*I’ve been doing this blog for almost thirteen years, and because I’ve been checking on my stats a lot lately, and have actually been in contact with the platform realsurfers shakily is built on, I discovered this would be post number 1,000. NOW, the explanation for this is that not-quite-perfectionist that I am (mediocratist, high end, is more like it), I typically edit each post, like, multiple times. NEVERTHELESS, it’s some sort of milestone. OR a testament to stubbornness.
This image, possibly taken by Peninsula ripper, Chris Eardley, has already appeared on instagram. NO, Mikel Squintz, it is not anywhere, secret or not, on the Strait. Some sort of Hurricane, so, different body of water. STILL, offshore winds and possibly makeable waves does make one less worried about the rocks as well as envious.
Reggie Smart’s dog, Django, looking, well… smart. “Who’s a Smart dog?” Photo by… you know, Django’s owner. Not totally unchained. But smart. Reggie is opening a new Tattoo shop in Port Townsend. Look him up on the social if you need a little body decorating.
JOHN PECK died this week. I get the word on surfer deaths, typically, via texts from my contemporary, TOM BURNS. My story on Mr. Peck is this: Back in the late 60s, when signature model surfboards became a thing, my Fallbrook surf friends (and some kook semi-surfers) and I would share the latest “Surfer” bi-monthly. PHILLIP HARPER may have had a subscription. So, Phil, RAY HICKS, and BILL BUEL (who I still consider more of a surf-adjacent dude- Sorry) were over at Phil’s house perving out on the mag. Not like all at once. There was an ad for the MOREY-POPE designed PENETRATOR; all well and good, and an ad for several other signature boards. When Phil’s mom came into the dining room, Buel said, “Look, Mrs. Harper, there’s a board called the RAPER.” Because I was, possibly, more pedantic than I am now, and to reassure Phillip’s mom, I corrected Bill, effecting a French-ish accent. “I believe it’s pronounced, ‘Ra-pe’-air,’ like, like a sword.” And yes, I definitely went into a swashbuckling stance, which, oddly enough, is goofy-foot.
John Peck, a legendary surfer, doing a bit of kneeboarding. Photo by Nathan Oldfields. Find it, if nowhere else, at mollusksurfshopscom
SONNY OWENS also died recently. Here’s a bit on Sonny from Tom Burns: “My friend and former surf judge passed on at his home in CANNON BEACH. He was an early HUNTINGTON PIER standout in the late 60s, early 70s and migrated up here to the PNW, We surfed and judged contests over the years. Truly a good friend and a gentle soul who will be missed.”
I did meet Sonny on the Strait a year or so before my ill-fated foray into surf contest judging. Sonny and a woman I assumed to be his wife were at a barely-breaking, almost flooded-out spot, and despite being somewhat crippled, he went out. When I was at the contest in Westport, trying to fit in, I mentioned the sighting to one of the real judges. “Oh yeah? Sonny, Erwin here says he saw you surfing at ______ _____.” “Yeah, I did. Once,” To paraphrase Tom Burns, “If you’re lucky enough to surf long enough, you’re going to end up kneeboarding.” Agreed.
Let’s just say I’m posting this sideways to be less… shocking. Not true. Maybe, when I edit…
Me at Trisha’s most recent Chemo session. Photo by Trish. I’m really not supposed to make a deal out of my wife of almost 54 years undergoing treatment for breast cancer. I was not allowed to take her photo, in the chair, or later, when she was checking out and selecting a wig. Usually our daughter, DRU, herself a two time cancer survivor, takes Trish over for this kind of thing, as Trish did for her. Dru was off at a conference for organizations such as the OLYMPIC MUSIC FESTIVAL, with EMELIE BAKER (not sure what her married name is or how, exactly, to spell Emelie). So, I got the opportunity to share in the ordeal.
I try not to get too gushy about these things, but I am amazed at how strong Trish AND Dru have been, how positive. I do realize, we all have our struggles, injuries, afflictions, physical, mental, spiritual; many of which are crippling. We always hear “Fight cancer.” Yes. Yes. Allow me to repeat, “Fuck Cancer!”
I AM WORKING ON “SWAMIS,” and I promise to back off on the neurotic/obsessive re-writing. AND I’m continuing to write new songs and poems while collecting some of the old ones. Here’s one of each:
EMPTY
Empty stairwell, empty halls, Empty paintings on empty walls, Desperate conversations on the telephone, You say my heart is empty, but it’s heavy as a stone.
You know I don’t believe it, You know it can’t be true, How can my heart be empty when it’s filled with love for you.
Empty blankets, empty sheets, Empty sidewalks and empty streets, Looking out the window, I see I’m still all alone, You say my heart is empty, but it’s heavy as a stone.
You know I don’t believe it, You know it can’t be true, How can my heart be empty when it’s filled with love for you.
Empty like those scattered wishes, Empty like those shattered dishes, Empty like my old broken cup, If I’m so empty, Fill me up.
Empty ocean, empty skies, Empty faces with empty eyes, Thinking ‘bout those sins for which I just can’t atone, You say my heart is empty, but it’s heavy as a stone.
You know I don’t believe it, You know it can’t be true, How can my heart be empty when it’s filled with love for you.
Empty me, empty me, I’m as empty as I can be, I’m empty like my old broken cup, If I’m so empty, If I’m so empty, If I’m so empty… fill… me… up.
The Psychic and his Sidekick
The psychic and his sidekick, Sedrick,
Shared an Uber home from the wedding of a mutual friend.
Cindy was the bride, Archie was the groom,
The psychic said he knew the marriage was, “Quite doomed,”
Sedrick thought so, also, but he was willing to pretend,
Mostly, he said, at the Psychic’s funeral, “Not to offend my friend.”
“Shocking,” Cindy said, placing flowers on the headstone,
“Indeed,” Sedrick said, adding, “Are you here alone?”
I DO TRY TO GIVE PROPER CREDIT for photos and such. Please respect my rights to my original, copyrighted work.
OH, AND NOTE you can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net. AND, HOWEVER YOU’RE RIDING WAVES, KEEP GOING!
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!
If I even say Port Townsend surfers, you have every right to ask, “What?” or “Where?” It’s, like, 80 miles, as the seagull flies, from the open Pacific, about 120 miles, as the roads bend and curve, from the actual coast. How could there be waves? Sooo, surfers go elsewhere. Yearly trips to exotic locales in Mexico, or even farther, exotic-er. Lucky. But trips end.
Chris Eardley, fish and wildlife guy, and his wife, Megan, fish and wildlife woman, are returning from Massachusetts, AND he made the possible mistake of texting photos. SO, there’s your, possibly, I’m guessing, typical New England in summer beach scene; Chris with the hat, possibly tied on, and looking very white and kind of muscle-ey (this assessment from another surf friend who got the same photos- and I agree), and an explainer text after Chris wrote, “Watch out for Dum Dum.”
I do not see any discernible wave action in the aerial shot, but I did warn Chris about getting any three hundred yards rides, or any multiple of number-of-rides-to-distance-per-ride that would put him into the area where the tagged great white shark might be lurking.
Meanwhile, surfers in my relatively small group of associates have been spread out across the country. Some are due back from inland, and even way inland. Yeah, great to travel, but it has to be compared to being here, waiting, hoping, checking the forecast… from the comfort of home.
NAM SIU UPDATE- I tried to call Nam Siu, mostly because people keep asking me how his recovery from a devastating illness is going. And because I recently did some work for HOWARD TEAS. Howard was/is a diver, used to surf in the Santa Cruz area, and does some creek water testing. Yes, Nam Siu is another fish and wildlife person. BUT, when I called him, the message was something like, “I do not recognize this number and I will not answer. If it is important…” He did text me, on my other phone, later. AND yes, Nam is ready to surf. All he needs is some surf. “I hear you.”
Here is a short story I’ve been working on while not working on the novel, “Swamis.” My problem with the novel is that, having watched too many shows on Netflix and Prime, and Apple TV (on my computer, thanks to Dru), I’ve decided that I have little time for dilly-dallying and padding and over-exposition. This story has Joseph Atsushi DeFreines, the narrator and main character from “Swamis,” a few years later.
What is true of Joey and is true of me is that rendering horrific acts of violence just seems wrong. Real people turn away from real horrors. Maybe. Anyway, if it seems the style is chopped up… yeah. It is. NOW, I really don’t want to get into, ‘here’s what I was going for here,’ BUT I wrote the opening paragraphs, had a violent act in mind for the ending, and wrote myself into a corner, mostly because Joey’s ‘voice’ is different than it is in “Swamis.” Then again, I’m still working on “Swamis.”
A Three Day Surf Trip to Porthclaw- Fiction by Erwin Dence
Everything I saw through the windshield, wipers half-scraping in an uneven mist, aware of the steep hill to my right and the row of steep shale roofs to my left, was in black and gray, gray on gray; the color of dreams; foggy, grainy, slightly out of focus.
If it was a dream, it was one I’d had before; scenes disassembled and altered each time.
I knew there was water beyond the tight row of dark houses. The ocean’s barely discernible horizon line disappeared as my head snapped back to the road, barely wider than the car in which I was a passenger, left side, front seat, sideslipped around a corner.
Context. “Car in which.” Ridiculous, as is describing this memory, or dream, at all. I knew where and how the story would end. I couldn’t stop it.
“The brakes,” I thought, or said, in dream-speak, pumping an imagined pedal, hoping for pushback.
“The brakes are a little… rusty.” I turned just far enough to my right, toward the silhouette of the driver, Samuel Hubbard/Jones, the features of his face made recognizable in the glow from his cigarette.
“Hot boxing, Samuel?”
“Nervous, Atsushi?”
There was a squealing, metal to metal, and what was as much a feeling as a sound of tires sliding, almost catching on a wet surface I knew to be cobblestone rather than asphalt. There was a push forward. “Downshift!” The car jerked. It did slow. The cigarette was in front of me. I took it. Because of some not-completely-gone habit, I inhaled.
“No. Maybe they’re… better.” Samuel laughed. “The brakes. Working.”
I exhaled, filling the car’s cabin with smoke.
Blink. …
Samuel’s car almost slammed against an ancient rock wall; mildewed, decorated with floats, chunks of the foam missing; with frayed ropes; with nets no longer worth mending. These and shark jaws and fish skeletons were secured to posts that had been thrown or pulled into the ocean; but had been returned, cast ashore; worn, bleached, worm-holed, the softer wood in the grain deteriorated. Between the posts there was a meant-to-be-artistic fencing of driftwood; delicate, stripped of bark, branches from trees miles inland.
Blink. I was outside, looking at the car, over-large, something short of a Bentley. Gravel road grime, a faded paint job, and a couple of unrepaired dings kept it from being embarrassingly showy. Still, ostentatious. There were two boards on a rusty rack. Mine was on top; a six-four Gordon and Smith twin fin. Samuel’s was a yellowed, almost browned-out, very thick, seven-two single fin. He had told me who custom shaped it. I’ve forgotten the name.
“Only surf shop in this part of Wales, Atsushi. They do have gloves, hoods, shit a California surfer doesn’t need. Don’t talk; they might not be fond of… Hawaiians.”
“But posh wankers from some fancy, upper crust part of London are…?”
Samuel was very close. “You’re stalling, Joseph Atsushi DeFreines; get on with it.”
“Okay.”
…
No. More exposition, more stalling: It was 1976. Without a law degree, and despite having passed the bar, I had couldn’t practice law in California without a sponsor. A sort of apprenticeship. I had just completed a four-year stint with the San Diego County Public Defenders’ Office. Low level paper shuffling, ‘keep ‘em moving,’ hanging out at traffic court, urging poor people to plead out, pay the fine, stay out of trouble, switch ‘non guilty’ to ‘guilty with an explanation.’ “And… I will speak to the judge… for you. What’s your… story?”
“Sincere, contrite” was my advice, “This judge doesn’t appreciate sarcasm.”
This was true. Mostly, though everyone appreciates a bit if the hurtful part is aimed at someone else. I was learning, in my few moments in court, how to… court.
I will mention, to continue to avoid writing about the incident in the bathrooms on the dock, that I was in England because Julie was taking a course on international law she might never use, but one that would help in her not surprisingly quickly advancing career, and, because my storefront law office in Mission Beach was bleeding money, and because I had a passport and an invitation, I dutifully followed my wife.
I had run into Mr. Hubbard/Jones in the hallway of a university town hostel; me with my board in an old cloth Surfboards Hawaii bag. Because Samuel, having identified himself as a surfer, having given me a not-unimpressive list of places he had surfed, was willing to blow off the first three days of the classes, plans were made. I tried to hide my excitement.
“Better off without the bag around these here parts, cowboy,” Samuel said in a Hollywood western drawl.
“Possibly not,” I said in a Michael Caine influenced rhythm.
“See,” Julie said, “another surfer.”
“Wales?”
“Yes. Waves in… Wales.”
…
I was, in this recurring dream, as I had been in real life, standing outside a dive shop that had only recently begun selling surf gear.
Three young men in clothing appropriate to the drizzle were checking out the car, and the boards, and Samuel, and me. It all seemed friendly enough. “I’ve been here before. But… Joe DeFreines… hasn’t.” Samuel said, “He and I… we’re not… trust me, aiming to publicize any spots. Just visiting.”
“Looks cold,” I said, looking at the lines of waves raking the distant breakwater. The small harbor was occupied by commercial fishing boats, mostly, day-trippers; the colors muted. Serious. Two short wharfs, or docks, or piers; I’ve never been clear on the distinctions; framed the view, perpendiculars to the horizontal layers of clouds. The larger building, to the left, was wood, probably stained, gray, originally. The mildew growing on it, green or almost black, was almost orange in some spots. The signage on the Porth Claw Dive Shop, black on white, had aged to gray on gray. “Surf supplies” were listed on a separate, newer sign, along with “Bait, and almost unreadably faded sign that read, “Tackle. Gear. Tanks Refilled while you wait.”
A cinder block building on the dock to the right had an almost unreadably faded sign that read, “Public Toilets and Showers.” There were two entrances, each marked with the broken front two-thirds of a surfboard, bolted into the block, graffiti scrawled, and flyers taped to them: “Surfers,” on one, “Surf Babes” on the other.
…
“What did happen, Joey?” It was Julie’s voice. Time and space, in dreams, are puzzle pieces, seeking a fit. I could see her reflection when she came into the room at the hostel, two days late from a three day surf trip. She turned on the lights and disappeared. “Are you ever going to tell me?” My unwillingness to fully talk about, to render an accurate image of violent incidents, images my mind wouldn’t allow me to fully see; what Julie perceived as a lack of trust, a lack of faith in her, a wound to any notion of true intimacy, of true love; this had been a major point of contention during our first divorce. Only divorce.
…
I was aware that a young woman had come out of the shop: Bright yellow raincoat, long blonde hair. “Claudia,” Samuel said. Claudia didn’t over acknowledge the greeting. Rather, she checked the expressions on the other locals. As did Samuel. As I did.
An old stepside pickup, the step long rusted out, backed in. There were crab pots in the truck bed. Or lobster pots. Cages, really, metal framework, netting. A metal tank took up most of the bed, extending onto the tailgate, water sloshing out of it. Four sets of scuba tanks were secured to the back posts for the racks. Two heavy diver’s wetsuits were flopping on the siderails. The locals looked over at the driver as he and another young man in the appropriately heavy clothing, got out.
“Claudia,” the driver said, as if it was a question, scanning between Claudia, me, Samuel, and the other three locals, “You know these… tourists?”
“Surfers, Ian,” one of the locals, tallest and skinniest of the three, said. “Passing through.”
“You know these… tourists… Claudia?”
Claudia’s response was to take a breath and shake her head. Not a deep breath. Not a real head shake.
“You don’t know Claudia,” Ian said, walking toward Samuel but talking to the skinny local. “Air me up, please, Barry; if you would.” Barry was moving a high-pressure hose toward the back of the truck, Samuel was shaking his head when Ian asked, “Do you?”
“Everyone knows Claudia,” the young man from the passenger side of the truck, lowering the tailgate and pulling a set of tanks closer, and picking up a spanner, said. “Claudia, your former girlfriend. Former.”
“And… never yours… Ollie.” Ian gave Ollie the reverse peace sign, two finger, English version of flipping someone the bird.
I must have chuckled. Everyone seemed to turn toward me. “She… Claudia… She is in the brochure, for ‘lovely, friendly Porthclaw,’” I said. “I saw it… on the counter.”
Claudia nodded, gave Ian a double handed flipoff, and headed toward the bathrooms.
Ian pulled a set of scuba tanks off the rail, set them on the ground, grabbed the high-pressure hose from Barry and tried to turn the valve. “Still fucked, huh?” He turned toward his diving partner, put one hand out toward the wrench he was holding. “And… fuck you, Ollie. If Claudia’s too good for me… mate…”
Ian held the hose as Ollie used the wrench to turn the valve on and off, several times. “Way too good, Ian.”
…
I was in the overstocked shop, my hands on the front counter, one hand in a very heavy glove, a pair of diver’s booties between me and the older man, smiling, holding the other glove open. “You’ll appreciate the good of it when you get in the water… son.”
…
I was in the dark, dank bathroom, seemingly desperate to piss. Urinate. Someone was crying from the other half of the building. Someone yelled, “Get out!” There were sounds of a scuffle. Several voices. One of the voices belonged to Samuel Hubbard/Jones.
…
“You have to tell them the story, DeFreines.”
“We shouldn’t have been there, Samuel. That’s my story.”
…
“What happened, Joey? Atsushi, I love you. You have to tell me.” Julie.
“Have to? Julie… I… will.”
…
I was in the dark. Or I had my eyes closed. “Mr. DeFreines, the court acknowledges the difficulty one would reasonably have in describing such an abominable, heinous act perpetrated on another human being. Your written statement has been recorded and read to the jury. Would you now reconfirm that the descriptions of the attack, the beating, the sexual… assault with the use of the… If it please the court… Thank you, your honor. Mr. DeFreines?”
“I stand by my account.”
…
I was awake. Or I thought I was. I was alone.
“What is it you’re not allowing yourself to admit?” A different woman’s voice. Therapist. “You say it’s guilt. For what?”
“For being there. In… these… places, and for being… unable…”
“What else do you believe you could have done?”
“They… they call a wrench a spanner. I could have… maybe…”
“Taken it? Stopped it?”
…
I was back in Porthclaw. A misplaced ray of sunlight hit me as I stepped out of the ‘surfer’ side. I saw the air hose on the cracked concrete. Taut. “Is this what you want, Claudia?” It was Ian’s voice.
There was a rushing of air. On. Off. On.
Claudia was crying, “No, no. No. Ian!” between the sobs and before they became one continuous scream.
I was frozen.
“Joey,” Samuel yelled as he passed me. “Come on!” He jammed between Barry and the two other locals at the doorway to the ‘surf babes’ side. I seemed to unfreeze. I knocked Barry out of the way and pulled on the hose. One or both of the locals said, “Not me. Not me, man,” as I struck each of them, straight shots to their chests.
“Ian,” I said.
“Ian,” Ollie said. “Ian. No!”
Claudia was still screaming when Ian let her fall from the farthest, darkest corner. Samuel sliding on the wet floor, was on his knees when he reached her.
“Your fault, Ollie,” Ian said. “You love her? Do you? Her?”
I looked at the spanner in Ollie’s hand. I looked at Samuel. He shook his head. I looked at Claudia. She was turning away, both hands on her lower abdomen. I looked at Ian, defiant, for a moment. I heard the squeak of the hose nozzle, not quite all the way shut off.
…
It seems to me that it’s unnecessary if not wrong to describe the absolute… absolute wrongness of moment, the aftermath of an “Abominable, heinous act perpetrated on another human being.” It’s not that I don’t remember; it’s that I do. Guilt. Regret. Pieces I can’t fit back into the puzzle. Still, the next time I had this dream, I took the spanner from Ollie and used it on Ian and his defiant look.
NOTICES- Original work by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. on realsurfers.net is protected by copyright. All rights reserved by the author. CONTACT- erwin@realsurfers.net
THANK YOU, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net WHETHER you’re here or there or somewhere else, get some waves when you can.
*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.
I had something almost ready for posting today that is based on two of my favorite words, “Esoteric” and “Eclectic,” the connection to the purer, less commercial, real-er aspects of surfing being that only a percentage of those who consider themselves surfers have the possibly exaggerated, possibly accurate view of surfing as ‘more than’ the sport of riding waves.
So, like esoteric humor, jokes that only a certain group, insiders, perhaps appreciate, surfers in a mostly wave-starved area, and defend and appreciate the waves when they do appear, and not to belabor this too far, somehow are… sort of insiders.
The surfers who wait for and search for waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca are a mixed group: Tech dudes and Tech Women, business folks, contractors, folks with lives that fill in the non-surf periods; it’s an eclectic mix.
I’ve written about NAM SIU before. When Nam got into surfing, he did everything he could to improve quickly; skateboarding, snowboarding, wing foiling. It worked; his surfing improved, quickly and dramatically. A message this morning from Nam’s significant other, JENNY LEE, was passed on in a group test by JOEL CARBON:
Photos from Chris Eardley
Nam and Chris work together at the Fish and Wildlife, or Fish and Game… one of those. Chris says “Nam is a friend first and a colleague second!”
Information on Nam’s condition is a bit sketchy, but it is known that the medical issues are serious enough that Nam was airlifted from Port Townsend to a hospital on the Seattle side. So… serious. The latest word as of Sunday evening is that Nam seems to be responding to treatment. So… some reason for optimism.
Nam is what we should want to be: Sincere, honest, dedicated, stoked, connected to whatever it is that entices, sometimes forces us, a very diverse group, age-wise, occupation-wise, any-other-measure-wise, to wait and search and push ourselves up or out. If there is a group that hopes and prays for certain conditions; offshore, lined-up, not too crowded; or, I guess, powder on the slopes and decent roads to get there, that group can use, perhaps, that same energy to be sent… elsewhere. Nam needs to recover. He and I have a contest going on, and I believe we’re currently tied; one heat each. GET WELL, NAM.
Yes, I googled “Surfing Valentines cards,” hit on ‘images,’ and then, partially because this card is no longer available, copied, and now pasted it here. Obviously the couple are discussing which one of them will ride the board.
I do have some possibly romantic surf stories. However, you may have noticed there is sometimes (I want to say) tension between partners in surf couples, regular and power. Adding children to the mix doesn’t lessen the (I want to say) natural competitiveness between any two surfers once actual surfing is involved.
And then there’s the supposed to be supportive non-surfing boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever category one puts a significant or sort-of significant other into. “Oh, that was great, Babe; the way you almost made the bottom turn; all bottom, no turn… Whoo Hoo!”
In our relationship, which started out with Trish watching me surf, two spots, like four hours worth, the thrill of this wore off rather quickly. As perhaps happens, and I so very often mention, surfing became the other woman. Choices had to be made. Mostly Trish won. Not always.
Trish kept riding a surf mat for a while. I still had one. Mostly she’d ride it at Swamis Beachbreak. One afternoon we went out together at Oceanside, over between the jetties. We probably rode a few before we found ourselves together, outside, with a suddenly rising swell and a surprisingly strong rip. I have been, in my surf life, way more worried about being caught outside than being caught inside. Adding someone I care deeply about out there with me… it’s worse.
I’m not sure exactly how we got in. It wasn’t like I rescued Trish or she rescued me (and for those who already know, I have had women come to my rescue when I was perceived to be in trouble or was actually floundering in the shorebreak), but we made it in, and the last time I asked, Trish told me she wasn’t worried. “Oh, because you were with your man?” “No, because I knew what I was doing.” “Oh. Yeah. That.”
SO… Lovers, love.
IN “Love Songs for Cynics” News; I just had a meeting yesterday with a person willing to help me format a collection af songs and (I don’t want to say) poetry, and some essays. I’m in the process of collecting years worth of stuff I’ve written, quite a bit of it surf-related, but, surprisingly, a lot of the songs are not what would be classified as love songs. Possibly because our son James is a guitarist, I have written a lot of blues songs. Asked about my material, I had to say a lot of it is fictional; me putting myself in some situation I’ve not really been in.
Anyway, I have been making some progress on “Swamis.” Slow but steady, and yes, there is some surf action, and yes, there is some romance.
You say your woman left you, she took a one way flight, Now all that you can think of is your miserable plight, And you whimper all day long and you cry all night, SORRY ‘BOUT YOUR BLUES… I feel all right.
But you say you had to gamble, and you had to drink that wine, And you had ‘just a few’ ladies, so you had to dance and dine, Still you don’t know ‘xactly where you crossed that line, Sorry ’bout your blues… but I feel fine.
I feel good because my woman treats me something like a king, I just snap my fingers, and she’ll do most any thing; Oh, but I should add she keeps my ass in line, Sorry ’bout your blues… but I feel fine.
Now you’re right down at the bottom, never been quite this far down, Your once fine reputation’s shot throughout your own home town, And if you cry one more tear, you’ll likely drown, Sorry you’re not up… but I’m not down.
Now, I’ve been down in the gutter, I crawled out the best I could, Right now my life’s so good that I just have to knock on wood, I guess I should help, I only wish I could, Sorry ’bout your blues, I don’t think it’s what you’d choose, I’m just so glad those blues are yours, not mine, Sorry ’bout your blues, but I… feel… fine.
Yeah, all original work by Erwin Dence on realsurfers.net is copyright protected. All rights reserved.
SURF NOTE: If we can get past this February pattern of too cold temperatures and the surf doldrums, maybe… waves. We all love waves! Right?
“Dark Cutback”- Pen and Ink, “Come In”- Pencil, pen and ink
Meanwhile, on a Strait Far Away…
It was the day before Christmas and all along the Strait, Surfers were sick of the Eddie Swell wait,
And the planning and loading in the dark of the night, All frothed-up and hoping you’d hit it just right,
Get through holiday traffic and ferry lines long, Just to find out the forecasters got it all wrong,
No six to eight-foot faces, with stiff offshore winds, But side chop and flatness, too many surf friends,
All those kooks who got wetsuits and leashes as gifts, And promised pure awesomeness, maybe, when the tide shifts,
Or the currents reset, or the stars realign, Which they haven’t done yet, so you’ll have to resign Yourself to some chilling with the parking lot crew, Having artisan breakfasts and customized brew,
With the burnouts and geezers who still dream of the past, With retired accountants who’ve heard surfing’s a blast, With newbies who ruled in the surf camp’s real water lessons, Who count the wave pool rides as real surfing sessions,
With the hodads and show dads and their sons and their daughters, Influencers and surf tourists who don’t get in the waters,
Cell phones at the ready, all waiting for action, They’ll be hooting and filming, with a deep satisfaction,
Witness to butt-hurt back-paddlers, shoulder-hoppers, and snakers, Heroes and villains, GoPro-ers and fakers, Buzzed-out dudes blowing takeoffs, laughing, pearling and falling, Occasional barrels and turns worth recalling.
They’ll soon be Youtubing a post of their Christmas surf strike, So hit the “subscribe” button, comment, and like,
And save it, repost it, it is something to share, When you watch it again, it’s as if you were there.
Yes, I hope you got waves, I did, too, and in the best Christmas spirit, If you have a great story, I would so love to hear it,
The next time we’re together, facing a skunking, so tragic, You can tell me the tale of your holiday magic.
“You should have been there, Dude; you would have loved it.” “You could have called me.” “You should have known. Are you angry?” “No. It’s just surfing, man; almost all of the magic is… well, you know.”
Color versions, and I slipped in a couple of photos from an ultra fickle spot where rideable waves are mostly imagined. Yes, that’s pretty much every spot on the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
I HAVE HEARD a couple of stories of the usual situations that occur with too many surfers and not enough waves; confrontations that went way farther than they should have. They are not my stories, and, although I LOVE to hear them, AND retell them, if they’re good enough, you will hear them eventually. Maybe from me, but not here. What I will say is, “That wave is gone.”
NEXT.
This is as true when the story is of epic, magical, all-time, best-ever stories. Your joyful stories, perfect moments in an imperfect world; the ones that make you smile; those are the ones to to savor; those are the images to save, to replay.
The illustrations are protected by copyright, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
OH, AND I am, of course, still polishing my novel, “Swamis,” and I’m working on a piece for SUNDAY on the LAWS OF ETIQUETTE. Look for it. In the meanwhile, there are a lot of YouTube videos of super crowds at Swamis and elsewhere. Yeah, crowds.
This isn’t from the most current big wave event at SWAMIS, but, that doesn’t really matter when it’s the same deal any time the news media (and all your instagram surf-adjacent folks) hypes up an incoming swell; every wannabe hero paddling out at one of the only places one can (easily) make it out in San Diego County on those swells that come down from up here in the Pacific Northwest (just incidentally, totally missing the north shore of the Strait of Juan de Fuca); and… yes, getting out at Swamis is easy; not getting in some other hero’s way as they ride a wave they snaked someone else to get, getting more than three waves in a session, not kooking-it up and crashing on a takeoff with 89 scrappers, 19 actual rippers, and five videographers, 105 cell phone or actual cameras, and all the eyes of a bluff and stairway full of tourists and surfers who claim they got the sickest wave ever (or plan to, once they wax up and have another hit or sip… all trained on you. YOU. You.
Don’t blow it.
Damn! FELL OFF AFTER THE DROP!
YES, I have my own not-quite-a-hero stories; already shared. For years. Swamis, Windansea, Sunset Cliffs, Cardiff, Upper Trestles, La Jolla Cove; pretty much the other accessible spots on big days.
AND
But now, leeward of the swell, I just might have overdosed, self-medicating in the long nights of this amazingly warm winter (not arguing global warming while trying not to sound like I’m indulging in geezer-talk, but 50 degrees plus on any December day; not what it was when we moved up here in 1978, haven’t scraped ice in a while) by watching waves and wave riding on YouTube: Some amazing rides among so much disappointingly bad surfing, almost all of the scare-factor coming from the crowds rather than the waves.
Raw footage? No. Please edit the shit out of whatever you put out there.
I do have a few ISSUES, other than the oversold clickbait headlines/come ons, “20-25 foot Blacks,” for example. I only sometimes appreciate the ‘here I am getting a parking spot, here I am putting on my full wetsuit, booties, gloves, hood, floatation vest, compass.” behind or near the camera commentary, having heard enough “Sick,” “Rad,” “Oh no!” “Come out!” “Kook burned the other kook!” “Look at that one!” “Shit; broke his board and didn’t even make it out!” “Can we get pizza, Daddy!” Yeah, I’m looking, but I frequently fast forward and I almost always turn down the volume on the background music/rap.
HERE IS A QUESTION I felt compelled to text-ask of Trisha’s (and, by marriage, my) nephew, DYLAN SCOTT: Okay, two questions: Are you getting any of those waves? Why the hell are surfers wearing so much gear when the water temperature (I checked) at La Jolla Shores (where he lives) is 62.6 degrees. “WHY, back in my day, water got to 58, you put on your short john and…” Dylan did text back a ‘YES,’ and that it is a bit of overdressing, though he has become fond of booties.
ME, TOO; ever since that time at SEASIDE (not the one in Solana Beach, though I have surfed there) when I got bullheads in my feet walking up toward the… the cove. Wheww, almost said too much.
All this SCREEN SURFING may have affected my dreams. YES. So, last night I had this dream… you know how wave height is often compared to multi story buildings? It’s never, “Whoa, the wave was as big as a rambler in a tract out in the valley!” So, someone is giving this woman on a board close to shore shit for getting in the way. I go out (imagine, IF YOU WILL, Nate Florence or JOB with a POV sequence).
WHEN I GET TO THE LINEUP, there’s this multi-story building (imagine the train station at the entrance to Disneyland- I may have been) that is, evidently, a wave. I turn, I paddle; I’m at the peak, ready to drop in from the turret/tower. AND, looking down from something that magically turns back into the biggest wave my mind/memory can muster, I… CHOKE.
THE GOOD NEWS IS no one caught it on camera. It won’t even be one of those shorts that pop up- 29 seconds of dude who shouldn’t have been out considering the multi-story conditions.
THAT’S MY STORY. Hopefully, in the coming year, you’ll have moments and sessions worth remembering; and, sure, hopefully you have many from this year.
I do hate to mention how close I am to totally finishing the manuscript for “SWAMIS.” I am culturally bound not to say too much about when and where I have surfed recently, or where and when I plan to attempt to find waves next. So, I won’t.
Oh, and HAPPY NEW YEAR to all the real surfers! Yes, I am including kooks and posers and hodads and, of course, geezers. I do plan on posting some new click-worthy stuff on Wednesday. Thanks for reading.
…I do try to keep to some sort of schedule. I have been trying to have potential and actual readers ready for new posts on Sundays and Wednesdays, it’s just that… no, no excuses.
There is an old saying: “Never complain, never explain.” Since I constantly do the first, I should be willing to do the other. I’ve been trying to make up for the time (and money) lost during my recent power surge/outage. I’m still working on figuring out… things.
I did work on my manuscript for “SWAMIS” during my down time, the generator churning outside; picturing the starving artist alone in some freezing Paris garret, desperately trying to make those subtle adjustments that will bring… heat, light, shit like that.
So, power back on, off to do the work that actually pays the bills. Out of town job. While waiting for a submarine (maybe, couldn’t see) to go through the Hood Canal Bridge (forty minute delay in this case), I actually made a list of what changes I need to make to my novel in order for it to make sense, story wise.
BUT, FIRST, because I’m changing the ending a bit, and I’m never quite sure if I might make more changes mid chapter (of course I will), I must write the last seven pages. THEN go back.
I also have been working on some drawings. I will put one of several possible ORIGINAL ERWIN t shirt designs, and a sort of redo of a little cove/point, with some added, never-happen-in-real-life waves:
Please overlook or forgive my lack of scanning skills. “I’m here to surf” is pretty much my motto. I do have some other designs. If I am going to inv.est in making another run of ORIGINAL ERWIN shirts (and, if you own one… it’s a VERY LIMITED item), I want them to be as good as the ones I’ve already done.
I do plan on going to a print shop this afternoon, and, if I don’t post anything else, I will put up some new illustrations.
MEANWHILE, I’m putting out local surf-related gossip, spreading rumors, trying to verify other things I’ve heard, lots of surfers coming over to the Peninsula and getting skunked is a common one. Very common.
OH, AND I’m also working on a possible shirt design for Washington State’s WEST END. It seems like, out on the rugged coast (and, for some reason, locals don’t seem to include fan favorites HOBUCK and WESTPORT) are not all that enthusiastic about folks cruising in from, you know, non-west. I’m not really involved in this- Yes, I did once try to surf Ruby Beach (so many logs, so many rocks), and yes, I did have a logger/surfer, years ago (late 80s), when I was out at Kalaloch, three children with me, trying to find some gems I could surf as practice for the RICKY YOUNG WESTPORT LONGBOARD CONTEST; tell me where I could find an accessible almost-point break; but, other than a few trips to the cove of vampires, I try to contain myself to the north(er) zone.
SO, self-promoting a bit, do check in on realsurfers.net occasionally, like, just to make sure, hit on it on THURSDAY.
FIRST, I have completed, pretty much, my complete re-re-re-edit of “Swamis,” the fake memoir, coming of age, mystery, romance novel. Yes, I do want to do a bit more polishing, and, yes, it’s probably way too long at somewhere around 123,000 words, 295 pages at 12 point. NOW WHAT?
ANYWAY, we’re all stuck in the omni-demic; surf spots on the coast of the Olympic Peninsula or on the Strait of Juan de Fuca are shut down or have access that is even more restricted than usual, and some are counting it as better-if-not-good news that the surf might not be optimum.
Here are a couple of fairly recent shots of my friend, Stephen R. Davis, setting up a wave and hitting the inside section. Now that the writing part is almost under control, I have asked Steve to do some illustrations for “Swamis.” Since the book alleges to be a memoir by Joseph Atsushi ‘Jody’ DeFreines, Junior; real person Erwin Dence, a minor character in the manuscript (mostly so readers won’t think Erwin is anything like Jody) will also be doing some of the drawings.
True to the secondary title of realsurfers, ‘Name Droppers and Shoulder Hoppers,’ “Swamis” does include some other real people (Margo Godfrey, Cheer Critchlow, Corky Carroll, Billy Hamilton, to drop a few), along with fictional characters based on individuals or composites of people I’ve come across.
I recently called up Ray Hicks. I offered to change his name, and that of my other best original surfer friend, Phillip Harper (though I only use their first names- could become Ron and Paul, perhaps), most specifically because they didn’t do most (but not all) of the things they do in the manuscript. Ray said he’s sure the statute of limitations has run out on anything he might have done fifty-some years ago.
I did have to tell Ray that, actually, some of the things we did do are in the manuscript, put onto other characters. Like, remember the time five of us got to ride in the back of a CHP vehicle because we got busted for…
Hey, it’s in the novel. Meanwhile, stay safe. Hopefully, we’re all sliding toward some better version of a new normal.
Real Surfers 