…Except when I am. Not right now. Or, if I am worried, I’m trying my best not to outright panic.
It is fitting that each new year starts so close to the shortest, darkest day of the year. So, if everything is bleak; better days are ahead. If new year’s day was in April, or worse July, we’d be forced to celebrate that slow roll into the uncertainty that is, for many of us, winter.
For surfers and snowsliders, of course, winter brings some increased hope of waves. It has been brought to my ATTENTION that I am, possibly, the only one consistently writing about the very fickle and utterly inconsistent waves on the STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA; this with the possible downside that my even mentioning the possibility might influence surfers to make their way to the Olympic Peninsula.
I DO CONFESS that, back in 2013, I did name a couple of spots that can, occasionally, get crowded. I stopped that practice, partially in my own self-interest. BUT, if someone asks you why you’re searching for waves out in this (let’s face it, the strait is a harbor) area, you should probably also confess. “Yes, Erwin seduced me into believing I could find such blissful happiness here.” ALTERNATE (and more realistic) RESPONSE- “Who?”
I have always written songs and, another confession, poetry. I’ve been concentrating on it a bit more lately. I am not sure if I posted this song (yes, it’s singable) before on realsurfers. If I have, PLEASE FORGIVE ME!
Nothing to worry about
OUT OF THE WIND
There’s something sublime, a soft summer breeze, But the cold gales of winter will bend you to your knees, Yes, you can resist, but you’ll never win, No matter how fierce, all storms have an end, But… I just want to get out of the wind, out of the wind, out of the wind.
Most colors will fade, some colors still shine, Other colors just refuse to stay within the lines, While some colors clash, still others will blend, Some take you to the clouds and back again, Still… I just want to get out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.
Small change is dirty, big money’s all clean, I just need some dollars that are somewhere in between, If there’s none to save, still need cash to spend, If money’s your love, please find a new friend, And… I just want to stay out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.
All truths remain true, all lies are still lies, Politicians smile and hit you right between the eyes, False stories they spread, still others defend, The damage, once done, is too hard to mend, So… I just want to stay out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.
Looking for justice, it’s always on sale, You won’t change the system if you know you’re bound to fail, The world isn’t fair, it never has been, The answer, my friend, got lost in the wind, And… I can’t seem to stay out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.
I sailed for safe harbor, I couldn’t outrun the squall, I’ve tried to live my life in Summer, but I’m heading for the Fall, You say there’s no sanctuary, well, I’m still willing to pretend, We’ve made it through so many winters, But winter’s coming ’round again…
THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT REALSURFERS. Important NOTES: I don’t get any money from whatever ads WordPress puts on my site. I wish I did. Remember- any original stuff is protected by copyright. All rights reserved by the author/artist, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
May we each get some rides worth putting in our ‘best of 2025’ memory files! Example- “This one time, Westport was sooooo good, and me and my crew, we was on it.” OKAY, now I’m blowing up Westport. I’d apologize, but…
“Dark Cutback”- Pen and Ink, “Come In”- Pencil, pen and ink
Meanwhile, on a Strait Far Away…
It was the day before Christmas and all along the Strait, Surfers were sick of the Eddie Swell wait,
And the planning and loading in the dark of the night, All frothed-up and hoping you’d hit it just right,
Get through holiday traffic and ferry lines long, Just to find out the forecasters got it all wrong,
No six to eight-foot faces, with stiff offshore winds, But side chop and flatness, too many surf friends,
All those kooks who got wetsuits and leashes as gifts, And promised pure awesomeness, maybe, when the tide shifts,
Or the currents reset, or the stars realign, Which they haven’t done yet, so you’ll have to resign Yourself to some chilling with the parking lot crew, Having artisan breakfasts and customized brew,
With the burnouts and geezers who still dream of the past, With retired accountants who’ve heard surfing’s a blast, With newbies who ruled in the surf camp’s real water lessons, Who count the wave pool rides as real surfing sessions,
With the hodads and show dads and their sons and their daughters, Influencers and surf tourists who don’t get in the waters,
Cell phones at the ready, all waiting for action, They’ll be hooting and filming, with a deep satisfaction,
Witness to butt-hurt back-paddlers, shoulder-hoppers, and snakers, Heroes and villains, GoPro-ers and fakers, Buzzed-out dudes blowing takeoffs, laughing, pearling and falling, Occasional barrels and turns worth recalling.
They’ll soon be Youtubing a post of their Christmas surf strike, So hit the “subscribe” button, comment, and like,
And save it, repost it, it is something to share, When you watch it again, it’s as if you were there.
Yes, I hope you got waves, I did, too, and in the best Christmas spirit, If you have a great story, I would so love to hear it,
The next time we’re together, facing a skunking, so tragic, You can tell me the tale of your holiday magic.
“You should have been there, Dude; you would have loved it.” “You could have called me.” “You should have known. Are you angry?” “No. It’s just surfing, man; almost all of the magic is… well, you know.”
Color versions, and I slipped in a couple of photos from an ultra fickle spot where rideable waves are mostly imagined. Yes, that’s pretty much every spot on the Strait of Juan de Fuca.
I HAVE HEARD a couple of stories of the usual situations that occur with too many surfers and not enough waves; confrontations that went way farther than they should have. They are not my stories, and, although I LOVE to hear them, AND retell them, if they’re good enough, you will hear them eventually. Maybe from me, but not here. What I will say is, “That wave is gone.”
NEXT.
This is as true when the story is of epic, magical, all-time, best-ever stories. Your joyful stories, perfect moments in an imperfect world; the ones that make you smile; those are the ones to to savor; those are the images to save, to replay.
The illustrations are protected by copyright, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
OH, AND I am, of course, still polishing my novel, “Swamis,” and I’m working on a piece for SUNDAY on the LAWS OF ETIQUETTE. Look for it. In the meanwhile, there are a lot of YouTube videos of super crowds at Swamis and elsewhere. Yeah, crowds.
I have the EDDIE on the big screen in the living room. LIVE!
I HAVE a separate stream on my tablet, and I’ll probably (as in definitely) look for another stream to watch on the laptop after I post this. If NATHAN FLORENCE repeats the ‘you’re part of the crew’ type coverage he had for the PIPE MASTERS, yes, big screen.
A couple of questions need to be answered about the event: Why don’t those surfers go for the inside waves? Is Waimea just a big drop with no wall? Can I surf those waves? Should some of those free surfers even be out there, fancy vests and all?
They’re all afraid of getting caught inside of the forecasted forty foot closeouts. Yes, mostly drop in with four or five others and get covered by the soup, maybe getting picked up by one of those jet skies; either way you’re a hero for even making it out. Yes, or maybe, or maybe in my younger days, or no. I saw some raw footage Friday, yesterday (SOLSTICE- today’s one second longer, daylight-wise), and I watched some coverage of JAWS and MAVERICK’S, and, and, and… for as absolutely horrifyingly frightening PIPELINE was, these deep channel peaks seemed, almost, doable.
Something else about JAWS: There were six or seven paddle-in surfers and SO many ski-ins. Though the assisted surfers could get in so much earlier, the wakes made it SO much choppier than it would have been.
SO, WHY am I watching TV rather than searching the STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA for waves I can actually ride? Answer; sometimes SURFLINE and other forecast sites get it wrong. Here’s one thing: The east wind is not offshore. Maybe it is on the coast, though a south wind… usually bad. OKAY, now I feel wrong for giving that hint. Just trying to save someone some time.
HEY, I’m way too distracted to continue right now. PERHAPS it’s because I really should just mute the over-enthusiastic commentator on SURFERS OF HAWAII, WAIMEA DANNY, who, annoyingly, keeps pimping for donations.
PLEASE have a great HOLIDAY SEASON! I will have a bigger post on Christmas Eve. Wednesday. And, yeah, maybe we’ll see each other on the road, on the beach, not believing Surfline but out anyway.
CHRIS EARDLEY texted me this photo with the caption, “Is this Reggie on my bag of Inca Corn Snacks?” “Definitely Reggie, switch stance.” It does resemble REGGIE SMART on the bag of hipster-friendly chips (available on Amazon and I don’t know where else. Co-Op, maybe). Reggie, in addition to being a licensed painting contractor, has rented a space in Port Townsend and is available for your tattooing needs. I know he’s on social media.
CHRISTMAS is coming, and I did my yearly assist in decorating DRU’S house in Port Gamble. Because the town is so, let’s say, quaint, decorating for the various seasons and for whatever other reasons is sort of mandatory. Dru works part time at WISH, a wonderful card and gift shop over by the haunted house and the other vintage attractions. Check it out on your way to or from the Hood Canal Bridge or the Kingston Ferry.
It’s a joke between TRISH and Dru and I that, in movies, when there’s a moon, “It’s always a full moon.” I took this shot over my house last night. Trees could have been in the photo, but were not. In the ‘should have taken a photo’ category- After midnight, when the moon was scientifically at it’s fullest, I looked up in the living room skylight, and the moon was visible through the bare branches of a vine maple. I opened my wallet and did the pagan chant that, once I started doing it, has become as mandatory as any ritual, and as such, must be followed religiously. “Oh moon, beautiful moon; fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” MAYBE the ‘er part is some American-ish bastardization, but, hey, that’s how I leart it.
SWAMIS TO “SWAMIS”- While I am waiting for responses from literary agents, I have decided that I should submit something to “SURFER’S JOURNAL.” Before it all hits the big time, my favorite surviving surf-centric magazine could have something on my struggle to capture the magic of a particular time and place through fiction so cutting edge that… Yeah, and art-wise, my stuff, I can hopefully convince them, should grace the magazine’s slick pages.
To that end, I am super editing my submission; as in, I’ve already cut out more than I’m keeping in. OH AND I’m going through my final final version of the manuscript. One more time. A POLISH as they say in the biz. Shit, I want it ready to be glassed and polished.
MEANWHILE, because it’s off off season for painters and the darkest time of the year, I’ve been sleeping more, which mean dreaming more. Not all are worth keeping track of or even attempting to remember, even fewer worthy of trying to figure out some sort of meaning. SO, Here’s:
A Series of Dreams before Christmas
Second dream first- I was surfing, dropping into a left, turning hard off the bottom, going down the line. You know the angle; mine; close to the wall, the creases of the wave threatening, folding; and I’m climbing, too high, dropping, side-slipping, redirecting, racing into the glare.
Suddenly, dream time wise, I’m trying to get dressed, hurriedly, because I’m supposed to be somewhere, somewhere else. I pull on a t shirt with some sort of logo on it. I say, “I don’t work there.” I may add, “Anymore.” Dream talk. I put the shirt on anyway and look down several wide marble stairs. Almost landings. And, yes, marble, everything is marble, white with a very light green tinge. Or the greenness could be because there’s glass to the right, water behind it. An aquarium, perhaps, and possibly connected to a wave pool. Makes sense. Dream sense. Another view of surfers and waves. No, I didn’t see dolphins pressing close to the glass. I can imagine them, but I won’t add them as if they were there.
There is a woman sort of sprawled on the lowest stair, long black hair disappearing in all black clothing. All I can really see is her right hand and her face, in profile, very white, as I drop down and closer. Her reflection is on the glass and the walls between us. The walls, perhaps, are tiles, shiny, like the tile work in the Paris subways, but rectangular, horizontal.
“Did you see my ride?” Because the woman doesn’t answer I add, “I thought it was pretty good. My bottom turn was…” No answer. Her head turns a bit more toward me. “I figured, you probably don’t surf, so you might be…”
“Why do you think I don’t surf?”
“You’re very white.”
“Oh?”
“I mean, the sun isn’t… always…”
“Healthy? No. Not always.” The woman turns back toward the glass.
I notice there’s an above and a below the waterline. The last push of a wave hits the glass, pushing up above our ceiling. The woman seems to smile as she watches the bubbles rising and dissipating into an unseen sky, some of the greenness transferred to her face.
“I did see your ride. It was… from the perspective of a very white non-surfer, not as good as you probably thought, but… if you’re happy with it…” She turned toward me again. “Do you work there?”
I looked down at the shirt. “No.”
Different scene, same dream- It’s still very bright, but I’m driving in some flat, open country. Big windshield. Truck, I’m dream thinking. And I’m late. Probably the surfing. I hard turn into a driveway. No grass, no trees. A house. Covered porch all the way across the front. Imagine Australian Outback. Dust flies as I jump out of the vehicle. Trish appears at the front door, her hands on the opposite arms.
“I’m late,” I say, breathlessly.
“Oh?”
Oh? I feel in my back right pocket. I pull out a cell phone. “Oh.”
“If I were worried, I’d have called you. You know that, right?”
“Right.”
“Where’d you get that shirt?”
GOOD LUCK on finding and surfing some memorable waves. STAY WARM! Remember all original material in realsurfers.net is protected by copyright. All rights reserved by someone, my stuff by me, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
Lorraine and Myrna Orbea after their first performance in “The Best Christmas Pageant Ever,” at the theatre in Port Gamble, pictured here with a couple of aunts and therir grandmother. Lorraine and Myrna are the children of Pete and Mollie, Mollie being, probably, the main reason Drucilla, daughter of Erwin and Trisha Dence, lives in the former mill town on one of the routes between Seattle and the Olympic Peninsula.
Two days after this performance, very well done, incidentally, production-wise, and, particularly, with amazing performances by all the kids, Adam Wipeout James and the Wipeout family cruised down Surf Route 101 to attend an off-Seattle performance of “The Nutcracker” in Shelton.
Yes, it’ community theater season. All of the Dence family members, also including sons James and Sean, participated in various projects in Quilcene (also on Surf Route 101) in the past. Everyone did pretty well. Sean could incredibly well, memorizing and delivering every line perfectly. I had great stage presence and a great deal of trouble remembering my lines.
It was great fun, but I only remember one line from the four or five plays we were in. “This must be the place…” Line. Trish, possibly a bit miffed because she was to play a male’s role (lack of male volunteer actors) asked the director, “So, what’s the deal? I’m supposed to play the Sheriff of Mulecock?
DECEMBER TENTH- I’ve told a few folks that this is the traditional end of paint projects for any given year. Not that I plan or want it to be; it’s just, over the thirty-four years or so that I’ve been out here “on the edge of the ledge” (another seemingly accidental line from Trish), I seem to run out of jobs like… yesterday.
December 10th is also my late sister Melissa’s birthday. She was the first of my three brothers, three sisters, and a half-sister to pass. She was my youngest sibling and, though it’s somehow wrong to say it, closest to me because she was an amazing artist. I continue to think of her whenever I attempt to draw or paint. She once asked me, “Do you want it fast or do you want it perfect?” “Both.” “Yeah, both would be nice.”
I sthought of her briefly yesterday when I was helping Dru hang Christmas lights and decorations. A couple of years ago Melissa and Jerome Lynch’s son, Fergus, was on hand for this task. He seemed to be amazed at how I was free-forming the lighting, this string here, that there. “What?” “Well, it’s… great. My mom would spend… days. Everything had to be precise. And you just…” “Yeah; I do. Just…”
Two works by MELISSA JOANNA MARIA MARLENA DENCE LYNCH. Melissa Jo. Our mother added the rest as a sort of lullaby.
A couple of nights ago I woke up with the lines, “You thought I forgot. I did not.” Middle of the night lines most often disappear. Because, while trying to sell my novel, “Swamis,” I’ve been concentrating a bit on poetry. Not that I’m a poet; more like songwriter, and I can pretty much promise that the words will change, I wrote this with my sister in mind, although it might also speak to loss of friends. Our father died around Christmas.
If I Thought I forgot
If I thought I forgot. I did not.
I could not, cannot, will not forget about you.
I have no desire to.
Of my memories gone, thrown out or abandoned,
Sun-dried into dust,
Plowed under, half buried,
Dissolved in deep waters,
Obscured by mildew or rust,
Illegible scraps
Caught in the brambles,
Too deep in the thicket,
Hidden,
Somewhere, in boxes and closets and drawers,
None are of you.
Some files are too disruptive,
Some memories too painful,
Grief and beauty overwhelming.
Still,
I save them close at hand,
Easily accessed.
Still,
If I trip on some reminder,
Stumble across some image,
The tiniest clue,
Something that, for some reason, reminds me of you,
It all comes back,
Suddenly, painfully, beautifully.
So, no,
If I thought I forgot about you,
I did not.
Thanks for checking out realsurfers. I will have updates on my dead SUPER FUN CAR, a possible replacement surf rig, on waves and rides and gossip and rumor. SUNDAY. And please remember original works on realsurfers.net are protected by copyright, all rights reserved.
Good luck in you search. Focus on the trip as well as the destination. A full memory bank is all we really own.
I know, I know; I’ve been working on the novel for soooooo long. I’ve put a lot of it on this site. Most or all of that has been changed. More like all of it except the baseline story; one which I have had a hard time (changed this from ‘fuck of a time’) reducing to a tagline.
There’s a procedure in selling books to major publishers, of course; daunting enough to dissuade even the most confident writers. AND, and, and we are all supposed to be capable of writing a story; and we all have stories. AND, believing that somewhere in all my millions of words written and changed, pages deleted, there’s a story, I have gotten to the point where I am leaping off some cliff and submitting “Swamis” to, today, seven agents.
Submission; even the word speaks of uncertainty, of decisions by others; SUBJECTIVE DECISIONS with the first round of decision-makers being the folks whose job it is to cut the volume of could-be-somethings down to those deemed worthy, or worthy-er.
Having something out there and out of our control is not that dissimilar to waiting for waves. Check the forecasts all we want, we can’t wish or hope waves into showing up. Yet, we try.
OH, AND if any of you are actual literary agents and believe you can sell “Swamis,” let me know. I’d certainly prefer a real surfer in my corner.
NOW, I did write an earlier query letter, and I did post it here. I also convinced several people to read it and give me feedback. So, thanks to KEITH DARROCK, DRUCILLA DENCE, ANDY and IZZY ROSANE. And then, of course, I rewrote the query. So, more thanks.
UPDATE ON MY SUPER FUN CAR- It was the in-line (as in, on a hose) heater control valve that broke on my thirty-year-old Volvo. Frustrated by my on line searching, I stopped by an auto parts store and tried to explain the whole thing. Kook-like. “It’s, like, kinda like a thermostat-looking thing, and it’s on this hose, and…” The already-flustered counter guy kept some appearance of patience, and found the part. “We’d have to order it.” Yeah. Then, knowing what I need, I went to YouTube to see if I can do the repair. Yes, pretty sure. Then, because it’s YouTube, on to brain surgery. No, probably not.
Query- “Swamis.” Fiction by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
Marijuana, murder, surf, romance, and magic in a Southern California beach town in 1969.
Dear real surfers,
That my 92,000-word novel “Swamis” has become as much love story as murder mystery is a surprise to me. Almost. The action centers around the surf culture at Swamis Point in North San Diego County. It is 1969. An evolutionary/revolutionary period in surfing and beyond, to those who have only known crowds, this was a magical era.
Very close to turning 18, the narrator, Joseph Atsushi DeFreines, Jr., nicknamed Jody, has a history that includes a serious injury, time in a ‘special’ school, and violent outbursts. A top-level student and compulsive note taker, Joey is a socially awkward outsider who refuses to give oral reports. His two closest friends are other ‘inland cowboy’ surfers. Surf Friends. Joey wants to be accepted on the beach and in the lineup as a ‘local.’
Joey is desperately attracted to Julie Cole, one of a few girl surfers in the beach towns along Highway 101. Nicknamed Julia ‘Cold,’ just-turned-18-year-old Julie appears to be a spoiled, standoffish surfer chick, rabidly protected by her small group of friends. She is almost secretly brilliant and driven. Julie, like Joey, has personal trauma in her past.
Joey is the son of a Japanese ‘war bride’ and an ex-Marine. County Sheriff’s Office detective Joseph DeFreines, who says, “The world works on an acceptable level of corruption” is trying and failing to maintain that level. Marijuana is becoming a leading cash crop in his rural and small town jurisdiction. The completion of I-5 is supercharging population growth.
Julie’s father, David Cole, is a certified public accountant who may, with help from outwardly upright citizens, be laundering increasing amounts of drug money. Julie’s mother, Judith, moves from fixer-upper to fixer-upper in a housing market about to explode. She may also be the head of a group growing, packaging, transporting, and selling marijuana. Once grown in orchards and sold to friends of friends, the product is moved through Orange County middlemen to a larger, more profitable, and more dangerous market, Los Angeles.
Joey and Julie, concentrating on studying and surfing, had been rather blissfully unaware of what was going on around them. Joey’s father’s death, for which Joey may be responsible, has connections to the murder of Chulo, a beach evangelist and drug dealer set alight next to the white, pristine, gold lotus-adorned walls of a religious compound that gives Swamis its name.
Finding Chulo’s murderer, with those on all sides believing Joey has inside information, pushes Joey and Julie together.
There is an interconnectedness between all the supporting characters, each with a story, each as real as I can render them.
“Swamis” was never intended to be an easy beach read. And it isn’t.
I am of this period and place, with brothers and friends who were very involved in the marijuana/drug culture, both sides. I was not. It is very convenient that a Swami, like a detective, like many of the characters in the novel, is a ‘seeker of truth.’
I have written articles, poems, short stories, screenplays, and two other novels, some moving to the ‘almost’ sold category. I had a column “So, Anyway…” in the “Port Townsend Leader” for ten years, I’ve written, illustrated, and self-published several books of local northwest interest. I started a surf-centric website (blog) in 2013: realsurfers.net.
After many, many edits and complete rewrites, I believe the manuscript is ready for the next step. Thank you for your time and consideration, Erwin A. Dence, Jr. (360) 774-6354
Illustrations for “SWAMIS” by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
“SWAMIS” A novel by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
The surf, the murder and the mystery, all the other stories; “Swamis” was always going to be about Julie. And me. Julie and me. And… Magic.
CHAPTER ONE- MONDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1969
“Notes. I take a lot of… notes, but… your stack is bigger. Is that my permanent record?”
“Not sure why you take notes. You seem to remember, like, everything. Records. Records are for… later, for someone else.”
“As are notes. And maybe, some time I… won’t remember.”
“You brought them in; so, can I assume that your mother…”
“Yeah. Snoopy. Detective’s wife. We took the Falcon. I drove, my mother…”
“Snooped. Sure. Would you read me something from one of your notebooks? Your choice. Maybe something about… surfing.”
“Kind of boring, but… give me a second. Okay. ‘The allure of waves was too much, I’m told, for an almost three-year-old, running, naked, into them. I remember how the light shone through the shorebreak waves; the streaks of foam sucked into them. I remember the shock of cold water and the force with which the third wave knocked me down, the pressure that held me down, my struggle for air, my mother clutching me out and into the glare by one arm.’”
“Impressive. When did you write this? You had most of it memorized.”
“Some. But, if I wrote it recently, Doctor Peters. This all happening before the… accident; that would be me… creating a story from fragments. Wouldn’t it?”
“Memories. Dreams. We can’t know how much of life is created from… fragments. But, please, Joey; the basketball practice story; I didn’t get a chance to write it down. So, the guy…”
“I’m not here because of that… offense.”
“I am aware. Just… humor me.”
“Basketball. Freshman team. Locker room. They staggered practice. I was… slow… getting dressed. Bus schedules. He… FFA guy… Future Farmers. JV. Tall, skinny, naked, foot up on a bench; he said I had a pretty big… dick… for a Jap. I said, ‘Thank you.’ just as the Varsity players came in. Most stood behind him. He said, ‘Oh, that’s right; your daddy; he’s all dick.’ Big laugh.”
“’Detective,’ I said. ‘And, Rusty, I am sorry about your brother at the water fountain. I’m on probation already… and I’m off the wrestling team, and…’ I talk really fast when I’m… forced to… talk. I’m sure you’ve made note. I said, ‘I don’t want to cut my hand… on your big buck teeth.’ Bigger laugh. Varsity guys were going, ‘Whoa!’ Rusty was… embarrassed. His brother… That incident’s in the records. Fourth grade. Three broken teeth. Year after I… came back. That’s why the buck teeth thing… Not funny. Joke.”
“Joey. You’re picturing it… the incident. You are.”
“No. I… Yes. I quite vividly picture, or imagine, perhaps… incidents. In both of those cases, I tried to do what my father taught me; tried and failed. ‘Walking away is not backing down,’ he said. Anyway. Basketball. I never had a shot. Good passer, great hip check.”
“Rusty… He charged at you?”
“He closed his eyes. I didn’t. Another thing I got from my father. ‘Eyes open, Jody!’”
“All right. So, so, so… Let’s talk about the incident for which you are here. You had a foot on… a student’s throat. Yes? Yes. He was, as you confirm, already on the ground… faking having a seizure. He wasn’t a threat to you; wasn’t charging at you. Have you considered…?”
“The bullied becomes the bully? It’s… easy, simple, logical… not new; and I have… considered it. Let’s just say it’s true. I am… this is my story… trying to mend my ways. Look, Grant’s dad alleges… assault. I’m… I get it; I’m almost eighteen. Grant claims he and his buddies were just… fooling around; adolescent… fun; I can, conceivably… claim, and I have, the same.”
“But it wasn’t… fun… for you?”
“It… kind of… was. Time’s up. My mom’s… waiting.”
“Joey… I am, can be… the bully here. So… sit the fuck back down!”
CHAPTER TWO- SATURDAY, AUGUST 14, 1965
My mother took my younger brother, Freddy, and me to the beach at what became the San Elijo campground. Almost or just opened, it runs along the bluff from Pipes to Cardiff Reef. We were at the third stairway from the north end. I was attempting to surf; Freddy was playing in the sand. My mother was collecting driftwood for a fire. The waves were small. Pushing my way out, walking, jumping over the lines, I was turning and throwing my board into the soup, standing up, awkwardly, and riding straight in; butt out, hands out, stupidest grin on my face. “Surfin’!”
A girl, about my age, was riding waves. Not awkwardly. Smoothly. Not straight, but across. She wouldn’t have wiped out on the third ride I witnessed if I hadn’t been in her way, almost frozen, surprised by a wave face so thin and clean I still swear I could see through it.
I let my board go, upside down, broach to the waves, and chased down hers. When I pushed it back toward her, she said, “It’s you.”
“Me?” I had to look at her and reimagine the moments immediately before she spoke. She was wading toward me. She pushed the hair away from both sides of her face. She looked toward the beach. She looked back. Her eyes were green and seemed, somehow, as transparent as I had imagined the waves to be. “It’s you.”
“No. No, I’m… not… Who are you?”
“Someone who stays away from cops… And their kids.” She wasn’t going to thank me for grabbing her board. “Surfing isn’t easy, you know. All the real surfer guys are assholes.” She turned, threw herself onto her board, and started paddling. “I’d give it up If I were you.”
“Assholes,” I said as I retrieved my board. “I’m a well-known asshole.” I walked and pushed and paddled and made my way out to where the girl was sitting. She looked out to sea. She looked toward the shore. It was a lull, too long for her not to turn toward me as I attempted to knee paddle.
“We can’t be friends, Junior,” she said.
“No? What about when I… get to the point where I surf way better than you? Still, no?”
The girl turned away again. Not as long this time. “You coming back tomorrow?”
“No. Sunday. Church. My mom… We… Church.”
“Church,” she said. “My mom and I… Well, me; I… surf.”
The girl paddled over and pushed me off my board. The first wave of a set took it in. She turned and caught the next wave. I watched her from behind it. Graceful. “Julia Cole,” I said, loud enough for her to hear. “Your friends call you Julie.” I said that to myself.
CHAPTER THREE- SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1968
My nine-six Surfboards Hawaii pintail was on the Falcon’s rust and chrome factory racks. I was headed along Neptune, from Grandview to Moonlight Beach. The bluff side of Neptune was either garage or gate and fence, or hedge, tight to the road. There were few views of the water. I was, no doubt, smiling, remembering something from that morning’s session.
There had been six surfers, including me, at the outside lineup, the preferred takeoff spot. They all knew each other. If one of them hadn’t known about the asshole detective’s son, others had clued him in. There was no way the local crew and acceptable friends would allow me to catch a set wave. No; maybe a wave all of them missed or none of them wanted. Or one would act as if he was going to take off any wave I wanted, just to keep me off it.
As the first one in the water, before dawn, I had surfed the peak, selecting the wave I thought might be the best of a set. Two other surfers came out. Okay. Three more surfers came out. One of them, Sid, paddled past me, making him the farthest one out in a triangular cluster that matched the peak of waves approaching. I knew who Sid was. By reputation. A set wave came in. I had been waiting. It was my wave. I paddled past Sid, paddled and took off. Sid dropped in on me. I said something like, “Hey!”
Rather than speed down the line or pull out, Sid stalled. It was either hit him or bail. I bailed. Sid said, “Hey!” Louder. He looked at me, cranked a turn at the last moment. He made the wave. I swam.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, approaching the lineup. The four other surfers held their laughter until Sid maneuvered his board around, laughed and said, “Wrong, Junior; you broke the locals rule.” Sid pointed to the lefts, the waves perceived as not being as good, on the other side of a real or imagined channel. “Local’s rule. Get it?” Trying to ignore the taunts of the others, I caught an insider and moved over.
After three lefts, surfed, I believed, with a certain urgency and a definite aggression, I prone-paddled back to the rights, tacking back and forth. A wave was approaching, a decently sized set wave. I wanted it.
“Outside!” I yelled, loud enough that five surfers, including Sid, started paddling for the horizon. I paddled at an angle, lined up the wave at the peak. Though the takeoff was late, I made the drop, rode the wave into the closeout section, pulling off the highest roller coaster I had ever even attempted. I dropped to my board and proned in. I kept my back to the water as I exited, not daring to look back or to look up at the surfers on the bluff, hooting and pointing.
I did look up for a moment as I grabbed my towel where it was stashed, visible from the water, on the low part of the bluff, my keys and wallet and cigarettes rolled up in it. Tromping up the washout to Neptune Avenue, I tried not to smile.
Driving my 1964 Falcon station wagon, almost to Moonlight Beach, a late fifties model Volkswagen camper van, two-tone, white over gray, was blocking the southbound lane. Black smoke was coming out of the open engine compartment. Three teenagers, locals, my age, were standing behind the bus: Two young men, Duncan Burgess and Rincon Ronny, on the right side, one young woman, Monica, on the left. Locals.
There was more room on the northbound side. I pulled over, squeezed out between the door and someone’s bougainvillea hedge, and walked into the middle of the street, fifteen feet behind the van. “Can I help?”
Duncan, Ronny, and Monica were dressed as if they had surfed but were going to check somewhere else: Nylon windbreakers, towels around their waists. Duncan’s and Monica’s jackets were red with white, horizontal stripes that differed in number and thickness. Ronny was wearing a dark blue windbreaker with a white, vertical strip, a “Yater” patch sewn on. Each of the three looked at me, and looked back at each other, then at the smoking engine. The movement of their heads said, “No.”
Someone stepped out of an opening in the hedge on the bluff side of the road, pretty much even with me. I was startled. I took three sideways steps before I regained my balance.
Julia Cole. Perfectly balanced. She was wearing an oversized V-neck sweater that almost covered boys’ nylon trunks. Her legs were bare, tan, her feet undersized for the huarache sandals she was wearing. She looked upset, but more angry than sad. But then… she almost laughed. I managed a smile.
“It’s you,” she said. It was. Me. “Are you a mechanic?” I shook my head, took another step toward the middle of the road, away from her. “An Angel?” Another head shake, another step. She took two more steps toward me. We were close. She seemed to be studying me, moving her head and eyes as if she might learn more from an only slightly different angle.
I couldn’t continue to study Julia Cole. I looked past her. Her friends looked at her, then looked at each other, then looked, again, at the subsiding smoke and the growing pool of oil on the pavement. “We saw what you did,” she said. I turned toward her. “From the bluff.” Her voice was a whisper when she added, “Outside,” the fingers of her right hand out, but twisting, pulling into her palm, little finger first, as her hand itself twisted. “Outside,” she said again, slightly louder.
“Oh. Yes. It… worked.”
“Once. Maybe Sid… appreciated it.” She shook her head. “No.”
I shook my head. “Once.” I couldn’t help focusing on Julia Cole’s eyes. “I had to do it.”
“Of course.” By the time I shifted my focus from Julia Cole’s face to her right hand, it had become a fist, soft rather than tight. “Challenge the… hierarchy.”
I had no response. Julia Cole moved her arm slowly across her body, stopping for a moment just under the parts of her sweater dampened by her bathing suit top. Breasts. I looked back into her eyes for the next moment. Green. Translucent. She moved her right hand, just away from her body and up. She cupped her chin, thumb on one cheek, fingers lifting, pointer finger first, drumming, pinkie finger first. Three times. She pulled her hand away from her face, reaching toward me. Her hand stopped. She was about to say something.
“Julie!” It was Duncan. Julie, Julia Cole didn’t look around. She lowered her hand and took another step closer to me. In a ridiculous overreaction, I jerked away from her.
“I was going to say, Junior…” Julia was smiling. I may have grinned. Another uncontrolled reaction. “I could… probably use… If you were an… attorney.”
“I’m not… Not… yet.”
Julia Cole loosened the tie holding her hair. Sun-bleached at the ends, dirty blonde at the roots. She used the fingers of both hands to straighten it.
“I can… give you a ride… Julie, I mean… Julia… Cole.”
“Look, Fallbrook…” It was Duncan. Again. He walked toward us, Julia Cole and me. “We’re fine.” He extended a hand toward Julia. She did a half-turn, sidestep. Fluid. Duncan kept looking at me. Not in a friendly way. He put his right hand on Julia Cole’s left shoulder.
Julia Cole allowed it. She was still smiling, still studying me. “Phone booth?” I asked.. “There’s one at… I’m heading for Swamis.”
A car come up behind me. I wasn’t aware. Rincon Ronny and Monica watched it. Duncan backed toward the shoulder. Julia and I looked at each other for another moment. “You really should get out of the street… Junior.”
“Joey,” I said. “Joey.”
She could have said, “Julie.” Or “Julia.” She said neither. She could have said, “Joey.”
No one got a ride. I checked out Beacons and Stone Steps and Swamis. The VW bus was gone when I drove back by. Dirt from under someone’s hedge was scattered over the oil, some of it seeping through.
CHAPTER FOUR- WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 23, 1968
Christmas vacation. I had surfed, but I wanted a few more rides. Or many more. I had the time, and I had the second-best parking spot in the full lot at Swamis- front row, two cars off center. It was cool but sunny. I was standing, dead center, in front of the Falcon, leaning over the hood. I checked my diver’s watch. 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 out 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; three Pee-Chee folders. One of the folders was open. A red notebook, writing on both sides of most pages, was open, five or six pages from the back.
A car stopped immediately behind the Falcon. Three doors slammed. Three teenagers, a year or so younger than me, ran down the left side of my car and to the bluff. Jumping and gesturing, each shouted assessments of the conditions. “Epic!” and “So… bitchin’!”
They looked at each other. They looked over me and at their car, idling in the lane. They looked at me. The tallest of the three, with a bad complexion, his hair parted in the middle, shirtless, with three strands of love beads around his neck, took a step toward me. “Hey, man.” He lifted two of the strands. “Going out or been out?”
“Both. Man.”
“Both?” Love Beads guy moved closer, patting the beads. “Both. Uh huh.”
“Good spot,” the driver, with bottle bleached hair, a striped Beach Boys shirt, and khaki pants, said. I nodded. Politely. I smiled, politely, and looked back and down at my notebooks. He asked, “You a local?”
I shifted the notebooks, took out the one on the bottom, light blue, opened it, turned, half sat on my car, and looked out at the lineup, half hoping my non-answer was enough for the obvious non-locals.
A car honked behind us. Love Beads raised his voice enough to say, “At least go get the boards, Shorty.” The Driver ran toward his car. As Shorty reluctantly walked away from the bluff, Love Beads gave him a shove, pushing him into me.
Shorty threw both hands out to signal it wasn’t his fault. Behind him, Love Beads Guy said, “You fuckers down here are fuckin’ greedy.”
“Fuck you, Brian,” Shorty said before running out and into the lane.
Love Beads Guy, Brian, moved directly in front of me. He puffed out his chest a bit. He looked a bit fierce. Or he attempted to. “You sure you’re not leaving?”
I twisted my left arm behind my back and set the notebook down and picked up my watch. When I brought my arm back around, very quickly, Brian twitched. I smiled. I held my watch by the band, close to its face. I shook it. Hard. Three quick strokes, then tapped it, three times, with the pointer finger of my right hand. “The joke, you see, Brian, is that, once it gets filled up with water, no more can get in. Hence, Waterproof.” I put the watch on. “Nope, don’t have to leave yet… Brian.”
Brian was glowering, tensed-up. “Brian,” Shorty said as he carried two boards over to the bluff and set them down, “You could, you know, help.”
Brian raised his right hand, threw it out to his left and swung it back. I took the gesture to mean ‘shut up and keep walking.’ I chuckled. Brian moved his right hand closer to my face, pointer finger up.
I moved my face closer to his hand, then leaned back, feigning an inability to focus. “Brian,” I said, “I have a history…” Brian smirked. “I used to… strike out, and quite violently… when I felt threatened.” I blinked. “Brian.”
Brian looked around as if Shorty, packing the third board past us, might back him up. “Quite violently?”
“Used to… Brian. Suddenly and… violently.” I nodded and rolled my eyes. I moved closer to his face. “But now… My father taught me there are times to react and times to… take a moment, assess the situation, but… watch, and be ready. It’s like… gunfights, in the movies. If someone… is ready to… strike, I strike first. I mean, I can. Because… I’m ready.” I moved my face back from Brian’s and smiled. “Everyone… people are hoping the surfing is… helping. I am not… sure. I’m on… probation, currently; I get to go to La Jolla every Monday, talk to a… shrink. Court ordered. So…” I took a deep breath, gave Brian a peace sign.
“Brian,” Beach Boy, at the driver’s door of his parent’s car said, “we’ll get a spot.”
“Wind’s coming up, Brian,” I said, pointing to the boards. “Better get on it.”
“Oh, I have your permission. No! Fuck you, Jap!” Brian moved back and into some version of a fighting stance as he said it.
“Brian. I’m, uh, assessing.” I folded my hands across my chest.
Brian may have said more. He moved even closer, his mouth moving, his face out of focus; background, overlapped by, superimposed with, a succession of bullies with faces too close to mine; kids from school, third grade to high school. I couldn’t hear them, either. Taunts. I knew the words: “Retard!” “Idiot!” “What’s wrong with you?”
My father’s voice cut through the others. “They don’t know you, Jody. It’s all a joke. Laugh.” In this vision, or spell, or episode, each of my alleged tormentors, all of them boys, fell away. Each face was bracketed by and punctuated with a blink of a red light. Every three seconds. Approximately.
One face belonged to a nine-year-old boy, a look of shock that would become pain on his face. He was falling back and down, blood coming out of his mouth. Red light. I looked at the school drinking fountain. A bit of blood. Red light. I saw more faces. The red lights became weaker, and with them, the images.
The lighting changed. More silver than blue. Cold light. I saw my father’s face, and mine, in the bathroom mirror. Faces; his short, almost blond hair, almost curly, eyes impossibly blue; my hair straight and black, my eyes almost black. “Jody, just… smile.” I did. Big smile. “No, son; not that smile.”
I smiled. That smile.
Brian’s face came back into focus. I looked past him, out to the kelp beds and beyond. “Wind’s picking up.” I paused. “Wait. Did I already say that… Brian?”
I turned toward the Falcon, closed the blue notebook, set it on one side of the open Pee-Chee, picked up the red notebook from the other side. There were crude sketches of dark waves and cartoonish surfers on the cover. I opened it and started writing.
“Wind is picking up.” I may have spun around a bit quickly, hands in a pre-fight position. It was Rincon Ronny in a shortjohn wetsuit, a board under his arm. Ronny nodded toward the stairs. “Fun guys.” He leaned away and laughed. I relaxed my hands and my stance. “The one dude, with the Hippie beads. Shirtless.”
“Brian. Shirtless.”
“Don’t want to know his name.” There was a delay. “Fuck, man; he was scared shitless.”
“It’ll wear off.” I held the notebook up, showed Ronny the page with ‘Brian and friends’ written in larger-than-necessary block letters, scratched out ‘Brian,’ and closed the notebook. “By the time they get back to wherever they’re from, unnamed dude would’ve kicked my ass.” I looked around to see if any of Ronny’s friends were with him. “I was… polite, Rincon Ronny.”
“Polite. Yeah. From what I saw. Yeah. And… it’s just… Ronny. Now.”
I had to think about what Ronny might have seen, how long I was in whatever state I was in. Out. I started gathering my belongings, pulling up the edges of my towel. “I just didn’t want to give my spot to… fuckers. Where are you… parked?”
“I… walked.”
I had to smile and nod. “You… walked.”
Ronny nodded and looked at my shortjohn wetsuit, laid out over my board. “Custom. Impressive.” I nodded and smiled. “One thing, Junior; those… fuckers, they won’t fuck with you in the water.”
“Joey,” I said. “I mean, not that you want to know, and… Ronny, someone will.”
Ronny mouthed, “Joey,” and did a combination blink/nod. “Yeah. It’s… Swamis. Joey.”
Ronny looked at the waves, back at me. A gust of west wind blew the cover of my green notebook open. “Julie” was written in almost unreadably psychedelic letters across pages eight and nine. “Julie.” Hopefully unreadable.
I repeated Ronny’s words mentally, careful not to mouth them. “From what I saw. Joey.”
CHAPTER FIVE- THURSDAY, FEBRUARY 27, 1969
Our house in the hills between Fallbrook and Bonsall was a split level, stucco house, aluminum sash windows, composite roof. Someone else had started building from some plans purchased from a catalog. My parents could save money, they were told, by finishing the lower level and the garage. They could replace the plywood shed at the edge of a corral with a small barn that would provide room for a horse, a side area for hay and tack. New fencing. More trees. A garden. A covered patio off the kitchen, or, perhaps, a bay window.
Almost none of this ever happened. My father promised the patio, and then the bay window. He was working on it, but he was working. Working. There was, outside the sliding door, a concrete slab, with paving stones leading around the corner and down to the driveway. The two-story portion of the house featured a plate glass window, four foot high and eight feet wide, in total, with crank out, aluminum sash windows on either side. This window offered a view to the west, over scrubby trees and deep arroyos, of the hills, some rounded, others more jagged, with ancient boulders visible on all of them. Mission Avenue was hidden below and between. Mission, the road that linked Fallbrook with Bonsall, Vista, Oceanside, everywhere west, everywhere worth going to.
Looking out this window, I felt almost level with those hills. Morning light, descending, brought out the details of the ribs and rocks. Afternoon shadows crept from it until the hills once again became a blank shape. There were waves of hills in irregular lines between my hills and the unseen ocean. I had spent time looking away from my studies, imagining the hills in timelapse, the sun setting at one place in winter, another in summer, lines off clouds held back at the ridgeline, breaking over the top; torn, scattering. I had imagined the block as transparent, the ocean visible, late afternoon sunlight reflected off the water and into the empty skies.
…
The light outside was still neutral when I moved to the dinette table in the kitchen, a bowl of oatmeal, a tab of butter on top of it, in front of me. There was a glass pitcher of milk between my setting and the other two. There were four lunch sacks on the counter. Two were a light blue, one was a shade more orange than pink, the fourth was the standard lunch sack brown. My mother, already dressed and ready for work, took a carton of Lucky Strikes from a cupboard and put a pack into the brown lunch sack.
She looked out the window over the sink. She sniffled.
My father, in one of his everyday detective suits; coat unbuttoned, tie untied; leaned over from the head of the table. “Go get it, Jody.” The ‘now’ part of the command was unspoken. His voice was calm. Almost always. I didn’t move. I didn’t look up from my oatmeal. “Stanford, Jody; you didn’t think they’d send a copy to the school?”
My father’s questions demanded an answer or a response. Crying or lying were not acceptable options. “I did… consider the possibility.”
“Of course. Now, Jody, consider everything you have to do to be ready. Got it?”
Making eye contact was critical in these situations. Required, if for no other reason than to show I was sorry, remorseful. I wasn’t crying.
All original illustrations and writing on realsurfers.net is protected by copyright. All rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. THANKS FOR CHECKING! FIND SOME SURF!
TRISHA’S and my older son, older. JAMES JOSEPH MICHAEL DENCE had a birthday yesterday. His caption, texted with the photo, is “Forty-eight never looked so good.” J.J. when he was young, JAYMZ as a stage name, he has been in Moscow, Idaho since college, working and playing guitar with the FABULOUS KINGPINS, all the while leading his own bands, the current version being SOLID GHOST.
SIDENOTE- I just received (yesterday) a reasonably priced front zip wetsuit, replacing the one I’ve thrashed and patched, the one famously (locally) for having the hole in a most inopportune place for someone knee paddling in a crowded lineup. The suit is from NRS, which, I discovered, stands for NORTHWEST RIVER SUPPLY, and, surprise, they are located in MOSCOW, IDAHO. James said he almost went to work for them, a small outfit then, but now worldwide, but “They still pay Idaho wages.” Yeah, well… in this case, I appreciate it.
ADAM ‘WIPEOUT’ JAMES, obvious animal lover, worldwide local, and HAMA HAMA OYSTERS ambassador, is having a birthday TODAY. 47, and choosing which locals are ready to welcome into which lineup. Adam put the ‘local’ in ‘local or lucky,’ (I do take credit for the phrase) seeming to arrive at locations on days that turn out to be EPIC. Example- Cape Kiwanda, the pullback capitol of the world, with the point actually acting like a point break. Almost guaranteed today will be awesome and barrelling. At least, using a phrase often used by Adam, there’ll be a few butt barrels.
SEQUIM VORTEX STORIES-
I’m checking out at Costco. The checkout guy, possibly trying to impress the young woman assisting, says, “Pop a wheelie. On, like, a BMX bike. You’re too young for that one. This guy probably gets it.” “Yeah, I am, but, you know, there’s never a mention of mama wheelie.” “Oh. Is that a thing?” “Probably not.”
I’m headed from Home Depot (for stain) to Walmart (for bird food, mostly, assuming I need a decent excuse for going to either big box, right-wing owned store), and I see this guy at the light with a sign that says, “Looking for human kindness.” I change lanes to avoid eye contact (because I’m a hypocritical liberal who already voted, solid blue, but one who is still working at 73), and because I run a constant stream of ‘what if’ scenarios through my mind, I wonder what reaction I would get from the man if I came back and gave him the gallon of milk from Costco. It might be, “Yeah, that’s exactly what I meant.” Or not.
I’ll skip the in-depth ‘Previously’ for “Swamis” again, but this chapter mostly takes place at GRANDVIEW, JOEY and a guy from Fallbrook High racing over after school. If you’re figuring out that the story is almost more about the relationship between Joey and JULIE COLE… yeah.
CHAPTER SEVEN- 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, flipped Johnny off, both called him an asshole. Both looked at me when I didn’t participate.
“Witnesses,” I said.
“You?” Gary asked. “No,” they both said. The next two cars that passed got three sets of double eagles, my gesture only waist high, almost happily returned by the car’s occupants.
…
“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 for going. Gary and Roger bailed.”
Roger said, “We’re not bailing, Joey; we have dates.”
Gary mouthed, “Dates” while running his hand along the rail of the board on the driver’s side, adding, “With girls. And it’s fuckin’ Friday! And, anyway, Joey, where’s your date, Doublewide Doug?”
“Doug-L-ass has… art seventh period,” Roger said. I nodded, looked at my watch, wrote a sentence in the notebook without saying it out loud.
“Why is it,” Gary asked, “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, Dipsy doodle Doug, is going full-on 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 Dreever Surf Team?” Both gave me ‘fuck you’ looks. “You guys, with the blonde hair and all. Uninformed people might 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 cardboard art portfolio under his right arm, his left arm out and ready to straight arm anyone in his path.
“Joey DeFreines, surf slut,” Gary said, kissing his right hand, then using a big arm movement to simulate throwing the kiss toward Doug. Roger ran out, putting both hands out as if he might catch this pass.
Doug only saw the last part before Roger bumped into him and bounced away. Doug dropped Roger with his left arm. “Incomplete,” he said, leaning over to help Roger back up.
Gary’s mom’s Corvair pulled in beside Gary and me, trailed by its usual puffs of black smoke. 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,” Gary said, pointing to the hood. “One quart ought to do it.”
The Princess popped the clutch, honked as she cut another car off, and pulled out and onto the side road in a cloud of black smoke.
Doug touched his car and leaned against it, breathing heavily. “Made it!” He opened his portfolio, pulled out a piece of drawing paper and laid it on the hood. “Check this shit out!” It was a drawing, pastels, of cartoonish people and cars on the side of 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.
“It’s from… last week’s Free Press,” I said.
“Where’d you get it, Doublewide Dave?”
” 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! I told him to fuck himself, Jody, you and I are surfin’ buddies.”
“Surfin’ buddies, Doug-l-as,” Gary 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 took a folded piece of paper out of a pocket, the Warrior’s jacket off and 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 an almost new Ford Mustang, two girls standing beside it.
Doug looked that way as he unlocked the driver’s door. “Roger’s stepfather’s car, Doug.”
“Yeah, I know, but, Jody, that one girl; I think she’s, maybe, a… sophomore.”
I stepped in front of Doug, blocking his view. “Maybe.” I shaded my eyes and looked toward the sun.
“Maybe she flunked third grade or something. We… You ready?”
I half-danced around the front of the car, grabbing my books and notebooks. “Maybe.”
When I got in the super beetle, Doug slid the paper across the dashboard. “Murdoch. Wanted me to give it to you…” I didn’t unfold it. “Personally. I didn’t look at it.”
I placed the unopened paper into the side pocket of my PeeChee folder. “We going?”
…
Doug was driving. I had a book open, its 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… study. 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 big corners west of the village of Bonsall, on 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, an elongated building framed up, level with and parallel to the highway on an artificial peninsula of fill.
“Building it quick, Jody.”
“Yes. Quickly.’
“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. 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 or a steep hill.
“Oceanside’s probably faster,” Doug said. “Cut over at El Camino Real.”
“Faster then, Doug.”
Doug downshifted, made the soft right-hand turn. Thirty seconds later Doug said, “Um, you know; Gary and Roger call you Joey.” I didn’t look over the Civics book. “I’ll call you that if you call me…”
“Dangerous Doug? Or… your choice. Sure.”
“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, up and out of the valley, We hit highway 78 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 dropping. There were five surfers out, two of them girls. Young women. One of the young women was Julia Cole. There were four guys in street clothes on the beach. Two were watching the young women, one was looking at the flotsam along the tide line, one was doing some sort of surf pantomime, a beer bottle in each hand. He was the one who looked up the bluff at Doug and me.
“Jerks,” I said.
“Fucking Hodads,” Doug said as he opened the trunk on the front of his super beetle. That one in the blazer and wingtips, guaranteed not from around here.”
I moved to the bluff, wrapping Doug’s extra towel around me. A set was coming in and Julia Cole was on the second wave. 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. Right arm through, I connected the stainless-steel turnbuckle at the left shoulder.
“My first wetsuit, Doug, December of 1965, made by a sailmaker at Oceanside Harbor, cost fifteen dollars. Christmas present. This one… seventeen-fifty, plus tax. But they were custom, two weeks from measuring to pick up.”
“Val’s,” Doug said as he unstrapped the boards, “my dad… up in LA.”
“Val’s is… valley, as in… valley cowboy.”
“Not trying to hide it.”
“Good. Noble. I am.” I pulled a cigarette out of the pack, showed it 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 Julia Cole and her friend were out of the water. The three other Jerks followed the pantomimer toward them. “Monica,” the pantomimer, the Head Jerk, said. Loudly. His crew laughed. He repeated the word, stretching it to, “Mon-ee-ca. We have some be-er, San-ta Mon-e’-ca.”
Monica, her head down, made it to the bottom of the trail. The Head Jerk, walking backwards toward the bluff in front of Julia Cole, blocked the trail access. Julia Cole stopped; her face was very close to the Head Jerk’s. She said something. He put his free hand over his crotch, hopped backwards, throwing his hands out and up, beer sloshing onto his madras shirt.
Julia Cole was ten steps up the trail when he said, “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.
The Head Jerk took several steps up the trail, turned back to his crew. “Come on up, you pussies!” Raising the volume, he added, “Surf broads. You jagoffs liking Monica’a ass better… or Juuu-lie’s?”
If any of the Jagoffs responded, it was more like growling or laughing than discernible words. “Brrrrrrrr,” the Head Jagoff said, Julie fifty feet up the trail, “Is the water cold, Juu-lie? And… I’m wondering if you’ve got anything on under that wetsuit. I saw… skin.”
More laughter. One of the members of the Jagoff 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 flinched, Head Jagoff 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,” she said. “Not… no.”
I may have been replaying Julia Cole’s expression for the third or fourth time when Head Jagoff approached the tight angle at the switchback. I may have missed the first few words he kind of spit at me.
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. “And… don’t know where you’re from, Jagoff; somewhere east coast; but we don’t fuckin’ call our chicks ‘broads’ around here.” Doug looked at me.
“I believe,” I said, “The Jerk prefers being called Dude… over Jagoff.”
“No, Jagoff seems apropos. That, Jagoff, means ‘appropriate.’ It’s French. Jagoff, which, I might be wrong, has something to do with… you know, whacking the… willy.”
Jagoff looked at Dangerous Doug in his new Val wetsuit, his un-dinged Hansen leaning against his left shoulder, his spotless white towel over his right shoulder. Jagoff looked back down the trail. His cohorts hadn’t moved. “Come on up. We have us a fuckin’ farm boy and some sort of retard Gook.”
“Oh, no. Jody; Willy Whacker called you a Gook.”
“Common mistake.”
“Step aside, fuckers!” Neither Doug nor I moved. “Jody,” Jagoff 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.”
Doug turned toward me. “I meant… Joey, but. Joey, I don’t think an apology is, you know, forthcoming.”
I let go of my board and extended my right hand, palm up, toward Jagoff. My board fell against the bank. He looked at my hand. He made a sound as if he was hawking up a loogie. I kept my hand out. He spit near but not on my hand.
Doug laid his board, 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 Jagoff Crew, now partway up the lower portion of the trail. “Hey, assholes, come on up and help out your friend. But, warning, Joey’s a, for real, fucking, by-God, Devil Dog!”
Jagoff shook his head. “Devil Dog?” It didn’t register. He looked up toward the parking lot, sneering. He put one of the beer bottles in his other hand. Holding the 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 against the palm of my right hand. He was smiling. “Fuck you, Gook!”
I closed my eyes. I imagined an eleven-year-old kid. 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 the Jagoff, 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 Jagoff’s.
Both beer bottles were on the path, both now broken. It would be a moment before Jerk/Dude/Jagoff reached for his nose; before the blood started flowing from there and his upper lip. It would be another few moments before the three Jagoffs, frozen near the top of the bluff, continued scrambling for the top.
“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 Dude’s eyes, blood seeping between his fingers. “Or… your name? No? Well, Dude, Devil pups; it’s kind of like… summer camp… on the Marine base, with hand-to-hand combat.”
Doug pulled his towel from his shoulders and handed it to Dude. “Apology, then, Dude?”
Fluffy towel to his face, Dude nodded. “Not to us,” I said. He nodded again. “Promise?” Third nod. “Okay. And, if you would… pick up the glass. It dangerous. Huh, Doug?”
“Dangerous,” Doug said. “Keep the towel, Dude. Souvenir.”
Looking from Doug to me, Dude pulled the towel away, blood seeping through it. “You don’t know Julia Cole. What she’s really like. You defending her, it’s like…”
“You’re right. I don’t know her.”
“’Cause we’re from Newport, Dude. Huh, Joey?”
Dude was staring at me. His eyes narrowed, then widened. Whether or not this meant he recognized me, I smiled. “Newport… yeah.”
Doug blinked and mouthed, “Laguna.”
…
When Doug and I got to the beach, Dude was still at the same spot, placing pieces of broken glass into Doug’s towel. His friends were in the parking lot, three vehicles over from the VW camper bus. There was a flash of light off glass. Julia Cole was behind the passenger side door. I couldn’t see her expression. I could remember it from earlier.
“Sorry, Doug. You know I’m trying to be all ‘peace and love,’ and not…”
“You shittin’ me, Joey? You’re a fuckin’, by-God Devil Dog!”
When we were knee deep in the water, Doug jumping onto his board early, too far back, too much of his board’s nose out of the water, I said, “Maybe we can keep this little incident to ourselves.”
Doug laughed. “How good am I doing, Joey?”
I jumped over a line of soup and onto my board. “You’re fuckin’ ripping, Dangerous Doug!”
…
I left my wetsuit and my shoes on the porch, stacked my books on the dinette table, and looked back into the living room, all the lights except a lamp by the console off. My mother was on the couch. A World War II era record was playing, a woman singing wistfully about lost love. Seventy-eight rpm. The wedding photo was leaning against the console. The song ended and another record, 33 and 1/3 rpm, dropped onto the turn table. “South Pacific,” original Broadway cast.
My mother got up, adjusted the record speed, and walked into the kitchen. I followed.
“The surfing?”
“Good. Doug is just learning, and…”
“Doug. Who are Doug’s… 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 are… friends… now?”
“Now? I guess so. Surf friends, Mom; it’s… different.”
“Still, it is nice that you have… friends.”
“It’s just… it’s not… Surfing’s cool. I surf. It doesn’t make me cool.” 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.
I pulled the paper Doug had given me out of the PeeChee and unfolded it. “It was a drawing of me, from this week’s Free Press. Me in the window, looking out. The pen and ink drawing wasn’t quite a rendering, not quite a cartoon, with un-erased pencil lines. “Grant,” a signature at the bottom, was not finished in ink.
I tried to figure what Grant’s motives were. Intentions. I allowed water trapped in my sinuses to drain from my nose, not wiping at them with a paper napkin for a moment, then blowing as much water as I could into the napkin.
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. Are you crying?”
“No. No.” I refolded the drawing. “Who? 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 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.
“SWAMIS’ is copyrighted material, all rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
And, in the RELUCTANTLY POLITICAL catagory, please vote the reasoned choice; BLUE. There is no other America to save America from going the way of many another country. There is no reasonable reason to vote for a disgusting example of a human being and wannabe dictator. If you claim some sort of Christian stance, ‘he is redeemable’ kind of bullshit argument, you must not believe Jesus when he said about those who speak the way the orange candidate does, that “the truth is not in them.” Or, perhaps, you put little value in the last book of the BIBLE. Cons con. Liars lie. Grifters grift.
It’s a sort of positive for me that the summer drought on the Strait of Juan de Fuca coincides with painting season. More like consolation, with even driving to the coast not a guarantee of finding waves. Busy now, it gets crazier in September when people start panicking about getting their castle dolled-up before the rains start getting more consistent. Finding time to devote to my other passions, including drawing and writing, becomes more challenging.
BUT I do have time while scraping and painting and second-coating to think, THINKING, IMAGINING being the most crucial component in each of these activities. Imagine what the drawing COULD look like, imagine WHAT I want to convey.
IT’S A PROCESS. Not dissimilar to house painting, actually. To use the project I am currently working on as an examlple, the homeowner has a vision of what she wants her Victorian home to look like; I have my own ideas. A few color changes later, we do it her way,. with eventual agreement that it works AND it’s what the person paying me wants.
SO… I prep and paint, and it’s never one coat of any color. I paint, and then TIGHTEN UP the paint, picking up missed spots (‘holidays’ in the vernacular), making sure the transitions are crisp and clean, the result being a job I can be proud of and the client will both pay me for and recommend me to others because I did it (right).
BRIEF SURFING INTERJECTION- Having missed one opportunity summer surf, and being pissed because I could have gone and didn’t, I did get a few waves recently. Just enough, with passing fancy rigs with boards on them on a daily basis along SURF ROUTE 101, to cause me to want more. MORE.
TIGHTENING. I am going to a memorial later today for a person I have been bumping into for years on the PORT TOWNSEND. I have a story I told his widow I would tell, and I’m going to try to write it out rather than ramble on in some fashion that might embarrass the others as well as me.
BUT FIRST, “SWAMIS,” the novel I’ve been thinking about, writing, rewriting, tightening for way too long. Having thought about how I needed to tighten a SCENE with the protagonist, JOEY, and the closest character to an antagonist, BRICE LANGDON, I tried to devote a bit of time to it yesterday, but got an urgent text: THE floor guys didn’t show up, could I PLEASE do some painting. PRAYER EMOJI. Shit! Fuck! I made the changes, pulled out the thumb drive. The emergency painting and looking at another project pretty much did the day in. OH, and then thunder and lightening; the weather kind. I went to bed and did not get up early… enough.
ORIGINAL ERWIN NEWS- I paid back some seed money I was loaned by local master builder/climber/skier/hiker/all kinds of other stuff, JIM HAMILTON; the money intended for my investment in getting some t shirts going, which, four months later, I did. Most are gone now. Thanks, Jim. BUT, DWAYNE at D&L LOGOS has been working on a FULL COLOR DESIGN, and I am SOOOO excited to see the results.
DWAYNE did some digital editing and had eight of the image printed up. They are heat-transferred, in a modern, way-better version of the hated ‘iron on’ process. I have to wait to see what the my cost will be. SEVERAL are already promised. WE’LL SEE. I will get back to you on it.
IN A NOT-UNRELATED STORY, I showed my most recent illustration to the clients I met with yesterday, friends of ANNIE FERGERSON, the woman behind the recent documentary about, you know, me. NOW, I REALLY BELIEVED folks would have to have a copy. I had forty printed up, two sizes. I have 38 left, BUT, hey, sales is not what I’m good at.
Although I haven’t given them an estimate, I did get a text back saying, “this would make a great t shirt.” “Open for discussion,” I texted back. I should have included the PRAYER EMOJI, way more convincing when the two hands come together. WE’LL SEE.
ADDING TOO MUCH CONTENT to make the best use of my semi-free minute, here is a poem/song I’ve been working on. THE PROCESS is, again, the IDEA- overhearing a conversation about you; the FIRST DRAFT- this includes singing verses, trying out rhymes. This takes some time; usually when driving to or from a job; harmonica to see if there is a tune. It has to flow. And repetition to make sure I have it memorized. WRITING- Putting it on the thumb drive. REWRITING, EDITING, CHANGING- making sure it tells the story. TIGHTENING, TIGHTENING, TIGHTENING.
AGAIN, THIS is an imagined scene. Fiction. Maybe it’s a song I’ll never sing in public, a poem I’ll never recite; I don’t know; I wrote it and it’s part of the driving song collection, along with favorites by others, the result of many years of song writing.
I HAVE TO GO, and I still have to write something about the late PETER BADAME. Get some waves, huh? See you on the highway. OH, and I do claim and reserve all rights to my work, so…
A PRIVATE CONVERSATION
an excerpt from some longer story
It was a private conversation, words I was not yet meant to hear,
Thought I’d surprise you at the station, couldn’t have known that I was near.
Your words and tears shared with a stranger, someone you’ve met along the line,
I should have known this was a danger, if I did not the fault is mine,
I’m sorry, so sorry.
You spoke of time apart and sorrow, now… I could barely hear your voice,
You said that love’s something we borrow, said freedom is a frightening choice.
You spoke of hope and disappointment, small victories, great tragedy,
In all the time we’ve been together, you never disappointed me.
Not ever, not ever.
I saw the touch, though at a distance, saw how your fingers were entwined,
You didn’t put up much resistance, offered a kiss, you did decline.
That’s when I walked out of the station, this is my last apology,
You should need no more explanation, perhaps we’ve set each other free.
It’s frightening… so frightening.
But that’s another conversation, a private conversation, a very frightening conversation,
A private conversation
This version: August 9, 2024. Some changes August 17, August 18, 2024. AND YES, I did make a couple of changes after I put it on this page. FLOW.
WORD ON THE STRAIT. More on all of this on Sunday, including a list of scheduled, distinguished speakers, artists’ work on display, short documentary, and more.
Classic stylist Archie Endo is back from Thailand. Temporarily. I am hoping to do a surf trip with him before he goes back.
Stephen R. Davis conquers another peak.
SAD NEWS via CHIMACUM TIMACUM (Tim Pauley) on the passing of EDINSON SERNA:
“There will be a celebration of life for Edinson Serna this Sunday at Myrtle Edwards Park at 4pm. We will be meeting by the PI building by the sculpture garden on the water.
Many of us knew Eddie fron surfing in the Pacific Northwest. He was always a vvery likable guy, super stoked, positive, and excited to be in the water surrounded by people. Hope to see everyone this Sunday. RIP”
NOT-SECRET-ENOUGH stuff. Professional videographer ANNIE FERGERSON (left) will be, if not premiering a short documentary on a notorious wave hog at the upcoming CULTURE EVENT, at least showing outtakes or a gag reel. NOTE; The goonball with the cap ON TOP OF the hoodie put this off fro a while, then, in true self-centered, sociopathic fashion, agreed to be filmed (with certain restrictions as to the angle from the beach, no gratuitous nudity, etc.). “Yeah, I figured, at my age, I would love to see a slow motion video of me, you know, like, cruising, and, uh, yeah… what?” WHAT?
DETAILS ON all of this and more on SUNDAY, you know, like, maybe don’t look for it before, like 10am, Pacific Daylight Savings Time. There will also be updates on ORIGINAL ERWIN T SHIRTS and, now that my daughter, Dru, fixed the slowdown on microsoft word, the novel, “SWAMIS.”
MEANWHILE, keep working on your surf stories. We’ll talk soon.
Trish wasI, as always, correct when she said I had become obsessed with these door panels I have been working on; four by-fold doors rescued/salvaged/pack-ratted from some job. My theory was, because everyone has limited wall space for art, these would serve as screens, or even, doors.
Yes, there’s an inside and an outside, and I kind of lost track of what was on one side when I was painting the other side. It wasn’t all, like, thematic. Maybe a little. Obviously I have some sort of fascination with waves. And color. I would start out, get to something that was not what I envisioned and… here’s the obsessive part; I would keep going until l was a high percentage of satisfied. The fear at some point is that I could then screw the whole thing up. A line too far. Or a color. Or… something.
I want to thank Joel and Rachel Carben, owners of the COLAB in Port Townsend, for allowing me to have my art in their space. Although I paint houses for a living, my artistic leanings have been toward drawing.
SO, I am not at all sure what to do with these panels now. Hanging out for three of the monthly Port Townsend ARTWALKS has reinforced my belief that marketing is not my strong suit. Not even close. SO, do I tell myself that the joy of art is in the process? That is true, but… but, but, but…
Captions: Stephen R. Davis approaching the wall of doors at the COLAB;Joel Carben and Steve; a framed painting that caused Steve to comment,”It’s nice that you’re finally going for fine art,”; various panels taken where they were painted (a Costco/White Trash garage). OHHH, and then there’s BIG DAVE.
I took this a week or so ago at the Home Depot in Sequim. I had already heard a rumor that Legendary Surfer BIG DAVE RING was giving up surfing due to arthritis in his knees. I did write about this. The rumor was confirmed. *Sort of. Quickly, Dave was raised in Pacific Beach, San Diego, and was part of the pack of “Pier Rats” that included standout, Joe Roper. Dave, currently 66, was fourteen when I moved to PB in late 1971. I was twenty. Not a big talker in the lineup, not a guy who hangs out and chats it up on the beach, part of the reason I found out any info at all is because we have been mistaken for each other, as in: “I read your last thing on your blog,” to Dave, or “I heard you were ripping the other day,” to me.
Most of this was back when Dave was merely rocking a big-ass mustache. We both were riding big boards (Dave a 12′ SUP as a regular surfboard), and we both caught a lot of waves, from the outside, or scrapping for insiders. Dave is a master of the late takeoff and the sideslip, and plows through sections I would dodge..
A notable quote that got back to me was, “I rolled up and the Walrus and the Beast were both out. I went somewhere else. Though I’m almost more comfortable with being referred to as ‘That asshole wavehog, kneeboards on a SUP,” and I’ve been doing my best to increase the size of my mustache, I must agree with those who say Big Dave is the Walrus. Coo coo ca choo, coo coo ca choo.
*Having already, in a pattern that seems to hold true among older surfers, moved from popping up automatically, to knee boarding the takeoff and standing up after the first section, to kneeboarding the entire wave, Dave expressed little interest in belly boarding. “No, but…” I could tell Dave was imagining the perfect pre dawn session, sneaking out, lining up a few bombers.
“It is amazng,” he said, “what I’ve gotten done because I’m not always putting stuff off to go surfing.”
I get it, Dave.
EYE and LEG UPDATE- I’m finally through with the wound care for the gouge on my right calf. Pretty impressive scar. I am going to have my eye checked out on Friday, with surgery to remove the clear oil inside it, hopefully, scheduled for… soon. It isn’t as if I can’t work, it’s just annoying. I sort of attacked a woman in a parking lot the other day because she had a bandage over one eye. “Hey, what happened to you?” Different deal. Worse than mine. Nice conversation. ANYWAY, I did tell Trish that, because of the glare in the water, I might not surf until the oil in my eye is exchanged for (I asked) saline solution, that to be replaced by the proper bodily-produced fluid.
BUT, but, but… when I check the forecast…
Moving on. Back to another of my obsessions. After I post this, my plan is to get back to “Swamis.” I had friends attempt to read earlier versions. I know where I have to make changes, and I have been working on it. That’s my process. Evidently. Obsession, distraction; what we have to do and what we want to do and what we really really want to do.
Real Surfers 