Category Archives: surf adventures

Asterisks on Mother’s Day: Nam Siu Recovering, Sally **Finals, Surf Route 101 Traffic ***Jams…

Posted on by under Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf culture, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing in Washington State, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

*Surfer, diver, spear fisher, foiler, skateboarder, snowboarder, guardian of the water quality in the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the branches thereof, Nam Siu is out of the hospital after a traumatic month long fight with toxic shock syndrome; essentially an infection that, shutting down vital organs, threatened to kill him. It didn’t, but, with his kidneys still not responding, his road to full, ripping recovery is still in is going to continue.

Photos by Megan Hintz-Eardley, recently married to the guy in the mask, Chris. I don’t know cards, but it appears Megan is holding a full house plus.

My friend George Takamoto is suffering from kidney failure. The need for dialysis three times a week is a daunting reality. Horrific. George is twice Nam’s age. While his situation is chronic, Nam’s is Acute, sudden onset. The prognosis for Nam’s kidneys to begin working is optimistic; as in possible, his situation for a transplant, should it be necessary, is good; he should be a good candidate. You can find out more on social media. You know how to do it.

** I might be a person who follows the World Surf League, watches it when possible, reads some of the commentary on the YouTube posts, and complains the least about the judging. Yes, I thought Felipe got overscored on the 9.10 in the final, the one scoring wave that didn’t get a replay (or three, one in slow motion), AND I have been rooting for Sally Fitz, the oldest woman on tour, AND she did compete her way into the final, SO… so, good. There’s still a lot of drama befopre the next contest, And there’s the dramatic CUT, so… so, go Sally.

Feral-ish cat, Joey. Obviously related to our sometimes-inside cat, Tony, I cannot yet get close enough to Joey. Yet. We do get other visitors. Teddy, a long legged tabby, and, if I leave food out and Joey doesn’t show up, Pedro O. Possum will invite himself. This is not to mention the occasional cruise through by bears and cougars. We used to get raccoons. I did mention the bears and cougars.

Speaking of cruising, the season for doing the 101 Loop is just getting going. Packs off overweight motorcyclists, log trucks and chip trucks, people forced to ‘go around’ because the Hood Canal Bridge is stuck open, Adam Wipeout or Soupy Dan going helter and/or skelter from or to the Hama Hama, me, occasionally. Note the RV holding up traffic on Surf Route 101. RVs are typically being driven, according to those stuck behind them, by “Free Time RVMFs.” Motor Folks, perhaps. But… free.

Quick story: I was heading up 101 when I saw a big yellow motorcycle behind me. Leader of the pack. He passed me, followed, on a sketchy stretch, by three pack members, hell bent in leather. Okay. I get onto Highway 20, and there they are, all pulled over, all off their rides. Apparently, the wild bunch head honcho had something on his sunglasses, like, I don’t know, a bug, and his buddies were trying to help. I thought about helping, thought about giving them the Easy Rider salute, but just kept putting on. I didn’t say it was a great story. Share the road… man.

****HAPPY MOTHERS’ DAY! I have mentioned this before, but I (probably) wouldn’t have ever started surfing if my my mother hadn’t been so willing to take her seven children to the beach. Often. Never often enough, but she was supportive. And other wannabe surfer’s moms. Thanks. And, despite surfing always being the ‘other woman’ in my life, Trish, the mother of our three distinctive, totally individualized, now-adult children, has almost always been… let’s say accepting of my obsession/addiction, and, if I’m particularly stressed, she might say, “You’re being a dick (more like asshole), you need to go surfing. Now.” “There are no waves.” “Oh, there’ll be waves.” “Okay.” Trisha, love of my life; love you to the moon and back!”

More on this and something I want to say about whether any of us deserve good waves. Next time. Meanwhile, please pull over if you’re holding up traffic. Free advice.

Stitches and Protests and Poetry, Oh My

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf culture, surf fiction, surfing stories, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

Update on Sally Fitzgibbons- Out off the El Salvador contest. Damn! Not that I typically root for Lakey Peterson, raised in a house on the point at Rincon (possibly- her mother lives there, so I’m, yeah, assuming), but she was eliminated in a tight heat, and was, as shown on WSL footage on YouTube, visibly upset. Since I seem to have hopes for surfers based on age and, to a lesser degree, niceness, perceived or real; I guess I’m hoping Tyler Wright continues on, quite possibly eliminated by… Caitlin Simmers. Yes, a prediction. Or maybe the inheritor of the Stephanie Gilmore grace and power school; you know… Pickles.

On the mens’ side, someone from Brazil, home of endlessly, and, it seems desperately competitive and acrobatic surfing. Or Griffin, end result of coaching, video feedback, and the surfing equivalent of studying-to-the-test; not that he isn’t good or that his path to success isn’t legitimate. Or difficult.

No, of course I wouldn’t be worried about surfing contests, or spending too much time watching YouTube content by Jamie and Nate and Mason, sometimes lesser social media stars, or watching another ‘Maps to Nowhere’ video, or cursing at the tablet or the phone or the laptop because the fucking angle of the promised swell is wrong, wrong, wrong, AND the size of the swell is disappointingly not as promised; I’d worry about none of that if I was out in the water, concentrating on waves and not even thinking about how fucking much avocados and coffee are going to cost when I cruise through Costco on my way home. I also would not wonder why, with the barrel price of oil having dropped ten dollars, why, why, why the pump price hasn’t dropped.

Ah, surfing, where we can forget the world, and worry about how a drop-knee turn is as good as a kick stall, and wonder why what was once called a roller coaster is now referred to as a re-entry, and contemplate on how long it’s been since we’ve seen a reverse kickout with amplitude. Oh, and while scanning the horizon for a three wave set, we might not worry about just how far the stock market is going to fall on Monday. And, besides that…

CHRIS EARDLEY, Olympic Peninsula ripper and occasional surf traveler, may have been more concerned about the rip and the raggedy rocks than the possibility of getting hit in the face by his board at a notoriously sketchy break. Well. It happens. Chris was helped to his car and to the emergency room by a couple of other surfers. “No…” gag, gag, “It’s not that bad.” “Yes, I can see a little daylight, but… a few stitches and…” Seventeen stitches, more inside the lip than outside. Chipped and loosened teeth. Pain.

So, naturally, one of Chris’s first texts was to another surfer, inquiring about how the rest of the session went. “Not that great,” which is code for, “Awesome!” He’s doing okay. I saw him yesterday, should have taken a photo. “Yeah, Chris; you should stay out of the water a while. I got my twenty stitches out (non-surfing injury) I’m hoping to go tomorrow.”

I kind of missed the protest in Port Townsend yesterday. I knew protests were planned in all 50 states, and I got a reminder from Keith Darrock, who reported his mother, LORRAINE, was part of the mile-plus lines of folks on the main drag. Since the average age of Port Townsend residents is… yeah, my demographic; old, I lent a bit of support, I thought, by honking (if someone else did a two honker, I echoed it; three honks, same thing) and exchanging peace signs and thumbs up gestures to the crowd as it was, peacefully, thinning out.

I was driving my big boy van rather than my left-leaning Volvo and I didn’t go all the way through town, but I was happy to see folks involved.

Meanwhile I am still checking the buoys, still trying not to worry too much.

Here is a poem from my saved file of ‘works in progress.’ I just finished painting a house, ADU, and garage for Marti and Andy, both of whom were very helpful when I fell and cut my head. And they are just very nice folks. I was discussing my poems/songs with Andy over the course of the project. I told him I have a lot of lines, but have only a first verse for a song, and a whole lot of writing but only a last line that is the basis for a poem.

As sort of a gift I printed up what I have on those as a sort of gift. On the other side of the pagek, because I was impatient and ended up printing multiple copies, then put the paper back into the printer, there was a completed song, “Out of the Wind,” on the back. They were gracious.

Here’s the verse: “Between alone and lonely, there is time to reconsider, all the pieces you have scattered from your jigsaw puzzle life.” Here’s the last line: “…And you can almost see the ocean from there.” As a bonus, I threw in a little ditty I wrote:

“Call me DAREDEVIL DAN, I’m a Daredevil,” Dan said,

But, like many a daredevil, Dan ended up dead.

Dead Dan was found in the bathroom, end of the hall,

Someone spiced up Dan’s drug cocktail with a pinch of fentanyl,

Or a dash, I’m not sure, accounts vary.

The Devil Dan dared,

If aware, did not care,

And all of Dan’s people said, “That’s not right, that’s not fair,”

And the Devil, I’m told, had no comment.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. I should give Chris Eardley credit for the selfie. It did come from him, along with… kind of, permission to write about it. Hey, if pushed, I do claim some rights as a journalist (of sorts). Please remember any original writing by me is protected by copyright.

How to be a Surf Legend, Adam Wipeout Saves My Volvo and Van, Street Walkers Weird and Wacky

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, adam wipeout, hipster surfers, northwest surfing, real surfers, surf adventures, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

…AND REGGIE and DJANGO (the ‘d’ is silent) unleashed… and more

THIS is my VOLVO just after ADAM ‘WIPEOUT’ JAMES did almost all the tricky technical stuff in my attempt to save the ‘SUPER FUN CAR’ (the previous owner had a license plate ring that reads, ‘chocolat du coeur,’ chocolate of the heart) after, probably twelve miles from home and with darkness falling fast, a broken fitting on the hose that goes through the firewall causing water to spew out, the lack of water leading to overheating. I could, of course, stopped and called for a tow. I DIDN”T. Because of a stubborn insistence on my part to make it home, and with the added belief I could because folks stopped out in the middle of nowhere to give me, like, three gallons off water, I kept going. THIS involved, watching the temp gauge, stopping short of the red zone, allowing the engine to cool down, adding water, driving, cool down, water, driving, cool down, more water, driving. The gauge was approaching the red line again when I limped down the driveway.

As seems to be my usual response when driving in dangerous and/or tense situations that are no longer shared-with-if-not-mitigated-by chain smoking, though my white knuckled grip on the steering wheel remains, I spent an almost equal amount of the time between breakdown and home (probably and hour-and-a-half) swearing and praying.

AND THEN I replaced the broken heater thermostat, myself, and then, though the FUN CAR didn’t overheat, I discovered I had a blown HEAD GASKET. My friend and mechanic, GEORGE TAKAMOTO, currently being treated for kidney failure, asked, on the phone, “Is it water in the oil or oil in the water?” “I think it’s, like, both.” “OH. Bad.”

BEFORE I called KIRKY, local tow truck driver and junk hauler, to offer him the FUN CAR, I consulted a guy who works on cars all the time, MICHAEL SPEARS. He wasn’t interested in the car, even for free, but said, given the difference between the worth of the car and the cost of a professional head gasket replacement, I might consider trying this stuff, BLUE DEVIL.

SO, and I wouldn’t have attempted this without help, Adam agreed to help. ROUND ONE seemed to do the trick; but I didn’t trust driving it, and, since I still had half a bottle of the Blue Devil, we gave it another go. AND I AM pretty convinced the car is running decently. Adam also cranked up the idle a bit because, my gorilla hands trying to wrangle hoses and stuff, I did something to the linkage. I can’t explain it, but Adam figured it out and fixed it.
NOW, the van story: It’s a thirty-year-old rig and, just before George had to go into an assisted living/rehab place, he diagnosed the problem with the back door on the van not opening from the outside as a broken bulb-like dealie on the end of the linkage. “Huh?” I couldn’t fix it, or wouldn’t try, and have spent a month or so crawling through the van to open the door from the inside. Not fun.

I purchased a replacement on Amazon for, like, $115.00. While we were waiting for the Fun Car to cool down enough to replace the engine’s main thermostat, Adam asked what else I had that needed fixing. The part, of course, did not come even close to fitting, BUT, and I give full credit to Adam’s inventiveness to living down at the HAMA HAMA, being involved in the oyster business, with all kinds of gear and gear breakdown issues, Adam figured out a way to open the door. “Does it bother you that you won’t be able to lock the door?” “Hell, no; I was ready to go full white trash and put a latch and a padlock on it.”

IF ADAM is a superstar in the seafood/oyster industries. He is or should be legendary in the surf world. Because he travels frequently to places that buy oysters and, incidentally, have waves, he is known and ACCEPTED (this is a major part of this) at a lot of local (and localized) breaks.

Adam and I had a bit of a discussion on how many legendary surfers are among our group of friends, and why this or that surfer fits into the legend category. It comes down to this: A LEGEND IS A STORY. LEGENDARY figures in any and all fields have, ONE, stories to tell, and TWO, others have stories to tell about them. SO, if you want to be a legendary surfer, SURF.

REGGIE SMART, surfer, independent contractor, tattoo artist, working on his own legend, illustrated, working downtown with his new dog (not posing), DJANGO.

PICTURE-WISE, I just deleted, by his request, a photo of surfer/journalist/poet RICO, but now, because I want to call myself a surfer/journalist/poet, I’ve decided I shouldn’t be dissuaded from capturing images of surfers or whoevers. It’s integrity. Maybe. I did allow COUGAR KEITH the opportunity to pose, he declined and ran away too quickly for me to get my phone ready.

AFTER AND BEFORE photos of this dude who bothered me a while back while I was trying to work in Uptown Port Townsend, and then, more recently, at the hardware store. He also rudely wasted some of my Daughter Dru’s time while she was working, last day before her surgery, at the OLYMPIC MUSIC FESTIVAL office. I seems he’s in this play in which he plays his father- hence, and it makes perfect sense, he in the navy getup, no beard, dyed hair. When I accused him of wasting Dru’s time, he said, “Geez; old guys talk; that’s what we do.” OKAY. I did hear that he may or may not have been the old guy who was hanging around the middle school asking kids if they wanted to be in his play… or the guy was until cops told him he had to leave. SO, he has stories; stories are told about him. Legend? Maybe. He doesn’t surf. I asked.

SURF NEWS- I surfed. Once I complete a few test runs and get the insurance, including towing, reinstated on the Fun Car, I’ll be venturing farther out, working on some new surf tales.

‘SWAMIS’ NEWS- It’s more like bidding season than painting season for the ERWIN DENCE PAINTING COMPANY, and I’m actually working on doing some advertising. YELP! This is my excuse, ten or twelve pages from wrapping up what’s listed on the thumb drive as ‘final final final Swamis.’ Maybe, since I’m working on this tonight, I can write tomorrow. Yes, after I write two more proposals.

LOVE SONG FOR CYNICS-

Right now it’s time for TRUE CONFESSIONS, time for you to just come clean; Right now it’s time for true confessions, time for you to just come clean; Now, don’t be lookin’ at me that way, you know exactly what I mean.

Today your husband came to see me, after all I’m his best friend; Today your old man came to see me, after all I’m his best friend; He said he knows that you’ve been cheatin’, and now it’s too late to pretend.

He says he’s got his pistol loaded, he says his finger’s got an itch; He says he’s got his pistol loaded, and says his finger’s got an itch; And when that other man gets cornered, he’s gonna shoot that sonofabitch.

I said, friend, you’d better calm down, it won’t be worth the price you’ll pay; I said you’d better, better, better calm down, it won’t be worth the price you’ll pay; He said, “All I ever wanted, is a woman who will stay.”

Well, I can’t preach or shout if I’m talkin’ about the way you’ve been misbehaving, Bug your man’s made a stand, and he has a new plan, for a love he feel’s worth saving; If you can’t take a chance on one sided romance, ’cause of all your indiscretions, Then it’s best that you run, ’cause your man’s got a gun, this might be your last confession.

Right now it’s time for true confessions, they say the truth will set us free; Oh, yes, it’s time for true confessions, they say the truth will set us free; It’s hard for me to talk about this, because… the other man… is me.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers. Now go find some real waves, create some real stories.

ALL original work on realsurfers.net, unless otherwise noted, is copyright protected, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

Sorry ‘Bout Your Blues and other Valentines

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, surf novels, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing in Washington State, surfing novels, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, Uncategorized, women surfers in the Northwest,, writings of Erwin Dence

Yes, I googled “Surfing Valentines cards,” hit on ‘images,’ and then, partially because this card is no longer available, copied, and now pasted it here. Obviously the couple are discussing which one of them will ride the board.

I do have some possibly romantic surf stories. However, you may have noticed there is sometimes (I want to say) tension between partners in surf couples, regular and power. Adding children to the mix doesn’t lessen the (I want to say) natural competitiveness between any two surfers once actual surfing is involved.

And then there’s the supposed to be supportive non-surfing boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever category one puts a significant or sort-of significant other into. “Oh, that was great, Babe; the way you almost made the bottom turn; all bottom, no turn… Whoo Hoo!”

In our relationship, which started out with Trish watching me surf, two spots, like four hours worth, the thrill of this wore off rather quickly. As perhaps happens, and I so very often mention, surfing became the other woman. Choices had to be made. Mostly Trish won. Not always.

Trish kept riding a surf mat for a while. I still had one. Mostly she’d ride it at Swamis Beachbreak. One afternoon we went out together at Oceanside, over between the jetties. We probably rode a few before we found ourselves together, outside, with a suddenly rising swell and a surprisingly strong rip. I have been, in my surf life, way more worried about being caught outside than being caught inside. Adding someone I care deeply about out there with me… it’s worse.

I’m not sure exactly how we got in. It wasn’t like I rescued Trish or she rescued me (and for those who already know, I have had women come to my rescue when I was perceived to be in trouble or was actually floundering in the shorebreak), but we made it in, and the last time I asked, Trish told me she wasn’t worried. “Oh, because you were with your man?” “No, because I knew what I was doing.” “Oh. Yeah. That.”

SO… Lovers, love.

IN “Love Songs for Cynics” News; I just had a meeting yesterday with a person willing to help me format a collection af songs and (I don’t want to say) poetry, and some essays. I’m in the process of collecting years worth of stuff I’ve written, quite a bit of it surf-related, but, surprisingly, a lot of the songs are not what would be classified as love songs. Possibly because our son James is a guitarist, I have written a lot of blues songs. Asked about my material, I had to say a lot of it is fictional; me putting myself in some situation I’ve not really been in.

Anyway, I have been making some progress on “Swamis.” Slow but steady, and yes, there is some surf action, and yes, there is some romance.

You say your woman left you, she took a one way flight, Now all that you can think of is your miserable plight, And you whimper all day long and you cry all night, SORRY ‘BOUT YOUR BLUES… I feel all right.

But you say you had to gamble, and you had to drink that wine, And you had ‘just a few’ ladies, so you had to dance and dine, Still you don’t know ‘xactly where you crossed that line, Sorry ’bout your blues… but I feel fine.

I feel good because my woman treats me something like a king, I just snap my fingers, and she’ll do most any thing; Oh, but I should add she keeps my ass in line, Sorry ’bout your blues… but I feel fine.

Now you’re right down at the bottom, never been quite this far down, Your once fine reputation’s shot throughout your own home town, And if you cry one more tear, you’ll likely drown, Sorry you’re not up… but I’m not down.

Now, I’ve been down in the gutter, I crawled out the best I could, Right now my life’s so good that I just have to knock on wood, I guess I should help, I only wish I could, Sorry ’bout your blues, I don’t think it’s what you’d choose, I’m just so glad those blues are yours, not mine, Sorry ’bout your blues, but I… feel… fine.

Yeah, all original work by Erwin Dence on realsurfers.net is copyright protected. All rights reserved.

SURF NOTE: If we can get past this February pattern of too cold temperatures and the surf doldrums, maybe… waves. We all love waves! Right?

I Guess I’m Lucky… Occasionally

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence Cartoons, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, real surfers, surf adventures, surf art, surf culture events, surf fiction, surf novels, surf sessions, surf stories, surf trips, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing novels, surfing Swamis, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

There are some surf windows that become legendary; December of 1969 and August of 1975, California swells, one north, one south; epic enough to get a mention in *MATT WARSHAW’S “Encyclopedia of Surfing,” and extremely memorable to me because I was out for both of them; the first at Swamis, the second at Upper Trestles.

And then there are the legendary sessions we miss. Waves are breaking, brown-green slop to sparkling barrels, all over the world; and it is easy to believe even the most fickle spot gets something rideable to all time, some time. Rather than tales told in parking lots and over coffee or beer, or perhaps, in the bread section of a grocery store, YouTube and Instagram pushes almost-live images that are so much easier to find than the waves themselves. Trip to Bali because you saw something? Hawaii? Maybe, if you’re lucky, you can hit something all time in Australia or France. Gee, Mundaka and Uluwatu look fun. Malibu? Sure, and maybe a few leg burners at Rincon or Jeffry’s Bay. It would be so awesome to hit Cloudbreak on, you know, an almost survivable size. Yeah!

Maybe. Time and money and, even if you study the forecasts and hack Kelly Slater’s schedule, luck. The WSL’s version of a Pipeline contest has been on hold for… a while; one day’s competition in self-admitted beachbreak-like conditions. Still, it’ll get better. Hopefully.

Getting back to me; it’s not like I dominated SWAMIS in ’69, with overhead waves as barreling, offshore winds as strong as I ever experienced there, and with a certain amount of pre-internet hype and publicity adding to the crowd of takers and watchers. No on the domination. Swamis was, for the time, extra crowded, this exacerbated by the fact that when the surf gets big, the places one can reasonably surf in San DIego County gets reduced to Swamis, Cardiff, Windansea, Sunset Cliffs, maybe that non-surf spot, La Jolla Cove. Remember, I did say ‘reasonably;’ as in get out, catch more than one wave. Undergunned on the first day of a five or six day run, I did better as the waves evened out and the crowds diminished. A week or two later, the surf was just as big, less hype, less crowded. I went out, feeling lucky.

TRESTLES: Warshaw quoted MICKY MUNOZ as saying the south swell in August 1975 was as clean as any he remembered. Mr. Munoz was the first person I saw when I paddled out on my round-nosed, small wave board at Upper Trestles. I, admittedly, shoulder-hopped the first few waves, my fin just vibrating. Still, I made a few waves. I feel, this many years on, so lucky that I had the opportunity to work up the hill from a classic spot, park on the beach, and surf it, from barely breaking on, with what would seem an absurdly small crowd.

LOCAL OR LUCKY, it’s a term that comes up often out here on the fickle-as-shit Olympic Peninsula. The sessions worth remembering do happen. As they do everywhere. Maybe not as often. It’s probably acceptable to savor, or even recount the magic of the best sessions while waiting for the next one. I mean, not like bragging. It just seems like bragging.

Okay, maybe it is bragging, but, hey, you have stories I might not totally believe. Tell me those next time I run into you at Costco or Fast Taco or… wherever.

*Port Townsend Librarian Keith Darrock would love to get (now)Seattle-based surf historian/writer for the next OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA EVENT. Not the only reason he is mentioned here.

I’m working on my collection of songs and (I always kind of chuckle when I say this) poetry, and used some of my winter down time to do a potential cover. I should apologize here for posting “If It’s Over” twice. So… Sorry. If you stick with me, we’ll get to “I Guess I’m Lucky.”

I’m not (all that) political, but I do pay attention.

I would have done it in color, but that might make me seem… political.

I GUESS I’M LUCKY, because I never get the blues; Oh, yes, I’m quite lucky, because I never get the blues; Now I might get suspicious, and sometimes I’m anxious, too; I might even get desperate and tear up a thing or two; But I count myself lucky because I never get the blues.

Please don’t tell me your problems, and think that I can relate; I don’t harbor jealousy and I won’t subsidize hate; If you want to complain, you can just go to Helen Waite; Don’t be telling me gossip and acting as if it’s news, ‘Cause I can’t share your problems, and I want no part of your blues.

Dream of tomorrow, you sacrifice all your todays; You’re so busy workin’, you haven’t got time just to play; But you still have to crawl on your knees to pick up your pay; Though I’m selling my blood just to pay up my Union dues; I still count myself lucky because I never get the blues.

My old truck’s still running, my dog didn’t die; not in love with a woman who told me goodbye; And my Mama still talks of her baby with pride, and I can’t remember the last time I cried.

But then… I’m lucky, because I never get the blues; oh yes, I’m quite lucky, Because I never get the blues; Sure, sometimes I get angry, and sometimes I’m hurtin’ too; I might even get lonely, but not like most people do; Then again, I’m just lucky; yes, I count myself lucky; Hell yes, I’m quite lucky… because I… never get… the blues.

PHOTO voluntarily REMOVED.

All original work on realsusrfers.net, unless otherwise attributed, is covered by copyright protections, all rights reserved by the author/artist, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

YOU WON’T get lucky without trying. Find some surf, get on it! MORE stuff on Sunday, and yes, I’m, like, 170 pages out of 214 or so on my latest rewrite of “Swamis,” suddenly concerned that I did not, perhaps, put in enough description of the characters. You know, like, “Roger and Gary were both blonde, both assumed a stance that said, ‘casual,’ both with expressions that said, ‘cool.’ For the most part they maintained the image.” I have been, so far, realizing it’s almost a requirement for a novel, resisted describing the breasts of the women in the novel. So far.

Occasional Run-Ins With Interesting Folks

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, learning to surf, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, Seattle surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, surf novels

WHOA! This came out kind of bigger than I would have thought. It’s COLE (if I ever heard a last name I forgot it), showing me his pupils aren’t dilated. I’ve seen Cole out on the Strait for years. This is the way it goes in a region that never should have waves, rarely does have waves, and, when there are waves, the dribblers are most likely scalloped or shredded by the fickle winds before they die, unceremoniously, on the jagged rocks.

I almost never search for waves without running into some interesting people I’ve hung out with in the past. Sometimes I meet new folks. It does take me several encounters before I remember most folks. “We’ve spoken before. Erwin.” “Oh. Okay; which one are you again?” Still, most people are friendly ON THE BEACH.

A MEMORABLE QUOTE from Cole from a few years back is,”I haven’t surfed in so long that my gills are dry.” Painful.

LIB TECH FOUNDER MIKE OLSON and Lib-rarian KEITH DARROCK. No doubt frustrated by the lack of surfable waves, Mike has become an ‘adult learner’ on foil boards. The key, he explained, is to do two sessions a day for, if I remember correctly (I was busy trying to take a photo with my phone while being amazed at how tall Mike is [I think I can call him Mike because we sort of bonded after i {allegedly} hit him with my board], while, simultaneously wondering why he’s doing this hand gesture rather than a friendlier shaka), 45 days. So, like 70 sessions and one is a full on foiler.

I didn’t take a photo of Mike attempting to ride his foil in some side-not-offshore wind. I kind of thought the design might be a secret. I would guess that Mike is probably about… No, I don’t want to judge. BUT, perhaps you’re looking forward to getting a genuine LIB TECH foil to add to your quiver.

If you’re considering getting a motorized foil and also considering yourself a real surfer, please reconsider.

Mike Olson from a few years ago, possibly on the day when my board may or may not have done damage to his shoulder, enjoying an overhead (Strait scale) wave while some cheating bastard on a Standup (no, it’s not me- way too thin) considers paddling to Canada. Mike talks at cattle auctioneer speed and always seems to be having a good time.

Coincidentally, on an outing in which Keith took a chance on taking me with him (and yes, the head gasket issue on my VOLVO is almost-maybe fixed), the only other non-kook surfer (counting Keith and me, though I fell over way more times than usual) in the chopped up water with the weak and wobbly waves was a guy who identified himself as PETE. He was riding a ten foot-ish HANSEN 50-50 LONG BOARD, so, of course, I had to ask him where he got it, not failing to mention that I was a SURFBOARDS HAWAII zealot, and that Hansen seems more interested in selling clothes than boards. Pete did, indeed, purchase the board in Encinitas for, like, $400.

IT TURNS OUT that Pete is PETE SAARI, credited as being a co-founder of LIB TECH. Pete must have passed Mike on the highway. Keith, who has surfed with Mike on some sketchier rock breaks, said we’d just surfed with LIB TECH NUMBER ONE. Mike said, “No; I’m still number one,” and explained a bit more of his company’s evolution than I was aware of. But, as part of my relentless and bothersome need to research, I googled and now see that, SHIT, Lib Tech is way bigger than I realized. So, if Mike Olson knows my name… it doesn’t hurt my feelings. Or ego.

Pete, when I asked, said he lives in Seattle but has a house in Agnew. “Oh, you know, the coolest hoodie one can have, other than a HAMA HAMA OYSTER hoodie or an ORIGINAL ERWIN, is one from the AGNEW GROCERY STORE.” “Yeah, I live near it.” Pete recognized Keith and asked me if I was also from Port Townsend, “No, Quilcene.” “Oh, I hear it’s a very hip place to live.” “Yeah. I’ve lived there since 1978, when I was 27, and the hipness is all about these young wanna be farmers, and…” “Okay, I’ll give you credit.”

ALL dialogue is paraphrased but accurate in content.

“SWAMIS” UPDATE- Keith and I also ran into STU (I should have taken a picture). He works part time at the NXNW SURF SHOP in Port Angeles. Stu’s wife has relatives in the San Diego North County area and has surfed some of the local spots. He said they thought of moving down there, but it’s so expensive. “And so crowded.” “Are you ever going to finish ‘Swamis’?” “Yeah.”

I sent out submissions/queries to agents about six week ago. The one I really wanted to represent me, and the reason I’ve been checking my hotmail, like, obsessively, Hillary Jacobson, with CAA, one of the biggies, just passed on my novel. She did, however, wish me the “best of luck finding an agent.” So, yeah, devastated. BUT, if you happen to know Hillary, please tell her it’s a big miss to pass on “Swamis.” Oh, and thanks.

So, yeah, still going. MEANWHILE, putting out some of my songs/poems. Here’s another:

IF IT’S OVER, then it’s over, guess we’re through, there’s no reason I should go on loving you, but you know it’s just exactly what I’ll do… If it’s over, then it’s over, guess we’re through, but I just can’t seem to let go of these blues.

Yes, I treated you unkindly, as you say, but I loved you, love you blindly, still today; it’s a love I’ll likely take right to my grave… If it’s. over, then it’s over, guess we’re through, but I just can’t seem to let go of these blues.

Like the clouds the winds have scattered, my love’s broken but not gone; like the coast the waves have battered, I’ve no choice but to hold on; like a river at the ocean, I’ll give in eventually, but I’ll hold on, long as I can, to the memory.

I can find the broken pieces of my heart; I can build myself a new one from the parts; need a new life, and it’s time for me to start… If it’s over, then it’s over, guess we’re through; but I just can’t seem to let go, gotta find a way to let go; I JUST CAN’T SEEM TO LET GO OF THESE BLUES.

Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net. Get some waves when you can.

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

Dylan Hits Swamis, George Gets Free, Blues Mid-Week and… That’s Pretty Much It

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, real surfers, surf adventures, surf novels, surf sessions, Uncategorized

Trisha’s Brother’s son, *DYLAN SCOTT (and I’m claiming co-Nephew rights), out of focus after sampling a little THIRD POINT MALIBU. That’s not the story. After moving to ENCINITAS in August, Dylan had surfed BONEYARDS, other spots around the NORTH COUNTY, he had not surfed SWAMIS.

UNTIL YESTERDAY. I got this text: “Finally surfed Swamis this morning. It’s even better than it looks. I’m hooked.” Well, thanks for blowing up the spot some call ‘Swarmies,’ some call ‘The swamp;’ now all kinds of interlopers will show up hoping to score. I mean, SCORE!

BUT WAIT, tell me more, Dylan. “I have to thank (or curse) you for giving me a reason to paddle over there. I was sitting at Boneyards, catching nothing, thinking ‘My Uncle is writing a book about the spot, and it’s right there…'” So, yay!

“Yay? Another surfer in the lineup.” Yeah; guess so. SORRY to offend. “Another surfer who claims Swamis as his home break.” Yeah. 62,007 people lived in Encinitas, 2020 census. Divide that by… I don’t know, 3.14159… break down the surfers in the lineup into real surfers, sort of surfers, adult learners, tourists, interlopers… and, oh my! It is probably crowded right now! AND a certain number of the surfers will be named Dylan.
Dylan sent a video of him surfing the inside section. “What? Do you have your own Filmer?” “No. It’s from SURFLINE Rewind.” OKAY; so if you want to see Dylan surfing, assuming you have the package necessary, go to ‘January 6, Swamis.’ Maybe it’ll work. I’m hoping my nephew will email the footage so I can see it on a big enough screen. NOTE- Definitely not accusing SURFLINE of blowing up any spots with cameras shooting multiple angles, or, as I have done, forecasting awesome waves that send hordes but fail to deliver awesome surf; small, crappy, AND crowded.

IN A SORT OF CONNECTED story; several of my Northwest surfer friends have made sojourns down to North County, with tales of surfing spots I surfed before moving to the Great Northwest, my response always being, “That’s my spot.” “Oh, I thought _____ was your spot, or _____, or_______, or ________.” “Yes, and when I worked in Oceanside, my spots were _____, and _____, and whatever peak showed up. When I lived in P.B., my spots were ______, and _______, and _______. When I lived in Encinitas, I was working up the hill from Trestles, I rarely surfed Swamis. When we moved back to San Diego, proper, I cruised up to Swamis.”

ADAM WIPEOUT,, universal LOCAL, sent me some reports from a trip he took down there. Adam claims to have surfed decent Rincon and gotten waves, decent Malibu and gotten waves (combination of patience, charm, referencing some vague rules of etiquette, and begging, I’ve decided). Adam says he paddled to the OUTSIDE PEAK, ingratiated himself with the crew de jour, and got some rides. Not, he pointed out, in the ‘KIDDY POOL.’ “What?” Now I was offended. “You mean the INSIDE PEAK?”

Okay. Another discussion, another time, BUT if you paddle out at Swamis, be sure and ask someone who looks secure of his or her position in the pecking order, “Do you know Dylan?” See how that goes. Get back to me.

*Parents- Jim Scott, Greer Knopf-Scott, brother- Carson (equally cool despite not surfing).

Trisha’s and my longtime Friend, George Takamoto (doesn’t surf) at his last lunch after more than forty days spent at Saint Michael’s Hospital in Silverdale. Though George refers to it as ‘Saint Mike’s,’ he was pretty stoked to leave and move to a non-hospital in Poulsbo. George has been undergoing dialysis for two years, and has had some setbacks. It was pretty sketchy for a while, but he seems to be rallying.

IN OTHER medical news, my daughter (yes, Trisha’s and mine) Drucilla is going to St. Michael’s on Friday for more cancer-related surgery. Fuck Cancer! I’ll update on Sunday.

Because I’m trying to put together an anthology of my writing, I’m posting some samples while looking through my files for other examples of songs and poems and essays and short stories.

HOME BY MIDNIGHT, that’s all I ask, this job is over, I’ve done my task, Right now I’m driving, man, I’m dragging ass, home by midnight, that’s all I ask.

Home by midnight, perhaps before, I don’t know what I work this hard for; Do I want something, no, something more; home by midnight, perhaps before.

Home by midnight, the road’s so long, I pray for wisdom, and to be strong; What keeps me going’s a highway song; home by midnight, the road’s so long.

Other people’s castles, that’s where I spend my time; but when it comes to coffee break, I don’t even have a dime; when payday finally gets here, but the money’s all been spent, I have to get a side job just to try to pay the rent.

Home by midnight, and I can’t win, tomorrow get up, do this again; my wheel’s aren’t spinning, no, they just spin; home by midnight,, and I can’t win.

Home by midnight, perhaps before, now, I keep working, but I stay poor; just want to see you at our front door, home by midnight, home by midnight, home by midnight, I’ve got my foot pressed down, it’s right against the floor, home by midnight, perhaps… before.

AS ALWAYS, thanks for checking out realsurfers. Find some waves.

All original works on realsurfers are protected by copyright, all rights reserved.

The Very Delayed Eddie Swell, New Illustrations

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, hipster surfers, northwest surfing, old surfers, perfect waves, real surfers, Seattle surfers, surf adventures, surf art, surf fiction, surf novels, surf satire, surf stories, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing illustrations, surfing in Washington State, surfing novels, surfing Swamis, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

“Dark Cutback”- Pen and Ink, “Come In”- Pencil, pen and ink

                  Meanwhile, on a Strait Far Away…

It was the day before Christmas and all along the Strait, Surfers were sick of the Eddie Swell wait,

And the planning and loading in the dark of the night, All frothed-up and hoping you’d hit it just right,

Get through holiday traffic and ferry lines long, Just to find out the forecasters got it all wrong,

No six to eight-foot faces, with stiff offshore winds, But side chop and flatness, too many surf friends,

All those kooks who got wetsuits and leashes as gifts, And promised pure awesomeness, maybe, when the tide shifts,

Or the currents reset, or the stars realign, Which they haven’t done yet, so you’ll have to resign Yourself to some chilling with the parking lot crew, Having artisan breakfasts and customized brew,

With the burnouts and geezers who still dream of the past, With retired accountants who’ve heard surfing’s a blast, With newbies who ruled in the surf camp’s real water lessons, Who count the wave pool rides as real surfing sessions,

With the hodads and show dads and their sons and their daughters, Influencers and surf tourists who don’t get in the waters,

Cell phones at the ready, all waiting for action, They’ll be hooting and filming, with a deep satisfaction,

Witness to butt-hurt back-paddlers, shoulder-hoppers, and snakers, Heroes and villains, GoPro-ers and fakers, Buzzed-out dudes blowing takeoffs, laughing, pearling and falling, Occasional barrels and turns worth recalling.

They’ll soon be Youtubing a post of their Christmas surf strike, So hit the “subscribe” button, comment, and like,

And save it, repost it, it is something to share, When you watch it again, it’s as if you were there.

Yes, I hope you got waves, I did, too, and in the best Christmas spirit, If you have a great story, I would so love to hear it,

The next time we’re together, facing a skunking, so tragic, You can tell me the tale of your holiday magic.

“You should have been there, Dude; you would have loved it.” “You could have called me.” “You should have known. Are you angry?” “No. It’s just surfing, man; almost all of the magic is… well, you know.”

Color versions, and I slipped in a couple of photos from an ultra fickle spot where rideable waves are mostly imagined. Yes, that’s pretty much every spot on the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

I HAVE HEARD a couple of stories of the usual situations that occur with too many surfers and not enough waves; confrontations that went way farther than they should have. They are not my stories, and, although I LOVE to hear them, AND retell them, if they’re good enough, you will hear them eventually. Maybe from me, but not here. What I will say is, “That wave is gone.”

NEXT.

This is as true when the story is of epic, magical, all-time, best-ever stories. Your joyful stories, perfect moments in an imperfect world; the ones that make you smile; those are the ones to to savor; those are the images to save, to replay.

The illustrations are protected by copyright, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

OH, AND I am, of course, still polishing my novel, “Swamis,” and I’m working on a piece for SUNDAY on the LAWS OF ETIQUETTE. Look for it. In the meanwhile, there are a lot of YouTube videos of super crowds at Swamis and elsewhere. Yeah, crowds.

Reggie Flies To, From, and In Hawaii, and Thanks to Some Good Americans and Dru Saves Me… Again

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, real surfers, surf adventures, surf trips

If you follow REGGIE SMART on social, you have probably already seen this shot of him jumping off Black Rock on Maui. He texted it to me before headng back to the cold reality of the Pacific Northwest. I asked him what it takes to make this leap. “Ya drink rum first… then jump off four more times.” Oh, yeah, rum.

KARMA is… not something to be messed with.

Yes, I am aware that, between revolutions, the KARMIC WHEEL makes a few stops. So, MAYBE I shouldn’t have given the two-handed salute in this photo op; MAYBE I shouldn’t have told TRISH how much I love my ‘super fun car.’

MAYBE found me out on the Coyle Peninsula, cruising home and kind of checking the beautiful almost winter sunset over the Olympics, creamsicle orange streaks over the snow covered crags. AND THEN I couldn’t help but notice the sudden burst of steam, first out the rearview, then out of the engine compartment.

Yeah. Fuck! One of the few old rigs I’ve owned (and killed) that didn’t leak oil, didn’t use water, and the temperature gage is pegged. Fuck! Lacking any nearby driveways on this one way in, one way out winding road to the end of another Peninsula, I pull over in a clearcut rather than in the woods, swearing and praying at pretty much the same time. Or alternating, more like it.

I do know the consequences and the odds. Blown head gasket, blown engine, something not worth the price of repairing, another dead rig on a long, sad list of dead rigs.

And, of course, still twelve miles from home, I have no reserve gallon of water. Now, MAYBE VOLVO engineers are a bit ahead of me. Although I turned the ignition off, a fan, somewhere, kept running for a while. I had a 33.8 bottle of Kirkland alkaline water, two bottles of a sport drink, and the remains of my thermos of coffee. Liquids are only put into the engine’s overflow tank rather than the radiator on this vehicle, so, after a bit of cool down time, darkness dropping like an additional treat (or punishment, or just, like, night does).

I check. The water isn’t going to the ground from some obvious leak. The car starts, seems to be running okay. I shut it off and call Trish. She doesn’t answer.

THEN, surprisingly, like a GOOD SAMARITAN, kind of, an SUV pulls over, and, after some discussion, a woman hands me a bottle of water. THEN, more surprisingly, one of those oversized trucks I complain about when they pass me, pulls over on the other side of the road. It’s, guessing, a man and his son. They give me one gallon of water that fills the tank, and another as ‘just in case’ back up.

I AM in the middle of thanking them when Trish, finding one of few places with cell reception, calls and starts reminding me of my bragging and my record with cars and… “I have to go. I think, maybe it’ll be all right.” “Maybe?”

NO, I didn’t make it home; at least not without three more stops. One on the Dabob Road, halfway in the ditch; use up the just in cast water, keep going, Trish calling in areas where the call goes through but neither of can hear the other. Multiple calls. I get to the Center Road. Trish is sending our daughter with three gallons of water. “It’ll be a while.”

I decide to find out if it’s a hose. There are, seemingly, miles of hoses coming from the radiator. I find one that is, indeed, unattached. I’m on top of the engine, in the darkness, trying to find the place where the hose connects when DRU drives up. YES! It might be this thing that might be some sort of thermostat, hose in, hose out. NO! The place where is would and did attach to the plastic dealie is broken off.

TRISH calls to tell me that, between praying (possibly some cursing), she checked the internet and, if all the steam came out in a burst, it’s probably a blown hose. “Thanks.”

One more fill up on SURF ROUTE 101, about a hundred yards from my driveway and… HOME! THIS, incidentally, is at least the fifth time my daughter has had to go out in the dark to save me from some breakdown or dead battery or whatever. She’s keeping track and said, “This is why I moved back from Chicago.”

THE PLAN is for me, after an unsuccessful internet search for a part for a thirty year old car, to get the part out of the car, take it to a parts place, and have them figure it out.

NO, IT’S NOT A surf story, per se, but I was kind of hoping that today, with the readings, as usual, iffy, that maybe. MAYBE.

KARMA. Yes, I’m considering it. Bring water.

Thanks for reading.. See you, hopefully not on the side of the road. Surf and “Swamis” stuff coming on Wednesday.

Memorable Surf Sessions, When and Why

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, old surfers, perfect waves, real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf culture, surf novels

The most recent full moon on the Salish Sea. Perfect evening for a paddle.

                                    Sessions Worthy of Remembrance

There are several things that can make a surf session memorable, memorable enough to last years: That time you surfed an often crowded spot alone; that special ride on an otherwise not-special day; that trip with a friend (or potential lover) or friends that you remember more for the friendship (or the movement from potential) than the time in the water; that time where the waves were solidly pumping and you were ripping at the very peak of your ability… and, and, and- yeah, those times.

Think of a spot you’ve surfed, once or many times. Or think of a friend you surf or have surfed with. Think of the music that was playing in the car or in your head. Think of fog, or sideshore winds, or dawn patrols, or skunkings, or the road to here or there, or where you ate on the way home from somewhere you did or didn’t find waves. Think of anything that leads you back to a magical adventure, or ride, or session.

Okay, why was one session, or one ride during the session memorable?

I can’t speak to the adrenalin and dopamine and endorphins, and whatever our bodies and minds create when we anticipate what could be, some fantasy session; and remember or imagine when you find that dream setup, and then you’re in it. If it takes some time, hours, even days, to come down from the high, it takes years before you are unable to bring the memory out of your vault.

You’ve felt it, clueless kook to wherever you are on your journey; the rare-but-there moments are what surfers live for, why surfers ride crappy waves and call it ‘practice.’ The waves are working, you got into the lineup, jockeyed or waited for position, you’re on the wave, committed, driving… and you’ll make the wave… or you won’t.

If you’re not surfing for the thrill of it, the magic of it, please, just take up another hobby.

A memorable session:

Mostly I remember being cold, getting out of the water at Grandview with the sun already down, silver lines on a silver platter. This session was memorable enough that it became part of the reason I started writing, “Inside Break,” the precursor to “Swamis.” It was a different take on my early surfing life, one not much different than any surfer who started before he or she could drive; riding with your parents or someone else’s, then begging older surfers to take you along.

Phillip Harper and I, possibly sophomores, got to go, after school in Fallbrook, with Bucky Davis and Phil’s sister, Trish (not my Trish- different Trish). Backseat. She was driving, headed to modeling school in Encinitas. They were, to me, the perfect surfer couple. Not that she surfed. Maybe she did later, years after that romance ended. Maybe. I tend to push things toward the romantic.

To me, having learned at Tamarack, with some trips to ruin real surfers waves at Pipes and Swamis, Grandview was a surf spot I knew about. I also knew I was not going to be welcomed by the locals and the older inlanders for whom it was their chosen North County spot. Phil, who had surfed there, told me.

Nevertheless, we were there and I was going to show Bucky… something. The waves were “Not good enough,” he said, “Not yet.” This was just before he pushed me into the washout that was the way down to the beach, long filled-in, replaced by a house and fence.

Before it glassed off (alternate title for ‘Inside Break,’ ‘Afternoon Glassoff’), Phil and I went out, only ones in the lineup. Bucky paddled out. We surfed. It got dark. I was bragging about my nose rides. “No,” Bucky said, but only later, Trish now driving, heater maxed out, “you… he, he kind of slides up to the nose. If you want to be a real surfer, you have to go foot over foot.”

“Yeah,” Phil said, “Foot over foot.” Real surfer. Yeah.

Hama Hama News- Adam “Wipeout” James got into a a group text sort of bemoaning that he had done a lot of driving, hadn’t scored great waves, BUT, good news, his son Emmet (Adam spelled it with one ‘t’, so I will also do so) got (may have said ‘bagged’) his first buck.

Congratulations! Adam has another son, Calvin. One is nicknamed ‘Boomer.’ I believe it’s Calvin. NOW, hunting and fishing and all that is kind of a deal down here on the Hood Canal section of SURF ROUTE 101; up there with first Bigfoot and/or UFO sightings; so I had to respond. I said I got it with a ’59 Chevy, but it was probably with a Toyota. Crushed front quarter panel. Dead dear. My older son, James, got his buck with a Buick; big ass Buick Trish pushed him to buy because it seemed safe. Deer over the windshield, James… safe.

CHIMACUM TIMACUM NEWS- For the second time ever, the last being ten years ago, Tim and I were in the water at the same time. I don’t think either of us burned the other. Next time…

“Swamis” NEWS- In looking for an agent, I wrote a query letter, sent it to several people whose judgment I trust to check out. THEN, panicked it wasn’t good enough, I started editing the hell out of it. THEN KEITH, after I told him to wait for a better version, said he liked it. SINCE I am not that stoked on the rewrites… yes, he can send it back, and then… I am not changing the first ten pages, and will post another chapter or sub-chapter on WEDNESDAY..

I’M NOT POLITICAL STUFF- I’m considering getting an alias. BUSTER WALLS came to mind because I wanted something that suggests but can’t seem to remember that term for the subversive, covert kind of sarcastic attack that I have often been accused of.

ANYWAY, I hope you find some waves, and if you don’t, hope you have a great time looking. Don’t steal my stuff. Thanks for reading.