BECAUSE I fell off a ladder, because I didn’t treat a leg wound quickly or seriously in time, because I had a detached retina that necessitated an operation, I have been out of the water for well over a month. BECAUSE my being forced to go to a doctor (forced as in, I lost sight in the bottom fourth of my left eye, as in I could not operate on my swollen leg) for the first time in twelve years or so, with conditions there was no way for me to treat, I also discovered my blood pressure was high enough that there was some doubt as to whether I was a decent candidate for the eye surgery, AND, meanest thing that was done to me, I was weighed.
TWO THINGS: Adam “WIPEOUT” James, forced to help me zip up my wetsuit a while back, asked me, “Do you have to have ice cream every night?” Keith Darrock has been bugging me for a while to lose weight, claiming that if I lost 75 pounds, I could “Dominate even more. Maybe, like, pop up.”
Seventy-five pounds is not enough.
NOW, with the eye almost totally restored to its previous state, the leg wound/infection being treated with $600 a tube ointment and round-the-clock wearing of compression socks, my blood pressure being monitored daily, a shift in my eating habits (more fibre, less coffee, no Little Debbie’s, no ice cream, no chocolate- yet), and the possibility of waves, like, maybe, maybe, an hour ago, I’m still out of the water, I want to assert that I will be back, and, when I’m out, I’ll be frothed-out, and, as alway, there to surf.
Fair warning. Catch them when you can. I’m not looking for sympathy. Injuries happen. I’m not looking for excuses. I’m not quitting. And no, I don’t want to go watch others surf. Again, “I’M HERE TO SURF!”
…that’s pretty much it. Painting season is happening, and the time I can devote to writing is diminished to, like, not much. There are some other issues that keep me out of the water. When there’s no chance to surf, my studying of the charts and buoys and forecasts is less important. If I can’t go, do I want to know?
Probably. Do I still want to hear when some of my friends score? Probably. No, definitely.
Here is how house painting works: You prep and paint; body and trim. Then you go around and around the house doing what I call “Tightening up.” Then you clean up, load up, collect the money; move on.
I am still… still working on the current, hopefully last edit of my surf novel, “Swamis.” The biggest benefit of my trying to condense and focus is that I can tighten up the details. Here is an example: In the current ending, a pistol is taken from Joey’s Falcon. I have already set it up that Joey always locks his car. I am at the point in the rewrite in which Joey is sharing a story about his father, a San Diego County Sheriff’s Office detective, in which Joe DeFreines, Sr. has a run in with a couple of drunks at a Pony League baseball game, one of whom is sitting in his car, refuses to get out, and when he does, the Drunk Dad breaks the detective’s arm with a baseball bat another Drunk Dad hands him.
Joey’s father defends himself; the net result being that the Drunk Dad sues the Sheriff’s Office with the help of the attorney father of one of Joey’s schoolmates. The lesson from the baseball bat incident, Joey witll tell (haven’t fit this part in yet) the psychologist he is seeing as a alternative to going to Juvenile Hall for a violent act he committed on another schoolmate, is, as Joey’s father said; “I should have locked my car.” That the Falcon is unlocked, and a pistol that is inside is used in the climactic scene… well, that’s all part of the fun.
People come and go in our lives. The cut-down number of characters in “Swamis,” I realize, must be included for some good reason. They must seem real. Joey wants to be part of a group of surfers who could be considered “LOCALS.” He has friends from school who surf, who he labels as “Surf friends.” When he comes to terms with the attorney’s son, who has been taunting him (with some help from Joey’s surf friends), but who, before Joey’s accident that is pivotal to the plot, was his friend, I plan on giving that character an opportunity to tell Joey, “You need to… broaden your definition of friends.”
Or words to that effect.
We run into surfers and non-surfers. Not all are our friends. Some might never be. Some could be.
Okay, now I’m thinking about when I can go surfing again. Soon.
…I feel I should say something about the most important day for Christians, but…
—INSTANT EDIT- Here is my honest belief: Religion is a personal matter. Whether you believe in God of don’t, it is your right; one that probably won’t be taken from you. I don’t care what your belief is, God or Non-God-wise. Slightly beyond that, I do care how one’s beliefs impact others.—
FIRST, here’s a word- FANTA-CIDE, as in the DEATH OF FANTASIES. Here’s how it came up. A friend was telling me how this very attractive woman seemed, to him, to be attracted to him, and, maybe, you know, like, maybe… “Really? Like, then, what are you going to do about it?” Oh, and you don’t have fantasies? “Sure. People do. You can’t write fiction without… imagining. But there’s imagining and there’s… real life. My imagining I rip up the surf doesn’t mean I do. And…”
Fantacide. Way too close to “Infanticide” and the serious horror that word covers. Fantacide. I may never use it again.
BUT, if we’re discussing what we imagine and what is real, my thoughts on EASTER, the celebration of a Savior, risen from the, I cannot avoid considering how perceptions of Christ’s teachings are so widely diverse, from pacifists to war-mongers, from those who profess to love their enemies, to those who are willing to strike out with whatever weapons they can get against those who frighten, let alone threaten them; that there must be a Jesus who is somewhere in between.
The fact that there are so many denominations that claim to have the TRUE RELIGION is proof that, perhaps, none have the whole truth.
I don’t know Jesus. You don’t know Jesus.
That’s it.
Of course that’s not IT. Jesus did say, according to Scripture, that GOD, the father, is SPIRIT. It seems appropriate to, perhaps, consider the spirit of Jesus. Vengeful, hateful, spiteful; ready to vanquish your enemies? Ready to reward you on earth with all you are bold enough to pray for? If that’s the Jesus you imagine, and you have managed to twist scripture to support your position… fine; I’m not supposed to judge.
AND YET, I do. I am a sinner, and I continue to be one. I’m sure you will forgive me. It’s required. AND, since I’m confessing, I might add I get quesey as hell when I see anyone who equates Christianity with Nationalism, who profits, some ridiculously, from the sincere desires of sincere believers, who dresses in the costume of goodness and righteousness but preaches division and, yes, hatred, well; show me the lines in scripture (in some Bibles, quotes from Jesus are annotated in red) that backs up that shit.
AGAIN, it’s Easter, and it’s a beautiful day here. STILL, it might not ruin your day completely to imagine the people in our one and only world who are suffering the effects of war and famine, the people displaced by violence, those who are seeking some better, more peaceful life. You don’t have to imagine. It’s on the television. If you don’t want to see, or you want to see victims portrayed as invaders or terrorists, change the channel.
While I sympathize, I am honest enough to say I do little or nothing to help. If I see someone with a cardboard sign at the exit to the market, I seek another exit. I am, and I fully confess this; a HYPOCRITE.
CHECK OUT your new Citizen trump-endorsed Bible; Jesus starts so many many sentences with, “You hypocrites.” It didn’t make him all that popular at the time.
Feel free to disagree. Meanwhile, may some of your fantasies become real. AND, if you’re seeking waves, may you find them… and ride a few.
I YouTubed the latest BEACH GRIT Saturday morning. Not the hour plus version, a more user friendly ten minutes (or so) edit (I’m assuming), the first three minutes (or so) an advertisement for a solar watch I just have to purchase. The topic was… I don’t remember. Oh, yeah, it was a response to letters to the editor (sorry, emails from the blog-ets); in this case, what a surf dude should wear to get married in, from arbiters of all things surfing, David Lee Scales and Chas Smith (and I apologize for calling David Lee Seales last time). Good stuff. Not what I was intending to write about.
I got this image from “Mariska and Fernando something something.” Congratuations!
’ll get to that. FIRST, I must say I was kind of jazzed that, according to my tablet, the post had been, you know, posted, like, forty-two minutes earlier AND had, at that time, no comments. Not that I ever comment. I think it requires signing in somewhere, and emojis, and misspellings, and pretty horrific grammatic usage. BUT, I must add, I am a fan of surf-centric content, though I’ve seen enough that I fast-forward frequently; especially when (even) one of my cosmic, cloud-breaking, globe-floating surf heroes (even Nate or Jamie or any of the Koas) start hyping product and/or starts being too whiny or obsequiously and, possibly, phony-ly nice. AND I have yet to subscribe to any channel or blog. BUT, if you subscribe to worldwide (honestly, they keep track and I check… daily) non-phenomenon… realsurfers, I’m not going to beg, but so many, many thanks, many congrats on your, um, discernment (insert virtual kiss emoji here).
I DO HOPE following Dave and Chas and then commenting on their commentary doesn’t make me a troll, BUT TODAY’S TROLLING is because their recent identifying/outing TYLER WRIGHT as an entitled, privileged, ‘I’m a victim,’ narcissist got me thinking. Yes, I was kind of taken aback, while watching hours of a WSL contest from somewhere, that she mentioned, you know, menstruation and its effects on heat strategy, but I didn’t get more involved than that. BUT I don’t have the insider access D and C have.
WAIT, aren’t most sports stars a little bit… that? Aren’t most, even non-world-class surfers somewhere on the self-centered spectrum? Since I’ve long been of the opinion that most who surf with a skill level over day three surf camp (day two, private lesson) are, placed in the competitive petri dish arena at any decent surf spot, SOCIOPATHS, adding a bit of the victimhood aspect doesn’t faze me at all. OR HURT ME.
ANY OF us who have taken and/or can take the time to develop skills in a difficult sport, often performing (or trying to snag a wave if not a set bomb) in crowded conditions, might be considered Privileged, Entitled, Narcissistic, Irrefutably Sociopathic Headcases (PENIS HEADS, for short). Enjoying the activity… Separate issue. Separate posting. Later.
TAKE THIS TEST: If you’re surfing like shit, is it someone else’s fault? Of course. Or the wrong board, or the wrong wax, or some backpaddling assholes and/or drop-in bitches (bitches in the non-gender way)? For the non-surfers, think about navigating heavy traffic (your choice of vehicle), OR the lineup at the multi-pump COSTCO. If you picked the gas tank on the right side line because you know the hose will make it AND the line is shorter, BUT some asshole decides to take his or her (formerly correct way to say ‘their’ as identifying something singular) sweet ass time topping off their Hummer or checking their mileage… whatever, YES, it is their fault that you’re late to the barbeque, their fault the guacamole went brown in your artisan sidedish.
NOT TO MAKE THIS overlong, a greater privilege for the truly entitled is to be able to write and post sarcastic, sniping commentary on, you know, like, whatever.
HOWEVER, I must add that I harbor no ill will toward Tyler, John Peck, or pretty much anyone else. WAIT. Thinking. There are, not that I’m bent too far over in a direction a reader might recognize, a few politicians I wouldn’t want to hang out with, clowns who make me a bit gRUMPy.
BY WAY of confession; when I do get up to the gas pumps, I do take my sweet-ass time. Let’s see; 281.5 miles divided by 12.5 gallons equals 22.5 mpg. YEA! Thanks, Volvo.
AND, as with every time I see a post from Nathan or the quickie (only) from Keith Olbermann, or the first (surfing) half of a video from Mason Ho, when I next see something with David Lee and Chas; NO NEED TO ADD BAIT- Oh yes… CLICK.
NEXT TIME (maybe), Why we all want to be realer than other surfers.
“SWAMIS” UPDATE- Working on it. Here is a quickie flyer for a fictional Newspaper. I can’t say that there wasn’t such a weekly paper back in the time my novel covers, 1969. My guess, yes. I do know, based on a story I heard, later, like 1971, when I went to work in the Big City, San Diego, from an older guy, that there were Free Clinics, or, at least, one. “So, I picked up this hitchhiking Hippie chick, and I’m thinking… you know, free sex and all that, and she says she’s trying to get to the free clinic.”
Also not related, directly: I noticed, on occasional trips south, in the narrow strip that is Mission Beach, a storefront law office that, real or imagined, seemed to offer free services. Hard to imagine that now. Parking, incidentally, was pretty much as bad then as it is now.
If writing, journalism or fiction, or drawing, or any form of art is someone trying to transfer imagination to paper or wood or film or any other medium, images stored and remembered are the critical ingredient.
Although I haven’t quite gotten to THE END of the fourth or fifth rewrite of “Swamis,” I do have plans, beyond it, for the main characters. The storefront law office might be part of that.
MEANWHILE, I am still recovering from cuts and an infection on my leg, the treatment keeping me out of the water for at least the rest of this week. SO, IF THERE ARE WAVES, I won’t be competing for them. GOOD LUCK.
SCREW UP of the day- I did write something, using Microsoft Word, filling in some omissions from my last posting. Halfway through this, I realized I hadn’t copied it. Not wanting to lose what I had, I… well, I’ll get back to you on what is partially “Guilty with an explanation” stuff.
In the “I’M NOT POLITICAL, BUT…” category, something about the delays in the trials of the former president, and the inability of some other citizens to see a grift when it’s reaching into their pockets, caused me to draw… this:
It’s already, liike, last week’s news. Ordinarily I claim all rights to my work, but, this time, in the spirit of freedom, free press, all that, if you want to borrow it… FEEL FREE.
Now that I am committed to putting out a new round of ORIGINAL ERWIN t-shirts, I’m going through my past drawings AND doing some new ones. I scanned these two on my printer AND I have two more illustrations that I have to take to a print shop. AS ALWAYS, attempting to go simpler, I fail.
LET’S DISCUSS THE SURF SITUATION on the Olympic Peninsula and the Strait of Juan de Fuca. NOT GOOD. Now, if you’re almost anywhere SOUTH of here, you should be scoring. AND the forecast is not too… thrilling. BUT I do have my HOBIE patched up and I’ve done some work on the MANTA. I’m ready to leap into some wind chop when it… let me check the forecast. Yeah, wind chop. That’s official.
As far as “Swamis” goes, I am committed to what JUST HAS TO BE a final draft before the ridiculously scary act of trying to actually sell the novel. I moved the former first chapter to the end, and though I am dying to write about what fictionally happened to the fictional characters between 1969 and now, I’m going to NOT… not yet.
My hope is that, now that I’ve completely mind-surfed the hell out of plot and characters, I might be able to cut the length down from the current 104,000 thousand words. HERE IS the new prologue and a bit more:
“SWAMIS” A novel by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
PROLOGUE
Some events, terror and bliss, mostly, which occurred in seconds, in moments; those almost nothing in the expanse of time; expand, over time, into placemarks; a corner turned, a road taken, a life changed. Magic.
Half a century after the events, I started writing “Swamis,” as memoir. It no longer is that. This is my fourth full rewrite, with so many discarded words, deleted chapters, all in attempting to turn notes and dreams, images and remembered dialogue, into a story. I have tried to do justice to the various people, characters here, but real people with real lives, who changed mine. There are people who have come into my life, changed it in some way, and gone out. Somewhere. For the most part I do not know where they went, but I do wonder. Wonder.
The story centers on a very specific time, 1969, in a very specific place, North San Diego County. I was turning eighteen, in love, and the world I wanted swirled and revolved around surfing, and surfing revolved around Swamis.
My apologies for my writing style. Years of writing briefs, documents. Dry, perhaps, but thorough. A friend’s review of an earlier draft concluded I went for detail and clarity rather than flash and description.
“I don’t use a lot of adjectives in regular speech,” I countered.
“But this is writing,” she said, “The prologue shouldn’t be an apology.”
“Honest.”
“Sure, and it is… your own voice. Yes, it is that, and, as your mother said, ‘the mind fills in the colors.’ Different thing, I know. Photos, stories; it still applies.”
“Not arguing.”
“Not yet. But… ambiguity and bullshit aside, you don’t exactly nail down who the killer was. Or killers were. Some detective novel, Atsushi.”
“It’s in there. And… doesn’t that explain the need for detail and clarity? And, more importantly, I never said it was that… A detective novel. Trueheart.”
“There’s no such thing as a seventeen-year-old detective. Not in real life.”
“It’s in there; that quote; in the text. And… as far as real life goes…”
“From your particular viewpoint.”
“That’s all any of us have.”
“But… Joey… you called me a friend. ‘A friend’s review.’”
“Just another draft, Julie; I can… change it.”
“To what?”
“Keep reading. It’s in there.”
CHAPTER ONE- MONDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 2023
“The allure of waves was too much, I’m told, for an almost three-year-old, running, naked into them. If I say I remember how the light shone through the shorebreak waves, the streaks of foam sucked into them; if I remember the shock of cold water and the force with which the third wave knocked me down, the pressure that held me down, my struggle for air; if I say I remember anything other than my mother clutching me out and into the glare by one arm… Well, that would be, this all happening before the accident; that would be… me… creating a story from fragments. Wouldn’t it, Doctor?”
“Memories. Dreams. We can’t know how much of life is created from… fragments. But, please, Joey; the basketball practice story; I didn’t get a chance to write it down. So, the guy…”
“Locker room. After. I’m not here because of that… offense.”
“I am aware. Just… humor me.”
“He said I had a pretty big… dick… for a Jap. I said, ‘Thank you.’ All the Varsity players came in. Most stood behind him. He said, ‘Oh, that’s right; your daddy the cop, he’s all dick.’ Big laugh.”
“Detective,” I said. “Sorry about your brother at the water fountain, but I’m on probation already… and I don’t want to cut my hand… on your front teeth.’”
“Whoa! Did that end it? Joey. Joey, are you… You’re remembering the incident.”
“I tried to walk away. He… Basketball. I never had a shot. Good passer, great hip chuck.”
“All right. So, let’s talk about the incident for which you are here.”
ALL RIGHTS to all ORIGINAL WORK by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. are reserved by the author/illustrator. THANK YOU for respecting these rights, AND, AS ALWAYS, for checking out realsurfers.net
…that’s about it. Oh, yeah; HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!
I AM, AGAIN, at the end of the latest complete rewrite of “Swamis.” As in, where an author is supposed to write, in case a lack of more pages isn’t enough, “THE END.” I wrote, “NOT EVEN CLOSE TO THE END.” The current version is, after thousands of words were cut, at a little over 103,000 words. As I explained in an earlier post, I was forced to move the first chapter, which, cleverly, I thought, set in something more like the current time, answered a lot of questions I didn’t want to spell out at the end.
AFTER several attempts to write something concise AND with the all important AWESOME first line, I am pretty much just changing all the chapter numbers on my next go-through. LAST? I hope so. ONE OF THE ISSUES I wanted a new opening chapter to deal with is the writing style of the fictional narrator, JOSEPH DeFREINES, JR, aka Atsushi Defreines, aka Jody, aka Joey.
It sort of comes down to whether, as I’m hoping, the clues JOEY finds along the course of the novel are enough for a reader to draw conclusions. It’s not some conscious attempt at might-be-cool (or another failed attempt at it) AMBIGUITY, but Mr. DeFreines, who, after years as an attorney (alluded to but not overtly stated) writes in a very controlled way, clarity over flash. To that end, I wrote, and will not use, a line like, “I don’t use a lot of adjectives in my regular conversation, why should I do so because I’m writing rather than telling the story.”
WHAT’S CHANGED in my constantly working and editing and thinking about the story, “Swamis,” is that it has become much more a love story, Julie and Joey, tangled in the rush and roar of 1969. I have tried to convince the LOVE OF MY LIFE, TRISH, that it would make a great HALLMARK MOVIE. “Oh, with a guy being burned alive and all that?” “Yes I mean, it’s not gratuitous.”
I might be if Joseph DeFreines used more ADJECTIVES.
With apologies for going on about this, I wrote a sub-chapter, moved it to another place because I didn’t know where to fit it in. The place is now the depository of the latest rounds of cuts. AND, when I asked our daughter, DRUCILLA, to check out something on the laptop I am borrowing from her, she had to comment, out loud, “Oh, ‘Sexy scene,” to which Trish responded, “Really? I might have to read that.”
Sexy Scene for “Swamis”
“No, Julie, it was more you than me… The kissing. I was… more… controlled.”
It was late in the afternoon. There were still three surfers out. Julie and I were on the point end of the lifeguard tower. Our towels had slid into a single pile on the x shaped cross members. “No, Joey. You certainly were not.”
“I certainly tried to be… controlled.”
Julie reached into her big gray bag, unwrapped a top, basically something like a small apron. “Controlled. You… weren’t. But… enthusiastic. Yes.”
“More like surprised.”
“Are you going to… look away?”
“You look away; I’m the one who’s… topless.”
“Yes, you are.” Julie put the palm of her left hand on my chest. “You and your stick out nipples.”
“Nipples?” I crossed my arms over my chest. Julie untied the strap on her bikini top, her left hand holding her top to her chest. She widened her eyes. I turned, untangled my towel from hers, spun around and backed up a bit closer to her, holding the towel up and out in front of both of us. “In case those guys… in the water, have… really good eyesight.”
“Really good? Thanks.”
“Not a… I didn’t mean…”
Julie pressed her body against mine, slid her arms around me, her hands on my chest until she had my alleged stick out nipples between the first two fingers of each hand.
I tried not to inhale. Failed. A deep breath I was afraid to exhale.
“Don’t giggle, Joey.”
“You are.”
“You know it was my birthday…” Julie stopped giggling. “…over the weekend. I’m legal!”
“Congratulations. I’m not… legal… yet.”
“I’m willing to risk it.” Julie took a breath. “If you are.”
The towel dropped away as I spun, slowly, with control, Julie’s arms never fully pulling away, toward Julie, my arms squeezing her closer.
Closer.
I FEEL DUTY-BOUND to now mention that, whether or not I use this for the novel, it is still protected by copyright. Thanks for respecting that.
WIPEOUT UPDATE- This is the EMU Adam “Wipeout” James’s son, EMMETT caught off the Big Island. It was prepared by a chef in Seattle, presumably the woman in the photo. ALSO, and it may be because, like realsurfers.net, Adam and the HAMA HAMA OYSTER COMPANY have a world wide reach, my site got a higher than average number of hits since I posted the photos and story of the Adam’s family vacation. So, thanks.
FRANKENSUP UPDATE- Thanks to Joel Carbon for the apt description. Yes, that is my thumb. Yes, I did need a skil saw to cut the fin box out of the tail section of the first SUP I owned. And chisels, and knives. I filled in the big divot with foam from the same board, used some leftover cloth and some resin given me by Keith Darrock to cover the wound. Oh, and the sawhorses were from Mikel “Squintz” Comiskey, cutting down on possessions before he moved to the Big Island. I am also holding on to binoculars and a trophy he won at the Cape Kawanda Longboard contest a few years ago. I’m using the trophy, a beautiful turned bowl, for my keys, not that I still don’t still misplace them.
SPEAKING OF OLD DUDES WITH BAD MEMORIES, I’m thinking that will be my new excuse for bad lineup behavior when I get back to searching the Strait of Juan de Fuca for waves. “Backpaddling? Oh, sorry, I didn’t notice you.” Yeah, age, along with my wearing earplugs and my hearing being no better than marginal without them.
I DO PLAN on doing more board repair on the HOBIE. I guess I’ve had it for six or seven years, way longer than any other board I’ve ever owned (and thrashed), and ALL I WANT is another six or seven years out of it.
It’s still Winter. Get some waves when you can. And, again, HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY to all the lovers out there.
INSTANT COMMENTARY from (obvious alias) Frank Lee Darling: “If your taking a swipe at Biden. He doesn’t remember all the good things he’s done. Marmalade Man can’t thinnk of any. Because bone spurs never don anything that wasn’t self serving. That’s it. Connot wait til you book comes out. Probably banned and or burnt in Fla.
I tried to pre-write this, but I had to edit it. WHY? Because I care.
I do care. I almost wish I didn’t… but I do. Every time I surf I try to surf as well as the waves will allow, and as well as I can.
Yes, I surf for fun, and I do have fun, but it would be even funner if I didn’t put asterisks next to my name and provide disclaimers before others get the opportunity to do so. But I do. I do this any time I describe myself (to pretty much anyone) as a surfer (“No, really, I surf, but…”), or if I recall (even to myself) my latest surf session (“Sure, I was ripping it up, but… knees, age, big ass board, paddle, years of experience, etc.”). Not excuses, explanations.
The negative self-explainers are pre-staged, baked-in as I try to gauge or grade my ability to ride waves in relation to others in the water (“Okay, five people out. I’d say I was… third best.”). Subjective. And I have asked other surfer’s opinions (“More like four; you’re getting… better.”). Subjective. The other, more important criteria was whether or not my surfing was improving (“Oh, I got in your wave? Hey, man, I’m just learning, etc.”). Excuse.
All this self-analysis goes on before (“Oh, it’s crowded, tricky, someone’s feelings are going to get hurt”), during (“Why didn’t I go for a side-slip?”), and after, all the while trying to guess what others might be saying (“Sure, he catches a lot of waves, but…), which of the available asterisks they might put beside my name, or exactly how others gauge or grade or… judge my surfing ability. I wish I didn’t care, but I do. And maybe you do.
But here’s the truth: No one is analyzing you as much as you are self-analyzing.
With exceptions. In fact, an even truer truth: Everyone judges everyone else; we attempt to put ourselves in front of or behind you in an innumerable number of categories, one of which, as surfers, is the ability to ride a wave competently. And we rate each other, definitely, on where a person fits on the kook-to-cool-to-totally arrogant dick/princess scale.
My site being ‘realsurfers’ is discriminatory. You are or you aren’t. Qualifications vary.
I recently asked a woman surfer on the beach if she judges whether a random person, before he or she actually gets in the water, is a decent surfer. “Definitely.”
“Yeah. If I saw me, I’d say (disclaimer alert) ‘that guy’s too old, too fat… not a real surfer.’” “Probably,” the woman may have said, and could have added “But…” Objective. I can… surf.
On the same outing, I asked a guy about the GoPro mounted on the front of his board. “WHY?” “Huh.” “I mean, everyone, no matter how good or bad he or she surfs, or how big the wave is, if the camera’s pointed at the surfer, it just looks… fake… Beach Party kind of fake.” “Well, I do it to work on my technique.”
At that point, because I am pretty far along on the ‘arrogant dick’ scale, I replicated the GoPro moves. I’m not sure the guy appreciated it. Still, realistic.
It should be easily believed that none of us look as cool as we think we do. A simple cell phone video from the shore or a fancy drone shot will prove this. Easily.
All surfers look awkward some of the time, some look stylish some of the time, few look either stylish or awkward all of the time. Maybe Clay Marzo can look awkward AND stylish all the time.
Forgive me, but I really don’t care how well you say you surf. Or once surfed. I’ve pretty much given up on telling people I rode six-foot boards for years, or I surfed here or there, or that I have surfed waves that were… challenging.
No. I still do that, but I wish I could… stop.
If I recount my history and list my credentials, it might not explain why I can’t surf up to my self-hype. That could be embarrassing. If I cared.
And I do.
For me, it’s all part of the FUN. Fun-funner-funnest. See you… out there.
BEFORE I get into how HOBIE SHOULD SPONSOR ME (as in provide me with a replacement for the board, above), I want to apologize for not posting on Wednesday. I woke up on Thursday and thought it was Wednesday. It wasn’t. RATHER than putting out something to explain this but without any worthwhile content, I… well, I’m posting this now. Sunday. For some reason, I kept thinking yesterday was Sunday, as in, “It seems like a lot of people go to church and then… Costco,” to which my friend STEPHEN R. DAVIS, replied, “Do a lot of people go to church on Saturday?” I still didn’t catch it. “Jewish people, Seventh Day Adventists,” to which Steve could have replied, “Oh, but then do they go shopping… on the SABBATH?” Still didn’t get it.
PERHAPS MY CONFUSION had some connection to my beloved HOBIE 10’6″ SUP, admittedly well-to-overused-to-thrashed, having its fin violently ripped out, half the fin box gone, a certain amount of foam and fiberglass with it.
PERHAPS, MY ASS; it was totally that.
THE MOST TRAGIC thing about the incident is that I was in no way ready to get out of the water.
It was one of those sessions that was a combination of really fun rides and some beatdowns. NOTE, I would never trade a session like this a soft and safe one, nothing bad, nothing great. HAVING SAID THAT (and this may the first time I’e ever said ‘having said that’), I’m pretty much frothed up to overflowing anytime I see the kind of waves there is just no way I’m not going to attempt to ride.
SO, after a few behind the section wipeouts left me in the impact zone, with, of course, five or six wave sets, and after losing my paddle on another ride (and thanks to the guy who spotted it and grabbed it), I was cruising along on another insider when… FWAPPP! “What?” It felt like I’d hit a drifting log or something; the sound was like hitting a two-by-four against another one; and then… yeah, I finished the ride, flipped the board over and…
YES, I did tell others on the beach that I felt like crying. I did… feel like it, having an opportunity to watch others surf waves, some of which I might have been on. I DIDN’T. I still might. I love that board. ODDLY, my unused froth seemed to be channelled into being nice to pretty much everyone I ran into. “Have a nice day,” stuff like that, though, on the way home, at the exact moment another rig with surfboards on the racks passed me, they going out, me going home, I whispered something like “Good luck,” something I in no way meant. Sincerely.
So, dear HOBIE, HERE’S MY PITCH:
The first surfboard I ever rode, in 1965, was my sister SUELLEN’S 9’4″ stock model HOBIE; wide, thick, rounded nose, adequate kick, big ass fin. I loved that board. SO MUCH so that our parents had to get me a board of my own. NO, not, sadly, a Hobie.
ADMITTEDLY, I have loved other boards. SURFBOARDS HAWAII; still have fond memories of my 9’10” noserider, my 9’6″ pintail, my 6’something” twin fin (TRISH bought this for me- custom). And I have had dalliances with backyard/soul/homemade boards I put together from stripped-down longboards or blanks (seconds) purchased from the GORDON AND SMITH factory. I have surfed on at least one board (a popout) my father purchased from those confiscated at Trestles.
If most surfers suffer from BOARD ENVY, or even BOARD LUST, and I cannot truly say that I do not look at the fancy boards (and I’m imagining a 6 foot JJF FISH I saw in this guy’s tricked-out Sprinter van) owned by surfboarders who in no way can do the board justice, or ride it properly (and realizing, sadly, that I haven’t been capable for riding sub-nine-foot boards for many years) with some of that lust in my heart.
I also realize it means little to say I never owned, or wanted to own a board by HANSEN or GORDON AND SMITH; as if I had some sort of loyalty. It may say something about something if I admit I shared a sort of prejudice, when I lived in San Diego County, against any board manufactured north of DANA POINT, and now that BING is, evidently located there, though I am 1,200 mile away, I kind of think Bing board might be okay. AND, since I’m confessing stuff here, I should mention that I had a local shop, when I lived in Pacific Beach, pirate a shape (WATERSKATE) designed by Morey/Pope and test ridden by PB legend SKIP FRYE.
STILL, after riding a longboard made by an OLYMPIC PENINSULA shaper, which I didn’t love, but got at a decent price, and procuring an 11’6″ SUP made in China by trading out worked for it (didn’t hate the board, and did thrash the shit out of it, hitting pretty much every rock of consequence on the Strait of Juan de Fuca and elsewhere) I got my HOBIE, on payments, from ADAM ‘WIPEOUT’ JAMES.
I am not even sure how long I’ve had it, but, at 72 years old, I had planned on it being the last board I will own. BUT, SHIT, MAN, I am not ready to quit, and though one of my friends has offered to loan and/or sell me another SUP, and another, who loaned me one once, has declined to do it again, I EITHER need to fix the HOBIE or get another board. It’s not like I’m poor, BUT…
I was going to say that I might be a perfect representative for all things HOBIE. Yes, Trish keeps me stocked in Hobie gear (after my board destruction, for example, moaning and whimpering, but not crying, I wandered the beach in my new Hobie hoodie); BUT, because my REPUTATION (and I am told I have one) is not as 100% saintly, AND because I’ve spent a lot of verbiage on this subject, I will save it for WEDNESDAY.
MAYBE I WILL write it today, just to make sure I don’t get confused about the days.
ART NEWS ART NEWS ARTNEWS ARTNEWS ARTNEWSARTNEWS ART… NEWS
Original paintings, cards, and prints by ARTIST/SURFER/KITESURFER/SKATER/HOCKEY PLAYER/ETC. STEPHEN R. DAVIS are currently being displayed and available for purchase at MARROWSTONE VINYARDS, Norfland, Washington. If you’re out cruising the Peninsula, or perhaps got skunked trying to surf, or disappointed trying to find snow, check out his stuff.
AGAIN, I should have taken photos when I was, POST DISASTER, hanging out the North by Northwest Surf Shop in Port Angeles. Formerly owned by FRANK CRIPPEN, the shop is now owned by TATE (should learn people’s last names, also) and his wife. With stuff for snow, skate, and surf, there is also work by local artists. Already familiar with work by Nam Siu, Todd Fischer, Reggie Smart, I was VERY IMPRESSED with (original) watercolors by AMY (again, last names). I’ve seen Amy surfing on the Strait for quite a while, do doubt burned her a few times, but, through STU (not to be confused with Mike), I discovered Amy who was watching their child, or child while her husband surfed (with four children running around, it was not clear which one or two was or were theirs) did art. SO, since I couldn’t surf, I went over to talk to her about doing, and SELLING art. My thought was she should also do prints and cards, more opportunity to get surfing related art to the masses.
MORE on all of this next time. THANKS, AS ALWAYS, for reading.
I’ve been busy drawing. I have several reasons for doing so. New designs for t shirts, some work for the PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY’s upcoming SUMMER READ, and, just because I enjoy it.
SO, LET’S SEE HOW MY LATEST scans look on the screen:
THERE ARE MORE, but should save some copyrighted original stuff for next time. WEDNESDAY… MORE! (sorry about the explanation point; not that a show of enthusiasm isn’t appropriate. MEANWHILE, thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers. See you out on Surf Route 101.
IF I HAVE TO BLAME something for the prolific-ness, it’s the recent far-eeez-ing weather. AND I have been sa-soww-ly getting cal-lose-er finishing my novel, “Swamis.”
Real Surfers 