Category Archives: surfing blogs

Birthdays, Quickies, and “SWAMIS,” Chapter 7

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

TRISHA’S and my older son, older. JAMES JOSEPH MICHAEL DENCE had a birthday yesterday. His caption, texted with the photo, is “Forty-eight never looked so good.” J.J. when he was young, JAYMZ as a stage name, he has been in Moscow, Idaho since college, working and playing guitar with the FABULOUS KINGPINS, all the while leading his own bands, the current version being SOLID GHOST.

SIDENOTE- I just received (yesterday) a reasonably priced front zip wetsuit, replacing the one I’ve thrashed and patched, the one famously (locally) for having the hole in a most inopportune place for someone knee paddling in a crowded lineup. The suit is from NRS, which, I discovered, stands for NORTHWEST RIVER SUPPLY, and, surprise, they are located in MOSCOW, IDAHO. James said he almost went to work for them, a small outfit then, but now worldwide, but “They still pay Idaho wages.” Yeah, well… in this case, I appreciate it.

ADAM ‘WIPEOUT’ JAMES, obvious animal lover, worldwide local, and HAMA HAMA OYSTERS ambassador, is having a birthday TODAY. 47, and choosing which locals are ready to welcome into which lineup. Adam put the ‘local’ in ‘local or lucky,’ (I do take credit for the phrase) seeming to arrive at locations on days that turn out to be EPIC. Example- Cape Kiwanda, the pullback capitol of the world, with the point actually acting like a point break. Almost guaranteed today will be awesome and barrelling. At least, using a phrase often used by Adam, there’ll be a few butt barrels.

SEQUIM VORTEX STORIES-

I’m checking out at Costco. The checkout guy, possibly trying to impress the young woman assisting, says, “Pop a wheelie. On, like, a BMX bike. You’re too young for that one. This guy probably gets it.” “Yeah, I am, but, you know, there’s never a mention of mama wheelie.” “Oh. Is that a thing?” “Probably not.”

I’m headed from Home Depot (for stain) to Walmart (for bird food, mostly, assuming I need a decent excuse for going to either big box, right-wing owned store), and I see this guy at the light with a sign that says, “Looking for human kindness.” I change lanes to avoid eye contact (because I’m a hypocritical liberal who already voted, solid blue, but one who is still working at 73), and because I run a constant stream of ‘what if’ scenarios through my mind, I wonder what reaction I would get from the man if I came back and gave him the gallon of milk from Costco. It might be, “Yeah, that’s exactly what I meant.” Or not.

I’ll skip the in-depth ‘Previously’ for “Swamis” again, but this chapter mostly takes place at GRANDVIEW, JOEY and a guy from Fallbrook High racing over after school. If you’re figuring out that the story is almost more about the relationship between Joey and JULIE COLE… yeah.

CHAPTER SEVEN- FRIDAY, MARCH 14, 1969

Fallbrook Union High School was letting out. Gary and Roger and I were standing in the big dirt parking lot behind the band room. Johnny Dale, in his daddy’s restored 1957 Chevy Nomad station wagon, two girls in the front seat with him, slowed down, then popped the clutch, and spun out directly in front of us. Gary, then Roger, flipped Johnny off, both called him an asshole. Both looked at me when I didn’t participate.

“Witnesses,” I said.

“You?” Gary asked. “No,” they both said. The next two cars that passed got three sets of double eagles, my gesture only waist high, almost happily returned by the car’s occupants.

…

“Friday, March 14,” I said, writing the date into a page about a third of the way through a red notebook sitting on the hood of a yellow 1968 Super Beetle with two surfboards, side by side on the Aloha racks; my bruised and patched nine-six pintail and a brand-new Hansen ten-two. “Finally enough light after school for going. Gary and Roger bailed.”

Roger said, “We’re not bailing, Joey; we have dates.”

Gary mouthed, “Dates” while running his hand along the rail of the board on the driver’s side, adding, “With girls. And it’s fuckin’ Friday! And, anyway, Joey, where’s your date, Doublewide Doug?”

“Doug-L-ass has… art seventh period,” Roger said. I nodded, looked at my watch, wrote a sentence in the notebook without saying it out loud.

“Why is it,” Gary asked, “That Dingleberry Doug has a new fucking car and a new fucking surfboard?”

“Why is it, Gary, that Joey is such a whore that he’ll ride with Dipshit Doug?”

“Why is it, Joey, that everyone’s getting shorter boards, but your buddy, Dipsy doodle Doug, is going full-on aircraft carrier?”

I looked around the lot. “Because, gentlemen, Doug’s… working; one, and his father’s running irrigation for all the new… ranchettes; two, and three, I’m a whore for the surf, and three, again… gas money.” I stepped back from my friends. Both were wearing Levis, Ked’s boat shoes, J.C. Penny’s white t shirts, and nylon windbreakers. As was I. “Why is it that we all don’t have… matching windbreakers like we’re on the Dork Neck Dreever Surf Team?” Both gave me ‘fuck you’ looks. “You guys, with the blonde hair and all. Uninformed people might believe you surf better than I do.”

“Fine with me, Joey. Gary? You?”

“Yeah. Fine, but… Hey, Joey; here comes your date now!”

Doug, varsity offensive lineman, was on the sidewalk, still a distance away, slow running toward us. He had a cardboard art portfolio under his right arm, his left arm out and ready to straight arm anyone in his path.

“Joey DeFreines, surf slut,” Gary said, kissing his right hand, then using a big arm movement to simulate throwing the kiss toward Doug. Roger ran out, putting both hands out as if he might catch this pass.

Doug only saw the last part before Roger bumped into him and bounced away. Doug dropped Roger with his left arm. “Incomplete,” he said, leaning over to help Roger back up.  

Gary’s mom’s Corvair pulled in beside Gary and me, trailed by its usual puffs of black smoke. The Princess was driving. There was another girl in the front seat, two more in the back. Sophomore girls. Giggling. The Princess peeled out just as Gary went around the back of the car.

“Better remember to put some oil in it, Princess,” Gary said, pointing to the hood. “One quart ought to do it.”

 The Princess popped the clutch, honked as she cut another car off, and pulled out and onto the side road in a cloud of black smoke.

Doug touched his car and leaned against it, breathing heavily. “Made it!” He opened his portfolio, pulled out a piece of drawing paper and laid it on the hood. “Check this shit out!” It was a drawing, pastels, of cartoonish people and cars on the side of a road. A red light was glowing from beyond and below the cars and people. “Pulled over” was written in the same red as a sort of caption.  

“It’s from… last week’s Free Press,” I said.

“Where’d you get it, Doublewide Dave?”

” Well… Roger, someone in my art class wanted me to scotch tape it on…” He pointed toward me. “Jody’s locker.”

“Grant Murdoch.”

“Grant fucking Murdoch.”

“Bingo! I told him to fuck himself, Jody, you and I are surfin’ buddies.”

“Surfin’ buddies, Doug-l-as,” Gary said, extending the ‘ass’ part, “Don’t wear that fucking letterman jacket to the beach. Joey wants all the hodads to think he’s from somewhere else.”

“Laguna… specifically,” I said as I rolled up the drawing, using the scotch tape at the corners to secure the roll. “Or San Clemente. Santa Cruz. Just… not… Fallbrook.”

Douglas took a folded piece of paper out of a pocket, the Warrior’s jacket off and tossed it, inside-out, onto the hood of his car.

“Oh, and fuck Grant Murdoch,” Gary said as he and Roger turned and headed toward an almost new Ford Mustang, two girls standing beside it.

Doug looked that way as he unlocked the driver’s door. “Roger’s stepfather’s car, Doug.”

“Yeah, I know, but, Jody, that one girl; I think she’s, maybe, a… sophomore.”

I stepped in front of Doug, blocking his view. “Maybe.” I shaded my eyes and looked toward the sun.

“Maybe she flunked third grade or something. We… You ready?”

I half-danced around the front of the car, grabbing my books and notebooks. “Maybe.”

When I got in the super beetle, Doug slid the paper across the dashboard. “Murdoch. Wanted me to give it to you…” I didn’t unfold it. “Personally. I didn’t look at it.”

I placed the unopened paper into the side pocket of my PeeChee folder. “We going?”

…

Doug was driving. I had a book open, its paper bag cover with unreadably psychedelic pencil lettering. “Civics” and “Grandview” and “JOEY DeFreines.”

“Shit, Jody, I could just cheat off of you.”

“Or… you could… study. I’ll just give you the… shit I think’ll be on the test.” 

“Close your eyes, Jody.” Doug pushed the book back toward my face.

I knew exactly where we were; three big corners west of the village of Bonsall, on the last straightaway before the sharp left and the narrow bridge across the wide valley that held the thin line of the San Luis Rey River. I looked over the book and Doug just in time to see the construction site, an elongated building framed up, level with and parallel to the highway on an artificial peninsula of fill.

“Building it quick, Jody.”

“Yes. Quickly.’

“Um, uh, Jody; you know, my sister… she taught me how to drive. She said, if there’s a truck or something coming… on the bridge… she just closes her eyes.”

“Uh, Doug… no. Eyes open. Please.”

We made it across, no vehicles coming our way. A choice had to be made. It was a soft right-hand turn or a steep hill.

“Oceanside’s probably faster,” Doug said. “Cut over at El Camino Real.”

“Faster then, Doug.”

Doug downshifted, made the soft right-hand turn. Thirty seconds later Doug said, “Um, you know; Gary and Roger call you Joey.” I didn’t look over the Civics book. “I’ll call you that if you call me…”

“Dangerous Doug? Or… your choice. Sure.”

“And you can tell Gary and Roger that I’m, you know, really good, surfing-wise. Joey.”

I lifted the book back up to my face. “Or… I can give you a dollar for gas… Doug-ie.”

“Oh. No. That’s all right… Jo-ey.”

…

Doug cut off an oncoming pickup truck as he made the thirty-five-degree turn onto the El Camino Real cutoff, southwest, up and out of the valley, We hit highway 78 on the other side, merged onto I-5, got off at Tamarack Avenue. High tide. Shorebreak. We didn’t even drop into the lower parking lot. Doug missed the turn for Grandview. So, Beacons. Doug pulled in next to a green-gray VW bus with a white roof.

“Last chance, Doug. Sun’s down in… forty minutes.”

 The tide was dropping. There were five surfers out, two of them girls. Young women. One of the young women was Julia Cole. There were four guys in street clothes on the beach. Two were watching the young women, one was looking at the flotsam along the tide line, one was doing some sort of surf pantomime, a beer bottle in each hand. He was the one who looked up the bluff at Doug and me.

“Jerks,” I said.

“Fucking Hodads,” Doug said as he opened the trunk on the front of his super beetle. That one in the blazer and wingtips, guaranteed not from around here.”

I moved to the bluff, wrapping Doug’s extra towel around me. A set was coming in and Julia Cole was on the second wave. I turned my shortjohn wetsuit back to outside out, peeled off my Levis and boxers, pulled the wetsuit up partway, wrapped the clothes in the towel, pulled the sleeveless suit up the rest of the way. Right arm through, I connected the stainless-steel turnbuckle at the left shoulder.

“My first wetsuit, Doug, December of 1965, made by a sailmaker at Oceanside Harbor, cost fifteen dollars. Christmas present. This one… seventeen-fifty, plus tax. But they were custom, two weeks from measuring to pick up.”

“Val’s,” Doug said as he unstrapped the boards, “my dad… up in LA.”

“Val’s is… valley, as in… valley cowboy.”

“Not trying to hide it.”

“Good. Noble. I am.” I pulled a cigarette out of the pack, showed it to Doug. He shook his head. I lit the Marlboro with three paper matches. Throwing my clothes into the trunk, I stashed my wallet, cigarettes, and matches in one shoe, stuffed the other shoe inside that one, slid the shoes under my clothes.

“Yes, Jo… Joey; I will lock the car.”

Halfway down the first section of the path, I saw that Julia Cole and her friend were out of the water. The three other Jerks followed the pantomimer toward them. “Monica,” the pantomimer, the Head Jerk, said. Loudly. His crew laughed. He repeated the word, stretching it to, “Mon-ee-ca. We have some be-er, San-ta Mon-e’-ca.” 

            Monica, her head down, made it to the bottom of the trail. The Head Jerk, walking backwards toward the bluff in front of Julia Cole, blocked the trail access. Julia Cole stopped; her face was very close to the Head Jerk’s. She said something. He put his free hand over his crotch, hopped backwards, throwing his hands out and up, beer sloshing onto his madras shirt.

Julia Cole was ten steps up the trail when he said, “Juuu-li-a. Juuuu-lee-ya; you are so cold. Soooo coooold. Ju’-li-a cold.”

Doug and I, boards under our arms, made the turn at the trail’s upper switchback.

The Head Jerk took several steps up the trail, turned back to his crew. “Come on up, you pussies!” Raising the volume, he added, “Surf broads. You jagoffs liking Monica’a ass better… or Juuu-lie’s?”

If any of the Jagoffs responded, it was more like growling or laughing than discernible words. “Brrrrrrrr,” the Head Jagoff said, Julie fifty feet up the trail, “Is the water cold, Juu-lie? And… I’m wondering if you’ve got anything on under that wetsuit. I saw… skin.” 

More laughter. One of the members of the Jagoff Crew said, “Come on, dude; cool it.”

Head Jerk moved both beer bottles to his left hand and shot his right hand out. Pleased that the subordinate flinched, Head Jagoff said, “And don’t fuckin’ call me dude… dude.” He started up the trail. His cohorts hung back, possibly because they saw me, looking quite displeased, and the much bigger Doug, behind me, also displeased.

 Monica and I met at the lower switchback. I stopped. Doug stopped. I stood my board up, holding it with my left hand, and moved to the uphill side.  Doug did the same. Monica nodded, quickly, but looked down as she passed. Julia Cole had an expression as much determined as pissed-off. Defiant. Looking at me, she didn’t seem to adjust her expression one way or the other. I did notice the chrome turnbuckle on one side of her wetsuit was undone and her bare shoulder was exposed. Skin. She noticed I noticed. Another asshole. Another jerk. Her lower lip seemed to pull in, her upper lip seemed to curl. Disappointment. Or anger. Julia blinked. I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Julia Cole passed me and then Doug. “Joey’ll get ‘em,” Doug said.

“No,” she said. “Not… no.”  

I may have been replaying Julia Cole’s expression for the third or fourth time when Head Jagoff approached the tight angle at the switchback. I may have missed the first few words he kind of spit at me.

I replayed his words. “What’s the deal, asshole? Huh? You some sort of fuckin’ retard?”

“Possibly, Dude,” I said. “I do believe, Dude, you owe Julia Cole and Monica… don’t know her last name… a sincere apology.”

“You do,” Doug said. “And… don’t know where you’re from, Jagoff; somewhere east coast; but we don’t fuckin’ call our chicks ‘broads’ around here.” Doug looked at me.

“I believe,” I said, “The Jerk prefers being called Dude… over Jagoff.”

“No, Jagoff seems apropos. That, Jagoff, means ‘appropriate.’ It’s French. Jagoff, which, I might be wrong, has something to do with… you know, whacking the… willy.”

Jagoff looked at Dangerous Doug in his new Val wetsuit, his un-dinged Hansen leaning against his left shoulder, his spotless white towel over his right shoulder. Jagoff looked back down the trail. His cohorts hadn’t moved. “Come on up. We have us a fuckin’ farm boy and some sort of retard Gook.”

“Oh, no. Jody; Willy Whacker called you a Gook.”

“Common mistake.”

“Step aside, fuckers!” Neither Doug nor I moved. “Jody,” Jagoff said, leaning in way too close to my face. “Girl’s name. Well. Fuck Monica! Fuck Julie fuckin’ Cole. And… fuck you, Jo-dee… And your fat-ass friend.”

Doug turned toward me. “I meant… Joey, but. Joey, I don’t think an apology is, you know, forthcoming.”

I let go of my board and extended my right hand, palm up, toward Jagoff. My board fell against the bank. He looked at my hand. He made a sound as if he was hawking up a loogie. I kept my hand out. He spit near but not on my hand.

Doug laid his board, carefully, uphill, against the scrub and ice plant on the bluff. He wrapped his towel around his neck and pointed at each member of the Jagoff Crew, now partway up the lower portion of the trail. “Hey, assholes, come on up and help out your friend. But, warning, Joey’s a, for real, fucking, by-God, Devil Dog!”

Jagoff shook his head. “Devil Dog?” It didn’t register. He looked up toward the parking lot, sneering. He put one of the beer bottles in his other hand. Holding the bottles by the necks, he smashed them against each other. The open one shattered, the remaining beer running down his arm. He held the raw edges against the palm of my right hand. He was smiling. “Fuck you, Gook!”

I closed my eyes. I imagined an eleven-year-old kid. My opponent. He had padded fabric head gear and a heavy pad on his body, a padded pugil stick in his hands. He was sneering. Other voices were cheering. I could hear myself crying. Big sobs, inhaling between each one. My father’s voice said, “Eyes open, Jody! Open!” The kid in the head gear, still sneering, was about to hit me again, this time with the right-hand end of the stick. I could also see the Jagoff, his beer bottle weapon pulled back. My father’s voice screamed, “Get in there! Jody!” I did. I saw my pugil stick connect, saw the opponent fall back. His sneer gone.

 As was Jagoff’s.

Both beer bottles were on the path, both now broken. It would be a moment before Jerk/Dude/Jagoff reached for his nose; before the blood started flowing from there and his upper lip. It would be another few moments before the three Jagoffs, frozen near the top of the bluff, continued scrambling for the top.

“Devil Dog,” Dangerous Doug said.

“Devil Pup,” I said, keeping my eyes on my opponent. “Marines, Dude… may I call you Dude? There were tears in Dude’s eyes, blood seeping between his fingers. “Or… your name? No? Well, Dude, Devil pups; it’s kind of like… summer camp… on the Marine base, with hand-to-hand combat.”

Doug pulled his towel from his shoulders and handed it to Dude. “Apology, then, Dude?”

Fluffy towel to his face, Dude nodded. “Not to us,” I said. He nodded again. “Promise?” Third nod. “Okay. And, if you would… pick up the glass. It dangerous. Huh, Doug?”

“Dangerous,” Doug said. “Keep the towel, Dude. Souvenir.”

Looking from Doug to me, Dude pulled the towel away, blood seeping through it. “You don’t know Julia Cole. What she’s really like. You defending her, it’s like…”

“You’re right. I don’t know her.”

“’Cause we’re from Newport, Dude. Huh, Joey?”

Dude was staring at me. His eyes narrowed, then widened. Whether or not this meant he recognized me, I smiled. “Newport… yeah.”

Doug blinked and mouthed, “Laguna.”

…

When Doug and I got to the beach, Dude was still at the same spot, placing pieces of broken glass into Doug’s towel. His friends were in the parking lot, three vehicles over from the VW camper bus. There was a flash of light off glass. Julia Cole was behind the passenger side door. I couldn’t see her expression. I could remember it from earlier.

“Sorry, Doug. You know I’m trying to be all ‘peace and love,’ and not…”

“You shittin’ me, Joey? You’re a fuckin’, by-God Devil Dog!”

When we were knee deep in the water, Doug jumping onto his board early, too far back, too much of his board’s nose out of the water, I said, “Maybe we can keep this little incident to ourselves.”

Doug laughed. “How good am I doing, Joey?”

I jumped over a line of soup and onto my board. “You’re fuckin’ ripping, Dangerous Doug!”

…

            I left my wetsuit and my shoes on the porch, stacked my books on the dinette table, and looked back into the living room, all the lights except a lamp by the console off. My mother was on the couch. A World War II era record was playing, a woman singing wistfully about lost love. Seventy-eight rpm. The wedding photo was leaning against the console. The song ended and another record, 33 and 1/3 rpm, dropped onto the turn table. “South Pacific,” original Broadway cast.

            My mother got up, adjusted the record speed, and walked into the kitchen. I followed.

            “The surfing?”

            “Good. Doug is just learning, and…”

            “Doug. Who are Doug’s… people?” She turned off the oven and pulled out a foil covered plate, set it on the cast iron trivet on the kitchen table. “Would you like milk?”

            “I’ll get it. Doug’s father has the irrigation company. Football player. That Doug.”

            “Irrigation. Football. Doug. You and he are… friends… now?”

            “Now? I guess so. Surf friends, Mom; it’s… different.”

“Still, it is nice that you have… friends.”

            “It’s just… it’s not… Surfing’s cool. I surf. It doesn’t make me cool.” My mother gave me a look I had to answer with, “Yes, mother; friends are… nice to have.” She nodded and walked through the formal dining room and into the living room.

            I pulled the paper Doug had given me out of the PeeChee and unfolded it. “It was a drawing of me, from this week’s Free Press. Me in the window, looking out. The pen and ink drawing wasn’t quite a rendering, not quite a cartoon, with un-erased pencil lines. “Grant,” a signature at the bottom, was not finished in ink.

I tried to figure what Grant’s motives were. Intentions. I allowed water trapped in my sinuses to drain from my nose, not wiping at them with a paper napkin for a moment, then blowing as much water as I could into the napkin.

Freddy ran into the kitchen from the hallway, half pushed me against the counter. “She called,” he said. “The reporter. Asked for you… after I told her mom wasn’t here. Are you crying?”

            “No. No.” I refolded the drawing. “Who? Lee Ransom?”

            “Yeah. Her. Mom was here. Outside, grooming Tallulah.”

             “Okay.”

            “I told her…” Freddy switched to a whisper. “I told her what you told me to say.” I nodded, tried to push past my brother. He put a hand to my chest. “She asked what kind of car mom drives.” I did one of those ‘and?’ kind of shrugs. “She said she asked one of the detectives, and he pointed to a different car than the one someone else pointed to… not the Volvo.”

            “Which one?”

            “Which car?”

            “Which detective?”

            “Boys!” I looked around Freddy. Our mother was in the dining room. I couldn’t tell from her expression how much she had heard. I had to assume too much. 

“SWAMIS’ is copyrighted material, all rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

And, in the RELUCTANTLY POLITICAL catagory, please vote the reasoned choice; BLUE. There is no other America to save America from going the way of many another country. There is no reasonable reason to vote for a disgusting example of a human being and wannabe dictator. If you claim some sort of Christian stance, ‘he is redeemable’ kind of bullshit argument, you must not believe Jesus when he said about those who speak the way the orange candidate does, that “the truth is not in them.” Or, perhaps, you put little value in the last book of the BIBLE. Cons con. Liars lie. Grifters grift.

New material on Sunday.

‘STWAITING.’ Sometimes Getting Skunked is Preferable

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, hipster surfers, learning to surf, northwest surfing, old surfers, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, Seattle surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, surf novels, surf satire, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

‘STWAITING” (add a lisp to get the word right), the fine art of waiting around on the STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA for the swell to rotate, or the tide to drop, or rise, or the waves to just get a little bit bigger, a bit more consistent; and then, finally, going out just as the 13th squall blows it all out AND, catching four waves total, you are forced into doing The paddle of shame.

STILL, THERE’S ALWAYS A STORY- But first…

Trisha’s brother’s son, our nephew, DYLAN SCOTT. I sent him an ORIGINAL ERWIN shirt for his birthday and as a house warming present. He sent me a video from SURFLINE REWIND of him at one of his local ENCINITAS spots, D Street. Since I have the non-premium WordPress package, I can’t display it here, but in the clip Dylan tucks into an offshore-enhanced and throaty barrel, doggy-dooring it at the last possible moment, and doing what appears to be, on my phone, a non-claim claim. I did send the video on to the surfers on my stealth phone.

I TOLD this guy that, although it was early, he would, no doubt, be the fashion crusher of the day. It turned out he had a flat tire up the road, and, although he had a jack and a spare, he was waiting for triple A to come from civilization. I guessed he didn’t want to get grease on his poncho.

THE NEXT wanna surf person I saw (should have taken a picture) was suited up and ready to go out. “Really?” “They said it’s supposed to be good,” he said. “Who? Who said?”

TONY AND FIONA are from Vancouver, B.C. where you can get a wavestorm in different, Canada-only colors. Vancouver is kind of like Seattle in that it costs money and takes ferries to get to surf. Evidently it’s cheaper, or as cheap to go to, like, Westport, than it is to go to Tofino. They were camped at LaPush, but left because ‘they’ forecast, like, 16 foot (like, 5 meter) waves, so they left. Quite irritated that my own forecast was proving, possibly, wrong, I gave Tony and Fiona grief, as in, “SO, are you just going to get in everyone’s way when the waves start pumping? How long have you been surfing? Did you go to surf school?” Yes, I sort of apologized, promised to put them on my site with tens of followers in Canada AND throughout the free and unfree world. SO, promise kept. AND, since the waves were so shitty, I have to believe they had a great American time.

THE FADED RAINBOW seems to frame what could be a six foot set at a great distance. It isn’t. It’s a six inch set fairly close. AM I BLOWING UP THE SPOT? My argument is that, if you head out, frothed out by the forecast, expecting epic conditions… well, don’t. As much as I don’t trust forecasts, I think post-casts saying what was rather than what could be, are also dangerous. Since I’m going on years of experience, anecdotal evidence at best, and somewhat relying on actual buoy reports (which are trickier than you might think), and I get skunked… well, there are always waves in WESTPORT.

QUIRKY SCOTT, who does not like his nickname, even when I told him it really means ‘eccentric’, dominated on this day. I am actually a little shocked at how model-like he looks in this photo. NOW, when I say dominated, I mean he caught more tiny waves than any of the other beginning or desperate surfers. I’m in the second category, hopefully.

AT SOME POINT in my paddling for waves that disappeared or disappointed, a woman was staring at me. Wasn’t sure why. It turns out JOSIE (another no photo) heard me talking to Scott, and asked him if I’m that guy who posts stuff on the internet. He said, paraphrasing, “Erwin. Yeah. Tell him you recognize him; it’ll do something for his giant ego.” This wasn’t the first time I’ve been identified, the reaction usually negative. “I like the way you use words,” she said. “Uh, yeah; I know it seems like it’s all stream of consciousness, but, really, I work at, and, yeah, thanks.”

I also, to round out a day of stwaiting, talked to SEAN GOMEZ, Port Angeles teacher and ripper, who got some epic waves recently (I missed it- have friends who didn’t), and to Reggie, who missed out on reportedly epic coast waves in order to make a bunch of money (familiar story for me, newer for Reggie), and saw, on my way home, many more surfers headed to where I had been. “Good luck. They say it’s supposed to be good.”

MAYBE, and this is always the story, it got good after I left.

A photo of a moonset over the unseen Olympics from my front yard. A moment later the full moon was covered by clouds from the latest atmospheric river, a moment later, the moon was back. And then…

NON-POLITICAL STORY: As a decent American, I recycle. I devote what could be a tool shed to saving cardboard and plastic and paper. Enough so that I took half a van load to the QUILCENE transfer station. I’m putting the stuff in the proper bins when this dude comes up to me, looks in my big boy van and says, “Wow, you actually work out of this.” “Yes.” He has spoken to me before, the gist being he’s a painter, ready to work. He actually talks way faster than I do, and had a lot to say about wages and drunk and/or cheap contractors and stoned painters who don’t know shit. “Uh huh,uh huh.”

Somewhere in there he asks me how to register to vote locally. “I, um, got my ballot yesterday. I voted. I… don’t know. You could go to the courthouse, maybe.” “No, man; I don’t want that vote by mail shit. I’m an American. I want to vote in person.” “Well, I think… actually, if you’re voting for Trump, maybe you…” “Damn right I’m voting for Trump.” I tried to dissuade him, but his argument that ‘Kamala isn’t really black’ seemed to be stronger than my ‘Trump is a fucking crook who fucked over every contractor who worked for him’ counter.

He did the violin-playing gesture, usually with ‘cry me a river’ lyrics. I slammed the door to the van, but he, no doubt feeling tough and manly, jumped into his sub compact and drove off. On leaving, I saw MISTER BAKER, former Quilcene Science teacher over by the ‘paper’ bin. “I’m glad to see you survived that encounter,” he said. “Me, too. Yeah. I don’t usually talk politics, but…” “Seems like the last time I saw you, at the Post Office, you were in a heated political… discussion.” “Oh yeah. Mr. Hodgson; he was going on about how he was ‘woke.’ I had to tell him when people like him use ‘woke’ it’s always sarcastically, and if one isn’t smart enough to know being aware of the inequities in society is not a bad thing, one shouldn’t attempt sarcasm. Yeah, and now he’s on the school board and talking about banning books.”

ANYWAY, I didn’t argue with Mr Baker. I do, however, believe he knows where I stand based on the one time I was invited to a cheese and wine (cheese and crackers for me) thingie. And that was before citizen Trump de-evolved into whatever he is now.

IF YOU SEE ME, remind me to take your picture. ANOTHER sub-chapter of “SWAMIS” will be posted on Wednesday, along with whatever fun stuff happens in between. Tensions are only going to get worse between now and election day. Stay cool, surf ’em if you find ’em.

“I just want to get wet,” Other Lies, and “Swamis,” continued

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, getting barrelled, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing blogs, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

FIRST LIE: “I just want to get in the water,” or any variation on this (purposefully not talking about the folks cruising SURF ROUTE 101 and, I guess, everywhere, with Walmart plastic kayaks, canoes, wavestorms) by someone who actually surfs. Okay, shouldn’t have excluded Wavestormer Troopers, BUT…

…here’s the (a) story: So, three sessions ago, fighting a radically outgoing tide and small, choppy waves, I had one of those go-outs in which I, objectively, SUCKED. Two sessions ago, on a borrowed SUP, same spot, even smaller waves, I, subjectively, did OKAY. Or, at least, better… BUT, tasked with packing a board heavier than my Hobie on a long trek back, and unable to just drag someone else’s board across the soft sand and the scrub, I allowed, for the first time in my career, someone else to pack my board part way. It was his board. I was… grateful.

So, next session I packed in my MANTA board. I had finally coated over the paint with resin, and figured, if the waves were the usual, minimal, I could, at least, jump into a few. The waves lived up to my expectations; minimal. AND, NO, even if I said I just wanted to get in the water, which I didn’t, I would be lying. I wanted o RIP. I always want to rip. I didn’t. I let frothed-out ripper KEITH ride the board. He did rip. I watched. I caught ONE WAVE, belly ride, totally tubed, with enough juice to propel me down the line and into the gravel shelf. YAY!

MANTA and slightly lost Hobbit.

OH, and Keith put a ding in the Manta. That’s one of the costs in surfing. Occasionally getting h orumbled is another. STILL, next time I get wet…

SECOND LIE: “I’m not political.” Add to this, “I am willing to talk.” That part is true. I am working on a project proposal for a guy who is running for the state senate as a republican. So, in discussing the job, politics did come up. I said that, probably, 70 percent of people agree on 75% of things, that where the radical 30%, 15 in each direction, left and right, come together is distrust of the government. The potential client agreed. THEN, because he is also part of the nebulous percentage of people who consider themselves religious (there is a scale on this), I added that we are all raised with certain morals, and, if we go against these, we, in our own minds, sin. So, because we want to consider ourselves ‘good people,’ we try to live up to our own sense of morality.

HE AGREED. What I actually (or also) meant, or meant to imply was, that if a person is raised by a parent who used every device and trick to fuck over people in order to enrich himself, that person’s moral backstop, compass, guidebook, whatever, is… different.

BECAUSE I couldn’t help myself, and, actually, I MIGHT DO MORE, I drew a couple of, possibly, kind of political illustrations. I found out a few things: A LOT of women do not want to see even a negative image of Fred Trump’s son, a NASTY piece of work. I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong: there might be, like, 15% who think… SHIT, I can’t imagine why they’d have anything other than disgust, AND, if they defend him on some false and thin pretense, I might believe they have an incredibly strong resistance to the gag reflex, and/or are lying.

Again, I am willing to talk.

“SWAMIS.” Since I am serializing the novel, I should recap: 1. Joey is at the court-appointed psychologist’s office; the conversation coming around to whether he has moved from being bullied to being a bully. 2. Joey’s first meeting with Julie at Pipes.

CHAPTER THREE- SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1968

My nine-six Surfboards Hawaii pintail was on the Falcon’s rust and chrome factory racks. I was headed along Neptune, from Grandview to Moonlight Beach. The bluff side of Neptune was either garage or gate and fence, or hedge, tight to the road. There were few views of the water. I was, no doubt, smiling, remembering something from that morning’s session.

There had been six surfers at the outside lineup, the preferred takeoff spot. They all knew each other. If one of them hadn’t known about me, the asshole detective’s son, others had clued him in. There was no way the local crew and acceptable friends would allow me to catch a set wave. No; maybe a wave all of them missed or none of them wanted. Or one would act as if he was going to take off any wave I wanted, just to keep me off it.  

As the first one in the water, I had surfed the peak, had selected the wave I thought might be the best of a set. Three other surfers came out. Okay. Three more surfers came out. Sid was one of them. I knew who Sid was. By reputation. A set wave came in. I had been waiting. I was in position. It was my wave. I took off.  Sid took off in front of me, ten yards over. I said something like, “Hey!”

Rather than speed down the line or pull out, Sid stalled. It was either hit him or bail. I bailed. Sid said, “Hey!” Louder. He looked at me, cranked a turn at the last moment. He made the wave. I swam.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, back at the lineup. The four other surfers there were laughing with Sid.

“Wrong, Junior; you broke the locals rule.” Sid pointed to the lefts, the waves perceived as not being as good, on the other side of a real or imagined channel. “Local’s rule. Get it?” Trying to ignore the taunts of the others, I caught an insider and moved over.

After three lefts, surfed, I believed, with a certain urgency and a definite aggression, I prone-paddled back to the rights, tacking back and forth. A wave was approaching, a decently sized set wave. I wanted it. 

“Outside!” I yelled, loud enough that four surfers, including Sid, started paddling for the horizon. I paddled at an angle, lined up the wave at the peak. Though the takeoff was late, I made the drop, rode the wave into the closeout section, pulling off the highest roller coaster I had ever even attempted.

There had been no outside set. I kept my back turned to the water as I exited, not daring to look up at the surfers on the bluff, hooting and pointing. I did look up for a moment as I grabbed my towel, my keys and wallet and cigarettes rolled up in it, tromped up the washout to Neptune Avenue, trying not to smile.   

Driving, almost to Moonlight Beach, a late fifties model Volkswagen bus, two-tone, white over gray, was blocking the southbound lane. Smoke was coming out of the open engine compartment. Black smoke. Three teenagers were standing behind the bus: Two young men, Duncan Burgess and Rincon Ronny, on the right side, one young woman, Monica, on the left. 

There was more room on the northbound side. I pulled over, squeezed out between the door and someone’s bougainvillea hedge, and walked into the middle of the street, fifteen feet behind the van. “Can I help?” 

Duncan, Ronny, and Monica were dressed as if they had surfed but were going to check somewhere else: Nylon windbreakers, towels around their waists. Duncan’s and Monica’s jackets were different, but both were red with white, horizontal stripes that differed in number and thickness. Ronny was wearing a dark blue windbreaker with a white, vertical strip, a “Yater” patch sewn on. Each of the three looked at me, and looked back at each other, then at the smoking engine. The movement of their heads said, “No.”

Someone stepped out of an opening in the hedge on the bluff side of the road, pretty much even with me. I was startled. I took three sideways steps before I regained my balance.

Julia Cole. Perfectly balanced. She was wearing an oversized V-neck sweater that almost covered boys’ nylon trunks. Her legs were bare, tan, her feet undersized for the huarache sandals she was wearing. She looked upset, but more angry than sad. But then… she almost laughed. I managed a smile.

“It’s you,” she said. It was. Me. “Are you a mechanic?” I shook my head, took another step toward the middle of the road, away from her. “An Angel?” Another head shake, another step. She took two more steps toward me. We were close. She seemed to be studying me, moving her head and eyes as if she might learn more from an only slightly different angle.

I couldn’t continue to study Julia Cole. I looked past her. Her friends looked at her, then looked at each other, then looked, again, at the subsiding smoke and the growing pool of oil on the pavement. “We saw what you did,” she said. I turned toward her. “From the bluff.” Her voice was a whisper when she added, “Outside,” the fingers of her right hand out, but twisting, pulling into her palm, little finger first, as her hand itself twisted. “Outside,” she said again, slightly louder.

“Oh,” I said. “It… worked.”

“Once. Maybe Sid… appreciated it.” She shook her head. “No.”

I shook my head. “Once.” I couldn’t help focusing on Julia Cole’s eyes. “I had to do it.”

“Of course.” By the time I shifted my focus from Julia Cole’s face to her right hand, it had become a fist, soft rather than tight. “Challenge the… hierarchy.”

I had no response. Julia Cole moved her arm slowly across her body, stopping for a moment just under the parts of her sweater dampened by her bathing suit top. Breasts. I looked back into her eyes for the next moment. Green. Translucent. She moved her right hand, just away from her body, up. She cupped her chin, thumb on one cheek, fingers lifting, pointer finger first, drumming, pinkie finger first. Three times. She pulled her hand away from her face, reaching toward me. Her hand stopped. She was about to say something.  

“Julie!” It was Duncan. Julie, Julia Cole didn’t look around. She lowered her hand and took another step closer to me. In a ridiculous overreaction, I jerked away from her.

“I was going to say, Junior…” Julia was smiling. I may have grinned. Another uncontrolled reaction. “I could… probably… if you were an… attorney.”

“I’m not… Not… yet.”

Julia Cole loosened the tie holding her hair. Sun-bleached at the ends, dirty blonde at the roots. She used the fingers of both hands to straighten it.

“I can… give you a ride… Julia… Cole.”

“Look, Fallbrook…” It was Duncan. Again. He walked toward us, Julia Cole and me. “We’re fine.” He extended a hand toward Julia. She did a half-turn, sidestep. Fluid. Duncan kept looking at me. Not in a friendly way. He put his right hand on Julia Cole’s left shoulder.

Julia Cole allowed it. She was still smiling, still studying me when I asked, “Phone booth? There’s one at… I’m heading for Swamis.”

            A car come up behind me. I wasn’t aware. Rincon Ronny and Monica watched it. Duncan backed toward the shoulder. Julia and I looked at each other for another moment. “You really should get out of the street… Junior.”

            “Joey,” I said. “Joey.”

            She could have said, “Julie.” Or “Julia.” She said neither. She could have said, “Joey.”      

No one got a ride. I checked out Beacons and Stone Steps and Swamis. I didn’t surf. The VW bus was gone when I drove back by. Dirt from under someone’s hedge was scattered over the oil, some of it seeping through.

OBLIGATORY COPYRIGHT STUFF: I reserve the rights to any and all of my original works. Please respect this. Erwin A. Dence, Jr. Thanks.

HAPPY LABOR DAY! I do hope you’re getting WET and BARRELED! The next time (and any time) I get in the water, remember, “I’M HERE TO SURF.”

Enduring the Dog Days, and “Tightening”

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, surf art, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing novels, writings of Erwin Dence

It’s a sort of positive for me that the summer drought on the Strait of Juan de Fuca coincides with painting season. More like consolation, with even driving to the coast not a guarantee of finding waves. Busy now, it gets crazier in September when people start panicking about getting their castle dolled-up before the rains start getting more consistent. Finding time to devote to my other passions, including drawing and writing, becomes more challenging.

BUT I do have time while scraping and painting and second-coating to think, THINKING, IMAGINING being the most crucial component in each of these activities. Imagine what the drawing COULD look like, imagine WHAT I want to convey.

IT’S A PROCESS. Not dissimilar to house painting, actually. To use the project I am currently working on as an examlple, the homeowner has a vision of what she wants her Victorian home to look like; I have my own ideas. A few color changes later, we do it her way,. with eventual agreement that it works AND it’s what the person paying me wants.

SO… I prep and paint, and it’s never one coat of any color. I paint, and then TIGHTEN UP the paint, picking up missed spots (‘holidays’ in the vernacular), making sure the transitions are crisp and clean, the result being a job I can be proud of and the client will both pay me for and recommend me to others because I did it (right).

BRIEF SURFING INTERJECTION- Having missed one opportunity summer surf, and being pissed because I could have gone and didn’t, I did get a few waves recently. Just enough, with passing fancy rigs with boards on them on a daily basis along SURF ROUTE 101, to cause me to want more. MORE.

TIGHTENING. I am going to a memorial later today for a person I have been bumping into for years on the PORT TOWNSEND. I have a story I told his widow I would tell, and I’m going to try to write it out rather than ramble on in some fashion that might embarrass the others as well as me.

BUT FIRST, “SWAMIS,” the novel I’ve been thinking about, writing, rewriting, tightening for way too long. Having thought about how I needed to tighten a SCENE with the protagonist, JOEY, and the closest character to an antagonist, BRICE LANGDON, I tried to devote a bit of time to it yesterday, but got an urgent text: THE floor guys didn’t show up, could I PLEASE do some painting. PRAYER EMOJI. Shit! Fuck! I made the changes, pulled out the thumb drive. The emergency painting and looking at another project pretty much did the day in. OH, and then thunder and lightening; the weather kind. I went to bed and did not get up early… enough.

ORIGINAL ERWIN NEWS- I paid back some seed money I was loaned by local master builder/climber/skier/hiker/all kinds of other stuff, JIM HAMILTON; the money intended for my investment in getting some t shirts going, which, four months later, I did. Most are gone now. Thanks, Jim. BUT, DWAYNE at D&L LOGOS has been working on a FULL COLOR DESIGN, and I am SOOOO excited to see the results.

DWAYNE did some digital editing and had eight of the image printed up. They are heat-transferred, in a modern, way-better version of the hated ‘iron on’ process. I have to wait to see what the my cost will be. SEVERAL are already promised. WE’LL SEE. I will get back to you on it.

IN A NOT-UNRELATED STORY, I showed my most recent illustration to the clients I met with yesterday, friends of ANNIE FERGERSON, the woman behind the recent documentary about, you know, me. NOW, I REALLY BELIEVED folks would have to have a copy. I had forty printed up, two sizes. I have 38 left, BUT, hey, sales is not what I’m good at.

Although I haven’t given them an estimate, I did get a text back saying, “this would make a great t shirt.” “Open for discussion,” I texted back. I should have included the PRAYER EMOJI, way more convincing when the two hands come together. WE’LL SEE.

ADDING TOO MUCH CONTENT to make the best use of my semi-free minute, here is a poem/song I’ve been working on. THE PROCESS is, again, the IDEA- overhearing a conversation about you; the FIRST DRAFT- this includes singing verses, trying out rhymes. This takes some time; usually when driving to or from a job; harmonica to see if there is a tune. It has to flow. And repetition to make sure I have it memorized. WRITING- Putting it on the thumb drive. REWRITING, EDITING, CHANGING- making sure it tells the story. TIGHTENING, TIGHTENING, TIGHTENING.

AGAIN, THIS is an imagined scene. Fiction. Maybe it’s a song I’ll never sing in public, a poem I’ll never recite; I don’t know; I wrote it and it’s part of the driving song collection, along with favorites by others, the result of many years of song writing.

I HAVE TO GO, and I still have to write something about the late PETER BADAME. Get some waves, huh? See you on the highway. OH, and I do claim and reserve all rights to my work, so…

                                    A PRIVATE CONVERSATION

                                                      an excerpt from some longer story

It was a private conversation, words I was not yet meant to hear,

Thought I’d surprise you at the station, couldn’t have known that I was near.

Your words and tears shared with a stranger, someone you’ve met along the line,

I should have known this was a danger, if I did not the fault is mine,

I’m sorry, so sorry.

You spoke of time apart and sorrow, now… I could barely hear your voice,

You said that love’s something we borrow, said freedom is a frightening choice.

You spoke of hope and disappointment, small victories, great tragedy,

In all the time we’ve been together, you never disappointed me.

Not ever, not ever.

I saw the touch, though at a distance, saw how your fingers were entwined,

You didn’t put up much resistance, offered a kiss, you did decline.

That’s when I walked out of the station, this is my last apology,

You should need no more explanation, perhaps we’ve set each other free.

It’s frightening… so frightening.

But that’s another conversation, a private conversation, a very frightening conversation,

A private conversation

This version: August 9, 2024. Some changes August 17, August 18, 2024. AND YES, I did make a couple of changes after I put it on this page. FLOW.

Sorry ’bout the Delay- Live Surf Contests are…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf art, surf culture, surf culture events, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing novels

…not exactly addictive, but, as a fan, with favorites, some winning, some not; if there’s a chance to watch… I just mighjt. NEWS for the Non-Watchers and the WSL haters, John John won the mens, moments ago and Caroline Marks… Yeah, I’m sure you know by now.

I kind of half thought it was Father’s Day today, another excuse, this one for sleeping late, not being totally concerned about work (the kind that pays selected bills), and maybe even taking a nap. It isn’t Father’s Day. While Mother’s Day (l’m choosing the singular possessive here because, while we can celebrate all mothers, it’s our own that we should be honoring) is set up during the school year, with craft assignments designed to produce refrigerator art and coffee table crafts, fathers have to wait, and wait, and get something store bought. Still, most likely refrigerator and coffee table stuff. BUT StILL…

I did do some surfing since my last posting, memorable mostly in that my psychedelic oil-filled eye didn’t present too much of a problem. Or the bright sunlight and the decent waves made me ignore it. Or I just closed the left one while screaming down the line. That’s screaming as in ‘loudly proclaiming.’

On that front, there is still some scarring in the eye and the potential that the retina could come loose, so, out of an abundance of caution, I get to go at least another three weeks with the magical liquid holding the wallpaper to the inner walls. I am learning more each time I get checked out. Not that I’ve been anxious to know some of this. And, again, I have a bit of regret for not giving a bit more sympathy for other surfers who have problems with the glare and such in the water.

In a non-similar situation, I stumbled and crashed going out on my last session, doing the dive straight in rather than the wade, AND, as is increasingly happening, I got thrashed trying to land in a not-that-vicious shorebreak, pushing my board up the beach and crawling with, of course, witnesses. IN BETWEEN, of course, I ripped.

Not just me, of course, but if it’s ever SURFERS DAY, I will use the singular possessive ‘surfer’s,’ and the surfer’s performance I am most concerned with, though I do appreciate any good-to-great ride by anyone, is mine.

Allow me a moment to look up SOCIOPATHIC NARCISSISTS’ DAY.

Artist/surfer Stephen R. Davis and I at the COLAB in Port Townsend with my panels. Photos by Joel Carben. Joel and his wife, Rachel, run the collaborative work space and have allowed me to exhibit my work there. Steve helped spread the word on social media.

Side note: I’m wearing the t-shirt I designed for the Port Townsend Public Library’s SUMMER READ.

Secret note: Partially (only partially) because non of the semi local crew would say that I’m in any way thinner than another local surfer, I’m getting more serious about dieting. Slightly more serious. I’m switching from ice cream to yogurt, mushroom burgers (with cheese and sometimes eggs) to salads; I’m avoiding chips, fries, donuts; and I’ve broken it off, hopefully for good, with Little Debbie; and I’m rethinking my longterm obsession with Hostess.

Meanwhile, there are plans and schemes for the NEXT OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT. The date is set for July 17th. Art, talking story, special guests… MORE to be reported, LATER!

Hope you’re scoring some waves on occasion. As always, if you can’t be nice, be real.

Doors, Panels, Screens, Artsy Dealies, My Most Recent Obsessions, Eye, Eye, Eye, AND BIG DAVE Stuff

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

Trish wasI, as always, correct when she said I had become obsessed with these door panels I have been working on; four by-fold doors rescued/salvaged/pack-ratted from some job. My theory was, because everyone has limited wall space for art, these would serve as screens, or even, doors.

Yes, there’s an inside and an outside, and I kind of lost track of what was on one side when I was painting the other side. It wasn’t all, like, thematic. Maybe a little. Obviously I have some sort of fascination with waves. And color. I would start out, get to something that was not what I envisioned and… here’s the obsessive part; I would keep going until l was a high percentage of satisfied. The fear at some point is that I could then screw the whole thing up. A line too far. Or a color. Or… something.

I want to thank Joel and Rachel Carben, owners of the COLAB in Port Townsend, for allowing me to have my art in their space. Although I paint houses for a living, my artistic leanings have been toward drawing.

SO, I am not at all sure what to do with these panels now. Hanging out for three of the monthly Port Townsend ARTWALKS has reinforced my belief that marketing is not my strong suit. Not even close. SO, do I tell myself that the joy of art is in the process? That is true, but… but, but, but…

Captions: Stephen R. Davis approaching the wall of doors at the COLAB;Joel Carben and Steve; a framed painting that caused Steve to comment,”It’s nice that you’re finally going for fine art,”; various panels taken where they were painted (a Costco/White Trash garage). OHHH, and then there’s BIG DAVE.

I took this a week or so ago at the Home Depot in Sequim. I had already heard a rumor that Legendary Surfer BIG DAVE RING was giving up surfing due to arthritis in his knees. I did write about this. The rumor was confirmed. *Sort of. Quickly, Dave was raised in Pacific Beach, San Diego, and was part of the pack of “Pier Rats” that included standout, Joe Roper. Dave, currently 66, was fourteen when I moved to PB in late 1971. I was twenty. Not a big talker in the lineup, not a guy who hangs out and chats it up on the beach, part of the reason I found out any info at all is because we have been mistaken for each other, as in: “I read your last thing on your blog,” to Dave, or “I heard you were ripping the other day,” to me.

Most of this was back when Dave was merely rocking a big-ass mustache. We both were riding big boards (Dave a 12′ SUP as a regular surfboard), and we both caught a lot of waves, from the outside, or scrapping for insiders. Dave is a master of the late takeoff and the sideslip, and plows through sections I would dodge..

A notable quote that got back to me was, “I rolled up and the Walrus and the Beast were both out. I went somewhere else. Though I’m almost more comfortable with being referred to as ‘That asshole wavehog, kneeboards on a SUP,” and I’ve been doing my best to increase the size of my mustache, I must agree with those who say Big Dave is the Walrus. Coo coo ca choo, coo coo ca choo.

*Having already, in a pattern that seems to hold true among older surfers, moved from popping up automatically, to knee boarding the takeoff and standing up after the first section, to kneeboarding the entire wave, Dave expressed little interest in belly boarding. “No, but…” I could tell Dave was imagining the perfect pre dawn session, sneaking out, lining up a few bombers.

“It is amazng,” he said, “what I’ve gotten done because I’m not always putting stuff off to go surfing.”

I get it, Dave.

EYE and LEG UPDATE- I’m finally through with the wound care for the gouge on my right calf. Pretty impressive scar. I am going to have my eye checked out on Friday, with surgery to remove the clear oil inside it, hopefully, scheduled for… soon. It isn’t as if I can’t work, it’s just annoying. I sort of attacked a woman in a parking lot the other day because she had a bandage over one eye. “Hey, what happened to you?” Different deal. Worse than mine. Nice conversation. ANYWAY, I did tell Trish that, because of the glare in the water, I might not surf until the oil in my eye is exchanged for (I asked) saline solution, that to be replaced by the proper bodily-produced fluid.

BUT, but, but… when I check the forecast…

Moving on. Back to another of my obsessions. After I post this, my plan is to get back to “Swamis.” I had friends attempt to read earlier versions. I know where I have to make changes, and I have been working on it. That’s my process. Evidently. Obsession, distraction; what we have to do and what we want to do and what we really really want to do.

Good luck with your obsessions.

More Doors AND… Panamaniacs

Posted on by under northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf art, surf culture, surfing art, surfing blogs

I took this photo from the internet; “Surf World” or something. Five rippers from the wave-starved Olympic Peninsula headed down there almost two weeks ago and are due back in the next couple of days. Yes, I asked for some sort of report. No, and I’m not trying to put any guilt on anyone… I’m sure there are excuses/reasons/explanations (band width, remoteness, lack of desire, too much wave action), I have not heard anything other than a second hand report from Adam Wipeout that Cougar Keith may have gotten the ride of the trip to that point (text message- I didn’t try, figuring cost of phone usage from the Central America, stuff like that), but, yeah, I TOTALLY WANT TO GET THE REPORT!

MEANWHILE, between getting filmed at a secret(ish) Strait of Juan de Fuca spot (Stephen R. Davis, also, with a surprise cameo, after whatever waves there may have been went to shit, by Jason Queen [not a nickname]) for some future artsy docu-thingy about me (despite my weak protestations by a woman who works for the Gates Foundation (more on this at a later date, but camera angles were demanded that diminished the chances of site identification, and yes, I would love to see a slow motion drone shot of me tucking my chunky body into a stretched-out wave); between this and getting a second surgery on my left eye after the first one for a detached retina failed. 10%, evidently, do; so, so lucky to be in the top percentile for something; oh, and the gash from my fall several months back is officially ‘almost’ well, though I was advised not to surf because of imagined (by the wound care nurse originally from Cuba, who thought maggots could have been an option) seal shit in the water.

“Oh, that,” I said, not having told her we saw several seals on the day of the filming, which, of course, I had not told her about.

MEANWHILE MEANWHILE, I still have my art retrospective at the COLAB in downtown Port Townsend. It will be there for one more ART WALK, the first Saturday in June, and I’m working on some more door panels. I have three bi-fold doors in progress, so six paintings. At this point I’m only willing to call three of them ‘almost’ done, so it’s kind of like three A sides, three B sides.

Not good enough. But they will be.

As I said, almost. Triple meanwhile, while I’m out of the waters for a while, five rabid rippers are set to return to a lineup near you. AS ALWAYS, if you can’t be nice, be real.

ART Walking, Talking, Talking, Talkinnnggg

Posted on by under Port townsend surfing, real surfers, surf art, surf culture, surf illustrations, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

JOEL and RACHEL CARBEN are the proprietors of the COLAB in downtown Port Townsend. Colab as in Collaborative Work Space. Joel is one of the members (if there is such a thing) of the rabid-if-desperate and frequently-disappointed Olympic Peninsula/Strait of Juan de Fuca surf community. There is an ART WALK each month in PT (I’ve never gone on one), so, partially in the interest of promoting the COLAB enterprise (more people hanging out with laptops and connections), why not have me and two other artists show our stuff? I mean, after all, Joel does actually own the cedar art piece/surfboard shown below. Long story. I was supposed to spray paint “Locals Only” on it or something, but…

ARTISTS, huh?

As usual, I didn’t do everything right. I had a whole room to display my stuff. I didn’t put prices on things, didn’t put business cards out. And, I didn’t hang out in the room, charming the folks who came in. BUT, I now realize, the main thing I did wrong is that I didn’t take some photos of STEPHEN R. DAVIS, KEITH DARROCK, and, yeah, me, cruising around to the various galleries.

If I had you could see LIBRARIAN KEITH, as rabid a surf fanatic as I have ever run into (or been burned by), but a solid citizen, mingling with the tourists and the artists, and in the company of two, perhaps… no, I don’t know how to describe Steve and I except we’re probably not as out-there as we believe ourselves to be. I mean, I’m as CITIZEN as the next person, but Steve? ARTISTS, huh?

And we’re checking out everyone else’s art, chatting with artists, partaking in the free snacks (no wine for me, not that I’m bragging. A nice expresso would have been… appreciated).

AND IT kind of worked out. EXAMPLE- We’re at the fanciest gallery in PT (prices fancier, also- wine from bottles with, probably, recognizable names for wine aficionados- no, not Ernest & Julio), and Steve is kind of (I thought) kissing up to this artist with the tiniest possible ponytail (so high concept/fashion), and I see this kid sitting on a bench with a sweatshirt with a logo from CHRIS BAUER SURFBOARDS. “Hey, where’d you get that sweatshirt, kid?” “He’s my dad. Chris Bauer.” “Oh.” When one of the board members (because fancy galleries have boards and directors) comes over and says I’m getting a bit rowdy, I acknowledge this and ask her if he knows KEITH.

THEY chat and I go outside. Again, as with my leaving first at other venues, I sort of think, as I acknowledged, that, if I still smoked, I’d be having one at this point. OUTSIDE the gallery.

I am not a marketer. Particularly not of my stuff.

HERE’S WHERE STEPHEN R. DAVIS got it right. I was critiquing and moving, asking quick, real questions of the folks showing and explaining and (you have to guess) trying to sell their works, questions such as: “How much are the dues? How much floor time do you have to put in? Do you sell enough to make it worth it? Meanwhile, Steve, a bundle of his cards in his hand, was showing his stuff, handing out samples as business cards, making, you know, inroads into the PT art scene.

NOW WE’RE on to the post event CRITIQUE, as in, what did I do wrong? What can I do NOW? I probably should have hung around in the space at the COLAB, charminig the folks who stumbled in, maybe selling

EVEN WITH THE BARAT, would you buy art from this double-chinned fat guy in the sweatshirt for the OLYMPIC MUSIC FESTIVAL (though several people thought OMF stood for Old M F-er)?

Here’s a shot of Keith, Joel, me (hiding the double chin), and Adam “Wipeout” James.

Here’s Steve on his boat from a few years ago. AGAIN, I should have taken a few photos from the ART WALK.

BUT I did, because I was displaying some drawings I did years ago of houses in Port Townsend, get an opportunity to draw one for someone. AND I DO OWE a big thank you to JOEL and RACHEL for the opportunity. TRISH says I should give them a piece of my art. “WHY? He already has the surfboard?”

So, BIG THANK YOU! Heart emoji, hang loose emoji.

MARKETING. I’m working on it. AND I did actually have a good time, chatting it up with people I don’t know, running into some I do know (shout out to Ian), hanging with friends.

Perhaps, on Wednesday, I’ll go over how I’m getting over and/or dealing with the detached retina, the infection in my leg, both related, possibly, to a fall, and a high blood pressure situation I discovered because I just had no choice but to go to a doctor; and the double chin thing. I am totally ready to get back in the water. TAKE THIS AS A WARNING.

Good luck. And, again, if you can’t be nice, be real.

Privileged, Entitled, Narcissistic, Irrefutably Sociopathic… and Here to Surf

Posted on by under mind surfing, real surfers, surf culture, surf satire, surfing blogs

Or… Namedropping and Trolling, and sniping.

I YouTubed the latest BEACH GRIT Saturday morning. Not the hour plus version, a more user friendly ten minutes (or so) edit (I’m assuming), the first three minutes (or so) an advertisement for a solar watch I just have to purchase. The topic was… I don’t remember. Oh, yeah, it was a response to letters to the editor (sorry, emails from the blog-ets); in this case, what a surf dude should wear to get married in, from arbiters of all things surfing, David Lee Scales and Chas Smith (and I apologize for calling David Lee Seales last time). Good stuff. Not what I was intending to write about.

I got this image from “Mariska and Fernando something something.” Congratuations!

’ll get to that. FIRST, I must say I was kind of jazzed that, according to my tablet, the post had been, you know, posted, like, forty-two minutes earlier AND had, at that time, no comments. Not that I ever comment. I think it requires signing in somewhere, and emojis, and misspellings, and pretty horrific grammatic usage. BUT, I must add, I am a fan of surf-centric content, though I’ve seen enough that I fast-forward frequently; especially when (even) one of my cosmic, cloud-breaking, globe-floating surf heroes (even Nate or Jamie or any of the Koas) start hyping product and/or starts being too whiny or obsequiously and, possibly, phony-ly nice. AND I have yet to subscribe to any channel or blog. BUT, if you subscribe to worldwide (honestly, they keep track and I check… daily) non-phenomenon… realsurfers, I’m not going to beg, but so many, many thanks, many congrats on your, um, discernment (insert virtual kiss emoji here).

I DO HOPE following Dave and Chas and then commenting on their commentary doesn’t make me a troll, BUT TODAY’S TROLLING is because their recent identifying/outing TYLER WRIGHT as an entitled, privileged, ‘I’m a victim,’ narcissist got me thinking. Yes, I was kind of taken aback, while watching hours of a WSL contest from somewhere, that she mentioned, you know, menstruation and its effects on heat strategy, but I didn’t get more involved than that. BUT I don’t have the insider access D and C have.

WAIT, aren’t most sports stars a little bit… that? Aren’t most, even non-world-class surfers somewhere on the self-centered spectrum? Since I’ve long been of the opinion that most who surf with a skill level over day three surf camp (day two, private lesson) are, placed in the competitive petri dish arena at any decent surf spot, SOCIOPATHS, adding a bit of the victimhood aspect doesn’t faze me at all. OR HURT ME.

ANY OF us who have taken and/or can take the time to develop skills in a difficult sport, often performing (or trying to snag a wave if not a set bomb) in crowded conditions, might be considered Privileged, Entitled, Narcissistic, Irrefutably Sociopathic Headcases (PENIS HEADS, for short). Enjoying the activity… Separate issue. Separate posting. Later.

“Me, Me!” Mine, Mine!” “Going Right!” “Going Left!” “Going Straight!” “MeMeMine!”

TAKE THIS TEST: If you’re surfing like shit, is it someone else’s fault? Of course. Or the wrong board, or the wrong wax, or some backpaddling assholes and/or drop-in bitches (bitches in the non-gender way)? For the non-surfers, think about navigating heavy traffic (your choice of vehicle), OR the lineup at the multi-pump COSTCO. If you picked the gas tank on the right side line because you know the hose will make it AND the line is shorter, BUT some asshole decides to take his or her (formerly correct way to say ‘their’ as identifying something singular) sweet ass time topping off their Hummer or checking their mileage… whatever, YES, it is their fault that you’re late to the barbeque, their fault the guacamole went brown in your artisan sidedish.

NOT TO MAKE THIS overlong, a greater privilege for the truly entitled is to be able to write and post sarcastic, sniping commentary on, you know, like, whatever.

HOWEVER, I must add that I harbor no ill will toward Tyler, John Peck, or pretty much anyone else. WAIT. Thinking. There are, not that I’m bent too far over in a direction a reader might recognize, a few politicians I wouldn’t want to hang out with, clowns who make me a bit gRUMPy.

BY WAY of confession; when I do get up to the gas pumps, I do take my sweet-ass time.  Let’s see; 281.5 miles divided by 12.5 gallons equals 22.5 mpg. YEA! Thanks, Volvo.

AND, as with every time I see a post from Nathan or the quickie (only) from Keith Olbermann, or the first (surfing) half of a video from Mason Ho, when I next see something with David Lee and Chas; NO NEED TO ADD BAIT- Oh yes… CLICK.

NEXT TIME (maybe), Why we all want to be realer than other surfers.

Meanwhile, if you can’t be nice, be real.

ADAM’S FAMILY big island VACATION

Posted on by under real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf stories, surf trips, surfing blogs, surfing stories, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

If you rely on the waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca to provide you with all the surfing satisfaction you can reasonably handle… well… There is a reason surfers who can go elsewhere do… go elsewhere. Of the loosely bundled group that might or might not be considered the Jefferson County CREW (as differentiated from if not opposed to the Clallam County or, heavens, the crews from King or Thurston or any other county) one is in New Zealand, another in Mexico, and two local rippers are planning a brief escape to, perhaps, Panama.

So, ADAM JAMES, who does actually live in Mason County, but, by virtue of his wide travels pushing HAMA HAMA OYSTERS to the known world, and who seems to be welcomed everywhere he goes, figured out a way to get to the BIG ISLAND, AND, AND, and to include his family: Andrea and their two sons, EMMETT and CALVIN (aka BOOMER), whose names I include because I keep having to ask Adam, AND because it is important to know more about our surf friends than whether or not they are goofy foot. Adam- no; regular foot but known to use a parallel stance on occasion.

OKAY, and I know it’s annoying, here is, after some further babbling, the photo array:

YOU DON’T get the full ADAM WIPOUT storytelling advantage here. I did. It was great. Next time Adam is backpaddling you, ask him about shooting the boar, or who this guy is, or pretty much anything. IT does look like this board was pretty far along before this Big Island breakage. I don’t believe this surfer was identified by name.

That’s Mikel “SQUINTZ” Cumiskey in the second shot. He seems to move, frequently, from Florida to Port Townsend to the Big Island. Mike and Adam met up, hit some of the spots. YES, Adam dropped names (Pine Trees, Banyons, secret spots with names I already forgot), had to include that the locals welcomed him graciously, AND that, by luck, he discovered a spot by the hotel they were staying at.

NOW, I have done some work for the Hama Hama Oyster Company, so I should include that the one photo is of Nate, the hatchery manager for JAMESTOWN SEAFOOD. The hatchery is owned by the Jamestown/s’klallam tribe. Nate is holding a few thousand 2-3 mm Kumamoto Oyster seed. They are sent from the hatchery to East Sequim Bay to grow to 12mm, at which point they are shipped to farms such as the Hama Hama tideflats on the Hood Canal. Nate is based out of Kona and, with his wife, Melissa, took Adam and Emmett out on their boat.

THERE WERE other photos, more waves, but I should also mention the boar was shot, by Adam. The way Adam told me, “So, Brian tells me, ‘the boar’s gonna charge you, but he’ll stop short. When he does, you have to shoot him right between the eyes. One shot. These guys eat twenty-two bullets like candy.’ It did… stop. I shot. Boom.”

BRIAN works for HAWAIIAN SHELLFISH on the Hilo side. Hama Hama also buys seed from them.

If I got any of this wrong, sorry.

MEANWHILE, look for waves when you can, and, if you find them, surf them. I am totally planning on restoring my HOBIE, which I did purchase from Adam Wipeout, like six or seven years ago, and, no Adam, I did pay it off.

Here’s something I got as a comment from someone who identified as FRANK LEE DARLING: “Those Cristians (sic) who can’t seem to not follow the sunburned turd should realize there not part of the flock, they’re part of the mob. Hope you get what I’m saying, Dude.” Not political, Frank, not sure if you’re talking about ALEX KNOST. No need to write back to explain.

IF YOU’RE CRUISING up or down SURF ROUTE 101, you might as well check out HAMA HAMA OYSTERS. If you have access to the internet, might as well check realsurfers.net on Sundays and Wednesdays. Not, like, dawn patrol.