Tag Archives: beach

Where We Come From, Where We’re Heading,,,

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…Who we meet along the way.

BUT FIRST- Reggie’s dog, Django (“The ‘J’ is silent”), and sometimes lunatic-al Reggie jumping off a forty foot cliff into freezing water at (I’m not sure this is even legal) some place called, if I remember correctly, the Devil’s Punch Bowl. Definitely not Hawaii.

SPIEL- I was born in Surf City, North Carolina. In a car. Delivered with the help of my father. I am happy to continue the possible or partial truth, or legend, that there was a hurricane and/or we were passing the beach. My parents did, oddly enough, have a waterfront house that, family lore has, they purchased for, like, a thousand dollars in the late forties, and sold it for the same amount in 1954 or so. It was, soon thereafter (again, lore) washed away in another hurricane.

I know we went to the beach often. Another North Carolina story is of me, maximum three years old, toddling down and having to be rescued by an Aunt from the shorebreak. I will get to mat surfing in a bit…

BUT FIRST… I was half under my Volvo at a beach parking lot (no surf), pulling a branch that had been stuck and was causing me stress/worry almost equal to that of my concern about an oil leak (possibly/hopefully from the valve cover gasket rather than anything worse, when a car pulls up. It’s the legendary TIM NOLAN, his wife (who I have met several times, but may not have been properly/formally introduced), and this tallish guy. It turns out it’s EMERSON SWANK, someone who Tim met while on a boat/surf trip in Alaska. And, it turns out, Emerson is from North Carolina. “Oh. I was born there… Surf City.” “That’s where Emerson’s from,” Mrs. Nolan says.

So, because I always forget I have two cell phones, each with a camera, I asked Tim to take a few shots of Emerson Swank, possible nickname ‘Extra Swank.’ Because the first two are East Coast, my best guess is Tim asked Extra Swank to send him a couple. AND I might not have made a big deal of the coincidence if I hadn’t told TRISH. She was amazed. Then again, Trish makes a deal out of the fact that, our fathers both in the Marine Corps, she was conceived in North Carolina, born in San Diego, lived on base at Camp Pendleton in the officer’s housing while my family was in the enlisted section (yeah, okay), and that we met, as fate would have it, in Fallbrook. Fate, coincidence. Yeah. Okay. The bottom photo is of Emerson on the Olympic Peninsula coast.

SURF MATS- I’m doing some work for surfer JOEL CARBON, originally from Long Island, New York. Reggie was working with me the other day when Joel showed up. He and Reggie did some surf bro talk about a session they had recently both been a part of. Shortly thereafter, Joel, with me unwilling to trade out for an inflatable SUP, suggested that I should consider, at my advanced age, switching to a surf mat. NOW, I know Joel realizes I loved surf matting, and continued doing it, with Trish, for a while after I started riding boards (1965). Still, not interested. Yet.

GEORGE GREENOUGH, hailed as surfing’s only genius (disregarding/disrespecting Tom Morey, possibly LibTech dude, Mike Olson, others you can add), who, famously, shot the inside the tube footage for “The Innermost Limits of Pure Fun” from a mat. Way before GoPro.

Joel on a mat on a tiny wave. I believe this is some secret Long Island spot. ALSO, something to add to my “Surf Injury” file. Here’s one of several Mat Mad texts from Joel:

“This thing is mind blowing! Just as XZanadu Rocket Fish open up my surfing 15 years ago to riding everything, the mat is opening up my perspective on wave riding in new waves. The speed and feel of being in (as opposed to on) the wave is really cool. It’s like bodysurfing on a thin layer of air… and the view riding low on the wave in the barrel is unreal, leaves me smiling every time. Yew!”

“Yeah, Joel, I remember.”

It is the heart of the painting season, and I have missed several opportunities to pursue the innermost limits of pure fun… including right now. I was discussing all (actually only) things surf related with surf obsessed Olympic Peninsula ripper, Keith Darrock, while trying to put this version of my ego centric blog together. l said I don’t really want realsurfers to be documentation of the last hurrah of my surf life. “Downward spiral,” he said; “Death spiral.” “Wow. Thanks, Keith.” “Maybe you can go surfing tomorrow… or something.”

I’m scheming. Always. Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net. AND, I don’t actually care what a real surfer rides (maybe one of those hand dealies for body surfing or an Alaia(sp?) might suggest to me that you are surfing a bit too much), with the possible exception of a blow up SUP, just, if you’re surfing… enjoy it to the limit.

OH, WAIT… ONE MORE THING: I was at the gas pumps recently, bemoaning that if I had purchased some petrol a few hours earlier, I could have saved twenty-one cents a gallon. This cool young man, in cool attire, with a cool hat, gassing up his cool VW van, said, “I’ve discovered that… (cool pause) everything costs something.” WOW! Thanks.

Humbled and Humble and Remembering and Memorial Day and… You Know, Surf Stuff

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, old surfers, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, short stories on surfing, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf art, surf culture, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing illustrations, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing stories

Poem. Fear of Crying- “It takes a lot to make me cry, so please don’t try; and if you do, I promise you, I’ll try to make you smile.”

My finger, someone else’s wave.

What We Deserve- We all deserve better; or we believe we do; better or more; less stress, more success; less pain, more gain. Yeah, slogans; the salesperson’s pitch, the trap of new age clap trap; me-ism, we-ism, jingoism. And it’s not that I don’t buy into it. If I put off the work I should be doing, get up early, load up, and drive out for a minimum of half an hour, full of anticipation; by golly, I sort of believe I deserve waves; good waves, uncrowded waves, and lots of them. And I sort of know that belief has no basis… except I want my reward to be as great as my desire, as true as what I imagine it could be.

The Truth is- Sometimes we get skunked. Sometimes someone else gets the wave of the day; someone newer to the game, someone to whom a lucky make on a wave on which the surfer displayed no style, no sign of years of accumulated wave knowledge; and yet, that surfer’s dreams were surpassed. Blissfully so, because a ride like that deserves to be properly appreciated.

Humbled, Not Humble- My most recent surf expedition left me searching for excuses for why I performed so badly; and I hate excuses. Still, I have some: Pressed for time, mind set more on real life than surfing, chose the wrong place to paddle out, relentless set waves. Those are the easy ones. The more fear inducing mind fucks: It just might be true that waves I would have once relished seem daunting, dangerous even. Perhaps my age is catching up with my self-image as someone who tries, as hard as possible, to defy if not deny it.

Still, a Great Session, Other than the Surfing – I got to use my wheelie to pack my board down and back, I met an old friend, TYLER MEEKS, chatted with CHIMACUM TIM, and a couple of other surfers. In processing my latest embarrassment, not that it was witnessed, more that I haven’t been able to not talk about it, I have to go back and take a mental count on other times I’ve been treated unfairly by the ocean (not that, again the ocean plays favorites or that any surfer deserves favor), and there aren’t that many. Did I learn something from my failures? Yes. Do I count the times where I left the water because I lost a fin or was injured or caught three waves in an hour because of the crowd? No. But I can easily recall the sessions in which I was humbled, in which I didn’t live up to whatever standards I believed I had set for myself. Again, belief versus reality.

The John-John Effect- Perhaps you remember a World Surf League contest in France a few years ago: Roll-throughs, brutal death pit shore break; every reason to be intimidated if not scared shitless; and everyone is getting slaughtered… except John Florence. He was ripping the place like it was his back yard. I don’t need to add to that, do I? One surfer’s nightmare is another surfer’s dream.

Cold Comfort- Though I refuse to admit that there is any real value in talking about what I or you or anyone “Used to” do, I do, while wishing I could still ride a six foot board in six foot beachbreak, still wish I could spin and one-stroke into a late drop, crank a vicious hit on an oncoming section, or do a reverse flyaway kickout, and with full awareness that bragging about what I once did only shows what I can no longer do, I do take some solace in my own history; successes and failures.

What Failure Guarantees- A better next time.

Next Time, Man…   

ACTUALLY, I wanted to write something about friends, surf friends, close friends, not that kind of friends. The idea is that we have surf acquaintances, and often, our only thing we have in common is that we are surfers. Some, but not all, of my best friends are surfers. Yes, I have so many writing projects in the process of becoming something worthy of sharing. What I’ve been thinking about has some connection to my last humbling. The gist of the story is that I sort of stole PHILLIP HARPER’S car and drove it to a surf spot I was sure I was going to do well at. I didn’t. I lost my 9’9” Surfboards Hawaii noserider paddling out. Lesson- Hands tight on the rails when turning turtle, arms loose to make it through the turbulence. Other lesson, learned when Phillip, who gave me permission through his mother while he was ill and in bed at the motel adjacent to the Cantamar trailer park, Baja California, Easter Vacation, 1968, had a miraculous recovery when he realized that I was driving his Chevy Corvair with a desperate oil leak to K-38, a place where, on the way down, we saw multiple boards destroyed on the rocks. When I got out and up the cliff, all the other dudes, invited and self-invited, and a very angry Phillip, showed up. I don’t remember anyone asking how I did. Later in the week, an offshore wind made Cantamar, which I had tried to surf because I didn’t have a car and everyone else slept in, became rideable for a while; we surfed some blown out shit waves south of Ensenada, paddled out at a spot that was more crowded than it probably was in North San Diego County, and had some other, non-surfing adventures; fireworks, lack a proper bathroom/shower facilities, a lot of hanging out, and a bit of what folks would refer to as partying. Memorable trip for a sixteen-year-old.

What is interesting to me is that I forgot that I had stolen (borrowed) Phillip’s car until I was writing about this trip, fictionalized, as “Inside Break,” the alternate (in a way) coming of age novel that has been (is still being) transformed into “Swamis.” Because I was thinking about this, I accumulated a list of the cast of the actual incident. I’m listing them here because I will forget the names again. The trip was organized by Phillip’s stepfather, Vince Ross. Vince was borrowing a trailer. He and Phillip’s mother, Joy, and Phillip’s sister, Trish (not my Trish) were to stay at the adjacent motel. INVITEES: Phillip Harper, Ray Hicks, Erwin Dence, Melvin Glouser, Clint/Max Harper, Mark Ross. We were supposed to stay at the borrowed trailer, which did not, and this became an issue have a sewer hookup. But, because of the UNINVITED surfers, Dana Adler, Mark Metzger, and Billy McLean; Mel and Ray and Phil and I got to stay in tents outside the boundary, adjacent to a field of, I’m guessing, sugar cane. There were other American surfers also camped there; way cooler than we were.

If this is in some way connected to friends, Phillip was my first surf friend, Ray was a friend before he started surfing (classmate, Boy Scouts).  I am still in occasional contact with Ray, and credit him with inspiring me to get back into surfing at fifty, after an eight or ten year near drought. I haven’t been in contact with Phillip for years. While I’m fine with knowing something about what has happened with Mark and Billy and Dana, and others, I do feel bad that I might not have been a good enough friend to Phillip.

Tyler Meeks when he had the sorely missed DISCO BAY Equipment Exchange. His hair is longer now. I didn’t recognize him immediately when I last saw him. He is supposed to call me about t shirt opportunities. Call me, Tyler.

What We Don’t Know- DELANA is a DJ on the local Port Townsend public radio station, KPTZ. The program is ‘Music to my Ears,’ 4 to 5 pm on Wednesdays, repeated on Saturdays at 1pm. I’ve caught her show quite a few times when driving. Old tunes, little stories about the artists involved.  What gets me is that at the end, and I’m paraphrasing, she says, “Remember to be kind to those we meet. Each of us carries a burden that others do not see.” What we know about our surf friends is what we have in common; and sometimes surfing is pretty much it. And… that’s fine. In fact, it’s great.

The step parent of “Swamis,” different take on the same era. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. Oh, and Happy Memorial Day, and, oh, good luck, Sally Fitz. They may or may not hold the next round tonight. As with everything, we will see.

Of Course it’s Cool to be a Surfer, and…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, short stories on surfing, surf addiction, surf contests, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing, women surfers in the Northwest,, writings of Erwin Dence

…what is really important, if one of the supporting columns of your self image is that you are a surfer (hence part of the could-be-more-inclusive club), to be recognized as a surfer is quite obviously way better than being seen as, let’s say, because you are standing at the edge of an increasingly busy surf spot, fully dressed in your “I’m going to Costco outfit, and, yes, Walmart, on my way home, and, incidentally, I already surfed somewhere else (and I ripped, if I do say so myself), and I’m only here to make sure my friends who I know are here, because I saw their rigs on the road, and people have been known to exaggerate;” and, it seems, most of the surfers arriving or departing, some in groups, don’t recognize you, and you are, yes, old, and yes, kind of chunky… there might be some assumption on the part of these surfers, almost all of whom give you at least a nod, which is, at least, some sort of acknowledgement that you might not be some sort of pervert, having anyone believe that you are not, indeed, a real surfer, a member of the select group of proud wave riding enthusiasts might be… hurtful.

It’s really not worth defending yourself. Yes, I tried. True confession: Yes, I still try to convince people, surfers and non-surfers, that I have surfed and continue to surf.

Because my being forced to view myself as a greeter is based on a recent incident, I should add that on the same day I walked along the beach to where a better vantage point was available to check out the corner section of a long and closed out wall. The up the line view. A man was there, kicked back on a big driftwood log. I joined him. I, of course, got into my favorite game, “Who do you know?” It’s really, “Who do we know in common?” It turns out he is one of the pioneers of surfing in the northwest, Bill Truckenmiller. I had heard the name, most notably from Tom Burns, and have probably surfed with him. He is a few years older than me and has had issues with his shoulders. Common issue. He hasn’t surfed in a while but hasn’t given up on it. And he was checking out the surf from a great angle.

I have heard of surfers who, unable to surf for any number of reasons, want to be as far away from surf as possible. I haven’t met any of them.

SALLY FITZGIBBONS WATCH- I’ve kind of gotten onto this rooting for Sally thing; didn’t mean to, but, since I left the Margaret River contest on the big screen the other evening, went to sleep, woke up, watched Sally and Betty Lou Sakura Johnson, top two finishers at the Gold Coast contest, get sent to the elimination round. With THE CUT imminent, the next heat is vital, the stakes are high. I was ready to watch it unfold yesterday, 4:15 pm, PDST, but no; on hold. So, maybe today, Sally will not throw everything at each wave, and… we’ll see. On the men’s side… hard to keep track. But, there’s a reason why sports are best live.

Not promoting the WSL on purpose. Proof- Every venue has a particular setup. The judging seems to favor a certain approach to the wave; pretty much two turns on the outside, big finishing move. There is a redundancy to the whole thing, heightened when the surf is manufactured. Surf to the criteria, crank a bit harder turn, play the priority game. The game remains the same.

SURF AURA- I spend an inordinate amount of time pondering the allure of surfing, the pride one has in being counted as a surfer. There is, of course, the absolute bliss of getting an unexpectedly great ride and the hope for another. And another. But… are any of us better people because we did what it takes to be decent at paddling, at wave selection, at timing, at cranking a turn or staying this much closer to the power of a wave?

If I may make a sort of political comparison (not that I’m all that political), I heard something about MAGA folks and how resistant they are to believing they are supporting policies that are detrimental to the country, of course, and detrimental to the demographic they are part of (if they are blue collar workers, or social security/medicare beneficiaries, or veterans, or… okay, pretty much anyone who isn’t in the top, say 10% percent, income-wise); the point being made being they believe they are part of some group that actually knows more than the ‘elitists,’ which is, possibly, code for knowledgeable folks. SO, there’s a certain smugness, a certain arrogance that is very difficult to break through.

SO, does a surfer have to be smug and, possibly, arrogant?

ANSWERS: “No, but it doesn’t hurt;” or “Yes, it is part of the reward for challenging the ocean;” or “Yes, but the humbling reality is the ocean kind of levels this out; but still, yes;” or “Who the hell are you to ask me that?”

SALLY FITZ/Contest update: While I was pondering and writing, and taking a couple of phone calls, and drinking more coffee, and checking the buoys, I checked with the WSL; the contest is on hold until at least tomorrow. Oh, the anticipation.

WRITINGS of Erwin Dence update: No, I haven’t been working on a couple of little changes to “Swamis,” and no, I haven’t done more on “Love Songs for Cynics,” and no, I haven’t drawn anything for a while, BUT I did write a short story with characters from “Swamis,” particularly Joseph Atsushi DeFreines. It, like the other projects mentioned, is not quite ready. Hopefully by Wednesday.

SHIT! I gotta go. If you see waves… you know what to do. As far as arrogance goes; I’m holding on to mine as long as I can. If or when it gets to the point I can no longer float or bob or catch a wave, I’ll still have that knowledge that I almost learned the secret.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net See you out there!

And… greetings.

Easter Updates: Old Dogs, Rippers, and…

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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.

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.

Paddle Out in Memory of Tom Decker

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The paddle out in memory of definitely talented surfer and otherwise controversial figure TOM DECKER is scheduled for Saturday, March 15, 3:00 pm, at THE GROINS in Westport.

I Googled Tom’s name and came up with several pieces I have written about him; so posting this info, sent to me by Paul Anderson, might help you out. I first heard he had passed when Reggie Smart got a message from a Westport local and then asked me if I knew him.

Yes. Sort of. I had several encounters with him, the first in 1979 on the Strait. As is the way with surfers, we have friends in common. SO I called TOM BURNS, another member of the generation Tom is from; he checked it out, gave me some more info.

What is a bit coincidental is that, last night, I heard from Trish, from some internet connection she has, that my first, and probably last surf hero, BUCKY DAVIS, from back when I was a grom in Fallbrook and he was willing to take his girlfriend’s brother, PHILLIP HARPER, and I surfing if we never told any of his other friends about it. Trish is tasked with getting more info.

SO, HEROES AND VILLAINS, I’ll have something more substantial on SUNDAY. Maybe not dawn-early, but Sunday. Tom Decker is a legend. Legends have stories. Stories have something to say about attitudes and fate and karma and all kinds of stuff, but let me say, I never had a truly unpleasant encounter… rephrased… If Tom called out every other surfer in the lineup except me, and for what he considered good reasons (blown takeoffs, mostly, or kooks endangering others in the lineup), I did, and continue to call that a not-unpleasant encounter, not that I would ever be as vocal or… insistent.

Rest in Peace, Tom.

Super Busy Working on Being Forgotten

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing Swamis, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, women surfers in the Northwest,, writings of Erwin Dence

That may be a bit cynical. I have been surfing a bit (never enough) lately, trying my darndest to make up for a 2024’s bad session/wave count. I’m back to trusting my reborn VOLVO to make it up SURF ROUTE 101 far enough to find some rumored waves. MEANWHILE, rumor-wise, there have been times when surfers just had to check out the Strait. Whether or not it was working, surfers did show up and I did not. The sentiment among those lucky or stubbornly willful enough to live on the Olympic Peninsula is to try to avoid the forecasted days, particularly on the weekends (Friday through Monday, sometimes Thursday -Tuesday) to avoid any crowds.

CROWDS- Here is my wish/prayer list- 1. Waves. 2. Good tides. 3. Favorable winds. 4. Good parking spot. 5. Uncrowded lineup.

OBVIOUSLY there is a correlation between the parking and the number of surfers in the lineup. I have seen days where all semi-convenient parking spots were taken, some with occupants sleeping or making brunch, and the crowd is mostly surfers on the beach watching and waiting. And I have seen days with no crowds and rideable waves.

Here’s what happens: You surf. It’s, you know, decent. You tell one or two of your closest surf friends. They don’t believe you. That’s fair; you don’t believe them when they talk about barrel fests and such.

This lack of belief shouldn’t be a problem. REAL SURFERS do it for the soul enriching wonderfulness of the experience of climbing into a cold, damp wetsuit, booties and gloves and hood, and venturing into cold ass water to surf waves, their wonderfulness in the eye and mind of the venturer. BUT, NO, a little acknowledgement is, at the very least, appreciated. I’ve seen the most soulful of soul surfers surf just a bit better when someone else shows up. It’s the nature of the beasts we are.

BECAUSE I’M candid by nature as well as competitive, I admit, now, in writing, that I kind of enjoy having some sort of reputation for showing up when waves are rideable. I enjoy seeing surfers I know, or recognize; and I collect little stories from many of them. AND, since I’ve shown up less frequently, I… neurotically, self-centered-ly, worry, just a bit, or, more accurately, have considered that I am in the process of being forgotten.

It happens. Years ago, now, I read a piece on some older surfer who quit surfing urging other older practitioners of the sport/art/lifestyle to just fucking quit and become a legend. Sure, but legends only last as long as people remember. Do you remember ARCHIE or BIG DAVE or a growing number of surfers who made the same searches you are making, suffered the same skunkings, found the same rare gems, felt the same chill and the same magic?

MAYBE you do. Or you have your own list. This all leads me to surfing in crowded conditions. Is it worth it? I’ve seen so many times when people piled out of rigs and raced into the water without even checking the conditions, all based on ‘the rule of the parking lot;’ if surfers are out, it must be worth joining them.

AGAIN, crowds are number five on my list. I might just snag a few. As much as I appreciate the atmosphere of even, let’s say, the whole circus-like scene at Westport, my motto continues to be: I’m here to surf.

International Women SURFERS’ DAY- I do not have a problem with women surfers. At all. Some have had issues with me. Understandable. There were fewer, percentage-wise, girls and women surfing when I started. AND, I know I’ve said this before, but my sister Suellen got me into board surfing, our mother drove us and our siblings to the beach because she loved it, and went to better surfing beaches because we surfed.

It isn’t an accident that one of the two main characters in my novel, “SWAMIS,” Julia ‘Cold’ Cole, is a surfer AND a strong and intelligent woman. Persistence is absolutely required for anyone to attain any level above mere competence in surfing, the sport, and is also necessary to fit in as an equal in the art/lifestyle part of trying to ride waves, an objectively ridiculous and so-often frustrating activity/obsession/addiction.

I am pushing my daughter, DRU, to format and, maybe, do a little editing, if necessary, on my manuscript. MEANWHILE, though my painting life has suddenly gotten way busier, I am working on getting pieces together for my poetry/song (mostly song, some essays, some illustrations) book, “Love Songs for Cynics,” together.

Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net. Get some waves!

I Guess I’m Lucky… Occasionally

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence Cartoons, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, real surfers, surf adventures, surf art, surf culture events, surf fiction, surf novels, surf sessions, surf stories, surf trips, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing novels, surfing Swamis, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

There are some surf windows that become legendary; December of 1969 and August of 1975, California swells, one north, one south; epic enough to get a mention in *MATT WARSHAW’S “Encyclopedia of Surfing,” and extremely memorable to me because I was out for both of them; the first at Swamis, the second at Upper Trestles.

And then there are the legendary sessions we miss. Waves are breaking, brown-green slop to sparkling barrels, all over the world; and it is easy to believe even the most fickle spot gets something rideable to all time, some time. Rather than tales told in parking lots and over coffee or beer, or perhaps, in the bread section of a grocery store, YouTube and Instagram pushes almost-live images that are so much easier to find than the waves themselves. Trip to Bali because you saw something? Hawaii? Maybe, if you’re lucky, you can hit something all time in Australia or France. Gee, Mundaka and Uluwatu look fun. Malibu? Sure, and maybe a few leg burners at Rincon or Jeffry’s Bay. It would be so awesome to hit Cloudbreak on, you know, an almost survivable size. Yeah!

Maybe. Time and money and, even if you study the forecasts and hack Kelly Slater’s schedule, luck. The WSL’s version of a Pipeline contest has been on hold for… a while; one day’s competition in self-admitted beachbreak-like conditions. Still, it’ll get better. Hopefully.

Getting back to me; it’s not like I dominated SWAMIS in ’69, with overhead waves as barreling, offshore winds as strong as I ever experienced there, and with a certain amount of pre-internet hype and publicity adding to the crowd of takers and watchers. No on the domination. Swamis was, for the time, extra crowded, this exacerbated by the fact that when the surf gets big, the places one can reasonably surf in San DIego County gets reduced to Swamis, Cardiff, Windansea, Sunset Cliffs, maybe that non-surf spot, La Jolla Cove. Remember, I did say ‘reasonably;’ as in get out, catch more than one wave. Undergunned on the first day of a five or six day run, I did better as the waves evened out and the crowds diminished. A week or two later, the surf was just as big, less hype, less crowded. I went out, feeling lucky.

TRESTLES: Warshaw quoted MICKY MUNOZ as saying the south swell in August 1975 was as clean as any he remembered. Mr. Munoz was the first person I saw when I paddled out on my round-nosed, small wave board at Upper Trestles. I, admittedly, shoulder-hopped the first few waves, my fin just vibrating. Still, I made a few waves. I feel, this many years on, so lucky that I had the opportunity to work up the hill from a classic spot, park on the beach, and surf it, from barely breaking on, with what would seem an absurdly small crowd.

LOCAL OR LUCKY, it’s a term that comes up often out here on the fickle-as-shit Olympic Peninsula. The sessions worth remembering do happen. As they do everywhere. Maybe not as often. It’s probably acceptable to savor, or even recount the magic of the best sessions while waiting for the next one. I mean, not like bragging. It just seems like bragging.

Okay, maybe it is bragging, but, hey, you have stories I might not totally believe. Tell me those next time I run into you at Costco or Fast Taco or… wherever.

*Port Townsend Librarian Keith Darrock would love to get (now)Seattle-based surf historian/writer for the next OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA EVENT. Not the only reason he is mentioned here.

I’m working on my collection of songs and (I always kind of chuckle when I say this) poetry, and used some of my winter down time to do a potential cover. I should apologize here for posting “If It’s Over” twice. So… Sorry. If you stick with me, we’ll get to “I Guess I’m Lucky.”

I’m not (all that) political, but I do pay attention.

I would have done it in color, but that might make me seem… political.

I GUESS I’M LUCKY, because I never get the blues; Oh, yes, I’m quite lucky, because I never get the blues; Now I might get suspicious, and sometimes I’m anxious, too; I might even get desperate and tear up a thing or two; But I count myself lucky because I never get the blues.

Please don’t tell me your problems, and think that I can relate; I don’t harbor jealousy and I won’t subsidize hate; If you want to complain, you can just go to Helen Waite; Don’t be telling me gossip and acting as if it’s news, ‘Cause I can’t share your problems, and I want no part of your blues.

Dream of tomorrow, you sacrifice all your todays; You’re so busy workin’, you haven’t got time just to play; But you still have to crawl on your knees to pick up your pay; Though I’m selling my blood just to pay up my Union dues; I still count myself lucky because I never get the blues.

My old truck’s still running, my dog didn’t die; not in love with a woman who told me goodbye; And my Mama still talks of her baby with pride, and I can’t remember the last time I cried.

But then… I’m lucky, because I never get the blues; oh yes, I’m quite lucky, Because I never get the blues; Sure, sometimes I get angry, and sometimes I’m hurtin’ too; I might even get lonely, but not like most people do; Then again, I’m just lucky; yes, I count myself lucky; Hell yes, I’m quite lucky… because I… never get… the blues.

PHOTO voluntarily REMOVED.

All original work on realsusrfers.net, unless otherwise attributed, is covered by copyright protections, all rights reserved by the author/artist, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

YOU WON’T get lucky without trying. Find some surf, get on it! MORE stuff on Sunday, and yes, I’m, like, 170 pages out of 214 or so on my latest rewrite of “Swamis,” suddenly concerned that I did not, perhaps, put in enough description of the characters. You know, like, “Roger and Gary were both blonde, both assumed a stance that said, ‘casual,’ both with expressions that said, ‘cool.’ For the most part they maintained the image.” I have been, so far, realizing it’s almost a requirement for a novel, resisted describing the breasts of the women in the novel. So far.

Groundhog Day Revisited Again and…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, surf novels, surfing novels, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing stories, surfing Windansea in the 1970s, writings of Erwin Dence

…AGAIN. Yeah. I turned on the Seattle news station to see if there is a possibility of waves, where the snow is sticking, and while maintaining what has. become my new and elevated level of anxiety and concern over definitely destructive tariffs; over the imminent acceptance of more crazy and objectively and blatantly unqualified nominees, each ready to facilitate and complete the takeover of all branches and functions of government, and reek vengeance on lists of those not onboad; over the US Congress continuing its obviously suicidal mission to trade a legislative branch for executive whims and lightning round edicts; and, while wondering how the stock market will react tomorrow, I accidentally, almost, discovered Michael Hynson has died. WHAT?

This is a photo taken from a 2007 article written by Steve Barilotti, entitled “Rainbow’s End. It is also proof that a surf shop in La Jolla I visited once actually existed.

Famous, of course, for his role in “Endless Summer,” Mike Hynson was of the Miki Dora, Butch Van Artsdalen, Herbie Fletcher school of surfers with that ‘fuck you, I’m surfing’ attitude. He was about nine years older than me.

For surfers in the early to late sixties, the ability to surf way better than the post-Gidget, post-Endless Summer group (I’m from the group in between) made them stars. In my abbreviated catchup this morning, I read a piece in which Hynson claimed he and other “Red Fin” surfers (Barry Kanaiaupuni, Billy Hamilton, others) would go to WIndansea and, basically, dominate.

Surfing coverage in the sixties was limited to occasional surf movies at, in San Diego County, Hoover High, by word of mouth, and through every-other-month magazines. Surf heroes were the ones in the photos. Hynson was among the group.

When I moved to Pacific Beach in 1971, I was in Hynson territory. I knew he had a connection with Skip Frye, who I would see quite often, surfing his way from tourmaline to Crystal Pier, finding waves the hordes were missing. In building boards of my own, I would see Skip Frye at the Gordon and Smith factory. Skip had a completely different reputation than Mike’s, more cleancut, kind of religious. I always thought it a bit strange that they were friends.

Then again, there is reputation and there is reality. Surfing at crowded, late morning La Jolla Shores in, probably 1974, word spread in the lineup (such as there was) that Mike Hynson was coming out. “Doper,” “Asshole,” “Druggie.” Still, I watched him wail on a couple of walls.

The surfboard shaping world in the late 60s, early 70s period was, I believed, centered in San Diego; and the evolution of board design was the most important since balsa gave way to foam. Surfboards Hawaii in Encinitas and Gordon and Smith in San Diego were, I still believe, the leading innovators, with garage shapers and engineers (like Tom Morey) and ever-moving professionals (like Donald Takayama) melding radical contours into ever better wave riding vehicles. If others do not give Hynson at least partial credit for boards with down rails, nose to tail, I will. As does Gerry Lopez. RIP MR. HYNSON.

SURFERS OUT OF THE WIND

PHOTO voluntarily REMOVED.

Some fat guy in an ORIGINAL ERWIN hoodie, holding a ‘graveyard’ mixed soda and Jamie Fox standee at the Emerald Queen Casino. My daughter, Drucilla (Dru) had to have surgery last week in Tacoma. ADAM LARM, a friend of two of Trisha’s and my three children (Sean is less so because Adam and his brother James sort of, kind of, definitely tortured him a bit as a child- as friends of brothers do- still kind of friends), now a nurse (and a lover of casinos) decided to treat Dru to a night at the adjoining hotel prior to her 5am check in at St. Joseph’s Medical Center.

The surgery went well, Dru is recovering at her home, with help from Trish. There are a couple of worth-telling stories around the adventure. Another time. OH, and I did get a photo of my daughter in the recovery room, but she asked me not to post it. SO, you know, another time.

A SONG/POEM FOR TODAY- from “Love Songs for Cynics’ and upcoming collection:

IF IT’S OVER, then it’s over, guess we’re through; there’s no reason I should go on loving you; but you know that’s exactly what I’ll do; if it’s over, then it’s over, guess we’re through; but I JUST CAN’T SEEM TO LET GO OF THESE BLUES.

YES, I treated you unkindly, as you say, though I loved you, love you blindly, still today; it’s a love I’ll likely take right to my grave; If it’s over, then it’s over, guess we’re through; but I just can’t seem to let go of these blues.

Like the clouds the winds have scattered, my heart’s broken but not gone; like the coast have battered, I’ve no choice but to hold on; like a river at the ocean, I’ll give in eventually; but I’ll hold on, long as I can, to the memory.

I can find the bbroken pieces of my heart; I can build myself another from the parts; I need a new life, and it’s time for me to start; if it’s over, then it’s over, guess we’re through, but I just can’t seem to let go, gotta find a way to let go, I just can’t seem to let go OF THESE BLUES.

SURF REPORT- YES. Waves continue to break. Waves continue to break. Waves continue to break. Find some. Don’t be a wave hog if you can help it. Don’t be a wave hog if you can help it. Happy GROUNDHOG DAY!

All original works by Erwin Dence on realsurfers are protected by copyright, all rights reserved by the author. Swamis update on Wednesday. THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT realsurfers.