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Surf Friends, Shared Photos, “Swamis”- Chapter 4, and, of course, MORE

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FIRST- THANKS. I like to tell people, when I am begging them to let me use something they said or wrote on my SITE (personal preference over ‘blog’), that realsurfers.net has an audience of tens of people from all around the world. For this I am grateful. If I can get through to one lone surfer in China, pining to know there are never any waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, great.

I DID SURF, and there is, as always, a story; joining constantly frothed out KEITH DARROCK, on his ongoing mini-slab tour, at a super-sketchy spot with his pre-attempt warning, “You are going to get SO WORKED.” And I did. Leash ripped off by rogue wave, Hobie on a rock, fin at an angle way off perpendicular to the deck, me swimming, then having to get back up the cliff. So, worked… BUT I did get some great on-the-shoulder angles of some of Keith’s barrels, and I got some shoulder takeoff rides. And I survived. NO PHOTOS, but REGGIE SMART did witness the spectacle through binoculars. “Either Erwin has a really long leash or he lost his board.” NO, he evidently didn’t witness any of my successful rides. THE HOBIE WILL LIVE ON! Maybe.

ADAM ‘WIPEOUT’ JAMES heading out. Photo (used with permission) by ERIN KATE MURPHY. Erin and her husband, SEAN, and their son (sorry I forgot his name) all surf. More like rip. OH, I did have to promise never to take off in front of her AND to let her have any wave I may have wanted. Worth it.

BIOLUMINESCENCE and NORTHERN LIGHTS, or some other PHENOMENON. Photo by Adam James.

OFTEN, sitting in a parking lot somewhere, waiting for some tide shift or some hoped-for swell to show up, other surf seekers show up. RAJA, who achieved local fame years ago by sticking my lost paddle in an offshore dolphin, the remnant of an old boat tie-uo, is sporting an ORIGINAL ERWIN t shirt. Raja has been involved in several of my stories over the years, including when I burned DANE PERLEE and his friend. INCIDENTALLY, the paddle was rescued and removed by my friend, STEPHEN R. DAVIS. So, SURF FRIENDS, bonded by some, some, something.

I didn’t ask CLINT THOMPSON, bi-coastal surfer and super craftsman on wooden boats, if I could use his photo. Hopefully he’s okay with it. I should say tri-coastal, since Clint goes between Port Townsend and his family home somewhere in Florida, where, he says, he’s halfway between the Gulf of Mexico and the coast. Clint, when we first met, was highly critical of my wave-hogging, no etiquette way of surfing. Perhaps because I’m older and slower, or maybe because crowded conditions often have a number of kooks (no, I don’t want to say that), or perhaps because I do try not to burn people i know (and I know a lot of surfers), Clint did say, a year or so back, “I want to see you dominate.” Well, other than surfing radical conditions with rabid rippers (knowing my place in that lineup), I always try.

Me on a peak. When I called TRISH from the LOWER ELWHA gas station to tell her about how her man nearly drowned, she said, “Well, you wanted to go.” When she told me I need to get this painting project finished, I sent her this photo (by Steve Davis). She texted back, You’re giving me a heart attack! OMG!!”

I am reading a memoir by legendary boat designer and surfer, TIM NOLAN, shown surfing his home break, Abalone Cove in Palos Verdes, way back, and at a Surf Culture Event in Port Townsend a couple of years ago. It’s incredibly hard to have people read one’s stuff AND give feedback. Mine, so far, is that TIM has great stories BECAUSE he’s done some extraordinary things… and continues doing things. His most recent words of wisdom related to surfing, particularly for older surfers (he is older than me), is “You’ve got to want it.” The stories are there, AND his watercolors and photos illustrating the stories are great. As with any and all writing, it comes down to focusing and editing.

After several people have been unable to get through the earlier versions of my novel. “Swamis,” I did get some encouraging feedback from one of my longterm clients, SANDRA STEELE, a woman who reads detective/mystery books voraciously, and, in fact, gave me a box full of them. I read all of one, parts of several others. She said, “I didn’t throw it at the fireplace,” adding, “It seemed… hopeful.” “Is that good? It’s kind of turning into more of a… love story than…” “Yeah, I see a lot of Trish in there.” “Well, yeah.”

IF YOU DON’T READ ANY FARTHER, “Swamis” and other original material is protected by copyright; all rights reserved by the author/artist/photographer. Please respect this. And thanks,

                                    CHAPTER FOUR- WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 23, 1968

            Christmas vacation. I had surfed, but I wanted a few more rides. Or many more. I had the time, and I had the second-best parking spot of the full lot at Swamis- front row, two cars off center. It was cool but sunny. I was dead center on the Falcon, leaning over the hood. I checked the diving watch on my wrist. It was fogged up. I shook my wrist, removed the watch, set it on the part of the Falcon’s hood my spread-out beach towel didn’t cover; directly over the radiator, the face of the watch facing the ocean and the sun.

            Spread about on the towel was a quart of chocolate milk in a waxed cardboard container, the spout open; a lunch sack, light blue, open; an apple; a partial pack of Marlboros, hard pack, open, a book of paper matches inside; and three Pee-Chee folders. One of the folders was open. A red notebook, writing on both sides of most pages, was open, five or six pages from the back.

            A car stopped immediately behind the Falcon. Three doors slammed. Three teenagers, a year or so younger than me, ran down the left side of my car and to the bluff.  Jumping and gesturing, each shouted assessments of the conditions. “Epic!” and “So… bitchin’!”

They looked at each other. They looked over me at their car, idling in the lane. They looked at me. The tallest of the three, with a bad complexion, his hair parted in the middle, shirtless, with three strands of love beads around his neck, took a step toward me. “Hey, man.” He lifted two of the strands.  “Going out or been out?”

            “Both. Man.”    

“Both?” Love Beads guy moved closer, patting the beads. “Both. Uh huh.”

“Good spot,” the driver, with bottle bleached hair, a striped Beach Boys shirt, and khaki pants, said. I nodded. Politely. I smiled, politely, and looked back and down at my notebooks. He asked, “You a local?”

I shifted the notebooks, took out the one on the bottom, light blue, opened it, turned, and looked out at the lineup, half-sitting on the Falcon, hoping my non-answer was enough for the obvious non-locals.

 A car honked behind us. Love Beads raised his voice enough to say, “At least go get the boards, Shorty.” The Driver ran toward his car. As Shorty reluctantly walked away from the bluff, Love Beads gave him a shove, pushing him into me. A possibly accidental nudge.

Shorty threw both hands out to signal it wasn’t his fault. Behind him, Love Beads Guy said, “You fuckers down here are fuckin’ greedy.”

“Fuck you, Brian,” Shorty said before running out and into the lane.

Love Beads Guy, Brian, moved directly in front of me. He puffed out his chest a bit. He looked a bit fierce. Or he attempted to. “You sure you’re not leaving?”

I twisted my left arm behind my back and set the notebook down and picked up my diving watch. When I brought my arm back around, very quickly, Brian twitched. I smiled.  I held my watch by the band, close to its face. I shook it. Hard. Three quick strokes, then tapped it, three times, with the pointer finger of my right hand. “The joke, you see, Brian, is that, once it gets filled up with water, no more can get in. Hence, Waterproof.” I put the watch on. “Nope, don’t have to leave yet… Brian.”

Brian was glowering, tensed-up. “Brian,” Shorty said as he carried two boards over to the bluff and set them down, “You could, you know, help.”

Brian raised his right hand, threw it out to his left and swung it back. I took the gesture to mean ‘shut up and keep walking.’ I chuckled. Brian moved his right hand closer to my face, pointer finger up.

I moved my face closer to his hand, then leaned back, feigning an inability to focus. “Brian,” I said, “I have a history…” Brian smirked. “I used to… strike out, and quite violently… when I felt threatened.” I blinked. “Brian.”

Brian looked around as if Shorty, packing the third board past us, might back him up. “Quite violently?”

“Used to… Brian. Suddenly and… violently.” I nodded and rolled my eyes. I moved closer to his face. “But now… My father taught me there are times to react and times to… take a moment, assess the situation, but… watch, and be ready. It’s like… gunfights, in the movies. If someone… is ready to… strike, I strike first. I mean, I can. Because… I’m ready.” I moved my face back from Brian’s and smiled. “Everyone… people are hoping the surfing is… helping. I am not… sure. I’m on… probation, currently; I get to go to La Jolla every Monday, talk to a… shrink. Court ordered. So…” I took a deep breath, gave Brian a peace sign.

“Brian,” Beach Boy, at the driver’s door of his parent’s car said, “we’ll get a spot.”

“Wind’s coming up, Brian,” I said, pointing to the boards. “Better get on it.”

“Oh, I have your permission. No! Fuck you, Jap!” Brian moved back and into some version of a fighting stance as he said it.

“Brian. I’m, uh, assessing.” I folded my hands across my chest.

Brian may have said more. He moved even closer, his mouth moving, his face out of focus; background, overlapped by, superimposed with, a succession of bullies with faces too close to mine; kids from school, third grade to high school. I couldn’t hear them, either. Taunts. I knew the words: “Retard!” “Idiot!” “What’s wrong with you?”

 My father’s voice cut through the others. “They don’t know you, Jody. It’s all a joke. Laugh.” In this vision, or spell, or episode, each of my alleged tormentors, all of them boys, fell away. Each face was bracketed by and punctuated with a blink of a red light. Every three seconds. Approximately.

One face belonged to a nine-year-old boy, a look of shock that would become pain on his face. He was falling back and down, blood coming out of his mouth. Red light. I looked at the school drinking fountain. A bit of blood. Red light. I saw more faces. The red lights became weaker, and with them, the images.

The lighting changed. More silver than blue. Cold light. I saw my father’s face, and mine, in the bathroom mirror. Faces; his short, almost blond hair, almost curly, eyes impossibly blue; my hair straight and black, my eyes almost black. “Jody, just… smile.” I did. Big smile. “No, son; not that smile.”

I smiled. That smile.

Brian’s face came back into focus. I looked past him, out to the kelp beds and beyond them “Wind’s picking up.” I paused. “Wait, I already said that. Did I, Brian?”

I turned toward the Falcon, closed the blue notebook, set it on one side of the open Pee-Chee, picked up the red notebook from the other side. There were crude sketches of dark waves and cartoonish surfers on the cover. I opened it and started writing.

“Wind is picking up.” I may have spun around a bit quickly, hands in a pre-fight position. It was Rincon Ronny in a shortjohn wetsuit, a board under his arm. Ronny nodded toward the stairs. “Fun guys.” He leaned away and laughed. I relaxed my hands and my stance. “The one dude, the… shitless guy…”

“Brian. Shirtless.”

“Yeah. That dude. You may have… Fuck, man; he was scared shitless.”

“It’ll wear off.” I held the notebook up, showed Ronny the page with ‘Brian and friends’ written in larger-than-necessary block letters, and closed the notebook. “By the time they get back to wherever they’re from, Brian would’ve kicked my ass.” I looked around to see if any of Ronny’s friends were with him. “I was… really… polite, Rincon Ronny.”

“Polite. Yeah. From what I saw. And it’s just… Ronny. Now.”

I had to think about what Ronny might have seen, how long I was in whatever state I was in. Out. I started gathering my belongings, pulling up the edges of my towel. “I just didn’t want to give my spot to… fuckers. Where are you… parked?”

“I… walked.”

I had to smile and nod. “You… walked.”

Ronny nodded and looked at my shortjohn wetsuit, laid out over my board.  “Custom. Impressive.” I nodded and smiled. “One thing, Junior; those… fuckers, they won’t fuck with you in the water.”

“Joey,” I said. “Someone will.”

Ronny mouthed, “Joey,” and did a combination blink/nod. “Yeah. It’s… Swamis. Joey.”

Ronny looked at the waves, back at me. A gust of west wind blew the cover of my green notebook open. “Julie” was written in almost unreadably psychedelic letters across pages eight and nine. “Julie.” Hopefully unreadable.

I repeated Ronny’s words mentally, careful not to mouth them. “From what I saw.” And “Joey.”                                   

FINALLY, I do have a limited number of Original Erwin t shirts at TAIT TRAUTMAN’S NORTH BY NORTHWEST SURF COMPANY (NXNW). Stop by if you’re cruising through Port Angeles on the way to or from your next surf adventure. And GOOD LUCK!

Out of Respect for Pete Carroll, I…

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http://www.allproreels.com — Washington Football Team vs. Seattle Seahawks from FedEx Field, November 29th, 2021 (All-Pro Reels Photography)

…decided I wouldn’t watch the Seahawks; at least not the pre-season. NOW, part of this is, I admiot, because Pete and I are the same age. I might be a couple of weeks older. ALSO, fellow Boomer from the summer of 1951, TOM BURNS, told me he ran into Petey in the parking lot at Westport a few years ago. “WAIT,” Peter surfs?” “Yeah. He coached at USC. So, yeah. I didn’t make a deal out of it. He asked me if it was good. I said, ‘Well, Pete; here’s the thing… It’s Westport.'”

TRISH, huge Seahawks fan, though she can’t watch a game if her team is less than three touchdowns ahead (or so), agreed with me that the corporate overlords did P.C. (just testing some nicknames) dirty by dropping him for some younger dude, and agreed that she wasn’t going to be interested… BUT THEN, yesterday, she starts texting me about how this guy got a touchdown, this guy got an interception.

BUT NOW, a day later, today, TRISH had some cruel commentary on the new coach. “Man boobs. Eyeliner.” WHOA! “What’s his name again, Trish?” “I don’t know. It’s not Pete.”

“No.”

DOG DAYS, FOG DAYS- I’ve been scanning the cameras and computers looking for signs of surf on the STRAIT. NOPE. Not yet. I could go to the coast, perhaps, and… I am a bit tired of saying, “Next time, I’m going.” But, yeah; I’m saying it again. “Next time for sure.” It is house painting season, however; though I’d sneak out if there was a chance. Oh, I mean a better chance of waves.

NOT THAT I’M POLITICAL, BUT… I didn’t have the time, but I wanted to do a drawing of Don, Junior looking all, possibly, allegedly, occasionally coked-up, and saying something like, “I’m hoping Big Daddy’ll say I can be in charge of the DEA and, oh, yeah, that’d be so… sa-weeet!”

Don don’t surf. Hopefully you’re getting some waves.

I’ve got to work on some writing. “SWAMIS” is not done. As with surfing, I have been thinking about a few changes I should make.

The Documentary… Almost Five Minutes of Fame AND The Next ORIGINAL ERWIN T SHIRT,

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I’m adding to the last post rather than producing a new one. The main reason is the LINK to the documentary: There have been issues. Sometimes the original link connected; sometimes not. It is important to me, with the work ANNIE FERGERSON put into it, that she gets some of that internet traffic. NO, it’s not about me. Not just me. I had my daughter, Dru, add another link as a backup.

STILL, even when I checked it, sometimes it worked, sometimes

ABOUT HALF of the latest shirts are gone; some sold, a few given away. Funny how we owe our friends stuff. WHILE I am working on how to market anything I do; art, writing; I’m pushing a project I couldn’t get done before the recent event. I’m going to have some shirts with full color graphics. It isn’t as easy as I had hoped. There is a modern incarnation of ‘iron on’ graphics that are just SO MUCH better. DWAYNE at D&L LOGOS in Port Townsend is ‘cleaning up’ the artwork. This includes tightening the borders because white would be printed along with all the colors. Dwayne is also going in to add some opacity to the inconsistent colored pencil work. IF I CAN do the transfer myself, I might get more images and then, you know, wait and see who wants one, how I might sell them

MARKETING, not my strong suit. HOWEVER, Original Erwin products are always LIMITED EDITION.

I’M WAITING to hear back. The COST at which I can offer the shirts is determined by how many images can fit onto a roll of, I don’t know, some sort of material. The printed images will then be transferred by some heat process (maybe an iron) onto shirts. BECAUSE I have to put out all the money up front, I am purposefully limiting the number of shirts produced. IF I CAN figure out a way to sell them myself, rather than going through a vendor who would, and should, and must add something on to the price, I WILL.

BACK TO THE POST-

The world premiere of the film by ANNIE FERGERSON, with additional footage by NICOLAI CRANE, received an enthusiastic response from the audience at the recent FOURTH OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT.

Check it out HERE.

EDIT- There seems to be a problem with a longer link. So, deleted.

AGAIN, the project was pushed by Annie, AND, any cicks on the link (above) go to her. There is general agreement that the film was very well put together; it’s the choice of subject that has been quesioned. STILL, I appreciate it and have to agree that it pretty much captures me in all my ridiculousness.

ALL THE PRESENTERS, and it was an eclectic group, were well received: GREG TINDAL did a very dramatic and impressive recitation of a short story; DREW KAMPION told a story about not getting shot while getting too close to Richard Nixon; TIM NOLAN gave a sneak peak into his memoir of surfing in the Palos Verdes area; DANA TERILL described several encounters with the legendary Miki Dora; RICO MOORE recited an original poem.

The attendees had the opportunity to check out surf and ocean-centric art works by NAM SIU, STEPHEN R. DAVIS, TIM NOLAN, JOHN HOLM (who does now live in Port Townsend), and, yeah, my stuff, including my now-more-limited edition tht shirts.

Curator of the event, Port Townsend Public Library maestro KEITH DARROCK and I were so busy greeting surfers we hadn’t seen in a while that neither of us took any photos. My daughter, Drucilla, did; as well as making lanyards for the presenters. Laminated and everything! And everyone loves a lanyard.

I pushed Dru to put the link to the film on my site. I have been shown, several times, how to send a link on my phone. So far, it hasn’t stuck. I DO WANT TO thank all the folks who showed up for the event. So, THANK YOU.

NOW, next time…

BACK to “Swamis,” Surf Culture Event, More

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THE FOURTH OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT is scheduled for Wednesday, July 17, 6 to 8 pm, Port Townsend Public Library. The emphasis is on “Talking Story,” with distinguished story talkers and… regular-but-real surfers, AND there will be surf focused art by Olympic Peninsula artists, AND there will be outtakes or a gag reel, at least, or the actual world premier of a short documentary on a longtime surf villian blowing up at (or just blowing up) a local not-secret-enough spot.

I’m not sure how to link stuff, but more information on the participants, and updates are available at https://ptpubliclibrary.org/library/page/fourth-occasional-surfing-art-culture-salish-sea

Or, of course, I will post whatever I know. AND, I am making efforts to have some ORIGINAL ERWIN T SHIRTS available. New ones.

I have several other illustrations that haven’t been scanned. So… decisions.

“SWAMIS” UPDATE- With my fourth oir fifth total edit/rewrite was stuck at over 105,000 words, I have been dealing with the knowledge that I would have to further cut back on the timeline. Because Microsoft Word on the laptop I am ‘borrowing’ from my daughter, Drucilla, suddenly started going… really… slow, I found a pretty good place to end what may or may not be the first book of… I don’t know, at least one more, THOUGH I’ve pretty much had enough of the writing style of the fictional narrator, JOSEPH ATSUSHI DE FREINES. He’s just a little too OCD for me AND it makes me worry.

So, currently, the manuscript is down to under 90,000 words, AND, because I was in severe panic mode, I took the thumb drive to COHO PRINTING and had 8 copies printed up. I’ve already given away two of them. AND, because the new epilogue and the new, foreshortened ending were the last things I wrote, AND because I am, in addition to the other psycho damage, evidently anal retentive about writing and cannot look at my work without changing it, I have done more on the first several pages.

I plan on printing them up separately, and… yeah, planning.

DRU updated the Microsoft, so, fast, fast, too fast. The good news is, with all the stuff I have written in the bloated, unexpurgated versions, I have lots of material, AND because I have what I intended to be the ending at a state where I was… almost… satisfied with it, it might be easier to continue with “Swamis.”

HINT- I’m considering “Beacons,” another Encinitas surf spot, as a subtitle for part II, then… “Grandview…” maybe. Anyway, here’s the latest. I’m pretty satisfied… Almost.

“SWAMIS” A novel by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

                                    PROLOGUE

            Some moments, terror and bliss, mostly, that occurred in seconds, become, over time, placemarks. A corner turned, a decision made, a life changed. The mundane and the magic become part of the story. It’s easier to remember the magic.

            I started writing “Swamis” as memoir; fifty years after a specific time in a location that was, to me, magical. Swamis. If I believed I was the observer of other people’s lives, a part of someone else’s audience, listening to their stories, remembering the best parts, recording them; the real people placed, as characters, into positions in some larger story I believed I understood; and I did believe that; I was wrong. Wrong about it all.

            Whatever I saw, whatever I recorded, whatever role I played made little or no difference in what seemed inevitable. Still, I was there, almost eighteen, and thrilled to be there.

            Recalling, and writing, and editing, and rewriting has come to mean throwing out the peripheral and tangential stories, the ones I love knowing, the deep cuts. I have, finally, concluded that I want to tell more than one book’s worth. Still, this manuscript, with fifteen-thousand words cut and saved in some other file, might be the end of my trying to recapture the feel of a time in which change hit a new gear. Surf and evolution and revolution and peace and love and a war in the background, a drug culture morphing into an industry, heroes and villains, if anyone fit into either category, impossibly connected.  

            The murder and the mystery, all the other stories; “Swamis” was always going to be about Julie. And me. Julie and me. Magic.

                                    CHAPTER ONE- MONDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1969

            “The allure of waves was too much, I’m told, for an almost three-year-old, running, naked, into them. If I tell you I remember how the light shone through the shorebreak waves, the streaks of foam sucked into them; if I remember the shock of cold water and the force with which the third wave knocked me down, the pressure that held me down, my struggle for air; if I say I remember anything other than my mother clutching me out and into the glare by one arm… or even that… Well, Doctor Peters, that would be, this all happening before the accident; that would be… me… creating a story from fragments. Wouldn’t it… be… that?”

            “Memories. Dreams. We can’t know how much of life is created from… fragments. But, please, Joey; the basketball practice story; I didn’t get a chance to write it down. So, the guy…”

            “I’m not here because of that… offense.”

            “I am aware. Just… humor me.”

            “I was… Freshman team. Locker room. They staggered practice. I was… slow… getting dressed. Bus schedules. He… FFA guy… Future Farmers. JV. Tall, skinny, naked, foot up on a bench. he said I had a pretty big… dick… for a Jap. I said, ‘Thank you.’ It was more like a question. All the Varsity players came in. Most stood behind him. He said, ‘Oh, that’s right; your daddy; he’s all dick.’ Big laugh.”

“’Detective,’ I said. ‘And, Rusty, I am sorry about your brother at the water fountain. I’m on probation already… and I’m off the wrestling team, and…’ I talk really fast when I’m… forced to… talk. I’m sure you’ve made note. I said, ‘I don’t want to cut my hand… on your big buck teeth.’ Bigger laugh. Varsity guys going, ‘Whoa,’ and… He was embarrassed. His brother… it’s in the records, that incident. Fourth grade. Right after I… came back.”

            “Joey, are you…? You’re picturing it… the incident. You are.”         

“No. I… Yes. I quite vividly imagine… incidents. In both cases, I tried to do what my father taught me… or tried to. ‘Walking away is not backing down.’ Basketball. I never had a shot. Good passer, great hip check.”

            “He… Rusty, he charged at you?”

            “He closed his eyes. I didn’t.”

            “All right. So, so, so… Let’s talk about the incident for which you are here. You had a foot on… a student’s throat. Yes? Yes. He was, as you claim, already on the ground… faking having a seizure. He alleges he wasn’t a threat to you; wasn’t charging at you. Have you considered…?”

            “The bullied becomes the bully? It’s… easy, simple, logical… not new; and I have… considered it. Let’s just say it’s true then. I am… this is my story… trying to mend my ways. Look, Grant’s dad alleges… assault. I’m… I get it; I’m almost eighteen. Grant claims he and his buddies were just… fooling around; adolescent… fun; I can, conceivably… claim, and I have, the same.”

            “But it wasn’t… fun… for you?”

            “It… kind of… was. Time’s up. My mom’s… waiting.”

            “Joey… I am, can be… the bully here. So… sit the fuck back down!”

Chimacum Tim Pauley sent me this photo of PAVONES. The memorial for EDINSON SERNA is today. Edinson’s brother lives near this epic Central American break. Some secret photos Tim has sent me in the past were taken by Edinson. One of them, secretly circulated among, you know, friends who wouldn’t share it except to, you know, a few friends, always had the question of who caught this magic moment on at was, up until this very time, an uneventful/normal session.

Thank you, Edinson, rest in peace.

Worldwide Report on Panamaniac’s Vacation

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Five frothed-out surfers from the cold northwest waters crewed-up and spent two weeks in some undisclosed location in Panama. No, I don’t know where, don’t have a passport, and… so I won’t or can’t spread it around. Panama, it’s, like, tiny on the map, with a canal in the middle of it.

Though I didn’t hear anything from either Chris (Chris Eardley and Christian Coxen), or either of Keith (Keith Darrock and Cougar Keith), or from Nolan (as with Cougar, don’t actually know his last name), it did seem interesting to me that, tracking my audience (not that many, but all over the wide world), I got a couple of views from, yes, Panama.

All right, all right, here’s the Eardley report, photos by Chris Eardley:

CHRIS EARDLEY’S PANAMANIAC REPORT-

Alright, alright. Here is a report for you: We have been surfing a lot. The waves have been good, the water is warm. We surfed something like eight spots, and we’ve been doing a lot of diving and fishing, too. Cougar Keith dropped a big fish on my foot, which clamped down immediately and made me bleed for hours, keeping me out of the water for a couple of hours due to fear of sharks (we’d already encountered several while diving). I still have teeth marks on my foot.

That’s okay, though, because Cougar got the worst sunburns. On the trip (he dominated a couple of the early surf sessions, too) and had a close brush with what he believes was a small bull shark 30 feet underwater.

The local librarian (non-cougar Keith) has been getting after it, as you’d guess, and we learned he can, in fact, go right on a wave as well. He’s also been reorganizing the hostel bookshelves in his down time.

Christian will be lucky to get out of here without breaking any more gear, as he’s been pursuing big fish and big waves. Best margarita on the trip has gone to him as well.

Nolan’s surf style has not been lost in translation down here.

Lots of great wildlife and good food. Craziest thunder storms we have ever seen, and the camp was nearly struck one night.

We are stoked!   

DAMN, realsurfers, I screwwed up on another Eardley photo, a scary looking crab; and I am unable to share a video of a very close lightning storm. Maybe it’s the trip thing, but I have stories from Mazatlan, 57 years ago, with waves and storms and crab attacks. Yeah, another time. Since a big trip for me is, maybe, La Push, I’m anxious to hear more stories.

My most recent text to Chris (and thank you, incidentally) was, “If you’re looking for adventure, it’s nice to have some adventures.”

I can’t help but say that this photo looks kind of like a rare day on the Strait. Rocks, lefts, yeah, no wetsuits.

Meanwhile, I am working on “Swamis,” just went back to set up something that’ll pay off later in the story. Hopefully. Hint: based on some east coast guy in high school calling our chicks ‘broads.’ I had to look up “Jagoff.” Yeah, research. ALSO, I survived my second eye surgery. So far, it’s kind of like having sunglasses on one eye; irritating. Trish got me an eyepatch; pretty stylish but almost equally irksome. I’m not sure how surfing affects the post-op eyeballs; I’ll find out more with my next visit to the Retina Center.

May all your adventures be adventurous.

NEW at the PT ARTWALK TODAY!

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I’M TRYING to get ready. It isn’t going all that well. JOEL AND RACHEL CARBEN, the folks in charge of the COLAB (collaberative work space) in downtown Port Townsend, above the Silverwater Cafe and below the Starlight Room part of the Rose Theatre, were kind enough to allow me to display my art works there for three months. This is the second Art Walk, and I guess I am supposed to hang out there and try to sell folks on my stuff. I’ve been working on three screens. This is the only one that is complete in time for this month’s dealie.

I’ll be hanging out from five to eight pm. Cruise on in. Good luck finding parking.

I am also bringing my MANTA surfboard. The painting is complete, but it still needs a coat of resin. STILL, is someone wants to buy it…

In case you can’t make it, I’ll, almost surely, write something about it tomorrow.

Photo for Previous Posting

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These folks are featured in the previous post. Scroll down to check it out. The two guys are brothers. Formerly of Sequim, they are currently living in Yakima. I didn’t ask why, but I did insist they put the boonie hats back on for the photo. The one on the left helped me with my wetsuit. They were all in the water for at least four hours.

Gnomes and Mantas and Adam Wipeout

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Adam “Wipeout” James, super critical seafood person at Hama Hama Seafood, was supposed to go surfing, supposed to cruise up Surf Route 101 and drop off some Hood Canal Shrimp/Prawns at my house for my daughter, Dru’s, upcoming birthday. It’s also Earth Day, and if I got this right, the first Earth Day was right around Dru’s birth. I’d check it, but I’d rather keep the myth going.

I wanted to show Adam the board I made by cutting down the first SUP (of two) I owned by two feet. The idea was to keep as much width and thickness as possible. The hope was that I could still use a paddle on a more maneuverable board, like, one that would cut back in less than twenty yards. That didn’t work.

Adam, who, to my knowledge, didn’t go surfing on this day, took a couple of photos of me and the board, and it’ easy to see why it takes more foam to float the guy in the pictures. Gnome.

Yeah, the one pants leg not all the way down is part of the look.

Adam’s first comment on seeing the board was, “Oh, it’s just like the other one.”

I had to stew on that one for a while before I texted Adam. “The difference is that I own this one,” to which Adam responded with, “Laughed at…”

In more Hama Hama news: Stephen R. Davis, heading down Surf Route 101 to San Francisco to check out a greeting card convvention, stopped in, sold some of his greeting cards. Adam, running around, as always, making sure the oysters are thriving, met up with Steve, got him a check, and gave him this hat:

Stephen R. Davis self portrait.

I’m going to have to update my copies of Stephen R. Davis cards. They are available at several spots in Jefferson County. I’ll get a list together. I do apologize

ALSO, if you’re a realsurfer regular, you probably realize that what I’m doing is redoing and tightening and improving the artwork on the MANTA. I made it, originally, as a twin fin, the boxes routed by CHRIS BAUER, Port Angeles board maker. Peninsula rippers AARON LENNOX and KEITH DARROCK rode the thing, the mat coming unglued as Keith ripped a few waves. Because Aaron said he thought the twin fins were not enough on the wide board, I added a full length middle fin and tried to ride the board in some small but powerful waves. Pretty much belly boarding, the board definitely found the tubes. The big fin threw the balance off. I ripped it out, replaced it with a smaller fin, mostly to kind of hide the hole.

I have to put a coat of resin on the top and bottom, and then… backup board, maybe. OR… I am losing weight, or trying to, mostly because, at Jefferson General Wound Care because of an infected cut to my leg, the nurse insisted on taking my blood pressure (high) and putting me on the scales. My friend Keith has been bugging me to lose, like, 75 pounds, after which, he claims, I’d “Really be dominating.” No, 75 isn’t enough. Fat people never tell you what they weigh until they lose some of it. So, not saying.

OH, and because I have my art (and the cedar board) on display for two more months at the COLAB in downtown Port Townsend, I plan on putting the Manta on display.

UPDATES FORTHCOMING. Maybe not Wednesday. I’ve been trying. It’s not content, it’s time. Stuff to do.

Remember to respect the copyrighted material, mine and Steve’s. And remember to be real if you, try as you may, can’t be nice.

Because It is EASTER…

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…I feel I should say something about the most important day for Christians, but…

—INSTANT EDIT- Here is my honest belief: Religion is a personal matter. Whether you believe in God of don’t, it is your right; one that probably won’t be taken from you. I don’t care what your belief is, God or Non-God-wise. Slightly beyond that, I do care how one’s beliefs impact others.—

FIRST, here’s a word- FANTA-CIDE, as in the DEATH OF FANTASIES. Here’s how it came up. A friend was telling me how this very attractive woman seemed, to him, to be attracted to him, and, maybe, you know, like, maybe… “Really? Like, then, what are you going to do about it?” Oh, and you don’t have fantasies? “Sure. People do. You can’t write fiction without… imagining. But there’s imagining and there’s… real life. My imagining I rip up the surf doesn’t mean I do. And…”

Fantacide. Way too close to “Infanticide” and the serious horror that word covers. Fantacide. I may never use it again.

BUT, if we’re discussing what we imagine and what is real, my thoughts on EASTER, the celebration of a Savior, risen from the, I cannot avoid considering how perceptions of Christ’s teachings are so widely diverse, from pacifists to war-mongers, from those who profess to love their enemies, to those who are willing to strike out with whatever weapons they can get against those who frighten, let alone threaten them; that there must be a Jesus who is somewhere in between.

The fact that there are so many denominations that claim to have the TRUE RELIGION is proof that, perhaps, none have the whole truth.

I don’t know Jesus. You don’t know Jesus.

That’s it.

Of course that’s not IT. Jesus did say, according to Scripture, that GOD, the father, is SPIRIT. It seems appropriate to, perhaps, consider the spirit of Jesus. Vengeful, hateful, spiteful; ready to vanquish your enemies? Ready to reward you on earth with all you are bold enough to pray for? If that’s the Jesus you imagine, and you have managed to twist scripture to support your position… fine; I’m not supposed to judge.

AND YET, I do. I am a sinner, and I continue to be one. I’m sure you will forgive me. It’s required. AND, since I’m confessing, I might add I get quesey as hell when I see anyone who equates Christianity with Nationalism, who profits, some ridiculously, from the sincere desires of sincere believers, who dresses in the costume of goodness and righteousness but preaches division and, yes, hatred, well; show me the lines in scripture (in some Bibles, quotes from Jesus are annotated in red) that backs up that shit.

AGAIN, it’s Easter, and it’s a beautiful day here. STILL, it might not ruin your day completely to imagine the people in our one and only world who are suffering the effects of war and famine, the people displaced by violence, those who are seeking some better, more peaceful life. You don’t have to imagine. It’s on the television. If you don’t want to see, or you want to see victims portrayed as invaders or terrorists, change the channel.

While I sympathize, I am honest enough to say I do little or nothing to help. If I see someone with a cardboard sign at the exit to the market, I seek another exit. I am, and I fully confess this; a HYPOCRITE.

CHECK OUT your new Citizen trump-endorsed Bible; Jesus starts so many many sentences with, “You hypocrites.” It didn’t make him all that popular at the time.

Feel free to disagree. Meanwhile, may some of your fantasies become real. AND, if you’re seeking waves, may you find them… and ride a few.