Whale Songs and Bargains Made

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Melissa Lynch illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf culture events, surf novels, writings of Erwin Dence

An illustration by my late sister, Melissa Jo Dence Lynch. Copyrighted. All rights reserved by her estate and Jerome Lynch. No, Melissa didn’t drown… unless cancer is a sort of drowning. Fuck Cancer!

I’ve gotten into a bit of a thing, lately, Selkies and dark mysteries. Drowning is a part of it. For a surfer, to not consider this is… to not be prepared. SO, I was supposed to use some available time to work on actually completing my novel, “Swamis,” BUT I’m also working on some songs for the still-in-the-planning stage next Surff Culture on the Strait of Juan de Fuca event, to be held in late January or early February of 2026. AND I am still working on collecting and editing material for a possible song/poetry/essay book.

YES, Trish is correct in saying that writing and drawing have affected my life. For years. I’ve given up opportunities to make actual money to pursue these passions, which are now, evidently, replacing surfing as the ‘other woman.’ STILL, Trish has some faith in my novel. “It’s a good story; can’t you concentrate on that?” Yes.

Having just spent some time thinking about and starting to write a post-“Swamis” story, I kind of committed myself to working on the novel last night. BUT THEN, after doing some real world computer work, and wanting to post something decent on a Sunday, I got caught up in the following piece. An essay, I guess, and I made some changes this morning, pasted it on the site, made more changes. OBSESSIVE? Yeah.

Breaching Whale by Stephen R. Davis. All rights reserved by the artist.

                                    DROWNED OUT

What the drowning person hears. Silence? No. The thrashing, if nothing else, creates a sound. Chaotic. Bubbles rising, air to air.

Perhaps the kelp or the sawgrass make a muffled rustling sound as they sway to the rhythm of the river or the tide. The air escaping the lungs whistles, holding back a scream.

There are voices beyond the panic; a song, a whale calling from some unknown distance, or music, crazed and discordant, from some unseen orchestra. The pounding heart sounds the beat. Desperate.

The symphony ends, or will end, in a soft surrender. Peaceful, we’re told.

We don’t believe this. Clawing, kicking, we breach as high into the air as we can; choking, gasping, grasping at the surface of the water as if it is safe. Solid.

We do not return the whale song. We are not whales. We do not understand their language. If a whale heard our scream, it is one among many, many among millions, with a constant war of machines whirring and growling and belching and breaking on the land and in the air. No rhythm, No melody. Chaos.

I don’t wish to drown. Yet, knowing something about drowning, I go into the sea.

Away from sea, I bargain, trade time for time, to get back into it.  

I’m reachable: erwin@realsurfers.net Thanks for checking out my humble site. “Drowned Out” is protected by copyright, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

WAVES? I’ve heard some stories, but, for skiers and surfers on the Olympic Peninsula, atmospheric rivers are not what we’re looking for. If you are looking, GOOD LUCK!

Cold Plunge at the Selkie Reach Resort

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, short stories on surfing, surf culture, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, surfing, surfing art, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

Although I have yet to finish a seriously publishable version of my novel, “Swamis,” I put some thought and time into thinking about and writing a couple of ‘short’ stories with the same characters. Later. Because I have been considering Selkies recently, though I’ll have to think about what got me on the subject, I started working on a story that would include surfing and… Selkies. Here’s the start of it:

Cold Plunge at the Selkie Reach Resort

“No, can’t find an At… At…sush…i… DeFreines.” The woman behind the resort’s front desk looked between Julie and me. Not suspiciously, but for a bit too long. She was trying to connect the patient woman in an unnecessarily thick and long coat, given the conditions, and me, unnecessarily irritated, even with having to give way to four already checked-in and overly giddy older women, by which I mean, women somewhere around our age. 2016, so, late sixties.

One of the four may have been younger.  A sister, perhaps. Not that I cared. Not            immediately. Not before they started chatting it up.

The desk clerk was somewhere in her twenties, gray top under a darker gray sport coat, a pearl necklace that was almost a choker, hair that was almost straight, pulled back, black and shiny, but with an undertone that suggested it could go gray at any moment. Her eyes were dark. She could tell I was studying her. She sucked in her cheeks for a moment before showing her teeth. Very white. I’m sure she nodded as I looked away and at Julie, knowing my ex-wife had caught the young woman’s look and knowing she believed I deserved worse, staring and all. 

Fresh from the resort’s bar, each of the women was wearing a flannel coat and/or a scarf with a tartan pattern, something identifying some clan unknown to them. No, one woman, the leader, if not merely the most assertive, spent a certain amount of time presenting herself, with some Americanized version of a Scottish brogue, as, “Positively Scottish on my mother’s side. I’m, like, Sedona, Arizona’s representative for the Clan Adair.”

“Then, ‘failte.’ Welcome to the Selkie Reach Resort.”

“And… thanks. What clan might you be from, Love?”

I took the ‘Love’ part as something the woman had picked up from watching “Vera” on PBS. Yes, but it’s set in Northeast England rather than Scotland. Not to nitpick.

“I’m from Wales,” the clerk said, adding, “I’m here for the weather.”

The group took it as a joke. It might have been. Julie nodded and kicked at my backpack. I coughed and kicked at her three matching suitcases.

Since I’m wasting your time on wardrobe, I should say that I was dressed in an off-white cable knit sweater, fairly new Levis, waterproof hiking shoes. New sweater and shoes, hastily purchased from L.L. Bean. Online.

“We’re here for the cold plunge. Love.” It was the last of the group to pick up a room pass, one of the non-Adairs, unnecessarily showing her ID. “How far is the sauna from the water?”

“Too far at low tide. Big tidal shift here. Dangerously so. Flat beach. We have a safety line. If you can see it on a dry beach, don’t go. We have charts in the shower room and… Actually, our pool is plenty cold enough for most.”

When the women gave a unified groan, the clerk added, “Should be perfect tide, slack, in about an hour.” 

I stepped forward and set my passport on the counter. The clanswoman stepped in front of me. “The Selkies? The Sirens? Is there, like, any connection to, maybe, the moon?”

“I’ve heard tell… No, Love, I realize the older brochures might suggest some… Myths. And… not exactly here.” The clerk was looking at her computer rather than the woman. “Area’s called a ‘reach’ because it’s favorable sailing between the rocks at the north headland and the, the safe harbor. South, southwest. Sirens and Selkies were useful to lure tourists.”

“Based on ‘wreckers,’ that’s what I heard.”

“Myth. And, again, not here. Novels. Movies.”

“So, you’ve never seen a Selkie?”

“Seals. Plenty of seals. No Selkies, no Sirens. But…” The clerk handed the woman the room pass. “234. Yes. It’s in the original part, pre-renovation, and you’ll have a view of the water. There’s a telescope and… full moon tomorrow night. Okay?”

I stepped up to the counter as the cold plungers danced back toward the bar, a carved image of a Selkie over the doorway. “Joseph. Joseph A. DeFreines. Party of two.” The clerk looked at her computer and looked back at me, shaking her head.

Julie stepped past me. “Julia Cole-Wilson. Emailed… yesterday.”

“Oh, then,” the woman said, with a quick glance between me and Julie.

“I forgot, Atsushi. You paid for the flight. I just…”

“She didn’t forget, Miss…”

“Jones. We’re all named Jones where I’m from.”

“Right. Wales. I was down there… a few years ago. Quite a few years ago. Surfing.” Miss Jones may have mouthed ‘surfing.’ She blinked. Definitely.  “Lovely place, sad story… Otherwise, great, surfing wise.”  

Julia moved next to me. “We’re here for the disappearance.”

“A friend,” I said.

“Our goddaughter.”

The clerk tried to maintain her neutral expression. “Rita.” She failed. “Rita Longworthy?”

Her eyes were so dark, so moist.                                    

 Feedback- You’ve gone a bit David Sedaris… Love… in your advanced age. I thought this was going to be a ‘short’ story. Otherwise… okay. See you soon. Get the fuck better. Please! Your Trueheart, forever.                                                                                   

Image, obviously, ‘borrowed’ from Stablediffusionweb.com. It’s an AI prompt, as if I know what that means.

Then, again, maybe I’ve always made some connection. Unprompted. The first drawing was done in the late 1980s. I added the lettering more recently. Capturing the essence and the allure of the sea; I’ve never quite gotten it right. And… I keep trying.

As, I’m sure, you do.

All original works by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. are protected by copyright. All rights reserved. TO CONTACT, email erwin@realsurfers.net. Thanks or checking it out!

If Ben Gravy Surfed Epstein’s Island…

Posted on by under northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf satire, writings of Erwin Dence

…I want to see the video! I mean, man, do I! Maybe he found the list while scouting out whatever breaks are available. THAT would be some clickable content.

Okay, so here’s my thinking on this: I’ve been fooled into checking out a few videos on YouTube because non Andy Irons AI algor-rhythms (or is it Al Gore rhythms) believe, because I watch, like, every Nate Florence or Mason Ho post, and most Koa Rothman and Jamie O’Brian offerings, I must want some of these other pretenders to the “Yes, I make a living surfing and providing content” hierarchy, sub-title “And I still, and myyy management team will confirm this, don’t consider myself a sell out. Oh, and buy some of this super body wash. I use it myself.”

In researching New Jersey surfer Mr. Gravy (not his real name), I discovered his cover story is that he started the video thing when he quit drinking, as a way to stay sober. Good work. I mean, not like giving it up to run the Department of War and Manliness, but… something. SHIT! Never really a devoted drinker, I quit the cult in 1990. Mostly I keep not drinking to stay sober. Seems to work.

When watching surf videos, I do fast forward the more obvious ads (out of respect, more like not losing more respect for the surfer). One obvious effect big time sponsorship has had is cutting down the swearing count from surfers who previously, and, I’m assuming, in real life, dropped f-bombs more often than they dropped in on, yes, bombs. And surfers who might, might be unapproachable assholes must, must project a friendly, nice guy image. And, realness wise, I am aware that I am, possibly, competitive if not ruthless in the water, frequently grumpy, and always sarcastic on land, and, you are correct; my little blog ain’t shit in the scheme of things. Fuck!

Now, if I had someone sponsor me to paddle around Little Saint James Island, located in the American VIRGIN Islands, in the Caribbean, looking for surf, I’d do it. Great content. Possible surf. I would have to recheck the maps, make sure it’s not too close to Venezuela.

Warning! Almost political stuff. Don’t read further and/or delete from your history after reading.

Anyway, I’m not aiming to hop onto the Vlog gravy train. I do want to keep the Epstein thing alive. With the “Kill them all,” and the health care/food affordability crises, and with the “I’ll take it in gold” Trump Cavalcade of Incompetence and Corruption on a constant march toward… maybe you know where; a little thing like old rich people molesting children gets lost.

Or I’ll delete it.

Oh, and fuck cancer!

Reggie Blows Up, Chimacum Tim Outer Reefs It, and Cold Plunge at the Siren’s Reach Resort

Posted on by under hipster surfers, mind surfing, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, perfect waves, real surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, writings of Erwin Dence

I shouldn’t tell you where or when some guy, a ripper on an SUP, took these photos of REGGIE SMART, this after the ripper’s wife took photos of the ripper, and yes, I did see photographic proof that the photographer does, indeed, rip… oh, and I saw some photos of HAWAIIAN BRIAN, yes again, ripping, but, if seeing is believing (not always true; proof being shots of a rare lined up wave at any random beach break), but, as some other Olympic Peninsula surfers who saw the photos somewhere on the world wide web, over ripe with content and revelations, have saiid, “Yeah, great wave, great positioning”… shit like that, SO, yeah, kudos to Reg on forcing himself, with a definite lack of funding (check almost in the mail- not from me- different story) to cruise out to some unnamed coastal sometimes-heaven, sometimes not, spot and… wail.

The sign is another Reggie piece of art. His Port Townsend tattoo parlor’s new location is in the McCurdy building. Hey, it’s not my job to pimp out Reggie, but give him a call for all your body decorating needs.

CHIMACUM TIM took some free time, in between shifts on the Washington State Ferries, to do a stealth strike to Maui. Interestingly enough, at the very time he was doing a half mile paddle out to hit some outer reefs there, big time North Shore Oahu web stars, safety and camera crews and drones with them, were creating content there, and yes, I watched some of it.

The difference being, they didn’t send me exclusive photos and stories. Thanks, Tim.

I got this image from a resort on Lopez Island. I am intrigued by the whole hipster (possibly) fad of cold plunging. It’s a thing. Because I am still working on “The Hudson Street Whore,” about a possible landlocked SELKIE, and I’ve done some research on the whole Selkie, Siren, Mermaid mythology, and because my mind just keeps grinding away, I’m in the imagining stage of writing a dark (of course) piece that combines surfing with the rest of what I’m under-describing here, and includes surfing and ATSUSHI DEFREINES, the character from “SWAMIS.” The tentative title is, “Cold Plunge at the Siren’s Reach Resort.”

Meanwhile, I’m looking at doppler images, buoy reports, and forecasts, and trying to finish an exterior or two between atmospheric rivers and the usual doses of drama, spending some (not enough) time on the writing and drawing. Hopefully your too-close-to-winter time is going well. Hit the surf when you can. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net

Don’t be afraid email me, erwin@realsurfers.net, and you have my permssion to blow up my humble blog. I can take it.

Illustration and Question and “Swamis” Chapter Two

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I don’t think of myself as obsessive… usually. Still, once I get working on something, I want to continue, realizing the irritating interruptions for, like, sleep, work, real life… they’re just part of the process.

If you scroll down, you’ll see the work on the poem/song/story of the Whore of Hudson Street includes findinng out if there is even such a thing as a seal skin coat. Then, search for an image that goes with my idea of a woman, possibly a Selkie, lost in the world of, yeah, humans. Then attempt to illustrate. This is where I’m at. Do believe I have three-quarters of another page of stuff written, awaiting editing.

AND CHANGING.

The Store Owners’ Daughter and the Hudson Street Whore

When the night got too harsh, she moved under the awning, in front of my parents’ hardware store, the Hudson Street whore. I’ve heard her singing.

She twirled for a bit in the display window’s light, her long coat a part of the dance, “It’s old,” she said, “True, but it’s warm, and it’s genuine fur,” It’s the same one her mother once wore, the Hudson Street whore. I’ve heard her singing.

What’s next is making copies, adding color. The illustration, overworked, for sure, might have to be redrawn, simplified. And, yes, I am afraid of just going with black, bringing the image forward as the masters have done. We’ll see.

                         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 reforms, 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 held my board by the rails, tumbled with it. I felt her board hit it. I let go. Both boards, upside down, hers on top of mine, broach to the waves, headed for the beach. We both popped up, shoulder deep. She pulled the strands of blonde hair away from her face with both hands.

“Kook,” she said, pointing at our boards. I sloshed through waist, then knee high water, retrieving her board just as she, body surfing a reform wave, popped up very close to me. “What’s wrong with you?”

            Because I didn’t respond, she looked a little closer at me. “You.”

            “Me? Yes.” I replayed the moments before she spoke. She waded toward me and placed both hands and some weight on her board. I didn’t remove mine. She looked toward the bluff. I followed her eyes. Two women were standing above the wood stairway, even with us. One was my mother. The girl looked back. Her eyes were green and seemed, somehow, as transparent as I had imagined the waves to be. “Kooks have to stay out of the way.” She flipped me off with the thin fingers of both hands. “Double bird!” Her expression turned the words into an explanation partway through.

            “Some say, ‘Double eagle.’ Okay. I… shouldn’t have… You’re… not a kook, then?”

            She looked at my hands on her surfboard, turned her head to look more closely at me. “No. I’m someone who stays away from cops. And their kids.”

            “Oh. So, we know each other.”

            “Oh? No. No, but… you don’t seem…”

            “Retarded? Maybe. Getting better is what the doctors…” I took my hands off the girl’s surfboard and did a low double eagle. “…Better.”

The girl, perhaps slightly amused, pointed to my board, resting on a clump of seaweed. “Surfing isn’t easy, Junior. 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 hurried inshore and picked up 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 on her board. 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.

            “Your daddy get that piece of crap board for you?”

            “Hansen. Don. Eighth grade graduation. I was happy enough with a surf mat.”

            “We can’t be friends, Junior.”

            “No?  No. I’m a kook and you’re… a real surfer. But… What about when I… get to the point where I surf wa-aay better than you? Still, no?”

            The girl turned away again. Not as long this time. She almost smiled. “You coming back tomorrow?”

            “No. Sunday. Church. My mom… We… Church.”

            “You… 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.

NON-POLITICAL ERWIN- Do you think the current Secretary of War already misses the time when he was just a drunk douchebag TV clown? Not yet? Well. Somehow the Dire Straits song, “The Man’s Too Strong” keeps popping up in my mental playlist. “Now they say I am a war criminal and I’m fading away…” Not an exact fit, but… what is?

Thanks for checking out my site. Original material is copyright protected. All right reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. Contact me at erwin@realsurfers.net

Thanksgiving Much? Surf Music, Ghosts, More

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, Original Erwin, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, surf culture events, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, writings of Erwin Dence

WORKING ON IT- Librarian/ripper Keith Darrock and I have been discussing having a SURF MUSIC theme for the next Occasional Surf Culture event. I am working on a poster. The above start, not nearly psychedelic enough, may be used once we get details sorted. If you have surf-centric music, let Keith know via the Port Townsend Public Library, or you could e-mail me at erwin@realsurfers.net

It’ll probably kick ff in, like, January, preesumed (but not always true)height of the local surf season.

Photo from Unsplash. After scrolling and scrolling, this one fit best. Could have scrolled on.

Vintage Victorian Sealskin coat. Out of stock. Photo from MODIG. 1900s Faux fur coat from New York Cloak and Coat House. SHIT! Fake? Evidently you can get real ones in Canada. Might be a tariff. And it might be illegal if immoral isn’t enough, And it’s not like I want one, I just wanted the fictional character to have one.

The Store Owners’ Daughter and the Hudson Street Whore

When the night got too harsh, she moved under the awning, in front of my parents’ hardware store, the Hudson Street whore. I’ve heard her singing.

She twirled for a bit, in the display window’s light, her long coat a part of the dance, “It’s old,” she said, “True, but it’s warm and I swear that it’s genuine fur,” It’s the same one her mother once wore, the Hudson Street whore. I’ve heard her singing.

How this Fiction/Poem was inspired by Chris Eardley, and… an explanation:

It was too cold and, more importantly, too damp to be painting this close to the water this close to sunset. If the fog was to come in… I know the risks of painting exteriors in November in this part of the world. Still, after painting on the covered porch, I pushed my luck a bit, putting a coat on some columns.

That’s when Chris Eardley walked by from his office (with an envy-worthy view of the bend in the Salish Sea between the Strait of Juan de Fuca and Puget Sound) in another building in the Port Hudson marina/building/boat yard complex. Chris is another surfer overqualified to live in a surf-starved area such as the inland waters of the Olympic Peninsula.

Maybe we yelled greetings across the road and past the heavy haul-out movable crane. Or not. Maybe a wave exchange. But… because I was there under circumstances that could be reduced to “I’m here for the money,” I felt a certain amount of something resembling… guilt.

This is me, a self-identified paint-whore.

The fiction part- First, I do a minor cringe using a term as harsh as ‘whore.’ After writing and rewriting a few verses, I decided to make the narrator a woman (girl, age-wise), hoping, if I get to a complete version, that there will be some suspense, perhaps, that the story continues. And, somewhere in my confused, ‘let’s see’ mind, I want to connect the Hudson Street Whore to the ocean, to the whole tradition of Selkies and Sirens. And I will.

I’ll let you know.          

The aforementioned Chris Eardley representing in some sunnier climes.

THANKFULNESS- Every wave is a gift. Even the ones you fall on, and the ones that fall on you.

The ghost in the laundromat dryer window is, yeah me, washing my paint-whore outfits.

SO, thanks for checking out my almost-humble blog; hope you’re enjoying the holiday, and, it’s not like we’re all a whore of some kind, but, as such, a surf-whore isn’t the worst thing.

“SWAMIS”- I’m almost through the first third of my latest re-write, front loading a bit more of the mystery aspect of the novel. I’m planning on publishing more here on a second page. Once I figure out how to do that. Stay tuned, stay frothy.

Not much to claim all rights to in this post, but, yes, I am on all original material. Thanks.

That “**&%$#@!! It All, I’m Gonna Go Surfin'” Moment

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, Original Erwin, real surfers, surf culture events, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, surfing, surfing art, surfing illustrations, writings of Erwin Dence

I was actually planning on leaving it at that. All clickbait, no content.

Not that I’m going surfing. Not today. Maybe you’re out there, hoping for the right window to open up: Tide and size and direction, cooperative wind, amiable crowd (or no crowd). It might work. It might be working now; more likely after you give up on one spot and cruise, along with others, to another spot, always hoping, anticipating,

Yep.

Just in case music is part of your surf life, some tune in your head as you search or surf, I want to mention that I’ve been discussing having SURF MUSIC as the dominant theme for the NEXT (It’s, like, the 6th or 7th, one virtual) OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA (I’m ready to drop the ‘Salish Sea’ part) EVENT with Your PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY dude (afraid to give him a title, but he may be the Head Librarian), and well known ripper, KEITH DARROCK.

It would probably be in JANUARY of 2026, and would include SURF-CENTRIC LOCAL ART, and SPECIAL GUESTS like… Working on it. I’ve already signed up PETE RAAB, non-surfer, but a man with an impressive knowledge and collection of SURF MUSIC, and I’ve approached Legend TIM NOLAN about performing with some of his friends.

Consider this an invitation to any OLYMPIC PENINSULA surf music performers, singer-songwriters or bands. We’re still at the ‘think about it phase,’ so… THINK ABOUT IT!

MEANWHILE, as your anticipation level spikes, here’s a surf song I wrote quite a while back:

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

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

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

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

I’m gonna take off late, freefall drop, cave off the bottom and fly off the top, locked in so tight the wave spits me out, hit the shoulder and turn one-eighty about, moving down the line like a water snake, saving my best moves for the inside break.

Hit the inside section, arching, hanging five, That’s when I’ll know that I’m still alive.

Yeah, I wanna go surfin’, and I’m gonna fine me some time; yeah, I wanna go surfin’, and I’m gonna find me some time; Now, if you get to go surfin’, and you need a good board… borrow mine.

NOTES: One- I previewed these lyrics to Pete Raab when I was working for him and on them. I need a rhyme for ‘inside break.’ Water snake? Yes. Works. Two- No one should borrow any board I own. I thrash my boards. Always have. That’s what they’re for. If your board is too, too precious to you; hang it on your wall. My motto, still, “I’m here to surf!”

I do continue to work on my novel, “Swamis.” I’m either going to have a second page on this site devoted to the book, or I will post chapters on Wednesdays. Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net

You can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net

All original works are copyright protected all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

See you.

Chemotherapy and Other Near-Death Experience

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Trish and I were married on a rainy day, November 20, 1971. Yes, we were young, unaware of just how young we were. Then. We know now.

My wife of fifty-four years is going for her seventh (of twelve) of the once-a-week chemo sessions today. Friday.  The worst day for her will probably be Sunday. Weakness, vomiting, lack of taste, inability to eat even if anything tasted like something other than (based on her description) metallic snot. I should mention the diarrhea, another awesome side effect of chemicals meant to, designed to kill invasive cells without killing the host, the victim, of Cancer, the Big C, and, not that it’s necessary, but “Fuck Cancer.”

Bear in mind that Cancer is the disease, Chemotherapy is the cure; that it will someday be seen as brutal… maybe; it’s the cure for now.

As a bonus, Trish has a very low (like, next step, hospitalization) white blood count (the ones desperately trying to fight off the invader; this making it necessary for her to make three additional trips to the hospital to get shots that go (again, by description) “to the bone.” As a bonus to the bonus, someone with a cold or in the grip of any sort of germiness, should not be around Trish. So, like me… I should maintain a safe distance.

And I have been. Like twenty miles. Trish is at our daughter’s, I’m in Quilcene.

Trish went over to help Dru in her struggles (ongoing because Cancer never, it seems, actually fully surrenders), and now Dru is helping her mother. Meanwhile, I, tasked with some major repairs on our house, continue to choose working over repairing, not to mention writing or drawing, (occasionally surfing), and phone calls and texts between my once-or-twice-a-week in person visits.

And yes, I’m complaining.

The truth about cancer, and other life-threatening illnesses, is that, though we can assume that everyone has been critically ill, there is nothing we can do, really, to alleviate someone else’s pain, their fears; if words of support and expressions of love, and assertions that faith is part of the struggle; if all that were enough, we would all reach out to those who are sick. Or injured. Or lost. Suffering. And there’s a chance it’s helpful, appreciated.

I shouldn’t have to add that, witnessing just how horrendous being this ill is, I feel some amount of guilt in not being more involved in the situations friends have been in. And I’m not going for sympathy. Okay, maybe, thinking about specific instances where I have not been the friend I could have been, I have more guilt than I would like to admit.    

If I’m preaching (God forbid) to anyone, it’s to me.

Still, Trish will get past this. She’s tough enough, resilient enough, stubborn enough to survive 54 years plus with me; hopes and prayers and chemo.

We keep going.

Possible Yeti Totals Dru’s Honda

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, Original Erwin, real surfers

It may or may not still be rutting (breeding) season for deer, it may or may not be hunting season for deer; either of which might explain crazy activities by, um, deer. It’s always deer-hitting season in these here parts, and it might actually be a right of passage (whether in a truck, RV. or passenger car) to hit or nearly hit a deer. Extra points for elk, max points for a bear (not as if one looks for points- that would be creepy).

Last Sunday, after a football-watching Sunday Funday in Bremerton, a Marty Party, Dru, who, having gone to college in Chicago, never had a license or a car until she moved back, was driving home, well after dark, when, out of nowhere, some animal leapt out of the foliage and…

…totalled Dru’s first motor vehicle, and, evidence shows, tried to join her in the front seat. Because she was close to her house, and because, even with a bent frame, she was able, Dru drove home without checking on the status of the attacking animal. She did, quickly, call the State Patrol to report the incident. When I was in the neighborhood a couple of days later, no sign of the incident other than some pieces of safety glass, shimmering, near the fog line. Suspicious.

What was left of the passenger side front window. the license plate was removed to save the Seahawks frame, the liittle sticker on the largest remaining piece of glass was posed here, for effect.

DRU, coming to terms with coming of age, deer-wise.

IF YOU SCROLL DOWN to the previous. post, there’s a piece had written a while ago, then worked on again. The poem dealt with fog and Angels and such stuff. I posted it on Friday morning (or really late Wednesday) after I worked on the end of the Coyle Peninsula, tried to finish before dark, didn’t, and drove the twenty or so miles home (Coyle is part of Quilcene) on winding roads with no fog lines, eight miles of which was in minimal visibility fog, with cars and trucks coming at me with all lights blazing. I found an illustration that worked, but, if I had waited until Saturday, a shot of the lineup at fogged-in LaPush would have served as well. Or better.

My clients (still), VERN and DIANE, sent me this photo of me painting their Port Townsend victorian thirty years ago. Jeez, I seem to remember having more hair. There were a couple of stories of note:

ONE, I was painting that lower bump out late into the evening on a day threatening rain; in fact it was raining. But the wind was off the water, so, a couple of colors at a time, I continued. The wind shifted. The next day… repainted. Not a total loss.

TWO, on the side to my left (higher, steep dropoff), I decided, to save time, to lower one ladder (note the multi ladder technique) from the top of the other ladder, all while Vern was watching. Mistake. The top (fly) portion of the ladder dropped, out of control. Somehow I ended up under one of the ladders, holding on by one hand. I didn’t fall. When I got to the ground, I told Vern I always wondered if I could do that. I did; pretty sure I can no longer perform that acrobatic feat. Not that I’d try.

A couple of drawings:

The upper drawing is a possible t-shirt or Original Erwin Coloring Book possible, the other two are a sort of commission for Keith, taken from a spot he surfed in Oregon when he lived there, and more recently, visiting some of his old surf friends. the intention is to make a placemat, one image on one side, the other on the other side. Laminated, they work well. I’ve done it before. Not everyone has room on their walls, but most of us have room at the table.

REMEMBER, you can write me, erwin@realsurfers.net And, of course, original works are copyright protected, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

WATCH FOR SURF, DEARS, and Yetis and bears and whatever. AND WAVES. Be deer wise. And thanks for checking out my site. I plan to post another bit of “Swamis” on Wednesday. Watch for that, also.

In the Fog

Posted on by under writings of Erwin Dence

In the Fog (All to Watch Angels)

The sky has become water, suspended. We’re caught in this ocean, this cloud, Enveloped in water, almost floating.

It shouldn’t be this reassuring, This comforting, Tucked in and safe, Afraid to push away the blankets,   Afraid to look for the seam in the drapes, Knowing that we, by waving our arms, Even slowly, hands open, fingers spread, Like feathers, like wings, Can push this ocean, this sky, away, Change it’s slow and heavy course, All to watch angels, in the fog, twirl and dance, The tips of their feathers brushing past, almost touching us, And knowing The slightest breeze, The inevitable breeze, Will open the drapes, cut lines in the mist, And then?

Then we, alone and heavy, stones on the shore, In those moments before the glare takes over, Will see, clearly, The monsters and the magic.

Original poem by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. All rights reserved. Photo/Art from illustration from “Angels Unaware” by J. Dudley, not that I’m in any. way. endorsing the book; the illustration suited my needs. SO, THANKS. Perhaps when I put my collection together, “Mistaken for Angels,” I’ll reach out to Mr. Dudley.

Thanks for checking out my blog. I am reachable at erwin@realsurfers.net

If you see waves… you know what to do.