Category Archives: surf novels

Sorry ‘Bout Your Blues and other Valentines

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SO… Lovers, love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Guess I’m Lucky… Occasionally

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PHOTO voluntarily REMOVED.

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

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

Groundhog Day Revisited Again and…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, surf novels, surfing novels, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing stories, surfing Windansea in the 1970s, writings of Erwin Dence

…AGAIN. Yeah. I turned on the Seattle news station to see if there is a possibility of waves, where the snow is sticking, and while maintaining what has. become my new and elevated level of anxiety and concern over definitely destructive tariffs; over the imminent acceptance of more crazy and objectively and blatantly unqualified nominees, each ready to facilitate and complete the takeover of all branches and functions of government, and reek vengeance on lists of those not onboad; over the US Congress continuing its obviously suicidal mission to trade a legislative branch for executive whims and lightning round edicts; and, while wondering how the stock market will react tomorrow, I accidentally, almost, discovered Michael Hynson has died. WHAT?

This is a photo taken from a 2007 article written by Steve Barilotti, entitled “Rainbow’s End. It is also proof that a surf shop in La Jolla I visited once actually existed.

Famous, of course, for his role in “Endless Summer,” Mike Hynson was of the Miki Dora, Butch Van Artsdalen, Herbie Fletcher school of surfers with that ‘fuck you, I’m surfing’ attitude. He was about nine years older than me.

For surfers in the early to late sixties, the ability to surf way better than the post-Gidget, post-Endless Summer group (I’m from the group in between) made them stars. In my abbreviated catchup this morning, I read a piece in which Hynson claimed he and other “Red Fin” surfers (Barry Kanaiaupuni, Billy Hamilton, others) would go to WIndansea and, basically, dominate.

Surfing coverage in the sixties was limited to occasional surf movies at, in San Diego County, Hoover High, by word of mouth, and through every-other-month magazines. Surf heroes were the ones in the photos. Hynson was among the group.

When I moved to Pacific Beach in 1971, I was in Hynson territory. I knew he had a connection with Skip Frye, who I would see quite often, surfing his way from tourmaline to Crystal Pier, finding waves the hordes were missing. In building boards of my own, I would see Skip Frye at the Gordon and Smith factory. Skip had a completely different reputation than Mike’s, more cleancut, kind of religious. I always thought it a bit strange that they were friends.

Then again, there is reputation and there is reality. Surfing at crowded, late morning La Jolla Shores in, probably 1974, word spread in the lineup (such as there was) that Mike Hynson was coming out. “Doper,” “Asshole,” “Druggie.” Still, I watched him wail on a couple of walls.

The surfboard shaping world in the late 60s, early 70s period was, I believed, centered in San Diego; and the evolution of board design was the most important since balsa gave way to foam. Surfboards Hawaii in Encinitas and Gordon and Smith in San Diego were, I still believe, the leading innovators, with garage shapers and engineers (like Tom Morey) and ever-moving professionals (like Donald Takayama) melding radical contours into ever better wave riding vehicles. If others do not give Hynson at least partial credit for boards with down rails, nose to tail, I will. As does Gerry Lopez. RIP MR. HYNSON.

SURFERS OUT OF THE WIND

PHOTO voluntarily REMOVED.

Some fat guy in an ORIGINAL ERWIN hoodie, holding a ‘graveyard’ mixed soda and Jamie Fox standee at the Emerald Queen Casino. My daughter, Drucilla (Dru) had to have surgery last week in Tacoma. ADAM LARM, a friend of two of Trisha’s and my three children (Sean is less so because Adam and his brother James sort of, kind of, definitely tortured him a bit as a child- as friends of brothers do- still kind of friends), now a nurse (and a lover of casinos) decided to treat Dru to a night at the adjoining hotel prior to her 5am check in at St. Joseph’s Medical Center.

The surgery went well, Dru is recovering at her home, with help from Trish. There are a couple of worth-telling stories around the adventure. Another time. OH, and I did get a photo of my daughter in the recovery room, but she asked me not to post it. SO, you know, another time.

A SONG/POEM FOR TODAY- from “Love Songs for Cynics’ and upcoming collection:

IF IT’S OVER, then it’s over, guess we’re through; there’s no reason I should go on loving you; but you know that’s exactly what I’ll do; if it’s over, then it’s over, guess we’re through; but I JUST CAN’T SEEM TO LET GO OF THESE BLUES.

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

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

I can find the bbroken pieces of my heart; I can build myself another from the parts; I need a new life, and it’s time for me to start; if it’s over, then it’s over, guess we’re through, but I just can’t seem to let go, gotta find a way to let go, I just can’t seem to let go OF THESE BLUES.

SURF REPORT- YES. Waves continue to break. Waves continue to break. Waves continue to break. Find some. Don’t be a wave hog if you can help it. Don’t be a wave hog if you can help it. Happy GROUNDHOG DAY!

All original works by Erwin Dence on realsurfers are protected by copyright, all rights reserved by the author. Swamis update on Wednesday. THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT realsurfers.

Occasional Run-Ins With Interesting Folks

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ALL dialogue is paraphrased but accurate in content.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rippers and Chargers and Bobbers and Buoys- A Report from A Random Parking Lot

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, perfect waves, real surfers, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf satire, surf sessions, surfing Swamis, surfing Windansea in the 1970s

It isn’t some kind of trick. I erased some good stuff; epic stuff. It is not unlike the sessions we miss; always chest to head high, bigger on the sets; the only wind the gentle offshores that groomed the empty A frames and barely makable walls; the lineup made up of best friends willing to give up a bomb for another bomb. Yeah, just like that.

Part of the reason I had to delete some images is the DE FACTO RESTRICTIONS I produce realsurfers under. There are, of course, no actual rules covering what spot I can name, and therefore, because of my influence with my tens of real and possibly real surfers in my worldwide audience, blow up; and only a few people have told me I cannot ever, ever say there are waves, ever, ever on the Strait of Juan de Fuca; BUT it is in my best interest to self monitor.

I have been mulling over, if not considering, if not laser focusing on the ALMOST OFFICIAL RULES OF SURFING, none of them passed by any legislative body other than self appointed regulators and wave counters. Although I hate, or at least hesitate to start any sentence with ‘Back in the day,’ back when BIG DAVE RING was surfing, he would often, without any substantiating evidence, say, “The wave counters on the beach say you’ve had enough; better go in.” And I would say, “Who?”

Here, if my copy and paste works, is where I’ve gotten to so far:

                                    The Freedom Trap- Preamble

It’s lovely to say that surfing represents freedom, and it does. It can be a very liberating experience. It should be that riding the visible, moving, tangible manifestation of energy, waves; wind born in chaos, smoothed and groomed by the miles traveled, shaped by underwater canyons and mountains, reefs and rocks, and delivered to a beach near you. For free.

By some real or imagined extension, surfers are free; free-thinking, free of the conventions and rules put up as roadblocks by those without the courage to throw away their inhibitions and crash into the wild, lawless surf.     

Free. Undaunted. Unrestrained. ETC…

This photo of SMILING DAN is a replacement for one that MIGHT have some sleuthing surf dick saying, “OH, I recognize that parking lot. It’s that new place down by Westport. ‘Country Clubs’ I believe the locals call it. Rabid bunch of surfers/golfers/rockhounds/dog walkers; no bags- watch your step if you go down there- yeah, and… I’m going to zoom in on his watch; see if I can get the time and date. And, anyway, he’s smiling; that there’s a clue.”

Okay, that is correct. Smiling Dan is, despite repeated warnings, smiling.

WHAT I DO LOVE, though not as much as surfing, is the gossip and chatter between surfers; in the parking lots, in the lineup, on the beach, in the comment section of every YouTube video. The sarcastic ones are the best. OKAY, I went back and re-found this one, commentary of a wicked day at BIG ROCK. I did, back in the day (sorry) live nearby, did surf Windansea, never attempted that crazy slab. So: “This wave looks soooo fun! I’m a low intermediate adut-learner and just got a new CI mid length. I’ll be out there the next big swell. If you see me in my white Sprinter van, stop byy and say hello.” @jakemarlow8998.

Perfect. Other worthwhile comments judged a dude harshly for dropping in, twice, at Lunada Bay (never surfed there), celebrating the justice delivered when his board broke. Blowing up spots and just how many surfers were out at, say, SWAMIS, were subjects prominently discussed. “Eighty-seven people out and five surfers getting all the decent rides” is a paraphrase of one I didn’t go back to give accreditation. I agree.

Do surfers JUDGE? NO, except constantly. You should assume that you are presumed to be a kook until you prove otherwise, and then you’re no more than another surfer, like, not as good as the surfer judging your surfing, until you get a great ride; and even then you can be demoted with one blown takeoff. One accidental drop in can get you pegged as a shoulder hopper, one accidental drift can get you labeled a backpaddler. Too many waves while the people in the channel get a smaller share… wave hog.

I’m not making accusations. As with a meaty-but-scary barrel opportunity, I’m dodging.

RIPPERS AND CHARGERS- Here’s the discussion. ONE, can you fit your surfing into one of these categories? TWO, which is better? COUGAR KEITH said he’s happy being a charger if being a ripper goes along with unnecessarily exaggerated arm movements. SHORTBOARD AARON, undisputedly a ripper, says a ripper can choose to charge, whereas a charger… Yeah, yeah, I get it.

I AM, of course, still, still working on perfecting (it was just polishing) my manuscript, “SWAMIS,” the fictional story centered in 1969, or ‘back in the day’ to some.

Sorry for blowing up Country Clubs. Happy Almost New Year!

The Very Delayed Eddie Swell, New Illustrations

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

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

                  Meanwhile, on a Strait Far Away…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NEXT.

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

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

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

Dream Journal, Surfer’s Journal, “Is that Reggie?”

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, hipster surfers, mind surfing, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing, surfing art, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

CHRIS EARDLEY texted me this photo with the caption, “Is this Reggie on my bag of Inca Corn Snacks?” “Definitely Reggie, switch stance.” It does resemble REGGIE SMART on the bag of hipster-friendly chips (available on Amazon and I don’t know where else. Co-Op, maybe). Reggie, in addition to being a licensed painting contractor, has rented a space in Port Townsend and is available for your tattooing needs. I know he’s on social media.

CHRISTMAS is coming, and I did my yearly assist in decorating DRU’S house in Port Gamble. Because the town is so, let’s say, quaint, decorating for the various seasons and for whatever other reasons is sort of mandatory. Dru works part time at WISH, a wonderful card and gift shop over by the haunted house and the other vintage attractions. Check it out on your way to or from the Hood Canal Bridge or the Kingston Ferry.

It’s a joke between TRISH and Dru and I that, in movies, when there’s a moon, “It’s always a full moon.” I took this shot over my house last night. Trees could have been in the photo, but were not. In the ‘should have taken a photo’ category- After midnight, when the moon was scientifically at it’s fullest, I looked up in the living room skylight, and the moon was visible through the bare branches of a vine maple. I opened my wallet and did the pagan chant that, once I started doing it, has become as mandatory as any ritual, and as such, must be followed religiously. “Oh moon, beautiful moon; fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” MAYBE the ‘er part is some American-ish bastardization, but, hey, that’s how I leart it.

SWAMIS TO “SWAMIS”- While I am waiting for responses from literary agents, I have decided that I should submit something to “SURFER’S JOURNAL.” Before it all hits the big time, my favorite surviving surf-centric magazine could have something on my struggle to capture the magic of a particular time and place through fiction so cutting edge that… Yeah, and art-wise, my stuff, I can hopefully convince them, should grace the magazine’s slick pages.

To that end, I am super editing my submission; as in, I’ve already cut out more than I’m keeping in. OH AND I’m going through my final final version of the manuscript. One more time. A POLISH as they say in the biz. Shit, I want it ready to be glassed and polished.

MEANWHILE, because it’s off off season for painters and the darkest time of the year, I’ve been sleeping more, which mean dreaming more. Not all are worth keeping track of or even attempting to remember, even fewer worthy of trying to figure out some sort of meaning. SO, Here’s:

                                    A Series of Dreams before Christmas

Second dream first- I was surfing, dropping into a left, turning hard off the bottom, going down the line. You know the angle; mine; close to the wall, the creases of the wave threatening, folding; and I’m climbing, too high, dropping, side-slipping, redirecting, racing into the glare.

Suddenly, dream time wise, I’m trying to get dressed, hurriedly, because I’m supposed to be somewhere, somewhere else. I pull on a t shirt with some sort of logo on it. I say, “I don’t work there.” I may add, “Anymore.” Dream talk. I put the shirt on anyway and look down several wide marble stairs. Almost landings. And, yes, marble, everything is marble, white with a very light green tinge. Or the greenness could be because there’s glass to the right, water behind it. An aquarium, perhaps, and possibly connected to a wave pool. Makes sense. Dream sense. Another view of surfers and waves. No, I didn’t see dolphins pressing close to the glass. I can imagine them, but I won’t add them as if they were there.

There is a woman sort of sprawled on the lowest stair, long black hair disappearing in all black clothing. All I can really see is her right hand and her face, in profile, very white, as I drop down and closer. Her reflection is on the glass and the walls between us. The walls, perhaps, are tiles, shiny, like the tile work in the Paris subways, but rectangular, horizontal.

“Did you see my ride?” Because the woman doesn’t answer I add, “I thought it was pretty good. My bottom turn was…” No answer. Her head turns a bit more toward me. “I figured, you probably don’t surf, so you might be…”

“Why do you think I don’t surf?”

“You’re very white.”

“Oh?”

“I mean, the sun isn’t… always…”

“Healthy? No. Not always.” The woman turns back toward the glass.

I notice there’s an above and a below the waterline. The last push of a wave hits the glass, pushing up above our ceiling.  The woman seems to smile as she watches the bubbles rising and dissipating into an unseen sky, some of the greenness transferred to her face.

“I did see your ride. It was… from the perspective of a very white non-surfer, not as good as you probably thought, but… if you’re happy with it…” She turned toward me again. “Do you work there?”

I looked down at the shirt. “No.”

Different scene, same dream- It’s still very bright, but I’m driving in some flat, open country. Big windshield. Truck, I’m dream thinking. And I’m late. Probably the surfing. I hard turn into a driveway. No grass, no trees. A house. Covered porch all the way across the front. Imagine Australian Outback. Dust flies as I jump out of the vehicle. Trish appears at the front door, her hands on the opposite arms.

“I’m late,” I say, breathlessly.

“Oh?”

Oh? I feel in my back right pocket. I pull out a cell phone. “Oh.”

“If I were worried, I’d have called you. You know that, right?”

“Right.”

“Where’d you get that shirt?”

GOOD LUCK on finding and surfing some memorable waves. STAY WARM! Remember all original material in realsurfers.net is protected by copyright. All rights reserved by someone, my stuff by me, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.