Category Archives: surf adventures

Gingerbread in the “SWAMIS” Parking Lot, Old Man Corner, Rainbows on a Day that wasn’t a 5

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf satire, surf sessions, surfing novels, surfing Swamis, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

CONCRETE PETE, A 68-year-old GUY who was really pissed off, Legendary TIM NOLAN, photo by another guy in what IAN described as the OLD GUY CORNER. The rest of available parking area was pretty much filled. THE ONLY REASON I am showing a spot that might be recognizable is that SURFLINE, evidently, said it was going to be, on this day, eight feet. There were, at this time, eight people in the water, and eight inch waves, and not many of those. The pissed off guy did go out, came in more pisssssed. I apologize for not getting his name.

HANGING OUT is kind of fun, but my motto is “I’m here to surf.” And I was. So, to use another word I’m using lately, I spent some time ‘Stwaiting.” When the parking lot emptied out and there was only one surfer in the water, and squalls were coming through more consistently than waves, I went out, ready to face another near-skunking.

Yeah. EPIC! Now, perhaps it cleaned up and the waves showed up. Or not. MORAL- DON’T BELIEVE THE FORECASTS. Also, don’t always believe the POSTCASTS. “It was all time, man, chest to shoulder on the sets, rides all the way to the fence (or the woods, or the rock face, or the wherever).”

I COULD GET INTO how the discussion at the old man corner devolved, with input from someone way under 70, into priority and backpaddling and who deserves an asterisk next to their name. It’s a constant issue, not resolved, might never be. Still, if you’re the only one out…

                        CHAPTER EIGHT- WEDNESDAY, MARCH 19, 1969

Some people come to the bluff at Swamis just for the sunsets. Carpenters and insurance salesmen mix in with the surfers, just out of the water, who have to have one more look.

On this afternoon, the water appearing, deceptively, enticingly, both soft and warm, the waves appearing gently, though too small to do more than wash onto the rock shelves, I was sitting on Falcon’s tailgate, middle row, writing in a notebook. “It’s a picnic and the ocean is the meal.” I scribbled over that and wrote, “After school, after work surfers. Medium crowd. No hassles. Sunset watchers took over the bluff. One lady, business outfit, thanked LA smog for nice orange sunset.”

It was through this crowd of sunset watchers that Portia Langworthy walked, right to left, from the Jesus Saves bus at the far west end of the parking lot to the new brick bathroom and shower facility on the 101 side of the stairs. With something bulky under her left arm, right arm and hand out, palm down, as if floating. Dancing.

Portia was wearing a long blouse, set off with a cloth sash, wide, purple. Violet. Her skirt stopped just above her ankles. Her feet were bare and tan. The blouse and skirt were in dark and almost competitive prints, Gypsy/Peasant/Hippie look. Her hair was long, straight, almost black, accentuated with a band around her head that almost matched the sash. No jewelry, just a smaller version of the cross Chulo wore, hers carved from a conveniently shaped piece of driftwood, hanging on hemp twine.

Pretty at a distance, I couldn’t describe Portia closeup. Inexplicable. When she spoke with others, close to them, she seemed to have an intimidating intensity that said she cared about them, but also understood them. Understood enough that she couldn’t be lied to. Frightening. I didn’t believe it was just me who couldn’t look into her eyes. Not straight on.

In the very middle of the pack of sunset watchers, Portia stepped between the sun and a man straddling a bicycle undersized for him. Gingerbread Fred. Portia blocked his view of that moment just before the sun exploded and spread at the horizon. It took another moment before she hugged him. I could see her face over his right shoulder. Dark, shadowed. She looked at me for a moment.

Losing focus on everything else, I knew her eyes were a blue that didn’t match anything else about her. Maybe the sash.

I saw her, there, and I saw an overlapping image of her from another time. Mid-day, I was taking a break, just around Swamis Point at Boneyards. Lying on the largest, flattest of the big, soft edged rocks, I was close to being asleep. Portia’s shadow blocked the sun. She asked, “Do you know Jesus?”

I didn’t open my eyes. “Whose version?”

“Yours,” she said, without any hesitation. She dropped a pamphlet on my chest and moved back, allowing the sun to hit me full on. I blocked the sun with a hand and opened my eyes. The pamphlet was hand drawn, hand lettered, eight-and-a-half by eleven, folded, with some vague message about some vague but wonderful Jesus. I sat up.

That was when I saw her eyes.

Portia backed rather than looked away, as if we had both seen some truth of who we really were. She turned into the glare, danced up to two young women in street clothes, handed them pamphlets, and danced into the shallows. One, and then both young women danced. Not for very long.

The Portia on the bluff let Gingerbread Fred’s hand slip away as she stepped away. I would save this image: Hands stretched between them, nothing but light behind them.

I had heard stories about Gingerbread Fred. Almost myths. Tijuana Sloughs, breaks outside of Windansea; Fred was on a list of names of surfers from the pre-Gidget past. Legends: Simmons, Blake, Holder, Edwards, Richards; stories enhanced, gilded with each retelling.

This was the current version: Fred was damaged, burned out, not fully there. Korea was the rumor. Or Vietnam. Or both. Yet, he was here, the bluff at Swamis Point, as he was, seemingly, religiously, for the sunset.  

Legends are one thing, parking is another. Someone pulled a car out of a space two spots over from the optimum location. Not taking the time to retrieve my notebooks and binders from the tailgate, I got in, and backed out and over, narrowly beating another car as I eased into the spot. Exciting. A little victory.

I was aware that something had blown off the tailgate. I opened the door carefully to avoid hitting the car to my left, got out, and walked to the middle of the traffic lane. A man was holding the North County Free Press, eight pages, stapled in the middle, open and up to his face.

There was an ad for a farm cooperative on the back page, a photo of me on the front. Me, behind the plate glass window. “Local Detective Dies in Mysterious Car Accident.” The heading for the lead story, right side, balanced by the photo, was “Joseph J. DeFreines, Heroic by Nature.” The by-line was “Lee Anne Ransom.”

I imagined what the man was looking at: The coverage and the photos from the funeral. In the featured photo, top right, page five, my mother was looking down, holding the folded American flag, with Freddy, on one side, crying, me on the other side, looking at my mother and not crying. Or he could have been looking at the photo of the crowd, San Diego County Sheriff O’Conner and a group of detectives and deputies, all in uniform, Detective Wendall holding the department’s show horse, a magnificent Palomino, the saddle empty. Wendall looked honestly broken. Or the man could have been reading the testimonials. Or he could have been reading the article on the bottom right, “Is Marijuana Now the County’s Top Cash Crop?” Also written by Lee Anne Ransom.   

Or he might have been using the paper as cover to look at me.

The man lowered the paper, held it out, still open, with both hands. He was of East Indian descent, I guessed. I had seen him before, different setting, different clothes. He was, on this afternoon, wearing workman’s clothing; heavy, blue-gray pants with worn and wet knees, lace up boots with the toe areas scuffed, a long sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had a faded red bandana half hanging from his left front pocket. His hair and beard were black, both reaching just below his collar.

“I can get another… copy,” he said. “They are, of course… free.”

“No. I have… another copy.” I shook my head. “Free. The free thing.”

“Then, thank you so much.” The man folded the paper, folded it again, tucked it under his arm, did a slight forward tip of his head. “I do some… gardening.” He moved his left hand behind him, pointing toward the wall to the Self Realization compound.  “Outside, mostly.” I returned the head tip. “Volunteer.” English accent with East Indian rhythm. Perhaps.

“Oh,” I said, looking along the white stucco wall and suddenly remembering where I had seen him, “You’re a… member?”

He smiled, one of those half face smiles. Right side in this case. “Loosely… connected. Less so all the time. I saw you once. Inside.” He nodded toward the far-left portion of white wall of the Self Realization Fellowship compound. “The meditation garden. Do you remember?”

I tried not to visualize. It didn’t work. I closed my eyes, opened them again. I could still see the gardener, along with another version. Same man, dressed in a robe. He was standing next to an older man, with even longer hair and beard, gray, and dressed in a robe made from a silkier, more colorful fabric. That man was possibly an actual Swami, or Yogi, possibly even the Swami. They were smiling. At me. Appreciative smiles. I jumped up from the bench and ran down the manicured paths with hand-set stones, perfectly cared-for plants, flowers year-round.

“I… ran.”

“You did. Yes, you do remember.”

“I was… studying. Not… anything else, Swami.”

“Perfectly fine. Meditation is… one’s own time. And… not a Swami.”

“Sorry. Not a Swami.”

“If Swami means ‘seeker of truth,’ perhaps, we…many of us are, perhaps, Swamis.” ”

I followed the man’s eyes back to the bluff. Portia was returning from the bathrooms with a different bundle under her arms, with different clothing, a very different look. Braided strands from the front of her hair were wrapped around to hold the rest in place. There was, perhaps, a ribbon. She was wearing a loose top, long, with long sleeves, a subtly patterned or even one-color Pendleton, with bellbottom pants and sandals.

Portia was walking behind the sunset watchers. “Conservative,” I said, pretty much to myself, but expecting some comment from the volunteer gardener. No. He was gone. He was crossing the lawn by the white stucco compound wall; and was halfway to Highway 101 when the Hayes Flowers van entered the lot.

…

I was in front of the Falcon. The people had formed a sort of wall at the bluff, watching the burnt orange in the wispy cirrus clouds at the horizon fade. I was watching Portia. She was watching the yellow van go down the far row. She stepped onto the pavement, and stopped on the passenger side of my car. The van stopped at the squared off end of the asphalt, next to the Jesus Saves bus. 

I opened the driver’s side door. I stood there too long, watching Portia. She was not moving closer to the bus and the van. Waiting. She glanced toward me. I am certain she smiled. Because I had to say something, I said, “I got a good… spot.”

“Good,” she said. “Great sunset.”

“Yes.” I glanced toward it, then back toward Portia. Her face was shadowed, but this Portia, in regular clothes, seemed younger.

“Oh,” she said, “It’s… you. How… are you?” I couldn’t think of a response both quick and clever. I gave her a weak smile/nod combination. “Chulo… and me… I, we… have to go to Balboa, the, uh, Naval hospital. His friend… Juni. That’s what Chulo calls him.” She laughed. “It sounds more like ‘hu’ni’ when he says it. Juni. Chulo says you know him… from before.”

Before.

Portia walked to the front of the Falcon, setting her bundle on the hood. I shut the door and moved toward the front of the car, across from her. “Jumper. Jumper Hayes. He’s… there? Balboa?” She nodded. “He allright?”

“He’s alive. He was just flown here… there. From Hawaii.”

There were voices coming from the space between the Jesus Saves bus and the Hayes Flowers van. Portia, keeping her eyes on me, moved closer. Several of the sunset watchers beyond her looked toward that end of the lot each time the two men’s voices were raised, short bursts back and forth, not quite distinguishable words.

I didn’t look. Portia didn’t look. She said, “I have never met him. Jumper.” Portia’s eyes were, with her usual dark eye makeup gone, a softer blue than I had remembered. Or imagined. Her black hair was, at the roots, lighter. “We’re going… with Mr. and Mrs. Hayes… their car. Good citizen car. It’ll get us through the gate.”

“The yellow Cadillac. Yeah. That’ll work. And… Gustavo’s a vet… veteran.”

Portia put her right hand on my left arm. “We didn’t say nothing… about… you.” I looked at her hand until she removed it “Langdon… he wasn’t there because of that.”

“No?”

“No. Never even went to… look. And anyway…”

“I wanted to… It was…” I was trying not to get lost, trying not to cry. I slid my hand across the hood, toward but not quite touching Portia’s. “Thank you.”

Portia had to say something or walk away. The muffled back and forth at the Jesus Saves bus continued. “Your father…” I kept my eyes on her. “Good man. Chulo and me…” She touched my left hand, slid her right hand on top of it, both of our hands resting on the top edge of the door. “He… introduced me and Chulo. ‘Troublemakers,’ he called us. Got me a job with…” She laughed. “You’re there now. Mrs. Tony’s.” I must have looked surprised. “Then I got on with Mrs. Hayes. Consuela. Arrangements, mostly. Shop work.”

Portia paused to make sure I was listening or that I understood. “The religious thing. That was Chulo. Converted and all. Work camp.” She had a ‘taste’s bad’ expression, just for a moment. “Jail. East County. You probably knew about that.”

“In Fallbrook it was known as, ‘The Great Avocado Robbery.’”  

Portia laughed. I reevaluated her age again. She was barely over that line I’d set between me and adulthood. “They do love their avocados,” she said, with a surprising amount of enthusiasm.

“They do. Chulo and Jumper and some mysterious guy from… somewhere. A buyer. Supposedly. Never caught him. I got that from the papers. Never… my father didn’t tell… ‘war stories.’” I laughed. “Of course, he did; just… not to me.”

Portia. I was trying to think of a word for the look she was giving me. Earnest. Sincere. “Chulo says he did his best. The Deputy… Bancroft… Well, sorry God, but… fuck him.”

It was my turn to speak. I didn’t. I was visualizing Deputy Bancroft from the few times I had seen him at the Vista Substation. Once was before he had crippled Chulo, all smiles and backslapping his fellow deputies. A second image was of him looking worried and angry, trying to get the others to support him. Some took his side. My father did not.

“Butchy Bancroft,” I said. “Yeah. He’s, uh, he’s changing tires. Escondido.”

Portia shrugged. She may have smiled. “I see… your father, in you. He… sorry for saying this again… He was a good man.” I had to look at her. Sincere. “You are your father’s son.”

The light had become grainy, the smog-enhanced colors at the horizon had gone gray. The few lights around the parking lot, just coming on, had to compete with the advance of night. The sunset show was over. Most of the watchers moved away from the bluff and, at various speeds, toward their vehicles. A few stayed on as if, perhaps, they were waiting for closing credits.

Not yet.

“Really?” It was loud. There was a softer, muffled response, followed immediately by, “Fuck you and Jumper then… Chulo!” Loud and clear. Both Portia and I looked over. The Hayes Flowers van blocked the view, but occasional columns of cigarette smoke raising up beyond the two popout surfboards revealed where Chulo and the man doing the yelling were standing. “Last run.” The other man’s voice was lower but clearer. “There and back. Simple.”

A skinny man wearing a cowboy hat, straw rather than cloth, went up the stairs of the Jesus Saves bus, closed the doors, started the engine, revving it quite unnecessarily.

“Asshole,” Portia said. She looked up and whispered, “Sorry. Again.”

Asshole was honking the Jesus Save bus’s horn, flashing the headlights. The running lights and the inside lights in the driver’s area were flashing. The bus’s engine was racing. I looked over as it passed. Asshole, wearing sunglasses, a bandana around his neck, looked straight ahead, rode the clutch, then popped it.

Chulo limped around the front of the van, and got in. “Different clothes,” I said. The engine was still running. He pulled the van forward and started down the bluff side lane. Counterclockwise. The van stopped, passenger door even with me.

Chulo nodded. I nodded. “Get any… good ones?” he asked through the open window, both of us aware of the sound of gears grinding between second and third as the Jesus Saves bus headed north on 101.

“A couple,” I said, to Chulo, as Portia walked past me, “Before the tide got too high.” She opened the van’s passenger door, set her bundle of clothes on the bench seat, held the door open, and looked at me as if she expected me to say more to her or Chulo. “Different clothes,” I said, more to Portia than Chulo. “I mean,” I said, looking directly at Chulo, “this is not the, um, John the Baptist look.”

“Yeah! Most people get it wrong,” Chulo said. “Jesus, way classier dresser.”

“Oh. Sure. Jesus. Whole cloth. Yeah.” I stepped away.

“You know the gospel.”

“Partially by choice.”

“Holy Spirit, man,” Chulo said, moving his fingers like a piano player. “Mysterious.” Portia closed the door. Chulo looked at her before he looked past her and at me. “I told them, Jody; Wendall, the State Patrolman, everyone… Plymouth. Gray Plymouth. Old guy, I said; probably didn’t even realize… what happened. And besides, your dad had already…”

“What about Langdon?”

“I can handle… Langdon. God… God love him.”

“He means ‘fuck Langdon,’” Portia said. “Another asshole.”

Portia looked at Chulo and then at me. I looked away and then up. There was something about the popout surfboards the van. Different boards, not the same ones I’d seen at my father’s wake. I took a step back to check out the skegs. Quickly, aware Portia and Chulo were watching me, aware someone was approaching from my left.

“Asshole,” I said. “God love him.”

             “No shortage of assholes.” Someone was beside me. Gingerbread Fred. Threadbare sweater over a once white t shirt; maximum fade on his Levis, sewn-on patches of different fabric at the knees; no shoes; long, once-red hair, grayed-out and as stringy as his beard; glasses patched and listing to the left; Gingerbread Fred was looking up. He was looking beyond the popout surfboards, beyond the palm fronds and the pine branches. I had to follow his eyes.

A gauze of cloud had caught the last of the day’s sunlight, impossibly mixing pink and blue in a colorless sky. Gingerbread Fred moved close to the van’s still open passenger side door. “Boy gets it,” he said.

Portia, in a voice as gauzy as the clouds, said, “Fred’s here for the show.”

“Fred Thompson, the legend,” Chulo said. “Fred. Me and Portia; we have to get going. Juni… Jumper, he’s… They got… overrun. His platoon. He’s… wounded. He’s in Balboa.”

“Oh,” Fred Thompson said, “so Petey was right. That cocksucker DeFreines did get Jumper to fuckin’ join up. Semper Fi, motherfuckers.”

Neither Chulo nor Portia looked at me. Chulo looked at Portia. She shook her head. Chulo said, “Juni’s choice. Jumper. He wanted it kept… secret.”

Fred laughed. Not a crazy man’s laugh. “Yeah. Well, Petey and me… and secrets. No. At least he… Jumper… had a choice.”

“Mister Thompson, I heard you were out and you…went back in.” I realized, even as I was saying the words, that I had said too much. “Sorry.”

“Mistake. Crashed twice, shot down once.” Fred Thompson seemed to drift away for a moment. I had to look, had to see what that looked like. He came back with a snap. “Sometimes, like, the right wave can make the wipeout and the swim in… just part of the price. Worth it.” He looked at me. I nodded. He shook his head. “Sometimes… not.”

 “Bad knee or not, Fred; I still wouldn’t have chosen the Marines.”

“I’m no Catholic, Chulo, but…” Fred made the sign of the cross, then threw his right hand out, fingers spread. “Hope our friend’s… better. And, catholic-wise, I do like the gesture.”

“It is a… good one.” Chulo shook his head, only slightly, did a version of the sign of the cross between the steering wheel and his chest, and revved the engine. “He’s coming back.”

“Jesus?”

“Yeah, Fred,” Chulo said, laughing. “Him too.”

Portia kissed the palm sides of the fingers on her right hand before folding them into a fist. She tapped her fist on the middle of her chest, three times, opened her hand, placed it over her heart. After five or six seconds, she wrapped her fingers around Fred Thompson’s right hand for another five or six seconds.

…

As the van pulled away, Fred held out his right hand. He looked at it, refocusing on me, as if, perhaps, he was supposed to know who I was; as if we had, perhaps, spoken before. “We come back. We just don’t come back the same.”

I copied Fred’s smile.  

“You one of their… Chulo’s and Portia’s… followers?” He pointed roughly toward the highway. I shook my head. His hand staying in pretty much the same place, he turned the rest of his body toward the remains of the sunset. “You staying for the encore… kid?”

I wanted to ask Fred Thompson about Tijuana Sloughs, about Windansea and Simmons’s Reef and San Onofre before foam boards, about Malibu and surfing before ‘Gidget,’ about Korea and Vietnam, helicopters before they were gunships. I wanted to ask why he went back in the Army after Korea.

I didn’t. I followed him through the now-empty space next to the Falcon and to the bluff. His bicycle was on the ground, too close to the edge. When Gingerbread Fred looked up at the sky, I looked up. “It’s darkness, for sure, but it’s not… night. We’re in the… shadow.”

Fred Thompson, facing the horizon, extended his left arm and hand forward, level, cocking his hand back at the wrist. He extended his right, creating an almost ninety-degree angle. “Perpendicular,” he said, holding that position for a second before throwing both arms back until they were straight out at his sides. “Parallel.”

He clasped his hands behind his back. I had to step back as he spun around, one, then another revolution. “You’ll get it,” he said, regaining his balance. “You know why?” I shook my head. “Because you… are… looking.” He turned to what was left of the sunset colors.

“Shadow,” I said.

“Ha! Yes. Shadow.” Gingerbread Fred came close enough to me that I could smell his breath. Milk, perhaps, soured. I tried not to react. “You probably heard. I’m… crazy.”

“There’s… a lot of that going around, Mister Thompson.”

“Yes!” He stooped down a bit, still too close to me. “You get it.” I nodded. “This one night, clear, like now. Now, I was raised on the Bible. Not a Catholic. Not a heathen, neither.” He laughed and raised his right hand straight up. “An explosion. There was a… rainbow. So high up… the zenith… that high. The sun was still on it. ‘Every eye shall see him,’ the Book says. People here, in this very parking lot… they were panicked.” He lowered his right arm, stretched out his fingers, brought his arm back until his hand was between us. He, then I looked at his palm. He lowered his hands just enough to look at me. “None of us are ready for… that Jesus.”

“I saw it! Here! I was… here, Mr. Thompson! Swamis!”

“Whoa-aaaa-ooooo!” Fred Thompson’s zoomed to the highest octave he was capable of, and dropped, rapidly. He closed his eyes and looked up. His voice was gravelly when he tapped me, three times, on the chest, and asked, “Can you still… see it?”

“In my mind; yes, sir, I can.”

I could remember, perfectly, what I saw from the back of Gary’s real dad’s Ranchero in the Swamis parking lot. My back was against the cab, three towels wrapped around me, ballast for three longboards, stacked, longer to shorter, and extended out the back. Gary, Roger, and Roger’s second girlfriend were in the cab. The girlfriend was in the middle. I was the only one to see the bright glow, expanding, somewhere between the clear sky and space, the zenith; high enough the sun was still on it. Rainbows.

I had thought about that Jesus, having judged the wicked and the righteous, returning in glory, as advertised. I was sixteen. I wasn’t ready.

When I was dropped off, I peered into the cab of the Ranchero and pointed to the spot in the high sky. I described what I had seen. Roger and Gary and the girlfriend got out and looked up. The glow was a ghost of what it had been. I got a ‘sure,’ an ‘okay,’ and a ‘sorry I missed it.” The girlfriend. She was nice. She didn’t believe me, either.

I opened my eyes. Gingerbread Fred Thompson was six feet away. “I’m sure you know this,” I said. “Vandenburg Air Base. Rocket. Explosion.”

“Sure.” He turned toward the stairs. “I have chosen to believe it was a… a glimpse at what is… beyond, that it was a tear… in the shroud.”

“I’m… fine with that. But… we… you and I, we saw it.”

“We did. You and I… did.” Gingerbread Fred twisted the frames of his glasses, put a finger in his left ear, and yawned. He used the same finger to tap, three times, on his forehead, and said, “Keep it… here.” He clawed at his hair. He tapped his finger, three times, on his chest. “Here, too.” He pulled at his sweater. “I do hope you will excuse me. I am going to… quick dip. Therapeutic. And, kid, what I said about… your father. Yeah. Just checking. Good man, Joe was… for a Jarhead… and a cop.”

As he was dropping down the stairs and out of sight, I looked back up at the highest part of the sky. Zenith. Shadow. Stars, planets. Closing, and later, opening credits for the next show. “A tear in the shroud,” I said, out loud.     

MORE CONTENT ON SUNDAY. “Swamis” and all other original material is protected by copyright, all rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr. THANKS, get some waves when you can.

TRIPPING in Seattle on the Last Friday before Halloween and… Poetry 101 (as in Surf Route)

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, hipster surfers, northwest surfing, real surfers, Seattle surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels

I hadn’t really planned on going to Seattle. I had forgotten that I had an appointment in Silverdale to check out the progress on my left eye (looking good after the last surgery, should get the oil out in, like, January), and since I was over that way anyway, and TRISH mentioned that DRU, who had just gotten disturbing-but-(of course)not 100% verified) news about her ongoing disputes with cancer, was going to go over to meet WENDY, someone our daughter met in her first year at LOYOLA UNIVERSITY in Chicago, there with her husband, JON, and I said, “Oh, maybe I could go…also,” this turning, instantly, into a commitment.

Jon, Wendy, and Dru. lost tourists in the background bemoaning that “The place where they throw the fish is closed, pre-8 O’clock.” “Yeah,” I said, to Jon and Wendy, not to the tourists, “It still smells… fishy.”

BECAUSE I wasn’t planning on going to Seattle, I was wearing Crocks. “Not a problem,” Trish, who wasn’t going said, “You’ll walk on, and then you’ll get an UBER.” The ferry terminal at COLEMAN DOCK and the roads in the vicinity have been in a constant state of destruction/construction before and since September of 1978, my first trip to the northwest. Every time I go through there it’s different. The current structure was, no doubt, designed after the oversized structures Hitler’s favorite architect designed. AND walking on from Bainbridge is, like, lengthy. AND you can’t just go out in front and jump in a cab. Actually you can, but we were going to Uber, and Dru has an app, so we walked, like, two piers north (Spring Street if you’re savvy) before we could figure out where a car could pull in, what with the long, plant-filled structure blocking the outside lane of southbound Aurora. Meeting up with Jon and Wendy, the plan was to walk down to Pike Place Market. “It’s only two blocks,” Jon said. No. two blocks over, two blocks down. In crocks.

I AM SUDDENLY REALIZING, as I’m one-drafting this, that I should either do a serious version or just get to the highlights. Or both. Lots of walking. Lots of people. Groups of: Tourists; Buffalo Bills fans; Halloween celebrants in costume (including a staggering drunk catwoman, a woman in a physics-defying top taking photos with others in, you know, other, less memorable costumes); an angry dudes talking to himselve; very very happy dude kind of twerking and singing.

It’s not that I PEOPLE WATCH, but… yeah; can’t help it. ON the way back, crush of people headed home, one way or the other, I noticed a guy (because he reminded me of a friend) with a man bun, a kilt, and oversized glasses. There he was, Dru and I limping along the boat to land walkway.

“I’m ready to go back to ______ (unnamed spot on the Strait that requires extensive walking/climbing).”

I’m not. I’m sore. OH, one last thing: When Dru and I were almost to the parking lot, her van in spot #7, thankfully, I reacted to a smell I identified with, “Smells like skunk,” before I realized the smell, at once sweet and somehow a bit harsh, was… something else. Just laughing was enough for Dru. “You know,” she had said, “Bainbridge Island votes 100% democratic.” “100%?” “Well, almost.”

Three Poems basically revealing that I am so happy I don’t have to live in Seattle:

                  Limerick  Seattle surfers at ferry docks wait, You just want to check out the Strait, At its best it’s quite iffy, You can’t get there in a jiffy, You’ll arrive… just a little too late.

(or early; couple of hours, couple of days, couple of weeks)

                  Haiku Just missed the ferry, I may as well drive around, Settle for Westport.

                  Ode Oh, if I was a Seattle surfer, I’d feel so alive, Maybe I’d live in Fremont, Somewhere west of the I-5.

I’d have a built-out sprinter van, No V-dub or Subaru, Three boards in board bags on the rack Like other city surfers do.

And I’d study all the forecasts, Surfline premium’s a must, And every five-star rated day, It’s on the road or bust.

I’d be out there on the highways, In the darkness before dawn, Or I’d be waiting in the ferry line, Hoping, praying I get on.

Or perhaps I’d drive to Seaside, Maybe Short Sands or Westport, Hoping all Tacoma and Portland folks  Adopted wing-foiling as their sport.

There is one code that I live by, A truth yet to be debunked, Don’t ever head out to the Strait Unless you’re willing to get SKUNKED.

Apology/explanation I understand how frustrating it is to be hours away from the possibility of waves worth surfing. During Covid, quite a few surfers moved over to the Olympic Peninsula, particularly those who could work anywhere they could get a signal. It didn’t take too long for many of them to realize how frustrating it is to live here. AND, there are so many easy amusements in the big city.

All original material protected by copyright. All rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr. Another chapter of “SWAMIS” will be posted on Wednesday. PUBLISHERS- I have a publisher showing some interest in my novel. They have questions as to my potential audience, my goals. I am working on a response, but , MEANWHILE, if you are or know a writer’s agent, or if you have connections with an actual, non-vanity press, let me know. Leave a message at my home/office (360)765-3212.

NON-POLITICALLY SPEAKING, Please write down all the reasons you would vote for Citizen Thrump (moral character, intelligence, empathy/narcissism level, religious-ness, allegiance to our country and our rule of law, whatever other bullshit you can think of), CONSIDER that you actual reasons for even considering voting for one of the more despicable human beings ever might have more to do with your own grievances that an honest appraisal of a serial lowlife, and, you know, don’t vote for the asshole.

‘STWAITING.’ Sometimes Getting Skunked is Preferable

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, hipster surfers, learning to surf, northwest surfing, old surfers, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, Seattle surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, surf novels, surf satire, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

‘STWAITING” (add a lisp to get the word right), the fine art of waiting around on the STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA for the swell to rotate, or the tide to drop, or rise, or the waves to just get a little bit bigger, a bit more consistent; and then, finally, going out just as the 13th squall blows it all out AND, catching four waves total, you are forced into doing The paddle of shame.

STILL, THERE’S ALWAYS A STORY- But first…

Trisha’s brother’s son, our nephew, DYLAN SCOTT. I sent him an ORIGINAL ERWIN shirt for his birthday and as a house warming present. He sent me a video from SURFLINE REWIND of him at one of his local ENCINITAS spots, D Street. Since I have the non-premium WordPress package, I can’t display it here, but in the clip Dylan tucks into an offshore-enhanced and throaty barrel, doggy-dooring it at the last possible moment, and doing what appears to be, on my phone, a non-claim claim. I did send the video on to the surfers on my stealth phone.

I TOLD this guy that, although it was early, he would, no doubt, be the fashion crusher of the day. It turned out he had a flat tire up the road, and, although he had a jack and a spare, he was waiting for triple A to come from civilization. I guessed he didn’t want to get grease on his poncho.

THE NEXT wanna surf person I saw (should have taken a picture) was suited up and ready to go out. “Really?” “They said it’s supposed to be good,” he said. “Who? Who said?”

TONY AND FIONA are from Vancouver, B.C. where you can get a wavestorm in different, Canada-only colors. Vancouver is kind of like Seattle in that it costs money and takes ferries to get to surf. Evidently it’s cheaper, or as cheap to go to, like, Westport, than it is to go to Tofino. They were camped at LaPush, but left because ‘they’ forecast, like, 16 foot (like, 5 meter) waves, so they left. Quite irritated that my own forecast was proving, possibly, wrong, I gave Tony and Fiona grief, as in, “SO, are you just going to get in everyone’s way when the waves start pumping? How long have you been surfing? Did you go to surf school?” Yes, I sort of apologized, promised to put them on my site with tens of followers in Canada AND throughout the free and unfree world. SO, promise kept. AND, since the waves were so shitty, I have to believe they had a great American time.

THE FADED RAINBOW seems to frame what could be a six foot set at a great distance. It isn’t. It’s a six inch set fairly close. AM I BLOWING UP THE SPOT? My argument is that, if you head out, frothed out by the forecast, expecting epic conditions… well, don’t. As much as I don’t trust forecasts, I think post-casts saying what was rather than what could be, are also dangerous. Since I’m going on years of experience, anecdotal evidence at best, and somewhat relying on actual buoy reports (which are trickier than you might think), and I get skunked… well, there are always waves in WESTPORT.

QUIRKY SCOTT, who does not like his nickname, even when I told him it really means ‘eccentric’, dominated on this day. I am actually a little shocked at how model-like he looks in this photo. NOW, when I say dominated, I mean he caught more tiny waves than any of the other beginning or desperate surfers. I’m in the second category, hopefully.

AT SOME POINT in my paddling for waves that disappeared or disappointed, a woman was staring at me. Wasn’t sure why. It turns out JOSIE (another no photo) heard me talking to Scott, and asked him if I’m that guy who posts stuff on the internet. He said, paraphrasing, “Erwin. Yeah. Tell him you recognize him; it’ll do something for his giant ego.” This wasn’t the first time I’ve been identified, the reaction usually negative. “I like the way you use words,” she said. “Uh, yeah; I know it seems like it’s all stream of consciousness, but, really, I work at, and, yeah, thanks.”

I also, to round out a day of stwaiting, talked to SEAN GOMEZ, Port Angeles teacher and ripper, who got some epic waves recently (I missed it- have friends who didn’t), and to Reggie, who missed out on reportedly epic coast waves in order to make a bunch of money (familiar story for me, newer for Reggie), and saw, on my way home, many more surfers headed to where I had been. “Good luck. They say it’s supposed to be good.”

MAYBE, and this is always the story, it got good after I left.

A photo of a moonset over the unseen Olympics from my front yard. A moment later the full moon was covered by clouds from the latest atmospheric river, a moment later, the moon was back. And then…

NON-POLITICAL STORY: As a decent American, I recycle. I devote what could be a tool shed to saving cardboard and plastic and paper. Enough so that I took half a van load to the QUILCENE transfer station. I’m putting the stuff in the proper bins when this dude comes up to me, looks in my big boy van and says, “Wow, you actually work out of this.” “Yes.” He has spoken to me before, the gist being he’s a painter, ready to work. He actually talks way faster than I do, and had a lot to say about wages and drunk and/or cheap contractors and stoned painters who don’t know shit. “Uh huh,uh huh.”

Somewhere in there he asks me how to register to vote locally. “I, um, got my ballot yesterday. I voted. I… don’t know. You could go to the courthouse, maybe.” “No, man; I don’t want that vote by mail shit. I’m an American. I want to vote in person.” “Well, I think… actually, if you’re voting for Trump, maybe you…” “Damn right I’m voting for Trump.” I tried to dissuade him, but his argument that ‘Kamala isn’t really black’ seemed to be stronger than my ‘Trump is a fucking crook who fucked over every contractor who worked for him’ counter.

He did the violin-playing gesture, usually with ‘cry me a river’ lyrics. I slammed the door to the van, but he, no doubt feeling tough and manly, jumped into his sub compact and drove off. On leaving, I saw MISTER BAKER, former Quilcene Science teacher over by the ‘paper’ bin. “I’m glad to see you survived that encounter,” he said. “Me, too. Yeah. I don’t usually talk politics, but…” “Seems like the last time I saw you, at the Post Office, you were in a heated political… discussion.” “Oh yeah. Mr. Hodgson; he was going on about how he was ‘woke.’ I had to tell him when people like him use ‘woke’ it’s always sarcastically, and if one isn’t smart enough to know being aware of the inequities in society is not a bad thing, one shouldn’t attempt sarcasm. Yeah, and now he’s on the school board and talking about banning books.”

ANYWAY, I didn’t argue with Mr Baker. I do, however, believe he knows where I stand based on the one time I was invited to a cheese and wine (cheese and crackers for me) thingie. And that was before citizen Trump de-evolved into whatever he is now.

IF YOU SEE ME, remind me to take your picture. ANOTHER sub-chapter of “SWAMIS” will be posted on Wednesday, along with whatever fun stuff happens in between. Tensions are only going to get worse between now and election day. Stay cool, surf ’em if you find ’em.

The Big Event, Babies, and CoinciDENCES

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, oregon surfing, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, surf adventures, surf culture events, surf trips

It’s the big Sunday edition. FIRST, a reminder that the FOURTH OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT is coming up on Wednesday, July 17, 6-8pm, Port Townsend Public Library. Special guests, art, and an emphasis on ‘TALKING STORY.’

BABIES- Ripper Mikel ‘Squintz’ Cumiskey, seemingly ping-ponging between Florida, the Pacific Northwest, and the Big Island (currently), and his wife, Kelsey (sp), had a second child. Since Mike sent texts to every surfer on his contact lists, it seems it might be worth spreading the word farther. It might have been, you know, nice if he had included more info, but… yeah, congratulations!

                        CoinciDENCES

My sister, Suellen, masterminded a reunion of her brothers and sisters in Long Beach, Washington, near Chinook, the last place our father lived, and meant to coincide with what would have been ERWIN ALLEN DENCE, SENIOR’S one hundredth birthday. He had every intent to make it to this landmark, but, having survived World War II, Korea, eight children and three wives, he did not. Our sister, Melissa, passed on several years ago, and the thought is this might be the last chance the rest of us have to see each other.

If it had all worked out perfectly. It did not. I had a short window of availability and missed seeing my brothers Jonathan and Philip. I did see Suellen, Mary Jane, and our youngest brother, Edwin (who assures me that, no, Erwin and Edwin are not variations of the same name… as in, ‘I’m Darrell, this is my brother, Daryl, and my other brother, Derrell.’)

Edwin lives most of the year in the “Chinook House,” and has done extensive remodeling on the place a block from Surf Route 101 (on which I live 290 plus miles away by the “Loop,” much, much closer via McCleary Cutoff), a block from the Columbia River. Chinook is the closest town on the Washington side to the Astoria Bridge. I made some (not enough) trips down when our father was alive, almost always heading over to Seaside (or Short Sands) for a few waves. 

It is nice to have a place to stay down that way. There was a tradition of Peninsula surfers heading down when a northwest swell just isn’t happening, and, of course, ever friendly, ever sharing Seaside locals heading up to the Strait of Juan de Fuca when there is some rumor of, you know, waves. The friendliness, stay-at-a-friend’s-house factor may have deteriorated somewhat over the years.

I did, of course, as is my tradition, trek over to Seaside while down there.  I had some notion that I might find a used SUP to back up my dinged-to-shit Hobie. Enough so that I didn’t bring it. I did check out the Cove and the Point. Northwest wind, weak swell, no one in the water two days before the fourth of July. Disappointing. Similar conditions on the Strait would probably have enticed surfers to attempt surfing.

Neither shop in Seaside had SUPs designed for surfing. “We have some of the… flat water kind. It’s just not that popular here.” Nor do they, possibly, wish it to be.

Because I had taken off so early and had plans to meet my siblings at the Pig N’ Pancake in Astoria, I hung around the shops a bit longer than I ordinarily would, eventually purchasing a t shirt from each; one for grandson, Tristen, and one for his son, Zander, due to come down on the Fourth with my daughter, Dru, our ex-daughter-in-law, Karrie, Tristen, his wife Aisha (sp?), and their daughter (complicated- Trish keeps track for me), and take over the room Suellen had set up for me at the RESORT (time share).

WHEN I go into a surf shop, I have always, and evidently still do feel like a KOOK. I did admit that to the three salespeople behind the counter, adding that if one works at a surf shop, one is, one, automatically cool, and two, automatically assumed to be a great surfer. They all nodded.

I had already talked to the guy in that group, 26 years old and self-identified as a Seaside resident. He said he is all right with the tourists and, of course, if the Point is pumping, he can, by status or skill level, join the local rippers hanging out in a private lot partway up, allowing locals the position to encourage interlopers to not take photos and to surf the Cove. Or go home. “Nothing too serious.”

“Of course not,” I said, recounting how I was yelled at for paddling past a local (for a look, only- I swear). “If you think the locals are… serious… here, it’s nothing like the localism on the Strait.”

To those of you who are… serious; you’re welcome.

With time, still, to kill, I went to the Costco in Warrington to pick up a watermelon for Suellen, some ground coffee (because I’m too cheap or stubborn to buy from a stand), and a Costco-sized container of Churros/donut holes, the intention being to turn them over to Dru and the crew from Idaho (yeah, Idaho- our son, James, went to college there, and stayed). I didn’t. I finished the last churro yesterday.

ANYWAY, the parking lot at the Costco is huge, and I could not remember where I parked the Volvo, exactly, so I headed out for the farthest reaches. No Volve, but I did start chatting with another self-identified lifelong local, a woman probably in her late fifties, of course, trying to separate myself from the Costco-sized tourists, mentioning that my had father lived in Chinook.

“We all surf here,” she said. “Probably started about eighth grade.”

“Oh, that’s about when I started board surfing.”

It isn’t so remarkable that I ran into someone in a legitimate surf town who surfed or surfs (and I’m always ready to make some surfing connection with anyone I meet). What is worthy of note is that, if she was behind the counter, or a customer, at a surf shop, I would totally believe she, one, surfs, and two, surfs well. I’m always disappointed in myself when I miss an opportunity to take a picture. It, of course, last longer. I did get a couple of shots at the Astoria Pig N’ Pancake.

LEFT TO RIGHT: A possibly exasperated or exhausted (it was between breakfast and lunch crowds) waitperson; me; Suellen’s grandson, Yurick (sp?); my brother, ED; brother-in-law, Stan; sisters Mary Jane (Janie) and Suellen. I’m sort of questioning whether to use this photo. In real life, Edwin is way bigger than me, and what’s the deal with my serious expression? I should add that Suellen did surf and, in fact, got me involved in board surfing, BUT, if any of us showed up in a surf shop…

DRU AND THE CREW did make it back from the coast late last night. I have to process all the adventures. All of them love the coast. Well. Yeah. 

T SHIRTS: I will definitely have more on the upcoming EVENT later in the week. I will have some ORIGINAL ERWIN T-shirts available. AGAIN, More, later.

No Big Dave, No…

Posted on by under aggressive surfers, hipster surfers, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, surf stories

WORD ON THE STRAIT has it that BIG DAVE RING is giving up surfing. This would be a loss to whatever surfing community we believe we have.

All right, I immediately have to backtrack. I do divulge my sources; almost always. Adam Wipeout ran into Dave at Carl’s Building Supply. Or Henery’s Hardware- not important. Big Dave quitting surfing is. Important.

Big Dave is a secretive sort of person. I’m not. I’m not actually sure his last name is Ring. I may have heard his last name once, but not from him. I asked him for his phone number. Once. He said he’d give me one number each time I asked. “So, let me guess; three?”

Dave doesn’t talk much in the lineup. I do. He doesn’t often hang out on the beach, swapping stories. He is patient in the water, and is actually known for staying out for more hours than anyone. He picks out the best waves, sideslips in full control, and rather than barrel dodging sections, he drives through them. I have never seen him not in the best part of a wave, power in the pocket.

The only reason we sort of became friends (I say yes, you can ask him) is that we have some shared history. When I moved to Pacific Beach, San Diego, California in 1971, I was twenty. Dave was five or six years younger, a self-described “Pier Rat” hanging at Crystal Pier with Joe Roper and the rest of the local Gremmies. I can’t say I have a mental picture of fifteen year old Dave, but knew Joe Roper’s name because he was the best surfer in the bunch, and the most vicious. I can’t mention Joe Roper without retelling how he purposefully slammed his board into a guy in the shorebreak because (and I asked) the guy was from Clairemont. Perhaps it is not ironic that Joe’s repair facility is in… is it in Clairemont?

It wasn’t like I was in any group myself, but I was, for those couple of years, a local, for whatever that was or is worth. Still, I probably felt more connected to the pier rats than the other surfers who jockeyed for position in the crowded weekend and after work conditions. This was where I developed my Ghetto Mentality, a sort of excuse I have yet to totally disavow.

Big Dave, a few years ago, taking a rare break

Another connection I have with Dave is that we are sometimes mistaken for each other. It’s the mustache, perhaps. “People have said they really liked that thing I wrote on my blog,” Dave told me. “I just say ‘thanks.'” An argument continues as to which one of us is the Walrus, and which the Beast.

I have run into Big Dave over the years. He rescued my board in the rip once. If I paddled out and he was in the lineup he would say, “Oh, someone left the gate open.” Part way through a session, he would say, “The wave counters on the beach say you’ve caught enough.” I recently ran into him when he was with the Jefferson County road crew, setting up to close off another road. He said he’d gone to the doctor with a diagnosis of arthritis in his legs. “The doctor said it would mean a change in my… lifestyle.” “He meant… surfing?” “Maybe.” “No, man. No.”

There is some similarity in our arcs as we head past middle age. Dave has been riding a twelve foot SUP as a regular board for years. No paddle. It has been a while now that he, paddling back out, commented that I get to my feet like an old man. He was right. Still, over the past couple of years, he went from taking off, dropping in, and standing after the first section. Then, as with me, staying on his knees. He still rides a wave as well as anyone.

HERE IS WHERE surfers seem to decide to give it up: Surfing is a competitive activity, with inarguable amounts of ego unevenly divided among the worthy and everyone else. The crowd factor, a delight for the novice, so excited to be there, wears on others. It is tough to compete those on the safe side of the first section, paddling blindly, dropping in. I don’t get too many drop-in bitches (someone else’s term for male or female surfers- I only use it for dudes), but I have witnessed Big Dave, high and tight in the pocket, and someone just… drops… in.

I cannot help but remember when leashes came into use. I put off getting one, but couldn’t help but notice how the kids Dave was running with would take off in front of me, and when the wave got critical, they… just… bailed.

BIG DAVE… PLEASE, DON’T BAIL!

I might need someone to rescue my board from the rip again. OH, and I can’t imagine some almost out of control pre-dawn situation without seeing a big guy with a big board over his shoulder, coming down the trail and onto the beach, beating me out to the lineup. “Someone leave the gate open again?”

EVIDENTLY. As always, thanks for reading, and, if you can’t be nice, be real.

ADAM’S FAMILY big island VACATION

Posted on by under real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf stories, surf trips, surfing blogs, surfing stories, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

If you rely on the waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca to provide you with all the surfing satisfaction you can reasonably handle… well… There is a reason surfers who can go elsewhere do… go elsewhere. Of the loosely bundled group that might or might not be considered the Jefferson County CREW (as differentiated from if not opposed to the Clallam County or, heavens, the crews from King or Thurston or any other county) one is in New Zealand, another in Mexico, and two local rippers are planning a brief escape to, perhaps, Panama.

So, ADAM JAMES, who does actually live in Mason County, but, by virtue of his wide travels pushing HAMA HAMA OYSTERS to the known world, and who seems to be welcomed everywhere he goes, figured out a way to get to the BIG ISLAND, AND, AND, and to include his family: Andrea and their two sons, EMMETT and CALVIN (aka BOOMER), whose names I include because I keep having to ask Adam, AND because it is important to know more about our surf friends than whether or not they are goofy foot. Adam- no; regular foot but known to use a parallel stance on occasion.

OKAY, and I know it’s annoying, here is, after some further babbling, the photo array:

YOU DON’T get the full ADAM WIPOUT storytelling advantage here. I did. It was great. Next time Adam is backpaddling you, ask him about shooting the boar, or who this guy is, or pretty much anything. IT does look like this board was pretty far along before this Big Island breakage. I don’t believe this surfer was identified by name.

That’s Mikel “SQUINTZ” Cumiskey in the second shot. He seems to move, frequently, from Florida to Port Townsend to the Big Island. Mike and Adam met up, hit some of the spots. YES, Adam dropped names (Pine Trees, Banyons, secret spots with names I already forgot), had to include that the locals welcomed him graciously, AND that, by luck, he discovered a spot by the hotel they were staying at.

NOW, I have done some work for the Hama Hama Oyster Company, so I should include that the one photo is of Nate, the hatchery manager for JAMESTOWN SEAFOOD. The hatchery is owned by the Jamestown/s’klallam tribe. Nate is holding a few thousand 2-3 mm Kumamoto Oyster seed. They are sent from the hatchery to East Sequim Bay to grow to 12mm, at which point they are shipped to farms such as the Hama Hama tideflats on the Hood Canal. Nate is based out of Kona and, with his wife, Melissa, took Adam and Emmett out on their boat.

THERE WERE other photos, more waves, but I should also mention the boar was shot, by Adam. The way Adam told me, “So, Brian tells me, ‘the boar’s gonna charge you, but he’ll stop short. When he does, you have to shoot him right between the eyes. One shot. These guys eat twenty-two bullets like candy.’ It did… stop. I shot. Boom.”

BRIAN works for HAWAIIAN SHELLFISH on the Hilo side. Hama Hama also buys seed from them.

If I got any of this wrong, sorry.

MEANWHILE, look for waves when you can, and, if you find them, surf them. I am totally planning on restoring my HOBIE, which I did purchase from Adam Wipeout, like six or seven years ago, and, no Adam, I did pay it off.

Here’s something I got as a comment from someone who identified as FRANK LEE DARLING: “Those Cristians (sic) who can’t seem to not follow the sunburned turd should realize there not part of the flock, they’re part of the mob. Hope you get what I’m saying, Dude.” Not political, Frank, not sure if you’re talking about ALEX KNOST. No need to write back to explain.

IF YOU’RE CRUISING up or down SURF ROUTE 101, you might as well check out HAMA HAMA OYSTERS. If you have access to the internet, might as well check realsurfers.net on Sundays and Wednesdays. Not, like, dawn patrol.

“It’s Always a Full Moon, Drucilla”

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf stories, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

It’s almost a joke between my daughter, DRUCILLA (Dru), and me, that, any time there’s a moon on a movie or advertisement, it is always a full moon.

THE MOON, of course, isn’t a joke. There’s the tides affected by its gravitational pull; important to a surfer, and there is the LUNACY (Moonacy in English, perhaps) caused by the LUNA BELLA, the beautiful moon. And werewolves, of course.

There are ancient PAGAN RITUALS playing homage to the sphere, and, of course non-pagan references such as God giving us “The moon and stars to rule by night…” King James Version, Psalm 136:9.

SPEAKING of pagan-stuff, someone taught TRISH a most-certainly (or not) pagan ritual in which one holds out an open purse or wallet to the full moon and chants (maybe it’s just ‘says’ if it isn’t, like, repeated), “Oh moon, moon, beautiful moon… fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up.”

Now, the use of “filling ‘er up” kind of suggests a bit of loosening or democratization or cheapening of some sort of rule- doesn’t bother me one bit.

The followup, with the proper move probably being closing one’s wallet or purse, is to say, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Three times; kind of a chant.

THE THING WITH RITUALS of any sort is that, if you connect things that went right for you since the last full moon to the practice, it is almost frightening to miss an opportunity.

THIS PHOTO, the full moon rising over Mount Baker, is quite similar to what I witnessed late (like 4:20- no snide allusion intended) yesterday, though, season and location (I was probably farther out on the Strait, the moon was on the other shoulder of the mountain) were most likely different. And, before the moon got lost in the clouds, with an almost visible trail of light under it, the rising was spectacular.

THIS PHOTO, most likely taken from Kitsap County, has the moon setting over the Olympics. I live, probably, on the far right side of the image, between the dark line of the Coyle Peninsula and the ragged edge of the mountains, SURF ROUTE 101 and my place following the bluffs along the Hood Canal, and, heading north, along the beds of ancient fjords, around a couple of bays and… out, north and northwest.

On a recent surf attempt/trip, after witnessing the full moon rising in a clear cold sky the night before, I felt entirely privileged to see the moon in the high trees as I loaded up pre-dawn, and some sightings of the orb as I headed out. I lost it up by the Casino. Damn the luck!

IF YOU ARE A REAL SURFER, you have, I would tend to believe, a certain reverence for and appreciation of the beauty we witness: Sun, clouds, waves from glassy to blown out; but, if you’re a non-surfer, witnessing just how rattled and jazzed and stoked and electrified and excited a surfer can get about even the possibility of decent waves… well, yes, those surfers must be and are, indeed, LUNATICS.

IF YOU MISSED the opportunity last night, I think it’s acceptable to do the little chant tonight also. I have been known to take the full moon time period as it is in the Werewolf canon; three days. Yeah, it is kind of like hedging your bet. THANK YOU, thank you, thank you!

I may actually have some time to finish the manuscript for “Swamis.” I was hoping to have the many-ist edit done by Christmas (last Christmas, the one before that); so, maybe, by New Years. I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, good luck; I’ll be posting on SUNDAY. Oh, and “GO HAWKS!”

Not Panicking is Sooo Crucial

Posted on by under surf addiction, surf adventures, surfing stories, surfing tales, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

YEAH, I’m posting this just before I go to the next step in my attempt to bring full power back to my house. I replaced the burnt out shutoff switch, now I’m replacing the guts of the panel. This requires shutting off the main breaker down the driveway, and, once initiated, there’s no power until it’s all back together. SO… deep breath and…

I got this photo from Mike Squintz. He’s been dealing with a heavy work demand; too many hours. I’m pretty sure I told him I do whatever I can to avoid total meltdown. Or freeze-up. STILL, here I am putting off that walk down the driveway to the power pole. Another deep breath.

Here is something from my collection, “Mistaken For Angels:”

                           Close to the Ground

Not everyone knows how the heat gets trapped,                                                                   

Close to the ground; Held by the grasses, caught in the trees,

Boxed-up, stacked hard against the back door. Not everyone knows.

But we do. You do.

We know how the cold stringy reach of the ocean can’t reach us… quite.

We are leaned hard against the cliff, Cold and wet against warm, dry rocks,

Afternoon winds streaming up and over the pocket; God’s pocket.

We know. You and I. We know, and we fling a laugh between us,

Out and up, Smashing against the cliff’s highest outward edge, Pieces falling back down, Just enough to cover both of us.

Not the iconic image from the movie “From Here to Eternity,” but, when I couldn’t find a suitable Googled image under, “Couple making out at the bottom of a cliff by the beach,” I thought of this. Perhaps I placed it after (under) the poem because I want any reader to get their own image, perhaps from some memory. Any romantic-ness is a bit optional.

While I have memories of hanging at the cliff side after surfing from California, feeling the trapped warmth, I have another from the Pacific Northwest. Not romantic at all, though the feelings generated by an attraction to riding waves do get entangled with those of lust, love, passion. There’s some indisputable overlap. Not to be purposefully redundant, but with Trish and me, surfing has always been the other woman.

IF WE”RE past this, then, the story: I was surfing a break that required going across a river that I hadn’t surfed before. It was low tide, early spring, sunny, maybe fifty degrees, and I swore I saw a surfer walking back across the river mouth. I caught quite a few waves and was ready to go back across. The guy riding with me hadn’t caught as many and wanted to stay longer. Fine. I pulled down the top of the wetsuit and enjoyed the heat trapped in the berm. Then I tried to walk across the river.

YOU’RE RIGHT, rivers being rivers, there’s always a deep spot. Fifteen feet from the bank, my wetsuit starting to take in water. I thought about how my keys and cell phone were on the safe side of the river, how stupid I was, and, looking up into the sky, I saw a Coast Guard helicopter passing.

NO, I DIDN”T PANIC. It wouldn’t have helped.

THIS IS NOT MEANT to in any way overlap with my electrical adventure. I did a lot of research and I am actually being pretty cautious. Power off, move a bunch of wires, and… more caution. Then, power on.

I’ll let you know how it works out. WHOA! Yeah, I did just knock on wood. OH, I should add; we don’t know what stressors others have, so, while trying to control our stress levels, we might consider not being a stressor ourselves. Okay, considering.

UPDATE: More serious than I had hoped. It has to be something upstream, flow wise. The PUD will have to get involved. Not fully on panicked. Working on the ending to “Swamis.” If I could sell it… Considering. Check on Wednesday.

“Mistaken for Angels” is copyrighted material, all rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

The Blue Hole Above the Salish Sea

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, surf-related short storties

I FIRST HEARD about the hole in the clouds from an ex-military, ex-commercial pilot. It was a while ago and some of his details are a little lost in the clouds of time, but he flew enough over the Puget Sound/Salish Sea/Strait of Juan de Fuca area that he took note of how, in inclement/stormy/normal-for-here weather, there seems to be a hole in the clouds. Here is where I may be romanticizing the story a bit: His wife, evidently, on a recreational flight, pointed to the hole in the clouds and said, “I want to live there.”

AND SO… they bought a place on high bank overlooking Discovery Bay, with a view toward Protection Island and the waters beyond. The wife wasn’t around when I worked for the guy. I won’t go to far into making up some story as to why she wasn’t.

 I thought I had saved an image from the Doppler radar that showed the blue hole fairly clearly. Please accept this substitute image

   THE BLUE HOLE, SPECIFICALLY

            From above, the hole in the clouds over the Salish Sea has been observed often enough to be named. The blue hole. It is not, of course, clouds being clouds, constant in size or location, but it does consistently appear, somewhere around Protection Island. The blue hole can be seen from the curving road that skirts and rises above Discovery Bay. Look to the northeast. In the distance you just might see streams of light through a tear in the patchwork quilt.

            If you are in the water or on land, a ring of ominous clouds around you, open sky above, the blue hole name also makes sense. If you see it once, you will look for it again. If you believe the phenomenon to be magical, some real-world Shangri-la… sure.

It isn’t magic, it is magical.

            Rain shadows and rain forests, flood and drought, weather anywhere is confusing and complicated. Simplified, the earth seeks balance. The changes in the atmospheric pressure, the relative weight of the air above the earth, are paralleled with the changes in temperature between land masses, land and ocean masses calls for rebalancing. The constant rebalancing brings the movement of air. Wind. Mountains to oceans, cold to hot, warm to warmer, oceans to mountains. Bigger differences, stronger winds.

 Too complicated, too confusing, there are professionals to track the changes, to tell us what to expect in weather and wind, to explain the blue hole.

            Winds. We are all victims of and beneficiaries of winds; soft or harsh, breezes or gales. Winds can dry our clothes or tear them off the line, propel a boat, or, along with wind-driven waves, sink it. It seems illogical that winds from the north, the Fraser River Valley, particularly, can bring heat, even excessive heat, in the summer, and bitter, freezing cold in the winter.

They do.         

            The blue hole is caused by updrafts; a collision of winds split from a single source, a storm front approaching landfall from somewhere in the vast Pacific; from the Aleutian Islands, from the waters off Japan, even from the waters off New Zealand. Jet streams and rivers of ocean current add to the chaos.

The surface level winds, butting against the land, take the easier routes, the water, the corridors between the Olympic and Cascade Mountains. Sea level.

            Islands and bridges, points of land and bays and inlets formed by rain and ancient ice are mere obstructions. Waves from the wind batter them and wrap around them.

            The winds on the southern route go through the Chehalis Gap, into and up the Puget Sound. Whether the winds are southwest or southeast, the net direction is north. Hitting the obstructions of Whidbey and other Islands, the winds bend to the wider and more open area to the west. The Salish Sea. East winds, net direction West.

            The winds on the northern route wrap around Cape Flattery and push down the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Southwest becomes west. Again, even with winds blowing across or against the flow, the net direction is east.

            Collision. Updraft. The blue hole. Specifically. Still, it is… magical.

I wrote this piece for a still in the planning phase event or series of events in conjunction with the Port Townsend Library. I decided to post it here because it seems the “INSPIRED BY THE SALISH SEA” events or events might still be a ways off. Surfer/librarian Keith Darrock is the contact point with the Library. Since there is some time, and because I have worked with and keep working with people who have some interesting relationships with the local waters (not just surfers), I am trying to contact them and invite their participation.

My goals are a bit different than Keith’s. In addition to a live event or events, I am kind of pushing for some sort of hold-in-your-hands thing, a pamphlet, perhaps, with art and essays and poetry. It is totally unclear how the thing would be funded, but it would give some folks who don’t want to chat it up live and in person a chance to say… whatever. Several artist friends (and I) are working on Salish Sea appropriate art. If you have a short piece or art to contribute, Keith would be the guy to get a hold of. Google him, or, I guess, the PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY.

Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net. Please remember that I claim all rights to my writing and… not this time, but to my illustrations as well. “Swamis” update- Working on the final go-through before whatever the next step is. Shit, I better get on it. Or maybe I’ll…

OH, WAIT… here’s a thought based on several recent surf trips/adventures: You can choose to be disappointed. Or… not.

Another Negative Image

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, mind surfing, northwest surfing, perfect waves, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, surf adventures, surf art, surf illustrations, surf posters, surfing art, surfing in Washington State, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

FIRST, it’s not surf season along the Strait of Juan de Fuca. One must go coastal. Some friends of mine recently did; sharing an adventure that anyone who doesn’t live in the Pacific Northwest would consider the classic Pacific Northwest surf trip: Hiking with backpacks and surfboards, dropping down ropes (and climbing back up again) to possibly-never-surfed spots… exhausting.

OR, one could go to Westport, look for a parking spot, look for an empty wave.

OR, one could work. It is painting season, yes; but my wetsuit is dr-yyyy-yyy; and, yes, I’m thinking coastal.  Coastal.

MEANWHILE, I did complete a new drawing; meant to be reversed, black-for-white.  I don’t really know how this is going to work until I get to a print shop.  SO, last night, sort of hoping to run into the guy (Jay) at the Sequim Office Depot, who has a handle on such things, I, instead, ran into a person who asked another employee how to do the reversal. She wasn’t sure, either; and the first two attempts saw the image reversed but the black staying black.

“No, I kind of meant…”

ON the next attempt, what had been black was now red.  “Whoa! Didn’t know you could do that.”  “I guess we can.”

On the next attempt, we (with my input and the other Depot person’s advice) got it right.

“OH, but, um, can you do other colors?”  They looked it up.  “Red, yellow, magenta, blue, some other color.”  “One of each, please; full-sized; then a couple of eight and a half by elevens.  Please.”

NOW, suddenly, I’m a little irritated with myself that I didn’t get some smaller, as in scannable on my printer, versions of the ones in color.  Here’s the black-for-white version:

Scan_20190711 (2)

I did lose some detail here; I’m blaming my scanner.  Now, imagine everything that is black as red, or blue, or…  and now imagine you are, quite exhausted from the hiking, out of a beach with silvery-shiny-glassy-empty-near-perfect waves.  And now imagine… whatever you want.

No, not being stuck in traffic.