The novel is complete… but… HERE is something I tried to write to tie all the stuff together. After the story exposition. Perhaps. The characters have lives after the novel; I’m in the process of deciding that doesn’t have to be explained. I probably will cut Grant Murdoch out of the novel, or at least, edit him down. SIDENOTE- I really didn’t want the dialogue to sound TOO HIP. I read some of my stuff; most likely too hip. Shit!
‘Let me show you my latest acrylic.” Grant Murdoch, Jr. moved his foot against the Costco cooler bag that was leaning against the chain link fence and turned toward the shower between us and the bathroom building.
I pulled two old PeeChee folders, three notebooks in each, from the bag, coughed, and said, “I hope you’re not… perving out, Grant. I don’t want… guilt by association.”
“Because you’re a local?”
“Because it’s… yeah; the local thing. It’s…”
Grant was smiling when he turned back toward me. “So, my father said that what he learned from all the notes was…”
“The notes stolen from me.”
“I thought you said it was a relief.”
“It was. I didn’t know shit. People thought I did and told me… everything.”
“Exactly. You and Grant Fucking Murdoch, Sr. agree. But… then you did.”
“And… I am curious as to who stole my folders.”
“Attorney-client privilege?” Grant nodded. “Inherited clients?” Grant smiled.
I put the folders back into the bag, pulled out the twelve-by-eighteen stretched canvas.
A woman shuffled toward us. She was wearing a spring suit; short legs, full length arms; half-wrapped in a towel and wearing sandals. She leaned a well-used mid-length board against the fence, said, “Boys,” and moved toward Grant for a hug. Not a long one. Greeting length.
“Joey tells me you think he should cut me out of the book?” She didn’t respond. “I don’t move the plot… enough.”
“We’ll see. Joey can’t seem to let the… writing… go.”
I handed the seascape to Grant, pulled a pair of glasses from the pocket of my sweatshirt, and handed them to Julie. She looked at the painting, put one hand on Grant’s shoulder, the other on mine. “You almost caught the magic there, Grant.”
“Almost,” Grant said.
“Magic,” Julie and I said, me just a moment behind her.
COPYRIGHT Erwin A. Dence, Jr. All rights reserved. Thanks for reading. NOW, WHERE are the waves?
I haven’t done any t shirts in a while. There has been a lot of interest and I have done other drawings that are not included here because… I haven’t scanned them yet. I am trying to make my illustrations simpler, but, somewhere in the process, they all go a bit psychedelic.
All the shirts I’ve done and sold or given away (Trisha’s idea, to her friends, some to clients) are gone, and, as mine are, probably wearing out. If you have one, hold on to it. It’s not just my ego saying this. Okay, mostly that, but they are all truly limited editions.
Limited by my having to put out the money all at once, the return coming in… slower.
But, I do have some limited backing, have discussed some potential local outlets, and I am ready to go!
The three toward the bottom are designs I’ve done. I will probably not do the one immediately below, and, as far as color, it’s way more expensive unless I go with a sort of modern day version of iron on, and then… I’m obviously not someone who deals in percentages and wholesale/retail, nor do I really want to be. I just want to keep drawing simple little pen and ink illustrations and… I WILL HAVE a few more examples next time. WEDNESDAY.
OH, I am going to do the one below the “Locals” one first; white on black. It seems kind of, you know, graphic and only semi-psychedelic.
All images are copyright protected and are the sole property of Erwin A. Dence, Jr. All rights reserved.
MEANWHILE, I just (as in yesterday) had a bit of a fall; ladder slipped, I started falling, grabbed onto ladder with one hand, slowing my descent, hit metal railing with my back, landed on stairway and two open paint cans, totally destroying them and cutting and bruising the shit out of the back of both legs, and spilling the two colors I’m using on a Victorian I have the least of. SO, rather like any fall you see on any skateboarding video. I ALSO destroyed my work cellphone, its screen already cracked. SO, that’s not good. Trying to figure out what to do about that. SWAP sim card with new phone like they do in every spy movie? Meanwhile, the message says I’ll get back to you and… Yeah, Ibuprofen.
…that’s about it. Oh, yeah; HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!
I AM, AGAIN, at the end of the latest complete rewrite of “Swamis.” As in, where an author is supposed to write, in case a lack of more pages isn’t enough, “THE END.” I wrote, “NOT EVEN CLOSE TO THE END.” The current version is, after thousands of words were cut, at a little over 103,000 words. As I explained in an earlier post, I was forced to move the first chapter, which, cleverly, I thought, set in something more like the current time, answered a lot of questions I didn’t want to spell out at the end.
AFTER several attempts to write something concise AND with the all important AWESOME first line, I am pretty much just changing all the chapter numbers on my next go-through. LAST? I hope so. ONE OF THE ISSUES I wanted a new opening chapter to deal with is the writing style of the fictional narrator, JOSEPH DeFREINES, JR, aka Atsushi Defreines, aka Jody, aka Joey.
It sort of comes down to whether, as I’m hoping, the clues JOEY finds along the course of the novel are enough for a reader to draw conclusions. It’s not some conscious attempt at might-be-cool (or another failed attempt at it) AMBIGUITY, but Mr. DeFreines, who, after years as an attorney (alluded to but not overtly stated) writes in a very controlled way, clarity over flash. To that end, I wrote, and will not use, a line like, “I don’t use a lot of adjectives in my regular conversation, why should I do so because I’m writing rather than telling the story.”
WHAT’S CHANGED in my constantly working and editing and thinking about the story, “Swamis,” is that it has become much more a love story, Julie and Joey, tangled in the rush and roar of 1969. I have tried to convince the LOVE OF MY LIFE, TRISH, that it would make a great HALLMARK MOVIE. “Oh, with a guy being burned alive and all that?” “Yes I mean, it’s not gratuitous.”
I might be if Joseph DeFreines used more ADJECTIVES.
With apologies for going on about this, I wrote a sub-chapter, moved it to another place because I didn’t know where to fit it in. The place is now the depository of the latest rounds of cuts. AND, when I asked our daughter, DRUCILLA, to check out something on the laptop I am borrowing from her, she had to comment, out loud, “Oh, ‘Sexy scene,” to which Trish responded, “Really? I might have to read that.”
Sexy Scene for “Swamis”
“No, Julie, it was more you than me… The kissing. I was… more… controlled.”
It was late in the afternoon. There were still three surfers out. Julie and I were on the point end of the lifeguard tower. Our towels had slid into a single pile on the x shaped cross members. “No, Joey. You certainly were not.”
“I certainly tried to be… controlled.”
Julie reached into her big gray bag, unwrapped a top, basically something like a small apron. “Controlled. You… weren’t. But… enthusiastic. Yes.”
“More like surprised.”
“Are you going to… look away?”
“You look away; I’m the one who’s… topless.”
“Yes, you are.” Julie put the palm of her left hand on my chest. “You and your stick out nipples.”
“Nipples?” I crossed my arms over my chest. Julie untied the strap on her bikini top, her left hand holding her top to her chest. She widened her eyes. I turned, untangled my towel from hers, spun around and backed up a bit closer to her, holding the towel up and out in front of both of us. “In case those guys… in the water, have… really good eyesight.”
“Really good? Thanks.”
“Not a… I didn’t mean…”
Julie pressed her body against mine, slid her arms around me, her hands on my chest until she had my alleged stick out nipples between the first two fingers of each hand.
I tried not to inhale. Failed. A deep breath I was afraid to exhale.
“Don’t giggle, Joey.”
“You are.”
“You know it was my birthday…” Julie stopped giggling. “…over the weekend. I’m legal!”
“Congratulations. I’m not… legal… yet.”
“I’m willing to risk it.” Julie took a breath. “If you are.”
The towel dropped away as I spun, slowly, with control, Julie’s arms never fully pulling away, toward Julie, my arms squeezing her closer.
Closer.
I FEEL DUTY-BOUND to now mention that, whether or not I use this for the novel, it is still protected by copyright. Thanks for respecting that.
WIPEOUT UPDATE- This is the EMU Adam “Wipeout” James’s son, EMMETT caught off the Big Island. It was prepared by a chef in Seattle, presumably the woman in the photo. ALSO, and it may be because, like realsurfers.net, Adam and the HAMA HAMA OYSTER COMPANY have a world wide reach, my site got a higher than average number of hits since I posted the photos and story of the Adam’s family vacation. So, thanks.
FRANKENSUP UPDATE- Thanks to Joel Carbon for the apt description. Yes, that is my thumb. Yes, I did need a skil saw to cut the fin box out of the tail section of the first SUP I owned. And chisels, and knives. I filled in the big divot with foam from the same board, used some leftover cloth and some resin given me by Keith Darrock to cover the wound. Oh, and the sawhorses were from Mikel “Squintz” Comiskey, cutting down on possessions before he moved to the Big Island. I am also holding on to binoculars and a trophy he won at the Cape Kawanda Longboard contest a few years ago. I’m using the trophy, a beautiful turned bowl, for my keys, not that I still don’t still misplace them.
SPEAKING OF OLD DUDES WITH BAD MEMORIES, I’m thinking that will be my new excuse for bad lineup behavior when I get back to searching the Strait of Juan de Fuca for waves. “Backpaddling? Oh, sorry, I didn’t notice you.” Yeah, age, along with my wearing earplugs and my hearing being no better than marginal without them.
I DO PLAN on doing more board repair on the HOBIE. I guess I’ve had it for six or seven years, way longer than any other board I’ve ever owned (and thrashed), and ALL I WANT is another six or seven years out of it.
It’s still Winter. Get some waves when you can. And, again, HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY to all the lovers out there.
INSTANT COMMENTARY from (obvious alias) Frank Lee Darling: “If your taking a swipe at Biden. He doesn’t remember all the good things he’s done. Marmalade Man can’t thinnk of any. Because bone spurs never don anything that wasn’t self serving. That’s it. Connot wait til you book comes out. Probably banned and or burnt in Fla.
If you rely on the waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca to provide you with all the surfing satisfaction you can reasonably handle… well… There is a reason surfers who can go elsewhere do… go elsewhere. Of the loosely bundled group that might or might not be considered the Jefferson County CREW (as differentiated from if not opposed to the Clallam County or, heavens, the crews from King or Thurston or any other county) one is in New Zealand, another in Mexico, and two local rippers are planning a brief escape to, perhaps, Panama.
So, ADAM JAMES, who does actually live in Mason County, but, by virtue of his wide travels pushing HAMA HAMA OYSTERS to the known world, and who seems to be welcomed everywhere he goes, figured out a way to get to the BIG ISLAND, AND, AND, and to include his family: Andrea and their two sons, EMMETT and CALVIN (aka BOOMER), whose names I include because I keep having to ask Adam, AND because it is important to know more about our surf friends than whether or not they are goofy foot. Adam- no; regular foot but known to use a parallel stance on occasion.
OKAY, and I know it’s annoying, here is, after some further babbling, the photo array:
YOU DON’T get the full ADAM WIPOUT storytelling advantage here. I did. It was great. Next time Adam is backpaddling you, ask him about shooting the boar, or who this guy is, or pretty much anything. IT does look like this board was pretty far along before this Big Island breakage. I don’t believe this surfer was identified by name.
That’s Mikel “SQUINTZ” Cumiskey in the second shot. He seems to move, frequently, from Florida to Port Townsend to the Big Island. Mike and Adam met up, hit some of the spots. YES, Adam dropped names (Pine Trees, Banyons, secret spots with names I already forgot), had to include that the locals welcomed him graciously, AND that, by luck, he discovered a spot by the hotel they were staying at.
NOW, I have done some work for the Hama Hama Oyster Company, so I should include that the one photo is of Nate, the hatchery manager for JAMESTOWN SEAFOOD. The hatchery is owned by the Jamestown/s’klallam tribe. Nate is holding a few thousand 2-3 mm Kumamoto Oyster seed. They are sent from the hatchery to East Sequim Bay to grow to 12mm, at which point they are shipped to farms such as the Hama Hama tideflats on the Hood Canal. Nate is based out of Kona and, with his wife, Melissa, took Adam and Emmett out on their boat.
THERE WERE other photos, more waves, but I should also mention the boar was shot, by Adam. The way Adam told me, “So, Brian tells me, ‘the boar’s gonna charge you, but he’ll stop short. When he does, you have to shoot him right between the eyes. One shot. These guys eat twenty-two bullets like candy.’ It did… stop. I shot. Boom.”
BRIAN works for HAWAIIAN SHELLFISH on the Hilo side. Hama Hama also buys seed from them.
If I got any of this wrong, sorry.
MEANWHILE, look for waves when you can, and, if you find them, surf them. I am totally planning on restoring my HOBIE, which I did purchase from Adam Wipeout, like six or seven years ago, and, no Adam, I did pay it off.
Here’s something I got as a comment from someone who identified as FRANK LEE DARLING: “Those Cristians (sic) who can’t seem to not follow the sunburned turd should realize there not part of the flock, they’re part of the mob. Hope you get what I’m saying, Dude.” Not political, Frank, not sure if you’re talking about ALEX KNOST. No need to write back to explain.
IF YOU’RE CRUISING up or down SURF ROUTE 101, you might as well check out HAMA HAMA OYSTERS. If you have access to the internet, might as well check realsurfers.net on Sundays and Wednesdays. Not, like, dawn patrol.
I tried to pre-write this, but I had to edit it. WHY? Because I care.
I do care. I almost wish I didn’t… but I do. Every time I surf I try to surf as well as the waves will allow, and as well as I can.
Yes, I surf for fun, and I do have fun, but it would be even funner if I didn’t put asterisks next to my name and provide disclaimers before others get the opportunity to do so. But I do. I do this any time I describe myself (to pretty much anyone) as a surfer (“No, really, I surf, but…”), or if I recall (even to myself) my latest surf session (“Sure, I was ripping it up, but… knees, age, big ass board, paddle, years of experience, etc.”). Not excuses, explanations.
The negative self-explainers are pre-staged, baked-in as I try to gauge or grade my ability to ride waves in relation to others in the water (“Okay, five people out. I’d say I was… third best.”). Subjective. And I have asked other surfer’s opinions (“More like four; you’re getting… better.”). Subjective. The other, more important criteria was whether or not my surfing was improving (“Oh, I got in your wave? Hey, man, I’m just learning, etc.”). Excuse.
All this self-analysis goes on before (“Oh, it’s crowded, tricky, someone’s feelings are going to get hurt”), during (“Why didn’t I go for a side-slip?”), and after, all the while trying to guess what others might be saying (“Sure, he catches a lot of waves, but…), which of the available asterisks they might put beside my name, or exactly how others gauge or grade or… judge my surfing ability. I wish I didn’t care, but I do. And maybe you do.
But here’s the truth: No one is analyzing you as much as you are self-analyzing.
With exceptions. In fact, an even truer truth: Everyone judges everyone else; we attempt to put ourselves in front of or behind you in an innumerable number of categories, one of which, as surfers, is the ability to ride a wave competently. And we rate each other, definitely, on where a person fits on the kook-to-cool-to-totally arrogant dick/princess scale.
My site being ‘realsurfers’ is discriminatory. You are or you aren’t. Qualifications vary.
I recently asked a woman surfer on the beach if she judges whether a random person, before he or she actually gets in the water, is a decent surfer. “Definitely.”
“Yeah. If I saw me, I’d say (disclaimer alert) ‘that guy’s too old, too fat… not a real surfer.’” “Probably,” the woman may have said, and could have added “But…” Objective. I can… surf.
On the same outing, I asked a guy about the GoPro mounted on the front of his board. “WHY?” “Huh.” “I mean, everyone, no matter how good or bad he or she surfs, or how big the wave is, if the camera’s pointed at the surfer, it just looks… fake… Beach Party kind of fake.” “Well, I do it to work on my technique.”
At that point, because I am pretty far along on the ‘arrogant dick’ scale, I replicated the GoPro moves. I’m not sure the guy appreciated it. Still, realistic.
It should be easily believed that none of us look as cool as we think we do. A simple cell phone video from the shore or a fancy drone shot will prove this. Easily.
All surfers look awkward some of the time, some look stylish some of the time, few look either stylish or awkward all of the time. Maybe Clay Marzo can look awkward AND stylish all the time.
Forgive me, but I really don’t care how well you say you surf. Or once surfed. I’ve pretty much given up on telling people I rode six-foot boards for years, or I surfed here or there, or that I have surfed waves that were… challenging.
No. I still do that, but I wish I could… stop.
If I recount my history and list my credentials, it might not explain why I can’t surf up to my self-hype. That could be embarrassing. If I cared.
And I do.
For me, it’s all part of the FUN. Fun-funner-funnest. See you… out there.
BEFORE I get into how HOBIE SHOULD SPONSOR ME (as in provide me with a replacement for the board, above), I want to apologize for not posting on Wednesday. I woke up on Thursday and thought it was Wednesday. It wasn’t. RATHER than putting out something to explain this but without any worthwhile content, I… well, I’m posting this now. Sunday. For some reason, I kept thinking yesterday was Sunday, as in, “It seems like a lot of people go to church and then… Costco,” to which my friend STEPHEN R. DAVIS, replied, “Do a lot of people go to church on Saturday?” I still didn’t catch it. “Jewish people, Seventh Day Adventists,” to which Steve could have replied, “Oh, but then do they go shopping… on the SABBATH?” Still didn’t get it.
PERHAPS MY CONFUSION had some connection to my beloved HOBIE 10’6″ SUP, admittedly well-to-overused-to-thrashed, having its fin violently ripped out, half the fin box gone, a certain amount of foam and fiberglass with it.
PERHAPS, MY ASS; it was totally that.
THE MOST TRAGIC thing about the incident is that I was in no way ready to get out of the water.
It was one of those sessions that was a combination of really fun rides and some beatdowns. NOTE, I would never trade a session like this a soft and safe one, nothing bad, nothing great. HAVING SAID THAT (and this may the first time I’e ever said ‘having said that’), I’m pretty much frothed up to overflowing anytime I see the kind of waves there is just no way I’m not going to attempt to ride.
SO, after a few behind the section wipeouts left me in the impact zone, with, of course, five or six wave sets, and after losing my paddle on another ride (and thanks to the guy who spotted it and grabbed it), I was cruising along on another insider when… FWAPPP! “What?” It felt like I’d hit a drifting log or something; the sound was like hitting a two-by-four against another one; and then… yeah, I finished the ride, flipped the board over and…
YES, I did tell others on the beach that I felt like crying. I did… feel like it, having an opportunity to watch others surf waves, some of which I might have been on. I DIDN’T. I still might. I love that board. ODDLY, my unused froth seemed to be channelled into being nice to pretty much everyone I ran into. “Have a nice day,” stuff like that, though, on the way home, at the exact moment another rig with surfboards on the racks passed me, they going out, me going home, I whispered something like “Good luck,” something I in no way meant. Sincerely.
So, dear HOBIE, HERE’S MY PITCH:
The first surfboard I ever rode, in 1965, was my sister SUELLEN’S 9’4″ stock model HOBIE; wide, thick, rounded nose, adequate kick, big ass fin. I loved that board. SO MUCH so that our parents had to get me a board of my own. NO, not, sadly, a Hobie.
ADMITTEDLY, I have loved other boards. SURFBOARDS HAWAII; still have fond memories of my 9’10” noserider, my 9’6″ pintail, my 6’something” twin fin (TRISH bought this for me- custom). And I have had dalliances with backyard/soul/homemade boards I put together from stripped-down longboards or blanks (seconds) purchased from the GORDON AND SMITH factory. I have surfed on at least one board (a popout) my father purchased from those confiscated at Trestles.
If most surfers suffer from BOARD ENVY, or even BOARD LUST, and I cannot truly say that I do not look at the fancy boards (and I’m imagining a 6 foot JJF FISH I saw in this guy’s tricked-out Sprinter van) owned by surfboarders who in no way can do the board justice, or ride it properly (and realizing, sadly, that I haven’t been capable for riding sub-nine-foot boards for many years) with some of that lust in my heart.
I also realize it means little to say I never owned, or wanted to own a board by HANSEN or GORDON AND SMITH; as if I had some sort of loyalty. It may say something about something if I admit I shared a sort of prejudice, when I lived in San Diego County, against any board manufactured north of DANA POINT, and now that BING is, evidently located there, though I am 1,200 mile away, I kind of think Bing board might be okay. AND, since I’m confessing stuff here, I should mention that I had a local shop, when I lived in Pacific Beach, pirate a shape (WATERSKATE) designed by Morey/Pope and test ridden by PB legend SKIP FRYE.
STILL, after riding a longboard made by an OLYMPIC PENINSULA shaper, which I didn’t love, but got at a decent price, and procuring an 11’6″ SUP made in China by trading out worked for it (didn’t hate the board, and did thrash the shit out of it, hitting pretty much every rock of consequence on the Strait of Juan de Fuca and elsewhere) I got my HOBIE, on payments, from ADAM ‘WIPEOUT’ JAMES.
I am not even sure how long I’ve had it, but, at 72 years old, I had planned on it being the last board I will own. BUT, SHIT, MAN, I am not ready to quit, and though one of my friends has offered to loan and/or sell me another SUP, and another, who loaned me one once, has declined to do it again, I EITHER need to fix the HOBIE or get another board. It’s not like I’m poor, BUT…
I was going to say that I might be a perfect representative for all things HOBIE. Yes, Trish keeps me stocked in Hobie gear (after my board destruction, for example, moaning and whimpering, but not crying, I wandered the beach in my new Hobie hoodie); BUT, because my REPUTATION (and I am told I have one) is not as 100% saintly, AND because I’ve spent a lot of verbiage on this subject, I will save it for WEDNESDAY.
MAYBE I WILL write it today, just to make sure I don’t get confused about the days.
ART NEWS ART NEWS ARTNEWS ARTNEWS ARTNEWSARTNEWS ART… NEWS
Original paintings, cards, and prints by ARTIST/SURFER/KITESURFER/SKATER/HOCKEY PLAYER/ETC. STEPHEN R. DAVIS are currently being displayed and available for purchase at MARROWSTONE VINYARDS, Norfland, Washington. If you’re out cruising the Peninsula, or perhaps got skunked trying to surf, or disappointed trying to find snow, check out his stuff.
AGAIN, I should have taken photos when I was, POST DISASTER, hanging out the North by Northwest Surf Shop in Port Angeles. Formerly owned by FRANK CRIPPEN, the shop is now owned by TATE (should learn people’s last names, also) and his wife. With stuff for snow, skate, and surf, there is also work by local artists. Already familiar with work by Nam Siu, Todd Fischer, Reggie Smart, I was VERY IMPRESSED with (original) watercolors by AMY (again, last names). I’ve seen Amy surfing on the Strait for quite a while, do doubt burned her a few times, but, through STU (not to be confused with Mike), I discovered Amy who was watching their child, or child while her husband surfed (with four children running around, it was not clear which one or two was or were theirs) did art. SO, since I couldn’t surf, I went over to talk to her about doing, and SELLING art. My thought was she should also do prints and cards, more opportunity to get surfing related art to the masses.
MORE on all of this next time. THANKS, AS ALWAYS, for reading.
“And when he gets to the end, he wants to start all over again.” From “Stagefright,” lyrics by Robbie Robertson. Originally performed by The Band.
“I’d rather be clever than funny.” From “Swamis,” spoken by narrator, Joseph Atsushi DeFreines.
Throughout my third (or fourth) total rewrite of my novel I have been thinking that, when I get to THE END, an ending that was vague and unclear as I wrote; knowing that the denouement (I could just say finale) had to be unexpected, clever, AND another character had to die; I also believed that the changes I was making in an attempt to tighten the scope of the story, to focus on fewer characters in a shorter span; all this would tell me how to end “Swamis.”
And, last night, I got to THE END. Again.
EXCEPT, cleverness and conceit and the desire to produce a novel I can unreservedly be proud of continue to collide. IT’S FIXABLE. It just takes more work. Writing this piece this morning is my way of outlining where I have to go. ISSUES:
The events in CHAPTER ONE occur AFTER the timeline of the novel. Prologue that could be epilogue. Perhaps should be. EXPLANATION- I wanted the story to begin with surfing, with establishing JUMPER HAYES as a suspect in the murder of CHULO. I wanted to establish the narrator, JOEY/JODY/ATSUSHI as a non-local outsider longing to be in whatever culture there is in and around Swamis. I wanted to show that Joey had a romantic relationship with JULIA “Julie” COLE, and that the relationship was strained because of something Joey had done. BUT there was hope.
I have been rather insistent that the novel is told from Joey’s PERSPECTIVE, in his voice. It is not my voice. If “Swamis” is memoir, rather than being overly descriptive, Joey insists on clarity.
MY CONCEIT is that, because obsessive note taker Joey has chased down and documented leads, and has discovered who, from street level dealers to wholesalers to money launderers to detectives, was involved in the growth of marijuana as a cash crop in late 60s Southern California; and we, as readers, have the opportunity to be aware of the clues he has collected; when we get to the end, there is no need to further explain. DROP THE FILES and someone else works it out.
NOT THAT SIMPLE.
If I had intended the novel to be more surf/coming-of-age than mystery or ROMANCE, I have not, probably, succeeded. The love between Joey and Julie is the thread that goes outside the other boundaries of “Swamis.”
Speaking of BOUNDARIES; If 100,000 words is my projected boundary, and I kept track along the way, and I have already cut and moved a couple of novel’s worth of chapters and pages, most recently the PROLOGUE- good stuff; I am not ashamed of it, not sure where to put it.
It would definitely be easier to have thought of “Swamis” as two 65,000 word novels. While I am already considering a sequel, possible title, “BEACONS,” I must now see what must be done with CHAPTER ONE. So… Work.
THANKS FOR sticking with me, and… meanwhile, It may or may not be related to all the drawing I have been doing recently, my GORILLA HANDS clutching skinny ass pens and pencils, but I am dealing with this excruciating pain in my right hand that feels like, if I am clutching anything, all the blood in my body is focused on my thumb, and, if I poked, say, the end of it… Yeah; I can imagine how jokes could so easily be made of this. “Too bad it’s your thumb,” “Clutching, you say,” etc.
To provide more opportunity for humor, when I self-diagnosed with the help of the always-reliable internet, it seems the malady is nicknamed “Mommy thumb.” No, it’s because moms seem to suffer with similar symptoms from holding newborns. And no, I don’t see how that compares to my holding cell phones and writing implements. It is, essentially, tendonitis, and yes, when the swelling finally goes down… relief.
ANYway, since I have some actual painting projects coming up, with rest and Ibuprofen and a splint (which, happily, doesn’t seem necessary when typing), my hand’s condition will improve further by the time some actual waves find their way my way. I do hope you are getting the benefits of the atmospheric river.
These are some recent works I didn’t think I had scanned. OR I believed they were scanned as PDFs, something I couldn’t transfer. I SHOULD, perhaps keep the line drawings for some possible future edition of a realsurfers/original Erwin coloring book, particularly since I may tend to over-color drawings that were, possibly, overdrawn in the first place.
MEANWHILE, I got some bad news on an art project I have been working on; basically, that the process was not set up correctly, paperwork-wise, and when I sent a bill for services (and illustrations) rendered, there were issues.
ISSUES. I HATE ISSUES. If I say getting paid is the reward for my labors; contemplating, sketching, drawing, revising, redrawing; and is temporarily gratifying, the money just a part of a cache and mostly spoken-for dollars, having issues in collecting the reward substantially reduces the JOY.
NOT THAT I don’t enjoy the prospect and the actual work of doing an illustration for some amount of cash. I DO, even as I realize I can make substantially more money per hour scraping and priming and painting someone’s house. AND I do factor in that it is not painting season.
THIS SETBACK has given me pause to consider (not for the first time) why the hell I insist on pursuing some life outside of the scraping and priming and painting.
SO, I DID what I do; I wrote about it. Not all vitriol and grievance; rather I wrote a piece on how most folks who attempt to be artists want to please an audience.
AS DO I. Though I do want to please myself, with varying degrees of success, AND I have, indeed, accused other writer’s works (well, one writer, I confess) as being masturbatory; everything I write or draw or paint (including houses) is meant to be seen by, and, bottom line, to please the client and potential clients. I must add to this that a job isn’t finished until it is. I throw away so many more drawings than I display, I edit the shit out of things I write, and I go around and around any painting project doing what I call the “Tighten up.”
I realize that sounds, even as I write it, kind of queazy-ness inducing if not outright creepy. This isn’t me VIRTUE-SIGNALLING. No, I would love to be anything close to successful at writing and/or drawing, two things that have been part of my life, on and off, mostly off, almost all my life.
SO, I wrote the not-quite screed, but deciding to listen to Trish, I will wait and see what happens with the project with the issues. Meanwhile, I have other exciting projects/prospects on the ‘possibly fantastic,’ probably not’ scale. I should mention that I am really bad at waiting. If you’ve seen me in the water, you might agree.
BUT NOW, since I’m all calm and resolved, I’ll hit “Save” for the whole thing, stash it away for future check out if not use. Then, I will highlight this part and put it on my (yeah I’m resigned to calling my ‘site’ this) blog.
As my projects get sorted out, I’ll, of course, write about it… here.
AS ALWAYS, thanks for checking this out, and for respecting the copyright ISSUES with any original stuff. Whether I make any money or not from my work, I do reserve all rights to it.
AS FAR AS WAVES on or around the Strait of Juan de Fuca, your guess is as good as mine.
I’ve been busy drawing. I have several reasons for doing so. New designs for t shirts, some work for the PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY’s upcoming SUMMER READ, and, just because I enjoy it.
SO, LET’S SEE HOW MY LATEST scans look on the screen:
THERE ARE MORE, but should save some copyrighted original stuff for next time. WEDNESDAY… MORE! (sorry about the explanation point; not that a show of enthusiasm isn’t appropriate. MEANWHILE, thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers. See you out on Surf Route 101.
IF I HAVE TO BLAME something for the prolific-ness, it’s the recent far-eeez-ing weather. AND I have been sa-soww-ly getting cal-lose-er finishing my novel, “Swamis.”
Leaving the studio space Stephen R. Davis’s friend Cosmo is letting him use, squeezed tightly into my stealth surf rig, my pristine Hobie on the racks, I gave Steve what I believe I have him convinced is the official surfer greeting, a sort of ALOHA (like ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’) for haoles (and I’m only saying haoles as counterpoint to the aloha spirit thing I’m not certain is as widespread as presented in ads targeting tourists, some of whom are haoles) who aren’t into the now-and-possibly- increasingly common practice of hugging people we don’t know well (or don’t actually know at all).
I think I picked up the connection back when, 15 1/2-years-old, proud possessor of a learner’s permit, I was driving with my mother in the family 9 passenger station wagon (this was way pre-Sprinter), our collection of surf-riding equipment on the racks, I noticed Phil Harper’s sister Trish (not my Trish- didn’t surf, didk date one of my first surf heroes, Fallbrook local Bucky Davis) coming toward us. I may have been ready to wave, possibly even with my hand out the window, when she flipped me the bird. SINGLE EAGLE. Now, Trish may not have noticed my Mom… or, more exciting in a rebellious kind of way, may not have cared. In order to not completely freak out about the situation, I tried to convince myself that my mother didn’t know what the gesture meant. I mean… my Mom?
INTERESTINGLY ENOUGH, the double eagle is pretty much the way I greeted Steve when he surprised me by paddling out unannounced (he was supposed to be in Hawaii) on a day when the waves were… I’ll say challenging, in a good way. As I recall, he said something like, “Happy to see you, also,” possibly in a sarcastic way. REGGIE was a bit more… I’m going to say unappreciative when I gave him the double fisted hello on several occasions. I can’t say for certain if he’s convinced yet that I meant something positive, like “Glad to see you, can’t wait to compete for waves with you… brother.” Oh, also something I can’t get going on, even though I have three brothers.
WHAT IS INTERESTING HERE is that Steve sent the photo to our mutual friend, ARCHIE ENDO. When I say friend, though Archie and I, and Archie and Steve and I went on many an exciting surf adventure, I haven’t kept in touch the way I should since he went to Thailand for work a few years ago, had a stroke, is still recovering, and is still there. Trish (my Trish) has been communicating through the Facebook, and Steve does that and the Instagram; BUT Archie sent Trish and Steve a lovely note that included the photo, and Trish sent it to my phone.
Knowing Archie does read this blog, I tried to save his post and put it on here but the transfer didn’t work. Here is what he wrote:
“Hoping you guys are doing OK in the cold weather. I hoped I cold come home this winter but I couldn’t (partner’s family’s health). So much for the El Nino ‘warmer’ winter, though. In my dreams the other day; I saw you guys at Swami’s parking lot.. Young Erwin was giving me… fingers! Nice photo.”
Bad friend (and young Erwin) aside, I named the narrator of my novel Atsushi, Joseph DeFreines’ middle name, Archie’s actual first name. I do miss going surfing with him. He’d play cassettes of surf music from Japan(and many other places) if he was driving, I’d play harmonica, and, if I was driving, he would never complain about having to go to Costco on the way home. Trish really likes Archie, possibly because his calmness is so radically different than my… I want to say higher energy-ness, and my saying I was going with Archie was quite persuasive. STILL, Archie is radical in his own way, always stylish, always in control.
We are bonded, I believe, through our mutual love for surfing. As are all real surfers, something I had intended to write about as of Tuesday morning.
Atsushi ‘Archie’ Endo styling.
I MUST ADD that I call a zone inside the big rocks at a spot known for closeouts ARCHIE’S REEF. He knew how to navigate through the sections and find a clean face. I can easily remember walking along the trail, and, visible through and just above the line of trees and shrubs and blackberry bushes, Archie was streaking past.
WEIRDLY CONNECTED story-
We have a cabinet in the breakfast nook where the cat, Angelina’s, food is kept. Also inside are these postcard sized postcards, I guess, that Dru gathered back when we would frequent the ROSE THEATRE in Port Townsend. When I opened it this morning, this photo, found somewhere else and put in the cabinet, already mildewed, fell out. I made the mistake of trying to clean it with something a bit too strong. Wiped out the lower portion. This was (maybe you’ll notice the painting on the back seat side window) my stealth surf rig circa 1970. That’s Trisha’s VW coming up the road. My replacement for the Morris Minor I loved was this Hillman Husky.
I told BUDDY ROLLINS, my boss at Buddy’s Sign Service in Oceanside, that I wanted to get a VW, and we were doing some signs for the local dealer, and he could possibly… you know, do a deal. Since Buddy, real name Lacy, hence a nickname was necessary, learned how to letter signs in a Florida prison, I thought he could, you know, do a deal. He did, but not for a VW. “Kid’ll love this way more than a bug. It has so much more power and…” That was the guy at the dealership. Not sure where he learned his tactics. “Has to buy it today, though.”
I didn’t love the car, I did love the power. I’m not sure how long I had it, but I blew the engine heading to Palomar Junior College, passing another guy from Fallbrook who was driving a, yes, VW. I think he flipped me off when he re-passed me, the Hillman coasting to the side of the road.
SIDENOTE- I did love, for the most part, as a 17-20 year-old, working at Buddy’s, two blocks from Oceanside pier, in a converted newspaper building where I could work on my own art projects, and though the varied nub/apprentice/shop manager experience did greatly assist in my getting a job as a journeyman painter at barely twenty, I didn’t totally love Buddy. Didn’t hate him. AND I do have a character in “Swamis” named Buddy Rollins, a bowling alley owner and ‘pro.’ Maybe it’s the swagger Buddy had that made him seem the model for the fictional version.
AS PREVIOUSLY MENTIONED, I did want to write about bonding in surfing. I will. But, since I am thinking about it, perhaps, in life, we are bonded with those we don’t love as well as those we do.
I don’t want to wear you out. THANKS for reading. I do have some recent illustrations. Next time. Meanwhile, double eagles to you in only the most gracious, way. Beware, however, of the single eagle with a half twist; that one is serious.
Real Surfers 