… Oh, and all respect to Bethany Hamilton. Posting this was delayed a bit because I HAD to watch the highlights from the first day of the DA HUI BACKDOOR SHOOTOUT. I also had to have the live stream on the big screen all day yesterday. Ten plus minutes and pretty much every wave actually ridden was on the video.
It is pretty easy to criticize surfers for not catching more, or any, waves, but if you really put yourself in the water… Really? Almost every wave coming in, this visible from every camera angle, was a double-up, one swell overtaking another; and this isn’t factoring in backwash. So, couch hero, if you make the beyond vertical takeoff, get through a spitting barrel, you’re almost certainly facing a killer closeout section at mach speed.
But yes, I did question how much time I was spending watching, hoping someone would just GO! Someone who did was BETHANY HAMILTON! We’ve all followed her since her shark attack, a teenage girl with a bit of a lisp, almost worn out by the attention and constant press coverage before I ever saw an interview. Then the movie and the books and, wait, four kids. Four kids? So, proper respect.
NOTE to self: Never allow yourself to be photographed with two skinny guys. RANDALL, fat and old painter obviously hiding something under his sweatshirt, and QUINN.
Here’s the story of why I’m willing to post this now: I emailed holiday (Dead zone for painters) greetings/reminders that I’m still alive and working to my clients, and sent texts to all the surfers on my stealth phone contact list. I do appreciate all the responses, and, oddly, I didn’t get any snarky ones. Quinn, a reformed (as in former, as in non-practicing) Attorney, sent this one: “Back at you– many curves on the page and carves on the sea.”
NOW, I am as competitive as anyone, cleverness-wise, but I couldn’t come up with anything to compete, EXCEPT that, in conversations with Quinn, I did ask him why he no longer practices law. His explanation is that attorneys are, basically, agents, and agents are… “Oh, I get it, like, you know, gophers.” “Yes.” “Or maybe, to be crass…” “Yes.”
I did tell Quinn, as a “Swamis” update, that I sent submissions to a group of agents in December, and was hoping for a Christmas, then New Year’s miracle, a positive respose. My text, “Waiting.” Quinn’s, “Maybe you’ll get it for epiphany.”
OKAY. So, Trish and I both googled epiphany- The religious celebration “Commemorates the manifistation of Christ to the Gentiles as represented by the Magi,” is held, probably, today, officially, tomorrow. Hopefully, no one draws some comparison with anything political. No. Don’t.
The other definition is: “A moment of sudden realization or insight.”
HERE’S MINE, something that came to me when, after another series of dreams, little movies, I woke up an hour before I intended to: People have stories. People want to tell their stories. IF someone is willing to tell me a story that is important to them, I should be willing to listen. AND, people don’t always believe this; I do.
THIS FAR OUT
This far out, the sky, horizon to horizon, Can be one otherwise colorless shade of metallic grey, Platinum or pewter or steel or chrome or lead, Polished or pitted, from almost white to darkest black.
This far out, the wind-scarred dome can be broken, lightning torn, Here thunder cracks and rolls, cold laughter, This far out I can’t recall what it was that I was after.
This far out, I’ve heard stories, Of a light so bright that the blind can see, Of a sight in the sky like glass on fire, Of a tearing of the shroud, A glimpse of heaven reserved, we’re told, for the drowning and the dying. Some claim to have survived, returned, changed, no doubt, And some were, clearly, lying, Adrift, alone, I’m wondering How I got here, this far out.
This far out, the sea and sky can merge, Indistinguishable, A swirling battlefield, force against force, chaos Seeking direction to some stony, high-cliffed shore, Some distant, secret harbor.
This far out it makes no difference, If I scream or cry or wail, The only echoes are the questions, Accusations whispered by the waves, Waves that whish or scrape or crack or roar, Or scream out threats and curses, “What are you looking for?”
Even in the calmest seas, the skies almost transparent, Colors blended by the smooth, broad strokes of the cleanest brush, There’s a constant sound, subtle, in the silence, Bubbling from the deep, exploding on the surface, Mistaken, easily, for laughter, This far out I can’t recall what it was that I was after.
I am trying to add more poetry to my portfolio, which includes a collection of songs and poem I copyrighted a few years ago under the title, “LOVE SONGS FOR CYNICS.” As part of this plan, I am working on doing an illustration for each selected piece. If I do them in black and white; less expensive. This is the illustration for this poem, my most recent. I worked on it, writing, saving, rewriting, repeating the procedure. I made changes from what I thought was a complete version. I do not promise to not make further changes.
All original works on realsurfers.net are protected by copyright. Thank you for respecting that.
“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.
RANDY at COHO PRINTING in Port Townsend stayed late to do some tricky stuff on my recent drawings. A Port Townsend native and super avid fisherman, I made the kook mistake, while trying to describe the lighting particular to looking north into the water, of asking him if he fished in the Strait as well as… you know, other waters. There’s nothing quite as enjoyable as that ‘you’re a kook and an idiot’ look. Happy Thanksgiving, Randy! Hope theyre, you know, like, biting.
Top to bottom- THE FIRST DRAWING was a sketch wasn’t too stoked on. Always tough to try to do faces on surfing illustrations. They’re either cartoony or… usually kind of cartoony, as is this one. SINCE my drawing board is plexiglas, I flipped the paper over, put it up to a light, and redrew it as the…
THIRD DRAWING. The cartoonishness might be mitigated by the modified cross hatch technique that, oddly enough, I’ve been doing almost since I tried (and failed) to duplicate Rick Griffin’s work in ‘Surfer.’ OH, and I screwed up, had to glue in a patch, try to make it match.
THE SECOND DRAWING is one of those I draw in reverse, black-for-white. I had it reversed, went into that drawing to add detail, had it reversed again, did some touchup on that, and, Voila! this one. OH, and, again, there is a patched section. SO, another original for Original Erwin is, you know, not pristine.
THE FOURTH DRAWING is one I kept after ripping up three others, the first one a muddied attempt at using pastels despite my being acutely aware that the palm of my hand is way too heavy for chalk or pastels, or pencils. OH, and really wanting a serious drawing of JULIE for “Swamis,” I can’t seem to draw a woman’s face that I’m happy with. Semi happy with this one.
I wanted Randy to do a copy of the FIFTH DRAWING with a blue or silver rather than black on white. “It’s not like I want something that’s all that tricky.” Well, evidently, with Randy’s Star Wars computer/printer set up, it is tricky, can’t just use one of the colored inks. So, next best thing, I got some copies printed up, black on a silver-blue paper. OH, and yes, it is pencil, but with ink over drawing AND, just for more drama, I added some white dots. They don’t show up so much on the original, but when I added some on one of the copies… Yeah, next time I’m at the COHO, I’ll get a scan of that.
IF THIS SOUTH SWELL/ BOMB CYCLONE STUFF KEEPS GOING, I’ll probably do some more drawing AND keep micro-editing stuff required to get “SWAMIS” published.
I am, as always, THANKFUL for the folks around the world who check out realsurfers. I HOPE YOU GET SOME SURF. New stuff on SUNDAY!
All original works are protected by copyright. All rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
CONCRETE PETE, A 68-year-old GUY who was really pissed off, Legendary TIM NOLAN, photo by another guy in what IAN described as the OLD GUY CORNER. The rest of available parking area was pretty much filled. THE ONLY REASON I am showing a spot that might be recognizable is that SURFLINE, evidently, said it was going to be, on this day, eight feet. There were, at this time, eight people in the water, and eight inch waves, and not many of those. The pissed off guy did go out, came in more pisssssed. I apologize for not getting his name.
HANGING OUT is kind of fun, but my motto is “I’m here to surf.” And I was. So, to use another word I’m using lately, I spent some time ‘Stwaiting.” When the parking lot emptied out and there was only one surfer in the water, and squalls were coming through more consistently than waves, I went out, ready to face another near-skunking.
Yeah. EPIC! Now, perhaps it cleaned up and the waves showed up. Or not. MORAL- DON’T BELIEVE THE FORECASTS. Also, don’t always believe the POSTCASTS. “It was all time, man, chest to shoulder on the sets, rides all the way to the fence (or the woods, or the rock face, or the wherever).”
I COULD GET INTO how the discussion at the old man corner devolved, with input from someone way under 70, into priority and backpaddling and who deserves an asterisk next to their name. It’s a constant issue, not resolved, might never be. Still, if you’re the only one out…
CHAPTER EIGHT- WEDNESDAY, MARCH 19, 1969
Some people come to the bluff at Swamis just for the sunsets. Carpenters and insurance salesmen mix in with the surfers, just out of the water, who have to have one more look.
On this afternoon, the water appearing, deceptively, enticingly, both soft and warm, the waves appearing gently, though too small to do more than wash onto the rock shelves, I was sitting on Falcon’s tailgate, middle row, writing in a notebook. “It’s a picnic and the ocean is the meal.” I scribbled over that and wrote, “After school, after work surfers. Medium crowd. No hassles. Sunset watchers took over the bluff. One lady, business outfit, thanked LA smog for nice orange sunset.”
It was through this crowd of sunset watchers that Portia Langworthy walked, right to left, from the Jesus Saves bus at the far west end of the parking lot to the new brick bathroom and shower facility on the 101 side of the stairs. With something bulky under her left arm, right arm and hand out, palm down, as if floating. Dancing.
Portia was wearing a long blouse, set off with a cloth sash, wide, purple. Violet. Her skirt stopped just above her ankles. Her feet were bare and tan. The blouse and skirt were in dark and almost competitive prints, Gypsy/Peasant/Hippie look. Her hair was long, straight, almost black, accentuated with a band around her head that almost matched the sash. No jewelry, just a smaller version of the cross Chulo wore, hers carved from a conveniently shaped piece of driftwood, hanging on hemp twine.
Pretty at a distance, I couldn’t describe Portia closeup. Inexplicable. When she spoke with others, close to them, she seemed to have an intimidating intensity that said she cared about them, but also understood them. Understood enough that she couldn’t be lied to. Frightening. I didn’t believe it was just me who couldn’t look into her eyes. Not straight on.
In the very middle of the pack of sunset watchers, Portia stepped between the sun and a man straddling a bicycle undersized for him. Gingerbread Fred. Portia blocked his view of that moment just before the sun exploded and spread at the horizon. It took another moment before she hugged him. I could see her face over his right shoulder. Dark, shadowed. She looked at me for a moment.
Losing focus on everything else, I knew her eyes were a blue that didn’t match anything else about her. Maybe the sash.
I saw her, there, and I saw an overlapping image of her from another time. Mid-day, I was taking a break, just around Swamis Point at Boneyards. Lying on the largest, flattest of the big, soft edged rocks, I was close to being asleep. Portia’s shadow blocked the sun. She asked, “Do you know Jesus?”
I didn’t open my eyes. “Whose version?”
“Yours,” she said, without any hesitation. She dropped a pamphlet on my chest and moved back, allowing the sun to hit me full on. I blocked the sun with a hand and opened my eyes. The pamphlet was hand drawn, hand lettered, eight-and-a-half by eleven, folded, with some vague message about some vague but wonderful Jesus. I sat up.
That was when I saw her eyes.
Portia backed rather than looked away, as if we had both seen some truth of who we really were. She turned into the glare, danced up to two young women in street clothes, handed them pamphlets, and danced into the shallows. One, and then both young women danced. Not for very long.
The Portia on the bluff let Gingerbread Fred’s hand slip away as she stepped away. I would save this image: Hands stretched between them, nothing but light behind them.
I had heard stories about Gingerbread Fred. Almost myths. Tijuana Sloughs, breaks outside of Windansea; Fred was on a list of names of surfers from the pre-Gidget past. Legends: Simmons, Blake, Holder, Edwards, Richards; stories enhanced, gilded with each retelling.
This was the current version: Fred was damaged, burned out, not fully there. Korea was the rumor. Or Vietnam. Or both. Yet, he was here, the bluff at Swamis Point, as he was, seemingly, religiously, for the sunset.
Legends are one thing, parking is another. Someone pulled a car out of a space two spots over from the optimum location. Not taking the time to retrieve my notebooks and binders from the tailgate, I got in, and backed out and over, narrowly beating another car as I eased into the spot. Exciting. A little victory.
I was aware that something had blown off the tailgate. I opened the door carefully to avoid hitting the car to my left, got out, and walked to the middle of the traffic lane. A man was holding the North County Free Press, eight pages, stapled in the middle, open and up to his face.
There was an ad for a farm cooperative on the back page, a photo of me on the front. Me, behind the plate glass window. “Local Detective Dies in Mysterious Car Accident.” The heading for the lead story, right side, balanced by the photo, was “Joseph J. DeFreines, Heroic by Nature.” The by-line was “Lee Anne Ransom.”
I imagined what the man was looking at: The coverage and the photos from the funeral. In the featured photo, top right, page five, my mother was looking down, holding the folded American flag, with Freddy, on one side, crying, me on the other side, looking at my mother and not crying. Or he could have been looking at the photo of the crowd, San Diego County Sheriff O’Conner and a group of detectives and deputies, all in uniform, Detective Wendall holding the department’s show horse, a magnificent Palomino, the saddle empty. Wendall looked honestly broken. Or the man could have been reading the testimonials. Or he could have been reading the article on the bottom right, “Is Marijuana Now the County’s Top Cash Crop?” Also written by Lee Anne Ransom.
Or he might have been using the paper as cover to look at me.
The man lowered the paper, held it out, still open, with both hands. He was of East Indian descent, I guessed. I had seen him before, different setting, different clothes. He was, on this afternoon, wearing workman’s clothing; heavy, blue-gray pants with worn and wet knees, lace up boots with the toe areas scuffed, a long sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had a faded red bandana half hanging from his left front pocket. His hair and beard were black, both reaching just below his collar.
“I can get another… copy,” he said. “They are, of course… free.”
“No. I have… another copy.” I shook my head. “Free. The free thing.”
“Then, thank you so much.” The man folded the paper, folded it again, tucked it under his arm, did a slight forward tip of his head. “I do some… gardening.” He moved his left hand behind him, pointing toward the wall to the Self Realization compound. “Outside, mostly.” I returned the head tip. “Volunteer.” English accent with East Indian rhythm. Perhaps.
“Oh,” I said, looking along the white stucco wall and suddenly remembering where I had seen him, “You’re a… member?”
He smiled, one of those half face smiles. Right side in this case. “Loosely… connected. Less so all the time. I saw you once. Inside.” He nodded toward the far-left portion of white wall of the Self Realization Fellowship compound. “The meditation garden. Do you remember?”
I tried not to visualize. It didn’t work. I closed my eyes, opened them again. I could still see the gardener, along with another version. Same man, dressed in a robe. He was standing next to an older man, with even longer hair and beard, gray, and dressed in a robe made from a silkier, more colorful fabric. That man was possibly an actual Swami, or Yogi, possibly even the Swami. They were smiling. At me. Appreciative smiles. I jumped up from the bench and ran down the manicured paths with hand-set stones, perfectly cared-for plants, flowers year-round.
“I… ran.”
“You did. Yes, you do remember.”
“I was… studying. Not… anything else, Swami.”
“Perfectly fine. Meditation is… one’s own time. And… not a Swami.”
“Sorry. Not a Swami.”
“If Swami means ‘seeker of truth,’ perhaps, we…many of us are, perhaps, Swamis.” ”
I followed the man’s eyes back to the bluff. Portia was returning from the bathrooms with a different bundle under her arms, with different clothing, a very different look. Braided strands from the front of her hair were wrapped around to hold the rest in place. There was, perhaps, a ribbon. She was wearing a loose top, long, with long sleeves, a subtly patterned or even one-color Pendleton, with bellbottom pants and sandals.
Portia was walking behind the sunset watchers. “Conservative,” I said, pretty much to myself, but expecting some comment from the volunteer gardener. No. He was gone. He was crossing the lawn by the white stucco compound wall; and was halfway to Highway 101 when the Hayes Flowers van entered the lot.
…
I was in front of the Falcon. The people had formed a sort of wall at the bluff, watching the burnt orange in the wispy cirrus clouds at the horizon fade. I was watching Portia. She was watching the yellow van go down the far row. She stepped onto the pavement, and stopped on the passenger side of my car. The van stopped at the squared off end of the asphalt, next to the Jesus Saves bus.
I opened the driver’s side door. I stood there too long, watching Portia. She was not moving closer to the bus and the van. Waiting. She glanced toward me. I am certain she smiled. Because I had to say something, I said, “I got a good… spot.”
“Good,” she said. “Great sunset.”
“Yes.” I glanced toward it, then back toward Portia. Her face was shadowed, but this Portia, in regular clothes, seemed younger.
“Oh,” she said, “It’s… you. How… are you?” I couldn’t think of a response both quick and clever. I gave her a weak smile/nod combination. “Chulo… and me… I, we… have to go to Balboa, the, uh, Naval hospital. His friend… Juni. That’s what Chulo calls him.” She laughed. “It sounds more like ‘hu’ni’ when he says it. Juni. Chulo says you know him… from before.”
Before.
Portia walked to the front of the Falcon, setting her bundle on the hood. I shut the door and moved toward the front of the car, across from her. “Jumper. Jumper Hayes. He’s… there? Balboa?” She nodded. “He allright?”
“He’s alive. He was just flown here… there. From Hawaii.”
There were voices coming from the space between the Jesus Saves bus and the Hayes Flowers van. Portia, keeping her eyes on me, moved closer. Several of the sunset watchers beyond her looked toward that end of the lot each time the two men’s voices were raised, short bursts back and forth, not quite distinguishable words.
I didn’t look. Portia didn’t look. She said, “I have never met him. Jumper.” Portia’s eyes were, with her usual dark eye makeup gone, a softer blue than I had remembered. Or imagined. Her black hair was, at the roots, lighter. “We’re going… with Mr. and Mrs. Hayes… their car. Good citizen car. It’ll get us through the gate.”
“The yellow Cadillac. Yeah. That’ll work. And… Gustavo’s a vet… veteran.”
Portia put her right hand on my left arm. “We didn’t say nothing… about… you.” I looked at her hand until she removed it “Langdon… he wasn’t there because of that.”
“No?”
“No. Never even went to… look. And anyway…”
“I wanted to… It was…” I was trying not to get lost, trying not to cry. I slid my hand across the hood, toward but not quite touching Portia’s. “Thank you.”
Portia had to say something or walk away. The muffled back and forth at the Jesus Saves bus continued. “Your father…” I kept my eyes on her. “Good man. Chulo and me…” She touched my left hand, slid her right hand on top of it, both of our hands resting on the top edge of the door. “He… introduced me and Chulo. ‘Troublemakers,’ he called us. Got me a job with…” She laughed. “You’re there now. Mrs. Tony’s.” I must have looked surprised. “Then I got on with Mrs. Hayes. Consuela. Arrangements, mostly. Shop work.”
Portia paused to make sure I was listening or that I understood. “The religious thing. That was Chulo. Converted and all. Work camp.” She had a ‘taste’s bad’ expression, just for a moment. “Jail. East County. You probably knew about that.”
“In Fallbrook it was known as, ‘The Great Avocado Robbery.’”
Portia laughed. I reevaluated her age again. She was barely over that line I’d set between me and adulthood. “They do love their avocados,” she said, with a surprising amount of enthusiasm.
“They do. Chulo and Jumper and some mysterious guy from… somewhere. A buyer. Supposedly. Never caught him. I got that from the papers. Never… my father didn’t tell… ‘war stories.’” I laughed. “Of course, he did; just… not to me.”
Portia. I was trying to think of a word for the look she was giving me. Earnest. Sincere. “Chulo says he did his best. The Deputy… Bancroft… Well, sorry God, but… fuck him.”
It was my turn to speak. I didn’t. I was visualizing Deputy Bancroft from the few times I had seen him at the Vista Substation. Once was before he had crippled Chulo, all smiles and backslapping his fellow deputies. A second image was of him looking worried and angry, trying to get the others to support him. Some took his side. My father did not.
Portia shrugged. She may have smiled. “I see… your father, in you. He… sorry for saying this again… He was a good man.” I had to look at her. Sincere. “You are your father’s son.”
The light had become grainy, the smog-enhanced colors at the horizon had gone gray. The few lights around the parking lot, just coming on, had to compete with the advance of night. The sunset show was over. Most of the watchers moved away from the bluff and, at various speeds, toward their vehicles. A few stayed on as if, perhaps, they were waiting for closing credits.
Not yet.
“Really?” It was loud. There was a softer, muffled response, followed immediately by, “Fuck you and Jumper then… Chulo!” Loud and clear. Both Portia and I looked over. The Hayes Flowers van blocked the view, but occasional columns of cigarette smoke raising up beyond the two popout surfboards revealed where Chulo and the man doing the yelling were standing. “Last run.” The other man’s voice was lower but clearer. “There and back. Simple.”
A skinny man wearing a cowboy hat, straw rather than cloth, went up the stairs of the Jesus Saves bus, closed the doors, started the engine, revving it quite unnecessarily.
“Asshole,” Portia said. She looked up and whispered, “Sorry. Again.”
Asshole was honking the Jesus Save bus’s horn, flashing the headlights. The running lights and the inside lights in the driver’s area were flashing. The bus’s engine was racing. I looked over as it passed. Asshole, wearing sunglasses, a bandana around his neck, looked straight ahead, rode the clutch, then popped it.
Chulo limped around the front of the van, and got in. “Different clothes,” I said. The engine was still running. He pulled the van forward and started down the bluff side lane. Counterclockwise. The van stopped, passenger door even with me.
Chulo nodded. I nodded. “Get any… good ones?” he asked through the open window, both of us aware of the sound of gears grinding between second and third as the Jesus Saves bus headed north on 101.
“A couple,” I said, to Chulo, as Portia walked past me, “Before the tide got too high.” She opened the van’s passenger door, set her bundle of clothes on the bench seat, held the door open, and looked at me as if she expected me to say more to her or Chulo. “Different clothes,” I said, more to Portia than Chulo. “I mean,” I said, looking directly at Chulo, “this is not the, um, John the Baptist look.”
“Yeah! Most people get it wrong,” Chulo said. “Jesus, way classier dresser.”
“Oh. Sure. Jesus. Whole cloth. Yeah.” I stepped away.
“You know the gospel.”
“Partially by choice.”
“Holy Spirit, man,” Chulo said, moving his fingers like a piano player. “Mysterious.” Portia closed the door. Chulo looked at her before he looked past her and at me. “I told them, Jody; Wendall, the State Patrolman, everyone… Plymouth. Gray Plymouth. Old guy, I said; probably didn’t even realize… what happened. And besides, your dad had already…”
“What about Langdon?”
“I can handle… Langdon. God… God love him.”
“He means ‘fuck Langdon,’” Portia said. “Another asshole.”
Portia looked at Chulo and then at me. I looked away and then up. There was something about the popout surfboards the van. Different boards, not the same ones I’d seen at my father’s wake. I took a step back to check out the skegs. Quickly, aware Portia and Chulo were watching me, aware someone was approaching from my left.
“Asshole,” I said. “God love him.”
“No shortage of assholes.” Someone was beside me. Gingerbread Fred. Threadbare sweater over a once white t shirt; maximum fade on his Levis, sewn-on patches of different fabric at the knees; no shoes; long, once-red hair, grayed-out and as stringy as his beard; glasses patched and listing to the left; Gingerbread Fred was looking up. He was looking beyond the popout surfboards, beyond the palm fronds and the pine branches. I had to follow his eyes.
A gauze of cloud had caught the last of the day’s sunlight, impossibly mixing pink and blue in a colorless sky. Gingerbread Fred moved close to the van’s still open passenger side door. “Boy gets it,” he said.
Portia, in a voice as gauzy as the clouds, said, “Fred’s here for the show.”
“Fred Thompson, the legend,” Chulo said. “Fred. Me and Portia; we have to get going. Juni… Jumper, he’s… They got… overrun. His platoon. He’s… wounded. He’s in Balboa.”
“Oh,” Fred Thompson said, “so Petey was right. That cocksucker DeFreines did get Jumper to fuckin’ join up. Semper Fi, motherfuckers.”
Neither Chulo nor Portia looked at me. Chulo looked at Portia. She shook her head. Chulo said, “Juni’s choice. Jumper. He wanted it kept… secret.”
Fred laughed. Not a crazy man’s laugh. “Yeah. Well, Petey and me… and secrets. No. At least he… Jumper… had a choice.”
“Mister Thompson, I heard you were out and you…went back in.” I realized, even as I was saying the words, that I had said too much. “Sorry.”
“Mistake. Crashed twice, shot down once.” Fred Thompson seemed to drift away for a moment. I had to look, had to see what that looked like. He came back with a snap. “Sometimes, like, the right wave can make the wipeout and the swim in… just part of the price. Worth it.” He looked at me. I nodded. He shook his head. “Sometimes… not.”
“Bad knee or not, Fred; I still wouldn’t have chosen the Marines.”
“I’m no Catholic, Chulo, but…” Fred made the sign of the cross, then threw his right hand out, fingers spread. “Hope our friend’s… better. And, catholic-wise, I do like the gesture.”
“It is a… good one.” Chulo shook his head, only slightly, did a version of the sign of the cross between the steering wheel and his chest, and revved the engine. “He’s coming back.”
“Jesus?”
“Yeah, Fred,” Chulo said, laughing. “Him too.”
Portia kissed the palm sides of the fingers on her right hand before folding them into a fist. She tapped her fist on the middle of her chest, three times, opened her hand, placed it over her heart. After five or six seconds, she wrapped her fingers around Fred Thompson’s right hand for another five or six seconds.
…
As the van pulled away, Fred held out his right hand. He looked at it, refocusing on me, as if, perhaps, he was supposed to know who I was; as if we had, perhaps, spoken before. “We come back. We just don’t come back the same.”
I copied Fred’s smile.
“You one of their… Chulo’s and Portia’s… followers?” He pointed roughly toward the highway. I shook my head. His hand staying in pretty much the same place, he turned the rest of his body toward the remains of the sunset. “You staying for the encore… kid?”
I wanted to ask Fred Thompson about Tijuana Sloughs, about Windansea and Simmons’s Reef and San Onofre before foam boards, about Malibu and surfing before ‘Gidget,’ about Korea and Vietnam, helicopters before they were gunships. I wanted to ask why he went back in the Army after Korea.
I didn’t. I followed him through the now-empty space next to the Falcon and to the bluff. His bicycle was on the ground, too close to the edge. When Gingerbread Fred looked up at the sky, I looked up. “It’s darkness, for sure, but it’s not… night. We’re in the… shadow.”
Fred Thompson, facing the horizon, extended his left arm and hand forward, level, cocking his hand back at the wrist. He extended his right, creating an almost ninety-degree angle. “Perpendicular,” he said, holding that position for a second before throwing both arms back until they were straight out at his sides. “Parallel.”
He clasped his hands behind his back. I had to step back as he spun around, one, then another revolution. “You’ll get it,” he said, regaining his balance. “You know why?” I shook my head. “Because you… are… looking.” He turned to what was left of the sunset colors.
“Shadow,” I said.
“Ha! Yes. Shadow.” Gingerbread Fred came close enough to me that I could smell his breath. Milk, perhaps, soured. I tried not to react. “You probably heard. I’m… crazy.”
“There’s… a lot of that going around, Mister Thompson.”
“Yes!” He stooped down a bit, still too close to me. “You get it.” I nodded. “This one night, clear, like now. Now, I was raised on the Bible. Not a Catholic. Not a heathen, neither.” He laughed and raised his right hand straight up. “An explosion. There was a… rainbow. So high up… the zenith… that high. The sun was still on it. ‘Every eye shall see him,’ the Book says. People here, in this very parking lot… they were panicked.” He lowered his right arm, stretched out his fingers, brought his arm back until his hand was between us. He, then I looked at his palm. He lowered his hands just enough to look at me. “None of us are ready for… that Jesus.”
“I saw it! Here! I was… here, Mr. Thompson! Swamis!”
“Whoa-aaaa-ooooo!” Fred Thompson’s zoomed to the highest octave he was capable of, and dropped, rapidly. He closed his eyes and looked up. His voice was gravelly when he tapped me, three times, on the chest, and asked, “Can you still… see it?”
“In my mind; yes, sir, I can.”
I could remember, perfectly, what I saw from the back of Gary’s real dad’s Ranchero in the Swamis parking lot. My back was against the cab, three towels wrapped around me, ballast for three longboards, stacked, longer to shorter, and extended out the back. Gary, Roger, and Roger’s second girlfriend were in the cab. The girlfriend was in the middle. I was the only one to see the bright glow, expanding, somewhere between the clear sky and space, the zenith; high enough the sun was still on it. Rainbows.
I had thought about that Jesus, having judged the wicked and the righteous, returning in glory, as advertised. I was sixteen. I wasn’t ready.
When I was dropped off, I peered into the cab of the Ranchero and pointed to the spot in the high sky. I described what I had seen. Roger and Gary and the girlfriend got out and looked up. The glow was a ghost of what it had been. I got a ‘sure,’ an ‘okay,’ and a ‘sorry I missed it.” The girlfriend. She was nice. She didn’t believe me, either.
I opened my eyes. Gingerbread Fred Thompson was six feet away. “I’m sure you know this,” I said. “Vandenburg Air Base. Rocket. Explosion.”
“Sure.” He turned toward the stairs. “I have chosen to believe it was a… a glimpse at what is… beyond, that it was a tear… in the shroud.”
“I’m… fine with that. But… we… you and I, we saw it.”
“We did. You and I… did.” Gingerbread Fred twisted the frames of his glasses, put a finger in his left ear, and yawned. He used the same finger to tap, three times, on his forehead, and said, “Keep it… here.” He clawed at his hair. He tapped his finger, three times, on his chest. “Here, too.” He pulled at his sweater. “I do hope you will excuse me. I am going to… quick dip. Therapeutic. And, kid, what I said about… your father. Yeah. Just checking. Good man, Joe was… for a Jarhead… and a cop.”
As he was dropping down the stairs and out of sight, I looked back up at the highest part of the sky. Zenith. Shadow. Stars, planets. Closing, and later, opening credits for the next show. “A tear in the shroud,” I said, out loud.
MORE CONTENT ON SUNDAY. “Swamis” and all other original material is protected by copyright, all rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr. THANKS, get some waves when you can.
IT’S FINALS DAY at the WESTPORT LONGBOARD CLASSIC and realsurfers has a correspondent embedded in the event. Longtime explorer on the coast and the Strait, TOM BURNS, is a *judge, and has agreed to send a few photos and some commentary my way.
PHOTOS- Logo; O’Dark Thirty a Westport; Photo from the ‘memorial wall’ of TOM LE COMPE (RIP), one the ‘harbor boys,’ and one of the first to surf the jetty in the sixties, and Tom Burns; a shot of ‘The Corner” early this morning; Someone Tom didn’t give me a name for; and BARRY ESTES (RIP) with Tom from a RICKY YOUNG contest back in the late 1980s and 90s.
I competed in several of those contests, pushed to do so by my friend from my shipyard days, RAPHAEL REDA. I didn’t meet Tom there. I met him on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Tom, a month or so older than me, was years ahead of me in knowledge of where and when to find waves, but still has a fairly high ratio on the skunk-to-score chart. Tom is, among surfers I know, the preeminent name dropper, with a long history, great memory, and a willingness to talk story. We quickly discovered we have some friends in common, Drew Kampion and Pathfinder Darrell Wood to name drop two, AND Tom was perfectly willing to adopt some of the colorful folks I’ve run into: Tugboat Bill, Big Dave, Concrete Pete, folks without nicknames.
*I helped out at the precursor to the Longboard Classic, the CLEANWATER CLASSIC, a couple of years. Not surfing, I was volunteering and sort of representing SURFRIDER. Not satisfied to stand on the beach with a flag, I pushed my way into being a spotter for the judges, Tom being one of them. I refused to leave. Partially because I do bring the fun, and I do watch a lot of WSL contests on the computer, Tom convinced the head judge to allow me to be a judge the next year. I brought the fun. Too much fun for the head judge. I got in trouble for not matching the other judges’ assessment of rides. “6.5? No, I gave it a 4.6. I mean… really? 6.5?” I wasn’t asked back. Tom wasn’t either. Somehow I was his fault.
EVIDENTLY TOM has served his time in judge purgatory.
OF COURSE, being as tribal as anyone, I’m rooting for surfers from the Olympic Peninsula. We’ll see.
I am up to Chapter 9 on the re-re-re-reedit and tightening of “SWAMIS.” Remember, this material is copyright protected, all rights reserved. Thanks for honoring this, and thanks for reading.
CHAPTER FIVE- THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1969
Our house in the hills between Fallbrook and Bonsall was a split level, stucco house, aluminum sash windows, composite roof. Someone else had started building from some plans purchased from a catalog. My parents could save money, they were told, by finishing the lower level and the garage. They could replace the plywood shed at the edge of a corral with a small barn that would provide room for a horse, a side area for hay and tack. New fencing. More trees. A garden. A covered patio off the kitchen, or, perhaps, a bay window.
My father promised the patio, and then the bay window. He was working on it, but he was working. Working. There was, outside the sliding door, a concrete slab, with paving stones leading around the corner and down to the driveway. The two-story portion of the house featured a plate glass window, four foot high and eight feet wide, in total, with crank out, aluminum sash windows on either side. This window offered a view to the west, over scrubby trees and deep arroyos, of the hills, some rounded, others more jagged, with ancient boulders visible on all of them. Mission Avenue was hidden below and between. Mission, the road that linked Fallbrook with Bonsall, Vista, Oceanside, everywhere west, everywhere worth going to.
Looking out this window, I felt almost level with those hills. Morning light, descending, brought out the details of the ribs and rocks. Afternoon shadows crept from it until the hills once again became a blank shape. There were waves of hills in irregular lines between my hills and the unseen ocean. I had spent time looking away from my studies, imagining the hills in timelapse, the sun setting at one place in winter, another in summer, lines off clouds held back at the ridgeline, breaking over the top; torn, scattering. I had imagined the block as transparent, the ocean visible, late afternoon sunlight reflected off the water and into the empty skies.
…
The light outside was still neutral when I moved to the dinette table in the kitchen, a bowl of oatmeal, a tab of butter on top of it, in front of me. There was a glass pitcher of milk between my setting and the other two. There were four lunch sacks on the counter. Two were a light blue, one was a shade more orange than pink, the fourth was the standard lunch sack brown. My mother, already dressed and ready for work, took a carton of Lucky Strikes from a cupboard and put a pack into the brown lunch sack.
She looked out the window over the sink. She sniffled.
My father, in one of his everyday detective suits; coat unbuttoned, tie untied; leaned over from the head of the table. “Go get it, Jody.” The ‘now’ part of the command was unspoken. His voice was calm. Almost always. I didn’t move. I didn’t look up from my oatmeal. “Stanford, Jody; you didn’t think they’d send a copy to the school?”
My father’s questions demanded an answer or a response.
I stood up, lifting my chair up high enough that its metal legs, with plastic shoes at the bottom, wouldn’t scrape the oak flooring. I looked at my father. He was looking at my mother. She sniffled several times but didn’t turn around.
My bedroom was at the end of the hallway, past my parent’s and my father’s den on the right, the guest bathroom, Freddy’s room, then mine on the left. There were pictures taken from surfing magazines on several walls, a cluttered desk between the closet and a bunk bed, the bottom bunk converted into a space for books and toys and cardboard boxes taped and marked, stuff from our previous house.
Though we had been at the ranchette for more than four years, because the garage had never become water and weather tight, most of the boxes in my room remained stacked and taped and marked. Grease pencil. Yellow, mostly. Some black. I opened an untaped box marked “Cowboy stuff” and took out the legal sized envelope.
As I walked up the hallway, I heard my father ask, “Is this who we are now, Ruth?”
“Not we, Joe. Me. You… didn’t want to be…”
“Involved? No!” I heard a thump, hand to a solid surface. Less than a slam. “Fool that I am, I am… and have been involved this whole time.”
My parents almost never raised their voices. My father didn’t have to, my mother just… wouldn’t. I’ve been asked about my parent’s relationship many times. Japanese war bride, ex-Marine. My answer will always be, “They had a certain dynamic.” The answer could as easily be, “It wasn’t what you might think.” Whatever they thought.
My parents were standing at the counter to the right of the double sink. I placed the envelope on the tablecloth, next to my father’s plate. Sausage and eggs. Uneaten. Cup of coffee. Half full. I sat down. I looked over. My father signed at the bottom of two pages. My mother refolded them into thirds and put them into an envelope. She set the envelope on the left side of the sink, on top of several other loose papers. Legal size. Eight and a half by fourteen inches.
“I’ll fix it, Joe. Today.”
My father grunted, stepped around my mother. He was looking at the pages, shaking his head. He looked toward his wife. Her back was to the sink, both hands behind her on the edge of the counter. She looked at my father’s hands as he folded those papers in half. He took in a breath, turned toward her, let out the breath slowly. He handed her the papers with his right hand. She took them with her left hand, handed him the brown lunch sack with her right.
“Ruth. You could… This could give you… freedom. Ikura desuka?”
My mother only rarely spoke Japanese, my father almost never. My mother froze. “Freedom, Joe?” My father’s expression was one of instant regret.
I replayed the words. “E’-kew-rah des-kah.” Again. “E’-kew-rah des-kah.” There was something in the flow, the rhythm of my mother’s native language I had given up trying to capture. “E’-kew-rah des-kah?”
…
My mother and the envelope and the papers were gone. My father set the brown lunch sack onto the counter, took two more packs from the carton of Lucky Strikes from the cupboard, unfolded the two folds on the lunch sack, put them in, refolded the sack. Not as neatly. He took two steps toward the sliding glass door, looked at his feet. “Socks,” he said. “Jody, you won’t be surfing… or working at Mrs. Tony’s; none of that shit.” He looked at the envelope on the dinette table. “Stanford.” He threw his left hand out and down, ends of his fingers touching the Stanford logo. “You… you earned this, Jody. You’re going.”
“Going.”
My father looked toward the hallway, looked at me. “It’ll be… she’ll be fine. I have to…”
“Go. Yes.”
Freddy came into the kitchen. “Daddy?” Our father responded with a weak sideways nod. Freddy followed him through the living room, into the foyer, out onto the front porch. The front door slammed.
When Freddy returned, our mother was back in the kitchen. My brother, not even trying not to cry, looked at her, and then me, as if whatever was happening was our fault.
“Freedom,” I whispered, my left hand, in a fist, over my mouth. “Ikara desuka.”
The house phone was on a table just outside the formal dining room. Our mother picked up the receiver and dialed a number on the phone’s base. “No, I am well,” she said. “Annual leave. ‘Use it or lose it.’ I have accumulated…” She chuckled. Fake. “No. They’re both fine. I will be in tomorrow.” She looked at me. “Thank you.” She put the phone back on the base. “Joey, I will need the station wagon. You and Freddy… Better hurry; you will have to take the bus.”
Freddy asked, “What about taking your car, Mommy?” Our mother looked at me and shook her head. I shook mine. Freddy looked at me. “What did you do this time, Jody?”
…
Gary and Roger were my closest surf friends. Roger started board surfing the summer I did, 1965. Gary started the next summer. By the time we were seniors, many others had tried surfing. Most didn’t stick with it for long. Though Roger lived closer to me, Gary offered to give me a ride home.
I was riding shotgun. Gary’s sister, squeezed tightly against the backseat passenger door of their mom’s Corvair, said, in an unnecessarily whiny voice, “Glad it’s all cool with you, Gary.”
“It is, yeah; it’s cool with me.” Gary glanced over at me. “The Princess has a license, but our mom won’t let her drive without… supervision.”
“Well, thanks again for the ride, Gary; and for going by Potter for… Freddy. Oh, and thank you…”
“Princess,” Gary said.
The Princess blew air out of the side of her mouth. I looked around and over the seat. The Princess shook the wrist of her left hand and gave me a look I took as suggesting the raspberry was meant for her brother rather than me. Freddy was not quite as tight against the door on the driver’s side. Neither tried to talk to, or even look at the other.
“So, Joey,” Gary asked, “what do you think of Roger’s latest girlfriend?”
“She’s a sophomore, you know,” the Princess said, looking at me. “Sophomore.” I gave her the expression she was looking for. The relationship was wrong. And creepy.
“Roger’s business, Princess. Now, Joey, maybe, after school… days are getting longer. We could do Oceanside pier. Tamarack, if I drive.”
“Four gallons of gas, two quarts of oil; that sound about right, Gary?”
“Or Joey; we could go in Roger’s stepdad’s Mustang.”
The Princess mumbled a quiet, “Fuck you, Gary,” as her brother downshifted, unnecessarily, at the first of several uphill curves. Freddy’s laugh and repetition of the words were louder and clearer.
“Or Princess and some of her friends… Juniors… no sophomores, could go with us,” Gary offered. The Princess let out a high-pitched, “Ha!” and a low-pitched sort of extended grunt sound. Freddy giggled. “Or, if we can’t go surfing after school, maybe me and you and Roger could ditch and go all day.”
Gary looked at me and winked. I shook my head, but I did smile. “Or maybe next week… or so, if we have all our stuff ready, boards loaded, we could make it to Grandview. Swamis. Somewhere… good.”
“Possible. Timewise.”
“Cool.”
The princess’s head suddenly appeared between Gary and me. “Most of you Fallbrook surfers aren’t even partway cool,” she said. “And besides, my friends won’t even cruise town in this crappy car; and besides that, it would be creepy.” The Princess looked at me and seemed to realize her face and mine were way too close. Still, she didn’t move away.
“Creepy,” I said.
“And they might find out Gary’s surfing just isn’t all that… cool,” the Princess said, almost smiling before she fell back into the seat and against the door.
We arrived at our driveway. The Falcon station wagon was still there, my nine-six pintail on the rack. The Falcon was backed up to the curved gravel pathway that went up the slight grade to the front door. Bender board and stakes had been installed for a while, ready for concrete.
“Board on the roof. Obvious Hodad move, Joey.”
I looked up at Gary’s Hansen surfboard hanging over the hood of the Corvair. “Obvious.”
Gary used the area between the unfinished garage and the temporary shed at the corner of the corral to turn around. The Corvair had barely stopped when Freddy jumped out and ran for the house. The Princess jumped out and ran around to the front passenger door. I took a few seconds to get my books and folders out of the seat. She leaned on the open door and checked out the ranchette. Disapprovingly.
Gary popped the clutch on the Corvair halfway down the driveway. There was a second cloud of black smoke as Gary, unnecessarily double-clutched, attempting, unsuccessfully, to get scratch in second gear. There were a few drops of oil soaking into and staining the insufficient gravel on the decomposed granite driveway.
My mom was standing at the front driver’s side door of the Falcon, Freddy pressed against her and between her and the seat. She was looking at me. “You know I’ll be back,” she said, for both Freddy and me. She looked over at the old horse casually eating grain on the near side of what she called a paddock. “I can’t trust you boys to properly take care of Tallulah.”
A bell on the two-story part of the house rang. “Telephone,” Freddy said, dropping books as he ran. I set my school stuff on the grass and walked to the front of the Falcon.
“There’s some money… on the counter. Take the Volvo. Later. Six-thirty or so. You and Freddy can go to that Smorgasbord place he likes. Or Sambo’s.”
“Sambo’s… closed, Mom.”
“Oh. Yes. You know how to find the Rollins Place; right?” I nodded. “No eating in the Volvo. Right?” I shook my head.
“Mom,” Freddy yelled, “It’s Daddy.”
“Tell Freddy your father knows where to find me.” Our mother got into the Falcon. She chuckled. “Stick shift. Hope I haven’t forgotten how.”
“Daddy! He wants to talk with mom. He wants her to wait… for him. Jody!”
“Waiting,” our mother said, shaking her head. “Not waiting.”
“Three on the tree, Mom.” I closed the door for her. “You’ll be fine.”
“Fine.” My mom smiled, turned away, started the Falcon. “I called the station. Your father was out. I talked to Larry.”
“Larry? Oh. Sure. What did you tell… Wendall?”
“Nothing. I just… no, nothing. I told him to tell your father… I was going to… straighten everything out, that it would be… fine. I will.”
“If it’s about… college… I will, of course, go.”
“Of course. It isn’t… I have to go.”
My mother had her determined look on her face; determined to be strong, to not cry; even if the strength wouldn’t last, even if the tears would flow as soon as she went down the driveway. She popped the clutch. Accidentally. The back tires threw some gravel and the Falcon stalled. She hit the steering wheel, restarted the engine, eased the clutch out, moved the car over to the fence for the corral, reaching her left hand out, calling for her horse.
“Tallulah.” The horse turned around for a moment.
I looked toward the west. There would have been enough time for a few waves between school and dark if I had gone to the pier. I wasn’t crying. Freddy, clearly, was.
“Jody. He wants to talk to you. Jody!”
The doors to the Volvo were locked. Of course. I ran up the path to the porch. Freddy was just inside the door. The phone’s base was on the floor, three feet from the table. The cord to the receiver was stretched to its maximum length. Freddy tried to press the phone to my chest as I tried to pass him. The keys to the Volvo were hanging, along with other rings of keys and a rabbit’s foot, on a crudely shaped horse’s head Freddy had made at summer camp.
I grabbed the keys. Freddy pushed me. I pushed him down and took the phone from him. “Freddy, stop the blubbering. Dad?” I wasn’t really listening. I tried to direct Freddy toward the kitchen, rubbing my fingers together in the gesture for ‘money.’ I leaned down toward my brother. “Yes, Dad; still here.” Pause. “I am sorry about whatever Betty Boop and Wendall, and everyone at the station… thinks.” Pause. “Insolent? No.” Pause. “I don’t know. Freddy and I are going to…” Pause. “David Cole?” Pause. “Too late. Hello.” Dial tone. “Too late.”
I looped the long cord as I headed toward the kitchen, put the receiver onto the base, the base back on the table. Freddy stayed on the floor, his back against the frame of the opening between the foyer and the living room. “Stop her, Jody.” I didn’t respond. Freddy screamed, “Everyone’s right; you’re a god-damned retard. Retard!”
“Let’s go then, Freddy; you fucking baby.” My voice was as even as I could manage. I grabbed the cash from the dinette, walked back, stood over him. “Come on.”
Freddy laid out flat. He shook his head. “I’ll wait for Daddy. Dad.”
“He’s not… Freddy, there’s pizza in the refrigerator. You can heat it up in the oven, or, I don’t know, God-damned retard like me, you can… goddamn eat it cold.”
The phone rang. Freddy rolled to his stomach, jumped up, and got to the phone on the second ring. “Daddy?” Pause. “Uncle Larry.” Pause. “No, I don’t know where. Jody?” I shook my head. “Joey!” Out the door and down the path, all I heard was, “Retard.”
I’M NOT POLITICAL, BUT… I couldn’t help but notice, this week, with citizen don refusing to acknowledge that he got trashed and thrashed in the debate, that he also went back to his greatest wiffs and denied the sexual assault issue he also, very expensively, lost, saying the woman he assaulted was not his type, not ‘the chosen one.’ ALSO, this week, asked if he had any apologies to make about, like, anything, the elderly douche said he had nothing to apologize for.
Speaking of which, I couldn’t help but wonder if JESUS ever apologized for telling the truth. “Oh,” you say, “but Jesus paid a terrible price.” So, who pays the price for someone who only tells lies?
It’s a sort of positive for me that the summer drought on the Strait of Juan de Fuca coincides with painting season. More like consolation, with even driving to the coast not a guarantee of finding waves. Busy now, it gets crazier in September when people start panicking about getting their castle dolled-up before the rains start getting more consistent. Finding time to devote to my other passions, including drawing and writing, becomes more challenging.
BUT I do have time while scraping and painting and second-coating to think, THINKING, IMAGINING being the most crucial component in each of these activities. Imagine what the drawing COULD look like, imagine WHAT I want to convey.
IT’S A PROCESS. Not dissimilar to house painting, actually. To use the project I am currently working on as an examlple, the homeowner has a vision of what she wants her Victorian home to look like; I have my own ideas. A few color changes later, we do it her way,. with eventual agreement that it works AND it’s what the person paying me wants.
SO… I prep and paint, and it’s never one coat of any color. I paint, and then TIGHTEN UP the paint, picking up missed spots (‘holidays’ in the vernacular), making sure the transitions are crisp and clean, the result being a job I can be proud of and the client will both pay me for and recommend me to others because I did it (right).
BRIEF SURFING INTERJECTION- Having missed one opportunity summer surf, and being pissed because I could have gone and didn’t, I did get a few waves recently. Just enough, with passing fancy rigs with boards on them on a daily basis along SURF ROUTE 101, to cause me to want more. MORE.
TIGHTENING. I am going to a memorial later today for a person I have been bumping into for years on the PORT TOWNSEND. I have a story I told his widow I would tell, and I’m going to try to write it out rather than ramble on in some fashion that might embarrass the others as well as me.
BUT FIRST, “SWAMIS,” the novel I’ve been thinking about, writing, rewriting, tightening for way too long. Having thought about how I needed to tighten a SCENE with the protagonist, JOEY, and the closest character to an antagonist, BRICE LANGDON, I tried to devote a bit of time to it yesterday, but got an urgent text: THE floor guys didn’t show up, could I PLEASE do some painting. PRAYER EMOJI. Shit! Fuck! I made the changes, pulled out the thumb drive. The emergency painting and looking at another project pretty much did the day in. OH, and then thunder and lightening; the weather kind. I went to bed and did not get up early… enough.
ORIGINAL ERWIN NEWS- I paid back some seed money I was loaned by local master builder/climber/skier/hiker/all kinds of other stuff, JIM HAMILTON; the money intended for my investment in getting some t shirts going, which, four months later, I did. Most are gone now. Thanks, Jim. BUT, DWAYNE at D&L LOGOS has been working on a FULL COLOR DESIGN, and I am SOOOO excited to see the results.
DWAYNE did some digital editing and had eight of the image printed up. They are heat-transferred, in a modern, way-better version of the hated ‘iron on’ process. I have to wait to see what the my cost will be. SEVERAL are already promised. WE’LL SEE. I will get back to you on it.
IN A NOT-UNRELATED STORY, I showed my most recent illustration to the clients I met with yesterday, friends of ANNIE FERGERSON, the woman behind the recent documentary about, you know, me. NOW, I REALLY BELIEVED folks would have to have a copy. I had forty printed up, two sizes. I have 38 left, BUT, hey, sales is not what I’m good at.
Although I haven’t given them an estimate, I did get a text back saying, “this would make a great t shirt.” “Open for discussion,” I texted back. I should have included the PRAYER EMOJI, way more convincing when the two hands come together. WE’LL SEE.
ADDING TOO MUCH CONTENT to make the best use of my semi-free minute, here is a poem/song I’ve been working on. THE PROCESS is, again, the IDEA- overhearing a conversation about you; the FIRST DRAFT- this includes singing verses, trying out rhymes. This takes some time; usually when driving to or from a job; harmonica to see if there is a tune. It has to flow. And repetition to make sure I have it memorized. WRITING- Putting it on the thumb drive. REWRITING, EDITING, CHANGING- making sure it tells the story. TIGHTENING, TIGHTENING, TIGHTENING.
AGAIN, THIS is an imagined scene. Fiction. Maybe it’s a song I’ll never sing in public, a poem I’ll never recite; I don’t know; I wrote it and it’s part of the driving song collection, along with favorites by others, the result of many years of song writing.
I HAVE TO GO, and I still have to write something about the late PETER BADAME. Get some waves, huh? See you on the highway. OH, and I do claim and reserve all rights to my work, so…
A PRIVATE CONVERSATION
an excerpt from some longer story
It was a private conversation, words I was not yet meant to hear,
Thought I’d surprise you at the station, couldn’t have known that I was near.
Your words and tears shared with a stranger, someone you’ve met along the line,
I should have known this was a danger, if I did not the fault is mine,
I’m sorry, so sorry.
You spoke of time apart and sorrow, now… I could barely hear your voice,
You said that love’s something we borrow, said freedom is a frightening choice.
You spoke of hope and disappointment, small victories, great tragedy,
In all the time we’ve been together, you never disappointed me.
Not ever, not ever.
I saw the touch, though at a distance, saw how your fingers were entwined,
You didn’t put up much resistance, offered a kiss, you did decline.
That’s when I walked out of the station, this is my last apology,
You should need no more explanation, perhaps we’ve set each other free.
It’s frightening… so frightening.
But that’s another conversation, a private conversation, a very frightening conversation,
A private conversation
This version: August 9, 2024. Some changes August 17, August 18, 2024. AND YES, I did make a couple of changes after I put it on this page. FLOW.
…It isn’t as if Keith doesn’t steal (as in a wave or two) or borrow a few things from me (though borrowing doesn’t fit as well with the surf metaphor) a few things from me, including the graphic below, but it was just so easy to copy and paste the announcement for the FOURTH OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT from Librarian Keith’s (as opposed to Cougar Keith or any other Keith) Port Townsend Public Library newsletter… and just… repost it.
Because excuses are always necessary when taking things without permission (such as, “Oh, you actually wanted that wave?”) I would say the goal here is to further spread the news.
Join us at the library, WEDNESDAY, JULY 17th, 6 to 8 pm, for an evening of surfing stories and surf art. Writers and story-tellers include, Greg Tindell, Drew Kampion, Tim Nolan, Dana Terill and Erwin Dence. A crew of local surf artists may be present to show their work.
Greg Tindall Although Greg Tindall has written for the UK-based Surfer’s Path, the US-centric Surfer’s Journal and Australia’s equivalent, White Horses, and while he has covered surf contests for Surfline and hurricane-surf seasons for ESPN, his true passion is telling stories in-person. From the Society of the Four Arts in Palm Beach, as a Florida Voice, to the Surfing Heritage And Cultural Center (SHACC) in San Clemente, from the Tuckerton Seaport in New Jersey to the Libby Little Theatre in Montana, Greg now has the privilege of telling some good ones to his friend and mentor, Drew Kampion.
Drew Kampion is a former editor of SURFER (1968-72), SURFING (1973-82), WIND SURF (1982-89), and WIND TRACKS (1996-99) magazines. He was Editorial Director for the Patagonia clothing company (1990-91) and Associate Editor for NEW AGE JOURNAL (1992). He founded, published, and edited the ISLAND INDEPENDENT (1993-96), an award-winning “bioregional magazine in newsprint,” serving the “maritime rainshadow” islands of Washington State. For his work with the INDEPENDENT, he received first prize for editing a periodical with a circulation under 50,000. Until recently, Drew was the American Editor of THE SURFER’S PATH, world’s first “green” surf magazine. His episodic parody, THE TEACHINGS OF DON REDONDO: A SURFER’S WAY OF KNOWLEDGE (as illustrated by artist Tom Threinen) was a regular feature of the magazine.
Erwin Dence is a writer and visual artist residing in Quilcene. He is well known for his regional surf-centric essays on his website realsurfers.net. Erwin is also in the final stages of the surf novel, Swami’s. His visual art is vivid, surreal and at times hypnotic. His art will be on display at the event.
“SWAMIS” WISE, because, last Sunday, my computer went from fast to ‘oh my God, what the fuck’s gone wrong’ mode last Sunday, right after I decided to pull out early, so to speak, chopping off the last fifteen-thousand words or so, but it seemed okay on Monday, I took my thumb drive to COHO PRINTING and had eight copies printed up.
IT’S A DIFFERENT THING, looking at a manuscript on paper. 104 pages on the computer, 90,000 words, printed front and back to reduce waste if not cost, is still a lot of paper. And it’s… real. Tangible. Touchable. And… shit; I want to make changes.
THE LAST things I wrote were a last chapter modified to fit better as the end of… of this; with so much more to the story; and a new epilogue because the one I had written before the last rewrite no longer fit. SO, eight copies in a box, a copy in hand, questions in my mind on who could read them, I realized the new epilogue was possibly as ill-fitting as the others. Yes, others; there are others of everything.
SO, I DECIDED TO JUST start with the first chapter; all dialogue, not too much (but enough) exposition, AND, I thought, why not share it with, you know, YOU.
BUT THEN, partway through some unavoidable rewriting, M I C R O F T started going R E A L L Y S L O W.
I get a certain sense of panic when this happens; maybe not as severe as last week’s attack, but I am still not sure what to do: New computer? No. Go to the library and use their’s? Maybe. Not today. TODAY I AM working on a poster for the upcoming event. It’s getting closer by the second!
I HOPE ALL YOU ALL had a great International Surf Day, enjoyed the recent Solstice, and… and you’re saving the date to do what surfers do: Talk Story.
OH, and there is some possibility that outtakes, at least, from a very short documentary by a professional filmer, centering on a villainous surfer who hits the sometimes waves on the Strait, just might be something else offered at the upcoming surf culture event.
OH, and surfer, ARCHIE ENDO, Crescent Cruiser, is back in the area after an extended stay in Thailand.
…not exactly addictive, but, as a fan, with favorites, some winning, some not; if there’s a chance to watch… I just mighjt. NEWS for the Non-Watchers and the WSL haters, John John won the mens, moments ago and Caroline Marks… Yeah, I’m sure you know by now.
I kind of half thought it was Father’s Day today, another excuse, this one for sleeping late, not being totally concerned about work (the kind that pays selected bills), and maybe even taking a nap. It isn’t Father’s Day. While Mother’s Day (l’m choosing the singular possessive here because, while we can celebrate all mothers, it’s our own that we should be honoring) is set up during the school year, with craft assignments designed to produce refrigerator art and coffee table crafts, fathers have to wait, and wait, and get something store bought. Still, most likely refrigerator and coffee table stuff. BUT StILL…
I did do some surfing since my last posting, memorable mostly in that my psychedelic oil-filled eye didn’t present too much of a problem. Or the bright sunlight and the decent waves made me ignore it. Or I just closed the left one while screaming down the line. That’s screaming as in ‘loudly proclaiming.’
On that front, there is still some scarring in the eye and the potential that the retina could come loose, so, out of an abundance of caution, I get to go at least another three weeks with the magical liquid holding the wallpaper to the inner walls. I am learning more each time I get checked out. Not that I’ve been anxious to know some of this. And, again, I have a bit of regret for not giving a bit more sympathy for other surfers who have problems with the glare and such in the water.
In a non-similar situation, I stumbled and crashed going out on my last session, doing the dive straight in rather than the wade, AND, as is increasingly happening, I got thrashed trying to land in a not-that-vicious shorebreak, pushing my board up the beach and crawling with, of course, witnesses. IN BETWEEN, of course, I ripped.
Not just me, of course, but if it’s ever SURFERS DAY, I will use the singular possessive ‘surfer’s,’ and the surfer’s performance I am most concerned with, though I do appreciate any good-to-great ride by anyone, is mine.
Allow me a moment to look up SOCIOPATHIC NARCISSISTS’ DAY.
Artist/surfer Stephen R. Davis and I at the COLAB in Port Townsend with my panels. Photos by Joel Carben. Joel and his wife, Rachel, run the collaborative work space and have allowed me to exhibit my work there. Steve helped spread the word on social media.
Side note: I’m wearing the t-shirt I designed for the Port Townsend Public Library’s SUMMER READ.
Secret note: Partially (only partially) because non of the semi local crew would say that I’m in any way thinner than another local surfer, I’m getting more serious about dieting. Slightly more serious. I’m switching from ice cream to yogurt, mushroom burgers (with cheese and sometimes eggs) to salads; I’m avoiding chips, fries, donuts; and I’ve broken it off, hopefully for good, with Little Debbie; and I’m rethinking my longterm obsession with Hostess.
Meanwhile, there are plans and schemes for the NEXT OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT. The date is set for July 17th. Art, talking story, special guests… MORE to be reported, LATER!
Hope you’re scoring some waves on occasion. As always, if you can’t be nice, be real.
Trish wasI, as always, correct when she said I had become obsessed with these door panels I have been working on; four by-fold doors rescued/salvaged/pack-ratted from some job. My theory was, because everyone has limited wall space for art, these would serve as screens, or even, doors.
Yes, there’s an inside and an outside, and I kind of lost track of what was on one side when I was painting the other side. It wasn’t all, like, thematic. Maybe a little. Obviously I have some sort of fascination with waves. And color. I would start out, get to something that was not what I envisioned and… here’s the obsessive part; I would keep going until l was a high percentage of satisfied. The fear at some point is that I could then screw the whole thing up. A line too far. Or a color. Or… something.
I want to thank Joel and Rachel Carben, owners of the COLAB in Port Townsend, for allowing me to have my art in their space. Although I paint houses for a living, my artistic leanings have been toward drawing.
SO, I am not at all sure what to do with these panels now. Hanging out for three of the monthly Port Townsend ARTWALKS has reinforced my belief that marketing is not my strong suit. Not even close. SO, do I tell myself that the joy of art is in the process? That is true, but… but, but, but…
Captions: Stephen R. Davis approaching the wall of doors at the COLAB;Joel Carben and Steve; a framed painting that caused Steve to comment,”It’s nice that you’re finally going for fine art,”; various panels taken where they were painted (a Costco/White Trash garage). OHHH, and then there’s BIG DAVE.
I took this a week or so ago at the Home Depot in Sequim. I had already heard a rumor that Legendary Surfer BIG DAVE RING was giving up surfing due to arthritis in his knees. I did write about this. The rumor was confirmed. *Sort of. Quickly, Dave was raised in Pacific Beach, San Diego, and was part of the pack of “Pier Rats” that included standout, Joe Roper. Dave, currently 66, was fourteen when I moved to PB in late 1971. I was twenty. Not a big talker in the lineup, not a guy who hangs out and chats it up on the beach, part of the reason I found out any info at all is because we have been mistaken for each other, as in: “I read your last thing on your blog,” to Dave, or “I heard you were ripping the other day,” to me.
Most of this was back when Dave was merely rocking a big-ass mustache. We both were riding big boards (Dave a 12′ SUP as a regular surfboard), and we both caught a lot of waves, from the outside, or scrapping for insiders. Dave is a master of the late takeoff and the sideslip, and plows through sections I would dodge..
A notable quote that got back to me was, “I rolled up and the Walrus and the Beast were both out. I went somewhere else. Though I’m almost more comfortable with being referred to as ‘That asshole wavehog, kneeboards on a SUP,” and I’ve been doing my best to increase the size of my mustache, I must agree with those who say Big Dave is the Walrus. Coo coo ca choo, coo coo ca choo.
*Having already, in a pattern that seems to hold true among older surfers, moved from popping up automatically, to knee boarding the takeoff and standing up after the first section, to kneeboarding the entire wave, Dave expressed little interest in belly boarding. “No, but…” I could tell Dave was imagining the perfect pre dawn session, sneaking out, lining up a few bombers.
“It is amazng,” he said, “what I’ve gotten done because I’m not always putting stuff off to go surfing.”
I get it, Dave.
EYE and LEG UPDATE- I’m finally through with the wound care for the gouge on my right calf. Pretty impressive scar. I am going to have my eye checked out on Friday, with surgery to remove the clear oil inside it, hopefully, scheduled for… soon. It isn’t as if I can’t work, it’s just annoying. I sort of attacked a woman in a parking lot the other day because she had a bandage over one eye. “Hey, what happened to you?” Different deal. Worse than mine. Nice conversation. ANYWAY, I did tell Trish that, because of the glare in the water, I might not surf until the oil in my eye is exchanged for (I asked) saline solution, that to be replaced by the proper bodily-produced fluid.
BUT, but, but… when I check the forecast…
Moving on. Back to another of my obsessions. After I post this, my plan is to get back to “Swamis.” I had friends attempt to read earlier versions. I know where I have to make changes, and I have been working on it. That’s my process. Evidently. Obsession, distraction; what we have to do and what we want to do and what we really really want to do.
I’ve been busy drawing. I have several reasons for doing so. New designs for t shirts, some work for the PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY’s upcoming SUMMER READ, and, just because I enjoy it.
SO, LET’S SEE HOW MY LATEST scans look on the screen:
THERE ARE MORE, but should save some copyrighted original stuff for next time. WEDNESDAY… MORE! (sorry about the explanation point; not that a show of enthusiasm isn’t appropriate. MEANWHILE, thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers. See you out on Surf Route 101.
IF I HAVE TO BLAME something for the prolific-ness, it’s the recent far-eeez-ing weather. AND I have been sa-soww-ly getting cal-lose-er finishing my novel, “Swamis.”
Real Surfers 
