Category Archives: writings of Erwin Dence

No Comments, Parades, Waves, and the Fun Car Abides… Still… WAIT, new way to Comment

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf stories, writings of Erwin Dence

I signed up for an email account through Word Press. I tried it out, it seems to work. I can now be contacted by writing to erwin@realsurfers.net. Yeah, I guess that means I’ll kind of know who is sending me the love… or whatever. And yes, I can take criticism. Sort of. And no, I can’t really reveal when or where I’ve surfed recently. Still, I am open to publishing surf stories by others. And I have. Give it a shot when you get a chance. I’m actually pretty excited about this.

OOPS, I googled “Big parade yesterday.” Kim Jong Un, “Little Rocket Man,” may or may not have sent a message to his US counterpart; congratulatory or otherwise. I was actually not going to participate in the “No Kings” demonstration in Port Townsend yesterday (not PT in the photo), the deal set for the polite hours, noon to one, designed not to interrupt coffee, brunch, with lunch delayed, BUT, because I doddled and dilly-dallied, watching just ‘one more heat’ at the Big Show WSL event at Lower Trestles, and because I had to buy some stuff before going to a job, I got stuck driving past the early arrivers, and, because I said I might do this, I drove past the folks, mostly in my age demographic, lining both sides of Sims Way. AND, yes, I honked. And waved. Some anti-fascism, pro-rule-of-law, pro-democracy people may have noticed the beat to “Louie, Louie.”

Anyway, sorry Donny, that your party pooped out. Kind of surprised you didn’t wear some sort of uniform. Maybe you did. Nice of all the ‘suckers and losers’ to march on by. Not like Miss America contestants, but… I would have considered checking it out, but… no; I was busy. I am a bit curious about the size and shape of the cake.

ROY, THE RIGHT PERSON FOR THE JOB.

THE FUN CAR survives another scare. I had a ‘crank, no start’ episode that coincided with an oil leak from the 1994 940 Volvo wagon’s crank case. Mysterious. I fooled around with the wiring, pulling things off things, putting them back on. I called my mechanic friend, George Takamoto, no longer working on rigs because he has dialysis three times a week (though, good news, he is scheduled to go the University of Washington hospital soon with the hope of getting on the transplant list), from the counter at Napa Auto Parts. I had already bought a replacement coil from O’Reilly, whose motto should be, “Our parts are shitty, but we’ll replace them when they fail,” but was checking whether Napa had a Bosch part like the coil I’d taken off (because it was easily done and because I, somehow, trust Bosch more than O’Reilly. George was against wasting my money, suggested I get an electrical probe. I did. Less than four bucks.

I went back to the job where the fun car had failed to start, put the old Bosch back in with the help of the guy who was receiving all the furniture the next day for the house. The fun car was a blockage. It didn’t start. I left, checked out the possibility of surf sort of nearby, came back, and, in yet another miracle, it started right up. AND, knock on wood, it’s started every time since.

My daughter, Dru, asked me what I want for Fathers’ Day. Well, because my car is still stuck in Port Townsend, and because I am petrified to even attempt anything mechanical, and because she works across the street from a shop that worked on Volvos, and usually parks in front of it, I asked her if she ever sees people there. The rumor is that it’s only open two days a week or so. Because I had to give Dru some items that came to my house, I checked the place out, opened the door, and met Roy. Because it was a Volvo of a certain age, and because Roy had genuine Volvo gaskets around, and because I agreed to talk more softly, he agreed to replace the gasket.

I found a reason to come back the next day. The job was almost done. A buddy of Roy’s, Paul, who works on tugboats, was hanging out. It all would have been easier if I hadn’t asked Roy to replace the existing, blown head gasket surviving (thanks to Adam Wipeout) spark plugs with new one I had purchased but not installed because YouTube said it might be tricky. I gave up when the first one didn’t want to come out. SO, of course, the plug hardest to get to caused problems. Cursing, a prerequisite of wrenching, ensued. This tool, that trick… success!

SURF STUFF- I believe it’s only the second time I drove my big boy work van out to the Strait. I was that desperate. Damn the expense, I need waves! I may have gotten a few. Or a few more. And then…? And now, the Volvo’s (knocking on more wood) back. ALSO, I was a bit surprised to see Yago Dora and Betty Lou Sakura Johnson prevailing over the locals at Trestles. I did watch some of the early action, and post-watched a few recaps. What I didn’t do, but frequently do, is check out the comments, see who was under or over-scored, all that stuff.

SPEAKING OF COMMENTS, I got one from a guy with his own site, possibly drawn to realsurfers because I got a tiny bit political. He asked me to check his site. I did. He asked me to comment. I tried. I stopped the process when Word Press wanted my email address and, maybe I’m wrong, my password. NO; it’s not worth it. I do get some feedback, mostly at the beach or in the lineup, often directed at some one else. “Is that the guy who posts all kinds of stuff about spots on the Strait?” No. Which really means, ‘not any more.’ Learned that lesson.

It is painting season, and I haven’t had much time for drawing. I did this while waiting for my wife, Trish, at a doctor’s office. Sketch, meant to go along with my song, “Between Alone and Lonely.”

BECAUSE KEITH DARROCK’S MOM sent him a passport photo of Keith’s dad at 31 year old; and because I worked with JOEL CARBEN, and because I have this photo of my father from about the time I was born, and because it’s Fathers’ Day… some photos.

Because Chris Eardley said he would love to see a photo of me with hair and without a mustache, here is one of Trish and me from 1969. Or 1970. My or her Senior Prom. I could be wrong. I’ll ask Trish.

Incidentally, because I am usually one of the oldest surfers at any session, and because I have a damaged or lack of a filter, I too-frequently ask other surfers how old they are. “Whoa; you look way older.” This doesn’t get a great response, but I do follow up with, “Makes me wonder how the fuck old I look.” Most surfers are too polite to answer honestly.

Happy survived yesterday day. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.

In a Corner with Sally Fitzgibbons and Other Stuff Concerning Competition

Posted on by under aggressive surfers, Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf contests, surf culture, surf satire, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing stories, writings of Erwin Dence

photo from Facebook after Sally’s second place finish at the Burton Automotive Newcastle Surffest.

I’ve written a bit on how I’ve been rooting for Sally Fitzgibbons lately. It’s not all that important to me; and it isn’t like I should feel too bad about one of the most successful female surfers ever falling off the big tour, again, and having to fight her way back again. But, it’s a story. “I didn’t know I had that many tears to cry” is a quote I heard repeated in the broadcast. Is Sally a nice person? Supposedly. Is JOB as nice as he presents himself? I’ve heard otherwise. Is JJF on tour, or Steph? Or Gabriel? Have I rooted for Kelly while realizing he might be the ultimate sellout? Okay; no, I take that back. Did I root for nepo-surfer Kalohe? Or Cola bros study-to-the-test surf robots? How about gymnast-surfers?

Yes, no, sort of; hey, I’m just being realistic. Still, I was on a painting project yesterday for surfer/realtor Joel Carben, and I was aware I was missing finals day on the YouTube on the big screen at my house. “Oh, so you’d skip making money to watch a Challenger Series contest in Australia?” “We’re not talking that much money, Joel, and anyway, how many times have you skipped out on surf you know is happening to make money?” Joel was satisfied with the answer. I checked on my phone. Sally had won the quarter final heat. “Okay, another hour.”

The Big Show contest at Trestles starts tomorrow. Will I be rooting for Gaby? Probably not. Caty or that girl who claims she’s from Canada. Both have Oceanside connections. Jordy? Yes. Or… we’ll see how it plays out. I don’t have to watch it live. Work. Or, maybe, surf.

NOTE: Today (or so) marks my having survived 56 years as a painter. Trish doesn’t count my time as a sign painter’s apprentice, but I do. As I was telling Joel, if you can think of something I haven’t painted, let me know.

I have written several things lately. I might have to post them separately. BUT, here’s something I wrote because of my conversations while working with Joel, who, incidentally, is very proud to have participated in an invitational pro/am contest at Huntington Pier in the nineties. He is perfectly willing to list all the famous surfers and musicians he was among, and stoked to retell every detail of a ride that got him I (if I remember correctly) a 7.5.

Joel Carben (not Carbon- “I’m not an element.” “Oh, but… aren’t you?) representing the Northwest back on the East Coast

Competitive? Mindset or Personality Disorder? Like, How Would I Know?

My friend and my first surf co-conspirator not a member of my family, Phillip C. Harper, alerted me to the opportunity to participate in a high school contest sponsored by KGB (radio station) and the Windansea Surf Club, I instantly agreed. It was 1968, I was a junior at Fallbrook (20 miles inland, as the road winds), and had been riding actual surfboards for almost three years. So, sure, why not?

None of my contemporaries who had started surfing in the meantime joined in. Or even thought it was a good idea. Or even wanted to go to San Diego to watch. I ended up talking Donn Fransith(sp?) into driving me the first day, two girls going along (Bill Buel’s cousin and a girl whose name I’ve forgotten), neither because I was so cool. This is a hint: I drove myself the second day.

So, obviously I was masochistic and/or delusional, setting myself up for humiliation, defeat, and, by extension, not doing any other surfers from Fallbrook High any favors.

It isn’t as if I was overly or crazily competitive at any other sports. I didn’t have a shot for basketball, was afraid of the ball in football (freshman, fourth string replacement), wasn’t fast enough for track and field, didn’t want to wear bunhugger trunks or do the breaststroke the way the coach insisted it was to be done (and he was right). I did go out for wrestling. I had the moves, didn’t execute them on the mat with enough aggression.

Oh. Aggression.

I was, by the time I was a senior, aggressive enough at sports to hit or hip-check an opponent. Still not a great wrestler, I did earn a JV letter as a senior. Never collected it, never wore a lettermen’s jacket. Didn’t deserve to.

But surfing; that was different. It so quickly became a crucial part of my self-image. Not cool enough, being one of the few (most in my family) Seventh Day Adventists in my school had long set my position as (there’s a scale, and a variety of other categories) an outsider.

I was, mostly, accustomed to this position. No, I hadn’t been invited to Susie’s birthday party in the fourth grade, and that hurt… but being an outsider (and yes, everyone’s an outsider somewhere) offers some amount of freedom, socially, and may (may) have contributed to my overall sarcastic nature.

Different subject, perhaps; but it is worth mentioning that once I was in with other surfer wannabes, I felt the need to dress the part. “No, Mom, I need Levis and a nylon windbreaker; my friends say you dress me like a golfer.” “And if your friends think you should jump off a cliff?” “Thinking.”

What was important to me was that I surfed better than the guys who started after I did. In fact, from my earliest sessions, kooking it up at Tamarack, I would run fake heats; fifteen minutes, three to five waves.  I would ask my sister, Suellen, where I ranked in the lineup: Third best out of five? I did the same thing with my Fallbrook surf friends. Wherever I was ranked, I wanted to do better.

Better?

It doesn’t take long for anyone taking up surfing to realize it isn’t always easy, that even pretty good rides are hard to come by, that there’s always someone who surfs better than you do, and that the ocean wins. Already feeling apologetic for this level of introspection, I have to say that my desire to be better was not (just and/or only) to be better than other surfers, but to improve. Trial and error, wave knowledge, wave count, experience.

Still, some of my least satisfying surf sessions involved my being angry with myself, or the conditions, or the crowd, but mostly with my not living up to my own expectations.

Ridiculous.

My most satisfying sessions come down, frequently, to one ride in which I unexpectedly blast through a section or hang on the very top of a wall a split second longer, or sideslip down a wave face, or, even over the falls, hanging on in the surge.

Still, if I even attempt to present myself as strictly a soul surfer, the lie is obvious. Alone in the water, cruising, I will definitely push harder when someone else shows up. Two of the turns I made that I most remember were, one, when Dana Adler walked out on the south jetty at Oceanside and I cranked a full-ass roundhouse cutback, and, two, when three dudes showed up as a peak Tommy Robinson and I were sharing on the north side of the pier and I went into a rage-driven cutback, drop to straight up move, all in about six feet, left to right. Okay, I wasn’t enraged, more like irritated, but I was stoked that I pulled it off.

Competition.

A heat compresses the surf experience. Whatever the number of minutes, the stress to choose the right wave, to perform on that wave is as exhausting as a much longer free surf session. While we can watch a contest live or on a computer, being in one is… different.

Judging disagreements aside, the best surfer in a heat usually wins.

I didn’t win my first KGB/Windansea contest. I didn’t win the second on I was in, 1969, with three other surfers on the team. I did well enough to advance out of my first heat. Both times.

I washed out of my first heat at a smaller, North County contest at Moonlight Beach, 1969. I blamed Cheer Critchlow and local bias. I surfed in the Western Surfing Association after I moved to Pacific Beach in 1971, advanced to 2A, with enough points to go into the 3A level before giving it up, mostly due to the time spent competing versus my growing painting commitments, and because, like everything in surfing, it is kind of self-serving. Not arguing this right now, but, though I never won a contest, I made the finals every time but one, and I came in 7th in that one.

When fellow Bremerton shipyard worker Raphael Reda presented with the opportunity to surf in a Ricky Young sponsored longboard contest at Westport in the late 1980s, despite not owning a longboard, I agreed. I participated four times, never won a heat. The best I did was third or fourth in a division requiring twenty-year-old or older boards, no leash. I rode a Duke Kahanamoku popout I’d traded some work for. I have the trophy. Somewhere.

So, without arguing about how pure my love for surfing is, and being as old as shit, do I still feel competitive? Add up the asterisks, the answer is… let’s see.

Of Course it’s Cool to be a Surfer, and…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, short stories on surfing, surf addiction, surf contests, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing, women surfers in the Northwest,, writings of Erwin Dence

…what is really important, if one of the supporting columns of your self image is that you are a surfer (hence part of the could-be-more-inclusive club), to be recognized as a surfer is quite obviously way better than being seen as, let’s say, because you are standing at the edge of an increasingly busy surf spot, fully dressed in your “I’m going to Costco outfit, and, yes, Walmart, on my way home, and, incidentally, I already surfed somewhere else (and I ripped, if I do say so myself), and I’m only here to make sure my friends who I know are here, because I saw their rigs on the road, and people have been known to exaggerate;” and, it seems, most of the surfers arriving or departing, some in groups, don’t recognize you, and you are, yes, old, and yes, kind of chunky… there might be some assumption on the part of these surfers, almost all of whom give you at least a nod, which is, at least, some sort of acknowledgement that you might not be some sort of pervert, having anyone believe that you are not, indeed, a real surfer, a member of the select group of proud wave riding enthusiasts might be… hurtful.

It’s really not worth defending yourself. Yes, I tried. True confession: Yes, I still try to convince people, surfers and non-surfers, that I have surfed and continue to surf.

Because my being forced to view myself as a greeter is based on a recent incident, I should add that on the same day I walked along the beach to where a better vantage point was available to check out the corner section of a long and closed out wall. The up the line view. A man was there, kicked back on a big driftwood log. I joined him. I, of course, got into my favorite game, “Who do you know?” It’s really, “Who do we know in common?” It turns out he is one of the pioneers of surfing in the northwest, Bill Truckenmiller. I had heard the name, most notably from Tom Burns, and have probably surfed with him. He is a few years older than me and has had issues with his shoulders. Common issue. He hasn’t surfed in a while but hasn’t given up on it. And he was checking out the surf from a great angle.

I have heard of surfers who, unable to surf for any number of reasons, want to be as far away from surf as possible. I haven’t met any of them.

SALLY FITZGIBBONS WATCH- I’ve kind of gotten onto this rooting for Sally thing; didn’t mean to, but, since I left the Margaret River contest on the big screen the other evening, went to sleep, woke up, watched Sally and Betty Lou Sakura Johnson, top two finishers at the Gold Coast contest, get sent to the elimination round. With THE CUT imminent, the next heat is vital, the stakes are high. I was ready to watch it unfold yesterday, 4:15 pm, PDST, but no; on hold. So, maybe today, Sally will not throw everything at each wave, and… we’ll see. On the men’s side… hard to keep track. But, there’s a reason why sports are best live.

Not promoting the WSL on purpose. Proof- Every venue has a particular setup. The judging seems to favor a certain approach to the wave; pretty much two turns on the outside, big finishing move. There is a redundancy to the whole thing, heightened when the surf is manufactured. Surf to the criteria, crank a bit harder turn, play the priority game. The game remains the same.

SURF AURA- I spend an inordinate amount of time pondering the allure of surfing, the pride one has in being counted as a surfer. There is, of course, the absolute bliss of getting an unexpectedly great ride and the hope for another. And another. But… are any of us better people because we did what it takes to be decent at paddling, at wave selection, at timing, at cranking a turn or staying this much closer to the power of a wave?

If I may make a sort of political comparison (not that I’m all that political), I heard something about MAGA folks and how resistant they are to believing they are supporting policies that are detrimental to the country, of course, and detrimental to the demographic they are part of (if they are blue collar workers, or social security/medicare beneficiaries, or veterans, or… okay, pretty much anyone who isn’t in the top, say 10% percent, income-wise); the point being made being they believe they are part of some group that actually knows more than the ‘elitists,’ which is, possibly, code for knowledgeable folks. SO, there’s a certain smugness, a certain arrogance that is very difficult to break through.

SO, does a surfer have to be smug and, possibly, arrogant?

ANSWERS: “No, but it doesn’t hurt;” or “Yes, it is part of the reward for challenging the ocean;” or “Yes, but the humbling reality is the ocean kind of levels this out; but still, yes;” or “Who the hell are you to ask me that?”

SALLY FITZ/Contest update: While I was pondering and writing, and taking a couple of phone calls, and drinking more coffee, and checking the buoys, I checked with the WSL; the contest is on hold until at least tomorrow. Oh, the anticipation.

WRITINGS of Erwin Dence update: No, I haven’t been working on a couple of little changes to “Swamis,” and no, I haven’t done more on “Love Songs for Cynics,” and no, I haven’t drawn anything for a while, BUT I did write a short story with characters from “Swamis,” particularly Joseph Atsushi DeFreines. It, like the other projects mentioned, is not quite ready. Hopefully by Wednesday.

SHIT! I gotta go. If you see waves… you know what to do. As far as arrogance goes; I’m holding on to mine as long as I can. If or when it gets to the point I can no longer float or bob or catch a wave, I’ll still have that knowledge that I almost learned the secret.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net See you out there!

And… greetings.

Asterisks on Mother’s Day: Nam Siu Recovering, Sally **Finals, Surf Route 101 Traffic ***Jams…

Posted on by under Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf culture, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing in Washington State, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

*Surfer, diver, spear fisher, foiler, skateboarder, snowboarder, guardian of the water quality in the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the branches thereof, Nam Siu is out of the hospital after a traumatic month long fight with toxic shock syndrome; essentially an infection that, shutting down vital organs, threatened to kill him. It didn’t, but, with his kidneys still not responding, his road to full, ripping recovery is still in is going to continue.

Photos by Megan Hintz-Eardley, recently married to the guy in the mask, Chris. I don’t know cards, but it appears Megan is holding a full house plus.

My friend George Takamoto is suffering from kidney failure. The need for dialysis three times a week is a daunting reality. Horrific. George is twice Nam’s age. While his situation is chronic, Nam’s is Acute, sudden onset. The prognosis for Nam’s kidneys to begin working is optimistic; as in possible, his situation for a transplant, should it be necessary, is good; he should be a good candidate. You can find out more on social media. You know how to do it.

** I might be a person who follows the World Surf League, watches it when possible, reads some of the commentary on the YouTube posts, and complains the least about the judging. Yes, I thought Felipe got overscored on the 9.10 in the final, the one scoring wave that didn’t get a replay (or three, one in slow motion), AND I have been rooting for Sally Fitz, the oldest woman on tour, AND she did compete her way into the final, SO… so, good. There’s still a lot of drama befopre the next contest, And there’s the dramatic CUT, so… so, go Sally.

Feral-ish cat, Joey. Obviously related to our sometimes-inside cat, Tony, I cannot yet get close enough to Joey. Yet. We do get other visitors. Teddy, a long legged tabby, and, if I leave food out and Joey doesn’t show up, Pedro O. Possum will invite himself. This is not to mention the occasional cruise through by bears and cougars. We used to get raccoons. I did mention the bears and cougars.

Speaking of cruising, the season for doing the 101 Loop is just getting going. Packs off overweight motorcyclists, log trucks and chip trucks, people forced to ‘go around’ because the Hood Canal Bridge is stuck open, Adam Wipeout or Soupy Dan going helter and/or skelter from or to the Hama Hama, me, occasionally. Note the RV holding up traffic on Surf Route 101. RVs are typically being driven, according to those stuck behind them, by “Free Time RVMFs.” Motor Folks, perhaps. But… free.

Quick story: I was heading up 101 when I saw a big yellow motorcycle behind me. Leader of the pack. He passed me, followed, on a sketchy stretch, by three pack members, hell bent in leather. Okay. I get onto Highway 20, and there they are, all pulled over, all off their rides. Apparently, the wild bunch head honcho had something on his sunglasses, like, I don’t know, a bug, and his buddies were trying to help. I thought about helping, thought about giving them the Easy Rider salute, but just kept putting on. I didn’t say it was a great story. Share the road… man.

****HAPPY MOTHERS’ DAY! I have mentioned this before, but I (probably) wouldn’t have ever started surfing if my my mother hadn’t been so willing to take her seven children to the beach. Often. Never often enough, but she was supportive. And other wannabe surfer’s moms. Thanks. And, despite surfing always being the ‘other woman’ in my life, Trish, the mother of our three distinctive, totally individualized, now-adult children, has almost always been… let’s say accepting of my obsession/addiction, and, if I’m particularly stressed, she might say, “You’re being a dick (more like asshole), you need to go surfing. Now.” “There are no waves.” “Oh, there’ll be waves.” “Okay.” Trisha, love of my life; love you to the moon and back!”

More on this and something I want to say about whether any of us deserve good waves. Next time. Meanwhile, please pull over if you’re holding up traffic. Free advice.

It’s a Story Either Way

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf contests, surf culture, surf satire, surfing, surfing stories, writings of Erwin Dence

Watercolor skies, hazy sunshine, and, not shown, tourists behaving like they just, like, always go to the beach, always stand on the bluff, a hand shading their eyes, looking over the conditions. This act, one might consider while wondering if any of the wavelets wistfully washing over the rocks are rideable; is it some ancient and instinct-driven holdover, some bowing to the ocean, from whence all… No, probably not that, it’s just folks posing as seafarers before challenging the elements, taking off their shoes, rolling up their pants legs, holding someone’s hand as they go looking for colorful rocks, all the while while dodging the seaweed and the driftwood and the other revelers, all the while skirting the dying energy of long-traveled waves, the scallops of foam pushing up and… “Damn, that water’s cold!” “What time’s the next ferry running, Honey?”

I should have no problems with tourists and sunny day beach visitors; I was kind of wishing I had a dash cam; saw a dude inn total Huck Finn mode; straw hat, peddle pushers, possible piece of reed in his mouth, possibly whistling: I saw a woman seemingly, this based on her choice of outfit, displaying her extensive leg tattoos while walking her dog (no visible green poop bag in hand), I saw a woman with a green poop bag and no dog, picking up scraps of papers that blew out of people’s cars (not mine- this time); I saw a lot of chunky folks (not that I’m not), and, oh yeah, I did see a bride (this because of her oversized white dress) getting her photo taken. Maybe they were planning on adding the groom (I didnn’t see one) later- trick photography, AI.

Also, while hanging around, scanning the horizon, watching what may have been a slow motion sailboat race, trying to conjure up anything lined up or just decent, wave-wise, a guy, a car with three dogs inside cruised up, one car between us, The non-dog passenger looked at me with an oversized smile. “What are you smiling at?” “Well, I’ve never seen an SUP so thrashed.” “Thank you. I put every ding on it… probably hit every rock on the Strait.” Perhaps it was this obvious exaggeration that prompted him to say, “Hey, I know who you are.” “Oh?” It turns out Aaron (hope I got this right; and, no, not shortboard Aaron- Chef Aaron) is part of the Olympic Peninsula paddleboard scene, possibly builds SUPs, AND is known for bringing food to homeless encampments, stuff like that. “Pleasure to meet you,” I said, maybe; even more of a pleasure to know Chef Aaron is out doing good works.

I went a little too descriptive on describing the scene on a sunny spring Saturday. I’m trying to think a bit more poet-ish. I attended a poetry reading at the Port Townsend Public Library on Thursday, mostly (no, totally) because I want to present some of my stuff there, and this requires being invited by the official PT Poet Laureate, Conor. Since I already e-mailed him some stuff and missed my chance before the readings got under way, I was required to sit in the back, not hear a lot of the poems (they had a microphone, could have, like, moved it closer to their mouths). According to the library manager, surfer Keith Darrock, I was unable to not fidget, and, how did I know that turning off the rinng tone didn’t stop the volume when I thought I’d watch a few heats from the WSL Bell’s Beach contest. Rude. Philistine-like behavior. Uncultured.

Yeah. I thought poets are supposed to be rude if not drunks and/or otherwise deviants.

WSL WHINING- Yes, Sally Fitz got kind of screwed in her heat. It seems, to commenters on any WSL video, that someone is getting over or under scored. Yes. Always, at every level of almost any subjectively-judged competition. Great story when Sally beat current leader, Caitlin Simmers, and she wasn’t underscored in the heat with Brisa Hennessy (and this is a separate argument from the one in which a nine point ride for a woman would be a six pointer for a man- not arguing that, but I do make an exception for Stephanie Gilmore), it’s just that the story for Brisa was that her mother was on the beach AND it was her mother’s birthday. My belief: It’s a story either way.

WSL NON-WHINING- I was talking to Randall, fellow ex-North County surfer. He had also been watching some of the WSL coverage. ‘Did you notice that Encinitas local Jake Marshall was doing really well?” “I did.” We both agreed that he did well because Bells is so much like SWAMIS. “And Caity does so well because… Oceanside; and… ordinarily I’d root for her, but…” “Hey, Erwin, I’ve gotta go.”

SURF ROUTE 101 STUFF-

If you’re cruising up or down 101, before or after stopping in at HamaHama Oyster Company, check out the Historical museum in Quilcene, just off the highway on Center Road. I just added this. ALSO, if you can get behind a log truck, empty or loaded, rather than any sort of RV or anyone towing a boat or a trailer, or both, you’ll get there faster.

SURF REPORT- I almost surfed almost waves. Others did better… elsewhere. “SWAMIS” and ARTWORK REPORT- I haven’t worked on the last touches on the novel; I haven’t done any drawing since I did a couple of illustrations at Les Schwab while waiting for my tire to be replaced. Couldn’t find the tablet immediately this morning. Next time.

LATEST POEM/SONG-

BETWEEN ALONE AND LONELY There is time to reconsider, All the pieces you have scattered from your jigsaw puzzle life, The pieces you’ve discarded from your jigsaw puzzle life, Your jigsaw puzzle life, Jigsaw puzzle life.

Between love and rejection, Meditation, introspection, It’s hard to turn away from bridges you had never meant to burn, You’ve found someone to blame for all the bridges you have burned, The bridges you have burned, Bridges you have burned.

Between midnight and morning, There are whispers in the kitchen, There are shadows on the ceiling, there are footsteps in the hall, Soft whispers, shadows, footsteps that you cannot quite explain, You cannot quite explain, Cannot quite explain.

Between pride and delusion, If you listen in the stillness, There are answers to the questions you’ve been too. afraid to ask, And long-discarded pieces of your jigsaw life, Your jigsaw puzzle life, Jigsaw puzzle life,

Between alone and lonely in your jigsaw puzzle life.

FUTURE POEM/SONGS- “And Then There’s Music,” more. THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT realsurfers.net. All. content on this post by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. All rights reserved.

SOMETIMES YOU GET WAVES, SOMETIMES THE WAVES GET YOU, sometimes you paddle out, paddle around, paddle back in. It’s a story either way.

Esoteric, Eclectic, Electric, and… Nam Siu in ICU

Posted on by under real surfers, surf addiction, surf culture, surf stories, surfing in Washington State, surfing stories, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

I had something almost ready for posting today that is based on two of my favorite words, “Esoteric” and “Eclectic,” the connection to the purer, less commercial, real-er aspects of surfing being that only a percentage of those who consider themselves surfers have the possibly exaggerated, possibly accurate view of surfing as ‘more than’ the sport of riding waves.

So, like esoteric humor, jokes that only a certain group, insiders, perhaps appreciate, surfers in a mostly wave-starved area, and defend and appreciate the waves when they do appear, and not to belabor this too far, somehow are… sort of insiders.

The surfers who wait for and search for waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca are a mixed group: Tech dudes and Tech Women, business folks, contractors, folks with lives that fill in the non-surf periods; it’s an eclectic mix.

I’ve written about NAM SIU before. When Nam got into surfing, he did everything he could to improve quickly; skateboarding, snowboarding, wing foiling. It worked; his surfing improved, quickly and dramatically. A message this morning from Nam’s significant other, JENNY LEE, was passed on in a group test by JOEL CARBON:

Photos from Chris Eardley

Nam and Chris work together at the Fish and Wildlife, or Fish and Game… one of those. Chris says “Nam is a friend first and a colleague second!”

Information on Nam’s condition is a bit sketchy, but it is known that the medical issues are serious enough that Nam was airlifted from Port Townsend to a hospital on the Seattle side. So… serious. The latest word as of Sunday evening is that Nam seems to be responding to treatment. So… some reason for optimism.

Nam is what we should want to be: Sincere, honest, dedicated, stoked, connected to whatever it is that entices, sometimes forces us, a very diverse group, age-wise, occupation-wise, any-other-measure-wise, to wait and search and push ourselves up or out. If there is a group that hopes and prays for certain conditions; offshore, lined-up, not too crowded; or, I guess, powder on the slopes and decent roads to get there, that group can use, perhaps, that same energy to be sent… elsewhere. Nam needs to recover. He and I have a contest going on, and I believe we’re currently tied; one heat each. GET WELL, NAM.

Stitches and Protests and Poetry, Oh My

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf culture, surf fiction, surfing stories, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

Update on Sally Fitzgibbons- Out off the El Salvador contest. Damn! Not that I typically root for Lakey Peterson, raised in a house on the point at Rincon (possibly- her mother lives there, so I’m, yeah, assuming), but she was eliminated in a tight heat, and was, as shown on WSL footage on YouTube, visibly upset. Since I seem to have hopes for surfers based on age and, to a lesser degree, niceness, perceived or real; I guess I’m hoping Tyler Wright continues on, quite possibly eliminated by… Caitlin Simmers. Yes, a prediction. Or maybe the inheritor of the Stephanie Gilmore grace and power school; you know… Pickles.

On the mens’ side, someone from Brazil, home of endlessly, and, it seems desperately competitive and acrobatic surfing. Or Griffin, end result of coaching, video feedback, and the surfing equivalent of studying-to-the-test; not that he isn’t good or that his path to success isn’t legitimate. Or difficult.

No, of course I wouldn’t be worried about surfing contests, or spending too much time watching YouTube content by Jamie and Nate and Mason, sometimes lesser social media stars, or watching another ‘Maps to Nowhere’ video, or cursing at the tablet or the phone or the laptop because the fucking angle of the promised swell is wrong, wrong, wrong, AND the size of the swell is disappointingly not as promised; I’d worry about none of that if I was out in the water, concentrating on waves and not even thinking about how fucking much avocados and coffee are going to cost when I cruise through Costco on my way home. I also would not wonder why, with the barrel price of oil having dropped ten dollars, why, why, why the pump price hasn’t dropped.

Ah, surfing, where we can forget the world, and worry about how a drop-knee turn is as good as a kick stall, and wonder why what was once called a roller coaster is now referred to as a re-entry, and contemplate on how long it’s been since we’ve seen a reverse kickout with amplitude. Oh, and while scanning the horizon for a three wave set, we might not worry about just how far the stock market is going to fall on Monday. And, besides that…

CHRIS EARDLEY, Olympic Peninsula ripper and occasional surf traveler, may have been more concerned about the rip and the raggedy rocks than the possibility of getting hit in the face by his board at a notoriously sketchy break. Well. It happens. Chris was helped to his car and to the emergency room by a couple of other surfers. “No…” gag, gag, “It’s not that bad.” “Yes, I can see a little daylight, but… a few stitches and…” Seventeen stitches, more inside the lip than outside. Chipped and loosened teeth. Pain.

So, naturally, one of Chris’s first texts was to another surfer, inquiring about how the rest of the session went. “Not that great,” which is code for, “Awesome!” He’s doing okay. I saw him yesterday, should have taken a photo. “Yeah, Chris; you should stay out of the water a while. I got my twenty stitches out (non-surfing injury) I’m hoping to go tomorrow.”

I kind of missed the protest in Port Townsend yesterday. I knew protests were planned in all 50 states, and I got a reminder from Keith Darrock, who reported his mother, LORRAINE, was part of the mile-plus lines of folks on the main drag. Since the average age of Port Townsend residents is… yeah, my demographic; old, I lent a bit of support, I thought, by honking (if someone else did a two honker, I echoed it; three honks, same thing) and exchanging peace signs and thumbs up gestures to the crowd as it was, peacefully, thinning out.

I was driving my big boy van rather than my left-leaning Volvo and I didn’t go all the way through town, but I was happy to see folks involved.

Meanwhile I am still checking the buoys, still trying not to worry too much.

Here is a poem from my saved file of ‘works in progress.’ I just finished painting a house, ADU, and garage for Marti and Andy, both of whom were very helpful when I fell and cut my head. And they are just very nice folks. I was discussing my poems/songs with Andy over the course of the project. I told him I have a lot of lines, but have only a first verse for a song, and a whole lot of writing but only a last line that is the basis for a poem.

As sort of a gift I printed up what I have on those as a sort of gift. On the other side of the pagek, because I was impatient and ended up printing multiple copies, then put the paper back into the printer, there was a completed song, “Out of the Wind,” on the back. They were gracious.

Here’s the verse: “Between alone and lonely, there is time to reconsider, all the pieces you have scattered from your jigsaw puzzle life.” Here’s the last line: “…And you can almost see the ocean from there.” As a bonus, I threw in a little ditty I wrote:

“Call me DAREDEVIL DAN, I’m a Daredevil,” Dan said,

But, like many a daredevil, Dan ended up dead.

Dead Dan was found in the bathroom, end of the hall,

Someone spiced up Dan’s drug cocktail with a pinch of fentanyl,

Or a dash, I’m not sure, accounts vary.

The Devil Dan dared,

If aware, did not care,

And all of Dan’s people said, “That’s not right, that’s not fair,”

And the Devil, I’m told, had no comment.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. I should give Chris Eardley credit for the selfie. It did come from him, along with… kind of, permission to write about it. Hey, if pushed, I do claim some rights as a journalist (of sorts). Please remember any original writing by me is protected by copyright.

If I Forgot to Criticize the World Surf League…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Competitive surfing,, real surfers, surf contests, surf culture, writings of Erwin Dence

…let me join the Bashers and Critiques in bashing and critiquing the folks who bring us contest coverage from wave pools and sometimes-awesome breaks throughout the world. Some times. And I tune in to check out when the events are scheduled to start. The convenient count down shows only three days and five hours until the dawn patrol gives us all the scoop, but… no, conditions aren’t right. Next check, only 13 hours and ten minutes until the first heat does or doesn’t hit the water. Three person, non-elimination heats. And don’t forget, the “Cut” is coming… soon; if your favorite surfer isn’t cut throat enough, ready to play the priority and interference rules to his or her or… (no, it seems the trans-athlete thing might not be a thing) advanntage, well… again… the CUT; demotion to the Challenger Series.

SO, SALLY FITZGIBBONS, fifteen year veteran of the WSL world tour, four time International Surfing Association (which I’ve never heard mentioned in contest coverage), and current vice-president of the ISA (just learned this on Google), I am rooting for you. Now, perhaps this is because Sally Fitz is the senior woman on the tour, and whether she’s fake nice or genuinely what she seems to be, and you can also say I have an age-centric bias because of my age. I may as well add that, like a vast majority of the complainers, I do watch and have watched WSL events, back from when Martin Potter gave his take on surfers and surfing (not sure why he’s gone), I watched Sally wrap her head after blowing an ear drum, and winning in Fiji, AND I saw her lose out on the world title at Honolua Bay, hiding her tears in a car with her parentsm, AND I witnessed her playing with the tubes at the same spot until she was pitched and injured. Tough. Resilient. Competitive.

The WSL seems to concentrate on the newer generation, surfers coached from toddler age on, taking over. Katie Simmers is older than Erin Brooks… oh, no… but both have an Oceanside connection- so, lesser rooting for either of these two from former North County resident who worked in Oceanside for three years- where one learns to surf anything.

from WSL

I should mention, while I am, obviously concentrating more on the easier to follow women’s tour, easier to follow, that Trisha’s favorite woman surfer was Courtney Conlogue. Similar reasons: Courtney was tough, and she was real. Trish would ask, “Is Courtney still in it?” She isn’t. Maybe she didn’t want to go through the Challenger Series. Maybe… as with other commentators, some of whom I really liked, surfers move on or are moved out.

Courtney Conlogue of the USA advances to the Semifinals of the Outerknown Fiji Women’s Pro after defeating defending event winner Johanne Defay (FRA) in Quarterfinal Heat 1 at Cloudbreak.

It is obvious that once Kelly Slater shows a fins-free-pivot/cutback, every coach is going to make sure his or her competitor has that move down. So, progression. Through in some gymnastics, that young surfers have an advantage seems obvious.During a crucial heat at the Portugal contest, the coverage, with two minutes left, blipped and buffered and froze. Oh, it came back fine after the heat. BUT, you say, there are heat recaps almost instantly available on YouTube. YES, but even though they eliminat a lot of dead time, they are not LIVE.

The El Salvador contest is coming up in… 02 days, 20 hours, 18 minutes. I’ll, most probably, be checking it out. TO RECAP: Go, Sally, go! Or…

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net and big thanks to the WORLD SURF LEAGUE for these images and for the memories. NOTE: I didn’t watch more than five minutes of the Abu Dhabi contest and I don’t really care who won except that it affects the CUT. Also, I didn’t mention Stephanie Gilmore, probably, no definitely my favorite female surfer, all time. With all the accolades and championships she’s earned, with her untouched gracefulness on a wave, she doesn’t gets enough credit for just how hard she charges. Style, grace, fluidity in a fluid environment. Few of us really now the professional surfers other than what we see. Fans, not friends. I’m fine with that.

I’ll try to have something new on Wednesday. It’s, like, three days, a couple of hours away.

Frame of Reference and “I Just Wanna Go Surfin'”

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf fiction, surfing blogs, surfing for life, surfing novels, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing stories, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

‘YOU’LL DO ANYTHING FOR ATTENTION’- This is what Trish, who refuses to look at the cut (and only a cut) on my head says. “I hope it was worth it” is what she texted when she figured out, through spyware on my phone, that, three days after smacking against something (we’ve determined it was a 2 by 2 on a lattice, forensics based on blood splatter) hard enough to provide (?) me with a cut requiring 20 stitches.

The surfing: I did try to keep my head above water, pulling out of sections I would ordinarily plow through or, perhaps, drop under (barrel dodging, not immune); but, sometimes, yes, a real surfer has to tuck in (not bragging, I insist for myself and others, that being ‘in position’ is not the same as being in the barrel). And once I was wet… well… AND I did wash the wound and sanitize it and cover it and… Yeah, worth it.

OTHER PEOPLE’S STITCHES STORIES- Word got around. Partially because I posted a (rare, on purpose) selfie of me with a dressing; partially because I know other surfers AND, allegedly, I love to gossip. Not on a high school and above level, more like junior high. When I, post-cut, post-stitches, talked to ADAM WIPEOUT, he had a WAY BETTER head injury/stitches story from when he, down Surf Route 101 in the wilds of Lilliwaup, was about junior high age: His older brother at the wheel of some giant wreck of a car, two younger cousins between them, they were joy riding around the property. Something happened, like the car suddenly losing power, and power steering, and the car hit head on into an apple tree. Adam, attempting, bravely, to save his cousins from hitting the dashboard by the time honored if never successful method of putting an arm across them, was launched forward, cutting his head on the metal (of course) uncloseable door to the glove compartment. Blood. While his brother hid in a creekbed, Adam ran to his grandmother’s house where, evidently, multiple members of the extended HAMA HAMA families were gathered.

So… blood, stitches and a great story.

Every real participant in surfing and any other gliding/riding sport has to have some stories of stitches or sprains or broken bones. Hopefully your injuries weren’t life threatening. There are truly tragic stories out there.

TIME AND TIME AGAIN- When I was contemplating what to put on my next (like the one I didn’t write for Sunday) posting, one of the things I considered is that, on a recent trip/session, I happened to notice that SEAN GOMEZ, Olympic Peninsula ripper and teacher, has lost a significant amount of hair. Sorry, man; I understand. Others, including DARREN, also have suffered this fate. The realization is that I have surfed around these folks long enough that I remember when they had full heads of hair. If I count my northwest surfing story as having begun when I was a mere 27, 1978, rather than the restart, now over twenty years ago, yeah, my hair was fabulous.

LUCKY OR LOCAL- Not to be bringing Adam into, like, everything, but in a recent cell phone conversation, he said that the session, that I totally missed, in which he surfed two spots many miles apart, on one day, was this time of year, in 2013. “What? That’s like twelve years ago.” “I know.”

Incidentally, Adam, when we spoke, was trying to do a different kind of double; snowboarding and surfing on the same day. There was some late season snow in the Olympics, and Adam, and many others, including those who include surfing and snow-sliding in their lists of sports, took advantage of conditions on, like, Saturday, just before a different wind/storm pattern came in and turned snow reported as powder into something else, not powder, on the way to, I guess, mud.

It seems like a theme around here; conditions are fickle in the mou tains and on the water; get it when you can.

LUCKY OR LOCAL OR LOSER- All the surfers I run into on a regular basis pride themselves on keeping track of tides and winds and buoy readings, As do I. But, now perhaps it was the day off to recover from my injury, but I got word that some lucky souls got some decent surf. “What?” “Lucky or local.” Now, I did text back to complain about using the phrase, that I take credit for, if the session isn’t all time great. It wasn’t. Or maybe it was. It’s not FOMO if you know you missed out. It’s just MO, loser. “Next time,” we say, over and over again. “Next time, man…”

FRAME OF REFERENCE- I was hanging out with AARON and KEITH, two rippers, looking over the high bluff at some waves dumping on the beach. Aaron said it’d be great for skimboarding. I mentioned how I’d seen amazing stuff on YouTube, but it all requires getting thrashed in the shorebreak. SO, we agreed, not for me and my ancient and non-nimble knees-to-ankles-to-feet, me with a known history of getting worked trying to get out of the water and up the beach. Fine.

There was talk of snowboarding and skateboarding, both of which my fellow water-watchers had participated in. I did skateboard, back in ‘the day,’ as in, not lately (see above). I asked Aaron, “So, did you, like, read ‘Thrasher’ magazine and… stuff?” “I was in ‘Thrasher’ magazine.” “Oh, then… Warren Bolster; he was a big time surf photographer who was everywhere on skateboarding magazines? He once blatantly burned me at Swamis; 1970… or ’71. Maybe he was pissed because he’d been filming rather than…” Lost my audience. Aaron had no clue. “You know, guys, I saw a movie about some guys… I think it was Mike Doyle and Joey Cabell, riding early snowboards… in 1968. They were flying off cornices and everything, and…”

Blank looks. I know Keith was born in 1977, a year after my older son, James. “When were you born, Aaron? “1971.” “Oh; so you have no idea.” “No. Never heard of Joey Cabell.” Aaron did a sort of Italian/mobster type accent, with, “Hey-a, you don’t a mess with a Joey a Cabell.”

Of course; my talking about the sixties, or even the seventies is similar to my father talking, or not talking, about World War II, or the Depression. His day. History. Other people’s stories.

Joey Cabell. Historical photos.

ANOTHER SELECTION FROM ‘LOVE SONGS FOR CYNICS’-

I have a whole lotta work, so I’ve just got a little time; I’ve got a whole lot of work, so I just have a little time; now they say everybody chooses their own mountain to climb.

I’m gonna climb that mountain, gonna start about four AM, gonna climb that mountain, gonna start about four AM; gonna stop about noon at a lake that I know for a swim.

When I get to the top, I’m gonna check out the other side; when I get to the top, I’m gonna check out the other side; and if I see the ocean, you know that I’ll be satisfied.

I JUST WANNA GO SURFIN’, now tell me, is that such a sin; I just wanna go surfin’, now tell me, is that such a sin? when you know darn well it’s been a mighty long time since I’ve been.

I’m gonna take off late, free fall drop, carve off the bottom and fly off the top; Locked in so tight the wave spits me out, hit the shoulder and turn one-eighty about; Movin’ down the line like a water snake, saving my best moves for the inside break; Hit the inside section, arching, hanging five; that’s when I’ll know that I’m still alive…

I just wanna go surfin,’ but I just don’t have any time; I wanna go surfin,’ and I’m gonna find me some time; NOW… if you get to go surfing, but you need a good board… borrow mine!

Not that, given the thrashed nature of my HOBIE, anyone would. Thanks for reading, thanks for respecting my rights to my original, copyrighted work. GOOD LUCK on finding some waves worth remembering. When I say, “That wave is gone” it means, partially, it’s history.

Super Busy Working on Being Forgotten

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing Swamis, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, women surfers in the Northwest,, writings of Erwin Dence

That may be a bit cynical. I have been surfing a bit (never enough) lately, trying my darndest to make up for a 2024’s bad session/wave count. I’m back to trusting my reborn VOLVO to make it up SURF ROUTE 101 far enough to find some rumored waves. MEANWHILE, rumor-wise, there have been times when surfers just had to check out the Strait. Whether or not it was working, surfers did show up and I did not. The sentiment among those lucky or stubbornly willful enough to live on the Olympic Peninsula is to try to avoid the forecasted days, particularly on the weekends (Friday through Monday, sometimes Thursday -Tuesday) to avoid any crowds.

CROWDS- Here is my wish/prayer list- 1. Waves. 2. Good tides. 3. Favorable winds. 4. Good parking spot. 5. Uncrowded lineup.

OBVIOUSLY there is a correlation between the parking and the number of surfers in the lineup. I have seen days where all semi-convenient parking spots were taken, some with occupants sleeping or making brunch, and the crowd is mostly surfers on the beach watching and waiting. And I have seen days with no crowds and rideable waves.

Here’s what happens: You surf. It’s, you know, decent. You tell one or two of your closest surf friends. They don’t believe you. That’s fair; you don’t believe them when they talk about barrel fests and such.

This lack of belief shouldn’t be a problem. REAL SURFERS do it for the soul enriching wonderfulness of the experience of climbing into a cold, damp wetsuit, booties and gloves and hood, and venturing into cold ass water to surf waves, their wonderfulness in the eye and mind of the venturer. BUT, NO, a little acknowledgement is, at the very least, appreciated. I’ve seen the most soulful of soul surfers surf just a bit better when someone else shows up. It’s the nature of the beasts we are.

BECAUSE I’M candid by nature as well as competitive, I admit, now, in writing, that I kind of enjoy having some sort of reputation for showing up when waves are rideable. I enjoy seeing surfers I know, or recognize; and I collect little stories from many of them. AND, since I’ve shown up less frequently, I… neurotically, self-centered-ly, worry, just a bit, or, more accurately, have considered that I am in the process of being forgotten.

It happens. Years ago, now, I read a piece on some older surfer who quit surfing urging other older practitioners of the sport/art/lifestyle to just fucking quit and become a legend. Sure, but legends only last as long as people remember. Do you remember ARCHIE or BIG DAVE or a growing number of surfers who made the same searches you are making, suffered the same skunkings, found the same rare gems, felt the same chill and the same magic?

MAYBE you do. Or you have your own list. This all leads me to surfing in crowded conditions. Is it worth it? I’ve seen so many times when people piled out of rigs and raced into the water without even checking the conditions, all based on ‘the rule of the parking lot;’ if surfers are out, it must be worth joining them.

AGAIN, crowds are number five on my list. I might just snag a few. As much as I appreciate the atmosphere of even, let’s say, the whole circus-like scene at Westport, my motto continues to be: I’m here to surf.

International Women SURFERS’ DAY- I do not have a problem with women surfers. At all. Some have had issues with me. Understandable. There were fewer, percentage-wise, girls and women surfing when I started. AND, I know I’ve said this before, but my sister Suellen got me into board surfing, our mother drove us and our siblings to the beach because she loved it, and went to better surfing beaches because we surfed.

It isn’t an accident that one of the two main characters in my novel, “SWAMIS,” Julia ‘Cold’ Cole, is a surfer AND a strong and intelligent woman. Persistence is absolutely required for anyone to attain any level above mere competence in surfing, the sport, and is also necessary to fit in as an equal in the art/lifestyle part of trying to ride waves, an objectively ridiculous and so-often frustrating activity/obsession/addiction.

I am pushing my daughter, DRU, to format and, maybe, do a little editing, if necessary, on my manuscript. MEANWHILE, though my painting life has suddenly gotten way busier, I am working on getting pieces together for my poetry/song (mostly song, some essays, some illustrations) book, “Love Songs for Cynics,” together.

Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net. Get some waves!