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.
There is the no waves skunk; the wait for hours for waves to show up and then go out in waves that are or become way worse than the waves you could have ridden; and the show up with good waves but suffer some breakdown (ie; broken and lost fin) or run out of time before you can get out because you have to, HAVE TO LEAVE. We could add the times you just know it’s going off and you just cannot, this or that obligation, go, BUT you will hear about how awesome it was. Somehow being there and not surfing is more painful; what could have been for you and was for… them. Yeah, that’s petty. We all should be accustomed to this and not harbor resentment. Should. Jimbo and Buster got waves, supposedly, allegedly ‘All time, Epic, etc.’ You were working on your resume, trying to make yourself seem a bit more regime-friendly. Worth it.
Right Decisions, Wrong Decisions, Indecision, and/or Three Degrees of Skunk
“Time and tide wait for no man.” I don’t know who to credit the quote to, and frankly, I’m not motivated enough to even try to look it up. Here’s another quote, from me, probably said earlier, possibly better, by someone else: “There are good and bad decisions; sometimes the worst decision is indecision.”
I have missed more waves through indecision than bad decisions. I could trade this possible aphorism, as it relates to my most recent attempt at finding and riding waves to, “Always listen to Trish,” and/or “Trish is almost always right.”
Yesterday was my wife’s birthday. Always a year and a bit behind me, age-wise, always ahead of me, decision-wise. YES, Trish knew the election was getting blown out while I still held on to some desperate belief that even people I am going to say are fooled rather than that they are fools might vote self-interest over grievance, YES, Trish said I shouldn’t agree to go with ADAM “WIPEOUT’ JAMES if he had to get back to HamaHama by 11 am. YES, Trish did say, when I got home at 10am, that I should just go back out. YES, Trish was right.
The, let me see, 1971… 2024… 53rd wedding anniversary (I was 20, Trish was 19 years and eleven days old) is coming up; you’d think I’d believe her by now.
I am extremely bad at giving presents. To anyone. If giving a compliment on, say, a surfer’s, even a friend’s ride or style, is a sort of gift; I’m stingy enough to never give false praise. RUDE SARCASM, yes, though, since you should believe Trish, she says… well, a lot; all of it honest. “You always try to be cool. Give it up!” This was when we were first dating; still holds up. “You say you’re just joking. No, you almost always mean it.” Okay. “You never listen.” No. What? “You’re an asshole and you’re never sorry.” Okay, there Trish is wrong. I am sorry. Sometimes.
I’m sorry right now. Sorry for myself that I didn’t set up an alternate plan, ride back with someone else, sorry I actually (broke a rule here) got word that a spot that wasn’t working pre-dawn was working (hence regret for now heading back out), and I found out, way after the fact, that I could have abandoned Adam, surfed the spot that was working at dawn and beyond, and gotten a ride back. So, TRISH. Right.
Some SOLACE, me trying to lessen the pain of carting my gear all the way to the beach with a thirty-minute window to change, surf, change again, head for the car. Since donning a wetsuit is approximately a ten-minute process, getting out of it, another ten to twelve; there was, realistically, only time to watch surfers catch and not catch waves. OH, and a chance to look like the guy…
SO, there’s the paddle of shame; paddling rather than surfing in because the waves went away (frequent and forgivable on the fickle Strait) or because you are, perhaps daunted by the surf at hand (semi-forgivable if you’ve been surfing for three hours and there’s a seven-wave set approaching); and then there’s the greater shame of being all set to go and then not going out because the waves are not what you are prepared to ride.
This was not the case, and, no, I don’t want to be that guy, OR the old guy who dispenses ‘back in my day’ stories rather than subjecting himself to paddling out and providing proof that this is not his (apologies for using the masculine) day.
RIDING WITH ADAM, I have to say, is very enjoyable. He has great stories that go way beyond surfing, BUT, as I told Adam when we were hightailing it back to his car, me with my bag of dry wetsuit and supplies, Adam with a fresh ding in his latest favorite board of all time, if I had made a deal to get a ride back with KEITH and RICO, I’d have abandoned him in a fucking heartbeat and gone out. I WASN”T JOKING.
Wipout-wise, REGGIE SMART did suffer an injury recently; his board smacking him in the jaw, teeth going through his lip. He drove himself to the emergency room and, in true Reggie style, wouldn’t let the nurse touch him after she touched way too many things with her gloved hands, turned down a stitch from the doctor, saying he had ‘peroxided and denatured the shit’ out of the wound, and couldn’t he just shave off his soul patch and put, like, one of those butterfly things on it? Sure. Did he want vicadin? “No, I’m good.” I’m not all over instagram, but Reggie is. Check him out.
I WROTE a first verse of this poem and/or song (song) a while back. I have been working on a second verse. And a chorus. One I know but one that doesn’t actually fit is something that someone in my family of seven kids came up with. Not sure who should get credit.
Cookies and candy and ice cream and cake, donuts and brownies and pie, and for dessert, Jello.
Hold off on that sugar, Honey, I don’t want to die, I just need a taste of something sweet to get me by; Honey, you should know by now that I might never be, Someone who’s as good for you as you have been for me.
I still can’t believe it, Honey, you have been so sweet, Didn’t know I needed you to make my life complete; Honey, there are universes dancing in your eyes; It’s not just that, it’s so much more that’s kept me hypnotized.
The world of surf, what it is and what we believe it to be, and surfers, real and otherwise, keeps spinning. Some can articulate the range of emotions and sensations flowing through a surfer in the most magical, intimate moments. The addiction is the desire to feel that release again. And… again.
ANYWAY, more to come. I am almost done, like 15 pages from my latest edit of my novel, “SWAMIS,” and I did talk on the phone to the president/owner/whatever of a Seattle publisher. I’ll get to that on Wednesday. RIGHT NOW I am considering whether to take off and look for waves with a dropping swell or… I’ll check with Trish and get back to you.
ALL ORIGINAL stuff on realsurfers.net is copyright protected, all right reserved. Thanks for respecting that. GOOD LUCK.
TRISHA’S and my older son, older. JAMES JOSEPH MICHAEL DENCE had a birthday yesterday. His caption, texted with the photo, is “Forty-eight never looked so good.” J.J. when he was young, JAYMZ as a stage name, he has been in Moscow, Idaho since college, working and playing guitar with the FABULOUS KINGPINS, all the while leading his own bands, the current version being SOLID GHOST.
SIDENOTE- I just received (yesterday) a reasonably priced front zip wetsuit, replacing the one I’ve thrashed and patched, the one famously (locally) for having the hole in a most inopportune place for someone knee paddling in a crowded lineup. The suit is from NRS, which, I discovered, stands for NORTHWEST RIVER SUPPLY, and, surprise, they are located in MOSCOW, IDAHO. James said he almost went to work for them, a small outfit then, but now worldwide, but “They still pay Idaho wages.” Yeah, well… in this case, I appreciate it.
ADAM ‘WIPEOUT’ JAMES, obvious animal lover, worldwide local, and HAMA HAMA OYSTERS ambassador, is having a birthday TODAY. 47, and choosing which locals are ready to welcome into which lineup. Adam put the ‘local’ in ‘local or lucky,’ (I do take credit for the phrase) seeming to arrive at locations on days that turn out to be EPIC. Example- Cape Kiwanda, the pullback capitol of the world, with the point actually acting like a point break. Almost guaranteed today will be awesome and barrelling. At least, using a phrase often used by Adam, there’ll be a few butt barrels.
SEQUIM VORTEX STORIES-
I’m checking out at Costco. The checkout guy, possibly trying to impress the young woman assisting, says, “Pop a wheelie. On, like, a BMX bike. You’re too young for that one. This guy probably gets it.” “Yeah, I am, but, you know, there’s never a mention of mama wheelie.” “Oh. Is that a thing?” “Probably not.”
I’m headed from Home Depot (for stain) to Walmart (for bird food, mostly, assuming I need a decent excuse for going to either big box, right-wing owned store), and I see this guy at the light with a sign that says, “Looking for human kindness.” I change lanes to avoid eye contact (because I’m a hypocritical liberal who already voted, solid blue, but one who is still working at 73), and because I run a constant stream of ‘what if’ scenarios through my mind, I wonder what reaction I would get from the man if I came back and gave him the gallon of milk from Costco. It might be, “Yeah, that’s exactly what I meant.” Or not.
I’ll skip the in-depth ‘Previously’ for “Swamis” again, but this chapter mostly takes place at GRANDVIEW, JOEY and a guy from Fallbrook High racing over after school. If you’re figuring out that the story is almost more about the relationship between Joey and JULIE COLE… yeah.
CHAPTER SEVEN- FRIDAY, MARCH 14, 1969
Fallbrook Union High School was letting out. Gary and Roger and I were standing in the big dirt parking lot behind the band room. Johnny Dale, in his daddy’s restored 1957 Chevy Nomad station wagon, two girls in the front seat with him, slowed down, then popped the clutch, and spun out directly in front of us. Gary, then Roger, flipped Johnny off, both called him an asshole. Both looked at me when I didn’t participate.
“Witnesses,” I said.
“You?” Gary asked. “No,” they both said. The next two cars that passed got three sets of double eagles, my gesture only waist high, almost happily returned by the car’s occupants.
…
“Friday, March 14,” I said, writing the date into a page about a third of the way through a red notebook sitting on the hood of a yellow 1968 Super Beetle with two surfboards, side by side on the Aloha racks; my bruised and patched nine-six pintail and a brand-new Hansen ten-two. “Finally enough light after school for going. Gary and Roger bailed.”
Roger said, “We’re not bailing, Joey; we have dates.”
Gary mouthed, “Dates” while running his hand along the rail of the board on the driver’s side, adding, “With girls. And it’s fuckin’ Friday! And, anyway, Joey, where’s your date, Doublewide Doug?”
“Doug-L-ass has… art seventh period,” Roger said. I nodded, looked at my watch, wrote a sentence in the notebook without saying it out loud.
“Why is it,” Gary asked, “That Dingleberry Doug has a new fucking car and a new fucking surfboard?”
“Why is it, Gary, that Joey is such a whore that he’ll ride with Dipshit Doug?”
“Why is it, Joey, that everyone’s getting shorter boards, but your buddy, Dipsy doodle Doug, is going full-on aircraft carrier?”
I looked around the lot. “Because, gentlemen, Doug’s… working; one, and his father’s running irrigation for all the new… ranchettes; two, and three, I’m a whore for the surf, and three, again… gas money.” I stepped back from my friends. Both were wearing Levis, Ked’s boat shoes, J.C. Penny’s white t shirts, and nylon windbreakers. As was I. “Why is it that we all don’t have… matching windbreakers like we’re on the Dork Neck Dreever Surf Team?” Both gave me ‘fuck you’ looks. “You guys, with the blonde hair and all. Uninformed people might believe you surf better than I do.”
“Fine with me, Joey. Gary? You?”
“Yeah. Fine, but… Hey, Joey; here comes your date now!”
Doug, varsity offensive lineman, was on the sidewalk, still a distance away, slow running toward us. He had a cardboard art portfolio under his right arm, his left arm out and ready to straight arm anyone in his path.
“Joey DeFreines, surf slut,” Gary said, kissing his right hand, then using a big arm movement to simulate throwing the kiss toward Doug. Roger ran out, putting both hands out as if he might catch this pass.
Doug only saw the last part before Roger bumped into him and bounced away. Doug dropped Roger with his left arm. “Incomplete,” he said, leaning over to help Roger back up.
Gary’s mom’s Corvair pulled in beside Gary and me, trailed by its usual puffs of black smoke. The Princess was driving. There was another girl in the front seat, two more in the back. Sophomore girls. Giggling. The Princess peeled out just as Gary went around the back of the car.
“Better remember to put some oil in it, Princess,” Gary said, pointing to the hood. “One quart ought to do it.”
The Princess popped the clutch, honked as she cut another car off, and pulled out and onto the side road in a cloud of black smoke.
Doug touched his car and leaned against it, breathing heavily. “Made it!” He opened his portfolio, pulled out a piece of drawing paper and laid it on the hood. “Check this shit out!” It was a drawing, pastels, of cartoonish people and cars on the side of a road. A red light was glowing from beyond and below the cars and people. “Pulled over” was written in the same red as a sort of caption.
“It’s from… last week’s Free Press,” I said.
“Where’d you get it, Doublewide Dave?”
” Well… Roger, someone in my art class wanted me to scotch tape it on…” He pointed toward me. “Jody’s locker.”
“Grant Murdoch.”
“Grant fucking Murdoch.”
“Bingo! I told him to fuck himself, Jody, you and I are surfin’ buddies.”
“Surfin’ buddies, Doug-l-as,” Gary said, extending the ‘ass’ part, “Don’t wear that fucking letterman jacket to the beach. Joey wants all the hodads to think he’s from somewhere else.”
“Laguna… specifically,” I said as I rolled up the drawing, using the scotch tape at the corners to secure the roll. “Or San Clemente. Santa Cruz. Just… not… Fallbrook.”
Douglas took a folded piece of paper out of a pocket, the Warrior’s jacket off and tossed it, inside-out, onto the hood of his car.
“Oh, and fuck Grant Murdoch,” Gary said as he and Roger turned and headed toward an almost new Ford Mustang, two girls standing beside it.
Doug looked that way as he unlocked the driver’s door. “Roger’s stepfather’s car, Doug.”
“Yeah, I know, but, Jody, that one girl; I think she’s, maybe, a… sophomore.”
I stepped in front of Doug, blocking his view. “Maybe.” I shaded my eyes and looked toward the sun.
“Maybe she flunked third grade or something. We… You ready?”
I half-danced around the front of the car, grabbing my books and notebooks. “Maybe.”
When I got in the super beetle, Doug slid the paper across the dashboard. “Murdoch. Wanted me to give it to you…” I didn’t unfold it. “Personally. I didn’t look at it.”
I placed the unopened paper into the side pocket of my PeeChee folder. “We going?”
…
Doug was driving. I had a book open, its paper bag cover with unreadably psychedelic pencil lettering. “Civics” and “Grandview” and “JOEY DeFreines.”
“Shit, Jody, I could just cheat off of you.”
“Or… you could… study. I’ll just give you the… shit I think’ll be on the test.”
“Close your eyes, Jody.” Doug pushed the book back toward my face.
I knew exactly where we were; three big corners west of the village of Bonsall, on the last straightaway before the sharp left and the narrow bridge across the wide valley that held the thin line of the San Luis Rey River. I looked over the book and Doug just in time to see the construction site, an elongated building framed up, level with and parallel to the highway on an artificial peninsula of fill.
“Building it quick, Jody.”
“Yes. Quickly.’
“Um, uh, Jody; you know, my sister… she taught me how to drive. She said, if there’s a truck or something coming… on the bridge… she just closes her eyes.”
“Uh, Doug… no. Eyes open. Please.”
We made it across, no vehicles coming our way. A choice had to be made. It was a soft right-hand turn or a steep hill.
“Oceanside’s probably faster,” Doug said. “Cut over at El Camino Real.”
“Faster then, Doug.”
Doug downshifted, made the soft right-hand turn. Thirty seconds later Doug said, “Um, you know; Gary and Roger call you Joey.” I didn’t look over the Civics book. “I’ll call you that if you call me…”
“Dangerous Doug? Or… your choice. Sure.”
“And you can tell Gary and Roger that I’m, you know, really good, surfing-wise. Joey.”
I lifted the book back up to my face. “Or… I can give you a dollar for gas… Doug-ie.”
“Oh. No. That’s all right… Jo-ey.”
…
Doug cut off an oncoming pickup truck as he made the thirty-five-degree turn onto the El Camino Real cutoff, southwest, up and out of the valley, We hit highway 78 on the other side, merged onto I-5, got off at Tamarack Avenue. High tide. Shorebreak. We didn’t even drop into the lower parking lot. Doug missed the turn for Grandview. So, Beacons. Doug pulled in next to a green-gray VW bus with a white roof.
“Last chance, Doug. Sun’s down in… forty minutes.”
The tide was dropping. There were five surfers out, two of them girls. Young women. One of the young women was Julia Cole. There were four guys in street clothes on the beach. Two were watching the young women, one was looking at the flotsam along the tide line, one was doing some sort of surf pantomime, a beer bottle in each hand. He was the one who looked up the bluff at Doug and me.
“Jerks,” I said.
“Fucking Hodads,” Doug said as he opened the trunk on the front of his super beetle. That one in the blazer and wingtips, guaranteed not from around here.”
I moved to the bluff, wrapping Doug’s extra towel around me. A set was coming in and Julia Cole was on the second wave. I turned my shortjohn wetsuit back to outside out, peeled off my Levis and boxers, pulled the wetsuit up partway, wrapped the clothes in the towel, pulled the sleeveless suit up the rest of the way. Right arm through, I connected the stainless-steel turnbuckle at the left shoulder.
“My first wetsuit, Doug, December of 1965, made by a sailmaker at Oceanside Harbor, cost fifteen dollars. Christmas present. This one… seventeen-fifty, plus tax. But they were custom, two weeks from measuring to pick up.”
“Val’s,” Doug said as he unstrapped the boards, “my dad… up in LA.”
“Val’s is… valley, as in… valley cowboy.”
“Not trying to hide it.”
“Good. Noble. I am.” I pulled a cigarette out of the pack, showed it to Doug. He shook his head. I lit the Marlboro with three paper matches. Throwing my clothes into the trunk, I stashed my wallet, cigarettes, and matches in one shoe, stuffed the other shoe inside that one, slid the shoes under my clothes.
“Yes, Jo… Joey; I will lock the car.”
Halfway down the first section of the path, I saw that Julia Cole and her friend were out of the water. The three other Jerks followed the pantomimer toward them. “Monica,” the pantomimer, the Head Jerk, said. Loudly. His crew laughed. He repeated the word, stretching it to, “Mon-ee-ca. We have some be-er, San-ta Mon-e’-ca.”
Monica, her head down, made it to the bottom of the trail. The Head Jerk, walking backwards toward the bluff in front of Julia Cole, blocked the trail access. Julia Cole stopped; her face was very close to the Head Jerk’s. She said something. He put his free hand over his crotch, hopped backwards, throwing his hands out and up, beer sloshing onto his madras shirt.
Julia Cole was ten steps up the trail when he said, “Juuu-li-a. Juuuu-lee-ya; you are so cold. Soooo coooold. Ju’-li-a cold.”
Doug and I, boards under our arms, made the turn at the trail’s upper switchback.
The Head Jerk took several steps up the trail, turned back to his crew. “Come on up, you pussies!” Raising the volume, he added, “Surf broads. You jagoffs liking Monica’a ass better… or Juuu-lie’s?”
If any of the Jagoffs responded, it was more like growling or laughing than discernible words. “Brrrrrrrr,” the Head Jagoff said, Julie fifty feet up the trail, “Is the water cold, Juu-lie? And… I’m wondering if you’ve got anything on under that wetsuit. I saw… skin.”
More laughter. One of the members of the Jagoff Crew said, “Come on, dude; cool it.”
Head Jerk moved both beer bottles to his left hand and shot his right hand out. Pleased that the subordinate flinched, Head Jagoff said, “And don’t fuckin’ call me dude… dude.” He started up the trail. His cohorts hung back, possibly because they saw me, looking quite displeased, and the much bigger Doug, behind me, also displeased.
Monica and I met at the lower switchback. I stopped. Doug stopped. I stood my board up, holding it with my left hand, and moved to the uphill side. Doug did the same. Monica nodded, quickly, but looked down as she passed. Julia Cole had an expression as much determined as pissed-off. Defiant. Looking at me, she didn’t seem to adjust her expression one way or the other. I did notice the chrome turnbuckle on one side of her wetsuit was undone and her bare shoulder was exposed. Skin. She noticed I noticed. Another asshole. Another jerk. Her lower lip seemed to pull in, her upper lip seemed to curl. Disappointment. Or anger. Julia blinked. I didn’t. I couldn’t.
Julia Cole passed me and then Doug. “Joey’ll get ‘em,” Doug said.
“No,” she said. “Not… no.”
I may have been replaying Julia Cole’s expression for the third or fourth time when Head Jagoff approached the tight angle at the switchback. I may have missed the first few words he kind of spit at me.
I replayed his words. “What’s the deal, asshole? Huh? You some sort of fuckin’ retard?”
“Possibly, Dude,” I said. “I do believe, Dude, you owe Julia Cole and Monica… don’t know her last name… a sincere apology.”
“You do,” Doug said. “And… don’t know where you’re from, Jagoff; somewhere east coast; but we don’t fuckin’ call our chicks ‘broads’ around here.” Doug looked at me.
“I believe,” I said, “The Jerk prefers being called Dude… over Jagoff.”
“No, Jagoff seems apropos. That, Jagoff, means ‘appropriate.’ It’s French. Jagoff, which, I might be wrong, has something to do with… you know, whacking the… willy.”
Jagoff looked at Dangerous Doug in his new Val wetsuit, his un-dinged Hansen leaning against his left shoulder, his spotless white towel over his right shoulder. Jagoff looked back down the trail. His cohorts hadn’t moved. “Come on up. We have us a fuckin’ farm boy and some sort of retard Gook.”
“Oh, no. Jody; Willy Whacker called you a Gook.”
“Common mistake.”
“Step aside, fuckers!” Neither Doug nor I moved. “Jody,” Jagoff said, leaning in way too close to my face. “Girl’s name. Well. Fuck Monica! Fuck Julie fuckin’ Cole. And… fuck you, Jo-dee… And your fat-ass friend.”
Doug turned toward me. “I meant… Joey, but. Joey, I don’t think an apology is, you know, forthcoming.”
I let go of my board and extended my right hand, palm up, toward Jagoff. My board fell against the bank. He looked at my hand. He made a sound as if he was hawking up a loogie. I kept my hand out. He spit near but not on my hand.
Doug laid his board, carefully, uphill, against the scrub and ice plant on the bluff. He wrapped his towel around his neck and pointed at each member of the Jagoff Crew, now partway up the lower portion of the trail. “Hey, assholes, come on up and help out your friend. But, warning, Joey’s a, for real, fucking, by-God, Devil Dog!”
Jagoff shook his head. “Devil Dog?” It didn’t register. He looked up toward the parking lot, sneering. He put one of the beer bottles in his other hand. Holding the bottles by the necks, he smashed them against each other. The open one shattered, the remaining beer running down his arm. He held the raw edges against the palm of my right hand. He was smiling. “Fuck you, Gook!”
I closed my eyes. I imagined an eleven-year-old kid. My opponent. He had padded fabric head gear and a heavy pad on his body, a padded pugil stick in his hands. He was sneering. Other voices were cheering. I could hear myself crying. Big sobs, inhaling between each one. My father’s voice said, “Eyes open, Jody! Open!” The kid in the head gear, still sneering, was about to hit me again, this time with the right-hand end of the stick. I could also see the Jagoff, his beer bottle weapon pulled back. My father’s voice screamed, “Get in there! Jody!” I did. I saw my pugil stick connect, saw the opponent fall back. His sneer gone.
As was Jagoff’s.
Both beer bottles were on the path, both now broken. It would be a moment before Jerk/Dude/Jagoff reached for his nose; before the blood started flowing from there and his upper lip. It would be another few moments before the three Jagoffs, frozen near the top of the bluff, continued scrambling for the top.
“Devil Dog,” Dangerous Doug said.
“Devil Pup,” I said, keeping my eyes on my opponent. “Marines, Dude… may I call you Dude? There were tears in Dude’s eyes, blood seeping between his fingers. “Or… your name? No? Well, Dude, Devil pups; it’s kind of like… summer camp… on the Marine base, with hand-to-hand combat.”
Doug pulled his towel from his shoulders and handed it to Dude. “Apology, then, Dude?”
Fluffy towel to his face, Dude nodded. “Not to us,” I said. He nodded again. “Promise?” Third nod. “Okay. And, if you would… pick up the glass. It dangerous. Huh, Doug?”
“Dangerous,” Doug said. “Keep the towel, Dude. Souvenir.”
Looking from Doug to me, Dude pulled the towel away, blood seeping through it. “You don’t know Julia Cole. What she’s really like. You defending her, it’s like…”
“You’re right. I don’t know her.”
“’Cause we’re from Newport, Dude. Huh, Joey?”
Dude was staring at me. His eyes narrowed, then widened. Whether or not this meant he recognized me, I smiled. “Newport… yeah.”
Doug blinked and mouthed, “Laguna.”
…
When Doug and I got to the beach, Dude was still at the same spot, placing pieces of broken glass into Doug’s towel. His friends were in the parking lot, three vehicles over from the VW camper bus. There was a flash of light off glass. Julia Cole was behind the passenger side door. I couldn’t see her expression. I could remember it from earlier.
“Sorry, Doug. You know I’m trying to be all ‘peace and love,’ and not…”
“You shittin’ me, Joey? You’re a fuckin’, by-God Devil Dog!”
When we were knee deep in the water, Doug jumping onto his board early, too far back, too much of his board’s nose out of the water, I said, “Maybe we can keep this little incident to ourselves.”
Doug laughed. “How good am I doing, Joey?”
I jumped over a line of soup and onto my board. “You’re fuckin’ ripping, Dangerous Doug!”
…
I left my wetsuit and my shoes on the porch, stacked my books on the dinette table, and looked back into the living room, all the lights except a lamp by the console off. My mother was on the couch. A World War II era record was playing, a woman singing wistfully about lost love. Seventy-eight rpm. The wedding photo was leaning against the console. The song ended and another record, 33 and 1/3 rpm, dropped onto the turn table. “South Pacific,” original Broadway cast.
My mother got up, adjusted the record speed, and walked into the kitchen. I followed.
“The surfing?”
“Good. Doug is just learning, and…”
“Doug. Who are Doug’s… people?” She turned off the oven and pulled out a foil covered plate, set it on the cast iron trivet on the kitchen table. “Would you like milk?”
“I’ll get it. Doug’s father has the irrigation company. Football player. That Doug.”
“Irrigation. Football. Doug. You and he are… friends… now?”
“Now? I guess so. Surf friends, Mom; it’s… different.”
“Still, it is nice that you have… friends.”
“It’s just… it’s not… Surfing’s cool. I surf. It doesn’t make me cool.” My mother gave me a look I had to answer with, “Yes, mother; friends are… nice to have.” She nodded and walked through the formal dining room and into the living room.
I pulled the paper Doug had given me out of the PeeChee and unfolded it. “It was a drawing of me, from this week’s Free Press. Me in the window, looking out. The pen and ink drawing wasn’t quite a rendering, not quite a cartoon, with un-erased pencil lines. “Grant,” a signature at the bottom, was not finished in ink.
I tried to figure what Grant’s motives were. Intentions. I allowed water trapped in my sinuses to drain from my nose, not wiping at them with a paper napkin for a moment, then blowing as much water as I could into the napkin.
Freddy ran into the kitchen from the hallway, half pushed me against the counter. “She called,” he said. “The reporter. Asked for you… after I told her mom wasn’t here. Are you crying?”
“No. No.” I refolded the drawing. “Who? Lee Ransom?”
“Yeah. Her. Mom was here. Outside, grooming Tallulah.”
“Okay.”
“I told her…” Freddy switched to a whisper. “I told her what you told me to say.” I nodded, tried to push past my brother. He put a hand to my chest. “She asked what kind of car mom drives.” I did one of those ‘and?’ kind of shrugs. “She said she asked one of the detectives, and he pointed to a different car than the one someone else pointed to… not the Volvo.”
“Which one?”
“Which car?”
“Which detective?”
“Boys!” I looked around Freddy. Our mother was in the dining room. I couldn’t tell from her expression how much she had heard. I had to assume too much.
“SWAMIS’ is copyrighted material, all rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
And, in the RELUCTANTLY POLITICAL catagory, please vote the reasoned choice; BLUE. There is no other America to save America from going the way of many another country. There is no reasonable reason to vote for a disgusting example of a human being and wannabe dictator. If you claim some sort of Christian stance, ‘he is redeemable’ kind of bullshit argument, you must not believe Jesus when he said about those who speak the way the orange candidate does, that “the truth is not in them.” Or, perhaps, you put little value in the last book of the BIBLE. Cons con. Liars lie. Grifters grift.
…for dealing with a lack of surf and/or a lack of opportunities to surf. Subtle difference, same result: Surf Withdrawal Syndrome (SWS).
I HAD THIS DREAM last night, so this image coming from “DREAMTIME” copyright theirs, is quite appropriate, though, in my dream, rather than the Great Smokey Mountains (where, incidentally, my mother was raised), and in my dream, that evidently, in a dream-typical way, seemed to sort of tell a story in which I was supposed to go surfing with this guy, possibly based on Olympic Peninsula surf pathfinder Darrell Wood, BUT… THERE WERE COMPLICATIONS; we had to check out some house where the dude there (couldn’t pick him out in a lineup) wanted to add on to his house AND was having trouble with a son who was getting in trouble. The Darrell character had advice on both, but I was aware that I had to call TRISH and give her an update, and that it was getting late, surf trip-wise. SO I ASKED the homeowner if he had a phone. HE DID, but he was on it. LANDLINE. I chased him through a really big house, at one point asking him if there was a bathroom, all while he’s unfurling phone cord behind him. “Do you really need to add on, man?” SUDDENLY, I’m outside, and I’m getting into a vehicle with ADAM “WIPEOUT” JAMES, and I’m asking him if it’s too late to surf. “If you ride with someone else…” he said as we drove toward a setting sun over low mountains, the Pacific Ocean somewhere over them.
“If you ride with someone else… WHAT?”
INCIDENTALLY, 45 years ago, when I first ran into Darrell Wood, he said he’d invite me to go to spots he knew of, but, if he called, I had to be out the door within 15 minutes (or so), his house being 45 Hwy 101 minutes away from mine. So, I got to ride with him… once. I was late, but when we got to waves I thought were spectacular, Darrell turned them down, saying it gets way better. “When?” “Sometimes.”
My guess, my analysis of my dream, based on various couldhavebeen surf attempts in which time ran out is… I don’t know; FRUSTRATION? I’m currently dealing with an injury, knowing I have missed some opportunities, and, looking at the forecast for the STRAIT, ALWAYS IFFY, is not encouraging.
ALSO, I have had SUPER, MAGICAL SESSIONS riding with Trish, with our kids, with friends (including ADAM WIPEOUT) to find surf. It’s not always the SURFING, sometimes it’s the trip.
ENJOY THE TRIP. It is part of the story. AND there’s always a story.
…that’s about it. Oh, yeah; HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!
I AM, AGAIN, at the end of the latest complete rewrite of “Swamis.” As in, where an author is supposed to write, in case a lack of more pages isn’t enough, “THE END.” I wrote, “NOT EVEN CLOSE TO THE END.” The current version is, after thousands of words were cut, at a little over 103,000 words. As I explained in an earlier post, I was forced to move the first chapter, which, cleverly, I thought, set in something more like the current time, answered a lot of questions I didn’t want to spell out at the end.
AFTER several attempts to write something concise AND with the all important AWESOME first line, I am pretty much just changing all the chapter numbers on my next go-through. LAST? I hope so. ONE OF THE ISSUES I wanted a new opening chapter to deal with is the writing style of the fictional narrator, JOSEPH DeFREINES, JR, aka Atsushi Defreines, aka Jody, aka Joey.
It sort of comes down to whether, as I’m hoping, the clues JOEY finds along the course of the novel are enough for a reader to draw conclusions. It’s not some conscious attempt at might-be-cool (or another failed attempt at it) AMBIGUITY, but Mr. DeFreines, who, after years as an attorney (alluded to but not overtly stated) writes in a very controlled way, clarity over flash. To that end, I wrote, and will not use, a line like, “I don’t use a lot of adjectives in my regular conversation, why should I do so because I’m writing rather than telling the story.”
WHAT’S CHANGED in my constantly working and editing and thinking about the story, “Swamis,” is that it has become much more a love story, Julie and Joey, tangled in the rush and roar of 1969. I have tried to convince the LOVE OF MY LIFE, TRISH, that it would make a great HALLMARK MOVIE. “Oh, with a guy being burned alive and all that?” “Yes I mean, it’s not gratuitous.”
I might be if Joseph DeFreines used more ADJECTIVES.
With apologies for going on about this, I wrote a sub-chapter, moved it to another place because I didn’t know where to fit it in. The place is now the depository of the latest rounds of cuts. AND, when I asked our daughter, DRUCILLA, to check out something on the laptop I am borrowing from her, she had to comment, out loud, “Oh, ‘Sexy scene,” to which Trish responded, “Really? I might have to read that.”
Sexy Scene for “Swamis”
“No, Julie, it was more you than me… The kissing. I was… more… controlled.”
It was late in the afternoon. There were still three surfers out. Julie and I were on the point end of the lifeguard tower. Our towels had slid into a single pile on the x shaped cross members. “No, Joey. You certainly were not.”
“I certainly tried to be… controlled.”
Julie reached into her big gray bag, unwrapped a top, basically something like a small apron. “Controlled. You… weren’t. But… enthusiastic. Yes.”
“More like surprised.”
“Are you going to… look away?”
“You look away; I’m the one who’s… topless.”
“Yes, you are.” Julie put the palm of her left hand on my chest. “You and your stick out nipples.”
“Nipples?” I crossed my arms over my chest. Julie untied the strap on her bikini top, her left hand holding her top to her chest. She widened her eyes. I turned, untangled my towel from hers, spun around and backed up a bit closer to her, holding the towel up and out in front of both of us. “In case those guys… in the water, have… really good eyesight.”
“Really good? Thanks.”
“Not a… I didn’t mean…”
Julie pressed her body against mine, slid her arms around me, her hands on my chest until she had my alleged stick out nipples between the first two fingers of each hand.
I tried not to inhale. Failed. A deep breath I was afraid to exhale.
“Don’t giggle, Joey.”
“You are.”
“You know it was my birthday…” Julie stopped giggling. “…over the weekend. I’m legal!”
“Congratulations. I’m not… legal… yet.”
“I’m willing to risk it.” Julie took a breath. “If you are.”
The towel dropped away as I spun, slowly, with control, Julie’s arms never fully pulling away, toward Julie, my arms squeezing her closer.
Closer.
I FEEL DUTY-BOUND to now mention that, whether or not I use this for the novel, it is still protected by copyright. Thanks for respecting that.
WIPEOUT UPDATE- This is the EMU Adam “Wipeout” James’s son, EMMETT caught off the Big Island. It was prepared by a chef in Seattle, presumably the woman in the photo. ALSO, and it may be because, like realsurfers.net, Adam and the HAMA HAMA OYSTER COMPANY have a world wide reach, my site got a higher than average number of hits since I posted the photos and story of the Adam’s family vacation. So, thanks.
FRANKENSUP UPDATE- Thanks to Joel Carbon for the apt description. Yes, that is my thumb. Yes, I did need a skil saw to cut the fin box out of the tail section of the first SUP I owned. And chisels, and knives. I filled in the big divot with foam from the same board, used some leftover cloth and some resin given me by Keith Darrock to cover the wound. Oh, and the sawhorses were from Mikel “Squintz” Comiskey, cutting down on possessions before he moved to the Big Island. I am also holding on to binoculars and a trophy he won at the Cape Kawanda Longboard contest a few years ago. I’m using the trophy, a beautiful turned bowl, for my keys, not that I still don’t still misplace them.
SPEAKING OF OLD DUDES WITH BAD MEMORIES, I’m thinking that will be my new excuse for bad lineup behavior when I get back to searching the Strait of Juan de Fuca for waves. “Backpaddling? Oh, sorry, I didn’t notice you.” Yeah, age, along with my wearing earplugs and my hearing being no better than marginal without them.
I DO PLAN on doing more board repair on the HOBIE. I guess I’ve had it for six or seven years, way longer than any other board I’ve ever owned (and thrashed), and ALL I WANT is another six or seven years out of it.
It’s still Winter. Get some waves when you can. And, again, HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY to all the lovers out there.
INSTANT COMMENTARY from (obvious alias) Frank Lee Darling: “If your taking a swipe at Biden. He doesn’t remember all the good things he’s done. Marmalade Man can’t thinnk of any. Because bone spurs never don anything that wasn’t self serving. That’s it. Connot wait til you book comes out. Probably banned and or burnt in Fla.
If you rely on the waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca to provide you with all the surfing satisfaction you can reasonably handle… well… There is a reason surfers who can go elsewhere do… go elsewhere. Of the loosely bundled group that might or might not be considered the Jefferson County CREW (as differentiated from if not opposed to the Clallam County or, heavens, the crews from King or Thurston or any other county) one is in New Zealand, another in Mexico, and two local rippers are planning a brief escape to, perhaps, Panama.
So, ADAM JAMES, who does actually live in Mason County, but, by virtue of his wide travels pushing HAMA HAMA OYSTERS to the known world, and who seems to be welcomed everywhere he goes, figured out a way to get to the BIG ISLAND, AND, AND, and to include his family: Andrea and their two sons, EMMETT and CALVIN (aka BOOMER), whose names I include because I keep having to ask Adam, AND because it is important to know more about our surf friends than whether or not they are goofy foot. Adam- no; regular foot but known to use a parallel stance on occasion.
OKAY, and I know it’s annoying, here is, after some further babbling, the photo array:
YOU DON’T get the full ADAM WIPOUT storytelling advantage here. I did. It was great. Next time Adam is backpaddling you, ask him about shooting the boar, or who this guy is, or pretty much anything. IT does look like this board was pretty far along before this Big Island breakage. I don’t believe this surfer was identified by name.
That’s Mikel “SQUINTZ” Cumiskey in the second shot. He seems to move, frequently, from Florida to Port Townsend to the Big Island. Mike and Adam met up, hit some of the spots. YES, Adam dropped names (Pine Trees, Banyons, secret spots with names I already forgot), had to include that the locals welcomed him graciously, AND that, by luck, he discovered a spot by the hotel they were staying at.
NOW, I have done some work for the Hama Hama Oyster Company, so I should include that the one photo is of Nate, the hatchery manager for JAMESTOWN SEAFOOD. The hatchery is owned by the Jamestown/s’klallam tribe. Nate is holding a few thousand 2-3 mm Kumamoto Oyster seed. They are sent from the hatchery to East Sequim Bay to grow to 12mm, at which point they are shipped to farms such as the Hama Hama tideflats on the Hood Canal. Nate is based out of Kona and, with his wife, Melissa, took Adam and Emmett out on their boat.
THERE WERE other photos, more waves, but I should also mention the boar was shot, by Adam. The way Adam told me, “So, Brian tells me, ‘the boar’s gonna charge you, but he’ll stop short. When he does, you have to shoot him right between the eyes. One shot. These guys eat twenty-two bullets like candy.’ It did… stop. I shot. Boom.”
BRIAN works for HAWAIIAN SHELLFISH on the Hilo side. Hama Hama also buys seed from them.
If I got any of this wrong, sorry.
MEANWHILE, look for waves when you can, and, if you find them, surf them. I am totally planning on restoring my HOBIE, which I did purchase from Adam Wipeout, like six or seven years ago, and, no Adam, I did pay it off.
Here’s something I got as a comment from someone who identified as FRANK LEE DARLING: “Those Cristians (sic) who can’t seem to not follow the sunburned turd should realize there not part of the flock, they’re part of the mob. Hope you get what I’m saying, Dude.” Not political, Frank, not sure if you’re talking about ALEX KNOST. No need to write back to explain.
IF YOU’RE CRUISING up or down SURF ROUTE 101, you might as well check out HAMA HAMA OYSTERS. If you have access to the internet, might as well check realsurfers.net on Sundays and Wednesdays. Not, like, dawn patrol.
This is not the great white shark, estimated at 18 feet long, that recently ate a seal in half in Ocean Shores. Wait, I guess, technically, it’s not the shark that left half a seal. So, I guess, shark-worry wise, I’m a seal-half-left kind of surfer. Optimistic minded. After all, I’ve never seen a shark bigger than the one I saw in the clear water at Swamis- small, or the one I’m sure I saw in the late evening chop at San Onofre. I yelled ‘shark,’ but my friends, one peak over, didn’t believe me, it didn’t seem to be there when I looked back, so I kept surfing.
Oh, but does one actually see the shark that takes him? Like a bullet in the old war movies; as if one sees bullets anyway.
Anyway, my friend Stephen Davis did see one in Oregon last fall. And, Adam James is pretty darn sure he saw a shark, possibly the very half-seal-leaving monster several weeks ago when he and Clint, fresh from surfing Demon Point (yeah, I know it’s Damon- or is it?), and checking out the jetty, were sure something that wasn’t a surfer flashing across a double-overhead wave, second in a set of three, may have been… suspense… possibly, a shark, the very self-same great white predator of the deep (and, the scarier part, shallow).
But it’s not the shark in the photo, hanging, above, with Limey, if that was, indeed, his real name.
Oh, and Clint and and Adam might have gone out at the jetty if they hadn’t been sort of tired from killlling it at Demon Point.
“No,” I said after this surfer I’d already realized was really good responded to my only slightly insincere apology/explanation for taking off in front of him, this after he had taken off in front of his friend, and both of us, in reality, were only going for that wave because we didn’t believe the farther-outside guy could make the section; “what I said was ‘I like people who are willing to share; because I’m really not.’ See?”
So, with only three of us out on the rights, he was right, I was wrong. His buddy hadn’t make the first section, but he did make it from where he took off (typically too far up the point) to where I took off (typically the perfect spot). Seeing he would make it across, and already committed, I turned and headed for the peeling shoulder.
It’s probably not a spoiler that the rider I inadvertently snaked was Dane Perlee. I didn’t know that until the after-surf beach recap. What I knew is I had picked up Archie, not yet twenty-four hours home from four months in Asia, and obviously exhausted, and we headed for our favorite spot on the Straits of Juan de Fuca. This was the peak of whatever Spring swell we’d be getting for the next week, and I was actually holding off from leaving earlier in the day to time the arrival with the dropping tide, and, hopefully, still be ahead of the predicted strong west wind.
Just before we rounded the final turns, I bet Archie that Tim Nolan, known to take off from Port Townsend at four am, would be there. “Okay,” Archie said, “we’ll bet a Costco hotdog.” “Oh,” I said, “then, for extra credit, I’ll bet Tugboat Bill is also there.”
By the time Archie agreed, ‘there’ was ‘here,’ and there were no parking spots on the water side of the parking area. Tim was there, Tugboat Bill was there; Clint, who owns his own boat repair place in Port Townsend, was there, and… well, we all check the same forecasts… way too many people were there for waves only slightly larger than the ones I’d surfed alone at the still-weak height of the previous week’s swell.
When someone pulled out to travel farther west, I backed in. There weren’t THAT many surfers in the water, and some of those who did hit the dawn patrol were actually done and loading up. AND the rights, as I hoped and predicted, were starting to work. Not big, just peeling.
BUT (wow, I’m using the all caps too much- still not even close to illustrating how frothed and excited I get when MY RIGHTS are working on the almost-all-lefts Straits- maybe I should add some !!!!!!s- Nope), suiting up outside the vehicle next to mine, two guys were eying the rights. Lustily.
“You’re not thinking about the rights?” The one guy just smiled, nodded, and pointed (to the rights). The other guy, grabbing a distinctively-shaped longboard, said, “We can share.”
So, it was on. Archie got out first, pulled into a couple of insiders, stylish parallel stance into the shorebreak.
Somewhere in the session I mentioned to the surfer later revealed to be Dane, “Hey, I saw you doing some of those Alex Knost bottom turns.” You know the ones; casual drop, stand/turn, arms to the side, body leaned impossibly toward the wave. “No,” he said, “those are my bottom turns; he got those from me.”
Stylish bottom turns (compare and contrast) by Dane Perlee, Alex Knost, and Donovan Frankenwreiter. Stolen from Google.
After I had to bail, awkwardly, on another wave we both wanted, and he was (again) going to make, and I jumped on the next one; after I said, “Well, I’m just going to have to be the guy farthest outside,” and asked of Dane and his friend, “Which one?” as each set arrived, after I saw Dane hang five, then ten, his board dropping, and after he casually pulled it back into trim without leaving the nose, I asked, “You’ve surfed here before?”
He tweaked at some possible earplugs under his hood. “I’ve been surfing since I was nine.” “Seventy-nine?” I asked, “I moved here in seventy-nine.” “No, I was born in 1979, but I’ve been surfing since I (already capitalized) was nine.” “Oh. So, you obviously know what you’re doing. Where’d you learn to surf.” “Washington State.” “Oh, and where are you from? (I always ask this)” “Westport.” “Oh. Yeah. Sure. They have some well known surfers from there.” I was thinking Tom Decker, but I said, “Like Dane Perlee.”
“That’s my alter ego,” he said. “Which one do you want?” I asked, adding, loudly, looking at an incoming set, “Three.” Since I was the outside (there seems to be an issue between ‘inside’ as in closer to the peak, and ‘outside’ as in farther out) surfer, I took the second one instead.
By the time the waves, and Archie and I, gave up, the Westport surfers were gone. Tugboat Bill and his crew were gone. Tim was on a beach chair, strumming a ukulele next to a heavily sun-screened kid on guitar, next to a fire (yeah, I’d think cliché if I hadn’t broken out my harmonica and briefly joined in, getting talented surf guitarist Archie to borrow the kid’s guitar and whip out a few licks). Tim was with some other folks I don’t really know, obviously willing to wait for the waves to come up with the tide. Maybe they did. I had to get back to work (after a trip to Costco for a few things and one Polish dog, the other for reserve).
“That was Dane Perlee,” Tim said. “I didn’t realize it. He said his dad owns The Surf Shop in Westport. Al Perlee. Did you notice the board he was riding? He shaped that himself. Wide tail, very thin. He’s good. Did you see him on the nose? He kind of dropped then…”
“Wait! Dane Perlee?” That was me, but also Clint. Everyone, really. As excited as I was that I’d (at least in my mind) held my own against (really, ‘against’ is the right word to describe how I think- first compete with myself, then everyone else) someone of his ability, I was most anxious to talk to my daughter, Dru.
“A connection with Dane Perlee? Uh huh. Yeah, the connection is,” Dru told me, on the phone, called at work in Chicago as soon as I had consistent cell service, “back when you were in those surfing contests in Westport (late 80s, early 90s), we were the kids playing on the beach. Me, Sean (her brother), Ruth or Mollie, whoever came with us, Dane Perlee, his sister, Hana; we would play while our fathers surfed.”
“Oh, yeah; that’s what I thought.” “And then, in high school, I’d compete against them in the Knowledge Bowl. He was a year older; I think his sister was a year younger.”
What I remember is, when Dane was probably 13 or 14, seeing him, from the bluff at the Jetty, pulling off a perfect sideslip from the nose on a grinding four footer; probably one of the standout images in my Westport mindfiles.
“Well, he’s, like, a grownup now. I guess, probably… thirty-five.” “Yeah, dad; guess so.”
Later, between dropping Archie off and changing vehicles, I got a call from Adam “Wipeout” James, asking about the session he couldn’t wait for, having hit choppy windswell the afternoon before. “Dane Perlee? Yeah, I’ve surfed with him a few times. Westport. Talked to him…a lot.” Of course. Name-dropping Adam. “He shapes his own boards,” I said. “Yeah, Osprey Surfboards.” “Um, yeah; I heard that.”
Adam never asked me how I did. If I say I held my own, wave count-wise, against a world class surfer twenty-eight years younger than I am, I’d be leaving something out.
I was happy to have someone of that caliber at my favorite break, happier he was willing to share…
…again, because I’m really not all that fond of sharing.
Real Surfers 