingie. PERFECT. 14 amps, even with everything on.
MAGIC! So, I’ve now driven it to Port Townsend and back. I am going to get it over to Takamoto’s house for a full going-over, but I am feeling a bit more confident. OH, AND I would have posted a photo of my new rig if I didn’t want to go stealth a few times before it’s too easily identified.
BEST OF LUCK TO YOU with your surf and non-surf rigs.
Remember to check out the next installment of “SWAMIS” on Wednesday. I am almost ready to attempt to have a second page at realsurfers.net to accommodate my novel.
Oops; me, slightly before the Salish Sea Event. Portrait by CHIMACUM TIM(acum). Love the cropping; no visible baldness.
REGGIE SMART’S display. It’s not like Reggie disappeared into the crowd. He did have an RV (for sale) parked out on the street. Private tours, perhaps.
STEPHEN R. DAVIS’S wife, SIERRA, in the foreground, her husband’s painting on the back wall, with TUGBOAT BILL (red shirt, next to clam wood and, damn, I have some photos- I’ll put them in on Wednesday). ADAM ‘WIPEOUT’ JAMES is in the middle of the frame, talking story with JEFFRY VAUGHN. A couple of paintings by JESSE JOSHUA (I substitute Merle for his middle name, after the bluegrass musician, so I can remember it) WATSON are visible on the wall to the right. I didn’t take any photos, so I’m using shots by others. Oh, and the young VIOLINIST (REBECCA, I think) who played her heart out and was, mostly ignored. Good job, hope she was compensated. She is, incidentally, also involved in a young musician’s workshop that is connected with the OLYMPIC MUSIC FESTIVAL, which, coincidentally, my daughter, DRUCILLA, works for.
CHRISTIAN COXEN in the very foreground, NAM SIU beyond him, and one of my illustrations projected onto the screen. My daughter, DRU (Drucilla- I only have one daughter), set up my presentation, for which I thanked her almost enough times, and also set up slide shows from thumb drives for REGGIE, photographer DOUGLAS FIR (name de art, from his middle name, Christopher- forgot his last name), and did a little assist for the presentation for TIM NOLAN.
DRU and I (I’m in the Hawaiian shirt I wore to the other two events, probably was wearing for the Zoom event during Covid, and never otherwise wear) semi-hiding out next to NAM SIU’S display when I was supposed to be speaking. Too many people. I did speak later when a woman from Port Townsend, who I don’t know, but who knew so many people I have worked for, semi-shamed me (and semi-complimented me, saying I am [somewhat] famous for talking, talking, talking) into speaking to a smaller crowd.
TIM NOLAN speaking after I did. The crowd is all squeezed into this half of the big room, and, according to ADAM, paying rapt attention to two elder dudes. Yes, well received.
THE FOUR people who claim some stake in the board (bottom shown here, top equally fantastic)-Librarian/ripper KEITH DARROCK (who put the board back together and did some refining of the shape after he SHORTBOARD AARON, CHRIS EARDLY, and maybe JOEL CARBON tried to ride it); realtor/ripper JOEL CARBON (who was given the board with the thought being to sacrifice it on the Summer solstice, last and then this year), me (I finished the sanding, stained and painted and varnished it with what Keith now calls ‘leftover paint,’ all in what he now calls ‘spare time.’) and ADAM JAMES, who cut down the cedar tree, took the slam (and maybe other slabs- it was originally going to be a coffee table) to Seattle to be milled, spent time (spare?) shaping the board, attaching fins.
Unseen in the photo; our lawyers. SO, during the EVENT, a woman came up to Adam and asked what the board might be sold for (she may have offered $250- accounts vary). Adam told her she’d have to ask ERWIN. I said, quickly (and my imagined value on the board went up with every coat of varnish and/or paint, and even more with every compliment), “three thousand dollars.” She said, “Oh, but I’m a local.” Okay. “Actually, I’m from Washington… DC.” “Thirty-five hundred.” She didn’t write a check.
There has been discussion on what to do with the board. Keith said, “If she’d offered a thousand, you would have take it.” Yes. Probably, and then sort out who owns what percentage. But she didn’t. The board will be at the PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY for a while. IF IT COULD BE auctioned off for a decent amount of money for some charity, I am pretty sure the stakeholders would be pleased. Sort of.
MEANWHILE, if you absolutely need It, and are willing to pay the three grand, contact Keith at the library. I sort of trust him, though I once gave him a board (5’9″ BIC) he was supposed to pass on to MIKE NORMAN as partial payment for finishing the shaping on and glassing a board for me; short version, Mike never got around to shaping the board, CHRIS BAUER would have (if he didn’t put his name on it), I shaped and glassed and painted the board, and when I asked Keith what happened to the Bic, he said he sold it. “WHAT?” “Well, a guy wanted it, and I did give you some plywood.” “Oh.” Jeez, it was leftover plywood Keith gave me in his spare time.
HEY, check out realsurfers on Wednesday. I’ll have some photos on the specialty wood TUGBOAT BILL brought to the Event. And more. To all those who attended the EVENT, mucho thanks. Great fun, no backpaddling.
Always trying to improve, I have decided (or am deciding) that the advice I gave lip service to years ago was, often, right. My commercial art professor treated drawings we students believed to be high art as sketches, with mistakes that could be improved with the next attempt, or the attempt after that. “Two-Coat” Charlie Barnett (I didn’t call him that until later) was right that two coats of paint is almost always the way to go. Maybe someone should have told me that nothing we write is perfect, even after multiple drafts. Art, life, surfing; ten point rides, ten point anything is rare.
STILL, we try. I tried for years as a sign painter to try to get my block letters perfect, only to be out-performed by computer technology. I try to please my customers by making their house look, well, as good as possible. Some are perfectionists. Great. Here is my line on that: Perfection is very difficult to attain, and impossible to mainain.
SO, and maybe it’s because I’m stubborn, I have put some more time into previous ‘sketches.’
SO, the first image is a possible ORIGINAL ERWIN t shirt design, totally redrawn after my first attempt. Because I draw these in reverse (white and black), I don’t really know how they will look until I go to the PRINTERY in Port Townsend. First one, guy’s arm too long, I didn’t like the lettering. This one… yeah, lettering doesn’t stand out enough. Maybe I’ll… yeah, probably a redraw coming up.
THE BOTTLE. On the top one, I colored in the white lines on the reverse image of the original white and black illustration. Second one, water-color on the original and then reversed. Third one, to show the difference; I used colored pencils on the original. I am quite excited about the process of reversing the color spectrum, but I think I went to yellow on a night sky because I figured out how to get it. Purple, darker the better.
THERE ARE, as always things I like about each of the attempts. Attempts. More to follow.
MEANWHILE, in preparation for the upcoming SURF CULURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT, I am trying to get a collection of (the best of) my years of art stuff together and scanned, the hoped-for result a sort of powerpoint thing that can be displayed on one of two screens in the PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY, 6pm, Friday, June 30.
At least seven other Olympic Peninsula surfer/artists will be displaying their work. I am planning on reciting at least two surf-related poems (actually songs, but I will try not to sing them). Other stuff going on, music, food, readings, are still in the getting-there phase, all under the management of surfer/librarian Keith Darrock.
MORE NEXT SUNDAY.
Remember that I do claim all rights to my work, perfect or not. THANKS, and by all means, get some waves when you can. Perfect or not.
With all the time I spend at THE PRINTERY in Port Townsend, I can’t really explain why I didn’t get a scannable 8 &1/2 inch version of the white and black version of my third attempt to draw a bottle on a beach. BECAUSE of an accident in which the illustration part of the poster was reversed, color-wise, with some very interesting results, I attempted to add some color to what would otherwise be black background. Two attempts, with the colors from the first used as a sort of chart to narrow the palette for the second. Purple becomes kind of, almost yellow, green becomes one shade of blue- like that.
Live and learn, experiment, fail, try again. I am not yet satisfied with the results, with my next attempt at coming out with something, perhaps, less psychedelic, more like… I don’t know. We’ll see. I got the white and black version printed on watercolor paper (or something close) and I’m going to do a sort of wash.
Bear in mind, everything that is in color here would be black. Not horrible, but not nearly as much fun. SO:
More sparkle, less crazy… We’ll see.
KEITH DARROCK is the Librarian/ripper and the curator for the EVENT. I called him over to the Printery to check out and pay for the posters. He assigned me to getting some distributed out to the JEFFERSON COUNTY locations. “Wait a minute, Keith,” I said, “I’m, like, a volunteer, and…” Yes, I took on the task anyway. IF YOU are cruising up or down SURF ROUTE 101 between now and the 30th, check out the sign the folks (actually one folk) at the QUILCENE VILLAGE STORE (QVS to Adam Wipeout, Mary’s Village Store to longtime locals) made from a postcard of mine. It’s at 101 and Columbia. AND THEN, go inside, check out this poster at the checkout counter. YES, Quilcene is a way hipper place than when we moved here.
AND, even hipper, the CHIMACUM FARM STAND, a cooler version of the Sunny Farms in Sequim, also has a poster AS WELL AS some copies of STEPHEN R. DAVIS’S latest postcards.
Steve is one of the eight artists currently lined up for the event. And there will be, as advertised, music and some talking story. It’s coming together. MORE NEXT TIME.
Remember, as always, to respect ownership of original material. I do reserve all rights to my stuff, BUT, when you show up for the BIG EVENT, you might have the opportunity to purchase works by a member of a pretty eclectic group of artists in a pretty wide range of styles. And I’m hoping to have some ORIGINAL ERWIN t shirts (unofficially) available.
The colors I loved in the original I also love in the reversal.
Real Surfers 