Category Archives: surf fiction

Humbled and Humble and Remembering and Memorial Day and… You Know, Surf Stuff

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, old surfers, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, short stories on surfing, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf art, surf culture, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing illustrations, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing stories

Poem. Fear of Crying- “It takes a lot to make me cry, so please don’t try; and if you do, I promise you, I’ll try to make you smile.”

My finger, someone else’s wave.

What We Deserve- We all deserve better; or we believe we do; better or more; less stress, more success; less pain, more gain. Yeah, slogans; the salesperson’s pitch, the trap of new age clap trap; me-ism, we-ism, jingoism. And it’s not that I don’t buy into it. If I put off the work I should be doing, get up early, load up, and drive out for a minimum of half an hour, full of anticipation; by golly, I sort of believe I deserve waves; good waves, uncrowded waves, and lots of them. And I sort of know that belief has no basis… except I want my reward to be as great as my desire, as true as what I imagine it could be.

The Truth is- Sometimes we get skunked. Sometimes someone else gets the wave of the day; someone newer to the game, someone to whom a lucky make on a wave on which the surfer displayed no style, no sign of years of accumulated wave knowledge; and yet, that surfer’s dreams were surpassed. Blissfully so, because a ride like that deserves to be properly appreciated.

Humbled, Not Humble- My most recent surf expedition left me searching for excuses for why I performed so badly; and I hate excuses. Still, I have some: Pressed for time, mind set more on real life than surfing, chose the wrong place to paddle out, relentless set waves. Those are the easy ones. The more fear inducing mind fucks: It just might be true that waves I would have once relished seem daunting, dangerous even. Perhaps my age is catching up with my self-image as someone who tries, as hard as possible, to defy if not deny it.

Still, a Great Session, Other than the Surfing – I got to use my wheelie to pack my board down and back, I met an old friend, TYLER MEEKS, chatted with CHIMACUM TIM, and a couple of other surfers. In processing my latest embarrassment, not that it was witnessed, more that I haven’t been able to not talk about it, I have to go back and take a mental count on other times I’ve been treated unfairly by the ocean (not that, again the ocean plays favorites or that any surfer deserves favor), and there aren’t that many. Did I learn something from my failures? Yes. Do I count the times where I left the water because I lost a fin or was injured or caught three waves in an hour because of the crowd? No. But I can easily recall the sessions in which I was humbled, in which I didn’t live up to whatever standards I believed I had set for myself. Again, belief versus reality.

The John-John Effect- Perhaps you remember a World Surf League contest in France a few years ago: Roll-throughs, brutal death pit shore break; every reason to be intimidated if not scared shitless; and everyone is getting slaughtered… except John Florence. He was ripping the place like it was his back yard. I don’t need to add to that, do I? One surfer’s nightmare is another surfer’s dream.

Cold Comfort- Though I refuse to admit that there is any real value in talking about what I or you or anyone “Used to” do, I do, while wishing I could still ride a six foot board in six foot beachbreak, still wish I could spin and one-stroke into a late drop, crank a vicious hit on an oncoming section, or do a reverse flyaway kickout, and with full awareness that bragging about what I once did only shows what I can no longer do, I do take some solace in my own history; successes and failures.

What Failure Guarantees- A better next time.

Next Time, Man…   

ACTUALLY, I wanted to write something about friends, surf friends, close friends, not that kind of friends. The idea is that we have surf acquaintances, and often, our only thing we have in common is that we are surfers. Some, but not all, of my best friends are surfers. Yes, I have so many writing projects in the process of becoming something worthy of sharing. What I’ve been thinking about has some connection to my last humbling. The gist of the story is that I sort of stole PHILLIP HARPER’S car and drove it to a surf spot I was sure I was going to do well at. I didn’t. I lost my 9’9” Surfboards Hawaii noserider paddling out. Lesson- Hands tight on the rails when turning turtle, arms loose to make it through the turbulence. Other lesson, learned when Phillip, who gave me permission through his mother while he was ill and in bed at the motel adjacent to the Cantamar trailer park, Baja California, Easter Vacation, 1968, had a miraculous recovery when he realized that I was driving his Chevy Corvair with a desperate oil leak to K-38, a place where, on the way down, we saw multiple boards destroyed on the rocks. When I got out and up the cliff, all the other dudes, invited and self-invited, and a very angry Phillip, showed up. I don’t remember anyone asking how I did. Later in the week, an offshore wind made Cantamar, which I had tried to surf because I didn’t have a car and everyone else slept in, became rideable for a while; we surfed some blown out shit waves south of Ensenada, paddled out at a spot that was more crowded than it probably was in North San Diego County, and had some other, non-surfing adventures; fireworks, lack a proper bathroom/shower facilities, a lot of hanging out, and a bit of what folks would refer to as partying. Memorable trip for a sixteen-year-old.

What is interesting to me is that I forgot that I had stolen (borrowed) Phillip’s car until I was writing about this trip, fictionalized, as “Inside Break,” the alternate (in a way) coming of age novel that has been (is still being) transformed into “Swamis.” Because I was thinking about this, I accumulated a list of the cast of the actual incident. I’m listing them here because I will forget the names again. The trip was organized by Phillip’s stepfather, Vince Ross. Vince was borrowing a trailer. He and Phillip’s mother, Joy, and Phillip’s sister, Trish (not my Trish) were to stay at the adjacent motel. INVITEES: Phillip Harper, Ray Hicks, Erwin Dence, Melvin Glouser, Clint/Max Harper, Mark Ross. We were supposed to stay at the borrowed trailer, which did not, and this became an issue have a sewer hookup. But, because of the UNINVITED surfers, Dana Adler, Mark Metzger, and Billy McLean; Mel and Ray and Phil and I got to stay in tents outside the boundary, adjacent to a field of, I’m guessing, sugar cane. There were other American surfers also camped there; way cooler than we were.

If this is in some way connected to friends, Phillip was my first surf friend, Ray was a friend before he started surfing (classmate, Boy Scouts).  I am still in occasional contact with Ray, and credit him with inspiring me to get back into surfing at fifty, after an eight or ten year near drought. I haven’t been in contact with Phillip for years. While I’m fine with knowing something about what has happened with Mark and Billy and Dana, and others, I do feel bad that I might not have been a good enough friend to Phillip.

Tyler Meeks when he had the sorely missed DISCO BAY Equipment Exchange. His hair is longer now. I didn’t recognize him immediately when I last saw him. He is supposed to call me about t shirt opportunities. Call me, Tyler.

What We Don’t Know- DELANA is a DJ on the local Port Townsend public radio station, KPTZ. The program is ‘Music to my Ears,’ 4 to 5 pm on Wednesdays, repeated on Saturdays at 1pm. I’ve caught her show quite a few times when driving. Old tunes, little stories about the artists involved.  What gets me is that at the end, and I’m paraphrasing, she says, “Remember to be kind to those we meet. Each of us carries a burden that others do not see.” What we know about our surf friends is what we have in common; and sometimes surfing is pretty much it. And… that’s fine. In fact, it’s great.

The step parent of “Swamis,” different take on the same era. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. Oh, and Happy Memorial Day, and, oh, good luck, Sally Fitz. They may or may not hold the next round tonight. As with everything, we will see.

Of Course it’s Cool to be a Surfer, and…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, short stories on surfing, surf addiction, surf contests, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing, women surfers in the Northwest,, writings of Erwin Dence

…what is really important, if one of the supporting columns of your self image is that you are a surfer (hence part of the could-be-more-inclusive club), to be recognized as a surfer is quite obviously way better than being seen as, let’s say, because you are standing at the edge of an increasingly busy surf spot, fully dressed in your “I’m going to Costco outfit, and, yes, Walmart, on my way home, and, incidentally, I already surfed somewhere else (and I ripped, if I do say so myself), and I’m only here to make sure my friends who I know are here, because I saw their rigs on the road, and people have been known to exaggerate;” and, it seems, most of the surfers arriving or departing, some in groups, don’t recognize you, and you are, yes, old, and yes, kind of chunky… there might be some assumption on the part of these surfers, almost all of whom give you at least a nod, which is, at least, some sort of acknowledgement that you might not be some sort of pervert, having anyone believe that you are not, indeed, a real surfer, a member of the select group of proud wave riding enthusiasts might be… hurtful.

It’s really not worth defending yourself. Yes, I tried. True confession: Yes, I still try to convince people, surfers and non-surfers, that I have surfed and continue to surf.

Because my being forced to view myself as a greeter is based on a recent incident, I should add that on the same day I walked along the beach to where a better vantage point was available to check out the corner section of a long and closed out wall. The up the line view. A man was there, kicked back on a big driftwood log. I joined him. I, of course, got into my favorite game, “Who do you know?” It’s really, “Who do we know in common?” It turns out he is one of the pioneers of surfing in the northwest, Bill Truckenmiller. I had heard the name, most notably from Tom Burns, and have probably surfed with him. He is a few years older than me and has had issues with his shoulders. Common issue. He hasn’t surfed in a while but hasn’t given up on it. And he was checking out the surf from a great angle.

I have heard of surfers who, unable to surf for any number of reasons, want to be as far away from surf as possible. I haven’t met any of them.

SALLY FITZGIBBONS WATCH- I’ve kind of gotten onto this rooting for Sally thing; didn’t mean to, but, since I left the Margaret River contest on the big screen the other evening, went to sleep, woke up, watched Sally and Betty Lou Sakura Johnson, top two finishers at the Gold Coast contest, get sent to the elimination round. With THE CUT imminent, the next heat is vital, the stakes are high. I was ready to watch it unfold yesterday, 4:15 pm, PDST, but no; on hold. So, maybe today, Sally will not throw everything at each wave, and… we’ll see. On the men’s side… hard to keep track. But, there’s a reason why sports are best live.

Not promoting the WSL on purpose. Proof- Every venue has a particular setup. The judging seems to favor a certain approach to the wave; pretty much two turns on the outside, big finishing move. There is a redundancy to the whole thing, heightened when the surf is manufactured. Surf to the criteria, crank a bit harder turn, play the priority game. The game remains the same.

SURF AURA- I spend an inordinate amount of time pondering the allure of surfing, the pride one has in being counted as a surfer. There is, of course, the absolute bliss of getting an unexpectedly great ride and the hope for another. And another. But… are any of us better people because we did what it takes to be decent at paddling, at wave selection, at timing, at cranking a turn or staying this much closer to the power of a wave?

If I may make a sort of political comparison (not that I’m all that political), I heard something about MAGA folks and how resistant they are to believing they are supporting policies that are detrimental to the country, of course, and detrimental to the demographic they are part of (if they are blue collar workers, or social security/medicare beneficiaries, or veterans, or… okay, pretty much anyone who isn’t in the top, say 10% percent, income-wise); the point being made being they believe they are part of some group that actually knows more than the ‘elitists,’ which is, possibly, code for knowledgeable folks. SO, there’s a certain smugness, a certain arrogance that is very difficult to break through.

SO, does a surfer have to be smug and, possibly, arrogant?

ANSWERS: “No, but it doesn’t hurt;” or “Yes, it is part of the reward for challenging the ocean;” or “Yes, but the humbling reality is the ocean kind of levels this out; but still, yes;” or “Who the hell are you to ask me that?”

SALLY FITZ/Contest update: While I was pondering and writing, and taking a couple of phone calls, and drinking more coffee, and checking the buoys, I checked with the WSL; the contest is on hold until at least tomorrow. Oh, the anticipation.

WRITINGS of Erwin Dence update: No, I haven’t been working on a couple of little changes to “Swamis,” and no, I haven’t done more on “Love Songs for Cynics,” and no, I haven’t drawn anything for a while, BUT I did write a short story with characters from “Swamis,” particularly Joseph Atsushi DeFreines. It, like the other projects mentioned, is not quite ready. Hopefully by Wednesday.

SHIT! I gotta go. If you see waves… you know what to do. As far as arrogance goes; I’m holding on to mine as long as I can. If or when it gets to the point I can no longer float or bob or catch a wave, I’ll still have that knowledge that I almost learned the secret.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net See you out there!

And… greetings.

Stitches and Protests and Poetry, Oh My

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Devil Dan dared,

If aware, did not care,

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

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

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

Frame of Reference and “I Just Wanna Go Surfin'”

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf fiction, surfing blogs, surfing for life, surfing novels, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing stories, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

‘YOU’LL DO ANYTHING FOR ATTENTION’- This is what Trish, who refuses to look at the cut (and only a cut) on my head says. “I hope it was worth it” is what she texted when she figured out, through spyware on my phone, that, three days after smacking against something (we’ve determined it was a 2 by 2 on a lattice, forensics based on blood splatter) hard enough to provide (?) me with a cut requiring 20 stitches.

The surfing: I did try to keep my head above water, pulling out of sections I would ordinarily plow through or, perhaps, drop under (barrel dodging, not immune); but, sometimes, yes, a real surfer has to tuck in (not bragging, I insist for myself and others, that being ‘in position’ is not the same as being in the barrel). And once I was wet… well… AND I did wash the wound and sanitize it and cover it and… Yeah, worth it.

OTHER PEOPLE’S STITCHES STORIES- Word got around. Partially because I posted a (rare, on purpose) selfie of me with a dressing; partially because I know other surfers AND, allegedly, I love to gossip. Not on a high school and above level, more like junior high. When I, post-cut, post-stitches, talked to ADAM WIPEOUT, he had a WAY BETTER head injury/stitches story from when he, down Surf Route 101 in the wilds of Lilliwaup, was about junior high age: His older brother at the wheel of some giant wreck of a car, two younger cousins between them, they were joy riding around the property. Something happened, like the car suddenly losing power, and power steering, and the car hit head on into an apple tree. Adam, attempting, bravely, to save his cousins from hitting the dashboard by the time honored if never successful method of putting an arm across them, was launched forward, cutting his head on the metal (of course) uncloseable door to the glove compartment. Blood. While his brother hid in a creekbed, Adam ran to his grandmother’s house where, evidently, multiple members of the extended HAMA HAMA families were gathered.

So… blood, stitches and a great story.

Every real participant in surfing and any other gliding/riding sport has to have some stories of stitches or sprains or broken bones. Hopefully your injuries weren’t life threatening. There are truly tragic stories out there.

TIME AND TIME AGAIN- When I was contemplating what to put on my next (like the one I didn’t write for Sunday) posting, one of the things I considered is that, on a recent trip/session, I happened to notice that SEAN GOMEZ, Olympic Peninsula ripper and teacher, has lost a significant amount of hair. Sorry, man; I understand. Others, including DARREN, also have suffered this fate. The realization is that I have surfed around these folks long enough that I remember when they had full heads of hair. If I count my northwest surfing story as having begun when I was a mere 27, 1978, rather than the restart, now over twenty years ago, yeah, my hair was fabulous.

LUCKY OR LOCAL- Not to be bringing Adam into, like, everything, but in a recent cell phone conversation, he said that the session, that I totally missed, in which he surfed two spots many miles apart, on one day, was this time of year, in 2013. “What? That’s like twelve years ago.” “I know.”

Incidentally, Adam, when we spoke, was trying to do a different kind of double; snowboarding and surfing on the same day. There was some late season snow in the Olympics, and Adam, and many others, including those who include surfing and snow-sliding in their lists of sports, took advantage of conditions on, like, Saturday, just before a different wind/storm pattern came in and turned snow reported as powder into something else, not powder, on the way to, I guess, mud.

It seems like a theme around here; conditions are fickle in the mou tains and on the water; get it when you can.

LUCKY OR LOCAL OR LOSER- All the surfers I run into on a regular basis pride themselves on keeping track of tides and winds and buoy readings, As do I. But, now perhaps it was the day off to recover from my injury, but I got word that some lucky souls got some decent surf. “What?” “Lucky or local.” Now, I did text back to complain about using the phrase, that I take credit for, if the session isn’t all time great. It wasn’t. Or maybe it was. It’s not FOMO if you know you missed out. It’s just MO, loser. “Next time,” we say, over and over again. “Next time, man…”

FRAME OF REFERENCE- I was hanging out with AARON and KEITH, two rippers, looking over the high bluff at some waves dumping on the beach. Aaron said it’d be great for skimboarding. I mentioned how I’d seen amazing stuff on YouTube, but it all requires getting thrashed in the shorebreak. SO, we agreed, not for me and my ancient and non-nimble knees-to-ankles-to-feet, me with a known history of getting worked trying to get out of the water and up the beach. Fine.

There was talk of snowboarding and skateboarding, both of which my fellow water-watchers had participated in. I did skateboard, back in ‘the day,’ as in, not lately (see above). I asked Aaron, “So, did you, like, read ‘Thrasher’ magazine and… stuff?” “I was in ‘Thrasher’ magazine.” “Oh, then… Warren Bolster; he was a big time surf photographer who was everywhere on skateboarding magazines? He once blatantly burned me at Swamis; 1970… or ’71. Maybe he was pissed because he’d been filming rather than…” Lost my audience. Aaron had no clue. “You know, guys, I saw a movie about some guys… I think it was Mike Doyle and Joey Cabell, riding early snowboards… in 1968. They were flying off cornices and everything, and…”

Blank looks. I know Keith was born in 1977, a year after my older son, James. “When were you born, Aaron? “1971.” “Oh; so you have no idea.” “No. Never heard of Joey Cabell.” Aaron did a sort of Italian/mobster type accent, with, “Hey-a, you don’t a mess with a Joey a Cabell.”

Of course; my talking about the sixties, or even the seventies is similar to my father talking, or not talking, about World War II, or the Depression. His day. History. Other people’s stories.

Joey Cabell. Historical photos.

ANOTHER SELECTION FROM ‘LOVE SONGS FOR CYNICS’-

I have a whole lotta work, so I’ve just got a little time; I’ve got a whole lot of work, so I just have a little time; now they say everybody chooses their own mountain to climb.

I’m gonna climb that mountain, gonna start about four AM, gonna climb that mountain, gonna start about four AM; gonna stop about noon at a lake that I know for a swim.

When I get to the top, I’m gonna check out the other side; when I get to the top, I’m gonna check out the other side; and if I see the ocean, you know that I’ll be satisfied.

I JUST WANNA GO SURFIN’, now tell me, is that such a sin; I just wanna go surfin’, now tell me, is that such a sin? when you know darn well it’s been a mighty long time since I’ve been.

I’m gonna take off late, free fall drop, carve off the bottom and fly off the top; Locked in so tight the wave spits me out, hit the shoulder and turn one-eighty about; Movin’ down the line like a water snake, saving my best moves for the inside break; Hit the inside section, arching, hanging five; that’s when I’ll know that I’m still alive…

I just wanna go surfin,’ but I just don’t have any time; I wanna go surfin,’ and I’m gonna find me some time; NOW… if you get to go surfing, but you need a good board… borrow mine!

Not that, given the thrashed nature of my HOBIE, anyone would. Thanks for reading, thanks for respecting my rights to my original, copyrighted work. GOOD LUCK on finding some waves worth remembering. When I say, “That wave is gone” it means, partially, it’s history.

Super Busy Working on Being Forgotten

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing Swamis, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, women surfers in the Northwest,, writings of Erwin Dence

That may be a bit cynical. I have been surfing a bit (never enough) lately, trying my darndest to make up for a 2024’s bad session/wave count. I’m back to trusting my reborn VOLVO to make it up SURF ROUTE 101 far enough to find some rumored waves. MEANWHILE, rumor-wise, there have been times when surfers just had to check out the Strait. Whether or not it was working, surfers did show up and I did not. The sentiment among those lucky or stubbornly willful enough to live on the Olympic Peninsula is to try to avoid the forecasted days, particularly on the weekends (Friday through Monday, sometimes Thursday -Tuesday) to avoid any crowds.

CROWDS- Here is my wish/prayer list- 1. Waves. 2. Good tides. 3. Favorable winds. 4. Good parking spot. 5. Uncrowded lineup.

OBVIOUSLY there is a correlation between the parking and the number of surfers in the lineup. I have seen days where all semi-convenient parking spots were taken, some with occupants sleeping or making brunch, and the crowd is mostly surfers on the beach watching and waiting. And I have seen days with no crowds and rideable waves.

Here’s what happens: You surf. It’s, you know, decent. You tell one or two of your closest surf friends. They don’t believe you. That’s fair; you don’t believe them when they talk about barrel fests and such.

This lack of belief shouldn’t be a problem. REAL SURFERS do it for the soul enriching wonderfulness of the experience of climbing into a cold, damp wetsuit, booties and gloves and hood, and venturing into cold ass water to surf waves, their wonderfulness in the eye and mind of the venturer. BUT, NO, a little acknowledgement is, at the very least, appreciated. I’ve seen the most soulful of soul surfers surf just a bit better when someone else shows up. It’s the nature of the beasts we are.

BECAUSE I’M candid by nature as well as competitive, I admit, now, in writing, that I kind of enjoy having some sort of reputation for showing up when waves are rideable. I enjoy seeing surfers I know, or recognize; and I collect little stories from many of them. AND, since I’ve shown up less frequently, I… neurotically, self-centered-ly, worry, just a bit, or, more accurately, have considered that I am in the process of being forgotten.

It happens. Years ago, now, I read a piece on some older surfer who quit surfing urging other older practitioners of the sport/art/lifestyle to just fucking quit and become a legend. Sure, but legends only last as long as people remember. Do you remember ARCHIE or BIG DAVE or a growing number of surfers who made the same searches you are making, suffered the same skunkings, found the same rare gems, felt the same chill and the same magic?

MAYBE you do. Or you have your own list. This all leads me to surfing in crowded conditions. Is it worth it? I’ve seen so many times when people piled out of rigs and raced into the water without even checking the conditions, all based on ‘the rule of the parking lot;’ if surfers are out, it must be worth joining them.

AGAIN, crowds are number five on my list. I might just snag a few. As much as I appreciate the atmosphere of even, let’s say, the whole circus-like scene at Westport, my motto continues to be: I’m here to surf.

International Women SURFERS’ DAY- I do not have a problem with women surfers. At all. Some have had issues with me. Understandable. There were fewer, percentage-wise, girls and women surfing when I started. AND, I know I’ve said this before, but my sister Suellen got me into board surfing, our mother drove us and our siblings to the beach because she loved it, and went to better surfing beaches because we surfed.

It isn’t an accident that one of the two main characters in my novel, “SWAMIS,” Julia ‘Cold’ Cole, is a surfer AND a strong and intelligent woman. Persistence is absolutely required for anyone to attain any level above mere competence in surfing, the sport, and is also necessary to fit in as an equal in the art/lifestyle part of trying to ride waves, an objectively ridiculous and so-often frustrating activity/obsession/addiction.

I am pushing my daughter, DRU, to format and, maybe, do a little editing, if necessary, on my manuscript. MEANWHILE, though my painting life has suddenly gotten way busier, I am working on getting pieces together for my poetry/song (mostly song, some essays, some illustrations) book, “Love Songs for Cynics,” together.

Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net. Get some waves!

Doing the Loop, Sunday Quickie, Less

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, real surfers, surf culture, surf fiction, surfing blogs, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

I’m not giving up any spots. I think this is from San Diego.

I actually don’t have a lot of time this morning. Work, and planning for more work. The winter work famine might just be giving way to, yeah, work. the VOLVO continues to run great, knock on wood, I’m waiting to see if my daughter will kindly format my “Swamis” so I can do something with it, I’m moving ahead, slowly, on getting songs and poems and essays and artwork together for “Love Songs for Cynics,” and… surfwise; with a few notable exceptions, the surf doldrums continue.”

I’ve been doing a virtual dawn patrol lately. No, I’m always checking the buoys (taking advantage before they disappear in a whiff of doge-shit). What I don’t check is the forecast sites. Perhaps it is nice to have Surfline to blame for your latest trip by ferry, and across bridges, and through a few stoplights and past some downed trees on long and winding roads to end up with you, speeding from known spot to known spot, to be skunked. That with the added bonus of hanging out, at length, or hiking in, watching a lack of rideable waves for a number of hours, hoping, waiting, and then considering the miles and bridges and ferry wait times between there and home.

Still, I believe, anticipation doesn’t just ebb and flow; we store it up, tighten that spring, until…

Until. Hopefully, until, for you, is now. Or soon. I have my big, gnarled and thrashed board on my car, I have buoys on my phone, and… I’m ready. See you.

OH, yeah, on an I’m-not-political side note, I am not ready to go commie. Now, or ever. And… I’m not sure even red state, all-in Magamaniacs are really, really ready to go that red. Meanwhile, for book banning enthusiasts, a must-ban is “The Manchurian Candidate,” and any other book that even hints at… whatever that book hints at.

I Guess I’m Lucky… Occasionally

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PHOTO voluntarily REMOVED.

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

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

Dogs and Blue Devils, and Another Poem

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, classic surfboards, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, writings of Erwin Dence

If I say I’m easily distracted, it would be… wait a minute… What? Oh. Yeah, so I was trying to get a painting job done in the few hours in which it is reasonable to do so, when this guy walks by, notices I’m wearing a HOBIE hoodie that I shouldn’t have been wearing, one that already had too much paint on it, and asks if it’s, like, old. “A couple of years. Why?” “Oh. I used to have a Hobie.” “Uh huh.” NOW, I am always ready to make connections between people I’m talking with and surfing, so I go into a spiel about how I currently ride a Hobie, and my first board, actually my sister, Suellen’s, board, was a Hobie. 9’4″ stock model, purchased in 1964 from John Amsterdam and… I could go on, though I really had to get bak to work.

It turns out the man is JOHN HOLM. He asked me if I went to the most recent SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT. *”Yeah. I was one of the organizers. I did the poster.” It turns out that John had artwork on display and may or may not have given a presentation that I must have missed. “Did you get a lanyard?” “I did.” “My daughter made those.” “Oh.” I asked him if he remembered another older surfer, TIM NOLAN. “Yeah, the guy in the movie.” “No, that was me.” “Oh. Okay. You’re Erwin.” “Yes.” “I bought one of your t shirts, an Original Erwin.” “Thank you, John.”

John Holm was in advertising in Los Angeles, and did have a humorous story of how he had an filmed commercial he wanted to sell to an ad agency. “It’s called a ‘reel.'” NOW, there was, about this time, a famous porn star named JOHNNY ‘THE WAD’ HOLMES, and when John Holmes went to the agency, he wondered what the response was when it was announced that he was there to show them his reel.

*The quotes are more like paraphrasing. Obviously it’s difficult for people in their seventies to remember things exactly. I did remember that I always forget to take photos.

THERE MAY exist, somewhere, a photo of the house I grew up in on DEBBY STREET in Fallbrook, California, 20 miles as the road bends, to the nearest surf. The photo has most if not all of the 13 surfboards I and my family owned at one time.

Because I was raised as a Seventh Day Adventist, surfing on the Sabbath was kind of a sin. Too much fun, perhaps. SO, ONE SATURDAY, my father and I had to go home to, I don’t remember, pick up a side dish for a potluck or something, and there were two JEHOVAH WITNESS dudes, young guys on their mission, dressed, oddly, similarly to my dad and I, white shirts, ties, no coats. “Not interested.” “Oh. Okay. You have a lot of boards.” “Want to buy one?”

Five minutes later they were tying a well-thrashed board to the top of their car. It would have been pretty hypocritical of us to criticize the missionaries when we were selling a board on the Sabbath. Then again, one person’t hypocrisy is another’s fifteen bucks. Maybe more. I don’t remember, AND I didn’t get the money.

f you don’t have space on your living room walls to hang some classic surfboards, decorating your compound seems like a reasonable alternative. This is a friend of mine’s gated, protected version. I can speak from experience, BEWARE OF THE DOGS!

THIS IS ADAM WIPEOUT JAMES and JEN (Adam didn’t want to use her last name without her permission) at a secret surf adjacent campground near Neah Bay. There was a WARM CURRENT retreat last weekend, and because Jen is a dog groomer, people call her with dogs ready to be rescued. She tries to find homes for the obviously delightful and loveable furballs.

ADAM WIPEOUT with his new adorable and loveable furball. The dog’s name, in the language of the MAKAH tribe, evidently means ‘cow.’ Not sure why, but the dog’s nicckname, one that will probably stick, is PEACHES.

Adam is shown in his normal position, on the phone. In this case, over at my house in an attempt to save my VOLVO after it overheated, Adam is wrapping up a convo (note the hip talk) on another Oyster farmer’s problems. This knowledge and willingness to share his expertise is, no doubt, a part of the reason for the success of my neighbors down the Hood Canal, the HAMA HAMA OYSTER COMPANY.

As far as whether going through the steps to use BLUE DEVIL have been successful… I’ll get back to you on that. The oil, which was the color of chocolate milk with a lot of milk, after the process of draining it, changing the filter, adding the Blue Devil, running the car for an hour, changing the oil again running it some more, changing it a third time, is the proper color. STILL, with the engine not overheating, not using water, the oil staying the proper color, but with some steam still happening, we might do another runthrough.

AGAIN, THANKS ADAM.

Next time you’re cruising SURF ROUTE 101, stop in at Hama Hama. Maybe you’ll get some fresh seafood or some delicious soup from another surfer, ‘SOUPY DAN.’

BECAUSE I’m pushing my song/poetry writing, here is another one; MAY AS WELL RAIN.

The winds that move the clouds just keep on blowing, and the temperature keeps falling by degrees, it takes everything I’ve got to keep on going, and I’s swaying like a poplar in the breeze, and the wind can chill the blood right in your veins; it may as well rain, it may as well rain, it may as well rain.

It’s been forty days and forty nights I’ve wandered, and I’ve gone from place to place and town to town, I keep thinking ’bout the love she and I squandered, as I pick my lead feet up and lay them down, and I feel like I’ve been circling the drain; it may as well rain, it may as well rain, it may as well rain.

Now the thunder claps and rolls it’s getting nearer, all the power lines are hanging by a thread, and I thought that in the distance I could hear her, no, it’s the echo of the last words that she said; lightning strikes a twisting, turning weathervane; it may as well rain, it may as well rain, it may as well rain.

Let the heavens rip wide open and the rain come pouring down, thunder fills the streets and alleys of this wicked little town, and I’m clinging to a lamppost that’s cememted in the ground; and if I stay here much longer I know I will surely drown.

If it rains it might blow over by the morning; there’ll be rainbows and the sun just peeking through; I let this whole storm kind of hit me without warning; it takes more than sun to cure these kind of blues; water’s not enough to wash away these blues; it may as well rain, it may as well rain, it may as well rain.

As always, thanks for checking out realsurfers. As always, hoping you get some waves. And, yes, everything in today’s post is protected by copyright. All rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

NOTE: I went to see “A COMPLETE UNKNOWN” with my daughter Dru the other day. SInce everyone else has reviewed the movie, some even more DYLAN fanatics/followers than I am, I’m going to voice my opinion on WEDNESDAY. Plus, hopefully, some good news on the VOLVO and on “SWAMIS.”

Fast Eddie, Another Full Moon, A Private Conversation

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, aggressive surfers, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf stories, surfing, surfing novels, writings of Erwin Dence

Fast EDDIE ROTHMAN giving a gnarled finger welcome to all the North Shore visitors.

THE TIME DIFFERENCE between the Olympic Peninsula’s North Shore and Hawaii’s gave me a couple of extra opportunities to watch the 2025 DA HUI BACKDOOR SHOOTOUT. YouTube gave ma a chance to watch all the best rides without having to listen to the commentary, though the upside of long heats with few waves ridden was the chance to mind surf a few. “No, double-up closeout; I’d have…”

The truth is I wouldn’t have even attempted the paddle out on most, okay, any of the days (maybe the first day with the SUPers). I got home on the last day of the contest just in time to watch, with some of cleanest conditions and the most waves ridden per heat, Fast Eddie Rothman chat it up about… okay, rant it up about how the indigenous Hawaiians (not that he is actually one of these) can’t afford the $5,000 a month rent, and how the ruling gentry have done whatever they could to keep the DaHui contest from happening. And Fast Eddie had other complaints, all delivered with a growl and the kind of tough, thugish, grammatically strained manner that would give him the part in any prison yard scene, movie version, and, I would guess, real life version. I have every reason to believe he’s as tough as he seems. Legendary.

The Eddie remarks came after two of the contest commentators explained how the ‘BLACK SHORTS’ group of lineup regulators came to be, why localism, keeping crowds of disrespecting interlopers at bay (rather than in the way, dropping in, being kooky) is, if not, you know, good; it is necessary to allow those lucky enough to be locals, skilled enough to drop in under the lip… Shit; I just wanted to see some surfing.

Result-wise, Eddie’s middle son, KOA, whose “THIS IS LIVIN'” Videos I do, generally, watch, is this year’s individual winner. I’m not arguing. I might have gone CLAY MARZO, whether or not he completed all of the crazy in-the-barrel moves, or, really, anyone who competed.

It isn’t fear, exactly, that has kept me from going to Hawaii. Fear of disappointment, perhaps, after a lifetime of imagining; BUT, if I do go, I’m thinking I should buy some DaHui black trunks, a Florence rashguard (with hood), the most fucked-up looking car and board I can find, and, of course, show so much respect to the locals that someone might just…

Speaking of imagining… I have been working on my epic novel, “SWAMIS” for a long time. If surfing has always been the ‘other woman’ in my relationship with TRISH, my obsession with the manuscript, and with my other writing and drawing projects is the ‘other other woman.’ I am supposed to be working on what I can’t call remodeling our house; it’s more like saving it. Time and money. “When I sell my novel,” I say. Trish, with an annoying habit of being honest, said, “Yeah; we’ll be burying you with that —-ping novel.” She was laughing when she said it, and I only bleeped the adjective out because I wouldn’t want you thinking she ever fucking talks that way, And, anyway, if she does, on rare occasion, she will say she learned it from me. TRUE.

ANOTHER FULL MOON. That’s Archie Endo’s board stuck in the blackberries. Yes, I borrowed the fin. Small waves and big rocks.

In my continuing effort to establish myself as a lyricist (wow, sounds as pretentious as poet or songwriter), I am spending too much of the time I could be doing home repair writing new materiall and organizing some of the pieces I’ve written, the net result to be, eventually, a book, with illustrations. And, yes, it might be available before “Swamis.”

It was a PRIVATE CONVERSATION, words I was not yet meant to hear; thought I’d surprise you at the station, couldn’t have know that I was near,

Your words and tears shared with a stranger, someone you’ve met along the line; I should have know this was the dTanger, if I did not, the fault is mine.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry; I don’t know what to say.

“Time apart,” you said, “Brings sorrow,” now, I could barely hear your voice, you said that “Love’s something we borrow,” and “Freedom’s such a frightening choice,

You spoke of hopes and disappointments, small victories, great tragedies; in all the time we’ve been together, you’ve never disappointed me.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry; I don’t know what to say.

I saw the touch, but at a distance; saw how your fingers were entwined; you didn’t put up much resistance, offered a kiss you did decline.

And, yes, I ran out of the station; this is my last apology; you should need no more explanation, perhaps we’ve set each other free.

But that’s another conversation, a very frightening conversation; A PRIVATE CONVERSATION.

I am trying to keep track of the songs/poems I’ve posted on realsurfers. If this is a rerun; I’m sorry. SO, COPYRIGHT-wise, the photo of Fast Eddie seems to have several source credits. It’s not mine. The other stuff is. All rights reserved. Thanks, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

AS ALWAYS, thanks for checking out realsurfers. Good luck finding some uncrowded and awesome waves. SUNDAY, yeah, more; probably not before 10am

The Santana Winds

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, real surfers, short stories on surfing, surf fiction, surf stories, surfing novels, surfing Southern California in the 60s, writings of Erwin Dence

credit for photo- the “Guardian” Mark Edward Harriss/ZUMA/Press Wire/REX/shutterstock

Everyone who grew up in California is familiar with the Santa Ana or Santana winds. Hot and dry, they are associated with clear conditions, generally offshore, sometimes beneficial. A wind that starts out straight offshore can bend, through a day, into one that is too north, chopping most breaks into oblivion. Some of the most blown out conditions I’ve experienced were not from the dreaded south winds, but from the Santanas. If they are not Devil Winds, once the spark get going, it isn’t too difficult for even non-believers to imagine the Devil being, somehow, involved.

The devastation still going on in Los Angeles is, like so many things happening in the world, surprisingly bad, but not necessarily shocking. There is a pattern, and this part of the drought, wind, fire, rain, flooding, mudslides, rebuilding cycle is the latest… and the worst of my lifetime.

Hopes and prayers and all that; as someone who had a house burn down, I am aware of the trauma, the hopelessness, the lingering effects of losing so much. Not that it is any way soothing, but I have also felt what it is to realize that possessions are only worth so many tears. Trish saved our ten day old daughter from our second floor bedroom. I saved jackets from an antique coat rack because it was cold outside when I could have saved the rack. I took what I could outside where neighbors helped get possessions out of the way and volunteer firefighters scrambled to do something when nothing much could be done.

I joined the Quilcene Fire Department shortly after, possibly hoping to save something more than someone else’s foundation.

The hottest spot in the fire that destroyed my house was under the stairway. That’s where I had my little writing area. Almost everything I had written or painted or drawn up to the age of 29 was gone. Some of it might have been good.

Doesn’t matter; gone in the firestorm; another wave gone. We fucking move on.

I hadn’t planned on even thinking about this today.

That’s my thumb as I was trying to catch a shot of a friend’s pre-kickstall on a post-shaker smoothie in a short-fetch Santana wind situation at a California spot that was not quite around-the-corner enough. It is good to remember that waves are created by wind; Angel Winds, Devil Winds, energy goes somewhere.

Possibly related to the photo- Back when I worked on Camp Pendleton (1975-ish), up the hill from Lower Trestles, I often tried to beat the more northerly Santanas by going to Church; figuring the wind might be more favorable. It wasn’t. Or it wasn’t that much more offshore. Somehow I discovered what I should have already known: The lighting looking toward the shore of a west facing beach on a sunny afternoon is similar to the lighting when looking west in the morning. It might be that I remember thinking this on one of several attempts because the surf just didn’t work. If it was something more cosmic, I would say it was because I was at Church. Further off the point; when I switched from riding surf mats to boards (1965), it was at Pre-harbor-expansion Doheny that I discovered one sometimes has to paddle a board to catch waves. No, neither of these were eureka moments facilitated or enhanced by any kind of drugs.

Here is another song; possibly appropriate to these, or any, times:

Give me some GOOD NEWS, please, no more bad, You know I’m crazy, But I’m not mad; Guess disappointed’s the word I’d choose, I think you can give me some good news, Something that might shake away these blues.

We need some laughter, Don’t want to cry, From here on after, It’s you and I, And no more running, It’s time to cruise, I hope you can give me some good news, Something that might shake away these blues.

We need some romance, Get you alone, No more long distance, No telephone, You know you want this, You can’t refuse, I know you can give me some good news, Something that might shake away these blues.

Gimme now, gimme now, gimme now, you know what I need, I’ll give it back, give it back, give it back, I don’t want to plead; You know and I know, and we know and they know, The world has blown a fuse; and God ain’t grantin’ no more interviews;

Some come now and give me… Something that might shake away, something that might take away, I know we can break away from these blues; If only you would give me, gimme, gimme, gimme; I know you can give me… some… good news.

As always, thanks for checking out realsurfers. And, yes, I am still working on “SWAMIS,” more on that on WEDNESDAY. Meanwhile, cherish what is important in your life.

“SOME GOOD NEWS,” from “Love Songs for Cynics,” copyright Erwin A. Dence, Jr. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.