Category Archives: Uncategorized

Whining, Looking Wistfully to the West

Posted on by under Uncategorized

“Oh, and you’re so grown up.”

Let me try to make my point here, before I get off track: Mothers are people who see our faults and our potential. They try to guide us toward being responsible grownups.

Or, they see past our faults.

You have, no doubt, noticed that even (people generally identified as) grownups act a bit like children around their parents. A bit bratty, perhaps. An expectation of acceptance and forgiveness is sort of built into parenting. It may, wait a minute, be the very description of parenting.

No, wait; the expectation of acceptance and forgiveness (by our parents) and love (conditional, we’re lead to believe) is the very description of being a child. Being forced/required/expected to be accepting and forgiving and (unconditionally) loving is the description of parenting.

Whoa; that almost requires being a grownup. Grown up.

Trish, 1969

I would like to, right here, get into a whole deal about how my Mother, once I started board surfing, would, on most Sundays, load her seven children into the station wagon, various well-used surfboards on the rack, perhaps Phillip Harper along for the ride, and head for Tamarack. Later, Pipes (before the park), Swamis, maybe Grandview would be the destination. On the way home, we’d inevitably (or usually) stop by the garage in Oceanside where my Dad worked his second job, pick up a few bucks for ice cream or something.

On one particular Sunday, my Mom said we couldn’t go. “What? But…”

“Well, Junior (no, I am named after my father), you have to learn that life is hard; we can’t always get what we want.”

So, I did what I still do, what I’m doing right now with a northwest swell and an over-booked work schedule; I whined. I moped; I kicked the tires on the car. I looked wistfully toward the west; glancing, occasionally, back toward the house to see if this dejected-ness was being noticed.

Soon, we were enroute. I don’t remember if it was good. Didn’t matter.

 

You must be glad I didn’t get into that; though I add that my mother actually (and thoroughly) enjoyed the Sunday surf trips and told others so. “The housekeeping will still be there,” she told another mother at the beach (before this was in any way cool), big smile on her face. When I started going with friends, or driving myself, my older sister went to college, because our siblings didn’t have the same surf addiction, the trips tapered off. My mother died when I was eighteen.

 

“Mother’s Day is very tricky.” Adam “Wipeout” James, who, typically, plans some surf activity on Sundays, but, with his wife, Andrea, the mother of their two sons (this is the same person), his mother and her mother all in the general vicinity… yeah, he’ll figure something out.

 

“Erwin doesn’t give me anything for Mother’s Day. Never has. He says I’m not his mother.” Trisha Scott Dence.

 

Okay, so, she’s right. I don’t. And, is it Mother’s Day, or Mothers’ Day? She is, of course, the mother of our three children; the one they turn to for wisdom and acceptance and understanding (I sort of think my love for them is understood).

 

I have to hurry; want to get to the transfer station, get to a job; so, look; I’ve known Trish for very close to fifty years. I went to her 16th birthday party (I was 17, so…not too pervy). Only now realizing how young we were, she and I have grown up together. If I say she’s more a grownup than I am would just be too obvious…

…and not totally true. Yes, I whined to her that the surf was going to happen and circumstances and obligations would not allow me to go. Unless?

I wasn’t looking for someone to give me permission; I’m enough of a grownup to realize overbooking is, in some way, a sign of success (hey, it’s painting season) and surfing or not was my decision. And besides, next time there’s a swell, mid-week; I’m going. For sure. All those weekenders can just… not go. Vent, vent, whine; looking wistfully toward the west.

 

With our parents gone, orphaned, as most of us become; Trish and I have each other to be our sounding boards, to vent to, complain to. I’m not sure how much we’ve matured in these years; but, if we occasionally act like something other than fully adult, it’s probably with each other. We can disagree, argue; and it’s over.

Wait, maybe that’s more mature than holding in resentments.

 

To have Trish in my life is a gift to me; along with the acceptance of my faults, a still-there hope I have some (highly advertised [by me], yet-unreached) potential; and her love. Yeah, the love.

 

Okay; that’s it. Tomorrow, on Mother’s’ Day, as sort of a gift; I’ll drive George Takamoto to Sea-Tac. Of course, it kind of fits into my plan of painting in Silverdale on the way back; but, if Trish thinks it’s a gift… great.

 

And I hope all you surfers are enjoying the swell. Looks like fog on the coast. Next time. Next….time. And, shit; spent too much time on this; I’ll do the dump run on Monday.

Sideslipping With Archie Endo and Big Dave

Posted on by under real surfers, surf culture, surfer Archie Endo, surfing, Uncategorized

When we hang out with other surfers, we kind of brush up against their lives, their stories. We get a brief glimpse, a snapshot.

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It’s not clear, and it’s nowhere near a complete picture of someone else’s life; and it’s not enough.

This piece is about a recent trip. Archie, still not recovered enough from the stroke he suffered over a year ago to surf, riding with me to check out one of his favorite surf spots. Finding actually ‘surfable’ (Archie’s term) on the Strait of Juan de Fuca was, as always, a gamble; and this run was scheduled less on surf forecast, and more on time left before Archie had to (today, in fact) return to his working life (middle man in the fishing industry) in Thailand.

That’s not enough information. Atsushi “Archie” Endo, duel citizen, learned to surf in Japan. Somewhat a radical, he was never interested in short boards. He surfed (and will again) with a throwback, 1960s glide; all about wave positioning edge control. I’ve never seen him even try to noseride.  He plays drums and (I’m going to say it) bitchin’ surf guitar, and has an incredible interest in music and language.

An expert in salmon (though now, I think, he’s mostly dealing in Tuna) Archie’s expertise has taken him to coastal locations all over the world.

2013 photos 407Archie is also known for his collection of retro vehicles. This photo was taken a few years ago. Note the lack of surf in the background.

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(above) One of Archie’s cars.

On this trip, the only one at this not-secret-spot was Big Dave. While waiting around for the tide to get a bit better (or the waves to get bigger, or something), I probably learned more about Big Dave than I knew from the run-ins with him over the past dozen years.

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It’s Big Dave on the left, currently sporting a beard. Now, here’s our connection: When I moved to the Pacific Beach area of San Diego, 20 years old, 1971, Dave was, along with Joe Roper, one of those Crystal “Pier Rats” (his term), 15 years old. It’s not like we hung out; but we were, no doubt, in the water together numerous times.

Archie, at some later date, lived in San Diego; and, he says, one of his favorite surf spots, anywhere, was the P.B. Point, Tourmaline Canyon area. “I lived right up the bluff,” I said. “My parents lived on Thomas Street,” Big Dave said. “In the neighborhood.”

Now; what I learned. While I came to the northwest up I-5 in a U-Haul, Dave sailed here from Hawaii. Dave has stories of sneaking into Ralph’s, having a friend’s boat hit the rocks at Dolphin Tanks, other stories that make the best of mine seem pretty punky.

So; that’s the past. Nowadays Dave is noted for extra long sessions. While I had heard he spent eight hours straight in the water on a recent swell, he said, “It was more like ten. It was a ‘one more wave’ kind of thing.”

 

Dave, again, on the left. It’s not just like he sits there. Big Dave catches a lot of waves.

BigDaveleft

So, on this day, with Archie watching from the stadium chair Trish insisted I bring, Big Dave and I were trading off waves. When I said, because the waves were sectioning-off, I had to go down the line a bit rather than stay in the pocket, he asked, “What part of Seattle are you from again?”

When I insisted I was staying high on the waves in order to make the inside section, with the option of pulling out or doing a floater (as opposed to dropping low and ‘barrel dodging,’ an Adam Wipeout phrase), Dave gave me a bit of a tutorial on sideslipping. On my next wave, approaching the inside section, with him paddling out, I reached (as per instruction) for the outside rail. “Hey, what about the paddle?”  Then I went high on the wave, sideslipped back under the lip and onto the face. As per instruction.

It’s not like I haven’t done this before. That’s my defense.

I did take a break after three hours or so, with the excuse that it was rude to leave Archie alone on the beach for so long. Archie insisted he was enjoying it. So, back out for another two hours.

I’m pretty sure Dave got out before Archie and I left.  He probably went back out for ‘one more wave.’ Or so.

We do run into some colorful characters in life. I can keep up with Archie on Hotmail. Big Dave drives a dump truck for Jefferson County; I see him occasionally on the road. Here’s how close we are: When I asked him for his cell phone number, he said he could give me one digit each time we meet. Adam James thought this was the funniest thing. “You could probably guess the first number is a three; huh?”

“Huh?”

Not a Surfing Story, but…

Posted on by under Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

…I will get back to surfing very soon. This is one of a several purposefully-short short stories I’ve been working on, sort of on the notion of ‘character assassination.’ It is fiction, and, a few days after writing it, I had an idea for an added (hopefully) twist.

Barring some sort of collection down the road, I did take advantage of having a blog, “Stuff that goes on,” at ptleader.com and published it there.  And, why not here? Check it out.

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CHARACTER ASSASSINATIONS

FUTURE PERFECT TENSE

Phyliss showed me the cigar box (Cubans) that held her collection of apologies. She sniffed it, appeared to smell (and, I thought, savor) some ancient remnant of fine tobacco. She offered it to me. I obliged. I smelled nothing. Just paper; some, maybe, aged. I nodded, smiled.

“This,” she said, lifting a hat box (but not for a very large hat) from the sideboard, “is my box of condolences.” When I didn’t immediately respond; or, rather, when another nod was insufficient, she added, “There are, you can see, many more of these.”

Still, she didn’t sniff the box of condolences.

“Yes,” I said. Again, insufficient. There was a pause. “So, I guess,” I said, “apologies for past, um, mistakes; not as many as notes of, uh, sympathy… for past losses… I mean, uh, your losses.”

It might be difficult to determine if her expression was of disdain, possibly modified by my obvious ignorance and lack of skill in the formal graces; or an unconvincing attempt at appearing sympathetic to my obvious unease.

No, it was a sort of required politeness to disguise an irritated condescension. She looked, without focusing, at the final billing statement as I did focus, checking the final calculations on my cell phone.

“All apologies are in the past tense,” she said, looking for my agreement with and appreciation of her statement. “All condolences are in the present tense.”

Since I didn’t appear to understand, she added, “Such as, ‘I grieved you, thusly,’ in the first instance; past tense; and ‘I wish you a recovery.’ Going forward. See? Present tense.”

“Oh,” I said, “Right.” I smiled (the way socially awkward people do), wrote “Paid in full” on the form on the clipboard, set it, facing her, near her right hand (the one now resting on an upside down check).  I then carefully picked up and moved the clipboard over. I turned away from her, giving her a moment to examine the page, looked around the formal dining room, took a sip from my tea cup, tried to set it back without a bone to bone (china) noise, and wrote something on a blank sheet of printer paper.

When I was finished, I folded the page (on the bias), slid it between the two boxes. She slid my check, which had been in the place a third setting, another cup and saucer could have been set, toward me. I slid the full-sized check under the clip, still face down. It would have been rude (and I knew this) to look at the payment; but I (also) knew she had probably deducted some money for some minor issues she had insisted were not minor.

That was fine. I had been warned by other tradespeople to expect this, advised to, “maybe charge a little extra.” I hadn’t.

I made a move to stand; stopped; waited until she stood. “Thank you so very much, Phyliss.”

She didn’t, of course, unfold the paper before I reached the door.

“At some future time,” the note said, if I’m remembering correctly, “I will have, or may have, come to the conclusion that I owe you an apology. Future perfect tense. I do, however, now offer my condolences for whatever past made you what you are now. Present tense.”

Lighting up a cigarette, I turned the check over on the clipboard just after I opened the door to my truck. “Damn,” I said, “Bonus.”

Looking toward the dining room window, unable to hold back a smile; I tore another sheet of paper from the stack on the clipboard. I blew a bit of smoke on it before I started writing.

the end

So, again, there are some actually surf-related things coming up in realsurfers, real soon. Meanwhile, the surf forecast on the Peninsula shows good weather and small surf.  Good time to try to catch up on painting, recover from recent surf-session where I tried (and failed) to keep up with surf marathoner, Big Dave.

 

 

 

Illustration on Offer

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This is another one of the ‘attic finds’ from the 1980s. I was never sure what to do with it, didn’t want to get too involved with shading in the water; but, in adding a border, well; came up with the ‘water’, then, hey… this.

Since I strongly support the Surfrider and its efforts toward clean water, and… wait a minute, how about Adam “Wipeout” (or “Roundhouse”) James and the folks down the Hood Canal at HamaHama Oysters? They might be interested.

It’s really Lissa who has to be convinced. “Yeah,” Adam told me, “She runs the show.” I will be adding color later, but, hmm? Um; what’d’ya think?

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Look at this, read the previous post. Thanks

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, Uncategorized

When I have the time to write, I probably write too much. Since I didn’t work on Sunday, aided by my typing skills, I went on and on; probably should have broken it into two (or three) pieces. Now, I know you don’t have a lot of time to read, BUT, if you do get a bit, check out my previous posting. Again; thanks.

I’m trying to ‘square up’ some of the copies I made from contact prints of drawings from the 1980s. Having a scanner that refuses to help doesn’t, um, help. I added the lettering on the drawings of the two women, only added a border on the “Over the Rainbow” illustration.

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Surf Session Highlights, Full Mooned, Updated Illustrations from the Last Century

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, surf illustrations, surfing, surfing art, Uncategorized

In no particular order, I thought I’d give some highlights from some recent surf sessions. Bear in mind I have a certain obligation, not merely imagined, to never ever mention anything that comes close to confirming there are ever good waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

This isn’t difficult. The predominant swell condition is flat. This is undeniable. When waves do show up, the winds that blow into or out of the rather narrow passageway can, east or west, seriously scallop the faces. Rapid tidal shifts and the very angle of wave-to-coast can add to rip/drag conditions; and, since we all check out the same forecasts, and because semi-optimal conditions are sort of rare (rare-ish), and each of us has our own formula of size/angle/tide/period/wind, even the slight chance of waves over a foot high brings, yes, crowds; frustrated, desperate surfers of all ages and abilities ready to head out into…

…waves surfers on most coasts would pass on, or wait out, hoping for something a bit cleaner, bigger, better.  There have been major skunkings; lines of Westfalias, camper-laden trucks, SUVs with tiny boards stuffed inside, RVs, work rigs, Mad Max vehicles with stacks of various-sized equipment; families, church groups, surfers on dates, power couples, buddy-groups of four or five; beginners and rippers, lone wolf dudes in guaranteed cool surf wear; all cooking up breakfast on little burners, or chatting with someone they know from the Udub, or looking for a (better) place to park; all asking about other spots, all looking out at the water; too many people bobbing around and too few waves. Or none. Or sub-epic.

There is no guaranteed formula. Really. If there was… shit, it’d be worse.

STILL, stories persist of persistent surfers waiting, waiting, and scoring; OR, better, getting somewhere just before it goes off. WHAT? Where? When?

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HEART ATTACK: If I suffer one, it’ll be when I do see what passes for great surf in these parts. I have, in the fairly recent past, in my haste to partake, left my shirts (we layer ’round here) on the hood of my car (and/or a window or door open) in a downpour (forcing me to shop on the way home wearing a pervy barn coat), yelled out exclamations that would make an Australian blush (sorry kids, sorry Mrs. Nolan, sorry church groups) and, partially because I am notoriously slow getting into my wetsuit (doubles as stretching/warmup), urinated way before I reached the water.

And, even when I tell myself (and others in the water) that I’m going to “be casual,” I rarely am.

BAD ASSES AND SURF ASSESSMENT: We all have stories of past glories. I quit telling some of mine because, yeah, if I surfed (un or less crowded) Swamis in the 60s, Trestles (parking at Lowers) in the 70s, big days at Windansea and Sunset Cliffs, shouldn’t I surf, um, uh, better?

Doesn’t seem to matter. It might just be, in each of our minds, with one or more asterisks next to our mental wikipedia page,  we rip. This is fine. That is, I won’t call you out if you don’t call me out.

Recently, trying to time my arrival after the overnight-and-hanging west wind died down, I got to a not-secret spot with the tide way too low, waves at the indicators, the wind still howling, and twelve surfers in the lineup. Picture a line of black marker buoys, like those for crab pots, left to right. Because I know some of the folks hanging out or waiting around, I took my time, chatted it up. By the time I paddled out there were nine surfers, then seven. When I moved over from the rights, I was the only one out.  I found a few good ones in the mix, did a lot of paddling, got out of the water. So, no one was surfing.

There was a group of about five surfers hanging out kind of close to my car as I limped up the beach. “Everyone’s a badass on the beach,” I said. “How come you badasses aren’t out there?” “Good on you,” one of them said, “you got some waves.” “Uh huh.” “We were waiting for one more badass.”

NOTE: This didn’t actually translate into them wanting to hang with me, artifact from a century these dudes barely remember.

I took a break, talked to some other surfers I know, met Jeff’s son. And, though there were many coolly-decked-out surfers on the beach, no one was out. Because, partially, I had to pee and didn’t want to take off my wetsuit (okay, mostly because I couldn’t get my wetsuit off without peeing) and I wanted a few more waves, I went back out. I surfed alone for about twenty minutes. The wind had calmed down. It was better.

Then Jeff came out, and his son. Then, suddenly, it seemed, there were, again, twelve (different) surfers in the lineup. Then the wind came back up. One more ride to the fence. And another last ride. Limp up the beach. I had a little discussion with Darrin and Melissa on how good it got the last time I saw him at this spot, AFTER I left; about the time Adam Wipeout and Chimacum Cam (as opposed to Timacum Chimacum) showed up.   I hit the road for Costco and home. I passed at least four surf rigs on the way; more surfers hoping to be there when it got good. The wind, as far as I know, kept blowing as the swell dropped.

STILL, I don’t know what happened the next day. Might’ve been epic. Someone will have a story. UPDATE- Yeah, better, allegedly.

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TUGBOAT BILL: I’ve run into him often through the years. He introduces me to others as someone who is “Absolutely ruthless in the water.” “No, no,” I insist, checking out the stranger. Most recently he had Mr. Smythe (sp?) with him, and asked if I knew what surfer would be pulling onto 104 from Center Road in a gray pickup. I didn’t know. It turns out the very pickup was in the parking area. “Let’s go see who the hell he is,” I said. It turns out he’s a fisherman, formerly from Maine (as I remember) wondered how he could keep from getting skunked coming to the Strait. “Can’t help you, kid,” Bill said. “Do you check the buoys?” “Buoys?” “Hmm. Can’t help you, kid.” All I said is, “Buoys.”

CONCRETE PETE: Another old guy, though not as old as me. On the day from the previous story, after the three surfers who dawn-patrolled got out of the water in, pretty-much, defeat (including Bruce, the ‘Mayor of Hobuck’, according to Adam Wipeout, some guy White Reggie identified as the owner of several pot shops in P.A., and some guy Reggie said was known to be confrontational in the water) I ended up (because I hate getting skunked) surfing alone on some one footers.

Thinking this was it, and because it didn’t seem to be raining, I got out, got dressed, was ready to go to work. Then the waves got a bit bigger. I put on my other wetsuit (Yes, I do own two- so worth it), went back out. Again, people who were waiting (including Tugboat Bill and Mr. Smythe and the fisherman) also went into the water. Double session.

When I was getting out, I saw a truck backed up to the berm, some guy, struggling to get into his wetsuit, yelling at me. By name. Unable to determine who it was in the glare, I decided I should approach. It was Concrete Pete, and, perhaps thinking it was 1964 and he was Miki Dora, he shot me a B.A. All in good fun. “And that’s my best side,” he said as I turned away. NOTE: Bare ass; variously described as mooning. Full mooning.

“Did you see anything you didn’t want to see?” Trish asked when I told her the story. “I didn’t want to see any of it.”

TOM BURNS: Tom is very close to my age, a lifelong surfer, and he’s on my short list of people to call to discuss the latest session and/or skunking. The last time I called he was on I-5, en route to Dana Point, hoping to score some pre-dawn sessions down that way. If you think I’m a name dropper, you should talk to Tom.  if you think I have stories… again, Tom. If you do, he’ll probably remember your name.

THIS is way too long. I want to write about how someone accused me of being a ‘surf whore.’ No, I’m not sure what it means, either. I do admit to being a ‘paint-whore,’ and, if this means I’ve somehow sold out, no, sorry; haven’t had any real offers. If it means I’m selling out local spots; no; not really. Oh, except Westport. Go there. Go there now.

I ALSO want to write about surf thieves. Someone broke into Stephen Davis’s storage unit, stole his tools, his kite surfing equipment. AND, evidently, someone had a board stolen while (from what I’ve heard) parked on one of those side roads leading to a remote surf spot. LATER on that subject, but, if there is any Surfer’s Code, it definitely doesn’t include stealing. The occasional mooning? Up for debate.

I’m adding to some of the drawings from the 1980s I recently found in my attic. More coming. Yeah, kind of like waves.

 

 

Contacts From the Past

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, Uncategorized

I had to crawl around in the attic, trying to find some obvious sign of a short circuit. Didn’t find it (which means it’s somewhere in a wall, or, I’m suspecting, the light fixture I installed- had to quit looking to go surfing), but did find some old artwork.

During my tenure at the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard (a transfer there got me here from San Diego), I got into the sign shop (I had, after all, started out as a sign painter apprentice, 1969, Oceanside). While there, I took advantage of having a drawing board to, well, draw.

Most of the drawings started out on 17 by 22 inch paper, too big for most printers, but, because I was also doing posters (and I grabbed any artsy projects that came in- keggers, picnics, that kind of civil service boondoggle), I took advantage of the shipyard photo lab to get illustrations photographed.

I do have some surviving silk screened posters (if they are artsy, I’d prefer to say serigraphs) as well as some (and, sadly, not very many) originals. These are SOME of the contact prints I had in a padded envelope inside a now-moldy box. They are all pre-1990 (when I left the shipyard), and, if there is a difference in my style, and I would say there’s been some (maybe) development, if not (necessarily) improvement.  The bigger difference is that I took a lot of time on each illustration, lunchtimes, breaks, and, I think I mentioned, I had a Civil Service job.

Many of the contact prints are too small, the detail too dark. I’m going to get them blown, hoping to open up some light between the lines.  We’ll see.

When I took some of the prints to show my friends, Trish became very possessive of some of the drawings of Victorian houses in Port Townsend I did, claiming I’d ruin them somehow.  I didn’t, but, in the excitement of seeing waves, I did leave my shirt on the hood of my car. And then it rained. You know how soft racks leak onto car seats in heavy rain? No, the drawings came through it, but I got to go to Safeway with no shirt and a heavy, pervert-esq coat. Yes, fully zipped.

So, here are a couple of examples. I want to say “Portraits from the Artist as a Young(er) Man.” So, each one, and there will be more, is over 28 years old.

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Scapes, Landscapes, and Possibly the Last of Captain Sketchee

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, Uncategorized

I have been doing some Olympic Peninsula-specific landscape drawings lately, and I’m trying to get a few more done before (and, hopefully available at) the HamaHama Oysterama coming up the weekend around the 21st, down (or up, maybe even over) Surf Route 101.

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Here’s something I did for the Disco Bay Outdoor Exchange. And, incidentally, Discovery Bay seems to be the happening spot, so near the confluence of highway 20, 104, and Surf Route 101.  Tyler Meeks offers all kinds of gear for skiing, hiking, surfing; all the outdoor activities one can participate in on the ‘still wild’ Peninsula.  AND clothing; so much easier than perusing the Goodwill or paying full boat.

Since, and probably because Trish hates the Captain Sketchee character, I went a little whole hog (and I may not be done with the good Captain).

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