“I prefer to think of myself as a surf dilettante.”

Hey, I actually do have to go. I will get back to the story of why someone who self-identifies as a surf ‘Dilettante’ might actually be best, or at least better, described as a “Kook.”

I can’t remember if I said, “Oh, then, you’re a kook,” and yes, after he got his custom coffee and artisan baked good, I did ask him to describe dilettante. I was thinking about the chocolate.

I am occasionally asked about my work. No, I am not on, nor have I ever dropped Acid. No, the drawings are not really as detailed as one might think. Yes, they take some time- not That much time. No, I am not totally thrilled with how some of the drawings turn out. Yes, I do occasionally try to save a drawing. Here are three examples:

Let me see if I can show why I wanted to rework the original Original Erwin’s.

Evidently, I never scanned the one that is now a positive (white background) drawing. The surfer (and it is always more dangerous/difficult to have a surfer on a wave, kind of looked DC Comic-ish. I will do a drawing with the reflection; just not the one immediately above.

MEANWHILE, Surf-wise- I did manage, after getting two new tires for my main and now only surf rig, to get a few waves recently. Yes, I waited for the snow to pretty much be gone, the ice not an issue. This is what kind of became the takeaway discussion issue: Surfers whose aggressiveness is a bit ahead of their actual skill level. IT DOESN’T take more than three or four good surfers to dominate any spot with a fairly narrow takeoff zone. I FOUND OUT years ago that it is easier to surf crowded conditions with a majority of the others in the water not going for waves they don’t catch, backing off at the last second, blowing the takeoff, or wiping out early enough that someone else could catch and ride that wave (a wasted wave is a sin, more so if it’s a good wasted wave).

HOWEVER, any surfer who actually gained some skill in surfing probably fit into the ratio of aggressiveness over skill. OR, maybe we all do. I do have kind of an example: It was pretty crowded. There were four or five surfers sitting outside. This GUY was catching quite a few waves. I was having success catching waves others blew or missed. The GUY had this kind of ‘look at me, I’m surfing’ kind of pose that wouldn’t quite qualify as style, no real skill at staying close to the power source of the wave. Somehow, must have been a lull, I’m out at the peak. With me in position for an outside wave, the Guy takes off in front of me. OKAY, so I just ride up under him, his board in pretty much guillotine position compared to my neck. Guy keeps riding for a bit then goes out the back. Okay, he won’t do that again. I actually had a phrase ready to tell anyone who actually saw the move. “That’s how you do that.” Didn’t really get a chance. Yeah, now, not that you saw it.

AND THEN, the guy does. Takes off right in front of me. This time I’m too deep. The peak pitches, I go under it, hoping to get back into the wave. Too late. I get to watch the guy posing, riding on. I COULD blame him. I have my reasons for not doing so. Yeah, hypocrisy might be one of the reasons.

STEPHEN R. DAVIS UPDATE: Steve was back in the hospital in Seattle over a week ago. He is still in the U.W. hospital. He had a bad reaction to drugs he was prescribed. If I said ‘bad’ I mean incredibly bad. He had a rash all over his body, including in his mouth. The rash was bad enough that he developed blisters. This is like having second degree burns on 100% of your body. It is a syndrome that can be fatal. So, yeah; bad. The permanent damage may be to his eyes. Steve said, last time I spoke with him, that it felt like his eyes and eyelids are both made of sandpaper.

Steve’s fiancé, Sierra, in a text, said the doctors think they may be able to release him soon, but, because he needs to see them several times a week, he may be staying in Seattle for the immediate future. This is all before he starts a real treatment.

JUST, maybe, because this is how these things work, I have run into several others who have gone through or are going through the horrors of Cancer. I was just working on a project with a floor guy who went through something similar to Steve’s experience a couple of years ago. He said that he was in pretty good shape going into the chemo, but when it was over, “I felt like I was 110.” He’s about 50, works a maximum of five hours a day. Hard hours.

If you scroll down, I do have a link to the GoFundMe site set up by Sierra. Steve needs to get past this; he’s a great person to share some waves with. Yeah, he’s sort of aggressive, but not over his skill set. Let’s say five over five.

You may have noticed the recent bad weather up this way. I did. Enough rain to float your septic system, enough cold to freeze your pipes, and the ones to or in your house, enough wind and snow to… yeah, yeah, a lot for Northwesterners. As with everything wonderful or traumatic in my life, I write about it.

But first, a couple of illustrations I just got around to scanning.

                                                A Perfect Intersection and Black Ice

Every accident occurs at the perfect intersection of time and place. A second sooner or later, a distance closer or farther; no accident.

Black ice isn’t, of course, black. It is the roadway that is black. Roads. Asphalt trails, land rivers, naked to the elements. Centerlines and fog lines and the ditch. Whatever is beyond the ditch. The bank, the dropoff, perhaps a tree scarred by collisions, previous spinouts. Black ice.

One moment I am heading south on Highway 20, going up Eaglemount; complaining to myself that the guy in the truck in front of me is going slower… and slower. He’s down to thirty. Thirty.

We crest the hill, and it seems like he might be speeding it up a bit. Sure. The road was free of snow. Two hours earlier the temperature was nearly forty degrees. To, theoretically, save a few ounces of gasoline, I had it in two-wheel drive.

The truck does a slight slip, corrects.

I barely have time for this to register. No, I don’t have time.

I am slipping, sliding, sideways, trying to correct but out of control. I’m in the uphill lane, then back in mine. Half a twist and my rig is over the ditch and half slamming into, half climbing the bank, and the tree.

My vehicle, right headlight blown out, right tire smashed against the frame, radiator pushed into the fan; bounces back onto the roadway. The Pathfinder and I are now facing uphill and blocking most of the downhill lane, creating a new target for the next car or empty chip truck. I am trying to process what happened in the course of, guessing, four or five (or less) seconds from slip to slide to overcorrecting (probably), to impact. To full stop.  

Assessment. I am, of course, all right. Move the car. No, the car will not move. Hit the flashers. The one on the ditch side works, the one on the side most easily slid into? Gone.

The driver’s side door works. I open it. There is a woman there, telling me she has called 911. “Oh,” and, “Are you all right?”

All right? “Yeah,” I say, “I’m… fine.”

Fine? No. I might be imagining this, but, if time slowed down at all as I was sliding toward the inevitable collision, it was just enough to allow me to be angry, embarrassed, and sorry, and all at once. At what now felt like ninety-miles-per-hour, I was confirming what Trish had said about me crashing the vehicle I had not taken to the beach even once.

Yes, I did crash, I am all right, and I am so, so determined not to add more to the incident by getting hit by the next victim of unseen ice. I had two cellphones on the seat, and two flashlights nearby. Had had. They’re nowhere to be found. My thermos and some extra clothes are on the floorboards.

Shut the engine off. The battery? It’ll wear down the battery. Yeah. No. The car’s wrecked, fool. Where’s the inside light?

The passenger side door works. I find my cellphones and one of the flashlights (the big one) in the doorway. Now there are cars above and below me. I am less of a target. The uphill traffic is getting through. Various people ask me if I’m all right. “Yeah. Of course.” I call 911. Jefferson Dispatch. My call is transferred to the Washington State Patrol. “No, one car. Just me. Fine. Fine. Blocking? Yes. Blocking.” I am put on some sort of hold. The screen on my cracked (previously) smart phone goes some previously unseen color. “Hello. Hello?”

Somewhere in here I call Trish on the non-smart phone (way better speakers, doesn’t have 171 contacts). Very calm. I am lying. She doesn’t say, “I knew it,” but she does ask if I am all right. She does say there is no way she can come get me; she does ask what I was going to do. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

I see headlights and a flashing lightbar approaching from uphill. It’s a tow truck. It has been less than five minutes since I hit the ice.

But now, a tow truck is parking in the empty space. importantly, it is a tow truck without a vehicle on the hook; and even more importantly, it is driven by Kirky Lakeness, from Quilcene (originally, though he now lives in Chimacum or Hadlock); and, additionally (as in adding to the miraculous nature of him being here) Kirky is headed for Quilcene to hang out with his cousin, Louie.

Louie went to school with our older son, James. We have some history. For that matter, Kirk and I have some history. Kirky looks to me, on this horror movie night, every breath showing in headlights and flashing emergency vehicle lights, like a right-tackle-for-the-Seattle-Seahawks-sized Angel.

We will, Kirky tells me, have to wait for the State Patrol to get here before he can move the Pathfinder. While he is discussing this and directing some of the traffic, three rigs from the Discovery Bay Volunteer Fire Department show up. A woman jumps out of the ambulance, toting a big bag. Already passing me, headed uphill, she asks, “You okay?” “Fine,” I say; “Kirky’s fine… also.”

A minute or so later, the EMT returns. “You were the only one in the vehicle?” “Yes.” “You said ‘Kirky’s fine.’” “I did. He is.” “You sure you’re all right?”

A State Patrol vehicle shows up. The Patrolman looks to be about 19. “Oh,” I say, “You may have given me my last ticket. Couple of years ago.” “No. I’ve only been on duty six months.” Different very young Patrolman.

I give the Patrolman my license, registration, proof of insurance. He hands me a form to fill out. “No, you’re not a suspect.” “Witness?” “Yeah, use that line.”

While I am looking for light adequate to fill out the form; considering what words might make me appear less… stupid, the Patrolman chats with the responders about the recent snow and wind that combined to close Highway 101 from where it intersects with 104 to south of Hoodsport. “They had me on the side of the road. The trees are all just shaking. No, I was getting out of there while I could.” 

The Patrolman gets another call. He has to get over to the road to Marrowstone Island. Vehicle in the ditch. “Ice,” several people say. Someone adds, “Why didn’t the State sand this road?” That was Kirky. “I don’t know.” That was me. “It gets icy quick.” That was one of the Disco Bay people, probably glad they didn’t have to use the jaws of life.

That’s a guess.  

“No, no ticket,” the Patrolman says. “It was an accident.”

A few minutes later, I’m in the front of the cab with the Angel, Kirky; the Nissan on the hook, headed home via Eaglemount and Center Roads. Kirky drops off the rig at Mountain Mechanic, downtown. I offer to buy him some gas at the Quilcene Village Store. I jump out of the tow truck to pay (cash saves ten cents per gallon). I fall flat on my face on the asphalt.

Black ice. Perfect timing.

Yeah, I’m all right. If you want to see where I hit, check out the second tree before the guardrails start. It has several signs on it and two new scars a few feet up from the bank. If you want to make an offer on a Nissan Pathfinder, slightly damaged, you can check it out; downtown Quilcene.

STEPHEN R. DAVIS UPDATE: The last I heard Steve was back at the University of Washington Hospital. He had (has) a bad reaction to some drugs he had been prescribed. He developed a rash pretty much all over his body, including his throat and eyes. Not comfortable. I am hoping for the best. I will update.

This isn’t the post I intended to write. I already wrote one and sent it out into the whatever-sphere. SO, if you would be so kind, scroll down. I mean, after you read this one. We should remind ourselves occasionally, that surfers are part of a culture, if not a tribe. While we have hassles in the water and resentments out of the water, we are all, theoretically, connected in a love of the ocean.

Theoretically. Don’t mistake me for a blind purist. I am talking about real surfers. I do, and we all do, make a distinction.

Often mentioned on this site, Stephen R. Davis is not only a real surfer, but a lover of all things related to water. He surfs, kite surfs, skis, snowboards, sails, actually owns and sometimes lives on a sailboat, and, bonus, Steve plays ice hockey. My friend Steve, one of the funnest guys to hang out with, work with, share a surf trip or a surf session with, even a wave with (and I am notoriously not fond of party waves), is spending this Christmas at the University of Washington Hospital.

A nagging pain he has had for a while finally convinced Steve to get it checked out. There’s worry, no doubt, with the not knowing and the delay. He had another visit with the doctor, with tests and another appointment the next day. That was at 9am. 9:35am, plans were set in motion to get Steve to U-Dub.

That was Wednesday. There have been tests, a biopsy. Steve said he spent most of Friday taking phone calls in which he had to console people worried about him. Odd dynamic we humans have. There are a lot of people, in Steve’s case, who need to be consoled. I’m really not trying to add to that list. Steve’s doctors are telling him the condition is curable. Chemo. It’s more like, “We’ll see.” He will be in the hospital until at least Monday, with, hopefully, other hospital visits in Port Townsend rather than Seattle.

Steve’s girlfriend Sierra is over there with him now. “How’s she handling it.” “Good. Good.”

Steve says he’s optimistic. I say I am optimistic. Optimism is on a sort of sliding scale. I can be optimistic, based on positive buoy readings and history, that I will find rideable waves. Hopeful. Even if I arrive at a spot and the waves are not as hoped, maybe, with a change in tide… maybe.

Most of us have had injuries or illnesses that kept us out of the water. We have all heard of others who have had it worse. I have a sprained ankle, someone else has a broken leg. In mentioning Steve’s illness with others, I have heard about others, close to them, who have this or had that, who live with this or died from that. With plague and famine and war, cancer is the most fearsome, the grimmest of reapers.

It has taken someone from each of us. Yet, some have battled it and won. Hope, again. Sliding scale.

Another good, longtime friend of Trisha’s and mine, is down in the Sacramento area. His just-turned-110 father is in hospice. Yeah, One-hundred-and-by-god-ten-years old.

If I think about it, and I do try hard not to, there are others who come to mind. Archie, real name Atsushi Endo, who had a stroke several years ago, is still in Thailand. He has gotten back in the water. I have been a poor friend to Archie. I haven’t reached out. I am keeping his ten-foot surfboard for his return, but I did steal the fin when I broke the last one I had. I did name the main character in my novel after him.

Do I feel guilty. Yeah. I have earned it.

I did call Steve last night, Christmas Eve. Maybe I wanted him to tell me not to worry, to console me. Maybe. I do know I talked long enough that Steve had to say, “Um, Erwin; uh, I kind of have to get off the phone now, take my meds.” “Yeah, yeah, but…”

I am not trying to guilt you out. If you can’t reach out to someone, maybe just… think about them.

Anyway, one of the two new drawings featured in the next/previous posting (also from today) features a wave, a left, breaking, the sun behind it. This is, and I told Steve this, kind of a response/challenge to, or a competition with a drawing Steve was doing when we were crossing Puget Sound. Quick pencil sketch. The wave… perfectly rendered. “Steve, maybe you should add some spray off the top. I do like the way you showed the wave spitting.” “Here, you want to add to it.” “No, no, I’d never do that.”

What I would do is… scroll down, you’ll see. I want to be surfing with Steve for… years.

I almost said, ‘as long as I can stand up.’ Joke, like it’s about me. It is only in this way: We really can’t do much, if anything, to help someone else. Prayers and wishes are sent somewhere out in the whatever-sphere. Doesn’t mean they’re wasted. It could be a case of, with a change in the tide… maybe.

Console, be consoled. Consolation. Peace.

…well, well, you know… HEY arctic blasters and sliders and sideslippers on water, snow, or ice; those of you out in the frigid temps on whatever chunk of frozen tundra or slick highway you’re on; and those of us wondering which delicious holiday treat will send us over the line, while hoping our pipes don’t freeze and the power doesn’t go out… to all of you and all of us, the merriest of Christmas and/or whatever holiday or event you chose to celebrate, or ignore, or give lip service to, even if it’s only to binge watch TV or… whatever, just, hopefully you’re somewhere warm and with people you love, and… yeah, I am suddenly thinking maybe you braved the highways and stop lights and backed-up ferries and all, and you’re bobbing in ice-water, breezes fresh off the freshly fallen snow. Yeah, Happy Holidays to you, also.

I have been doing a bit more drawing lately. Here are my latest:

But first- Yeah, I do have some problems with technology, and I have had some issues with my scanner. No, besides that I can’t seem to find the exact placement that gives the illustration a fighting chance at coming out squared-up. Trying, as always, to get something out both brilliant and quick, my last attempt at scanning just wouldn’t blanking (Trish believes I should cut back on the fucking swearing) complete, finish, come across with something I can post. Shucks! Dang!

OKAY, I upped the resolution from 200 to 300. Dangerous, yes; but successful.

YEAH, you could have just skipped ahead to the illustrations. HERE:

WAIT. I had a thought the other day that is possibly related to family gatherings. You can choose your friends; you can’t choose your family. Yeah, that; and we can’t always choose who we are in the lineup with; and most of them probably didn’t or wouldn’t choose sharing waves with you (probably fine with me- I always assume so); SO, uh, karma and all that… WAIT AGAIN- that kind of sounded like I was about to make a NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION or something. Yeah, I always promise to be nicer in the water; mostly I’m just so excited to be in the water, enjoying what even the most cynical ripper has to admit is a gift. See you out there!

I mean, you know, when it warms up. A little.