Category Archives: “Swamis” the novel

Magazine, Designer, Shirts, E-Foils, “Swamis”

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers

I’VE DECIDED to concentrate on a once-a-week posting, allowing more to report. So, Magazine. I’VE ALSO DECIDED to call myself a designer. Yes, I’m still a house painter (contractor), but desinger sounds even better than artist. Maybe it does. Adding ‘successful’ to any title would be better than ‘struggling,’ that better than ‘starving,’ which no one has ever accused me of being.

AS PROMISED, here’s my first psychedelic, full color, ORIGINAL ERWIN t shirt, modeled here by ripper and supermodel Stephen R. Davis. It’s my shirt, XXL, and it’s a test run. DWAYNE at D&L LOGO in Port Townsend did some computer stuff to the illustration, I got eight copies in the new age version of iron-on, and had them transferred on to (blue) t shirts they had on hand. They are mostly in sizes medium, large, and extra large. The first 8 images were slightly smaller. I’m ordering twenty more slightly larger than this one. I will have to confer with Trish on color as she, particularly, is not fond of the color above. “No, Trish, it’s not shit brindle brown; it’s… sunny creamy yellow/gold.” “Sure.”

SELLING STUFF is not my long suit. Far from it. STILL, I will let you know when some shirts are available. OR, if you send a text to what started out as my surf-centric stealth phone, 360-302-6146. We’ll figure something out. There are still some of my most recent shirts available. ALL other Original Erwin limited editions are GONE. If you have one… hold on to it.

CHIMACUM TIMACUM NEWS- I got a text and photo from CHIMACUM TIM. “The future is now! No more getting skunked on waves in the Straits with an e-Foil Drive assist.” I wrote back, “It makes me wanna jump on my e-bike.” If I had an e-bike. I kind of half expect to see Tim following a Washington State Ferry on his lunch break, weaving and swooping. But, hey, I do insist on having a paddle and a big-ass board, so, no judgment. Some judgment, probably. Imagine riding an electric board at a wave park. So real. Surreal.

OLD SURFER NEWS- Not fishing for congratulations, but I just had a birthday. 37 for those with dyslexia, and anxious for my next adventure in real waves.

REAL WAVES UPDATE- Still flat, forecast for flat on the STRAIT. Time to get some stuff done that won’t get done when the waves show up. If you’re on the coast, coast into a few.

“SWAMIS,” continued. I am, yes, working on completing the manuscript., trying to make the earlier chapters go along with the ending that space and sanity have forced to be way earlier in the full story than I had planned. SO:

                                     CHAPTER TWO- SATURDAY, AUGUST 14, 1965

My mother took my younger brother, Freddy, and me to the beach at what was to be the San Elijo campground. Almost or just opened, it runs along the bluff from Pipes to Cardiff Reef. We were at the third stairway from the north end. I was attempting to surf; Freddy was playing in the sand. My mother was collecting driftwood for a fire. The waves were small. Pushing my way out, walking, jumping over the lines, I was turning and throwing my board into the soup, standing up, awkwardly, and riding straight in; butt out, hands out, stupidest grin on my face. “Surfin’!”

A girl, about my age, was riding waves. Not awkwardly. Smoothly. Not straight, but across. She wouldn’t have wiped out on the third ride I witnessed if I hadn’t been in the way, almost frozen, surprised by a wave face so thin and clean I still swear I could see through it.

            I let my board go, upside down, broach to the waves, and chased down hers. When I pushed it back toward her, she said, “It’s you.”

            “Me?” I had to look at her and reimagine the moments immediately before she spoke. She was wading toward me. She pushed the hair away from both sides of her face. She looked toward the beach. She looked back. Her eyes were green and seemed, somehow, as transparent as I had imagined the waves to be. “It’s you.”

            “No. No, I’m… not… Who are you?”

            “Someone who stays away from cops… And their kids.” She wasn’t going to thank me for grabbing her board. “Surfing isn’t easy, you know. All the real surfer guys are assholes.” She turned, threw herself onto her board, and started paddling. “I’d give it up If I were you.” 

            “Assholes,” I said as I retrieved my board. “I’m a well-known asshole.” I walked and pushed and paddled and made my way out to where the girl was sitting. She looked out to sea. She looked toward the shore. It was a lull, too long for her not to turn toward me as I attempted to knee paddle.

            “We can’t be friends, Junior,” she said.

            “No? What about when I… get to the point where I surf way better than you? Still, no?”

            The girl turned away again. Not at long this time. “You coming back tomorrow?”

            “No. Sunday. Church. My mom… We… Church.”

            “Church,” she said. “My mom and I… Well, me; I… surf.”

            The girl paddled over and pushed me off my board. The first wave of a set took it in. She turned and caught the next wave. I watched her from behind it. Graceful. “Julia Cole,” I said, loud enough for her to hear. “Your friends call you Julie.” I said that to myself.

CHAPTER THREE- SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1968

My nine-six Surfboards Hawaii pintail was on the Falcon’s rust and chrome factory racks. I was headed along Neptune, from Grandview to Moonlight Beach. The bluff side of Neptune was either garage or gate and fence, or hedge, tight to the road. There were few views of the water. I was, no doubt, smiling, remembering something from that morning’s session.

There had been six surfers at the outside lineup, the preferred takeoff spot. They all knew each other. If one of them hadn’t known about me, the asshole detective’s son, others had clued him in. There was no way the local crew and acceptable friends would allow me to catch a set wave. No; maybe a wave all of them missed or none of them wanted. Or one would act as if he was going to take off any wave I wanted, just to keep me off it.  

As the first one in the water, I had surfed the peak, had selected the wave I thought might be the best of a set. Three other surfers came out. Okay. Three more surfers came out. Sid was one of them. I knew who Sid was. By reputation. A set wave came in. I had been waiting. I was in position. It was my wave. I took off.  Sid took off in front of me, ten yards over. I said something like, “Hey!”

Rather than speed down the line or pull out, Sid stalled. It was either hit him or bail. I bailed. Sid said, “Hey!” Louder. He looked at me, cranked a turn at the last moment. He made the wave. I swam.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, back at the lineup. The four other surfers there were laughing with Sid.

“Wrong, Junior; you broke the locals rule.” Sid pointed to the lefts, the waves perceived as not being as good, on the other side of a real or imagined channel. “Local’s rule. Get it?” Trying to ignore the taunts of the others, I caught an insider and moved over.

After three lefts, surfed, I believed, with a certain urgency and a definite aggression, I prone-paddled back to the rights, tacking back and forth. A wave was approaching, a decently sized set wave. I wanted it. 

“Outside!” I yelled, loud enough that four surfers, including Sid, started paddling for the horizon. I paddled at an angle, lined up the wave at the peak. Though the takeoff was late, I made the drop, rode the wave into the closeout section, pulling off the highest roller coaster I had ever even attempted.

There had been no outside set. I kept my back turned to the water as I exited, not daring to look up at the surfers on the bluff, hooting and pointing. I did look up for a moment as I grabbed my towel, my keys and wallet and cigarettes rolled up in it, tromped up the washout to Neptune Avenue, trying not to smile.   

Driving, almost to Moonlight Beach, a late fifties model Volkswagen bus, two-tone, white over gray, was blocking the southbound lane. Smoke was coming out of the open engine compartment. Black smoke. Three teenagers were standing behind the bus: Two young men, Duncan Burgess and Rincon Ronny, on the right side, one young woman, Monica, on the left. 

There was more room on the northbound side. I pulled over, squeezed out between the door and someone’s bougainvillea hedge, and walked into the middle of the street, fifteen feet behind the van. “Can I help?” 

Duncan, Ronny, and Monica were dressed as if they had surfed but were going to check somewhere else: Nylon windbreakers, towels around their waists. Duncan’s and Monica’s jackets were different, but both were red with white, horizontal stripes that differed in number and thickness. Ronny was wearing a dark blue windbreaker with a white, vertical strip, a “Yater” patch sewn on. Each of the three looked at me, and looked back at each other, then at the smoking engine. The movement of their heads said, “No.”

Someone stepped out of an opening in the hedge on the bluff side of the road, pretty much even with me. I was startled. I took three sideways steps before I regained my balance.

Julia Cole. Perfectly balanced. She was wearing an oversized V-neck sweater that almost covered boys’ nylon trunks. Her legs were bare, tan, her feet undersized for the huarache sandals she was wearing. She looked upset, but more angry than sad. But then… she almost laughed. I managed a smile.

“It’s you,” she said. It was. Me. “Are you a mechanic?” I shook my head, took another step toward the middle of the road, away from her. “An Angel?” Another head shake, another step. She took two more steps toward me. We were close. She seemed to be studying me, moving her head and eyes as if she might learn more from an only slightly different angle.

I couldn’t continue to study Julia Cole. I looked past her. Her friends looked at her, then looked at each other, then looked, again, at the subsiding smoke and the growing pool of oil on the pavement. “We saw what you did,” she said. I turned toward her. “From the bluff.” Her voice was a whisper when she added, “Outside,” the fingers of her right hand out, but twisting, pulling into her palm, little finger first, as her hand itself twisted. “Outside,” she said again, slightly louder.

“Oh,” I said. “It… worked.”

“Once. Maybe Sid… appreciated it.” She shook her head. “No.”

I shook my head. “Once.” I couldn’t help focusing on Julia Cole’s eyes. “I had to do it.”

“Of course.” By the time I shifted my focus from Julia Cole’s face to her right hand, it had become a fist, soft rather than tight. “Challenge the… hierarchy.”

I had no response. Julia Cole moved her arm slowly across her body, stopping for a moment just under the parts of her sweater dampened by her bathing suit top. Breasts. I looked back into her eyes for the next moment. Green. Translucent. She moved her right hand, just away from her body, up. She cupped her chin, thumb on one cheek, fingers lifting, pointer finger first, drumming, pinkie finger first. Three times. She pulled her hand away from her face, reaching toward me. Her hand stopped. She was about to say something.  

“Julie!” It was Duncan. Julie, Julia Cole didn’t look around. She lowered her hand and took another step closer to me. In a ridiculous overreaction, I jerked away from her.

“I was going to say, Junior…” Julia was smiling. I may have grinned. Another uncontrolled reaction. “I could… probably… if you were an… attorney.”

“I’m not… Not… yet.”

Julia Cole loosened the tie holding her hair. Sun-bleached at the ends, dirty blonde at the roots. She used the fingers of both hands to straighten it.

“I can… give you a ride… Julia… Cole.”

“Look, Fallbrook…” It was Duncan. Again. He walked toward us, Julia Cole and me. “We’re fine.” He extended a hand toward Julia. She did a half-turn, sidestep. Fluid. Duncan kept looking at me. Not in a friendly way. He put his right hand on Julia Cole’s left shoulder.

Julia Cole allowed it. She was still smiling, still studying me when I asked, “Phone booth? There’s one at… I’m heading for Swamis.”

            A car come up behind me. I wasn’t aware. Rincon Ronny and Monica watched it. Duncan backed toward the shoulder. Julia and I looked at each other for another moment. “You really should get out of the street… Junior.”

            “Joey,” I said. “Joey.”

            She could have said, “Julie.” Or “Julia.” She said neither. She could have said, “Joey.”      

No one got a ride. I checked out Beacons and Stone Steps and Swamis. I didn’t surf. The VW bus was gone when I drove back by. Dirt from under someone’s hedge was scattered over the oil, some of it seeping through.

ANNIE FERGERSON ‘ERWIN’ documentary news- There have been problems with getting access to the little film featuring some old coot on the Strait. HERE is the link, though I don’t know exactly how to make it an actual link: https:/vimeo.com/nicranium/review/982855582/42dd5c63de TRIED IT. IT WORKED.

Thanks for reading. AND, uh, not that I’m political, but I have done a couple of kind of political drawings recently. I forgot to transfer these from my phone before I got going. I MIGHT stick them out into the cosmos later in the week. Otherwise, next Sunday…

OBLIGATORY INFO- All original work, writing and art, are copyright protected. All rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr Thanks for respecting this; get some waves… or, get an e-foil.

Enduring the Dog Days, and “Tightening”

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, surf art, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing novels, writings of Erwin Dence

It’s a sort of positive for me that the summer drought on the Strait of Juan de Fuca coincides with painting season. More like consolation, with even driving to the coast not a guarantee of finding waves. Busy now, it gets crazier in September when people start panicking about getting their castle dolled-up before the rains start getting more consistent. Finding time to devote to my other passions, including drawing and writing, becomes more challenging.

BUT I do have time while scraping and painting and second-coating to think, THINKING, IMAGINING being the most crucial component in each of these activities. Imagine what the drawing COULD look like, imagine WHAT I want to convey.

IT’S A PROCESS. Not dissimilar to house painting, actually. To use the project I am currently working on as an examlple, the homeowner has a vision of what she wants her Victorian home to look like; I have my own ideas. A few color changes later, we do it her way,. with eventual agreement that it works AND it’s what the person paying me wants.

SO… I prep and paint, and it’s never one coat of any color. I paint, and then TIGHTEN UP the paint, picking up missed spots (‘holidays’ in the vernacular), making sure the transitions are crisp and clean, the result being a job I can be proud of and the client will both pay me for and recommend me to others because I did it (right).

BRIEF SURFING INTERJECTION- Having missed one opportunity summer surf, and being pissed because I could have gone and didn’t, I did get a few waves recently. Just enough, with passing fancy rigs with boards on them on a daily basis along SURF ROUTE 101, to cause me to want more. MORE.

TIGHTENING. I am going to a memorial later today for a person I have been bumping into for years on the PORT TOWNSEND. I have a story I told his widow I would tell, and I’m going to try to write it out rather than ramble on in some fashion that might embarrass the others as well as me.

BUT FIRST, “SWAMIS,” the novel I’ve been thinking about, writing, rewriting, tightening for way too long. Having thought about how I needed to tighten a SCENE with the protagonist, JOEY, and the closest character to an antagonist, BRICE LANGDON, I tried to devote a bit of time to it yesterday, but got an urgent text: THE floor guys didn’t show up, could I PLEASE do some painting. PRAYER EMOJI. Shit! Fuck! I made the changes, pulled out the thumb drive. The emergency painting and looking at another project pretty much did the day in. OH, and then thunder and lightening; the weather kind. I went to bed and did not get up early… enough.

ORIGINAL ERWIN NEWS- I paid back some seed money I was loaned by local master builder/climber/skier/hiker/all kinds of other stuff, JIM HAMILTON; the money intended for my investment in getting some t shirts going, which, four months later, I did. Most are gone now. Thanks, Jim. BUT, DWAYNE at D&L LOGOS has been working on a FULL COLOR DESIGN, and I am SOOOO excited to see the results.

DWAYNE did some digital editing and had eight of the image printed up. They are heat-transferred, in a modern, way-better version of the hated ‘iron on’ process. I have to wait to see what the my cost will be. SEVERAL are already promised. WE’LL SEE. I will get back to you on it.

IN A NOT-UNRELATED STORY, I showed my most recent illustration to the clients I met with yesterday, friends of ANNIE FERGERSON, the woman behind the recent documentary about, you know, me. NOW, I REALLY BELIEVED folks would have to have a copy. I had forty printed up, two sizes. I have 38 left, BUT, hey, sales is not what I’m good at.

Although I haven’t given them an estimate, I did get a text back saying, “this would make a great t shirt.” “Open for discussion,” I texted back. I should have included the PRAYER EMOJI, way more convincing when the two hands come together. WE’LL SEE.

ADDING TOO MUCH CONTENT to make the best use of my semi-free minute, here is a poem/song I’ve been working on. THE PROCESS is, again, the IDEA- overhearing a conversation about you; the FIRST DRAFT- this includes singing verses, trying out rhymes. This takes some time; usually when driving to or from a job; harmonica to see if there is a tune. It has to flow. And repetition to make sure I have it memorized. WRITING- Putting it on the thumb drive. REWRITING, EDITING, CHANGING- making sure it tells the story. TIGHTENING, TIGHTENING, TIGHTENING.

AGAIN, THIS is an imagined scene. Fiction. Maybe it’s a song I’ll never sing in public, a poem I’ll never recite; I don’t know; I wrote it and it’s part of the driving song collection, along with favorites by others, the result of many years of song writing.

I HAVE TO GO, and I still have to write something about the late PETER BADAME. Get some waves, huh? See you on the highway. OH, and I do claim and reserve all rights to my work, so…

                                    A PRIVATE CONVERSATION

                                                      an excerpt from some longer story

It was a private conversation, words I was not yet meant to hear,

Thought I’d surprise you at the station, couldn’t have known that I was near.

Your words and tears shared with a stranger, someone you’ve met along the line,

I should have known this was a danger, if I did not the fault is mine,

I’m sorry, so sorry.

You spoke of time apart and sorrow, now… I could barely hear your voice,

You said that love’s something we borrow, said freedom is a frightening choice.

You spoke of hope and disappointment, small victories, great tragedy,

In all the time we’ve been together, you never disappointed me.

Not ever, not ever.

I saw the touch, though at a distance, saw how your fingers were entwined,

You didn’t put up much resistance, offered a kiss, you did decline.

That’s when I walked out of the station, this is my last apology,

You should need no more explanation, perhaps we’ve set each other free.

It’s frightening… so frightening.

But that’s another conversation, a private conversation, a very frightening conversation,

A private conversation

This version: August 9, 2024. Some changes August 17, August 18, 2024. AND YES, I did make a couple of changes after I put it on this page. FLOW.

The Big Event, Babies, and CoinciDENCES

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, oregon surfing, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, surf adventures, surf culture events, surf trips

It’s the big Sunday edition. FIRST, a reminder that the FOURTH OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT is coming up on Wednesday, July 17, 6-8pm, Port Townsend Public Library. Special guests, art, and an emphasis on ‘TALKING STORY.’

BABIES- Ripper Mikel ‘Squintz’ Cumiskey, seemingly ping-ponging between Florida, the Pacific Northwest, and the Big Island (currently), and his wife, Kelsey (sp), had a second child. Since Mike sent texts to every surfer on his contact lists, it seems it might be worth spreading the word farther. It might have been, you know, nice if he had included more info, but… yeah, congratulations!

                        CoinciDENCES

My sister, Suellen, masterminded a reunion of her brothers and sisters in Long Beach, Washington, near Chinook, the last place our father lived, and meant to coincide with what would have been ERWIN ALLEN DENCE, SENIOR’S one hundredth birthday. He had every intent to make it to this landmark, but, having survived World War II, Korea, eight children and three wives, he did not. Our sister, Melissa, passed on several years ago, and the thought is this might be the last chance the rest of us have to see each other.

If it had all worked out perfectly. It did not. I had a short window of availability and missed seeing my brothers Jonathan and Philip. I did see Suellen, Mary Jane, and our youngest brother, Edwin (who assures me that, no, Erwin and Edwin are not variations of the same name… as in, ‘I’m Darrell, this is my brother, Daryl, and my other brother, Derrell.’)

Edwin lives most of the year in the “Chinook House,” and has done extensive remodeling on the place a block from Surf Route 101 (on which I live 290 plus miles away by the “Loop,” much, much closer via McCleary Cutoff), a block from the Columbia River. Chinook is the closest town on the Washington side to the Astoria Bridge. I made some (not enough) trips down when our father was alive, almost always heading over to Seaside (or Short Sands) for a few waves. 

It is nice to have a place to stay down that way. There was a tradition of Peninsula surfers heading down when a northwest swell just isn’t happening, and, of course, ever friendly, ever sharing Seaside locals heading up to the Strait of Juan de Fuca when there is some rumor of, you know, waves. The friendliness, stay-at-a-friend’s-house factor may have deteriorated somewhat over the years.

I did, of course, as is my tradition, trek over to Seaside while down there.  I had some notion that I might find a used SUP to back up my dinged-to-shit Hobie. Enough so that I didn’t bring it. I did check out the Cove and the Point. Northwest wind, weak swell, no one in the water two days before the fourth of July. Disappointing. Similar conditions on the Strait would probably have enticed surfers to attempt surfing.

Neither shop in Seaside had SUPs designed for surfing. “We have some of the… flat water kind. It’s just not that popular here.” Nor do they, possibly, wish it to be.

Because I had taken off so early and had plans to meet my siblings at the Pig N’ Pancake in Astoria, I hung around the shops a bit longer than I ordinarily would, eventually purchasing a t shirt from each; one for grandson, Tristen, and one for his son, Zander, due to come down on the Fourth with my daughter, Dru, our ex-daughter-in-law, Karrie, Tristen, his wife Aisha (sp?), and their daughter (complicated- Trish keeps track for me), and take over the room Suellen had set up for me at the RESORT (time share).

WHEN I go into a surf shop, I have always, and evidently still do feel like a KOOK. I did admit that to the three salespeople behind the counter, adding that if one works at a surf shop, one is, one, automatically cool, and two, automatically assumed to be a great surfer. They all nodded.

I had already talked to the guy in that group, 26 years old and self-identified as a Seaside resident. He said he is all right with the tourists and, of course, if the Point is pumping, he can, by status or skill level, join the local rippers hanging out in a private lot partway up, allowing locals the position to encourage interlopers to not take photos and to surf the Cove. Or go home. “Nothing too serious.”

“Of course not,” I said, recounting how I was yelled at for paddling past a local (for a look, only- I swear). “If you think the locals are… serious… here, it’s nothing like the localism on the Strait.”

To those of you who are… serious; you’re welcome.

With time, still, to kill, I went to the Costco in Warrington to pick up a watermelon for Suellen, some ground coffee (because I’m too cheap or stubborn to buy from a stand), and a Costco-sized container of Churros/donut holes, the intention being to turn them over to Dru and the crew from Idaho (yeah, Idaho- our son, James, went to college there, and stayed). I didn’t. I finished the last churro yesterday.

ANYWAY, the parking lot at the Costco is huge, and I could not remember where I parked the Volvo, exactly, so I headed out for the farthest reaches. No Volve, but I did start chatting with another self-identified lifelong local, a woman probably in her late fifties, of course, trying to separate myself from the Costco-sized tourists, mentioning that my had father lived in Chinook.

“We all surf here,” she said. “Probably started about eighth grade.”

“Oh, that’s about when I started board surfing.”

It isn’t so remarkable that I ran into someone in a legitimate surf town who surfed or surfs (and I’m always ready to make some surfing connection with anyone I meet). What is worthy of note is that, if she was behind the counter, or a customer, at a surf shop, I would totally believe she, one, surfs, and two, surfs well. I’m always disappointed in myself when I miss an opportunity to take a picture. It, of course, last longer. I did get a couple of shots at the Astoria Pig N’ Pancake.

LEFT TO RIGHT: A possibly exasperated or exhausted (it was between breakfast and lunch crowds) waitperson; me; Suellen’s grandson, Yurick (sp?); my brother, ED; brother-in-law, Stan; sisters Mary Jane (Janie) and Suellen. I’m sort of questioning whether to use this photo. In real life, Edwin is way bigger than me, and what’s the deal with my serious expression? I should add that Suellen did surf and, in fact, got me involved in board surfing, BUT, if any of us showed up in a surf shop…

DRU AND THE CREW did make it back from the coast late last night. I have to process all the adventures. All of them love the coast. Well. Yeah. 

T SHIRTS: I will definitely have more on the upcoming EVENT later in the week. I will have some ORIGINAL ERWIN T-shirts available. AGAIN, More, later.

LATE BREAKING and INCOMPLETE…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, Seattle surfers, surf culture events, surf novels, surf posters, surf stories, surfing tales, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

WORD ON THE STRAIT. More on all of this on Sunday, including a list of scheduled, distinguished speakers, artists’ work on display, short documentary, and more.

Classic stylist Archie Endo is back from Thailand. Temporarily. I am hoping to do a surf trip with him before he goes back.

Stephen R. Davis conquers another peak.

SAD NEWS via CHIMACUM TIMACUM (Tim Pauley) on the passing of EDINSON SERNA:

“There will be a celebration of life for Edinson Serna this Sunday at Myrtle Edwards Park at 4pm. We will be meeting by the PI building by the sculpture garden on the water.

Many of us knew Eddie fron surfing in the Pacific Northwest. He was always a vvery likable guy, super stoked, positive, and excited to be in the water surrounded by people. Hope to see everyone this Sunday. RIP”

NOT-SECRET-ENOUGH stuff. Professional videographer ANNIE FERGERSON (left) will be, if not premiering a short documentary on a notorious wave hog at the upcoming CULTURE EVENT, at least showing outtakes or a gag reel. NOTE; The goonball with the cap ON TOP OF the hoodie put this off fro a while, then, in true self-centered, sociopathic fashion, agreed to be filmed (with certain restrictions as to the angle from the beach, no gratuitous nudity, etc.). “Yeah, I figured, at my age, I would love to see a slow motion video of me, you know, like, cruising, and, uh, yeah… what?” WHAT?

DETAILS ON all of this and more on SUNDAY, you know, like, maybe don’t look for it before, like 10am, Pacific Daylight Savings Time. There will also be updates on ORIGINAL ERWIN T SHIRTS and, now that my daughter, Dru, fixed the slowdown on microsoft word, the novel, “SWAMIS.”

MEANWHILE, keep working on your surf stories. We’ll talk soon.

Microsoft Word Doesn’t Like “Swamis” on Sundays, Stealing Something from Keith, and…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf culture events, surf novels, surf posters, surfing novels, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

…It isn’t as if Keith doesn’t steal (as in a wave or two) or borrow a few things from me (though borrowing doesn’t fit as well with the surf metaphor) a few things from me, including the graphic below, but it was just so easy to copy and paste the announcement for the FOURTH OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT from Librarian Keith’s (as opposed to Cougar Keith or any other Keith) Port Townsend Public Library newsletter… and just… repost it.

Because excuses are always necessary when taking things without permission (such as, “Oh, you actually wanted that wave?”) I would say the goal here is to further spread the news.

Erwin Dence

Join us at the library, WEDNESDAY, JULY 17th, 6 to 8 pm, for an evening of surfing stories and surf art. Writers and story-tellers include, Greg Tindell, Drew Kampion, Tim Nolan, Dana Terill and Erwin Dence. A crew of local surf artists may be present to show their work. 

Greg Tindall
Although Greg Tindall has written for the UK-based Surfer’s Path, the US-centric Surfer’s Journal and Australia’s equivalent, White Horses, and while he has covered surf contests for Surfline and hurricane-surf seasons for ESPN, his true passion is telling stories in-person.  From the Society of the Four Arts in Palm Beach, as a Florida Voice, to the Surfing Heritage And Cultural Center (SHACC) in San Clemente, from the Tuckerton Seaport in New Jersey to the Libby Little Theatre in Montana, Greg now has the privilege of telling some good ones to his friend and mentor, Drew Kampion.

Drew Kampion is a former editor of SURFER (1968-72), SURFING (1973-82), WIND SURF (1982-89), and WIND TRACKS (1996-99) magazines. He was Editorial Director for the Patagonia clothing company (1990-91) and Associate Editor for NEW AGE JOURNAL (1992). He founded, published, and edited the ISLAND INDEPENDENT (1993-96), an award-winning “bioregional magazine in newsprint,” serving the “maritime rainshadow” islands of Washington State. For his work with the INDEPENDENT, he received first prize for editing a periodical with a circulation under 50,000. Until recently, Drew was the American Editor of THE SURFER’S PATH, world’s first “green” surf magazine. His episodic parody, THE TEACHINGS OF DON REDONDO: A SURFER’S WAY OF KNOWLEDGE (as illustrated by artist Tom Threinen) was a regular feature of the magazine. 

Erwin Dence is a writer and visual artist residing in Quilcene. He is well known for his regional surf-centric essays on his website realsurfers.net. Erwin is also in the final stages of the surf novel, Swami’s. His visual art is vivid, surreal and at times hypnotic. His art will be on display at the event. 

“SWAMIS” WISE, because, last Sunday, my computer went from fast to ‘oh my God, what the fuck’s gone wrong’ mode last Sunday, right after I decided to pull out early, so to speak, chopping off the last fifteen-thousand words or so, but it seemed okay on Monday, I took my thumb drive to COHO PRINTING and had eight copies printed up.

IT’S A DIFFERENT THING, looking at a manuscript on paper. 104 pages on the computer, 90,000 words, printed front and back to reduce waste if not cost, is still a lot of paper. And it’s… real. Tangible. Touchable. And… shit; I want to make changes.

THE LAST things I wrote were a last chapter modified to fit better as the end of… of this; with so much more to the story; and a new epilogue because the one I had written before the last rewrite no longer fit. SO, eight copies in a box, a copy in hand, questions in my mind on who could read them, I realized the new epilogue was possibly as ill-fitting as the others. Yes, others; there are others of everything.

SO, I DECIDED TO JUST start with the first chapter; all dialogue, not too much (but enough) exposition, AND, I thought, why not share it with, you know, YOU.

BUT THEN, partway through some unavoidable rewriting, M I C R O F T started going R E A L L Y S L O W.

I get a certain sense of panic when this happens; maybe not as severe as last week’s attack, but I am still not sure what to do: New computer? No. Go to the library and use their’s? Maybe. Not today. TODAY I AM working on a poster for the upcoming event. It’s getting closer by the second!

I HOPE ALL YOU ALL had a great International Surf Day, enjoyed the recent Solstice, and… and you’re saving the date to do what surfers do: Talk Story.

OH, and there is some possibility that outtakes, at least, from a very short documentary by a professional filmer, centering on a villainous surfer who hits the sometimes waves on the Strait, just might be something else offered at the upcoming surf culture event.

OH, and surfer, ARCHIE ENDO, Crescent Cruiser, is back in the area after an extended stay in Thailand.

MORE. Later. GET GOING!

“Dark Mercury Velvet” and 55 Years and Murals and…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, perfect waves, real surfers, surf culture, surf stories

…More.

Surfers don’t necessarily NEED nicknames. In order to last, there has to be a story. Some stories hold up better over time. Example:A recent incident involving a car ‘vandalized’ in a parking lot with accusations thrown around by the victim or victims of, allegedly, a banana peel on the hood (or roof, I wasn’t there) and some amount of sunscreen on a (side, I believe) window. Three surfers exiting the water and approaching the lot were challenged by the victim(s) and his or her or their friends, called in for support/backup.

Paraphrasing, the first of the three; “How could I have done it. I was in the water.” Similar answers from the other two. “It must have been the FOURTH SURFER, then.” The Fourth Surfer was gone. His compatriots refused to give him up. Authority figures showed up. THERE has been further back and forth on the incident; e mails, some conciliatory, but the question is: Will the nickname THE FOURTH SURFER nickname (and he denies perpetrating the crime) stick?

Does Rico need a better nickname than RICO SUAVAY (phonetic spelling), that, face it, isn’t all that cool, although Rico definitely dresses the part? Suave. Here is another option: I ran into Rico the other dayk, chatted a bit on the side of the road about a near-dark to dark session. Now, Rico is a writer, but I was still very impressed when he described the waves as “Dark merury velvet walls.” Edited to Mercury Velvet,” it sounds like a nickname to me. We’ll see.

BECAUSE TIME seems to move so quickly, I have been telling people for a while that, if I make it to June, I will have been a painter for 55 years. NOW, Trish disagrees, claiming I can’t claim the two years and three months I worked as a sign painter apprentice/nub at Buddy’s Sign Service in Oceanside, immediiately after graduating from high school. “But, Honey, that allowed me to get hired as a journeyman painter at twenty.” “They were desperate.”

They were. Still, I persevered and… now iit’s June, and…

This is my latest artsy/painterly project, the HISTORICAL MUSEUM in Quilcene, what has, after 45 years plus, my de facto home town. This is the third time I painted the mural. At the museum’s opening, in 1991, I went to the committee and volunteered to do a mural. “What will it look like?” “Whatever I come up with. If you don’t like it, I’ll paint over it.” In the 2000s I painted the entire building and freshened up the mural. Recently I saw there was a meeting going on, and I again offered my services.

None of the new crop of volunteers on hand knew who I was. Their plan was to get a restoration artist to match the colors and, yeah, restore the mural. “What?” That I was a cheaper alternative doesn’t really bother me, even though I put at least two days more work into it than I had planned. I haven’t put my name on it. One of the volunteers said, “It’ll probably be the last time you paint it.

“Oh, I don’t know.”

MEANWHILE, the shirts with the graphic I did are available at the Port Townsend Public Library. All you have to do is promise to read, like, so many hours.

More events are coming up in the greater Olympic Peninsula Surf Zone. The FOURTH OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE EVENT is scheduled for JULY 17. More information later. Oh, and if you can’t be nice, be real. Get some waves, dark mercury velvet or otherwise, when you can.

Sorry ’bout the Delay- Live Surf Contests are…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf art, surf culture, surf culture events, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing novels

…not exactly addictive, but, as a fan, with favorites, some winning, some not; if there’s a chance to watch… I just mighjt. NEWS for the Non-Watchers and the WSL haters, John John won the mens, moments ago and Caroline Marks… Yeah, I’m sure you know by now.

I kind of half thought it was Father’s Day today, another excuse, this one for sleeping late, not being totally concerned about work (the kind that pays selected bills), and maybe even taking a nap. It isn’t Father’s Day. While Mother’s Day (l’m choosing the singular possessive here because, while we can celebrate all mothers, it’s our own that we should be honoring) is set up during the school year, with craft assignments designed to produce refrigerator art and coffee table crafts, fathers have to wait, and wait, and get something store bought. Still, most likely refrigerator and coffee table stuff. BUT StILL…

I did do some surfing since my last posting, memorable mostly in that my psychedelic oil-filled eye didn’t present too much of a problem. Or the bright sunlight and the decent waves made me ignore it. Or I just closed the left one while screaming down the line. That’s screaming as in ‘loudly proclaiming.’

On that front, there is still some scarring in the eye and the potential that the retina could come loose, so, out of an abundance of caution, I get to go at least another three weeks with the magical liquid holding the wallpaper to the inner walls. I am learning more each time I get checked out. Not that I’ve been anxious to know some of this. And, again, I have a bit of regret for not giving a bit more sympathy for other surfers who have problems with the glare and such in the water.

In a non-similar situation, I stumbled and crashed going out on my last session, doing the dive straight in rather than the wade, AND, as is increasingly happening, I got thrashed trying to land in a not-that-vicious shorebreak, pushing my board up the beach and crawling with, of course, witnesses. IN BETWEEN, of course, I ripped.

Not just me, of course, but if it’s ever SURFERS DAY, I will use the singular possessive ‘surfer’s,’ and the surfer’s performance I am most concerned with, though I do appreciate any good-to-great ride by anyone, is mine.

Allow me a moment to look up SOCIOPATHIC NARCISSISTS’ DAY.

Artist/surfer Stephen R. Davis and I at the COLAB in Port Townsend with my panels. Photos by Joel Carben. Joel and his wife, Rachel, run the collaborative work space and have allowed me to exhibit my work there. Steve helped spread the word on social media.

Side note: I’m wearing the t-shirt I designed for the Port Townsend Public Library’s SUMMER READ.

Secret note: Partially (only partially) because non of the semi local crew would say that I’m in any way thinner than another local surfer, I’m getting more serious about dieting. Slightly more serious. I’m switching from ice cream to yogurt, mushroom burgers (with cheese and sometimes eggs) to salads; I’m avoiding chips, fries, donuts; and I’ve broken it off, hopefully for good, with Little Debbie; and I’m rethinking my longterm obsession with Hostess.

Meanwhile, there are plans and schemes for the NEXT OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT. The date is set for July 17th. Art, talking story, special guests… MORE to be reported, LATER!

Hope you’re scoring some waves on occasion. As always, if you can’t be nice, be real.

Doors, Panels, Screens, Artsy Dealies, My Most Recent Obsessions, Eye, Eye, Eye, AND BIG DAVE Stuff

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, mind surfing, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf art, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing novels, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

Trish wasI, as always, correct when she said I had become obsessed with these door panels I have been working on; four by-fold doors rescued/salvaged/pack-ratted from some job. My theory was, because everyone has limited wall space for art, these would serve as screens, or even, doors.

Yes, there’s an inside and an outside, and I kind of lost track of what was on one side when I was painting the other side. It wasn’t all, like, thematic. Maybe a little. Obviously I have some sort of fascination with waves. And color. I would start out, get to something that was not what I envisioned and… here’s the obsessive part; I would keep going until l was a high percentage of satisfied. The fear at some point is that I could then screw the whole thing up. A line too far. Or a color. Or… something.

I want to thank Joel and Rachel Carben, owners of the COLAB in Port Townsend, for allowing me to have my art in their space. Although I paint houses for a living, my artistic leanings have been toward drawing.

SO, I am not at all sure what to do with these panels now. Hanging out for three of the monthly Port Townsend ARTWALKS has reinforced my belief that marketing is not my strong suit. Not even close. SO, do I tell myself that the joy of art is in the process? That is true, but… but, but, but…

Captions: Stephen R. Davis approaching the wall of doors at the COLAB;Joel Carben and Steve; a framed painting that caused Steve to comment,”It’s nice that you’re finally going for fine art,”; various panels taken where they were painted (a Costco/White Trash garage). OHHH, and then there’s BIG DAVE.

I took this a week or so ago at the Home Depot in Sequim. I had already heard a rumor that Legendary Surfer BIG DAVE RING was giving up surfing due to arthritis in his knees. I did write about this. The rumor was confirmed. *Sort of. Quickly, Dave was raised in Pacific Beach, San Diego, and was part of the pack of “Pier Rats” that included standout, Joe Roper. Dave, currently 66, was fourteen when I moved to PB in late 1971. I was twenty. Not a big talker in the lineup, not a guy who hangs out and chats it up on the beach, part of the reason I found out any info at all is because we have been mistaken for each other, as in: “I read your last thing on your blog,” to Dave, or “I heard you were ripping the other day,” to me.

Most of this was back when Dave was merely rocking a big-ass mustache. We both were riding big boards (Dave a 12′ SUP as a regular surfboard), and we both caught a lot of waves, from the outside, or scrapping for insiders. Dave is a master of the late takeoff and the sideslip, and plows through sections I would dodge..

A notable quote that got back to me was, “I rolled up and the Walrus and the Beast were both out. I went somewhere else. Though I’m almost more comfortable with being referred to as ‘That asshole wavehog, kneeboards on a SUP,” and I’ve been doing my best to increase the size of my mustache, I must agree with those who say Big Dave is the Walrus. Coo coo ca choo, coo coo ca choo.

*Having already, in a pattern that seems to hold true among older surfers, moved from popping up automatically, to knee boarding the takeoff and standing up after the first section, to kneeboarding the entire wave, Dave expressed little interest in belly boarding. “No, but…” I could tell Dave was imagining the perfect pre dawn session, sneaking out, lining up a few bombers.

“It is amazng,” he said, “what I’ve gotten done because I’m not always putting stuff off to go surfing.”

I get it, Dave.

EYE and LEG UPDATE- I’m finally through with the wound care for the gouge on my right calf. Pretty impressive scar. I am going to have my eye checked out on Friday, with surgery to remove the clear oil inside it, hopefully, scheduled for… soon. It isn’t as if I can’t work, it’s just annoying. I sort of attacked a woman in a parking lot the other day because she had a bandage over one eye. “Hey, what happened to you?” Different deal. Worse than mine. Nice conversation. ANYWAY, I did tell Trish that, because of the glare in the water, I might not surf until the oil in my eye is exchanged for (I asked) saline solution, that to be replaced by the proper bodily-produced fluid.

BUT, but, but… when I check the forecast…

Moving on. Back to another of my obsessions. After I post this, my plan is to get back to “Swamis.” I had friends attempt to read earlier versions. I know where I have to make changes, and I have been working on it. That’s my process. Evidently. Obsession, distraction; what we have to do and what we want to do and what we really really want to do.

Good luck with your obsessions.

Sometimes Taking the Skunking…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surfing, surfing art, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

…might be the wiser choice. You’ve faced this situation: The waves are crappy; side-blown, the tide completely wrong for the spot, and bound to get wrong-er for the next two hours; and the wind’s supposed to get stronger, wronger; sideshore, onshore, with a swirling bit of actual offshore just to help convince you that it’s go out, or hang out, or go home skunked and… yeah, you’re there to surf. And, another mind-push, is that you (and by you, I mean me) missed the last window because you had some sort of responsibility you couldn’t get out of, although, to be honest, you/I could have gone later and, as it turned out, scored.

I blame you. Me. Regrets. It totally wrong that sessions, or even particular waves we miss (you and I) are often regretted more than sessions or waves in which we believe we scored are properly appreciated.

Still… Fuck! Despite it being against somebody’s rules, if you have friends who surf, and they score, or claim they scored, and you didn’t… you will hear about it. “Why weren’t you out there?” Fuck! Should’a gone.

WHEN I was learning (should say ‘first’ learning), living twenty miles from any waves, and at the mercy of anyone willing to drive (my siblings and me, friends and me, me), I would go out in anything. Like… ANY THING!

That hasn’t really changed through the years. Even when I lived five minutes or less from waves, fitting surfing into my schedule (other obligations, but, working, mostly) meant hitting it with all the other weekend warriors and after-work maniacs, so, crappy conditions; I thought of it as practice.

PRACTICE. Of all the sessions I’ve surfed on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, a very high percentage fall into this category. If riding tiny waves makes one better equipped for bigger waves, choppy waves prepare one for clean ones, YEP, I’ve practiced.

STILL doing the make-my-best-assessment, move-other-schedule-issues-around, and GO!

I have a pretty good story on my latest session, and on why, even though I got a couple decent rides, I should have passed on it. It would sound kind of like whining, so… another time. I challenged tjhe conditions and… next time. NEXT time.

WAIT! I just checked my schedule AND the forecast. Busy, not so good. Please allow me to rethink my most recent session. I mean, I got a couple of decent rides, considering. Maybe… and this is what I would say to anyone I haven’t already reported the truth to… “Yeah, almost no one out! It was… GREAT!

meanwhile, in addition to more work shirked than accomplished on my novel, “Swamis,” I have some art projects I’m working on. More in my retro/psychedelic period. Photos soon.

Surf, Music, Dance, Poetry… STUFF

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, real surfers, surf novels, writings of Erwin Dence

THIS is a silkscreen I did in the 1980s. I’m not apologizing for it being, perhaps, sexist or something bad by today’s standards. It doesn’t go so much with a poem I’ve been working on, but nothing I found in a search did either. I COULD, of course, draw something that does connect better, but… I haven’t.

I AM ALWAYS working on something, art-wise, story-wise, song-wise, otherwise. I have been working recently on a song that starts out, “It was a private conversation, Words I was not yet meant to hear, She had been to long at the station, Couldn’t have known that I was near…”

WHAT I DO is keep working on these songs, and everything I do until it’s… better. SURF-WRITING-WISE, I am always trying to push some comparison between the best moments and music, even dance. Not all dancing is graceful, Stephanie Gilmore style pretty. AND she also incorporates solidly radical, powerful moves into her repertoire. Similarly, there is something esthetically pleasing about a vicious power hack.

MUSIC-WISE, please try to convince me that you don’t have some tune or beat going through your head when you’re paddling for and surfing a wave. If you don’t, well…

Too much explaining.

                        A Private Conversation

I was coming up the stairway, two bags of groceries pressed against my chest, She was dancing on the landing, third floor, Sun from the distant windows lit her hair on fire, Her shadow moving with her on the sidewall.

Six stairs below her, I leaned against the inside rail.

She was moving to music, music I could not hear.

Her movements made the music real. Slink and slide and step and stop, Step and stop, slink and slide, one arm always at her side, The other, gliding, raised then lowered, Free, and spelling or signing or reflecting, Words or images or memories or dreams,   Real to her.

Real to her, private.

Sunset music, light, a tinkling rhythm beat under the woodwinds, Only fleeting hints of nightfall.

I should not have been a witness, Seeing her, dancing, silent, hair on fire,  In some soft and private conversation with some distant, absent, loved one.

Loved one, someone else dancing with her on the landing, Sharing her space.

The background, The air and the light and the wallpaper and the paint were as alive as she was, Slinking and sliding and stepping and slowing, Listening, perhaps, briefly, The dance resumed as response.

Her other arm became the free one, Sending the code, The secret, private messages in our most ancient language.

I should not have been there.

I couldn’t face facing her, Couldn’t imagine her trying to explain, Not to some neighbor, some stranger three doors down.

Setting my bags on the third step from the landing, Sitting two stairs below that, Alone in the dark, with vague shadows of someone dancing, Projected on the stairwell wall.

I envied her for dancing, dancing alone in the hallway, Music swirling in her head.

Waiting in the stairwell,   Waiting long after her door closed, Long after the light moved up the wall and softened, And darkened, I waited long until her music faded.  

My steps up became drums, not heavy, Step, step, step,

If I imagined a saxophone solo, Sad squeaks and missed notes, Looking out the window at a screaming orange sunset, I couldn’t stop myself from sliding one foot across the worn oak floor, And then the other, My grocery bags shifting, side to side, In some rhythm that made some sense… to me.

THANKS FOR READING. Original material, of course, protected by copyright, all rights reserved by the author/artist, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

AS ALWAYS, IF YOU CAN’T BE NICE, BE REAL.

I FULLY expect to not tell you about a surf session in the next posting. AND, yes, I am still working on my novel, “SWAMIS.”