In the Street, On the Road, Down the Road… MAY DAY/International Workers’ Day, and…

Posted on by under Uncategorized

…and sure, why not celebrate the folks who actually DO THINGS, BUILD THINGS, providing services to the folks who profit on the backs of workers. Not to be in any way political; it’s more like a cultural anthropological and historic question broken down to a harsher core: Do slaveholders support the slaves, or do the slaves support the slaveholders? Okay, change it to stockholders and CEOs, and workers.

If you are a worker, celebrate other workers… and yourself. In the midst of a hostile takeover of our fought-for, bled-for, died-for, always fragile democracy, it isn’t a bad time to take to the street in support of the former, supposedly, right wing ideals of rule of law, of due process, of independent and co-equal branches of government, of freedom of speech, of common fucking decency; not to mention, because I don’t want to go religious zealot here, but folks who boast about or even claim some loose connection to ANY religion or ideology that values treating other human beings with some amount of respect, how about a little fucking compassion?

INTERMISSION- SURF STUFF-

Olympic Peninsula ripper KEITH DARROCK is in Mexico, hoping to score at several mainland spots, and has agreed to represent.

“Waves all day right out front of where I’m staying. That’s Stinky’s, a mellow right hand reef. Pretty ideal for easy longboarding. Lots of surfers around. There are other spots nearby up the point and down that look bigger. It’s pretty chill except that I’ve already been stung by jellyfish and gotten some urchin spines in my foot. Not too stoked on that!”

STUFF I COULDN’T get right from Sunday:

A lovely spring day with no surf but lots of characters and sailboats and stuff, a cruise down Surf Route 101, a new sign on the Quilcene Historical Museum, also on 101.

INTERMISSION OVER, back to May Day:

Again, I am not a radical of any sort; and either are those on the street protesting; but there has been a shift in who believes what. Conservatives, out of fear, or hatred, or blindness, and perhaps this is what is meant by ‘staunch conservative,’ now embrace the lies, that, if you’re not someone who benefits from corporate greed, seems to not be in your best interest. That doesn’t seem really, um, uh, intelligent. AND, It is now radical to ask for the truth from those who deny it; to question the lies designed to further the interests and the accumulated wealth of… not workers, not folks who get W-2s, who pay into social security for years; nope, that money could be better served. Or, wait, is that a lie?

That’s my rant. Done. I have to go work. Because I mentioned the phrase, ‘down the road’ is a term I learned when I went to work painting Navy housing. It was late summer, 1971, families were being transferred, and painters were needed. It was a ‘temporary’ job. As the season wound down, less painters were necessary. Some were sent ‘down the road.’ It makes sense, and the fear if not acknowledgement of losing my job has always been there, and I did everything I could, learned all I could, because I wasn’t going to be selected for a layoff because I wasn’t good enough.

It’s May day, 2025, and… guess what? All work is temporary. Any worker can be replaced. But, any politician can be replaced, any CEO can be voted out, golden parachute and all. And, just because it’s so exhausting thinking about how dire our country’s position is right now, I have to mention that we are all here on a temporary basis. Again, not to go religious-ish, but when you do ‘down the road,’ where do you believe you’re going?

WORKS IN PROGRESS- Two from when I was waiting for a tire repair at Les Schwab, one from something else I’ve been working on.

That’s it. Happy International Workers’ Day! If you’re not getting waves today, I’m sure you will soon. They are out there. Thanks for checking out realsurfers. The drawings are subject to copyright restrictions, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

In Transit, in Progress, In Flux

Posted on by under Uncategorized

It’s early painting season, and, with the economic uncertainty (or the certainty that it’s not better than last year), I’m afraid to turn down any job. Actually, I always have been, just more so. I have done a lot of proposals in the past few months that the homeowners might just decide to put off, or not do. “No, the house won’t fall down if we don’t paint it right now.” True; mostly. It makes sense to save a few bucks to cover the increased costs of, no doubt, everything.

Not that I’m in any way political, BUT I do think every receipt should have a line for the cost TRerriffs add to a purchase. If Bezos hadn’t decided to do this, and then backed down, he’d probably seem a lot… I don’t know, manly. Manliness is so important to the current regime. BUT, if a true Amazon was running Amazon… Hard to say. AND I can’t help imagining excuses for being the bullied billionaire Jeffy might have: “I care about my people.” wink/scoff/barf.

BUT here I am sort of making excuses for not having done much drawing recently, not adding the last touches on my novel, “Swamis,” the ones that wake me up at night. “Yes, yeah; maybe a little less dialogue, more description; yes, sure; I’ll get on that… zzzzzz.”

Not that I haven’t been writing. BUT, surf-wise, I should do some reporting: I’m waiting until Chris Eardley gets back from his honeymoon (congratulations to Chris and Megan) to get an update on Nam Siu’s condition. Surfers are asking me; all I know is Nam is still in the hospital. Meanwhile, rumors of waves persist, anyone who scores, as always on the Strait, tells only a few closest friends…

I hit the wrong key, can’t seem to edit on the laptop. AND I ran out of time, AND I have a client waiting. Excuses. Yeah. Tomorrow.

It’s a Story Either Way

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf contests, surf culture, surf satire, surfing, surfing stories, writings of Erwin Dence

Watercolor skies, hazy sunshine, and, not shown, tourists behaving like they just, like, always go to the beach, always stand on the bluff, a hand shading their eyes, looking over the conditions. This act, one might consider while wondering if any of the wavelets wistfully washing over the rocks are rideable; is it some ancient and instinct-driven holdover, some bowing to the ocean, from whence all… No, probably not that, it’s just folks posing as seafarers before challenging the elements, taking off their shoes, rolling up their pants legs, holding someone’s hand as they go looking for colorful rocks, all the while while dodging the seaweed and the driftwood and the other revelers, all the while skirting the dying energy of long-traveled waves, the scallops of foam pushing up and… “Damn, that water’s cold!” “What time’s the next ferry running, Honey?”

I should have no problems with tourists and sunny day beach visitors; I was kind of wishing I had a dash cam; saw a dude inn total Huck Finn mode; straw hat, peddle pushers, possible piece of reed in his mouth, possibly whistling: I saw a woman seemingly, this based on her choice of outfit, displaying her extensive leg tattoos while walking her dog (no visible green poop bag in hand), I saw a woman with a green poop bag and no dog, picking up scraps of papers that blew out of people’s cars (not mine- this time); I saw a lot of chunky folks (not that I’m not), and, oh yeah, I did see a bride (this because of her oversized white dress) getting her photo taken. Maybe they were planning on adding the groom (I didnn’t see one) later- trick photography, AI.

Also, while hanging around, scanning the horizon, watching what may have been a slow motion sailboat race, trying to conjure up anything lined up or just decent, wave-wise, a guy, a car with three dogs inside cruised up, one car between us, The non-dog passenger looked at me with an oversized smile. “What are you smiling at?” “Well, I’ve never seen an SUP so thrashed.” “Thank you. I put every ding on it… probably hit every rock on the Strait.” Perhaps it was this obvious exaggeration that prompted him to say, “Hey, I know who you are.” “Oh?” It turns out Aaron (hope I got this right; and, no, not shortboard Aaron- Chef Aaron) is part of the Olympic Peninsula paddleboard scene, possibly builds SUPs, AND is known for bringing food to homeless encampments, stuff like that. “Pleasure to meet you,” I said, maybe; even more of a pleasure to know Chef Aaron is out doing good works.

I went a little too descriptive on describing the scene on a sunny spring Saturday. I’m trying to think a bit more poet-ish. I attended a poetry reading at the Port Townsend Public Library on Thursday, mostly (no, totally) because I want to present some of my stuff there, and this requires being invited by the official PT Poet Laureate, Conor. Since I already e-mailed him some stuff and missed my chance before the readings got under way, I was required to sit in the back, not hear a lot of the poems (they had a microphone, could have, like, moved it closer to their mouths). According to the library manager, surfer Keith Darrock, I was unable to not fidget, and, how did I know that turning off the rinng tone didn’t stop the volume when I thought I’d watch a few heats from the WSL Bell’s Beach contest. Rude. Philistine-like behavior. Uncultured.

Yeah. I thought poets are supposed to be rude if not drunks and/or otherwise deviants.

WSL WHINING- Yes, Sally Fitz got kind of screwed in her heat. It seems, to commenters on any WSL video, that someone is getting over or under scored. Yes. Always, at every level of almost any subjectively-judged competition. Great story when Sally beat current leader, Caitlin Simmers, and she wasn’t underscored in the heat with Brisa Hennessy (and this is a separate argument from the one in which a nine point ride for a woman would be a six pointer for a man- not arguing that, but I do make an exception for Stephanie Gilmore), it’s just that the story for Brisa was that her mother was on the beach AND it was her mother’s birthday. My belief: It’s a story either way.

WSL NON-WHINING- I was talking to Randall, fellow ex-North County surfer. He had also been watching some of the WSL coverage. ‘Did you notice that Encinitas local Jake Marshall was doing really well?” “I did.” We both agreed that he did well because Bells is so much like SWAMIS. “And Caity does so well because… Oceanside; and… ordinarily I’d root for her, but…” “Hey, Erwin, I’ve gotta go.”

SURF ROUTE 101 STUFF-

If you’re cruising up or down 101, before or after stopping in at HamaHama Oyster Company, check out the Historical museum in Quilcene, just off the highway on Center Road. I just added this. ALSO, if you can get behind a log truck, empty or loaded, rather than any sort of RV or anyone towing a boat or a trailer, or both, you’ll get there faster.

SURF REPORT- I almost surfed almost waves. Others did better… elsewhere. “SWAMIS” and ARTWORK REPORT- I haven’t worked on the last touches on the novel; I haven’t done any drawing since I did a couple of illustrations at Les Schwab while waiting for my tire to be replaced. Couldn’t find the tablet immediately this morning. Next time.

LATEST POEM/SONG-

BETWEEN ALONE AND LONELY There is time to reconsider, All the pieces you have scattered from your jigsaw puzzle life, The pieces you’ve discarded from your jigsaw puzzle life, Your jigsaw puzzle life, Jigsaw puzzle life.

Between love and rejection, Meditation, introspection, It’s hard to turn away from bridges you had never meant to burn, You’ve found someone to blame for all the bridges you have burned, The bridges you have burned, Bridges you have burned.

Between midnight and morning, There are whispers in the kitchen, There are shadows on the ceiling, there are footsteps in the hall, Soft whispers, shadows, footsteps that you cannot quite explain, You cannot quite explain, Cannot quite explain.

Between pride and delusion, If you listen in the stillness, There are answers to the questions you’ve been too. afraid to ask, And long-discarded pieces of your jigsaw life, Your jigsaw puzzle life, Jigsaw puzzle life,

Between alone and lonely in your jigsaw puzzle life.

FUTURE POEM/SONGS- “And Then There’s Music,” more. THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT realsurfers.net. All. content on this post by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. All rights reserved.

SOMETIMES YOU GET WAVES, SOMETIMES THE WAVES GET YOU, sometimes you paddle out, paddle around, paddle back in. It’s a story either way.

Easter Updates: Old Dogs, Rippers, and…

Posted on by under Uncategorized

A shot of the Big Island heavens from Florida-grown, intermittent Port Townsend resident Mikel ‘Squintz.’ I’m using the photo from mikelcumiskey.net as a bit of a shout out to Jesus, and, not to get into any religious or political commentary, not to be any more sacrilegious than those who claim to love Jesus, but… (no, not commenting), but I’m pretty sure the surfer in this photo is about to give Jesus his own shout out.

I didn’t want to steal/borrow all of Mike’s photos, but here’s a sort of mysterious selfie.

The Hama Hama Oyster Company is the must-stop location on the Hood Canal section of ‘the 101 Loop’ around the Olympics. In this case, Jeffry Vaughn, headed down and out to do some clam digging before cruising back to the Strait, happened to run into Stephen R. Davis, no doubt headed to some secret spot down south. the ever-gregarious Adam ‘Wipeout’ James happened to be on site. If you’re a surfer, Adam might just offer you a grilled cheese sandwich or some of surfer/restauranteur “Soupy” and/or “Yodeling” Dan’s soup and/or some chowder. In this case, Steve gave Adam an original painting and Adam gave him… oysters. “Wait, you didn’t give him a Hama Hama hoody (total status symbol, as is any post cards or other art from Mr. Davis)?” “Should have.” “Yeah.” “Next time.”

NAM UPDATE- Since this message from Nam Siu’s fiancee, Jenny Lee, he has shown signs of improvement in his kidney function and mental awareness. It’s still very serious, but, if hopes and prayers work… it seems like this confusing and tragic medical event might be a chapter in a much longer story.

NEW TRICKS AND OLD SURF DOGS

It may have been commentary on my very thrashed board, or just fun, but Jeffry Vaughn is riding a log on my Volvo (itself a rebirth story thanks to ‘blue devil’ and help from Adam Wipeout). I got out of the water, saw the log, and was a bit disappointed I didn’t get to keep it.

Tugboat Bill at some random beach break, coming in after riding some prime number number of waves. 11. 13. 17. “It gets tougher after 23,” he said, “gotta go to 31.” I may have some numbers wrong. I lose track after ten or so. Incidentally, because some whippersnapper, out in the water, asked, Bill is 72, so, like a year, give or take, younger than I am.

Tim Nolan, renowned boat designer/artist/writer, was once, like, four years older than I am. Somehow he’s narrowed the gap. We’re shown here, Tim, perhaps, trying to appear to be more of a curmudgeon than he is, me trying to appear friendlier than I am; both of us modeling our modesty/changing robes. Trish just got me one. It’s big enough. Yes. I’m still working out how to do the changing thing… discreetly.

YOUNG SURF DUDES

This is, left to right, Donovan, a total ripper from San Clemente, and two Not Donovans from LA. All three attend U dub. I saved this for last, figuring many of the tens of readers might give up before they get this far.

I saw Donovan getting in the water on my second attempt to keep both earplugs in my ears. “Hey, man, no booties,” I yelled at the young man with the almost-long board, black tape on the rails at the nose. I had gotten out because I lost one of the special, plastic, comfort ear plugs after a wipeout caused, at least partially, because some dude was right in my path. This was his second time being in the way. I will go back to the wax plugs. Not that fond of dragging my ass and my waterlogged Hobie up the beach. Less fond of a plugged up ear for three days, alcohol and antihistamine, and, “What? Sorry. What?”

I really can’t blame the guy for yelling, more like loud growling, at me; I had said, as I took off on the second wave he would block me on, “Hey, man; you’re not in the lineup, you’re in the way!”

So, I come up, almost caught the lost earplug inn the foam (almost), and the guy’s pointing and yelling. “Can’t hear you,” I try to explain, pointing to my ear. He repeats whatever he had previuously growled. “Still can’t hear you.” He shakes a fist (maybe, I might be adding this) and clearly says, “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

What I figured he thought was that he set the old guy straight sent him straight into the beach. While on the beach, I got a replacement ear plug, had a shot of coffee, and explained the story, in my outdoor voice, to several others on the beach; mostly to ‘IT’ Darren One of two women a few vehicles down, said, “You should have growled back at him.” “I think I did.” “I’ve seen you here before.” “Oh, yeah; that’s because… I’ve been here before.”

While hanging, I couldn’t help but notice that the kid without booties, and without a leash, was cranking deep bottom turns, nose riding, switching stance; generally killing it. I asked Jeff to “take a photo and find out where this guy comes from… if he ever gets out of the water.” Jeff agreed, and said, “He’s having a hell of a good time.”

I did not notice the growler in the lineup or the way when I got back in the water. I caught a few waves, dodged a few closeout roll throughs, and got caught inside a few more times than I would have liked. I also chatted with Donovan. “I’m from San Clemente,” he said. I quickly commented on the crowds, and e-bikes, and how I worked up the hill from Trestles for ten months in 1975, parked on the beach (this is in between waves). and how he shouldn’t tell any other California surfers about any, ANY waves around these parts, and how I was actually raised in Fallbrook, and…

“Fallbrook?” It turns out Donovan had relatives in Fallbrook, avocado orchard owning relatives. “Harris. Know any people named Harris?” “I left in 1971, moved to P.B., and… Oh; a set.”

My motto is, of course, “I’m here to surf,” I surfed. As much as I’ve always claimed to be a ‘soul’ surfer, content with an empty lineup, I’m so much much more competitive when others are in the water (or on the beach). So, I might have stalled a little longer on a wall, crannked it a bit harder on a turn; still, Donovan’s surfing was good enough to probably draw some attention at Trestles.

When I got out of the water after an unforced, unblocked wipeout, Donovan and two other men in their early twenties, if that old, were hanging out at a car on the far end of the lot from mine. We started chatting. “How long have you been surfing,” one of the non-Donovans, hanging over the roof, asked. “Board surfing? Since 1965. But…” The other non-Donovan, who I said could pass for a Colapinto if not a Gudauskas, asked, “Are you, like, an enforcer here?” “No. There’s no enforcer. I’m just here to… dominate.”

When I was in my teens, I paid little attention to surfers over, probably, thirty. When I was 27, part of what I told myself when I was ready to move from San Diego and, as far as I knew, give up surfing, was that it was a sport for younger people. What was interesting, and I have to say, gratifying, was that the group seemed to appreciate the place an old surf dog might have in… yeah, the lineup. Not just in the way.

NOTE- I do have some new drawings and some new poems/songs I was planning on posting. I’ll save them for next time. I do have a lot to say about the current threats to our democracy, to the rule of law, to the Constitution, and to basic human decency, and I feel a bit chickenshit for not speaking up more forcefully. I would like to confess to how saddened I am by supposed Christians hanging on so desperately and wrongly to some twisted and self-centered, hateful belief in a remodeled version of the compassionate redeemer prophesied in the Old Testament, and chronicled in the New Testament; someone else’s Jesus. There really can be nothing more self-serving than saving one’s soul. It seems hard to see how hating your neighbors, or worshipping money, or going against your own morality to follow vengeful, corrupt, morally bankrupt rulers gets one anywhere closer to that goal.

Someone else’s Jesus.

Esoteric, Eclectic, Electric, and… Nam Siu in ICU

Posted on by under real surfers, surf addiction, surf culture, surf stories, surfing in Washington State, surfing stories, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

I had something almost ready for posting today that is based on two of my favorite words, “Esoteric” and “Eclectic,” the connection to the purer, less commercial, real-er aspects of surfing being that only a percentage of those who consider themselves surfers have the possibly exaggerated, possibly accurate view of surfing as ‘more than’ the sport of riding waves.

So, like esoteric humor, jokes that only a certain group, insiders, perhaps appreciate, surfers in a mostly wave-starved area, and defend and appreciate the waves when they do appear, and not to belabor this too far, somehow are… sort of insiders.

The surfers who wait for and search for waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca are a mixed group: Tech dudes and Tech Women, business folks, contractors, folks with lives that fill in the non-surf periods; it’s an eclectic mix.

I’ve written about NAM SIU before. When Nam got into surfing, he did everything he could to improve quickly; skateboarding, snowboarding, wing foiling. It worked; his surfing improved, quickly and dramatically. A message this morning from Nam’s significant other, JENNY LEE, was passed on in a group test by JOEL CARBON:

Photos from Chris Eardley

Nam and Chris work together at the Fish and Wildlife, or Fish and Game… one of those. Chris says “Nam is a friend first and a colleague second!”

Information on Nam’s condition is a bit sketchy, but it is known that the medical issues are serious enough that Nam was airlifted from Port Townsend to a hospital on the Seattle side. So… serious. The latest word as of Sunday evening is that Nam seems to be responding to treatment. So… some reason for optimism.

Nam is what we should want to be: Sincere, honest, dedicated, stoked, connected to whatever it is that entices, sometimes forces us, a very diverse group, age-wise, occupation-wise, any-other-measure-wise, to wait and search and push ourselves up or out. If there is a group that hopes and prays for certain conditions; offshore, lined-up, not too crowded; or, I guess, powder on the slopes and decent roads to get there, that group can use, perhaps, that same energy to be sent… elsewhere. Nam needs to recover. He and I have a contest going on, and I believe we’re currently tied; one heat each. GET WELL, NAM.

Stitches and Protests and Poetry, Oh My

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf culture, surf fiction, surfing stories, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

Update on Sally Fitzgibbons- Out off the El Salvador contest. Damn! Not that I typically root for Lakey Peterson, raised in a house on the point at Rincon (possibly- her mother lives there, so I’m, yeah, assuming), but she was eliminated in a tight heat, and was, as shown on WSL footage on YouTube, visibly upset. Since I seem to have hopes for surfers based on age and, to a lesser degree, niceness, perceived or real; I guess I’m hoping Tyler Wright continues on, quite possibly eliminated by… Caitlin Simmers. Yes, a prediction. Or maybe the inheritor of the Stephanie Gilmore grace and power school; you know… Pickles.

On the mens’ side, someone from Brazil, home of endlessly, and, it seems desperately competitive and acrobatic surfing. Or Griffin, end result of coaching, video feedback, and the surfing equivalent of studying-to-the-test; not that he isn’t good or that his path to success isn’t legitimate. Or difficult.

No, of course I wouldn’t be worried about surfing contests, or spending too much time watching YouTube content by Jamie and Nate and Mason, sometimes lesser social media stars, or watching another ‘Maps to Nowhere’ video, or cursing at the tablet or the phone or the laptop because the fucking angle of the promised swell is wrong, wrong, wrong, AND the size of the swell is disappointingly not as promised; I’d worry about none of that if I was out in the water, concentrating on waves and not even thinking about how fucking much avocados and coffee are going to cost when I cruise through Costco on my way home. I also would not wonder why, with the barrel price of oil having dropped ten dollars, why, why, why the pump price hasn’t dropped.

Ah, surfing, where we can forget the world, and worry about how a drop-knee turn is as good as a kick stall, and wonder why what was once called a roller coaster is now referred to as a re-entry, and contemplate on how long it’s been since we’ve seen a reverse kickout with amplitude. Oh, and while scanning the horizon for a three wave set, we might not worry about just how far the stock market is going to fall on Monday. And, besides that…

CHRIS EARDLEY, Olympic Peninsula ripper and occasional surf traveler, may have been more concerned about the rip and the raggedy rocks than the possibility of getting hit in the face by his board at a notoriously sketchy break. Well. It happens. Chris was helped to his car and to the emergency room by a couple of other surfers. “No…” gag, gag, “It’s not that bad.” “Yes, I can see a little daylight, but… a few stitches and…” Seventeen stitches, more inside the lip than outside. Chipped and loosened teeth. Pain.

So, naturally, one of Chris’s first texts was to another surfer, inquiring about how the rest of the session went. “Not that great,” which is code for, “Awesome!” He’s doing okay. I saw him yesterday, should have taken a photo. “Yeah, Chris; you should stay out of the water a while. I got my twenty stitches out (non-surfing injury) I’m hoping to go tomorrow.”

I kind of missed the protest in Port Townsend yesterday. I knew protests were planned in all 50 states, and I got a reminder from Keith Darrock, who reported his mother, LORRAINE, was part of the mile-plus lines of folks on the main drag. Since the average age of Port Townsend residents is… yeah, my demographic; old, I lent a bit of support, I thought, by honking (if someone else did a two honker, I echoed it; three honks, same thing) and exchanging peace signs and thumbs up gestures to the crowd as it was, peacefully, thinning out.

I was driving my big boy van rather than my left-leaning Volvo and I didn’t go all the way through town, but I was happy to see folks involved.

Meanwhile I am still checking the buoys, still trying not to worry too much.

Here is a poem from my saved file of ‘works in progress.’ I just finished painting a house, ADU, and garage for Marti and Andy, both of whom were very helpful when I fell and cut my head. And they are just very nice folks. I was discussing my poems/songs with Andy over the course of the project. I told him I have a lot of lines, but have only a first verse for a song, and a whole lot of writing but only a last line that is the basis for a poem.

As sort of a gift I printed up what I have on those as a sort of gift. On the other side of the pagek, because I was impatient and ended up printing multiple copies, then put the paper back into the printer, there was a completed song, “Out of the Wind,” on the back. They were gracious.

Here’s the verse: “Between alone and lonely, there is time to reconsider, all the pieces you have scattered from your jigsaw puzzle life.” Here’s the last line: “…And you can almost see the ocean from there.” As a bonus, I threw in a little ditty I wrote:

“Call me DAREDEVIL DAN, I’m a Daredevil,” Dan said,

But, like many a daredevil, Dan ended up dead.

Dead Dan was found in the bathroom, end of the hall,

Someone spiced up Dan’s drug cocktail with a pinch of fentanyl,

Or a dash, I’m not sure, accounts vary.

The Devil Dan dared,

If aware, did not care,

And all of Dan’s people said, “That’s not right, that’s not fair,”

And the Devil, I’m told, had no comment.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. I should give Chris Eardley credit for the selfie. It did come from him, along with… kind of, permission to write about it. Hey, if pushed, I do claim some rights as a journalist (of sorts). Please remember any original writing by me is protected by copyright.

If I Forgot to Criticize the World Surf League…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Competitive surfing,, real surfers, surf contests, surf culture, writings of Erwin Dence

…let me join the Bashers and Critiques in bashing and critiquing the folks who bring us contest coverage from wave pools and sometimes-awesome breaks throughout the world. Some times. And I tune in to check out when the events are scheduled to start. The convenient count down shows only three days and five hours until the dawn patrol gives us all the scoop, but… no, conditions aren’t right. Next check, only 13 hours and ten minutes until the first heat does or doesn’t hit the water. Three person, non-elimination heats. And don’t forget, the “Cut” is coming… soon; if your favorite surfer isn’t cut throat enough, ready to play the priority and interference rules to his or her or… (no, it seems the trans-athlete thing might not be a thing) advanntage, well… again… the CUT; demotion to the Challenger Series.

SO, SALLY FITZGIBBONS, fifteen year veteran of the WSL world tour, four time International Surfing Association (which I’ve never heard mentioned in contest coverage), and current vice-president of the ISA (just learned this on Google), I am rooting for you. Now, perhaps this is because Sally Fitz is the senior woman on the tour, and whether she’s fake nice or genuinely what she seems to be, and you can also say I have an age-centric bias because of my age. I may as well add that, like a vast majority of the complainers, I do watch and have watched WSL events, back from when Martin Potter gave his take on surfers and surfing (not sure why he’s gone), I watched Sally wrap her head after blowing an ear drum, and winning in Fiji, AND I saw her lose out on the world title at Honolua Bay, hiding her tears in a car with her parentsm, AND I witnessed her playing with the tubes at the same spot until she was pitched and injured. Tough. Resilient. Competitive.

The WSL seems to concentrate on the newer generation, surfers coached from toddler age on, taking over. Katie Simmers is older than Erin Brooks… oh, no… but both have an Oceanside connection- so, lesser rooting for either of these two from former North County resident who worked in Oceanside for three years- where one learns to surf anything.

from WSL

I should mention, while I am, obviously concentrating more on the easier to follow women’s tour, easier to follow, that Trisha’s favorite woman surfer was Courtney Conlogue. Similar reasons: Courtney was tough, and she was real. Trish would ask, “Is Courtney still in it?” She isn’t. Maybe she didn’t want to go through the Challenger Series. Maybe… as with other commentators, some of whom I really liked, surfers move on or are moved out.

Courtney Conlogue of the USA advances to the Semifinals of the Outerknown Fiji Women’s Pro after defeating defending event winner Johanne Defay (FRA) in Quarterfinal Heat 1 at Cloudbreak.

It is obvious that once Kelly Slater shows a fins-free-pivot/cutback, every coach is going to make sure his or her competitor has that move down. So, progression. Through in some gymnastics, that young surfers have an advantage seems obvious.During a crucial heat at the Portugal contest, the coverage, with two minutes left, blipped and buffered and froze. Oh, it came back fine after the heat. BUT, you say, there are heat recaps almost instantly available on YouTube. YES, but even though they eliminat a lot of dead time, they are not LIVE.

The El Salvador contest is coming up in… 02 days, 20 hours, 18 minutes. I’ll, most probably, be checking it out. TO RECAP: Go, Sally, go! Or…

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net and big thanks to the WORLD SURF LEAGUE for these images and for the memories. NOTE: I didn’t watch more than five minutes of the Abu Dhabi contest and I don’t really care who won except that it affects the CUT. Also, I didn’t mention Stephanie Gilmore, probably, no definitely my favorite female surfer, all time. With all the accolades and championships she’s earned, with her untouched gracefulness on a wave, she doesn’t gets enough credit for just how hard she charges. Style, grace, fluidity in a fluid environment. Few of us really now the professional surfers other than what we see. Fans, not friends. I’m fine with that.

I’ll try to have something new on Wednesday. It’s, like, three days, a couple of hours away.

Frame of Reference and “I Just Wanna Go Surfin'”

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf fiction, surfing blogs, surfing for life, surfing novels, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing stories, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

‘YOU’LL DO ANYTHING FOR ATTENTION’- This is what Trish, who refuses to look at the cut (and only a cut) on my head says. “I hope it was worth it” is what she texted when she figured out, through spyware on my phone, that, three days after smacking against something (we’ve determined it was a 2 by 2 on a lattice, forensics based on blood splatter) hard enough to provide (?) me with a cut requiring 20 stitches.

The surfing: I did try to keep my head above water, pulling out of sections I would ordinarily plow through or, perhaps, drop under (barrel dodging, not immune); but, sometimes, yes, a real surfer has to tuck in (not bragging, I insist for myself and others, that being ‘in position’ is not the same as being in the barrel). And once I was wet… well… AND I did wash the wound and sanitize it and cover it and… Yeah, worth it.

OTHER PEOPLE’S STITCHES STORIES- Word got around. Partially because I posted a (rare, on purpose) selfie of me with a dressing; partially because I know other surfers AND, allegedly, I love to gossip. Not on a high school and above level, more like junior high. When I, post-cut, post-stitches, talked to ADAM WIPEOUT, he had a WAY BETTER head injury/stitches story from when he, down Surf Route 101 in the wilds of Lilliwaup, was about junior high age: His older brother at the wheel of some giant wreck of a car, two younger cousins between them, they were joy riding around the property. Something happened, like the car suddenly losing power, and power steering, and the car hit head on into an apple tree. Adam, attempting, bravely, to save his cousins from hitting the dashboard by the time honored if never successful method of putting an arm across them, was launched forward, cutting his head on the metal (of course) uncloseable door to the glove compartment. Blood. While his brother hid in a creekbed, Adam ran to his grandmother’s house where, evidently, multiple members of the extended HAMA HAMA families were gathered.

So… blood, stitches and a great story.

Every real participant in surfing and any other gliding/riding sport has to have some stories of stitches or sprains or broken bones. Hopefully your injuries weren’t life threatening. There are truly tragic stories out there.

TIME AND TIME AGAIN- When I was contemplating what to put on my next (like the one I didn’t write for Sunday) posting, one of the things I considered is that, on a recent trip/session, I happened to notice that SEAN GOMEZ, Olympic Peninsula ripper and teacher, has lost a significant amount of hair. Sorry, man; I understand. Others, including DARREN, also have suffered this fate. The realization is that I have surfed around these folks long enough that I remember when they had full heads of hair. If I count my northwest surfing story as having begun when I was a mere 27, 1978, rather than the restart, now over twenty years ago, yeah, my hair was fabulous.

LUCKY OR LOCAL- Not to be bringing Adam into, like, everything, but in a recent cell phone conversation, he said that the session, that I totally missed, in which he surfed two spots many miles apart, on one day, was this time of year, in 2013. “What? That’s like twelve years ago.” “I know.”

Incidentally, Adam, when we spoke, was trying to do a different kind of double; snowboarding and surfing on the same day. There was some late season snow in the Olympics, and Adam, and many others, including those who include surfing and snow-sliding in their lists of sports, took advantage of conditions on, like, Saturday, just before a different wind/storm pattern came in and turned snow reported as powder into something else, not powder, on the way to, I guess, mud.

It seems like a theme around here; conditions are fickle in the mou tains and on the water; get it when you can.

LUCKY OR LOCAL OR LOSER- All the surfers I run into on a regular basis pride themselves on keeping track of tides and winds and buoy readings, As do I. But, now perhaps it was the day off to recover from my injury, but I got word that some lucky souls got some decent surf. “What?” “Lucky or local.” Now, I did text back to complain about using the phrase, that I take credit for, if the session isn’t all time great. It wasn’t. Or maybe it was. It’s not FOMO if you know you missed out. It’s just MO, loser. “Next time,” we say, over and over again. “Next time, man…”

FRAME OF REFERENCE- I was hanging out with AARON and KEITH, two rippers, looking over the high bluff at some waves dumping on the beach. Aaron said it’d be great for skimboarding. I mentioned how I’d seen amazing stuff on YouTube, but it all requires getting thrashed in the shorebreak. SO, we agreed, not for me and my ancient and non-nimble knees-to-ankles-to-feet, me with a known history of getting worked trying to get out of the water and up the beach. Fine.

There was talk of snowboarding and skateboarding, both of which my fellow water-watchers had participated in. I did skateboard, back in ‘the day,’ as in, not lately (see above). I asked Aaron, “So, did you, like, read ‘Thrasher’ magazine and… stuff?” “I was in ‘Thrasher’ magazine.” “Oh, then… Warren Bolster; he was a big time surf photographer who was everywhere on skateboarding magazines? He once blatantly burned me at Swamis; 1970… or ’71. Maybe he was pissed because he’d been filming rather than…” Lost my audience. Aaron had no clue. “You know, guys, I saw a movie about some guys… I think it was Mike Doyle and Joey Cabell, riding early snowboards… in 1968. They were flying off cornices and everything, and…”

Blank looks. I know Keith was born in 1977, a year after my older son, James. “When were you born, Aaron? “1971.” “Oh; so you have no idea.” “No. Never heard of Joey Cabell.” Aaron did a sort of Italian/mobster type accent, with, “Hey-a, you don’t a mess with a Joey a Cabell.”

Of course; my talking about the sixties, or even the seventies is similar to my father talking, or not talking, about World War II, or the Depression. His day. History. Other people’s stories.

Joey Cabell. Historical photos.

ANOTHER SELECTION FROM ‘LOVE SONGS FOR CYNICS’-

I have a whole lotta work, so I’ve just got a little time; I’ve got a whole lot of work, so I just have 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; gonna 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 darn well it’s been a mighty long time since I’ve been.

I’m gonna take off late, free fall drop, carve 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; Movin’ 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…

I just wanna go surfin,’ but I just don’t have any time; I wanna go surfin,’ and I’m gonna find me some time; NOW… if you get to go surfing, but you need a good board… borrow mine!

Not that, given the thrashed nature of my HOBIE, anyone would. Thanks for reading, thanks for respecting my rights to my original, copyrighted work. GOOD LUCK on finding some waves worth remembering. When I say, “That wave is gone” it means, partially, it’s history.

The Fine Art of Falling

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, hipster surfers, learning to surf

It isn’t, of course, the falling that hurts or kills you. It is the sudden stop. Or it’s what you fall against. Every surfer has fallen, this getting more intense by having a wave actually causing us to fall, with force, and/or falling on us with more force. And then there is what we are falling into and/or slammed against: Reefs, rocks, gravel, and/or a combination of these, with or without added jaggedess. And then there is the added joy of having our board becoming a weapon that can provide blunt force trauma, a cut from a fin, and/or a stabbing-type wound. Might as well add in other people’s boards, and/or other people. Sounds dangerous.

I suddenly feel compelled to list every actual injury that can be connected to ladders in my fifty-six year (in June) career in painting. This excludes cuts and bruises from knives and scrapers, the smacking of a thumb or finger with a misaimed hammer, punctures from splinters, some quite long and quite deep, from sanding straight grain fir, and other injuries too common and/or ridiculous to list. None super serious.

Despite many sketchy ladder moves and spooky positioning, any of which could have had consequences, and the fact (or my line on the issue) that a ladder has 29 ways to hurt a person, and then one can fall, the number comes in at… tabulating… six. The list of injuries includes TWO sprained and/or broken ankles (never got x-rays) from missing a rung on now-illegal extension ladders that had a missing run on the ‘fly’ section; ONE chest-compression injury from trying to carry too much stuff down a ladder, facing out (heels don’t have the ‘purchase’ feet do); ONE ‘legs stretched to ballerinas-only position injury on a three-legged ‘picker’ ladder after one leg sank in a recent backfill, and one of my feet stayed on the rung; ONE injury from a ‘kick-out’ because the ‘stand-offs’ on the ladder were not on the roof (imagine teeter-totter); ONE accident, yesterday, when, and I’m still evaluating exactly what went wrong, I was coming down a ladder with two buckets of paint, avoiding tree branches, with the ladder in a less than ideal (though frequently necessary) position… AND, I swear, I would have been fine in the tumble if I hadn’t hit the edge of a planter pot.

I probably wouldn’t have gone to the JEFFERSON GENERAL HOSPITAL Emergency Room if there hadn’t been so much BLOOD. This is me in the outfit I was wearing when they released me. “Are you attached to these clothes?” I was asked as a nurse cut my two layers of shirts away. “No, they’re attached to me,” I said as I pulled the very long long sleeved shirt out of my pants (just in time, I was thinking). I was also wearing a beanie, but it got kind of ruined by my using it to hold pressure.

It’s actually quite a story, from my perspective, and I have people to thank: My clients- MARTI insisted I go to the ER. “You look like a Texas Chainsaw Massacre victim,” she said. I checked it in a mirror. She was right. ANDY drove me to the ER and waited until the stitching (20) was done, hung out until I was released, and drove me back to my car. Sorry about the blood in your car, Andy. DONITA, a nurse at Jefferson General, who, informed there was a bloodied painter with a head wound, instantly recognized me, from the back of my head. Donita, who Trish and I have known the entire time we havde lived in Quilcene, acted as a liaison with the staff, mostly saying, “No, he’s always like this. It’s (maniacal behavior and joking in the face of imminent catastrophe) normal… for him.” In exchange, I said, “Donita and my wife and I were all EMTs together. Donita always volunteered to be a victim. I never did.”

The attending physician, KEVIN R. BOWMAN, MD, should also be mentioned. As should that none of this bumping and bleeding was actually painful. Sticking needles into my head; that was. MEANWHILE Trish was calling and texting, the ER folks (of various ranks) were looking for the needles and thread and extractors and other tools, mostly unsuccessfully, some persistent but tiny artery was still pumping, and I was saying things, like, “Reminds me, for some reason, of ‘MASH,’ ‘big stitches.’ MEAN MEANWHILE, Dr. Bowman, having revealed he lives in Bellingham, left himself open to me discussing all things surfing. Him admitting he is trying to learn Wing Foiling led to more discussion of surf hierarchies and ‘adult learners,’ and why I find that in any way amusing.

When it was determined that I would survive despite my killer blood pressure, and while Dr. Bowman was still stitching (“Probably won’t leave a scar.” “Will I be sprouting new hair?” “No.”), I was trying to arrange a ride back to my car. My friend, Keith, who had recently received another (I’m not counting) big ass bruise (on his thigh) from bouncing off rocks, agreed to come get me when I was released, but a woman from the front came in and asked me if Andy could come back. “He’s been here the whole time?” Yeah. So he came back, and, while waiting, we chatted about all kinds of deeply and shallowly philosophical stuff, and Bob Dylan (Andy has a gre-eeat story about a friend of his at Newport, 1965, front row tickets courtesy of Joan Baez). I called Keith back.

This morning Keith texted to see if I am okay. I am. Just a cut. “Good. I was a little worried with the last minute ride cancellation and sort of giddiness on the phone.” Giddy? Me?

Since I’m oh so close to getting my novel, “Swamis,” ready to publish, and my songs/poems collection, “Love Songs For Cynics,” I decided to overwrite an overwrought poem. This one:

The bodies still strewn on the battlefield, fires, once flaring, still smoldering, blood, once pumping, pooled or seeping, quietly, from bodies, once soldiers or shoppers or farmers or children of this or some other tribe, the survivors were, briefly, giddy, out of ammo, fingers flexing and relaxing, adrenaline pushing, unrestrained, from every poor, paused a moment before reloading.

It seems to be a thing we participate in, the ranking of surfers based on criteria other than a person’s ability to ride waves. The ranking system varies but usually is skewed toward the person placing each of us into categories. It was once that the ultimate “Waterman” or water-person was skilled in multiple facets; yeah, but… I took this photo of ALLEN mostly because someone on the beach said it’s, with the roof extension lowered in this image, probably a hundred-thousand dollar rig. “No,” Allen bought it used for Forty grand (not sure if that’s with or without the camper). Points for Allen on one scale. “I traded out about fifteen-hundred worth of work for mine,” I said. I’m not claiming bonus points, but for $98,500 I can make a few trips searching for waves. Or maybe I can buy a newer board. Or…

Again, am I judging? Constantly, though I’m trying to quit. I told Trish that, in the movies, someone who hits something like a planter pot and busts upon his head, dies. “No,” she said, “Sometimes they wake up with amnesia.” She laughed. “You might wake up and not know where you are and ask, ‘how the hell’d I end up in this dump?'” It’s a long story, and with every story, I’m working on it.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. Wing Foilers, non-wing foilers, E bike riders, kite surfers, some e foil riders, some kayakers, shortboarders, longboarders, snow riders, skate boarders, any and all learners or almost masters, of any age, of the fine art of flowing and gliding and ripping and falling are welcome.

I am past the pissed off, embarrassed, relieved, and the giddiness phases. I am still cruising in the thankful phase. For every accident we are involved in, there are so many near misses, so many ‘could have beens,’ any of which would change our story. As Andy said, “There are miracles on both ends; we don’t remember our birth, and our death is still a mystery.” Yeah, I told you it was philosophical.

RIP Tom Decker and Bucky Davis

Posted on by under Uncategorized

Surf Heroes, Surf Villains, Surf Legends

We can all break down our surfing lives into where we first attempted to ride waves, the places we have surfed, our most memorable sessions and rides, and who we surfed with. We’ve all run into surfers we admired and surfers we hated- heroes and villains.

While new people are making the same attempts we made, surfers are lost at the other end- heroes and villains and all those who don’t fit into either category.

Tom Decker and Bucky Davis passed on recently. If you surf in Washington State, you have probably heard of Mr. Decker, an ENFORCER at Westport and elsewhere. He may have invited you to get out of the water or not even go out.  You probably have not heard of Bucky.

If Bucky was my first and possibly last surf hero, I never fully bought into Tom as a bad-to-the-bone villain.

-Tom Decker- I first ran into Tom when I first ran into Northwest surf pioneer Darrell Wood when I moved from San Diego to the Olympic Peninsula in late 1978, believing I had given up surfing. In February of 1979, a portion of the Hood Canal floating bridge, the peninsula’s connection to the world, including Bremerton, where I worked, sank. A week later the state set up a horrible boat/bus network and, aboard the passenger-only boat, the first person I met was Darrell. The next weekend I was attempting to surf a point break. One of the locals I met was Tom Decker. He lived as close to the break as he could, worked at a restaurant, this allowing him maximum daytime to search for waves. Tom was respectful of Darrell and polite to me. We tried to make a deal for me to buy a wetsuit from him to replace the only one I could find, a diving suit- two-piece, crotch strap, minimal stretch, super uncool. I did ‘borrow’ the suit, didn’t end up purchasing it. No, never loan anyone a wetsuit.

I heard Tom had moved to Bellingham or somewhere, pursuing a career in filming videos or something, but when I was convinced to go out for a Ricky Young-sponsored longboard contest in Westport in the late 1980s, there was Tom Decker, in my heat. “No,” he said, after he advanced and I didn’t, “I moved here a while back.” “Oh, great.”

I heard stories from Westport surfers who ventured up to the Strait, stories of crowds and locals, including Tom Decker, rebelling against the flow of kooks and people who are, rather than committing any obvious sin, just plain in the way. This cajoling and directing (such as, “Get the fuck out of the water!”) would seem slightly more noble if enforcers were trying to impress upon other surfers that etiquette is important.

When my son Sean was going to Evergreen College in Olympia, and when I had a surf-relationship with Jeff Parrish, husband of my daughter, Dru, I made some trips to Westport. I have written about this, but my encounters with Tom Decker (I remembered him, not sure he remembered me) were, well, memorable. He was still riding a short board while I was making the older-guy switch to bigger boards. Respect for that. His ‘disagreement’ with a guy in the water, in pretty heavy conditions, started when the other surfer blew three takeoffs. Yeah, there is something irritating about this. When Tom mentioned this, the takeoff-blowing surfer snapped back. “Oh, I didn’t know I was surfing with… royalty!” And then Jeff lost control on an attempted takeoff. I caught the next wave, went in. Jeff was running out of the water. “Did I almost hit you?” “Yeah. Why?” “That guy called me a kook, and said I almost killed my friend.” “Oh?”

Tom Decker didn’t call me out. I felt kind of… good about it.

This is not to say I have not been called out for kook moves throughout my career. I have, even fairly recently, and I deserved most, but not all of the call outs. None of the people pointing out my kookish behavior would be classified as villains. I’m perfectly willing to not classify Tom Decker as one. Rest in peace.

-Bucky Davis- I know almost nothing about what Bucky Davis has done in fifty-five of the very close to sixty years since I started board surfing. Other than surfers I read about and saw photos of in magazines, Bucky was a sort of best-example-of if not surf hero. He had that aloof sort of coolness, surfed Grandview rather than Tamarack, dated Trish (not my Trish) the equally cool, even more aloof older sister (and personification off a late sixties surfer girlfriend), of Phillip Harper, my first surf friend. And Bucky was willing to take a couple of freshmen kooks with him on a couple of very memorable surf adventures (Grandview, where he pushed me off the bluff; across Camp Pendleton to San Onofre, to New Break at Sunset Cliffs).

My first attempt at a surf novel, “Inside Break,” used the interactions I had with Bucky and Trish, and what I knew of their real-life story, and in particular, my encounters with Bucky after I could drive myself, and ran into him, as the arc of my fictionalized, undoubtedly romanticized narrative; romanticized in that, in my novel, years later, Bucky and his Trish get back together.

The novel really is about how what we idealize is great, and it’s real. There is magic. Moments of it, hours, possibly days; but there is reality; harsh, mundane, boring. The era was, as it is in “Swamis,” the supercharged mid-to-late 1960s. The reality for someone coming of age was that decisions had to be made changes had to be dealt with: College, work, family, surfing, having a relationship, and the ongoing war, more specifically the draft.

My finite number of actual encounters with Bucky were landmarks on my own journey. There were some similarities. He showed up at Swamis beachbreak in ’68 or so. Surprise. He had fun. We all did. I saw him at Grandview in ’70; I was going to Palomar Junior College and working at Buddy’s Sign Service. My mother had just died in a car accident. I knew his brother had been killed in some sort of incident. We didn’t talk about it. The last time I saw him my girlfriend and I went to Tarramar because Trish didn’t want to do the stairs at Swamis, and because the access at Grandview had been filled in. Bucky was there with a girl I knew from school in Fallbrook. She was pregnant. Bucky and I surfed.

If there is a moral to “Inside Break,” it’s possibly that, contrary to the adage, ‘never meet your idols,’ maybe knowing a little more about anyone, saint or sinner, hero or villain, allows us to know something about ourselves. We need role models, good and bad. That’s not magic; but there is magic somewhere in that knowledge.

It’s not magic if it’s real. Or… magic is real.

Thanks for checkiong out realsurfers.net. I’m pushing Dru to get to work formatting my novel, “Swamis.” I have other stuff I wanted to include today. SO, something to look forward to for next time.

All original work on realsurfers.net is protected by copyright. Thanks for respecting that. NOW, get some waves!