“Driving through a red state in a blue Camaro, just tryin’ to stay on the straight and narrow…”
I have to interrupt this start of a ditty… tough to concentrate when the dude who’d be holed up in a single-wide trailer (called ‘caravans’ in Europe- single-wide caravan) writing manifestos and letters to the editor, calling up Fux News, eating the Russian variation of Cheetos… should be, and would be if he hadn’t used small amounts of power and whatever steamy info the KGB (and post-Soviet KGB) are privy to as a route to attaining greater power, and eventually, absolute power… yeah, that guy, the one who can score five goals (I may have the number wrong, but, any goals would be a joke) against a (his) national ice hockey team (some professional hockey team, any hockey team), and now, he has decided to add Ukraine to the Soviet Union reboot.
He has grievances. Sure, I get that. People do. T.C. has grievances; they were rude to him at the La Jolla Country Day School. DT has grievances; had to have his silver spoon gold-plated- didn’t help. Vladputin has grievances- Despite all the threats and poisonings and jailings and extra-judicial, um, accidents, all the beefcake publicity shots, all the practice he has put into his swagger, people just don’t give him true and honest respect.
WAIT. I have grievances: I just can’t react passively to criminal injustice, to people dying because of some delusional asshole who has guaranteed that everyone below him is, indeed, below him, afraid, with good reason, to stand up to him. So, I write. It’s not like I’m all brave and such; I plan on deleting this pretty quickly. Wait, now I am considering not even posting it. Shit.
I guess I am commenting. Thanks, “Times.”
Evidently Vlad the Re(according to him)claimer is flat-out freaked out by video of the brutal killing of former buddy Colonel Gaddafi. Video, yeah. Back wowhen Mussolini’s body was hung upside down in the town square, still images, maybe some newsreel footage. Saddam Husein? His capture and hanging are available, evidently, on YouTube (no, didn’t check it out- still images and a rather sanitized description of horrifying actions were more than enough).
There’s no point here. Tyrants die. Dictators die. We all die. We don’t all take a lot of innocent people with us. We’re used to the Hollywood version of things: The worst villains suffer the cruelest fates. And we love that they do. Fall into a helicopter’s blades? Seems about right. How do I balance caring about human lives and almost celebrating the cruel and often obviously unlawful deaths of dictators?
Depends on the dictator.
I am not totally thrilled that I feel compelled to write something about Ukraine. I keep telling myself that, with the limited time I have for writing, and “Swamis” taking up most of that, I can do something quickly for realsurfers. That doesn’t seem to happen. This site is important to me. Research in necessary. Here is a quote from fictional detective Joseph Jeremiah DeFreines: “The world operates at an acceptable level of corruption.” There is a mandatory pause here. “It is not a particularly low level.”
Does the quote apply here? Grievance, power, corruption, war. Seems like a sequence.
It is late on Friday night. Hopefully I will have some time to think about something surfing related AND have some time to write on Sunday. Will I also consider whether or not to delete this post? Absolutely.
But I can’t help but think- Peace isn’t often delivered by convoys of military vehicles and heavily armed troops.
Wait. Is he sticking his tongue out? Is that a Saint Christopher medal? What kind of material is that top, or is it a wetsuit, made of? Is he just jumping up, or is he grabbing the rail for no apparent reason? GoPro shot courtesy of, I think, Cap, second-handed to me by Stephen R. Davis.
INTRO-
Trish and I, a little later today, are meeting up with our daughter, Dru, and heading down Surf Route 101 to see Dru’s younger brother, and Trisha’s and my youngest child, Sean.
EXPOSITION- Optional
Sean has an older brother/oldest child, James, over on the borderland between Washington and, yes, Idaho. James lives in the red state, works in the red, East of the Mountains part of Wa, and, yes, a bit of the blueness may have faded in the years since James headed that direction, signed up for classes at the U of I because of the Lionel Hampton School of Music, continued his practice of having his own band, continued improving on guitar playing, got into a popular Moscow-based cover tune band, the Kingpins, as lead guitar player (he can crank out any riff you’ve ever heard), dropped out of school, continued spelling his name Jaymz, got married to a woman with a young son, had a son, got divorced, got remarried. His stepson had the first of several (3 now) kids, his son had a kid and joined the Navy, pretty much in that order.
Brief history, without the histrionics.
So, back to Sean, down in Olympia. But first, yes, since our youngest child is turning forty, I must be something other than young. I am not writing about that today. Maybe a little.
MORE EXPOSITION- Also optional (suggesting all other reading is mandatory)
Sean attended the Evergreen State College, graduated, got a master’s degree in Public Administration. Any day now we expect him to use the degree and his experience in working jobs in which an advanced degree is not required and get something better, white collar, perhaps. Sean does have the capacity to retain and pass on incredible amounts of knowledge on subjects he has a passion for: Movies, action figures. Action movies. So far, this passion hasn’t turned into a clear career path. We have hope.
All Sean needs is focus.
FOCUS and “SWAMIS” What I really wanted to talk about-
After writing two complete versions of my novel, I decided an outline might be a tool to cut down on the extraneous and peripheral stuff. Plot, not backstory. Not exposition. No fancy descriptions, just basic setting, dialogue, action. Because of the time I have invested, I have to rationalize. I know my characters. Helpful.
The PLOT, the STORYLINE(S) have always been the same. Everything else is in support of the story.
DIALOGUE is very important to me- getting the rhythm and the use of language right. I used an ‘if it is important, I will remember it’ technique, trying not to constantly check with the second unexpurgated manuscript.
I wanted to use STORIES told by various characters to establish the character of several of the… characters. FOR EXAMPLE: JODY/JOEY is meant to be someone with a history of violence, of striking out when he felt threatened. I wrote several stories to back that up. JUMPER was severely wounded in Vietnam and almost certainly has Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. I wrote a whole lot on that, probably won’t use any of it. JOSEPH DEFREINES was a decorated war veteran. I didn’t write much about that, but because my father also served in World War II and Korea, I know something about how Joey’s father would suppress his own trauma.
What I attempted to do is cut out some of the stories, shift some of the stories around, have them told, in a shorter form, or merely alluded to, by other characters. STILL, I love some of the stories.
THE ACTUAL MANUSCRIPT- I told myself it would be so easy converting the outline into a novel. NO, none of this is actually easy. I do, however, love it all. I have to rationalize the time I spend writing and thinking about what little changes I just need to make; I tell myself that all writing helps one become a better writer. SURFER ANALOGY- Wave count; it’s all about the wave count.
The outline ended up being 14 ‘Episodes,’ If that sounds like it’s more screenplay than outline… yeah.
Adding the descriptions of the settings has not been as quick and easy as I had imagined. I have made more changes and will, undoubtedly, continue to do so. Tighter. That is the goal.
I currently have the Forward, the first big chapter and a good start on chapter two at a state I’m pretty happy with. I printed the nineteen pages up. THE PLAN IS, when I have Drucilla, who loves to listen to podcasts and books on tape, as a captive audience in the car with Trish driving (after my last crash, Trish will no longer allow me to drive if she is in the vehicle- I’m fine with it), I will read the manuscript to her.
FOCUS- I was talking to a client the other day about painting the trim on her Port Townsend Victorian house, and, as I do, I was off on numerous tangents. “We have to focus on the painting here,” she said. “Oh. Okay.” I said I wasn’t insulted, then said, “Yeah, I am kind of insulted. It’s okay.” I walked toward my van. “You know, the main character in the novel I mentioned… He gets so involved in all the stuff that is going on that… I think, for a detective, that kind of perceptiveness might not be a bad thing.” She nodded. “I have every confidence,” she said, “based on your reputation, that you have the ability to focus totally on what you’re painting.”
“Well,” I said, climbing into my big boy van, “I do.”
I wanted to add “When I have to.” I wanted to add a lot more. No time, had to get to working. Focusing on the task at hand.
DRUCILLA BACKSTORY- Optional but possibly interesting-
Dru went to Loyola University in Chicago, graduated, got a good job with an advertising firm, didn’t complete her master’s degree (Trish hopes she still might), worked for “The Onion,” moved back to the northwest a couple of year ago. She lives in Port Gamble, works in a shop there and does off site work for another advertising outfit in Chicago, works for the Olympic Music Festival. Dru actually did some recording of ‘concerts in the barn,’ the barn being in Quilcene, when she was in high school. Dru’s best friend from high school, Molly, lives in one of those old houses just down the street from her.
I really want my only daughter to help edit and package and sell “Swamis.” The threat is, if she doesn’t, and someone else does, and some money is eventually made, she would have to wait until Trish and I die to reap the real benefits. Trish plans on living to one hundred, I’m not planning on going anytime soon and… and… We’ll see how it goes today with the forced listening.
“Surfer” magazine had a feature recounting a perfect surfing day; everything aligned- waves, weather, surfers, stars, star surfers.
Perfect is only perfect because we focus on what made it perfect and blur, diminish, or edit out anything that doesn’t support that story. It is cynical to say nothing is perfect. So, I would admit to being a cynic except… except I am perfectly willing to edit the negatives and focus on the perfect.
And it might well be that negatives frame the perfect. I also believe there is a balance built into the universe. Seesaw. For someone insisting on staying at the balance point, perfection must have a certain sameness, safeness. Comfort.
Sorry, didn’t mean to get philosophical. I’ve retold this story a few times since the day and the session that is at the center of the tale; mostly it has been received as kind of humorous. The tale starts in the dark, in my driveway, with me spilling paint all over the back of my surf rig, including some splashing on my wetsuits. It ends, again in the dark, with me getting pulled over and ticketed on the way home.
In the middle, a bit of perfection.
Used totally without asking for permission. I did want to use the anthology, “A Perfect Day,” by “Surfer.” It does contain a poem of mine they published in 1968. I got ten bucks and a magazine, and nothing (other than the beach cred) for the reprinting. So, they could, possibly, sue me.
I originally wanted to focus here on the dangers of overfrothing. Haste does indeed make waste. I had been using my late 80s Camry wagon, my surf rig, for painting. Cheaper. Obvious. But I wasn’t going to paint on this day. Surf. Shop. So, unload paint to make room for Costco/WalMart stuff. I grabbed a paint can. The lid wasn’t on tight. OOPS! Not so bad. Mostly the paint was on cardboard or plastic. NOPE! Some had splattered or oozed onto my wetsuits. Fuck! I grabbed a brush, started scooping and brushing and… yuck. I grabbed an old dropcloth, stuffed it on top of the remnants, hoped for the best on my gear, took off.
I made good time, got to the spot my predictions seemed to indicate would be breaking. NOPE. ALMOST. I was tired of almost being good enough. WELL, might as well survey the damage. I figured I could hike up my cords, take off my shoes, wash off my two wetsuits in the inshore water. MIGHT HAVE WORKED if my roll up didn’t instantly unravel, my wetsuit didn’t float off into that area where six inches drops off to, oh, knee high on a short-legged dumbass.
SO, turn the heater to the position where most of the air hits the wet Levis, accept that I was skunked and dunked, and backtrack. I skipped over a couple of possibilities, pulled into a spot that required hiking in. Not a quick or easy hike; less thrilling with a bigass board.
I have learned that, walking back, a bigass board is even heavier. Drape a soaked wetsuit over it, worse. I parked, looked at the paint splattered on my booties and suit. Mostly on the inside of the suit. Fun. My new, glow in the dark, day-glow green leash was Navajo White, booties speckled, vest/hood sort of striped.
I stuffed my decorated gear into a cooler bag, did the hike, made it to the beach, dropped my stuff on my board.
One bootie. I could have gone out with one bootie. Last time I tried naked foot surfing, the gentle little rollers waves suddenly came up. Rocks, in these parts, will cut you. I guess, really, only if you wipe out. If you charge, you wipe out. That’s my excuse. Cut the shit out of my feet. I can show you the scars.
Walk back. Someone asked if the back of my car was attacked by seagulls, and, if so, how many. “Frothing,” I said, as if that was enough. No. Another story: “So, this one time, I drive up to a spot, waves are breaking. My board was back far enough on the rack I couldn’t lift the back all the way. I, um, slammed my thumb in the door. Still hurts sometimes.” “Uh huh.” May as well bring a thermos and cup and… damn, why don’t I have a stash of propels?
Back on the beach, I have to ask someone for assistance in getting my new backzip wetsuit backzipped up. “I just need a longer cord,” I explained. “Uh huh. Um, what’s with all the paint?”
So, the hiking. There were some waves within a reasonable distance. Most were closeouts. I missed the first one, too far out. I was too far in on the next one, suffered the first of what would be a notable number of thrashings. Two waves later, I didn’t pull out when I should have, went for just one more section and… sideways up the beach.
There were other waves, possibly better waves. Hiking would be involved.
This is where the perfection came in- a few genuinely wonderful waves. Not every wave, not every ride. My salt-washed leash got tangled around both my feet, I got worked on waves I didn’t quite make, sections I could not resist going for. The bottom legs on my new wetsuit filled with water, bagged out.
A couple of truisms: Waves that barrel break harder than crumblers, getting caught inside is tiring, a long ride requires a long paddle (or walk) back.
Somewhere in the past two paragraphs there’s what was the perfect part of the day, those genuinely wonderful rides on simply wonderful waves.
Luckily, because I was a long way from the trail, I ran into several surfers I’ve run into over the past forty years or so. Chat, rest, regroup.
Still, fuck a bunch of long walks on the beach.
Since I had gotten up at four am, there was no way I could face the Sequim vortex without a nap. Twenty minutes in the parking lot of the Deer Park Cinema. Then Costco, then Walmart; phone to my ear, Trish going over the list on her end. Then head for home. “Sixty-eight in the fifty-five,” the Patrolman said, “It was really sixty-nine. I didn’t cite you for the expired tabs.” “Thank you.”
So, then, home, putting away the Costco-sized this and the Walmart-priced that, I got to inform Trish that her husband, who has never gotten a good driver rate in fifty-five years of driving, might not get one for a while longer.
I did buy the wrong product in the vitamin/supplement aisle. That was upsetting, but I did get home early enough that Trish could cook up the organic chicken legs for dinner, and we could enjoy them together while watching “Jeopardy,” recorded, fast-forwarding the commercials.
A perfect day, just a bit farther out on the seesaw.
Hopefully the Luau slash surf/slumber/beach/birthday/whatever party went well.
I have a list of reasons for not attending parties. Yes, I am a known competitive talker, a talk-over specialist, and, since I have a voice louder than, most likely, yours, well- if parties are, as I have come to believe after interrogating numerous self-identified partyers for numerous years on what exactly ‘to party’ means; to hang out and talk in various states of consciousness; maybe I actually do party. Informally, as in, without background music.
Perhaps there is, rather than a list, only one item that has me turning down invitations to end-of-the-job, let’s-have-the-workers-over parties, just to mention one category of parties I have declined to RSPV. Ridiculousness. Sub-set would be lack of control of what I say. As in: Either I let it all go, unfiltered, direct from ear to mouth; then re-run all my gaffs and insults (intentional or accidental); or have someone inform me of them; or I go all wallflower and watch others be silly and/or mean and/or pouty and/or approach that delicate place where repartee descends into actual fisticuffs.
Repar-tee!
No, it’s not a real party unless someone runs off crying, someone melts down in a state of over-intoxication (this usually means being fucked up enough to speak his or her truth), more than one person throws up, a fight or near-fight occurs, someone falls into or is pushed into the bonfire, or, this would be a highlight, police intervene.
In the wallflower scenario, I have been told, I might appear standoffish, condescending, or worse, uppity and/or judgmental. “Who? Me?” There is really no greater social sin than uppity-ness.
Yes, of course there are, but uppity-ness is, you know, bad. “Who invited that stuck up (fill in your own word here)?” Uppity folks might not make the invite list.
Okay. Yes, after I heard there was an upcoming party at a beach almost at the end of what is, essentially, a dead-end road, and did see there was some remote possibility of actual swell, I did text a critical member of the party planners to wrangle an invitation.
Which I declined. Of course. Not because I’m, like, too good to hang out with folks I’ve probably been in the water with, many of whom I have chatted it up with on the beach. “When are the waves getting here?” “Well; glad you asked. According to the data…” Please refer to my list. Above.
Now I can’t help thinking back to beach parties I did attend: SIXTH GRADE GRADUATION (unofficial)- Oceanside Pier, southside. I was the only guy in a speedo (my dad, champion swimmer, wore speedos). I was embarrassed. No, not for that reason. Some people, girls too, mature… earlier. I will have to write about bulges and awkwardness some other time. The mom chaperones seemed to appreciate a speedo. HIGH SCHOOL GRADUATION (unofficial)- Tamarack. No speedos. Despite having learned to surf at Tamarack, I showed up in street clothes, without a board. I was tackled by a girl from my class as I approached the campfire- pretty much the highlight. It was, at least, what I remember. Oh, just remembered her name- Barbie. Really. Some other surf wannabes from Fallbrook High may have brought boards. No, after four years of teenage angst, of trying to make myself into some imagined version of cool, there was no way I was going to surf in front of these some-time beach goers.
“See? I told you he couldn’t be all that good.” Uppity? Scared? Worried? I’m fine with uppity.
Now I’m thinking about other, non-beach parties I attended. I won’t bore you with the details. Maybe some other time. My motto has long been, “I’m here to surf.” Yeah, but, “When do you think the waves will get here?” “Glad you asked.”
STEPHEN R. DAVIS UPDATE- Steve seems mostly recovered from the super severe, full-body (including eyeballs) reaction to drugs. He just had his second chemo session, and has a port installed. Pretty scary, invasive stuff. When I asked if he’s experiencing all the well-known side effects of chemo, he says he isn’t; he feels great; looking forward to getting back in the water.
“SWAMIS” UPDATE- I just dropped off a thumb drive with what started out to be an outline. This was an attempt, after two bloated versions of a manuscript, to cut the story down to a manageable length and scope. BUT… I love the dialogue. The thing reads more like a script. Hmmm. I have started rewriting the actual novel, trying to stick to the outline. Plot. Plot. Plot. The plot I do have. It’s just that I am so easily distracted.
Happy… whatever you’re celebrating.
Okay. I have written this. I am going to post what I have written. Then, later, I will self-analyze. Harshly. Feel free to participate. I use the ridiculousness scale; try to keep it under eighty-six.
“I prefer to think of myself as a surf dilettante.”
“Yeah, Babe; when I get out there on those rollers; when I am shooting the curl, shredding the wave faces; when I am in the fetal position in the Green Room, in the womb of Mother Nature, in the very eye of the ocean’s vortex; stripped of my worldly woes, devoid of my designer… rags, the super bitchin’ sunglasses, the pearls and chains and the Kardashian/Jenner-approved sunscreen made from organic compounds and baby tears… shit, I even forget that some ruffian might break into my Tesla or that my crypto currency might lose ninety-percent of its value; when I am riding the self-same board model that Leonardo DiCaprio threw off a skyscraper in a movie he later walked away from; when I am skimming the liquid energy bundles without even considering how utterly wrecked my hair might get; that’s when… oh, and I forgot, I even forget about where on my custom molded body my next custom Reggie tattoo might go in order to best present me and my… identity to the world; that is when my thoughts turn, Babe, to you.” “So, okay, I get all that. You actually going out or what?” “I am… considering it. The tide is… it is… kind of high. Oh, Babe, I forgot to mention custom vitamin slash mental acumen slash drug therapy.” “No, you must have mentioned it. Time’s wasting here… Babe, Babe-ster; you surfing or what?”
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.
Errant was the word I thought I heard the woman say. Errant Angels. It was intriguing and amusing, equally. Clever. I had to know why she used the word. Errant.
I had misheard. I was painting a small house (it would qualify as a cottage) in Port Townsend that had previously belonged to Keith Darrock and his wife. Keith, a pivotal member of the local PT surf crew, had substantially remodeled the cottage a few years ago before selling it to the current owner, Michelle.
Michelle wanted her cottage painted. It needed it. A year or two older than me, Michelle told me about her days at Height-Asbury, in 1967 or so, before the San Francisco Hippie scene was discovered and publicized and sanitized and splattered on weekly magazines.
“Have you heard about the ‘Diggers?’” I had, but I got that wrong, also. No, Michelle said, they weren’t fools who worked so others could hang out, take existential trips, find themselves; in exchange for food and lodging, the Diggers found odd jobs; sweeping, cleaning, pulling weeds; work for a teenage runaway like Michelle from Modesto.
What Michelle had said, what I had misheard, was that; having found herself, a few years later, in the mid- 1970s, in Port Townsend; before it was discovered by yet another wave of speculators, by pensioned retirees and trust babies and refugees from the supposed ‘casual California lifestyle;’ with a child and without a regular job, she started a little service company that did, yes, odd jobs. “Errand Angels.”
I like Errant Angels better.
It creates a different image, probably based on the only other time I recall hearing the word. Errant. Errant Knights, out looking for adventures. Don Quixote. Sure. I can imagine it: On their own Angels performing little miracles here and there, perhaps looking up, wondering if the Boss would approve.
This is a work by my late sister, Melissa. While she claimed I, her oldest brother, was part of the reason she chose to pursue the lofty goal of actually creating art, Melissa, my youngest sister became my inspiration the first time I watched her sit down, sketch Trisha’s Uncle Fred with a number 2 pencil, and capture him… perfectly. Melissa Joanna Maria Marlena Dence (nickname given Melissa Jo by our mother, who never met Melissa’s husband, Jerome Lynch) started out drawing horses, I started out drawing waves and surfers. Always striving for perfection, brutally and unnecessarily hard on herself (generous with my work, apologetically honest) I never really understood Melissa’s leaning toward images such as this one. Dark. Frightening. She was way braver than I am. I do think of her when I’m trying to be… better.
These portions of a work are the closest thing Melissa and I had to a collaboration. The pen and ink wave is mine. The little girl on the beach under it is from a photograph of Melissa when she was a little girl. I sort of believe the work was never quite completed, not to her satisfaction.
Angels, ghosts, images; I have pretty much completed a way-too-detailed ‘outline’ of “Swamis.” I cut the shit out of the second unexpurgated version, purposefully not even trying to write the flowery setting/descriptive stuff. I was striving to make every move clear. I did include all the dialogue that I feel is needed. Love the dialogue. So, it’s probably dry, definitely cut, possibly not cut quite cruelly enough.
Illustration copyright Melissa Lynch. Erwin Dence asserts all rights and protections under copyright laws for original content on realsurfers.net (I was informed I should add this).
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:
Possible t-shirt?I never scanned the reversal image. I softened the “Original Erwin.” I have some other plans… later.I drew it to be reversed (black for white). It might work better this way.
Let me see if I can show why I wanted to rework the original Original Erwin’s.
Reversals and reverse images, can’t make up my mind.
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.
Possible t-shirt, probably without the color.From a photo of Nam Siu taken by Jenny Lee; and yes, I did give Nam grief for ‘blowing up the spot.’ Not actually my crashed Nissan, but quite similar injuries. Mine didn’t have the peeled back quarter panel.
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.
People have been asking me for an update on Stephen’s… situation. Trish told me about a GoFundMe campaign Steve’s fiance’ Sierra has started. This was last night, with a big ass thunder-snow event closing down Surf Route 101 (still closed this morning) from where it connects with Highway 104, all the way past Hoodsport. I will cover some of that… next time.
I am posting part (hopefully enough) of what Sierra created as a GoFundMe page.
Help my partner, Stephen Davis, battle cancer
$9,450 raised of $50,000 goal
51 donationsShareDonate nowThis fundraiser is located near you.
Sierra-Marie Billesbach is organizing this fundraiser.
Hello, My name is Sierra-Marie, and I am fundraising to help my partner get through his cancer treatment. Stephen found out on December 16th that he has cancer, and after a week+ long stay in the hospital, the Seattle Cancer Care Alliance doctors confirmed that he has stage 4 mantle cell lymphoma: a rare blood cancer that left him with an enlarged spleen, which is what prompted him to go to the doctors, after feeling a lump while he was out surfing. The doctors believe that this cancer has been growing since about the same time Stephen lost his beautiful son, 2 years and 10 months ago. It started growing slowly, but has picked up speed in it’s growth rate in the last few months. Current statistics on this particular cancer do not look good… However, he is going to be doing a clinical trial that has had a 93% success rate in the first stage. We are scared, but hopeful that he will beat this. He is looking at at LEAST 6 rounds of heavy and intense chemotherapy, and a bone marrow transplant. Stephen is incredibly strong and kind. He has helped me heal in so many ways this past year. I really want to be able to help him through this battle; to hold him, as he held me. The stress of this diagnosis is already heavy on our hearts, but now the financial stress is definitely lingering over our heads. We know that no matter what, we will figure out a way to make it work. We have both survived so many obstacles, and this is just yet another… but we are asking our loved ones to help us in this trying time. As we contemplate moving closer to the cancer center, what things we may need to sell to get through this, and many other questions we have about life and death, the only thing we know is that so much is unknown. No matter the outcome, we will brave this storm together. If you feel compelled to donate, we would be so grateful… and if you can’t afford to at this time, please consider sharing this fundraiser. We love you all, and thank you for taking the time to read this. sending love and healing to all in this new year.
The temperature outside our place had dipped down to fifteen degrees Fahrenheit (that’s minus nine point four four four four… for Celsius fans) at the stroke of midnight, Pacific Standard Time, before un-dipping to a slightly less deadly twenty-one (minus six point one one one one… at… checking… eight: forty-six a.m. (ante-meridiem for Latin lovers, or ‘before noon’ for those who… okay, I’m thinking the difference between lovers of breakfast and fans of brunch, and, now, because I am thinking, I’m considering dawn patrollers and surfers who prefer seeing what we’re paddling out and into; and, remembering my days in crowded California waves, I can’t help but mention that the onshores usually started about 10:30 am, brunch; but, yes, P.M. stands for ‘post meridiem,’ or, for those who like to time a siesta before the afternoon glass off, um, yeah, afternoon).
So, HAPPY NEW YEAR!
You might be thinking about how low the bar must be set for 2022 being better than 2021. Try not to.
I do have a new drawing. BUT FIRST, since I did mention my friend Stephen R. Davis’s recent diagnosis, he did spend some time at the University of Washington hospital, did see a specialist in lymphomas (pleural), and was told that what he has (and Trish did look up all the scary shit) is imminently curable.
He did give up coffee, switching to smoothies. Surprising to me, since every time I’ve worked with, or surfed with, or casually run into Steve, he asked (past tense now, I guess), “Hey, Erwin; you have any… coffee?” And this is him with a bit left in a fancy store-bought cup with the wraparound finger-protecting paper. “Yeah; of course, I brought enough for me… in a thermos. Folgers. On sale. Costco.” “Oh, okay.”
Still, Steve wasn’t a coffee snob. I did ask him to return the thermos I gave him. He says he will try to find it. Steve is going back in a couple of weeks to get started on a program.
I do know other who have life-changing if not life-threatening conditions. Here’s what we do: We keep going. That was kind of the point of my drawing, originally meant, maybe, as a holiday card; now, perhaps, I can say it’s a Happy New Year’s illustration. Forward, onward, sideslipping down the line.
Next post might be, “What’s Wrong With ‘Swamis’ and how I’m fixing it.”
Real Surfers 