I was actually planning on leaving it at that. All clickbait, no content.
Not that I’m going surfing. Not today. Maybe you’re out there, hoping for the right window to open up: Tide and size and direction, cooperative wind, amiable crowd (or no crowd). It might work. It might be working now; more likely after you give up on one spot and cruise, along with others, to another spot, always hoping, anticipating,
Yep.
Just in case music is part of your surf life, some tune in your head as you search or surf, I want to mention that I’ve been discussing having SURF MUSIC as the dominant theme for the NEXT (It’s, like, the 6th or 7th, one virtual) OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA (I’m ready to drop the ‘Salish Sea’ part) EVENT with Your PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY dude (afraid to give him a title, but he may be the Head Librarian), and well known ripper, KEITH DARROCK.
It would probably be in JANUARY of 2026, and would include SURF-CENTRIC LOCAL ART, and SPECIAL GUESTS like… Working on it. I’ve already signed up PETE RAAB, non-surfer, but a man with an impressive knowledge and collection of SURF MUSIC, and I’ve approached Legend TIM NOLAN about performing with some of his friends.
Consider this an invitation to any OLYMPIC PENINSULA surf music performers, singer-songwriters or bands. We’re still at the ‘think about it phase,’ so… THINK ABOUT IT!
MEANWHILE, as your anticipation level spikes, here’s a surf song I wrote quite a while back:
I’ve got a whole lot of work, so I’ve just got a little time; got a whole lot of work, so I’ve just got a little time; now, they say everybody chooses their own mountain to climb.
I’m gonna climb that mountain, gonna start about four am; gonna climb that mountain, gonna start about four am; and I’ll stop about noon at a lake that I know for a swim.
When I get to the top, I’m gonna check out the other side; when I get to the top, I’m gonna check out the other side; and if I see the ocean, you know that I’ll be satisfied.
I JUST WANNA GO SURFIN’, now tell me, is that such a sin; I just wanna go surfin’, now, tell me, is that such a sin? When you know, damn well, it’s been a mighty long time since I’ve been.
I’m gonna take off late, freefall drop, cave off the bottom and fly off the top, locked in so tight the wave spits me out, hit the shoulder and turn one-eighty about, moving down the line like a water snake, saving my best moves for the inside break.
Hit the inside section, arching, hanging five, That’s when I’ll know that I’m still alive.
Yeah, I wanna go surfin’, and I’m gonna fine me some time; yeah, I wanna go surfin’, and I’m gonna find me some time; Now, if you get to go surfin’, and you need a good board… borrow mine.
NOTES: One- I previewed these lyrics to Pete Raab when I was working for him and on them. I need a rhyme for ‘inside break.’ Water snake? Yes. Works. Two- No one should borrow any board I own. I thrash my boards. Always have. That’s what they’re for. If your board is too, too precious to you; hang it on your wall. My motto, still, “I’m here to surf!”
I do continue to work on my novel, “Swamis.” I’m either going to have a second page on this site devoted to the book, or I will post chapters on Wednesdays. Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net
You can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net
All original works are copyright protected all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
It may or may not still be rutting (breeding) season for deer, it may or may not be hunting season for deer; either of which might explain crazy activities by, um, deer. It’s always deer-hitting season in these here parts, and it might actually be a right of passage (whether in a truck, RV. or passenger car) to hit or nearly hit a deer. Extra points for elk, max points for a bear (not as if one looks for points- that would be creepy).
Last Sunday, after a football-watching Sunday Funday in Bremerton, a Marty Party, Dru, who, having gone to college in Chicago, never had a license or a car until she moved back, was driving home, well after dark, when, out of nowhere, some animal leapt out of the foliage and…
…totalled Dru’s first motor vehicle, and, evidence shows, tried to join her in the front seat. Because she was close to her house, and because, even with a bent frame, she was able, Dru drove home without checking on the status of the attacking animal. She did, quickly, call the State Patrol to report the incident. When I was in the neighborhood a couple of days later, no sign of the incident other than some pieces of safety glass, shimmering, near the fog line. Suspicious.
What was left of the passenger side front window. the license plate was removed to save the Seahawks frame, the liittle sticker on the largest remaining piece of glass was posed here, for effect.
DRU, coming to terms with coming of age, deer-wise.
IF YOU SCROLL DOWN to the previous. post, there’s a piece had written a while ago, then worked on again. The poem dealt with fog and Angels and such stuff. I posted it on Friday morning (or really late Wednesday) after I worked on the end of the Coyle Peninsula, tried to finish before dark, didn’t, and drove the twenty or so miles home (Coyle is part of Quilcene) on winding roads with no fog lines, eight miles of which was in minimal visibility fog, with cars and trucks coming at me with all lights blazing. I found an illustration that worked, but, if I had waited until Saturday, a shot of the lineup at fogged-in LaPush would have served as well. Or better.
My clients (still), VERN and DIANE, sent me this photo of me painting their Port Townsend victorian thirty years ago. Jeez, I seem to remember having more hair. There were a couple of stories of note:
ONE, I was painting that lower bump out late into the evening on a day threatening rain; in fact it was raining. But the wind was off the water, so, a couple of colors at a time, I continued. The wind shifted. The next day… repainted. Not a total loss.
TWO, on the side to my left (higher, steep dropoff), I decided, to save time, to lower one ladder (note the multi ladder technique) from the top of the other ladder, all while Vern was watching. Mistake. The top (fly) portion of the ladder dropped, out of control. Somehow I ended up under one of the ladders, holding on by one hand. I didn’t fall. When I got to the ground, I told Vern I always wondered if I could do that. I did; pretty sure I can no longer perform that acrobatic feat. Not that I’d try.
A couple of drawings:
The upper drawing is a possible t-shirt or Original Erwin Coloring Book possible, the other two are a sort of commission for Keith, taken from a spot he surfed in Oregon when he lived there, and more recently, visiting some of his old surf friends. the intention is to make a placemat, one image on one side, the other on the other side. Laminated, they work well. I’ve done it before. Not everyone has room on their walls, but most of us have room at the table.
REMEMBER, you can write me, erwin@realsurfers.net And, of course, original works are copyright protected, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
WATCH FOR SURF, DEARS, and Yetis and bears and whatever. AND WAVES. Be deer wise. And thanks for checking out my site. I plan to post another bit of “Swamis” on Wednesday. Watch for that, also.
I went to a party at TRISHA SCOTT’S house in Fallbrook, November 9, 1969. She was turning sixteen. I had been seventeen for a little less than three months. Part of the invitation, delivered in a phone call to my house from one of Trisha’s friends, included a request to talk my way more popular friends, Ray Hicks, Phillip Harper, and Dana Adler, into coming. “Her father is in Vietnam and her mother will be playing cards. Supposedly her brother is going to chaperone, but…”
No ‘but,’ I was going. As were my friends.
Trish was one of those new girls at Fallbrook, daughters of Marines, trying to fit in with students who had gone to public schools since kindergarten. BUT, she had contacts; she had lived in Oceanside as well as Philadelphia. While the local girls had spray-frozen beehive haircuts, she had a Vidal Sassoon sophisticated do, wore monogrammed sweaters (KPS); she was blonde, tall, thin, AND she had surfed (boards, while I was riding mats).
None of this was as important to me as my belief that she was absolutely unimpressed with me; this reinforced when she came up to me at a party in Janie Pollack’s (one of Trisha’s contacts, one time girlfriend of Phillip’s) barn. I mean, yes, I was rude, and possibly still drunk (peer pressure and some depression that I had lost in the first round of a contest at Moonlight Beach- Cheer Critchlow one of the biased judges), but, I mean… why didn’t she like me?
TRISH AND I count November 10 as the anniversary of our, you know, boyfriend/girlfriend thing. Powerful, all-consuming, and yet, one has to learn how to navigate a, or any relationship; and we were so so young. We have a photo in the living room of Trish and her father at our wedding. So young. Trish was nineteen years and eleven days old, I was twenty and almost three months old. Long time ago.
I’m trying to not get too sentimental, but we’ve been through a lot. You don’t need a list, but our house burning down is on there. Throughout, Trish has been… the only word is resilient. This doesn’t mean she doesn’t (temporarily) freak the fuck out when her husband does something like quit a government job with paid days off to pursue some dream of being self-employed, and, ultimately, a professional writer. And, of course, there’s the other woman in our relationship.
Surfing, if you haven’t guessed.
TODAY, three days after getting another round of post-surgery chemo (fifth, I think), Trish is at the low point in this horrific cycle. On her birthday. She is living at Dru’s, house, having gone over there to help our daughter with her own battles with cancer. I’m twenty miles away, not fixing up our house as I’m supposed to, making it comfortable for when Trish can come home.
Writing. This may be the real other woman. Trish and I have discussed it. “Rich and famous” was my line fifty plus years ago. Dream. And I’ve written and drawn and painted and… spent time on a screenplay and short stories and songs and murals… time I could have been insuring that I’d be successful, at least, at house painting. And maybe I have been. Work comes first. STILL… The dream persists. I can’t really express how grateful I am that the true love of my life has stuck with me, me trying to convince her, all these years later, that she should love me.
My love for Trish is a given; there before we first spoke in the barn. She is my ocean and my sky.
“Like Kids in the Park”
Forgive me, often-accused (frequently guilty) backpaddler, for being vague about some details in this story. I surfed at a spot that is close to private homes. Not a thing, necessarily; beach access in Washington state is not a right. So, let’s say there’s a sort of public area at this spot, and, because I was working at one of these private homes, I didn’t feel like a total intruder/interloper surfing there. It turned out there were other surfers I knew out or hanging on the beach.
I surfed; I went back to work. There is a certain distraction level associated with being close to possible waves, so, taking a break, I returned to the scene of me, MR. LOUD and obnoxious, dealing with the other surfers, in and out of the water. No, I didn’t purposefully backpaddle a ‘more’ local surfer to get my wave of the day. Yes, I did backpaddle others, but I only purposefully burned one guy. Payback.
Yes, there were still surfable waves. Not as crowded, but I had work, and I was tired, and my wetsuit was wet. AND…
There were two older women (not older than me) on the beach, one of them taking pictures. Of course I warned them about posting them on social media, and, looking at a very small but perfectly peeling wave, offshore wind making it even prettier, I said, “I hope you appreciate how rare this is.”
“Sure,” the one without a camera said. “We were gardening. We came over because we heard all this hooting. I sounded like kids in a park. We had to come over.”
“How long ago was this… hooting?”
“About noon.”
“Okay. I was part of that. Oh, and you’re exactly right; kids in the park.”
“Wake up, Donnie, shit’s going down.” Photo from Just Jared, quote from anonymous American. “Fuck cancer.” Quote from anyone who has had or knows anyone who has or has had or died from a disease that says, “I’m in charge. We do it my way.” NO. Fight cancer.
NO KING, NO CAMERA: I had opportunity, two cell phones with cameras, and I saw a sign where someone with a spray can had changed a No Parking sign into “NO …KING.” No, it wasn’t me vandalizing, but if I don’t approve of the act, I did appreciate the sentiment.
I DIDN’T take any photos when I, in my continuing efforts to present myself as a serious (mostly) poet, attended a poetry reading/ book launch for NICK HILL at the Port Townsend Public Library. I did get real poet, GARY LEMONS (look him up), also presenting his poetry, and someone I’ve known, off and on, for many years, to check out a sampling of my stuff. My real attempt was to get myself in on the reading opportunity. Didn’t work. I get it.
Nick’s book is, on the surface, about a sport rather like baseball, played throughout ancient Mexico and Central America, but his poetry seemmed to be a chance to comment on current political craziness. Gary’s poetry, mostly, is based on struggle and loss, and getting past or learning from tough circumstance. With some almost shocking humor thrown in.
Text from Gary: “…also I really liked your work a lot and I can see how you said that it is songwriting as much as it is poetry- I don’t know if you play guitar, but I could certainly see some of these pieces put to rhythm- sort of a folk/alt kind of thing like Fleet Foxes.” No guitar, Gary; harmonica. SO, inroads; if I could only fucking sing.
Top to bottom: Beaver moon from my front yard; my front yard; gillnetters on the Hood Canal from someone else’s back porch (waterfront people call the water side the front, but…); and a shot courtesy of Keith Darrock of the Olympics over the hedge and the fog- Yeah, Autumn, we’re in it. Waves on the Strait? No comment, no images. Another example of when not sharing is a practical alternative to total denial. Still, no waves is policy as well as almost always true.
“SWAMIS” A novel by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
The surf, the murder and the mystery, all the other stories; “Swamis” was always going to be about Julie. And me. Julie and me. And… Magic.
CHAPTER ONE- MONDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1969
“Notes. I take a lot of… notes. Your stack is bigger. Is that my… permanent record?”
“Ah. Humor. Yes, Joey, I guess it is. But you, and your… copious notes… Do you write them as a… an aide? Visual.”
“As my own record. Some time I might not remember. Correctly.”
“You brought them into the office; so, can I assume that your mother drove you?”
“We took my car. The Falcon. I drove. My mother… snoops.”
“Detective’s wife. Sure. Would you read me something from one of your notebooks? Your choice. Maybe something about… surfing.”
“Kind of boring, but… give me a second. Okay. ‘The allure of waves was too much, I’m told, for an almost three-year-old, running, naked, into them. I remember how the light shone through the shorebreak waves; the streaks of foam sucked into them. I remember the shock of cold water and the force with which the third wave knocked me down, the pressure that held me down, my struggle for air, my mother clutching me out and into the glare by one arm.’ It’s more a story. What I thought I remembered.”
“You wrote this after the accident? Of course you did. What you think you remember?”
“Yes, Doctor Peters; it’s me… creating a story from fragments, from what an aunt or my mother told me. Or from dreams. Seems real.”
“We can’t know how much of life is created from… fragments. But, please, Joey; the basketball practice story; I didn’t get a chance to write it down. So, the guy…”
“I’m not here because of that… offense.”
“I am aware. Just humor me.”
“Basketball. Freshman team. Locker room. They staggered practice. I was… slow… getting dressed. Bus schedules. He… FFA guy… Future Farmers. JV. Tall, skinny, naked, foot up on a bench; he said I had a pretty big… dick… for a Jap. I said, ‘Thank you, Rusty,’ just as the Varsity players came in. Most stood behind him. He said, ‘Oh, that’s right; your daddy; he’s all dick.’ Big laugh.”
“’Detective,’ I said. ‘Rusty, I am sorry about your brother at the water fountain.’ I kind of… whistled, stuck out my upper teeth. Bigger laugh. Varsity guys were going, ‘Whoa!’ Rusty was… embarrassed. His brother… That incident’s in the records. Fourth grade. Three broken teeth. Year after I… came back. That’s why the… Shouldn’t have done the whistle; thought I was… resisting, standing up for myself.”
“Joey. You’re picturing it… the incident. You are.”
“No. I… Yes. I quite vividly picture, or imagine, perhaps… incidents. In both of those cases, I tried to do what my father taught me; tried and failed. ‘Walking away is not backing down,’ he said. Anyway. Basketball. I never had a shot. Good passer, great hip check.”
“Rusty… He charged at you?”
“He closed his eyes. I didn’t. Another thing I got from my father. ‘Eyes open, Jody!’ Some other freshman, Umberto, squealed. No one else did. Rusty and I denied anything happened. It didn’t make us… friends.”
“All right. So, so, so… Let’s talk about the incident for which you are here. You had a foot on… a student’s throat. Yes? Yes. He was, as you confirm, already on the ground, faking having a seizure. He wasn’t a threat to you; wasn’t charging at you. Have you considered…?”
“The bullied becomes the bully? It’s… easy, simple, logical… not new; and I have… considered it. Let’s just say it’s true. My story is… I’m trying to mend my ways. Look, Grant’s dad alleges… assault. I’m… I get it; I’m almost eighteen. Grant claims he and his buddies were just… fooling around; adolescent… fun; I can, conceivably… claim, and I have, the same.”
“But it wasn’t… fun… for you?”
“It… kind of… was. Time’s up. My mom’s… waiting.”
“Joey I am, I can be… the bully here. So… sit the fuck back down!”
ALMOST SERIOUS POETRY
The Psychic and his Sidekick
The psychic and his sidekick, Sedrick,
Shared an Uber home from the wedding of a mutual friend.
Cindy was the bride, Archie was the groom,
The psychic said he knew the marriage was, “Quite doomed,”
Sedrick thought so, also, but he was willing to pretend,
Mostly, he said, at the Psychic’s funeral, “So as not to offend my friend.”
“Shocking,” Cindy said, as she placed flowers on the headstone,
“Indeed,” Sedrick said, adding, “Are you here alone?”
THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT realsurfers.net. REMEMBER you can reach me at erwin@realsurfers.net on the worldwide net. Original works by Erwin Dence are protected by copyright. All rights reserved.
LAST WORD- When I was working in my government job, dreaming of something freer, I had some level of respect for those who were complacent in their position, counting how many days until retirement, how much money they would have. TO THE DAY, TO THE PENNY. So, if you’re on the edge of the ledge, look out and forward, but, for God’s sake, lean back!
*I’ve been doing this blog for almost thirteen years, and because I’ve been checking on my stats a lot lately, and have actually been in contact with the platform realsurfers shakily is built on, I discovered this would be post number 1,000. NOW, the explanation for this is that not-quite-perfectionist that I am (mediocratist, high end, is more like it), I typically edit each post, like, multiple times. NEVERTHELESS, it’s some sort of milestone. OR a testament to stubbornness.
This image, possibly taken by Peninsula ripper, Chris Eardley, has already appeared on instagram. NO, Mikel Squintz, it is not anywhere, secret or not, on the Strait. Some sort of Hurricane, so, different body of water. STILL, offshore winds and possibly makeable waves does make one less worried about the rocks as well as envious.
Reggie Smart’s dog, Django, looking, well… smart. “Who’s a Smart dog?” Photo by… you know, Django’s owner. Not totally unchained. But smart. Reggie is opening a new Tattoo shop in Port Townsend. Look him up on the social if you need a little body decorating.
JOHN PECK died this week. I get the word on surfer deaths, typically, via texts from my contemporary, TOM BURNS. My story on Mr. Peck is this: Back in the late 60s, when signature model surfboards became a thing, my Fallbrook surf friends (and some kook semi-surfers) and I would share the latest “Surfer” bi-monthly. PHILLIP HARPER may have had a subscription. So, Phil, RAY HICKS, and BILL BUEL (who I still consider more of a surf-adjacent dude- Sorry) were over at Phil’s house perving out on the mag. Not like all at once. There was an ad for the MOREY-POPE designed PENETRATOR; all well and good, and an ad for several other signature boards. When Phil’s mom came into the dining room, Buel said, “Look, Mrs. Harper, there’s a board called the RAPER.” Because I was, possibly, more pedantic than I am now, and to reassure Phillip’s mom, I corrected Bill, effecting a French-ish accent. “I believe it’s pronounced, ‘Ra-pe’-air,’ like, like a sword.” And yes, I definitely went into a swashbuckling stance, which, oddly enough, is goofy-foot.
John Peck, a legendary surfer, doing a bit of kneeboarding. Photo by Nathan Oldfields. Find it, if nowhere else, at mollusksurfshopscom
SONNY OWENS also died recently. Here’s a bit on Sonny from Tom Burns: “My friend and former surf judge passed on at his home in CANNON BEACH. He was an early HUNTINGTON PIER standout in the late 60s, early 70s and migrated up here to the PNW, We surfed and judged contests over the years. Truly a good friend and a gentle soul who will be missed.”
I did meet Sonny on the Strait a year or so before my ill-fated foray into surf contest judging. Sonny and a woman I assumed to be his wife were at a barely-breaking, almost flooded-out spot, and despite being somewhat crippled, he went out. When I was at the contest in Westport, trying to fit in, I mentioned the sighting to one of the real judges. “Oh yeah? Sonny, Erwin here says he saw you surfing at ______ _____.” “Yeah, I did. Once,” To paraphrase Tom Burns, “If you’re lucky enough to surf long enough, you’re going to end up kneeboarding.” Agreed.
Let’s just say I’m posting this sideways to be less… shocking. Not true. Maybe, when I edit…
Me at Trisha’s most recent Chemo session. Photo by Trish. I’m really not supposed to make a deal out of my wife of almost 54 years undergoing treatment for breast cancer. I was not allowed to take her photo, in the chair, or later, when she was checking out and selecting a wig. Usually our daughter, DRU, herself a two time cancer survivor, takes Trish over for this kind of thing, as Trish did for her. Dru was off at a conference for organizations such as the OLYMPIC MUSIC FESTIVAL, with EMELIE BAKER (not sure what her married name is or how, exactly, to spell Emelie). So, I got the opportunity to share in the ordeal.
I try not to get too gushy about these things, but I am amazed at how strong Trish AND Dru have been, how positive. I do realize, we all have our struggles, injuries, afflictions, physical, mental, spiritual; many of which are crippling. We always hear “Fight cancer.” Yes. Yes. Allow me to repeat, “Fuck Cancer!”
I AM WORKING ON “SWAMIS,” and I promise to back off on the neurotic/obsessive re-writing. AND I’m continuing to write new songs and poems while collecting some of the old ones. Here’s one of each:
EMPTY
Empty stairwell, empty halls, Empty paintings on empty walls, Desperate conversations on the telephone, You say my heart is empty, but it’s heavy as a stone.
You know I don’t believe it, You know it can’t be true, How can my heart be empty when it’s filled with love for you.
Empty blankets, empty sheets, Empty sidewalks and empty streets, Looking out the window, I see I’m still all alone, You say my heart is empty, but it’s heavy as a stone.
You know I don’t believe it, You know it can’t be true, How can my heart be empty when it’s filled with love for you.
Empty like those scattered wishes, Empty like those shattered dishes, Empty like my old broken cup, If I’m so empty, Fill me up.
Empty ocean, empty skies, Empty faces with empty eyes, Thinking ‘bout those sins for which I just can’t atone, You say my heart is empty, but it’s heavy as a stone.
You know I don’t believe it, You know it can’t be true, How can my heart be empty when it’s filled with love for you.
Empty me, empty me, I’m as empty as I can be, I’m empty like my old broken cup, If I’m so empty, If I’m so empty, If I’m so empty… fill… me… up.
The Psychic and his Sidekick
The psychic and his sidekick, Sedrick,
Shared an Uber home from the wedding of a mutual friend.
Cindy was the bride, Archie was the groom,
The psychic said he knew the marriage was, “Quite doomed,”
Sedrick thought so, also, but he was willing to pretend,
Mostly, he said, at the Psychic’s funeral, “Not to offend my friend.”
“Shocking,” Cindy said, placing flowers on the headstone,
“Indeed,” Sedrick said, adding, “Are you here alone?”
I DO TRY TO GIVE PROPER CREDIT for photos and such. Please respect my rights to my original, copyrighted work.
OH, AND NOTE you can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net. AND, HOWEVER YOU’RE RIDING WAVES, KEEP GOING!
WORDPRESS KEEPS STATS on how many folks find my humble (not because I’m particularly humble- though often humbled) blog/site. Lately,affter twelve years of pushing and pumping out eclectic and not-always-surf-centric content, and for no reason I can discern, I’m getting more hits. Significantly more. From all over the world. I’m grateful, and, for no reason I can explain, kind of worried.
“So, Mr. Kotter; there was a locker check. Am I in trouble?” “Well, I don’t know, Epstein, maybe it was something you wrote in your notebook.” “Oh. No. Nothing to see there.” “Well, Juan, truth will out. Huh?” “Huh?”
ANYWAY; GRATEFUL. THANKS. And, I have finnally gone back to working on my novel, “SWAMIS.” I checked it out, and, surprise, it’s fucking good. Just a few… tweaks and… yeah. Swamis.
I’ve also been working on my competitive poetry. I do have an extensive portfolio, way more songs than upper crust, pretentincous (sp?) poems, Here’s one from way back:
REDEMPTION CENTER
Though Little Joanie’s pregnant, she still dressed all in white, The Bridegroom told me they’d already had their wedding night, Joanie’s Grandma clutched a bag of rice, then threw it, just or spite, And the veil was left out on the Elks Lodge floor, Pardon me, but haven’t we seen this before?
Two Coat Charlie’s asking me for an advance in pay, Charlie ran into Fast Betty, Betty took his stash away, He was naked when he ran out, he was begging her to stay, When he left he must have closed the motel door, Now Betty’s checking at the Family Grocery Store.
I called Ken the Banker sleazy when he disapproved my loan, Kenny sent his cousin Leonard out to disconnect my phone, But I saw Ken at the Tavern, and he was not there alone, He was hanging onto Betty for dear life, I don’t feel so bad now, having done Ken’s Wife.
Reverend Bob was crying for forgiveness at the wake, Bob told us all that it was such a terrible mistake, Still, Bob swears he’d seen the Devil wielding OId Joe Conner’s rake, Now a white cross marks where Debra Conner fell, And I, for one, believe Bob, what the hell.
Seems it’s either sex or money, that is, when the truth gets told, Sometimes drugs are mentioned, though not from whom they’re bought or sold, Me, I told tales in the city, and my business just went cold, Man, the gossip blows like dust right through this town, Hey, you must be new, I ain’t seen you around.
No, the freeway don’t go through here, and the locals congregate, Checking our post office boxes, though the mail is often late, It seems like everyone’s related to at least someone you hate, As it is, we know the players very well, These ain’t half of all the stories I could tell.
Redemption Center, there’s Saints and Sinners, You’ll see us all on Sunday, heads bowed down, Redemption Center, Losers and Winners, But you have to laugh, it’s just like your home town.
NOTES- It’s not, like, viral; just kind of a minor cold. Still, I appreciate it. Thanks, and to all the s, real or otherwise, surf on!
And, of course, I reserve all rights to my original content. Other people’s… thanks for letting me borrow.
On the computer, the clouds were swirling, down and around the Olympics, up the Hood Canal and Puget Sound. I’m pretty much at the left of the flash blowout, catching the curl of the my-golly-durn atmospheric river maelstrom. I’m fine. Not sure how this affects the surf at Westport.
NOT A POLITICAL THING, BUT I think it’s a bit ironic that this bad-ass lifted, four-wheel drive, manly to the Mad Max degree truck is parked in the handicapped spot. The messages reflect, perhaps, a sort of hard right mindset. So manly. One of the stickers says something about people who disrespect the flag. All fine, for sure; the flag is a symbol of our country. If this outsized, yelled-out ‘patriotism’ display is meant to elicit a response, mine might be, “Yeah, but those who disrespect the Constitution… huh?”
ALSO, and maybe it’s the camera angle, but “TACO” appears to be highlighted on the tailgate. Doesn’t that refer to some meme, like “Tump Always Chickens Out?” Maybe. I hope the owner can climb into the cab of the rig without too much discomfort.
MY DAUGHTER, DRU, and I met up at the Hama Hama Oyster Bar with my late sister, Melissa’s (hurts to say this) widow, Jerome Lynch, their son, Fergus, and his girlfriend, Kelsi. Jerome, who lives in his native Ireland, spends some time working in these here United States. Down south, mostly, where the name Lynch draws instant attention from the locals.
Adam “Wipeout” James was not there, off with his boys, and, I believe, Soupy Dan’s kids, getting skunked catfish hunting somewhere between eight and ten hours east, over by the Snake River.
The luncheon went pretty well. Three trays of oysters mostly went to Fergus and Jerome. Dru had clams. Kelsi and I had the grilled cheese sandwiches. She had one oyster, on a dare.
Not that I really should mention this, but the most awkward moment came when Jerome, talking about how he was doing the ‘cold plunge,’ followed, as is proper, by a sauna (not like most of the lunatics do this in Port Townsend), hinted he had a girlfriend. “You mad bastard,” I may have said. It was okay. Maybe I was joking. Jerome, who Trish and I (and Dru) adore, deserves to not be what he called “the lonely guy,” and he did wait six years. SO, okay; I take the ‘mad bastard’ back.
Our niece, Emma, who lives in Ireland, and was, for a time, Dru’s room mate in Chicago, is getting married next may. Her fiance, Barry, surfs. I met him. I like him. Dru is definitely going. Trish and I, I told Jerome, would love to go to Ireland. We’d love to move to Ireland. “How long is the shortest day over there?” “Gets light about eight, dark by half-four.” “Oh. Good to know.” “Farther north.”
I threw in a photo Jerome or Fergus took from Mount Walker, near Quilcene, and one of several photos Fergus took at a very localized spot a few years ago. He was told this was forbidden, asked if he got a decent shot of the local. He did.
RICO MOORE’S LATEST- Rico, local PT coffee shop critic and poet/surfer, just had an article published in the “MARGIN.” He contacted surfers via group text. I tried to look at the piece about allegations of abuse and contaminated water and, of course, corruption at an ICE facility in Tacoma. I say I tried to look at it. My phone froze up. Hard freeze; take the battery out freeze. Wow. Rico’s out there. I looked at it on my tablet, but got bogged down. There is a lot of research, obviously, that went into the reporting, and, having dabbled in the discipline of journalism, I have to ask where the poet fits into this.
I know the answer; it’s trying to fit the humanity, or lack thereof, into the narrative, trying to make the reader feel. Rico succeeded. Check it out. Be careful.
It’s happened before; my voice getting raspier, then croakier, then… worse. It’s some combination of postnasal drip and my body trying to maintain some temperature control as I’m alternating between sweating while working and chilling down when I stop. The result, the supposedly always-talking me not talking.
Swamis, 1967, the Sunday before what was then referred to as Easter Vacation. Phillip C. Harper may have had his driver’s license. I did not. We were riding with my sister, Suellen, and were surfing small (barely breaking) waves without a crowd. It was dark and dreary, and we’d surfed all day. My throat was getting noticeably sore. In my memory there may have been a fire on the beach. Probably not, just towels, maybe a coat. Phillip was going to Lake Tahoe with his family for the coming week. I was hoping to do some more suring. But…
Here’s the ‘but:’ Phillip, who started surfing pretty much the same time I did, had a new Surfboards Hawaii V bottom board, and when he went back out, he was surfing really well.
Well, I couldn’t have that. I had to go back out. Competitive and petty.
Two days later, Phil is at Lake Tahoe and I’m sick. I lost my voice; not partially, as I had a few times before, times I was not that unhappy that I had a sort of humorous froggy voice. No voice, and my throat hurt.
My mom took me to the doctor. “Worst case I’ve ever seen,” he said. I had open sores in my throat. I got some sort of prescription, told to gargle and not speak. I croaked out an, “How long?” “Until you can,” he may have said.
“He didn’t say what it’s the worst case of,” my mother said as we were leaving. I would have said, “Erwin Syndrome” if I had been able.
When Phillip got back, he asked what he had missed.
“I have no idea,” I probably answered in my regular, deep and resonant monotone.
A DRAWING by my late sister MELISSA JOANNA MARIA MARLENA DENCE LYNCH. Some of the names were added by our mother, the Lynch is from Jerome.
ORIGINAL POEM that would fit into my collection, “Mistaken for Angels.”
That Knowing Angel Smile
Angels, you tell me you’ve seen Angels, An Angel riding on the L train, one hand on the pole, An Angel, backseat in a car, idling, one lane over, outside the Dollar Store, Turning, just for a moment, and smiling, An Angel squeezing random avocados at the Uptown Street Fair, Handing one to you, An Angel, down in Nogales, Sweeping the gravel with a wide, rough broom, Leaning into the strokes, Dust, like smoke, twirling in the wind, And the Angel looked through the whirlwind, at you, With that knowing, Angel smile.
You know that Angel smile, you tell me, It’s a smile of recognition, and you can’t just look away.
No one should.
But I do, I look away, coughing into my hand, Hiding my smile until the elevator doors close.
THANKS FOR checking out my site. Remember you can email me at erwin@realsurfers.net AND don’t let anything keep you out of the water for longer than prescribed and/or necessary.
All original artwork and writings are protected by copyright. All rights reserved.
“So, then, Mr. Kotter, this underage punk… you know, like my age, he totally snaked me… You know what i mean? He, like, starts paddling toward me, pushing me toward the peak. Yo, like, we’re both going for it, but he… I’m too far over, he jumps up; I go over the falls.” “That’s an interesting story, Epstein; did i tell you about the time I got snaked? Real snakes. It was….”
The Erwin File, and Welcome to It, Plus Drop-ins, Burns, Snakes, Mental Lists
I wasn’t the first person, obviously, from a quick search, to wonder about the character Juan Luis Pedro Filippo de Huevos Epstein, and whether there is a missing file somewhere; secrets and such. The actor, Robert Hegyes, who played Juan Epstein, one of the group of ne’er do well students self-named ‘the Sweathogs,’ on the 1970s show, “Welcome Back Kotter, and I were both born in 1951. There could have been some chance (fictionalizing here) circumstance under which he and I were in the same place; like, for instance, he might have surfed (he was from New Jersey) wandered down the coast to San Diego County, and, let’s say, I might have, accidentally, burned him in the water.
Maybe he kept a list. Maybe I’m on it. Okay, maybe just a description: “Another punk, underage asshole forced me too deep, then let me go over the falls,” for example.
I may never know. Mr. Hegyes died at sixty-years-old. Not mysterious, evidently. But still… What did Robert have to say about John Travolta? What about Marcia Strassman? She played Julie Kotter. I thought she was pretty cute. Wait a moment. Checking. Shit, she’s dead, also. Sad. What about Gabe Kaplan? Still alive, professional poker player. Okay, I’m through looking.
It only seems right that Pam Bondi or someone official like that should look into the Epstein File. Congress, they’re not doing anything; one of those increasingly irrelevant persons could take up the cause. Transparency, baby; truth and justice. Maybe there’s a buck in it for some influencer/deflector. It ain’t me, babe; I do this for free. If I’m on the list, I’m ready to do whatever penance God and the Constitution of this, this nation demand.
Just to be candid: I have a mental list of surfers who callously and wrongly and blatantly burned me. Most are descriptions (ie; obvious Orange County interloper), but famous photographer Warren Bolster is on there. I forgive him, because, partially, he is also deceased, and because I’ve long since theorized that after photographing other surfers ripping and riding and blowing takeoffs at Swamis, he just wasn’t ready to let a wave he could catch go by, etiquette be damned.
To be more candid: Not just because I might be on other surfer’s lists for etiquette violations, I have pretty much mentally burned most of the transgressions, forgiven all the transgressors, except, perhaps that Marine officer [I imagined] who burned me and everyone else on one of my last sessions at Trestles, and, more annoyingly, when I cruised down a couple hours later, he was still dominating [there might be some jealousy in here].
So, if I’m on your list; please forgive me. Even if I haven’t burned you, if you tell me I did, I’ll be really careful not to do it again. No, really. Unless I can’t help it.
Now, about my permanent record: I’ll get back to you on that.
This is kind of a surprise posting. I just got through with my run of antibiotics for an infection that knocked me down, and spent a tough week trying to catch up, and now, kind of out of the blue, and without feeling particularly unwell I’ve, and this might shock those who know me, I’ve lost my voice. I suddenly sound like a 94 year old rather than the 24 year old I’d like to believe I sound like. SOOOO, I was going to write about the time I just had to keep surfing with a sore throat and ended up missing out on a week or more of surf because of it. Yeah, next time. I didn’t mean realsurfers.net, which I started in 2013, to be a chronicle of the wounds and illness and other landmarks on my way to… somewhere.
I will not be silenced… for long. Get some waves. Thanks for checking the site. Remember you can contact me at erwin@realsurfers.net
Photo courtesy of non-government-funded NATIONAL PUBLIC RADIO. One of thousands of NO KINGS demonstrations, all off them peaceful, across the beloved and besieged U S of f’in’ A.
John Deere Vance watches the fun as I-5, on which 800,000 vehicles pass per day, is shut down. It’s not clear if the LIVE-FIRE exercise (my God, like missiles and shit, like the movies… whoa!) included live rounds going over the freeway, the main and only coast route, but Gavin (is his nickname ‘GovGav’?) may have pointed out the latest in Vance’s machismo/vacation tour shenanigans by shutting down the freeway for four hours. “Hey, man,” an unofficial White House spokesperson may have said, “Don’cha want our military prepared for full invasion slash assault? I mean, like, if it works on this stretch… who knows?”
I’m only writing about this because I once commuted from Encinitas to the Trestles end of the 17 mile stretch, 1975, and remember riding on the old 101, Pre-I-5, nicknamed “Slaughter Alley,” and distinctly remember seeinng surfers, parked on the side of the road, being rounded up by Marines and turned over to the California Highway Patrol. I knew there had to be some awesome waves on the other side o the bluffs. Waiting for the official report from JD. If I get an AdVance note, I’ll pass it on, though I won’t believe anything about him shredding and or ripping. Or wave size. Nope.
ODD THOUGHT- It’s impossible not to notice how all the sycophant/loser trump appointees have to hold a pose of non-commitment, or even belief when trump or one of his chosen flock speak. This stifling of emotion, forced non-rolling of the eyes must be just so, so difficult. It reminds me (though I try to resist) of the Presidential feature at Disneyland. Video animatronics. Pretty basic back when you had coupons and it was this or another swirl n the teacups, but, say, Lincoln was unmoved, stone-faced, like he hadn’t heard a whopper from Douglas, until… whoa! Lifelike. And I’m still waiting for someone, any of these toadies, to just fall down laughing. Not yet.
Keith Does Oregon for Real- Peninsula ripper Keith Darrock is from, among other places, Yachats, Oregon. He recently took a trip down there, did some surfing (undocumented or un-shared). His takeaway; surfing on the Strait is, possibly, less ‘real’ than the hiking, rock-jumping, and generally unfriendly waves on the, you know, coast. It’s not that I disagree. Incidentally, my dad lived across the river from the Astoria bridge. Chinook.
“Don’t Tell Me You’re a Poet” from “Love Songs for Cynics.”
Don’t tell me you’re a poet, I saw you at the laundry, Your costume in the dryer and your quarters keeping time, We made small talk conversation, I’d expected something grander, I mixed my whites and colors, you traded quarters for my dimes.
You know, I saw you at the reading, your performance so dramatic, And the lighting was just perfect, all words in the present tense, And you listed your credentials, said you’d weave a world of moments, That’s when I stashed my poem away for it just seemed to make no sense.
I know that you’re a poet, you wear sorrow like a garment, You have words on scraps of paper in the pockets of your clothes, Which are washed and dried and folded, sorted neatly on the table, Though the words I’ve heard so far are not quite poetry, but prose.
I can’t say I’m a poet, I’m a casual observer, Looking over someone’s shoulder at last Sunday’s New York Times, But the Laundry’s glass doors shudder, there’s a world pressing against them While you’re busy with the syntax, with the rhythm and the rhyme,
And all I know for certain is that I got four quarters for five nickels and six dimes.
Copyright Erwin A. Dence, Jr. All rights reserved. I wrote this folksy piece many years ago, immediately after attending a CENTRUM performance that was a culmination of a weeklong Poetry thing attended by our older son, James, his friends Brian Pitts and Adam Larm. Performance art. My response, appreciation and sarcasm, possibly made stronger when I criticized something to the main instructor and she responded with something I took as, “You think you could do better?” Probably not.
Bonus Photo-
ON NO KINGS DAY, I was driving out in the wilds of the Coyle Peninsula, and couldn’t help but notice this house. I followed the one sign’s advice, and drove slow enough to take this photo. I figured not honking was the closest I could get to peaceful protest. Gosh, such a resistor.
Hey, get some real waves where and when you can. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net and remember you can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net
There once was a KING of Malibu, A. warrior king with a wicked smile, He danced to the nose, chucked his board at his foes, and, I don’t know, he’s been dead a while.
There is no royal succession. If Citizen Dora hadn’t been such an outstanding surfer, he would have just been another asshole. He had no power if he wasn’t in the water. Yes, he had grievances with inland cowboys and other interlopers, but he also was an extra in surf-exploitation movies, and, and, and… as kings do, he’s gone. Maybe there’s a current king of Malibu. I could give a fuck. NO KINGS, NO KINGS, NO KINGS, NO KINGS. FOR GOD’S SAKE, FOR AMERICAN DEMOCRACY’S SAKE, NOOOOOOO KINGS.
Stay safe, catch a few waves, call out (nicely) anyone who believes they rule the waves, even if it’s me. Oh, and you can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net
“Line of… succession? What? Oh, line. Yeah… no; I never did a line of that… whatever. You have some.”
Totally made up line, but, to recap; fuck a bunch of dictatorial assholes.
UPDATE/EDIT/CORRECTIONS- There was a it of discussion among surfers willing to include me in their group text chatter about how blurry my photos are. Okay, so I thought I was cleaning the lens on my phone; evidently it was the window thingie over the battery. SO, JOEL sent me this photo of Rico and Keith and some fat, Hobbit-like dude. Way too realistic. SO he sent this modified version. “burred,’ he wrote. Not sure if he meant blurred or burned. Not enough o either. Still… better. thanks.
ALSO, CHRIS EARDLEY, who seemed to know almost everyone in attendance on Friday night, says. the guy I identy as Matt is actually named Gus. Keith filled me in on the names of other important folks who were at the event. This was over the phone, so, naturally, I’ve forgotten the names. No disrespect intended.
OKAY, SO… SAVE THE WAVES
So many events in life are the result of circumstance. Timing and opportunity. We know there are no waves in Port Townsend, but, because the beautiful Northwest Maritime Center at the end of Water Street was available, and because LUKE (apologies for not having his last name- can’t we just go by first names or nicknames?), who MC’ed the event, is a member of the Save the Waves group, the Surfrider Foundation, AND, evidently has a connection to the Maritime Center (YEA!) a part of the worldwide festival was held in a surf town with a notoriously rabid and frequently frustrated group of surfers, and, again, no surf.
The short documentary, “Erwin,” is part of the worldwide festival, and, as my daughter, Dru, informed me, later, it was the only one filmed in the US. More on this coming. I had to be there. I wanted the event to be a success, and it was. Without a lot of publicity, enough people showed up that more chairs had to be brought out. It proved to be an opportunity for surfers to chat somewhere other than the lineup or the beach. And everyone was well behaved.
LUKE and another important guy (more apologies) announcing ahead of the short documentaries.
Legendary Olympic Peninsula path(wave)finder Darryl Wood (please forgive me if his name is misspelled), chatting with the important guy from the first photo. Darryl was the first surfer I met when I moved to the northwest in late 1978. The Hood Canal Bridge sank on Tuesday, February 13th. The state set up a passenger only ferry service, and Darryl and I were part of the first day’s riders on Monday, February 19. He was working for a contractor at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, I was a painter. He did mention something about Jesus to someone, not me, and must have said something about surfing, because, the next Saturday, February 24, decked out in a diver’s suit, crotch strap and all, with no hood, no booties, my sister’s surfboard (I’d sold all of mine), California wax, I was in the lineup at a spot you can no longer (legally) access directly. It was 38 degrees on the beach and my board kept flying out from between my legs. I caught a couple of waves, but he drop was so quick, I ended up kneeboarding. Yeah, sign of things to come.
At some point Trisha’s supposed-to-be family station wagon became our Kitsap County side car pool vehicle (nicknamed the scum car pool by Darryl, no reference to the riders). Darryl and I, and the other 6 or 7 riders all have stories from the commute. Enough so that, having been on the receiving end (“Thank you, Officer.”) of three speeding tickets in one year on the Clear Creek Road (this was before the freeway sections), trying to make the five-something ferry, I was deemed ineligible to drive when Jefferson County set up a van pool. Relief for everyone.
“Pass ’em, Erwin!” Both stories hinge on this. FIRST- At my co-pilot’s urging, I passed a slowpoke on the onramp on his right. The next day (I was off), the scumcar pool was pulled over. “Mr. Dence?” “Not here, Officer; but he’s a very careful driver.” SECOND- A woman was pouring her heart out about life and problems, and Jesus; and Darryl was, of course, listening intently. I was listening accidentally. She was at the point where she said something like, “All I could think of to do was sing, ‘Jesus loves you, yes he does…'” Yes, the distraught woman was singing. We were close to the ferry turnoff on a shortcut, time was short, and there was someone unconcerned about getting home in front of us. I passed them, dropped off my passengers so they could make the boat, and missed it because I had to park the car. “Yes, he does,” I may or may not have sung.
I only see Darryl occasionally, but, I consider him a friend. I asked him fairly recently why he never tried to talk about Jesus with me. “I didn’t think I had to.”
ARNOLD, Darryl’s longtime surf partner, explaining that no one has ever seen a wave this high in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. OR, because these photos are not in sequence, he may have said, “Yes, my wife did win the LIB-TECH surfboard. If you really need one…” I reminded Arnold of the time, not all that long ago, when he was out and I was the third-oldest surfer in the water. He said something like, “Wow.”
Someone I don’t know, RICO (looking surprised I was taking his picture), and the back of CHRIS EARDLEY. The guy in the background in the black hat came up to me later. “Remember me?” “No. Sorry.” “It’s Tim… you called me ‘Tim from Sequim.'” “Oh. well. Look over there, it’s Chimacum Timacum.” The woman with him introduced herself. Forgot her name. Sorry. If she had a nickname…
My daughter, Dru, someone poking himself in the eye, some out of focus guy looking a bit ominous.
The moon over Admiralty Inlet as the short documentaries were playing.
CHIMACUM TIM not looking at all like a guy with a Philadelphia/Jersey Shore confrontation-ready attitude, and ANDREA. I did send Tim the photo and did ask if it was okay to post it. I am so non-confrontational. He said it was kind of out of focus. Yeah, well, most times part of my finger would be over your face, Tim.
Rico, KEITH, and JOEL on the backwall discussing, obviously, how flat is flat, while, in the chairs, Jasmine, a. guy (just to seem cynical, may have once seen. Pete Seeger live- okay, I take it back), two people who seem, possibly, hypnotized, and KATE, not hypnotized. Kate, her husband, SEAN, and their son, sorry on the name, all surf. Family dynamic. I once witnessed them switching boards because Sean had left her with one with a broken fin. On several occasions Kate, paddling out, asked how much longer I was going to be out. Oh. “Not much longer.”
Chris and MATT at the tabe with the raffle prizes. Matt was a judge at the old Cleanwater Classic contest in Westport the year I talked TOM BURNS (not at this event) into allowing me to judge. I may be wrong about that. I helped out three times. Once I helped out with the Surfrider Foundation, selling copies of my REALSURFERS COLORING BOOK (outt of print- sorry), once I was supposed to help out with the flags on the beach (but I decided to be a spotter for the judges, denying others their turns), and, the time I did judge, everyone, evidently, had too much fun for the. head judge’s taste, I refused to call what I thought was a four point ride a six.five- whatever. I did try harder on Sunday. Too late. Sorry, Tom, didn’t mean to get you fired… also). Matt said he had a great time. As did I. WESTPORT. Everyone should go there. Oh, they do.
In the background, over Chris’s shoulder, there’s a woman talking to the guy in the yellow beanie (I had no interaction with him), and over Matt’s shoulder is her husband/lover… man. The came up to me later. He mostly lives in Costa Rica or somewhere with warm water, but he reads my blog. “Oh, so you’re the one,” I said. Not clever. So… like, send me a note, erwin@realsurfers.net and I’ll edit you in.
Newlyweds MEGAN and Chris eyeing the TODD FISCHER prints on offer at the prize table.
Winner! Yeah, I know; why do I have so many photos of Chris? His house needs painting might be one reason. Damn; should have taken a shot of Dru winning possibly the best prize of the evening, a bunch of stuff from Yeti. In the WSL, you have to get a ten point ride to score that. Good work, Dru!
POETRY STUFF-
BECAUSE I have been working toward, maybe, hopefully, selling some of the songs and poems I’ve collected over the years, AND because I’v been concentrating (using all my angst) on writing serious, pretentious, condescending poems of late, I felt compelled to attend a lecture at the Jefferson County Library featuring the Washington State Poet Laureate, Derek Sheffield, and a former wooden boat builder, now poet/mental health counselor, Matthew Nienow.
So, there’s hope. I mean, don’t ask me for mental health advice, but… I will throw down… poetry-wise.
What got me was how willing poets are to quote other poets. Quote Whitman and several audience members almost get giddy. To use a surf simile, it was kind of like when I saw MIKE DOYLE surfing at Stone Steps, 1970 or so, tucking his big frame into tiny barrels. It wasn’t Sunset, but all I could think was, “He’s not all that good.” Again, not Sunset. This was Hadlock/Irondale and I was, as I always am, amazed at how people can be in front of an audience and be… smooth.
To his credit, in my estimation, Laureate Derek seemed to be trying to bring a bit of lightness into the presentation. When no one clapped at his guest’s rendition of someone else’s poem, he did the beatnik thing of snapping the fingers of both raised hands. I so wanted, longed to join in. Maynard G. Crebs.
What I did do is wrote down a question, the dignified way to do a question-and-answer, required in this instance. I was a bit stoked when my question was chosen. Edited a bit, it was: “Are poets preachers, or reporters, or… (last second addition) cheerleaders.” I wasn’t giddy, but I did want to snap my fingers, at least once.
To quote my song, “Don’t Tell Me You’re a Poet,” … I’m a casual observer, looking over someone’s shoulder at last Sunday’s ‘New York Times…”
REGGIE SMART AND ‘ERWIN’- Reggie and I have worked together quite a bit over the past seven or eight years. At some point, Reggie started secretly filming me, then editing the phone videos down to some brief moments where I did or said something ridiculous. he then posted the clips on social media. SKIP AHEAD. He was helping me on a project on a watefront home on Dabob Bay that belongs to Annie Fergerson. NOW, I had been working on the project before Reggie came on scene, so she was sort of aware that I surf, and that I’m (often described as) a ‘character.’ All this was reinforced by Reggie’s ‘Erwhistle’ clips.
I would love to, but cannot discount Reggie’s role in my being in the documentary. I did resist it for a couple of years. Annie, a videographer for the Bill and Melinda Gates (now just Melinda, I guess) Foundation, was busy, I didn’t want to blow up any not-reallyy-secret spots, but, again, being honest, I did want to see some slow motion videos of me ripping across a long wall.
“Erwin” turned out to be a bit too true. And now it’s reaching a relatively small but worldwide audience, and it evidently ‘resonates’ (poet-ish word) with people; a ridiculous old fat guy insisting on pursuing his dreams.
So, thanks, Reggie, thanks, Annie, and thank you to the tens of folks who check out realsurfers.net on occasion.
I might edit in a reasonable poem by me if I find one decent enough. See you! get waves!
REGGIE SMART doing a side of the road deal with my. new(er) board.
Real Surfers 