Category Archives: surfing satire

Casualty of the Cool and Casual, and a Haiku or 2

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

I was thinking, yesterday, about casualness; specifically, about whether I have ever been casual about surfing. Maybe not. If casualness is being cool, that being something like indifferent; the answer is probably no. The closest I have come is deciding whether I want to paddle out in questionable conditions. If the conditions are even moderately surfable, and the options are getting skunked or trying to find somewhere else that might be marginally better, I have, historically (and it’s a long history) paddled out. Once in the water, my attitude has always been to surf as well as I am able.

Sometimes there is no decision. I have to go out. There is no way I’m not paddling out.

Because my love, respect, and a certain level of fear of waves has not diminished, I approach each session with anticipation, always hoping to get a wave or waves that offer that unmistakable level of thrill, those moments of barely controled weightlessness in a heavy, uncontrollable world.  Maybe it’s making a wave I shouldn’t have made, the lip hitting me as I was driving across the face, and somehow, I didn’t just crash. Whatever the moment is, or the moments are, I still want to be cool about it. Casual.  

Back to yesterday. I had a job to finish, and I’d spent some time writing, conscious of how much work I had and how much time I was willing to spend before I was scheduled to meet a possible client about a possible project. I took off, chatting on the phone with my daughter, Dru, about behind the scenes stuff concerning the movie, “Nosferatu,” which she had seen, alone, practically, in a theater, and I had screened the night before. Less than a mile away, a not-unfamiliar whump-whumping made me check my tires. Yep. Cruise back home, take the tire off, drop it off at Les Schwab. Should be quick.

It wasn’t. I am not a stranger to flat tires, or to changing them. Using the jack from my work van, I got the tire off. Because I had to shift gear to the van, I reached into the front seat. That’s when, because I was so casual that I didn’t believe I had to block the wheels…

Minor setback. I was able to get the jack out, lower it (slow process), block the tires (like, both front tires, blocks on both sides of each), get the back axle off the ground.

Shouldn’t have been THAT casual.

This, sadly, isn’t the first time I was irresponsibly casual about changing tires. Possibly inspired by the father in “A Christmas Story,” I once changed a tire in record time on a small pickup while Trish was watching. I think we were actually talking about the movie as I did the job. The next morning, leaving at the last minute to meet the vanpool to my job at the shipyard, a mile or so from home, I noticed a certain weirdness in the way the truck handled. I thought or said, “Probably forgot to tighten the lug nuts when the truck was lowered. Probably okay.”

Going down the last hill, my turn to the park and ride lot on my left and the van coming up to the stop sign, my back left tire came rolling up beside me as the axle hit the pavement, sparks flying, and all I could think of as I screeched and slid to a stop was, “I pretty much have control.”

A car pulled alongside me as I jumped out. A fairly freaked-out passenger asked, “Hey, are you all right?” “Yeah,” I said, “I gotta make that vanpool.”

I couldn’t, of course. And the only other vanpooler who lived in Quilcene was, not unsurprisingly, given the pre-dawn light show, reluctant to let me borrow his car.

It all worked out pretty well yesterday. There was a record lack of crowd at Les Schwab, and I was able to get my tire replaced quickly. It had a square drive screw in it, but… note… any driving on a pretty flat tire will ruin the sidewalls. I should remember that. As for the other incident, the truck required a replacement half-axle. ‘Dirty’ John McKinley (I didn’t give him the nickname) asked how it was I didn’t lose control and crash. “Lucky?” “Yeah. Lucky.”

HAIKU- I’ve been, in my attempt to fool other into believing I’m some sort of poet, been writing some Haiku (I believe Haiku is both singular and plural- don’t quote me). Enough so that I’m starting to think in five, seven, five syllable patterns. So, it is only natural that I write a few about surf spots.

REMEMBER, YOU can write to realsurfers, or submit your own story at erwin@realsurfers.net

Haiku for You- A few surf spots I would never blow up and a couple that are already blown

Cape Kiwanda-

Beachwalkers walking… There are multiple web cams… The empty waves roll.

Boats crash through the waves… Portland rippers are elsewhere… Short Sands or Seaside?

Short Sands or Seaside? Okay, Seaside-

The Cove, not the Point… You…get out of my lineup… I’ll kill for this wave.

Westport- 

You see my new board?… Got it custom, so special… It cost more than your car.

I learned to surf here… Jumping into the reforms… I’m an enforcer.

Friends left me stranded… Need a ride to Lake Union… Yes, Fremont’s okay

Sort of secret spot(s) on the Strait and/or the Northern Coast-

You claim there are waves… Is this the only way in?… Can’t be worth the hike

I know that I rip… I once made a long wave here… So, now it’s my spot

The parking lot’s full… So, the waves must be pumping… Can you drop me off?

There almost are waves… There are tourists a’plenty… Watch out for dog shit

I love the vibe here… Great brunches and campfires… And sometimes I surf

Locals aren’t friendly… With a tough reputation… I got a nod once

The surf’s always flat… The ferry waits are brutal… And gas isn’t free

FLASH! Surfing is no longer COOL

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, real surfers, surf addiction, surf culture, surf satire, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing satire, writings of Erwin Dence

I learned a few things watching a YouTube with local librarian/ripper Keith Darrock’s favorite surf magazine writer (spiffy columns with an accompanying photo of him… smoking- so rebellious) turned (with the demise of most print mags) into an (I’m not saying posing) outsider (allegedly)/critic of many-if-not-all things corporate, or cultural, or just plain obviously wacked-if-not-permanently ruined in the once pure (purer, perhaps), whole wide world of surfboarding, consistently those evil-ish ghouls and thugs who profit from it:

The massive (and easy) target of the World Surf League, and… oh, my god (not meaning, like, God God) Kelly Slater, Greatest surf Of All Time, and almost certainly the biggest beneficiary of the wave-washed money that has come from Kelly’s stellar career (K.S. wave pool in where? Dubai- wannabe sports capital).   

Chas, in the continuance of his career, appears in his videos with a bottle of spirits, glasses donned and un-donned, and, though I haven’t watched enough of them to see if he lights up, I do admit he looks pretty cool in a Don Johnson/Miami Vice/throwback way (and, if I hadn’t stated this so far- I am in no way criticizing Mr. Smith), starting his commentary with, “I hate surfing, I don’t hate you.”

Hopefully I got that right.

SO, having former TransSurf (Surfing before that, I believe) magazine editor and current WSL commentator, Chris Cote, on his Vlog, cups and saucers rather than a bottle on the table in the foreground, with the clickbait come-on headline of (I looked this up in my History), “Chris Cote on the killing of the surf industry and the joys of toxic positivity, I meant just to watch just a bit, but stayed for all 23 or so minutes of the thing.

SO, here’s what I learned: The average age of the approximately 33 million surf or surf-adjacent people in the world is, like, forty-six (or so, I didn’t rewatch), AND, the BIGGIE, surfing is NO LONGER considered COOL among the not-yet-sponsored younger set.

WHY?

CHECKING out the comments section as Chas and Chris chatted, I read about clueless and etiquette-deficient crowds at any decent break, the swelling of kooks and hodads furthered by wave pools and surf lessons and surf camps; and words on the tragic replacement of blue (or no) collar surf rebels with time-and-money rich techies and mid-level managers driving tricked-out Sprinter vans and custom racked Teslas. Yeah, that seems… correct.

Folks just want to be part of something with a perceived (or conceived- by ad agencies, mostly) coolness they are not contributing to.

I have some theories, most centered on this: IF YOU ARE NEVER going to get as many waves as your father claims to have ridden, you might never surf better than he (or your mom) does; and anyway, few of us have fathers we would be embarrassed to hang out on the beach with; if this is the truth of surfing (and that it is actually kind of… difficult; all the paddling and stuff); WHY BOTHER?

“No, you love it. You love it! Now, just get out there, you little Ripper!” Photo from, yeah, RIP CURL.

THIS ISN’T TRUE in my case; my father, a champion swimmer, was a great body surfer, even if his wearing of the traditional Speedo (I didn’t follow suit after the sixth grade) was a bit… awkward. My mother’s driving her seven children to the beach, mostly because she loved the beach, and her support of my surfing (“Tell your friends surfing, to you, is a sport; it isn’t a lifestyle” was her point when I couldn’t go with them because of religious reasons). If it was a sport, I wanted it to be a lifestyle. Still do. It still isn’t, but it is a part of my life.

AND, in furtherance of my hypothesis, my three children do not surf; the children of many of my surf friends do not surf. Granted, I live in an area late to the game, with fickle surf and cold water, and adverse winds, difficult access, lots of troublesome rocks (though not quite far away enough from large metropolitan areas- some would say); and purchasing gear for rapidly growing kids might be financially daunting. STILL, the average age of the surfers I run into is probably in keeping with Chas Smith’s assessment. YES, I do up the demographic. AND, I do see some second generation surfers. Not, statistically, that many, but some.

OKAY, this has about the word count that seemed appropriate back when I had a column (not self-promoting, as such, it’s long gone) in the Port Townsend Leader. SO, hmmm… considering doing a live thing. NO, I’m just not cool enough. PODCAST? Double hmmm.

MEANWHILE, looking for content beyond anything Nathan Florence puts out, always checking out Keith Olbermann’s short hype-ups for his podcast, though never hitting on the full length version (and never subscribing or ‘liking’ any videos), occasionally fooled into watching some wannabe Nate Florence kooking it up in some shorebreak, next time I’m clickbaited by Chas Smith, I will probably… CLICK.

I was planning of showing my latest illustrations, but I forgot to bring my dedicated thumb drive to the printer, and, when I tried to get copies, the super fancy, super expensive machine didn’t cooperate. This kind of thing can irritate the shit out of the owner/operator. YES, I did make the stupid comment that, “Yeah, that’s why I almost always brush and roll paint jobs.” “Uh huh. Three-sixty-one.” “Okay. Let me dig out some change.”

NEXT TIME…

Don’t Challenge the Locals, unless…

Posted on by under aggressive surfers, mind surfing, northwest surfing, old surfers, oregon surfing, real surfers, surf adventures, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing in Oregon, surfing satire, surfing stories, Uncategorized, wiped-out surfers, wipeouts, writings of Erwin Dence

…I was just about to leave, anyway; after my third trip onto the rocks (boulders, really); but I figured I’d paddle a little farther up the point, just to see… what?

That was my mistake. It’s clear now; but it wasn’t at the moment the white-haired guy started yelling at me. Yes, he had been silent when I was surfing the next peak down, though he had given me the stink eye when I sort of approached the main peak, a glare in response to my nod (and a nod, unreturned… ooh, that does say something).

But this time, I had paddled past him, farther up the point, taken the ‘inside’ position. This was, at any break, and particularly at a notoriously localized Oregon break, criminal. And I was on an SUP. True, bad knees, a bad ankle, and way too much weight (confirmed by photos my sister Melissa took) tends to keep me from standing on any but the longest waves) and these barrels all ended up on those boulders.  Stay too long over the boils, or get caught inside, it’s, well, difficult; but (this guy, probably my age, was on a short board- and I never really saw him make a wave- irrelevant, I know, but…) I was on a big board, pushing to the head of the pack (three other surfers, pack-wise), the point of the spear. It was like I, the non-local, was making a statement. He had to say something.

“Why don’t you… those things… one of our guys had to be airlifted outahere…geez… why don’t you go over to…” he nodded (unfriendly kind of directional nod), toward the miles of mushy and/or closeout beachbreak to our north… “those things don’t belong…”

“Yes, they can be dangerous,” I said, and paddled north, catching one more barrelling rock-roller, careful to pull out the back over the outside boils.

I had some time to think about the little confrontation, that, obviously, the local won, on the long paddle back, (catching another couple of mushburgers in the kook/non-local/SUP-allowed area. “One of our guys.” This wasn’t me. Only a little ironically, I had a discussion earlier with a guy in the parking lot on how locals “get all butt-hurt” when someone they don’t know makes the trek or paddle over to this semi-sacred spot.

Butt-hurt.

Another surfer, over at the showers, said a sponsored shortboarder he knows had to walk past the fire on the beach, in someone’s yard, where the locals sometimes hang, got heckled; then ripped it up enough that he was ‘nearly embraced’ on his way back past the same fire. The next guy in line for the shower (and I gave way) actually was the guy who was hit by some SUP A-hole’s board, suffered a concussion, and had to be airlifted out. Was that a lot ironic, or merely a lot coincidental?

He was nice, 68 years old, thin, formerly of the Sunset Cliffs area of Ocean Beach, San Diego. “Luscombs; that’s where I cut my teeth.” “Yeah, I’ve surfed it; mostly when I lived in PB.” He knows the guy who asked me to leave. “Yeah, well; give him my best,” I said.

I immediately went back to thinking about the confrontation. “I’ve never run over anyone,” I had said to the SUP victim, not forgetting (but not mentioning) that I had once run into Archie’s board. And I told him about my worst-ever, non-self-inflicted injury, a full-body hit by a guy on a regular longboard. Still, he had to mention how SUP’ers can catch more waves, overwhelm a lineup. No, that hadn’t been me. Not that day, anyway. I did wait my turn; I did sit ‘down-wave’ from the main peak.

Melissa told me that no one owns the ocean, and I shouldn’t help carry someone else’s garbage; and, when I didn’t, she said “just get over it.” I’ve had more time to think about it. Maybe a couple of those locals might show up to a beach I frequent some time. Thinking, still thinking. I’m back home on Surf Route 101 now, another spot on my list of places surfed (next to Luscombs, maybe); but I am going down to do some work on my Dad’s house soon.

Thinking, just thinking. Oh, and now I’m wondering if the victim, who hadn’t been out at the sacred spot on this day (though he said he reached his quota- 15) was hit over in the main break. I mean, wouldn’t that kind of suggest it wasn’t the board, it was the paddle-past?

 

Barrel-Dodging With Adam Wipeout

Posted on by under adam wipeout, aggressive surfers, Erwin Dence illustrations, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, getting barrelled, northwest surfing, real surfers, surf adventures, surf illustrations, surf satire, surf sessions, surf stories, surf-related comics, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing illustrations, surfing in Washington State, surfing satire, surfing stories, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, Uncategorized, wipeouts, writings of Erwin Dence

Evidently my paint sales people remember my surfing stories; or some of them; tales of two foot waves and rocks and ear infections and surfers who, on hearing how great the waves were on a Saturday, show up at dawn on a Sunday when the waves are half as big. Yeah, I’m talking about Adam “Wipeout” James, who said he couldn’t think even about surfing while he had so much work that just had to be done.

But there he was, actually getting out of the water when I rolled up. And then he was too tired to go back out. And then he did.

And then, in position for the ‘wave of the (this particular, would have been average the day before) day,’ Adam blows the takeoff (he did well otherwise, other than an ‘off the back’ that was supposed to be a cutback).

Sure, it can (and has, and will) happen to any of us. There’s a penalty (worse in Hawaii, I’ve heard) for this particular type of incident, no doubt mentioned by me, possibly reinforced by Keith Darrock, one of the other surfers out this day (and the day before, and pretty much any time the place breaks), and someone who hates to see a rideable wave go unridden. “Wave of the day, Adam.”

Adam, though remorseful, nevertheless struck back. “At least I’m not a barrel dodger,” he said, paddling for the next non-wave of the day, watching to see if I’d challenge him for it.

Image (36)

“Barrel Dodger?” Pause. “Me?” Wait; let me think. Have I ever dropped low, under a falling section, rather than staying high, risking getting pitched into the rocks? Have I?

If I have, I won’t again. Thanks Adam.

If the Session Report is, “It was really pretty…”

Posted on by under Erwin Dence surf illustrations, learning to surf, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, SUP surfing, surf adventures, surf culture, surf illustrations, surf satire, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing drawings, surfing in Washington State, surfing satire, surfing stories, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, Uncategorized

…it, most likely, means the waves weren’t happening. It was very pretty yesterday.

I’ve long decided to include the trip there and back into any session report; and, in the Pacific Northwest, with the snow level moving up and down with the same systems that bring swell to some spots and not to others; well, the view of the Olympics, even from the Safeway gas station in Port Angeles, is ultra pretty.

We all try to be scientific, using all the information available, plus past experience (ie; at this angle, this tide, this size, this spot was working); but we always have to factor in the skunk factor (on a similar tide and swell angle, the same spot was not working), and the “Random Theory,” that being that sometimes, even when the factors all seem slightly off, random acts of surf magic can happen.

EDIT- And sometimes everyone gets skunked.

Throw in wishing and hoping and praying, and that it’s a weekend between a constant barrage of wet frontal systems, and you get way too many desperate surfers combing the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

Image (35)

My original plan was to either hit West Riverdale at dawn, before the tide got too high, with the Wrench as a backup. Or, I could go to The Outfall a bit later, when the tide got high enough.  I had things to do in Sequim, and, really, I planned on going to work on a painting project later. The problem, pre-dawn, was, the angle just wasn’t there. Oh, the swell, which had been stubbornly southwesterly, was supposed to go more northerly during the day, coinciding with a drop in swell size.

So, I made what I thought was the best decision. Nope. Lots of people at West Riverdale, all on the beach, cars piled high with boards; one guy, Tim Nolan, in the water, and the tide already too high. BUT PRETTY. Vehicles were coming, heading out farther; the coast always an option for those with enough time. Some surfers were, evidently, deciding to wait out the tide. I went out anyway. Tim paddled past me, pointed to the horizon, said something about where the swell was actually going, and got out of the water. I snagged a few shorewashers and surrendered to reality, wetsuit-driving away.

Over at the Wrench, the parking lot was packed with multi-board vehicles and warriors suiting up or suiting down. I squeezed into the back row, asked the guy in the rig next to mine if he could get out. “Hi, Erwin,” he said. It turns out it was Darrin, who provided me a ride on his board when mine was caught in the rip on a big day in December. I was also caught in the rip, my daughter on the beach, on the phone to her mother.

“Thanks, Darrin,” I said, shaking his hand a second time. I had been unable to really thank him properly when I got back out (after Keith Darrock rescued my board, and because one must go back out after a thrashing); and all this gratitude didn’t stop me from (accidentally, I swear) taking off in front of him on my first ride at the Wrench.

Thinking I was doing allright among those surfing, many of them beginners, kneeboarding weak little waves into the creek; one of several guys on standup paddleboards, evidently trying to be civil, asked me if I was new to riding an SUP. “First time, today,” I answered; not like he was so good. “Oh, you’re doing great, then,” he said, “you really seem to have the physics down.” “Thanks.” This was kind of depressing, and the waves were dying anyway.

Deciding I’d switch to only riding erect, I took off on a solid eighteen incher when another SUP hero took off in front of me. When he saw me, he bailed. “No problem,” he said, as if it was my fault, after my board went under his. “I didn’t know you were going to go straight,” I said. Next weak wave, I paddled, standing up, all the way to the parking lot. High tide. Two sessions. I was done.

More surfers, some quite excited, some not even checking the waves, going by the ‘if surfers are out, it must be good,’ were headed for the wild surf as I got dressed and headed toward Costco, then home.

I got a call from Keith while waiting for my order at the Jack in the Box. It’s perfectly acceptable to talk about great waves ‘after’ you get out of the water. I’d made the wrong decision. “You would have loved them.” Yeah. If I hadn’t had stuff that needed refrigeration, if I hadn’t just ordered a milkshake for Trish, if I didn’t know for a fact (or pretty sure near-fact) that the waves Keith and a few others (others in on this super fickle secret spot) had gorged on would be gone before I could get there…

I left my board on the car, just in case. I’ve checked the buoys since 5:30. Nope; might as well go work on the project I didn’t get to yesterday (I did do the drawing, above). Still, hoping and wishing, I’ll leave it on the car, just in case. Okay, it’s 7:13; I’ll post this and check the buoys.

Oh, and Tim Nolan did get in on the waves that had missed West (and East) Riverdale.

Angels Unaware- Nearly-True Tales from Surf Route 101

Posted on by under short stories on surfing, surf adventures, surf stories, surfing, surfing in Washington State, surfing satire, surfing stories, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

Angels Unaware- Mostly-True Tales from Surf Route 101- First Draft. 02/05/16
It was one of those still-Winter, cold light, late dawn mornings; only the ridges across the highway fully-lit, the snow level obvious, and obviously lower, an obviously-new dusting that will disappear from the dark branches by noon; the kind of morning where someone you don’t really know well, on the pump across from you, might just say, blowing out warmth into the chill; “Another day in Paradise, huh?”
Sure, but it’s winter, heating season, and just the fact that the daylight hours are so few means less work; less work, less money. But I’m putting some alcohol-free gas into the car my wife inherited, the nice car; the good car; the car we cannot afford to have any mechanical problems. There’s a ten cent discount for cash, so I went to the ATM, got the fast forty, went inside, made a deal to get fifteen of the higher octane fuel (in case my wife asked- the car needs the high test). The other fifteen would be the regular; the regular unleaded still seventy-five cents or so higher than the price for the alcohol-added regular; and that price, well…
“Great,” I said to the new guy at the counter (there have been a parade of people behind the counter since the store reopened, the only gas for fifteen miles in the three directions one can go, mountains blocking the west- and we’re not supposed to complain about the price), “I look for the cheapest gas I can get for my rig; but for my wife’s…”
He nodded, I nodded; he gave me my change; ten dollars. “For my gas… later… somewhere else,” I said. “You’re set,” he said. “Just give me a signal when you switch.”
The woman I seemed to be holding up from getting to the counter with my whining looked like she had forgotten something, but, as I started to fill the tank with the high octane fuel, she approached, holding a bank card in one hand. “Can you spare a dollar?” She made some vague motion toward her car, parked sideways away from the pumps.
“I only have the ten,” I said, the bill still in my hand. She said nothing. “Why is it always me?” She nodded.
“I’ll bring you back the change.”
I handed her the bill. “She doesn’t know,” I was thinking, “how poor I actually am.” She couldn’t know that I was waiting for one job to start, waiting for someone at some desk somewhere to get to the paperwork necessary to close the deal. I was hoping a check I’d written would take a day or two longer to get back; I was hoping, worrying, taking small jobs to fill in. Then I thought about faith, and how we’d always survived; and how we’re tested, and how…
“Shit!” I’d allowed twenty dollars and fourteen cents worth of the high-priced fuel to be pumped; and couldn’t quite figure out how to make the switch. The woman saw me waving, alerted the counter guy. He switched the pumps.
“I had to do it,” I told myself, preparing for what I’d tell my wife. “Maybe she was really…”
The woman came back out, handed me my change. A five and three ones. Eight dollars.
“Thank you so much,” she said.
“Sure,” I said, draining the last of the fuel into the tank.
“You’re an Angel,” she said as she fondled the Lotto ticket I’d just bought her. “Wish me luck.”

Illustration for “You’re a writer, too… Right?”

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, mind surfing, northwest surfing, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, short stories on surfing, surf adventures, surf culture, surf stories, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing drawings, surfing in Washington State, surfing satire, surfing stories, surfing tales, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

It’s fiction. I wrote the piece first. I added the illustrations to the short story (next post down), and because I just can’t not edit, change, clarify, hopefully improve whatever I write (or draw, but can’t once the drawings have been scanned), I made a few changes.

Image (28)Partway through the drawing I decided to add the coffee. I totally lost control after that.

 

Image (29)

You’re a Writer too; Right?

Posted on by under mind surfing, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf satire, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing in Washington State, surfing novels, surfing satire, surfing stories, surfing tales, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

 

“Not professionally, not really. Not like you.”
“No,” he said, “what I am is under-fucking-employed.”
It was the wrong day; the swell at the wrong angle, size, and period; the wind and tide not optimal, the forecast slightly north of dismal; and it was rain just-warmer than snow. And it was dark. But, we both were available. We could go. We were going. He threw off the straps, loaded his (probably too short) short board on top of my (probably too big) board, threw the wet straps back at me. That I flinched amused him. I smiled as if I was also amused. And we were off.
“What I need,” he said, along the stretch that seems the most like freeway, more vehicles coming down the onramps, headed for work, “is a sponsor. All the great artists had…” His words faded off as he had to help me pour some coffee from my work thermos into my cup. “I envy those assholes who can just… write. Like it’s easy. Oh, they… I’ve seen these types; going to workshops, hanging out; so, so…But…” He removed the plastic lid and poured some coffee into his cup from some espresso stand he hit last night, “Maybe all real artists were, are, just as desperate as… how’s your work going?”
Maybe I mumbled. Maybe it mattered. Probably not. My work isn’t creative; at least he doesn’t think so. He interrupted whatever it was I tried to say.
“My work;” he said, tipping his coffee toward me like a toast, “it’s like… I mean I don’t have children… you do; it’s like my babies. I send something off and I worry, ‘is it allright? Did I say too much? Too descriptive? Not enough… enough…’ You get it, right?”
“Sure.” Sure.
“And it all… whether it goes somewhere, dies, all depends on some intern who probably doesn’t know shit, or give a shit, or even know something decent from some sort of, um, pedestrian, trite, tripe. Crap.” I just nodded. “You send any of your stuff off?”
“Not in a while. I send some to you.”
“Well. You know…” he exhaled as if he was already exasperated.”If you don’t… geez; is it all so precious?”
No. Not precious. “I’d say ‘high end mediocre.’ High end.”
“Well; dumb it down, dork. Readers want simple.”
“Yeah; but simple’s so, so hard.”
“Tell me about it. No, don’t; might be too complex and, you know, internal and shit.”

northwestWoodsnorthwestroadwoods
We disagreed on which route would get us through the traffic lights and school zones. I was driving. We went by my route, got stuck behind a bus for a block before I made a cut to a back road.
“It was breaking yesterday,” I said as we turned onto the coast road.
“Who said so?”
“I heard.”
“It’s just, some people exaggerate. If I trust their word… different story.”

Image (28)Image (29)

Though we couldn’t see the break from the muddy-rutted logging road, we had already seen there were signs of swell. “Might as well make the hike with the board,” he said as I threw the straps toward him. “Of course, easier to walk with my appropriately-sized board than…” He just pointed. I just smiled, tried to make my board seem lighter than it is, grabbed my backpack, locked the doors. We could hear the rhythm of distant waves while still walking on fairly level ground, a narrow path between trees, ferns and bushes, everything wet, and no fresh tracks.
“You know that story you emailed me?” It had been a while since I’d sent him anything. He was way too slow to reply; and never with anything close to praise. He paused as we negotiated a downed tree in the path, “The one about the, you know… all surfing stories are pretty much alike… huh?” He followed me down the bank, my board sliding as much as being carried. “I don’t want to get hit when you lose your big-ass board. In the water, either.”
I looked around, up. “Which story?”
“I’ll tell you later. Hey, is that a… whooo… wave?”
I won’t bore you with the session report. You might not trust my word. We didn’t talk about writing on the way home; nothing about precious words, nothing about other people deciding whether your words have value, nothing about how all surfing stories are, pretty much, alike.

Illustration for World Mind-Surfing League

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, mind surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf culture events, surf flyers, surf illustrations, surf satire, surf sessions, surf stories, surf-related comics, surfing, surfing art, surfing comics, surfing drawings, surfing satire, surfing Swamis, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

I’m going to insert this into the piece, but, since I have enough folks who get a message, psychic or over the mysterious intranet, when I post something new, I’m putting it here first. I’ve got a secret (okay, letting you in on it) plan to get this to the WSL, which I love (and was watching earlier, before the Seahawks game started. Wouldn’t it be great if they did a little skit where…

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…Hey, if you have some contacts… that’d be great. Greater. Also, I wouldn’t have finished the drawing if the surf had just cooperated and followed the forecast.

Semi-Finals, Mind-Surfing Championships, Live Now

Posted on by under mind surfing, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf culture events, surf satire, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing satire, Uncategorized

You’re switching from a site featuring photos of ‘mature’ nude women to WM-SL.com. “LIVE NOW” is flashing at the top of the page. You hit on a photo of perfect waves. It takes a long moment to buffer. Eventually, with a few stops and starts, an image of a man standing in a parking lot, most of the crowd obvious tourists, including an older (‘more mature’) couple with matching t-shirts reading, “Obviously we’re Tourists.” The angle moves in on an attractive man in his thirties, obviously unaware the show is about to start.

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JACK E. WILLIAMS (holds microphone close, wipes his eyebrow away from his right eye):
Oh. Hey. So, the second semi-final heat of the World Mind-Surfing Tour is about to start. Welcome to all you web and mind surfers, and to the crowd here in the parking lot at the edge of the cliff. Yes, we’re at Swamis, world famous point break in Encinitas, California. The surf is… how would you describe the conditions, Pete?
PETER POTTER (looking out at the lineup, eating a slice of pizza. He motions that he’s still eating, then spits pizza over the bluff):
Blown-out. Simple, Jackie; blown-the-hell-out. (pause) Um, it’s a boiling cauldron of mixed-direction swells. I mean; Surfline called it; six to eight south Chubasco-generated south swell, north-northwest Santa Annas howling, and a long-period northwest all the way from Alaska. It’s, I mean; it’s Swamis, for gosh sake, and no one’s out. (takes a bite of pizza) Back to you, Jack.
JACK (drops hand mirror from shot):
Peter, the field is down to four Americans. Oh, one’s from Hawaii; but, Pete; what happened to the Brazilians and the Haitians and that guy from Indonesia? And Don Reynolds, John-Jack; wildcard entries. None of them could make it out of the elimination heats.
PETER (wipes mouth with back of hand, hand on t-shirt):
Accents, Jackie. The judges couldn’t understand what they were saying. I mean, geez. Mumble mouth, shyness, that won’t get you to this level, Jackie. I mean, maybe you.
JACK (rolls his eyes):
Well; Peter, always real. Maybe too… hey; we’re going to get underway; this is a different game; the waiting is over. There’s tension, and we have waves, AND no one out to spoil the mind surfing… great. We’re now going to Brent Savage, over in the contestant’s area. Brent, are the semi-fnalist’s ready?
BRENT SAVAGE (older guy in Hawaiian shirt, glasses, standing next to the public bathrooms. He puts a woman’s purse behind his back):
Sure enough! Ready! Now, in semi-final one, Simpo Martinez narrowly defeated Sleeter Kenny, our wildcard entry from the northwest; great event for Sleeter; just… it was that floater into the inside rock finger, with the Hawaiian pullout… awesomely described… I mean, it was like you could see it; that gave Simpo the victory. Here’s the after-heat interview:
SALLY DeBOIS (very tall blonde, French accent):
So, Simpo; you took down a legend in the mind-surfing sport. It’s said Sleeter’s wave knowledge and experience in, um, challenging conditions, is… did I already say, ‘legendary?’
SIMPO MARTINEZ (with flower neck tattoo):
Um, yes. Uh, yeah; Sleeter; maybe this wasn’t his year; I, um, most definitely… all respect… he’s… yeah.
SALLY (moves in front of Simpo, looks at camera):
Yeah? I mean, that’s your answer? Yeah?
SIMPO (steps around Sally):
Yeah. Definitely.
SLEETER KENNY (about 60, with dark sunglasses, wearing a track suit, walking by, stops):
I’m coming back. Seriously. No. Wait. I’m through.(puts on hat that says, ‘FTS’) Fuck this shit!       SALLY (chuckles as Simpo reaches out for Sleeter’s hand, Sleeter smiles, shakes his head as if to suggest he’s just being dramatic:                                                                                                                         Back to you, Jackie-bird.                                                                                                                                      JACKIE (fakes shock, chuckles):
Okay; we’ll be seeing Simpo in the finals. Sleeter, greatest mind surfer of all time. I think he’ll be back. He personifies the sport. But first… Pete; re-introduce us to our semi-final contestants.
PETER (pouring beer into a red plastic cup):
Hey, Jackie; I’m… never mind. Look, web-lackys; and I do love re-explaining this all the (mutters) time. Slider Gustovson, from Oceanside… well, now Escondido; and Jay Coxworth, our Australian; have thirty-five minutes to describe what they’d be doing if they were actually in the water. The five judges, separated from the contestants and from the actual water, will view the surf on several monitors, each from a different camera angle. That way, reality and what’s being described; hopefully you get that. Not that you couch surfers get a vote. We had a drone, but it got too close to the Self Realization compound, the authorities were called, and, well, the footage is available on our site. Not pretty. Also, we didn’t think the nudies would be out around the point past Boneyards, what with the wind and all. (winks) Check my Facebook page, Droners.
JACK(checks out attractive woman in the parking lot as he looks out at the water, holding his hair down with one hand):
So, we’ll be in our roving WM-S League studio, seeing the same thing viewed by the judges AND the contestants; listening to the descriptions of each ride; seeing how the judges score. Roger Platnik, five time Mind Surfing Champion, will join me for analysis. After this break. So exciting.

swamisoverviewself realization
AN ADD FOR HANSEN SURFBOARDS starts and stops, ends with “We used to sell surfboards; now we’re all about the fashion; a few surfboards upstairs and on the world wide web.
A SHOT OF THE PARKING LOT shows three old vans and an even older RV, awnings connecting them, in the back corner. Jack pushes Brent out of the RV. Brent kicks the tires, pulls out and lights a cigarette. He opens the door and looks back into the RV. The woman Jack was checking out earlier, adjusting her top, steps out, then throws a kiss back inside, pauses for a moment, throws a kiss at Brent, hands him her purse, goes inside the RV.
A WORN KANVAS BY KATIN BANNER RIPS down the middle in the wind. two sides flapping.
THE SURF IS SHOWN, BIG AND BUMPY, BUT with some shape coming off the point.
SLIDER (voiceover): I’m on a 5’10” Hynson Fish, black, with all down-rails; and the extra flotation allows me to, it mitigates, one could say, the chop, as I paddle through. Ew, duck dive that one. And up.
JAY (voiceover): I’ve just switched to a Channel Island semi-gun, template taken from a classic Yater.  I think there’s a bit of Pat Curran in there. Sorry, Aussies; it’s, yes, Cal-i-for-ni-an. I’ve just paddled past Slider, out and around, and I’m going to take a chance on the inside break. A little bit cleaner, perhaps. (breathing a bit heavier) The wind is just brutal. Thankfully, I’m wearing my new O’Neill Windbreaker hood. Yeah, also Californian.
PETE: Geez; have you seen these guys? I mean, fuckin’ Slider is old and fat and no way he… what? Oh. Okay. Sorry. I just… (cuts off).
SLIDER: here’s… second wave of the set; clean, backlit; I’m…(breathing)… I take off late, in the shadows, drop… freefall… connect; cranking it… vertical; slam off the heavy lip. OW! trying… my fins are free; side-slipping, my right hand deep in the wall; no! Tucking-in. Owwww! And out! Cranking, everything onto the rail. Yes! Back up, pull it off the foam; down again. I aim for the shoulder as another section grows, opens…
JAY (talking over Slider): It’s an outsider. No, it was a ploy; I’m hitting the long section, driving straight off the roll-in whitewater takeoff. Will I connect with the… pumping, a long floater off the roof; down swoop, set my eye on the…
SLIDER: Hey, Jay; you didn’t have time to get outside; Wanker. Meanwhile, I’m still going, a few jukes and go for the nose on the rock ledges inside. So clean, so…                                                                       JACK (breathing heavily):                                                                                                                                        Oh, oh! Amazing! What did you think, Roger… Platnick… Plats? (pause) And, um, where are you, Plats? PLATS: Upper bunk, Jackie. Watching the show. Here, let me turn on my, um, actual camera.
THE VIDEO FREEZES. It may never recover. You switch to PETERPOTTERPUNTS.com, see a still aerial shot of the old couple on the beach, pulling off their t-shirts. You wait a moment, open another bag of cheetos, then hit the arrow.                                                                                                                         The next day, on the site, there’s an update. An interference by Jay Gustavson, Slider goes on to the finals, the finals then put on hold due to the surf cleaning-up and fifty surfers heading out. Photos of the contestants are from years past, though a rival website, Wasted Mind Surfing.org, shows the actual surfers. Brutal. Keep mind-surfing; we’re all champions.

MEANWHILE- while I’m working on a drawing, Happy Thanksgiving. No Hate, No Fear. I spent a lot of last Thanksgiving watching the currently-on-hold Target Pro from Honolua Bay. I actually love that the WSL allows the rest of us to watch quality surfing and, yes, do some mind surfing ourselves.