…it’s another drawing from the 1980s; spent a lot of time on the boat; could have worked a bit more on the clouds. More coming; going through the images.
I have some originals that are too large to copy, have to be scanned on blueprint unit. When I have some time, I’ll…
I had to crawl around in the attic, trying to find some obvious sign of a short circuit. Didn’t find it (which means it’s somewhere in a wall, or, I’m suspecting, the light fixture I installed- had to quit looking to go surfing), but did find some old artwork.
During my tenure at the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard (a transfer there got me here from San Diego), I got into the sign shop (I had, after all, started out as a sign painter apprentice, 1969, Oceanside). While there, I took advantage of having a drawing board to, well, draw.
Most of the drawings started out on 17 by 22 inch paper, too big for most printers, but, because I was also doing posters (and I grabbed any artsy projects that came in- keggers, picnics, that kind of civil service boondoggle), I took advantage of the shipyard photo lab to get illustrations photographed.
I do have some surviving silk screened posters (if they are artsy, I’d prefer to say serigraphs) as well as some (and, sadly, not very many) originals. These are SOME of the contact prints I had in a padded envelope inside a now-moldy box. They are all pre-1990 (when I left the shipyard), and, if there is a difference in my style, and I would say there’s been some (maybe) development, if not (necessarily) improvement. The bigger difference is that I took a lot of time on each illustration, lunchtimes, breaks, and, I think I mentioned, I had a Civil Service job.
Many of the contact prints are too small, the detail too dark. I’m going to get them blown, hoping to open up some light between the lines. We’ll see.
When I took some of the prints to show my friends, Trish became very possessive of some of the drawings of Victorian houses in Port Townsend I did, claiming I’d ruin them somehow. I didn’t, but, in the excitement of seeing waves, I did leave my shirt on the hood of my car. And then it rained. You know how soft racks leak onto car seats in heavy rain? No, the drawings came through it, but I got to go to Safeway with no shirt and a heavy, pervert-esq coat. Yes, fully zipped.
So, here are a couple of examples. I want to say “Portraits from the Artist as a Young(er) Man.” So, each one, and there will be more, is over 28 years old.
I have been doing some Olympic Peninsula-specific landscape drawings lately, and I’m trying to get a few more done before (and, hopefully available at) the HamaHama Oysterama coming up the weekend around the 21st, down (or up, maybe even over) Surf Route 101.
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Here’s something I did for the Disco Bay Outdoor Exchange. And, incidentally, Discovery Bay seems to be the happening spot, so near the confluence of highway 20, 104, and Surf Route 101. Tyler Meeks offers all kinds of gear for skiing, hiking, surfing; all the outdoor activities one can participate in on the ‘still wild’ Peninsula. AND clothing; so much easier than perusing the Goodwill or paying full boat.
Since, and probably because Trish hates the Captain Sketchee character, I went a little whole hog (and I may not be done with the good Captain).
NOTES: I WROTE this just before EASTER. It was (mutually, sort of) decided this piece was (maybe) too political for the Quilcene Community Center’s monthly e mail-only newsletter, what with all of us bombarded constantly by clusters of divisive stories. OKAY. So, I put it in my blog, “Stuff That Goes On” at the “Port Townsend Leader’s” on-line edition (ptleader.com). To make this a bit less street-talkie-ish, I changed the word I had replaced with ——- to ‘a possibly wonderful person. (or the plural version, ‘people’) So, look for that. IN ORDER to increase possible readership, I’m also publishing the piece here. OH, since this is for grownups, the word was ‘asshole.’
After picking up twenty bucks at Quilcene’s US Bank ATM, I pulled under the canopy in front of The Village Store. They offer a ten cent per gallon discount for cash, and my ‘low fuel’ light was on. The twelve o’clock NPR news update just started (after another pledge drive plea), and, with the seemingly ever-increasing political drama, I decided to switch the key to ‘accessory’ and listen.
A car pulled up on the outside of the island. An older guy (I always guess they’re older than me- frequently incorrectly) got out; shaved head, some sort of red/white/blue t shirt on. “Hillary” the first word said. “Oh, maybe I was wrong,” I thought.
No, my first impression was, possibly, partially confirmed. The rest of the message said, “…For Prison.”
“Oh.” Not that this sort of right-leaning sentiment is unusual in the boonies; the red, bullet- hole like splotches in a blue state. Yeah, and Washington is quite red east of the mountains, kind of melting into Idaho.
So, no biggie; and yet, it did bug me. It’s not like wearing one’s heart on one’s sleeve; this was a political mini-billboard, the closed captioning to Fox News.
Okay, so I was probably wearing a Seahawks or Hansen Surfboards beanie, maybe a HamaHama sweatshirt; nothing radical. Unlike my old work van, surf-related decal-adorned, my current paint rig only has a few stickers; one for the Chimacum Farm Stand, of course, one for ukeleles someone put under my window wipers out on the Strait. Nothing overtly political.
I kind of wanted to say something to the guy, but, of course, wouldn’t. I’m not that confrontational. Maybe, if he said something to me…
When I went in to get a “Leader,” a “Peninsula Daily News” and get my discounted price set up, the ‘for prison’ guy was almost out the door. I had, of course, nodded (not a big, ‘how’s it going’ nod, not a ‘great t shirt’ nod). Hey, it’s a custom. There was some sort of website mentioned on the back of his t-shirt. Couldn’t quite catch it.
I just had to say, sort of in general, but mostly toward the manager, one of the Brotherton brothers (Ken), behind the counter, looking at his laptop; and sort of toward the woman who would take my money; “I was just checking to see if the back of his shirt said, ‘I’m obviously ‘a possibly wonderful person.’ ”
The cashier looked a little too shocked; the manager looked up from his laptop for a second. There was some confusion. Had I meant that, obviously, I’m ‘a possibly wonderful person?’
This confusion was escalated when the cashier, taking my twenty, gave me change for three newspapers. “No,” I said, “this PDN is from yesterday.”
The previous day’s papers had, previously, been free; but now, “We charge for them for a week after the actual day.” “Oh. Okay; but I wanted twenty bucks worth of gas.” “Oh. Then, you’ll need to give me another two-fifty.” I may be wrong about the exact amount. Prices have risen. “Huh? Oh. Okay.” I had two bucks, dug for the necessary change.
Just then, a guy I don’t know (younger than me) stepped up to the counter, a little too close to my right side, and said, sort of to me, but also to Ken and the cashier; “You know, when I was about thirty I decided we’re all ‘possibly wonderful people’.” Pause. The Brotherton looked up, nodded. The cashier, taking my two dollars, change, and pocket debris, seemed to agree. “That helps me get along with people (note, here, he did say ‘people’) a lot better.”
So, there it was; the basis, really, of the Christian (as well as almost all other religions, and central to most non-religious philosophies) ethic (and I do make some claim to trying to be a flawed and hypocritical Christian); that we’re all ‘possibly wonderful people’; or, for something closer to something we might agree on, sinners.
And there I was, the most obvious ‘possibly wonderful person’ in the store. Or, again, the most obvious sinner. Yes, I had been totally high-roaded. One can’t just pull right back out of that ditch.
The guy with the Hillary t-shirt was gone. I (mentally) banged my head against the van as I fueled-up. “Why did I say anything? Dumb ‘possibly’ (shortened version of ‘possibly wonderful person’).” The guy who’d calmed the waters (sort of) at the counter, to-go coffee cup in one hand, locally-produced sweet roll in the other, got into his pickup; a table saw and some two-by-fours in the bed; and drove off down Surf Route 101.
I drove off the other way. Of course.
NOTE: After having no real success looking for an image of a carpenter, in his thirties, next to an appropriate work truck, I continued googling, searching for an image of the Village Store. I found this shot of my daughter, Dru, home at Christmas (probably not last Christmas), at the other grocery in Quilcene, The Peninsula Store. I know she wrote a glowing review for Yelp, and is fond of the fried food. It doesn’t look like she was in luck on this trip. The “God Bless America” sticker is a bonus feature.
I don’t have time to keep trying to make my scanner behave. This is an uncropped version. I’ll try again later.
I used up most of my discretionary time trying to get my scanner to work for more than one image without three failures. I’m kind of through with the Captain Sketchee drawings, though I’m going to use the “Surf Garb” image, double-sided, to hang over the great sport clothes Tyler Meeks has on offer at the Disco Bay Outdoor Exchange (at least that’s my plan) a great place to stop on your way to or from Hurricane Ridge, the Strait, or the West End; possibly in search of mythical Suicide Point.
After all, many of us scan the Goodwill racks for reasonably priced surf garb and gear; some cruise Craig’s list for equipment; Disco Bay has it without that Goodwill smell, without that Craig’s list, um, excitement (wanted to say risk).
Oh, and Tyler is kind enough to offer some surf-centric local art. Happy Easter Weekend.
OKAY, I’m probably through with Captain Sketchee. Partially, well, mostly because Trish is sick of seeing illustrations of creepy old men. I guess it’s bad enough living with one.
…water. I’ve been calling my friend ‘Hydrosexual’ Stephen Davis for a while, and, I know because I asked, he’s kind of okay with the nickname. It is appropriate because he loves all (and participates in many) sports having to do with water: Skiing, snowboarding, kite surfing, surfing, ice hockey; he owns a sailboat, works occasionally on a famous catamaran on the Big Island.
BUT, there are, I’m sure, problems related with being a hydrosexual. Some people just don’t understand. AND, realsurfers.net has the problem of spammers, keying off the sexual part of hydrosexual, sending all sorts of fake comments on cheap pills, various enhancements, air jordens (not sure what unseemly thing that might be), knockoff watches, busty babes in backwater bayous, Trump/Putin love notes, ways to win at Russian Roulette… I don’t know; I’m afraid to click on any of them.
AND, WordPress has, one, identified them as spam, and, two, won’t let me open most of them (not that I’ve tried, but, once, sliding the cursor a bit too slowly…). Nothing shocking, just a ‘404’ or some code that means, “If you don’t want to blow up your laptop and/or skew the mid-term elections… move your cursor away… now. NOW!”
Of course, I exaggerate. Nevertheless, forget Hydrosexuality; we’re moving Stephen to Hydrophilia. So, um, let’s see how this sounds: “Hydrophiliac Stephen Davis.” Here’s a couple of shots he sent me, finally, of his Big Island Big Boy Bike. I think, in the outside shot, out there in the glare, there might be waves. Waves!
All right, maybe all real surfers are hydrophiliacs. I will be checking my “Comment” and “Spam” sections to see if this stirs up Trolls or Trotsky-ites.
MEANWHILE; I have been remiss in reporting Archie Endo is home from in Discovery Bay for a while, continuing to recuperate from the stroke he suffered while working in the fishing industry in Thailand. Archie is a devoted longboarder and an expert in salmon, in particular, as well as other species. He is still working as a middleman, mostly, I think, in Tuna processing and distribution. He is recovering; and, if we have some chance at actual waves, I plan on taking him with me.
When Archie was last here, Stephen took him to the public pool in Sequim. It did him a lot of good. Sorry, I don’t do pools.
The once and future Archie.
So, Trish opened the Facebook the other evening. I was sitting kind of caddy-cornered, probably about “Jeopardy” (dvr’d) time (so, some time after 8pm), and Trish lets out one of those “Eeeee-ahhh-yuck” kind of not-really-quite-a-scream, twists the laptop around on the TV table, asks, “Do you know this guy?”
“Where’d it come from?”
“Stephen Davis sent it. He says it’s someone… Wade. You know a Wade?”
“Wade. Yeah. He used to live in Port Townsend; another kite surfer; moved to Puerto Rico.”
Evidently Wade was surfing, out alone, and… well; faceplant.
So, I wrote Stephen, still on the Big Island, still hasn’t sent me a photo of his surf-set-up bike…
The story is, Stephen Davis was working for me twenty five miles away from the secret surf spot north of Port Townsend when he got a call from Wade, telling him the winds were perfect on the Straits. It was already past seven, with little or no wind on the finger of Puget Sound where we were painting. “Take off,” I must have said; and he did; arriving very close to sundown, doing all the arranging of kite and lines and wetsuits. Wade was already in the midst of what turned out to be a bit of a mystical experience. He had kite-surfed close to a pod of Orcas beyond the surfline, this observed by a group of people holding a Straits-side memorial for a recently departed 94 year old woman. And a sunset that was particularly special. Though Stephen didn’t see the pod of whales, he was, coming in by the light from vehicles and the one light in the parking lot, wrapping up the lines and organizing the gear, surprised when a woman from the memorial party thanked him for gliding, flying across the waves… as if he, Wade, the whales, the sunset, were all part of the ceremony. Who’s to say? And that added to the magic for Steve.
Please forgive the redundancies. Wade, please forgive the publicity. Russian hackers and American conspirators (just in case you care about surf-centric sites; fuck you.
Okay, this isn’t me in this photo; it’s Deon Wilson at Dungeons, Cape Town, South Africa, courtesy (thank you) of “The Telegraph.” I’m sure he was trying his best to appear casual as he went down the line, all cool and ready to rip it up.
Something went wrong. If he’d just surfed, let’s say, ‘routinely,’ safely, ridden toward the shoulder, ahead of the curl, maybe making a few adjustments, swoops rather than carves, he probably would have made the wave. Oh, but no; Deon decided to throw it up toward the lip, no doubt thinking, “This’ll be exciting, this’ll be cool.”
Okay, I have a whole real life (as in ‘out of the water’) story to go with this possibly-overwrought, definitely-stretched metaphor; but I have to go to work to make up for the money I didn’t make this week, partially (and again) due to my just appearing to be too damn casual, doing it (after almost 49 years) my way.
Later. Oh, and just like Deon, I’ll remember the wipeout longer than I’d remember a nice, safe, routine ride. And, though I’m perfectly capable of uncontrolled enthusiasm, I do plan on, mostly, staying casual.
Casualness is a form of rebellion. Okay, I’ll be rethinking this a bit before I add to this post.
