Tag Archives: love

Buy “SWAMIS” NOW!

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing illustrations, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

I DO HAVE surfing related content to post, but I’ve other things going on that push this stuff back a ways. As do we all. Other stuff, like real life. Trish has had a terrible time recovering from chemo and radiation, and has been in the hospital for almost a week. Weight loss, low blood pressure, some sort of infection, it’s all been quite overwhelming.

THE THING ABOUT much of life is that there are, yes, those moments in which something happens suddenly; car accidents for example; but most things happen in much slower motion. Sometimes painfully slow motion. Hair loss is one example (not the best if you consider chemo), but all the indignities dealt us in the aging process. AND THERE are the many problems and issues we cannot fix. ourselves, even with YouTube video help: Car repair. Cancer. AND THERE is the (almost) guilt we feel when we can do so little to help others, this hopelessness (if I haven’t mentioned this emotion yet), the ‘almost’ hopelessness and guilt when we’re talking about people we don’t know, or don’t know well, the feelings multiplied when it’s someone we love.

I I’M COMPLAINING, and I am, I am also aware it’s not about me. It’s about TRISH, someone I’ve known and loved for almost 58 years; someone who doesn’t want me making a deal out of all this. Stubborn enough (and people do ask me… and Trish) to stick with me all this time. IF TRISH is stubborn, she is also strong.

THE ANNOYING reality is that life goes on around us. Bills come due, obds have to be completed, and there’s not much I can do hanging around in a hospital room. AND I AM SOO annoying. II do, however, have some abilities in raising Trisha’s blood pressure. I must shout out now, to our daughter, DRU. She was vital in persuading her mother, with a lot of push from ADAM LARM, childhood friend to two of our three children, and now a nurse (two side stories I’m not telling now) to get paramedics to check her out. No, of course she had to go. And. now…

NOW I’m home, Dru did. a second overnight (they kicked me out at 8:30), and I’m charging up the phone, hanging on, waiting to hear what the doctor (4th or 5th since the two in the emergency room) has to say.

I CAN go work, or I could go to SAINT MICHAEL, or I could work on this blog, or I could finish the ending for my novel. The last two pages have been ready for a while, waiting for my cluttered, disjointed mind to focus enough to come up with… something… perfect, something that ties up some of the storylines while hinting, not subtly, that the next book, “BEACONS” (like Swamies, a convenient surf spot name that reflects the characters) will continue the fictional story of love, marijuana, surf, and MAGIC in the real world, 1969, San Diego’s North County.

LIVE ACTION- It’s almost 11am on Saturday, and I got the latest. UPBEAT, waiting for this test result. Or that one. Antibiotics. Waiting. I need to make a decision. But first… finish this.

My plan was to write something on how. so many things in REAL LIFE take precedence over surfing: Family, work, emergencies of all kinds; bbut when I went to Microsoft Word and checked my file for my novel, it had the little arrow allowing me to. go to page 229 (of 229) rather than scrolling down (which I wouldn’t have done today), SOOOOO, here we are.

-HERE’S THE PITCH! “Swamis” is for sale. I NEED AN AGENT! I NEED A PUBLISHER! I DO NOT WANT an EDITOR-FOR-HIRE. If you are a LEGIT agent, or someone interested in publishing, or, perhaps, investing in some sort of self-publishing scheme, contact me, erwin@realsurfers.net

I SHOULD MENTION THAT “SWAMIS” is dialogue heavy and could be visually… compelling.

OR, I’VE long considered printing some very limited copies, offering the signed work (probably 8&1/2 by 11, with illustrations, signed, dated, numbered) for some decent price, to the most discerning investors and/or surf novel fans. I’m trying to ome up with a price. I will.

TRISHA, checking me out in 1969, with what might be perceived as an adoring look. More likely, it’s curiosity rather than amazement. I’ve been thinking about some sort of poem about what she means to me. Everything. She is my buoy and my anchor; keeps me afloat when I’m sinking, keeps me closer to reality when my imagination overrules my judgment. The anchor simile is tougher. I don’t always want a real life perspective. Nothing replaces honesty. It’s a key ingrediant in love.

Working. on it. Check out some other realsurfersnet pages when you get a chance. Oh, and I sometimes post on INSTAGRAM, realsurfersdotnet

I think Fast Eddie Rothman is saying, “FUCK CANCER!”

*One Thousandth Posting and Much More

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf contests, surf culture, surf fiction, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing in Washington State, surfing novels, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

*I’ve been doing this blog for almost thirteen years, and because I’ve been checking on my stats a lot lately, and have actually been in contact with the platform realsurfers shakily is built on, I discovered this would be post number 1,000. NOW, the explanation for this is that not-quite-perfectionist that I am (mediocratist, high end, is more like it), I typically edit each post, like, multiple times. NEVERTHELESS, it’s some sort of milestone. OR a testament to stubbornness.

This image, possibly taken by Peninsula ripper, Chris Eardley, has already appeared on instagram. NO, Mikel Squintz, it is not anywhere, secret or not, on the Strait. Some sort of Hurricane, so, different body of water. STILL, offshore winds and possibly makeable waves does make one less worried about the rocks as well as envious.

Reggie Smart’s dog, Django, looking, well… smart. “Who’s a Smart dog?” Photo by… you know, Django’s owner. Not totally unchained. But smart. Reggie is opening a new Tattoo shop in Port Townsend. Look him up on the social if you need a little body decorating.

JOHN PECK died this week. I get the word on surfer deaths, typically, via texts from my contemporary, TOM BURNS. My story on Mr. Peck is this: Back in the late 60s, when signature model surfboards became a thing, my Fallbrook surf friends (and some kook semi-surfers) and I would share the latest “Surfer” bi-monthly. PHILLIP HARPER may have had a subscription. So, Phil, RAY HICKS, and BILL BUEL (who I still consider more of a surf-adjacent dude- Sorry) were over at Phil’s house perving out on the mag. Not like all at once. There was an ad for the MOREY-POPE designed PENETRATOR; all well and good, and an ad for several other signature boards. When Phil’s mom came into the dining room, Buel said, “Look, Mrs. Harper, there’s a board called the RAPER.” Because I was, possibly, more pedantic than I am now, and to reassure Phillip’s mom, I corrected Bill, effecting a French-ish accent. “I believe it’s pronounced, ‘Ra-pe’-air,’ like, like a sword.” And yes, I definitely went into a swashbuckling stance, which, oddly enough, is goofy-foot.

John Peck, a legendary surfer, doing a bit of kneeboarding. Photo by Nathan Oldfields. Find it, if nowhere else, at mollusksurfshopscom

SONNY OWENS also died recently. Here’s a bit on Sonny from Tom Burns: “My friend and former surf judge passed on at his home in CANNON BEACH. He was an early HUNTINGTON PIER standout in the late 60s, early 70s and migrated up here to the PNW, We surfed and judged contests over the years. Truly a good friend and a gentle soul who will be missed.”

I did meet Sonny on the Strait a year or so before my ill-fated foray into surf contest judging. Sonny and a woman I assumed to be his wife were at a barely-breaking, almost flooded-out spot, and despite being somewhat crippled, he went out. When I was at the contest in Westport, trying to fit in, I mentioned the sighting to one of the real judges. “Oh yeah? Sonny, Erwin here says he saw you surfing at ______ _____.” “Yeah, I did. Once,” To paraphrase Tom Burns, “If you’re lucky enough to surf long enough, you’re going to end up kneeboarding.” Agreed.

Let’s just say I’m posting this sideways to be less… shocking. Not true. Maybe, when I edit…

Me at Trisha’s most recent Chemo session. Photo by Trish. I’m really not supposed to make a deal out of my wife of almost 54 years undergoing treatment for breast cancer. I was not allowed to take her photo, in the chair, or later, when she was checking out and selecting a wig. Usually our daughter, DRU, herself a two time cancer survivor, takes Trish over for this kind of thing, as Trish did for her. Dru was off at a conference for organizations such as the OLYMPIC MUSIC FESTIVAL, with EMELIE BAKER (not sure what her married name is or how, exactly, to spell Emelie). So, I got the opportunity to share in the ordeal.

I try not to get too gushy about these things, but I am amazed at how strong Trish AND Dru have been, how positive. I do realize, we all have our struggles, injuries, afflictions, physical, mental, spiritual; many of which are crippling. We always hear “Fight cancer.” Yes. Yes. Allow me to repeat, “Fuck Cancer!”

I AM WORKING ON “SWAMIS,” and I promise to back off on the neurotic/obsessive re-writing. AND I’m continuing to write new songs and poems while collecting some of the old ones. Here’s one of each:

                                    EMPTY

 Empty stairwell, empty halls, Empty paintings on empty walls, Desperate conversations on the telephone, You say my heart is empty, but it’s heavy as a stone.

You know I don’t believe it, You know it can’t be true, How can my heart be empty when it’s filled with love for you.

Empty blankets, empty sheets, Empty sidewalks and empty streets, Looking out the window, I see I’m still all alone, You say my heart is empty, but it’s heavy as a stone.

You know I don’t believe it, You know it can’t be true, How can my heart be empty when it’s filled with love for you.

Empty like those scattered wishes, Empty like those shattered dishes, Empty like my old broken cup, If I’m so empty, Fill me up.

Empty ocean, empty skies, Empty faces with empty eyes, Thinking ‘bout those sins for which I just can’t atone, You say my heart is empty, but it’s heavy as a stone.

You know I don’t believe it, You know it can’t be true, How can my heart be empty when it’s filled with love for you.

Empty me, empty me, I’m as empty as I can be, I’m empty like my old broken cup, If I’m so empty, If I’m so empty, If I’m so empty… fill… me… up.

                  The Psychic and his Sidekick

The psychic and his sidekick, Sedrick,

Shared an Uber home from the wedding of a mutual friend.

Cindy was the bride, Archie was the groom,

The psychic said he knew the marriage was, “Quite doomed,”

Sedrick thought so, also, but he was willing to pretend,

Mostly, he said, at the Psychic’s funeral, “Not to offend my friend.”

“Shocking,” Cindy said, placing flowers on the headstone,

“Indeed,” Sedrick said, adding, “Are you here alone?”

I DO TRY TO GIVE PROPER CREDIT for photos and such. Please respect my rights to my original, copyrighted work.

OH, AND NOTE you can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net. AND, HOWEVER YOU’RE RIDING WAVES, KEEP GOING!

“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.