SAN CLEMENTE, CALIFORNIA – SEPTEMBER 8: Seven-time WSL Champion Stephanie Gilmore of Australia after winning the World Title at the Rip Curl WSL Finals on September 8, 2022 at San Clemente, California. (Photo by Pat Nolan/World Surf League). I watched every heat.
9/11.2001 photo by Gulnara Samoilova originally published in the Guardian
Dan Nieman called me at an ungodly early hour to discuss a painting job in progress. “Hey, something’s happening in New York.” I watched the second plane hit, everything thereafter.
Photo of 9/11 Insurrection from Spectrum News
Trump and his cronies were still making speeches when I turned on the TV. Then, folks ambling toward the capital like tourists. Then… Undeniable, unpardonable, treasonous insurrection. Then… and since, denial, pardons, lies. And either those who propagate the lies don’t care if we know the truth or they believe enough Americans are like those citizens who, and I believe this, were innocent bystanders… unless they didn’t realize this was a criminal act and turned away. They share some guilt, not quite as much as those who realize the lie of the whitewash and fail to say it is that.
SHIMMER AND SHINE
It’s the shimmer, always was, the shimmer and the shine, Shimmer and shine, those were the goals, yours and mine, To be weightless, caught up in and part of the shimmer, Bathing in the shimmer and dancing in the shine.
We’ve seen the thinnest slice of light, The glimmer, faintest speck of hope, Pulsing on the horizon, Flashes between us and what’s beyond, Wind ripped sky reflecting, imperfectly, The chaos between us, pressed against each other As the layers of the firmament, clouds, sheets and blankets, Are unfurled toward us and past us.
The universe, the further beyond, Its twinkling starry map unreadable to us, Ancient braille. Marking the route, perhaps, to Heaven.
Messengers and seekers and those perilously balancing, Too close to drowning, Those downed by regret, broken by fear, scarred by sorrow, Exhausted byy repeated failures, Mourn for lives too long lost, Pray for rescue, Look for some distant beacon, Imagine the veil of darkness pierced, Imagine or remember Bathing in the shimmer and dancing in the shine.
There’s too much to consider, Holding you this close, Standing this close to a raging sea, This far from a twisted sky.
I’m certain you’ve seen it, I’ve seen, in your eyes, Flashes of light, Sparkling, Glistening, Hopeful, The shimmer and the shine,
And we are… still… dancing.
Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. Contact: erwin@realsurfers.net Shimmer and Shine, Copyright 2026, All rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
WORDPRESS KEEPS STATS on how many folks find my humble (not because I’m particularly humble- though often humbled) blog/site. Lately,affter twelve years of pushing and pumping out eclectic and not-always-surf-centric content, and for no reason I can discern, I’m getting more hits. Significantly more. From all over the world. I’m grateful, and, for no reason I can explain, kind of worried.
“So, Mr. Kotter; there was a locker check. Am I in trouble?” “Well, I don’t know, Epstein, maybe it was something you wrote in your notebook.” “Oh. No. Nothing to see there.” “Well, Juan, truth will out. Huh?” “Huh?”
ANYWAY; GRATEFUL. THANKS. And, I have finnally gone back to working on my novel, “SWAMIS.” I checked it out, and, surprise, it’s fucking good. Just a few… tweaks and… yeah. Swamis.
I’ve also been working on my competitive poetry. I do have an extensive portfolio, way more songs than upper crust, pretentincous (sp?) poems, Here’s one from way back:
REDEMPTION CENTER
Though Little Joanie’s pregnant, she still dressed all in white, The Bridegroom told me they’d already had their wedding night, Joanie’s Grandma clutched a bag of rice, then threw it, just or spite, And the veil was left out on the Elks Lodge floor, Pardon me, but haven’t we seen this before?
Two Coat Charlie’s asking me for an advance in pay, Charlie ran into Fast Betty, Betty took his stash away, He was naked when he ran out, he was begging her to stay, When he left he must have closed the motel door, Now Betty’s checking at the Family Grocery Store.
I called Ken the Banker sleazy when he disapproved my loan, Kenny sent his cousin Leonard out to disconnect my phone, But I saw Ken at the Tavern, and he was not there alone, He was hanging onto Betty for dear life, I don’t feel so bad now, having done Ken’s Wife.
Reverend Bob was crying for forgiveness at the wake, Bob told us all that it was such a terrible mistake, Still, Bob swears he’d seen the Devil wielding OId Joe Conner’s rake, Now a white cross marks where Debra Conner fell, And I, for one, believe Bob, what the hell.
Seems it’s either sex or money, that is, when the truth gets told, Sometimes drugs are mentioned, though not from whom they’re bought or sold, Me, I told tales in the city, and my business just went cold, Man, the gossip blows like dust right through this town, Hey, you must be new, I ain’t seen you around.
No, the freeway don’t go through here, and the locals congregate, Checking our post office boxes, though the mail is often late, It seems like everyone’s related to at least someone you hate, As it is, we know the players very well, These ain’t half of all the stories I could tell.
Redemption Center, there’s Saints and Sinners, You’ll see us all on Sunday, heads bowed down, Redemption Center, Losers and Winners, But you have to laugh, it’s just like your home town.
NOTES- It’s not, like, viral; just kind of a minor cold. Still, I appreciate it. Thanks, and to all the s, real or otherwise, surf on!
And, of course, I reserve all rights to my original content. Other people’s… thanks for letting me borrow.
On the computer, the clouds were swirling, down and around the Olympics, up the Hood Canal and Puget Sound. I’m pretty much at the left of the flash blowout, catching the curl of the my-golly-durn atmospheric river maelstrom. I’m fine. Not sure how this affects the surf at Westport.
NOT A POLITICAL THING, BUT I think it’s a bit ironic that this bad-ass lifted, four-wheel drive, manly to the Mad Max degree truck is parked in the handicapped spot. The messages reflect, perhaps, a sort of hard right mindset. So manly. One of the stickers says something about people who disrespect the flag. All fine, for sure; the flag is a symbol of our country. If this outsized, yelled-out ‘patriotism’ display is meant to elicit a response, mine might be, “Yeah, but those who disrespect the Constitution… huh?”
ALSO, and maybe it’s the camera angle, but “TACO” appears to be highlighted on the tailgate. Doesn’t that refer to some meme, like “Tump Always Chickens Out?” Maybe. I hope the owner can climb into the cab of the rig without too much discomfort.
MY DAUGHTER, DRU, and I met up at the Hama Hama Oyster Bar with my late sister, Melissa’s (hurts to say this) widow, Jerome Lynch, their son, Fergus, and his girlfriend, Kelsi. Jerome, who lives in his native Ireland, spends some time working in these here United States. Down south, mostly, where the name Lynch draws instant attention from the locals.
Adam “Wipeout” James was not there, off with his boys, and, I believe, Soupy Dan’s kids, getting skunked catfish hunting somewhere between eight and ten hours east, over by the Snake River.
The luncheon went pretty well. Three trays of oysters mostly went to Fergus and Jerome. Dru had clams. Kelsi and I had the grilled cheese sandwiches. She had one oyster, on a dare.
Not that I really should mention this, but the most awkward moment came when Jerome, talking about how he was doing the ‘cold plunge,’ followed, as is proper, by a sauna (not like most of the lunatics do this in Port Townsend), hinted he had a girlfriend. “You mad bastard,” I may have said. It was okay. Maybe I was joking. Jerome, who Trish and I (and Dru) adore, deserves to not be what he called “the lonely guy,” and he did wait six years. SO, okay; I take the ‘mad bastard’ back.
Our niece, Emma, who lives in Ireland, and was, for a time, Dru’s room mate in Chicago, is getting married next may. Her fiance, Barry, surfs. I met him. I like him. Dru is definitely going. Trish and I, I told Jerome, would love to go to Ireland. We’d love to move to Ireland. “How long is the shortest day over there?” “Gets light about eight, dark by half-four.” “Oh. Good to know.” “Farther north.”
I threw in a photo Jerome or Fergus took from Mount Walker, near Quilcene, and one of several photos Fergus took at a very localized spot a few years ago. He was told this was forbidden, asked if he got a decent shot of the local. He did.
RICO MOORE’S LATEST- Rico, local PT coffee shop critic and poet/surfer, just had an article published in the “MARGIN.” He contacted surfers via group text. I tried to look at the piece about allegations of abuse and contaminated water and, of course, corruption at an ICE facility in Tacoma. I say I tried to look at it. My phone froze up. Hard freeze; take the battery out freeze. Wow. Rico’s out there. I looked at it on my tablet, but got bogged down. There is a lot of research, obviously, that went into the reporting, and, having dabbled in the discipline of journalism, I have to ask where the poet fits into this.
I know the answer; it’s trying to fit the humanity, or lack thereof, into the narrative, trying to make the reader feel. Rico succeeded. Check it out. Be careful.
It’s happened before; my voice getting raspier, then croakier, then… worse. It’s some combination of postnasal drip and my body trying to maintain some temperature control as I’m alternating between sweating while working and chilling down when I stop. The result, the supposedly always-talking me not talking.
Swamis, 1967, the Sunday before what was then referred to as Easter Vacation. Phillip C. Harper may have had his driver’s license. I did not. We were riding with my sister, Suellen, and were surfing small (barely breaking) waves without a crowd. It was dark and dreary, and we’d surfed all day. My throat was getting noticeably sore. In my memory there may have been a fire on the beach. Probably not, just towels, maybe a coat. Phillip was going to Lake Tahoe with his family for the coming week. I was hoping to do some more suring. But…
Here’s the ‘but:’ Phillip, who started surfing pretty much the same time I did, had a new Surfboards Hawaii V bottom board, and when he went back out, he was surfing really well.
Well, I couldn’t have that. I had to go back out. Competitive and petty.
Two days later, Phil is at Lake Tahoe and I’m sick. I lost my voice; not partially, as I had a few times before, times I was not that unhappy that I had a sort of humorous froggy voice. No voice, and my throat hurt.
My mom took me to the doctor. “Worst case I’ve ever seen,” he said. I had open sores in my throat. I got some sort of prescription, told to gargle and not speak. I croaked out an, “How long?” “Until you can,” he may have said.
“He didn’t say what it’s the worst case of,” my mother said as we were leaving. I would have said, “Erwin Syndrome” if I had been able.
When Phillip got back, he asked what he had missed.
“I have no idea,” I probably answered in my regular, deep and resonant monotone.
A DRAWING by my late sister MELISSA JOANNA MARIA MARLENA DENCE LYNCH. Some of the names were added by our mother, the Lynch is from Jerome.
ORIGINAL POEM that would fit into my collection, “Mistaken for Angels.”
That Knowing Angel Smile
Angels, you tell me you’ve seen Angels, An Angel riding on the L train, one hand on the pole, An Angel, backseat in a car, idling, one lane over, outside the Dollar Store, Turning, just for a moment, and smiling, An Angel squeezing random avocados at the Uptown Street Fair, Handing one to you, An Angel, down in Nogales, Sweeping the gravel with a wide, rough broom, Leaning into the strokes, Dust, like smoke, twirling in the wind, And the Angel looked through the whirlwind, at you, With that knowing, Angel smile.
You know that Angel smile, you tell me, It’s a smile of recognition, and you can’t just look away.
No one should.
But I do, I look away, coughing into my hand, Hiding my smile until the elevator doors close.
THANKS FOR checking out my site. Remember you can email me at erwin@realsurfers.net AND don’t let anything keep you out of the water for longer than prescribed and/or necessary.
All original artwork and writings are protected by copyright. All rights reserved.
UPDATE/EDIT/CORRECTIONS- There was a it of discussion among surfers willing to include me in their group text chatter about how blurry my photos are. Okay, so I thought I was cleaning the lens on my phone; evidently it was the window thingie over the battery. SO, JOEL sent me this photo of Rico and Keith and some fat, Hobbit-like dude. Way too realistic. SO he sent this modified version. “burred,’ he wrote. Not sure if he meant blurred or burned. Not enough o either. Still… better. thanks.
ALSO, CHRIS EARDLEY, who seemed to know almost everyone in attendance on Friday night, says. the guy I identy as Matt is actually named Gus. Keith filled me in on the names of other important folks who were at the event. This was over the phone, so, naturally, I’ve forgotten the names. No disrespect intended.
OKAY, SO… SAVE THE WAVES
So many events in life are the result of circumstance. Timing and opportunity. We know there are no waves in Port Townsend, but, because the beautiful Northwest Maritime Center at the end of Water Street was available, and because LUKE (apologies for not having his last name- can’t we just go by first names or nicknames?), who MC’ed the event, is a member of the Save the Waves group, the Surfrider Foundation, AND, evidently has a connection to the Maritime Center (YEA!) a part of the worldwide festival was held in a surf town with a notoriously rabid and frequently frustrated group of surfers, and, again, no surf.
The short documentary, “Erwin,” is part of the worldwide festival, and, as my daughter, Dru, informed me, later, it was the only one filmed in the US. More on this coming. I had to be there. I wanted the event to be a success, and it was. Without a lot of publicity, enough people showed up that more chairs had to be brought out. It proved to be an opportunity for surfers to chat somewhere other than the lineup or the beach. And everyone was well behaved.
LUKE and another important guy (more apologies) announcing ahead of the short documentaries.
Legendary Olympic Peninsula path(wave)finder Darryl Wood (please forgive me if his name is misspelled), chatting with the important guy from the first photo. Darryl was the first surfer I met when I moved to the northwest in late 1978. The Hood Canal Bridge sank on Tuesday, February 13th. The state set up a passenger only ferry service, and Darryl and I were part of the first day’s riders on Monday, February 19. He was working for a contractor at Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, I was a painter. He did mention something about Jesus to someone, not me, and must have said something about surfing, because, the next Saturday, February 24, decked out in a diver’s suit, crotch strap and all, with no hood, no booties, my sister’s surfboard (I’d sold all of mine), California wax, I was in the lineup at a spot you can no longer (legally) access directly. It was 38 degrees on the beach and my board kept flying out from between my legs. I caught a couple of waves, but he drop was so quick, I ended up kneeboarding. Yeah, sign of things to come.
At some point Trisha’s supposed-to-be family station wagon became our Kitsap County side car pool vehicle (nicknamed the scum car pool by Darryl, no reference to the riders). Darryl and I, and the other 6 or 7 riders all have stories from the commute. Enough so that, having been on the receiving end (“Thank you, Officer.”) of three speeding tickets in one year on the Clear Creek Road (this was before the freeway sections), trying to make the five-something ferry, I was deemed ineligible to drive when Jefferson County set up a van pool. Relief for everyone.
“Pass ’em, Erwin!” Both stories hinge on this. FIRST- At my co-pilot’s urging, I passed a slowpoke on the onramp on his right. The next day (I was off), the scumcar pool was pulled over. “Mr. Dence?” “Not here, Officer; but he’s a very careful driver.” SECOND- A woman was pouring her heart out about life and problems, and Jesus; and Darryl was, of course, listening intently. I was listening accidentally. She was at the point where she said something like, “All I could think of to do was sing, ‘Jesus loves you, yes he does…'” Yes, the distraught woman was singing. We were close to the ferry turnoff on a shortcut, time was short, and there was someone unconcerned about getting home in front of us. I passed them, dropped off my passengers so they could make the boat, and missed it because I had to park the car. “Yes, he does,” I may or may not have sung.
I only see Darryl occasionally, but, I consider him a friend. I asked him fairly recently why he never tried to talk about Jesus with me. “I didn’t think I had to.”
ARNOLD, Darryl’s longtime surf partner, explaining that no one has ever seen a wave this high in the Strait of Juan de Fuca. OR, because these photos are not in sequence, he may have said, “Yes, my wife did win the LIB-TECH surfboard. If you really need one…” I reminded Arnold of the time, not all that long ago, when he was out and I was the third-oldest surfer in the water. He said something like, “Wow.”
Someone I don’t know, RICO (looking surprised I was taking his picture), and the back of CHRIS EARDLEY. The guy in the background in the black hat came up to me later. “Remember me?” “No. Sorry.” “It’s Tim… you called me ‘Tim from Sequim.'” “Oh. well. Look over there, it’s Chimacum Timacum.” The woman with him introduced herself. Forgot her name. Sorry. If she had a nickname…
My daughter, Dru, someone poking himself in the eye, some out of focus guy looking a bit ominous.
The moon over Admiralty Inlet as the short documentaries were playing.
CHIMACUM TIM not looking at all like a guy with a Philadelphia/Jersey Shore confrontation-ready attitude, and ANDREA. I did send Tim the photo and did ask if it was okay to post it. I am so non-confrontational. He said it was kind of out of focus. Yeah, well, most times part of my finger would be over your face, Tim.
Rico, KEITH, and JOEL on the backwall discussing, obviously, how flat is flat, while, in the chairs, Jasmine, a. guy (just to seem cynical, may have once seen. Pete Seeger live- okay, I take it back), two people who seem, possibly, hypnotized, and KATE, not hypnotized. Kate, her husband, SEAN, and their son, sorry on the name, all surf. Family dynamic. I once witnessed them switching boards because Sean had left her with one with a broken fin. On several occasions Kate, paddling out, asked how much longer I was going to be out. Oh. “Not much longer.”
Chris and MATT at the tabe with the raffle prizes. Matt was a judge at the old Cleanwater Classic contest in Westport the year I talked TOM BURNS (not at this event) into allowing me to judge. I may be wrong about that. I helped out three times. Once I helped out with the Surfrider Foundation, selling copies of my REALSURFERS COLORING BOOK (outt of print- sorry), once I was supposed to help out with the flags on the beach (but I decided to be a spotter for the judges, denying others their turns), and, the time I did judge, everyone, evidently, had too much fun for the. head judge’s taste, I refused to call what I thought was a four point ride a six.five- whatever. I did try harder on Sunday. Too late. Sorry, Tom, didn’t mean to get you fired… also). Matt said he had a great time. As did I. WESTPORT. Everyone should go there. Oh, they do.
In the background, over Chris’s shoulder, there’s a woman talking to the guy in the yellow beanie (I had no interaction with him), and over Matt’s shoulder is her husband/lover… man. The came up to me later. He mostly lives in Costa Rica or somewhere with warm water, but he reads my blog. “Oh, so you’re the one,” I said. Not clever. So… like, send me a note, erwin@realsurfers.net and I’ll edit you in.
Newlyweds MEGAN and Chris eyeing the TODD FISCHER prints on offer at the prize table.
Winner! Yeah, I know; why do I have so many photos of Chris? His house needs painting might be one reason. Damn; should have taken a shot of Dru winning possibly the best prize of the evening, a bunch of stuff from Yeti. In the WSL, you have to get a ten point ride to score that. Good work, Dru!
POETRY STUFF-
BECAUSE I have been working toward, maybe, hopefully, selling some of the songs and poems I’ve collected over the years, AND because I’v been concentrating (using all my angst) on writing serious, pretentious, condescending poems of late, I felt compelled to attend a lecture at the Jefferson County Library featuring the Washington State Poet Laureate, Derek Sheffield, and a former wooden boat builder, now poet/mental health counselor, Matthew Nienow.
So, there’s hope. I mean, don’t ask me for mental health advice, but… I will throw down… poetry-wise.
What got me was how willing poets are to quote other poets. Quote Whitman and several audience members almost get giddy. To use a surf simile, it was kind of like when I saw MIKE DOYLE surfing at Stone Steps, 1970 or so, tucking his big frame into tiny barrels. It wasn’t Sunset, but all I could think was, “He’s not all that good.” Again, not Sunset. This was Hadlock/Irondale and I was, as I always am, amazed at how people can be in front of an audience and be… smooth.
To his credit, in my estimation, Laureate Derek seemed to be trying to bring a bit of lightness into the presentation. When no one clapped at his guest’s rendition of someone else’s poem, he did the beatnik thing of snapping the fingers of both raised hands. I so wanted, longed to join in. Maynard G. Crebs.
What I did do is wrote down a question, the dignified way to do a question-and-answer, required in this instance. I was a bit stoked when my question was chosen. Edited a bit, it was: “Are poets preachers, or reporters, or… (last second addition) cheerleaders.” I wasn’t giddy, but I did want to snap my fingers, at least once.
To quote my song, “Don’t Tell Me You’re a Poet,” … I’m a casual observer, looking over someone’s shoulder at last Sunday’s ‘New York Times…”
REGGIE SMART AND ‘ERWIN’- Reggie and I have worked together quite a bit over the past seven or eight years. At some point, Reggie started secretly filming me, then editing the phone videos down to some brief moments where I did or said something ridiculous. he then posted the clips on social media. SKIP AHEAD. He was helping me on a project on a watefront home on Dabob Bay that belongs to Annie Fergerson. NOW, I had been working on the project before Reggie came on scene, so she was sort of aware that I surf, and that I’m (often described as) a ‘character.’ All this was reinforced by Reggie’s ‘Erwhistle’ clips.
I would love to, but cannot discount Reggie’s role in my being in the documentary. I did resist it for a couple of years. Annie, a videographer for the Bill and Melinda Gates (now just Melinda, I guess) Foundation, was busy, I didn’t want to blow up any not-reallyy-secret spots, but, again, being honest, I did want to see some slow motion videos of me ripping across a long wall.
“Erwin” turned out to be a bit too true. And now it’s reaching a relatively small but worldwide audience, and it evidently ‘resonates’ (poet-ish word) with people; a ridiculous old fat guy insisting on pursuing his dreams.
So, thanks, Reggie, thanks, Annie, and thank you to the tens of folks who check out realsurfers.net on occasion.
I might edit in a reasonable poem by me if I find one decent enough. See you! get waves!
REGGIE SMART doing a side of the road deal with my. new(er) board.
Chris Eardley and Keith Darrock (and Rico and Cougar Keith) hit the Westend, searching for new waves to conquer. If they didn’t find gold. Not that I was seriously invited, but I was told the wooden path does not go all the way to the beach PLUS four days food and a big ass board. Plus… a few more minuses. What they caught and where? Stories vary.
To complete the story of the church steeple painting, I convinced Reggie Smart to finish the middle of the side of the church I couldn’t reach with the 65 foot boom. This required putting a ladder on the roof, attaching a ledger partway up to secure another ladder. You can see the setup in the lower photo. This little peak would have required some psycho setting up from the roof. It took fifteen minutes of positioning of the manlift and most of the boom to get to the spot, fifteen minutes to put a coat on the surfaces.
It was not required that we paint the cross on the top of the steeple, though the congregation clearly wanted it to happen. The difference between going above the steeple’s roof and painting below it is about twelve feet up into the wild blue yonder. I thought having Reggie with me in the basket might boost my confidence. It did not. “I’m going to throw up,” I said. “Yeah, well,” Reggie said, suggesting he might just soil himself (note my resistance at using the actual quote). Still; I do feel some shame around ‘hairing-out.’ Almost a week out, less shame. I did get the window on the fun car, damaged when I backed into the manlift turret, replaced, and I did repair the damage caused when I hit a spot on the steeple… twice. If I had the feeling, in the lift, that I’d used up my chances on this project; well, I will have to live with that.
This is a display, evidently, at the Jefferson County Fair, taken by Librarian Keith (a proposed nickname, “STACKS,” as in library shelving, has never caught on). MEANWHILE, Adam Wipeout, prominently featured, was doing double duty; attending a wedding of one or two co-workers, somewhere, and participating in the WARM CURRENTS activities at La Push. Here’s the story:
The takeway, first: Most often we listen to our own advice. SO, Adam called me this morning at 7:06. He was on his way BACK to LaPush and wondered if I wanted to catch a ride. He was probably ten minutes down Surf Route 101 and I had just gotten up. “What? No.” I asked him what he had done with his scheduling conflict from Saturday. “Dude, I did both. Didn’t you see the photo from La Push?” “The one with a one foot wave ten feet off the beach?” “No, no; it was crazy. La Push has this sandbar, and on a rising tide…” “Yeah, yeah; I’m working today so, maybe, if a swell shows up…” NOTE: the …s probably mean info I shouldn’t put out.
Two drawings I started while waiting for the Volvo’s back window to be replaced.
WSL STUFF- I did, of course, watch a lot of the surfing contest from Tahiti. More like the morning stuff, with scary scary waves the first day. I watched most of the heats on Friday, and, bucking a popular trend, didn’t really have issues with the judging. It does become obvious that the difference between winning and not is often whether a competitor’s drive overcomes his or her fear. Though there are a lot of heats to get through on the men’s side, the finalists on the women’s side, Caitlin Simmers and Molly Picklum fit that description. One thing that might improve (might) is having a non-final final with two or four of the non-finalists. I would choose Erin Brooks and Vahine Fierro. Your choice? Up to you. We’ll see.
NOT that I’m in any way political:
COMPLICITOUS
We lack empathy because we’ve never experienced real horror, We lack sympathy because we refuse to believe the horror to be as bad as we know it to be, We lack compassion because we don’t want that real horror to find us.
We look away, Complicit.
If you pass a starving child and do nothing to help, you should feel the shame, If you purposefully starve a child, Bomb a child, Snipe a child, You are the horror.
We look away, Complicit.
FROM the Old Testament, Volume II, Third Book of Netanyahu; Chapter Two, Verse three: “We basically could have eliminated the entire population of Gaza.”
Whatever God is or isn’t, God set the rules, the boundaries, the limits, God plays the long game.
We haven’t the time, We posture and push and out position, Swagger and strut past the meek and indecisive, We invest in our desires, gamble on our instincts, Hard focused on our dreams, Fame and glory and wealth and power, Power on power and power for power, Hate for hate.
God plays the long game.
Success begets success, Power attracts power.
Buffed and polished, chrome and gold and mirrors, Our lust, once everything, Breaks, Our overstuffed pockets spill out, Deeds and bonds and diamonds, Our treasures are stashed offshore, vaults, buried Pirate chests, Molding, oxidized, crumpled and corrupted, Not to be touched.
God plays the long game.
Our heavens, our yachts and cars and mansions and land, List and leak and sink, Monuments to what others will never have, Museums dedicated to someone we never will be, And never were.
God plays the long game.
Our souls, we believe, Might be retrieved, Whole. Pure. Redeemed. This is not true. We know this is not true.
We cannot love ourselves, And others will not Truly Love us.
We are unworthy of real love, Slanderers and abusers and deniers, Cheats and frauds and Liars, Painted, plastic coated, polished, And yet, Senses dulled, synapses crackling, our minds questioning Every decision, Aware we are rotting, shrinking, slowing, failing, skin sliding on the bone, Unable to recognize ourselves in smoke clouded mirrors or gold framed portraits. We fear all others.
We have to, They want what we have.
Whatever God is or God isn’t, we are not gods.
We cannot play the long game.
We haven’t the time.
AS ALWAYS, thanks for checking out realsurfers.net
WHY DON’T YOU WRITE ME? erwin@realsurfers.net
Here’s what I’m claiming rights to today: The illustrations and the poems. Copyright 2025. All rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
MEANWHILE, I have some surf plans. I’m thinking, maybe, if… Maybe I’ll see you out and around or driving past me. Good luck!
…Except when I am. Not right now. Or, if I am worried, I’m trying my best not to outright panic.
It is fitting that each new year starts so close to the shortest, darkest day of the year. So, if everything is bleak; better days are ahead. If new year’s day was in April, or worse July, we’d be forced to celebrate that slow roll into the uncertainty that is, for many of us, winter.
For surfers and snowsliders, of course, winter brings some increased hope of waves. It has been brought to my ATTENTION that I am, possibly, the only one consistently writing about the very fickle and utterly inconsistent waves on the STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA; this with the possible downside that my even mentioning the possibility might influence surfers to make their way to the Olympic Peninsula.
I DO CONFESS that, back in 2013, I did name a couple of spots that can, occasionally, get crowded. I stopped that practice, partially in my own self-interest. BUT, if someone asks you why you’re searching for waves out in this (let’s face it, the strait is a harbor) area, you should probably also confess. “Yes, Erwin seduced me into believing I could find such blissful happiness here.” ALTERNATE (and more realistic) RESPONSE- “Who?”
I have always written songs and, another confession, poetry. I’ve been concentrating on it a bit more lately. I am not sure if I posted this song (yes, it’s singable) before on realsurfers. If I have, PLEASE FORGIVE ME!
Nothing to worry about
OUT OF THE WIND
There’s something sublime, a soft summer breeze, But the cold gales of winter will bend you to your knees, Yes, you can resist, but you’ll never win, No matter how fierce, all storms have an end, But… I just want to get out of the wind, out of the wind, out of the wind.
Most colors will fade, some colors still shine, Other colors just refuse to stay within the lines, While some colors clash, still others will blend, Some take you to the clouds and back again, Still… I just want to get out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.
Small change is dirty, big money’s all clean, I just need some dollars that are somewhere in between, If there’s none to save, still need cash to spend, If money’s your love, please find a new friend, And… I just want to stay out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.
All truths remain true, all lies are still lies, Politicians smile and hit you right between the eyes, False stories they spread, still others defend, The damage, once done, is too hard to mend, So… I just want to stay out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.
Looking for justice, it’s always on sale, You won’t change the system if you know you’re bound to fail, The world isn’t fair, it never has been, The answer, my friend, got lost in the wind, And… I can’t seem to stay out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.
I sailed for safe harbor, I couldn’t outrun the squall, I’ve tried to live my life in Summer, but I’m heading for the Fall, You say there’s no sanctuary, well, I’m still willing to pretend, We’ve made it through so many winters, But winter’s coming ’round again…
THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT REALSURFERS. Important NOTES: I don’t get any money from whatever ads WordPress puts on my site. I wish I did. Remember- any original stuff is protected by copyright. All rights reserved by the author/artist, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
May we each get some rides worth putting in our ‘best of 2025’ memory files! Example- “This one time, Westport was sooooo good, and me and my crew, we was on it.” OKAY, now I’m blowing up Westport. I’d apologize, but…
THIS is a silkscreen I did in the 1980s. I’m not apologizing for it being, perhaps, sexist or something bad by today’s standards. It doesn’t go so much with a poem I’ve been working on, but nothing I found in a search did either. I COULD, of course, draw something that does connect better, but… I haven’t.
I AM ALWAYS working on something, art-wise, story-wise, song-wise, otherwise. I have been working recently on a song that starts out, “It was a private conversation, Words I was not yet meant to hear, She had been to long at the station, Couldn’t have known that I was near…”
WHAT I DO is keep working on these songs, and everything I do until it’s… better. SURF-WRITING-WISE, I am always trying to push some comparison between the best moments and music, even dance. Not all dancing is graceful, Stephanie Gilmore style pretty. AND she also incorporates solidly radical, powerful moves into her repertoire. Similarly, there is something esthetically pleasing about a vicious power hack.
MUSIC-WISE, please try to convince me that you don’t have some tune or beat going through your head when you’re paddling for and surfing a wave. If you don’t, well…
Too much explaining.
A Private Conversation
I was coming up the stairway, two bags of groceries pressed against my chest, She was dancing on the landing, third floor, Sun from the distant windows lit her hair on fire, Her shadow moving with her on the sidewall.
Six stairs below her, I leaned against the inside rail.
She was moving to music, music I could not hear.
Her movements made the music real. Slink and slide and step and stop, Step and stop, slink and slide, one arm always at her side, The other, gliding, raised then lowered, Free, and spelling or signing or reflecting, Words or images or memories or dreams, Real to her.
Real to her, private.
Sunset music, light, a tinkling rhythm beat under the woodwinds, Only fleeting hints of nightfall.
I should not have been a witness, Seeing her, dancing, silent, hair on fire, In some soft and private conversation with some distant, absent, loved one.
Loved one, someone else dancing with her on the landing, Sharing her space.
The background, The air and the light and the wallpaper and the paint were as alive as she was, Slinking and sliding and stepping and slowing, Listening, perhaps, briefly, The dance resumed as response.
Her other arm became the free one, Sending the code, The secret, private messages in our most ancient language.
I should not have been there.
I couldn’t face facing her, Couldn’t imagine her trying to explain, Not to some neighbor, some stranger three doors down.
Setting my bags on the third step from the landing, Sitting two stairs below that, Alone in the dark, with vague shadows of someone dancing, Projected on the stairwell wall.
I envied her for dancing, dancing alone in the hallway, Music swirling in her head.
Waiting in the stairwell, Waiting long after her door closed, Long after the light moved up the wall and softened, And darkened, I waited long until her music faded.
My steps up became drums, not heavy, Step, step, step,
If I imagined a saxophone solo, Sad squeaks and missed notes, Looking out the window at a screaming orange sunset, I couldn’t stop myself from sliding one foot across the worn oak floor, And then the other, My grocery bags shifting, side to side, In some rhythm that made some sense… to me.
THANKS FOR READING. Original material, of course, protected by copyright, all rights reserved by the author/artist, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
AS ALWAYS, IF YOU CAN’T BE NICE, BE REAL.
I FULLY expect to not tell you about a surf session in the next posting. AND, yes, I am still working on my novel, “SWAMIS.”
Real Surfers 