A couple of photos from CHIMACUM TIMACUM of his view during his recent trip to TORTOLA. Not to blow up the spot, but Tim claims waist to chest high most days. SO, perfect Erwin size surf. 80 degree water and air. And… yeah, yeah, yeah…It is kind of like bragging.
Not that I mind. But, as much as I enjoy hearing about someone else’s exploits, am I surfing vicariously and soaking in the mellow vibes? No.
There’s reporting, there’s bragging, and there is gloating. Not that I don’t feel some sort of desire to gloat my ass off on those occasions when I am the one scoring.
My SURF FRIENDS seem to love letting me know about scores they have, um, scored; magical sessions, narrow windows of surf perfection they were not mere witnesses to, but active participants in. I am, apparently, expected to be that guy on the beach, jumping up and down, that guy on the shoulder, both arms up. in celebration. “YEA!”
Then I get a call or a text or run into another surf friend. “Yes, I heard about it.”
YEAH and YEA and “I am so happy for you… or him… or her… or anyone who scores. I AM STOKED.” Second hand stoke.
BUT, really, I’d rather be the frothed than the frothee, the stoked rather than the stokee. YEAH.
AND, MY GUESS, so would you.
FROM THE EMAILBOX: erwin@realsurfers.net
I got the first image from legendary waterman TIM NOLAN. Tim uses a technique in which he bleaches out the colors from a photo, then uses water colors to bring a new vision of the image.
The middle image is the photo taken by RICO MOORE of KEITH DARROCK. If it wasn’t a great shot, neither Tim nor I would have been drawn to it. The bottom image is my take on the scene; Keith coming in, a fire, a coffee cup. Yes, I do love Tim’s color selection. Yes, I could have blended the colored pencil colors a little more smoothly.
I have been doing some recording of original Erwin songs for my Instagram account. I have decided, since I should not sing but do, and because I have songs worth sharing (my opinion), I am just going to sing and play harmonica.
UPDATE/UPDATE/UPDATE- March 26- If I stop and watch and listen to any of my one take, usually while driving videos, I will probably not post it. The harmonica sounds shrill, my voice sounds… pick any word to describe the sentiment, “That guy should never sing.” STILL, I have songs people should hear. SO, I will continue to try to improve. YEAH, I did kind of believe people might forgive my voice because of my age. Maybe, but I haven’t. Not yet.
Here are the lyrics to my most recent tune:
Before the wind comes up, Before the clouds blow in, Before the sun goes dark, Before the rain begins, Before the lights go out along the avenue, I’m gonna load up my tools and head on home to you. Home to you, home to you, gonna pack up my van and hurry home to you.
REMEMBER Saturday is NO KINGS DAY.
Shit’s at stake. Participate!
Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net
TRISH is undergoing radiation as part of the treatment for breast cancer. It is not fun. 21 trips to SAINT MICHAEL in Silverdale. Four have been completed. We are so very fortunate for the help of our daughter, DRU. She is, well, essential to this process. Since I am not needed or wanted in the rooms where Trish is being tortured, I have some time to… yeah, draw.
Not as much as I might want if I’m really into something, but enough to do some sketches. SKETCHES. I once took some (too much) offense when a surfer introduced me to his girlfriend as, “You know, he does t-shirts, and has that blog. I showed you.” “OH,” she said, “I really like some of your sketches.”
SO, yeah; thanks; these are sketches;
Port Townsend surfer/librarian Keith Darrock and I have not gotten it totally together in organizing the next OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA EVENT. However, it will be centered on the connection between surf and music, with, of course, surf artists and storytellers, as well as PETE RAAB, expert in all the background, history, and wonder of surf music. The event will be part of the summer library lineup, and… and we better get to work jockeying for position. This sketch probably won’t be part of the poster. SKETCH. We’ll see.
THIS SKETCH probably should be on PAGE II, NON-POLITICAL ERWIN. But here it is. Having been raised to be anti-war, and having studied enough of pasts wars, there seems to be a pattern in that some are sold with near-truths and some with outright lies. There are aggressors and defenders. There have been some shenanigans, such as one side claiming to be in the midst of negotiations and then… attacking. Infamy. And, of course, no war is complete without WAR CRIMES.
SHIT, now I’m going. If we don’t focus on the body count per acre of a war for land, or try to divine the math behind the cost in money and, yes, lives, of a blood for oil campaign; if we discount the suffering of the dispossessed and the seekers of refuge; turn away from scant news of scorched earth tactics; pretend ignorance of or an inability to imagine humans being capable of reported and, yes unimaginably inhuman, brutality; perhaps we know someone who served, survived, and is living with the consequences of ventures into man’s most telling feature; war.
I claim no one else’s valor. I got lucky, had a high draft number, missed out on my generation’s conflict. In a twist of fate, I was hired on to work for the U.S. Navy as a journeyman painter in 1971. Twenty years-old. Almost all the oldtimers were veterans of World War II. They had stories they weren’t keen on sharing with a punk ass, non-vet surfer, but, maybe on a payday afternoon, stories would be shared. I would listen. If painters are characterized as drunks, add a veteran who was under twenty years old at D Day, or Guadalcanal (my father and my father-in-law both served in the Marines, WWII and Korea), or an Irishman (“Don’t call me British”) who served with the British in North Africa, or a soldier who was there for the liberation of Nazi (still a dirty word to me) death camps; yes, I heard stories. I saw men damaged by what they saw and what they did.
Then there were the incoming Apprentice Painters. Vietnam vets. Some, no doubt gung ho at one time, were disenchanted. I would say most. Some were, whether they admitted it or not, broken. Spirit gone. For several in my time with the Navy including working on ships at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, their mental brokenness, while they were otherwise healthy, seems to have led to their deaths.
And now, forgive me, I’m thinking about two other stories. One guy thought he was fooling the government because they believed he had PTSD. He totally did. Though he seemed to trust me, I knew enough to not even come close to walking behind him. The second guy had been an officer, planned on getting enough knowledge of painting to go out on his own as a contractor. One day at lunch he announced to the crew that he had no trouble killing. “I could blow any of you away and go on eating.” “Well,” I said, “Would you mind eating somewhere else?”
My father, when presented with stories in the news (or movies that didn’t agree with his stance that he and those he served with served America, justly), told me that a lot of bad stuff happens. “You just have to live with it.”
I’m working on a song on this theme. Originally I was thinking of something to fit with the tune to “Makin’ Whoopee,” more recently (and not like recently recently- 1961) known as a theme for Pepsi commercials. “Now it’s Pepsi, for those who think young.” I DID, of course, get carried away. Doesn’t fit the tune.
Another lie, another war, One can’t help but wonder what we’re killing people for;
Another war, another lie, an eye for an eye for an eye for an eye; One has to wonder, has to wonder, has to wonder… why.
AS FAR AS NON-POLITICAL ERWIN, I’m thinking of this: REAL MEN DON’T HEGSETH!
I DO claim all rights to original sketches, and writing on realsurfers.net.
Contact me at erwin@realsurfers.net
The time I spent on this could have gone to my novel, “Swamis.” I did put in an hour or so, and I am on page 210 of 227. BIG FINISH! To be continued. Thanks for checking out realsurfers. If you like snow, better get on it! As far as surf… hmmm
After a session at a spot on the Olympic Peninsula coast, RICO MOORE, watching (or taking over) someone else’s fire, took the photo of KEITH DARROCK coming in. I ‘borrowed’ and posted it. THEN I did a black and white drawing. (obviously not, like, traced), made a copy of it, colored it in. Not satisfied, I made a copy of that so I could add more ink. Then… fattened up the borders. SO, multiple credit. YES, I will offer Rico a copy. And then… I might go back, turn it into more of a poster look.
Nothing is ever really finished.
The SUPERBOWL is (maybe you heard) coming up, and our (funny how and when we claim ownership of teams we in no way own) SEATTLE SEAHAWKS are up against the NEW ENGLAND PATRIOTS (not arguing how folks with opposing views all consider themselves the ‘real’ patriots- maybe that’s as American a thing as there is) in the sixtieth rendition of this game/event/show.
As much as we (fans, casual to occasional to rabid) HATE hate hate the other three teams in the NFC WEST (maybe a little less this year for the Arizona Cardinals), it seems pretty apparent, with three teams from our Conference in the playoffs, that LA and San Francisco are… good.
It seems, also, obvious, that playing at least twice a season against great (yeah, I bumped them up- because we’re here- wouldn’t have, otherwise) teams only makes the Seahawks BETTER.
NOT that it’s going to be a blowout on Sunday; we’re all way too superstitious (backed up by, you know, history) to get too too cocky, but (yes, I’m knocking on wood AND crossing myself), if, say, the game, as some Superbowls have been, is pretty much over by halftime (I almost never watch the halftime shows- probably will this year in support of American performer), I will watch it until…
THE END.
WSL- I am waiting for more PIPELINE. I am sorry Mason Ho isn’t still in it.
INSTAGRAM- I posted another original video, me playing Harmonica and singing the first verse of an original song. Check it under Erwin A. Dence, Jr. or realsurfersdotnet Here are the lyrics, mine, copyrighted, all rights reserved (legal required):
I see she has an ukulele, ukulele, ukulele; I’m betting that she plays it daily, Ukulele, hukalau.
Every surfer needs an ukulele, ukulele, ukulele; I bought myself an ukulele, maybe she could teach me how.
I have many, many original songs. I am going to try to put one out there on MONDAYS.
It may or may not still be rutting (breeding) season for deer, it may or may not be hunting season for deer; either of which might explain crazy activities by, um, deer. It’s always deer-hitting season in these here parts, and it might actually be a right of passage (whether in a truck, RV. or passenger car) to hit or nearly hit a deer. Extra points for elk, max points for a bear (not as if one looks for points- that would be creepy).
Last Sunday, after a football-watching Sunday Funday in Bremerton, a Marty Party, Dru, who, having gone to college in Chicago, never had a license or a car until she moved back, was driving home, well after dark, when, out of nowhere, some animal leapt out of the foliage and…
…totalled Dru’s first motor vehicle, and, evidence shows, tried to join her in the front seat. Because she was close to her house, and because, even with a bent frame, she was able, Dru drove home without checking on the status of the attacking animal. She did, quickly, call the State Patrol to report the incident. When I was in the neighborhood a couple of days later, no sign of the incident other than some pieces of safety glass, shimmering, near the fog line. Suspicious.
What was left of the passenger side front window. the license plate was removed to save the Seahawks frame, the liittle sticker on the largest remaining piece of glass was posed here, for effect.
DRU, coming to terms with coming of age, deer-wise.
IF YOU SCROLL DOWN to the previous. post, there’s a piece had written a while ago, then worked on again. The poem dealt with fog and Angels and such stuff. I posted it on Friday morning (or really late Wednesday) after I worked on the end of the Coyle Peninsula, tried to finish before dark, didn’t, and drove the twenty or so miles home (Coyle is part of Quilcene) on winding roads with no fog lines, eight miles of which was in minimal visibility fog, with cars and trucks coming at me with all lights blazing. I found an illustration that worked, but, if I had waited until Saturday, a shot of the lineup at fogged-in LaPush would have served as well. Or better.
My clients (still), VERN and DIANE, sent me this photo of me painting their Port Townsend victorian thirty years ago. Jeez, I seem to remember having more hair. There were a couple of stories of note:
ONE, I was painting that lower bump out late into the evening on a day threatening rain; in fact it was raining. But the wind was off the water, so, a couple of colors at a time, I continued. The wind shifted. The next day… repainted. Not a total loss.
TWO, on the side to my left (higher, steep dropoff), I decided, to save time, to lower one ladder (note the multi ladder technique) from the top of the other ladder, all while Vern was watching. Mistake. The top (fly) portion of the ladder dropped, out of control. Somehow I ended up under one of the ladders, holding on by one hand. I didn’t fall. When I got to the ground, I told Vern I always wondered if I could do that. I did; pretty sure I can no longer perform that acrobatic feat. Not that I’d try.
A couple of drawings:
The upper drawing is a possible t-shirt or Original Erwin Coloring Book possible, the other two are a sort of commission for Keith, taken from a spot he surfed in Oregon when he lived there, and more recently, visiting some of his old surf friends. the intention is to make a placemat, one image on one side, the other on the other side. Laminated, they work well. I’ve done it before. Not everyone has room on their walls, but most of us have room at the table.
REMEMBER, you can write me, erwin@realsurfers.net And, of course, original works are copyright protected, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
WATCH FOR SURF, DEARS, and Yetis and bears and whatever. AND WAVES. Be deer wise. And thanks for checking out my site. I plan to post another bit of “Swamis” on Wednesday. Watch for that, also.
…t-shirt ready. A bit too confusing, not graphic enough to be instantly recognizable, particularly in the black and white version. I should, perhaps, do an Original Erwin coloring book. A thought.
Chris Eardley and Keith Darrock (and Rico and Cougar Keith) hit the Westend, searching for new waves to conquer. If they didn’t find gold. Not that I was seriously invited, but I was told the wooden path does not go all the way to the beach PLUS four days food and a big ass board. Plus… a few more minuses. What they caught and where? Stories vary.
To complete the story of the church steeple painting, I convinced Reggie Smart to finish the middle of the side of the church I couldn’t reach with the 65 foot boom. This required putting a ladder on the roof, attaching a ledger partway up to secure another ladder. You can see the setup in the lower photo. This little peak would have required some psycho setting up from the roof. It took fifteen minutes of positioning of the manlift and most of the boom to get to the spot, fifteen minutes to put a coat on the surfaces.
It was not required that we paint the cross on the top of the steeple, though the congregation clearly wanted it to happen. The difference between going above the steeple’s roof and painting below it is about twelve feet up into the wild blue yonder. I thought having Reggie with me in the basket might boost my confidence. It did not. “I’m going to throw up,” I said. “Yeah, well,” Reggie said, suggesting he might just soil himself (note my resistance at using the actual quote). Still; I do feel some shame around ‘hairing-out.’ Almost a week out, less shame. I did get the window on the fun car, damaged when I backed into the manlift turret, replaced, and I did repair the damage caused when I hit a spot on the steeple… twice. If I had the feeling, in the lift, that I’d used up my chances on this project; well, I will have to live with that.
This is a display, evidently, at the Jefferson County Fair, taken by Librarian Keith (a proposed nickname, “STACKS,” as in library shelving, has never caught on). MEANWHILE, Adam Wipeout, prominently featured, was doing double duty; attending a wedding of one or two co-workers, somewhere, and participating in the WARM CURRENTS activities at La Push. Here’s the story:
The takeway, first: Most often we listen to our own advice. SO, Adam called me this morning at 7:06. He was on his way BACK to LaPush and wondered if I wanted to catch a ride. He was probably ten minutes down Surf Route 101 and I had just gotten up. “What? No.” I asked him what he had done with his scheduling conflict from Saturday. “Dude, I did both. Didn’t you see the photo from La Push?” “The one with a one foot wave ten feet off the beach?” “No, no; it was crazy. La Push has this sandbar, and on a rising tide…” “Yeah, yeah; I’m working today so, maybe, if a swell shows up…” NOTE: the …s probably mean info I shouldn’t put out.
Two drawings I started while waiting for the Volvo’s back window to be replaced.
WSL STUFF- I did, of course, watch a lot of the surfing contest from Tahiti. More like the morning stuff, with scary scary waves the first day. I watched most of the heats on Friday, and, bucking a popular trend, didn’t really have issues with the judging. It does become obvious that the difference between winning and not is often whether a competitor’s drive overcomes his or her fear. Though there are a lot of heats to get through on the men’s side, the finalists on the women’s side, Caitlin Simmers and Molly Picklum fit that description. One thing that might improve (might) is having a non-final final with two or four of the non-finalists. I would choose Erin Brooks and Vahine Fierro. Your choice? Up to you. We’ll see.
NOT that I’m in any way political:
COMPLICITOUS
We lack empathy because we’ve never experienced real horror, We lack sympathy because we refuse to believe the horror to be as bad as we know it to be, We lack compassion because we don’t want that real horror to find us.
We look away, Complicit.
If you pass a starving child and do nothing to help, you should feel the shame, If you purposefully starve a child, Bomb a child, Snipe a child, You are the horror.
We look away, Complicit.
FROM the Old Testament, Volume II, Third Book of Netanyahu; Chapter Two, Verse three: “We basically could have eliminated the entire population of Gaza.”
Whatever God is or isn’t, God set the rules, the boundaries, the limits, God plays the long game.
We haven’t the time, We posture and push and out position, Swagger and strut past the meek and indecisive, We invest in our desires, gamble on our instincts, Hard focused on our dreams, Fame and glory and wealth and power, Power on power and power for power, Hate for hate.
God plays the long game.
Success begets success, Power attracts power.
Buffed and polished, chrome and gold and mirrors, Our lust, once everything, Breaks, Our overstuffed pockets spill out, Deeds and bonds and diamonds, Our treasures are stashed offshore, vaults, buried Pirate chests, Molding, oxidized, crumpled and corrupted, Not to be touched.
God plays the long game.
Our heavens, our yachts and cars and mansions and land, List and leak and sink, Monuments to what others will never have, Museums dedicated to someone we never will be, And never were.
God plays the long game.
Our souls, we believe, Might be retrieved, Whole. Pure. Redeemed. This is not true. We know this is not true.
We cannot love ourselves, And others will not Truly Love us.
We are unworthy of real love, Slanderers and abusers and deniers, Cheats and frauds and Liars, Painted, plastic coated, polished, And yet, Senses dulled, synapses crackling, our minds questioning Every decision, Aware we are rotting, shrinking, slowing, failing, skin sliding on the bone, Unable to recognize ourselves in smoke clouded mirrors or gold framed portraits. We fear all others.
We have to, They want what we have.
Whatever God is or God isn’t, we are not gods.
We cannot play the long game.
We haven’t the time.
AS ALWAYS, thanks for checking out realsurfers.net
WHY DON’T YOU WRITE ME? erwin@realsurfers.net
Here’s what I’m claiming rights to today: The illustrations and the poems. Copyright 2025. All rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
MEANWHILE, I have some surf plans. I’m thinking, maybe, if… Maybe I’ll see you out and around or driving past me. Good luck!
I am, not surprisingly, continuing to write/edit my Joseph Atsushi DeFreines short story about a surf trip to a spot in Wales. This is the second drawing I did to go along with the story. I then changed what I was planning to write to go along better with the illustration. BUT FIRST:
A thumbnail shot (forgive me for the thumb… and for thinking it’s funny) of THOR, left, and CONCRETE PETE, and a shot of REGGIE SMART delivering my new-to-me Surf Tech board. NOT a HOBIE.
UPDATE/OOPS- In my original posting, I failed to mention that Northwest surf pioneer TOM BURNS beat me in the race to being 74 years old. He did call me from Cannon Beach to give me the surf report with a subtle reminder, something like, “Yeah; not that great; lots of traffic; got some complaints from friend in Seaside about all the Washingtonians coming down; can’t get near Short Sands; and hey; you forgot my birthday.”
Tom Burns, a few years back, setting up for the next section
Not that it’s a competition, but I’ll catch up with Tom in late August, slightly ahead of Coach Pete Carroll, who, side story, Tom chatted with in the Westport parking lot a few years ago. “Wait, Pete surfs?” “Of course.” Going, still going.
A Little Heckling from the Back Pews
The belief that surfing is a spiritual form of expression, allowing one to move, gracefully, perhaps, through a greater energy, to flow with this gift, and, in a perfect moment, with the stars and the moon and the tides and the other elements aligned, and that the quest for this enlightenment can transform one into a better version of one’s self; this belief is great. And it is real. And I share this belief.
Two things often, to use a once cool phrase, harsh this paradigm: Surfing is fun, one, and two, the reality that even non-perfect waves frequently draw crowds means that too many others are in the water seeking spiritual awakenings, connections with the Universe, and moments of ultimate bliss.
Your quest, their quest, everybody’s questing like crazy. And some are kooks. Not that this is, in itself, a sin.
But some are surfers you’ve surfed with before; surf acquaintances if not surf friends. And sometimes, the fun part includes getting loud, participating in what a guy in the water called heckling; as in: “Hey, you’re doing a lot of heckling. I just want to see you stand up on that board.” My response was, “No.” Hard no, perhaps.
Now, I really hadn’t singled that surfer out for heckling. It was more like I was acknowledging other surfers I’ve known for a long time, as in, “Tim’s on the wave. Tim’s wave! Hey, look around!” Or, if someone was taking off down the line from me, a simple, “Really?” Or, if a big roll through was approaching, “Take off! Be a hero!” Or, if I see three surfers going for one wave, “Everybody go! Everybody… go, go, go!” Or, if someone is directly in my line, I might say, “Paddle!” or “Don’t move!” Depends.
Whoa; maybe I do a bit of heckling.
But when I told this woman to “Paddle. Paddle!” and she got, evidently, a good ride, she mentioned I should have whistled. “You mean, like, ‘good ride’ kind of whistle?” “Yeah.” The next time I saw her complete a ride, I gave her the ‘both arms up’ signal.
When the guy who later, on the beach, claimed to be from Capitola, adding that he once almost burned Tom Curren at Rincon, mentioned my heckling, Thor, formerly of somewhere down Surf Route 101 from me, recently hanging at his sister’s place on Maui, said, “It’s not heckling, man, it’s hassling.”
I deny that.
It might actually be that I was having a lot of trouble adapting to my new-to-me Surf Tech Balboa model. The same length as my well-thrashed Hobie, but with clunkier rails, it almost refused to turn on my first three waves, and while trying a high line on another wave, the board broke free and I dropped, out of control, the trough. This gave me more to talk about when Reggie, who sold me the board, showed up and started dominating the inside waves. And then inventor/entrepreneur Mike Olson showed up, continuing to try to master his wing foil, so I had to try to say something to him on the way by. He said when he gets it on rail, “It really is like flying,” and he did mention how much fun he was having. Fun. Yeah.
So, yeah; a lot of banter/talking, made all the more annoying by my out at sea voice, that all the louder by both being hard of hearing and having to wear ear plugs.
Occasionally, and it seems to coincide with my catching a lot of waves and having a good time, I can’t help but feeling a bit apologetic. Not during, afterwords. Like, maybe, you take my loudness as abrasiveness. I get it. Nothing has come close to ruining a session for me like obnoxious surfers teaming up and disrespecting the true value of the gift of waves while I’m, in silence, praying for a bomb set wave with no shoulder hoppers.
I realize this sounds like a non-apology apology, but I do sincerely consider, as in think to about, briefly, how my being in the water might negatively affect others. Briefly.
Oh, so after Capitola guy and I exchanged a few stories on the beach, and I, as usual, pushed my blog, he mentioned again that he’d like to see me standing up on my board. There may have been a bit of spitefulness, and I hope you’ll consider forgiving me, when I replied, “No, no, and… no.” And, yes, even though I punctuated this with a double flip-off, the friendly sort, and he seemed to take it in the friendly way in which I meant it, I did feel a bit… almost but not quite… apologetic.
Here is the addition to my short story abbout a fictional surf trip to Wales in 1975. I’ve made significant changes, will make more. I will repost when I’m satisfied it works. SO:
Some events are so horrific that, even as they are happening, we wish them, desperately want them to be something else. Not real. In the aftermath we want them to not have happened, to have those few worst sessions to not be real.
But they are. Samuel Hubbard/Jones, in what I’ve long referred to as his ‘lord high barrister lingo,’ described what he witnessed, what we both became a part of, as “Discordant.”
“Discordant? Yeah. Okay.”
“I just didn’t want to say ‘surreal.’ When… when we entered the bath/shower room on the pier at Porthclaw, Claudia… Claudia; she was smiling as if she wasn’t in… that much danger. As if it might be, still, a joke. What was happening. With everything else dark, her attacker and… and she was wearing that summer dress… So bright. I know why you’re asking me this, Joey. I mean, now. I’ve come to grips with it. The image… it’s still there, but it’s… I’ve had fifty years of other images of… of unspeakable violence. As have you. But I can describe every moment; and I have. It’s part of the process. You could… and don’t. This is why you can’t finish “Swamis.” I read… almost all of your most recent draft. Better. You cannot bear to go to those most monstrous, those darkest places, and you refuse to believe that those are the places readers insist upon your going. And, you don’t have to write this, so I understand. And… you’re right, fuck any readers who insist on cruelty rendered so they can imagine it while lying on their beds. You look for sense, for a story, for heroes and villains. For… justice. But, fuck, man, we’re… old. Why haven’t we learned that life is…”
“Discordant.”
“Discordant indeed.”
Have the perfect combination of fun and inspiration the next time you surf. Remember all original material on realsurfers.net is protected by copyright, all rights reserved by the author/artist, Erwin Dence. AND do write me at erwin@realsurfers.net with your high praise and anything else. So far, I’ve received mostly offers to improve my site for, I’m guessing, money. AND, as always, thanks for checking it out!
I signed up for an email account through Word Press. I tried it out, it seems to work. I can now be contacted by writing to erwin@realsurfers.net. Yeah, I guess that means I’ll kind of know who is sending me the love… or whatever. And yes, I can take criticism. Sort of. And no, I can’t really reveal when or where I’ve surfed recently. Still, I am open to publishing surf stories by others. And I have. Give it a shot when you get a chance. I’m actually pretty excited about this.
OOPS, I googled “Big parade yesterday.” Kim Jong Un, “Little Rocket Man,” may or may not have sent a message to his US counterpart; congratulatory or otherwise. I was actually not going to participate in the “No Kings” demonstration in Port Townsend yesterday (not PT in the photo), the deal set for the polite hours, noon to one, designed not to interrupt coffee, brunch, with lunch delayed, BUT, because I doddled and dilly-dallied, watching just ‘one more heat’ at the Big Show WSL event at Lower Trestles, and because I had to buy some stuff before going to a job, I got stuck driving past the early arrivers, and, because I said I might do this, I drove past the folks, mostly in my age demographic, lining both sides of Sims Way. AND, yes, I honked. And waved. Some anti-fascism, pro-rule-of-law, pro-democracy people may have noticed the beat to “Louie, Louie.”
Anyway, sorry Donny, that your party pooped out. Kind of surprised you didn’t wear some sort of uniform. Maybe you did. Nice of all the ‘suckers and losers’ to march on by. Not like Miss America contestants, but… I would have considered checking it out, but… no; I was busy. I am a bit curious about the size and shape of the cake.
ROY, THE RIGHT PERSON FOR THE JOB.
THE FUN CAR survives another scare. I had a ‘crank, no start’ episode that coincided with an oil leak from the 1994 940 Volvo wagon’s crank case. Mysterious. I fooled around with the wiring, pulling things off things, putting them back on. I called my mechanic friend, George Takamoto, no longer working on rigs because he has dialysis three times a week (though, good news, he is scheduled to go the University of Washington hospital soon with the hope of getting on the transplant list), from the counter at Napa Auto Parts. I had already bought a replacement coil from O’Reilly, whose motto should be, “Our parts are shitty, but we’ll replace them when they fail,” but was checking whether Napa had a Bosch part like the coil I’d taken off (because it was easily done and because I, somehow, trust Bosch more than O’Reilly. George was against wasting my money, suggested I get an electrical probe. I did. Less than four bucks.
I went back to the job where the fun car had failed to start, put the old Bosch back in with the help of the guy who was receiving all the furniture the next day for the house. The fun car was a blockage. It didn’t start. I left, checked out the possibility of surf sort of nearby, came back, and, in yet another miracle, it started right up. AND, knock on wood, it’s started every time since.
My daughter, Dru, asked me what I want for Fathers’ Day. Well, because my car is still stuck in Port Townsend, and because I am petrified to even attempt anything mechanical, and because she works across the street from a shop that worked on Volvos, and usually parks in front of it, I asked her if she ever sees people there. The rumor is that it’s only open two days a week or so. Because I had to give Dru some items that came to my house, I checked the place out, opened the door, and met Roy. Because it was a Volvo of a certain age, and because Roy had genuine Volvo gaskets around, and because I agreed to talk more softly, he agreed to replace the gasket.
I found a reason to come back the next day. The job was almost done. A buddy of Roy’s, Paul, who works on tugboats, was hanging out. It all would have been easier if I hadn’t asked Roy to replace the existing, blown head gasket surviving (thanks to Adam Wipeout) spark plugs with new one I had purchased but not installed because YouTube said it might be tricky. I gave up when the first one didn’t want to come out. SO, of course, the plug hardest to get to caused problems. Cursing, a prerequisite of wrenching, ensued. This tool, that trick… success!
SURF STUFF- I believe it’s only the second time I drove my big boy work van out to the Strait. I was that desperate. Damn the expense, I need waves! I may have gotten a few. Or a few more. And then…? And now, the Volvo’s (knocking on more wood) back. ALSO, I was a bit surprised to see Yago Dora and Betty Lou Sakura Johnson prevailing over the locals at Trestles. I did watch some of the early action, and post-watched a few recaps. What I didn’t do, but frequently do, is check out the comments, see who was under or over-scored, all that stuff.
SPEAKING OF COMMENTS, I got one from a guy with his own site, possibly drawn to realsurfers because I got a tiny bit political. He asked me to check his site. I did. He asked me to comment. I tried. I stopped the process when Word Press wanted my email address and, maybe I’m wrong, my password. NO; it’s not worth it. I do get some feedback, mostly at the beach or in the lineup, often directed at some one else. “Is that the guy who posts all kinds of stuff about spots on the Strait?” No. Which really means, ‘not any more.’ Learned that lesson.
It is painting season, and I haven’t had much time for drawing. I did this while waiting for my wife, Trish, at a doctor’s office. Sketch, meant to go along with my song, “Between Alone and Lonely.”
BECAUSE KEITH DARROCK’S MOM sent him a passport photo of Keith’s dad at 31 year old; and because I worked with JOEL CARBEN, and because I have this photo of my father from about the time I was born, and because it’s Fathers’ Day… some photos.
Because Chris Eardley said he would love to see a photo of me with hair and without a mustache, here is one of Trish and me from 1969. Or 1970. My or her Senior Prom. I could be wrong. I’ll ask Trish.
Incidentally, because I am usually one of the oldest surfers at any session, and because I have a damaged or lack of a filter, I too-frequently ask other surfers how old they are. “Whoa; you look way older.” This doesn’t get a great response, but I do follow up with, “Makes me wonder how the fuck old I look.” Most surfers are too polite to answer honestly.
Happy survived yesterday day. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.
…and sure, why not celebrate the folks who actually DO THINGS, BUILD THINGS, providing services to the folks who profit on the backs of workers. Not to be in any way political; it’s more like a cultural anthropological and historic question broken down to a harsher core: Do slaveholders support the slaves, or do the slaves support the slaveholders? Okay, change it to stockholders and CEOs, and workers.
If you are a worker, celebrate other workers… and yourself. In the midst of a hostile takeover of our fought-for, bled-for, died-for, always fragile democracy, it isn’t a bad time to take to the street in support of the former, supposedly, right wing ideals of rule of law, of due process, of independent and co-equal branches of government, of freedom of speech, of common fucking decency; not to mention, because I don’t want to go religious zealot here, but folks who boast about or even claim some loose connection to ANY religion or ideology that values treating other human beings with some amount of respect, how about a little fucking compassion?
INTERMISSION- SURF STUFF-
Olympic Peninsula ripper KEITH DARROCK is in Mexico, hoping to score at several mainland spots, and has agreed to represent.
“Waves all day right out front of where I’m staying. That’s Stinky’s, a mellow right hand reef. Pretty ideal for easy longboarding. Lots of surfers around. There are other spots nearby up the point and down that look bigger. It’s pretty chill except that I’ve already been stung by jellyfish and gotten some urchin spines in my foot. Not too stoked on that!”
STUFF I COULDN’T get right from Sunday:
A lovely spring day with no surf but lots of characters and sailboats and stuff, a cruise down Surf Route 101, a new sign on the Quilcene Historical Museum, also on 101.
INTERMISSION OVER, back to May Day:
Again, I am not a radical of any sort; and either are those on the street protesting; but there has been a shift in who believes what. Conservatives, out of fear, or hatred, or blindness, and perhaps this is what is meant by ‘staunch conservative,’ now embrace the lies, that, if you’re not someone who benefits from corporate greed, seems to not be in your best interest. That doesn’t seem really, um, uh, intelligent. AND, It is now radical to ask for the truth from those who deny it; to question the lies designed to further the interests and the accumulated wealth of… not workers, not folks who get W-2s, who pay into social security for years; nope, that money could be better served. Or, wait, is that a lie?
That’s my rant. Done. I have to go work. Because I mentioned the phrase, ‘down the road’ is a term I learned when I went to work painting Navy housing. It was late summer, 1971, families were being transferred, and painters were needed. It was a ‘temporary’ job. As the season wound down, less painters were necessary. Some were sent ‘down the road.’ It makes sense, and the fear if not acknowledgement of losing my job has always been there, and I did everything I could, learned all I could, because I wasn’t going to be selected for a layoff because I wasn’t good enough.
It’s May day, 2025, and… guess what? All work is temporary. Any worker can be replaced. But, any politician can be replaced, any CEO can be voted out, golden parachute and all. And, just because it’s so exhausting thinking about how dire our country’s position is right now, I have to mention that we are all here on a temporary basis. Again, not to go religious-ish, but when you do ‘down the road,’ where do you believe you’re going?
WORKS IN PROGRESS- Two from when I was waiting for a tire repair at Les Schwab, one from something else I’ve been working on.
That’s it. Happy International Workers’ Day! If you’re not getting waves today, I’m sure you will soon. They are out there. Thanks for checking out realsurfers. The drawings are subject to copyright restrictions, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
It’s been raining, followup to the really cold spell. As someone reminded me, “It’s still winter.” Yeah. Blessed, I guess, with too much time to think about all the projects I could be working on, I chose to, yeah, finish “SWAMIS,” the novel* I’ve been writing for, yeah again, years.
*Finished, as in, got to the part, after 94,800 or so words, where I wrote “Not even close to the end.” As in, there has to be more of the adventures of surfers/lovers/eighteen-old amateur detectives Julia Trueheart Cole and Joseph Atsushi DeFreines, AND Junipero “Jumper” De Jesus, AND what I believe to be a totally believable supporting cast of characters.
IF ‘SWAMIS’ could be, as I imagine, with hundreds of pages written and set aside, a trilogy, AND with “Swamis” being such a convenient word, the name of the famous surf spot AND a reference to those who seek the truth, “BEACONS,” another North County surf spot, could be the second book title, “GRANDVIEW” completing the series. AND, YEAH, I’m thinking about it. SOME of the work is already done, the characters are set up, and I’m pretty sure how they respond to issues coming at them in the late sixties, early seventies. No, I’m pretty sure I don’t know. WE’LL SEE.
WHAT’S WRONG WITH THIS GUY?
One has to wonder; compensation-wise.
I’m Not THAT Political, but… DEPARTMENT-
OR THAT RELIGIOUS… BUT… Shit’s going on.
And waves continue to roll in. I had a few fights with my scanner this morning, a few more with the wordpress setup. AND I have to go. It’s clearing up and I am driving my reborn VOLVO farther than downtown. Remember that all of my original works on realsurfers.net are protected by, not only the first amendment, but by copyright. All rights reserved. Yeah, that.
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