I’m almost finished with this sign down Linger Longer Road in Quilcene. Suddenly, the town on Surf Route 101 I’ve lived in almost 48 years, is hip, cool; hip and cool go there. On purpose. And, with rich folks building mansions on Olympic foothill acreage, there has been an influx of a young demographic.
You can cruise on the massive, wonder of a bridge, just opened, that goes over the remodeled lower stretch of the Big Quilcene River/flood plain, cruise along the mud flats of Quilcene Bay (filled in at high tide with water warm enough in summer to allow swimming sans wetsuit), and, just before you get to the oyster hatchery and Herb Beck Marina, check it out. Am I trying to blow up the spot? Maybe.
If Surfing Fills a Hole…
If surfing fills a hole in your life, possibly in your soul; if your self-image and the image you’ve worked for and work to project is that of a person who surfs, a surfer, with any and all of the real or romanticized attributes given, and appreciated even by the most random, holiday surfer; if you live for and lust after waves, fun-sized to crazy to death barrels; if you are that person, and you can’t surf for a while, as in longer than it took for you to recover from this or that medical setback, or a work or situation-caused injury that required time away from waves; if you cannot surf… what fills that hole?
Stories of past glories are not enough. Enough retellings of even the most mundane tales of riding spots now incredibly crowded on even an average day sound exaggerated. Or worse. Even surfers your age might question whether your authenticity. Young surfers will dismiss you and your tales, just as you put little faith in the stories told by people over thirty when you were under twenty.
Still, people riding emptier lineups, even on pre-revolution boards… that’s something. Memories have value. Times edits out those that don’t.
Yeah. I’m writing about surfing instead of doing more surfing. I have excuses and explanations and situations, and, mostly, or partially, I have a lot of other things I have to do; most of which interfere with other things I want to do.
Surfing is on the ‘want to do’ list. There is that hole, that desire.
“When I was younger,” a sentence begging to be ignored or half-listened to begins, I was critical of surfers who weren’t frothing to go out on waves I couldn’t resist. But then, and now, I tried to adjust my life, or, at least, my schedule, to allow the opportunity, and, non-epic waves, enough of them, with, maybe, that one sneaker barrel… worth it.
Most of my contemporaries are not surfing. Kudos to the ones who are.
A good friend, legendary (I try not to over or misuse that description) gave up (not ‘quit’) surfing a few years ago. Bad shoulders, bad knees, crowds. Age. Mix and match. He told me that he says, if asked, that he loves surfing, always will, but, luckily, he has a lot of other activities and responsibilities that keep him occupied. He may have said fulfilled.
Still, I have seen other, most-likely retired folks, and this was a while ago, at Pipes, hanging on the fence, looking at other surfers paddle and bob and blow takeoffs and ride awkwardly, and I thought how lucky they were. Then Ray and I walked down and paddled out.
The hole. I am fond of thinking that it’ll always be there, as filled in as best I could; still anticipating the next session.
Lucky me.
Contact- erwin@realsurfers.net
Instagram- realsurfersdotnet
Check out the other Pages, including the newly-added PAGE VI, a collection of my original art works. I have been working on a collection of poetry/songs/stories, with a plan to publish it. Soon.
I have a new copyright for “Swamis,” the novel, mostly because I’vve gotten a bit more protective, partially because it is so different than the draft currently copyrighted. The above story is, as all original works by me, protected under copyright, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
Thanks for checking out realsurfers. Get some waves, make some memories, live your own story.
I DO HAVE surfing related content to post, but I’ve other things going on that push this stuff back a ways. As do we all. Other stuff, like real life. Trish has had a terrible time recovering from chemo and radiation, and has been in the hospital for almost a week. Weight loss, low blood pressure, some sort of infection, it’s all been quite overwhelming.
THE THING ABOUT much of life is that there are, yes, those moments in which something happens suddenly; car accidents for example; but most things happen in much slower motion. Sometimes painfully slow motion. Hair loss is one example (not the best if you consider chemo), but all the indignities dealt us in the aging process. AND THERE are the many problems and issues we cannot fix. ourselves, even with YouTube video help: Car repair. Cancer. AND THERE is the (almost) guilt we feel when we can do so little to help others, this hopelessness (if I haven’t mentioned this emotion yet), the ‘almost’ hopelessness and guilt when we’re talking about people we don’t know, or don’t know well, the feelings multiplied when it’s someone we love.
I I’M COMPLAINING, and I am, I am also aware it’s not about me. It’s about TRISH, someone I’ve known and loved for almost 58 years; someone who doesn’t want me making a deal out of all this. Stubborn enough (and people do ask me… and Trish) to stick with me all this time. IF TRISH is stubborn, she is also strong.
THE ANNOYING reality is that life goes on around us. Bills come due, obds have to be completed, and there’s not much I can do hanging around in a hospital room. AND I AM SOO annoying. II do, however, have some abilities in raising Trisha’s blood pressure. I must shout out now, to our daughter, DRU. She was vital in persuading her mother, with a lot of push from ADAM LARM, childhood friend to two of our three children, and now a nurse (two side stories I’m not telling now) to get paramedics to check her out. No, of course she had to go. And. now…
NOW I’m home, Dru did. a second overnight (they kicked me out at 8:30), and I’m charging up the phone, hanging on, waiting to hear what the doctor (4th or 5th since the two in the emergency room) has to say.
I CAN go work, or I could go to SAINT MICHAEL, or I could work on this blog, or I could finish the ending for my novel. The last two pages have been ready for a while, waiting for my cluttered, disjointed mind to focus enough to come up with… something… perfect, something that ties up some of the storylines while hinting, not subtly, that the next book, “BEACONS” (like Swamies, a convenient surf spot name that reflects the characters) will continue the fictional story of love, marijuana, surf, and MAGIC in the real world, 1969, San Diego’s North County.
LIVE ACTION- It’s almost 11am on Saturday, and I got the latest. UPBEAT, waiting for this test result. Or that one. Antibiotics. Waiting. I need to make a decision. But first… finish this.
My plan was to write something on how. so many things in REAL LIFE take precedence over surfing: Family, work, emergencies of all kinds; bbut when I went to Microsoft Word and checked my file for my novel, it had the little arrow allowing me to. go to page 229 (of 229) rather than scrolling down (which I wouldn’t have done today), SOOOOO, here we are.
-HERE’S THE PITCH! “Swamis” is for sale. I NEED AN AGENT! I NEED A PUBLISHER! I DO NOT WANT an EDITOR-FOR-HIRE. If you are a LEGIT agent, or someone interested in publishing, or, perhaps, investing in some sort of self-publishing scheme, contact me, erwin@realsurfers.net
I SHOULD MENTION THAT “SWAMIS” is dialogue heavy and could be visually… compelling.
OR, I’VE long considered printing some very limited copies, offering the signed work (probably 8&1/2 by 11, with illustrations, signed, dated, numbered) for some decent price, to the most discerning investors and/or surf novel fans. I’m trying to ome up with a price. I will.
TRISHA, checking me out in 1969, with what might be perceived as an adoring look. More likely, it’s curiosity rather than amazement. I’ve been thinking about some sort of poem about what she means to me. Everything. She is my buoy and my anchor; keeps me afloat when I’m sinking, keeps me closer to reality when my imagination overrules my judgment. The anchor simile is tougher. I don’t always want a real life perspective. Nothing replaces honesty. It’s a key ingrediant in love.
Working. on it. Check out some other realsurfersnet pages when you get a chance. Oh, and I sometimes post on INSTAGRAM, realsurfersdotnet
I think Fast Eddie Rothman is saying, “FUCK CANCER!”
“YEAH; NO KINGS !”A photo from Desert Point. DISCLAIMER- Not sure of the circumstance. Maybe it was payback, maybe this guy enjoys a party wave more than the GOAT. Now, I am not in any way pushing for drop-ins of the punitive nature, particularly by newby shoulder hoppers, but… sometimes… I don’t know, maybe Kelly wasn’t adhering to a priority system lesser mortals are expected to adhere to. I get that. OH, and… the dude down the line is probably causing a chandelier situation, so… fun.
Too much to unpack here. A bigger board doesn’t make one Kinglier, evidently. Is the one guy trying to party down? Is the scrapper about to get run down? Is this wave kind of… weak? Is the Dude in the Waikiki pose, obviously trying to remember step number three (Don’t pearl)? Is he wearing a spring suit, with hood, And a knee brace? Is the Dude in the ‘I’m driving down the line’ pose actively reconsidering his latest switch from crypto to betting on how many American service people will be dead or wounded in the latest War/escapade/evasion? Which way is the guy immediately outside the wave looking? Is the guy who is watching thankful he didn’t go on this wave? Is there surf in Cuba? Is stupid catchy? Are there any people in Congress with any integrity (I have my list of more or totally courageous folks, it’s America, you are still free to chose yours)?
GEORGE WASHINGTON, ‘PRESIDING’ at the Constitutional Convention, May of 1787, sending out some gang signs to the other old, bewigged, most-likely slave-owning white men. Loosely translated, it was, “If we play our cards right, this experiment might last, I postulate and do herein claim, two-hundred-and-fifty years; perhaps more. And if some charlatan/montebank/swindler/huckster even attempts to become a, dare I say, King; the PEOPLE will not stand for this brazen effrontery. Congress and the Courts will live up to their sworn vows, perform their sacred duties. The People, I tell you, will, shall, must PREVAIL! And now… now; I hear there’s a buffet. Line forms to the left. Let’s GO!
Some (not all) credits- History.com, El Pais in English, Pittsburg Gazette- from today
I keep putting off what I keep telling myself I will write about: How snow activities are so much better than surfing. Now, with the last ski bus heading to the Cascades for the last of the snow, it’s almost too late. Still, it’s coming. Soon.
CONTACT erwin@realsurfers.net
I have promised myself I will put in some time on finishing my novel, “Swamis.” I keep coming up with new ideas for the story’s climax.
HOW MY BRAIN WORKS (OR DOESN’T)- Earlier today, scrolling on the YouTube, I saw something explaining people who can’t remember other people’s name (but, saving grace, remember stories involving that person, or, in my case, nicknames). Okay. So I’m writing the paragraph immediately above this one, and I can’t think of word for the ending of a novel. CONCLUSION? Maybe, but there’s no way “Swamis” is going to end with anything less than a cliffhanger. Next novel? “Grandview.” I look conclusion up. Not exactly right. I’m thinking, “What’s a word that is a synonym for orgasm?” I look up ORGASM. Climax is a choice. I look up CLIMAX. One choice of definitions in Merriam-Webster mentioned a series of phrases or sentences in ascending order of rhetorical forcefullness. “Oh, so it’s like the third wave of a four wave set.” Yeah. That. That’s where I want the ending of my novel to be.
We’ll see. I posted another Original Erwin song, with harmonica, on the Instagram. Check out REALSURFERSDOTNET to see and hear my third or fouth attempt to do a one take version of “Before the Wind Comes Up.” I am going to try to do a decent version of “Another Lie, Another War.” I will let you know. Surf if you can, Snow it up while you can. FUCK CANCER! FUCK A BUNCH OF. FASCISTS! Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net
A couple of photos from CHIMACUM TIMACUM of his view during his recent trip to TORTOLA. Not to blow up the spot, but Tim claims waist to chest high most days. SO, perfect Erwin size surf. 80 degree water and air. And… yeah, yeah, yeah…It is kind of like bragging.
Not that I mind. But, as much as I enjoy hearing about someone else’s exploits, am I surfing vicariously and soaking in the mellow vibes? No.
There’s reporting, there’s bragging, and there is gloating. Not that I don’t feel some sort of desire to gloat my ass off on those occasions when I am the one scoring.
My SURF FRIENDS seem to love letting me know about scores they have, um, scored; magical sessions, narrow windows of surf perfection they were not mere witnesses to, but active participants in. I am, apparently, expected to be that guy on the beach, jumping up and down, that guy on the shoulder, both arms up. in celebration. “YEA!”
Then I get a call or a text or run into another surf friend. “Yes, I heard about it.”
YEAH and YEA and “I am so happy for you… or him… or her… or anyone who scores. I AM STOKED.” Second hand stoke.
BUT, really, I’d rather be the frothed than the frothee, the stoked rather than the stokee. YEAH.
AND, MY GUESS, so would you.
FROM THE EMAILBOX: erwin@realsurfers.net
I got the first image from legendary waterman TIM NOLAN. Tim uses a technique in which he bleaches out the colors from a photo, then uses water colors to bring a new vision of the image.
The middle image is the photo taken by RICO MOORE of KEITH DARROCK. If it wasn’t a great shot, neither Tim nor I would have been drawn to it. The bottom image is my take on the scene; Keith coming in, a fire, a coffee cup. Yes, I do love Tim’s color selection. Yes, I could have blended the colored pencil colors a little more smoothly.
I have been doing some recording of original Erwin songs for my Instagram account. I have decided, since I should not sing but do, and because I have songs worth sharing (my opinion), I am just going to sing and play harmonica.
UPDATE/UPDATE/UPDATE- March 26- If I stop and watch and listen to any of my one take, usually while driving videos, I will probably not post it. The harmonica sounds shrill, my voice sounds… pick any word to describe the sentiment, “That guy should never sing.” STILL, I have songs people should hear. SO, I will continue to try to improve. YEAH, I did kind of believe people might forgive my voice because of my age. Maybe, but I haven’t. Not yet.
Here are the lyrics to my most recent tune:
Before the wind comes up, Before the clouds blow in, Before the sun goes dark, Before the rain begins, Before the lights go out along the avenue, I’m gonna load up my tools and head on home to you. Home to you, home to you, gonna pack up my van and hurry home to you.
REMEMBER Saturday is NO KINGS DAY.
Shit’s at stake. Participate!
Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net
Here is another example of why I should be ready to take photos with my camera: I was in my last surviving vehicle at a parking lot that faces the Strait. There were no waves, but there was cell phone coverage. I may have been feeling particularly down, not to panic-depression levels; but, having lived a large chunk of my life on the edge (my choice to be a self-employed painter in the Northwest), and sharing with some unknown but large portion of the citizenry the pain of war and suddenly crazy gas prices, and, perhaps some lack of real confidence in our leaders…
Anyway, I see this old person (I’m guessing a man) being led by a younger, taller, person down the easiest incline from the parking lot to the narrow stretch of beach. My thought is he wanted to see the ocean, that perhaps he hadn’t seen it in a while, perhaps, even, he had some fear he might not have another opportunity. I don’t know; I make up stories.
He shuffles out. There’s a slight but cold west wind. There are rocks and driftwood and kelp to navigate. He did not last long. I imagined him saying to his companion, coming back up the berm, “Yeah; just like I remembered it.”
Close as I could get, image-wise. Borrowed from ruveyda
A screen tracks trading on the floor at the New York Stock Exchange (NYSE) after the closing bell in New York City, U.S., April 4, 2025. REUTERS/Brendan McDermid
I should apologize for not putting this on NON-POLITICAL ERWIN. No. On a more personal note:
There is, of course a story. SO, top to bottom: After several issues with the VOLVO, alternately known as the “Super Fun Car,” I managed to get it to 200,000 miles (note the crustiness of the steering column and the harmonicas). NEXT, Dru’s house in Port Gamble is a stopping off point for Canadian Geese (note the shadows of the Volvo, with surfboard, and me). NEXT, Full moon, or fullish, last Monday night (note Dru’s new car, replacement for Honda attacked by mutant deer). NEXT, Dru’s cat, Nicholas, and the very rich cake Dru made for her lifetime friend, Mollie Orbea (who lives down the street).
BEFORE I get to the bottom shot, my work van being towed (for the many-ith time) from the parking area at Highway 104 and Center Road, I will enlighten you on the latest wound to the Volvo. YES, as in every movie that shows the moon, it was full. And it was Mollie’s birthday. And, because TRISH is recovering from Chemotherapy very very slowly, I was sent to represent. Also, I did not have my hearing aids with me. Awkward in any social situation, forcing kids and grownups to yell and/or repeat is… rude. At least. BUT, while leaving, I mentioned to Mollie’s husband, Pete, the person who pretty much runs the activities in Port Gamble, AND the person who conducts the ghost tours, that the Volvo reached this milestone. And then, looking for some wood to knock on, I selected a wheel from a ship that was mounted on the wall.
“You should know,” Pete said, “that wheel came from a Japanese vessel sunk in World War II. Now, the ghosts might follow you home.” Maybe they did. It’s about 20 miles, and when I turned into my driveway, the car stalled. And wouldn’t start. Blown head gasket. AVID readers of realsurfers.net might recall that Adam James helped me with using some Blue Devil when the Volvo overheated about twenty or thirty thousand miles ago. Now, according to my mechanical guru, George Takamoto, I will have to replace the headgasket. Not happening immediately, but I do plan on getting it done. AND I thought I was very lucky that the car stopped in my driveway.
Not the same luck two nights later when the gauges stopped working on van.
LIFE is, of course, a combination of good luck, bad luck, and shit we cannot control. I try very hard not to just freak the fuck out. I do have almost enough faith to believe, with the setbacks and traumas and dramas, the cruel, profane wars of choice, the inhumane treatment of those we share this fragile existence with, that there is a reckoning coming, that my complaints are not really significant.
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 problem and I want no part of your blues.
Dream of tomorrow, we sacrifice all our todays; We’re so busy working, we don’t take the time to just play; 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; Yes, 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.
Contact- erwin@realsurfersdotnet
All rights reserved for “I Guess I’m Lucky,” Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
THANKS, as always, for checking out my site. Good luck, get some waves.
My cat, TONY, destroying a corner of my drawing table, and NAM SIU and I (no, not my sprinter van, but, yes, a sprinter van) taken recently. Nam has been recovering from a horrific illness in which he lost a significant percentage of his body fat. When I saw him a while back, I, of course, asked him (in my usual friendly way) if he HAD TO gain it all back and more at one time. I sort forced him to get a photo taken with before he loses the weight, which I have no doubt he will. I have no illness-related explanation of or excuse for my weight-to-head size, BUT, hey, I have to say… yeah, I look pretty good.
Nam’s once and current diet.
UNNECESSARILY DEEP PSYCHOLOGICAL STUFF
Wait! No! The Superbowl was, like, two weeks ago, the next season is… a ways away. The swells from the atmospheric rivers are pumping waves somewhere, but not into the oddly tilted Strait of Juan de Fuca, and the forecast is kind of bleak. What now?
I choose this design by JUNAARTFOUND because the tagline said something about ‘Sublimation.’ This is a word I can never think of when I’m thinking of how we substitute (re-channel is probably more accurate) our own desires (some of which are of a… pardon me… sexual nature) into something else. Like, maybe, sports. There are other outlets for the tensions that, some evidence shows, humans seem to be cursed, or blessed with. Prayer and denial are popular. Repression. Sure. Violence, real or imagined, is, obviously, one way to control or burn our lust, bloodlust or whatever-lust. Video games and John Wick movies; there are choices other than signing up to join ICE
Psychology 101 taught me, if little else, that all lusts seek to eliminate themselves. Hunger-eat, for example. The philosophical followup is that being full, satiated, only lasts so long. There is something that tastes better than a perfect strawberry dipped in dark chocolate. Maybe. There is a wave riding experience beyond the most perfect ride we can remember.
So we continue the search.
AS I WRITE THIS, I’m feeling a bit apologetic for getting too deeply into all this. Too late. We all have tensions and stressors. We all need outlets. I have been accused, at least once, of being repressed. A bit surprising to me since my emotions seem easily read, and I’m also accused of being filterless, of saying what I’m thinking before I think about what I’m saying. YEAH, okay, I’ll say I am. There’s more I don’t say. I have fears that go beyond my family and my friends. Fear leads directly and quickly to anger. I have anger issues stemming from tragedies and horrors I cannot stop, or even lessen. I have also been described as having an inadequate amount of empathy. I have enough to feel for those who do.
I DEVOTE A LOT of my energy to not panicking to not freaking the fuck out.
Writing is one of my de-stressors, a place where I can push my fear of speaking out, the boundaries of my repression, peacefully, knowing that even if I write what I consider the perfect turn of phrase, the perfect rebuttal to those who push the hateful lies and seek protection (or actively protect) from accountability for the most heinous acts, it won’t be enough. I won’t be satisfied for long.
TO BRING THIS BACK to surfing; one of the oft-spoken values is that one can forget everything else and move in the cosmic wonderfulness. FACT CHECK- Yes, this happens. If the goal is to move through the changing crowds and conditions without panicking or freaking the fuck out, and surf until you’re exhausted enough that you don’t care who gets that wave you might have surfed better, congratulations. If you got a ride to put into your near-perfect file… that’s probably as good as it gets.
CONTACT- erwin@realsurfers.net
INSTAGRAM (mostly original songs with harmonica)- realsurfersdotnet
THE video, “ERWIN” is now on my ABOUT page. If you haven’t seen it… check it out.
‘SWAMIS’ UPDATE- I’m up to, like, page 200, of 226, on what I hope to be my final edit before someone has the good sense to publish the novel.
PAGE II- NON-POLITICAL ERWIN. There is an update concerning why anyone would feel compelled to give a shit about kid rock.
THANKS for checking out my blog. See out on SURF ROUTE 101.
Me, with hearing aids, and Dru’s ginger cat, NICHOLAS, aka Sam Darnold.
DYLAN SCOTT, the son of TRISHA’S brother and his wife, JIM and GREER (note how inclusively proper I’m being), sent me this shot of him surfing at a spot he (and SURFLINE, to whom [whom because corporations are people, too] he pays a possibly significant monthly fee) identify as “GEORGE’S.
It is obvious, at 9:53 or so on SUPERBOWL SUNDAY, that goofyfoot Dylan has the green light in his favor as well as a reduced crowd because all the North San Diego County surf enthusiasts were, no doubt, pulling avocados off the trees to prepare a satisfying snack. WHAT wasn’t obvious to me, when I was checking out the photo on the phone, in bed (after a game that was probably boring [other than the half time show] for everyone who wasn’t a SEAHAWKS or, you know that other team fan, with us [Seahawks fans] absolutely riveted/worried, clutching our skittles, and oysters, and rosary beads, and listening to STEVE RAIBLE and DAVE WYMAN on the radio because we just don’t trust or like commentary from CHRIS COLLINGSWORTH)… exhausting… what wasn’t obvious to me was, where the hell is George’s. SO, I texted Dylan.
Evidently George’s is on the section of beach between CARDIFF REEF and SEASIDE TRAILER REEF, both of which, according to my research on the GRAM, were going off on this day. SO, I had to do more texting, the you-really-don’t-want-to-hear “Back in my day” stories, bearing in mind that I started surfing the North County beaches beyond Oceanside Pier and Tamarack in 1965, and left the area in late 1978. “Just in time” you might say. “Yes. I hear it has become more crowded.”
SO, Dylan, ya see, that part of the beach, in the mid seventies, when I lived in Encinitas, was called STRETCHMARK BEACH. This was, according to the hipster who hipped me to it, because, paraphrasing here, “Surf chicks who, like, had babies, they would take them there rather than, you know, other spots.” However rude and inappropriate, I stand by the previous name.
Continuing the ‘my day’ stuff, before my day, there was a pier in Cardiff, and, when I moved to the Great Pacific Northwest, SEASIDE TRAILER PARK was not yet a parking lot. AND, and, yes, I did once surf there, on a Sunday afternoon, with DONALD TAKAYAMA the only other surfer in the water.
NOT bragging, but grateful.
“ERWIN” THE MOVIE news:
Not sure this will work. I have the cheapest WordPress account, and didn’t think I could have videos. I ran into JASON QUEEN, both of us getting skunked. He stumbled onto the beach and into this video by Annie Fergerson. The link I previously posted no longer works. Possibly because the video was picked up and shown as part of the PORT TOWNSEND FILM FESTIVAL and was part of the worldwide SAVE THE WAVES festivals, Jason seemed to believe there is some fame attached to being in it. YES, there is now a sub-genre of videos featuring old surfers still at it, but, no, I don’t seem to have any lingering side effects of my notoriety.
All I was really trying to do was post the link. If you haven’t seen this, yes, I do realize there’s a bit of comic relief here, and, yes and again, I do realize my level of ridiculousness. I just keep trying to rise above it. OR, maybe it’s part of my evil scheme to get a few more waves in a crowd.
GRIPES AND HYPES, and any comments, write me at erwin@realsurfers.net
INSTAGRAM ME- realsurfersdotnet
HEY, if I can, indeed, post videos, I might try putting up another page with some MUSICAL ERWIN stuff. FUN. Hope you’re getting enough waves that you won’t be there when I go the next time. Nothing personal. HAPPY VALENTINES DAY to those I love, and to all lovers. HAPPY HATERS’ DAY (whenever that is- seems to be most days) to all the haters.
There is no top to love short of heaven, no bottom to hate. The difference between love and hate is the difference between flying and falling. It’s where you land. Oh, yes, and how you land.
OUT ON SURF ROUTE 101, the waves might not be much bigger on the STRAIT than the ultra glassy Lake Leland. I had to get a photo of the only one at the lake; talked him into putting his leg up on the rock the way it was when I (almost) drove past.
Our family friend George Takamoto has been enduring the horrors of three-times-a-week dialysis, not to mention the kidney failure and the times where infections and other side stuff from his treatment risked his life. He called my on Monday with the news that he got the kidney transplant. George’s sister, Valerie, came up to help out. George has already been released and is staying on the Seattle side for a while to help with her many trips to the University of Washington hospital.
In other medical news, Trish has been (slowly) improving, recovering from the post surgery chemo. She still has to go through radiation, so… as always, fuck cancer!
This photo from somewhere on the coast was taken by RICO MOORE. I planned to do a drawing of this, but, so far, haven’t. I didn’t want to use this amazing shot today, but… yeah, I am, BUT, to make up for using it, I will probably have to give the illustration to him. But, yeah, I’ll have copies.
INSTAGRAM NEWS- I’m on it; still haven’t figured it out. I will. I plan on making more HARMONICA ERWIN videos. Check me at realsurfersdotnet OR, I don’t know, search for Erwin Dence. Meanwhile, I’ve been following a lot of surfers, comedians, singers, artists… so much politics that, with my personalized algorithms, I feel like I might be in a left wing echo chamber. I do know what the right wingers are saying, so… staying there. I do wish more of my local Olympic Peninsula friends would post more frequently.
“SWAMIS” the novel news- I’m about two-thirds of the way through the, hopefully, final draft. I’ve been putting chapters on this site, but, this close, fighting to get something publishable for this wrong, editing out stuff that didn’t move the story along (painful), and loving every moment I’ve spent thinking about it, working on it, I’m considering not posting too much of it. NOT that anyone could actually steal the story- way too complex, and hopefully, way too real.
SURF FORECAST- It seems like the storms have been missing the Strait. Hopefully the waves have been showing up wherever you’re surfing. Find them; surf them. Good luck!
SAN CLEMENTE, CALIFORNIA – SEPTEMBER 8: Seven-time WSL Champion Stephanie Gilmore of Australia after winning the World Title at the Rip Curl WSL Finals on September 8, 2022 at San Clemente, California. (Photo by Pat Nolan/World Surf League). I watched every heat.
9/11.2001 photo by Gulnara Samoilova originally published in the Guardian
Dan Nieman called me at an ungodly early hour to discuss a painting job in progress. “Hey, something’s happening in New York.” I watched the second plane hit, everything thereafter.
Photo of 9/11 Insurrection from Spectrum News
Trump and his cronies were still making speeches when I turned on the TV. Then, folks ambling toward the capital like tourists. Then… Undeniable, unpardonable, treasonous insurrection. Then… and since, denial, pardons, lies. And either those who propagate the lies don’t care if we know the truth or they believe enough Americans are like those citizens who, and I believe this, were innocent bystanders… unless they didn’t realize this was a criminal act and turned away. They share some guilt, not quite as much as those who realize the lie of the whitewash and fail to say it is that.
SHIMMER AND SHINE
It’s the shimmer, always was, the shimmer and the shine, Shimmer and shine, those were the goals, yours and mine, To be weightless, caught up in and part of the shimmer, Bathing in the shimmer and dancing in the shine.
We’ve seen the thinnest slice of light, The glimmer, faintest speck of hope, Pulsing on the horizon, Flashes between us and what’s beyond, Wind ripped sky reflecting, imperfectly, The chaos between us, pressed against each other As the layers of the firmament, clouds, sheets and blankets, Are unfurled toward us and past us.
The universe, the further beyond, Its twinkling starry map unreadable to us, Ancient braille. Marking the route, perhaps, to Heaven.
Messengers and seekers and those perilously balancing, Too close to drowning, Those downed by regret, broken by fear, scarred by sorrow, Exhausted byy repeated failures, Mourn for lives too long lost, Pray for rescue, Look for some distant beacon, Imagine the veil of darkness pierced, Imagine or remember Bathing in the shimmer and dancing in the shine.
There’s too much to consider, Holding you this close, Standing this close to a raging sea, This far from a twisted sky.
I’m certain you’ve seen it, I’ve seen, in your eyes, Flashes of light, Sparkling, Glistening, Hopeful, The shimmer and the shine,
And we are… still… dancing.
Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. Contact: erwin@realsurfers.net Shimmer and Shine, Copyright 2026, All rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
Borrowed from Sheridan Media. There are a lot of images with wolves if you dance on over to Google. The moon is responsible for the globe-wide waves that are the tides. King tides and low pressure and a swell have produced some classic conditions and total beach reformation in the past. Maybe there’s a swell you can get to. Good luck.
I got a call from TOM BURNS, longtime surfer, California to the Northwest the other morning. “Is that your daughter’s cat on King 5 News?” “What?” “Yeah, it said the photo was from Drucilla D. Has to be her.” It was a photo of her cat, NICHOLAS, sent because they were showing other cats “Not nearly as cute as my Nicholas.” WELL, Nick, who is extra wary of me since I had to assist in a cliff-hanger removal operation, got a repeat the next day with no competition.
I can’t upload videos on my site without upgrading, though I do have the video, so this is a shot TRISH sent to Dru, Dru to me, me to you. Yes, he’s adorable, though I described his expression, the one he usually gives me, as “Disgruntled,” possibly because he wasn’t supposed to be there.
DRU brought me along last week to help negotiate for a new (to her) vehicle to replace the Honda Odyssey totaled in the Yeti/deer attack. Not that I am in any way skilled in the art of the (or any) deal, but, after pretty much telling DAN, our contact at Doug’s Hyundai (not an endorsement, just where the car that fit what Dru wanted/needed was located, found through one of those car finding sites) because the real salesman, Mike, was overbooked (judging from Mike’s, who only talked to Dru for a moment, stress-reddened face, I believed it), that I totally don’t trust salespeople. I softened this by adding that I do not want to identify myself as a salesman, but, yes, we’re all in sales (and I’m still working).
Anyway, after threatening to leave and go check out another van at another dealer along the PACIFIC AVENUE STRIP, and asking for a two thousand dollar price cut, and after dropping several ‘add-ons’ from their first, second, and third quotes (all sent from mysterious guy behind the curtain- cubicle wall, actually), we arrived at a price reduction of $300 and a full tank of gas (Seattle prices). AND coffee and a small chocolate for me, hot chocolate for Dru.
THEN it was time to meet the FINANCE MANAGER. He discovered that if Dru paid $500 more on the downn payment, she could, because it was a one-owner car with low mileage (a major selling point, the van obviously a trade in), she could get a great warranty.
STOKED to be done with the ordeal, Dru promised DANIEL PILON and MAKSIM MARTEMYANOV that she would put in a good word on social judging media. I said, after Dan checked out realsurfers.net during a lull, that I would put something on the site… today. So, keeping my promise:
SEAHAWKS NEWS: It may be that all the swells of late have been very south, south-west at best, that PT charger Keith Darrock has gotten his feet wet on watching football. Because TRISH cannot tough it out, endure the tension and drama that are the only reason to watch ANY sport, I watched it without her. I did exchange some commentary (“Lots of missed opportunities,” “Seems like they should be up by three touchdowns instead of one.” I did call Keith during the last three minutes, with victory pretty much assured, and called Trish when victory was official. “Really? They won?”
Because I listened to the first quarter on the radio, and because I have regretted the times I watched games instead of doing something, like, more rewarding, I would really love to hear Steve Raible’s take on the end of the game. “Holy catfish!”
“SWAMIS” CHAPTER FOUR- WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 23, 1968
Christmas vacation. I had surfed, but I wanted a few more rides. Or many more. I had the time, and I had the second-best parking spot in the almost full lot at Swamis: Front row, two cars off center. It was cool but sunny. My short john wetsuit was pulled down. I was in front of the Falcon, dead center, leaning over the hood. I checked my diver’s watch. It was fogged up. I shook my wrist, removed the watch, and set it directly over the radiator, the face of the watch facing the ocean and the sun.
There was, on the beach towel I had spread out on the hood, a quart of chocolate milk in a waxed cardboard container, the spout open; a lunch sack, light blue, open; an apple; a partial pack of Marlboros, hard pack, open, a book of paper matches inside; three Pee-Chee folders. One of the folders was open. A red notebook, writing on both sides of most pages, was open, five or six pages from the back.
A car stopped immediately behind the Falcon. Three doors slammed. Three teenagers, a year or so younger than me, ran down the left side of my car and to the bluff. Jumping and gesturing, each shouted assessments of the conditions. “Epic!” and “So… bitchin’!”
The three surf hopefuls looked over me and at their car, driverless, idling in the lane. They looked at me. The tallest of the three, with a bad complexion, his hair parted in the middle, shirtless, with three strands of love beads around his neck, took a step toward me. “Hey, man,” He said in an artificially lowered voice, “Going out or been out?”
“Both.” I added a bit of hoarseness to my voice. “Man.”
“Both?” Love Beads moved closer, patting his beads. “Both. Uh huh.”
“Good spot,” the visitor with bottle bleached hair, a striped Beach Boys shirt, and cut off cords, said. I nodded. Politely. I smiled, politely, and looked back at my notebooks.
The surfer I assumed to be the Driver; big 50s horn-rimmed glasses, a button-up shirt, khakis and leather shoes, asked, “You a local?”
I shifted the notebooks, took out the one on the bottom, light blue, opened it, turned, half sat on my car, and looked out at the lineup, half hoping my non-answer was enough for the obvious non-locals.
A car honked. Love Beads pushed Striped Shirt into me as he tried to pass by. I shoved him away with my right hip and shoulder. He regained his balance, put his hands out, continued toward his car. Big Glasses, evidently not the Driver, raised both hands out to signal he hadn’t done the pushing. Behind him, Love Beads said, “You fuckers down here are fuckin’ greedy.”
“Fuck you, Brian,” Striped Shirt said before running out and into the lane, followed by Big Glasses.
Brian moved directly in front of me. He puffed out his chest a bit. He looked a bit fierce. Or he attempted to. “You sure you’re not leaving?”
I twisted my left arm behind my back and picked up my watch. When I brought my arm back around, very quickly, Brian twitched. I smiled. I held my watch by the band, close to its face. I shook it. Hard. Three quick strokes, then tapped it, three times, with the end of the nail on the pointer finger of my right hand. “The joke, you see, Brian, is that, once it gets filled with water, no more can get in. Hence, Waterproof.” I put the watch on. “And… nope, Brian, don’t have to leave yet.”
Big Glasses, a surfboard under each arm, squeezed between the Falcon and the car next to it. Brian, glowering, still looking at me, threw his left hand out as his surf friend walked past. He hit the board, instantly pulling his hand back. I chuckled. Brian moved his right hand closer to my face, pointer finger up.
I moved my face closer to his hand, then leaned back, feigning an inability to focus. “Brian,” I said, “I have a history…” Brian smirked. “I would… strike … when I felt threatened.” I blinked. “Quite violently.”
Brian looked around as if Big Glasses, having set the two boards down at the edge of the bluff, might back him up. I looked Big Glasses off. He shook his head. Brian turned back toward me. “Quite violently?”
“Suddenly and violently.” I nodded and rolled my eyes. “But now… My father taught me there are times to react and times to… take a moment, assess the situation, but… be ready. It’s like gunfights… in the movies. If someone… is ready to… strike, I strike first. I mean, I can. Because I’m… ready.” I moved my face back from Brian’s and smiled. “Everyone… people are hoping the surfing is… helping. I am not… sure. I’m on… probation, currently; I get to go to La Jolla every Monday, talk to a… shrink. Court ordered. So…” I took a deep breath, gave Brian a peace sign, and whispered, “Back the fuck off, Brian.”
“Brian,” Big Glasses said, “we’ll get a spot.”
“Wind’s coming up, Brian,” I said, pointing to the boards. “Better get on it.”
“Oh, I have your permission. No! Fuck you, Jap!” Brian moved back and into some version of a fighting stance as he said it.
“Brian. I’m, uh, assessing.” I folded my hands across my chest. “And Brian, trying to surf is good for your… complexion.” Brian’s face reddened further. “Osmosis. The water in your skin cells, compared to salt water…”
Brian moved even closer, his mouth moving, his face out of focus; background, overlapped by, superimposed with, a succession of bullies with faces too close to mine; kids from school, third grade to high school. I couldn’t hear them, either. Taunts. I knew the words: “Retard!” “Idiot!” “What’s wrong with you?”
My father’s voice cut through the others. “Jody. It’s all a joke. Laugh.”
In this vision, or spell, or episode, each of my alleged tormentors, all of them boys, fell away. Each face was bracketed by and punctuated with a flash of a red light.
One face belonged to a nine-year-old boy, a look of shock that would become pain on his face. He was falling back and down, blood coming out of his mouth. Two teeth in his cupped hand. I looked at the school drinking fountain. A bit of blood. I looked around. All the other kids were afraid. Of me.
The lighting changed. More silver than blue. Cold light. I saw my father’s face, and mine, in the bathroom mirror. Faces; his short blond hair, eyes impossibly blue; my hair straight and black, my eyes almost black. “Jody, just… smile.,” he said. I did. Big smile. “No, son; not that smile. Frightening.”
I smiled. That smile. Frightening.
Brian’s face came back into focus. I looked past him, out to the kelp beds and beyond. “Wind’s picking up.” I paused. “Wait. Did I already say that… Brian?”
I turned toward the Falcon, closed the red notebook, set it on one side of the open Pee-Chee, picked up the blue notebook from the other side. There were crude sketches of dark waves and cartoonish surfers on the cover. I opened it and started writing.
“Wind is picking up.” I may have spun around a bit quickly, hands in a pre-fight position. It was Rincon Ronny in a shortjohn wetsuit, a board under his arm. Ronny nodded toward the stairs. “Fun guys.” He leaned away and laughed. I relaxed my hands and my stance. “The one dude, with the Hippie beads. Shirtless.”
“I almost said something about his… pimples. Brian. Shirtless.”
“Don’t care about his name.” There was a delay. “Fuck, man; Shirtless was scared shitless.”
“It’ll wear off.” I held the notebook up, showed Ronny the page with ‘Brian and friends’ written in larger-than-necessary block letters, scratched out ‘Brian,’ and closed the notebook. “By the time they get back to wherever they’re from, Shitless Shirtless would’ve kicked my ass.” I looked around to see if any of Ronny’s friends were with him. “I was… polite, Rincon Ronny.”
“Polite. Yeah. From what I saw. Yeah. And… it’s just Ronny. Now.”
“Could be Swamis Ronny, or Moonlight Ronny.”
“Or Ronny Ronny.”
“Ronny.” I had to think about what Ronny might have seen, how long I was in whatever state I was in. Out. I started gathering my belongings, pulling up the edges of my towel. “I just didn’t want to give my spot to… fuckers. Where are you… parked?”
“I… walked.”
I had to smile and nod. “You… walked.”
“One thing, Junior; those… fuckers, they won’t fuck with you in the water.”
“Joey,” I said. “And… Ronny, someone will.”
Ronny mouthed, “Joey,” and did a combination blink/nod. “Yeah. It’s… Swamis. Joey.”
Ronny looked at the waves, back at me. A gust of west wind blew the cover of my green notebook open. “Julie” was written in almost unreadably psychedelic letters across pages eight and nine. “Julie.” Hopefully unreadable.
I repeated Ronny’s words mentally, careful not to mouth them. “From what I saw.” And “Joey.”
CONTACT- erwin@realsurfers.net
COPYRIGHT protected material. All rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr,
Get some waves, Go Sea…Hawks, and Fuck Cancer. No comment (yet) on war and peace and all that. It’s a NEW YEAR. So… new dramas, new tensions, AND the same old ones. Best Wishes!
Real Surfers 