Category Archives: surf culture

Atmospheric Maelstrom, Erwin Loses His Voice Again, Visitors, ‘Patriot Parking,’ Mistaken for Angels Poem, and, uh… Stuff

Posted on by under northwest surfing, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surfing, surfing blogs, writings of Erwin Dence

On the computer, the clouds were swirling, down and around the Olympics, up the Hood Canal and Puget Sound. I’m pretty much at the left of the flash blowout, catching the curl of the my-golly-durn atmospheric river maelstrom. I’m fine. Not sure how this affects the surf at Westport.

NOT A POLITICAL THING, BUT I think it’s a bit ironic that this bad-ass lifted, four-wheel drive, manly to the Mad Max degree truck is parked in the handicapped spot. The messages reflect, perhaps, a sort of hard right mindset. So manly. One of the stickers says something about people who disrespect the flag. All fine, for sure; the flag is a symbol of our country. If this outsized, yelled-out ‘patriotism’ display is meant to elicit a response, mine might be, “Yeah, but those who disrespect the Constitution… huh?”

ALSO, and maybe it’s the camera angle, but “TACO” appears to be highlighted on the tailgate. Doesn’t that refer to some meme, like “Tump Always Chickens Out?” Maybe. I hope the owner can climb into the cab of the rig without too much discomfort.

MY DAUGHTER, DRU, and I met up at the Hama Hama Oyster Bar with my late sister, Melissa’s (hurts to say this) widow, Jerome Lynch, their son, Fergus, and his girlfriend, Kelsi. Jerome, who lives in his native Ireland, spends some time working in these here United States. Down south, mostly, where the name Lynch draws instant attention from the locals.

Adam “Wipeout” James was not there, off with his boys, and, I believe, Soupy Dan’s kids, getting skunked catfish hunting somewhere between eight and ten hours east, over by the Snake River.

The luncheon went pretty well. Three trays of oysters mostly went to Fergus and Jerome. Dru had clams. Kelsi and I had the grilled cheese sandwiches. She had one oyster, on a dare.

Not that I really should mention this, but the most awkward moment came when Jerome, talking about how he was doing the ‘cold plunge,’ followed, as is proper, by a sauna (not like most of the lunatics do this in Port Townsend), hinted he had a girlfriend. “You mad bastard,” I may have said. It was okay. Maybe I was joking. Jerome, who Trish and I (and Dru) adore, deserves to not be what he called “the lonely guy,” and he did wait six years. SO, okay; I take the ‘mad bastard’ back.

Our niece, Emma, who lives in Ireland, and was, for a time, Dru’s room mate in Chicago, is getting married next may. Her fiance, Barry, surfs. I met him. I like him. Dru is definitely going. Trish and I, I told Jerome, would love to go to Ireland. We’d love to move to Ireland. “How long is the shortest day over there?” “Gets light about eight, dark by half-four.” “Oh. Good to know.” “Farther north.”

I threw in a photo Jerome or Fergus took from Mount Walker, near Quilcene, and one of several photos Fergus took at a very localized spot a few years ago. He was told this was forbidden, asked if he got a decent shot of the local. He did.

RICO MOORE’S LATEST- Rico, local PT coffee shop critic and poet/surfer, just had an article published in the “MARGIN.” He contacted surfers via group text. I tried to look at the piece about allegations of abuse and contaminated water and, of course, corruption at an ICE facility in Tacoma. I say I tried to look at it. My phone froze up. Hard freeze; take the battery out freeze. Wow. Rico’s out there. I looked at it on my tablet, but got bogged down. There is a lot of research, obviously, that went into the reporting, and, having dabbled in the discipline of journalism, I have to ask where the poet fits into this.

I know the answer; it’s trying to fit the humanity, or lack thereof, into the narrative, trying to make the reader feel. Rico succeeded. Check it out. Be careful.

https://themargin.us/features/licensed-to-contaminate

Erwin Will Not be Silenced… For Long

It’s happened before; my voice getting raspier, then croakier, then… worse. It’s some combination of postnasal drip and my body trying to maintain some temperature control as I’m alternating between sweating while working and chilling down when I stop. The result, the supposedly always-talking me not talking.

Swamis, 1967, the Sunday before what was then referred to as Easter Vacation. Phillip C. Harper may have had his driver’s license. I did not. We were riding with my sister, Suellen, and were surfing small (barely breaking) waves without a crowd. It was dark and dreary, and we’d surfed all day. My throat was getting noticeably sore. In my memory there may have been a fire on the beach. Probably not, just towels, maybe a coat. Phillip was going to Lake Tahoe with his family for the coming week. I was hoping to do some more suring. But…

Here’s the ‘but:’ Phillip, who started surfing pretty much the same time I did, had a new Surfboards Hawaii V bottom board, and when he went back out, he was surfing really well.

Well, I couldn’t have that. I had to go back out. Competitive and petty.

Two days later, Phil is at Lake Tahoe and I’m sick. I lost my voice; not partially, as I had a few times before, times I was not that unhappy that I had a sort of humorous froggy voice. No voice, and my throat hurt.

My mom took me to the doctor. “Worst case I’ve ever seen,” he said. I had open sores in my throat. I got some sort of prescription, told to gargle and not speak. I croaked out an, “How long?”  “Until you can,” he may have said.

“He didn’t say what it’s the worst case of,” my mother said as we were leaving. I would have said, “Erwin Syndrome” if I had been able.

When Phillip got back, he asked what he had missed.

“I have no idea,” I probably answered in my regular, deep and resonant monotone.

A DRAWING by my late sister MELISSA JOANNA MARIA MARLENA DENCE LYNCH. Some of the names were added by our mother, the Lynch is from Jerome.

ORIGINAL POEM that would fit into my collection, “Mistaken for Angels.”

                  That Knowing Angel Smile     

Angels, you tell me you’ve seen Angels, An Angel riding on the L train, one hand on the pole, An Angel, backseat in a car, idling, one lane over, outside the Dollar Store, Turning, just for a moment, and smiling, An Angel squeezing random avocados at the Uptown Street Fair, Handing one to you, An Angel, down in Nogales, Sweeping the gravel with a wide, rough broom, Leaning into the strokes, Dust, like smoke, twirling in the wind, And the Angel looked through the whirlwind, at you, With that knowing, Angel smile.

You know that Angel smile, you tell me, It’s a smile of recognition, and you can’t just look away.

No one should.

But I do, I look away, coughing into my hand, Hiding my smile until the elevator doors close.

THANKS FOR checking out my site. Remember you can email me at erwin@realsurfers.net AND don’t let anything keep you out of the water for longer than prescribed and/or necessary.

All original artwork and writings are protected by copyright. All rights reserved.

The Juan Luis Pedro Felipo de Huevos Epstein File

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, mind surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf culture, surf satire, surfing blogs, writings of Erwin Dence

“So, then, Mr. Kotter, this underage punk… you know, like my age, he totally snaked me… You know what i mean? He, like, starts paddling toward me, pushing me toward the peak. Yo, like, we’re both going for it, but he… I’m too far over, he jumps up; I go over the falls.” “That’s an interesting story, Epstein; did i tell you about the time I got snaked? Real snakes. It was….”

The Erwin File, and Welcome to It, Plus Drop-ins, Burns, Snakes, Mental Lists

I wasn’t the first person, obviously, from a quick search, to wonder about the character Juan Luis Pedro Filippo de Huevos Epstein, and whether there is a missing file somewhere; secrets and such. The actor, Robert Hegyes, who played Juan Epstein, one of the group of ne’er do well students self-named ‘the Sweathogs,’ on the 1970s show, “Welcome Back Kotter, and I were both born in 1951. There could have been some chance (fictionalizing here) circumstance under which he and I were in the same place; like, for instance, he might have surfed (he was from New Jersey) wandered down the coast to San Diego County, and, let’s say, I might have, accidentally, burned him in the water.

Maybe he kept a list. Maybe I’m on it. Okay, maybe just a description: “Another punk, underage asshole forced me too deep, then let me go over the falls,” for example.

I may never know. Mr. Hegyes died at sixty-years-old. Not mysterious, evidently. But still… What did Robert have to say about John Travolta? What about Marcia Strassman? She played Julie Kotter. I thought she was pretty cute. Wait a moment. Checking. Shit, she’s dead, also. Sad. What about Gabe Kaplan? Still alive, professional poker player. Okay, I’m through looking.

It only seems right that Pam Bondi or someone official like that should look into the Epstein File. Congress, they’re not doing anything; one of those increasingly irrelevant persons could take up the cause. Transparency, baby; truth and justice. Maybe there’s a buck in it for some influencer/deflector. It ain’t me, babe; I do this for free. If I’m on the list, I’m ready to do whatever penance God and the Constitution of this, this nation demand.

Just to be candid: I have a mental list of surfers who callously and wrongly and blatantly burned me. Most are descriptions (ie; obvious Orange County interloper), but famous photographer Warren Bolster is on there. I forgive him, because, partially, he is also deceased, and because I’ve long since theorized that after photographing other surfers ripping and riding and blowing takeoffs at Swamis, he just wasn’t ready to let a wave he could catch go by, etiquette be damned.

To be more candid: Not just because I might be on other surfer’s lists for etiquette violations, I have pretty much mentally burned most of the transgressions, forgiven all the transgressors, except, perhaps that Marine officer [I imagined] who burned me and everyone else on one of my last sessions at Trestles, and, more annoyingly, when I cruised down a couple hours later, he was still dominating [there might be some jealousy in here].

So, if I’m on your list; please forgive me. Even if I haven’t burned you, if you tell me I did, I’ll be really careful not to do it again. No, really. Unless I can’t help it.

Now, about my permanent record: I’ll get back to you on that.

This is kind of a surprise posting. I just got through with my run of antibiotics for an infection that knocked me down, and spent a tough week trying to catch up, and now, kind of out of the blue, and without feeling particularly unwell I’ve, and this might shock those who know me, I’ve lost my voice. I suddenly sound like a 94 year old rather than the 24 year old I’d like to believe I sound like. SOOOO, I was going to write about the time I just had to keep surfing with a sore throat and ended up missing out on a week or more of surf because of it. Yeah, next time. I didn’t mean realsurfers.net, which I started in 2013, to be a chronicle of the wounds and illness and other landmarks on my way to… somewhere.

I will not be silenced… for long. Get some waves. Thanks for checking the site. Remember you can contact me at erwin@realsurfers.net

My Aunt Tifa on Protests, J.D. Vance don’t surf, and… Other Non-Surf and Yes-Surf Free Speech Stuff and Sort of Anti-Poet Poetry

Posted on by under northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, writings of Erwin Dence

Photo courtesy of non-government-funded NATIONAL PUBLIC RADIO. One of thousands of NO KINGS demonstrations, all off them peaceful, across the beloved and besieged U S of f’in’ A.

John Deere Vance watches the fun as I-5, on which 800,000 vehicles pass per day, is shut down. It’s not clear if the LIVE-FIRE exercise (my God, like missiles and shit, like the movies… whoa!) included live rounds going over the freeway, the main and only coast route, but Gavin (is his nickname ‘GovGav’?) may have pointed out the latest in Vance’s machismo/vacation tour shenanigans by shutting down the freeway for four hours. “Hey, man,” an unofficial White House spokesperson may have said, “Don’cha want our military prepared for full invasion slash assault? I mean, like, if it works on this stretch… who knows?”

I’m only writing about this because I once commuted from Encinitas to the Trestles end of the 17 mile stretch, 1975, and remember riding on the old 101, Pre-I-5, nicknamed “Slaughter Alley,” and distinctly remember seeinng surfers, parked on the side of the road, being rounded up by Marines and turned over to the California Highway Patrol. I knew there had to be some awesome waves on the other side o the bluffs. Waiting for the official report from JD. If I get an AdVance note, I’ll pass it on, though I won’t believe anything about him shredding and or ripping. Or wave size. Nope.

ODD THOUGHT- It’s impossible not to notice how all the sycophant/loser trump appointees have to hold a pose of non-commitment, or even belief when trump or one of his chosen flock speak. This stifling of emotion, forced non-rolling of the eyes must be just so, so difficult. It reminds me (though I try to resist) of the Presidential feature at Disneyland. Video animatronics. Pretty basic back when you had coupons and it was this or another swirl n the teacups, but, say, Lincoln was unmoved, stone-faced, like he hadn’t heard a whopper from Douglas, until… whoa! Lifelike. And I’m still waiting for someone, any of these toadies, to just fall down laughing. Not yet.

Keith Does Oregon for Real- Peninsula ripper Keith Darrock is from, among other places, Yachats, Oregon. He recently took a trip down there, did some surfing (undocumented or un-shared). His takeaway; surfing on the Strait is, possibly, less ‘real’ than the hiking, rock-jumping, and generally unfriendly waves on the, you know, coast. It’s not that I disagree. Incidentally, my dad lived across the river from the Astoria bridge. Chinook.

“Don’t Tell Me You’re a Poet” from “Love Songs for Cynics.”

Don’t tell me you’re a poet, I saw you at the laundry, Your costume in the dryer and your quarters keeping time, We made small talk conversation, I’d expected something grander, I mixed my whites and colors, you traded quarters for my dimes.

You know, I saw you at the reading, your performance so dramatic, And the lighting was just perfect, all words in the present tense, And you listed your credentials, said you’d weave a world of moments, That’s when I stashed my poem away for it just seemed to make no sense.

I know that you’re a poet, you wear sorrow like a garment, You have words on scraps of paper in the pockets of your clothes, Which are washed and dried and folded, sorted neatly on the table, Though the words I’ve heard so far are not quite poetry, but prose.

I can’t say I’m a poet, I’m a casual observer, Looking over someone’s shoulder at last Sunday’s New York Times, But the Laundry’s glass doors shudder, there’s a world pressing against them While you’re busy with the syntax, with the rhythm and the rhyme,

And all I know for certain is that I got four quarters for five nickels and six dimes.

Copyright Erwin A. Dence, Jr. All rights reserved. I wrote this folksy piece many years ago, immediately after attending a CENTRUM performance that was a culmination of a weeklong Poetry thing attended by our older son, James, his friends Brian Pitts and Adam Larm. Performance art. My response, appreciation and sarcasm, possibly made stronger when I criticized something to the main instructor and she responded with something I took as, “You think you could do better?” Probably not.

Bonus Photo-

ON NO KINGS DAY, I was driving out in the wilds of the Coyle Peninsula, and couldn’t help but notice this house. I followed the one sign’s advice, and drove slow enough to take this photo. I figured not honking was the closest I could get to peaceful protest. Gosh, such a resistor.

Hey, get some real waves where and when you can. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net and remember you can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net

The Once and Never King

Posted on by under old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, writings of Erwin Dence

There once was a KING of Malibu, A. warrior king with a wicked smile, He danced to the nose, chucked his board at his foes, and, I don’t know, he’s been dead a while.

There is no royal succession. If Citizen Dora hadn’t been such an outstanding surfer, he would have just been another asshole. He had no power if he wasn’t in the water. Yes, he had grievances with inland cowboys and other interlopers, but he also was an extra in surf-exploitation movies, and, and, and… as kings do, he’s gone. Maybe there’s a current king of Malibu. I could give a fuck. NO KINGS, NO KINGS, NO KINGS, NO KINGS. FOR GOD’S SAKE, FOR AMERICAN DEMOCRACY’S SAKE, NOOOOOOO KINGS.

Stay safe, catch a few waves, call out (nicely) anyone who believes they rule the waves, even if it’s me. Oh, and you can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net

“Line of… succession? What? Oh, line. Yeah… no; I never did a line of that… whatever. You have some.”

Totally made up line, but, to recap; fuck a bunch of dictatorial assholes.

Save the Waves in PT , How Reggie is to blame for ‘Erwin,’ Hangin’ with Poets

Posted on by under northwest surfing, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, Port townsend surfing, real surfers, real surfers coloring book, surf culture, surf culture events, surfing blogs, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

UPDATE/EDIT/CORRECTIONS- There was a it of discussion among surfers willing to include me in their group text chatter about how blurry my photos are. Okay, so I thought I was cleaning the lens on my phone; evidently it was the window thingie over the battery. SO, JOEL sent me this photo of Rico and Keith and some fat, Hobbit-like dude. Way too realistic. SO he sent this modified version. “burred,’ he wrote. Not sure if he meant blurred or burned. Not enough o either. Still… better. thanks.

ALSO, CHRIS EARDLEY, who seemed to know almost everyone in attendance on Friday night, says. the guy I identy as Matt is actually named Gus. Keith filled me in on the names of other important folks who were at the event. This was over the phone, so, naturally, I’ve forgotten the names. No disrespect intended.

OKAY, SO… SAVE THE WAVES

So many events in life are the result of circumstance. Timing and opportunity. We know there are no waves in Port Townsend, but, because the beautiful Northwest Maritime Center at the end of Water Street was available, and because LUKE (apologies for not having his last name- can’t we just go by first names or nicknames?), who MC’ed the event, is a member of the Save the Waves group, the Surfrider Foundation, AND, evidently has a connection to the Maritime Center (YEA!) a part of the worldwide festival was held in a surf town with a notoriously rabid and frequently frustrated group of surfers, and, again, no surf.

The short documentary, “Erwin,” is part of the worldwide festival, and, as my daughter, Dru, informed me, later, it was the only one filmed in the US. More on this coming. I had to be there. I wanted the event to be a success, and it was. Without a lot of publicity, enough people showed up that more chairs had to be brought out. It proved to be an opportunity for surfers to chat somewhere other than the lineup or the beach. And everyone was well behaved.

LUKE and another important guy (more apologies) announcing ahead of the short documentaries.

Legendary Olympic Peninsula path(wave)finder Darryl Wood (please forgive me if his name is misspelled), chatting with the important guy from the first photo. Darryl was the first surfer I met when I moved to the northwest in late 1978. The Hood Canal Bridge sank on Tuesday, February 13th. The state set up a passenger only ferry service, and Darryl and I were part of the first day’s riders on Monday, February 19. He was working for a contractor at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, I was a painter. He did mention something about Jesus to someone, not me, and must have said something about surfing, because, the next Saturday, February 24, decked out in a diver’s suit, crotch strap and all, with no hood, no booties, my sister’s surfboard (I’d sold all of mine), California wax, I was in the lineup at a spot you can no longer (legally) access directly. It was 38 degrees on the beach and my board kept flying out from between my legs. I caught a couple of waves, but he drop was so quick, I ended up kneeboarding. Yeah, sign of things to come.

At some point Trisha’s supposed-to-be family station wagon became our Kitsap County side car pool vehicle (nicknamed the scum car pool by Darryl, no reference to the riders). Darryl and I, and the other 6 or 7 riders all have stories from the commute. Enough so that, having been on the receiving end (“Thank you, Officer.”) of three speeding tickets in one year on the Clear Creek Road (this was before the freeway sections), trying to make the five-something ferry, I was deemed ineligible to drive when Jefferson County set up a van pool. Relief for everyone.

“Pass ’em, Erwin!” Both stories hinge on this. FIRST- At my co-pilot’s urging, I passed a slowpoke on the onramp on his right. The next day (I was off), the scumcar pool was pulled over. “Mr. Dence?” “Not here, Officer; but he’s a very careful driver.” SECOND- A woman was pouring her heart out about life and problems, and Jesus; and Darryl was, of course, listening intently. I was listening accidentally. She was at the point where she said something like, “All I could think of to do was sing, ‘Jesus loves you, yes he does…'” Yes, the distraught woman was singing. We were close to the ferry turnoff on a shortcut, time was short, and there was someone unconcerned about getting home in front of us. I passed them, dropped off my passengers so they could make the boat, and missed it because I had to park the car. “Yes, he does,” I may or may not have sung.

I only see Darryl occasionally, but, I consider him a friend. I asked him fairly recently why he never tried to talk about Jesus with me. “I didn’t think I had to.”

ARNOLD, Darryl’s longtime surf partner, explaining that no one has ever seen a wave this high in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. OR, because these photos are not in sequence, he may have said, “Yes, my wife did win the LIB-TECH surfboard. If you really need one…” I reminded Arnold of the time, not all that long ago, when he was out and I was the third-oldest surfer in the water. He said something like, “Wow.”

Someone I don’t know, RICO (looking surprised I was taking his picture), and the back of CHRIS EARDLEY. The guy in the background in the black hat came up to me later. “Remember me?” “No. Sorry.” “It’s Tim… you called me ‘Tim from Sequim.'” “Oh. well. Look over there, it’s Chimacum Timacum.” The woman with him introduced herself. Forgot her name. Sorry. If she had a nickname…

My daughter, Dru, someone poking himself in the eye, some out of focus guy looking a bit ominous.

The moon over Admiralty Inlet as the short documentaries were playing.

CHIMACUM TIM not looking at all like a guy with a Philadelphia/Jersey Shore confrontation-ready attitude, and ANDREA. I did send Tim the photo and did ask if it was okay to post it. I am so non-confrontational. He said it was kind of out of focus. Yeah, well, most times part of my finger would be over your face, Tim.

Rico, KEITH, and JOEL on the backwall discussing, obviously, how flat is flat, while, in the chairs, Jasmine, a. guy (just to seem cynical, may have once seen. Pete Seeger live- okay, I take it back), two people who seem, possibly, hypnotized, and KATE, not hypnotized. Kate, her husband, SEAN, and their son, sorry on the name, all surf. Family dynamic. I once witnessed them switching boards because Sean had left her with one with a broken fin. On several occasions Kate, paddling out, asked how much longer I was going to be out. Oh. “Not much longer.”

Chris and MATT at the tabe with the raffle prizes. Matt was a judge at the old Cleanwater Classic contest in Westport the year I talked TOM BURNS (not at this event) into allowing me to judge. I may be wrong about that. I helped out three times. Once I helped out with the Surfrider Foundation, selling copies of my REALSURFERS COLORING BOOK (outt of print- sorry), once I was supposed to help out with the flags on the beach (but I decided to be a spotter for the judges, denying others their turns), and, the time I did judge, everyone, evidently, had too much fun for the. head judge’s taste, I refused to call what I thought was a four point ride a six.five- whatever. I did try harder on Sunday. Too late. Sorry, Tom, didn’t mean to get you fired… also). Matt said he had a great time. As did I. WESTPORT. Everyone should go there. Oh, they do.

In the background, over Chris’s shoulder, there’s a woman talking to the guy in the yellow beanie (I had no interaction with him), and over Matt’s shoulder is her husband/lover… man. The came up to me later. He mostly lives in Costa Rica or somewhere with warm water, but he reads my blog. “Oh, so you’re the one,” I said. Not clever. So… like, send me a note, erwin@realsurfers.net and I’ll edit you in.

Newlyweds MEGAN and Chris eyeing the TODD FISCHER prints on offer at the prize table.

Winner! Yeah, I know; why do I have so many photos of Chris? His house needs painting might be one reason. Damn; should have taken a shot of Dru winning possibly the best prize of the evening, a bunch of stuff from Yeti. In the WSL, you have to get a ten point ride to score that. Good work, Dru!

POETRY STUFF-

BECAUSE I have been working toward, maybe, hopefully, selling some of the songs and poems I’ve collected over the years, AND because I’v been concentrating (using all my angst) on writing serious, pretentious, condescending poems of late, I felt compelled to attend a lecture at the Jefferson County Library featuring the Washington State Poet Laureate, Derek Sheffield, and a former wooden boat builder, now poet/mental health counselor, Matthew Nienow.

So, there’s hope. I mean, don’t ask me for mental health advice, but… I will throw down… poetry-wise.

What got me was how willing poets are to quote other poets. Quote Whitman and several audience members almost get giddy. To use a surf simile, it was kind of like when I saw MIKE DOYLE surfing at Stone Steps, 1970 or so, tucking his big frame into tiny barrels. It wasn’t Sunset, but all I could think was, “He’s not all that good.” Again, not Sunset. This was Hadlock/Irondale and I was, as I always am, amazed at how people can be in front of an audience and be… smooth.

To his credit, in my estimation, Laureate Derek seemed to be trying to bring a bit of lightness into the presentation. When no one clapped at his guest’s rendition of someone else’s poem, he did the beatnik thing of snapping the fingers of both raised hands. I so wanted, longed to join in. Maynard G. Crebs.

What I did do is wrote down a question, the dignified way to do a question-and-answer, required in this instance. I was a bit stoked when my question was chosen. Edited a bit, it was: “Are poets preachers, or reporters, or… (last second addition) cheerleaders.” I wasn’t giddy, but I did want to snap my fingers, at least once.

To quote my song, “Don’t Tell Me You’re a Poet,” … I’m a casual observer, looking over someone’s shoulder at last Sunday’s ‘New York Times…”

REGGIE SMART AND ‘ERWIN’- Reggie and I have worked together quite a bit over the past seven or eight years. At some point, Reggie started secretly filming me, then editing the phone videos down to some brief moments where I did or said something ridiculous. he then posted the clips on social media. SKIP AHEAD. He was helping me on a project on a watefront home on Dabob Bay that belongs to Annie Fergerson. NOW, I had been working on the project before Reggie came on scene, so she was sort of aware that I surf, and that I’m (often described as) a ‘character.’ All this was reinforced by Reggie’s ‘Erwhistle’ clips.

I would love to, but cannot discount Reggie’s role in my being in the documentary. I did resist it for a couple of years. Annie, a videographer for the Bill and Melinda Gates (now just Melinda, I guess) Foundation, was busy, I didn’t want to blow up any not-reallyy-secret spots, but, again, being honest, I did want to see some slow motion videos of me ripping across a long wall.

“Erwin” turned out to be a bit too true. And now it’s reaching a relatively small but worldwide audience, and it evidently ‘resonates’ (poet-ish word) with people; a ridiculous old fat guy insisting on pursuing his dreams.

So, thanks, Reggie, thanks, Annie, and thank you to the tens of folks who check out realsurfers.net on occasion.

I might edit in a reasonable poem by me if I find one decent enough. See you! get waves!

REGGIE SMART doing a side of the road deal with my. new(er) board.

“Erwin” the Film, Text Threads, Gumbo Brain

Posted on by under northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing blogs, surfing for life, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

This is JAY, a member of the group, tens of people, who follow my… cough… blog. Thanks, Jay. He introduced himself while I was contemplating whether or not I had damaged JEFF VAUGHN’S girlfriend by changing into my wetsuit (sans towel or available dry robe), knowing Jeff was on the beach, between Jeff’s van and a fence, not realizing she was inside. OOPS! Erwin’s ass exposed again. I mean, I got over it, but… sorry.

Jay is originally from Torrence, and because I was trying to coffee up after a session, I sicced him on Jeff, currently and again out of the water with shoulder issues. “Jeff’s from the South Bay.” Jeff, in turn, after discovering Jay grew up in the harbor where Jeff’s father was a harbormaster (I hope I got that right, I was only kind of listening), told dawn patroller TIM NOLAN he should talk to Jay. While Jeff is years younger, Jay is between me and Tim, age-wise, and Tim grew up in Palos Verdes. So… connections.

The short documentary wraps up it second showing this morning. KEITH DARROCK and I may be going. I went to the first showing on Friday night with my daughter, DRU. Her treat. PETE and MOLLY ORBEA, Molly being a lifetime friend of Dru’s, and Pete being a fancy attendee with a season pass lanyard because whatever Port Gamble corporation he works for is a big sponsor, also came. Ripper/artist REGGIE SMART got in for free (of course) courtesy of Pete, and ‘bounced’ after laughing almost uncontrollably during the almost five minutes ‘Erwin’ was on the screen.

Pete and Molly left after the next feature. Dru and I stayed until the end, including the discussion part. Since ANNIE FERGERSON, the producer of the film, wasn’t there, Dru thought I should go up on stage and represent. I didn’t. I should have. I could have said, “Yes, I realize I don’t live up to the sort of self image I would prefer to have; and, yes, the film is… pretty accurate.” I would love to take myself as seriously as the other participants seem to do.

Since I do most of my house painting in Port Townsend, and because I’m kind of competitive, I decided to participate (Reggie is also planning to add something) in the decorating of the fence around Memorial Field. This is the sketch portion of the deal. I had primer and black and white paint with me. More to come, including a couple of encounters with other artists, one of whom, when I offered friendly criticism, gave me an equally friendly, “Fuck YOU!” No, really; friendly and deserved.

Me, being serious. Photo by Jeffry Vaughn. Love the outide indicator going off while I’m navigating a trecherous inside ledge.

Jeff on the beach, Tim in the water.

Old fat guy trimming.

HEY, I have more stuff. If Keith doesn’t decide to go surfing instead, we’ll be checking out the movie. Thanks for checking out realsurfers. Send me shit at erwin@realsurfers.net

NOTE- The surf spot shown is somewhere near Westport.


Original Erwin, but Not Quite…

Posted on by under how to draw a nearly nakd woman near the beach, in profile, with a towel, northwest surfing, old surfers, Original Erwin, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, surf art, surf culture, surf illustrations, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing illustrations, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

…t-shirt ready. A bit too confusing, not graphic enough to be instantly recognizable, particularly in the black and white version. I should, perhaps, do an Original Erwin coloring book. A thought.

realsurfers magazine- Sunday, August 10

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf contests, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf trips, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing novels, writings of Erwin Dence

Chris Eardley and Keith Darrock (and Rico and Cougar Keith) hit the Westend, searching for new waves to conquer. If they didn’t find gold. Not that I was seriously invited, but I was told the wooden path does not go all the way to the beach PLUS four days food and a big ass board. Plus… a few more minuses. What they caught and where? Stories vary.

To complete the story of the church steeple painting, I convinced Reggie Smart to finish the middle of the side of the church I couldn’t reach with the 65 foot boom. This required putting a ladder on the roof, attaching a ledger partway up to secure another ladder. You can see the setup in the lower photo. This little peak would have required some psycho setting up from the roof. It took fifteen minutes of positioning of the manlift and most of the boom to get to the spot, fifteen minutes to put a coat on the surfaces.

It was not required that we paint the cross on the top of the steeple, though the congregation clearly wanted it to happen. The difference between going above the steeple’s roof and painting below it is about twelve feet up into the wild blue yonder. I thought having Reggie with me in the basket might boost my confidence. It did not. “I’m going to throw up,” I said. “Yeah, well,” Reggie said, suggesting he might just soil himself (note my resistance at using the actual quote). Still; I do feel some shame around ‘hairing-out.’ Almost a week out, less shame. I did get the window on the fun car, damaged when I backed into the manlift turret, replaced, and I did repair the damage caused when I hit a spot on the steeple… twice. If I had the feeling, in the lift, that I’d used up my chances on this project; well, I will have to live with that.

This is a display, evidently, at the Jefferson County Fair, taken by Librarian Keith (a proposed nickname, “STACKS,” as in library shelving, has never caught on). MEANWHILE, Adam Wipeout, prominently featured, was doing double duty; attending a wedding of one or two co-workers, somewhere, and participating in the WARM CURRENTS activities at La Push. Here’s the story:

The takeway, first: Most often we listen to our own advice. SO, Adam called me this morning at 7:06. He was on his way BACK to LaPush and wondered if I wanted to catch a ride. He was probably ten minutes down Surf Route 101 and I had just gotten up. “What? No.” I asked him what he had done with his scheduling conflict from Saturday. “Dude, I did both. Didn’t you see the photo from La Push?” “The one with a one foot wave ten feet off the beach?” “No, no; it was crazy. La Push has this sandbar, and on a rising tide…” “Yeah, yeah; I’m working today so, maybe, if a swell shows up…” NOTE: the …s probably mean info I shouldn’t put out.

Two drawings I started while waiting for the Volvo’s back window to be replaced.

WSL STUFF- I did, of course, watch a lot of the surfing contest from Tahiti. More like the morning stuff, with scary scary waves the first day. I watched most of the heats on Friday, and, bucking a popular trend, didn’t really have issues with the judging. It does become obvious that the difference between winning and not is often whether a competitor’s drive overcomes his or her fear. Though there are a lot of heats to get through on the men’s side, the finalists on the women’s side, Caitlin Simmers and Molly Picklum fit that description. One thing that might improve (might) is having a non-final final with two or four of the non-finalists. I would choose Erin Brooks and Vahine Fierro. Your choice? Up to you. We’ll see.

NOT that I’m in any way political:

COMPLICITOUS

We lack empathy because we’ve never experienced real horror, We lack sympathy because we refuse to believe the horror to be as bad as we know it to be, We lack compassion because we don’t want that real horror to find us.

We look away, Complicit.

If you pass a starving child and do nothing to help, you should feel the shame, If you purposefully starve a child, Bomb a child, Snipe a child, You are the horror.

We look away, Complicit.

FROM the Old Testament, Volume II, Third Book of Netanyahu; Chapter Two, Verse three: “We basically could have eliminated the entire population of Gaza.”

Whatever God is or isn’t, God set the rules, the boundaries, the limits, God plays the long game.

We haven’t the time, We posture and push and out position, Swagger and strut past the meek and indecisive, We invest in our desires, gamble on our instincts, Hard focused on our dreams, Fame and glory and wealth and power, Power on power and power for power, Hate for hate.

God plays the long game.

Success begets success, Power attracts power.

Buffed and polished, chrome and gold and mirrors, Our lust, once everything, Breaks, Our overstuffed pockets spill out, Deeds and bonds and diamonds, Our treasures are stashed offshore, vaults, buried Pirate chests, Molding, oxidized, crumpled and corrupted, Not to be touched.

God plays the long game.

Our heavens, our yachts and cars and mansions and land, List and leak and sink, Monuments to what others will never have, Museums dedicated to someone we never will be, And never were.

God plays the long game.

Our souls, we believe, Might be retrieved, Whole. Pure. Redeemed. This is not true. We know this is not true.

We cannot love ourselves, And others will not Truly Love us.

We are unworthy of real love, Slanderers and abusers and deniers, Cheats and frauds and Liars, Painted, plastic coated, polished, And yet, Senses dulled, synapses crackling, our minds questioning Every decision, Aware we are rotting, shrinking, slowing, failing, skin sliding on the bone, Unable to recognize ourselves in smoke clouded mirrors or gold framed portraits. We fear all others.

We have to, They want what we have.

Whatever God is or God isn’t, we are not gods.

We cannot play the long game.

We haven’t the time.

AS ALWAYS, thanks for checking out realsurfers.net

WHY DON’T YOU WRITE ME? erwin@realsurfers.net

Here’s what I’m claiming rights to today: The illustrations and the poems. Copyright 2025. All rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

MEANWHILE, I have some surf plans. I’m thinking, maybe, if… Maybe I’ll see you out and around or driving past me. Good luck!

Summertime, and the Living is… Easy

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf contests, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf stories, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing in Washington State, surfing novels, surfing Oceanside in the late 1960s,, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

Faith, Hope, Confidence, Broken Window, Sally and Courtney, and Somewhere on the Coast, Somewhere on the Net… and on Being Hard to Follow

IT’S SUMMER. The odds of having waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca is slim-to-flat. Several of my surf friends are currently out on the West End on a hike/camp/surf adventure, but, even though it’s the actual Pacific Ocean, the swell forecast isn’t stellar. Knowing the players, they’ll find waves AND there will be stories.

One of those players, in a recent cellular conversation (yeah, could have said ‘convo’), when I brought up something I had told him before, said, “Sometimes you’re kind of hard to follow.” Today’s posting will prove his point.

I have been watching the WSL contest from Huntington Beach a bit, catching up when I get home. In fact, it’s finals day and I just turned off the tablet… too distracting. I’m not sure what the WSL online complainants have to say about, say, scoring or that some glory-hogging CT surfers are involving themselves, but… highlights: Kind of rooted for nepo surfer Kalohe “Get it right” Andino; he’s out. Always root for Sally Fitzgibbons. She was number two in the Challenger Series ranking going into the event, and the number one was eliminated early. Earlier. Sally’s out. I did find out that the surfer Trish rooted for, Courtney Conlogue, is not in the contest but is working as a lifeguard in Huntington Beach and mentoring a surfer in the event (eliminated). “Good for her,” Trish said.

I did notice that a lot of the surfers, male and female, are on the Simone Biles side of Jordy Smith. Gymnast-sized hydrobats. Just an observation; no judgment.  

I’VE BEEN surfing long enough that SURFER’S JOURNAL’s section that focuses on old timey surf stories is pretty much up to the era when I switched from surf mats to surfboards. SO, okay, like it’s 1969, I’m working at Buddy’s Sign Service, 1st and Tremont; close to the Oceanside Pier, one block off this stop-lighted section of Surf Route 101. The shop, in the gutted former newspaper building, a glorious place to work for a recent Fallbrook High School graduate, was also one block south and west of the then notorious Tenderloin downtown section. With the Vietnam War in full escalation mode, Commanders of Camp Pendleton were constantly threatening to not allow Marines to go to Oceanside, with the hawkers and prostitutes. Most of the Marines my age, many from small towns, they were enroute to war, yes, but Oceanside… maybe too dangerous, too scary.

Again, for me… glorious. Still, scary.

There were reasons Oceanside and Imperial Beach offered the cheapest oceanfront and ocean adjacent properties south of Orange County.

But, in the summer I had to sign up for the draft, and for classes at Palomar Junior college, with my surf friends scattering; I had a job (apprentice/nub), I had a girlfriend (Trish, same girl fifty-six years later), I had a semi-reliable car (Morris minor), and I was figuring out how to manage the fickle, sometimes frightening waves at the pier and the various other spots. I would surf before or after work, or head to Swamis or Grandview or Pipes.

Sorry. Exposition, scene setting. The freedom I felt is the very basis for my never-quite-done novel, “Swamis,” the magic I felt is the magic I want to convey. Working on it.

I convinced myself I was getting better known in the North County surf scene beyond Tamarack and Oceanside. I was becoming a regular. What I noticed, and this was discussed when I actually spoke to other surfers, that there was an influx of surfers from Texas. Texas? Yeah. According to actual locals, these dudes seemed to have money. They would stay at the motels in the Leucadia area, chase the local girls. More irritating, they’d catch some. Or the locals imagined they had.  And they’d add to the congestion in the lineup, more irritating than the kooks from West Covina, only slightly less irritating than seeing the pros and magazine stars coming down from the north. I mean, like, “Fuck, man, that’s Billy fuckin’ Hamilton.”

SO, one afternoon, I’m checking out the waves at Grandview from the bluff. Four to five, maybe, and glassing off. Two guys come up to me. I shouldn’t try to copy or mimic their accents, but the waves seemed big to them, and they questioned why I’d paddle out.

FAITH.

Faith, foremost, in my ability to challenge a situation out of my comfort zone. This is a faith learned through attempting and failing, retrying and almost succeeding.

FAITH ONLY WORKS IF WE BELIEVE HAVING FAITH WORKS.

Not to get religious-ey on this, but ‘blind faith?’ No. Jesus praised those who were not witness to his miracles and yet believed. Fine. But surfers don’t take other surfer’s word for things: “Do you have any photos? Witnesses?” “Yeah.” “Oh, and I’m supposed to believe that guy; dude who said it was eight feet when it was… I was out… more like six feet?”

There is a difference between having the confidence to believe you can paddle out and ride a few waves and the wisdom to decide you probably shouldn’t try. It’s learned, usually the hard way. A lot of experience may or may not give one a bit of knowledge.

EQUIPMENT- Almost immediately on starting work at Buddy’s I was sent out (alone) to repaint some metal structures that hold interior lit plexiglass signs. One of the first ones I attempted was on a severe slope. Daunting. Ladders require an even footing. I figured it out, got it painted despite being scared shitless, and got questioned (chewed out) on how long it took. “What?”

Next challenge- a forty-foot ladder. Like a kook paddling with too much nose in the air, a rookie ladder person will try to make the clime less steep. There I was on the main drag in Oceanside, the angle probably 45 degrees. Boing, boing. Next challenge- Manlift. The guy from Federal signs was operating the boom. I was painting the pole with aluminum paint, and the cross at the top with white. I worked my way up. Okay. Take it slow. Got to the cross. Switched paint. Started at the top. When I reached for the cross, it moved. A lot. Almost lost my balance, almost lost my breakfast. “You okay, kid?” “I don’t know.” The man was laughing. “Yeah, you’re fine.”

SLOW FORWARD to now; I’m working on a job (with Reggie Smart- he’s on social- look him up) I would have been happy not doing. A church steeple that requires the use of a manlift with a 65-70 foot boom. SCARY.

But I have faith in the equipment. So far, and I’m almost done, the faith is well founded. I only bumped into the building, softly, a couple of times… OH, but I did back the fun car into the turret. Shattered but intact. Fuck! The white trash, duct tape fix didn’t make it from Port Townsend to Quilcene. I’m getting it replaced on Wednesday, hopefully just in time for the next pulse of waves. I’ll let you know. I mean, after the fact.

It is summer, but… after faith comes HOPE.

Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net AND, with your praise and your own stories, please (if you’re not a site-builder or content consultant) fly me a line at erwin@realsurfers.net

Let’s see- I borrowed the surfing photo. All others and the content is original, so, protected by copyright UPDATE- I would have thought Kanoa would win. Despite my not rooting for him, he was just eliminated. On to Tahiti!

Get some waves!

Chimacum Timacum’s Sailboat Crashing Story, plus… Cats and Poetry and… Wait! UPDATE!!!!

Posted on by under northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf stories, surf trips, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing stories, writings of Erwin Dence

I have a self-imposed deadline for posting. It’s, like, noon on Sundays. I wrote about the big incident without the input from Tim Pauley. THEN, heading off somewhere, and because surf journalist emeritus (I hope he’s not offended) Drew Kampion commented on today’s posting with a bit of a cosmic message(as of there was a photo included, but there wasn’t). Thinking I couldn’t see it because IO was on the tablet, I checked the big computer. WHOA! message from Chimacum Tim. So, of course, after practically begging him to write up the incident, I have to post this. I;m not deleting what I wrote (yet). See if they, you know, match. SO…

A few days ago while surfing the 10th St. jetty in Avalon, New Jersey I saw the mast of a sailboat on the other side of the jetty, dangerously close to the rocks.  Thinking to myself there might be people in danger, I abandoned my surf session and ran to the jetty.  There was a group of us that witnessed eight kids and two instructors on the tiny 24 foot sailboat.  Having sailed across oceans and worked on tugboats offshore, this was the heaviest thing I’ve ever seen.  There was nothing we could do for the kids.  The boat swayed violently in the waves against the jetty, and jumping off the boat was putting your life in peril.  We yelled to the kids to stay on the boat and help was coming.  But all us responders were helpless to watch the carnage unfolding.  It wasn’t until the keel snapped off the boat and the jetty released the hull of the boat that the kids had a chance.  The boat started to drift away from the rocks, but was taking on water.  Once the boat was almost entirely underwater, the entire crew made a jump for it into the raging current.  Fortunately, they all had life preservers, and there were a couple other boats at the mouth of the inlet to scoop them up.

Everyone made it back to the Beach.  The kids were beyond brave, and a number of people in the community, on the boats, and on the beach were able to assist.  It was pretty cool to experience that in this day and age. There are still people willing to put their life on the line in order to help others.  

Tim

My take:

I’ve been checking out Chimacum Tim’s chickens while he was on the East Coast. Tim’s father has had some medical issues; Tim has been helping out. AND, of course, surfing. Tim’s dad lives in New Jersey, in or near Avalon, which is, evidently, an island, so… surf. I wasn’t sure when Tim was coming back, so, on Friday, I cruised by. Tim was there, and he looked like shit. I, of course, told him so. Not the first person to say so, so… confirmation.

Tim, rather politely, explained he had a hell of a flight getting home, AND… “Oh, did you hear about the sailboat crashing. Wednesday. It was the heaviest thing I’ve ever seen on the water.”

I asked Tim, politely, to write something about the incident and send it to erwin@realsurfers.net so I could post a first hand account. He didn’t. He’ll have to rely on my second hand narration. I will try to duplicate my friend’s voice, though without the Philly/Jersey accent or attitude. Paraphrasing:

“It was a pretty north swell. Waist to chest. Pretty good. Not too crowded. I see this sailboat. It’s headed toward the jetty. There were two instructors and eight kids… students.”

Okay, I’ll skip the fake quotes. Tim and some other surfers run over to the jetty. The boat’s engine had failed at the worst time, the boat was hitting the rocks, and it looked like the crew and the kids were ready to bail. This would have been a very bad choice. Tim and the others were frantically yelling. It was… heavy. AND THEN another boat pulled the sailboat off the rocks, but THEN the boat began to sink.

In the end, the ten sailors were saved. It made national news. When I told Trish about it, she, of course, already knew. “Yeah, but Chimacum Tim was there!” “Uh huh. How are his chickens?” “Fine. The one hen is still sitting on the eggs, the others are still being mean to her, and Tim says…” “Yeah; I have to go.”

RECAP- Tim surfed. One of the heroes on Wednesday, flew home on Thursday, looked like shit on Friday. I’m sure he’s recovered by now. He will have to go back to work on the Washington State Ferry system soon. “You must have had some heavy moments on the ferries.” “Sure.” “Maybe you could write something, send it to me at erwin@realsurfers.net and…” “Yeah. Hey; thanks for checking on my chickens. I gotta…” “Yeah; maybe a nap, huh?”

Surf adventurer Tim Polley explaining how waves are still necessary for real surfing

Dru’s new cat, Nicolas, checking out the Port Gamble traffic. Yeah, Nicky, they’re all heading for or coming back from the Olympic Peninsula by way of the Hood Canal Bridge. Some have boards.

UTTERLY PRETENTIOUS POETRY and/or poetry adjacent stuff:

                                    The Memory of the Magic

Somewhere else is where you wish you were,

There, not here,

Not caught among, behind, between,

Another link in a traffic chain,

Idling, sounds, not quite music, droning to match the stops and goes,

Heading somewhere you have to be

More than you want to be,

Somewhere where the redundancies cannot be denied.

You long to be somewhere, somewhere else.

There, not here.

Time and space and gravity,

All the rules and laws and circumstance,

Somewhere else is where your mind has gone,

Somewhere where you’re sliding,

Weightless,

Smooth across a tilting sea,

Tucking under showers,

Gliding in a perfect light,

Dancing to music you have heard before,

Smiling, sending laughter back into the thunder,

One hand touching magic.

Wake up! The light has changed

And you’re almost there.

No, I don’t call myself a poet. Yet I’m putting together (some of which is adding to) a book of songs and poetry and some pieces that might be called essays under the title, “Love songs for Cynics.” The problem is, more blues than love songs. So, I’m working on this. Here’s an attempt:

                                                      “Dream,” You Said

If it was a dream, and it may have been… You were in it. But then, you were my dream, are my dream. Don’t laugh.

Your right arm was stretched toward me. Your hand was close, delicate fingers tightly squeezed together. My focus, even as you moved your hand away from your face, remained on your palm; life line and wish line and dream line and fate line.

You rotated your hand, slightly, at the wrist. Your little finger, closest to me, curled in. The others followed. One, two, three, four. The fingers straightened together. One, two, three, four. And again. One, two, three.

A twist of the wrist ended the rhythm. You were pointing at me.

The last knuckle of your pointer finger moved, slightly, then re-straightened. Your thumb remained up, like a hammer on a pistol. You pulled it back with the thumb and first finger of your left hand. The word ‘yes’ was part of a laugh.

You moved your left hand away as the finger pistol recoiled. The fingers on both hands exploded out. You laughed. “Poof” was the word within this laugh.

Your right hand moved against your lips, fingers wrapped over your nose and left eye, moved, slightly, to your rhythm: One, two, three, four.

Porcelain nails, jade green with ivory tips; ivory, ivory with a slight coral tinge; were almost tapping.

“Dream?”

“Dream,” you said, as you slid your hand down your face, the first two fingers following the ridge of your upper lip: Pulling, but only softly, on your bottom lip. Revlon red lips, since I’m naming colors. Your eyes, fully open, narrowed. Green. Of course, green; translucent, with electric lines of yellow and blue. More blue or more yellow, but always green.

Your right eye widened, a half-breath ahead of the left, to fully open.

“Dream, then,” I said.

Your right hand twisted and opened, almost like a wave. I’ll rephrase.  It was almost as if you were waving, but, as you pulled your fingers in, one, two, three, four, I heard, or imagined, a sound, a wave, breaking; up, over, the wave becoming a fist. Open, repeat; one, two, three.

After the fourth wave, you threw your fingers out; that wave hitting a cliff. Perhaps.

“It could be, perhaps,” you said, something like a laugh, but softer, within the words, “That it’s you, that you’re in my dream.”    

I’m reserving copyights on the two poems. THANKS for checking out realsurfers.net I am available for complaints and compliments and stories. Write me at erwin@realsurfers.net

As always, when you find some waves, surf them.