Category Archives: Uncategorized

How’s Your Week Going? Words, photos, stories

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, adam wipeout, northwest surfing, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf fiction, surfing blogs, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

Here is another example of why I should be ready to take photos with my camera: I was in my last surviving vehicle at a parking lot that faces the Strait. There were no waves, but there was cell phone coverage. I may have been feeling particularly down, not to panic-depression levels; but, having lived a large chunk of my life on the edge (my choice to be a self-employed painter in the Northwest), and sharing with some unknown but large portion of the citizenry the pain of war and suddenly crazy gas prices, and, perhaps some lack of real confidence in our leaders…

Anyway, I see this old person (I’m guessing a man) being led by a younger, taller, person down the easiest incline from the parking lot to the narrow stretch of beach. My thought is he wanted to see the ocean, that perhaps he hadn’t seen it in a while, perhaps, even, he had some fear he might not have another opportunity. I don’t know; I make up stories.

He shuffles out. There’s a slight but cold west wind. There are rocks and driftwood and kelp to navigate. He did not last long. I imagined him saying to his companion, coming back up the berm, “Yeah; just like I remembered it.”

Close as I could get, image-wise. Borrowed from ruveyda

A screen tracks trading on the floor at the New York Stock Exchange (NYSE) after the closing bell in New York City, U.S., April 4, 2025. REUTERS/Brendan McDermid

I should apologize for not putting this on NON-POLITICAL ERWIN. No. On a more personal note:

There is, of course a story. SO, top to bottom: After several issues with the VOLVO, alternately known as the “Super Fun Car,” I managed to get it to 200,000 miles (note the crustiness of the steering column and the harmonicas). NEXT, Dru’s house in Port Gamble is a stopping off point for Canadian Geese (note the shadows of the Volvo, with surfboard, and me). NEXT, Full moon, or fullish, last Monday night (note Dru’s new car, replacement for Honda attacked by mutant deer). NEXT, Dru’s cat, Nicholas, and the very rich cake Dru made for her lifetime friend, Mollie Orbea (who lives down the street).

BEFORE I get to the bottom shot, my work van being towed (for the many-ith time) from the parking area at Highway 104 and Center Road, I will enlighten you on the latest wound to the Volvo. YES, as in every movie that shows the moon, it was full. And it was Mollie’s birthday. And, because TRISH is recovering from Chemotherapy very very slowly, I was sent to represent. Also, I did not have my hearing aids with me. Awkward in any social situation, forcing kids and grownups to yell and/or repeat is… rude. At least. BUT, while leaving, I mentioned to Mollie’s husband, Pete, the person who pretty much runs the activities in Port Gamble, AND the person who conducts the ghost tours, that the Volvo reached this milestone. And then, looking for some wood to knock on, I selected a wheel from a ship that was mounted on the wall.

“You should know,” Pete said, “that wheel came from a Japanese vessel sunk in World War II. Now, the ghosts might follow you home.” Maybe they did. It’s about 20 miles, and when I turned into my driveway, the car stalled. And wouldn’t start. Blown head gasket. AVID readers of realsurfers.net might recall that Adam James helped me with using some Blue Devil when the Volvo overheated about twenty or thirty thousand miles ago. Now, according to my mechanical guru, George Takamoto, I will have to replace the headgasket. Not happening immediately, but I do plan on getting it done. AND I thought I was very lucky that the car stopped in my driveway.

Not the same luck two nights later when the gauges stopped working on van.

LIFE is, of course, a combination of good luck, bad luck, and shit we cannot control. I try very hard not to just freak the fuck out. I do have almost enough faith to believe, with the setbacks and traumas and dramas, the cruel, profane wars of choice, the inhumane treatment of those we share this fragile existence with, that there is a reckoning coming, that my complaints are not really significant.

I guess I’m lucky, because I never get the blues; Oh yes, I’m quite lucky, because I never get the blues; Now I might get suspicious, and sometimes I’m anxious, too; I might even get desperate and tear up a thing or two, but I count myself lucky because I Never get the blues.

Please don’t tell me your problems and think that I can relate; I don’t harbor jealousy and I won’t subsidize hate; If you want to complain, you can just go to Helen Waite; Don’t be telling me gossip and acting as if it’s news, ‘Cause I can’t share your problem and I want no part of your blues.

Dream of tomorrow, we sacrifice all our todays; We’re so busy working, we don’t take the time to just play; Though I’m selling my blood just to pay up my union dues; I still count myself lucky because I never get the blues.

My old truck’s still running, My dog didn’t die, Not in love with a woman who told me ‘goodbye,’ And my mama still talks of her baby with pride, And I can’t remember the last time I cried.

But then… I’m lucky, because I never get the blues; Oh yes, I’m quite lucky, because I never get the blues; Yes, sometimes I get angry, and sometimes I’m hurtin’, too; I might even get lonely, but not like most people do; Then again, I’m just lucky; Yes, I count myself lucky; Hell yes, I’m quite lucky because I… never get… the… blues.

Contact- erwin@realsurfersdotnet

All rights reserved for “I Guess I’m Lucky,” Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

THANKS, as always, for checking out my site. Good luck, get some waves.

OBVIOUSLY NOTHING TO GET ALL HET UP OVER, BUT… WAR, HMMM, Who is this GOOD for?

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UPDATE- Monday, March 2- I have a new fiction piece on PAGE III dealing with pedophiles and murder; kind of light reading AND I have an update on THE TRUMP-EPSTEIN-NETANYAHU WAR; maybe I was harsh in my judging. Check that out on PAGE II.

It’s not all that surprising to wake up and discover, not that it was a headline, that we and Israel are bombing Iran. No, even after our president was, and this is his signature, possibly overstated, skill, in the very midst of negotiating a replacement for the peace deal he tore up out of, hard to say, envy. Oh, and Iran is firing back. YEAH, this kind of non-political talk doesn’t belong on this page. I HAVE a page for this; I haven’t written anything specifically referencing how the FIFA peace prize recipient justifies this action… regime change, nuclear stuff; but I will. Don’t let a little war and destruction disturb your brunch, or whatever plans you have for today. As self centered as I am, I’m going to go fill up my van’s gas tank. Check the NON-POLITICAL ERWIN page later for non-hysterical updates.

HERE is a photo I have spent an amazing amount of time trying to send to one of my clients. It was sent to me by surfer/snowboarder/real estate sales star JOEL CARBEN. It is his office/man cave at his home and features a sort of psychedelic moose head (I’m thinking not actually formerly live animal- could be wrong), a brilliantly painted (by me) cedar surfboard (different story, somewhere in the archives), and one of four screens (formerly bi-fold doors) that I painted a couple of years ago. Both sides, so eight images.

The screens and an assortment of other original Erwin Dence drawings and paintings have been on exhibit at the COLAB in downtown PORT TOWNSEND, a collaborative work space owned and operated by Joel and his super smart wife, RACHEL.

JOEL sent a message to a phone I no longer have, having given up the two phones I mostly used to find the unlost phone. Yes, scary; but my super secret stealth surf phone’s numbers were mostly on my work phone anyway, and anyway… blah, blah, blump; I never got the message that Joel was interested in maybe, down the line, after ski season, after he makes his next killer commission, purchasing the screen.

THE PROBLEM with anything in the art world, and anything, really, is setting a price. Joel made an offer. I considered it. I’m not a negotiator, and the proof is that, after years and years of painting for a living, I am still painting. Exercise? Sure. Use of my time that might otherwise be spent and/or wasted in contemplation or surfing or writing or just not fucking worrying about money? Not really.

HOWEVER, and possibly because I’ve never made any real money in my pursuit of ART, with the added argument that I never painted them to keep at my house, I decided to allow Joel to have the screen on a sort of longterm loan basis. I have done this sort of dealing with surfboards, including a longterm loan from ARCHIE ENDO to me, which I have since longtermed to ADAM ‘WIPEOUT’ JAMES.

Joel and surfer/artist STEPHEN R. DAVIS at the COLAB in Port Townsend.

IF YOU want to make an offer on any original Erwin pieces, OR if you want to complain, tell stories, write erwin@realsurfersdotnet I will definitely read your stuff, quite possibly add it to my blog, good or bad. OH, AND THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT MY SITE.

ONE MORE NOTE on the war: I have been working on a short story involving a pedophile and some revenge/justice. AND I am continuing to try to finish my novel, “SWAMIS.”

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.