Category Archives: surfing blogs

Not a Hobie, Almost Apologies, Addition to Porthclaw Short Story w/illustration, OOPS…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, Hobie surfboards, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf sessions, surf-related short storties, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, writings of Erwin Dence

I am, not surprisingly, continuing to write/edit my Joseph Atsushi DeFreines short story about a surf trip to a spot in Wales. This is the second drawing I did to go along with the story. I then changed what I was planning to write to go along better with the illustration. BUT FIRST:

A thumbnail shot (forgive me for the thumb… and for thinking it’s funny) of THOR, left, and CONCRETE PETE, and a shot of REGGIE SMART delivering my new-to-me Surf Tech board. NOT a HOBIE.

UPDATE/OOPS- In my original posting, I failed to mention that Northwest surf pioneer TOM BURNS beat me in the race to being 74 years old. He did call me from Cannon Beach to give me the surf report with a subtle reminder, something like, “Yeah; not that great; lots of traffic; got some complaints from friend in Seaside about all the Washingtonians coming down; can’t get near Short Sands; and hey; you forgot my birthday.”

Tom Burns, a few years back, setting up for the next section

Not that it’s a competition, but I’ll catch up with Tom in late August, slightly ahead of Coach Pete Carroll, who, side story, Tom chatted with in the Westport parking lot a few years ago. “Wait, Pete surfs?” “Of course.” Going, still going.

A Little Heckling from the Back Pews

The belief that surfing is a spiritual form of expression, allowing one to move, gracefully, perhaps, through a greater energy, to flow with this gift, and, in a perfect moment, with the stars and the moon and the tides and the other elements aligned, and that the quest for this enlightenment can transform one into a better version of one’s self; this belief is great. And it is real. And I share this belief.

Two things often, to use a once cool phrase, harsh this paradigm: Surfing is fun, one, and two, the reality that even non-perfect waves frequently draw crowds means that too many others are in the water seeking spiritual awakenings, connections with the Universe, and moments of ultimate bliss.   

Your quest, their quest, everybody’s questing like crazy. And some are kooks. Not that this is, in itself, a sin.

But some are surfers you’ve surfed with before; surf acquaintances if not surf friends. And sometimes, the fun part includes getting loud, participating in what a guy in the water called heckling; as in: “Hey, you’re doing a lot of heckling. I just want to see you stand up on that board.” My response was, “No.” Hard no, perhaps.

Now, I really hadn’t singled that surfer out for heckling. It was more like I was acknowledging other surfers I’ve known for a long time, as in, “Tim’s on the wave. Tim’s wave! Hey, look around!” Or, if someone was taking off down the line from me, a simple, “Really?” Or, if a big roll through was approaching, “Take off! Be a hero!” Or, if I see three surfers going for one wave, “Everybody go! Everybody… go, go, go!” Or, if someone is directly in my line, I might say, “Paddle!” or “Don’t move!” Depends.

Whoa; maybe I do a bit of heckling.

But when I told this woman to “Paddle. Paddle!” and she got, evidently, a good ride, she mentioned I should have whistled. “You mean, like, ‘good ride’ kind of whistle?” “Yeah.” The next time I saw her complete a ride, I gave her the ‘both arms up’ signal.

When the guy who later, on the beach, claimed to be from Capitola, adding that he once almost burned Tom Curren at Rincon, mentioned my heckling, Thor, formerly of somewhere down Surf Route 101 from me, recently hanging at his sister’s place on Maui, said, “It’s not heckling, man, it’s hassling.”

I deny that.

It might actually be that I was having a lot of trouble adapting to my new-to-me Surf Tech Balboa model. The same length as my well-thrashed Hobie, but with clunkier rails, it almost refused to turn on my first three waves, and while trying a high line on another wave, the board broke free and I dropped, out of control, the trough. This gave me more to talk about when Reggie, who sold me the board, showed up and started dominating the inside waves. And then inventor/entrepreneur Mike Olson showed up, continuing to try to master his wing foil, so I had to try to say something to him on the way by. He said when he gets it on rail, “It really is like flying,” and he did mention how much fun he was having. Fun. Yeah.

So, yeah; a lot of banter/talking, made all the more annoying by my out at sea voice, that all the louder by both being hard of hearing and having to wear ear plugs.

Occasionally, and it seems to coincide with my catching a lot of waves and having a good time, I can’t help but feeling a bit apologetic. Not during, afterwords. Like, maybe, you take my loudness as abrasiveness. I get it. Nothing has come close to ruining a session for me like obnoxious surfers teaming up and disrespecting the true value of the gift of waves while I’m, in silence, praying for a bomb set wave with no shoulder hoppers.

I realize this sounds like a non-apology apology, but I do sincerely consider, as in think to about, briefly, how my being in the water might negatively affect others. Briefly.

Oh, so after Capitola guy and I exchanged a few stories on the beach, and I, as usual, pushed my blog, he mentioned again that he’d like to see me standing up on my board.    There may have been a bit of spitefulness, and I hope you’ll consider forgiving me, when I replied, “No, no, and… no.” And, yes, even though I punctuated this with a double flip-off, the friendly sort, and he seemed to take it in the friendly way in which I meant it, I did feel a bit… almost but not quite… apologetic.   

Here is the addition to my short story abbout a fictional surf trip to Wales in 1975. I’ve made significant changes, will make more. I will repost when I’m satisfied it works. SO:

Some events are so horrific that, even as they are happening, we wish them, desperately want them to be something else. Not real. In the aftermath we want them to not have happened, to have those few worst sessions to not be real.

But they are. Samuel Hubbard/Jones, in what I’ve long referred to as his ‘lord high barrister lingo,’ described what he witnessed, what we both became a part of, as “Discordant.”

“Discordant? Yeah. Okay.”

 “I just didn’t want to say ‘surreal.’ When… when we entered the bath/shower room on the pier at Porthclaw, Claudia… Claudia; she was smiling as if she wasn’t in… that much danger. As if it might be, still, a joke. What was happening.  With everything else dark, her attacker and… and she was wearing that summer dress… So bright.  I know why you’re asking me this, Joey. I mean, now. I’ve come to grips with it. The image… it’s still there, but it’s… I’ve had fifty years of other images of… of unspeakable violence. As have you. But I can describe every moment; and I have. It’s part of the process. You could… and don’t. This is why you can’t finish “Swamis.” I read… almost all of your most recent draft. Better. You cannot bear to go to those most monstrous, those darkest places, and you refuse to believe that those are the places readers insist upon your going. And, you don’t have to write this, so I understand. And… you’re right, fuck any readers who insist on cruelty rendered so they can imagine it while lying on their beds. You look for sense, for a story, for heroes and villains. For… justice. But, fuck, man, we’re… old. Why haven’t we learned that life is…”

“Discordant.”

“Discordant indeed.”

Have the perfect combination of fun and inspiration the next time you surf. Remember all original material on realsurfers.net is protected by copyright, all rights reserved by the author/artist, Erwin Dence. AND do write me at erwin@realsurfers.net with your high praise and anything else. So far, I’ve received mostly offers to improve my site for, I’m guessing, money. AND, as always, thanks for checking it out!

In a Corner with Sally Fitzgibbons and Other Stuff Concerning Competition

Posted on by under aggressive surfers, Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf contests, surf culture, surf satire, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing stories, writings of Erwin Dence

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.

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

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

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

My finger, someone else’s wave.

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

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

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

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

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

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

What Failure Guarantees- A better next time.

Next Time, Man…   

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

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

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

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

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

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

Asterisks on Mother’s Day: Nam Siu Recovering, Sally **Finals, Surf Route 101 Traffic ***Jams…

Posted on by under Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf culture, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing in Washington State, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

*Surfer, diver, spear fisher, foiler, skateboarder, snowboarder, guardian of the water quality in the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the branches thereof, Nam Siu is out of the hospital after a traumatic month long fight with toxic shock syndrome; essentially an infection that, shutting down vital organs, threatened to kill him. It didn’t, but, with his kidneys still not responding, his road to full, ripping recovery is still in is going to continue.

Photos by Megan Hintz-Eardley, recently married to the guy in the mask, Chris. I don’t know cards, but it appears Megan is holding a full house plus.

My friend George Takamoto is suffering from kidney failure. The need for dialysis three times a week is a daunting reality. Horrific. George is twice Nam’s age. While his situation is chronic, Nam’s is Acute, sudden onset. The prognosis for Nam’s kidneys to begin working is optimistic; as in possible, his situation for a transplant, should it be necessary, is good; he should be a good candidate. You can find out more on social media. You know how to do it.

** I might be a person who follows the World Surf League, watches it when possible, reads some of the commentary on the YouTube posts, and complains the least about the judging. Yes, I thought Felipe got overscored on the 9.10 in the final, the one scoring wave that didn’t get a replay (or three, one in slow motion), AND I have been rooting for Sally Fitz, the oldest woman on tour, AND she did compete her way into the final, SO… so, good. There’s still a lot of drama befopre the next contest, And there’s the dramatic CUT, so… so, go Sally.

Feral-ish cat, Joey. Obviously related to our sometimes-inside cat, Tony, I cannot yet get close enough to Joey. Yet. We do get other visitors. Teddy, a long legged tabby, and, if I leave food out and Joey doesn’t show up, Pedro O. Possum will invite himself. This is not to mention the occasional cruise through by bears and cougars. We used to get raccoons. I did mention the bears and cougars.

Speaking of cruising, the season for doing the 101 Loop is just getting going. Packs off overweight motorcyclists, log trucks and chip trucks, people forced to ‘go around’ because the Hood Canal Bridge is stuck open, Adam Wipeout or Soupy Dan going helter and/or skelter from or to the Hama Hama, me, occasionally. Note the RV holding up traffic on Surf Route 101. RVs are typically being driven, according to those stuck behind them, by “Free Time RVMFs.” Motor Folks, perhaps. But… free.

Quick story: I was heading up 101 when I saw a big yellow motorcycle behind me. Leader of the pack. He passed me, followed, on a sketchy stretch, by three pack members, hell bent in leather. Okay. I get onto Highway 20, and there they are, all pulled over, all off their rides. Apparently, the wild bunch head honcho had something on his sunglasses, like, I don’t know, a bug, and his buddies were trying to help. I thought about helping, thought about giving them the Easy Rider salute, but just kept putting on. I didn’t say it was a great story. Share the road… man.

****HAPPY MOTHERS’ DAY! I have mentioned this before, but I (probably) wouldn’t have ever started surfing if my my mother hadn’t been so willing to take her seven children to the beach. Often. Never often enough, but she was supportive. And other wannabe surfer’s moms. Thanks. And, despite surfing always being the ‘other woman’ in my life, Trish, the mother of our three distinctive, totally individualized, now-adult children, has almost always been… let’s say accepting of my obsession/addiction, and, if I’m particularly stressed, she might say, “You’re being a dick (more like asshole), you need to go surfing. Now.” “There are no waves.” “Oh, there’ll be waves.” “Okay.” Trisha, love of my life; love you to the moon and back!”

More on this and something I want to say about whether any of us deserve good waves. Next time. Meanwhile, please pull over if you’re holding up traffic. Free advice.

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

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

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

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

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

So… blood, stitches and a great story.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Joey Cabell. Historical photos.

ANOTHER SELECTION FROM ‘LOVE SONGS FOR CYNICS’-

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doing the Loop, Sunday Quickie, Less

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sorry ‘Bout Your Blues and other Valentines

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SO… Lovers, love.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I Guess I’m Lucky… Occasionally

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PHOTO voluntarily REMOVED.

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

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

Stories, Epiphanies, Shoot-Outs, Poem de Jour…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Competitive surfing,, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, surf art, surf fiction, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing novels, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

… Oh, and all respect to Bethany Hamilton. Posting this was delayed a bit because I HAD to watch the highlights from the first day of the DA HUI BACKDOOR SHOOTOUT. I also had to have the live stream on the big screen all day yesterday. Ten plus minutes and pretty much every wave actually ridden was on the video.

It is pretty easy to criticize surfers for not catching more, or any, waves, but if you really put yourself in the water… Really? Almost every wave coming in, this visible from every camera angle, was a double-up, one swell overtaking another; and this isn’t factoring in backwash. So, couch hero, if you make the beyond vertical takeoff, get through a spitting barrel, you’re almost certainly facing a killer closeout section at mach speed.

But yes, I did question how much time I was spending watching, hoping someone would just GO! Someone who did was BETHANY HAMILTON! We’ve all followed her since her shark attack, a teenage girl with a bit of a lisp, almost worn out by the attention and constant press coverage before I ever saw an interview. Then the movie and the books and, wait, four kids. Four kids? So, proper respect.

NOTE to self: Never allow yourself to be photographed with two skinny guys. RANDALL, fat and old painter obviously hiding something under his sweatshirt, and QUINN.

Here’s the story of why I’m willing to post this now: I emailed holiday (Dead zone for painters) greetings/reminders that I’m still alive and working to my clients, and sent texts to all the surfers on my stealth phone contact list. I do appreciate all the responses, and, oddly, I didn’t get any snarky ones. Quinn, a reformed (as in former, as in non-practicing) Attorney, sent this one: “Back at you– many curves on the page and carves on the sea.”

NOW, I am as competitive as anyone, cleverness-wise, but I couldn’t come up with anything to compete, EXCEPT that, in conversations with Quinn, I did ask him why he no longer practices law. His explanation is that attorneys are, basically, agents, and agents are… “Oh, I get it, like, you know, gophers.” “Yes.” “Or maybe, to be crass…” “Yes.”

I did tell Quinn, as a “Swamis” update, that I sent submissions to a group of agents in December, and was hoping for a Christmas, then New Year’s miracle, a positive respose. My text, “Waiting.” Quinn’s, “Maybe you’ll get it for epiphany.”

OKAY. So, Trish and I both googled epiphany- The religious celebration “Commemorates the manifistation of Christ to the Gentiles as represented by the Magi,” is held, probably, today, officially, tomorrow. Hopefully, no one draws some comparison with anything political. No. Don’t.

The other definition is: “A moment of sudden realization or insight.”

HERE’S MINE, something that came to me when, after another series of dreams, little movies, I woke up an hour before I intended to: People have stories. People want to tell their stories. IF someone is willing to tell me a story that is important to them, I should be willing to listen. AND, people don’t always believe this; I do.

                                                 THIS FAR OUT

This far out, the sky, horizon to horizon, Can be one otherwise colorless shade of metallic grey, Platinum or pewter or steel or chrome or lead, Polished or pitted, from almost white to darkest black.

This far out, the wind-scarred dome can be broken, lightning torn, Here thunder cracks and rolls, cold laughter, This far out I can’t recall what it was that I was after.

This far out, I’ve heard stories, Of a light so bright that the blind can see, Of a sight in the sky like glass on fire, Of a tearing of the shroud, A glimpse of heaven reserved, we’re told, for the drowning and the dying. Some claim to have survived, returned, changed, no doubt, And some were, clearly, lying, Adrift, alone, I’m wondering How I got here, this far out.

This far out, the sea and sky can merge, Indistinguishable, A swirling battlefield, force against force, chaos Seeking direction to some stony, high-cliffed shore, Some distant, secret harbor.

This far out it makes no difference, If I scream or cry or wail, The only echoes are the questions, Accusations whispered by the waves, Waves that whish or scrape or crack or roar, Or scream out threats and curses, “What are you looking for?”

Even in the calmest seas, the skies almost transparent, Colors blended by the smooth, broad strokes of the cleanest brush, There’s a constant sound, subtle, in the silence, Bubbling from the deep, exploding on the surface, Mistaken, easily, for laughter, This far out I can’t recall what it was that I was after.

I am trying to add more poetry to my portfolio, which includes a collection of songs and poem I copyrighted a few years ago under the title, “LOVE SONGS FOR CYNICS.” As part of this plan, I am working on doing an illustration for each selected piece. If I do them in black and white; less expensive. This is the illustration for this poem, my most recent. I worked on it, writing, saving, rewriting, repeating the procedure. I made changes from what I thought was a complete version. I do not promise to not make further changes.

All original works on realsurfers.net are protected by copyright. Thank you for respecting that.

Meanwhile, if you find some waves, surf ’em.

The Very Delayed Eddie Swell, New Illustrations

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

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

                  Meanwhile, on a Strait Far Away…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NEXT.

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

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

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