The thing about color, as opposed to black and white scratching, is that, once you start, you’re going to have to figure out where you want to go. The problem with black and white scratching is, well, once you take a wrong line, it’s so hard to pull back.
So, I made a few copies of the black and white, thinking I could just forget the ones where I screwed up; look for that balance; still driving down the line. Lines.
I’m really bad at remembering names, so, having asked for it twice, I tried to bookmark Mark’s name by connecting him with where we met; at the checkout line at the QFC market in Port Townsend.
Evidently we had passed each other before. You know how things all seem to happen at once? I meant that more as a statement. Nothing is happening, you’re going through some mental checklist, droning through, and then a sort of overload of information is hurled at you from several directions at once.
Rogue wave.
So, I’m checking out, punching-in my phone number, and I sort of casually look back at the next person in line, a guy in his early twenties with blond hair a bit out of control; and he’s looking at me as if I’m supposed to, maybe, recognize him. I don’t, really, but then he says something. I don’t really hear it, so I step closer to him.
He repeats, “Are you getting in the water much?”
“Do I, um, know you?”
“No; but I’ve seen you, like, every time I go to Wild (not the real name) Rivers.”
Oh, so now I’m thinking, running tape (this is a mixed metaphor-sorry) through my brain’s old school computer.
“Mark.”
“Erwin Dence,” I say. “Actually, I started out the year surfing…”
I have to do something with my bank card. Swipe. “Pin?” No. “Credit.”
So, I’m through, stuff in a paper bag, but I’m still talking to Mark. Or trying to. “Do you know any local surfers?” “Not really.” He names a name. “Works at _____” I forget where, but, “Yeah; I talked to that guy over at Noodles (not the real name) Beach.” “I mostly go to the Straits.” “Yeah. I’ve been doing some surfing in town; not a good winter, so far, for…”
Evidently the checker at the counter next door doesn’t have anyone in line, so he interjects with something about “Surfing,” in kind of a fake-excited tone, then, for the enlightenment of the other checker, “Spicoli (the character from “Fast Times at Ridgemont High.”) This throws me off. Am I Spicoli? Is Mark Spicoli? Why would either of us be Spicoli?
Caption: The real fake Spicoli; slightly more interesting because he’s at a market.
“You know,” I say, mostly to the other checker; “Ridgemont was really based on Clairmont High, and I used to…” “Dude,” my checker says.
“Hey,” I say, to Mark (not to either checker), “have you checked out my website? It’srealsurfers.net and I…” “I don’t do the internet.” “What?”
“I’m with you, brother,” says my checker. “Oh, I ‘surf’… the internet,” the other checker says. “Yeah, but,” I say, “you should drop into my site because…”
It doesn’t matter. The conversation is over; though, both of us headed for the parking lot, Mark says he saw me in line and thought, “Hey, I know that guy.” I tried to get a glimpse of his vehicle, hoping that might jog my memory. Maybe. Was he out, sitting on the inside on a short board while I was totally wave-hogging the rights? Did he nod at me from the back of a Chevy Suburban (impractical because of the mileage) on a crowded day with the rights working? Was I my usual self, pushy in the water, political on the beach? Probably.
It’s worth noting that, when we see other surfers in non-surf settings, we’re all in the same tribe; one slightly removed from the cashiers and the other shoppers.
Driving home, I suddenly thought I should have said, “Getting in the water? Not nearly enough.”
BONUS: While googling ‘surfing port townsend’ images I came across this photo of an old friend, Joel Levy. Joel was a chef, a small businessman, and a cornet player and singer who performed around Port Townsend with various incarnations of his Cafe Combo. He sang in a big band-big voice type of style, preferring the standards. I did some painting at his house, graphics and custom stuff. “You know what I want,” he’d say. “No, not that; more, um, whimsical.” To keep the market theme going, following at a respectable distance behind Trish (my usual position when I’m not shopping via Blutooth- so rude, so fun), I ran into Joel one evening. “Some enchanted ev-en-ing” I sort of belted out. Trish increased her speed; Joel tried to act like he didn’t know me. Later, he said, if I’m going to try to sing, don’t try to go big; don’t emulate him. Good advice, but I mostly sing in moving vehicles, alone, backing myself up on harmonica.
It was a sad day when Joel passed on, partially because his life was sort of unraveling around him. He wasn’t a surfer, but he was real.
My family, usually with my friend Phillip Harper along, explored several surf spots other than Tamarack in my first years of surfing (1965- ?). I paddled, head-down, ruining unknown numbers of rides for real surfers at Swamis, quickly discerned Moonlight Beach was really not a surfing beach, decided Oceanside Pier was just too rough, and had too many Marines, many new to ocean swimming, getting in the way. Or I was actually afraid I’d get in their way.
Several times we moved on down 101, past Swamis, to where the future San Elijo State Park was under construction. Pipes was named for the then-new (now considerably shorter, rusted) drainage pipes hanging out of the side of the cliff. There were several sets of stairs, and we seemed to start at about the middle of the stretch that ends, to the south, at Cardiff Reef. It all seemed about the same, wave-wise, to me, at that time.
What I do remember is how clear the water seemed to be, protected by offshore kelp, onshore winds reduced by the cliffs, and with a mostly stable rock-infused bottom contour. I swear that, wading out, floating my board beside me, I was once hit by a wave that was just so thin and transparent that…
No, okay; you don’t have to believe me.
So, here’s another memory: My mom built a fire on the beach, sort of standard surf stuff, from the plentiful supply of driftwood. Out in the water; Phillip points to the uniformed ranger sort of marching down the beach.
So, you have the image of the Smokey Bear-hat wearing ranger; add in the sort-of-chunky mother of seven, undoubtedly wearing a dress, and there’s the face-to-face, then the Ranger kicking sand on the fire meant to warm her children… and my mom’s back in his face; and we’re imagining that she’s saying “The park’s not even open yet,” and “this is what we’ve always done,” and the Ranger’s threatening some sort of action, and…
…And he left, eventually; and my mom restarted the fire, we got warm, and she didn’t bring us back there.
But I did go back. I went back after the park opened, but day-surfers had to rotate onto a small ledge and sneak around the fence to get to the most consistent peak, Pipes Proper, or to what my high school surfing friends and I referred to as Swamis beachbreak.
When Trish and I lived in Encinitas in the mid-70s, Pipes was the main place I surfed in the area, always with an eye toward Swamis; occasionally braving the crowd there.
For the past twelve years or so, Pipes Proper has been the designated ‘home break’ for my friend Ray Hicks. He parks on the highway, passing the crew of surfers, most around our age, who, possibly retired (Ray’s still working), have purchased the yearly park pass, and watch the surf from the parking lot inside the fence, at the bluff. Ray, already in trunks or wetsuit, cruises down the ramp/access, drops off his sandals at the rip-rack rocks, paddles out, usually to the main peak.
It all seems kind of casual to me, sort of friendly. Sure, Ray has had two pairs of sandals stolen, replaced with cheaper models, and now he just wears the cheaper models himself; and, yes, it does get crowded when it’s good, even when it’s not, but once in a while Ray writes me about memorable rides and memorable sessions, the water so clean, the waves so thin and transparent that…
There is the story of BILL BIRT’S STOLEN RACKS, stolen, partially, because his parents’ big ass car with the big ass trunk containing the big ass cardboard box (for Billy’s little friends’ wet gear), with big blue block letters spelling out *“Kotex,” was parked in the gravel parking lot, not visible from the beach or water, set aside for those who didn’t have military, military dependent, or San Onofre Surfing Club status, and how I was selected to ride back to Fallbrook with him, and, for once, I got to ride shotgun; and, because there was really only AM radio in cars, even fancy big ass ones, in those days, we got to listen to a station that kept playing hit **popular songs of the day in a tight rotation, and, of course, I’d sing along. And we had to drive around, down Highway 101 (there also wasn’t an I-5, at least on in the ‘slaughter alley’ section between San Clemente and Oceanside) because we would be borrowing the racks off a vehicle at Phillip Harper’s family’s house, south of town. “Closer that way,” Bill said; We all agreed.
The most particularly galling (to Bill) song contained lyrics including ***“Skip-a-rope, skip-a-rope… Daddy hates your mama, mama hates your dad; last night you should have heard the fight they had… skip-a-rope……”
So, it was about half an hour or so, down to Oceanside, another twenty-five minutes, Bill driving faster than his parents would like, on to Phillip’s house, a brief explanation to Phillip’s brother ****Clintswell about why we were there, gathered some drinks and snacks, and then we retraced our route, radio going the whole time. So, probably seven or eight opportunities to sing along, window down, Bill not participating at all.
Yes, Bill Birt did complain, bitterly, to the other surfers, guarding our boards, when we returned to San Onofre. “That’s what you get for having a radio, Bill,” one of the two other surfers, either Phillip or Ray Hicks said. “He’d sing anyway,” the other one said. “Maybe not that song.” They all nodded, I nodded, Bill opened the big ass trunk, pulled out the replacement racks.
No radio on the way back. It didn’t matter. I was asleep in the big ass back seat.
*The Kotex box wasn’t as big as illustrated, the license plates would have been black. **”Skip-a-Rope” was a hit in 1967 for Henson Cargill. I know; I totally had to look it up. ***People nowadays don’t really believe that we had to (got to) listen to the Beatles and Frank Sinatra on the same station. Yeah, I know some Sinatra lyrics. ****Since I met Maxwell (or Clint) right about the time his mother changed his name to the other, after his father, a fighter pilot, killed in Korea, who may never have seen his second son, I called him Clintswell, and now can’t remember his proper name. I’ll guess Maxwell, since I also called him Smaxwell. He’ll show up again in other non-San Onofre tales
San Onofre is surfing history.
Early surfers parked on the beach, camped out there, built a few palapas, rode the rollers. It seems, to those of us reading the occasional story about this history in “The Surfer’s Journal,” checking the photos, a friendly sort of place frequented by people who saw themselves as rebellious and wild, but, by today’s standards, quaintly so.
Located (I know you know this) near the northwest point of the massive Camp Pendleton…wait. I should explain, just to be clear, that Camp Pendleton is roughly a triangle, with Oceanside at the lower point, San Clemente north, and, twenty miles inland (as the seagull flies) Fallbrook. That’s where I was raised, and, from my house, I always sort of believed, if I stood on the fence on the front edge of the property, and looked west, somewhere just over those coastal hills, that late afternoon glow was a reflection off the unseen water at San Onofre.
At some point the San Onofre Surfing Club made a deal with the Marine Corps allowing club members access past the guard shack, down a winding little road along a river (well, creek) bottom, and then past the railroad trestles (yeah, those Trestles), then near the Officers’ Club, the buildings a last remnant of a time when the entire area was part of a Spanish Land Grant. Nice location, in some trees in a usually sedate (wave-wise) cove right between Church and San Onofre.
Beach access was also granted to Marines, and dependents. In Fallbrook, most of my friends’ dads, or moms, or both, worked on the base or were Marines. Kids of Marines came and went, on some three year cycle. My family was in Fallbrook because, once there, my mom didn’t want to move the increasingly large family elsewhere. Though my father remains a Marine (of the Corps, to the core), he went to work splicing telephone cables all over the base for the rest of his career.
Children of Civil Service workers didn’t have (or weren’t supposed to have) beach parking privileges, and any other surfers granted access on the base had to park in a lot* separated by those whispy trees particular to windy parts of California. I think, of all the times I went to San Onofre, mostly between 1966 and 1969, whoever I was with got to park on the beach.
*On one of the only times I went with someone who didn’t have beach parking privileges, Bill Birt, whose father sold insurance in Fallbrook, Bill’s surf racks were stolen. That story, when this all gets organized, will follow this entry.
“First of all,” I said, standing in the kitchen of Phillip Harper’s parent’s house, two bars of paraffin wax melting in a soup can on the stove, Phillip’s board floating between two chairs and across the dining room table, “the theater was in no way ‘underground.’ Disappointing.”
Phillip and Ray Hicks seem to be properly impressed I, more country kid than either of them, had gone into the city for some other reason than to ride the escalators at Sears with my many brothers and sisters while my parents shopped.
It was at about this moment that Phillip’s sister, Trish (not my Trish- hadn’t met her yet), came in from the pantry (no one ever seemed to use the formal front door). She appeared noticeably disappointed that her brother and at least one of his geeky friends were there. Trish was followed in by her boyfriend, Bucky Davis. He was, perhaps, a bit less disappointed; a nod for Phillip, smaller one for Ray, even smaller one for me (standard cool reaction to over-amped groms). Bucky took a moment to check out the wax on the stove.
“You have to be careful,” he said, both hands simulating an explosion. “A candle might be a better idea.” A single hand tipping an imaginary candle illustrated the point.
“Erwin went to see ‘The Endless Summer’ in San Diego,” Phillip said. “At an underground theater,” Ray added.
“The thing is,” I said, trying to be informative, “kind of disappointing; it wasn’t at all underground. Just a regular…”
Phillip and Ray appeared less impressed than the first time they heard this.
“On University Avenue?” Trish asked. I shrugged. I hadn’t driven. “I saw it at State.” She paused, possibly to see if she had to add ‘San Diego State.’
No, I knew she had been spending some time down there, preparing to attend ‘State’ in the fall of 1967. Bucky would not be attending. He was planning on going to Palomar Junior College; he’d have to go somewhere to stay out of the draft.
“When I saw it,” she continued, “Bruce Brown narrated it… himself. He was behind this curtain and…” She stopped because Bucky seemed a bit surprised, I thought, though I’m sure I was mostly trying to hide being impressed. And out-cooled. Again. Always by her.
Bruce Brown… in person.
After all, it had been impossible to be really, even passably cool, at the above-ground theater, hanging with my older sister, Suellen, AND my mother.
Still, hoping to in some way compete, I said, “Yeah, well; they had these previews for a movie with Bob Dylan, and…”
“’Don’t Look Back’,” Trish said.
“Huh?” Phillip and Bucky and Ray asked, pretty much at the same time.
“Uh huh,” I said; “and Bob Dylan’s, like… he’s holding up these…”
“Cue cards,” Trish said.
“I guess. Yeah. And my mom starts laughing.”
“Laughing?” Phillip and Trish and Bucky and Ray all asked.
“Yeah, laughing; and… I mean, not even Suellen’s laughing. No one’s laughing.”
“Because it’s Dylan,” Trish said, serious and indignant.
“Yeah, Bob Dylan; but, pretty soon, someone else starts laughing. And then more people are laughing; and then everyone’s laughing. And Bob Dy… Dylan, he just keeps dropping the cards. And…”
By this time, in the kitchen, I was also laughing. Phillip started to laugh. Ray, studying Bucky’s face, joined in the laughter. Then Bucky looked over at his girlfriend, maybe thought for a moment about how he didn’t see “The Endless Summer” at ‘State,’ with Bruce Brown personally narrating, and he laughed.
And then the wax exploded.
This is, at least temporarily, my Heading. Unfortunately, not knowing how to manipulate pixals, I can’t get it all on the page. I’ll fix that, eventually… maybe. Meanwhile…
NOTE: I reposted this in order to add a new illustration. The latest addition to realsurfers is the story and illustration on an encounter with James Arness at San Onofre in 1967. Maybe I’ll repost that in order to get it to the top of the site.
I once bragged, and even believed
I could remember every wave I’d ridden up to that point.
Now they (the memories) are waves, waves of waves, and lulls,
and if I remember one or more from a particular time;
the first one, the one I rode in on, the one on which I couldn’t help but laugh,
hoot, arch my back as I ride, in equal parts,
across, forward and sideways-down.
Moments, waves of moments.
Ah, but I also believe there’s song, music and words,
slightly out of the rhythm,
instant, too fast, out of control, sideways-down.
Waves of sound and a bit of broken verse.
At volume loud enough to recall.
I WILL ALWAYS BELIEVE that James Arness seemed a little upset that I didn’t recognize him at the very moment that, looking way up, thinking about what deep wrinkles this man had, I did recognize him as Marshall Dillon, Mr. Gunsmoke.
Maybe it was because my expression changed from one of appreciation to one he recognized, one he came to San Onofre to get away from; the vapid fan-stare of image-induced bedazzlement.
“You can have the fire, kid,” he said, ducking to step into his 1967 model of a recreational vehicle; “hopefully your friends will be back soon.”
That’s the short version.
Yes, it’s another San Onofre story. But, first, I’d like to reiterate that I don’t believe my stories are better than yours. In fact, I think anyone who started surfing in his or her teens, begging someone for a ride to the beach; moving up to going with friends rather than parents, finding friends scatter after high school, finding new friends, surfing among strangers, all the while trying to figure out how to move from flailing to succeeding against and with waves, how to be a grownup. Sure, we all have stories.
These are just mine. You can’t help but compare them with yours.
On this occasion I was riding with Mark Metzger and Billy McLean, younger brother to Don McLean, who is our age but didn’t stick with surfing for very long. And Mark was trying to give me a new nickname. With a name like Erwin Dence, Jr., commonly called “Junior” at my house, it doesn’t take much. Erwinkle, Erweenie, Dense.
Oddly, none of my friends really had nicknames, not in the Windansea-gotta-have-one-to-be-cool sense. We did call Ray Hicks ‘H-I-X’ for a while (another Mark Metzger idea), mostly because it bothered him, and Phillip Harper ‘Felipe,’ after noted big wave surfer Felipe Pomar, but, again, not for very long. Last names, as we were referred to by various high school coaches, that was about it.
There was older surfer Bucky Davis; I can’t be sure I ever heard his actual given name.
Still, Mark was determined that, since I seemed to stay in the water longer than anyone else, I should be renamed “Fish.” “No; don’t really like it.” “Fish doesn’t like his nickname, Billy. Too bad. Fish.”
I’m not sure I was actually asked if I wanted to get out of the water before my driver and shotgun rider took off onto Camp Pendleton proper, “The Base” in local offbase jargon. Billy and Don’s father was a civilian firefighter, a necessary workforce as brush fires have always been a sort of yearly event in the fall/Santana wind season.
Somewhere Fish got cold, hypothermic-short-john-wetsuit-in-winter-cold, and got out of the water. No friends, no car, no towel, no clothes.
I headed toward a small fire near the RV parked on the hard-packed dirt road.
Sharing of the beach fire was common. My sister Suellen was the firestarter/tender often in our Tamarack days, cold kids gathering there, talking surf and swearing occasionally, just learning to string several phrases together. Somewhat embarrassing to me, it was something Suellen seemed deaf to. Kids.
This fire seemed to be tended by a really big, really tall man. Not a talker, really; but I rattled off my situation. “Uh huh,” he said, moving things into his RV. And then he was gone, and I crouched down, shifting my focus between the fire, the waves, and the road.
Of course I acted as if I’d never been cold when Mark and Billy returned.
“Marshall f___ing Dillon of f____ing ‘Gunsmoke?’ Really, Fish?”
“Yeah; honest.”
About this time, my companions would have lit up, offered me a smoke. This was a common practice among any grouping of my surf friends; an offer I always declined until… okay, different story, though somewhat San Onofre-related; my first cigarette was, um, experienced in the backseat of a car headed up old 101 from an overnight stay on someone’s uncle’s boat in Oceanside Harbor (I think it was Dana Adler’s). Since I already had a splitting headache from the fumes (I had actually thought I would die in my sleep), a said, “Hell, yes.” “Really?”
Still, I couldn’t help but think my being offered a cigarette was yet another example of how sinners want to share in the sin. Thanks, buddies.
But, back at the beach on this trip, Mark couldn’t help but tell me how “You missed a great breakfast. Fish.” “And you missed Marshall f___ing Dillon, Metzger. Got a f____ing smoke?”
Oh, yeah; wild and sinful. “And don’t call me Fish; f___er.”
By this time I was warm enough to consider going back out.
There’s no surf in the forecast, but I’m planning on some sort of surf trip. It’s as cold as it gets on the Olympic Peninsula, and I’m about to get past the previous football season. Just, not yet. Not quite yet.
The big game’s over; we won. Still, we can’t get enough. We watch highlights, stay up to watch Russell Wilson on Letterman, munching on the leftovers of chips and dips, wondering if we still have a few buffalo wings, think about the possibility of going to Seattle for the victory parade.
[update; didn’t go, but over 750 thousand other screaming fans did, and I listened to a lot of it on the radio while working, watched taped highlights last night]
We are so unfamiliar with this feeling, evidently the thrill of victory.
I may have made too much of a deal out of how Trish might be the worst person to watch a Seahawks game with. Sure, she does actually run into the bedroom when any other team gets even close to getting a score, does yell “Nooooooo!” or “How can they be so stupid?” or “Oh, that’s it; it’s over,” sometimes several times during a game, even if our team is only a few points behind. Yes, she does have a tendency to blame herself, or me, or some official, or some twisted part of the greater Fates when things look bleak.
And, yes, she does get loud and proud when our team pulls ahead (and any opponent is never far enough ahead to positively avoid a comeback). “I’m passionate,” she’ll explain; “What’s wrong with you?”
Well; I do have a fear of publicly sobbing; and I do buy into every sport-related story, ready to tear up at previews.
Trish and I (and all real fans) did endure incalculable stress over the protracted break between the nailbiter with the 49ers and the Superbowl, constantly checking with the NFL Network, ESPN, any national (understanding local bias) news outlet that had any sports commentator who would give the underdog Seahawks a chance against the perfect Peyton and, oh yeah, his team of Manning support staff.
I did try to go surfing Sunday morning, to get away from the stress; listening to NPR instead of KIRO, their pre-game coverage having started the previous Wednesday. By the time I got halfway back, I just had to listen to people who would actually predict a Seahawks victory. 27-24 seemed to be the average score.
And, close to game time, already working on heartburn and creating future problems related to downing five or eight deviled eggs and almost tasting five or seven buffalo wings, I was positioned in front of the flat screen. And, because my father-in-law was a lifetime sports fan, we positioned his ashes on a TV table with a view, and, his daughter having already promised to try to maintain her sense of coolness (after all, we were not favored to win, so, why worry?), we prepared to watch the game. Calmly, coolly.
Then the game started.
The image of the first snapped ball whizzing past, the startled expression on Peyton Manning’s face, this will long be freeze-framed in our memories. WOW!
By the time the Seahawks, Denver still scoreless, seemed to recover yet another fumble… NO! That’s Too Much!
No, it wasn’t too much. Though some would say it was a boring, one-sided blowout, Trish and I would say, agreeing with some suddenly-Seahawks fans in the National media, “It was great!”
No tears, and may the hangover last until at least the next pre-season.
And Trish is still my favorite person to watch anything with.
Real Surfers 
