Tag Archives: Melissa Lynch artwork

Whale Songs and Bargains Made

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Melissa Lynch illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf culture events, surf novels, writings of Erwin Dence

An illustration by my late sister, Melissa Jo Dence Lynch. Copyrighted. All rights reserved by her estate and Jerome Lynch. No, Melissa didn’t drown… unless cancer is a sort of drowning. Fuck Cancer!

I’ve gotten into a bit of a thing, lately, Selkies and dark mysteries. Drowning is a part of it. For a surfer, to not consider this is… to not be prepared. SO, I was supposed to use some available time to work on actually completing my novel, “Swamis,” BUT I’m also working on some songs for the still-in-the-planning stage next Surff Culture on the Strait of Juan de Fuca event, to be held in late January or early February of 2026. AND I am still working on collecting and editing material for a possible song/poetry/essay book.

YES, Trish is correct in saying that writing and drawing have affected my life. For years. I’ve given up opportunities to make actual money to pursue these passions, which are now, evidently, replacing surfing as the ‘other woman.’ STILL, Trish has some faith in my novel. “It’s a good story; can’t you concentrate on that?” Yes.

Having just spent some time thinking about and starting to write a post-“Swamis” story, I kind of committed myself to working on the novel last night. BUT THEN, after doing some real world computer work, and wanting to post something decent on a Sunday, I got caught up in the following piece. An essay, I guess, and I made some changes this morning, pasted it on the site, made more changes. OBSESSIVE? Yeah.

Breaching Whale by Stephen R. Davis. All rights reserved by the artist.

                                    DROWNED OUT

What the drowning person hears. Silence? No. The thrashing, if nothing else, creates a sound. Chaotic. Bubbles rising, air to air.

Perhaps the kelp or the sawgrass make a muffled rustling sound as they sway to the rhythm of the river or the tide. The air escaping the lungs whistles, holding back a scream.

There are voices beyond the panic; a song, a whale calling from some unknown distance, or music, crazed and discordant, from some unseen orchestra. The pounding heart sounds the beat. Desperate.

The symphony ends, or will end, in a soft surrender. Peaceful, we’re told.

We don’t believe this. Clawing, kicking, we breach as high into the air as we can; choking, gasping, grasping at the surface of the water as if it is safe. Solid.

We do not return the whale song. We are not whales. We do not understand their language. If a whale heard our scream, it is one among many, many among millions, with a constant war of machines whirring and growling and belching and breaking on the land and in the air. No rhythm, No melody. Chaos.

I don’t wish to drown. Yet, knowing something about drowning, I go into the sea.

Away from sea, I bargain, trade time for time, to get back into it.  

I’m reachable: erwin@realsurfers.net Thanks for checking out my humble site. “Drowned Out” is protected by copyright, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

WAVES? I’ve heard some stories, but, for skiers and surfers on the Olympic Peninsula, atmospheric rivers are not what we’re looking for. If you are looking, GOOD LUCK!

Downloads and Backwash

Posted on by under Uncategorized

My artistically talented sister, Melissa Lynch, has shifted her focus, somewhat, to doing some sculptures. Actually, she’s on a sculpture bender of sorts. And, off course, she excels. I’ve been bugging her to do another drawing (as many as she’s willing to do, really. Really) for realsurfers. What I’ve asked for is something to illustrate “The Other Other Woman,” wherein I can discuss (further) my belief that, for many of us, surfing and the love of surfing, is the competition for the affections of our real love.

I should add that both, and any love, come with struggles, and also with that feeling of… there are so many different exquisite feelings connected with love. Anyway, having had this threesome for so many years,I will, when I actually write this, stress that the real other woman is… well, wait for the real piece.

Illustration-wise, I asked Melissa to do a nude; tasteful of course; with the waves beyond fully rendered, and the woman in the foreground somewhat out of focus, but with enough detail to show the woman is  intentionally alluring.  Okay, mind blip while I consider the “You’re looking at the surf, aren’t you?” backstory. If I drew it, despite having once done a lot of nudes, I might be considered (or discovered), um, slightly more perverted, but if Melissa did it…

So, here’s a recent example of my sister’s work.  “Okay, now, Melissa; can you drive it to some water somewhere, and, then, what we want here is…”

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It came out a little smaller than I’d anticipated. Sorry, Melissa. Here’s another. “So, now, what’cha do is…”

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UPDATE: Archie Endo should be home from his extended business/some surfing trip to Asia, but, maybe because I have his recent mail (and three copies of “The Surfer’s Journal”, fully read) in a box at my house, and his electricity might be cut off and he never did establish a way to leave a voice message on his phone, I haven’t heard from him yet. He’s probably enroute to some rivermouth break right now.

MEANWHILE: Stephen Davis is supposed to be on a train right about now, somewhere between the Midwest and Seattle. There’s a forecast swell  that may (or may not) find its way into the Straits of Juan de Fuca in a few days, and I fully intend to hit it, and I’d love to hit it with two of my surfing friends. And, another meanwhile; I couldn’t wait to meet up with Keith Darrock, camping with his family this weekend, and went surfing on Wednesday; possibly the only surfer out on the Straits, SUP-ing some lined-up rock-skimmers. Though the surf dropped on Friday, it may be coming back up right… right now.

SO: Here’s a photo of Cosmo, landscaping engineer in Chicago (formerly of Port Townsend- check the outfit), and Stephen’s Psychic, whose name, sorry, I forgot. (I’m sure she can feel that I meant no offense in this).

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Oh, this one came out large.