Tag Archives: Erwin Dence poetry

Labor Day… Almost… Working on Stuff… And…

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, real surfers, surf adventures, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

ON THE FRIDAY before the big LABOR DAY weekend, this sailor decided to motor through the HOOD CANAL BRIDGE after, no doubt, enjoying the beauty and peaceful ambiance of the farther reaches of this tentacle of the greater Puget Sound. SOOOO, traffic, already snarled with the convergence of tourists ($$$) and working folks (hurrah! and hooray!) coming from the Kingston Ferry, the Bainbridge Ferry, and the folks who decided it was more efficient to drive around, ALL to get to the splendor and wonder of the OLYMPIC PENINSULA; all the RVs and Motorhomes and SUVs with bikes and kayaks and luggage (few surfboards as there is really really not much surf coming in) got the opportunity to wait and move and wait and move, all in the pursuit of just a little bit of ;uzocueaxx+$#@ relaxation.

Not me. I was going the other way, watching to see if the sails would be unfurled before the boat went out of sight and/or the bridge opened. No.

‘Erwin’ the five minute movie by ANNIE FERGERSON, will be shown, along with other, longer, short documentaries, at the 26TH ANNUAL PORT TOWNSEND FILM FESTIVAL, September 18-21. Actual screening times are: 9:30 pm, Friday, and 10:30 am Sunday at the American Legion Hall. The film, which, again, I was reluctant to participate in, though I did want to see a bit of footage of me (not uncommon among surfers), has been part of several other film festivals (Save the Waves, for one), so, like Australia… and, no, my head is already maxed-out, size wise.

Tickets for the PTFF go on sale on September 15. The film, and others, will be available for screening on September 22.

HERE’S HOW CHALLENGED I AM. I saw a photo of my old friend, STEPHEN R. DAVIS and me, and sometimes surfer, JASON QUEEN, shot on the day of the filming. Steve was aware of the shoot and was in the water with me. Initially it was crappy, the wind sideshore, with two other surfers out. It got better, somewhat. Then, with the camera set up on the reef, it rained. Then it cleared up. Then the rights started working. Then everything shut down. Then Jason showed up.

I tried to snag the photo for my site. Download didn’t work, print didn’t work. I went to Google search (or something) It wouldn’t give me the entire photo. It cut out part of Jason and all of Steve. NOW, Steve knows he was there. He needs to be included. Just to be honest, my ‘go to’ comment on Jason is that, if the surf is working for three days, he shows up on the fourth day; but hey, he’s in the movie. Final cut.

SO, all you have to do is put these three images together and you have… Yeah, it’s kind of like filmmaking. Editing and trickery.

Now, if Annie had only used the ‘skinny’ lens.

CONNECTING NON-SURFERS with real and otherwise surfers: MORT ROBINSON is a long time client of mine, painting-wise. Because I seem to update my life with anyone in any conversation, I told Mort about the film. I had a link that worked (until it didn’t). He checked it out. Here is his response:

Erwin, 

I enjoyed  the movie immensely. It Is so well done. I have difficulty putting my feelings into proper  words.  Perhaps I feel the same way about flying small airplanes and gliders as you do about surfing.   I am pushing 91 years of age, and  I’ve been flying since June 1952.  Every single day of my life, I think of going up in my airplane.  Indeed, it always puts a grin  on my face. I am master of my own fate/destiny.  For me, it’s unbelievable that I am able to sail along  as a free spirit in the 4 dimensions of space and time.  Hither t dither and yon.    I am actually able to do it at least two and sometimes three times a week. It always puts a smile on my face, not only do I feel I am a safer pilot now then when I was 40 or 50 years old, but,  because safety is correlates with proficiency,  I am indeed proficient.  I am very lucky to have an airplane within walking distance to my home, and I am happy and healthy enough To actually use it anytime I  desire. We may both be in the same boat, however, different strokes.

Take care, Mort

JEFFREY VAUGHN gave me a call last Sunday, which just happened to be my birthday, just to check up on me (and to get info from my last session- my guess). A LONGSHOREMAN by profession, Jeff has had three operations on his shoulder (occupational hazard). The first two were unsuccessful and led to a lot of time out of the water. Jeff is quite a bit younger than I am, grew up surfing in the South Bay area, and brought that South Bay longboarding style with him to the Northwest. He would show up when the waves were working, or might be working; something that, if I couldn’t get in the water, I would probably not do. I would undoubtedly, however, attempt to surf before my injuries were healed. I have a history of doing this: Ankle injuries, crushed ribs, detached retina, I’ve always thought I was ready before my body was in agreement.

When the subject of being objectively older surfers came up, Jeff said we are SO LUCKY to have memories of so many sessions in clean and uncrowded conditions, so many rides stored away; younger surfers are just building their mental libraries. Yeah, Jeff, lucky either way.

Jeffrey Vaughn riding a log on top of my car. NOT how he injured his shoulder.

WSL NEWS- I almost wish people wouldn’t start checking out realsurfers early on a Sunday. I’m trying to put this all together before the WSL FINALS get started. We know how THEY love to finish a contest on a holiday or a weekend. In, like, an hour… maybe. IF there’s no comp, I have to go work. If ITS ON, I’ll be watching, hoping I can get some stuff I promised done tomorrow. Labor Day; I work. I want the martyr points, even if I’m the only one counting them.

POETRY (subject to change)

This Chance to Meet

Around the corner, across the street, Under a leafless tree, under a cloudless sky, Two lovers took this chance to meet.

To meet As carpools and buses and delivery trucks and dog walkers paraded by, As children shrieked on the playground between us, Between you and me, Bundled against the bright, cold wind, My arm raised to block the worst of it from your face, And them, The lovers, somewhere in an early chapter of their story, He and she among us strangers, Bundled against each other, Reddened cheeks close, Their breaths visible, mingled into a single cloud.

“To love is… brave,” you said,“ Or foolish,” was my response.

You studied my eyes, a split second, You laughed and pulled the scarf from around your neck, Wrapped it around my neck and pulled me close, “Fools like us,” you said, your breath forming its own cloud.

Chill winds moved through the higher trees, The evergreens, their branches, in rhythm, Swaying to some ancient melody, A bicyclist, leaning too far over on the corner, Corrected, not gracefully, A tourist took photos, hurriedly, as if it was almost time to leave, Three teenage boys argued over who a special girl loved, Or loved more, And who they should believe, A box truck, making deliveries, stopped and started, Stopped in the middle of the street between us, Between them, the lovers, them, he and she, and us, you and me.

The truck started, pulled forward, They, the lovers, turned and looked at us, And we at them,

Your scarf still holding you and me together.

I threw my hands out in surrender, And they both did the same, The lovers, he and she.

NON THAT I’M POLITICAL STUFF-

MEANWHILE, thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers,net and remember, some of this stuff has rights reserved by me. HOPING SOME WAVES show up soon… see you out on Surf Route 101.

“Sarcasm Is Dead,” She Said. “As Well It Should Be,” I said, “In Response, Not Meaning It

Posted on by under northwest surfing blog,, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

WAIT! I am working on stuff. If you are reading this paragraph, check back later. I mean, if you would be so kind. Thanks. Working on it. EMERGENCY UPDATE (1 pm) It’s my birthday (13 plus sixty, if I base it on when I started board surfing), and I’m not going to have some of the new stuff I was planning on posting (surf, resistance stuff on Gaza, Epstein, Normalization of pedophilia and the discounting of damage to children, Hypocrisy in General, Selective Moral Blindness, Authoritarian/Fascist use of Gestapo/Mafia tactics, Fear, Fear Mongering, Hunger and Famine and Genocide and Ethnic/Religous Cleansing, and, oh yeah, Cowardice.

If I had a good reason to talk about surfing, present tense, I would. Past tense, I have been responding to some birthday texts that included questions about surf spots and such; future (hopefully) perfect tense, the WSL finals in Fiji are coming up and I’ve seen some videos. SO… hoping. No predictions, but some of the best tube riders are in the mix.

If you want to get a hold of me (other than by the neck), Please write me, erwin@realsurfers.net

“ERWIN” the film news: The short film by ANNIE FERGERSON has been making the rounds of art/surf film events, and will be shown twice at the upcoming PORT TOWNSEND FILM FESTIVAL (PTFF). If you can’t make it, I will post a link when I figure out how to do it. The VIMEO link I had no lonnger works. Sorry.

POETRY/SHORT STORY SECTION:In the course of a conversation with a woman I’ve worked for several times, me blathering on with stories, attempting to be clever if not amusing, my client, a few years younger than I am, said people younger than she and I do not understand sarcasm; that it’s dead.

“Replaced by what? Like, awkward situation humor?” “Maybe.”

“Well. Sarcasm is kind of, sometimes, mean spirited, BUT…”

Whoa! I thinkj I might need some therapy, or an intervention. I’ve pretty much been sarcastic as long as I remember, and, so far, no one has physically kicked my ass. Figuratively, yes; I have worked with masters of the craft of verbal repartee/battle; some of whom didn’t stop when the other participant surrendered.

That is, of course, wrong.

Now, I have said things like, “You win. I’m utterly destroyed by your superior putdowns.” It was a ploy. I didn’t mean it.

Occasionally I write something kind of snarky. Frequently I use sarcasm. Habit. If I say being passive aggressive is a defense strategy, I would be denying the times I’ve said mean things, said I was joking. Trisha’s response to this, on one occasion, was, “No, you always mean it; you’re an asshole, and you’re never sorry.” “Oh,” I said, “I am sorry; and anyway, if you say I’m passive aggressive, what about you? I mean…” “No. I’m not passive aggressive; I’m regular aggressive.” “You win,” I said. “I love you.” I mean both these things.

Here is a piece that may or may not contain sarcasm: Or, maybe I don’t really understand sarcasm.

Or the Midnight Amaretto

You dropped two dollars in the tip jar with an offhand, “I love you,” So casual, so smooth. The Barista smiled and said, “Oh, yeah?” Then, “Sure; okay… love you, too.” You winked. At me. I shrugged… at you. “Casual,” I said. “Smooth.”

You turned to the woman who’d given you her place in line, And asked, politely, if she had used the time to finally decide. The woman said, “I haven’t, so I guess the House Blend’s fine. Or, no, I’ll have half decaf, and half Valdez Valley’s Pride.” “Juan Valdez,” you said. “Classic allusion.”

The woman looked to me for reassurance, or, maybe, an explanation. She said, “I bought a house nearby, when I came here on vacation.” “I can’t help with your selection, Ma’am, I’m an artisanal ‘fail,’ I make my own, at home, most days, it’s ‘whatever is on Sale.’” “Like Maxwell House,” you said, nodding.

“I’ll take a half ‘Midnight Amaretto’, Love” you said, stepping in, “And half ‘Pirate Captain’s Blend.’ You well know I’d get a dipped biscotti if I had more cash to spend.” “Well know,” the Barista said. “Of course.”

The Barista, quite attractive, as Baristas tend to be, Looked around the crowded shop, tourists and regulars… a few dogs, She leaned in close to me. “You should ‘well’ know,” she said, “folks are serious here, you could just play the game. But…” and this she whispered, “To me, and please, keep my secret, All coffee’s pretty much the same. If I add whipped cream and chocolate, though it’d prefer whiskey or rum, I can put up with fake compliments and with those from whom they come.” “From whom they come,” I said. “Well said.”

She pulled back her hair, and I, undoubtedly blushing, Whispered, “I work for some of these same folks, I get it, the game and all, but I really must be rushing. So, I’ll have a dipped biscotti, please.” I leaned away and added, “And one for my old friend, And I’ll have whichever’s the larger size of the ‘Pirate Captain’s Blend.’”

The Barista said, “Then you’ll need whipped cream and chocolate, And may I recommend a double?” I said, “I’d prefer vodka, thank you, and I hope it’s not too much trouble.” “Not at all, Sir,” she said. “My pleasure.”

My friend and his new friend, Half Decaf, seemed curious or, maybe, jealous, I gave the new neighbor, Half Decaf, my biscotti when she said, “She whispered something… the Barista; don’t you think that you should tell us?” “Please don’t ask,” I said. “It’s… a secret.”

“Hey, man,” I said, “I’m heading out,” one foot pushing on the door, “I’m going to hang a while,” you said, “Have a good day,” And “Love you.” What I could have said was, “Sure, man… love you more.” Smiling appropriately, in keeping with the ambient ambiance, I said, instead, “Thanks for the invite, my… friend,” While stirring the double shot of chocolate, ethically sourced, The swirling foam, on the largest size, of my Pirate Captain’s Blend.

THE END

The original story and, I guess, all original (as in, by me) realsurfers.net content is copyrighted material, all rights reserved by the author/illustrator, Erwin A. Dence, Jr. If you want to use it, drop a line, erwin@realsurfers.net

Thanks to all who check out realsurfers. If you surf, good luck; if you don’t, today’s a perfect day to continue not surfing. It’s frustrating, crowded, and many surfers are, I must say, honestly, rather rude and possibly sarcastic individuals. DAMN, shouldn’t have said that; we all want to be individuals… together.

Tragic Lost at Sea Story, Photos from an Almost or Actually Epic Day, More in the Realsurfers Magazine, August 17, 2025

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, getting barrelled, northwest surfing, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf art, surf novels, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, Uncategorized, women surfers in the Northwest,, writings of Erwin Dence

JOEL KAWAHARA’S boat, the “Karolee,” being towed into Humboldt Bay on August 14. Mr. Kawahara set out from Neah Bay the week before. After there was no contact, a helicopter flew over the boat. All the rescue gear was on board. The boat was on auto pilot for some unknown period of time, heading south at four knots. Joel is missing and presumed drowned. Quoting the Coast Guard report, “…a search was started in the waters off the Pacific Northwest. Multiple U.S. Coast Guard crews, including fixed-wing, hjelicopter, cutters, and small boat, searched for the man over nearly 24 hours… scouring an area of 2,100 miles, including 430 miles of trackline.” The report stated how difficult it is to call off a search.

I mention this here because Mr. Kawahara lived in Quilcene. I ran into him several times. We have mutual friends including the people who live on Lindsey Beach. I initially found out about the incident when working for one of his neighbors. Mr. Kawahara had a connection with Fish and Wildlife. Chris Eardley is my connection there. “I know of him. He was very active on the fisheries management council. Very sad turn of events. He was well liked here in PT.”

Very tragic indeed.

A Day at the Beach

                                   

TOP TO BOTTOM: Scroll as necessary.

Three participants in a WARM CURRENTS event at La Push. Natalie, in the middle, is from Port Townsend, and may have been a bit miffed I didn’t recognize her. “You looked taller before,” I said, “You probably shouldn’t stand next to such a tall person.” I don’t know who he tall guy is, but the woman on the right, Majia, is from the surf destination of Minnesota. “Great.”

This rig hit a dear on the way out on 112. Yet another reason to never go on 112. For California surf hunters, never go on THE 112.

The last time I saw this older gentleman he was on a kayak. “Nice mustache,” I said. “Walrus,” he called me. “No, that’s a different guy.”

Bill Truckenmiller, a pathfinder of Olympic Peninsula surfing, deciding if this was the place to surf on this particular summer day. I had seen him fairly recently, different spot, didn’t get a photo.

Kim Hoppe, formerly of Port Townsend, just visiting from some town in California near Rincon. An interior designer, Kim said she’s making a living mostly doing art. “Art. Really?” I told her, when I arrived, that she was in my spot. Perhaps as payback for my not recognizing her, she told Tom Burns, who was supposed to be saving my preferred spot, that she once had to rescue me when some tourist thought I was drowning. “See,” I told Tom, “My stories are true. Cops showed up.” When I asked Kim if there were any of the PT crew she wanted me to pass on a ‘hello’ to she said Shortboard Aaron and Keith. In that order. And, no, she didn’t ‘save’ save me, she just carried my board to my van. Embarrassing enough. But… true. Making a living selling art. Whoa!

Somewhere during the day, Gianna Andrews was parked next to me. She had a painting on the inside of her van’s back door. “Oh, you do art?” I asked. She gave me this sticker. Gianna is a serious artist with a very professional website. Check it out. Again, making a living producing and selling art. Wow!

Tom Burns asked me to send this photo to him, then asked me not to post it. I assume he was kidding. I mean, Tom, it’s got that superhero kind of perspective. No one will notice the glare.

Me after all the SPF70 sunscreen went into my eyeballs. And, no, the color is not enhanced; my nose really is that purple.

Me and Nam Siu. If you’re wondering how he’s doing since nearly dying of this and that and sepsis and organ shutdown; he’s fine, working his way back up to being ready to continue our non-grudge match. I think we’re at one each, best two out of three. Or four out of seven. Depends.

Photos I wish I had gotten: Two dudes with big ass beards. “Amish surf bros” would have been the caption; Dude who thought it was cool to go out in trunks because, man, like it’s hot on the beach; old guy (not that I’m not) in really fancy surf fishing gear, lasted about ten minutes; large combined family also planning on fishing, kid with a toy pole, no line or hooks, asked me if I am a lifeguard (possibly because of the sunglasses, yellow shirt, purple nose). “Yes, yes kid I am. Just… stay out of the water.”

WSL CONTEST SCENE-

Of course I watched some heats; last contest before the big final final at Cloudbreak. Did I have favorites? Yes. Missed the women’s final live, but when I saw the score, I didn’t bother to watch the replay. I did see the men’s final. Robbo vs. Griff; not quite Kelly vs. John-John or Medina.

ESSAY/DIATRIBE gone soft

One Surfer’s ‘Epic’

Some surf lineups are objectively great enough to make my list of places I would love to surf. Dream scenarios. Epic: Lined up Jeffrey’s or Honolua Bay, or Rincon, or Malibu, or any number of “Surfer’s Journal” worthy, world class breaks.  I should add that the dream situation would not include crowds. Some dreams remain dreams.

The dream list endures.

I have been fortunate enough to have been present and in the water for some historically epic swells: December of 1969- Swamis, July of 1975- Upper Trestles. There were others, swells that didn’t make it into the “Encyclopedia of Surfing,” sessions I put on my most memorable/most epic ‘up until now’ list.

While I think about this, please feel free to work up your own favorite up-to-now list of most epic individual waves and/or sessions; this distinction necessary because your best ever ride might have come in sub-epic conditions.

One ride can make a session you’ll remember: A surprising, step-off-on-the-sand, longest beach break wave ever: An accidental and frightening barrel at Sunset Cliffs; a ride on which I got wiped out on the inside section at Windansea, someone putting my board up on one of the rocks; a hundred-yard, totally in position ride at a not-quite secret Northwest spot; enough other favorite rides or sessions or days that I can’t help but feel lucky. Or blessed. Grateful, for sure.  

Perhaps you have an actual list: Day, time, tide conditions, swell height, angle, and period; number of waves you caught, etc.

Cool.

I was ready to write something snarky about crowds at any spot deemed worthy, about quality waves being wasted on kooks, but… I guess, once into the subject, I changed my mind. It’s the ‘gratefulness’ thing, probably. Let’s say it is. Epic.  

ATTEMPTED POETIC-ISH PIECE

                                    “Dream,” You Said

If it was a dream, and it may have been… You were in it. But then, you were my dream, are my dream. Don’t laugh.

Your right arm was stretched toward me. Your hand was close, delicate fingers tightly squeezed together. My focus, even as you moved your hand away from your face, remained on your palm; life line and wish line and dream line and fate line.

You rotated your hand, slightly, at the wrist. Your little finger, closest to me, curled in. The others followed. One, two, three, four. The fingers came together, straightened together. One, two, three, four. And again. One, two, three.

A twist of the wrist ended the rhythm. You were pointing at me.

The last knuckle of your pointer finger moved, slightly, then re-straightened. Your thumb remained up, like a hammer on a pistol. You pulled it back with the thumb and first finger of your left hand. The word ‘yes’ was part of a laugh.

You moved your left hand away as the imaginary pistol recoiled. The fingers on both hands exploded out. You laughed. “Poof” was the word within this laugh.

Your right hand moved against your lips, fingers, wrapped over your nose and left eye, moved, slightly, to your rhythm: One, two, three, four.

Porcelain nails, jade green with ivory tips; ivory, ivory with a coral tinge; were almost tapping.

“Dream?”

“Dream,” you said, as you slid your hand down your face, the first two fingers following the ridge of your upper lip: Pulling, but only softly, on your bottom lip. Revlon red lips, since I’m naming colors. Your eyes, fully open, narrowed. Green. Of course, green; translucent, with electric lines of yellow and blue. More blue or more yellow, but always green.

Your right eye widened, a half-breath ahead of the left, to fully open.

“Dream, then,” I said.

Your right hand twisted and opened, almost like a wave. I’ll rephrase.  It was almost as if you were waving, but, as you pulled your fingers in, one, two, three, four, I heard, or imagined, a sound, a wave, breaking; up, over; the wave becoming a fist. Open, repeat; one, two, three.

“After the fourth wave,” I said, “You threw your fingers out; like… like a magician, or… or like a wave exploding against a cliff. Perhaps.”

“It could be, perhaps,” you said, something like a laugh, but softer, within the words, “That it’s you, that it’s you; that you’re in my dream.”    

“Then” I said, “Keep dreaming.”

“WHY DON’T YOU WRITE ME? I’m out in the jungle, “I’m hungry to hear you…” Paul Simon. You can’t get Paul, but, if you email erwin@realsurfers.net you’ll get… me. I’ll probably write back if you’re not trying to sell me improvements on my site.

AS ALWAYS, THANKS for checking out realsurfers. I checked on line and I’m not in the top fifty surf centric blogs. I’m going to add the tag, ‘Best surf blog from the northern reaches of Surf Route 101,” or something similar. Only the two essay/poem pieces are worth reserving the rights to. And I do. THANKS. Get some surf when you can. It’ll be EPIC!

Chimacum Timacum’s Sailboat Crashing Story, plus… Cats and Poetry and… Wait! UPDATE!!!!

Posted on by under northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf stories, surf trips, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing stories, writings of Erwin Dence

I have a self-imposed deadline for posting. It’s, like, noon on Sundays. I wrote about the big incident without the input from Tim Pauley. THEN, heading off somewhere, and because surf journalist emeritus (I hope he’s not offended) Drew Kampion commented on today’s posting with a bit of a cosmic message(as of there was a photo included, but there wasn’t). Thinking I couldn’t see it because IO was on the tablet, I checked the big computer. WHOA! message from Chimacum Tim. So, of course, after practically begging him to write up the incident, I have to post this. I;m not deleting what I wrote (yet). See if they, you know, match. SO…

A few days ago while surfing the 10th St. jetty in Avalon, New Jersey I saw the mast of a sailboat on the other side of the jetty, dangerously close to the rocks.  Thinking to myself there might be people in danger, I abandoned my surf session and ran to the jetty.  There was a group of us that witnessed eight kids and two instructors on the tiny 24 foot sailboat.  Having sailed across oceans and worked on tugboats offshore, this was the heaviest thing I’ve ever seen.  There was nothing we could do for the kids.  The boat swayed violently in the waves against the jetty, and jumping off the boat was putting your life in peril.  We yelled to the kids to stay on the boat and help was coming.  But all us responders were helpless to watch the carnage unfolding.  It wasn’t until the keel snapped off the boat and the jetty released the hull of the boat that the kids had a chance.  The boat started to drift away from the rocks, but was taking on water.  Once the boat was almost entirely underwater, the entire crew made a jump for it into the raging current.  Fortunately, they all had life preservers, and there were a couple other boats at the mouth of the inlet to scoop them up.

Everyone made it back to the Beach.  The kids were beyond brave, and a number of people in the community, on the boats, and on the beach were able to assist.  It was pretty cool to experience that in this day and age. There are still people willing to put their life on the line in order to help others.  

Tim

My take:

I’ve been checking out Chimacum Tim’s chickens while he was on the East Coast. Tim’s father has had some medical issues; Tim has been helping out. AND, of course, surfing. Tim’s dad lives in New Jersey, in or near Avalon, which is, evidently, an island, so… surf. I wasn’t sure when Tim was coming back, so, on Friday, I cruised by. Tim was there, and he looked like shit. I, of course, told him so. Not the first person to say so, so… confirmation.

Tim, rather politely, explained he had a hell of a flight getting home, AND… “Oh, did you hear about the sailboat crashing. Wednesday. It was the heaviest thing I’ve ever seen on the water.”

I asked Tim, politely, to write something about the incident and send it to erwin@realsurfers.net so I could post a first hand account. He didn’t. He’ll have to rely on my second hand narration. I will try to duplicate my friend’s voice, though without the Philly/Jersey accent or attitude. Paraphrasing:

“It was a pretty north swell. Waist to chest. Pretty good. Not too crowded. I see this sailboat. It’s headed toward the jetty. There were two instructors and eight kids… students.”

Okay, I’ll skip the fake quotes. Tim and some other surfers run over to the jetty. The boat’s engine had failed at the worst time, the boat was hitting the rocks, and it looked like the crew and the kids were ready to bail. This would have been a very bad choice. Tim and the others were frantically yelling. It was… heavy. AND THEN another boat pulled the sailboat off the rocks, but THEN the boat began to sink.

In the end, the ten sailors were saved. It made national news. When I told Trish about it, she, of course, already knew. “Yeah, but Chimacum Tim was there!” “Uh huh. How are his chickens?” “Fine. The one hen is still sitting on the eggs, the others are still being mean to her, and Tim says…” “Yeah; I have to go.”

RECAP- Tim surfed. One of the heroes on Wednesday, flew home on Thursday, looked like shit on Friday. I’m sure he’s recovered by now. He will have to go back to work on the Washington State Ferry system soon. “You must have had some heavy moments on the ferries.” “Sure.” “Maybe you could write something, send it to me at erwin@realsurfers.net and…” “Yeah. Hey; thanks for checking on my chickens. I gotta…” “Yeah; maybe a nap, huh?”

Surf adventurer Tim Polley explaining how waves are still necessary for real surfing

Dru’s new cat, Nicolas, checking out the Port Gamble traffic. Yeah, Nicky, they’re all heading for or coming back from the Olympic Peninsula by way of the Hood Canal Bridge. Some have boards.

UTTERLY PRETENTIOUS POETRY and/or poetry adjacent stuff:

                                    The Memory of the Magic

Somewhere else is where you wish you were,

There, not here,

Not caught among, behind, between,

Another link in a traffic chain,

Idling, sounds, not quite music, droning to match the stops and goes,

Heading somewhere you have to be

More than you want to be,

Somewhere where the redundancies cannot be denied.

You long to be somewhere, somewhere else.

There, not here.

Time and space and gravity,

All the rules and laws and circumstance,

Somewhere else is where your mind has gone,

Somewhere where you’re sliding,

Weightless,

Smooth across a tilting sea,

Tucking under showers,

Gliding in a perfect light,

Dancing to music you have heard before,

Smiling, sending laughter back into the thunder,

One hand touching magic.

Wake up! The light has changed

And you’re almost there.

No, I don’t call myself a poet. Yet I’m putting together (some of which is adding to) a book of songs and poetry and some pieces that might be called essays under the title, “Love songs for Cynics.” The problem is, more blues than love songs. So, I’m working on this. Here’s an attempt:

                                                      “Dream,” You Said

If it was a dream, and it may have been… You were in it. But then, you were my dream, are my dream. Don’t laugh.

Your right arm was stretched toward me. Your hand was close, delicate fingers tightly squeezed together. My focus, even as you moved your hand away from your face, remained on your palm; life line and wish line and dream line and fate line.

You rotated your hand, slightly, at the wrist. Your little finger, closest to me, curled in. The others followed. One, two, three, four. The fingers straightened together. One, two, three, four. And again. One, two, three.

A twist of the wrist ended the rhythm. You were pointing at me.

The last knuckle of your pointer finger moved, slightly, then re-straightened. Your thumb remained up, like a hammer on a pistol. You pulled it back with the thumb and first finger of your left hand. The word ‘yes’ was part of a laugh.

You moved your left hand away as the finger pistol recoiled. The fingers on both hands exploded out. You laughed. “Poof” was the word within this laugh.

Your right hand moved against your lips, fingers wrapped over your nose and left eye, moved, slightly, to your rhythm: One, two, three, four.

Porcelain nails, jade green with ivory tips; ivory, ivory with a slight coral tinge; were almost tapping.

“Dream?”

“Dream,” you said, as you slid your hand down your face, the first two fingers following the ridge of your upper lip: Pulling, but only softly, on your bottom lip. Revlon red lips, since I’m naming colors. Your eyes, fully open, narrowed. Green. Of course, green; translucent, with electric lines of yellow and blue. More blue or more yellow, but always green.

Your right eye widened, a half-breath ahead of the left, to fully open.

“Dream, then,” I said.

Your right hand twisted and opened, almost like a wave. I’ll rephrase.  It was almost as if you were waving, but, as you pulled your fingers in, one, two, three, four, I heard, or imagined, a sound, a wave, breaking; up, over, the wave becoming a fist. Open, repeat; one, two, three.

After the fourth wave, you threw your fingers out; that wave hitting a cliff. Perhaps.

“It could be, perhaps,” you said, something like a laugh, but softer, within the words, “That it’s you, that you’re in my dream.”    

I’m reserving copyights on the two poems. THANKS for checking out realsurfers.net I am available for complaints and compliments and stories. Write me at erwin@realsurfers.net

As always, when you find some waves, surf them.