EASY? Maybe. Sometimes summertime is busy; I have a lot going on. I’m sure you do, also. Part of my frustration is just trying to get some of my work (real job, painting contractor in the limited season in the Great Northwest) done. More work, less time… frustrating. Not haviing the tine to go into detail here, writing being one of my joys (surfing- yes and no, no time to go all the way to the coast.
Dru and I have been trying to take care of Trish during her sloooow recovery from the aftereffects of chemo and radiation. Trish has turned a corner; she’s getting stronger; less chemo fog; but she is still limited in mobility. She can’t be left alone for extended periods. And shouldn’t be.
While I’m trying to finish jobs, Dru is in the middle of the CONCERT season for the OLYMPIC MUSIC FESTIVAL. Not sure what her official title in running the non-music part of the non-profit is, but… Example- She worked until 11:30 PM last night, and had to be back in Port Townsend by 7:50 AM to open the WHEELER THEATRE at FORT WORDEN for the piano tuner. Concert this afternoon. Paper work until… Same schedule tomorrow.
Some of the musical activities take place at ARCADIA, just out of town. This is one of few remaining serigraphs I did of the venue, back in the late 1980s. I found it and some other prints in the attic a few years ago. I’m posting it here so Dru can show… whoever.
I have to go. Hope you’re surfing, hanging, bobbing in the water; enjoying summer.
I will update from the tablet. Later. Oh, and it’s my birthday on Monday. 40th anniversary of turning 35.
I have been too busy to do work on my latest (theoretically/optimisticly finished) rewrite of my novel. OR it has been low on my priority list. HOWEVER AND ALWAYS, thoughts about it pop up. This needs more, this less. One thought that recurs is that my first chapter is, possibly, too cool. I claim to hate cuteness and too-cuteness; but there it is. Dialogue without stage direction I insist is enough.
SO, I may cut it out entirely. NO, NO, not that; I will move it to CHAPTER IV as an alternative.
Check it out. Thanks. Is today, or is every day INTERNATIONAL SURFING DAY?
Yeah, I am still working on it. Possibly the only advantage of taking so damn long on the novel is that new things come to me, little details I can inject into the story. Here’s one I haven’t added. Yet: A somewhat crazed guy hanging out every evening at sunset talks to Joey with some wild and poetic descriptions. If Joey seems insufficiently impressed, it might be a worthwhile addition to have him mention this.
I will get back to this when I get the image (copyright protected) reversed, black to white. This doesn’t mean I won’t make other changes. In fact, that’s guaranteed. See you!
UPDATES- NONE at the moment- Saturday, July 18.BUT…
Skip Frye and I, Skip Frye and Me- Several Anecdotes
INTRO-
A sudden, not-going-to-last obsession with classic surfer Skip Frye was triggered by an episode of “Pinch my Salt” showing up on YouTube. I’m fine watching a snippet of the pretty smarmy Sterling Spencer, but I’m never ready to spend an hour plus watching… anyone. This is what fast forward is for.
This episode promised an interview with Skip; but it did start without him. So, fast forward; though I had to watch a portion where Sterling claimed someone ‘picked his pocket.’ It turned out to be a not unusual ‘chat and steal.’ One of my standard moves. Or so I’ve been told.
Then, on to the interview. If someone personifies an eighty-three-year-old lifetime (not Skip’s, probably yours) San Diego surfer, no one better fills the role than Mr. Frye. The hosts were respectful, though Skip was pushed to say something negative about soft tops (he said someone gave him one, but he’d never ride it), surfers who put their names on popouts (almost did because Donald Takayama wanted him to make some real money, but died before it might, or might not have happened), and modern surfing competition, the toughest and truest thing he would say, though he did contests, is that the one winner ruthlessness takes something away from what is often referred to as soul surfing.
Skip, who tries to turn out six boards a week, none cheap, all highly sought after, is still the epitome of soul. Surfing or otherwise.
The other guy on the podcast, Sterling’s cousin Ryan Spencer, asked the viewers to pleas be nice to Skip in the comments. I checked. Not a negative comment in the bunch, and, when Skip pulled out a harmonica at the end and played a mellow version of, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” well, people broke into tears. Or so they said.
TAMARACK, 1965-
My family (seven kids, our mom) was parked in the lower lot, as always. I was a total beginner/kook, just switching over from mat to board. I was probably still sharing my older sister’s (Suellen’s) 9’4” stock Hobie. There had been some sort of contest. Surfers and their entourages were loading up, ready to head home. “Skip was robbed!” “Skip should’ve won!”
I have this image, real or not, in my permanent files: A blond-haired guy shrugging off the comments meant to reassure him.
PACIFIC BEACH, SAN DIEGO- 1971-1973- Later. I gotta go. But, coming… STEALING a design from TOM MOREY, surfing from Tourmaline to Crystal Pier ala Skip, finding nuggets in a crowded lineup, soul arching, ala Skip, just for the fun of it.
The Morey-Pope WATERSKATE, produced by Gordon & Smith; probably shaped by SKIP FRYE.
ULTRA CLASSIC TRIO- Photo by RON STONER, MICHAEL HYNSON paddling out, and SKIP (never not in trim) SKIP FRYE soul arching at THE RANCH.
I want to stress that I have been doing some research on this stuff. I have always been intrigued by the Hynson/Frye friendship, partially because they seem like such different individuals. If I give Hynson a lot of credit for downrail surfboards, prove me wrong. It was interesting to learn, from the podcast, that they were riding boards Michael had shaped for the 1966 Duke Kahanamoku contest. Cool.
The photographer, abovve, some of her work, below.
I am writing something about how addictive INSTAGRAM is, but, while scrolling (and, can’t help it), and (occasionally) commenting, I came across some incredible photographs of the open ocean; the chaos and the power and the beauty, taken by Rachael Talibart. I HAD to comment. The first comment on a collection of black and white images, which I self-borrowed from a possibly edited-out quote from Ruth DeFreines in my novel, “SWAMIS,” (note the self promotion here- not there) was, “Our minds fill in the colors.” It got a like/heart (part of the addictiveness).
I, of course, had already hit ‘Follow,’ so I got more posts from @rachaeltalibart. I sent a comment saying I would love to include some of her work on my HUMBLE (not by design) blog, and she ‘replied’ it was fine if I include a working link to her website.
This linking is tough for me. I will get my daughter, Dru, to assist.
What interests me is figuring out what kind of person chases storms to capture the previously mentioned power and chaos and beauty, the source of what surfers seek, groomed-out and organized, of course. NOT a lot of bio stuff readily available. Rachael lives in the south of England, gets seasick, and takes on extreme weather so folks can look at the images (she has a book, “Sirens) in comfort, perhaps with one of them as a sort of window, framed and hanging in a formal room.
Anyway, thank you, Rachael. Heart/like.
Meanwhile, I’m getting my works together and planning on having Dru help with the formatting, pre-publishing stuff for my upcoming (I promise) collection, “Love Songs for Cynics.”
I do have some newly added Original Erwin additions on my other pages (nothing on the political or religious front at the moment), so check that out if you get a chance. Contact- erwin@realsurfers.net, Instagram- realsurfersdotnet. AND thanks, as always, for spending. a little time at my humble (not by design) site. GET SOME WAVES!
I was working in Port Angeles all week, never had (or gave myself) a chance to even check out the surf; but, then, wait for it (I have), I went. Yeah, I joined the seeming caravan of time-offers and weekenders and vacationers headed toward the Olympic Peninsula, home to the Olympic Mountains, named, appropriately, after the mythical home of the mythical gods. It’s like… Nirvana, with a different lineup (do I have to add ‘not the bend? Probably). Yeah, and there’s, like forests and… lakes, and… It is enticing, entrancing, inviting those stuck on I-5 to drive however many hours to get here. And the weather has just been so… Southern California-ISH. Not that I’m complaining.
This was a side project. I was painting an ADU on the Port Angeles property. Someone else cut out the trees a while back. The homeowner, who has a lot off artsy stuff going on, gave me free reign. Thanks.
The job done, I traded ladders for a thrashed out board, and headed back north. It’s not that I want to share the road OR the waves. Dawn patrolling might help. Still, I worry. I am still trying to get past a severe thrashing from mid-winter, and have had few opportunities to rebuild my. confidence. What if, I was thinking on the way up Surf Route 101, it’s closed out and crowded and… ?And then, when I arrived… no worries; no ‘got to go NOW’ conditions. Barely breaking. It was a ‘it might get better’ situation, so, normal. Not crowded… yet. No side wind. Yet. I took my time, chatted with PA locals, Bill Truckenmueller (sp?) and his son, who talked about how the day before was better, and never got out of their van, and told me they were leaving as a sacrifice to the swell gods. “Thanks. I’ll let you know what you missed next time I see you.”
Parked in my favorite spot was THOR. I’ve surfed with him quite a few over the years. He said the previous day started similarly weak and inconsistent, and got better. The last time I saw Thor was at the Lower Elwha gas station. He had just suffered a serious injury. He’s fully recovered now. I filled him in on what is happening with me. I did, because I do, mention this blog. “You. mean your personal complaint department?” ‘Huh? What? Um, yeah.”
Still taking my sweet time getting suited up, a rig pulled up next to me, two young (relatively) men jumped out, instantly started putting fins on their fancy wood boards. Just making conversation, because ERWIN TALKS TO STRANGERS, I mentioned their parking gave themselves plenty of room, but they could have parked closer, allowing the next folks room. “No.” Okay. No disagreeing. I asked one of them how long he’d been surfing. “A while.” “Oh. Did you, like, start during Covid?” “Give me a break.” “Okay, so… adult learner. Surf school.” No answer. “It’s pretty flat. Hobuck’s probably big. Maybe you should go there.” The other guy came around the corner, turning his Patagonia wetsuit rightsideout while doing modified squats. “Why don’t you go, then?” “Too far. Too scary.” “Sure.” Possible sarcasm. “Um, where’d you, if I might ask, come from?” No answer. “I live in Quilcene. It’s down the canal.” “Okay. Sure.” Somewhere it was revealed they were from Kirkland. “Might be bigger there,” one of the Kirkland dudes said before he raced his friend toward the water.
It’s fine that, when flipping friendly-ish shit, some gets flipped back. The test of surfing is in the water. By the time I got out, there were five or six other surfers out. Long boards. I took off on a wave, not believing (or looking) behind me. “Hey!” A guy on a green longboard, who wasn’t on the wave, yelled, “You have to look. That’s it! You get. one. drop-in!” He paddled out. I paddled out. He back paddled me. Evidently backpaddling was acceptable. Fine. Game on!
I don’t mean to overdramatize this; not high tension. Just, with not-great waves, kind of unnecessary.
There were some other ‘your wave, my wave’ things happening over the course of the session, but I didn’t have any other disputes with the unofficial regulator. He did continue to backpaddle, I played my game, managed to get some rides I was really happy with. Meanwhile, the Kirkland guys did not dominate. The lineup had the usual small day ratio of beginners to experienced surfers, and I noticed several of the guys in the water looked… similar. We all want to identify who, in the water, is going to blow a takeofff, who is a bit too aggressive; all of which helps us catch more waves and stay out of trouble. Maybe. Plus, it’s not cool to stare at your. competition. Or talk too much.
None of these societal restraints kept me from paddling over and making a comment to the large (not that I’m small) woman with a bright red, full-brimmed hat on. It seemed, not staring, that it was attached to a hood. Maybe it just had a very practical chin strap. “You’re doing your best to avoid cancer,” I said. “I’m trying.” She took off on a wave, went straight, and two other women, with similar hats, about to paddle out, hooted, wildly, as if their friend had won the contest. Perhaps she had. We are all competing in our minds. Aren’t we?
I managed to outlast the green board enforcer, but he did paddle out next to Thor, and, possibly because Thor was, my assessment, the best surfer out at this time, engaged him in conversation. I mentioned that when the waves dropped back to minimal as the tide drained out. “Yeah, I told him you’re old, you have really bad knees, your wife is battling cancer, and you should give you a break.” “Thanks, Thor, but… about those two times you burned me…” “Oh, one was for the guy you burned, and the other… It was my one free burn.” Fair. Enough.
I had to take this photo. The guy sat there a while, looking like Rodin’s “The Thinker.” I asked if he was thinbking, “Damn, should have gotten here earlier.” “No, I was thinking… maybe it’ll get better.” Eventually. Yes.
Contact- erwin@realsurfers.net
Instagram- realsurfersdotnet
Thanks; catch some waves when you can, limit your dropins, backpaddle at will, keep it friendly, keep it fun. But, FUCK CANCER!
Oh, shit! I forgot. I do have some new ORIGINAL ERWIN illustrations. I will post them soon.
…traffic. Now, I love the vview from the Hood Canal Bridge as much as anyone, and, though I am grateful I no longer commute regularly to the other side, I may have a bit o an issue when, trying to get back, I am 13th in line for a bridge closure to allow a sailboat to get back to the north side. And then, under power, the sightseer takes his or her sweet time getting through the opening (Yeah, for tourists, the floating bridge is open when it’s closed and closed when it’s open).
Meanwhile, cars and busses and Walmart semis and Amazon delivery vans and tourists and I are waiting. I shut the engine off (many didn’t), called Trish, and said I really wanted to get close enough to yell at the sailer, not that I, even with my lost at sea. voice, could. “No, no, don’t do that!”
Okay, but, maybe, there should be a… dealie; like, if you’re enoying the splendors of the wilder lower canal (for tourists, it isn’t a canal; there’s an end. Waterway cul-de-sac), you should stay until… I don’t know, not Monday morning when workers need to get to jobs.
I guess one brighter side is that I was on the bridge, and not stuck behind a tour bus-sized motorhome pulling a Mad Max rig, that rig holding the electric bikes and Kayaks, and, worse, surfboards. I was packing ladders, so… that might make me a tiny bit jealous. Maybe.
Meanwhile, I finally posted a Dylan 85th birthday video I filmed a couple of weeks ago. Find it on the gram at realsurfersdotnet. Like, comment, follow. Not mandatory. I’ve spent too much time scrolling and commenting; sniping and attempting cleverness. It’s not (for tourists) real life.
Contact- erwin@realsurfers.net
“SWAMIS” note- I keep thinking about subtle changes to my otherwise done novel. Because I am also trying to keep a bit of a journal on some dreams, I went to sleep in that ‘one more hour’ portion of the night/dawn considering the real life location in which I have fictional character Julie Cole living. It is across Highway 101 and the railroad tracks, up the hill, and offers a view of the entrance to the Swamis parking lot and a chance to see swells approaching. In 1969, the time in which the story is set, there was still a pullout adjacent to the park. Houses now.
In this dream, I am on that hill. I see waves, surfers. I tell Trish I have to go. Now. Now! I’m running down through the scrub brush, onto the gravel, across the tracks, and… I did warn you that it was a dream. I mean, me, running.
In real life, the last time I surfed Pipes, I did park up and above the tracks. I didn’t run.
NOTE- Dreaming about surfing is not a replacement for surfing. Following every real surfer on Instagram, also not a replacement. Still… part of surfing is imagining oneself… surfing. The harder part is getting there, getting out, getting in position, paddling… That.
Thanks for checking out realsurfers. If you can’t be perfect, be real.
I included these as part of my resume’, that part of my submission for the mural project at the Seamus Skate Park in Port Townsend. It’s, top to bottom: Original sign on 101 originally done as a (winning) entry in a post card contest at the Quilcene Village Store; rainbow on. gable of house on San Juan in Port Townsend; stripes and lettering in Quilcene gymnasium; surfboard and panel in Joel Carben’s collection; fence at PT’s Memorial Field; repaint of mural on Peninsula Foods; original. mural on. the Quilcene. Historical Museum.
Restricted in the number of images, this was the entire portfolio, with, of course, stories.
I did write some stuff, because having a connection to the skater community seemed to be part of what the deciders were looking for, revealing my last century street/skate cred. Skateboarding, for a kid twenty miles from Oceanside Pier, slaloming down the hills of Fallbrook, was so much a part of my surfing that… Yeah, I’ll get back to you on that, including my experience, in my twenties, living in Pacific Beach, San Diego, with the resurgence of skateboarding.
MEANWHILE, I’ve added another page to cover stories and dreams I really enjoy writing about. Check it out. I keep talking to strangers, keep dreaming, so… more stories.
Contact- erwin@realsurfers.net
InstaGram- realsurfersdotnet
Trish Update- Slow recovery, stronger everyday. If she has some chemo fog, so do I. Fuck Cancer!
Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net, see. you out on Surf Route 101!
I have done a few drawings lately. I need to get them to a print shop to reduce the size to work with my printer/scanner. At least one drawing is for a potential Original Erwin coloring book. Several are for a potential collection of poems and essays, “Love Songs or Cynics.” To that end, I contacted Port Townsend’s new Poet Laureate, and got her permission to send her some samples of my writing. The goal, for me, is to get some traction within the communty of serious writers.
Traction? Serious writing? What the fuck do I know about any of this? “Swamis” is done. This version. I haven’t looked at in a while; and I keep thinking about little changes I should make to make it better. Sellable. Marketable.
I am, meanwhile, trying to process not making the top three finalists among 17 submissions for a mural project at the Seamus Skate Park in Port Townsend. I wanted the opportunity. There is a ridiculous amount of money involved. For artists, almost all of whom paint and draw for little or no money, little or no recognition, so much of what is produced getting a quick glance, maybe a nod, this is a rare offer.
There’s a story of what was required in the submission process. To this point, the emphasis was not on ideas and visuals for the murals but on experience in doing this type of work. I believed, or wanted to believe, that 57 years (as of yesterday) as a professional sign painter, regular painter, might help. But, not having initially read the entire requirement page, I went full on into thinking about possibilities, doing sketches. Then, with so much help from my daughter, Dru, I worked on my resume’.
Again, processing; I got the email late last night. So, whining. Apologies. Submissions. Submitting, by definition, means you are being judged, that you have no control. No, it comes down to what is being judged. Part of the deal. Not good enough. Not what the deciders are looking for.
So?
So… I have to go. There’s a house to paint. I submitted a proposal, as I do, and, yeah, I got another job.
I’ll get some new stuff on here. Soon. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net
I’m almost finished with this sign down Linger Longer Road in Quilcene. Suddenly, the town on Surf Route 101 I’ve lived in almost 48 years, is hip, cool; hip and cool go there. On purpose. And, with rich folks building mansions on Olympic foothill acreage, there has been an influx of a young demographic.
You can cruise on the massive, wonder of a bridge, just opened, that goes over the remodeled lower stretch of the Big Quilcene River/flood plain, cruise along the mud flats of Quilcene Bay (filled in at high tide with water warm enough in summer to allow swimming sans wetsuit), and, just before you get to the oyster hatchery and Herb Beck Marina, check it out. Am I trying to blow up the spot? Maybe.
If Surfing Fills a Hole…
If surfing fills a hole in your life, possibly in your soul; if your self-image and the image you’ve worked for and work to project is that of a person who surfs, a surfer, with any and all of the real or romanticized attributes given, and appreciated even by the most random, holiday surfer; if you live for and lust after waves, fun-sized to crazy to death barrels; if you are that person, and you can’t surf for a while, as in longer than it took for you to recover from this or that medical setback, or a work or situation-caused injury that required time away from waves; if you cannot surf… what fills that hole?
Stories of past glories are not enough. Enough retellings of even the most mundane tales of riding spots now incredibly crowded on even an average day sound exaggerated. Or worse. Even surfers your age might question whether your authenticity. Young surfers will dismiss you and your tales, just as you put little faith in the stories told by people over thirty when you were under twenty.
Still, people riding emptier lineups, even on pre-revolution boards… that’s something. Memories have value. Times edits out those that don’t.
Yeah. I’m writing about surfing instead of doing more surfing. I have excuses and explanations and situations, and, mostly, or partially, I have a lot of other things I have to do; most of which interfere with other things I want to do.
Surfing is on the ‘want to do’ list. There is that hole, that desire.
“When I was younger,” a sentence begging to be ignored or half-listened to begins, I was critical of surfers who weren’t frothing to go out on waves I couldn’t resist. But then, and now, I tried to adjust my life, or, at least, my schedule, to allow the opportunity, and, non-epic waves, enough of them, with, maybe, that one sneaker barrel… worth it.
Most of my contemporaries are not surfing. Kudos to the ones who are.
A good friend, legendary (I try not to over or misuse that description) gave up (not ‘quit’) surfing a few years ago. Bad shoulders, bad knees, crowds. Age. Mix and match. He told me that he says, if asked, that he loves surfing, always will, but, luckily, he has a lot of other activities and responsibilities that keep him occupied. He may have said fulfilled.
Still, I have seen other, most-likely retired folks, and this was a while ago, at Pipes, hanging on the fence, looking at other surfers paddle and bob and blow takeoffs and ride awkwardly, and I thought how lucky they were. Then Ray and I walked down and paddled out.
The hole. I am fond of thinking that it’ll always be there, as filled in as best I could; still anticipating the next session.
Lucky me.
Contact- erwin@realsurfers.net
Instagram- realsurfersdotnet
Check out the other Pages, including the newly-added PAGE VI, a collection of my original art works. I have been working on a collection of poetry/songs/stories, with a plan to publish it. Soon.
I have a new copyright for “Swamis,” the novel, mostly because I’vve gotten a bit more protective, partially because it is so different than the draft currently copyrighted. The above story is, as all original works by me, protected under copyright, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
Thanks for checking out realsurfers. Get some waves, make some memories, live your own story.
Real Surfers 