“If You Do Happen To See Jacob…

Posted on August 6, 2023 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Uncategorized

…tell him he is loved.”

The waves, even on the northwest coast, continue to be weak. At best. Still, people seeking some kind of float are journeying out, past the usual summer road work delays, and behind the usual hordes of leather-bound motorcyclists and the EVers making ‘the loop’ on Surf Route 101, the RVs and the folks with boats and already-blown-up blow-up SUPs, the campers and trailers.

Yeah, it’s summer. I haven’t ventured west yet, but my so-far stealth surf rig is up and running, and I am so, so tempted.

Here’s a story: I should add, non-fiction.

If you do happen to see Jacob…

…tell him he is loved.

I came around from the lake side of the house. I was standing at the open back doors of my van, considering whether I should break out another drop cloth. A car on the road that does a half circle on the south side of the lake stopped. It didn’t pull over.

The window on the front passenger side of the car came down. The woman behind the wheel said something. I was too far away to hear. I came up the slight bank and stopped at the edge of the road. “Have you seen a kid come by here?”

There was a blond-haired kid, probably nine or ten, in the back seat, hard to see through the tinted windows, straining on his restraints.

“I was… on the other side.”

The woman was smoking, not inhaling deeply, blowing the whisps out the open window on her side. “He… we had a… disagreement. A thing. He’s fifteen. I’m the stepmom.”

“I’ll keep an eye out. Does he… look like… this kid?”

“No. He’s… he looks native. Big for his age.”

“Not bigger than me?”

“No.”

“What’s his name?”

“Jacob.”

“Oh, like… I need something… I have a hard time remembering names… like Jacob’s ladder.”

“Guess so. Yeah.”

The woman could have driven on. She might have if another car had come up behind her. Though it’s summer, hot and sunny, a major closure on highway 101 has made traffic detour. I took two back roads to get to the lake house, located close to the public fishing dock, across the street from a farm, and adjacent to a small public campground.

The woman started talking about herself. She was a local, she said. She gave her family name.

I knew the name. I had dealings with a man by that name. “Oh. He’s my father.”

Her father had been a contractor. Roofer, mostly. Kind of thuggish. Our dealings had not all been pleasant.

He bad-rapped me, years ago, to a mutual client. I have a tough time forgiving this; mostly I just move on. I don’t forget.

I knew a few things about an uncle who inherited some money, bought a lot of new tools, vehicles, and equipment, and went into business with a couple of other guys. One partner had some health issues and moved to Hawaii. The other had a severe drug issue that was more important to him than completing jobs. The woman’s uncle died before, or just after the money ran out.

“Sad,” I said. “He was a nice guy.” Another uncle was described and written off as “Just… so fat.”

My mind went to someone I had just run into who was dangerously overweight.”

Her father, she said, lighting another cigarette, and her mother, sold the company, got divorced, “He met some woman on the beach. He’s got a seven-year-old. He’s doing the right thing, though, raising him on his own.”

“So… the woman from the beach? Gone?”

“Yeah.”

An SUV with a Costco kayak on top pulled up behind the woman’s car. After a moment, it went around.

“Hey, uh, if I see him… Jacob, I’ll tell him to get his ass over and… I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

“Thanks.”

The woman never did ask my name. She wouldn’t know that, thirty years earlier, I had come to this very lake, a first responder with the local fire district, in response to a call for a teenager drowning. Drowning. I know how to swim. I live three miles away. I could beat the ambulance. I could do something. I could…

I couldn’t. The teenage boy wasn’t in the water, floundering. He had been underwater for too many minutes. He was on the beach, dragged by someone. On his back. He was already gone. Obviously. Visibly. He had thrown up. His airway was compromised. There would be no rescue, no heroes.

Still, I would be doing compressions all the way to the hospital, a nurse picked up at Four Corners. Desperate. Futile.

The boy’s mother showed up just after he was pronounced dead. I was headed out the Emergency Room doors, back to the aid car. I looked as the mother’s mouth opened, as her hands went to her face, possibly to block a scream. I looked away.

“If you do happen to see Jacob, please tell him he is loved.”

If I had seen him, I would have. I didn’t. I had work to do before the sun hit the lake side of the house.

HOPE YOU’RE GETTING SOME WAVES!

REMEMBER to check out the latest installment of “SWAMIS” on Wednesday. This week, Joey goes to the psychologist, has a spell, gets a new board. Or maybe that’s next week. Still, the story continues.

“SWAMIS” Chapter 6, Dangerous Doug, Devil Dogs, Head Jerk at the Beacons Switchback

Posted on August 2, 2023 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Uncategorized

CHAPTER SIX- FRIDAY, MARCH 14, 1969

Fallbrook Union High School was letting out. Gary and Roger and I were standing in the big dirt parking lot behind the band room. Johnny Dale, in his daddy’s restored 1957 Chevy Nomad station wagon, two girls in the front seat with him, slowed down, then popped the clutch and spun out directly in front of us. Gary, then Roger, then I flipped the asshole off. I used both hands. “Double eagles,” I said.

The next two cars that passed us got three sets of double eagles.

“Friday, March 14,” I said, writing the date into a page about a third of the way through a red notebook sitting on the hood of a yellow 1968 Super Beetle with two surfboards, side by side on the Aloha racks; my bruised and patched nine-six pintail and a brand-new Hansen ten-two. “Finally enough light after school to go to, at least Oceanside. Gary and Roger bailed.”

“We’re not bailing, Joey; we have dates.” Roger mouthed, “Dates” while running his hand along the rail of the board on the rack on the driver’s side.

“With girls,” Gary added. “Friday night! And besides, where is Doublewide Doug?”

“Doug-L-ass has… art seventh period,” Roger said. I nodded, looked at my watch, wrote something in the notebook.

“Why is it,” Gary asked, running his hand down the rail of the Hansen, “that Dingleberry Doug has a new fucking car and a new fucking surfboard?”

“Why is it, Gary, that Joey is such a whore that he’ll ride with Dipshit Doug?”

“Why is it, Joey, that everyone’s getting shorter boards, but your buddy, Ditchdigger Doug, is going aircraft carrier?”

I looked around the lot. “Because, gentlemen, Doug’s… working, one, and his father’s running irrigation for all the… new ranchettes, two, and three, I’m a whore for the surf, and three, again… gas money.” I stepped back from my friends. Both were wearing Levis, Ked’s boat shoes, J.C. Penny’s white t shirts, and nylon windbreakers. As was I. “Why is it that we all don’t have… matching windbreakers like we’re on the Dork Neck Surf Team?” Both gave me ‘fuck you’ looks. “You guys, with the blonde hair and… people who don’t know better might just believe you surf better than I do.”

“Fine with me, Joey. Gary? You?”

“Yeah. Fine, but… Hey, Joey; here comes your date now!”

Doug, varsity offensive lineman, was on the sidewalk, still a distance away, slow running toward us. He had a couple of notebooks under his right arm, his left arm out and ready to straight arm anyone in his path.

“Joey DeFreines, surf slut.” Gary blew a kiss toward Doug with a big arm movement. Roger put both hands out as if expecting a pass. Doug didn’t see it. Gary’s mom’s Corvair pulled in between us, trailed by its usual puffs of black smoke. Gary’s sister, the Princess, was driving. There was another girl in the front seat, two more in the back. Sophomore girls. Giggling. The Princess peeled out just as Gary went around the back of the car.

“Better remember to put some oil in it, Princess.”

The Princess honked as she cut another car off, pulled out and onto the side road in a cloud of black smoke.

Doug touched his car, leaned against it, breathing heavily. “Made it!” Neither Gary nor Roger acknowledged Doug. He laid a piece of drawing paper onto the hood. “Check this shit out!” It was a drawing, pastels, of cartoonish people and cars on the side a road. A red light was glowing from beyond and below the cars and people. “Pulled over” was written in the same red as a sort of caption.

“Where’d you get that?”

“Well, Roger, someone in my art class wanted me to scotch tape it on…” He pointed toward me. “Jody’s locker.”

“Grant Murdoch.”

“Grant fucking Murdoch.”

“Bingo! It’s from one of the pictures of Jody in the Free Press.”

“Hey, um, Doug-l-as,” Roger said, extending the ‘ass’ part, “Don’t wear that fucking letterman jacket to the beach. Joey wants all the hodads to think he’s from somewhere else.”

“Laguna… specifically,” I said as I rolled up the drawing, using the scotch tape at the corners to secure the roll. “Or San Clemente. Santa Cruz. Just… not… Fallbrook.”

Douglas yanked on the Warrior’s jacket, tossed it, inside-out, onto the hood of his car.

“Oh, and fuck Grant Murdoch,” Gary said as he and Roger turned and headed toward Roger’s stepfather’s Mustang.

…

Doug was driving. I had a book open, paper bag cover with unreadably psychedelic pencil lettering. “Civics” and “Grandview” and “Joey DeFreines.”

“Shit, Jody, I could just cheat off of you.”

“Or… you could… I’ll just give you the… shit I think’ll be on the test.”

“Close your eyes, Jody.” Doug pushed the book back toward my face.

I knew exactly where we were. Three corners west of the little village of Bonsall, the last straightaway before the sharp left and the narrow bridge across the wide valley that held the thin line of the San Luis Rey River. I looked over the book and Doug just in time to see the construction site for a strip mall.

“Building it quick, Jody.”

“Yes. Quick. Doug.

“Um, uh, Jody; you know, my sister… she taught me how to drive. She said, if there’s a truck or something coming… on the bridge… she just closes her eyes.”

“Uh, Doug… no; that’d be… dangerous… Doug. Eyes open. Please.”

We made it across. No vehicles coming our way. A choice had to be made. It was a soft right hand turn and a straightaway or a steep hill. “Which way? Vista or Oceanside?”

“Oceanside’s faster… I think.”

“Faster then, Doug.”

Doug downshifted, made the soft right-hand turn. We were thirty seconds or so along when Doug said, “Um, you know; Gary and Roger call you Joey.” I didn’t look over the Civics book. “Instead of Jody.” I did look over the Civics book. “I’ll call you that if you call me…”

“In the name of world peace,” I said, lowering the book, “I will, in the future, always refer to you as… Dangerous Doug. Okay?”

“And you can tell Gary and Roger that I’m, you know, really good, surfing-wise. Joey.”

I lifted the book back up to my face. “Or… I can give you a dollar for gas… Doug-ie.”

“Oh. No. That’s all right… Jo-ey.”

…

Doug cut off an oncoming pickup truck as he made the thirty-five-degree turn onto the El Camino Real cutoff, southwest, out of the valley. So, no Oceanside. We hit the highway on the other side, merged onto I-5, got off at Tamarack Avenue. High tide. Shorebreak. We didn’t even drop into the lower parking lot. Doug missed the turn for Grandview. So, Beacons. Doug pulled in next to a green-gray VW bus with a white roof.

“Last chance, Doug. Sun’s down in… forty minutes.”

The tide was fairly high but dropping. There were five surfers out, two of them girls. There were four guys in street clothes on the beach. Two were watching, one was standing, one was doing some sort of surf pantomime, a beer bottle in each hand.

“Jerks,” I said.

Doug opened the trunk on the front of his super beetle. I moved to the bluff, wrapping Doug’s extra towel around me. I turned my shortjohn wetsuit back to outside out, peeled off my Levis and boxers, pulled the wetsuit up partway, wrapped the clothes in the towel, pulled the sleeveless suit up the rest of the way. One arm through, I connected the opposite shoulder with a stainless-steel turnbuckle. Custom, from a sailmaker at Oceanside Harbor. The first one, December of 1965, cost fifteen dollars. Christmas present. This one was seventeen-fifty, plus tax. But they were custom, two weeks from measuring to pick up.

Doug unstrapped the boards. I pulled out a cigarette, showed the pack to Doug. He shook his head. I lit the Marlboro with three paper matches. Throwing my clothes into the trunk, I stashed my wallet, cigarettes, and matches in one shoe, stuffed the other shoe inside that one, slid the shoes under my clothes.

“Yes, Jo… Joey; I will lock the car.”

Halfway down the first section of the path, I saw that the two young women surfers, Julia Cole and her friend, were out of the water. The four Jerks had moved halfway across the sand. The pantomiming Jerk, apparently the leader, the Head Jerk, was saying something to his friends I couldn’t quite hear. They all laughed. Loudly.

“Monica,” Head Jerk said. Loudly. He repeated the word, stretching it to, “Mon-ee-ca. We have some be-er, San-ta Mon-e’-ca.”

Monica, her head down, pushed past the Head Jerk, looked the other three Jerks off. The Head Jerk, walking backwards toward the bluff in front of Julia Cole, stopped at the bottom of the trail. Julia Cole stopped; her face very close to the Jerk’s. Monica, three steps up the trail, stopped and looked back. Head Jerk stepped aside.

“Juuu-li-a. Juuuu-lee-ya; you are so cold. Soooo coooold. Ju’-li-a cold.”

Doug and I, boards under our arms, made the turn at the trail’s upper switchback.

“What you think, boys; Monica’a ass, or Juuu-lie’s?” The Head Jerk increased the volume. If any of the boys responded, it was more like growling or laughing than with any discernible words. “Brrrrrrrr. Water’s got to be as cold as you, Juu-lie. And now, I’m wondering, if you’ve got anything on under that wetsuit. I saw… skin.”

More laughter. One of the three other members of the Jerk Crew said, “Come on, dude; cool it.”

Head Jerk moved both beer bottles to his left hand and shot his right hand out. Pleased that the subordinate Jerk crew member flinched, Head Jerk said, “And don’t fuckin’ call me dude… dude.” He started up the trail. His cohorts hung back, possibly because they saw me, looking quite displeased, and the much bigger Doug, behind me, also displeased.

Monica and I met at the lower switchback. I stopped. Doug stopped. I stood my board up, holding it with my left hand, and moved to the uphill side. Doug did the same. Monica nodded, quickly, but looked down as she passed. Julia Cole had an expression as much determined as pissed-off. Defiant. Looking at me, she didn’t seem to adjust her expression one way or the other. I did notice the chrome turnbuckle on one side of her wetsuit was undone and her bare shoulder was exposed. Skin. She noticed I noticed. Another asshole. Another jerk. Her lower lip seemed to pull in, her upper lip seemed to curl. Disappointment. Or anger. Julia blinked. I didn’t. I couldn’t.

Julia Cole passed me and then Doug. “Joey’ll get ‘em,” Doug said. No response.

I may have been replaying Julia Cole’s expression for the third or fourth time when Head Jerk approached the tight angle at the switchback. I may have missed the first few words he kind of spit at me. I did catch, ‘fuckin’ retard.’ It was in the form of a question.

I replayed his words. “What’s the deal, asshole? Huh? You some sort of fuckin’ retard?”

“Possibly, Dude,” I said. “I do believe, Dude, you owe Julia Cole and Monica… don’t know her last name… a sincere apology.”

“You do,” Doug said. “Jerk.” Doug looked at me. I mouthed, “dude.” He said, “Dude.”

Dude looked past me and at Dangerous Doug in his new O’Neill wetsuit, his custom Hansen leaning against his left shoulder, his spotless white towel over his right shoulder.

“Okay.” Dude looked back down the trail. His cohorts hadn’t moved. “Come on. We have us a fuckin’ farm boy and some sort of retard Gook.”

“Oh, no. Jody; Dude there called you a Gook.”

“Common mistake.”

“Step aside, fuckers!” Neither Doug nor I moved.

“Jody,” Dude said, leaning in way too close to my face. “Girl’s name. Well. Fuck Monica! Fuck Julie fuckin’ Cole. And… fuck you, Jo-dee… And your fat-ass friend.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, Joey. The Jody thing. And… I don’t think Dude is gonna apologize.”

“I wish he would.” I extended my right arm out, my palm toward the Head Jerk. I allowed my board to fall against the bank.

Doug pushed the tail of his board into the decomposed sandstone, laid his board down, carefully, uphill, against the scrub and ice plant on the bluff. He wrapped his towel around his neck and pointed at each member of the Jerk Squad, now partway up the lower portion of the trail. “Devil Dog, assholes! Come on up and help out your friend here. Dude. But, warning, Joey’s a, for real, fucking, by-God, Devil Dog!”

Devil Dog didn’t register with Dude. He looked up the bluff for a moment. I would describe his expression as a sneer. Holding the two beer bottles by the necks, he smashed them against each other. The open one shattered, the remaining beer running down his arm. He held the raw edges up against the palm of my right hand. He was smiling. “Gook!”

I closed my eyes. I imagined an eleven-year-old kid, sneering at me. My opponent. He had padded fabric head gear and a heavy pad on his body, a padded pugil stick in his hands. He was sneering. Other voices were cheering. I could hear myself crying. Big sobs, inhaling between each one. My father’s voice said, “Eyes open, Jody! Open!” The kid in the head gear, still sneering, was about to hit me again, this time with the right-hand end of the stick. I could also see Head Jerk, his beer bottle weapon pulled back. My father’s voice screamed, “Get in there! Jody!” I did. I saw my pugil stick connect, saw the opponent fall back. His sneer gone.

As was Dude’s.

Both beer bottles were on the path, both now broken. It would be a moment before Dude reached for his nose; before the blood started flowing from there and his upper lip. It would be another few moments before the other three Jerks turned and ran.

“Devil Dog,” Dangerous Doug said.

“Devil Pup,” I said, keeping my eyes on my opponent. “Marines, Dude… may I call you Dude?” There were tears in his eyes, blood seeping between his fingers. “Or… your name? No? Well, Devil pups, Dude; it’s kind of like… summer camp with hand-to-hand combat.”

Doug pulled his towel from his shoulders and handed it to Dude. “Apology, then?” The Head Jerk, Dude, fluffy towel to his face, nodded. “Not to us.” He nodded again. “Promise?” Third nod. “Okay.”

“And, if you would, pick up the glass. Dangerous. Huh, Doug?”

“Dangerous,” Doug said. “Keep the towel. Souvenir.”

When we got to the beach, Dude was still at the same spot, placing pieces of broken glass into Doug’s towel. The other three Jerks were partway up the bluff, climbing through the patches of ice plant.

“You going to cry, Joey?”

“I thought about it.” I looked up at the parking lot. There was a flash off a window on the VW bus. An open door. Julia Cole was behind the passenger side door. It was too far away. I couldn’t see her expression. I could remember hers from earlier.

“We surfing, or what, Jody?”

“I thought, Dangerous Doug… you said you’d call me Joey.”

“We surfing, or what… Joey?”

…

I left my shoes on the porch, stacked my books on the side table in the foyer. My mother was on the couch, listening to some blues record. Seventy-eight rpm. The photo of her husband was leaned up against the console. She may have been looking at it as the record ended and another one dropped onto the turn table. “South Pacific,” original Broadway cast.

She got up, adjusted the record speed, and walked into the kitchen. I followed. “Doug. Who are his… people?” She turned off the oven and pulled out a foil covered plate, set it on the cast iron trivet on the kitchen table. “Would you like milk?”

“I’ll get it. Doug’s father has the irrigation company. Football player. That Doug.”

“Irrigation. Football. Doug. You and he… you are… friends, now?”

“Now? Yeah. Surf friends. It’s kind of… different.”

“Still, it is nice that you have… friends.”

“It’s just… it’s not me. Surfing’s cool. I surf.” My mother gave me a look I had to answer with, “Yes, mother; friends are… nice to have.” She nodded and walked through the formal dining room and into the living room.

Freddy ran into the kitchen from the hallway, half pushed me against the counter. “She called,” he said. “The reporter. Asked for you… after I told her mom wasn’t here.”

“Lee Ransom?”

“Yeah. Her. Mom was here. Outside, grooming Tallulah.”

“Okay.”

“I told her…” Freddy switched to a whisper. “I told her what you told me to say.” I nodded, tried to push past my brother. He put a hand to my chest. “She asked what kind of car mom drives.” I did one of those ‘and?’ kind of shrugs. “She said she asked one of the detectives, and he pointed to a different car than the one someone else had pointed to… not the Volvo.”

“Which one?”

“Which car?”

“Which detective?”

“Boys!” I looked around Freddy. Our mother was in the dining room. I couldn’t tell from her expression how much she had heard. I had to assume too much.

MEANWHILE, in the real world, I’m cruising around (still cautiously) in my still super secret stealth surf rig, alternator purring properly, new gas filter and fuel additive added (thanks George Takamoto and Stephen R. Davis), waiting for the new hubcaps Trish ordered, and waiting for some waves, even on the coast, somewhere over knee high.

REMEMBER, new content on Sundays.

“SWAMIS” Chapter three

Posted on July 5, 2023 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Uncategorized

CHAPTER THREE- WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 23, 1968

It was Christmas vacation. I had surfed, but I wanted a few more rides. More. I had the time, I had the second-best parking spot of the now-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 to pages five and six.

A car stopped immediately behind the Falcon. Two doors slammed. Two teenagers, sixteen, I guessed, to my almost eighteen, ran between my car and the car to my left and to the bluff. Jumping and gesturing, they gave one-word 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 taller one, with a bad complexion, his hair parted in the middle, shirtless and with three strands of love beads around his neck, walked toward the driver’s side of the Falcon and asked, “Hey, man. You going out or been out?”

“Both. Man.”

“Both?” Love Beads guy moved closer to me.

“Good spot,” the driver, with bottle bleached hair, Beach Boys striped shirt, and khaki pants, said, coming up the passenger side of the Falcon. I nodded. Politely. I smiled, politely, and looked down at my notebooks. “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, I may or may not have scoffed.

Short Guy stayed on the bluff. A car honked behind us. Not at me, at the Teenage Non-Locals. “At least go get the boards.” Love Beads Guy walked around me, close enough to give me what could have been an accidental nudge. “You fuckers down here are fuckin’ greedy,” he said, giving Beach Boys shirt an on-purpose nudge.

Beach Boy said, “Fuck you, Brian,” and, joined by Short Guy, ran out and into the lane to remove the boards. Love Beads Brian, moved directly in front of me. He puffed out his chest a bit. His expression changed. He looked a bit fierce. Or he attempted to. 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.

My left hand was on my watch 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, 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,” Short Guy 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, Short Guy.’ 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. “…of striking out, and quite violently… when I feel threatened.” I blinked. “Brian.”

Brian looked around as if his friends might back him up. “Quite violently?”

“Brian. Yeah. Suddenly and… violently.” I nodded and rolled my eyes. I moved closer to his face. “My father says, there are times to react and times to… take a moment, assess the situation. I’m trying. Everyone… people are hoping the surfing is… helping. I am not… sure.”

“Brian,” Beach Boy said, “we’ll get a spot.”

“I can… watch your boards for you. Okay?”

“Okay? No! Fuck you, Jap!” It wasn’t loud. Brian moved back as he said it.

“Brian. I’m, uh, assessing.” I folded my hands across my chest. Brian was mumbling and swaying back and forth, closer and farther away. I couldn’t make sense of his words. His face was not in focus. He had become background, overlapped by, superimposed with, the faces of a succession of bullies, kids from school, third grade to high school. Each of the faces, each of them taunting, was too close to mine. I couldn’t hear them, either. I knew the words: “Retard!” “Idiot!” “What’s wrong with you?”

I could hear my father’s voice. “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, 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 like 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 almost 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, two steps back from where he had been. He wasn’t going to challenge me. Short Guy was behind him and to his right. I asked, “Surf friends, huh?” Short Guy nodded. I unfolded my arms, looked at my watch, looked past the two teenagers and out to the kelp beds. “Wind’s picking up, Brian.”

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

“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. “They’re gone.” He leaned away and laughed. I relaxed my hands and my stance. “The one kid was carrying both boards. Scared shitless.”

“Oh.” I closed the notebook. Ronny nodded. I looked around to see if any of his friends were with him, then back to him. “I was… really… polite.”

“Polite. Yeah. From what I saw.”

“What you saw?” I had to think about what he did see, 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 from… I don’t know. Where are you parked… Ronny?”

“I’m… close enough.” Ronny looked at my shortjohn wetsuit, laid out over my board. “One thing; those two… fuckers, they won’t fuck with you in the water. Junior.”

“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 one of my notebooks, a green one, 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.”

Summer Solstice Soul Sacrifice Averted

Posted on June 25, 2023 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under surf culture events, Uncategorized

Here’s the story, in photos: Adam “Wipeout” James shaped the board from a cedar slab last year with the intention of sacrificing it on the Summer Solstice, the goal being to improve the waves in the northwest. Those are his two boys posing with the quite obviously rough-shaped board. EMMET (yeah, that’s how they spell it), top, and Calvin, nicknamed Boomer, bottom. Somehow that pagan burning didn’t happen, but this year, yeah. The board was on the fire at Joel’s house, June 21, 2023, ready to go.

BUT, somewhere before dusk, cooler heads (I’m guessing, it was a party, and, though I semi-forced an invitation, I was not there) prevailed. Specifically Chris and Keith. The discussion involved the possibility of painting it up and using it as prop or decoration or something at the upcoming SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA Event, Friday, June 30, 6pm, Port Townsend Public Library. “Sure.” OKAY, BUT Then, “Why not try it out in some crappy windswell?” Again, not judging the judgment of others. Net result: Numerous wipeouts by the participants, though rumor has it that Aaron actually got a decent ride while totally burning Keith. Rumor. Again, I wasn’t there.

AFTER THE CARNAGE, Keith decided to do some damage control. Whipped out the plane, some glue, started in. He gave up on the sanding. I took over. Last photo, first coat of varnish.

THE CURRENT PLAN IS for me to paint it however I want. THANKS, I would anyway. I do want to preserve the natural cedar look, but… we’ll see. I will post some photos on Wednesday and will have the board ready for the EVENT. There is some discussion on ownership of the board. ADAM, because he supplied the slab and did the initial work, JOEL, because Adam gave it to him, Keith, because he put it back together, Erwin, because I’m going to make it, um, better. Chris, for his efforts in saving it from the pyre, and Aaron, for successfully burning and riding it… no, probably not. STILL, up for debate.

AS FAR AS my recent sit in on the KPTZ blues program with Barney Burke… Errrg! It didn’t go as I had, in my ridiculous and delusional scenarios in which I was smooth and cool and articulate, and my harmonica didn’t jam when I was trying to jam, hoped. Oh, I was cool and chatty when the microphone was not hot. I AM KIND OF THINKING, the quote from Nietzsche about looking too long into the abyss; maybe someone stuck a microphone in his face and asked him to speak to… some unknown and unseen audience, or just… the void. So, yeah, daunting. Scary. I could have done better.

It did affect my decision about speaking at the EVENT.

Flipping RoyGBiv (vibgyor) and the Poster for the THIRD OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN de FUCA and THE SALISH SEA EVENT

Posted on May 28, 2023 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, real surfers, Uncategorized

With all the time I spend at THE PRINTERY in Port Townsend, I can’t really explain why I didn’t get a scannable 8 &1/2 inch version of the white and black version of my third attempt to draw a bottle on a beach. BECAUSE of an accident in which the illustration part of the poster was reversed, color-wise, with some very interesting results, I attempted to add some color to what would otherwise be black background. Two attempts, with the colors from the first used as a sort of chart to narrow the palette for the second. Purple becomes kind of, almost yellow, green becomes one shade of blue- like that.

Live and learn, experiment, fail, try again. I am not yet satisfied with the results, with my next attempt at coming out with something, perhaps, less psychedelic, more like… I don’t know. We’ll see. I got the white and black version printed on watercolor paper (or something close) and I’m going to do a sort of wash.

Bear in mind, everything that is in color here would be black. Not horrible, but not nearly as much fun. SO:

KEITH DARROCK is the Librarian/ripper and the curator for the EVENT. I called him over to the Printery to check out and pay for the posters. He assigned me to getting some distributed out to the JEFFERSON COUNTY locations. “Wait a minute, Keith,” I said, “I’m, like, a volunteer, and…” Yes, I took on the task anyway. IF YOU are cruising up or down SURF ROUTE 101 between now and the 30th, check out the sign the folks (actually one folk) at the QUILCENE VILLAGE STORE (QVS to Adam Wipeout, Mary’s Village Store to longtime locals) made from a postcard of mine. It’s at 101 and Columbia. AND THEN, go inside, check out this poster at the checkout counter. YES, Quilcene is a way hipper place than when we moved here.

AND, even hipper, the CHIMACUM FARM STAND, a cooler version of the Sunny Farms in Sequim, also has a poster AS WELL AS some copies of STEPHEN R. DAVIS’S latest postcards.

Steve is one of the eight artists currently lined up for the event. And there will be, as advertised, music and some talking story. It’s coming together. MORE NEXT TIME.

Remember, as always, to respect ownership of original material. I do reserve all rights to my stuff, BUT, when you show up for the BIG EVENT, you might have the opportunity to purchase works by a member of a pretty eclectic group of artists in a pretty wide range of styles. And I’m hoping to have some ORIGINAL ERWIN t shirts (unofficially) available.

The colors I loved in the original I also love in the reversal.

SHAY… Painting

Posted on May 5, 2023 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Uncategorized

WordPress makes this all way more difficult than it should be. I’ve already lost the post twice, had to sign back in both times. Each time I get a bit more frustrated. OKAY. I’m so, so, so fucking calm now. Deep breath. Probably something karmic about all this. SHAY is a yoga instructor as well as a surfer and an artist.

TRYING AGAIN, here are a few examples:

Where I went wrong was trying to move images around and trying to enlarge them. Note to me: Never hit ‘back.’

SO, pulling info she texted me: Shayann Marie Hoffer started painting early. She has a Bachelor of Fine Arts from Saint Cloud State University in Minnesota and post graduate studies in painting and printmaking at University of Oregon, Eugene. She has been a yoga instructor since 2007. FIRST TIME SURFING (or at least jumping, in a thick wetsuit, Lake Superior). She learned to surf (like, I guess, surf… classes?) at Hookipa Point on Maui, back to wetsuits in the cold and fickle Pacific Northwest.

CORRECTION: No surf classes. She went out on smaller waves with kids and (other) kooks. So, okay.

Hopefully Shay will have some of her works at the upcoming THIRD OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT on Friday, June 30, 6pm, Port Townsend, Washington. Curated by surf-frothed librarian KEITH DARROCK (though I want credit for coming up with the ‘occasional’ thing), the event will feature some hanging out and some wall-hangings by LOCAL SURF ARTISTS Christian Coxen, Stephen Davis, Jesse Joshua Watson, Reggie Smart, Tim Nolan, Nam Siu, and me. Keith is promising goodies and, maybe just as counter-programming, a group playing classical music. I’m not sure all the participants are planning on speaking, but I am. I’ll be trying not to sing, but…

To see more of Shay’s art, go to https://shayannhoffer.weebly.com

Oh, yeah, and her paintings, as with all original materials on realsurfers.net are protected by copyright.

And now, if this doesn’t all disappear into the ether…

Protecting the Occasional and Promises of More Art to Come

Posted on April 30, 2023 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Uncategorized

The reference photo for this drawing was of MIKE PURPUS at some place I had never heard of, Waddell Creek. SORT OF interesting story- I was selling prints at the much-missed (possibly and particularly by me, since I could go surfing, pick up a few bucks on the way home) DISCO BAY OUTDOOR EXCHANGE. On one such visit, owner TYLER MEEKS said someone had been interested in the color version of the drawing, and (Tyler thought this was almost as amusing as the customer who complained about some wave hog that just might have been me while buying some of my stuff) asked him “Where is this place, SECRETO?”

ANOTHER perfect scan (above).

ANYWAY, with local ripper KEITH DARROCK on a slow trip down SURF ROUTE 101 and HIGHWAY 101 to San Francisco (without a board), checking out as much coast as possible. THE PLAN is to meet up with the mighty QUINN, part time Port Townsend-ite, sometime San Francisco area (work is the explanation) guy, and, perhaps, surf a few waves.

I’ve gotten a few updates, a few images. I COULD SHARE the shots of empty waves that, according to Keith, “WE would definitely FROTH over.” I could, but, here’s what I’m thinking: With surfers loathe to share names and locations and tide/swell/wind info with others, focusing on someone’s SECRET SPOT has got to be, like, criminal.

BUT I enjoyed them. Thanks, Keith. Good luck. Let me know.

It seems pretty obvious that, with so much coastline, there are spots that, though probably not as fickle as the Strait of Juan de Fuca, occasionally offer really fun if not outright epic waves. AND these spots have regulars, locals, surfers who guard the secret-ness of these rare gems. What works in the hard-core surfers’ favor, is the very fickleness. If you want to go hours into the wild to seek a dream spot, dream session, good luck. MEANWHILE, spots that weren’t considered great options with less surfers (“D Street” is my go to example), are, with small enough waves the general surf size most days, labeled as home breaks by… someone.

Maybe it’s you.

WHAT I wanted to post today is some artwork by OLYMPIC PENINSULA surfer, SHAYANN MARIE HOFFER. Okay, let me see if I can… no, you’ll have to wait. Shay does have a degrees in art and printmaking. Anyway… next week.

Art, WSL, Cuts, and… POWER OUtAGE!

Posted on April 23, 2023 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Uncategorized

I tried really hard to have today’s post UP AND ONLINE by ten am. SORRY. 9:45, big power outage. I’m dealing with it. I got the boondocks-necessary generator going. Great! Hooked up the router and a few other items, went back to working on this. OOPS. Out of gas. Luckily, I didn’t put it all in my van. Back up and going. NOW, of course, the power came back on and I’m afraid to switch back over and lose whatever I haven’t already lost.

I did go on a little too much on the WSL stuff. I intended to just post some of my new illustrations.

OKAY, that:

JUST A BIT of explanation- The top part of this image is all I felt I could save from a larger drawing. The lower part was intended to be a WOLF. Maybe it’s the ears, but even I think BEAR. Oh, and maybe it’s the computer, but the colors seem to have come out way better than usual. WOLF/BEAR.

NOW, what I overwrote about the WSL:

It has become quite popular to criticize the shit out of the WORLD SURF LEAGUE, so… why shouldn’t I?

OKAY, I will.

Though I do appreciate that I can watch surf contests from all over the world on my big screen TV, and after I repeat an assertion I frequently make to doubters and haters that the difference in the wave riding skills of top-level competitive surfers and even above average non-competitors is proportionately greater than the difference between your local rippers and those who can objectively be labeled as kooks. HAVING SAID THAT, I leave a lot of room for those free surfers who are as good, and often better, as the men and women who seek fame, fortune, whatever, by subjecting themselves to the boredom and tension and the whims of judges.

OH, yeah, judging is SUBJECTIVE, subject to some person’s opinion on whether this air is more difficult than that carve, whether a floater is more functional than a kick-stall, whether making fifteen jitterbug moves is cooler than just being in the optimum position. People, even judges and even commentators and company executives could, maybe, even possibly, evenly reasonably influenced by companies that sponsor surfers as well as surf contests.

NOT THAT this happens, or that the WSL would bend a bit to keep or to even get popular surfers on the tour, or… or, or…

BUT a little behind the scenes stuff from the two seasons of that series about, you know, winning and whining and (I couldn’t remember the title and didn’t want to take the time to search further- but I did watch every episode), showed that in judging, there is a head judge who makes sure the other judges are on the same page. SO, yeah, totally subjective, semi regulated and controlled.

MAYBE.

SHIT! I didn’t want to get this involved. THE MID-SEASON CUT was completed. Twenty-two men, ten women. Elation and tears. I stayed up a little later than I would have to watch some critical rounds of the WSL contest at MARGARET RIVER, WESTERN AUSTRALIA.

YES, it was the last heat of the day, but as soon as it became apparent that SALLY FITZGIBBONS was going to lose, I turned it all off.

NOW, I do find it easier to follow women’s surfing. Not all of my surfing friends even give a shit about contests. Some do. Some have favorites. My daughter, DRU, thinks Tyler is a bad ass. She is. TRISH, based on watching, kind of over my shoulder, a contest from Huntington Beach a few years ago, became a COURTNEY CONLOGUE fan. I wasn’t, so much, but Trish keeps asking me, “How’d my girl do?”

Oh, she was underscored, just as she was in the BELL’S BEACH contest. A fierce competitor, Courtney didn’t make the cut. Sorry.

AND NOW, Sally Fitz, Sal, she’s out. Didn’t make the cut. Because Sally lost in the quarterfinals to Caroline Marks, this other woman, who, I believe, Sally defeated earlier, is in the top ten, and is still on the tour, and Sally… well, I don’t know. I turned the TV off and went to bed.

HERE is how to defeat a contestant as experienced, as capable, as skilled in SURFING TO THE CRITERIA as anyone- Sally: Give her a 3-plus on a well-surfed wave. Give Caroline a 7-plus for a similarly surfed wave (but backside). This difference in scoring puts Sally at a disadvantage. SURFING well is all about confidence. Surfing scared or angry or tentatively is not a losing strategy. Sally fell or took off on the wrong wave. Caroline got a well-deserved score. She won the heat. And she would have without any scoring help. Sally didn’t get a last second gift/miracle buzzer beater wave like CARISSA MOORE did in the heat before hers.

Sally’s out. She had a long career. She’s popular. She may or may not go on to the CHALLENGER SERIES.

I DON’T KNOW.

There is a WINNING FORMULA. With so much study done on how to win a heat (priority and time management, having that Kelly Slater turn on lock, knowing which claim to throw when), watching eight heats in a row has become… kind of… less thrilling. IF A SURFER can’t figure it out, hire a coach, do the work (always gets me, surfing as work), perfect that tail slide and that fin drift, remember to cut your competitor off from a last wave even if he or she can’t possibly get enough points to beat you (these are not your friends in the water), be ruthless… and always appear humble in the post-heat interview, always wear the hat and the sunglasses.

I watched a child/teen contest recently, from Trestles. The formula worked. Turn, turn, off the top, fin slide. If the kids didn’t have the moves down, they will. Coaches, sponsors, judges.

ALL THIS SAID, I don’t exactly know how the WSL could do a better job. AND I do enjoy the big screen coverage. WAIT, how’s about they mix up the time-filler ad between heats? How about… I’m thinking. If I can’t sit through a bunch of heats next time, maybe I’ll just watch the shorter versions on YouTube.

Bargains

Posted on February 15, 2023 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Uncategorized

First, I guess, excuse me for not keeping to a pattern I have only recently tried to set: Posting something new on a Sunday. Yes, it was the Super Bowl, but, no, I didn’t watch it. The Seahawks weren’t in it and I really didn’t care. Besides, I had to work.

WORK.

Work is, theoretically, what we do so we have some money and some time to go in search of surf. Oh, yeah, and it helps with the eight hundred dollar electric bill from the mid-winter water heater fiasco in which the failing heating element caused the water heater to be on, two-hundred-twenty volts, like, way too much of the time. It has been fixed. Nightmare. AND, two months before that, there was the leaking pipe situation that turned the old laundry room into a steam room. I tried to ignore, and then downplay the problem. Four hundred dollar heating bill. Fixed it. So easy, so quick. Two hundred and twenty-five dollar month. Then, the biggie. ANYWAY, paid the bill.

NOW, surf.

No. Even though the predictions and rumors and stories of waves have been going off like a, I don’t know, Super Bowl halftime show, I sort of kind of promised not to run off until the job that is helping to pay for the above mentioned… problem, so, no surf. WORK.

If I haven’t actually written about this subject, it certainly has come up several times recently. I am and have always been a sort of surf whore. There may be two sides to this:

ONE, I have historically passed on waves for the opportunity to make some money. And often, not that much money. So, admitted Paint-whore. There’s a whore’s regret with this; I never remember the project I committed to, but I always remember what I missed. Example: Side job, 1970s, on the bluff above perfect and glassy waves at Stone Steps. So beautiful. Sob.

TWO, I have, again, historically, traded the joy of my presence on a surf trip for a ride to the beach. This started with my mother. “Please, please…” and continued in high school with upper classmates; “Please, please…” And, even when I got a license and a car, the cars were always junkers and frequently broken and awaiting my mechanic father’s repair work. So, as I was telling my high school surf friend, Ray Hicks, on a call the other day (just to see if he’s doing, slash, maybe surfing), I quite frequently accepted rides to the beach with, well, pretty much anyone who was willing. Surf Whore. Of sorts. The only incentive for any of these volunteers, some of them pretty much kooks, was that, and a lot of this was because Fallbrook is not exactly a beach town, they got to surf with, possibly, arguably, the best surfer in the school. Not that I was in any other way cool.

NOW, because I do discuss whatever is going on with pretty much anyone, I have been bringing up the current situation in which my trusted 1987 Toyota died an inglorious death, and my work rig is in some state of advanced breathing problems (cough, cough, choke- runs fine on the flats and downhill- at 45 and under), and I have been put in the position of having to ask others if I can go along with them if they head out. “Please, please…”

IN MY DEFENSE, my current deal is, in addition to the snappy banter and impolite patter to and from, and getting to surf with some old guy with a big board and bad knees, I will offer to share the price of gasoline and/or treat the driver to a delicious meal at Frugal Burger. An opportunity to cruise through Costco for just a few items is, of course, optional.

THE REASON I am using this is this: Shirley MacLaine wrote that her portrayal of a Paris prostitute was one thing, but talking about it on TV was another. It was not appreciated. An interviewer rushed to a commercial when she described the character as not a high class escort, but as a sort of bargain shopper’s choice. Yeah, I get it. Surely, Shirley.

Maybe I didn’t make the benefits of having a ridealong like me clear to CHIMACUM TIM. I very recently got a text from Tim, saying, and I will quote, “Sorry man I didn’t give you a call to go surfing no friends on powder days.” I believe that’s a skiing/snowboarding thing. TIM does seem to believe that a mention in realsurfers.net is, I don’t know, worthwhile, so maybe not inviting me might further up his profile. Sure. Okay, Tim, no mushroom burger for you.

MEANWHILE, I’m hopeful as I wait for my next electric bill.

Oh, and look for another exciting posting next Sunday.

Pulling on the Art World Door

Posted on January 22, 2023 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, Uncategorized

This is one of the paintings realsurfer and real artist Stephen R. Davis has been producing during, and particularly since his epic battle with Lymphoma. Not that it’s over. Steve is offering limited edition prints and posters and cards of this and other paintings. I asked him to send me the image and the contact info so others can get in on purchasing some of his work. I don’t really communicate with him on ‘social,’ BUT I will get the connections sorted out.

MEANWHILE, I am perilously, dangerously close to finishing the manuscript for “SWAMIS.” I mean, like, today if I don’t get distracted by rumors of waves. THE ISSUE is, how to sell these things, also including ORIGINAL ERWIN t shirts and, yeah, I have some art works of my own (less so with my dark-of-winter obsession with finishing the novel.

BUT, and this is related, my daughter, Drucilla, also engaged in her own battle with cancer (Fuck Cancer), is getting back into the work mode, AND she has skills in setting up some platform on which Steve (and our mutual artist friend, Reggie) can market our work.

AS FAR AS the selling “SWAMIS,” I have some ideas. First among them, as I try to find an agent, is offering a limited edition version, printed on regular paper, and contained in a Pee-Chee folder, a critical item in a 1960s students’ life, and something that is a part of the “Swamis” narrative. With pockets on both sides of the folder, a reader could easily slide pages read from one to the other. AND I would include artwork I have done in connection with the manuscript. ALL NUMBERED AND SIGNED, of course.

AS WITH Stephen’s contact info: I will have to get back to you on that.

AS FAR AS rumors of waves; probably just rumors.

Real Surfers

Shoulder-hoppers and name-droppers

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