If I even say Port Townsend surfers, you have every right to ask, “What?” or “Where?” It’s, like, 80 miles, as the seagull flies, from the open Pacific, about 120 miles, as the roads bend and curve, from the actual coast. How could there be waves? Sooo, surfers go elsewhere. Yearly trips to exotic locales in Mexico, or even farther, exotic-er. Lucky. But trips end.

Chris Eardley, fish and wildlife guy, and his wife, Megan, fish and wildlife woman, are returning from Massachusetts, AND he made the possible mistake of texting photos. SO, there’s your, possibly, I’m guessing, typical New England in summer beach scene; Chris with the hat, possibly tied on, and looking very white and kind of muscle-ey (this assessment from another surf friend who got the same photos- and I agree), and an explainer text after Chris wrote, “Watch out for Dum Dum.”

I do not see any discernible wave action in the aerial shot, but I did warn Chris about getting any three hundred yards rides, or any multiple of number-of-rides-to-distance-per-ride that would put him into the area where the tagged great white shark might be lurking.

Meanwhile, surfers in my relatively small group of associates have been spread out across the country. Some are due back from inland, and even way inland. Yeah, great to travel, but it has to be compared to being here, waiting, hoping, checking the forecast… from the comfort of home.

NAM SIU UPDATE- I tried to call Nam Siu, mostly because people keep asking me how his recovery from a devastating illness is going. And because I recently did some work for HOWARD TEAS. Howard was/is a diver, used to surf in the Santa Cruz area, and does some creek water testing. Yes, Nam Siu is another fish and wildlife person. BUT, when I called him, the message was something like, “I do not recognize this number and I will not answer. If it is important…” He did text me, on my other phone, later. AND yes, Nam is ready to surf. All he needs is some surf. “I hear you.”

Here is a short story I’ve been working on while not working on the novel, “Swamis.” My problem with the novel is that, having watched too many shows on Netflix and Prime, and Apple TV (on my computer, thanks to Dru), I’ve decided that I have little time for dilly-dallying and padding and over-exposition. This story has Joseph Atsushi DeFreines, the narrator and main character from “Swamis,” a few years later.

What is true of Joey and is true of me is that rendering horrific acts of violence just seems wrong. Real people turn away from real horrors. Maybe. Anyway, if it seems the style is chopped up… yeah. It is. NOW, I really don’t want to get into, ‘here’s what I was going for here,’ BUT I wrote the opening paragraphs, had a violent act in mind for the ending, and wrote myself into a corner, mostly because Joey’s ‘voice’ is different than it is in “Swamis.” Then again, I’m still working on “Swamis.”

                                    A Three Day Surf Trip to Porthclaw- Fiction by Erwin Dence

Everything I saw through the windshield, wipers half-scraping in an uneven mist, aware of the steep hill to my right and the row of steep shale roofs to my left, was in black and gray, gray on gray; the color of dreams; foggy, grainy, slightly out of focus.

If it was a dream, it was one I’d had before; scenes disassembled and altered each time.

I knew there was water beyond the tight row of dark houses. The ocean’s barely discernible horizon line disappeared as my head snapped back to the road, barely wider than the car in which I was a passenger, left side, front seat, sideslipped around a corner.

Context. “Car in which.” Ridiculous, as is describing this memory, or dream, at all. I knew where and how the story would end. I couldn’t stop it. 

“The brakes,” I thought, or said, in dream-speak, pumping an imagined pedal, hoping for pushback.

“The brakes are a little… rusty.” I turned just far enough to my right, toward the silhouette of the driver, Samuel Hubbard/Jones, the features of his face made recognizable in the glow from his cigarette.

“Hot boxing, Samuel?”

“Nervous, Atsushi?”

There was a squealing, metal to metal, and what was as much a feeling as a sound of tires sliding, almost catching on a wet surface I knew to be cobblestone rather than asphalt. There was a push forward. “Downshift!” The car jerked. It did slow. The cigarette was in front of me. I took it. Because of some not-completely-gone habit, I inhaled.

 “No. Maybe they’re… better.” Samuel laughed. “The brakes. Working.”

I exhaled, filling the car’s cabin with smoke.

Blink. …

Samuel’s car almost slammed against an ancient rock wall; mildewed, decorated with floats, chunks of the foam missing; with frayed ropes; with nets no longer worth mending. These and shark jaws and fish skeletons were secured to posts that had been thrown or pulled into the ocean; but had been returned, cast ashore; worn, bleached, worm-holed, the softer wood in the grain deteriorated. Between the posts there was a meant-to-be-artistic fencing of driftwood; delicate, stripped of bark, branches from trees miles inland.

Blink. I was outside, looking at the car, over-large, something short of a Bentley. Gravel road grime, a faded paint job, and a couple of unrepaired dings kept it from being embarrassingly showy. Still, ostentatious. There were two boards on a rusty rack. Mine was on top; a six-four Gordon and Smith twin fin. Samuel’s was a yellowed, almost browned-out, very thick, seven-two single fin. He had told me who custom shaped it. I’ve forgotten the name.  

“Only surf shop in this part of Wales, Atsushi. They do have gloves, hoods, shit a California surfer doesn’t need. Don’t talk; they might not be fond of… Hawaiians.”

“But posh wankers from some fancy, upper crust part of London are…?”

Samuel was very close. “You’re stalling, Joseph Atsushi DeFreines; get on with it.”

“Okay.”

…

No. More exposition, more stalling: It was 1976. Without a law degree, and despite having passed the bar, I had couldn’t practice law in California without a sponsor. A sort of apprenticeship. I had just completed a four-year stint with the San Diego County Public Defenders’ Office. Low level paper shuffling, ‘keep ‘em moving,’ hanging out at traffic court, urging poor people to plead out, pay the fine, stay out of trouble, switch ‘non guilty’ to ‘guilty with an explanation.’ “And… I will speak to the judge… for you. What’s your… story?”

“Sincere, contrite” was my advice, “This judge doesn’t appreciate sarcasm.”

This was true. Mostly, though everyone appreciates a bit if the hurtful part is aimed at someone else. I was learning, in my few moments in court, how to… court.

I will mention, to continue to avoid writing about the incident in the bathrooms on the dock, that I was in England because Julie was taking a course on international law she might never use, but one that would help in her not surprisingly quickly advancing career, and, because my storefront law office in Mission Beach was bleeding money, and because I had a passport and an invitation, I dutifully followed my wife.

I had run into Mr. Hubbard/Jones in the hallway of a university town hostel; me with my board in an old cloth Surfboards Hawaii bag. Because Samuel, having identified himself as a surfer, having given me a not-unimpressive list of places he had surfed, was willing to blow off the first three days of the classes, plans were made. I tried to hide my excitement.  

“Better off without the bag around these here parts, cowboy,” Samuel said in a Hollywood western drawl.

“Possibly not,” I said in a Michael Caine influenced rhythm.

“See,” Julie said, “another surfer.”

“Wales?”

“Yes. Waves in… Wales.”

…

I was, in this recurring dream, as I had been in real life, standing outside a dive shop that had only recently begun selling surf gear.  

Three young men in clothing appropriate to the drizzle were checking out the car, and the boards, and Samuel, and me. It all seemed friendly enough. “I’ve been here before. But… Joe DeFreines… hasn’t.” Samuel said, “He and I… we’re not… trust me, aiming to publicize any spots. Just visiting.”

“Looks cold,” I said, looking at the lines of waves raking the distant breakwater. The small harbor was occupied by commercial fishing boats, mostly, day-trippers; the colors muted. Serious. Two short wharfs, or docks, or piers; I’ve never been clear on the distinctions; framed the view, perpendiculars to the horizontal layers of clouds. The larger building, to the left, was wood, probably stained, gray, originally. The mildew growing on it, green or almost black, was almost orange in some spots. The signage on the Porth Claw Dive Shop, black on white, had aged to gray on gray. “Surf supplies” were listed on a separate, newer sign, along with “Bait, and almost unreadably faded sign that read, “Tackle. Gear. Tanks Refilled while you wait.”

A cinder block building on the dock to the right had an almost unreadably faded sign that read, “Public Toilets and Showers.” There were two entrances, each marked with the broken front two-thirds of a surfboard, bolted into the block, graffiti scrawled, and flyers taped to them: “Surfers,” on one, “Surf Babes” on the other.

…

“What did happen, Joey?” It was Julie’s voice. Time and space, in dreams, are puzzle pieces, seeking a fit. I could see her reflection when she came into the room at the hostel, two days late from a three day surf trip. She turned on the lights and disappeared. “Are you ever going to tell me?” My unwillingness to fully talk about, to render an accurate image of violent incidents, images my mind wouldn’t allow me to fully see; what Julie perceived as a lack of trust, a lack of faith in her, a wound to any notion of true intimacy, of true love; this had been a major point of contention during our first divorce. Only divorce.

…

I was aware that a young woman had come out of the shop: Bright yellow raincoat, long blonde hair.  “Claudia,” Samuel said. Claudia didn’t over acknowledge the greeting. Rather, she checked the expressions on the other locals. As did Samuel. As I did.

An old stepside pickup, the step long rusted out, backed in. There were crab pots in the truck bed. Or lobster pots. Cages, really, metal framework, netting. A metal tank took up most of the bed, extending onto the tailgate, water sloshing out of it. Four sets of scuba tanks were secured to the back posts for the racks. Two heavy diver’s wetsuits were flopping on the siderails. The locals looked over at the driver as he and another young man in the appropriately heavy clothing, got out.

“Claudia,” the driver said, as if it was a question, scanning between Claudia, me, Samuel, and the other three locals, “You know these… tourists?”

“Surfers, Ian,” one of the locals, tallest and skinniest of the three, said. “Passing through.” 

“You know these… tourists… Claudia?”

Claudia’s response was to take a breath and shake her head. Not a deep breath. Not a real head shake.

“You don’t know Claudia,” Ian said, walking toward Samuel but talking to the skinny local. “Air me up, please, Barry; if you would.” Barry was moving a high-pressure hose toward the back of the truck, Samuel was shaking his head when Ian asked, “Do you?”

“Everyone knows Claudia,” the young man from the passenger side of the truck, lowering the tailgate and pulling a set of tanks closer, and picking up a spanner, said. “Claudia, your former girlfriend. Former.”

“And… never yours… Ollie.” Ian gave Ollie the reverse peace sign, two finger, English version of flipping someone the bird.

I must have chuckled. Everyone seemed to turn toward me. “She… Claudia… She is in the brochure, for ‘lovely, friendly Porthclaw,’” I said. “I saw it… on the counter.”

Claudia nodded, gave Ian a double handed flipoff, and headed toward the bathrooms.

Ian pulled a set of scuba tanks off the rail, set them on the ground, grabbed the high-pressure hose from Barry and tried to turn the valve. “Still fucked, huh?” He turned toward his diving partner, put one hand out toward the wrench he was holding. “And… fuck you, Ollie. If Claudia’s too good for me… mate…”

Ian held the hose as Ollie used the wrench to turn the valve on and off, several times. “Way too good, Ian.”

…

I was in the overstocked shop, my hands on the front counter, one hand in a very heavy glove, a pair of diver’s booties between me and the older man, smiling, holding the other glove open. “You’ll appreciate the good of it when you get in the water… son.”

…

I was in the dark, dank bathroom, seemingly desperate to piss. Urinate. Someone was crying from the other half of the building. Someone yelled, “Get out!” There were sounds of a scuffle. Several voices. One of the voices belonged to Samuel Hubbard/Jones.

…

“You have to tell them the story, DeFreines.”

“We shouldn’t have been there, Samuel. That’s my story.”

…

“What happened, Joey? Atsushi, I love you. You have to tell me.” Julie.

“Have to? Julie… I… will.”

…

I was in the dark. Or I had my eyes closed. “Mr. DeFreines, the court acknowledges the difficulty one would reasonably have in describing such an abominable, heinous act perpetrated on another human being. Your written statement has been recorded and read to the jury. Would you now reconfirm that the descriptions of the attack, the beating, the sexual… assault with the use of the… If it please the court… Thank you, your honor. Mr. DeFreines?”

“I stand by my account.”

…

I was awake. Or I thought I was. I was alone.

“What is it you’re not allowing yourself to admit?” A different woman’s voice. Therapist. “You say it’s guilt. For what?”

“For being there. In… these… places, and for being… unable…”

“What else do you believe you could have done?”

“They… they call a wrench a spanner. I could have… maybe…”

“Taken it? Stopped it?”

…

I was back in Porthclaw. A misplaced ray of sunlight hit me as I stepped out of the ‘surfer’ side. I saw the air hose on the cracked concrete. Taut. “Is this what you want, Claudia?” It was Ian’s voice.

There was a rushing of air. On. Off. On.

Claudia was crying, “No, no. No. Ian!” between the sobs and before they became one continuous scream.

I was frozen.

“Joey,” Samuel yelled as he passed me. “Come on!” He jammed between Barry and the two other locals at the doorway to the ‘surf babes’ side. I seemed to unfreeze. I knocked Barry out of the way and pulled on the hose. One or both of the locals said, “Not me. Not me, man,” as I struck each of them, straight shots to their chests.

“Ian,” I said.

“Ian,” Ollie said. “Ian. No!”

Claudia was still screaming when Ian let her fall from the farthest, darkest corner. Samuel sliding on the wet floor, was on his knees when he reached her.

“Your fault, Ollie,” Ian said. “You love her? Do you? Her?”

I looked at the spanner in Ollie’s hand. I looked at Samuel. He shook his head. I looked at Claudia. She was turning away, both hands on her lower abdomen. I looked at Ian, defiant, for a moment. I heard the squeak of the hose nozzle, not quite all the way shut off.

…

It seems to me that it’s unnecessary if not wrong to describe the absolute… absolute wrongness of moment, the aftermath of an “Abominable, heinous act perpetrated on another human being.” It’s not that I don’t remember; it’s that I do. Guilt. Regret. Pieces I can’t fit back into the puzzle. Still, the next time I had this dream, I took the spanner from Ollie and used it on Ian and his defiant look.   

NOTICES- Original work by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. on realsurfers.net is protected by copyright. All rights reserved by the author. CONTACT- erwin@realsurfers.net

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