Tag Archives: Erwin Dence illustrations

Memorable Surf Sessions, When and Why

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, old surfers, perfect waves, real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf culture, surf novels

The most recent full moon on the Salish Sea. Perfect evening for a paddle.

                                    Sessions Worthy of Remembrance

There are several things that can make a surf session memorable, memorable enough to last years: That time you surfed an often crowded spot alone; that special ride on an otherwise not-special day; that trip with a friend (or potential lover) or friends that you remember more for the friendship (or the movement from potential) than the time in the water; that time where the waves were solidly pumping and you were ripping at the very peak of your ability… and, and, and- yeah, those times.

Think of a spot you’ve surfed, once or many times. Or think of a friend you surf or have surfed with. Think of the music that was playing in the car or in your head. Think of fog, or sideshore winds, or dawn patrols, or skunkings, or the road to here or there, or where you ate on the way home from somewhere you did or didn’t find waves. Think of anything that leads you back to a magical adventure, or ride, or session.

Okay, why was one session, or one ride during the session memorable?

I can’t speak to the adrenalin and dopamine and endorphins, and whatever our bodies and minds create when we anticipate what could be, some fantasy session; and remember or imagine when you find that dream setup, and then you’re in it. If it takes some time, hours, even days, to come down from the high, it takes years before you are unable to bring the memory out of your vault.

You’ve felt it, clueless kook to wherever you are on your journey; the rare-but-there moments are what surfers live for, why surfers ride crappy waves and call it ‘practice.’ The waves are working, you got into the lineup, jockeyed or waited for position, you’re on the wave, committed, driving… and you’ll make the wave… or you won’t.

If you’re not surfing for the thrill of it, the magic of it, please, just take up another hobby.

A memorable session:

Mostly I remember being cold, getting out of the water at Grandview with the sun already down, silver lines on a silver platter. This session was memorable enough that it became part of the reason I started writing, “Inside Break,” the precursor to “Swamis.” It was a different take on my early surfing life, one not much different than any surfer who started before he or she could drive; riding with your parents or someone else’s, then begging older surfers to take you along.

Phillip Harper and I, possibly sophomores, got to go, after school in Fallbrook, with Bucky Davis and Phil’s sister, Trish (not my Trish- different Trish). Backseat. She was driving, headed to modeling school in Encinitas. They were, to me, the perfect surfer couple. Not that she surfed. Maybe she did later, years after that romance ended. Maybe. I tend to push things toward the romantic.

To me, having learned at Tamarack, with some trips to ruin real surfers waves at Pipes and Swamis, Grandview was a surf spot I knew about. I also knew I was not going to be welcomed by the locals and the older inlanders for whom it was their chosen North County spot. Phil, who had surfed there, told me.

Nevertheless, we were there and I was going to show Bucky… something. The waves were “Not good enough,” he said, “Not yet.” This was just before he pushed me into the washout that was the way down to the beach, long filled-in, replaced by a house and fence.

Before it glassed off (alternate title for ‘Inside Break,’ ‘Afternoon Glassoff’), Phil and I went out, only ones in the lineup. Bucky paddled out. We surfed. It got dark. I was bragging about my nose rides. “No,” Bucky said, but only later, Trish now driving, heater maxed out, “you… he, he kind of slides up to the nose. If you want to be a real surfer, you have to go foot over foot.”

“Yeah,” Phil said, “Foot over foot.” Real surfer. Yeah.

Hama Hama News- Adam “Wipeout” James got into a a group text sort of bemoaning that he had done a lot of driving, hadn’t scored great waves, BUT, good news, his son Emmet (Adam spelled it with one ‘t’, so I will also do so) got (may have said ‘bagged’) his first buck.

Congratulations! Adam has another son, Calvin. One is nicknamed ‘Boomer.’ I believe it’s Calvin. NOW, hunting and fishing and all that is kind of a deal down here on the Hood Canal section of SURF ROUTE 101; up there with first Bigfoot and/or UFO sightings; so I had to respond. I said I got it with a ’59 Chevy, but it was probably with a Toyota. Crushed front quarter panel. Dead dear. My older son, James, got his buck with a Buick; big ass Buick Trish pushed him to buy because it seemed safe. Deer over the windshield, James… safe.

CHIMACUM TIMACUM NEWS- For the second time ever, the last being ten years ago, Tim and I were in the water at the same time. I don’t think either of us burned the other. Next time…

“Swamis” NEWS- In looking for an agent, I wrote a query letter, sent it to several people whose judgment I trust to check out. THEN, panicked it wasn’t good enough, I started editing the hell out of it. THEN KEITH, after I told him to wait for a better version, said he liked it. SINCE I am not that stoked on the rewrites… yes, he can send it back, and then… I am not changing the first ten pages, and will post another chapter or sub-chapter on WEDNESDAY..

I’M NOT POLITICAL STUFF- I’m considering getting an alias. BUSTER WALLS came to mind because I wanted something that suggests but can’t seem to remember that term for the subversive, covert kind of sarcastic attack that I have often been accused of.

ANYWAY, I hope you find some waves, and if you don’t, hope you have a great time looking. Don’t steal my stuff. Thanks for reading.

TRIPPING in Seattle on the Last Friday before Halloween and… Poetry 101 (as in Surf Route)

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, hipster surfers, northwest surfing, real surfers, Seattle surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels

I hadn’t really planned on going to Seattle. I had forgotten that I had an appointment in Silverdale to check out the progress on my left eye (looking good after the last surgery, should get the oil out in, like, January), and since I was over that way anyway, and TRISH mentioned that DRU, who had just gotten disturbing-but-(of course)not 100% verified) news about her ongoing disputes with cancer, was going to go over to meet WENDY, someone our daughter met in her first year at LOYOLA UNIVERSITY in Chicago, there with her husband, JON, and I said, “Oh, maybe I could go…also,” this turning, instantly, into a commitment.

Jon, Wendy, and Dru. lost tourists in the background bemoaning that “The place where they throw the fish is closed, pre-8 O’clock.” “Yeah,” I said, to Jon and Wendy, not to the tourists, “It still smells… fishy.”

BECAUSE I wasn’t planning on going to Seattle, I was wearing Crocks. “Not a problem,” Trish, who wasn’t going said, “You’ll walk on, and then you’ll get an UBER.” The ferry terminal at COLEMAN DOCK and the roads in the vicinity have been in a constant state of destruction/construction before and since September of 1978, my first trip to the northwest. Every time I go through there it’s different. The current structure was, no doubt, designed after the oversized structures Hitler’s favorite architect designed. AND walking on from Bainbridge is, like, lengthy. AND you can’t just go out in front and jump in a cab. Actually you can, but we were going to Uber, and Dru has an app, so we walked, like, two piers north (Spring Street if you’re savvy) before we could figure out where a car could pull in, what with the long, plant-filled structure blocking the outside lane of southbound Aurora. Meeting up with Jon and Wendy, the plan was to walk down to Pike Place Market. “It’s only two blocks,” Jon said. No. two blocks over, two blocks down. In crocks.

I AM SUDDENLY REALIZING, as I’m one-drafting this, that I should either do a serious version or just get to the highlights. Or both. Lots of walking. Lots of people. Groups of: Tourists; Buffalo Bills fans; Halloween celebrants in costume (including a staggering drunk catwoman, a woman in a physics-defying top taking photos with others in, you know, other, less memorable costumes); an angry dudes talking to himselve; very very happy dude kind of twerking and singing.

It’s not that I PEOPLE WATCH, but… yeah; can’t help it. ON the way back, crush of people headed home, one way or the other, I noticed a guy (because he reminded me of a friend) with a man bun, a kilt, and oversized glasses. There he was, Dru and I limping along the boat to land walkway.

“I’m ready to go back to ______ (unnamed spot on the Strait that requires extensive walking/climbing).”

I’m not. I’m sore. OH, one last thing: When Dru and I were almost to the parking lot, her van in spot #7, thankfully, I reacted to a smell I identified with, “Smells like skunk,” before I realized the smell, at once sweet and somehow a bit harsh, was… something else. Just laughing was enough for Dru. “You know,” she had said, “Bainbridge Island votes 100% democratic.” “100%?” “Well, almost.”

Three Poems basically revealing that I am so happy I don’t have to live in Seattle:

                  Limerick  Seattle surfers at ferry docks wait, You just want to check out the Strait, At its best it’s quite iffy, You can’t get there in a jiffy, You’ll arrive… just a little too late.

(or early; couple of hours, couple of days, couple of weeks)

                  Haiku Just missed the ferry, I may as well drive around, Settle for Westport.

                  Ode Oh, if I was a Seattle surfer, I’d feel so alive, Maybe I’d live in Fremont, Somewhere west of the I-5.

I’d have a built-out sprinter van, No V-dub or Subaru, Three boards in board bags on the rack Like other city surfers do.

And I’d study all the forecasts, Surfline premium’s a must, And every five-star rated day, It’s on the road or bust.

I’d be out there on the highways, In the darkness before dawn, Or I’d be waiting in the ferry line, Hoping, praying I get on.

Or perhaps I’d drive to Seaside, Maybe Short Sands or Westport, Hoping all Tacoma and Portland folks  Adopted wing-foiling as their sport.

There is one code that I live by, A truth yet to be debunked, Don’t ever head out to the Strait Unless you’re willing to get SKUNKED.

Apology/explanation I understand how frustrating it is to be hours away from the possibility of waves worth surfing. During Covid, quite a few surfers moved over to the Olympic Peninsula, particularly those who could work anywhere they could get a signal. It didn’t take too long for many of them to realize how frustrating it is to live here. AND, there are so many easy amusements in the big city.

All original material protected by copyright. All rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr. Another chapter of “SWAMIS” will be posted on Wednesday. PUBLISHERS- I have a publisher showing some interest in my novel. They have questions as to my potential audience, my goals. I am working on a response, but , MEANWHILE, if you are or know a writer’s agent, or if you have connections with an actual, non-vanity press, let me know. Leave a message at my home/office (360)765-3212.

NON-POLITICALLY SPEAKING, Please write down all the reasons you would vote for Citizen Thrump (moral character, intelligence, empathy/narcissism level, religious-ness, allegiance to our country and our rule of law, whatever other bullshit you can think of), CONSIDER that you actual reasons for even considering voting for one of the more despicable human beings ever might have more to do with your own grievances that an honest appraisal of a serial lowlife, and, you know, don’t vote for the asshole.

“I just want to get wet,” Other Lies, and “Swamis,” continued

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, getting barrelled, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing blogs, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

FIRST LIE: “I just want to get in the water,” or any variation on this (purposefully not talking about the folks cruising SURF ROUTE 101 and, I guess, everywhere, with Walmart plastic kayaks, canoes, wavestorms) by someone who actually surfs. Okay, shouldn’t have excluded Wavestormer Troopers, BUT…

…here’s the (a) story: So, three sessions ago, fighting a radically outgoing tide and small, choppy waves, I had one of those go-outs in which I, objectively, SUCKED. Two sessions ago, on a borrowed SUP, same spot, even smaller waves, I, subjectively, did OKAY. Or, at least, better… BUT, tasked with packing a board heavier than my Hobie on a long trek back, and unable to just drag someone else’s board across the soft sand and the scrub, I allowed, for the first time in my career, someone else to pack my board part way. It was his board. I was… grateful.

So, next session I packed in my MANTA board. I had finally coated over the paint with resin, and figured, if the waves were the usual, minimal, I could, at least, jump into a few. The waves lived up to my expectations; minimal. AND, NO, even if I said I just wanted to get in the water, which I didn’t, I would be lying. I wanted o RIP. I always want to rip. I didn’t. I let frothed-out ripper KEITH ride the board. He did rip. I watched. I caught ONE WAVE, belly ride, totally tubed, with enough juice to propel me down the line and into the gravel shelf. YAY!

MANTA and slightly lost Hobbit.

OH, and Keith put a ding in the Manta. That’s one of the costs in surfing. Occasionally getting h orumbled is another. STILL, next time I get wet…

SECOND LIE: “I’m not political.” Add to this, “I am willing to talk.” That part is true. I am working on a project proposal for a guy who is running for the state senate as a republican. So, in discussing the job, politics did come up. I said that, probably, 70 percent of people agree on 75% of things, that where the radical 30%, 15 in each direction, left and right, come together is distrust of the government. The potential client agreed. THEN, because he is also part of the nebulous percentage of people who consider themselves religious (there is a scale on this), I added that we are all raised with certain morals, and, if we go against these, we, in our own minds, sin. So, because we want to consider ourselves ‘good people,’ we try to live up to our own sense of morality.

HE AGREED. What I actually (or also) meant, or meant to imply was, that if a person is raised by a parent who used every device and trick to fuck over people in order to enrich himself, that person’s moral backstop, compass, guidebook, whatever, is… different.

BECAUSE I couldn’t help myself, and, actually, I MIGHT DO MORE, I drew a couple of, possibly, kind of political illustrations. I found out a few things: A LOT of women do not want to see even a negative image of Fred Trump’s son, a NASTY piece of work. I don’t know. Maybe I’m wrong: there might be, like, 15% who think… SHIT, I can’t imagine why they’d have anything other than disgust, AND, if they defend him on some false and thin pretense, I might believe they have an incredibly strong resistance to the gag reflex, and/or are lying.

Again, I am willing to talk.

“SWAMIS.” Since I am serializing the novel, I should recap: 1. Joey is at the court-appointed psychologist’s office; the conversation coming around to whether he has moved from being bullied to being a bully. 2. Joey’s first meeting with Julie at Pipes.

CHAPTER THREE- SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1968

My nine-six Surfboards Hawaii pintail was on the Falcon’s rust and chrome factory racks. I was headed along Neptune, from Grandview to Moonlight Beach. The bluff side of Neptune was either garage or gate and fence, or hedge, tight to the road. There were few views of the water. I was, no doubt, smiling, remembering something from that morning’s session.

There had been six surfers at the outside lineup, the preferred takeoff spot. They all knew each other. If one of them hadn’t known about me, the asshole detective’s son, others had clued him in. There was no way the local crew and acceptable friends would allow me to catch a set wave. No; maybe a wave all of them missed or none of them wanted. Or one would act as if he was going to take off any wave I wanted, just to keep me off it.  

As the first one in the water, I had surfed the peak, had selected the wave I thought might be the best of a set. Three other surfers came out. Okay. Three more surfers came out. Sid was one of them. I knew who Sid was. By reputation. A set wave came in. I had been waiting. I was in position. It was my wave. I took off.  Sid took off in front of me, ten yards over. I said something like, “Hey!”

Rather than speed down the line or pull out, Sid stalled. It was either hit him or bail. I bailed. Sid said, “Hey!” Louder. He looked at me, cranked a turn at the last moment. He made the wave. I swam.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, back at the lineup. The four other surfers there were laughing with Sid.

“Wrong, Junior; you broke the locals rule.” Sid pointed to the lefts, the waves perceived as not being as good, on the other side of a real or imagined channel. “Local’s rule. Get it?” Trying to ignore the taunts of the others, I caught an insider and moved over.

After three lefts, surfed, I believed, with a certain urgency and a definite aggression, I prone-paddled back to the rights, tacking back and forth. A wave was approaching, a decently sized set wave. I wanted it. 

“Outside!” I yelled, loud enough that four surfers, including Sid, started paddling for the horizon. I paddled at an angle, lined up the wave at the peak. Though the takeoff was late, I made the drop, rode the wave into the closeout section, pulling off the highest roller coaster I had ever even attempted.

There had been no outside set. I kept my back turned to the water as I exited, not daring to look up at the surfers on the bluff, hooting and pointing. I did look up for a moment as I grabbed my towel, my keys and wallet and cigarettes rolled up in it, tromped up the washout to Neptune Avenue, trying not to smile.   

Driving, almost to Moonlight Beach, a late fifties model Volkswagen bus, two-tone, white over gray, was blocking the southbound lane. Smoke was coming out of the open engine compartment. Black smoke. Three teenagers were standing behind the bus: Two young men, Duncan Burgess and Rincon Ronny, on the right side, one young woman, Monica, on the left. 

There was more room on the northbound side. I pulled over, squeezed out between the door and someone’s bougainvillea hedge, and walked into the middle of the street, fifteen feet behind the van. “Can I help?” 

Duncan, Ronny, and Monica were dressed as if they had surfed but were going to check somewhere else: Nylon windbreakers, towels around their waists. Duncan’s and Monica’s jackets were different, but both were red with white, horizontal stripes that differed in number and thickness. Ronny was wearing a dark blue windbreaker with a white, vertical strip, a “Yater” patch sewn on. Each of the three looked at me, and looked back at each other, then at the smoking engine. The movement of their heads said, “No.”

Someone stepped out of an opening in the hedge on the bluff side of the road, pretty much even with me. I was startled. I took three sideways steps before I regained my balance.

Julia Cole. Perfectly balanced. She was wearing an oversized V-neck sweater that almost covered boys’ nylon trunks. Her legs were bare, tan, her feet undersized for the huarache sandals she was wearing. She looked upset, but more angry than sad. But then… she almost laughed. I managed a smile.

“It’s you,” she said. It was. Me. “Are you a mechanic?” I shook my head, took another step toward the middle of the road, away from her. “An Angel?” Another head shake, another step. She took two more steps toward me. We were close. She seemed to be studying me, moving her head and eyes as if she might learn more from an only slightly different angle.

I couldn’t continue to study Julia Cole. I looked past her. Her friends looked at her, then looked at each other, then looked, again, at the subsiding smoke and the growing pool of oil on the pavement. “We saw what you did,” she said. I turned toward her. “From the bluff.” Her voice was a whisper when she added, “Outside,” the fingers of her right hand out, but twisting, pulling into her palm, little finger first, as her hand itself twisted. “Outside,” she said again, slightly louder.

“Oh,” I said. “It… worked.”

“Once. Maybe Sid… appreciated it.” She shook her head. “No.”

I shook my head. “Once.” I couldn’t help focusing on Julia Cole’s eyes. “I had to do it.”

“Of course.” By the time I shifted my focus from Julia Cole’s face to her right hand, it had become a fist, soft rather than tight. “Challenge the… hierarchy.”

I had no response. Julia Cole moved her arm slowly across her body, stopping for a moment just under the parts of her sweater dampened by her bathing suit top. Breasts. I looked back into her eyes for the next moment. Green. Translucent. She moved her right hand, just away from her body, up. She cupped her chin, thumb on one cheek, fingers lifting, pointer finger first, drumming, pinkie finger first. Three times. She pulled her hand away from her face, reaching toward me. Her hand stopped. She was about to say something.  

“Julie!” It was Duncan. Julie, Julia Cole didn’t look around. She lowered her hand and took another step closer to me. In a ridiculous overreaction, I jerked away from her.

“I was going to say, Junior…” Julia was smiling. I may have grinned. Another uncontrolled reaction. “I could… probably… if you were an… attorney.”

“I’m not… Not… yet.”

Julia Cole loosened the tie holding her hair. Sun-bleached at the ends, dirty blonde at the roots. She used the fingers of both hands to straighten it.

“I can… give you a ride… Julia… Cole.”

“Look, Fallbrook…” It was Duncan. Again. He walked toward us, Julia Cole and me. “We’re fine.” He extended a hand toward Julia. She did a half-turn, sidestep. Fluid. Duncan kept looking at me. Not in a friendly way. He put his right hand on Julia Cole’s left shoulder.

Julia Cole allowed it. She was still smiling, still studying me when I asked, “Phone booth? There’s one at… I’m heading for Swamis.”

            A car come up behind me. I wasn’t aware. Rincon Ronny and Monica watched it. Duncan backed toward the shoulder. Julia and I looked at each other for another moment. “You really should get out of the street… Junior.”

            “Joey,” I said. “Joey.”

            She could have said, “Julie.” Or “Julia.” She said neither. She could have said, “Joey.”      

No one got a ride. I checked out Beacons and Stone Steps and Swamis. I didn’t surf. The VW bus was gone when I drove back by. Dirt from under someone’s hedge was scattered over the oil, some of it seeping through.

OBLIGATORY COPYRIGHT STUFF: I reserve the rights to any and all of my original works. Please respect this. Erwin A. Dence, Jr. Thanks.

HAPPY LABOR DAY! I do hope you’re getting WET and BARRELED! The next time (and any time) I get in the water, remember, “I’M HERE TO SURF.”

When You RIDE With Erwin… It’s a Story

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, surf art, surfer Archie Endo, surfing art

Very bad day yesterday. All I wanted to do was get my panels up to Port Townsend for the August Art Walk, AND take ARCHIE ENDO out to lunch. Short Version: Van got accidentally locked. Not blaming. Keys and cell phone inside. Van parked in handicapped spot. $120 cash to unlock. Move panels and remaining Original Erwin shirts. Now to lunch. NO. Van won’t start. Tried jump starting. Thanks, LOU. NO. Waited for tow truck, arrived while trying to eat something at La Cucina, across the street. Slugged down last of quesadilla and milk. KIRK LAKENESS was the tow truck driver. Perhaps you remember Kirk from the time I crashed vehicle on Eaglemount in black ice. Kirk towed van to electric shop. Archie and I got a ride to his house in DIscovery Bay area with REGGIE. Archie gave me a ride home.

Here’s a shot of Stephen R. DAVIS’S friend from the Big Isand, ‘CAP” (real name Brian, though, he says, only his mother [and I] call him that), stylishly sporting the latest ORIGINAL ERWIN T SHIRT and posed as if he might be checking out surf. NO. No surf ’round here. Incidentally, he and other Big Islanders call Steve “Moose.” I don’t.

HERE is the poster I was hoping to sell multiple copies of at the COLAB during the Art Walk. Hoping. I was sure enough that it would be a popular item that II had forty of them printed, 20 at 11’by 17′, twenty at 8and1/2′ by 11′. LIMITED EDITION.

SPEAKING of which, when I was waiting for RANDY at COHO PRINTING to finish the project, I said that I love doing the artwork, but hate trying to sell my works. “Well,” he said, “My suggestion would be to put them all in a drawer somewhere.” “Thank you, Professor, might I have another?” “It should be ‘Sir.'” “I know. I gave you a promotion.”
MEANWHILE… WORK. A different story.

Find some waves. Ride them. Later. Oh, and the poster is covered by copyright, all rights reserved.

Modest Cover and Changing Justifications

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, women surfers in the Northwest,

HERE, edited, is the piece I meant to post last Wednesday:

THE DIFFERENCE between what I write for realsurfers and pretty much anything else I write is that much of what is posted is written on site, under the real or imagined pressure (mostly imagined) of having to be somewhere else other than wailing away on my borrowed laptop.

EDITING is the difference. Re-reading, rewriting; trying to push randomness into cohesion, trying to produce something, hopefully, readable, worthwhile.

In direct contradiction of this statement, I’m suddenly thinking of how chaotic winds can, on occasion, turn into lined-up waves.

Yeah, that sounds kind of braggy; maybe I’ll edit it out.

AFTER THE FACT, I would like to add something(s) to a recent post in which I neglected to say how, when I was a teenager, and the only surfers who entered discussions with my friends who surfed were those in our age bracket. Surfers, we concluded, at sixteen or seventeen, peak at nineteen. It was fine to take girls to the beach if you were planning on, maybe, making out, rather than actually surfing. Having a girlfriend who actually surfed, rather one who was willing to watch her boyfriend surf was not discussed.

The thrill of watching me surf wore off fairly early for Trish. Still, we had some sessions.

WHAT I NOW WANT TO EMPHASISE is that opinions and attitudes change. AND NEED TO.

NOW I see couples, some with children, taking turns in the water. GREAT!

MY MOTHER was left out of the original post. She loved going to the beach, and would load up her seven children, sometimes a friend, and all our gear, and head out. When my older sister, SUELLEN, and I started riding boards, learning more about where better waves were, and when (not noon), our mother was more than willing to go earlier and to check out spots beyond TAMARACK. Grandview? Black’s Beach? We looked.

A bit of a shoutout to our dad, I distinctly remember both my parents taking me to 15th Street, Del Mar, as kind of a part of a rare date away from the whole of their family, sitting in the parking lot as I ‘practiced’ for a high school surfing contest.  

Here, not for the sake of argument, are a couple of possibly sexist drawings I didn’t include last time:

I SAID I was honoring International Women’s Day and then displayed a retrospective of my drawings and silkscreens that, by today’s standards and my own changed ideas on how women should be portrayed, may make me seem a bit more sexist/cave person-like than I would like to believe I am. Is it still okay to portray nude women under some modest cover that argues it is not objectification? I DON’T KNOW. If I figure it out I will let you know. I do know that justifying working on nudes in my thirties (I also did landscapes and illustrations of surfing and houses) was different, if not easier, than it would be in my seventies.  

THAT SAID, I should address my own behavior in the water. AS IN, do I surf in a sexist manner?  I do consider myself an equal opportunity wave hog. As in, if I see an opportunity to go for a wave… I do. The relative competence of others in the water is a factor. HAVING SAID THAT, I now wish to claim that I’m not as bad as I once was. EVOLVING? Just getting older? Debatable. ADDITIONALLY… No, that’s enough.

EXCEPT, that, there’s all the hype and social bullshit around surfing, all the what it can be (magic) and what it is (difficult, impossible to conquer or to perfect). If you take every experience you have had in surfing, from your first times wading into the water, to now; what is it you cherish the most, what is it you remember first and most fondly?

YEAH, I thought so. 

Original silkscreen, from 1980s, found in the attic.

AS ALWAYS, THANKS for checking out realsurfers. Updates on my novel, “SWAMIS,” and other stuff on Wednesday. All rights to all original, copyrighted work are reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

Additions and Corrections and, Yeah, More

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, real surfers, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing art, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing Swamis

“SWAMIS” UPDATE- Working on it. Here is a quickie flyer for a fictional Newspaper. I can’t say that there wasn’t such a weekly paper back in the time my novel covers, 1969. My guess, yes. I do know, based on a story I heard, later, like 1971, when I went to work in the Big City, San Diego, from an older guy, that there were Free Clinics, or, at least, one. “So, I picked up this hitchhiking Hippie chick, and I’m thinking… you know, free sex and all that, and she says she’s trying to get to the free clinic.”

Also not related, directly: I noticed, on occasional trips south, in the narrow strip that is Mission Beach, a storefront law office that, real or imagined, seemed to offer free services. Hard to imagine that now. Parking, incidentally, was pretty much as bad then as it is now.

If writing, journalism or fiction, or drawing, or any form of art is someone trying to transfer imagination to paper or wood or film or any other medium, images stored and remembered are the critical ingredient.

Although I haven’t quite gotten to THE END of the fourth or fifth rewrite of “Swamis,” I do have plans, beyond it, for the main characters. The storefront law office might be part of that.

MEANWHILE, I am still recovering from cuts and an infection on my leg, the treatment keeping me out of the water for at least the rest of this week. SO, IF THERE ARE WAVES, I won’t be competing for them. GOOD LUCK.

SCREW UP of the day- I did write something, using Microsoft Word, filling in some omissions from my last posting. Halfway through this, I realized I hadn’t copied it. Not wanting to lose what I had, I… well, I’ll get back to you on what is partially “Guilty with an explanation” stuff.

In the “I’M NOT POLITICAL, BUT…” category, something about the delays in the trials of the former president, and the inability of some other citizens to see a grift when it’s reaching into their pockets, caused me to draw… this:

It’s already, liike, last week’s news. Ordinarily I claim all rights to my work, but, this time, in the spirit of freedom, free press, all that, if you want to borrow it… FEEL FREE.

International Women’s (Surfing) Day and…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, Melissa Lynch illustrations, old surfers, real surfers, surf illustrations, surfing art

…and when, perhaps, men are going to catch up or on. If ever.

When I started board surfing in 1965, almost fourteen-years-old, there were girls and women who surfed. Not that many, and those who were good at it were known by name. In San Diego’s North County, Barbie Barron from Oceanside, and Margo Godfrey were the main contenders.

It would be totally wrong if I didn’t mention that my older sister, Suellen, got me into board surfing. If Suellen had romantic notions about what surfing is, and she did, and we all do, the truth is that sometimes surfing lives up to those notions.

Trish went to Junior High with Barbie and was a member of an upstart Oceanside Girls Surfing Club before Trisha’s father got transferred to Philadelphia. I would run into Barbie frequently when I got out of High School, 1969, and did a lot of pre-work, dawn patrol surfing at the short jetty south of Oceanside harbor. Trish, who came back west in 1968 with a lot of east coast sophistication and a touch of the vibe (so alluring to a rube from Fallbrook), would ask if I actually spoke to her. No. Barbie did own the Offshore Surf Shop in Carlsbad for years. I reached out shortly after she retired. So, still no.

My only live almost interaction with Margo Godfrey was a big-but-blown out afternoon at Swamis, Scott Sutton, Jeff Officer, and I stuck with that situation because we had to wait for Scott’s father to do whatever he had to do that was more important than taking kids surfing. Margo and Cheer Critchlow were walking out, so casually, hitting the outside lineup, while we were going for the insiders.

I did write about my one interaction with the most famous woman surfer of that generation, Joyce Hoffman, from Christmas of 1970, the piece entitled “Joyce Hoffman’s Bra.” It is Google-able. I checked.

Oh, and I threw in a shot of Silvana Lima to represent women surfers who rip but don’t, perhaps, fit into the ‘image’ that sponsors are looking for. The image issue is, to a lesser extent, perhaps, also true on the men’s competitive side.

This is probably the right time to apologize for my attitude toward women. I love women, and my realization that boys and men treat women, um, rudely, and artists, trying to capture something of the beauty and wonder of women are insensitive if not clueless. So, yeah, one of those “I didn’t know, I don’t know, I’m working on it” kind of man-pologies.

Here’s how this post happened: I wanted to write about women who surf. Not finding anything I was stoked on in a quick web image search, I decided to check out my own media library. These are images that have appeared on this site. Some of the silk screen images are from the 1980s when I thought it was completely a good thing to do nudes. You know, like, tasteful.

Because of the way I put this post together, the writing is as disjointed as the images. Still:

Margo Godfrey, Santa Cruz, Oct 1969
from pinterest
taken from Matt Warshaw’s Encyclopedia of Surfing

The second from the bottom drawing was done by my youngest sister, Melissa. She died of metastatic breast cancer a few years ago. She did surf. She was so committed to producing high quality, high emotion images. I endeavor to live up to her standards, knowing I have a long way to go.

The last image is of my favorite surfer girl, Trish.

All original art works are protected by copyright, all rights reserved. Thanks for respecting that. AND… I have more to say about macho-ness and all that. Quick shout out to WARM CURRENTS. Check them out.

NEW Original Erwin T Shirts and… yeah… more

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, surf art, surf illustrations, surfing art

I haven’t done any t shirts in a while. There has been a lot of interest and I have done other drawings that are not included here because… I haven’t scanned them yet. I am trying to make my illustrations simpler, but, somewhere in the process, they all go a bit psychedelic.

All the shirts I’ve done and sold or given away (Trisha’s idea, to her friends, some to clients) are gone, and, as mine are, probably wearing out. If you have one, hold on to it. It’s not just my ego saying this. Okay, mostly that, but they are all truly limited editions.

Limited by my having to put out the money all at once, the return coming in… slower.

But, I do have some limited backing, have discussed some potential local outlets, and I am ready to go!

The three toward the bottom are designs I’ve done. I will probably not do the one immediately below, and, as far as color, it’s way more expensive unless I go with a sort of modern day version of iron on, and then… I’m obviously not someone who deals in percentages and wholesale/retail, nor do I really want to be. I just want to keep drawing simple little pen and ink illustrations and… I WILL HAVE a few more examples next time. WEDNESDAY.

OH, I am going to do the one below the “Locals” one first; white on black. It seems kind of, you know, graphic and only semi-psychedelic.

All images are copyright protected and are the sole property of Erwin A. Dence, Jr. All rights reserved.

MEANWHILE, I just (as in yesterday) had a bit of a fall; ladder slipped, I started falling, grabbed onto ladder with one hand, slowing my descent, hit metal railing with my back, landed on stairway and two open paint cans, totally destroying them and cutting and bruising the shit out of the back of both legs, and spilling the two colors I’m using on a Victorian I have the least of. SO, rather like any fall you see on any skateboarding video. I ALSO destroyed my work cellphone, its screen already cracked. SO, that’s not good. Trying to figure out what to do about that. SWAP sim card with new phone like they do in every spy movie? Meanwhile, the message says I’ll get back to you and… Yeah, Ibuprofen.

There are waves… somewhere. Hope you find some.

“Stagefright” and “Swamis”

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, surf art, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels

“And when he gets to the end, he wants to start all over again.” From “Stagefright,” lyrics by Robbie Robertson. Originally performed by The Band.

“I’d rather be clever than funny.” From “Swamis,” spoken by narrator, Joseph Atsushi DeFreines.

Throughout my third (or fourth) total rewrite of my novel I have been thinking that, when I get to THE END, an ending that was vague and unclear as I wrote; knowing that the denouement (I could just say finale) had to be unexpected, clever, AND another character had to die; I also believed that the changes I was making in an attempt to tighten the scope of the story, to focus on fewer characters in a shorter span; all this would tell me how to end “Swamis.”

And, last night, I got to THE END. Again.

EXCEPT, cleverness and conceit and the desire to produce a novel I can unreservedly be proud of continue to collide. IT’S FIXABLE. It just takes more work. Writing this piece this morning is my way of outlining where I have to go. ISSUES:

The events in CHAPTER ONE occur AFTER the timeline of the novel. Prologue that could be epilogue. Perhaps should be. EXPLANATION- I wanted the story to begin with surfing, with establishing JUMPER HAYES as a suspect in the murder of CHULO. I wanted to establish the narrator, JOEY/JODY/ATSUSHI as a non-local outsider longing to be in whatever culture there is in and around Swamis. I wanted to show that Joey had a romantic relationship with JULIA “Julie” COLE, and that the relationship was strained because of something Joey had done. BUT there was hope.

I have been rather insistent that the novel is told from Joey’s PERSPECTIVE, in his voice. It is not my voice. If “Swamis” is memoir, rather than being overly descriptive, Joey insists on clarity.

MY CONCEIT is that, because obsessive note taker Joey has chased down and documented leads, and has discovered who, from street level dealers to wholesalers to money launderers to detectives, was involved in the growth of marijuana as a cash crop in late 60s Southern California; and we, as readers, have the opportunity to be aware of the clues he has collected; when we get to the end, there is no need to further explain. DROP THE FILES and someone else works it out.

NOT THAT SIMPLE.

If I had intended the novel to be more surf/coming-of-age than mystery or ROMANCE, I have not, probably, succeeded. The love between Joey and Julie is the thread that goes outside the other boundaries of “Swamis.”

Speaking of BOUNDARIES; If 100,000 words is my projected boundary, and I kept track along the way, and I have already cut and moved a couple of novel’s worth of chapters and pages, most recently the PROLOGUE- good stuff; I am not ashamed of it, not sure where to put it.

It would definitely be easier to have thought of “Swamis” as two 65,000 word novels. While I am already considering a sequel, possible title, “BEACONS,” I must now see what must be done with CHAPTER ONE. So… Work.

THANKS FOR sticking with me, and… meanwhile, It may or may not be related to all the drawing I have been doing recently, my GORILLA HANDS clutching skinny ass pens and pencils, but I am dealing with this excruciating pain in my right hand that feels like, if I am clutching anything, all the blood in my body is focused on my thumb, and, if I poked, say, the end of it… Yeah; I can imagine how jokes could so easily be made of this. “Too bad it’s your thumb,” “Clutching, you say,” etc.

To provide more opportunity for humor, when I self-diagnosed with the help of the always-reliable internet, it seems the malady is nicknamed “Mommy thumb.” No, it’s because moms seem to suffer with similar symptoms from holding newborns. And no, I don’t see how that compares to my holding cell phones and writing implements. It is, essentially, tendonitis, and yes, when the swelling finally goes down… relief.

ANYway, since I have some actual painting projects coming up, with rest and Ibuprofen and a splint (which, happily, doesn’t seem necessary when typing), my hand’s condition will improve further by the time some actual waves find their way my way. I do hope you are getting the benefits of the atmospheric river.

Check on Wednesday; I may have “Swamis” dialed.



Art for Art’s Sake and Other Issues

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, real surfers coloring book, realsurfers illustrations, surf art, surfing art, surfing illustrations, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

These are some recent works I didn’t think I had scanned. OR I believed they were scanned as PDFs, something I couldn’t transfer. I SHOULD, perhaps keep the line drawings for some possible future edition of a realsurfers/original Erwin coloring book, particularly since I may tend to over-color drawings that were, possibly, overdrawn in the first place.

MEANWHILE, I got some bad news on an art project I have been working on; basically, that the process was not set up correctly, paperwork-wise, and when I sent a bill for services (and illustrations) rendered, there were issues.

ISSUES. I HATE ISSUES. If I say getting paid is the reward for my labors; contemplating, sketching, drawing, revising, redrawing; and is temporarily gratifying, the money just a part of a cache and mostly spoken-for dollars, having issues in collecting the reward substantially reduces the JOY.

NOT THAT I don’t enjoy the prospect and the actual work of doing an illustration for some amount of cash. I DO, even as I realize I can make substantially more money per hour scraping and priming and painting someone’s house. AND I do factor in that it is not painting season.  

THIS SETBACK has given me pause to consider (not for the first time) why the hell I insist on pursuing some life outside of the scraping and priming and painting.

SO, I DID what I do; I wrote about it. Not all vitriol and grievance; rather I wrote a piece on how most folks who attempt to be artists want to please an audience.

AS DO I. Though I do want to please myself, with varying degrees of success, AND I have, indeed, accused other writer’s works (well, one writer, I confess) as being masturbatory; everything I write or draw or paint (including houses) is meant to be seen by, and, bottom line, to please the client and potential clients. I must add to this that a job isn’t finished until it is. I throw away so many more drawings than I display, I edit the shit out of things I write, and I go around and around any painting project doing what I call the “Tighten up.”

I realize that sounds, even as I write it, kind of queazy-ness inducing if not outright creepy. This isn’t me VIRTUE-SIGNALLING. No, I would love to be anything close to successful at writing and/or drawing, two things that have been part of my life, on and off, mostly off, almost all my life.

SO, I wrote the not-quite screed, but deciding to listen to Trish, I will wait and see what happens with the project with the issues. Meanwhile, I have other exciting projects/prospects on the ‘possibly fantastic,’ probably not’ scale. I should mention that I am really bad at waiting. If you’ve seen me in the water, you might agree.

BUT NOW, since I’m all calm and resolved, I’ll hit “Save” for the whole thing, stash it away for future check out if not use. Then, I will highlight this part and put it on my (yeah I’m resigned to calling my ‘site’ this) blog.

As my projects get sorted out, I’ll, of course, write about it… here.

AS ALWAYS, thanks for checking this out, and for respecting the copyright ISSUES with any original stuff. Whether I make any money or not from my work, I do reserve all rights to it.

AS FAR AS WAVES on or around the Strait of Juan de Fuca, your guess is as good as mine.