Easter Updates: Old Dogs, Rippers, and…

Posted on April 20, 2025 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Uncategorized

A shot of the Big Island heavens from Florida-grown, intermittent Port Townsend resident Mikel ‘Squintz.’ I’m using the photo from mikelcumiskey.net as a bit of a shout out to Jesus, and, not to get into any religious or political commentary, not to be any more sacrilegious than those who claim to love Jesus, but… (no, not commenting), but I’m pretty sure the surfer in this photo is about to give Jesus his own shout out.

I didn’t want to steal/borrow all of Mike’s photos, but here’s a sort of mysterious selfie.

The Hama Hama Oyster Company is the must-stop location on the Hood Canal section of ‘the 101 Loop’ around the Olympics. In this case, Jeffry Vaughn, headed down and out to do some clam digging before cruising back to the Strait, happened to run into Stephen R. Davis, no doubt headed to some secret spot down south. the ever-gregarious Adam ‘Wipeout’ James happened to be on site. If you’re a surfer, Adam might just offer you a grilled cheese sandwich or some of surfer/restauranteur “Soupy” and/or “Yodeling” Dan’s soup and/or some chowder. In this case, Steve gave Adam an original painting and Adam gave him… oysters. “Wait, you didn’t give him a Hama Hama hoody (total status symbol, as is any post cards or other art from Mr. Davis)?” “Should have.” “Yeah.” “Next time.”

NAM UPDATE- Since this message from Nam Siu’s fiancee, Jenny Lee, he has shown signs of improvement in his kidney function and mental awareness. It’s still very serious, but, if hopes and prayers work… it seems like this confusing and tragic medical event might be a chapter in a much longer story.

NEW TRICKS AND OLD SURF DOGS

It may have been commentary on my very thrashed board, or just fun, but Jeffry Vaughn is riding a log on my Volvo (itself a rebirth story thanks to ‘blue devil’ and help from Adam Wipeout). I got out of the water, saw the log, and was a bit disappointed I didn’t get to keep it.

Tugboat Bill at some random beach break, coming in after riding some prime number number of waves. 11. 13. 17. “It gets tougher after 23,” he said, “gotta go to 31.” I may have some numbers wrong. I lose track after ten or so. Incidentally, because some whippersnapper, out in the water, asked, Bill is 72, so, like a year, give or take, younger than I am.

Tim Nolan, renowned boat designer/artist/writer, was once, like, four years older than I am. Somehow he’s narrowed the gap. We’re shown here, Tim, perhaps, trying to appear to be more of a curmudgeon than he is, me trying to appear friendlier than I am; both of us modeling our modesty/changing robes. Trish just got me one. It’s big enough. Yes. I’m still working out how to do the changing thing… discreetly.

YOUNG SURF DUDES

This is, left to right, Donovan, a total ripper from San Clemente, and two Not Donovans from LA. All three attend U dub. I saved this for last, figuring many of the tens of readers might give up before they get this far.

I saw Donovan getting in the water on my second attempt to keep both earplugs in my ears. “Hey, man, no booties,” I yelled at the young man with the almost-long board, black tape on the rails at the nose. I had gotten out because I lost one of the special, plastic, comfort ear plugs after a wipeout caused, at least partially, because some dude was right in my path. This was his second time being in the way. I will go back to the wax plugs. Not that fond of dragging my ass and my waterlogged Hobie up the beach. Less fond of a plugged up ear for three days, alcohol and antihistamine, and, “What? Sorry. What?”

I really can’t blame the guy for yelling, more like loud growling, at me; I had said, as I took off on the second wave he would block me on, “Hey, man; you’re not in the lineup, you’re in the way!”

So, I come up, almost caught the lost earplug inn the foam (almost), and the guy’s pointing and yelling. “Can’t hear you,” I try to explain, pointing to my ear. He repeats whatever he had previuously growled. “Still can’t hear you.” He shakes a fist (maybe, I might be adding this) and clearly says, “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

What I figured he thought was that he set the old guy straight sent him straight into the beach. While on the beach, I got a replacement ear plug, had a shot of coffee, and explained the story, in my outdoor voice, to several others on the beach; mostly to ‘IT’ Darren One of two women a few vehicles down, said, “You should have growled back at him.” “I think I did.” “I’ve seen you here before.” “Oh, yeah; that’s because… I’ve been here before.”

While hanging, I couldn’t help but notice that the kid without booties, and without a leash, was cranking deep bottom turns, nose riding, switching stance; generally killing it. I asked Jeff to “take a photo and find out where this guy comes from… if he ever gets out of the water.” Jeff agreed, and said, “He’s having a hell of a good time.”

I did not notice the growler in the lineup or the way when I got back in the water. I caught a few waves, dodged a few closeout roll throughs, and got caught inside a few more times than I would have liked. I also chatted with Donovan. “I’m from San Clemente,” he said. I quickly commented on the crowds, and e-bikes, and how I worked up the hill from Trestles for ten months in 1975, parked on the beach (this is in between waves). and how he shouldn’t tell any other California surfers about any, ANY waves around these parts, and how I was actually raised in Fallbrook, and…

“Fallbrook?” It turns out Donovan had relatives in Fallbrook, avocado orchard owning relatives. “Harris. Know any people named Harris?” “I left in 1971, moved to P.B., and… Oh; a set.”

My motto is, of course, “I’m here to surf,” I surfed. As much as I’ve always claimed to be a ‘soul’ surfer, content with an empty lineup, I’m so much much more competitive when others are in the water (or on the beach). So, I might have stalled a little longer on a wall, crannked it a bit harder on a turn; still, Donovan’s surfing was good enough to probably draw some attention at Trestles.

When I got out of the water after an unforced, unblocked wipeout, Donovan and two other men in their early twenties, if that old, were hanging out at a car on the far end of the lot from mine. We started chatting. “How long have you been surfing,” one of the non-Donovans, hanging over the roof, asked. “Board surfing? Since 1965. But…” The other non-Donovan, who I said could pass for a Colapinto if not a Gudauskas, asked, “Are you, like, an enforcer here?” “No. There’s no enforcer. I’m just here to… dominate.”

When I was in my teens, I paid little attention to surfers over, probably, thirty. When I was 27, part of what I told myself when I was ready to move from San Diego and, as far as I knew, give up surfing, was that it was a sport for younger people. What was interesting, and I have to say, gratifying, was that the group seemed to appreciate the place an old surf dog might have in… yeah, the lineup. Not just in the way.

NOTE- I do have some new drawings and some new poems/songs I was planning on posting. I’ll save them for next time. I do have a lot to say about the current threats to our democracy, to the rule of law, to the Constitution, and to basic human decency, and I feel a bit chickenshit for not speaking up more forcefully. I would like to confess to how saddened I am by supposed Christians hanging on so desperately and wrongly to some twisted and self-centered, hateful belief in a remodeled version of the compassionate redeemer prophesied in the Old Testament, and chronicled in the New Testament; someone else’s Jesus. There really can be nothing more self-serving than saving one’s soul. It seems hard to see how hating your neighbors, or worshipping money, or going against your own morality to follow vengeful, corrupt, morally bankrupt rulers gets one anywhere closer to that goal.

Someone else’s Jesus.

Super Busy Working on Being Forgotten

That may be a bit cynical. I have been surfing a bit (never enough) lately, trying my darndest to make up for a 2024’s bad session/wave count. I’m back to trusting my reborn VOLVO to make it up SURF ROUTE 101 far enough to find some rumored waves. MEANWHILE, rumor-wise, there have been times when surfers just had to check out the Strait. Whether or not it was working, surfers did show up and I did not. The sentiment among those lucky or stubbornly willful enough to live on the Olympic Peninsula is to try to avoid the forecasted days, particularly on the weekends (Friday through Monday, sometimes Thursday -Tuesday) to avoid any crowds.

CROWDS- Here is my wish/prayer list- 1. Waves. 2. Good tides. 3. Favorable winds. 4. Good parking spot. 5. Uncrowded lineup.

OBVIOUSLY there is a correlation between the parking and the number of surfers in the lineup. I have seen days where all semi-convenient parking spots were taken, some with occupants sleeping or making brunch, and the crowd is mostly surfers on the beach watching and waiting. And I have seen days with no crowds and rideable waves.

Here’s what happens: You surf. It’s, you know, decent. You tell one or two of your closest surf friends. They don’t believe you. That’s fair; you don’t believe them when they talk about barrel fests and such.

This lack of belief shouldn’t be a problem. REAL SURFERS do it for the soul enriching wonderfulness of the experience of climbing into a cold, damp wetsuit, booties and gloves and hood, and venturing into cold ass water to surf waves, their wonderfulness in the eye and mind of the venturer. BUT, NO, a little acknowledgement is, at the very least, appreciated. I’ve seen the most soulful of soul surfers surf just a bit better when someone else shows up. It’s the nature of the beasts we are.

BECAUSE I’M candid by nature as well as competitive, I admit, now, in writing, that I kind of enjoy having some sort of reputation for showing up when waves are rideable. I enjoy seeing surfers I know, or recognize; and I collect little stories from many of them. AND, since I’ve shown up less frequently, I… neurotically, self-centered-ly, worry, just a bit, or, more accurately, have considered that I am in the process of being forgotten.

It happens. Years ago, now, I read a piece on some older surfer who quit surfing urging other older practitioners of the sport/art/lifestyle to just fucking quit and become a legend. Sure, but legends only last as long as people remember. Do you remember ARCHIE or BIG DAVE or a growing number of surfers who made the same searches you are making, suffered the same skunkings, found the same rare gems, felt the same chill and the same magic?

MAYBE you do. Or you have your own list. This all leads me to surfing in crowded conditions. Is it worth it? I’ve seen so many times when people piled out of rigs and raced into the water without even checking the conditions, all based on ‘the rule of the parking lot;’ if surfers are out, it must be worth joining them.

AGAIN, crowds are number five on my list. I might just snag a few. As much as I appreciate the atmosphere of even, let’s say, the whole circus-like scene at Westport, my motto continues to be: I’m here to surf.

International Women SURFERS’ DAY- I do not have a problem with women surfers. At all. Some have had issues with me. Understandable. There were fewer, percentage-wise, girls and women surfing when I started. AND, I know I’ve said this before, but my sister Suellen got me into board surfing, our mother drove us and our siblings to the beach because she loved it, and went to better surfing beaches because we surfed.

It isn’t an accident that one of the two main characters in my novel, “SWAMIS,” Julia ‘Cold’ Cole, is a surfer AND a strong and intelligent woman. Persistence is absolutely required for anyone to attain any level above mere competence in surfing, the sport, and is also necessary to fit in as an equal in the art/lifestyle part of trying to ride waves, an objectively ridiculous and so-often frustrating activity/obsession/addiction.

I am pushing my daughter, DRU, to format and, maybe, do a little editing, if necessary, on my manuscript. MEANWHILE, though my painting life has suddenly gotten way busier, I am working on getting pieces together for my poetry/song (mostly song, some essays, some illustrations) book, “Love Songs for Cynics,” together.

Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net. Get some waves!

Groundhog Day Revisited Again and…

Posted on February 2, 2025 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, surf novels, surfing novels, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing stories, surfing Windansea in the 1970s, writings of Erwin Dence

…AGAIN. Yeah. I turned on the Seattle news station to see if there is a possibility of waves, where the snow is sticking, and while maintaining what has. become my new and elevated level of anxiety and concern over definitely destructive tariffs; over the imminent acceptance of more crazy and objectively and blatantly unqualified nominees, each ready to facilitate and complete the takeover of all branches and functions of government, and reek vengeance on lists of those not onboad; over the US Congress continuing its obviously suicidal mission to trade a legislative branch for executive whims and lightning round edicts; and, while wondering how the stock market will react tomorrow, I accidentally, almost, discovered Michael Hynson has died. WHAT?

This is a photo taken from a 2007 article written by Steve Barilotti, entitled “Rainbow’s End. It is also proof that a surf shop in La Jolla I visited once actually existed.

Famous, of course, for his role in “Endless Summer,” Mike Hynson was of the Miki Dora, Butch Van Artsdalen, Herbie Fletcher school of surfers with that ‘fuck you, I’m surfing’ attitude. He was about nine years older than me.

For surfers in the early to late sixties, the ability to surf way better than the post-Gidget, post-Endless Summer group (I’m from the group in between) made them stars. In my abbreviated catchup this morning, I read a piece in which Hynson claimed he and other “Red Fin” surfers (Barry Kanaiaupuni, Billy Hamilton, others) would go to WIndansea and, basically, dominate.

Surfing coverage in the sixties was limited to occasional surf movies at, in San Diego County, Hoover High, by word of mouth, and through every-other-month magazines. Surf heroes were the ones in the photos. Hynson was among the group.

When I moved to Pacific Beach in 1971, I was in Hynson territory. I knew he had a connection with Skip Frye, who I would see quite often, surfing his way from tourmaline to Crystal Pier, finding waves the hordes were missing. In building boards of my own, I would see Skip Frye at the Gordon and Smith factory. Skip had a completely different reputation than Mike’s, more cleancut, kind of religious. I always thought it a bit strange that they were friends.

Then again, there is reputation and there is reality. Surfing at crowded, late morning La Jolla Shores in, probably 1974, word spread in the lineup (such as there was) that Mike Hynson was coming out. “Doper,” “Asshole,” “Druggie.” Still, I watched him wail on a couple of walls.

The surfboard shaping world in the late 60s, early 70s period was, I believed, centered in San Diego; and the evolution of board design was the most important since balsa gave way to foam. Surfboards Hawaii in Encinitas and Gordon and Smith in San Diego were, I still believe, the leading innovators, with garage shapers and engineers (like Tom Morey) and ever-moving professionals (like Donald Takayama) melding radical contours into ever better wave riding vehicles. If others do not give Hynson at least partial credit for boards with down rails, nose to tail, I will. As does Gerry Lopez. RIP MR. HYNSON.

SURFERS OUT OF THE WIND

PHOTO voluntarily REMOVED.

Some fat guy in an ORIGINAL ERWIN hoodie, holding a ‘graveyard’ mixed soda and Jamie Fox standee at the Emerald Queen Casino. My daughter, Drucilla (Dru) had to have surgery last week in Tacoma. ADAM LARM, a friend of two of Trisha’s and my three children (Sean is less so because Adam and his brother James sort of, kind of, definitely tortured him a bit as a child- as friends of brothers do- still kind of friends), now a nurse (and a lover of casinos) decided to treat Dru to a night at the adjoining hotel prior to her 5am check in at St. Joseph’s Medical Center.

The surgery went well, Dru is recovering at her home, with help from Trish. There are a couple of worth-telling stories around the adventure. Another time. OH, and I did get a photo of my daughter in the recovery room, but she asked me not to post it. SO, you know, another time.

A SONG/POEM FOR TODAY- from “Love Songs for Cynics’ and upcoming collection:

IF IT’S OVER, then it’s over, guess we’re through; there’s no reason I should go on loving you; but you know that’s exactly what I’ll do; if it’s over, then it’s over, guess we’re through; but I JUST CAN’T SEEM TO LET GO OF THESE BLUES.

YES, I treated you unkindly, as you say, though I loved you, love you blindly, still today; it’s a love I’ll likely take right to my grave; If it’s over, then it’s over, guess we’re through; but I just can’t seem to let go of these blues.

Like the clouds the winds have scattered, my heart’s broken but not gone; like the coast have battered, I’ve no choice but to hold on; like a river at the ocean, I’ll give in eventually; but I’ll hold on, long as I can, to the memory.

I can find the bbroken pieces of my heart; I can build myself another from the parts; I need a new life, and it’s time for me to start; if it’s over, then it’s over, guess we’re through, but I just can’t seem to let go, gotta find a way to let go, I just can’t seem to let go OF THESE BLUES.

SURF REPORT- YES. Waves continue to break. Waves continue to break. Waves continue to break. Find some. Don’t be a wave hog if you can help it. Don’t be a wave hog if you can help it. Happy GROUNDHOG DAY!

Access DENIED! Surf Tresspassing Etiquette

Posted on January 29, 2025 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Uncategorized

If surfing is important to your life; if your self image is as a surfer, there are few things more upsetting, when there are waves, than the lack of ACCESS. In California and Hawaii (not sure about Oregon), the beaches are public and there are constant lawsuits against super rich (obviously) beachfront owners, many of whom promised to provide access and then decided rude, noisy beach goers could just, to coin a phrase, ‘Pound sand.” Like, somewhere else. If you have enough beachfront, say like “The Ranch,” it might not be that difficult to keep surfers in their place. Some other place.

In Washington State, with our thousands of miles of saltwater frontage, the beaches and the valuable tidelands belong to the landowners. It’s not all tideflats rich in oysters and geoducks and all that; some people just agree with the opinion that beachgoers and surfers somehow wreck the view.

It’s not just that the surf is fickle, or that most surf spots on the Olympic Peninsula can only be reached with driving and hiking, and possibly climbing down cliffs, add in that there are spots visiting surfers cannot access. I have checked one break three times. Cops were called twice. The woman patrolling the zone and very proud of her efforts, was unapologetic. The surfers with me (two different ones) and I were apologetic. “Yeah, we just went across someone’s lawn to check it out. And… what about those two guys who are out?” They probably paddled from way around the point or boated in, “Yeah, I’m going to deal with them, too.” “Have a good day, Ma’am.” And we were out. Elsewhere.

Another spot, with much easier access, is, and this should be noted, private. I have run into the owner several times. I was SO POLITE. It’s just counterintuitive to be otherwise. Back to my motto: “I’m here to surf.”

Another quickie: I know of another spot I’ve surfed a couple of times. I was invited to park out on the point and surf there, but it was years ago. Since then, with some, um, people, doing damage to the property, or misbehaving, or camping, or whatever, cameras were installed. Not to check out the surf but to check on assholes.

ASSHOLES. So, here’s a recent deal. Spot on the coast. Private Property. Gated. Homeowner shows up, identifies himself as such. Surfers curse at him. A dick image is traced on the seasonal dirt on his car. He sees some other surfers closer to the beach, tells them it is private property and their Hobuck or La Push pass doesn’t cover this place. More cursing. More disrespect. SOLUTION: Better gate. DENY ACCESS!

IN THE PAST, surfers made deals with farmers and foresters, people who owned waterfront. Access was on a personal basis. Then someone spotted surf rigs, spread the word, and the next time there was a possibility the spot was breaking, more cars. The farmer or the forester sells the spot, homeowners move in, fuck a bunch of surfers; ACCESS DENIED!

THERE was, of course, the UNCLE DOUG (I never called him that) access. As someone who never paid to park and surf, I had no problem sliding five bucks into the can. It isn’t just that the property was disrespected, but Doug died, the ACCESS WAS DENIED!

I DO FEEL AS IF I should defend myself against charges of blowing up spots. I consciously try not to mention even well-known spots, try to not be too specific as to even WHEN I surfed. I’ve spent years trying to increase my chances of finding waves. THIS IS totally self-serving. While I appreciate the characters I’ve met over the years, if they all showed up at one time at one spot, it would be… soooo crowded.

ANYWAY, it would be helpful if you, as a visitor on someone else’s beach, pick up your trash, maybe someone else’s, be respectful, and, you know, don’t be an ASSHOLE.

Uptown characters.

THIS GUY called me off a porch on a main street in Port Townsend, I was painting. He asked if I wanted to paint for his movie. WHAT? Yeah, I would be interested if it was a legitimate offer. After ranting about car crashes and how he was changing his name, and his upcoming tour to promote the movie, with hius co-star, 36 compared to his 75 and OH, BABY!… and, when asked, he said the folders at his side were part of his latest law suit, worth millions, and… and… and… “Hey, whatever you said your name is… um, I gotta go.”

I should post this under “CRAZY RECOGNIZES CRAZY.”

This was after, stepping out of my van after eating a sandwich, this really old woman comes cruising up to me. She is pushing a walker and I make the mistake of saying, “Hey, you’re getting along pretty well.” Without missing a beat, she asks if I can help her. “OH, no!” Yeah, she hit me up for money. I didn’t want to go into my own issues, but begrudgingly gave her four bucks. “JESUS LOVES YOU,” she said. “Yes, I know that, but…” So, then the crazy guy, then the woman comes back and to the other side of my van. “I’m up here,” I said. “Can you help me?” “Already did. And, hey, I have a few questions. No time. She was gone.

I texted a photo of the filmmaker to a friend who works in the Uptown area, someone who must deal with the occasional Port Townsend fun people. He wrote back, “Avoid that guy at all costs.” In later discussion, we decided the dude is kind of like me in that he will talk to strangers. He is, hopefully and maybe, a bit more crazy-ish than I am. Yet.

UPDATE- Still Wednesday- My new friend and possibly future employer showed up at Dru’s workplace, revealing her with pretty much the same spiel he gave me. Did I tell you the movie’s A musical? Well, he told my daughter. And he added he was leading a singalong on Thursday. When she said she’s having surgery, he invited her to “zoom in.”

“Maybe.”

After half an hour, Dru’s said, “I gotta go.”

I GOTTA GO. Trisha’s and my daughter, DRU, is having more cancer-related surgery tomorrow. Thank you for your wishes. We’ll see how it goes. MAYBE giving the woman four bucks and the love from Jesus might help. GO,JESUS! and, oh yeah, FUCK CANCER!

MORE songs and poems from my previous collection, “LOVE SONGS FOR CYNICS,” and some newer stuff, all under consideration for my upcoming (definitely) book on SUNDAY. As far as “SWAMIS,” I’m regrouping after not getting my first choice of agents, HILLARY JACOBSON, and almost considering doing an e-book. NOT YET.

Meanwhile, try not to do anything you should apologize for.l And find some waves.

Dogs and Blue Devils, and Another Poem

Posted on January 19, 2025 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, classic surfboards, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, writings of Erwin Dence

If I say I’m easily distracted, it would be… wait a minute… What? Oh. Yeah, so I was trying to get a painting job done in the few hours in which it is reasonable to do so, when this guy walks by, notices I’m wearing a HOBIE hoodie that I shouldn’t have been wearing, one that already had too much paint on it, and asks if it’s, like, old. “A couple of years. Why?” “Oh. I used to have a Hobie.” “Uh huh.” NOW, I am always ready to make connections between people I’m talking with and surfing, so I go into a spiel about how I currently ride a Hobie, and my first board, actually my sister, Suellen’s, board, was a Hobie. 9’4″ stock model, purchased in 1964 from John Amsterdam and… I could go on, though I really had to get bak to work.

It turns out the man is JOHN HOLM. He asked me if I went to the most recent SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT. *”Yeah. I was one of the organizers. I did the poster.” It turns out that John had artwork on display and may or may not have given a presentation that I must have missed. “Did you get a lanyard?” “I did.” “My daughter made those.” “Oh.” I asked him if he remembered another older surfer, TIM NOLAN. “Yeah, the guy in the movie.” “No, that was me.” “Oh. Okay. You’re Erwin.” “Yes.” “I bought one of your t shirts, an Original Erwin.” “Thank you, John.”

John Holm was in advertising in Los Angeles, and did have a humorous story of how he had an filmed commercial he wanted to sell to an ad agency. “It’s called a ‘reel.'” NOW, there was, about this time, a famous porn star named JOHNNY ‘THE WAD’ HOLMES, and when John Holmes went to the agency, he wondered what the response was when it was announced that he was there to show them his reel.

*The quotes are more like paraphrasing. Obviously it’s difficult for people in their seventies to remember things exactly. I did remember that I always forget to take photos.

THERE MAY exist, somewhere, a photo of the house I grew up in on DEBBY STREET in Fallbrook, California, 20 miles as the road bends, to the nearest surf. The photo has most if not all of the 13 surfboards I and my family owned at one time.

Because I was raised as a Seventh Day Adventist, surfing on the Sabbath was kind of a sin. Too much fun, perhaps. SO, ONE SATURDAY, my father and I had to go home to, I don’t remember, pick up a side dish for a potluck or something, and there were two JEHOVAH WITNESS dudes, young guys on their mission, dressed, oddly, similarly to my dad and I, white shirts, ties, no coats. “Not interested.” “Oh. Okay. You have a lot of boards.” “Want to buy one?”

Five minutes later they were tying a well-thrashed board to the top of their car. It would have been pretty hypocritical of us to criticize the missionaries when we were selling a board on the Sabbath. Then again, one person’t hypocrisy is another’s fifteen bucks. Maybe more. I don’t remember, AND I didn’t get the money.

f you don’t have space on your living room walls to hang some classic surfboards, decorating your compound seems like a reasonable alternative. This is a friend of mine’s gated, protected version. I can speak from experience, BEWARE OF THE DOGS!

THIS IS ADAM WIPEOUT JAMES and JEN (Adam didn’t want to use her last name without her permission) at a secret surf adjacent campground near Neah Bay. There was a WARM CURRENT retreat last weekend, and because Jen is a dog groomer, people call her with dogs ready to be rescued. She tries to find homes for the obviously delightful and loveable furballs.

ADAM WIPEOUT with his new adorable and loveable furball. The dog’s name, in the language of the MAKAH tribe, evidently means ‘cow.’ Not sure why, but the dog’s nicckname, one that will probably stick, is PEACHES.

Adam is shown in his normal position, on the phone. In this case, over at my house in an attempt to save my VOLVO after it overheated, Adam is wrapping up a convo (note the hip talk) on another Oyster farmer’s problems. This knowledge and willingness to share his expertise is, no doubt, a part of the reason for the success of my neighbors down the Hood Canal, the HAMA HAMA OYSTER COMPANY.

As far as whether going through the steps to use BLUE DEVIL have been successful… I’ll get back to you on that. The oil, which was the color of chocolate milk with a lot of milk, after the process of draining it, changing the filter, adding the Blue Devil, running the car for an hour, changing the oil again running it some more, changing it a third time, is the proper color. STILL, with the engine not overheating, not using water, the oil staying the proper color, but with some steam still happening, we might do another runthrough.

AGAIN, THANKS ADAM.

Next time you’re cruising SURF ROUTE 101, stop in at Hama Hama. Maybe you’ll get some fresh seafood or some delicious soup from another surfer, ‘SOUPY DAN.’

BECAUSE I’m pushing my song/poetry writing, here is another one; MAY AS WELL RAIN.

The winds that move the clouds just keep on blowing, and the temperature keeps falling by degrees, it takes everything I’ve got to keep on going, and I’s swaying like a poplar in the breeze, and the wind can chill the blood right in your veins; it may as well rain, it may as well rain, it may as well rain.

It’s been forty days and forty nights I’ve wandered, and I’ve gone from place to place and town to town, I keep thinking ’bout the love she and I squandered, as I pick my lead feet up and lay them down, and I feel like I’ve been circling the drain; it may as well rain, it may as well rain, it may as well rain.

Now the thunder claps and rolls it’s getting nearer, all the power lines are hanging by a thread, and I thought that in the distance I could hear her, no, it’s the echo of the last words that she said; lightning strikes a twisting, turning weathervane; it may as well rain, it may as well rain, it may as well rain.

Let the heavens rip wide open and the rain come pouring down, thunder fills the streets and alleys of this wicked little town, and I’m clinging to a lamppost that’s cememted in the ground; and if I stay here much longer I know I will surely drown.

If it rains it might blow over by the morning; there’ll be rainbows and the sun just peeking through; I let this whole storm kind of hit me without warning; it takes more than sun to cure these kind of blues; water’s not enough to wash away these blues; it may as well rain, it may as well rain, it may as well rain.

NOTE: I went to see “A COMPLETE UNKNOWN” with my daughter Dru the other day. SInce everyone else has reviewed the movie, some even more DYLAN fanatics/followers than I am, I’m going to voice my opinion on WEDNESDAY. Plus, hopefully, some good news on the VOLVO and on “SWAMIS.”

Dream Journal, Surfer’s Journal, “Is that Reggie?”

Posted on December 15, 2024 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, hipster surfers, mind surfing, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing, surfing art, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

CHRIS EARDLEY texted me this photo with the caption, “Is this Reggie on my bag of Inca Corn Snacks?” “Definitely Reggie, switch stance.” It does resemble REGGIE SMART on the bag of hipster-friendly chips (available on Amazon and I don’t know where else. Co-Op, maybe). Reggie, in addition to being a licensed painting contractor, has rented a space in Port Townsend and is available for your tattooing needs. I know he’s on social media.

CHRISTMAS is coming, and I did my yearly assist in decorating DRU’S house in Port Gamble. Because the town is so, let’s say, quaint, decorating for the various seasons and for whatever other reasons is sort of mandatory. Dru works part time at WISH, a wonderful card and gift shop over by the haunted house and the other vintage attractions. Check it out on your way to or from the Hood Canal Bridge or the Kingston Ferry.

It’s a joke between TRISH and Dru and I that, in movies, when there’s a moon, “It’s always a full moon.” I took this shot over my house last night. Trees could have been in the photo, but were not. In the ‘should have taken a photo’ category- After midnight, when the moon was scientifically at it’s fullest, I looked up in the living room skylight, and the moon was visible through the bare branches of a vine maple. I opened my wallet and did the pagan chant that, once I started doing it, has become as mandatory as any ritual, and as such, must be followed religiously. “Oh moon, beautiful moon; fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” MAYBE the ‘er part is some American-ish bastardization, but, hey, that’s how I leart it.

SWAMIS TO “SWAMIS”- While I am waiting for responses from literary agents, I have decided that I should submit something to “SURFER’S JOURNAL.” Before it all hits the big time, my favorite surviving surf-centric magazine could have something on my struggle to capture the magic of a particular time and place through fiction so cutting edge that… Yeah, and art-wise, my stuff, I can hopefully convince them, should grace the magazine’s slick pages.

To that end, I am super editing my submission; as in, I’ve already cut out more than I’m keeping in. OH AND I’m going through my final final version of the manuscript. One more time. A POLISH as they say in the biz. Shit, I want it ready to be glassed and polished.

MEANWHILE, because it’s off off season for painters and the darkest time of the year, I’ve been sleeping more, which mean dreaming more. Not all are worth keeping track of or even attempting to remember, even fewer worthy of trying to figure out some sort of meaning. SO, Here’s:

A Series of Dreams before Christmas

Second dream first- I was surfing, dropping into a left, turning hard off the bottom, going down the line. You know the angle; mine; close to the wall, the creases of the wave threatening, folding; and I’m climbing, too high, dropping, side-slipping, redirecting, racing into the glare.

Suddenly, dream time wise, I’m trying to get dressed, hurriedly, because I’m supposed to be somewhere, somewhere else. I pull on a t shirt with some sort of logo on it. I say, “I don’t work there.” I may add, “Anymore.” Dream talk. I put the shirt on anyway and look down several wide marble stairs. Almost landings. And, yes, marble, everything is marble, white with a very light green tinge. Or the greenness could be because there’s glass to the right, water behind it. An aquarium, perhaps, and possibly connected to a wave pool. Makes sense. Dream sense. Another view of surfers and waves. No, I didn’t see dolphins pressing close to the glass. I can imagine them, but I won’t add them as if they were there.

There is a woman sort of sprawled on the lowest stair, long black hair disappearing in all black clothing. All I can really see is her right hand and her face, in profile, very white, as I drop down and closer. Her reflection is on the glass and the walls between us. The walls, perhaps, are tiles, shiny, like the tile work in the Paris subways, but rectangular, horizontal.

“Did you see my ride?” Because the woman doesn’t answer I add, “I thought it was pretty good. My bottom turn was…” No answer. Her head turns a bit more toward me. “I figured, you probably don’t surf, so you might be…”

“Why do you think I don’t surf?”

“You’re very white.”

“Oh?”

“I mean, the sun isn’t… always…”

“Healthy? No. Not always.” The woman turns back toward the glass.

I notice there’s an above and a below the waterline. The last push of a wave hits the glass, pushing up above our ceiling. The woman seems to smile as she watches the bubbles rising and dissipating into an unseen sky, some of the greenness transferred to her face.

“I did see your ride. It was… from the perspective of a very white non-surfer, not as good as you probably thought, but… if you’re happy with it…” She turned toward me again. “Do you work there?”

I looked down at the shirt. “No.”

Different scene, same dream- It’s still very bright, but I’m driving in some flat, open country. Big windshield. Truck, I’m dream thinking. And I’m late. Probably the surfing. I hard turn into a driveway. No grass, no trees. A house. Covered porch all the way across the front. Imagine Australian Outback. Dust flies as I jump out of the vehicle. Trish appears at the front door, her hands on the opposite arms.

“I’m late,” I say, breathlessly.

“Oh?”

Oh? I feel in my back right pocket. I pull out a cell phone. “Oh.”

“If I were worried, I’d have called you. You know that, right?”

“Right.”

“Where’d you get that shirt?”

GOOD LUCK on finding and surfing some memorable waves. STAY WARM! Remember all original material in realsurfers.net is protected by copyright. All rights reserved by someone, my stuff by me, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

Three Degrees of Skunk

Posted on November 10, 2024 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under "Swamis" the novel, mind surfing, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf culture, surf novels, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing Swamis, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

There is the no waves skunk; the wait for hours for waves to show up and then go out in waves that are or become way worse than the waves you could have ridden; and the show up with good waves but suffer some breakdown (ie; broken and lost fin) or run out of time before you can get out because you have to, HAVE TO LEAVE. We could add the times you just know it’s going off and you just cannot, this or that obligation, go, BUT you will hear about how awesome it was. Somehow being there and not surfing is more painful; what could have been for you and was for… them. Yeah, that’s petty. We all should be accustomed to this and not harbor resentment. Should. Jimbo and Buster got waves, supposedly, allegedly ‘All time, Epic, etc.’ You were working on your resume, trying to make yourself seem a bit more regime-friendly. Worth it.

Right Decisions, Wrong Decisions, Indecision, and/or Three Degrees of Skunk

“Time and tide wait for no man.” I don’t know who to credit the quote to, and frankly, I’m not motivated enough to even try to look it up. Here’s another quote, from me, probably said earlier, possibly better, by someone else: “There are good and bad decisions; sometimes the worst decision is indecision.”

I have missed more waves through indecision than bad decisions. I could trade this possible aphorism, as it relates to my most recent attempt at finding and riding waves to, “Always listen to Trish,” and/or “Trish is almost always right.”

Yesterday was my wife’s birthday. Always a year and a bit behind me, age-wise, always ahead of me, decision-wise. YES, Trish knew the election was getting blown out while I still held on to some desperate belief that even people I am going to say are fooled rather than that they are fools might vote self-interest over grievance, YES, Trish said I shouldn’t agree to go with ADAM “WIPEOUT’ JAMES if he had to get back to HamaHama by 11 am. YES, Trish did say, when I got home at 10am, that I should just go back out. YES, Trish was right.

The, let me see, 1971… 2024… 53^rd wedding anniversary (I was 20, Trish was 19 years and eleven days old) is coming up; you’d think I’d believe her by now.

I am extremely bad at giving presents. To anyone. If giving a compliment on, say, a surfer’s, even a friend’s ride or style, is a sort of gift; I’m stingy enough to never give false praise. RUDE SARCASM, yes, though, since you should believe Trish, she says… well, a lot; all of it honest. “You always try to be cool. Give it up!” This was when we were first dating; still holds up. “You say you’re just joking. No, you almost always mean it.” Okay. “You never listen.” No. What? “You’re an asshole and you’re never sorry.” Okay, there Trish is wrong. I am sorry. Sometimes.

I’m sorry right now. Sorry for myself that I didn’t set up an alternate plan, ride back with someone else, sorry I actually (broke a rule here) got word that a spot that wasn’t working pre-dawn was working (hence regret for now heading back out), and I found out, way after the fact, that I could have abandoned Adam, surfed the spot that was working at dawn and beyond, and gotten a ride back. So, TRISH. Right.

Some SOLACE, me trying to lessen the pain of carting my gear all the way to the beach with a thirty-minute window to change, surf, change again, head for the car. Since donning a wetsuit is approximately a ten-minute process, getting out of it, another ten to twelve; there was, realistically, only time to watch surfers catch and not catch waves. OH, and a chance to look like the guy…

SO, there’s the paddle of shame; paddling rather than surfing in because the waves went away (frequent and forgivable on the fickle Strait) or because you are, perhaps daunted by the surf at hand (semi-forgivable if you’ve been surfing for three hours and there’s a seven-wave set approaching); and then there’s the greater shame of being all set to go and then not going out because the waves are not what you are prepared to ride.

This was not the case, and, no, I don’t want to be that guy, OR the old guy who dispenses ‘back in my day’ stories rather than subjecting himself to paddling out and providing proof that this is not his (apologies for using the masculine) day.

RIDING WITH ADAM, I have to say, is very enjoyable. He has great stories that go way beyond surfing, BUT, as I told Adam when we were hightailing it back to his car, me with my bag of dry wetsuit and supplies, Adam with a fresh ding in his latest favorite board of all time, if I had made a deal to get a ride back with KEITH and RICO, I’d have abandoned him in a fucking heartbeat and gone out. I WASN”T JOKING.

Wipout-wise, REGGIE SMART did suffer an injury recently; his board smacking him in the jaw, teeth going through his lip. He drove himself to the emergency room and, in true Reggie style, wouldn’t let the nurse touch him after she touched way too many things with her gloved hands, turned down a stitch from the doctor, saying he had ‘peroxided and denatured the shit’ out of the wound, and couldn’t he just shave off his soul patch and put, like, one of those butterfly things on it? Sure. Did he want vicadin? “No, I’m good.” I’m not all over instagram, but Reggie is. Check him out.

I WROTE a first verse of this poem and/or song (song) a while back. I have been working on a second verse. And a chorus. One I know but one that doesn’t actually fit is something that someone in my family of seven kids came up with. Not sure who should get credit.

Cookies and candy and ice cream and cake, donuts and brownies and pie, and for dessert, Jello.

Hold off on that sugar, Honey, I don’t want to die, I just need a taste of something sweet to get me by; Honey, you should know by now that I might never be, Someone who’s as good for you as you have been for me.

I still can’t believe it, Honey, you have been so sweet, Didn’t know I needed you to make my life complete; Honey, there are universes dancing in your eyes; It’s not just that, it’s so much more that’s kept me hypnotized.

The world of surf, what it is and what we believe it to be, and surfers, real and otherwise, keeps spinning. Some can articulate the range of emotions and sensations flowing through a surfer in the most magical, intimate moments. The addiction is the desire to feel that release again. And… again.

ANYWAY, more to come. I am almost done, like 15 pages from my latest edit of my novel, “SWAMIS,” and I did talk on the phone to the president/owner/whatever of a Seattle publisher. I’ll get to that on Wednesday. RIGHT NOW I am considering whether to take off and look for waves with a dropping swell or… I’ll check with Trish and get back to you.

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