Category Archives: “Swamis” the novel

Of Course it’s Cool to be a Surfer, and…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, short stories on surfing, surf addiction, surf contests, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing, women surfers in the Northwest,, writings of Erwin Dence

…what is really important, if one of the supporting columns of your self image is that you are a surfer (hence part of the could-be-more-inclusive club), to be recognized as a surfer is quite obviously way better than being seen as, let’s say, because you are standing at the edge of an increasingly busy surf spot, fully dressed in your “I’m going to Costco outfit, and, yes, Walmart, on my way home, and, incidentally, I already surfed somewhere else (and I ripped, if I do say so myself), and I’m only here to make sure my friends who I know are here, because I saw their rigs on the road, and people have been known to exaggerate;” and, it seems, most of the surfers arriving or departing, some in groups, don’t recognize you, and you are, yes, old, and yes, kind of chunky… there might be some assumption on the part of these surfers, almost all of whom give you at least a nod, which is, at least, some sort of acknowledgement that you might not be some sort of pervert, having anyone believe that you are not, indeed, a real surfer, a member of the select group of proud wave riding enthusiasts might be… hurtful.

It’s really not worth defending yourself. Yes, I tried. True confession: Yes, I still try to convince people, surfers and non-surfers, that I have surfed and continue to surf.

Because my being forced to view myself as a greeter is based on a recent incident, I should add that on the same day I walked along the beach to where a better vantage point was available to check out the corner section of a long and closed out wall. The up the line view. A man was there, kicked back on a big driftwood log. I joined him. I, of course, got into my favorite game, “Who do you know?” It’s really, “Who do we know in common?” It turns out he is one of the pioneers of surfing in the northwest, Bill Truckenmiller. I had heard the name, most notably from Tom Burns, and have probably surfed with him. He is a few years older than me and has had issues with his shoulders. Common issue. He hasn’t surfed in a while but hasn’t given up on it. And he was checking out the surf from a great angle.

I have heard of surfers who, unable to surf for any number of reasons, want to be as far away from surf as possible. I haven’t met any of them.

SALLY FITZGIBBONS WATCH- I’ve kind of gotten onto this rooting for Sally thing; didn’t mean to, but, since I left the Margaret River contest on the big screen the other evening, went to sleep, woke up, watched Sally and Betty Lou Sakura Johnson, top two finishers at the Gold Coast contest, get sent to the elimination round. With THE CUT imminent, the next heat is vital, the stakes are high. I was ready to watch it unfold yesterday, 4:15 pm, PDST, but no; on hold. So, maybe today, Sally will not throw everything at each wave, and… we’ll see. On the men’s side… hard to keep track. But, there’s a reason why sports are best live.

Not promoting the WSL on purpose. Proof- Every venue has a particular setup. The judging seems to favor a certain approach to the wave; pretty much two turns on the outside, big finishing move. There is a redundancy to the whole thing, heightened when the surf is manufactured. Surf to the criteria, crank a bit harder turn, play the priority game. The game remains the same.

SURF AURA- I spend an inordinate amount of time pondering the allure of surfing, the pride one has in being counted as a surfer. There is, of course, the absolute bliss of getting an unexpectedly great ride and the hope for another. And another. But… are any of us better people because we did what it takes to be decent at paddling, at wave selection, at timing, at cranking a turn or staying this much closer to the power of a wave?

If I may make a sort of political comparison (not that I’m all that political), I heard something about MAGA folks and how resistant they are to believing they are supporting policies that are detrimental to the country, of course, and detrimental to the demographic they are part of (if they are blue collar workers, or social security/medicare beneficiaries, or veterans, or… okay, pretty much anyone who isn’t in the top, say 10% percent, income-wise); the point being made being they believe they are part of some group that actually knows more than the ‘elitists,’ which is, possibly, code for knowledgeable folks. SO, there’s a certain smugness, a certain arrogance that is very difficult to break through.

SO, does a surfer have to be smug and, possibly, arrogant?

ANSWERS: “No, but it doesn’t hurt;” or “Yes, it is part of the reward for challenging the ocean;” or “Yes, but the humbling reality is the ocean kind of levels this out; but still, yes;” or “Who the hell are you to ask me that?”

SALLY FITZ/Contest update: While I was pondering and writing, and taking a couple of phone calls, and drinking more coffee, and checking the buoys, I checked with the WSL; the contest is on hold until at least tomorrow. Oh, the anticipation.

WRITINGS of Erwin Dence update: No, I haven’t been working on a couple of little changes to “Swamis,” and no, I haven’t done more on “Love Songs for Cynics,” and no, I haven’t drawn anything for a while, BUT I did write a short story with characters from “Swamis,” particularly Joseph Atsushi DeFreines. It, like the other projects mentioned, is not quite ready. Hopefully by Wednesday.

SHIT! I gotta go. If you see waves… you know what to do. As far as arrogance goes; I’m holding on to mine as long as I can. If or when it gets to the point I can no longer float or bob or catch a wave, I’ll still have that knowledge that I almost learned the secret.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net See you out there!

And… greetings.

It’s a Story Either Way

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf contests, surf culture, surf satire, surfing, surfing stories, writings of Erwin Dence

Watercolor skies, hazy sunshine, and, not shown, tourists behaving like they just, like, always go to the beach, always stand on the bluff, a hand shading their eyes, looking over the conditions. This act, one might consider while wondering if any of the wavelets wistfully washing over the rocks are rideable; is it some ancient and instinct-driven holdover, some bowing to the ocean, from whence all… No, probably not that, it’s just folks posing as seafarers before challenging the elements, taking off their shoes, rolling up their pants legs, holding someone’s hand as they go looking for colorful rocks, all the while while dodging the seaweed and the driftwood and the other revelers, all the while skirting the dying energy of long-traveled waves, the scallops of foam pushing up and… “Damn, that water’s cold!” “What time’s the next ferry running, Honey?”

I should have no problems with tourists and sunny day beach visitors; I was kind of wishing I had a dash cam; saw a dude inn total Huck Finn mode; straw hat, peddle pushers, possible piece of reed in his mouth, possibly whistling: I saw a woman seemingly, this based on her choice of outfit, displaying her extensive leg tattoos while walking her dog (no visible green poop bag in hand), I saw a woman with a green poop bag and no dog, picking up scraps of papers that blew out of people’s cars (not mine- this time); I saw a lot of chunky folks (not that I’m not), and, oh yeah, I did see a bride (this because of her oversized white dress) getting her photo taken. Maybe they were planning on adding the groom (I didnn’t see one) later- trick photography, AI.

Also, while hanging around, scanning the horizon, watching what may have been a slow motion sailboat race, trying to conjure up anything lined up or just decent, wave-wise, a guy, a car with three dogs inside cruised up, one car between us, The non-dog passenger looked at me with an oversized smile. “What are you smiling at?” “Well, I’ve never seen an SUP so thrashed.” “Thank you. I put every ding on it… probably hit every rock on the Strait.” Perhaps it was this obvious exaggeration that prompted him to say, “Hey, I know who you are.” “Oh?” It turns out Aaron (hope I got this right; and, no, not shortboard Aaron- Chef Aaron) is part of the Olympic Peninsula paddleboard scene, possibly builds SUPs, AND is known for bringing food to homeless encampments, stuff like that. “Pleasure to meet you,” I said, maybe; even more of a pleasure to know Chef Aaron is out doing good works.

I went a little too descriptive on describing the scene on a sunny spring Saturday. I’m trying to think a bit more poet-ish. I attended a poetry reading at the Port Townsend Public Library on Thursday, mostly (no, totally) because I want to present some of my stuff there, and this requires being invited by the official PT Poet Laureate, Conor. Since I already e-mailed him some stuff and missed my chance before the readings got under way, I was required to sit in the back, not hear a lot of the poems (they had a microphone, could have, like, moved it closer to their mouths). According to the library manager, surfer Keith Darrock, I was unable to not fidget, and, how did I know that turning off the rinng tone didn’t stop the volume when I thought I’d watch a few heats from the WSL Bell’s Beach contest. Rude. Philistine-like behavior. Uncultured.

Yeah. I thought poets are supposed to be rude if not drunks and/or otherwise deviants.

WSL WHINING- Yes, Sally Fitz got kind of screwed in her heat. It seems, to commenters on any WSL video, that someone is getting over or under scored. Yes. Always, at every level of almost any subjectively-judged competition. Great story when Sally beat current leader, Caitlin Simmers, and she wasn’t underscored in the heat with Brisa Hennessy (and this is a separate argument from the one in which a nine point ride for a woman would be a six pointer for a man- not arguing that, but I do make an exception for Stephanie Gilmore), it’s just that the story for Brisa was that her mother was on the beach AND it was her mother’s birthday. My belief: It’s a story either way.

WSL NON-WHINING- I was talking to Randall, fellow ex-North County surfer. He had also been watching some of the WSL coverage. ‘Did you notice that Encinitas local Jake Marshall was doing really well?” “I did.” We both agreed that he did well because Bells is so much like SWAMIS. “And Caity does so well because… Oceanside; and… ordinarily I’d root for her, but…” “Hey, Erwin, I’ve gotta go.”

SURF ROUTE 101 STUFF-

If you’re cruising up or down 101, before or after stopping in at HamaHama Oyster Company, check out the Historical museum in Quilcene, just off the highway on Center Road. I just added this. ALSO, if you can get behind a log truck, empty or loaded, rather than any sort of RV or anyone towing a boat or a trailer, or both, you’ll get there faster.

SURF REPORT- I almost surfed almost waves. Others did better… elsewhere. “SWAMIS” and ARTWORK REPORT- I haven’t worked on the last touches on the novel; I haven’t done any drawing since I did a couple of illustrations at Les Schwab while waiting for my tire to be replaced. Couldn’t find the tablet immediately this morning. Next time.

LATEST POEM/SONG-

BETWEEN ALONE AND LONELY There is time to reconsider, All the pieces you have scattered from your jigsaw puzzle life, The pieces you’ve discarded from your jigsaw puzzle life, Your jigsaw puzzle life, Jigsaw puzzle life.

Between love and rejection, Meditation, introspection, It’s hard to turn away from bridges you had never meant to burn, You’ve found someone to blame for all the bridges you have burned, The bridges you have burned, Bridges you have burned.

Between midnight and morning, There are whispers in the kitchen, There are shadows on the ceiling, there are footsteps in the hall, Soft whispers, shadows, footsteps that you cannot quite explain, You cannot quite explain, Cannot quite explain.

Between pride and delusion, If you listen in the stillness, There are answers to the questions you’ve been too. afraid to ask, And long-discarded pieces of your jigsaw life, Your jigsaw puzzle life, Jigsaw puzzle life,

Between alone and lonely in your jigsaw puzzle life.

FUTURE POEM/SONGS- “And Then There’s Music,” more. THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT realsurfers.net. All. content on this post by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. All rights reserved.

SOMETIMES YOU GET WAVES, SOMETIMES THE WAVES GET YOU, sometimes you paddle out, paddle around, paddle back in. It’s a story either way.

Stitches and Protests and Poetry, Oh My

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf culture, surf fiction, surfing stories, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

Update on Sally Fitzgibbons- Out off the El Salvador contest. Damn! Not that I typically root for Lakey Peterson, raised in a house on the point at Rincon (possibly- her mother lives there, so I’m, yeah, assuming), but she was eliminated in a tight heat, and was, as shown on WSL footage on YouTube, visibly upset. Since I seem to have hopes for surfers based on age and, to a lesser degree, niceness, perceived or real; I guess I’m hoping Tyler Wright continues on, quite possibly eliminated by… Caitlin Simmers. Yes, a prediction. Or maybe the inheritor of the Stephanie Gilmore grace and power school; you know… Pickles.

On the mens’ side, someone from Brazil, home of endlessly, and, it seems desperately competitive and acrobatic surfing. Or Griffin, end result of coaching, video feedback, and the surfing equivalent of studying-to-the-test; not that he isn’t good or that his path to success isn’t legitimate. Or difficult.

No, of course I wouldn’t be worried about surfing contests, or spending too much time watching YouTube content by Jamie and Nate and Mason, sometimes lesser social media stars, or watching another ‘Maps to Nowhere’ video, or cursing at the tablet or the phone or the laptop because the fucking angle of the promised swell is wrong, wrong, wrong, AND the size of the swell is disappointingly not as promised; I’d worry about none of that if I was out in the water, concentrating on waves and not even thinking about how fucking much avocados and coffee are going to cost when I cruise through Costco on my way home. I also would not wonder why, with the barrel price of oil having dropped ten dollars, why, why, why the pump price hasn’t dropped.

Ah, surfing, where we can forget the world, and worry about how a drop-knee turn is as good as a kick stall, and wonder why what was once called a roller coaster is now referred to as a re-entry, and contemplate on how long it’s been since we’ve seen a reverse kickout with amplitude. Oh, and while scanning the horizon for a three wave set, we might not worry about just how far the stock market is going to fall on Monday. And, besides that…

CHRIS EARDLEY, Olympic Peninsula ripper and occasional surf traveler, may have been more concerned about the rip and the raggedy rocks than the possibility of getting hit in the face by his board at a notoriously sketchy break. Well. It happens. Chris was helped to his car and to the emergency room by a couple of other surfers. “No…” gag, gag, “It’s not that bad.” “Yes, I can see a little daylight, but… a few stitches and…” Seventeen stitches, more inside the lip than outside. Chipped and loosened teeth. Pain.

So, naturally, one of Chris’s first texts was to another surfer, inquiring about how the rest of the session went. “Not that great,” which is code for, “Awesome!” He’s doing okay. I saw him yesterday, should have taken a photo. “Yeah, Chris; you should stay out of the water a while. I got my twenty stitches out (non-surfing injury) I’m hoping to go tomorrow.”

I kind of missed the protest in Port Townsend yesterday. I knew protests were planned in all 50 states, and I got a reminder from Keith Darrock, who reported his mother, LORRAINE, was part of the mile-plus lines of folks on the main drag. Since the average age of Port Townsend residents is… yeah, my demographic; old, I lent a bit of support, I thought, by honking (if someone else did a two honker, I echoed it; three honks, same thing) and exchanging peace signs and thumbs up gestures to the crowd as it was, peacefully, thinning out.

I was driving my big boy van rather than my left-leaning Volvo and I didn’t go all the way through town, but I was happy to see folks involved.

Meanwhile I am still checking the buoys, still trying not to worry too much.

Here is a poem from my saved file of ‘works in progress.’ I just finished painting a house, ADU, and garage for Marti and Andy, both of whom were very helpful when I fell and cut my head. And they are just very nice folks. I was discussing my poems/songs with Andy over the course of the project. I told him I have a lot of lines, but have only a first verse for a song, and a whole lot of writing but only a last line that is the basis for a poem.

As sort of a gift I printed up what I have on those as a sort of gift. On the other side of the pagek, because I was impatient and ended up printing multiple copies, then put the paper back into the printer, there was a completed song, “Out of the Wind,” on the back. They were gracious.

Here’s the verse: “Between alone and lonely, there is time to reconsider, all the pieces you have scattered from your jigsaw puzzle life.” Here’s the last line: “…And you can almost see the ocean from there.” As a bonus, I threw in a little ditty I wrote:

“Call me DAREDEVIL DAN, I’m a Daredevil,” Dan said,

But, like many a daredevil, Dan ended up dead.

Dead Dan was found in the bathroom, end of the hall,

Someone spiced up Dan’s drug cocktail with a pinch of fentanyl,

Or a dash, I’m not sure, accounts vary.

The Devil Dan dared,

If aware, did not care,

And all of Dan’s people said, “That’s not right, that’s not fair,”

And the Devil, I’m told, had no comment.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. I should give Chris Eardley credit for the selfie. It did come from him, along with… kind of, permission to write about it. Hey, if pushed, I do claim some rights as a journalist (of sorts). Please remember any original writing by me is protected by copyright.

If I Forgot to Criticize the World Surf League…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Competitive surfing,, real surfers, surf contests, surf culture, writings of Erwin Dence

…let me join the Bashers and Critiques in bashing and critiquing the folks who bring us contest coverage from wave pools and sometimes-awesome breaks throughout the world. Some times. And I tune in to check out when the events are scheduled to start. The convenient count down shows only three days and five hours until the dawn patrol gives us all the scoop, but… no, conditions aren’t right. Next check, only 13 hours and ten minutes until the first heat does or doesn’t hit the water. Three person, non-elimination heats. And don’t forget, the “Cut” is coming… soon; if your favorite surfer isn’t cut throat enough, ready to play the priority and interference rules to his or her or… (no, it seems the trans-athlete thing might not be a thing) advanntage, well… again… the CUT; demotion to the Challenger Series.

SO, SALLY FITZGIBBONS, fifteen year veteran of the WSL world tour, four time International Surfing Association (which I’ve never heard mentioned in contest coverage), and current vice-president of the ISA (just learned this on Google), I am rooting for you. Now, perhaps this is because Sally Fitz is the senior woman on the tour, and whether she’s fake nice or genuinely what she seems to be, and you can also say I have an age-centric bias because of my age. I may as well add that, like a vast majority of the complainers, I do watch and have watched WSL events, back from when Martin Potter gave his take on surfers and surfing (not sure why he’s gone), I watched Sally wrap her head after blowing an ear drum, and winning in Fiji, AND I saw her lose out on the world title at Honolua Bay, hiding her tears in a car with her parentsm, AND I witnessed her playing with the tubes at the same spot until she was pitched and injured. Tough. Resilient. Competitive.

The WSL seems to concentrate on the newer generation, surfers coached from toddler age on, taking over. Katie Simmers is older than Erin Brooks… oh, no… but both have an Oceanside connection- so, lesser rooting for either of these two from former North County resident who worked in Oceanside for three years- where one learns to surf anything.

from WSL

I should mention, while I am, obviously concentrating more on the easier to follow women’s tour, easier to follow, that Trisha’s favorite woman surfer was Courtney Conlogue. Similar reasons: Courtney was tough, and she was real. Trish would ask, “Is Courtney still in it?” She isn’t. Maybe she didn’t want to go through the Challenger Series. Maybe… as with other commentators, some of whom I really liked, surfers move on or are moved out.

Courtney Conlogue of the USA advances to the Semifinals of the Outerknown Fiji Women’s Pro after defeating defending event winner Johanne Defay (FRA) in Quarterfinal Heat 1 at Cloudbreak.

It is obvious that once Kelly Slater shows a fins-free-pivot/cutback, every coach is going to make sure his or her competitor has that move down. So, progression. Through in some gymnastics, that young surfers have an advantage seems obvious.During a crucial heat at the Portugal contest, the coverage, with two minutes left, blipped and buffered and froze. Oh, it came back fine after the heat. BUT, you say, there are heat recaps almost instantly available on YouTube. YES, but even though they eliminat a lot of dead time, they are not LIVE.

The El Salvador contest is coming up in… 02 days, 20 hours, 18 minutes. I’ll, most probably, be checking it out. TO RECAP: Go, Sally, go! Or…

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net and big thanks to the WORLD SURF LEAGUE for these images and for the memories. NOTE: I didn’t watch more than five minutes of the Abu Dhabi contest and I don’t really care who won except that it affects the CUT. Also, I didn’t mention Stephanie Gilmore, probably, no definitely my favorite female surfer, all time. With all the accolades and championships she’s earned, with her untouched gracefulness on a wave, she doesn’t gets enough credit for just how hard she charges. Style, grace, fluidity in a fluid environment. Few of us really now the professional surfers other than what we see. Fans, not friends. I’m fine with that.

I’ll try to have something new on Wednesday. It’s, like, three days, a couple of hours away.

Frame of Reference and “I Just Wanna Go Surfin'”

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf fiction, surfing blogs, surfing for life, surfing novels, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing stories, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

‘YOU’LL DO ANYTHING FOR ATTENTION’- This is what Trish, who refuses to look at the cut (and only a cut) on my head says. “I hope it was worth it” is what she texted when she figured out, through spyware on my phone, that, three days after smacking against something (we’ve determined it was a 2 by 2 on a lattice, forensics based on blood splatter) hard enough to provide (?) me with a cut requiring 20 stitches.

The surfing: I did try to keep my head above water, pulling out of sections I would ordinarily plow through or, perhaps, drop under (barrel dodging, not immune); but, sometimes, yes, a real surfer has to tuck in (not bragging, I insist for myself and others, that being ‘in position’ is not the same as being in the barrel). And once I was wet… well… AND I did wash the wound and sanitize it and cover it and… Yeah, worth it.

OTHER PEOPLE’S STITCHES STORIES- Word got around. Partially because I posted a (rare, on purpose) selfie of me with a dressing; partially because I know other surfers AND, allegedly, I love to gossip. Not on a high school and above level, more like junior high. When I, post-cut, post-stitches, talked to ADAM WIPEOUT, he had a WAY BETTER head injury/stitches story from when he, down Surf Route 101 in the wilds of Lilliwaup, was about junior high age: His older brother at the wheel of some giant wreck of a car, two younger cousins between them, they were joy riding around the property. Something happened, like the car suddenly losing power, and power steering, and the car hit head on into an apple tree. Adam, attempting, bravely, to save his cousins from hitting the dashboard by the time honored if never successful method of putting an arm across them, was launched forward, cutting his head on the metal (of course) uncloseable door to the glove compartment. Blood. While his brother hid in a creekbed, Adam ran to his grandmother’s house where, evidently, multiple members of the extended HAMA HAMA families were gathered.

So… blood, stitches and a great story.

Every real participant in surfing and any other gliding/riding sport has to have some stories of stitches or sprains or broken bones. Hopefully your injuries weren’t life threatening. There are truly tragic stories out there.

TIME AND TIME AGAIN- When I was contemplating what to put on my next (like the one I didn’t write for Sunday) posting, one of the things I considered is that, on a recent trip/session, I happened to notice that SEAN GOMEZ, Olympic Peninsula ripper and teacher, has lost a significant amount of hair. Sorry, man; I understand. Others, including DARREN, also have suffered this fate. The realization is that I have surfed around these folks long enough that I remember when they had full heads of hair. If I count my northwest surfing story as having begun when I was a mere 27, 1978, rather than the restart, now over twenty years ago, yeah, my hair was fabulous.

LUCKY OR LOCAL- Not to be bringing Adam into, like, everything, but in a recent cell phone conversation, he said that the session, that I totally missed, in which he surfed two spots many miles apart, on one day, was this time of year, in 2013. “What? That’s like twelve years ago.” “I know.”

Incidentally, Adam, when we spoke, was trying to do a different kind of double; snowboarding and surfing on the same day. There was some late season snow in the Olympics, and Adam, and many others, including those who include surfing and snow-sliding in their lists of sports, took advantage of conditions on, like, Saturday, just before a different wind/storm pattern came in and turned snow reported as powder into something else, not powder, on the way to, I guess, mud.

It seems like a theme around here; conditions are fickle in the mou tains and on the water; get it when you can.

LUCKY OR LOCAL OR LOSER- All the surfers I run into on a regular basis pride themselves on keeping track of tides and winds and buoy readings, As do I. But, now perhaps it was the day off to recover from my injury, but I got word that some lucky souls got some decent surf. “What?” “Lucky or local.” Now, I did text back to complain about using the phrase, that I take credit for, if the session isn’t all time great. It wasn’t. Or maybe it was. It’s not FOMO if you know you missed out. It’s just MO, loser. “Next time,” we say, over and over again. “Next time, man…”

FRAME OF REFERENCE- I was hanging out with AARON and KEITH, two rippers, looking over the high bluff at some waves dumping on the beach. Aaron said it’d be great for skimboarding. I mentioned how I’d seen amazing stuff on YouTube, but it all requires getting thrashed in the shorebreak. SO, we agreed, not for me and my ancient and non-nimble knees-to-ankles-to-feet, me with a known history of getting worked trying to get out of the water and up the beach. Fine.

There was talk of snowboarding and skateboarding, both of which my fellow water-watchers had participated in. I did skateboard, back in ‘the day,’ as in, not lately (see above). I asked Aaron, “So, did you, like, read ‘Thrasher’ magazine and… stuff?” “I was in ‘Thrasher’ magazine.” “Oh, then… Warren Bolster; he was a big time surf photographer who was everywhere on skateboarding magazines? He once blatantly burned me at Swamis; 1970… or ’71. Maybe he was pissed because he’d been filming rather than…” Lost my audience. Aaron had no clue. “You know, guys, I saw a movie about some guys… I think it was Mike Doyle and Joey Cabell, riding early snowboards… in 1968. They were flying off cornices and everything, and…”

Blank looks. I know Keith was born in 1977, a year after my older son, James. “When were you born, Aaron? “1971.” “Oh; so you have no idea.” “No. Never heard of Joey Cabell.” Aaron did a sort of Italian/mobster type accent, with, “Hey-a, you don’t a mess with a Joey a Cabell.”

Of course; my talking about the sixties, or even the seventies is similar to my father talking, or not talking, about World War II, or the Depression. His day. History. Other people’s stories.

Joey Cabell. Historical photos.

ANOTHER SELECTION FROM ‘LOVE SONGS FOR CYNICS’-

I have a whole lotta work, so I’ve just got a little time; I’ve got a whole lot of work, so I just have a little time; now they say everybody chooses their own mountain to climb.

I’m gonna climb that mountain, gonna start about four AM, gonna climb that mountain, gonna start about four AM; gonna stop about noon at a lake that I know for a swim.

When I get to the top, I’m gonna check out the other side; when I get to the top, I’m gonna check out the other side; and if I see the ocean, you know that I’ll be satisfied.

I JUST WANNA GO SURFIN’, now tell me, is that such a sin; I just wanna go surfin’, now tell me, is that such a sin? when you know darn well it’s been a mighty long time since I’ve been.

I’m gonna take off late, free fall drop, carve off the bottom and fly off the top; Locked in so tight the wave spits me out, hit the shoulder and turn one-eighty about; Movin’ down the line like a water snake, saving my best moves for the inside break; Hit the inside section, arching, hanging five; that’s when I’ll know that I’m still alive…

I just wanna go surfin,’ but I just don’t have any time; I wanna go surfin,’ and I’m gonna find me some time; NOW… if you get to go surfing, but you need a good board… borrow mine!

Not that, given the thrashed nature of my HOBIE, anyone would. Thanks for reading, thanks for respecting my rights to my original, copyrighted work. GOOD LUCK on finding some waves worth remembering. When I say, “That wave is gone” it means, partially, it’s history.

The Fine Art of Falling

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, hipster surfers, learning to surf

It isn’t, of course, the falling that hurts or kills you. It is the sudden stop. Or it’s what you fall against. Every surfer has fallen, this getting more intense by having a wave actually causing us to fall, with force, and/or falling on us with more force. And then there is what we are falling into and/or slammed against: Reefs, rocks, gravel, and/or a combination of these, with or without added jaggedess. And then there is the added joy of having our board becoming a weapon that can provide blunt force trauma, a cut from a fin, and/or a stabbing-type wound. Might as well add in other people’s boards, and/or other people. Sounds dangerous.

I suddenly feel compelled to list every actual injury that can be connected to ladders in my fifty-six year (in June) career in painting. This excludes cuts and bruises from knives and scrapers, the smacking of a thumb or finger with a misaimed hammer, punctures from splinters, some quite long and quite deep, from sanding straight grain fir, and other injuries too common and/or ridiculous to list. None super serious.

Despite many sketchy ladder moves and spooky positioning, any of which could have had consequences, and the fact (or my line on the issue) that a ladder has 29 ways to hurt a person, and then one can fall, the number comes in at… tabulating… six. The list of injuries includes TWO sprained and/or broken ankles (never got x-rays) from missing a rung on now-illegal extension ladders that had a missing run on the ‘fly’ section; ONE chest-compression injury from trying to carry too much stuff down a ladder, facing out (heels don’t have the ‘purchase’ feet do); ONE ‘legs stretched to ballerinas-only position injury on a three-legged ‘picker’ ladder after one leg sank in a recent backfill, and one of my feet stayed on the rung; ONE injury from a ‘kick-out’ because the ‘stand-offs’ on the ladder were not on the roof (imagine teeter-totter); ONE accident, yesterday, when, and I’m still evaluating exactly what went wrong, I was coming down a ladder with two buckets of paint, avoiding tree branches, with the ladder in a less than ideal (though frequently necessary) position… AND, I swear, I would have been fine in the tumble if I hadn’t hit the edge of a planter pot.

I probably wouldn’t have gone to the JEFFERSON GENERAL HOSPITAL Emergency Room if there hadn’t been so much BLOOD. This is me in the outfit I was wearing when they released me. “Are you attached to these clothes?” I was asked as a nurse cut my two layers of shirts away. “No, they’re attached to me,” I said as I pulled the very long long sleeved shirt out of my pants (just in time, I was thinking). I was also wearing a beanie, but it got kind of ruined by my using it to hold pressure.

It’s actually quite a story, from my perspective, and I have people to thank: My clients- MARTI insisted I go to the ER. “You look like a Texas Chainsaw Massacre victim,” she said. I checked it in a mirror. She was right. ANDY drove me to the ER and waited until the stitching (20) was done, hung out until I was released, and drove me back to my car. Sorry about the blood in your car, Andy. DONITA, a nurse at Jefferson General, who, informed there was a bloodied painter with a head wound, instantly recognized me, from the back of my head. Donita, who Trish and I have known the entire time we havde lived in Quilcene, acted as a liaison with the staff, mostly saying, “No, he’s always like this. It’s (maniacal behavior and joking in the face of imminent catastrophe) normal… for him.” In exchange, I said, “Donita and my wife and I were all EMTs together. Donita always volunteered to be a victim. I never did.”

The attending physician, KEVIN R. BOWMAN, MD, should also be mentioned. As should that none of this bumping and bleeding was actually painful. Sticking needles into my head; that was. MEANWHILE Trish was calling and texting, the ER folks (of various ranks) were looking for the needles and thread and extractors and other tools, mostly unsuccessfully, some persistent but tiny artery was still pumping, and I was saying things, like, “Reminds me, for some reason, of ‘MASH,’ ‘big stitches.’ MEAN MEANWHILE, Dr. Bowman, having revealed he lives in Bellingham, left himself open to me discussing all things surfing. Him admitting he is trying to learn Wing Foiling led to more discussion of surf hierarchies and ‘adult learners,’ and why I find that in any way amusing.

When it was determined that I would survive despite my killer blood pressure, and while Dr. Bowman was still stitching (“Probably won’t leave a scar.” “Will I be sprouting new hair?” “No.”), I was trying to arrange a ride back to my car. My friend, Keith, who had recently received another (I’m not counting) big ass bruise (on his thigh) from bouncing off rocks, agreed to come get me when I was released, but a woman from the front came in and asked me if Andy could come back. “He’s been here the whole time?” Yeah. So he came back, and, while waiting, we chatted about all kinds of deeply and shallowly philosophical stuff, and Bob Dylan (Andy has a gre-eeat story about a friend of his at Newport, 1965, front row tickets courtesy of Joan Baez). I called Keith back.

This morning Keith texted to see if I am okay. I am. Just a cut. “Good. I was a little worried with the last minute ride cancellation and sort of giddiness on the phone.” Giddy? Me?

Since I’m oh so close to getting my novel, “Swamis,” ready to publish, and my songs/poems collection, “Love Songs For Cynics,” I decided to overwrite an overwrought poem. This one:

The bodies still strewn on the battlefield, fires, once flaring, still smoldering, blood, once pumping, pooled or seeping, quietly, from bodies, once soldiers or shoppers or farmers or children of this or some other tribe, the survivors were, briefly, giddy, out of ammo, fingers flexing and relaxing, adrenaline pushing, unrestrained, from every poor, paused a moment before reloading.

It seems to be a thing we participate in, the ranking of surfers based on criteria other than a person’s ability to ride waves. The ranking system varies but usually is skewed toward the person placing each of us into categories. It was once that the ultimate “Waterman” or water-person was skilled in multiple facets; yeah, but… I took this photo of ALLEN mostly because someone on the beach said it’s, with the roof extension lowered in this image, probably a hundred-thousand dollar rig. “No,” Allen bought it used for Forty grand (not sure if that’s with or without the camper). Points for Allen on one scale. “I traded out about fifteen-hundred worth of work for mine,” I said. I’m not claiming bonus points, but for $98,500 I can make a few trips searching for waves. Or maybe I can buy a newer board. Or…

Again, am I judging? Constantly, though I’m trying to quit. I told Trish that, in the movies, someone who hits something like a planter pot and busts upon his head, dies. “No,” she said, “Sometimes they wake up with amnesia.” She laughed. “You might wake up and not know where you are and ask, ‘how the hell’d I end up in this dump?'” It’s a long story, and with every story, I’m working on it.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. Wing Foilers, non-wing foilers, E bike riders, kite surfers, some e foil riders, some kayakers, shortboarders, longboarders, snow riders, skate boarders, any and all learners or almost masters, of any age, of the fine art of flowing and gliding and ripping and falling are welcome.

I am past the pissed off, embarrassed, relieved, and the giddiness phases. I am still cruising in the thankful phase. For every accident we are involved in, there are so many near misses, so many ‘could have beens,’ any of which would change our story. As Andy said, “There are miracles on both ends; we don’t remember our birth, and our death is still a mystery.” Yeah, I told you it was philosophical.

Super Busy Working on Being Forgotten

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing Swamis, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, women surfers in the Northwest,, writings of Erwin Dence

That may be a bit cynical. I have been surfing a bit (never enough) lately, trying my darndest to make up for a 2024’s bad session/wave count. I’m back to trusting my reborn VOLVO to make it up SURF ROUTE 101 far enough to find some rumored waves. MEANWHILE, rumor-wise, there have been times when surfers just had to check out the Strait. Whether or not it was working, surfers did show up and I did not. The sentiment among those lucky or stubbornly willful enough to live on the Olympic Peninsula is to try to avoid the forecasted days, particularly on the weekends (Friday through Monday, sometimes Thursday -Tuesday) to avoid any crowds.

CROWDS- Here is my wish/prayer list- 1. Waves. 2. Good tides. 3. Favorable winds. 4. Good parking spot. 5. Uncrowded lineup.

OBVIOUSLY there is a correlation between the parking and the number of surfers in the lineup. I have seen days where all semi-convenient parking spots were taken, some with occupants sleeping or making brunch, and the crowd is mostly surfers on the beach watching and waiting. And I have seen days with no crowds and rideable waves.

Here’s what happens: You surf. It’s, you know, decent. You tell one or two of your closest surf friends. They don’t believe you. That’s fair; you don’t believe them when they talk about barrel fests and such.

This lack of belief shouldn’t be a problem. REAL SURFERS do it for the soul enriching wonderfulness of the experience of climbing into a cold, damp wetsuit, booties and gloves and hood, and venturing into cold ass water to surf waves, their wonderfulness in the eye and mind of the venturer. BUT, NO, a little acknowledgement is, at the very least, appreciated. I’ve seen the most soulful of soul surfers surf just a bit better when someone else shows up. It’s the nature of the beasts we are.

BECAUSE I’M candid by nature as well as competitive, I admit, now, in writing, that I kind of enjoy having some sort of reputation for showing up when waves are rideable. I enjoy seeing surfers I know, or recognize; and I collect little stories from many of them. AND, since I’ve shown up less frequently, I… neurotically, self-centered-ly, worry, just a bit, or, more accurately, have considered that I am in the process of being forgotten.

It happens. Years ago, now, I read a piece on some older surfer who quit surfing urging other older practitioners of the sport/art/lifestyle to just fucking quit and become a legend. Sure, but legends only last as long as people remember. Do you remember ARCHIE or BIG DAVE or a growing number of surfers who made the same searches you are making, suffered the same skunkings, found the same rare gems, felt the same chill and the same magic?

MAYBE you do. Or you have your own list. This all leads me to surfing in crowded conditions. Is it worth it? I’ve seen so many times when people piled out of rigs and raced into the water without even checking the conditions, all based on ‘the rule of the parking lot;’ if surfers are out, it must be worth joining them.

AGAIN, crowds are number five on my list. I might just snag a few. As much as I appreciate the atmosphere of even, let’s say, the whole circus-like scene at Westport, my motto continues to be: I’m here to surf.

International Women SURFERS’ DAY- I do not have a problem with women surfers. At all. Some have had issues with me. Understandable. There were fewer, percentage-wise, girls and women surfing when I started. AND, I know I’ve said this before, but my sister Suellen got me into board surfing, our mother drove us and our siblings to the beach because she loved it, and went to better surfing beaches because we surfed.

It isn’t an accident that one of the two main characters in my novel, “SWAMIS,” Julia ‘Cold’ Cole, is a surfer AND a strong and intelligent woman. Persistence is absolutely required for anyone to attain any level above mere competence in surfing, the sport, and is also necessary to fit in as an equal in the art/lifestyle part of trying to ride waves, an objectively ridiculous and so-often frustrating activity/obsession/addiction.

I am pushing my daughter, DRU, to format and, maybe, do a little editing, if necessary, on my manuscript. MEANWHILE, though my painting life has suddenly gotten way busier, I am working on getting pieces together for my poetry/song (mostly song, some essays, some illustrations) book, “Love Songs for Cynics,” together.

Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net. Get some waves!

Doing the Loop, Sunday Quickie, Less

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, real surfers, surf culture, surf fiction, surfing blogs, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

I’m not giving up any spots. I think this is from San Diego.

I actually don’t have a lot of time this morning. Work, and planning for more work. The winter work famine might just be giving way to, yeah, work. the VOLVO continues to run great, knock on wood, I’m waiting to see if my daughter will kindly format my “Swamis” so I can do something with it, I’m moving ahead, slowly, on getting songs and poems and essays and artwork together for “Love Songs for Cynics,” and… surfwise; with a few notable exceptions, the surf doldrums continue.”

I’ve been doing a virtual dawn patrol lately. No, I’m always checking the buoys (taking advantage before they disappear in a whiff of doge-shit). What I don’t check is the forecast sites. Perhaps it is nice to have Surfline to blame for your latest trip by ferry, and across bridges, and through a few stoplights and past some downed trees on long and winding roads to end up with you, speeding from known spot to known spot, to be skunked. That with the added bonus of hanging out, at length, or hiking in, watching a lack of rideable waves for a number of hours, hoping, waiting, and then considering the miles and bridges and ferry wait times between there and home.

Still, I believe, anticipation doesn’t just ebb and flow; we store it up, tighten that spring, until…

Until. Hopefully, until, for you, is now. Or soon. I have my big, gnarled and thrashed board on my car, I have buoys on my phone, and… I’m ready. See you.

OH, yeah, on an I’m-not-political side note, I am not ready to go commie. Now, or ever. And… I’m not sure even red state, all-in Magamaniacs are really, really ready to go that red. Meanwhile, for book banning enthusiasts, a must-ban is “The Manchurian Candidate,” and any other book that even hints at… whatever that book hints at.

How to be a Surf Legend, Adam Wipeout Saves My Volvo and Van, Street Walkers Weird and Wacky

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, adam wipeout, hipster surfers, northwest surfing, real surfers, surf adventures, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

…AND REGGIE and DJANGO (the ‘d’ is silent) unleashed… and more

THIS is my VOLVO just after ADAM ‘WIPEOUT’ JAMES did almost all the tricky technical stuff in my attempt to save the ‘SUPER FUN CAR’ (the previous owner had a license plate ring that reads, ‘chocolat du coeur,’ chocolate of the heart) after, probably twelve miles from home and with darkness falling fast, a broken fitting on the hose that goes through the firewall causing water to spew out, the lack of water leading to overheating. I could, of course, stopped and called for a tow. I DIDN”T. Because of a stubborn insistence on my part to make it home, and with the added belief I could because folks stopped out in the middle of nowhere to give me, like, three gallons off water, I kept going. THIS involved, watching the temp gauge, stopping short of the red zone, allowing the engine to cool down, adding water, driving, cool down, water, driving, cool down, more water, driving. The gauge was approaching the red line again when I limped down the driveway.

As seems to be my usual response when driving in dangerous and/or tense situations that are no longer shared-with-if-not-mitigated-by chain smoking, though my white knuckled grip on the steering wheel remains, I spent an almost equal amount of the time between breakdown and home (probably and hour-and-a-half) swearing and praying.

AND THEN I replaced the broken heater thermostat, myself, and then, though the FUN CAR didn’t overheat, I discovered I had a blown HEAD GASKET. My friend and mechanic, GEORGE TAKAMOTO, currently being treated for kidney failure, asked, on the phone, “Is it water in the oil or oil in the water?” “I think it’s, like, both.” “OH. Bad.”

BEFORE I called KIRKY, local tow truck driver and junk hauler, to offer him the FUN CAR, I consulted a guy who works on cars all the time, MICHAEL SPEARS. He wasn’t interested in the car, even for free, but said, given the difference between the worth of the car and the cost of a professional head gasket replacement, I might consider trying this stuff, BLUE DEVIL.

SO, and I wouldn’t have attempted this without help, Adam agreed to help. ROUND ONE seemed to do the trick; but I didn’t trust driving it, and, since I still had half a bottle of the Blue Devil, we gave it another go. AND I AM pretty convinced the car is running decently. Adam also cranked up the idle a bit because, my gorilla hands trying to wrangle hoses and stuff, I did something to the linkage. I can’t explain it, but Adam figured it out and fixed it.
NOW, the van story: It’s a thirty-year-old rig and, just before George had to go into an assisted living/rehab place, he diagnosed the problem with the back door on the van not opening from the outside as a broken bulb-like dealie on the end of the linkage. “Huh?” I couldn’t fix it, or wouldn’t try, and have spent a month or so crawling through the van to open the door from the inside. Not fun.

I purchased a replacement on Amazon for, like, $115.00. While we were waiting for the Fun Car to cool down enough to replace the engine’s main thermostat, Adam asked what else I had that needed fixing. The part, of course, did not come even close to fitting, BUT, and I give full credit to Adam’s inventiveness to living down at the HAMA HAMA, being involved in the oyster business, with all kinds of gear and gear breakdown issues, Adam figured out a way to open the door. “Does it bother you that you won’t be able to lock the door?” “Hell, no; I was ready to go full white trash and put a latch and a padlock on it.”

IF ADAM is a superstar in the seafood/oyster industries. He is or should be legendary in the surf world. Because he travels frequently to places that buy oysters and, incidentally, have waves, he is known and ACCEPTED (this is a major part of this) at a lot of local (and localized) breaks.

Adam and I had a bit of a discussion on how many legendary surfers are among our group of friends, and why this or that surfer fits into the legend category. It comes down to this: A LEGEND IS A STORY. LEGENDARY figures in any and all fields have, ONE, stories to tell, and TWO, others have stories to tell about them. SO, if you want to be a legendary surfer, SURF.

REGGIE SMART, surfer, independent contractor, tattoo artist, working on his own legend, illustrated, working downtown with his new dog (not posing), DJANGO.

PICTURE-WISE, I just deleted, by his request, a photo of surfer/journalist/poet RICO, but now, because I want to call myself a surfer/journalist/poet, I’ve decided I shouldn’t be dissuaded from capturing images of surfers or whoevers. It’s integrity. Maybe. I did allow COUGAR KEITH the opportunity to pose, he declined and ran away too quickly for me to get my phone ready.

AFTER AND BEFORE photos of this dude who bothered me a while back while I was trying to work in Uptown Port Townsend, and then, more recently, at the hardware store. He also rudely wasted some of my Daughter Dru’s time while she was working, last day before her surgery, at the OLYMPIC MUSIC FESTIVAL office. I seems he’s in this play in which he plays his father- hence, and it makes perfect sense, he in the navy getup, no beard, dyed hair. When I accused him of wasting Dru’s time, he said, “Geez; old guys talk; that’s what we do.” OKAY. I did hear that he may or may not have been the old guy who was hanging around the middle school asking kids if they wanted to be in his play… or the guy was until cops told him he had to leave. SO, he has stories; stories are told about him. Legend? Maybe. He doesn’t surf. I asked.

SURF NEWS- I surfed. Once I complete a few test runs and get the insurance, including towing, reinstated on the Fun Car, I’ll be venturing farther out, working on some new surf tales.

‘SWAMIS’ NEWS- It’s more like bidding season than painting season for the ERWIN DENCE PAINTING COMPANY, and I’m actually working on doing some advertising. YELP! This is my excuse, ten or twelve pages from wrapping up what’s listed on the thumb drive as ‘final final final Swamis.’ Maybe, since I’m working on this tonight, I can write tomorrow. Yes, after I write two more proposals.

LOVE SONG FOR CYNICS-

Right now it’s time for TRUE CONFESSIONS, time for you to just come clean; Right now it’s time for true confessions, time for you to just come clean; Now, don’t be lookin’ at me that way, you know exactly what I mean.

Today your husband came to see me, after all I’m his best friend; Today your old man came to see me, after all I’m his best friend; He said he knows that you’ve been cheatin’, and now it’s too late to pretend.

He says he’s got his pistol loaded, he says his finger’s got an itch; He says he’s got his pistol loaded, and says his finger’s got an itch; And when that other man gets cornered, he’s gonna shoot that sonofabitch.

I said, friend, you’d better calm down, it won’t be worth the price you’ll pay; I said you’d better, better, better calm down, it won’t be worth the price you’ll pay; He said, “All I ever wanted, is a woman who will stay.”

Well, I can’t preach or shout if I’m talkin’ about the way you’ve been misbehaving, Bug your man’s made a stand, and he has a new plan, for a love he feel’s worth saving; If you can’t take a chance on one sided romance, ’cause of all your indiscretions, Then it’s best that you run, ’cause your man’s got a gun, this might be your last confession.

Right now it’s time for true confessions, they say the truth will set us free; Oh, yes, it’s time for true confessions, they say the truth will set us free; It’s hard for me to talk about this, because… the other man… is me.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers. Now go find some real waves, create some real stories.

ALL original work on realsurfers.net, unless otherwise noted, is copyright protected, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

Sorry ‘Bout Your Blues and other Valentines

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, surf novels, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing in Washington State, surfing novels, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, Uncategorized, women surfers in the Northwest,, writings of Erwin Dence

Yes, I googled “Surfing Valentines cards,” hit on ‘images,’ and then, partially because this card is no longer available, copied, and now pasted it here. Obviously the couple are discussing which one of them will ride the board.

I do have some possibly romantic surf stories. However, you may have noticed there is sometimes (I want to say) tension between partners in surf couples, regular and power. Adding children to the mix doesn’t lessen the (I want to say) natural competitiveness between any two surfers once actual surfing is involved.

And then there’s the supposed to be supportive non-surfing boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever category one puts a significant or sort-of significant other into. “Oh, that was great, Babe; the way you almost made the bottom turn; all bottom, no turn… Whoo Hoo!”

In our relationship, which started out with Trish watching me surf, two spots, like four hours worth, the thrill of this wore off rather quickly. As perhaps happens, and I so very often mention, surfing became the other woman. Choices had to be made. Mostly Trish won. Not always.

Trish kept riding a surf mat for a while. I still had one. Mostly she’d ride it at Swamis Beachbreak. One afternoon we went out together at Oceanside, over between the jetties. We probably rode a few before we found ourselves together, outside, with a suddenly rising swell and a surprisingly strong rip. I have been, in my surf life, way more worried about being caught outside than being caught inside. Adding someone I care deeply about out there with me… it’s worse.

I’m not sure exactly how we got in. It wasn’t like I rescued Trish or she rescued me (and for those who already know, I have had women come to my rescue when I was perceived to be in trouble or was actually floundering in the shorebreak), but we made it in, and the last time I asked, Trish told me she wasn’t worried. “Oh, because you were with your man?” “No, because I knew what I was doing.” “Oh. Yeah. That.”

SO… Lovers, love.

IN “Love Songs for Cynics” News; I just had a meeting yesterday with a person willing to help me format a collection af songs and (I don’t want to say) poetry, and some essays. I’m in the process of collecting years worth of stuff I’ve written, quite a bit of it surf-related, but, surprisingly, a lot of the songs are not what would be classified as love songs. Possibly because our son James is a guitarist, I have written a lot of blues songs. Asked about my material, I had to say a lot of it is fictional; me putting myself in some situation I’ve not really been in.

Anyway, I have been making some progress on “Swamis.” Slow but steady, and yes, there is some surf action, and yes, there is some romance.

You say your woman left you, she took a one way flight, Now all that you can think of is your miserable plight, And you whimper all day long and you cry all night, SORRY ‘BOUT YOUR BLUES… I feel all right.

But you say you had to gamble, and you had to drink that wine, And you had ‘just a few’ ladies, so you had to dance and dine, Still you don’t know ‘xactly where you crossed that line, Sorry ’bout your blues… but I feel fine.

I feel good because my woman treats me something like a king, I just snap my fingers, and she’ll do most any thing; Oh, but I should add she keeps my ass in line, Sorry ’bout your blues… but I feel fine.

Now you’re right down at the bottom, never been quite this far down, Your once fine reputation’s shot throughout your own home town, And if you cry one more tear, you’ll likely drown, Sorry you’re not up… but I’m not down.

Now, I’ve been down in the gutter, I crawled out the best I could, Right now my life’s so good that I just have to knock on wood, I guess I should help, I only wish I could, Sorry ’bout your blues, I don’t think it’s what you’d choose, I’m just so glad those blues are yours, not mine, Sorry ’bout your blues, but I… feel… fine.

Yeah, all original work by Erwin Dence on realsurfers.net is copyright protected. All rights reserved.

SURF NOTE: If we can get past this February pattern of too cold temperatures and the surf doldrums, maybe… waves. We all love waves! Right?