Ranting

I do spend some amount of time corresponding about surf sessions, mostly with longterm friend Ray Hicks, down in San Diego’s North County, and with surfing’s preeminent literary guru, Drew Kampion, now residing near the last reaches of Northwest swells. In both of these cases, partially because I can type very quickly, I blather on, words (it’s the same when I’m speaking, actually) often ahead of my brain, these missives (see how I try to sound sorta literate?) often eliciting a very terse and very clever response.

Okay, so there’s one thing. Another thing is that people keep referring to my ‘site’ as a ‘blog.’ Nooooo! Not what I intended.

Okay, sometimes, maybe, it is a blog. The following is something I wrote to Drew, also trying to get him committed to coming across the ferry to participate in the “Second Annual Surf Culture on the Straits of Juan de Fuca and the Salish Sea” in Port Townsend on July 11. He asked, in his response if I was going to put it, or a version of it, on my… yeah… blog. So, with a few additions (and, yes, I did come up with the title for the upcoming event, pretty proud of the ‘occasional’ part), here’s a BLOG POSTING:

I got home yesterday (worked more like a day shift, this time, so I could get help, closed down one of two stairwells- hey, there’s also an elevator) just after the last semi-final heat in Fiji. With Trish shopping in Sequim, I did get to see the final, though I was, at the same time, catching up on the latest DVRed “Penny Dreadful,” which Trish hates, and got to talk on the phone with our daughter Drucilla, walking home from work in downtown Chicago, for most of the heat. So, perfect, no sound on either screen. But, with the show over and me off the phone for the last five minutes or so, I was able to concentrate on the drama in Fiji (Sally Fitzgibbons, with a perforated eardrum, vs. Bianca Buitendag).

from WSL

Maybe I pay too much attention to these contests and buy into the drama too much (some of it, no doubt, more hype than reality), but, after seeing Sally breaking down in the rental car with both her parents at Honolua Bay last year, I had to root for her.
AND, watching the last part of the DVRed TV version of the Rio contest (kind of a surf-related evening), I caught the little thing on Silvana Lima (which I’d missed in watching the event live- as I could), selling her apartment and car to support her contest habit/dream, and, because I buy into any sports related drama, from any sport, I’m hoping, with the enthusiasm for surfing in Brazil, that some sponsor steps in.

from pinterest

AND, My daughter, Dru, has moved up enough at the ad agency she works for that she currently has an intern. The big boss offered a seat in the luxury box for a game of the Stanley Cup (or the preliminaries, I’m not sure) to the intern who writes the best paragraph by the end of the day on why he or she should attend. After offering a few phrases (brutal ballet, ultra-padded gladiators), I just spent half an hour writhing (I mean writing. Maybe) a paragraph. Hopeful.
AND… I ran into a guy at a Poulsbo paint store who used to surf, so naturally…had to talk surfing. At some point he (he being tall, skinny, nearly seventy) mentioned localism, regular surfers vs. longboarders. I said I haven’t had any real problems. “Probably not,” he said, kind of giving me that look skinny people reserve for the rest of us. “What do you mean by that?” “Well,” he said, “you’re kind of… substantial.”
Okay; so now I may run the photo of me looking, not old and fat (as I thought, and continue to think); just substantial.
FIJI for men starting soon. Still rooting for Kelly, now representing… brief brain freeze with image of Felipe Toledo giving Gabriel Medina a bit of a shove… yeah, the drama, real and imagined, starts later today. If I quit writing and take off for work now… maybe I can catch more than the highlights.

originally saved under ‘fatErwinripping,’ now captioned ‘substantialErwin(still)ripping.’ Photo by Jeffrey Vaughan.

It’s Like Mr. Peanut Without the Hat

Posted on May 7, 2015 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under northwest surfing, real surfers, secret surf spots on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, surf photos, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing in Washington State

Jeff Vaughn, who ripped up a large number of lefts while I was searching for a right that would clear the reef, casually doing the classic South Bay longboard drop-stand-and-turn, noseride, kickout or island pullout or flip backwards in a closeout, sent me a few shots from an uncrowded session at a sort-of-secret spot (as in, everyone knows about it, but no one is supposed to give the name out to any kooks who evidently don’t own a computer or know anyone who does, and who might show up on one of those rare, rare, extremely rare days when there are actually waves) somewhere on the Straits of Juan de Fuca.

I showed my wife, Trish, the ones of me, obviously trimming, quite casually, and in the right spot on the wave. The images were quite small and her comments included: “You weren’t wearing a hood (the other surfer out, a PA local and member of the Surfrider Foundation, whose name I should know, but don’t, was);” and, “At least you’re standing up;” and, “That stick (‘you mean paddle?’), it looks like, maybe, you use it to help you stand up;” and, in response to a question from me, “No, you don’t look that fat.” More like “THAT fat.”

I wrote back to Jeff, thanked him, sent the photos on to a few of my surfing friends. Well, pretty much all of them I have email addresses for, mostly so I didn’t have to describe the waves as “knee to waist high with the occasional head high sets, and the indicators, at the lefts and the rights, going off pretty regularly.”

Wow, the last paragraph pretty much messed up the timing for this: Jeff sent more photos, bigger, zoomed-in. In these photos, I do look THAT fat. No, you won’t be seeing them, but, when I showed Trish, complained about how I look less like the surfing super hero I know she thinks of me as, than an old fat guy in an embarrassingly stretched-to-the-limit wetsuit (but still in perfect trim), she merely nodded. Politely. “And yet,” when I tried to show her the same photo again, just to show the wave positioning, she said, “and yet you can’t stop looking at it.”

No. In fact, maybe I’ll print it up, stick that on the refrigerator.

High-Lining Again

Posted on April 26, 2015 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under getting barrelled, northwest surfing, real surfers, secret surf spots on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing in Washington State, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing tales, surfing Trestles in the 70s

I just kind of stared at the title for a bit too long. It could say more, or, maybe it says enough.

You have to love the waves you don’t think you’ll make, ones on which you’d like just a little more speed out of your board. You’re trimming high on the wall, focused only on the wave ahead and below you, and it’s only getting hollower; and you know that section ahead, that last pitch before you can glide; it breaks, explodes, really, on river rocks, round, smooth; no oversized chunkers; cobblestones; and you’ve already been caught in that shallow trap, board dropping out and down as the lip hit you; you’ve already pirouetted and half-twisted and leaped toward the open ocean, and been thrashed, bounced off that reef, your board going over you in inches of water.

And you made some. Easy. Too easy; you must have been too far out in front.

Blacks photo by Matt Aden

“Again” is really all you’re thinking; “This time…” Maybe you’ll crouch, hand in the wave face, tight, ready.

This time you might make be in that perfect spot. More speed. You take off at an angle, too far over, probably, project out of a down the line bottom turn, and find that high line again. Speed; you need more. You see the ribs of the wave ahead, the already-pitching lip. More speed. You don’t tuck in; but you move your weight forward, subtly pumping, just tweaking the angle. If you weren’t holding your breath, you are now. No, you’re ready to scream, success or failure; this is where you always wanted to be; that high line between… between frightening and thrilling.

The board skitters, no way it would hold in the thin lip; it side slips down the curve, you in the curtain, trying to stay on, your back hand pushed farther behind you, focus still on the deep water ahead, and…

…and now you’re laughing, and not thinking of anything else but… “Again!”

This piece was inspired by my last session, able, by luck and tide, to find and surf some rights, rare in the Straits of Juan de Fuca; no, not the pitching sand-spitters featured a few posts down, but something in preparation, maybe, for those. I’m dying to surf those, maybe not quite ready. I’m more ready now. I was fortunate enough to work up the hill from Trestles for ten months in 1975, and, remember well telling my friend Phillip Harper, on the phone (he was in medical school at the time) that I would get going so fast down the line that I’d pull up to the top of the wave and my board (and I) would freefall, catch, and the process would be repeated. However, forty years later, I should admit that I pulled a few tight waves standing, but, probably the ride I’ll remember longest, the ride the longest and the tightest, I was on my kneeboarding it after a very steep takeoff, and, eyes wide open, I was totally covered in that moment of weightlessness.

Okay, now I’m sort of staring into some file in my memory bank, hitting the ‘save’ button, and hoping you know exactly what I’m talking about. “Next time…”

Email To Ray Hicks, 1,100 miles down Surf Route 101

Posted on March 25, 2015 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under northwest surfing, real surfers, secret surf spots on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, surf adventures, surfing in Washington State, surfing Southern California in the 60s, writings of Erwin Dence

Hi Erwin,

Thanks for writing, I’ve been dragging my feet with no news. I’ve been ready for several weeks to get back in the water but when there was surf it was way bigger that I wanted to get into out of shape. Then there was none but I’m ready when there is some. So you should be getting a surf story soon.

Hey, Ray,
I know you’re all busy with your new house and all, but, man, you must have done some kind of surf activity by now. It’s been a pretty bad winter, supposedly the season, for surf on the Straits. The coast has been, overall, the place to go, but it’s farther away. I took off at 6:25 am on Saturday, with the buoy readings having just gone from iffy to a pretty good signal there might be waves. There weren’t. I hung at T— R—– a while, did some sewing and gluing on my gloves and wetsuit, took a nap, loaded up some rocks, chatted with a couple of other searchers, and with a father/son team checking crabpots, the father on shore and the son out in a dinghy. Mark, the dad, invited me to surf at the spot near his house some time. I know the spot, D— C—-, have checked it, but it’s farther out and is usually smaller than T— R—–. I was offered some fresh, live, Dungeness crab, but declined. Though we both love crab, it’s the live part that might freak Trish out, and keeping them alive would be a chore for me.
After two and a half hours, I left, drove back towards home and checked out C——-. Also flat, but, en route, I had passed Big Dave, once of PB, on his way out. Having talked on the cell phone to Keith, in PT, who was supposed to go with me, and hearing the buoy readings were even better and the tide was coming in, and thinking maybe Big Dave knew something I didn’t, would hit it big, and I wouldn’t hear about it until the next time I ran into him; I did something I rarely do; I headed back to T—-. Up the hill from the spot, I spotted Dave’s truck. Having already decided T—- wasn’t working, Dave, recently laid off from the mill in PA, was picking up cans on the side of the road (not so much because he was desperate- a little extra money when the surf might happen). He was planning on hitting C——- on the high tide, still hours away. While chatting with Dave, a three vehicle caravan with surfboards headed down the hill.
“Maybe it’s turning on.” “Doubt it.” “I’m going.” “See you.”
It was the cool hip Seattle crowd, “Oh, and we also surf;” checking out the scene, preparing a seaside brunch, letting their dogs go leashless. “What’s your name again,” Brad asked. “We’ve spoken before.” “Uh huh.”
There were a few waves catchable with the SUP, sort of protected from the rising west (sideshore) wind. I thought I’d go out. Then Dave showed up. “Pretty sad,” he said. Dave left, I went out, caught a few waves that required paddling to stay in them. I may have been the only one to go out on the Straits, mostly because I was desperate.

sorry to interrupt my own story, but in this version I added color to the original larger drawing.

Archie, back temporarily from Thailand and a business trip to Boston, and his friend Sandro had been planning on hitting C——- on the high tide. I called Archie and found they were at the state park having a sandwich. I was hungry; met up with them at a picnic table that overlooked the break. Not breaking. At least we couldn’t see waves from there.
Then I went to Costco, Petco… so much fun, then stopped at Archie’s house. Then I got a call from Keith saying N—- B—- was breaking and he was going home to get his stuff. I called Trish, she said, “Have fun, lock the car; and, by the way, I’m not making dinner.” Good enough. I hauled ass.
About five minutes away, Keith called back. “Oh, it’s gone?” “No, it’s better.”
Three waves in I forgot about the rest of the day. Great fun, with just Keith and Brett (who showed up already suited-up while I was suiting-up) and I trading waves. Brett had a girlfriend or wife on the beach, and got out before Keith and I did. We got out sometime after sundown, the waves having peaked, the window having closed.
My next posting will include my new motto: “You can’t get skunked if you don’t go.” Everyone I’ve tried it on goes, “ew.” And then there’s the glass half full version, “You can’t score if you don’t go.”
So, I got back in my driveway at 8:25. Fourteen hours, dark to dark. I drove about 180 miles, round trip. Keith did about 18 blocks.

Anyway, get some surfing in. And let me know.
See you, Erwin

Submitted Photos of Secret Agent at Top Secret Spot Near My Dad’s House

Posted on March 4, 2015 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under northwest surfing, real surfers, surf adventures, surf photos, surf sessions, surfing in Washington State, Uncategorized

While they were getting deadly (for surfers without Hepatitis protection) rain on the southern most reaches of Surf Route 101, and nothing was happening, surfwise, on the far north section, one intrepid Straits surfer headed down and out, found some waves down near my Dad’s house. Allright, I can’t say more except to say that, when I go visit my Dad, I usually drive across the bridge, through the westernmost part of Astoria, and head on to Seaside or Short Sands; and, when I called him to ask about waves close to the harbor where the sport fishing boat on which he worked (as a 55 year old bait boy) was kept, safe from the sometimes wild waves from the open ocean and the notorious bar the boat crossed twice a day.

No more hints, even if you think you recognize the take-off-and-tuck style of the surfer on the red board. Oh, and the clean-looking wave, breaking into an offshore wind? I went to that very spot, known by locals as a spot where all kinds of sealife shares the water, bodies frequently washing ashore, with surfers brave enough to brave the… no, I haven’t surfed there; yet.

But, my Dad’s 91st birthday is coming up; and there’s still no real swell showing that might hit closer to my house on the Surf Route, and my father’s house is a block off the same highway, about three and a half hours of driving and… I’ll let you know.

The Same Wind

Posted on February 28, 2015 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, real surfers, secret surf spots on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, surf adventures, surf illustrations, surf sessions, surfing drawings, surfing illustrations, surfing in Washington State, surfing novels

Does this drawing make me look gay? I only ask because, going back to do some work on it, adding the black lines (and I should add that the color, in person, is more intense and the lines that form the border are actually even on all four sides), I asked my wife, Trish, as I usually do, what she thought. “Pretty,” she said. Then she chuckled. “Is it meant to be… um… a gay wave?” “What? No. I just wanted to add some rainbows on a wave and… oh; now I see it.” This started a conversation that made me ask her if the rainbow lei, the faded one that’s been hanging, along with a Saint Christopher medal and a long-worn-out scenty thing, for about a hundred thousand miles, on the mirror in the old work/surf van, which had originally been her mini-van (way cleaner, didn’t smell like paint OR wetsuits)… um, is that a… I mean I always just thought it was, you know, Hawaiian… it’s not… I mean, would someone think that…I mean, it’s not, like, a rainbow coalition-y thing?”

Yesterday, in my new surf/not-work wagon, I was looking for surf on the Straits of Juan de Fuca. There’s been a serious lack of properly-aligned swell for most of February, and, though I’d almost decided to trek the extra hour or so to the coast, it looked like the waves might just cooperate at the second secret spot I checked. So I hung around, thinking how the coast has been the place to go all this winter; offshore winds, reasonably sized waves… no, I’d go out here and catch a few, maybe my timing would seem, once the long peelers started hitting the reef, brilliant.

Didn’t happen. The same east wind that was blowing against the open palms of the broken lines approaching the shores beyond the farthest headland I could see, out where the sun had already broken through the squalls; that same wind was reeling around the little point, ripping scars into the weak energy pockets I was trying to harness. I don’t give up easily. ‘Exercise,’ ‘practice,’ ‘just had to get wet,’ take your choice. ‘Desperate’ is another motivational catch phrase.

And the wind got stronger, soon howling across the swells as they moved past me, sideways, tops blowing off. Once I got my fill of practice and exercise, once I had gotten wet and was no longer as desperate, using my car as a buffer, and just as I was about to lean over to grab my hoodie from the front seat… woosh! Whoa! Head dip! My big ass board flew over me, landed eight feet away.

The duck and tuck was the best surf move I’d made all day. And I did get home in time to check the buoys and the camera at La Push (not a secret spot). Swell up, direction better, and that same east wind that would bring better weather today was grooming the outside peaks. Brilliant.

“Maybe my mistake,” I told Trish about the time I realized the contest at Snapper Rocks had been on line for hours, and Kelly Slater had already lost in round one, “was I went too early.” “Oh,” she said, in sort of a mock-caring tone, “and now it’s almost dark.” By the time we had the discussion about the gayness, real or imagined, of my drawing, the women’s surfing had started. Full screen. Full color.

Trish looked at a replay of a woman in a bright orange bikini bottom bottom-turning into a decent walled-up section. She looked at me. “It’s Hawaiian,” she said. “What? Oh. Uh huh; I thought so.”

Hey, take a few minutes, when you get a chance, and check out ‘Inside Break,’ the novelization, a couple of place down from here. Thanks.

The Keeper- Perspectives on Waves of Consequence by Stephen and Stig

Posted on February 13, 2015 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, real surfers, surf adventures, surf illustrations, surf photos, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing art, surfing illustrations, surfing in Washington State, surfing novels

I did the line drawing, then added color; wasn’t totally stoked on that, did the color version, then, because it seemed too bright, added lines. Different perspectives.

STEPHEN DAVIS-

“Where the fuck is he?”, I thought, redlining on adrenaline and standing on a footprint free, remote Olympic Peninsula beach.

” Did he FUCKING drown?” Now I was really concerned. I had just navigated my Gordon & Smith, “funboard”/ turned Big wave gun through one of the most historically treacherous coastlines, on one of the biggest surf days of the Winter. Stig and I had been the only ones out, surfing together only fifteen minutes previous.

Now I was alone and he was… I didn’t know.

The waves were larger in the water than they looked from the beach, like always here. It’s odd when first paddling out and realizing the true size of the sets by being caught inside and out of position due to the long interval between sets. That interval is always the signature of a good swell and the reason we’d chosen this day.

Still, It had taken a curtain of water exploding right in front of me for my adrenaline system to bring my body into balance with the situation. Stig, like he always does, had just taken off deep and late on a monster I was trying to avoid and had disappeared.

I kept looking for him to paddle back out but he never did. I was alone. You are always alone here but I needed to know my friend was ok. I had just dropped in on a smaller set wave to come in over the reef and through the lavender, mussel clad rocks and eelgrass that protect the pools and ponds of this pristine tidal ecosystem.

Getting from the surf lineup to the beach has always been one of the most challenging aspects of this surf spot and, it seems like, most big wave spots. On the inside section, the wave hits the reef in a way that makes it hollow and powerful. Usually, I am cold and physically exhausted by the time I’m ready to head in to the beach. This makes trying to catch a massive moving cloud of white foam and then riding blindly into dry reef and protruding rocks a roll of the dice, especially on larger days when there is a lot of moving water. I have lost a camera and water housing here as well as had the reef shove fins through the deck of my favorite big wave board (with appropriate ‘Psycho’ traction pad), after using it sacrificially as body armor (which is why I was now riding the G&S) trying to get in.

On this day my effort paid off, except for being trapped on the Pacific side of two rock/reef clusters that were creating a four foot wide sluice that was unswimable every time a surge was draining from the pool beyond and nearer to the shore. I guess one could call it a “rip,” though not in the traditional sense. This was an ON/OFF-switching gusher of a different intensity, more like a rhythmic rapid or waterfall. I thought about paddling around it, but that would have presented me with the hazard of being slammed into numerous rocks, caves and reef formations, while eelgrass was petting me with the current.

Trying to time my exit move, I was able to clutch a rock with my left hand while holding my board with my right as the surge peak filled the pool. I beat the timing of the drain, like some old nintendo game, only in reality. From there I was able to find a route safely to the deep, barren, grey sand of the beach. It took a while to normalize my breathing.

Now, I was scanning the immense beach looking for signs of human life. There were none.

There was our stuff off in the distance, but no sign of Stig other than the deep divots we left when we arrived at the beach and where we had entered the surf. That’s all. My eyes turned back toward the sea in hopes of glimpsing Stig’s red board, perhaps tombstoning, and, at least, giving me an indication of his location. Still nothing.

“Maybe I could see better with my glasses…”.

I started the walk down the beach to where we had left our stuff, thinking to myself, “Should I try to carry Stig’s body back up the trail to the car or, should I leave him lying on the beach and go for help if I’m unable to resuscitate him?”. It was then that I saw him bobbing on his red board all the way on the other side of the channel, eyeing the massive lefts.

What I realized he had done was paddle over to the channel and beyond, which is the right thing to do, and offers a less terrifying route to the beach at this surf spot. Finally, I relaxed a bit and sank into a deep reverence for the amazing wave Stig had shown me and mentored me at so many years ago…

Stig was the first person to share this reef with me. He has been surfing it longer than anyone I know, and over the years, he has been the most committed to it of all my surfer friends. I’ve grown to appreciate the lessons and challenges this wave has dished out to my ego. It is definitely, without question, Stig’s favorite spot on the Washington coast. I KNOW I can always get him to surf there with me when no one else is down, especially if the conditions look like they are going to come together. By example, he has taught me a reverence and solemnity for this beach that I profoundly appreciate.

Earlier in our session, we were sitting together when a bomb lined up. I laid down and started to paddle towards it, angling for the shoulder from the inside ledgey part I was trying to race under. Once I realized I was ahead of the wall I stroked hard to catch it, only to catch a glimpse of Stig deep and underneath an overhanging, pitching, cartoon-like lip, taking off behind the peak, super committed, trying to backdoor it. This is what I completely expect from him. I pulled back and watched Stig drop into oblivion. It sounds cliche but Stig always does that here, that “don’t know ’till you go” style. I’ve seen it so many times it fucks my mind up. When I get serious and surgical he goes deep and late on BIG waves.

After seeing him charge from the safety of the shoulder I was able to get in position for the one behind it and see my friend paddling back out as I was focused on my take off and the long drop, trying to ignore what was happening behind me for the moment.

As a youth, Stig was fed a ration of North Shore, Oahu’s Sunset Beach. It’s another, even bigger right, with a hollow inside section. Some of the surfers that were inspiring to Stig growing up on Oahu were Duke Kahanamoku, Eddie Aikau, and Ken Bradshaw. In fact, Stig actually met the Duke at the Honolulu Yacht Club as a boy before his passing in 1968. Ken Bradshaw bailed Stig out on a big day at Sunset when he had lost his board and was battling a rip current.

Perhaps these and other events were the seeds of Stig’s hoale humility that he carries with him into the surf. He is very humble, reverent and soft spoken, letting his takeoff position speak for him.

Stig’s father’s paipo surfing molded him as well. Paipo is an extension of body surfing in which a plywood, delta shaped board is used as an aid, the parent of the contemporary boogie board. This may explain Stig’s enthusiasm for surfing warm water spots in a speedo, which is more a bodysurfing thing. One of the only men I’ve seen get away with it is North Shore lifeguard, Mark Cunningham. He is a master body surfer, which is a skill he uses as an accessory to help keep folks safe on the North Shore in heavy, Winter surf. I had the pleasure of a compliment from him down in Mexico on a fast left point wave after making a section backside. Stig says he sometimes enjoys the feel of speedo surfing because of the lack of resistance.

In Justin Hawking’s novel, “The Great Floodgates of the Wonderworld”, there is a chapter late in the book about being alone. The morning before our session I read some lines to Stig. Hawkings refers to the Herman Melville novel, “Moby Dick” throughout the book. In the chapter I read to Stig, Hawkings writes of an art show in San Francisco in which an artist cut out the last period of the last sentence of “Moby Dick” and pasted it in the middle of a large, blank white canvas.

So, at the end of that chapter in “Floodgates”, Justin did basically the same thing, a period on a blank page to give the reader that profound effect, the effect of being alone and floating on a coffin in the middle of a vast Ocean…

…Now, contrast that with a solid friend who charges hard and is there for you when the surf gets big and cold and empty. It’s impossible not to have humble gratitude.

STIG WAIDELICH-

Dear Steve,

It’s an interesting experience to read of oneself from the perspective of another. Those details that we tend

to take for granted, the minutia that tend to take precedence over the more grand scheme of our lives itself.

While I was concerned with women at a gas station, and how I had failed to get the best waves for us, you, on the

other hand, were experiencing profound and beautiful moments. No less than life and death itself.

If so much can be received from a sloppy day of stormy conditions, what would have been had, from those glittering waves in the calm that preceded it?

But I remind myself that we were chasing a dream. You and I have always been chasing that dream, and it matters not

how many times we fail or strike out or get skunked. Because the true story is in the perseverance. The true story, YOUR

story, is in the friendship we share, and how it has brought us to this spot over and over again over the years. Absolutely

regardless of the relative success of “scoring it”.

We scored it my friend. Of that I am certain. No footprints. No trace did we leave behind. The point remained undisturbed

for another day. The seagulls and seals had their way, as they have had for aeons before. This is the wave we rode. The eternal wave that carries us through our lives and into our death as it has with all those who came before and all who will follow.

It is no co-incidence that your story and my reply found it’s way into the previous forward email documentary about “Why no

Waves in Titan’s Ocean’s”. What could possibly be the relevance between our session, and the possibility of waves on

a moon of Saturn?

Because both embody a promise of hope.

In 2008 I was studying photographs of Titan from my office in Dolce La Belle. I was blown away by what appeared to be the presence of lines of breaking surf taken from the Huygens probe during it’s two hour decent to the surface. I wrote a song inspired by it. Never mind life on another planet! Here was SURF!! And where there is surf, there is hope.

The video I forwarded to you denies the surf’s existence. And yet, a denial is a form of acknowledgement. To deny something is to recognize it’s possibility. It’s as if to say; “Why ISN’T there surf? -A question just as important.

The search for surf beyond our blue planet has already begun.

And it is colder. It is lonelier. It’s beauty, inconceivable.

And it is waiting to be ridden.

Thank you Steve.

Love,

Stig

Waiting, A Moment to Decide… Illustration for Stephen’s Story

Posted on February 10, 2015 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, real surfers, surf illustrations, surf stories, surfing art, surfing illustrations, surfing in Washington State

Stephen Davis was reading from the first draft of his story on a surf session at a legendary and wild northwest coast spot, me on the cell phone, coming up a very long gravel road from another beach, knowing the signal would go all ghosty before it just went away. There was something about being alone in the water, waves larger than he and Stig had anticipated, larger than they looked from the cliff or the shore; and growing larger with each set. I thought I heard Steve read… “You’re always alone.”

And now I’m waiting for the complete story. Meanwhile, I kind of went overboard with the bigger lines in the foreground. I’ll have to fix that. Soon.

Something from Adam ‘Wipeout’ James’ Full Day Olympic Peninsula Sessions

Posted on January 27, 2015 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under northwest surfing, secret surf spots on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, surf adventures, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing in Washington State

I wanted to work on other things last Sunday, but the tides, wind, and the swell size and direction seemed to suggest the waves might be breaking on the Straits of Juan de Fuca. So, waking at 5:30, I was a little reluctant to text Adam, with whom I’d been in some cellular discussion, about hitting it. Not that fond of surfing weekends, it’s not my fault that sometimes that is when the occasional swell decides to show up.

So, we met up, decided, because Adam had no racks on his family/surf mini-van, and therefore couldn’t handle my big ass board, that we would continue on in my pretty-much-thrashed-out former work/surf van, semi-retired with 240,000 plus miles and something with the (automatic) transmission that causes it to (as Adam described it, worrying we wouldn’t make it there, and then, back) ‘act kind of like when you have a fish on the line.’ Yeah, kind of hesitant to charge up hills.

Still, we did make it to a dropping tide and one surfer out, Big Dave, big enough to ride an SUP like a longboard (without the paddle). Dave was a 15 year old gremmie when I, at 20, moved to Pacific Beach, and rescued my board the last time I surfed this spot. Thanks, Dave. By the time I got out, there were four or five surfers in the water, including the always-slightly-more-stoked-than-I-am Adam Wipeout. And that’s not easy for someone over, say, 12.

Once in the water, I commented to Dave, who was so-casually ‘owning’ the waves (Adam’s description), that he was standing up on every wave. Already out over an hour, alone, he said when he got tired he’d do a bit more kneeboarding. After I took off from my knees on my first wave, then, admittedly, shakily, stood up, Dave, paddling out at the time, commented that I “kind of stood up like a crippled-up old man.”

“Yeah. No; hey; let me warm up.” So, I did endeavor to catch more waves from the standing position, did a couple of the ‘fall off the back’ moves, at least one ‘fall forward in a potential face plant’ maneuvers, and decided I’d rather kneeboard or look shaky standing up than miss a good wave.

Somewhere in the session, with the swell dropping and the rights never showing up, I let Adam use my board. He, of course, was stoked. After he caught three inside waves from the standing position, and I was flopping around on his under-waxed 8’6″ Simmons twin fin tribute board, I took my board back.

Though SUPers can rightfully be accused of taking too many set waves, I have decided I also catch a great many inside waves surfers on regular, or even long boards, cannot. And, so many times, I would have been skunked if I didn’t have the board I traded work for as a backup.

So, surfed out, and having given him my opinion that no one under sixty should surf an SUP, I dropped Adam off so he could meet up with his family, go to Hurricane Ridge. The photo is of his son, about to catch air. Or so Adam says. It’s not IN the photo. Adam also seems to say the waves in every surf session he’s involved in, are ‘head high, at least,’ and claimed the waves got bigger once I got out of the water. “Adam, it was, like, 15 minutes, and, really, I didn’t see that many waves ridden, and, besides, really?”

I have been lucky to occasionally get to make the drive with good friends, and to see other surfers I’ve surfed with over the years, or even just met, in the water. Because of this, and the thrill of cranking into a solid wave face, looking down a long line, I remain, perpetually, stoked. In a ‘frothing’ competition, Adam… well, he’s in there.

December’s Lost Boards- Swami’s ’69, Straits ’14

Posted on December 30, 2014 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under northwest surfing, secret surf spots on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, surf adventures, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing in Washington State, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing Swamis, uncatagorized

photo by Steve Kohr, stevekohr.com

12/28/14- FORMERLY SEMI-SECRET SPOT- STRAITS OF JUAN DE FUCA.
It would be half an hour before the winter sun would rise, and even then it would be blocked for hours by the Olympic Mountains, then the nearer tree lines. In fact, at this time of year, on the north shore of the west coast, the sun merely hugs the mountains like an all-day dawn. At 7:30 am, what could be seen was grainy, almost colorless; headlights in the parking area, semi-clear sky, the water was the color of drowning, of death at sea.
And I was in it trying to swim, side-stroke, one hand on my paddle; and I hadn’t even caught a wave yet.
Yeah, it’s over-dramatic; but I was the one caught in it, swimming because I had tried to cut across the usually waveless channel, the deep spot between two reefs; so confident; thinking I could snag an inside left on my way out to a lineup in which the first members of the dawn patrollers were trying to find the perfect place to take off in a crazy sea.
Sure, I’d seen, even in the dim light, the sets breaking on the outlside indicators, the roll-throughs, the waves that closed out the channel and the ones that could provide those storied rides that start on the outside reef and end up past the parking area, past the fence.
“I ended up way past the fence, man.” “Whoa.” Meaningful.
But this is my favorite spot on the Straits of Juan de Fuca; I’ve surfed here (first time, 1979, next time 2005, if this means anything) in every condition, from low tide rights you couldn’t catch with a regular board, fin clicking across rocks; to those just-mentioned left peelers; to bouncy just-after-a-storm surf, waves blown by winds from sideshore squalls, rain or sleet, cold offshores from fresh mountain snow; fun, user-friendly conditions- but I’ve also surfed days with these outside roll-throughs, almost out of control, where the hard part was not panicking, holding my position, waiting for the reef to catch the bottom of the swell, to shape it properly.
Big Dave had been on the wave, dealing with an inside close out, almost directly in front of me; the wave that ripped the leash that, evidently, hadn’t had enough Velcro ‘bite.’ It wasn’t a big pull; my board was just gone.
Oh, I could see it, tantalizingly close, just out of reach; then, another wave, and it popped up again, farther away.
I was only yards from the beach, but I knew the waves wouldn’t help push me to shore. The tide was too high, washing up on the river-rock bank; pushing up and rolling rocks and foam uphill. Then there were clackity-thunk sounds as the energy tumbled back down, crashing into the next surge. I knew there would be no bottom to put my feet on to take a last leap forward.
still, not panicking.

actual shot from ’69

DECEMBER OF 1969- SWAMI’S-
It was the second day of the famous swell. I had survived the first, seriously undergunned with my regular short board (probably around 6’6”) in well-overhead waves with an unusually strong Santa Ana offshore. Yes, I was one of those guys hanging on the shoulder. In my memory bank’s version (probably in a Super 8 format- still), I was out very early and the tide was at that height where there is no inside and outside; merely a long wall that required a crazy-late takeoff, offered a crazy-long barrel past the shoulder-hoppers, and rewarded the best surfers with the best rides Swami’s could possibly offer.
I know I didn’t do a ‘paddle (in) of shame,’ but I couldn’t say I caught anything but a few insiders.
But, on the second day, the waves only a bit smaller, on a different, longer (still round-nosed- hate a pointy nose) board, the weather was stormier, the tide lower, the waves more broken up, and I was attacking the inside lineup, lined up on the palm tree on the cliff, that below the solid line of onlookers at the edge of the parking lot; scratching into waves that ‘went wide’ and peaked on the inside lineup or had closed out on the guy riding from the outside peak.
Still, I was looking for the smaller waves. I caught a few, but it was rough. I did keep getting caught inside, part of the crowd the riders had to navigate. The thrashing-to-riding ratio wasn’t really going my way, and too many waves I wanted went to others. “One more wave” I told myself.
And I caught it. If you know Swami’s, particularly the inside section, you know there’s a drop and a wall, then an area to cut back, cruise back and forth, and then, over the grassy finger slabs inside, often there’s another little section. Maybe I was too far outside. I made the drop and was totally in position for the wall. Too far back.
It wasn’t like the worst wipeout/holddown of my career, another wave at Swamis where I fell from the top (of note: On a turn, not dropping-in), to the trough, had the wind knocked out of me, came up seriously out of breath, sucked in part of twelve inches of foam. This was more a whacking, a full-body punch, the energy as much out as down.
I wasn’t panicking. I was swimming. “Fine,” I thought,” I’m done for the day.”
STRAITS- After a couple of shorepound knockdowns I found footing, slogged up the steep beach, my paddle in my hand; breathing in deeply, coughing out. The water, probably 45 degrees or so at the nearest buoy, is so much colder when you’re between two streams coming off fresh mountain snow; and seems even colder when you’re swimming.
My board was not on shore, however. It had drifted down past the fence and was headed out. I hurried down the beach until I was even with it. In that time it had moved farther out, headed toward the other reef. Tim Nolan, who, for once, I had beaten to the beach, was ready to paddle out. I was too far away to yell at him to help me and a bit too shaken up to swim, my board now a hundred yards out. I threw the paddle up onto the higher beach and thought, “Maybe it’s just not my day.”
FATE AND KARMA- Each of these seems to be about things in life kind of evening-out. My own philosophy is somewhere in there.
Maybe it was because I had thought it amusing when I saw someone in a car with a longboard getting a ticket over by Discovery Bay when I was on my way home from working in Port Townsend that, earlier this very morning, I had gotten a speeding ticket near Port Angeles. Maybe it was fitting that several of the folks in the rigs in the parking area had passed by us (Stephen Davis, Keith Darrock also in my car) in front of the car with the flashing lights, maybe it was only right other surfers should mention it, chuckling as they did.
Maybe there’s some wicked form of Fate/Karma in that, cruising up Surf Route 101, we chanced to be behind someone either sleepy or drunk, weaving across the center line, then across the fog line; and Steve called 911, and we gave them the license number; and I had Steve tell them the car would be behind a white car with several boards on top; and, when the officer returned with our tickets (Keith got one for no seatbelt- also, really my fault), the drunk-or-sleepy guy drove right past.
“I hope he gets home all right,” the State Patrolman said.
That karma’s on him. Maybe. Oh, and maybe it’s this: The last time I was out in similar conditions in the Straits, the first (and only) guy out that morning tried desperately to catch an inside wave, caught the third he tried for, came in, ran up the beach, and, wide-eyed, asked, “Is it always like this?” “It’s never like this.” Another surfer and I, both on longboards, started paddling out, he a bit closer to the reef. A wave closed out immediately in front of us. I turned turtle. When I came up, he had lost his board. I kept paddling.
At least he was close to the reef.

another retro shot; I’d be further to the left.
RESOLUTION-
IN 1969, not finding my board on the rocks or beach, members of collective crowd on the bluff were pointing and yelling, “It’s in the rip!” It was. I looked up, looked out, swam almost to the inside lineup, climbed on my board, caught one more wave. A good one according to my Super 8 file; and went in, did better the next day.
THE OTHER DAY I almost thought I’d lost my board forever, thought I’d be watching Keith and Stephen deal with the Dawn Patrol Syndrome, watching the waves get more and more crowded. But, Big Dave left the lineup, paddled over, grabbed a hold of my board, started paddling it in. Push, paddle, push. When he got close to the inside waves, I swam out. I still had a bit of trouble getting it and me in. When I did, I dragged it (by the leash) up the beach, took a break, reclaimed some (not quite all) of my usual confidence. Four hours after Keith was the first one in the water, the day now sunny, the tide more normal, the waves more in control, way too many people in the water, we all agreed it had been, ON BALANCE, a great session. Each of us had a few good ones, a few ‘past the fence.’
Maybe not for everyone (there were some words exchanged among others, at volume, in the water), but for each of us.
THANKS, Big Dave; I owe you (another) one.

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