Singing and Surfing and Remembering and Not Remembering, In Reverse Order

The Second Occasional Surf Culture On the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the Salish Sea Event is coming up in Port Townsend on July 11. I’ve been working on several things for it. One item is music. For the first event, Archie Endo, now stuck in Thailand, working, some surfing, brought a little amp, played surf music. Great idea (his), and really added to the evening. This time, Pete Raab is putting together a sort of mixed tape from his huge music collection, with classic surf instrumentals and some island-themed ‘ambient’ music. Thanks, Pete.

My evil scheme was to have Pete (and he was willing) sneak two of my original surf songs without informing event curator Keith Darrock. That’s the evil part.  I originally recorded the only two strictly surf-related songs I’ve written at a former Theater in Quilcene (right on Surf Route 101) with the help of longtime professional sound engineer Tom Brown of HearHere, with me playing harmonica and singing. Pete was doing a surf music show on the Port Townsend radio station, 91.9, KPTZ, along with his old friend, and former music store owner, Ron McElroy, and graciously incorporated one of my tunes, “I Just Wanna Go Surfin’.” The other song is “Surf Route 101.” Naturally.

But, here’s the failure: Pete couldn’t find his copy, I couldn’t find mine (and searched frantically), and Tom Brown, after checking, determined the digital recording is somewhere on a dead computer.

Oh, and although I’m willing to read the piece I’ve been doing more thinking about that working on, concerning the images and memories we save, I won’t perform music live at this event. A sigh of relief might be appropriate here. Not that I’m embarrassed by my harp playing or the lyrics…

But, thinking about music, and singing, I wrote to my old friend Ray. You have to read it bottom to top. I do think it was him with the Monkees tape.

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NO way, I never owned a Monkeys tape, you must have me confused with somebody else I swear.

From: ERWIN
Sent: Tuesday, June 23, 2015 9:28 AM
To: Ray Hicks

Ray, have a good time on vacation. I checked back before leaving; glad to see a response. I’ll be working until dark anyway (9ish). I do remember you once telling me that the best song ever done was the Cream song…. wait, was it ‘white room with white curtains at the station,’ or, no, I think that was it.  Otherwise, “driving in my car, smoking my cigar, the only time I’m happy’s when I play my guitar.” Join in anytime. Now I better go. And, hey, that was probably enough gas to get home, to school, wherever… See you, Erwin
I am pressed for time, so I might use this on my site, not mentioning that you had a Monkees tape, or that I liked some of their songs also.

From: “Ray Hicks”
To: ERWIN
Sent: Tuesday, June 23, 2015 9:14:06 AM

HI Erwin,

Not in Hawaii yet. Today is my last day before starting vacation but we don’t leave until Thursday. I’ve never been much on lyrics, to this day I hear the voice as another instrument rather than a method of delivering poetry or storytelling.  My loss according to Carol. I do remember the ‘fruit of the vine’ song though. The music that brings back surf memories to me is Cream. When I hear some of those songs I am taken back to driving down the coast highway cruising by the camp grounds in South Carlsbad with an eight track player under the dash. I listen to the Sirius radio classic stations now and hear that music all of the time. Occasionally I’m driving down the coast highway when I’m So Glad comes on the radio and it really takes me back. I also hear the Doors often and still love it. Other than classic rock I listen to the blues. I just love the B B King channel on Sirius Radio.

I remember one occasion of us surfing at Swami’s  then coming up starving and thirsty, buying something to eat at the liquor store in the middle of Encinitas then buying gas for your Morris Minor in Carlsbad with the left over change. Maybe 26 or 27 cents worth.

The only music I associate with Phillip is Jethro Tull because he introduced me to them, still one of my favorites.

Ray

From: ERWIN
Sent: Tuesday, June 23, 2015 8:08 AM
To: Ray Hicks
Ray,
not sure if you’re in Hawaii right now. I almost called you yesterday. I’m working on a thing for the surf culture event on surfing images we keep in our memory banks. The idea is, if we think of surfing as something magical, and we can conjure these (I was originally thinking only visual) images, allowing us to ‘mind surf’ when we can’t actually surf; this is kind of magical.
That got me thinking that my memories of my high school surfing adventures include fewer actual surfing images (maybe because I seem to concentrate on my own surfing rather than noticing that of others) than images of you and Phillip and the other assorted characters going to or from the beach, hanging out around various fires. Mostly pleasant memories, maybe with five of us in the back of a CHP cruiser less pleasant, but, overall, good images. Jeez, we were going to, at, or coming home from surfing.
So, as I was driving an hour to a job, I started thinking about songs we used to sing cruising around town or going surfing. Maybe we were in cars (like mine) that didn’t have radios; maybe we had only AM radios with the pop stations the best we could get.  This line of thinking might have been helped along because the local Port Townsend radio station played the Doors cover of the song with the lyrics, “Show me the way to the next whiskey bar; oh, don’t ask why…” followed by something about “Whiskey, let me go home.” A theme, evidently; and I was trying to remember the song that seemed to be one of Phillip’s favorites, without much luck. A few miles later I pulled (from the brain archives) out a few lines. “Bottle of wine, fruit of the vine; when you gonna let me get sober? Leave me alone, let me go home, let me go home and start over.” It took a few more miles before I remembered, “Pain in my head, there’s bugs in my bed, my pants are so old that they shine; out on the street, I tell the people I meet, to buy me a bottle of wine.”
I’m not even sure if those lyrics are fit together correctly. Perhaps you remember. Oh, and my singing hasn’t improved a bit. If we were going surfing together and I started singing, I’m sure you’d still reach for the radio control knob, whether the radio works or not.
The other, and real point of the thing I’m working on is that if we keep trying to remember, we keep the connections straighter, and if we keep surfing, we’re always refreshing our image files. More to conjure.
Writing this actually helps in writing the real piece, keeps me away from a couple of peripherals.
I’m in the usual summer position of too much work, not enough time, and no rain in sight. Luckily, perhaps, the waves are really small. Hopefully you’ve managed to slide a few. See you, Erwin

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Tom Paxton wrote the “Bottle of Wine” song, but we probably heard the version by the Kingston Trio. White people. Oh, but, when we sang it, it was  sort of another contest, who could sing it with the most soul, raspiest voice… you know, another thing to compete in. Guess who usually won? And that’s why someone (else) always reached for the radio control knob. Oh, and maybe it was someone else with the Monkees tape. hey, hey!

Big Daddy’s Report on… all kinds of stuff

What happens if Father’s Day, the first day of summer, and the day after International Surfing Day… oh, and the day when my daughter, Dru, is trying to get a trimming appointment for her cat, Mr. Pugsley, and a day when people who didn’t call yesterday to line up my doing their project today, but did call this morning, and I just had to do it; and all this is happening on a day when I was actually thinking of not working except, maybe, on my drawings for and the piece I’m going to read at the upcoming Surf Culture on the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the Salish Sea Event?

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“see how he needs a trim?” Dru asked on the phone when I came home early. “Isn’t he cute?”

“Excuse me, Dru, but I’m checking the surf camera at La Push. Three stand up paddlers and two longboarders and no surf.”

So, this is the second photo of Mister Pugsley, and, incidentally, I called my father yesterday, to beat the rush. He said, “Thanks, uh, um; I have to get back to my movie.”  And the cat’s in the cradle and… hey, I have to go.

If You Missed This Wave…

If you missed this wave, it’s probably because it’s at Kalim Beach, Phuket, Thailand. Archie Endo is over there sweating in the heat and humidity, and will be there for a while, working as a middleman in the worldwide fish market. Happy enough to find a wave at all, Archie said he’d much prefer to donning a wetsuit and sliding a few waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca.

I actually got a video of Archie getting a thirty second ride on a wave that very well could have been at this spot. Go Archie!

I actually got a video of Archie getting a thirty second ride on a wave that very well could have been at this spot. Go Archie!

If you missed this wave, it’s probably because the place only breaks when every where else is blown out. Or, maybe, like me, you were miles away, near some lake, sweating profusely, working on someone else’s castle, with boaters, insistent that their selection of waterworld music be louder than their boat’s oversized motors, whipping counterclockwise donuts, throwing screaming kids off whatever floatation device they were riding, sitting in, or clinging to; and, besides, there was no real swell.

Silvana Lima, Sally Fitzgibbons, Substantial-ness: Surf Blogging/Riffing/Ranting

I do spend some amount of time corresponding about surf sessions, mostly with longterm friend Ray Hicks, down in San Diego’s North County, and with surfing’s preeminent literary guru, Drew Kampion, now residing near the last reaches of Northwest swells. In both of these cases, partially because I can type very quickly, I blather on, words (it’s the same when I’m speaking, actually) often ahead of my brain, these missives (see how I try to sound sorta literate?) often eliciting a very terse and very clever response.

Okay, so there’s one thing. Another thing is that people keep referring to my ‘site’ as a ‘blog.’ Nooooo! Not what I intended.

Okay, sometimes, maybe, it is a blog. The following is something I wrote to Drew, also trying to get him committed to coming across the ferry to participate in the “Second Annual Surf Culture on the Straits of Juan de Fuca and the Salish Sea” in Port Townsend on July 11. He asked, in his response if I was going to put it, or a version of it, on my… yeah… blog. So, with a few additions (and, yes, I did come up with the title for the upcoming event, pretty proud of the ‘occasional’ part), here’s a BLOG POSTING:

I got home yesterday (worked more like a day shift, this time, so I could get help, closed down one of two stairwells- hey, there’s also an elevator) just after the last semi-final heat in Fiji. With Trish shopping in Sequim, I did get to see the final, though I was, at the same time, catching up on the latest DVRed “Penny Dreadful,” which Trish hates, and got to talk on the phone with our daughter Drucilla, walking home from work in downtown Chicago, for most of the heat. So, perfect, no sound on either screen. But, with the show over and me off the phone for the last five minutes or so, I was able to concentrate on the drama in Fiji (Sally Fitzgibbons, with a perforated eardrum, vs. Bianca Buitendag).

from WSL

from WSL

Maybe I pay too much attention to these contests and buy into the drama too much (some of it, no doubt, more hype than reality), but, after seeing Sally breaking down in the rental car with both her parents at Honolua Bay last year, I had to root for her.
AND, watching the last part of the DVRed TV version of the Rio contest (kind of a surf-related evening), I caught the little thing on Silvana Lima (which I’d missed in watching the event live- as I could), selling her apartment and car to support her contest habit/dream, and, because I buy into any sports related drama, from any sport, I’m hoping, with the enthusiasm for surfing in Brazil, that some sponsor steps in.

from pinterest

from pinterest


AND, My daughter, Dru, has moved up enough at the ad agency she works for that she currently has an intern. The big boss offered a seat in the luxury box for a game of the Stanley Cup (or the preliminaries, I’m not sure) to the intern who writes the best paragraph by the end of the day on why he or she should attend. After offering a few phrases (brutal ballet, ultra-padded gladiators), I just spent half an hour writhing (I mean writing. Maybe) a paragraph. Hopeful.
AND… I ran into a guy at a Poulsbo paint store who used to surf, so naturally…had to talk surfing. At some point he (he being tall, skinny, nearly seventy) mentioned localism, regular surfers vs. longboarders. I said I haven’t had any real problems. “Probably not,” he said, kind of giving me that look skinny people reserve for the rest of us. “What do you mean by that?” “Well,” he said, “you’re kind of… substantial.”
Okay; so now I may run the photo of me looking, not old and fat (as I thought, and continue to think); just substantial.
FIJI for men starting soon. Still rooting for Kelly, now representing… brief brain freeze with image of Felipe Toledo giving Gabriel Medina a bit of a shove… yeah, the drama, real and imagined, starts later today. If I quit writing and take off for work now… maybe I can catch more than the highlights.

originally saved under 'fatErwinripping,' now captioned 'substantialErwin(still)ripping.' Photo by Jeffrey Vaughan.

originally saved under ‘fatErwinripping,’ now captioned ‘substantialErwin(still)ripping.’ Photo by Jeffrey Vaughan.

“So, This One Time, Back at Surf Camp…” a short story/illustration

I showed this, at a bit of a distance, to my wife, Trish. She nodded, approvingly, then asked why there were so many words. "I can't help it," I explained. So difficult to be clever, even with a few phallic symbols and a double entendre or two. Oh,and now I've over-explained. Damn.

I showed this, at a bit of a distance, to my wife, Trish. She nodded, approvingly, then asked why there were so many words. “I can’t help it,” I explained. It’s just so difficult to be clever, even with an “American Pie” reference, a few phallic symbols and a double entendre or two. Oh,and now I’ve ‘over-explained.’

Submitted Photos of Secret Agent at Top Secret Spot Near My Dad’s House

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While they were getting deadly (for surfers without Hepatitis protection) rain on the southern most reaches of Surf Route 101, and nothing was happening, surfwise, on the far north section, one intrepid Straits surfer headed down and out, found some waves down near my Dad’s house. Allright, I can’t say more except to say that, when I go visit my Dad, I usually drive across the bridge, through the westernmost part of Astoria, and head on to Seaside or Short Sands; and, when I called him to ask about waves close to the harbor where the sport fishing boat on which he worked (as a 55 year old bait boy) was kept, safe from the sometimes wild waves from the open ocean and the notorious bar the boat crossed twice a day.

No more hints, even if you think you recognize the take-off-and-tuck style of the surfer on the red board. Oh, and the clean-looking wave, breaking into an offshore wind? I went to that very spot, known by locals as a spot where all kinds of sealife shares the water, bodies frequently washing ashore, with surfers brave enough to brave the… no, I haven’t surfed there; yet.

But, my Dad’s 91st birthday is coming up; and there’s still no real swell showing that might hit closer to my house on the Surf Route, and my father’s house is a block off the same highway, about three and a half hours of driving and… I’ll let you know.

Don’t Worry About the Sharks

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This is not the great white shark, estimated at 18 feet long, that recently ate a seal in half in Ocean Shores. Wait, I guess, technically, it’s not the shark that left half a seal. So, I guess, shark-worry wise, I’m a seal-half-left kind of surfer. Optimistic minded. After all, I’ve never seen a shark bigger than the one I saw in the clear water at Swamis- small, or the one I’m sure I saw in the late evening chop at San Onofre. I yelled ‘shark,’ but my friends, one peak over, didn’t believe me, it didn’t seem to be there when I looked back, so I kept surfing.

Oh, but does one actually see the shark that takes him? Like a bullet in the old war movies; as if one sees bullets anyway.

Anyway, my friend Stephen Davis did see one in Oregon last fall. And, Adam James is pretty darn sure he saw a shark, possibly the very half-seal-leaving monster several weeks ago when he and Clint, fresh from surfing Demon Point (yeah, I know it’s Damon- or is it?), and checking out the jetty, were sure something that wasn’t a surfer flashing across a double-overhead wave, second in a set of three, may have been… suspense… possibly, a shark, the very self-same great white predator of the deep (and, the scarier part, shallow).

But it’s not the shark in the photo, hanging, above, with Limey, if that was, indeed, his real name.

Oh, and Clint and and Adam might have gone out at the jetty if they hadn’t been sort of tired from killlling it at Demon Point.

Lost Between the Lines

This drawing is from a copy of the original black and white, which I (and at one point I was afraid I hadn’t) saved. The colors seem to get muted in the copying process, so I probably got a little over-amped (not unusual). A different mood could be achieved by going with different colors, but, having started with yellow, it got a bit stained-glassy.

realsurfersreflectionmancolor 001My original thought was to have a darker mood, a surfer swimming in, a wave behind him about to break. I also thought, once I got on the reflected image, that another reflection, high in the wave might be… okay, you’re imagining it now. And, I did want to keep some white space, keep it cleaner. Simpler. I just didn’t. Maybe I couldn’t. However, I spent some time (mostly wasted it) looking for images of a woman in a similar situation, thinking, yeah, triptych, this one on the left, the drawing on the right with a woman, maybe more in the actual wave, that wave breaking the opposite way; and the middle drawing just, simple, the wave between them. Okay, you’re seeing that now. And I’m seeing it.

That’s the first step. Only; but probably the most important one. The rest is scratching and coloring, sometimes in between the lines.

Not Talking About a Non-Secret Surf Spot

“You don’t even know,” Stephen said. “You wouldn’t believe how… good… double-overheaddddd…”

The cell phone connection, these being cosmic and pure, only made scratchy and difficult by the devices, modern versions of the tin can and string, wasn’t good*. I was in my work van, cruising south on Surf Route 101. I had made three phone calls to Stephen, left one message, left the other two before I would have had to. “Missed” calls.  Steve was, evidently, on a break, just outside of the kitchen at a restaurant at Fort Warden.

I should have pulled over, but it was dark. I just wanted a report. I had heard he and his friend Stig, over in Washington State from the Aloha State, big wave charger, had surfed a legendary spot on the northern coast. **

“Wait,” I said. What?” I asked. “I mean, what did you say?”

“I said you can never go there with me. Look, Erwin; I have to go. My life’s… it was; just take my word for it. I can’t even… Soooo unbelievable.”

“Wait, Steve, Stephen… you mean you surfed there and survived, but… I mean, I’d drown?”

“I just can’t be responsible. I’ll… I’ll send you some photos.”

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Okay, it was either a challenge or a statement (I’ll say ‘statement’ rather than ‘put-down’)  that I was not up to the task. That may be true. Setting aside my age, I haven’t taken a lot of time to explore the wild coastline, take the logging roads, walk paths along bluffs and cliffs, but I do know there are several (there just have to be) spots where, on some particular swells, under some conditions, waves follow the rugged points, peel into log-jammed beaches.

And, Stephen had sent me some photos from an earlier trip; a shot of a random, unnamed and probably-never-surfed slab, which I posted on this site, and a photo of the spot he and Stig had so recently ridden, taken from a high cliff; spooky, congested inshore on a rocky ledge, and scary-if-enticing lines peeling to a certain closeout section. I didn’t post it, on Stephen’s quite-adamant insistence. He and the surfer with him on that quest, and others they met on site, also declined the opportunity.

Stephen did send photos from this session, when he and Stig got there before the south Devil wind came up, chop blowing into the wash-throughs, the sneaker sets hitting unknown outside reefs. From the beach, from the photos, it looked, to me… possible.

But, you won’t see those photos here.

Oh, the photo above is of somewhere, somewhere else, borrowed from nwframeofmind. *Someone told me the cosmic string theory. I just said, “Uh huh.” **I actually saw super 8 movies of this very spot over thirty years ago. When I said, “It looks like Swamis,” I was booed, corrected, and, most tellingly, not invited to the next private surf movie night.

Probably my second thought on hearing the challenge/realistic assessment from my friend, was that it would make a great short story; old(er) guy takes on surf spot, does or doesn’t get a few great rides, does or doesn’t drown. Really, my biggest fear is getting back up those cliffs after, after what? Meanwhile, Stephen is working on his own surf-centric story that he will, he says, allow me to publish to the pure dark cosmic internet.

If you pull the string really really tight…

 

Seattle Seahawks, “the Wave” rolls on…. and on, and…

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It’s a bit disturbing, if not irritating, that the color I apply to the drawings doesn’t come through the cosmos and onto the computer screen. Please take my word, the original color is WAY more intense. Maybe this reflects how my calm demeanor is way more controlled than my inner Seahawks fanaticism.  Living on the northwestern-most chunk of the contiguous United States, I tend to believe any west coasters- Charger, 49er, Raider (jeez, even Arizona and, gulp, Denver) fans- should, at least for this game, root for the Seahawks. Hawaii, Alaska? Yeah, and… it’s not like everyone has to love the team whose play on the field reflects the bird that glides, majestically, on ocean updrafts; swoops, attacks, tears, shreds… while the Patriots; maybe they’ll wait until they see the whites of the eyes of… that may be too late.

If I could figure out how to change the size of… wait… Goooooooo0SeaaaaaaHaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaawksssssss!

Okay, and back to calm, mellow… waiting, waiting… eeerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr.