Category Archives: surfing blogs

Tragic Lost at Sea Story, Photos from an Almost or Actually Epic Day, More in the Realsurfers Magazine, August 17, 2025

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, getting barrelled, northwest surfing, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf art, surf novels, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, Uncategorized, women surfers in the Northwest,, writings of Erwin Dence

JOEL KAWAHARA’S boat, the “Karolee,” being towed into Humboldt Bay on August 14. Mr. Kawahara set out from Neah Bay the week before. After there was no contact, a helicopter flew over the boat. All the rescue gear was on board. The boat was on auto pilot for some unknown period of time, heading south at four knots. Joel is missing and presumed drowned. Quoting the Coast Guard report, “…a search was started in the waters off the Pacific Northwest. Multiple U.S. Coast Guard crews, including fixed-wing, hjelicopter, cutters, and small boat, searched for the man over nearly 24 hours… scouring an area of 2,100 miles, including 430 miles of trackline.” The report stated how difficult it is to call off a search.

I mention this here because Mr. Kawahara lived in Quilcene. I ran into him several times. We have mutual friends including the people who live on Lindsey Beach. I initially found out about the incident when working for one of his neighbors. Mr. Kawahara had a connection with Fish and Wildlife. Chris Eardley is my connection there. “I know of him. He was very active on the fisheries management council. Very sad turn of events. He was well liked here in PT.”

Very tragic indeed.

A Day at the Beach

                                   

TOP TO BOTTOM: Scroll as necessary.

Three participants in a WARM CURRENTS event at La Push. Natalie, in the middle, is from Port Townsend, and may have been a bit miffed I didn’t recognize her. “You looked taller before,” I said, “You probably shouldn’t stand next to such a tall person.” I don’t know who he tall guy is, but the woman on the right, Majia, is from the surf destination of Minnesota. “Great.”

This rig hit a dear on the way out on 112. Yet another reason to never go on 112. For California surf hunters, never go on THE 112.

The last time I saw this older gentleman he was on a kayak. “Nice mustache,” I said. “Walrus,” he called me. “No, that’s a different guy.”

Bill Truckenmiller, a pathfinder of Olympic Peninsula surfing, deciding if this was the place to surf on this particular summer day. I had seen him fairly recently, different spot, didn’t get a photo.

Kim Hoppe, formerly of Port Townsend, just visiting from some town in California near Rincon. An interior designer, Kim said she’s making a living mostly doing art. “Art. Really?” I told her, when I arrived, that she was in my spot. Perhaps as payback for my not recognizing her, she told Tom Burns, who was supposed to be saving my preferred spot, that she once had to rescue me when some tourist thought I was drowning. “See,” I told Tom, “My stories are true. Cops showed up.” When I asked Kim if there were any of the PT crew she wanted me to pass on a ‘hello’ to she said Shortboard Aaron and Keith. In that order. And, no, she didn’t ‘save’ save me, she just carried my board to my van. Embarrassing enough. But… true. Making a living selling art. Whoa!

Somewhere during the day, Gianna Andrews was parked next to me. She had a painting on the inside of her van’s back door. “Oh, you do art?” I asked. She gave me this sticker. Gianna is a serious artist with a very professional website. Check it out. Again, making a living producing and selling art. Wow!

Tom Burns asked me to send this photo to him, then asked me not to post it. I assume he was kidding. I mean, Tom, it’s got that superhero kind of perspective. No one will notice the glare.

Me after all the SPF70 sunscreen went into my eyeballs. And, no, the color is not enhanced; my nose really is that purple.

Me and Nam Siu. If you’re wondering how he’s doing since nearly dying of this and that and sepsis and organ shutdown; he’s fine, working his way back up to being ready to continue our non-grudge match. I think we’re at one each, best two out of three. Or four out of seven. Depends.

Photos I wish I had gotten: Two dudes with big ass beards. “Amish surf bros” would have been the caption; Dude who thought it was cool to go out in trunks because, man, like it’s hot on the beach; old guy (not that I’m not) in really fancy surf fishing gear, lasted about ten minutes; large combined family also planning on fishing, kid with a toy pole, no line or hooks, asked me if I am a lifeguard (possibly because of the sunglasses, yellow shirt, purple nose). “Yes, yes kid I am. Just… stay out of the water.”

WSL CONTEST SCENE-

Of course I watched some heats; last contest before the big final final at Cloudbreak. Did I have favorites? Yes. Missed the women’s final live, but when I saw the score, I didn’t bother to watch the replay. I did see the men’s final. Robbo vs. Griff; not quite Kelly vs. John-John or Medina.

ESSAY/DIATRIBE gone soft

One Surfer’s ‘Epic’

Some surf lineups are objectively great enough to make my list of places I would love to surf. Dream scenarios. Epic: Lined up Jeffrey’s or Honolua Bay, or Rincon, or Malibu, or any number of “Surfer’s Journal” worthy, world class breaks.  I should add that the dream situation would not include crowds. Some dreams remain dreams.

The dream list endures.

I have been fortunate enough to have been present and in the water for some historically epic swells: December of 1969- Swamis, July of 1975- Upper Trestles. There were others, swells that didn’t make it into the “Encyclopedia of Surfing,” sessions I put on my most memorable/most epic ‘up until now’ list.

While I think about this, please feel free to work up your own favorite up-to-now list of most epic individual waves and/or sessions; this distinction necessary because your best ever ride might have come in sub-epic conditions.

One ride can make a session you’ll remember: A surprising, step-off-on-the-sand, longest beach break wave ever: An accidental and frightening barrel at Sunset Cliffs; a ride on which I got wiped out on the inside section at Windansea, someone putting my board up on one of the rocks; a hundred-yard, totally in position ride at a not-quite secret Northwest spot; enough other favorite rides or sessions or days that I can’t help but feel lucky. Or blessed. Grateful, for sure.  

Perhaps you have an actual list: Day, time, tide conditions, swell height, angle, and period; number of waves you caught, etc.

Cool.

I was ready to write something snarky about crowds at any spot deemed worthy, about quality waves being wasted on kooks, but… I guess, once into the subject, I changed my mind. It’s the ‘gratefulness’ thing, probably. Let’s say it is. Epic.  

ATTEMPTED POETIC-ISH PIECE

                                    “Dream,” You Said

If it was a dream, and it may have been… You were in it. But then, you were my dream, are my dream. Don’t laugh.

Your right arm was stretched toward me. Your hand was close, delicate fingers tightly squeezed together. My focus, even as you moved your hand away from your face, remained on your palm; life line and wish line and dream line and fate line.

You rotated your hand, slightly, at the wrist. Your little finger, closest to me, curled in. The others followed. One, two, three, four. The fingers came together, straightened together. One, two, three, four. And again. One, two, three.

A twist of the wrist ended the rhythm. You were pointing at me.

The last knuckle of your pointer finger moved, slightly, then re-straightened. Your thumb remained up, like a hammer on a pistol. You pulled it back with the thumb and first finger of your left hand. The word ‘yes’ was part of a laugh.

You moved your left hand away as the imaginary pistol recoiled. The fingers on both hands exploded out. You laughed. “Poof” was the word within this laugh.

Your right hand moved against your lips, fingers, wrapped over your nose and left eye, moved, slightly, to your rhythm: One, two, three, four.

Porcelain nails, jade green with ivory tips; ivory, ivory with a coral tinge; were almost tapping.

“Dream?”

“Dream,” you said, as you slid your hand down your face, the first two fingers following the ridge of your upper lip: Pulling, but only softly, on your bottom lip. Revlon red lips, since I’m naming colors. Your eyes, fully open, narrowed. Green. Of course, green; translucent, with electric lines of yellow and blue. More blue or more yellow, but always green.

Your right eye widened, a half-breath ahead of the left, to fully open.

“Dream, then,” I said.

Your right hand twisted and opened, almost like a wave. I’ll rephrase.  It was almost as if you were waving, but, as you pulled your fingers in, one, two, three, four, I heard, or imagined, a sound, a wave, breaking; up, over; the wave becoming a fist. Open, repeat; one, two, three.

“After the fourth wave,” I said, “You threw your fingers out; like… like a magician, or… or like a wave exploding against a cliff. Perhaps.”

“It could be, perhaps,” you said, something like a laugh, but softer, within the words, “That it’s you, that it’s you; that you’re in my dream.”    

“Then” I said, “Keep dreaming.”

“WHY DON’T YOU WRITE ME? I’m out in the jungle, “I’m hungry to hear you…” Paul Simon. You can’t get Paul, but, if you email erwin@realsurfers.net you’ll get… me. I’ll probably write back if you’re not trying to sell me improvements on my site.

AS ALWAYS, THANKS for checking out realsurfers. I checked on line and I’m not in the top fifty surf centric blogs. I’m going to add the tag, ‘Best surf blog from the northern reaches of Surf Route 101,” or something similar. Only the two essay/poem pieces are worth reserving the rights to. And I do. THANKS. Get some surf when you can. It’ll be EPIC!

realsurfers magazine- Sunday, August 10

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf contests, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf trips, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing novels, writings of Erwin Dence

Chris Eardley and Keith Darrock (and Rico and Cougar Keith) hit the Westend, searching for new waves to conquer. If they didn’t find gold. Not that I was seriously invited, but I was told the wooden path does not go all the way to the beach PLUS four days food and a big ass board. Plus… a few more minuses. What they caught and where? Stories vary.

To complete the story of the church steeple painting, I convinced Reggie Smart to finish the middle of the side of the church I couldn’t reach with the 65 foot boom. This required putting a ladder on the roof, attaching a ledger partway up to secure another ladder. You can see the setup in the lower photo. This little peak would have required some psycho setting up from the roof. It took fifteen minutes of positioning of the manlift and most of the boom to get to the spot, fifteen minutes to put a coat on the surfaces.

It was not required that we paint the cross on the top of the steeple, though the congregation clearly wanted it to happen. The difference between going above the steeple’s roof and painting below it is about twelve feet up into the wild blue yonder. I thought having Reggie with me in the basket might boost my confidence. It did not. “I’m going to throw up,” I said. “Yeah, well,” Reggie said, suggesting he might just soil himself (note my resistance at using the actual quote). Still; I do feel some shame around ‘hairing-out.’ Almost a week out, less shame. I did get the window on the fun car, damaged when I backed into the manlift turret, replaced, and I did repair the damage caused when I hit a spot on the steeple… twice. If I had the feeling, in the lift, that I’d used up my chances on this project; well, I will have to live with that.

This is a display, evidently, at the Jefferson County Fair, taken by Librarian Keith (a proposed nickname, “STACKS,” as in library shelving, has never caught on). MEANWHILE, Adam Wipeout, prominently featured, was doing double duty; attending a wedding of one or two co-workers, somewhere, and participating in the WARM CURRENTS activities at La Push. Here’s the story:

The takeway, first: Most often we listen to our own advice. SO, Adam called me this morning at 7:06. He was on his way BACK to LaPush and wondered if I wanted to catch a ride. He was probably ten minutes down Surf Route 101 and I had just gotten up. “What? No.” I asked him what he had done with his scheduling conflict from Saturday. “Dude, I did both. Didn’t you see the photo from La Push?” “The one with a one foot wave ten feet off the beach?” “No, no; it was crazy. La Push has this sandbar, and on a rising tide…” “Yeah, yeah; I’m working today so, maybe, if a swell shows up…” NOTE: the …s probably mean info I shouldn’t put out.

Two drawings I started while waiting for the Volvo’s back window to be replaced.

WSL STUFF- I did, of course, watch a lot of the surfing contest from Tahiti. More like the morning stuff, with scary scary waves the first day. I watched most of the heats on Friday, and, bucking a popular trend, didn’t really have issues with the judging. It does become obvious that the difference between winning and not is often whether a competitor’s drive overcomes his or her fear. Though there are a lot of heats to get through on the men’s side, the finalists on the women’s side, Caitlin Simmers and Molly Picklum fit that description. One thing that might improve (might) is having a non-final final with two or four of the non-finalists. I would choose Erin Brooks and Vahine Fierro. Your choice? Up to you. We’ll see.

NOT that I’m in any way political:

COMPLICITOUS

We lack empathy because we’ve never experienced real horror, We lack sympathy because we refuse to believe the horror to be as bad as we know it to be, We lack compassion because we don’t want that real horror to find us.

We look away, Complicit.

If you pass a starving child and do nothing to help, you should feel the shame, If you purposefully starve a child, Bomb a child, Snipe a child, You are the horror.

We look away, Complicit.

FROM the Old Testament, Volume II, Third Book of Netanyahu; Chapter Two, Verse three: “We basically could have eliminated the entire population of Gaza.”

Whatever God is or isn’t, God set the rules, the boundaries, the limits, God plays the long game.

We haven’t the time, We posture and push and out position, Swagger and strut past the meek and indecisive, We invest in our desires, gamble on our instincts, Hard focused on our dreams, Fame and glory and wealth and power, Power on power and power for power, Hate for hate.

God plays the long game.

Success begets success, Power attracts power.

Buffed and polished, chrome and gold and mirrors, Our lust, once everything, Breaks, Our overstuffed pockets spill out, Deeds and bonds and diamonds, Our treasures are stashed offshore, vaults, buried Pirate chests, Molding, oxidized, crumpled and corrupted, Not to be touched.

God plays the long game.

Our heavens, our yachts and cars and mansions and land, List and leak and sink, Monuments to what others will never have, Museums dedicated to someone we never will be, And never were.

God plays the long game.

Our souls, we believe, Might be retrieved, Whole. Pure. Redeemed. This is not true. We know this is not true.

We cannot love ourselves, And others will not Truly Love us.

We are unworthy of real love, Slanderers and abusers and deniers, Cheats and frauds and Liars, Painted, plastic coated, polished, And yet, Senses dulled, synapses crackling, our minds questioning Every decision, Aware we are rotting, shrinking, slowing, failing, skin sliding on the bone, Unable to recognize ourselves in smoke clouded mirrors or gold framed portraits. We fear all others.

We have to, They want what we have.

Whatever God is or God isn’t, we are not gods.

We cannot play the long game.

We haven’t the time.

AS ALWAYS, thanks for checking out realsurfers.net

WHY DON’T YOU WRITE ME? erwin@realsurfers.net

Here’s what I’m claiming rights to today: The illustrations and the poems. Copyright 2025. All rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

MEANWHILE, I have some surf plans. I’m thinking, maybe, if… Maybe I’ll see you out and around or driving past me. Good luck!

Summertime, and the Living is… Easy

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf contests, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf stories, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing in Washington State, surfing novels, surfing Oceanside in the late 1960s,, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

Faith, Hope, Confidence, Broken Window, Sally and Courtney, and Somewhere on the Coast, Somewhere on the Net… and on Being Hard to Follow

IT’S SUMMER. The odds of having waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca is slim-to-flat. Several of my surf friends are currently out on the West End on a hike/camp/surf adventure, but, even though it’s the actual Pacific Ocean, the swell forecast isn’t stellar. Knowing the players, they’ll find waves AND there will be stories.

One of those players, in a recent cellular conversation (yeah, could have said ‘convo’), when I brought up something I had told him before, said, “Sometimes you’re kind of hard to follow.” Today’s posting will prove his point.

I have been watching the WSL contest from Huntington Beach a bit, catching up when I get home. In fact, it’s finals day and I just turned off the tablet… too distracting. I’m not sure what the WSL online complainants have to say about, say, scoring or that some glory-hogging CT surfers are involving themselves, but… highlights: Kind of rooted for nepo surfer Kalohe “Get it right” Andino; he’s out. Always root for Sally Fitzgibbons. She was number two in the Challenger Series ranking going into the event, and the number one was eliminated early. Earlier. Sally’s out. I did find out that the surfer Trish rooted for, Courtney Conlogue, is not in the contest but is working as a lifeguard in Huntington Beach and mentoring a surfer in the event (eliminated). “Good for her,” Trish said.

I did notice that a lot of the surfers, male and female, are on the Simone Biles side of Jordy Smith. Gymnast-sized hydrobats. Just an observation; no judgment.  

I’VE BEEN surfing long enough that SURFER’S JOURNAL’s section that focuses on old timey surf stories is pretty much up to the era when I switched from surf mats to surfboards. SO, okay, like it’s 1969, I’m working at Buddy’s Sign Service, 1st and Tremont; close to the Oceanside Pier, one block off this stop-lighted section of Surf Route 101. The shop, in the gutted former newspaper building, a glorious place to work for a recent Fallbrook High School graduate, was also one block south and west of the then notorious Tenderloin downtown section. With the Vietnam War in full escalation mode, Commanders of Camp Pendleton were constantly threatening to not allow Marines to go to Oceanside, with the hawkers and prostitutes. Most of the Marines my age, many from small towns, they were enroute to war, yes, but Oceanside… maybe too dangerous, too scary.

Again, for me… glorious. Still, scary.

There were reasons Oceanside and Imperial Beach offered the cheapest oceanfront and ocean adjacent properties south of Orange County.

But, in the summer I had to sign up for the draft, and for classes at Palomar Junior college, with my surf friends scattering; I had a job (apprentice/nub), I had a girlfriend (Trish, same girl fifty-six years later), I had a semi-reliable car (Morris minor), and I was figuring out how to manage the fickle, sometimes frightening waves at the pier and the various other spots. I would surf before or after work, or head to Swamis or Grandview or Pipes.

Sorry. Exposition, scene setting. The freedom I felt is the very basis for my never-quite-done novel, “Swamis,” the magic I felt is the magic I want to convey. Working on it.

I convinced myself I was getting better known in the North County surf scene beyond Tamarack and Oceanside. I was becoming a regular. What I noticed, and this was discussed when I actually spoke to other surfers, that there was an influx of surfers from Texas. Texas? Yeah. According to actual locals, these dudes seemed to have money. They would stay at the motels in the Leucadia area, chase the local girls. More irritating, they’d catch some. Or the locals imagined they had.  And they’d add to the congestion in the lineup, more irritating than the kooks from West Covina, only slightly less irritating than seeing the pros and magazine stars coming down from the north. I mean, like, “Fuck, man, that’s Billy fuckin’ Hamilton.”

SO, one afternoon, I’m checking out the waves at Grandview from the bluff. Four to five, maybe, and glassing off. Two guys come up to me. I shouldn’t try to copy or mimic their accents, but the waves seemed big to them, and they questioned why I’d paddle out.

FAITH.

Faith, foremost, in my ability to challenge a situation out of my comfort zone. This is a faith learned through attempting and failing, retrying and almost succeeding.

FAITH ONLY WORKS IF WE BELIEVE HAVING FAITH WORKS.

Not to get religious-ey on this, but ‘blind faith?’ No. Jesus praised those who were not witness to his miracles and yet believed. Fine. But surfers don’t take other surfer’s word for things: “Do you have any photos? Witnesses?” “Yeah.” “Oh, and I’m supposed to believe that guy; dude who said it was eight feet when it was… I was out… more like six feet?”

There is a difference between having the confidence to believe you can paddle out and ride a few waves and the wisdom to decide you probably shouldn’t try. It’s learned, usually the hard way. A lot of experience may or may not give one a bit of knowledge.

EQUIPMENT- Almost immediately on starting work at Buddy’s I was sent out (alone) to repaint some metal structures that hold interior lit plexiglass signs. One of the first ones I attempted was on a severe slope. Daunting. Ladders require an even footing. I figured it out, got it painted despite being scared shitless, and got questioned (chewed out) on how long it took. “What?”

Next challenge- a forty-foot ladder. Like a kook paddling with too much nose in the air, a rookie ladder person will try to make the clime less steep. There I was on the main drag in Oceanside, the angle probably 45 degrees. Boing, boing. Next challenge- Manlift. The guy from Federal signs was operating the boom. I was painting the pole with aluminum paint, and the cross at the top with white. I worked my way up. Okay. Take it slow. Got to the cross. Switched paint. Started at the top. When I reached for the cross, it moved. A lot. Almost lost my balance, almost lost my breakfast. “You okay, kid?” “I don’t know.” The man was laughing. “Yeah, you’re fine.”

SLOW FORWARD to now; I’m working on a job (with Reggie Smart- he’s on social- look him up) I would have been happy not doing. A church steeple that requires the use of a manlift with a 65-70 foot boom. SCARY.

But I have faith in the equipment. So far, and I’m almost done, the faith is well founded. I only bumped into the building, softly, a couple of times… OH, but I did back the fun car into the turret. Shattered but intact. Fuck! The white trash, duct tape fix didn’t make it from Port Townsend to Quilcene. I’m getting it replaced on Wednesday, hopefully just in time for the next pulse of waves. I’ll let you know. I mean, after the fact.

It is summer, but… after faith comes HOPE.

Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net AND, with your praise and your own stories, please (if you’re not a site-builder or content consultant) fly me a line at erwin@realsurfers.net

Let’s see- I borrowed the surfing photo. All others and the content is original, so, protected by copyright UPDATE- I would have thought Kanoa would win. Despite my not rooting for him, he was just eliminated. On to Tahiti!

Get some waves!

Chimacum Timacum’s Sailboat Crashing Story, plus… Cats and Poetry and… Wait! UPDATE!!!!

Posted on by under northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf stories, surf trips, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing stories, writings of Erwin Dence

I have a self-imposed deadline for posting. It’s, like, noon on Sundays. I wrote about the big incident without the input from Tim Pauley. THEN, heading off somewhere, and because surf journalist emeritus (I hope he’s not offended) Drew Kampion commented on today’s posting with a bit of a cosmic message(as of there was a photo included, but there wasn’t). Thinking I couldn’t see it because IO was on the tablet, I checked the big computer. WHOA! message from Chimacum Tim. So, of course, after practically begging him to write up the incident, I have to post this. I;m not deleting what I wrote (yet). See if they, you know, match. SO…

A few days ago while surfing the 10th St. jetty in Avalon, New Jersey I saw the mast of a sailboat on the other side of the jetty, dangerously close to the rocks.  Thinking to myself there might be people in danger, I abandoned my surf session and ran to the jetty.  There was a group of us that witnessed eight kids and two instructors on the tiny 24 foot sailboat.  Having sailed across oceans and worked on tugboats offshore, this was the heaviest thing I’ve ever seen.  There was nothing we could do for the kids.  The boat swayed violently in the waves against the jetty, and jumping off the boat was putting your life in peril.  We yelled to the kids to stay on the boat and help was coming.  But all us responders were helpless to watch the carnage unfolding.  It wasn’t until the keel snapped off the boat and the jetty released the hull of the boat that the kids had a chance.  The boat started to drift away from the rocks, but was taking on water.  Once the boat was almost entirely underwater, the entire crew made a jump for it into the raging current.  Fortunately, they all had life preservers, and there were a couple other boats at the mouth of the inlet to scoop them up.

Everyone made it back to the Beach.  The kids were beyond brave, and a number of people in the community, on the boats, and on the beach were able to assist.  It was pretty cool to experience that in this day and age. There are still people willing to put their life on the line in order to help others.  

Tim

My take:

I’ve been checking out Chimacum Tim’s chickens while he was on the East Coast. Tim’s father has had some medical issues; Tim has been helping out. AND, of course, surfing. Tim’s dad lives in New Jersey, in or near Avalon, which is, evidently, an island, so… surf. I wasn’t sure when Tim was coming back, so, on Friday, I cruised by. Tim was there, and he looked like shit. I, of course, told him so. Not the first person to say so, so… confirmation.

Tim, rather politely, explained he had a hell of a flight getting home, AND… “Oh, did you hear about the sailboat crashing. Wednesday. It was the heaviest thing I’ve ever seen on the water.”

I asked Tim, politely, to write something about the incident and send it to erwin@realsurfers.net so I could post a first hand account. He didn’t. He’ll have to rely on my second hand narration. I will try to duplicate my friend’s voice, though without the Philly/Jersey accent or attitude. Paraphrasing:

“It was a pretty north swell. Waist to chest. Pretty good. Not too crowded. I see this sailboat. It’s headed toward the jetty. There were two instructors and eight kids… students.”

Okay, I’ll skip the fake quotes. Tim and some other surfers run over to the jetty. The boat’s engine had failed at the worst time, the boat was hitting the rocks, and it looked like the crew and the kids were ready to bail. This would have been a very bad choice. Tim and the others were frantically yelling. It was… heavy. AND THEN another boat pulled the sailboat off the rocks, but THEN the boat began to sink.

In the end, the ten sailors were saved. It made national news. When I told Trish about it, she, of course, already knew. “Yeah, but Chimacum Tim was there!” “Uh huh. How are his chickens?” “Fine. The one hen is still sitting on the eggs, the others are still being mean to her, and Tim says…” “Yeah; I have to go.”

RECAP- Tim surfed. One of the heroes on Wednesday, flew home on Thursday, looked like shit on Friday. I’m sure he’s recovered by now. He will have to go back to work on the Washington State Ferry system soon. “You must have had some heavy moments on the ferries.” “Sure.” “Maybe you could write something, send it to me at erwin@realsurfers.net and…” “Yeah. Hey; thanks for checking on my chickens. I gotta…” “Yeah; maybe a nap, huh?”

Surf adventurer Tim Polley explaining how waves are still necessary for real surfing

Dru’s new cat, Nicolas, checking out the Port Gamble traffic. Yeah, Nicky, they’re all heading for or coming back from the Olympic Peninsula by way of the Hood Canal Bridge. Some have boards.

UTTERLY PRETENTIOUS POETRY and/or poetry adjacent stuff:

                                    The Memory of the Magic

Somewhere else is where you wish you were,

There, not here,

Not caught among, behind, between,

Another link in a traffic chain,

Idling, sounds, not quite music, droning to match the stops and goes,

Heading somewhere you have to be

More than you want to be,

Somewhere where the redundancies cannot be denied.

You long to be somewhere, somewhere else.

There, not here.

Time and space and gravity,

All the rules and laws and circumstance,

Somewhere else is where your mind has gone,

Somewhere where you’re sliding,

Weightless,

Smooth across a tilting sea,

Tucking under showers,

Gliding in a perfect light,

Dancing to music you have heard before,

Smiling, sending laughter back into the thunder,

One hand touching magic.

Wake up! The light has changed

And you’re almost there.

No, I don’t call myself a poet. Yet I’m putting together (some of which is adding to) a book of songs and poetry and some pieces that might be called essays under the title, “Love songs for Cynics.” The problem is, more blues than love songs. So, I’m working on this. Here’s an attempt:

                                                      “Dream,” You Said

If it was a dream, and it may have been… You were in it. But then, you were my dream, are my dream. Don’t laugh.

Your right arm was stretched toward me. Your hand was close, delicate fingers tightly squeezed together. My focus, even as you moved your hand away from your face, remained on your palm; life line and wish line and dream line and fate line.

You rotated your hand, slightly, at the wrist. Your little finger, closest to me, curled in. The others followed. One, two, three, four. The fingers straightened together. One, two, three, four. And again. One, two, three.

A twist of the wrist ended the rhythm. You were pointing at me.

The last knuckle of your pointer finger moved, slightly, then re-straightened. Your thumb remained up, like a hammer on a pistol. You pulled it back with the thumb and first finger of your left hand. The word ‘yes’ was part of a laugh.

You moved your left hand away as the finger pistol recoiled. The fingers on both hands exploded out. You laughed. “Poof” was the word within this laugh.

Your right hand moved against your lips, fingers wrapped over your nose and left eye, moved, slightly, to your rhythm: One, two, three, four.

Porcelain nails, jade green with ivory tips; ivory, ivory with a slight coral tinge; were almost tapping.

“Dream?”

“Dream,” you said, as you slid your hand down your face, the first two fingers following the ridge of your upper lip: Pulling, but only softly, on your bottom lip. Revlon red lips, since I’m naming colors. Your eyes, fully open, narrowed. Green. Of course, green; translucent, with electric lines of yellow and blue. More blue or more yellow, but always green.

Your right eye widened, a half-breath ahead of the left, to fully open.

“Dream, then,” I said.

Your right hand twisted and opened, almost like a wave. I’ll rephrase.  It was almost as if you were waving, but, as you pulled your fingers in, one, two, three, four, I heard, or imagined, a sound, a wave, breaking; up, over, the wave becoming a fist. Open, repeat; one, two, three.

After the fourth wave, you threw your fingers out; that wave hitting a cliff. Perhaps.

“It could be, perhaps,” you said, something like a laugh, but softer, within the words, “That it’s you, that you’re in my dream.”    

I’m reserving copyights on the two poems. THANKS for checking out realsurfers.net I am available for complaints and compliments and stories. Write me at erwin@realsurfers.net

As always, when you find some waves, surf them.

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.