Surf spots can get crowded, surfers can be rude, kooks can spoil a ride, sometimes paddling out. is just. like, almost impossible, AND surfing (well) is kind of hard to do; I mean, like, even Kelly sometimes wipes out in an awkward way. BUT, now, going up to the clean crisp air in the mountains, shredding the pow-pow (hip lingo or powder, aka fresh, non-iced or mowed-over snow), that’s JUST SOOOO MUCH BETTER.
THE DREAM, REALIZED. YEAAAAA!!!!
MEANWHILE, out on the increasingly polluted oceans…
Yeah, it’s MAYHAM!!!
BUT, up on the slopes… the lineup is for the lift. Once at the top, it’s your mountain. No priority hassles, no better wave in a set; you just… pick your line and GOOO!
SO, GO; GO NOW!
AND, if I didn’t mention it, snow-related activities also have the advantage over sitting on a beach somewhere trying to figure out how to make the perfect s’more without getting all sticky, wondering if that sideshore wind is ever going to stop, hoping the predicted swell might actually show up, all while mean-mugging and side-eyeing the newbies and adult learners with their tricked-out rigs and their pristine, custom popout boards and their colorful beachwear, each of them claiming some overriding right to the next set wave; a lot of SKI RESORTS have SKI LODGES. Yes, you can show off your latest ski wear, posture and pose in warmth and comfort.
NOW I’ve thought about this too much. YES, there are increasingly large numbers of surf resorts around the world. Same opportunities for preening and posing. Select one and, since snow is kind of seasonal, and the season in these parts started late and is all but over, GO! GO NOW!!!
NO, I’m not all that bitter. It’s EASTER, the celebration of the resurrection of JESUS, and kind of the end of SPRING BREAK, so… bummer, but a sincere shout out to JESUS. Sorry so much hate and destruction is done while using your name to attempt to sanctify it. I have to imagine the haters and destroyers are imagining a different Jesus than the one in the Bible, and, since I’m imagining, I have to wonder how Jesus would behave in the lineup. “Your wave? Sure, sinner, hypocrite; go for it; there’s a better one coming.”
IT isn’t some brilliant or sudden or unique thought that driving in traffic is very much like surfing in a crowded lineup. Still, I have some thoughts.
Photo from San Diego Surf School.
FUCKERS cut you off; DICKWADS on oversized boards drop in way outside of you; over stimulated shortboard PUNKS backpaddle and drop in, at the last moment, with you obviously desiring a certain wave; oblivious ADULT LEARNERS blindly paddle for the shoulder on a wave you might, just possibly, thrash; BACKOFF BOBS and BETTYS add a chandelier to a section you would have made; a PACK OF possibly local, definitely friends act as a TEAM/GANG to dominate a peak, blocking your attempts to crack the lineup… EVEN WHEN you are SO, SO patient, respectful, almost ready to forget your hard earned sense of dignity and beg for just ONE chance, ONE non-set, not-a-bomb wave. Looking around the playing field at the greedy movers and shakers, the ‘just-happy-to-be-out-here’ enthusiasts; checking out and the seemingly omnipresent surf-adjacent crew of onlookers, color commentators, judges, cheerleaders, coaches, filmers; are they pleased that you’re frustrated? Fuck, yeah, and fuck you; maybe next time you’ll bring your own crew. OR…
from MUMMY TALES, a wordpress site/blog.
THE GREAT EQUALIZER- Not talking Colt 45 here, or any violent road rage insanity, and it’s not an avocado-to-mango comparison, but ANY MOTORIZED VEHICLE (even hybrid or electric) is capable of doing the same maneuvers as your ride of choice, attain the same speeds as your work rig or your Camry; and, additionally, a motorcycle (or Vespa or overpowered electric bike) can weave through lane changes and backups way better than a jacked-up, offroad diesel burning MAN truck, the modern incarnation of a Corvette, regardless of how many lights and wenches and flags and scary decals the man-mobile is sporting. ANYONE’S GRANDMA in a coupe, even without a spoiler and noisy muffler, any WHIMP, regardless of party or sexual affiliation, can cut you off in the collector/distributer lane, whip into the parking spot at Costco that, though not close to the entrance, is (was) close to a cart return. OH, IF ONLY you had a handicapped sticker.
SIGNALS- Yes, it is still rude to be yelling, “MY WAVE, MINE, MINE, MINE!!!” However, it is sometimes helpful to signal your intensions. Subtly. Softly. “Excuse me, but I am going on the second wave of the incoming set. Feel free to discuss the first wave among yourselves. And… Did you not hear me? My wave… mine, mine, MINE!!!!!”
5/10/2011 – Jay Janner/AMERICAN-STATESMAN – Emily McLean is stuck in a traffic jam on Colorado Street after President Barack Obama gave a speech at ACL Live at the Moody Theater on Tuesday May 10, 2011. She got stuck waiting to turn onto Cesar Chavez Street. The street was closed for about half an hour for the president’s motorcade. NOTE- I liked the photo.
THE FULL HAND FLIPOFF- Here’s how this civilized screed (I’m not checking if it can be both a screed and civilized) came to be: I have this bad habit of not using my car’s turn signals. This is how my daughter Dru and I decided it was her driving Trisha’s Highlander when a traffic camera in Poulsbo caught it running a light. Signals. Still, I, as the registered owner, got the ticket. In the mail. I thought it was a scam. No. They want real money. SO,
I’m in a hurry, going from here to there in Port Townsend. Not that I’m ever not in a hurry (when I’m behind the wheel. MAYBE, slight interjection, when I’m on my way home from surfing. SO, I make a left onto a busy street over by the school with the pool and the food bank on Wednesdays. It may or may not have been a Wednesday, but, as I’m making a right hander onto San Juan, I notice a woman, evidently waiting to turn left from San Juan, in a dark car. She is raising her left hand up, fingers spread. The back her hand is up near or against the window. As I ease around the corner, I can’t help but focus on the woman and the gesture. Was she waving? Do I know her? No. She may or may not have smacking the back of her hand against the window, but her frustration was obvious. Or should have been.
WHILE I’M THINKING ABOUT all this; you know when there’s some reason, known or unknown, for a backup, and the right lane is moving faster, relying on the kindness of strangers to let them in at the last moment? Well, I have been known to position my vehicle in such a position that these late mergers can’t, cannot merge. Similarly, I have either yelled out, “GO… whoever” when another surfer is about to be dropped in on (again) AND/OR I have blocked a shoulder hopper. Not that this is any way noble. I have had surfers cut across my bow (sailor lingo) to keep me off a wave.
Be patient, be safe. It’s only surfing, or traffic, or any situation in which a horde is keeping you from that which you desire. Now I’m thinking about checkout lines and Disneyland and imagining an empty lineup with wonderful waves and… no, I’m back to remembering the full hand flip off. Deserved. Sorry, Ma’am.
I HAVE BEEN offering an incorrect email address. erwin@realsurfers.net will work. Don’t be afraid.
SURFWISE- There may or may not have been waves in this off most charts zone. As always. It is March, coming in, as the poets say, ‘like a lion.’ Wind, surprise snow, generally crappy weather. The snow is happening. While several of the local Olympic Peninsula surfers are elsewhere, including Chimacum Tim in some exotic spot close to Epstein’s Island. Surfer/snowboarders are hitting the slopes. I will have more on how snowboarding and skiing are better than surfing NEXT TIME.
MEANWHILE, try really hard to relax. Yes, it’s a lot of work staying calm, not freaking the fuck out. Try a mantra, repeated until your mind if free from panic-inflaming reality. This might not be proper, but you can use mine: NOTHING, NOThing, NOthing, nothing, nothing… nothing… …nothing… AH!
All work and no play make Jack a dull boy… All work and no play make Jack a dull boy. All work and no play make Jack a dull boy All work and no play make… You can’t handle the truth! No. Wait. All work and no play make… Chinatown… No, no, it’s… you see, it’s like this: I… No, no. All work and no play… no play… no… nothing, nothing, nothing. Not a damn thing. You got that? No? Okay. Nothing, nothing, nothingnothingnothing.
I chose this ‘fuck cancer’ because it looks like waves. TRISH got her 12th and last Chemo the day after Christmas. She still has to go through radiation, 6 plus weeks, but she gets a break. We are all touched by cancer. I have a new appreciation of how horrific the disease AND the cure are.
DRUCILLA and I went over to Edmonds to try to purchase a vehicle to replace her Honda Odyssey, recently totaled by a Yeti-sized deer. I will have a more in depth accounting next time. Short version; I hard bargained them down three hundred bucks and a full tank of gas. Something. Dru is stoked!
I am hoping that, early in the coming year, I will be able to come back from my latest session. Here’s the story: YOU CAN’T SURF IF CAN’T MAKE IT OUT
THIS piece is directly related to my most recent humbling. Not that I haven’t had my share. The OCEAN is not designed to keep one’s ego pumped up. We wish it could; not, maybe for others, but, yes, any time we go out, we want to rip, to excel, to improve on our best PERFORMANCES, to do better. BETTER, damn it.
NOT arguing the implications of ‘performance’ and ‘better’ here, though both words suggest something more than the SOUL SURFER paradigm, real or imagined.
ALSO not discussing the anthropomorphism of bodies of water and, specifically, waves. It’s hydro physics that rejected your undoubtedly pure desires to dominate and/or flow with the Universe, it’s not some assigned assassin wave that kicked your ass; it’s not personal. Seems personal, nonetheless.
I’ve told this story several times to non-surfers. The mystique and mythology around surfing contends, beyond that surfing is cool and that getting a five second ‘straight-hander’ with five friends is fun, that a surfer can ‘conquer’ a wave, and that one successful challenge can change his or her life. Though I want to say ‘doubtful,’ I’m reconsidering. So, ‘maybe.’
My recounting of my humiliation drew laughter more than sympathy. This was right. I wasn’t looking for anyone feeling sorry for the old dude who shouldn’t have gone out on a day in which… to quote fictional George Costanza, “The ocean was angry, my friend.”
The surf desperate old guy who couldn’t wait for a better tide, or for the swell to back off, was REJECTED. Me, ego-heavy wave hogging dude, humbled.
YES, I waited on the beach like Greg Noll at Pipeline (according to legend, his last surf), waiting for a lull. I started paddling at something close to one, waded into the shorebreak and… No there was not a lull, and…
Here is something about surf spots on the Peninsula: They are almost all connected to streams or rivers. The rivers and streams are all bloated lately, that push adding to any wave/tide related currents. I started out in my usual zone, quickly ended up in a wish/wash rip, sixty yards east of where I wanted to be. I couldn’t get to my knees to use my paddle, and was trying to push through the soup as each wave came at me. I was, I’m pretty sure, almost to cleaner water when a line I thought I’d punch through spun me around, and suddenly, I was heading, hurdling, ‘hell bent for leather’ (two people really appreciated the use of the phrase), toward the beach.
Rejected. NOT ONLY did I not make it out, but, for further drama, I was in the ‘boneyard,’ caught in a swirl (something less than a whirlpool), in eight feet of water ten feet from the beach. I had lost my grip on my paddle somewhere in the fifty yard, out of control, proning-in, I was leashed to a thirty-plus pound board alternating between crashing in on each new wave and floating back out in between waves. I climbed back on and decided to just take whatever wave would get me ashore.
Paddle and… BOOM! Straight in and onto the steep beach. Not the first time for this part of the show, though, sometimes I do make a nine-point slide, jump, move up the beach (three points if I was thirty years younger). Unable to jump up, getting pummeled in the shorebreak, I was crawling (I mean, like belly, then hands and knees crawling), pushing my board ahead of me.
There were, as Luck (change that to circumstance) would have it, a tourist couple, walking their dog in a little-green-bag-free-zone were witnesses. “You all right there?” “Yeah. Where’s your green bag?”
I was safe. No rescue needed. But three or four surfers (dressed out after their sessions in unfriendly conditions at what is typically, if breaking, a fairly user-friendly spot) arrived on scene. “Need me to carry your board?” “No. I lost my paddle.” “Tough break, man.”
I was ungrateful enough (or discourteous, or rude, or hyper-angry/embarrassed/humiliated enough) that they all ran back to the fire, leaving me to do a WALK OF SHAME (1) seventy yards or so back to my car.
Yes, it is a different thing if your moments of shame are not witnessed. No one notices you in or getting out of the water, your story can’t be disputed. “Yeeahh, doggies; that one wave… historic!” “Sorry I missed seeing it.”
WALK OF SHAME 2. Someone, a young guy on a short board, rescued my paddle. “THANKS.” All I had to do was walk another fifty yards, past all the other surfers, to retrieve it. AND THEN, was there anyone who thought, “He’s going to go back out, try to recapture some of his dignity.” ? Probably not.
I did wait around, in my wetsuit, hoping the rips might subside, hoping for less outside roll-throughs, hoping the swells might clean up and hit the reef the way I know they can. I was ready for redemption. It will have to wait.
PART TWO- Discretion. I should have had some.
THREE- Age? Fuck you. I mean, no, not yet.
FOUR- Analyzing. Every surfer experiences the failures, the awkwardness, the wipeouts and beatdowns. When we start out, we’re just so excited to be surfing that these setbacks are part of the fun (okay, two-foot slop with four friends is big fun for kooks). If I admit that I have felt frustration in the past when my surfing didn’t come up to my artificial standards, I must also say that I was wrong in this. So far, I’ve managed to get thrashed, crashed, even hurt while surfing; I’ve come too close to drowning, too close to sharks and out of control kooks and crazies. I can recount many of the times I’ve been rejected by the ocean. BUT none of the beatdowns take away the times of total bliss.
And yes, I’m not above the occasional anthropomorphizing.
erwin@realsurfers.net
Original material by Erwin Dence in realsurfers.net is protected by copyright. All right reserved by the author/artist. Thanks.
…I want to see the video! I mean, man, do I! Maybe he found the list while scouting out whatever breaks are available. THAT would be some clickable content.
Okay, so here’s my thinking on this: I’ve been fooled into checking out a few videos on YouTube because non Andy Irons AI algor-rhythms (or is it Al Gore rhythms) believe, because I watch, like, every Nate Florence or Mason Ho post, and most Koa Rothman and Jamie O’Brian offerings, I must want some of these other pretenders to the “Yes, I make a living surfing and providing content” hierarchy, sub-title “And I still, and myyy management team will confirm this, don’t consider myself a sell out. Oh, and buy some of this super body wash. I use it myself.”
In researching New Jersey surfer Mr. Gravy (not his real name), I discovered his cover story is that he started the video thing when he quit drinking, as a way to stay sober. Good work. I mean, not like giving it up to run the Department of War and Manliness, but… something. SHIT! Never really a devoted drinker, I quit the cult in 1990. Mostly I keep not drinking to stay sober. Seems to work.
When watching surf videos, I do fast forward the more obvious ads (out of respect, more like not losing more respect for the surfer). One obvious effect big time sponsorship has had is cutting down the swearing count from surfers who previously, and, I’m assuming, in real life, dropped f-bombs more often than they dropped in on, yes, bombs. And surfers who might, might be unapproachable assholes must, must project a friendly, nice guy image. And, realness wise, I am aware that I am, possibly, competitive if not ruthless in the water, frequently grumpy, and always sarcastic on land, and, you are correct; my little blog ain’t shit in the scheme of things. Fuck!
Now, if I had someone sponsor me to paddle around Little Saint James Island, located in the American VIRGIN Islands, in the Caribbean, looking for surf, I’d do it. Great content. Possible surf. I would have to recheck the maps, make sure it’s not too close to Venezuela.
Warning! Almost political stuff. Don’t read further and/or delete from your history after reading.
Anyway, I’m not aiming to hop onto the Vlog gravy train. I do want to keep the Epstein thing alive. With the “Kill them all,” and the health care/food affordability crises, and with the “I’ll take it in gold” Trump Cavalcade of Incompetence and Corruption on a constant march toward… maybe you know where; a little thing like old rich people molesting children gets lost.
“So, then, Mr. Kotter, this underage punk… you know, like my age, he totally snaked me… You know what i mean? He, like, starts paddling toward me, pushing me toward the peak. Yo, like, we’re both going for it, but he… I’m too far over, he jumps up; I go over the falls.” “That’s an interesting story, Epstein; did i tell you about the time I got snaked? Real snakes. It was….”
The Erwin File, and Welcome to It, Plus Drop-ins, Burns, Snakes, Mental Lists
I wasn’t the first person, obviously, from a quick search, to wonder about the character Juan Luis Pedro Filippo de Huevos Epstein, and whether there is a missing file somewhere; secrets and such. The actor, Robert Hegyes, who played Juan Epstein, one of the group of ne’er do well students self-named ‘the Sweathogs,’ on the 1970s show, “Welcome Back Kotter, and I were both born in 1951. There could have been some chance (fictionalizing here) circumstance under which he and I were in the same place; like, for instance, he might have surfed (he was from New Jersey) wandered down the coast to San Diego County, and, let’s say, I might have, accidentally, burned him in the water.
Maybe he kept a list. Maybe I’m on it. Okay, maybe just a description: “Another punk, underage asshole forced me too deep, then let me go over the falls,” for example.
I may never know. Mr. Hegyes died at sixty-years-old. Not mysterious, evidently. But still… What did Robert have to say about John Travolta? What about Marcia Strassman? She played Julie Kotter. I thought she was pretty cute. Wait a moment. Checking. Shit, she’s dead, also. Sad. What about Gabe Kaplan? Still alive, professional poker player. Okay, I’m through looking.
It only seems right that Pam Bondi or someone official like that should look into the Epstein File. Congress, they’re not doing anything; one of those increasingly irrelevant persons could take up the cause. Transparency, baby; truth and justice. Maybe there’s a buck in it for some influencer/deflector. It ain’t me, babe; I do this for free. If I’m on the list, I’m ready to do whatever penance God and the Constitution of this, this nation demand.
Just to be candid: I have a mental list of surfers who callously and wrongly and blatantly burned me. Most are descriptions (ie; obvious Orange County interloper), but famous photographer Warren Bolster is on there. I forgive him, because, partially, he is also deceased, and because I’ve long since theorized that after photographing other surfers ripping and riding and blowing takeoffs at Swamis, he just wasn’t ready to let a wave he could catch go by, etiquette be damned.
To be more candid: Not just because I might be on other surfer’s lists for etiquette violations, I have pretty much mentally burned most of the transgressions, forgiven all the transgressors, except, perhaps that Marine officer [I imagined] who burned me and everyone else on one of my last sessions at Trestles, and, more annoyingly, when I cruised down a couple hours later, he was still dominating [there might be some jealousy in here].
So, if I’m on your list; please forgive me. Even if I haven’t burned you, if you tell me I did, I’ll be really careful not to do it again. No, really. Unless I can’t help it.
Now, about my permanent record: I’ll get back to you on that.
This is kind of a surprise posting. I just got through with my run of antibiotics for an infection that knocked me down, and spent a tough week trying to catch up, and now, kind of out of the blue, and without feeling particularly unwell I’ve, and this might shock those who know me, I’ve lost my voice. I suddenly sound like a 94 year old rather than the 24 year old I’d like to believe I sound like. SOOOO, I was going to write about the time I just had to keep surfing with a sore throat and ended up missing out on a week or more of surf because of it. Yeah, next time. I didn’t mean realsurfers.net, which I started in 2013, to be a chronicle of the wounds and illness and other landmarks on my way to… somewhere.
I will not be silenced… for long. Get some waves. Thanks for checking the site. Remember you can contact me at erwin@realsurfers.net
“This calls for an investigation;” a man claiming to be from Lindell TV told her viewers; “People are posting scurrilous images of our Vice President, Jon Doe Vance, son, we now believe, and contrary to his own biography, Paddy ‘Loan’ Vance; and this cannot be tolerated in this here United States. If you cannot respect the man, respect the office; at least as much as our much maligned president, a true leader truly beloved by all the rightest, brightest, shiniest people, does.”
Now, it’s not like I even know how to watch the channel put out by My Pillow guy, loser in a multitude of defamation lawsuits. I was hepped to this by someone… Can’t reveal source. Seems like fun to me; the pillow guy, alternating between hugging and crying into his pillows made (using the Colonel Sanders playbook) by poor and desperate American widows. Maga Mike and the guy with some alleged ties to advanced couch… surfing (?) Alleged. But, NO, this might even be a conspiracy designed by secret cat lovers, unwed and otherwise. You know the type. I mean, yes, there are at least two illustrations of cats in the background. AND a wolf. Wolf? Russia? Yeah. Maybe it’s a coyote. Mexico?
After careful analysis, it seems like my nose is larger. And redder. If it’s Hegseth Red, it’s coincidental. Sunburn in my case. BUT, maybe with a little Maybelline, some botox, a bit of the Kristi Noem line of Revlon lip gloss, and… As our leader would say, backed up by the man most responsible for his very presence everywhere we look (make you own list: Include McConnell), I should just fucking get over it.
OKAY. Over it.
I saw a thing on YouTube about JOE ROPER celebrating fifty years as the preeminent ding repair guru in the San Diego area. Because I can’t help myself, while waiting for the ads that precede most videos to end, I check out the comments. The second one from about a guy who was mercilessly and purposefully slammed by Joe’s board and told to go back to Clairemont (maybe Joe called it ‘kookmont’ or ‘Shitmont’). The purpose was to dissuade non-locals, and the victim seemed to kind. of understand that, despite Clairemont Mesa being just over I-5 and way less than five miles from Pacific Beach.
I have a few connections to Joe Roper. I lived in Pacific Beach, very very close to Tourmaline Canyon Surf Park, from November, 1971, until the spring of 1973. I was twenty, Joe was probably 15, and he was one of the only surfers, back in my city surfing days, during which I developed my ‘ghetto mentality,’ whose name I knew; mostly because he was a standout surfer, and partially because I witnessed several incidents very similar to the one described in the comments. I did ask him why he full-board-to-the-full-body slammed the surfer in the shorebreak. You know the answer.
In a case of poor editing, let me now jump to the possibly ironic fact that the ding repair business that is celebrating fifty years in business is located beyond Clairemont Mesa. Next mesa over, Kearney Mesa, east of I-5 and ‘the’ 805. Not that I care.
I wrote several pieces for realsurfers on Mr. Roper. One was that he surfed Crystal Pier like it was Pipeline. Totally true. That he became a known name at Pipeline was not a fluke, though I was surprised, after a few years of living up the way, University City (slightly inland) and Encinitas (both east of I-5), when I saw Joe, in a Gordon and Smith ad, at Pipeline.
Another, even more tenuous connection, is that I have run into two other surfers who knew Joe. BIG DAVE RING was part of the ‘pier rats’ group Joe was a part of, if not the leader of. CHRIS BAUER, now building quality surfboards on the North Olympic Peninsula, got his start working for Mr. Roper. “All he let me do when I started was sand,” Chris told me. When I started telling my stories, Chris had to remind me that he and I are of different generations. “Yeah. I get it.”
This is kind of a quickie posting. I’m working on several other pieces for the bigger deal on Sunday. Topic: Casual Surfing; Myth or Fantasy?
I hope you’re doing some surfing, casual or intense. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.
photo from Facebook after Sally’s second place finish at the Burton Automotive Newcastle Surffest.
I’ve written a bit on how I’ve been rooting for Sally Fitzgibbons lately. It’s not all that important to me; and it isn’t like I should feel too bad about one of the most successful female surfers ever falling off the big tour, again, and having to fight her way back again. But, it’s a story. “I didn’t know I had that many tears to cry” is a quote I heard repeated in the broadcast. Is Sally a nice person? Supposedly. Is JOB as nice as he presents himself? I’ve heard otherwise. Is JJF on tour, or Steph? Or Gabriel? Have I rooted for Kelly while realizing he might be the ultimate sellout? Okay; no, I take that back. Did I root for nepo-surfer Kalohe? Or Cola bros study-to-the-test surf robots? How about gymnast-surfers?
Yes, no, sort of; hey, I’m just being realistic. Still, I was on a painting project yesterday for surfer/realtor Joel Carben, and I was aware I was missing finals day on the YouTube on the big screen at my house. “Oh, so you’d skip making money to watch a Challenger Series contest in Australia?” “We’re not talking that much money, Joel, and anyway, how many times have you skipped out on surf you know is happening to make money?” Joel was satisfied with the answer. I checked on my phone. Sally had won the quarter final heat. “Okay, another hour.”
The Big Show contest at Trestles starts tomorrow. Will I be rooting for Gaby? Probably not. Caty or that girl who claims she’s from Canada. Both have Oceanside connections. Jordy? Yes. Or… we’ll see how it plays out. I don’t have to watch it live. Work. Or, maybe, surf.
NOTE: Today (or so) marks my having survived 56 years as a painter. Trish doesn’t count my time as a sign painter’s apprentice, but I do. As I was telling Joel, if you can think of something I haven’t painted, let me know.
I have written several things lately. I might have to post them separately. BUT, here’s something I wrote because of my conversations while working with Joel, who, incidentally, is very proud to have participated in an invitational pro/am contest at Huntington Pier in the nineties. He is perfectly willing to list all the famous surfers and musicians he was among, and stoked to retell every detail of a ride that got him I (if I remember correctly) a 7.5.
Joel Carben (not Carbon- “I’m not an element.” “Oh, but… aren’t you?) representing the Northwest back on the East Coast
Competitive? Mindset or Personality Disorder? Like, How Would I Know?
My friend and my first surf co-conspirator not a member of my family, Phillip C. Harper, alerted me to the opportunity to participate in a high school contest sponsored by KGB (radio station) and the Windansea Surf Club, I instantly agreed. It was 1968, I was a junior at Fallbrook (20 miles inland, as the road winds), and had been riding actual surfboards for almost three years. So, sure, why not?
None of my contemporaries who had started surfing in the meantime joined in. Or even thought it was a good idea. Or even wanted to go to San Diego to watch. I ended up talking Donn Fransith(sp?) into driving me the first day, two girls going along (Bill Buel’s cousin and a girl whose name I’ve forgotten), neither because I was so cool. This is a hint: I drove myself the second day.
So, obviously I was masochistic and/or delusional, setting myself up for humiliation, defeat, and, by extension, not doing any other surfers from Fallbrook High any favors.
It isn’t as if I was overly or crazily competitive at any other sports. I didn’t have a shot for basketball, was afraid of the ball in football (freshman, fourth string replacement), wasn’t fast enough for track and field, didn’t want to wear bunhugger trunks or do the breaststroke the way the coach insisted it was to be done (and he was right). I did go out for wrestling. I had the moves, didn’t execute them on the mat with enough aggression.
Oh. Aggression.
I was, by the time I was a senior, aggressive enough at sports to hit or hip-check an opponent. Still not a great wrestler, I did earn a JV letter as a senior. Never collected it, never wore a lettermen’s jacket. Didn’t deserve to.
But surfing; that was different. It so quickly became a crucial part of my self-image. Not cool enough, being one of the few (most in my family) Seventh Day Adventists in my school had long set my position as (there’s a scale, and a variety of other categories) an outsider.
I was, mostly, accustomed to this position. No, I hadn’t been invited to Susie’s birthday party in the fourth grade, and that hurt… but being an outsider (and yes, everyone’s an outsider somewhere) offers some amount of freedom, socially, and may (may) have contributed to my overall sarcastic nature.
Different subject, perhaps; but it is worth mentioning that once I was in with other surfer wannabes, I felt the need to dress the part. “No, Mom, I need Levis and a nylon windbreaker; my friends say you dress me like a golfer.” “And if your friends think you should jump off a cliff?” “Thinking.”
What was important to me was that I surfed better than the guys who started after I did. In fact, from my earliest sessions, kooking it up at Tamarack, I would run fake heats; fifteen minutes, three to five waves. I would ask my sister, Suellen, where I ranked in the lineup: Third best out of five? I did the same thing with my Fallbrook surf friends. Wherever I was ranked, I wanted to do better.
Better?
It doesn’t take long for anyone taking up surfing to realize it isn’t always easy, that even pretty good rides are hard to come by, that there’s always someone who surfs better than you do, and that the ocean wins. Already feeling apologetic for this level of introspection, I have to say that my desire to be better was not (just and/or only) to be better than other surfers, but to improve. Trial and error, wave knowledge, wave count, experience.
Still, some of my least satisfying surf sessions involved my being angry with myself, or the conditions, or the crowd, but mostly with my not living up to my own expectations.
Ridiculous.
My most satisfying sessions come down, frequently, to one ride in which I unexpectedly blast through a section or hang on the very top of a wall a split second longer, or sideslip down a wave face, or, even over the falls, hanging on in the surge.
Still, if I even attempt to present myself as strictly a soul surfer, the lie is obvious. Alone in the water, cruising, I will definitely push harder when someone else shows up. Two of the turns I made that I most remember were, one, when Dana Adler walked out on the south jetty at Oceanside and I cranked a full-ass roundhouse cutback, and, two, when three dudes showed up as a peak Tommy Robinson and I were sharing on the north side of the pier and I went into a rage-driven cutback, drop to straight up move, all in about six feet, left to right. Okay, I wasn’t enraged, more like irritated, but I was stoked that I pulled it off.
Competition.
A heat compresses the surf experience. Whatever the number of minutes, the stress to choose the right wave, to perform on that wave is as exhausting as a much longer free surf session. While we can watch a contest live or on a computer, being in one is… different.
Judging disagreements aside, the best surfer in a heat usually wins.
I didn’t win my first KGB/Windansea contest. I didn’t win the second on I was in, 1969, with three other surfers on the team. I did well enough to advance out of my first heat. Both times.
I washed out of my first heat at a smaller, North County contest at Moonlight Beach, 1969. I blamed Cheer Critchlow and local bias. I surfed in the Western Surfing Association after I moved to Pacific Beach in 1971, advanced to 2A, with enough points to go into the 3A level before giving it up, mostly due to the time spent competing versus my growing painting commitments, and because, like everything in surfing, it is kind of self-serving. Not arguing this right now, but, though I never won a contest, I made the finals every time but one, and I came in 7th in that one.
When fellow Bremerton shipyard worker Raphael Reda presented with the opportunity to surf in a Ricky Young sponsored longboard contest at Westport in the late 1980s, despite not owning a longboard, I agreed. I participated four times, never won a heat. The best I did was third or fourth in a division requiring twenty-year-old or older boards, no leash. I rode a Duke Kahanamoku popout I’d traded some work for. I have the trophy. Somewhere.
So, without arguing about how pure my love for surfing is, and being as old as shit, do I still feel competitive? Add up the asterisks, the answer is… let’s see.
Watercolor skies, hazy sunshine, and, not shown, tourists behaving like they just, like, always go to the beach, always stand on the bluff, a hand shading their eyes, looking over the conditions. This act, one might consider while wondering if any of the wavelets wistfully washing over the rocks are rideable; is it some ancient and instinct-driven holdover, some bowing to the ocean, from whence all… No, probably not that, it’s just folks posing as seafarers before challenging the elements, taking off their shoes, rolling up their pants legs, holding someone’s hand as they go looking for colorful rocks, all the while while dodging the seaweed and the driftwood and the other revelers, all the while skirting the dying energy of long-traveled waves, the scallops of foam pushing up and… “Damn, that water’s cold!” “What time’s the next ferry running, Honey?”
I should have no problems with tourists and sunny day beach visitors; I was kind of wishing I had a dash cam; saw a dude inn total Huck Finn mode; straw hat, peddle pushers, possible piece of reed in his mouth, possibly whistling: I saw a woman seemingly, this based on her choice of outfit, displaying her extensive leg tattoos while walking her dog (no visible green poop bag in hand), I saw a woman with a green poop bag and no dog, picking up scraps of papers that blew out of people’s cars (not mine- this time); I saw a lot of chunky folks (not that I’m not), and, oh yeah, I did see a bride (this because of her oversized white dress) getting her photo taken. Maybe they were planning on adding the groom (I didnn’t see one) later- trick photography, AI.
Also, while hanging around, scanning the horizon, watching what may have been a slow motion sailboat race, trying to conjure up anything lined up or just decent, wave-wise, a guy, a car with three dogs inside cruised up, one car between us, The non-dog passenger looked at me with an oversized smile. “What are you smiling at?” “Well, I’ve never seen an SUP so thrashed.” “Thank you. I put every ding on it… probably hit every rock on the Strait.” Perhaps it was this obvious exaggeration that prompted him to say, “Hey, I know who you are.” “Oh?” It turns out Aaron (hope I got this right; and, no, not shortboard Aaron- Chef Aaron) is part of the Olympic Peninsula paddleboard scene, possibly builds SUPs, AND is known for bringing food to homeless encampments, stuff like that. “Pleasure to meet you,” I said, maybe; even more of a pleasure to know Chef Aaron is out doing good works.
I went a little too descriptive on describing the scene on a sunny spring Saturday. I’m trying to think a bit more poet-ish. I attended a poetry reading at the Port Townsend Public Library on Thursday, mostly (no, totally) because I want to present some of my stuff there, and this requires being invited by the official PT Poet Laureate, Conor. Since I already e-mailed him some stuff and missed my chance before the readings got under way, I was required to sit in the back, not hear a lot of the poems (they had a microphone, could have, like, moved it closer to their mouths). According to the library manager, surfer Keith Darrock, I was unable to not fidget, and, how did I know that turning off the rinng tone didn’t stop the volume when I thought I’d watch a few heats from the WSL Bell’s Beach contest. Rude. Philistine-like behavior. Uncultured.
Yeah. I thought poets are supposed to be rude if not drunks and/or otherwise deviants.
WSL WHINING- Yes, Sally Fitz got kind of screwed in her heat. It seems, to commenters on any WSL video, that someone is getting over or under scored. Yes. Always, at every level of almost any subjectively-judged competition. Great story when Sally beat current leader, Caitlin Simmers, and she wasn’t underscored in the heat with Brisa Hennessy (and this is a separate argument from the one in which a nine point ride for a woman would be a six pointer for a man- not arguing that, but I do make an exception for Stephanie Gilmore), it’s just that the story for Brisa was that her mother was on the beach AND it was her mother’s birthday. My belief: It’s a story either way.
WSL NON-WHINING- I was talking to Randall, fellow ex-North County surfer. He had also been watching some of the WSL coverage. ‘Did you notice that Encinitas local Jake Marshall was doing really well?” “I did.” We both agreed that he did well because Bells is so much like SWAMIS. “And Caity does so well because… Oceanside; and… ordinarily I’d root for her, but…” “Hey, Erwin, I’ve gotta go.”
SURF ROUTE 101 STUFF-
If you’re cruising up or down 101, before or after stopping in at HamaHama Oyster Company, check out the Historical museum in Quilcene, just off the highway on Center Road. I just added this. ALSO, if you can get behind a log truck, empty or loaded, rather than any sort of RV or anyone towing a boat or a trailer, or both, you’ll get there faster.
SURF REPORT- I almost surfed almost waves. Others did better… elsewhere. “SWAMIS” and ARTWORK REPORT- I haven’t worked on the last touches on the novel; I haven’t done any drawing since I did a couple of illustrations at Les Schwab while waiting for my tire to be replaced. Couldn’t find the tablet immediately this morning. Next time.
LATEST POEM/SONG-
BETWEEN ALONE AND LONELY There is time to reconsider, All the pieces you have scattered from your jigsaw puzzle life, The pieces you’ve discarded from your jigsaw puzzle life, Your jigsaw puzzle life, Jigsaw puzzle life.
Between love and rejection, Meditation, introspection, It’s hard to turn away from bridges you had never meant to burn, You’ve found someone to blame for all the bridges you have burned, The bridges you have burned, Bridges you have burned.
Between midnight and morning, There are whispers in the kitchen, There are shadows on the ceiling, there are footsteps in the hall, Soft whispers, shadows, footsteps that you cannot quite explain, You cannot quite explain, Cannot quite explain.
Between pride and delusion, If you listen in the stillness, There are answers to the questions you’ve been too. afraid to ask, And long-discarded pieces of your jigsaw life, Your jigsaw puzzle life, Jigsaw puzzle life,
Between alone and lonely in your jigsaw puzzle life.
FUTURE POEM/SONGS- “And Then There’s Music,” more. THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT realsurfers.net. All. content on this post by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. All rights reserved.
SOMETIMES YOU GET WAVES, SOMETIMES THE WAVES GET YOU, sometimes you paddle out, paddle around, paddle back in. It’s a story either way.
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!
“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.
Real Surfers 