Category Archives: Uncategorized

Superbowl Rehash/Recovery/Convalescence and…

Posted on by under northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf culture events, surfing blogs, surfing Southern California in the 60s, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

Me, with hearing aids, and Dru’s ginger cat, NICHOLAS, aka Sam Darnold.

DYLAN SCOTT, the son of TRISHA’S brother and his wife, JIM and GREER (note how inclusively proper I’m being), sent me this shot of him surfing at a spot he (and SURFLINE, to whom [whom because corporations are people, too] he pays a possibly significant monthly fee) identify as “GEORGE’S.

It is obvious, at 9:53 or so on SUPERBOWL SUNDAY, that goofyfoot Dylan has the green light in his favor as well as a reduced crowd because all the North San Diego County surf enthusiasts were, no doubt, pulling avocados off the trees to prepare a satisfying snack. WHAT wasn’t obvious to me, when I was checking out the photo on the phone, in bed (after a game that was probably boring [other than the half time show] for everyone who wasn’t a SEAHAWKS or, you know that other team fan, with us [Seahawks fans] absolutely riveted/worried, clutching our skittles, and oysters, and rosary beads, and listening to STEVE RAIBLE and DAVE WYMAN on the radio because we just don’t trust or like commentary from CHRIS COLLINGSWORTH)… exhausting… what wasn’t obvious to me was, where the hell is George’s. SO, I texted Dylan.

Evidently George’s is on the section of beach between CARDIFF REEF and SEASIDE TRAILER REEF, both of which, according to my research on the GRAM, were going off on this day. SO, I had to do more texting, the you-really-don’t-want-to-hear “Back in my day” stories, bearing in mind that I started surfing the North County beaches beyond Oceanside Pier and Tamarack in 1965, and left the area in late 1978. “Just in time” you might say. “Yes. I hear it has become more crowded.”

SO, Dylan, ya see, that part of the beach, in the mid seventies, when I lived in Encinitas, was called STRETCHMARK BEACH. This was, according to the hipster who hipped me to it, because, paraphrasing here, “Surf chicks who, like, had babies, they would take them there rather than, you know, other spots.” However rude and inappropriate, I stand by the previous name.

Continuing the ‘my day’ stuff, before my day, there was a pier in Cardiff, and, when I moved to the Great Pacific Northwest, SEASIDE TRAILER PARK was not yet a parking lot. AND, and, yes, I did once surf there, on a Sunday afternoon, with DONALD TAKAYAMA the only other surfer in the water.

NOT bragging, but grateful.

“ERWIN” THE MOVIE news:

Not sure this will work. I have the cheapest WordPress account, and didn’t think I could have videos. I ran into JASON QUEEN, both of us getting skunked. He stumbled onto the beach and into this video by Annie Fergerson. The link I previously posted no longer works. Possibly because the video was picked up and shown as part of the PORT TOWNSEND FILM FESTIVAL and was part of the worldwide SAVE THE WAVES festivals, Jason seemed to believe there is some fame attached to being in it. YES, there is now a sub-genre of videos featuring old surfers still at it, but, no, I don’t seem to have any lingering side effects of my notoriety.

All I was really trying to do was post the link. If you haven’t seen this, yes, I do realize there’s a bit of comic relief here, and, yes and again, I do realize my level of ridiculousness. I just keep trying to rise above it. OR, maybe it’s part of my evil scheme to get a few more waves in a crowd.

GRIPES AND HYPES, and any comments, write me at erwin@realsurfers.net

INSTAGRAM ME- realsurfersdotnet

HEY, if I can, indeed, post videos, I might try putting up another page with some MUSICAL ERWIN stuff. FUN. Hope you’re getting enough waves that you won’t be there when I go the next time. Nothing personal. HAPPY VALENTINES DAY to those I love, and to all lovers. HAPPY HATERS’ DAY (whenever that is- seems to be most days) to all the haters.

There is no top to love short of heaven, no bottom to hate. The difference between love and hate is the difference between flying and falling. It’s where you land. Oh, yes, and how you land.

Trying to Look at Surfing from Multiple Angles Pre Superbowl Stuff

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I had to double back after passing CHIMACUM TIMACUM at Worthington Park in Quilcene. Tim called me as I passed, the recently replaced fanbelt on my car squealing. “Oh, so you’re the kind of guy who drives twelve miles to walk his dog?” “Yes. And my ex-wife’s dog.” “Good. When’s the surf going to happen?” “It’s always, like, maybe two days out.” “Always.”

          Amalia and Dru and my thumb or forefinger.               

  Attempting to Change to be Culturally… Um… Semi Cultured… Or…

There wasn’t actually a ‘come to Jesus’ kind of moment in which I, miraculously, discovered that I may be prejudiced (as in pre-judging) in believing, or thinking, that the perfect woman surfer should be STEPHANIE GILMORE, or a woman with the attributes of Stephanie Gilmore: Stylish, graceful, feminine (whatever that means), absolutely fierce in her surfing, savage as a competitor, and yet…

And yet, following the latest Pipeline contest, GABRIELA BRYAN, frequently identified as Gaby, always referred to as a ‘power surfer,’ very capable of getting an excellent score with one reentry, one wave-wrecking hack, won. And yes, this means she won the final, in what was, as described by a local, as “A beach break over a shallow reef.”

Let me now say that I only go to Port Angeles to go past it and on to somewhere with the (remote) possibility of rideable waves. NO, TRISH and I did go up there for a DAVID SEDARIS concert/reading. Trish is a major fan, which I take some credit for, always alerting her to his being on “This American Life” on NPR.

I missed the last semi-final because I was going to a ‘cultural event’ at the Field House in Port Angeles that featured writer LINDY WEST, who, coincidentally, lives in Quilcene (where Trish and I have lived for forty-seven oh-my-God years, and where our children were raised). DRU discovered this Quilcene connection, not one Lindy, in her presentation, mentioned, but was the instigator behind our cultural journey up Surf Route 101. We picked up Quilcene raised AMALIA BAKER (who also has a connection with Dru’s job with the Olympic Music Festival) in a fogged-to-the-max Sequim and found our way to the waterfront venue.

Very nice. We were seated in the balcony, third row from the railing. Cheaper seats, Dru said, but we were in the middle. Fine. Though the row in front of us was empty (great- chance to hang my legs over) our row was filled, which meant that other attendees, mostly women (actually, like 90%) had to squeeze past from both directions, coming and going. Fine. The stranger to my left whipped out a pack of gum, and possibly because I looked around, offered me a stick, “Not that you need it.” Whether I did or didn’t, it would have been rude to decline. And, once chewing, there was really no un-rube-like way to dispose of the gum, me in my black on black outfit with my non-Seahawks cap and my no-paint-on-them shoes, my hearing aids pre-installed and adjusted so I could, one, hear more than every fan or motor, and, two, so that the devices didn’t squeal, a piercing alarm evidently discernible from a distance.

This photo was identified as Jenny Jimenez, possibly a pseudonym, possibly the photographer,. Lindy West and her husband, photo possibly taken in the wilds of Quilcene

DON’T PANIC!  It went fine. Fine despite the women to my left laughing almost hysterically at humor that evaded if not escaped me. And, of course, I laughed at things in the presentation that no one else seemed to get. Amalia (always called Molly) and DRUCILLA (usually called Dru) were properly reserved in their appreciative responses.

Not to belabor this much further, but the message from Lindy West, who had a TV series (“Shrill”) for three years, has been (I would say) successful as a writer, is that she considers herself as pretty-much a loser… BUT, hey, why not try to do modified standup?

I get it. Self-deprecation seems like modesty. It isn’t.

So, somewhere between my accepting the gum and the start of the powerpoint presentation, I admitted to Dru and Molly that I may be wrong in not fully appreciating the ability of a ‘big girl’ (got this from Dru- some reference to “Silence of the Lambs”) like Gabriella, usually referred to as Gaby, to turn or win a heat with one big off the lip or one big power hack. I mean, really, how can an old fat dude be critical of… anyone who competes and wins?

Sure, I can; I’ll just try not to.

Oh, and did you notice my self-deprecation there? Totally fake.

Oh, and I’m still rooting for Sally Fitzgibbons, often called Sal or Sally Fitz, known for charging, to get back on the big tour.                 

A photo by ADAM ‘WIPEOUT’ JAMES from a recent trip to the coast. ‘SOUPY’ DAN, restauranteur surfer previously and sometimes known as YODELING DAN was also in attendance. There may or may not be photos available of incredible waves with offshore winds. It’s always more appropriate to post photos with less than awesome waves. However…

CONTACT- erwin@realsurfers.net

INSTAGRAM- realsurfersdotnet

Page Two- May or may not mention that I got a sudden bunch of hits from Israel. Not sure why.

I am considering starting an account on SUBSTACK. This may focus on my novel, “SWAMIS.” I’ll keep you posted.

Get some waves, and…

GO SEAHAWKS!

Only Three Times I Watched TV All Day

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, real surfers, surf contests, surf culture, surf novels, surfing, surfing blogs, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence
SAN CLEMENTE, CALIFORNIA – SEPTEMBER 8: Seven-time WSL Champion Stephanie Gilmore of Australia after winning the World Title at the Rip Curl WSL Finals on September 8, 2022 at San Clemente, California. (Photo by Pat Nolan/World Surf League).
I watched every heat.

9/11.2001 photo by Gulnara Samoilova originally published in the Guardian

Dan Nieman called me at an ungodly early hour to discuss a painting job in progress. “Hey, something’s happening in New York.” I watched the second plane hit, everything thereafter.

Photo of 9/11 Insurrection from Spectrum News

Trump and his cronies were still making speeches when I turned on the TV. Then, folks ambling toward the capital like tourists. Then… Undeniable, unpardonable, treasonous insurrection. Then… and since, denial, pardons, lies. And either those who propagate the lies don’t care if we know the truth or they believe enough Americans are like those citizens who, and I believe this, were innocent bystanders… unless they didn’t realize this was a criminal act and turned away. They share some guilt, not quite as much as those who realize the lie of the whitewash and fail to say it is that.

SHIMMER AND SHINE

It’s the shimmer, always was, the shimmer and the shine, Shimmer and shine, those were the goals, yours and mine, To be weightless, caught up in and part of the shimmer, Bathing in the shimmer and dancing in the shine.

We’ve seen the thinnest slice of light, The glimmer, faintest speck of hope, Pulsing on the horizon,  Flashes between us and what’s beyond, Wind ripped sky reflecting, imperfectly, The chaos between us, pressed against each other As the layers of the firmament, clouds, sheets and blankets, Are unfurled toward us and past us.

The universe, the further beyond, Its twinkling starry map unreadable to us, Ancient braille. Marking the route, perhaps, to Heaven.

Messengers and seekers and those perilously balancing, Too close to drowning, Those downed by regret, broken by fear, scarred by sorrow, Exhausted byy repeated failures, Mourn for lives too long lost, Pray for rescue, Look for some distant beacon, Imagine the veil of darkness pierced, Imagine or remember Bathing in the shimmer and dancing in the shine.

There’s too much to consider, Holding you this close, Standing this close to a raging sea, This far from a twisted sky.

I’m certain you’ve seen it, I’ve seen, in your eyes, Flashes of light, Sparkling, Glistening, Hopeful, The shimmer and the shine,

And we are… still… dancing.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. Contact: erwin@realsurfers.net Shimmer and Shine, Copyright 2026, All rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

As always, waves are out there; find some.

Illustration and Question and “Swamis” Chapter Two

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I don’t think of myself as obsessive… usually. Still, once I get working on something, I want to continue, realizing the irritating interruptions for, like, sleep, work, real life… they’re just part of the process.

If you scroll down, you’ll see the work on the poem/song/story of the Whore of Hudson Street includes findinng out if there is even such a thing as a seal skin coat. Then, search for an image that goes with my idea of a woman, possibly a Selkie, lost in the world of, yeah, humans. Then attempt to illustrate. This is where I’m at. Do believe I have three-quarters of another page of stuff written, awaiting editing.

AND CHANGING.

The Store Owners’ Daughter and the Hudson Street Whore

When the night got too harsh, she moved under the awning, in front of my parents’ hardware store, the Hudson Street whore. I’ve heard her singing.

She twirled for a bit in the display window’s light, her long coat a part of the dance, “It’s old,” she said, “True, but it’s warm, and it’s genuine fur,” It’s the same one her mother once wore, the Hudson Street whore. I’ve heard her singing.

What’s next is making copies, adding color. The illustration, overworked, for sure, might have to be redrawn, simplified. And, yes, I am afraid of just going with black, bringing the image forward as the masters have done. We’ll see.

                         CHAPTER TWO- SATURDAY, AUGUST 14, 1965

My mother took my younger brother, Freddy, and me to the beach at what became 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 reforms, 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 her way, almost frozen, surprised by a wave face so thin and clean I still swear I could see through it.

            I held my board by the rails, tumbled with it. I felt her board hit it. I let go. Both boards, upside down, hers on top of mine, broach to the waves, headed for the beach. We both popped up, shoulder deep. She pulled the strands of blonde hair away from her face with both hands.

“Kook,” she said, pointing at our boards. I sloshed through waist, then knee high water, retrieving her board just as she, body surfing a reform wave, popped up very close to me. “What’s wrong with you?”

            Because I didn’t respond, she looked a little closer at me. “You.”

            “Me? Yes.” I replayed the moments before she spoke. She waded toward me and placed both hands and some weight on her board. I didn’t remove mine. She looked toward the bluff. I followed her eyes. Two women were standing above the wood stairway, even with us. One was my mother. The girl looked back. Her eyes were green and seemed, somehow, as transparent as I had imagined the waves to be. “Kooks have to stay out of the way.” She flipped me off with the thin fingers of both hands. “Double bird!” Her expression turned the words into an explanation partway through.

            “Some say, ‘Double eagle.’ Okay. I… shouldn’t have… You’re… not a kook, then?”

            She looked at my hands on her surfboard, turned her head to look more closely at me. “No. I’m someone who stays away from cops. And their kids.”

            “Oh. So, we know each other.”

            “Oh? No. No, but… you don’t seem…”

            “Retarded? Maybe. Getting better is what the doctors…” I took my hands off the girl’s surfboard and did a low double eagle. “…Better.”

The girl, perhaps slightly amused, pointed to my board, resting on a clump of seaweed. “Surfing isn’t easy, Junior. 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 hurried inshore and picked up 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 on her board. 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.

            “Your daddy get that piece of crap board for you?”

            “Hansen. Don. Eighth grade graduation. I was happy enough with a surf mat.”

            “We can’t be friends, Junior.”

            “No?  No. I’m a kook and you’re… a real surfer. But… What about when I… get to the point where I surf wa-aay better than you? Still, no?”

            The girl turned away again. Not as long this time. She almost smiled. “You coming back tomorrow?”

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

            “You… 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.

NON-POLITICAL ERWIN- Do you think the current Secretary of War already misses the time when he was just a drunk douchebag TV clown? Not yet? Well. Somehow the Dire Straits song, “The Man’s Too Strong” keeps popping up in my mental playlist. “Now they say I am a war criminal and I’m fading away…” Not an exact fit, but… what is?

Thanks for checking out my site. Original material is copyright protected. All right reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. Contact me at erwin@realsurfers.net

Chemotherapy and Other Near-Death Experience

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Trish and I were married on a rainy day, November 20, 1971. Yes, we were young, unaware of just how young we were. Then. We know now.

My wife of fifty-four years is going for her seventh (of twelve) of the once-a-week chemo sessions today. Friday.  The worst day for her will probably be Sunday. Weakness, vomiting, lack of taste, inability to eat even if anything tasted like something other than (based on her description) metallic snot. I should mention the diarrhea, another awesome side effect of chemicals meant to, designed to kill invasive cells without killing the host, the victim, of Cancer, the Big C, and, not that it’s necessary, but “Fuck Cancer.”

Bear in mind that Cancer is the disease, Chemotherapy is the cure; that it will someday be seen as brutal… maybe; it’s the cure for now.

As a bonus, Trish has a very low (like, next step, hospitalization) white blood count (the ones desperately trying to fight off the invader; this making it necessary for her to make three additional trips to the hospital to get shots that go (again, by description) “to the bone.” As a bonus to the bonus, someone with a cold or in the grip of any sort of germiness, should not be around Trish. So, like me… I should maintain a safe distance.

And I have been. Like twenty miles. Trish is at our daughter’s, I’m in Quilcene.

Trish went over to help Dru in her struggles (ongoing because Cancer never, it seems, actually fully surrenders), and now Dru is helping her mother. Meanwhile, I, tasked with some major repairs on our house, continue to choose working over repairing, not to mention writing or drawing, (occasionally surfing), and phone calls and texts between my once-or-twice-a-week in person visits.

And yes, I’m complaining.

The truth about cancer, and other life-threatening illnesses, is that, though we can assume that everyone has been critically ill, there is nothing we can do, really, to alleviate someone else’s pain, their fears; if words of support and expressions of love, and assertions that faith is part of the struggle; if all that were enough, we would all reach out to those who are sick. Or injured. Or lost. Suffering. And there’s a chance it’s helpful, appreciated.

I shouldn’t have to add that, witnessing just how horrendous being this ill is, I feel some amount of guilt in not being more involved in the situations friends have been in. And I’m not going for sympathy. Okay, maybe, thinking about specific instances where I have not been the friend I could have been, I have more guilt than I would like to admit.    

If I’m preaching (God forbid) to anyone, it’s to me.

Still, Trish will get past this. She’s tough enough, resilient enough, stubborn enough to survive 54 years plus with me; hopes and prayers and chemo.

We keep going.

THE Save the Waves, Realsurfers, Erwin Connection, if Any: Answers Needed

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WELCOME TO NEW READERS/PERUSERS/CHECKING-IT-OUTERS. I’m looking for some reasonable explanation for why the viewership, worldwide clickers on the worldwide web, for my esoteric content on realsurfers.net should suddenly expand exponentially; like crazy multipliers.

NOW, I must admit I’m a bit excited about this. One theory is the worldwide phenomena of the SAVE THE WAVES FESTIVAL, and my appearance in the short documentary film, “ERWIN,” produced by Annie Fergerson. YES, I am that charismatic oldster kneeboarding and voice-overing, and YES, I am the Erwin behind realsurfers.net.

I did have a link to the film, but… I don’t know, maybe there’s an ownership dispute or something; the link stopped working. Because I was never compensated for participating in the production, ‘lending’ my image and ridiculousness to the film, if my blog could be… somewhat… successful, I would probably consider that fair payment. NOTE- This isn’t a legal document; I said, ‘probably.’

ANYWAY, if you are someone new to my site, and not a person or company or bot trying to sell me ways to improve my viewership, perhaps you could send me a quick email, erwin@realsurfers.net to say where you are, who you are, and why you’re checking out my blog. I will respond AND put your message on this here site, viewed worldwide by, I’m hoping, real people.

THANKS, the real erwin.

Interrogatory, as in “Where You Going With All Those Surfin’ Boards?”

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I have a habit of going out of my way to ask people who have surfboards on their rigs where they are going, where they have been, whether or not they got waves, or think they might find waves; easy questions like that. This happens out on Surf Route 101, and since I am doing a lot of work in Port Townsend, and it is a route from the northern reaches of the state, I might, at least, wonder what the answers folks cruising on or off the ferries might have ffor answers. It’s painting season, with clients worried about impending winter, and doom, and the crash of civilization, but I just can’t help wondering.

One problem is, I might come across as hostile, creepy, even scary rather than friendly, outgoing, even gregarious, and, overall, very willing to talk to strangers. So… ANSWERS, PLEASE.

Okay, I’ll go first. Where am I going with all those ladders on the FUN CAR?

BUT FIRST! Tickets go on sale on Monday, September 15 for the Port Townsend Film Festival. The short documentary films, including “Erwin,” by Annie Fergerson, will be part of the offering on a Friday and a Sunday. This won’t be your only chance to see the almost five minute rendering of an obviously ridiculous old-timer surfer. The doc has toured the world with the Waves for Change program, and it will be coming to PT in October.

BUT SECOND! Bear in mind you can always email erwin@realsurfers.net with your own questions; such as: When did you start losing your hair? Did you used to, like, you know, stand up on a board? What was it really like surfing in California in the sixties? Shit like that. Or… your own stories. I obviously want to know. Don’t make me ask you in the parking lot of the QFC.

The one photo, third from the bottom, is of Shortboard Aaron, lured into action, performing an acrobatic high ladder act in a confined space. The second from the bottom is me trying to capture a sunset (while driving), smoke from down canal fires filtering the light. I did say ‘trying.’ The bottom shot came from Keith Darrock, heading toward Port Townsend.

So, yeah; there are rumors of waves, as always; and as much as I want to know who is surfing where, as much as I am anxious to hear about how awesome your last sessions were, I really just want to surf. And I will; probably won’t tell you about it.

LAST THING- It’s contest season on the northwest shores; Westport this weekend, then… I am hoping to get a report. Not like I, you know, HAVE to know. Thanks for checking out realsurfers, and get some waves.

Labor Day… Almost… Working on Stuff… And…

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, real surfers, surf adventures, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

ON THE FRIDAY before the big LABOR DAY weekend, this sailor decided to motor through the HOOD CANAL BRIDGE after, no doubt, enjoying the beauty and peaceful ambiance of the farther reaches of this tentacle of the greater Puget Sound. SOOOO, traffic, already snarled with the convergence of tourists ($$$) and working folks (hurrah! and hooray!) coming from the Kingston Ferry, the Bainbridge Ferry, and the folks who decided it was more efficient to drive around, ALL to get to the splendor and wonder of the OLYMPIC PENINSULA; all the RVs and Motorhomes and SUVs with bikes and kayaks and luggage (few surfboards as there is really really not much surf coming in) got the opportunity to wait and move and wait and move, all in the pursuit of just a little bit of ;uzocueaxx+$#@ relaxation.

Not me. I was going the other way, watching to see if the sails would be unfurled before the boat went out of sight and/or the bridge opened. No.

‘Erwin’ the five minute movie by ANNIE FERGERSON, will be shown, along with other, longer, short documentaries, at the 26TH ANNUAL PORT TOWNSEND FILM FESTIVAL, September 18-21. Actual screening times are: 9:30 pm, Friday, and 10:30 am Sunday at the American Legion Hall. The film, which, again, I was reluctant to participate in, though I did want to see a bit of footage of me (not uncommon among surfers), has been part of several other film festivals (Save the Waves, for one), so, like Australia… and, no, my head is already maxed-out, size wise.

Tickets for the PTFF go on sale on September 15. The film, and others, will be available for screening on September 22.

HERE’S HOW CHALLENGED I AM. I saw a photo of my old friend, STEPHEN R. DAVIS and me, and sometimes surfer, JASON QUEEN, shot on the day of the filming. Steve was aware of the shoot and was in the water with me. Initially it was crappy, the wind sideshore, with two other surfers out. It got better, somewhat. Then, with the camera set up on the reef, it rained. Then it cleared up. Then the rights started working. Then everything shut down. Then Jason showed up.

I tried to snag the photo for my site. Download didn’t work, print didn’t work. I went to Google search (or something) It wouldn’t give me the entire photo. It cut out part of Jason and all of Steve. NOW, Steve knows he was there. He needs to be included. Just to be honest, my ‘go to’ comment on Jason is that, if the surf is working for three days, he shows up on the fourth day; but hey, he’s in the movie. Final cut.

SO, all you have to do is put these three images together and you have… Yeah, it’s kind of like filmmaking. Editing and trickery.

Now, if Annie had only used the ‘skinny’ lens.

CONNECTING NON-SURFERS with real and otherwise surfers: MORT ROBINSON is a long time client of mine, painting-wise. Because I seem to update my life with anyone in any conversation, I told Mort about the film. I had a link that worked (until it didn’t). He checked it out. Here is his response:

Erwin, 

I enjoyed  the movie immensely. It Is so well done. I have difficulty putting my feelings into proper  words.  Perhaps I feel the same way about flying small airplanes and gliders as you do about surfing.   I am pushing 91 years of age, and  I’ve been flying since June 1952.  Every single day of my life, I think of going up in my airplane.  Indeed, it always puts a grin  on my face. I am master of my own fate/destiny.  For me, it’s unbelievable that I am able to sail along  as a free spirit in the 4 dimensions of space and time.  Hither t dither and yon.    I am actually able to do it at least two and sometimes three times a week. It always puts a smile on my face, not only do I feel I am a safer pilot now then when I was 40 or 50 years old, but,  because safety is correlates with proficiency,  I am indeed proficient.  I am very lucky to have an airplane within walking distance to my home, and I am happy and healthy enough To actually use it anytime I  desire. We may both be in the same boat, however, different strokes.

Take care, Mort

JEFFREY VAUGHN gave me a call last Sunday, which just happened to be my birthday, just to check up on me (and to get info from my last session- my guess). A LONGSHOREMAN by profession, Jeff has had three operations on his shoulder (occupational hazard). The first two were unsuccessful and led to a lot of time out of the water. Jeff is quite a bit younger than I am, grew up surfing in the South Bay area, and brought that South Bay longboarding style with him to the Northwest. He would show up when the waves were working, or might be working; something that, if I couldn’t get in the water, I would probably not do. I would undoubtedly, however, attempt to surf before my injuries were healed. I have a history of doing this: Ankle injuries, crushed ribs, detached retina, I’ve always thought I was ready before my body was in agreement.

When the subject of being objectively older surfers came up, Jeff said we are SO LUCKY to have memories of so many sessions in clean and uncrowded conditions, so many rides stored away; younger surfers are just building their mental libraries. Yeah, Jeff, lucky either way.

Jeffrey Vaughn riding a log on top of my car. NOT how he injured his shoulder.

WSL NEWS- I almost wish people wouldn’t start checking out realsurfers early on a Sunday. I’m trying to put this all together before the WSL FINALS get started. We know how THEY love to finish a contest on a holiday or a weekend. In, like, an hour… maybe. IF there’s no comp, I have to go work. If ITS ON, I’ll be watching, hoping I can get some stuff I promised done tomorrow. Labor Day; I work. I want the martyr points, even if I’m the only one counting them.

POETRY (subject to change)

This Chance to Meet

Around the corner, across the street, Under a leafless tree, under a cloudless sky, Two lovers took this chance to meet.

To meet As carpools and buses and delivery trucks and dog walkers paraded by, As children shrieked on the playground between us, Between you and me, Bundled against the bright, cold wind, My arm raised to block the worst of it from your face, And them, The lovers, somewhere in an early chapter of their story, He and she among us strangers, Bundled against each other, Reddened cheeks close, Their breaths visible, mingled into a single cloud.

“To love is… brave,” you said,“ Or foolish,” was my response.

You studied my eyes, a split second, You laughed and pulled the scarf from around your neck, Wrapped it around my neck and pulled me close, “Fools like us,” you said, your breath forming its own cloud.

Chill winds moved through the higher trees, The evergreens, their branches, in rhythm, Swaying to some ancient melody, A bicyclist, leaning too far over on the corner, Corrected, not gracefully, A tourist took photos, hurriedly, as if it was almost time to leave, Three teenage boys argued over who a special girl loved, Or loved more, And who they should believe, A box truck, making deliveries, stopped and started, Stopped in the middle of the street between us, Between them, the lovers, them, he and she, and us, you and me.

The truck started, pulled forward, They, the lovers, turned and looked at us, And we at them,

Your scarf still holding you and me together.

I threw my hands out in surrender, And they both did the same, The lovers, he and she.

NON THAT I’M POLITICAL STUFF-

MEANWHILE, thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers,net and remember, some of this stuff has rights reserved by me. HOPING SOME WAVES show up soon… see you out on Surf Route 101.

“Sarcasm Is Dead,” She Said. “As Well It Should Be,” I said, “In Response, Not Meaning It

Posted on by under northwest surfing blog,, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

WAIT! I am working on stuff. If you are reading this paragraph, check back later. I mean, if you would be so kind. Thanks. Working on it. EMERGENCY UPDATE (1 pm) It’s my birthday (13 plus sixty, if I base it on when I started board surfing), and I’m not going to have some of the new stuff I was planning on posting (surf, resistance stuff on Gaza, Epstein, Normalization of pedophilia and the discounting of damage to children, Hypocrisy in General, Selective Moral Blindness, Authoritarian/Fascist use of Gestapo/Mafia tactics, Fear, Fear Mongering, Hunger and Famine and Genocide and Ethnic/Religous Cleansing, and, oh yeah, Cowardice.

If I had a good reason to talk about surfing, present tense, I would. Past tense, I have been responding to some birthday texts that included questions about surf spots and such; future (hopefully) perfect tense, the WSL finals in Fiji are coming up and I’ve seen some videos. SO… hoping. No predictions, but some of the best tube riders are in the mix.

If you want to get a hold of me (other than by the neck), Please write me, erwin@realsurfers.net

“ERWIN” the film news: The short film by ANNIE FERGERSON has been making the rounds of art/surf film events, and will be shown twice at the upcoming PORT TOWNSEND FILM FESTIVAL (PTFF). If you can’t make it, I will post a link when I figure out how to do it. The VIMEO link I had no lonnger works. Sorry.

POETRY/SHORT STORY SECTION:In the course of a conversation with a woman I’ve worked for several times, me blathering on with stories, attempting to be clever if not amusing, my client, a few years younger than I am, said people younger than she and I do not understand sarcasm; that it’s dead.

“Replaced by what? Like, awkward situation humor?” “Maybe.”

“Well. Sarcasm is kind of, sometimes, mean spirited, BUT…”

Whoa! I thinkj I might need some therapy, or an intervention. I’ve pretty much been sarcastic as long as I remember, and, so far, no one has physically kicked my ass. Figuratively, yes; I have worked with masters of the craft of verbal repartee/battle; some of whom didn’t stop when the other participant surrendered.

That is, of course, wrong.

Now, I have said things like, “You win. I’m utterly destroyed by your superior putdowns.” It was a ploy. I didn’t mean it.

Occasionally I write something kind of snarky. Frequently I use sarcasm. Habit. If I say being passive aggressive is a defense strategy, I would be denying the times I’ve said mean things, said I was joking. Trisha’s response to this, on one occasion, was, “No, you always mean it; you’re an asshole, and you’re never sorry.” “Oh,” I said, “I am sorry; and anyway, if you say I’m passive aggressive, what about you? I mean…” “No. I’m not passive aggressive; I’m regular aggressive.” “You win,” I said. “I love you.” I mean both these things.

Here is a piece that may or may not contain sarcasm: Or, maybe I don’t really understand sarcasm.

Or the Midnight Amaretto

You dropped two dollars in the tip jar with an offhand, “I love you,” So casual, so smooth. The Barista smiled and said, “Oh, yeah?” Then, “Sure; okay… love you, too.” You winked. At me. I shrugged… at you. “Casual,” I said. “Smooth.”

You turned to the woman who’d given you her place in line, And asked, politely, if she had used the time to finally decide. The woman said, “I haven’t, so I guess the House Blend’s fine. Or, no, I’ll have half decaf, and half Valdez Valley’s Pride.” “Juan Valdez,” you said. “Classic allusion.”

The woman looked to me for reassurance, or, maybe, an explanation. She said, “I bought a house nearby, when I came here on vacation.” “I can’t help with your selection, Ma’am, I’m an artisanal ‘fail,’ I make my own, at home, most days, it’s ‘whatever is on Sale.’” “Like Maxwell House,” you said, nodding.

“I’ll take a half ‘Midnight Amaretto’, Love” you said, stepping in, “And half ‘Pirate Captain’s Blend.’ You well know I’d get a dipped biscotti if I had more cash to spend.” “Well know,” the Barista said. “Of course.”

The Barista, quite attractive, as Baristas tend to be, Looked around the crowded shop, tourists and regulars… a few dogs, She leaned in close to me. “You should ‘well’ know,” she said, “folks are serious here, you could just play the game. But…” and this she whispered, “To me, and please, keep my secret, All coffee’s pretty much the same. If I add whipped cream and chocolate, though it’d prefer whiskey or rum, I can put up with fake compliments and with those from whom they come.” “From whom they come,” I said. “Well said.”

She pulled back her hair, and I, undoubtedly blushing, Whispered, “I work for some of these same folks, I get it, the game and all, but I really must be rushing. So, I’ll have a dipped biscotti, please.” I leaned away and added, “And one for my old friend, And I’ll have whichever’s the larger size of the ‘Pirate Captain’s Blend.’”

The Barista said, “Then you’ll need whipped cream and chocolate, And may I recommend a double?” I said, “I’d prefer vodka, thank you, and I hope it’s not too much trouble.” “Not at all, Sir,” she said. “My pleasure.”

My friend and his new friend, Half Decaf, seemed curious or, maybe, jealous, I gave the new neighbor, Half Decaf, my biscotti when she said, “She whispered something… the Barista; don’t you think that you should tell us?” “Please don’t ask,” I said. “It’s… a secret.”

“Hey, man,” I said, “I’m heading out,” one foot pushing on the door, “I’m going to hang a while,” you said, “Have a good day,” And “Love you.” What I could have said was, “Sure, man… love you more.” Smiling appropriately, in keeping with the ambient ambiance, I said, instead, “Thanks for the invite, my… friend,” While stirring the double shot of chocolate, ethically sourced, The swirling foam, on the largest size, of my Pirate Captain’s Blend.

THE END

The original story and, I guess, all original (as in, by me) realsurfers.net content is copyrighted material, all rights reserved by the author/illustrator, Erwin A. Dence, Jr. If you want to use it, drop a line, erwin@realsurfers.net

Thanks to all who check out realsurfers. If you surf, good luck; if you don’t, today’s a perfect day to continue not surfing. It’s frustrating, crowded, and many surfers are, I must say, honestly, rather rude and possibly sarcastic individuals. DAMN, shouldn’t have said that; we all want to be individuals… together.