Hey, I’ve been busy, and I’m busy now. ADAM WIPEOUT is heading up SUrF ROUTE 101 to help get my VOLVO back on the road (101). I’ll get back with more… soon. Thanks, Erwin
Adult Learners RIP. No, I meant…
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Sorry ‘Bout Your Blues and other Valentines
Yes, I googled “Surfing Valentines cards,” hit on ‘images,’ and then, partially because this card is no longer available, copied, and now pasted it here. Obviously the couple are discussing which one of them will ride the board.
I do have some possibly romantic surf stories. However, you may have noticed there is sometimes (I want to say) tension between partners in surf couples, regular and power. Adding children to the mix doesn’t lessen the (I want to say) natural competitiveness between any two surfers once actual surfing is involved.
And then there’s the supposed to be supportive non-surfing boyfriend or girlfriend or whatever category one puts a significant or sort-of significant other into. “Oh, that was great, Babe; the way you almost made the bottom turn; all bottom, no turn… Whoo Hoo!”
In our relationship, which started out with Trish watching me surf, two spots, like four hours worth, the thrill of this wore off rather quickly. As perhaps happens, and I so very often mention, surfing became the other woman. Choices had to be made. Mostly Trish won. Not always.
Trish kept riding a surf mat for a while. I still had one. Mostly she’d ride it at Swamis Beachbreak. One afternoon we went out together at Oceanside, over between the jetties. We probably rode a few before we found ourselves together, outside, with a suddenly rising swell and a surprisingly strong rip. I have been, in my surf life, way more worried about being caught outside than being caught inside. Adding someone I care deeply about out there with me… it’s worse.
I’m not sure exactly how we got in. It wasn’t like I rescued Trish or she rescued me (and for those who already know, I have had women come to my rescue when I was perceived to be in trouble or was actually floundering in the shorebreak), but we made it in, and the last time I asked, Trish told me she wasn’t worried. “Oh, because you were with your man?” “No, because I knew what I was doing.” “Oh. Yeah. That.”
SO… Lovers, love.
IN “Love Songs for Cynics” News; I just had a meeting yesterday with a person willing to help me format a collection af songs and (I don’t want to say) poetry, and some essays. I’m in the process of collecting years worth of stuff I’ve written, quite a bit of it surf-related, but, surprisingly, a lot of the songs are not what would be classified as love songs. Possibly because our son James is a guitarist, I have written a lot of blues songs. Asked about my material, I had to say a lot of it is fictional; me putting myself in some situation I’ve not really been in.
Anyway, I have been making some progress on “Swamis.” Slow but steady, and yes, there is some surf action, and yes, there is some romance.
You say your woman left you, she took a one way flight, Now all that you can think of is your miserable plight, And you whimper all day long and you cry all night, SORRY ‘BOUT YOUR BLUES… I feel all right.
But you say you had to gamble, and you had to drink that wine, And you had ‘just a few’ ladies, so you had to dance and dine, Still you don’t know ‘xactly where you crossed that line, Sorry ’bout your blues… but I feel fine.
I feel good because my woman treats me something like a king, I just snap my fingers, and she’ll do most any thing; Oh, but I should add she keeps my ass in line, Sorry ’bout your blues… but I feel fine.
Now you’re right down at the bottom, never been quite this far down, Your once fine reputation’s shot throughout your own home town, And if you cry one more tear, you’ll likely drown, Sorry you’re not up… but I’m not down.
Now, I’ve been down in the gutter, I crawled out the best I could, Right now my life’s so good that I just have to knock on wood, I guess I should help, I only wish I could, Sorry ’bout your blues, I don’t think it’s what you’d choose, I’m just so glad those blues are yours, not mine, Sorry ’bout your blues, but I… feel… fine.
Yeah, all original work by Erwin Dence on realsurfers.net is copyright protected. All rights reserved.
SURF NOTE: If we can get past this February pattern of too cold temperatures and the surf doldrums, maybe… waves. We all love waves! Right?
Access DENIED! Surf Tresspassing Etiquette
If surfing is important to your life; if your self image is as a surfer, there are few things more upsetting, when there are waves, than the lack of ACCESS. In California and Hawaii (not sure about Oregon), the beaches are public and there are constant lawsuits against super rich (obviously) beachfront owners, many of whom promised to provide access and then decided rude, noisy beach goers could just, to coin a phrase, ‘Pound sand.” Like, somewhere else. If you have enough beachfront, say like “The Ranch,” it might not be that difficult to keep surfers in their place. Some other place.
In Washington State, with our thousands of miles of saltwater frontage, the beaches and the valuable tidelands belong to the landowners. It’s not all tideflats rich in oysters and geoducks and all that; some people just agree with the opinion that beachgoers and surfers somehow wreck the view.
It’s not just that the surf is fickle, or that most surf spots on the Olympic Peninsula can only be reached with driving and hiking, and possibly climbing down cliffs, add in that there are spots visiting surfers cannot access. I have checked one break three times. Cops were called twice. The woman patrolling the zone and very proud of her efforts, was unapologetic. The surfers with me (two different ones) and I were apologetic. “Yeah, we just went across someone’s lawn to check it out. And… what about those two guys who are out?” They probably paddled from way around the point or boated in, “Yeah, I’m going to deal with them, too.” “Have a good day, Ma’am.” And we were out. Elsewhere.
Another spot, with much easier access, is, and this should be noted, private. I have run into the owner several times. I was SO POLITE. It’s just counterintuitive to be otherwise. Back to my motto: “I’m here to surf.”
Another quickie: I know of another spot I’ve surfed a couple of times. I was invited to park out on the point and surf there, but it was years ago. Since then, with some, um, people, doing damage to the property, or misbehaving, or camping, or whatever, cameras were installed. Not to check out the surf but to check on assholes.
ASSHOLES. So, here’s a recent deal. Spot on the coast. Private Property. Gated. Homeowner shows up, identifies himself as such. Surfers curse at him. A dick image is traced on the seasonal dirt on his car. He sees some other surfers closer to the beach, tells them it is private property and their Hobuck or La Push pass doesn’t cover this place. More cursing. More disrespect. SOLUTION: Better gate. DENY ACCESS!
IN THE PAST, surfers made deals with farmers and foresters, people who owned waterfront. Access was on a personal basis. Then someone spotted surf rigs, spread the word, and the next time there was a possibility the spot was breaking, more cars. The farmer or the forester sells the spot, homeowners move in, fuck a bunch of surfers; ACCESS DENIED!
THERE was, of course, the UNCLE DOUG (I never called him that) access. As someone who never paid to park and surf, I had no problem sliding five bucks into the can. It isn’t just that the property was disrespected, but Doug died, the ACCESS WAS DENIED!
I DO FEEL AS IF I should defend myself against charges of blowing up spots. I consciously try not to mention even well-known spots, try to not be too specific as to even WHEN I surfed. I’ve spent years trying to increase my chances of finding waves. THIS IS totally self-serving. While I appreciate the characters I’ve met over the years, if they all showed up at one time at one spot, it would be… soooo crowded.
ANYWAY, it would be helpful if you, as a visitor on someone else’s beach, pick up your trash, maybe someone else’s, be respectful, and, you know, don’t be an ASSHOLE.
Uptown characters.
THIS GUY called me off a porch on a main street in Port Townsend, I was painting. He asked if I wanted to paint for his movie. WHAT? Yeah, I would be interested if it was a legitimate offer. After ranting about car crashes and how he was changing his name, and his upcoming tour to promote the movie, with hius co-star, 36 compared to his 75 and OH, BABY!… and, when asked, he said the folders at his side were part of his latest law suit, worth millions, and… and… and… “Hey, whatever you said your name is… um, I gotta go.”
I should post this under “CRAZY RECOGNIZES CRAZY.”
This was after, stepping out of my van after eating a sandwich, this really old woman comes cruising up to me. She is pushing a walker and I make the mistake of saying, “Hey, you’re getting along pretty well.” Without missing a beat, she asks if I can help her. “OH, no!” Yeah, she hit me up for money. I didn’t want to go into my own issues, but begrudgingly gave her four bucks. “JESUS LOVES YOU,” she said. “Yes, I know that, but…” So, then the crazy guy, then the woman comes back and to the other side of my van. “I’m up here,” I said. “Can you help me?” “Already did. And, hey, I have a few questions. No time. She was gone.
I texted a photo of the filmmaker to a friend who works in the Uptown area, someone who must deal with the occasional Port Townsend fun people. He wrote back, “Avoid that guy at all costs.” In later discussion, we decided the dude is kind of like me in that he will talk to strangers. He is, hopefully and maybe, a bit more crazy-ish than I am. Yet.
UPDATE- Still Wednesday- My new friend and possibly future employer showed up at Dru’s workplace, revealing her with pretty much the same spiel he gave me. Did I tell you the movie’s A musical? Well, he told my daughter. And he added he was leading a singalong on Thursday. When she said she’s having surgery, he invited her to “zoom in.”
“Maybe.”
After half an hour, Dru’s said, “I gotta go.”
I GOTTA GO. Trisha’s and my daughter, DRU, is having more cancer-related surgery tomorrow. Thank you for your wishes. We’ll see how it goes. MAYBE giving the woman four bucks and the love from Jesus might help. GO,JESUS! and, oh yeah, FUCK CANCER!
MORE songs and poems from my previous collection, “LOVE SONGS FOR CYNICS,” and some newer stuff, all under consideration for my upcoming (definitely) book on SUNDAY. As far as “SWAMIS,” I’m regrouping after not getting my first choice of agents, HILLARY JACOBSON, and almost considering doing an e-book. NOT YET.
Meanwhile, try not to do anything you should apologize for.l And find some waves.
You Don’t Know Dylan- Part One
I did this drawing in the mid-eighties. I wasn’t really stoked on it, but I did save it.
NOTE- After I posted this, late last night, I wanted to check ONE MORE THING, so I went to IMDB, and, accidentally, got to a bunch of comment/reviews. And then, I started reading a few of them, start and stop, scroll down. THE NET RESULT… TWO THINGS- One, I’m almost embarrassed to be asking you to read my take on all things BOB DYLAN, and Two, I may as well save those of you who are as high on the ADHD SPECTRUM as I am, and give you the short answer to my review of “A COMPLETE UNKNOWN.” It’s a movie best suited to folks who don’t believe they know a lot about Dylan.
OTHERWISE, I do think it’s worth the read or I wouldn’t have bothered.
You Don’t Know Dylan – Part One
My son James is quite fond of saving lines people say that become a part of any description of that person. If the quote is “We buy new,” I know who he’s talking about. James also comes up with terse phrases that work equally well. “Not enough sex, not enough car crashes” was my son’s review of a review a short story I’d written got from a guy we were working for who had, he claimed, Hollywood connections. My saved quote from the older gentleman, who had an office in the garage of his Pacific Northwest home, and was, unfortunately, dying of cancer, was what he kept telling himself; “Gotta get something going.”
The “You don’t know Dylan” quote came from Rusty, the father of a kid who was in the earliest lineup of a band my son James put together. The quartet was called the “Black-eyed Peas,” before they discovered there was another band by that name. When they would practice at the rhythm guitar player’s house, Rusty would (not because it was a special occasion, drink, break out his guitar, ask James if he knew any Dylan songs, and drink, and at some point, say, in a rusty (sorry, it’s true), barroom voice, “People think they know Dylan. I tell ‘em, ‘You don’t know Dylan.’”
Rusty was right.
My daughter Dru and I went to see “A Complete Unknown” at the ROSE THEATRE in Port Townsend, home to the hippest (self-proclaimed) and oldest (statistically proven) demographic in Washington State. Having heard that theatre goers had misbehaved, including talking over, and singing along, and fully aware that one cannot out in-depth PT Hipsters on any movie, much less one that strives to be a biography of someone so completely known, I did have a nagging fear that verbal fisticuffs might break out in the aisle.
IT DIDN’T HAPPEN, but I did explain a few critical points to Dru. “No, the ‘Judas’ thing, and the ‘I don’t believe you; you’re a liar,’ was from later, with The Band, and…” “Dad. Shhh.”
Everyone else, it seems, has reviewed the most recent attempt to capture the enigmatic, self-described song and dance man. If you figure I first heard of Bob Dylan, ten years older than me, at about twelve, so, like 1963; yeah; I’m a longtime fan. Still, I am but a mere Dylanophile when compared to rabid Dylanologists. Still, I have opinions.
Having seen part or all of a lot of YouTube clips, ‘beyond the scene’ and ‘making of’ features, and reviews by people neither I nor Dylan have heard of; and then, full of dread and anticipation, hoping I wouldn’t cry, or worse, sing along, and having paid the money and watched the film, I am obviously qualified to write as many words as possible about whether the essence and truth of the legendary minstrel was captured. Or not.
SURE.
“A Complete Unknown’ got a lot of the settings right. Probably. Long time ago. And Timothee Chalamet shuffles and mumbles and looks kind of like Dylan, if you don’t know Dylan. People who know Dylan say they don’t know him, so, huh, like we’re supposed to say, “Nailed it; break out the Oscar.” That was a question.
AN ADMISSION: I have seen Dylan. Live. Yes, Puyallup Fair, a while back. September 22,1998 (I googled it). Trish and I waded through the crowd, past the championship goats and the corn dog stands and the Carnival attractions. We took our folding seats (I was on the aisle) in, my guess, the same place they hold horse riding and steer roping events. I was so excited, this after years of hearing other concert goers tell me about their experiences seeing Dylan live. “I had binoculars,” a friend said, of his experience in the San Francisco area in the early 70s. “Had to put them down. Dylan was green.” “Yeah, I saw him once,” the ‘we buy new’ contractor told me, “He had to have been drunk or fucked up.”
Fuck those guys. “You can’t be super fucked up and remember all those lines” was my response. “Well, you’ll see, man. Maybe it’ll be worth it.”
Folks in the folding chairs near Trish and I were asking themselves about Lucinda Williams, the opening act. Since I listened to a progressive Seattle station, The Mountain (probably Country/western or religious nowadays), I said she was… I don’t remember who I thought she was. I was wrong. Should’ve said, “Yes, she does, ‘Cartwheels on a Gravel Road.’” That would also be incorrect, but, perhaps, better than the actual title of the Lucinda Williams song, “Car WHEELS on a Gravel Road.” Completely different vibe.
Anyway, BOB WAS WORTH IT. I was a bit mystified and quite annoyed when a lot of way younger audience members rushed the stage, getting way too excited when Bob (no harmonica or piano playing on this night) did a guitar solo. It seemed they were moshing to someone who shouldn’t be moshed to. A little reverence seemed more fitting.
I did almost talk myself into buying a t-shirt for, like thirty bucks. Should have. The HIGHLIGHT OF THE EVENING, for Trish, was, while following my lead block through the crowd, she came close enough to bumping into someone that they both had to stop and regroup. “I’m sure it was Jakob Dylan,” she said. “Almost positive.” “Why would he be in Puyallup?” “Because his father’s here.” “Sure.” “He had beautiful blue eyes.” “Okay, it was him, then.” Trish has kind of a habit of almost bumping into celebrities, and a definite habit of being right, so I’m more and more inclined to believe it was Jakob Dylan.
Trish and I saw JOAN BAEZ, also; early seventies, some venue in San Diego; sitting in folding chairs, close to the front. I don’t recall there being a stage. Cheap tickets for the time. Joan was singing, her voice clear and cuttingly beautiful. She was also talking human rights stuff, anti-war stuff. Nixon was president, Vietnam was still going on, and I could still, age-wise, be called into military service.
Toward the end of the event, guys were putting their draft cards into a pile. I didn’t. I was painting for the Navy, department of defense. If was an anti-war, which I was raised to be, I was also a hypocrite. At the very end, Joan said she appreciated the sentiment, but the cards could be picked up. Most probably were. Interesting thing about the show; no big, rude herding out by security.
TO BE CLEAR, Trish knew a lot more about Joan, her sister Mimi Farina, Mimi’s tragic death; about Dylan’s first wife, her kids, their kids, the relationship between Bob and Joan; all this stuff; and I don’t know exactly where Trish got all this info; but she’s passed on this sort of romantic notion that JOAN AND BOB have a bond that’s, you know, romantic, real.
I’m fine with it. The notion goes along with my theory that women love men who are sometimes assholes. If not ‘only’ love, then ‘tend’ to love.
TO GET BACK to the movie; didn’t buy Monica Barbaro, the actress portraying Joan so much. No offense: Just too much squeezed into each on screen minute. Did think Edward Norton captured Pete Seeger until I saw video of Pete Seeger. Again, the squeezing. Dru is a big Elle Fanning fan, and, since my knowledge of Suze Rotolo is mostly that she expanded Dylan’s study of other cultures and, you know, stuff, I think Elle nailed the part. Maybe a few too many seconds of closeups of her emoting, but… great. POSSIBLY my favorite character was Albert Grossman, played by Dan Fogler. Having seen Grossman in documentaries, looking more like a well-dressed bodyguard than a manager, it was a treat to see him leap out of a motel room bed.
If it’s a THUMB’S UP or THUMB’S DOWN thing, I’m giving it a DOUBLE SHAKA for production value, the truncated storyline, the settings; all the stuff movie people reward themselves with.
It isn’t all that disappointing to me that what is SO DIFFICULT TO CAPTURE is the absolute charisma that separates true artists from those of us trying to paint a portrait from a momentary glimpse.
Thanks for checking out realsurfers. Yes, I wrote more on Dylan. Couldn’t stop myself. I should apologize for this not being more surf related. I do have some surf-centric stuff coming up. SUNDAY. Meanwhile, watch for ice, stay warm, find waves if you can.
All original work on realsurfers.net is protected by copyright. All rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
Dylan Hits Swamis, George Gets Free, Blues Mid-Week and… That’s Pretty Much It
Trisha’s Brother’s son, *DYLAN SCOTT (and I’m claiming co-Nephew rights), out of focus after sampling a little THIRD POINT MALIBU. That’s not the story. After moving to ENCINITAS in August, Dylan had surfed BONEYARDS, other spots around the NORTH COUNTY, he had not surfed SWAMIS.
UNTIL YESTERDAY. I got this text: “Finally surfed Swamis this morning. It’s even better than it looks. I’m hooked.” Well, thanks for blowing up the spot some call ‘Swarmies,’ some call ‘The swamp;’ now all kinds of interlopers will show up hoping to score. I mean, SCORE!
BUT WAIT, tell me more, Dylan. “I have to thank (or curse) you for giving me a reason to paddle over there. I was sitting at Boneyards, catching nothing, thinking ‘My Uncle is writing a book about the spot, and it’s right there…'” So, yay!
“Yay? Another surfer in the lineup.” Yeah; guess so. SORRY to offend. “Another surfer who claims Swamis as his home break.” Yeah. 62,007 people lived in Encinitas, 2020 census. Divide that by… I don’t know, 3.14159… break down the surfers in the lineup into real surfers, sort of surfers, adult learners, tourists, interlopers… and, oh my! It is probably crowded right now! AND a certain number of the surfers will be named Dylan.
Dylan sent a video of him surfing the inside section. “What? Do you have your own Filmer?” “No. It’s from SURFLINE Rewind.” OKAY; so if you want to see Dylan surfing, assuming you have the package necessary, go to ‘January 6, Swamis.’ Maybe it’ll work. I’m hoping my nephew will email the footage so I can see it on a big enough screen. NOTE- Definitely not accusing SURFLINE of blowing up any spots with cameras shooting multiple angles, or, as I have done, forecasting awesome waves that send hordes but fail to deliver awesome surf; small, crappy, AND crowded.
IN A SORT OF CONNECTED story; several of my Northwest surfer friends have made sojourns down to North County, with tales of surfing spots I surfed before moving to the Great Northwest, my response always being, “That’s my spot.” “Oh, I thought _____ was your spot, or _____, or_______, or ________.” “Yes, and when I worked in Oceanside, my spots were _____, and _____, and whatever peak showed up. When I lived in P.B., my spots were ______, and _______, and _______. When I lived in Encinitas, I was working up the hill from Trestles, I rarely surfed Swamis. When we moved back to San Diego, proper, I cruised up to Swamis.”
ADAM WIPEOUT,, universal LOCAL, sent me some reports from a trip he took down there. Adam claims to have surfed decent Rincon and gotten waves, decent Malibu and gotten waves (combination of patience, charm, referencing some vague rules of etiquette, and begging, I’ve decided). Adam says he paddled to the OUTSIDE PEAK, ingratiated himself with the crew de jour, and got some rides. Not, he pointed out, in the ‘KIDDY POOL.’ “What?” Now I was offended. “You mean the INSIDE PEAK?”
Okay. Another discussion, another time, BUT if you paddle out at Swamis, be sure and ask someone who looks secure of his or her position in the pecking order, “Do you know Dylan?” See how that goes. Get back to me.
*Parents- Jim Scott, Greer Knopf-Scott, brother- Carson (equally cool despite not surfing).
Trisha’s and my longtime Friend, George Takamoto (doesn’t surf) at his last lunch after more than forty days spent at Saint Michael’s Hospital in Silverdale. Though George refers to it as ‘Saint Mike’s,’ he was pretty stoked to leave and move to a non-hospital in Poulsbo. George has been undergoing dialysis for two years, and has had some setbacks. It was pretty sketchy for a while, but he seems to be rallying.
IN OTHER medical news, my daughter (yes, Trisha’s and mine) Drucilla is going to St. Michael’s on Friday for more cancer-related surgery. Fuck Cancer! I’ll update on Sunday.
Because I’m trying to put together an anthology of my writing, I’m posting some samples while looking through my files for other examples of songs and poems and essays and short stories.
HOME BY MIDNIGHT, that’s all I ask, this job is over, I’ve done my task, Right now I’m driving, man, I’m dragging ass, home by midnight, that’s all I ask.
Home by midnight, perhaps before, I don’t know what I work this hard for; Do I want something, no, something more; home by midnight, perhaps before.
Home by midnight, the road’s so long, I pray for wisdom, and to be strong; What keeps me going’s a highway song; home by midnight, the road’s so long.
Other people’s castles, that’s where I spend my time; but when it comes to coffee break, I don’t even have a dime; when payday finally gets here, but the money’s all been spent, I have to get a side job just to try to pay the rent.
Home by midnight, and I can’t win, tomorrow get up, do this again; my wheel’s aren’t spinning, no, they just spin; home by midnight,, and I can’t win.
Home by midnight, perhaps before, now, I keep working, but I stay poor; just want to see you at our front door, home by midnight, home by midnight, home by midnight, I’ve got my foot pressed down, it’s right against the floor, home by midnight, perhaps… before.
AS ALWAYS, thanks for checking out realsurfers. Find some waves.
All original works on realsurfers are protected by copyright, all rights reserved.
Lost POSTS, Missed waves
I was trying to delete some stuff. I deleted the whole post. Sorry. I’ll get back to it after I recover from wasting a couple of hours on it that I could have spent looking all over the internet for some hope that more waves might enter the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
And, already I’ve said too much. Where’s that delete button?
The Very Delayed Eddie Swell, New Illustrations
“Dark Cutback”- Pen and Ink, “Come In”- Pencil, pen and ink
Meanwhile, on a Strait Far Away…
It was the day before Christmas and all along the Strait, Surfers were sick of the Eddie Swell wait,
And the planning and loading in the dark of the night, All frothed-up and hoping you’d hit it just right,
Get through holiday traffic and ferry lines long, Just to find out the forecasters got it all wrong,
No six to eight-foot faces, with stiff offshore winds, But side chop and flatness, too many surf friends,
All those kooks who got wetsuits and leashes as gifts, And promised pure awesomeness, maybe, when the tide shifts,
Or the currents reset, or the stars realign, Which they haven’t done yet, so you’ll have to resign Yourself to some chilling with the parking lot crew, Having artisan breakfasts and customized brew,
With the burnouts and geezers who still dream of the past, With retired accountants who’ve heard surfing’s a blast, With newbies who ruled in the surf camp’s real water lessons, Who count the wave pool rides as real surfing sessions,
With the hodads and show dads and their sons and their daughters, Influencers and surf tourists who don’t get in the waters,
Cell phones at the ready, all waiting for action, They’ll be hooting and filming, with a deep satisfaction,
Witness to butt-hurt back-paddlers, shoulder-hoppers, and snakers, Heroes and villains, GoPro-ers and fakers, Buzzed-out dudes blowing takeoffs, laughing, pearling and falling, Occasional barrels and turns worth recalling.
They’ll soon be Youtubing a post of their Christmas surf strike, So hit the “subscribe” button, comment, and like,
And save it, repost it, it is something to share, When you watch it again, it’s as if you were there.
Yes, I hope you got waves, I did, too, and in the best Christmas spirit, If you have a great story, I would so love to hear it,
The next time we’re together, facing a skunking, so tragic, You can tell me the tale of your holiday magic.
“You should have been there, Dude; you would have loved it.” “You could have called me.” “You should have known. Are you angry?” “No. It’s just surfing, man; almost all of the magic is… well, you know.”
Color versions, and I slipped in a couple of photos from an ultra fickle spot where rideable waves are mostly imagined. Yes, that’s pretty much every spot on the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
I HAVE HEARD a couple of stories of the usual situations that occur with too many surfers and not enough waves; confrontations that went way farther than they should have. They are not my stories, and, although I LOVE to hear them, AND retell them, if they’re good enough, you will hear them eventually. Maybe from me, but not here. What I will say is, “That wave is gone.”
NEXT.
This is as true when the story is of epic, magical, all-time, best-ever stories. Your joyful stories, perfect moments in an imperfect world; the ones that make you smile; those are the ones to to savor; those are the images to save, to replay.
The illustrations are protected by copyright, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
OH, AND I am, of course, still polishing my novel, “Swamis,” and I’m working on a piece for SUNDAY on the LAWS OF ETIQUETTE. Look for it. In the meanwhile, there are a lot of YouTube videos of super crowds at Swamis and elsewhere. Yeah, crowds.
Swamis to “Swamis” and My Movie
The documentary Annie Fergerson produced featuring me, old fat me surfing and philosophizing, is still available on Vimeo. You have to go to: https:/review/9855582/42dd5c63de or, if you’re a Vimeo person, Erwin_Final_240715 I know, it’s a bit of a hassle.
In trying to promote my novel, “Swamis,” as I wait for responses from the literary agents I have sent submissions to, I cannot help but wonder, “Why am I not in ‘Surfer’s Journal?’ I have art and eleven years of ‘realsurfers.net’ writings. There just have to be some gems in there.” SO, I set about to write something to send to them. Another submission, another attempt to describe my novel in less than 90,000 words. Here is what I came up with:
Swamis to “Swamis”
You are at Swamis Point. It’s 1969. Yes. Horizonal lines, energy in motion, beyond the kelp beds, are bending to match the shoreline, redirected and reshaped by the pull and drag of ancient reefs. As waves rise and wall up, peaks become more defined; steepening, feathering, braking, peeling across the almost-soft, fingered ledges. Your path paddling out along the shoulder of each incoming wave, is as close to the break as possible, always looking over your shoulder to check your lineup spot; that one palm tree for the inside peak, wherever the crowd is sitting for the outside peak. You are ready to spin and go if a rider on increasingly short equipment blows the takeoff, is too deep, slides out on a bottom turn, or oversteers on a cutback.
You have a front row seat of surfers dropping in and turning, crouched and driving across the first section. Longboarders are getting in early, going for fin-first takeoffs, side-stepping to the nose; pulling out on the shoulder or cutting back; juking and cruising, tucking into that calf high barrel on the inside inside.
When it’s your turn, you drop and drive and weave through the sections and other scrappers, would be shoulder hoppers. Approaching that final tube, arms out in a subtle celebration, your arch becomes a full body twist, shoulders to ankles. The fin breaks free. Your speed while side-slipping allows you to punch the nose into and through the wave. Your properly executed standing island pullout provides the perfect punctuation mark. Yes!
In surfing, in 1969, there were few qualities more important than style. Or none. Whatever else Swamis was or wasn’t, it was magical.
There was always a swell. The water was always warm. It was rarely blown out or crowded. It was magical. And there were, along with the witnesses and the dealers and the posers and burnouts and the liars, other storytellers in the parking lot, magicians spinning tales of epic days and mystic spots; magicians spinning images of even greater magic.
The view from the bluff, the balcony, the upper deck of a sometimes surf amphitheater, is almost unchanged: The point to the right, Boneyards just around it, the outside and inside peaks, the beachbreaks along the rip-rapped base of the bluff, Pipes, the curve of La Jolla in the distance.
The walls of the Self Realization Fellowship compound were there; brilliant white, crowned with gold lotus flowers. A dirt pullout just to the south of the parking lot entrance that served as a check out spot now has luxury homes, soundproofed, behind security-gated walls, squeezed between101and the bluff; millions spent for a view we got for free.
The Swamis parking lot was smaller. A green outhouse under the trees has long been replaced by the brick shower/bathroom facility. The wooden stairs, replaced twice since, had some unremembered number of steps; well over a hundred. It featured two main sections. The upper flight went straight down, perpendicular to the bluff. A landing, where the stairs made a ninety-degree turn, offered a from-the-shoulder, up-the-line view of the lineup. “Old men stop here” was carved into the waterside top rail.
My earliest memory of Swamis as a surfer is from 1965. Almost fourteen-years-old, I was doing the kook’s blind paddle for a wave someone else was, no doubt, on. Sorry.
Other images: Walking out to the point when one of a group of Orange County interlopers responded to a man claiming he’d surfed Swamis since 1949 with, “Then you should surf it… better.” Wailing over after school, only five locals out, and my friends from Fallbrook complaining that they couldn’t get a wave. “Well. I caught… some.” “Fuck you then!” Going out on a day with the tide still too high, beating the crowd for a while as the swell built. In my mind, I was in sync and wailing. Falling from a high line on an outside wave on a big day, whatever breath I had lost when I hit the trough; bouncing off the bottom, sucking in more foam than air when I reached the surface. Coughing, choking, swimming, going back out. Surfing, with various degrees of thrill and success, every day of the still-famous December 1969 swell.
1969. I graduated, not yet eighteen. My surf friends were moving on. The draft was coming. Vietnam was real. Surfboard design had gone radical. The completion of I-5 made San Diego’s North County commutable. Marijuana, grown in backyards and avocado orchards and purchased from friends of friends, was becoming a cash crop. Dirty money had to be made clean.
There was, perhaps, *“An acceptable level of corruption.”
A person can drive past Swamis and never realize it is on the map of a world they are not a part of and know little about. Yes, surfing represents freedom on TV commercials, unwaxed boards on shiny new cars. Beautiful, fit, underdressed surfers play the smiling outsider, the anti-nine-to-fiver if not antihero; too cool, too perfect. Mass marketed magic.
It is the magic, real or perceived, that pushed me from imagining and remembering to writing “Swamis,” my surf/detective/coming of age/mystery/romance novel. I had a story line: A surfer, involved in the drug trade, is murdered, burned next to the wall. I had a narrator: Half-Japanese son of a Detective with the County Sheriff’s Office. My age. I had his love interest: Surfer girl, her parents are involved in the trafficking and money laundering. Both main characters are damaged; both have been protected and shielded.
Sounds clichéd, huh?
I have written four versions. Not that I wanted to. I had to edit out the peripherals, narrow the scope and the timeline. I can, if asked, explain where each of the many characters in the novel came from. All are based on placing a real person I have, in my time, encountered, or combinations of people, into fictional situations. I can give you a backstory on any of them.
The narrator, Joseph Atsushi DeFreines, is not me. He does know what I knew and has chosen to not know things I could have known; particularly about the growing, processing, and selling of marijuana. I have three brothers with intimate knowledge of plays and players of that era. One brother, under threat, ran away from operations in Northern California. One turned to Jesus. One went to work for the Border Patrol and on to I.C.E.
It is the best imaginable coincidence that a Swami, like a detective, is a seeker of truth. I am still, while trying to sell the novel, holding on to as many characters as I can. I still have work for Joey and Julie, for Jumper Hayes and Gingerbread Fred, and others. Second novel- “Beacons?” Third- “Grandview?” Both spots are mentioned in a work in which I am still trying to capture the magic.
I mean recapture. Of course.
*The quote comes from San Diego County Sheriff’s Office Detective Joseph Jeremiah DeFreines, increasingly unable to control the corruption in his jurisdiction.
THE REASON I am posting this here is that I ran it past my friend, surfer/librarian KEITH DARROCK (and yes, the Port townsend Public Library does subscribe). He didn’t say he hated it, BUT, he said what I really need to do is talk about me. “ME?” Paraphrasing, it was, “Yeah, like examples of your art, some poetry, your video of you surfing; that’s what they have in the ‘Profile’ section.”
Keith is right, of course. I started writing about myself. It’s not working. The best self-recommendation I could come up with, for my being so consistently described as ‘a character,’ is that I fail, frequently, and keep trying. It is true in my art, my writing, my surfing, my work as a painter, my relationships with others.
So, yeah, I’ll come up with something. May as well put a couple of artsy things I’m proudest of:
HAP-PY HOLIDAYS!
All original works are protected by copyright. All right reserved.
Water in the Oil, Swell in the Water, Quotes, Lightning Bolt, More
FUN CAR UPDATE- I managed to get the new heater control valve into the Engine compartment, after consulting with master mechanic GEORGE TAKAMOTO, with a sleeve on the damaged vacuum advance hose, a minimum of swearing, a bit of ‘I can do this’ self hypnosis, and only a couple of cuts, AND it started, and it didn’t overheat, and… and I was still a bit reluctant to drive it very far. That was probably good. I ran it a little a little later on. Again, it ran okay… didn’t overheat, a bit of steam that cleared up, BUT there had been a concerning ‘clunk’ when I started the engine. Not a ‘click.’
The difference is everything. I’ve driven old vehicles almost exclusively since I started. My father was a mechanic and got me a succession of cars he got cheap. He then got to pick me and the car up, tow it back into the shop for repairs. Or they were dead. Killed. Murdered.
I recently told Trish how much I love my thirty-year-old Volvo. “Don’t say that!” Too late. SO, in daylight, I checked the oil cap and the dipstick. Oil that was properly black yesterday is now the color of coffee with a bit too much milk. Blown head gasket. Not just a guess. Not good.
Relying on my twenty-nine-year-old Ford van with 228,000 miles on it means trips out to chase down waves will be seriously curtailed.
George Takamoto, a friend of Trisha’s and mine for well over thirty years, did tell me that he told a mutual friend that the Volvo probably wouldn’t last… some amount of time… Doesn’t matter, he was right. George is well aware of the trucks and vans and cars I’ve killed outright, and the other rigs that got to the point that whatever was wrong with them was more than the value of the vehicle. I’m hoping this isn’t the case with my Volvo. We’ll see.
LIGHTNING BOLT MYSTERY- Having found some Christmas ‘stuff’ in a little room off of the mud room I had intended to be a tiny art/writing area, I opened one of the many bins now clogging the space and found this. It’s made to fit a board up to six feet, and has a strap on the other side that has “BALIN” printed on it. SOOO… of course, it being Christmas, my being a house painter, it being, like, winter, my never planning on riding a sub six-foot board again, I decided to see what I can sell it for.
THIS LED to some amount of time spent researching. Vintage (as in actually manufactured in that era, early 70s) Lightning Bolt boards go for surprising amounts of money. SO, I contacted a surf shop in (of course) Florida. After some delay, I got a text saying there was no comparative value (‘comp’ to insiders and real estate people, though having a room at a hotel ‘comped,’ different- compensated, maybe) on the bag.
OKAY. I checked out “Balin.” Yes, a dwarf in “The Hobbit,” but also a manufacturer of board bags in AUSTRALIA since (this is important) 1974. NOW, because provenance is everything, as any even sometimes viewer of “ANTIQUES ROADSHOW” knows, is everything, this fits with my story that I got the board bag before I moved up from San Diego at the end of 1978. The question is: Did Balin make bags for Lightning Bolt. Unable to get a workable email address for Balin, I filled out one of those things on their site. This was Saturday morning for me, possibly Sunday night for them. I haven’t heard back. Yet.
I got a text from the Florida shop later yesterday asking about the bag’s condition. “How is the iontegrity? Is it dry rotted? as these things tend to almost fall apart in your fingers after a certain amnount of time.” I texted back, “Perfect.” Now, there might be a bit of smudge from, perhaps, wax from an unbagged board. I’m not cleaning it off. ANYWAY, I’m not sure of the value. MAKE AN OFFER.
QUOTES- Being a hip and modern person, I do belong to several text groups made up of other surfers. I am always trying to have a clever if not funny response, as are others. There’s a quickie response thing I don’t seem to have on my phone that puts out a “laughed at,” or “loved,” or, “was seriously disturbed by” (I’m guessing) followed by a bit of the humorous, lovable, or disturbing text.
ADAM WIPEOUT always seems to like or love comments by Joel or Chris or Keith, giving short shrift to mine. This is only pertinent because I was telling him about a great story of an intense encounter in Yosemite involving surfer and rock climber SHORTBOARD AARON, Aaron’s daughter, and some Kook climber. “It’s a great story, but you’ll have to hear it from Aaron.”
I actually called Aaron because he often sells things on line. And I don’t. In the course of the conversation I mentioned a session Aaron (and Adam) missed and I didn’t. There was a maximum of seven surfers out for a short window, all of whom know each other well. A different mix of personalities in the lineup can, we agreed, change the dynamic dramatically. There was a bit of drama; nothing involving rangers and/or climbing axes. “So, Aaron says, ‘I think I’d rather miss a session than lose a friend,’ and I said, “Well, I’m glad you weren’t there, but I’m sorry you missed it.’ And…” “That’s great! That should be on a t-shirt.” “The ‘glad you weren’t there’ thing?” “No, what Aaron said.” I wasn’t, you know, deeply or seriously disturbed.
TRISH QUOTE- This was from last night, when I still was holding out hope that the Fun Car just needed a new battery. Trish was talking on the phone with our younger son, SEAN: “After 53 years living with your father, out on the edge of the ledge…” Edge of the ledge. LOVE IT!
“SWAMIS” NEWS- I’m keeping track. I sent out seven query letters, three with (as allowed) the first ten pages of the manuscript. I got a rejection from Farley Chase, emailed from New York at 4:30 am, PST; so, perhaps, Farley starts his day giving bad news to hopeful writers. He did say he wasn’t doing much fiction. I wrote back something nice. No, really; ‘chuck you Farley’ was not part of it. No doubt he has received that at some point, perhaps from a fiction writer. So, okay.
The first submission I sent was to HILLARY JACOBSON. She evidently represented some books I’ve actually heard of. One of those was mentioned recently on NPR. AND she says she is interested in books with strong female leads. Yes, “Swamis” has that. So, if you have some influence with Hillary, let her know. MEANWHILE, there’s surf somewhere.
I don’t think I have to put anything about copyright for this posting. If you want to know more about Aaron’s story, ask Aaron. I’ll have more content Wednesday.
Top Three, for Sure! And Helmet Boy
AGAIN, I missed an opportunity to take photos. I wasn’t aware randomly running into HELMET BOY would turn into a story, and I wasted some time looking for a photo I could use (you google what you want and only find people who want money for their photos), and then checked my stats. SHIT! I am trying to get people accustomed to checking out my site on Sundays and Wednesdays, but, no, I wasn’t ready.
SO, I went to the piece I wrote, and, naturally, had to do some editing. AND SO I’m posting this part now, and later… latest art attempts, almost-weekly ADAM WIPEOUT update, and the latest edit of my query letter as part of my attempt to sell “SWAMIS.”
The Cold Shoulder
Chris and I were on the bluff, doing that thing surfers do, talking previous sessions while keeping our eyes on the very late afternoon conditions in the water. Waves would rise on the kelp beds, black dots on brushed silver, line up, the faces of the lines going black. Clouds, heavy on the horizon, were threatening rain and promising nightfall.
Beautiful.
Three surfers were still in the water. Keith, a hyper-dedicated local, was surfing better, objectively, if objectively includes taking off at the proper spot, dropping in cleanly, driving through sections and pulling out with a loose and smooth style, the result of and proof that he has a very high wave count.
The wave count comes from a dogged dedication, enduring countless skunkings; from relentlessly searching for waves on a fickle, unpredictable coastline; and from a willingness to ride anything from barely breaking to ridiculously dangerous waves; all in cold water with nasty rocks and often vicious tides. It shouldn’t be surprising that riding a lot of non-epic waves prepares one for the rare gift of, not to exaggerate, decent waves.
That is not the story. Chris had surfed earlier on this day. I arrived minutes too late to suit up and get more than a couple or rides. But… Chris and I had been out days before for one of those rare sessions with rare and truly memorable waves (and yes, ‘rare,’ twice, it’s that rare. Word had gotten around. Surfers who don’t check the conditions religiously showed up; surfers who don’t know the lineup, paddle past those who do, blow takeoffs, get in the way. So, normal stuff.
Still, any discussion from the bluff or the beach includes who is surfing, how they’re surfing, and how they even knew there might be waves. Chris and I were beyond that, on to the subject of rights, and rights of way, and the seemingly unsolvable issue of priority. We were on how brutal that wipeout Joel got was, how long the rides were, how critical (and again, how rare) when a young guy (like, in his 20s) rides up next to us (switching to present tense, for fun) on a bicycle, slamming (to channel a little Springsteen) on his coaster brakes just before he would go over the six foot drop to driftwood and rocks. The obvious daredevil is wearing a helmet. Light yellow, maybe. He checks Chris and me out. He has a sarcastic smirk on his face and seems to want to participate in the conversation. Not someone either of us recognize, the standard practice is to not engage. If he gives me a tip of his helmet, I might break protocol and give him a half nod. Still, not an invitation.
Chris turns away, the literal version of the metaphoric cold shoulder. Because my right ear, narrowed by bone growth, is plugged up from not wearing my earplugs during my most recent three sessions, some wipeouts incurred in each, I face the bicycle guy. Lip reading has become something I attempt out of necessity, fully aware that being hard of hearing is somehow equal to being rude. Sorry. Speak up. Please.
“Oh, yeah,” Bicycle Boy says, followed by something like… Okay, I heard it wrong. Chris heard it correctly. “You guys are cracking me up over here. All like, ‘Yeah, top ten ____ ____!’ and, ‘____ ____ top ten!’” He throws his hands out toward the water. Chris mouths, “Top three! (Exclamation mark implied!!)” I nod. Big nod.
My response to Helmet Boy is something like, “Yeah, surfing, man, it’s so… juvenile.” But,
in the category of ‘what I should have said’ is, “Why don’t you tighten your chin strap, get back on your 3 speed Huffy, and go see what your mom’s making for dinner.”
What Chris did was raise his right hand over his shoulder as Bicycle Boy picked up his bike like a skirt, spun around, and rode past us. Single finger salute.
Good move. Smooth. Stylish. No wasted big arm movements.
NOTE- As far as photos of what might have been a top three session… Hmmm. There’s a policy. I don’t think you can buy any, but I haven’t really checked. Google “All time surf on the Strait of Juan de Fuca.” I did; it’s as frustrating as trying to find waves… not to dissuade you… too much.
TYPICAL November doppler image. TWO illustrations derived from the same source. I couldn’t wait for the scans. ADAM and his sister LISSA taken from a cookbook Dru’s friend LIESHA purchased. Modeling the wellies (proper term on tide flats, ‘pig boots’ otherwise) with style.
I have recently spoken with several people pushing me to self-publish my novel. Not my first choice. To that end, I’m trying to get an agent, necessary stop to not paying but getting paid. My daughter, Dru, is putting the package together; query, sample illustrations, first ten pages. HERE’S the query letter:
Query- “Swamis,” Fiction of the ‘totally could have happened’ strain by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
Dear _______ ________,
That my 92,000-word novel “Swamis” has become as much love story as murder mystery is a surprise to me. Almost. The action centers around the surf culture at Swamis Point in North San Diego County. It is 1969. An evolutionary/revolutionary period in surfing and beyond, to those who have only known crowds, this was a magical era.
Joey DeFreines, Jr, the narrator, is the son of a Japanese ‘war bride’ and a detective with the County Sheriff’s Office. The ex-Marine is trying and failing to maintain a balance and calm as marijuana becomes a leading cash crop in the unincorporated area that are his jurisdiction and as the completion of I-5 supercharges population growth.
Very close to turning 18, Joey is damaged, troubled, prone to violent outbursts, and possibly brilliant. A compulsive note taker, Joey, nicknamed ‘Jody’ after a military cadence, is an ‘inland cowboy’ outsider who wants, desperately, to be a ‘Local.’
And he is desperately attracted to Julie Cole, one of a few girl surfers in the beach towns along Highway 101. Nicknamed Julia ‘Cold,’ just-18-year-old Julie might appear to be a spoiled, standoffish surfer chick, rabidly protected by her small group of friends. She is also almost secretly brilliant, and quite strong willed.
Julie’s father is a certified public accountant who may, with help from outwardly upright citizens, be laundering increasing amounts of drug money. Julie’s mother, Julia, moves from fixer-upper to fixer-upper in a housing market about to explode. She may also be the head of a group growing, packaging, transporting, and selling marijuana. Once grown in orchards and sold to friends of friends, the product is moved through Orange County middlemen to the larger, more profitable, and more dangerous market of L.A.
Joey and Julie, both concentrating on studying and surfing, are rather blissfully unaware of what is going on around them. Joey’s father’s death, for which Joey may be responsible, has connections to the violent and fiery murder of Chulo, a beach evangelist and drug dealer, next to the white, pristine, gold lotus adorned walls of a religious compound that gives Swamis its name.
Finding Chulo’s murderer, with those on all sides believing Joey has inside information, pushes Joey and Julie together.
There is an interconnectedness between all the supporting characters, each with a story, each as real as I can render them.
“Swamis” was never intended to be an easy beach read. And it isn’t.
Me? I am of this period and place, with brothers and friends who were very involved in the marijuana/drug culture, both sides. I was not. It is very convenient that a Swami, like a detective, like many of the characters in the book, is a ‘seeker of truth.’
I have written articles, poems, short stories, screenplays, two other novels, some moving to the ‘almost’ sold category. I had a column “So, Anyway…” in the “Port Townsend Leader” for ten years, I’ve written, illustrated, and self-published several books of local northwest interest. I started a surf-centric website (blog) in 2013: realsurfers.net.
After many, many edits and complete rewrites, I believe the manuscript is ready for the next step. Thank you for your time and consideration,
Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
As always, anything that you think might be protected by copyright is. So, thanks for respecting that. MEANWHILE, if you have something to say to me, say it loud. AND, get some waves if you can, preferably EPIC! ALL TIME! TOP THREE! AND, Wednesday, like… 10ish..
Real Surfers 