Borrowed from Sheridan Media. There are a lot of images with wolves if you dance on over to Google. The moon is responsible for the globe-wide waves that are the tides. King tides and low pressure and a swell have produced some classic conditions and total beach reformation in the past. Maybe there’s a swell you can get to. Good luck.
I got a call from TOM BURNS, longtime surfer, California to the Northwest the other morning. “Is that your daughter’s cat on King 5 News?” “What?” “Yeah, it said the photo was from Drucilla D. Has to be her.” It was a photo of her cat, NICHOLAS, sent because they were showing other cats “Not nearly as cute as my Nicholas.” WELL, Nick, who is extra wary of me since I had to assist in a cliff-hanger removal operation, got a repeat the next day with no competition.
I can’t upload videos on my site without upgrading, though I do have the video, so this is a shot TRISH sent to Dru, Dru to me, me to you. Yes, he’s adorable, though I described his expression, the one he usually gives me, as “Disgruntled,” possibly because he wasn’t supposed to be there.
DRU brought me along last week to help negotiate for a new (to her) vehicle to replace the Honda Odyssey totaled in the Yeti/deer attack. Not that I am in any way skilled in the art of the (or any) deal, but, after pretty much telling DAN, our contact at Doug’s Hyundai (not an endorsement, just where the car that fit what Dru wanted/needed was located, found through one of those car finding sites) because the real salesman, Mike, was overbooked (judging from Mike’s, who only talked to Dru for a moment, stress-reddened face, I believed it), that I totally don’t trust salespeople. I softened this by adding that I do not want to identify myself as a salesman, but, yes, we’re all in sales (and I’m still working).
Anyway, after threatening to leave and go check out another van at another dealer along the PACIFIC AVENUE STRIP, and asking for a two thousand dollar price cut, and after dropping several ‘add-ons’ from their first, second, and third quotes (all sent from mysterious guy behind the curtain- cubicle wall, actually), we arrived at a price reduction of $300 and a full tank of gas (Seattle prices). AND coffee and a small chocolate for me, hot chocolate for Dru.
THEN it was time to meet the FINANCE MANAGER. He discovered that if Dru paid $500 more on the downn payment, she could, because it was a one-owner car with low mileage (a major selling point, the van obviously a trade in), she could get a great warranty.
STOKED to be done with the ordeal, Dru promised DANIEL PILON and MAKSIM MARTEMYANOV that she would put in a good word on social judging media. I said, after Dan checked out realsurfers.net during a lull, that I would put something on the site… today. So, keeping my promise:
SEAHAWKS NEWS: It may be that all the swells of late have been very south, south-west at best, that PT charger Keith Darrock has gotten his feet wet on watching football. Because TRISH cannot tough it out, endure the tension and drama that are the only reason to watch ANY sport, I watched it without her. I did exchange some commentary (“Lots of missed opportunities,” “Seems like they should be up by three touchdowns instead of one.” I did call Keith during the last three minutes, with victory pretty much assured, and called Trish when victory was official. “Really? They won?”
Because I listened to the first quarter on the radio, and because I have regretted the times I watched games instead of doing something, like, more rewarding, I would really love to hear Steve Raible’s take on the end of the game. “Holy catfish!”
“SWAMIS” CHAPTER FOUR- WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 23, 1968
Christmas vacation. I had surfed, but I wanted a few more rides. Or many more. I had the time, and I had the second-best parking spot in the almost full lot at Swamis: Front row, two cars off center. It was cool but sunny. My short john wetsuit was pulled down. I was in front of the Falcon, dead center, leaning over the hood. I checked my diver’s watch. It was fogged up. I shook my wrist, removed the watch, and set it directly over the radiator, the face of the watch facing the ocean and the sun.
There was, on the beach towel I had spread out on the hood, a quart of chocolate milk in a waxed cardboard container, the spout open; a lunch sack, light blue, open; an apple; a partial pack of Marlboros, hard pack, open, a book of paper matches inside; three Pee-Chee folders. One of the folders was open. A red notebook, writing on both sides of most pages, was open, five or six pages from the back.
A car stopped immediately behind the Falcon. Three doors slammed. Three teenagers, a year or so younger than me, ran down the left side of my car and to the bluff. Jumping and gesturing, each shouted assessments of the conditions. “Epic!” and “So… bitchin’!”
The three surf hopefuls looked over me and at their car, driverless, idling in the lane. They looked at me. The tallest of the three, with a bad complexion, his hair parted in the middle, shirtless, with three strands of love beads around his neck, took a step toward me. “Hey, man,” He said in an artificially lowered voice, “Going out or been out?”
“Both.” I added a bit of hoarseness to my voice. “Man.”
“Both?” Love Beads moved closer, patting his beads. “Both. Uh huh.”
“Good spot,” the visitor with bottle bleached hair, a striped Beach Boys shirt, and cut off cords, said. I nodded. Politely. I smiled, politely, and looked back at my notebooks.
The surfer I assumed to be the Driver; big 50s horn-rimmed glasses, a button-up shirt, khakis and leather shoes, asked, “You a local?”
I shifted the notebooks, took out the one on the bottom, light blue, opened it, turned, half sat on my car, and looked out at the lineup, half hoping my non-answer was enough for the obvious non-locals.
A car honked. Love Beads pushed Striped Shirt into me as he tried to pass by. I shoved him away with my right hip and shoulder. He regained his balance, put his hands out, continued toward his car. Big Glasses, evidently not the Driver, raised both hands out to signal he hadn’t done the pushing. Behind him, Love Beads said, “You fuckers down here are fuckin’ greedy.”
“Fuck you, Brian,” Striped Shirt said before running out and into the lane, followed by Big Glasses.
Brian moved directly in front of me. He puffed out his chest a bit. He looked a bit fierce. Or he attempted to. “You sure you’re not leaving?”
I twisted my left arm behind my back and picked up my watch. When I brought my arm back around, very quickly, Brian twitched. I smiled. I held my watch by the band, close to its face. I shook it. Hard. Three quick strokes, then tapped it, three times, with the end of the nail on the pointer finger of my right hand. “The joke, you see, Brian, is that, once it gets filled with water, no more can get in. Hence, Waterproof.” I put the watch on. “And… nope, Brian, don’t have to leave yet.”
Big Glasses, a surfboard under each arm, squeezed between the Falcon and the car next to it. Brian, glowering, still looking at me, threw his left hand out as his surf friend walked past. He hit the board, instantly pulling his hand back. I chuckled. Brian moved his right hand closer to my face, pointer finger up.
I moved my face closer to his hand, then leaned back, feigning an inability to focus. “Brian,” I said, “I have a history…” Brian smirked. “I would… strike … when I felt threatened.” I blinked. “Quite violently.”
Brian looked around as if Big Glasses, having set the two boards down at the edge of the bluff, might back him up. I looked Big Glasses off. He shook his head. Brian turned back toward me. “Quite violently?”
“Suddenly and violently.” I nodded and rolled my eyes. “But now… My father taught me there are times to react and times to… take a moment, assess the situation, but… be ready. It’s like gunfights… in the movies. If someone… is ready to… strike, I strike first. I mean, I can. Because I’m… ready.” I moved my face back from Brian’s and smiled. “Everyone… people are hoping the surfing is… helping. I am not… sure. I’m on… probation, currently; I get to go to La Jolla every Monday, talk to a… shrink. Court ordered. So…” I took a deep breath, gave Brian a peace sign, and whispered, “Back the fuck off, Brian.”
“Brian,” Big Glasses said, “we’ll get a spot.”
“Wind’s coming up, Brian,” I said, pointing to the boards. “Better get on it.”
“Oh, I have your permission. No! Fuck you, Jap!” Brian moved back and into some version of a fighting stance as he said it.
“Brian. I’m, uh, assessing.” I folded my hands across my chest. “And Brian, trying to surf is good for your… complexion.” Brian’s face reddened further. “Osmosis. The water in your skin cells, compared to salt water…”
Brian moved even closer, his mouth moving, his face out of focus; background, overlapped by, superimposed with, a succession of bullies with faces too close to mine; kids from school, third grade to high school. I couldn’t hear them, either. Taunts. I knew the words: “Retard!” “Idiot!” “What’s wrong with you?”
My father’s voice cut through the others. “Jody. It’s all a joke. Laugh.”
In this vision, or spell, or episode, each of my alleged tormentors, all of them boys, fell away. Each face was bracketed by and punctuated with a flash of a red light.
One face belonged to a nine-year-old boy, a look of shock that would become pain on his face. He was falling back and down, blood coming out of his mouth. Two teeth in his cupped hand. I looked at the school drinking fountain. A bit of blood. I looked around. All the other kids were afraid. Of me.
The lighting changed. More silver than blue. Cold light. I saw my father’s face, and mine, in the bathroom mirror. Faces; his short blond hair, eyes impossibly blue; my hair straight and black, my eyes almost black. “Jody, just… smile.,” he said. I did. Big smile. “No, son; not that smile. Frightening.”
I smiled. That smile. Frightening.
Brian’s face came back into focus. I looked past him, out to the kelp beds and beyond. “Wind’s picking up.” I paused. “Wait. Did I already say that… Brian?”
I turned toward the Falcon, closed the red notebook, set it on one side of the open Pee-Chee, picked up the blue notebook from the other side. There were crude sketches of dark waves and cartoonish surfers on the cover. I opened it and started writing.
“Wind is picking up.” I may have spun around a bit quickly, hands in a pre-fight position. It was Rincon Ronny in a shortjohn wetsuit, a board under his arm. Ronny nodded toward the stairs. “Fun guys.” He leaned away and laughed. I relaxed my hands and my stance. “The one dude, with the Hippie beads. Shirtless.”
“I almost said something about his… pimples. Brian. Shirtless.”
“Don’t care about his name.” There was a delay. “Fuck, man; Shirtless was scared shitless.”
“It’ll wear off.” I held the notebook up, showed Ronny the page with ‘Brian and friends’ written in larger-than-necessary block letters, scratched out ‘Brian,’ and closed the notebook. “By the time they get back to wherever they’re from, Shitless Shirtless would’ve kicked my ass.” I looked around to see if any of Ronny’s friends were with him. “I was… polite, Rincon Ronny.”
“Polite. Yeah. From what I saw. Yeah. And… it’s just Ronny. Now.”
“Could be Swamis Ronny, or Moonlight Ronny.”
“Or Ronny Ronny.”
“Ronny.” I had to think about what Ronny might have seen, how long I was in whatever state I was in. Out. I started gathering my belongings, pulling up the edges of my towel. “I just didn’t want to give my spot to… fuckers. Where are you… parked?”
“I… walked.”
I had to smile and nod. “You… walked.”
“One thing, Junior; those… fuckers, they won’t fuck with you in the water.”
“Joey,” I said. “And… Ronny, someone will.”
Ronny mouthed, “Joey,” and did a combination blink/nod. “Yeah. It’s… Swamis. Joey.”
Ronny looked at the waves, back at me. A gust of west wind blew the cover of my green notebook open. “Julie” was written in almost unreadably psychedelic letters across pages eight and nine. “Julie.” Hopefully unreadable.
I repeated Ronny’s words mentally, careful not to mouth them. “From what I saw.” And “Joey.”
CONTACT- erwin@realsurfers.net
COPYRIGHT protected material. All rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr,
Get some waves, Go Sea…Hawks, and Fuck Cancer. No comment (yet) on war and peace and all that. It’s a NEW YEAR. So… new dramas, new tensions, AND the same old ones. Best Wishes!
We’ve almost made it to the WINTER SOLSTICE. Almost. The atmospheric rivers continue to hit, SO, if you want snow, there may be some, good luck getting there. If you want waves… take a chance. The windows are as small as the days are short. BUUTTT, the celebration is justified; the days are getting longer and… YEA! And good luck.
Photo from the FULTON LIBRARY. Shadows. GINGERBREAD FRED, one of my characters in my when-the-hell-is-is-going-to-be-done novel, “Swamis,” goes to the parking lot every evening to watch the sun set. A burned-out veteran (helicopter pilot- medivac) of Korea, wounded and pushed farther into craziness in Vietnam (gunship), who “Crashed twice, shot down once,” and who is also a legendary surfer from the fifties, having pioneered waves at the Tijuana Sloughs and outside La Jolla reefs, says, about night; “It’s not dark, really. It’s shadow. The curtain drops and it’s a different show. An encore.”
Gingerbread Fred is, I hope, as I hope of all the players, someone a reader can visualize. Not a stereotype but a mix of real people I have come across. And he is critical to the plot. If we are all Alice in Wonderland, Candide, any narrator in a Franz Kafka story, and I believe we are, those characters, those people. we remember we remember because they are part of our story.
Anyway, not sure if this is bragging or apologizing, but here’s more from “Swamis.”
CHAPTER THREE- SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1968
My nine-six Surfboards Hawaii pintail was on the 1994 Falcon station wagon’s factory racks, as much rust as chrome. The seven-eight Sunset board I’d bought off the used rack was inside, the back seat lowered to accommodate it. It’s not like I ever had riders other than my brother. I was headed from Grandview to Moonlight Beach on Neptune. The bluff side was either garage and fence or hedge, tight to the road. There were few views of the water. I was, no doubt, smiling, remembering something from that morning’s session.
There had been six surfers, including me, at the preferred takeoff spot. Some of them recognized me, and I them, but they all knew each other. There was no way the local crew and acceptable friends would allow me to catch a set wave. No; maybe a wave all of them missed or none of them wanted. If I paddled for a wave, one of the crew would act as if he was going to take off, even if he didn’t, just to keep me off it. And then turn toward his friends to receive credit for the act.
The first one in the water, before dawn, I had surfed the peak, selecting the wave I thought might be the best of a set. Two other surfers came out. Okay. Three more surfers came out. One of them, Sid, paddled up and sat next to me without looking at me. I was the farthest one out in a triangular cluster that matched the peak of most of the approaching waves. I knew who Sid was. Older. Out of school. A set wave came in. It was my wave. I paddled for it and took off. Sid dropped in on me. I said something like, “Hey!”
Rather than speed down the line or pull out, Sid said, “Hey,” louder, and stalled. He cranked a turn. It was either hit him or bail. I fell onto my board, wrapped my arms around it. My board and I went over the falls, pushed sideways until I rolled with it and got out of the soup.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, paddling, following Sid back toward the lineup.
The four other surfers held their laughter until Sid paddled past them, maneuvered his board around, laughed, and said, “Wrong? Junior broke the locals rule.” Sid pointed to the lefts, the waves perceived as not being as good, on the other side of a real or imagined channel. “Local’s rule. Get it?” Sid turned to the other surfers. “Watch this guy, guys. Daddy’s a cop. You know him; DeFreines. Married a Jap-a-nese… woman. Junior’s probably a fucking narc. Hide your stash!”
Trying to ignore the taunts of the others, I caught an insider and moved over.
After three lefts, surfed, I believed, with a certain urgency and a definite aggression, I prone-paddled back to the rights, tacking back and forth. A decently sized set wave was approaching. I wanted it.
“Outside!” I yelled, loud enough that the pack, including Sid, started paddling for the horizon. I paddled at an angle, lined up the wave at the peak. Though the takeoff was late, I made the drop, rode the wave into the closeout section, pulling off the highest roller coaster I had ever even attempted. I dropped to my board and proned in. I kept my back to the water as I exited, not daring to look back at the surfers in the water or to look up at the witnesses on the bluff. I did hear them hooting.
I grabbed my towel from where it was stashed, visible from the water, on the low part of the bluff, my keys and wallet and cigarettes rolled up in it. Tromping up the washout to Neptune, I tried not to look at the surfers, tried not to smile as I leaned my board on the Falcon and unlocked the front door.
…
Almost to Moonlight Beach, there was a late fifties model Volkswagen camper van, two-tone, white over gray, blocking the southbound lane. Black smoke was coming out of the open engine compartment. Three teenagers, my age, were standing behind the bus: Duncan Burgess and Rincon Ronny on the right side, Monica, on the left. Locals. Names divulged by second tier gremmies. Or from observing them on the beach or in the water.
I pulled over on the northbound lane side, squeezed out between the door and someone’s bougainvillea hedge, and walked into the middle of the street, fifteen feet behind the van. “Can I help?”
Duncan, Ronny, and Monica were dressed as if they had surfed but were going to check somewhere else: Nylon windbreakers, towels around their waists. Duncan’s and Monica’s jackets were red with white, horizontal stripes that differed in number and thickness. Ronny was wearing a dark blue windbreaker with a white, vertical strip, a “Yater” patch sewn on. Each of the three looked at me, and looked back at each other, then at the smoking engine. The movement of their heads said, “No.”
Someone stepped out of an opening in the hedge on the bluff side of the road, pretty much even with me. I was startled. I took three sideways steps before I regained my balance.
Julia Cole. Perfectly balanced. She was wearing an oversized V-neck sweater that almost covered boys’ nylon trunks. Her legs were bare, tan, her feet undersized for the huarache sandals she was pushing across the asphalt. She looked upset, but more angry than sad. Or even worried. But then… she almost laughed. I managed a smile.
“It’s you,” she said, almost laughing. I smiled. “Are you a mechanic?” I shook my head, took another step toward the middle of the road, away from her. “An Angel?” Another head shake, another step. She took two more shuffling steps toward me. We were close. She seemed to be studying me, moving her head and eyes as if she might learn more from an only slightly different angle. “You’ve gotten… better.”
“Better? Yes, that’s what I tell people. Better.”
Julia Cole shook her head. She was still smiling. I was studying her. Staring. I looked past her. Her friends looked at her, then looked at each other, then looked, again, at the subsiding smoke and the growing pool of oil on the pavement.
“We saw what you did,” she whispered. I turned toward her. “From the bluff.” She raised both arms, the left arm higher, pointing with her right hand, and yelled, “Outside!” She and I looked at her friends, then back at each other. She said, “Outside,” again, softer.
“It… worked.”
“Once. Maybe you believe Sid appreciated it.” She shook her head.
I shook my head, still focusing on Julia Cole’s eyes. “I had to do it.”
“Of course.” By the time I shifted my focus from Julia Cole’s face to her right hand, it had become a fist, soft rather than tight. “Challenge the… hierarchy.”
I had no response. Julia Cole moved her arm slowly across her body, stopping for a moment just under the parts of her sweater dampened by her bathing suit top. Breasts. I looked back into her eyes for the next moment. Green. Translucent. She moved her right hand, just away from her body and up. She cupped her chin, thumb on one cheek, fingers drumming, pinkie finger first, on her lips. “You. I could use you, Junior, if you…” She pulled her hand away from her face, moving it toward mine.
“Julie!” It was Duncan. Julie, Julia Cole didn’t look around. She lowered her hand and took another step closer to me. In a ridiculous overreaction, I jerked away from her.
“I was going to say, Junior…” Julia looked, if anything, irritated. Stupid me. “If you were an attorney… then…”
“I’m not… Not… yet.”
Julia Cole loosened the tie holding her hair in a ponytail. Sun-bleached at the ends, dirty blonde at the roots. She used the fingers of both hands to move her hair to both sides of her face.
“I can… give you a ride… Julie, I mean… Julia… Cole.”
“Look, Fallbrook…” It was Duncan. Again. He walked toward Julia Cole and me. “We’re fine.” He extended a hand toward Julia. She did a half-turn, sidestep. Fluid. Duncan kept looking at me. Not in a friendly way. He put his right hand on Julia Cole’s left shoulder.
Julia Cole allowed it. Her expression suggested I was confused.
“Phone booth? If you need one. There’s one at… I’m heading for Swamis.”
Julia Cole shook her head, smiled, did a sort of almost blink, then looked, briefly, toward the house closest to the bus. I twisted my mouth and nodded. “Oh. Okay.”
A car come up behind me. I wasn’t aware. Rincon Ronny and Monica watched it. Duncan backed toward the shoulder. Julia and I looked at each other for another moment. “You really should get out of the street, Junior.”
“Joey,” I said. “Joey.”
She could have said, “Julie.” Or “Julia.” She said neither. She could have said, “Joey.” I checked out Beacons and Stone Steps and Swamis. The VW bus was gone when I drove back by. Dirt from under someone’s hedge was scattered over the oil, some of it seeping throughCHAPTER THREE- SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1968
My nine-six Surfboards Hawaii pintail was on the 1994 Falcon station wagon’s factory racks, as much rust as chrome. The seven-eight Sunset board I’d bought off the used rack was inside, the back seat lowered to accommodate it. It’s not like I ever had riders other than my brother. I was headed from Grandview to Moonlight Beach on Neptune. The bluff side was either garage and fence or hedge, tight to the road. There were few views of the water. I was, no doubt, smiling, remembering something from that morning’s session.
There had been six surfers, including me, at the preferred takeoff spot. Some of them recognized me, and I them, but they all knew each other. There was no way the local crew and acceptable friends would allow me to catch a set wave. No; maybe a wave all of them missed or none of them wanted. If I paddled for a wave, one of the crew would act as if he was going to take off, even if he didn’t, just to keep me off it. And then turn toward his friends to receive credit for the act.
The first one in the water, before dawn, I had surfed the peak, selecting the wave I thought might be the best of a set. Two other surfers came out. Okay. Three more surfers came out. One of them, Sid, paddled up and sat next to me without looking at me. I was the farthest one out in a triangular cluster that matched the peak of most of the approaching waves. I knew who Sid was. Older. Out of school. A set wave came in. It was my wave. I paddled for it and took off. Sid dropped in on me. I said something like, “Hey!”
Rather than speed down the line or pull out, Sid said, “Hey,” louder, and stalled. He cranked a turn. It was either hit him or bail. I fell onto my board, wrapped my arms around it. My board and I went over the falls, pushed sideways until I rolled with it and got out of the soup.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, paddling, following Sid back toward the lineup.
The four other surfers held their laughter until Sid paddled past them, maneuvered his board around, laughed, and said, “Wrong? Junior broke the locals rule.” Sid pointed to the lefts, the waves perceived as not being as good, on the other side of a real or imagined channel. “Local’s rule. Get it?” Sid turned to the other surfers. “Watch this guy, guys. Daddy’s a cop. You know him; DeFreines. Married a Jap-a-nese… woman. Junior’s probably a fucking narc. Hide your stash!”
Trying to ignore the taunts of the others, I caught an insider and moved over.
After three lefts, surfed, I believed, with a certain urgency and a definite aggression, I prone-paddled back to the rights, tacking back and forth. A decently sized set wave was approaching. I wanted it.
“Outside!” I yelled, loud enough that the pack, including Sid, started paddling for the horizon. I paddled at an angle, lined up the wave at the peak. Though the takeoff was late, I made the drop, rode the wave into the closeout section, pulling off the highest roller coaster I had ever even attempted. I dropped to my board and proned in. I kept my back to the water as I exited, not daring to look back at the surfers in the water or to look up at the witnesses on the bluff. I did hear them hooting.
I grabbed my towel from where it was stashed, visible from the water, on the low part of the bluff, my keys and wallet and cigarettes rolled up in it. Tromping up the washout to Neptune, I tried not to look at the surfers, tried not to smile as I leaned my board on the Falcon and unlocked the front door.
…
Almost to Moonlight Beach, there was a late fifties model Volkswagen camper van, two-tone, white over gray, blocking the southbound lane. Black smoke was coming out of the open engine compartment. Three teenagers, my age, were standing behind the bus: Duncan Burgess and Rincon Ronny on the right side, Monica, on the left. Locals. Names divulged by second tier gremmies. Or from observing them on the beach or in the water.
I pulled over on the northbound lane side, squeezed out between the door and someone’s bougainvillea hedge, and walked into the middle of the street, fifteen feet behind the van. “Can I help?”
Duncan, Ronny, and Monica were dressed as if they had surfed but were going to check somewhere else: Nylon windbreakers, towels around their waists. Duncan’s and Monica’s jackets were red with white, horizontal stripes that differed in number and thickness. Ronny was wearing a dark blue windbreaker with a white, vertical strip, a “Yater” patch sewn on. Each of the three looked at me, and looked back at each other, then at the smoking engine. The movement of their heads said, “No.”
Someone stepped out of an opening in the hedge on the bluff side of the road, pretty much even with me. I was startled. I took three sideways steps before I regained my balance.
Julia Cole. Perfectly balanced. She was wearing an oversized V-neck sweater that almost covered boys’ nylon trunks. Her legs were bare, tan, her feet undersized for the huarache sandals she was pushing across the asphalt. She looked upset, but more angry than sad. Or even worried. But then… she almost laughed. I managed a smile.
“It’s you,” she said, almost laughing. I smiled. “Are you a mechanic?” I shook my head, took another step toward the middle of the road, away from her. “An Angel?” Another head shake, another step. She took two more shuffling steps toward me. We were close. She seemed to be studying me, moving her head and eyes as if she might learn more from an only slightly different angle. “You’ve gotten… better.”
“Better? Yes, that’s what I tell people. Better.”
Julia Cole shook her head. She was still smiling. I was studying her. Staring. I looked past her. Her friends looked at her, then looked at each other, then looked, again, at the subsiding smoke and the growing pool of oil on the pavement.
“We saw what you did,” she whispered. I turned toward her. “From the bluff.” She raised both arms, the left arm higher, pointing with her right hand, and yelled, “Outside!” She and I looked at her friends, then back at each other. She said, “Outside,” again, softer.
“It… worked.”
“Once. Maybe you believe Sid appreciated it.” She shook her head.
I shook my head, still focusing on Julia Cole’s eyes. “I had to do it.”
“Of course.” By the time I shifted my focus from Julia Cole’s face to her right hand, it had become a fist, soft rather than tight. “Challenge the… hierarchy.”
I had no response. Julia Cole moved her arm slowly across her body, stopping for a moment just under the parts of her sweater dampened by her bathing suit top. Breasts. I looked back into her eyes for the next moment. Green. Translucent. She moved her right hand, just away from her body and up. She cupped her chin, thumb on one cheek, fingers drumming, pinkie finger first, on her lips. “You. I could use you, Junior, if you…” She pulled her hand away from her face, moving it toward mine.
“Julie!” It was Duncan. Julie, Julia Cole didn’t look around. She lowered her hand and took another step closer to me. In a ridiculous overreaction, I jerked away from her.
“I was going to say, Junior…” Julia looked, if anything, irritated. Stupid me. “If you were an attorney… then…”
“I’m not… Not… yet.”
Julia Cole loosened the tie holding her hair in a ponytail. Sun-bleached at the ends, dirty blonde at the roots. She used the fingers of both hands to move her hair to both sides of her face.
“I can… give you a ride… Julie, I mean… Julia… Cole.”
“Look, Fallbrook…” It was Duncan. Again. He walked toward Julia Cole and me. “We’re fine.” He extended a hand toward Julia. She did a half-turn, sidestep. Fluid. Duncan kept looking at me. Not in a friendly way. He put his right hand on Julia Cole’s left shoulder.
Julia Cole allowed it. Her expression suggested I was confused.
“Phone booth? If you need one. There’s one at… I’m heading for Swamis.”
Julia Cole shook her head, smiled, did a sort of almost blink, then looked, briefly, toward the house closest to the bus. I twisted my mouth and nodded. “Oh. Okay.”
A car come up behind me. I wasn’t aware. Rincon Ronny and Monica watched it. Duncan backed toward the shoulder. Julia and I looked at each other for another moment. “You really should get out of the street, Junior.”
“Joey,” I said. “Joey.”
She could have said, “Julie.” Or “Julia.” She said neither. She could have said, “Joey.” I checked out Beacons and Stone Steps and Swamis. The VW bus was gone when I drove back by. Dirt from under someone’s hedge was scattered over the oil, some of it seeping through
CONTACT erwin@realsurfers.net
COPYRIGHT protected material. All rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
An illustration by my late sister, Melissa Jo Dence Lynch. Copyrighted. All rights reserved by her estate and Jerome Lynch. No, Melissa didn’t drown… unless cancer is a sort of drowning. Fuck Cancer!
I’ve gotten into a bit of a thing, lately, Selkies and dark mysteries. Drowning is a part of it. For a surfer, to not consider this is… to not be prepared. SO, I was supposed to use some available time to work on actually completing my novel, “Swamis,” BUT I’m also working on some songs for the still-in-the-planning stage next Surff Culture on the Strait of Juan de Fuca event, to be held in late January or early February of 2026. AND I am still working on collecting and editing material for a possible song/poetry/essay book.
YES, Trish is correct in saying that writing and drawing have affected my life. For years. I’ve given up opportunities to make actual money to pursue these passions, which are now, evidently, replacing surfing as the ‘other woman.’ STILL, Trish has some faith in my novel. “It’s a good story; can’t you concentrate on that?” Yes.
Having just spent some time thinking about and starting to write a post-“Swamis” story, I kind of committed myself to working on the novel last night. BUT THEN, after doing some real world computer work, and wanting to post something decent on a Sunday, I got caught up in the following piece. An essay, I guess, and I made some changes this morning, pasted it on the site, made more changes. OBSESSIVE? Yeah.
Breaching Whale by Stephen R. Davis. All rights reserved by the artist.
DROWNED OUT
What the drowning person hears. Silence? No. The thrashing, if nothing else, creates a sound. Chaotic. Bubbles rising, air to air.
Perhaps the kelp or the sawgrass make a muffled rustling sound as they sway to the rhythm of the river or the tide. The air escaping the lungs whistles, holding back a scream.
There are voices beyond the panic; a song, a whale calling from some unknown distance, or music, crazed and discordant, from some unseen orchestra. The pounding heart sounds the beat. Desperate.
The symphony ends, or will end, in a soft surrender. Peaceful, we’re told.
We don’t believe this. Clawing, kicking, we breach as high into the air as we can; choking, gasping, grasping at the surface of the water as if it is safe. Solid.
We do not return the whale song. We are not whales. We do not understand their language. If a whale heard our scream, it is one among many, many among millions, with a constant war of machines whirring and growling and belching and breaking on the land and in the air. No rhythm, No melody. Chaos.
I don’t wish to drown. Yet, knowing something about drowning, I go into the sea.
Away from sea, I bargain, trade time for time, to get back into it.
I’m reachable: erwin@realsurfers.net Thanks for checking out my humble site. “Drowned Out” is protected by copyright, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
WAVES? I’ve heard some stories, but, for skiers and surfers on the Olympic Peninsula, atmospheric rivers are not what we’re looking for. If you are looking, GOOD LUCK!
Although I have yet to finish a seriously publishable version of my novel, “Swamis,” I put some thought and time into thinking about and writing a couple of ‘short’ stories with the same characters. Later. Because I have been considering Selkies recently, though I’ll have to think about what got me on the subject, I started working on a story that would include surfing and… Selkies. Here’s the start of it:
Cold Plunge at the Selkie Reach Resort
“No, can’t find an At… At…sush…i… DeFreines.” The woman behind the resort’s front desk looked between Julie and me. Not suspiciously, but for a bit too long. She was trying to connect the patient woman in an unnecessarily thick and long coat, given the conditions, and me, unnecessarily irritated, even with having to give way to four already checked-in and overly giddy older women, by which I mean, women somewhere around our age. 2016, so, late sixties.
One of the four may have been younger. A sister, perhaps. Not that I cared. Not immediately. Not before they started chatting it up.
The desk clerk was somewhere in her twenties, gray top under a darker gray sport coat, a pearl necklace that was almost a choker, hair that was almost straight, pulled back, black and shiny, but with an undertone that suggested it could go gray at any moment. Her eyes were dark. She could tell I was studying her. She sucked in her cheeks for a moment before showing her teeth. Very white. I’m sure she nodded as I looked away and at Julie, knowing my ex-wife had caught the young woman’s look and knowing she believed I deserved worse, staring and all.
Fresh from the resort’s bar, each of the women was wearing a flannel coat and/or a scarf with a tartan pattern, something identifying some clan unknown to them. No, one woman, the leader, if not merely the most assertive, spent a certain amount of time presenting herself, with some Americanized version of a Scottish brogue, as, “Positively Scottish on my mother’s side. I’m, like, Sedona, Arizona’s representative for the Clan Adair.”
“Then, ‘failte.’ Welcome to the Selkie Reach Resort.”
“And… thanks. What clan might you be from, Love?”
I took the ‘Love’ part as something the woman had picked up from watching “Vera” on PBS. Yes, but it’s set in Northeast England rather than Scotland. Not to nitpick.
“I’m from Wales,” the clerk said, adding, “I’m here for the weather.”
The group took it as a joke. It might have been. Julie nodded and kicked at my backpack. I coughed and kicked at her three matching suitcases.
Since I’m wasting your time on wardrobe, I should say that I was dressed in an off-white cable knit sweater, fairly new Levis, waterproof hiking shoes. New sweater and shoes, hastily purchased from L.L. Bean. Online.
“We’re here for the cold plunge. Love.” It was the last of the group to pick up a room pass, one of the non-Adairs, unnecessarily showing her ID. “How far is the sauna from the water?”
“Too far at low tide. Big tidal shift here. Dangerously so. Flat beach. We have a safety line. If you can see it on a dry beach, don’t go. We have charts in the shower room and… Actually, our pool is plenty cold enough for most.”
When the women gave a unified groan, the clerk added, “Should be perfect tide, slack, in about an hour.”
I stepped forward and set my passport on the counter. The clanswoman stepped in front of me. “The Selkies? The Sirens? Is there, like, any connection to, maybe, the moon?”
“I’ve heard tell… No, Love, I realize the older brochures might suggest some… Myths. And… not exactly here.” The clerk was looking at her computer rather than the woman. “Area’s called a ‘reach’ because it’s favorable sailing between the rocks at the north headland and the, the safe harbor. South, southwest. Sirens and Selkies were useful to lure tourists.”
“Based on ‘wreckers,’ that’s what I heard.”
“Myth. And, again, not here. Novels. Movies.”
“So, you’ve never seen a Selkie?”
“Seals. Plenty of seals. No Selkies, no Sirens. But…” The clerk handed the woman the room pass. “234. Yes. It’s in the original part, pre-renovation, and you’ll have a view of the water. There’s a telescope and… full moon tomorrow night. Okay?”
I stepped up to the counter as the cold plungers danced back toward the bar, a carved image of a Selkie over the doorway. “Joseph. Joseph A. DeFreines. Party of two.” The clerk looked at her computer and looked back at me, shaking her head.
Julie stepped past me. “Julia Cole-Wilson. Emailed… yesterday.”
“Oh, then,” the woman said, with a quick glance between me and Julie.
“I forgot, Atsushi. You paid for the flight. I just…”
“She didn’t forget, Miss…”
“Jones. We’re all named Jones where I’m from.”
“Right. Wales. I was down there… a few years ago. Quite a few years ago. Surfing.” Miss Jones may have mouthed ‘surfing.’ She blinked. Definitely. “Lovely place, sad story… Otherwise, great, surfing wise.”
Julia moved next to me. “We’re here for the disappearance.”
“A friend,” I said.
“Our goddaughter.”
The clerk tried to maintain her neutral expression. “Rita.” She failed. “Rita Longworthy?”
Her eyes were so dark, so moist.
Feedback- You’ve gone a bit David Sedaris… Love… in your advanced age. I thought this was going to be a ‘short’ story. Otherwise… okay. See you soon. Get the fuck better. Please! Your Trueheart, forever.
Image, obviously, ‘borrowed’ from Stablediffusionweb.com. It’s an AI prompt, as if I know what that means.
Then, again, maybe I’ve always made some connection. Unprompted. The first drawing was done in the late 1980s. I added the lettering more recently. Capturing the essence and the allure of the sea; I’ve never quite gotten it right. And… I keep trying.
As, I’m sure, you do.
All original works by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. are protected by copyright. All rights reserved. TO CONTACT, email erwin@realsurfers.net. Thanks or checking it out!
I shouldn’t tell you where or when some guy, a ripper on an SUP, took these photos of REGGIE SMART, this after the ripper’s wife took photos of the ripper, and yes, I did see photographic proof that the photographer does, indeed, rip… oh, and I saw some photos of HAWAIIAN BRIAN, yes again, ripping, but, if seeing is believing (not always true; proof being shots of a rare lined up wave at any random beach break), but, as some other Olympic Peninsula surfers who saw the photos somewhere on the world wide web, over ripe with content and revelations, have saiid, “Yeah, great wave, great positioning”… shit like that, SO, yeah, kudos to Reg on forcing himself, with a definite lack of funding (check almost in the mail- not from me- different story) to cruise out to some unnamed coastal sometimes-heaven, sometimes not, spot and… wail.
The sign is another Reggie piece of art. His Port Townsend tattoo parlor’s new location is in the McCurdy building. Hey, it’s not my job to pimp out Reggie, but give him a call for all your body decorating needs.
CHIMACUM TIM took some free time, in between shifts on the Washington State Ferries, to do a stealth strike to Maui. Interestingly enough, at the very time he was doing a half mile paddle out to hit some outer reefs there, big time North Shore Oahu web stars, safety and camera crews and drones with them, were creating content there, and yes, I watched some of it.
The difference being, they didn’t send me exclusive photos and stories. Thanks, Tim.
I got this image from a resort on Lopez Island. I am intrigued by the whole hipster (possibly) fad of cold plunging. It’s a thing. Because I am still working on “The Hudson Street Whore,” about a possible landlocked SELKIE, and I’ve done some research on the whole Selkie, Siren, Mermaid mythology, and because my mind just keeps grinding away, I’m in the imagining stage of writing a dark (of course) piece that combines surfing with the rest of what I’m under-describing here, and includes surfing and ATSUSHI DEFREINES, the character from “SWAMIS.” The tentative title is, “Cold Plunge at the Siren’s Reach Resort.”
Meanwhile, I’m looking at doppler images, buoy reports, and forecasts, and trying to finish an exterior or two between atmospheric rivers and the usual doses of drama, spending some (not enough) time on the writing and drawing. Hopefully your too-close-to-winter time is going well. Hit the surf when you can. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net
Don’t be afraid email me, erwin@realsurfers.net, and you have my permssion to blow up my humble blog. I can take it.
WORKING ON IT- Librarian/ripper Keith Darrock and I have been discussing having a SURF MUSIC theme for the next Occasional Surf Culture event. I am working on a poster. The above start, not nearly psychedelic enough, may be used once we get details sorted. If you have surf-centric music, let Keith know via the Port Townsend Public Library, or you could e-mail me at erwin@realsurfers.net
It’ll probably kick ff in, like, January, preesumed (but not always true)height of the local surf season.
Photo from Unsplash. After scrolling and scrolling, this one fit best. Could have scrolled on.
Vintage Victorian Sealskin coat. Out of stock. Photo from MODIG. 1900s Faux fur coat from New York Cloak and Coat House. SHIT! Fake? Evidently you can get real ones in Canada. Might be a tariff. And it might be illegal if immoral isn’t enough, And it’s not like I want one, I just wanted the fictional character to have one.
The Store Owners’ Daughter and the Hudson Street Whore
When the night got too harsh, she moved under the awning, in front of my parents’ hardware store, the Hudson Street whore. I’ve heard her singing.
She twirled for a bit, in the display window’s light, her long coat a part of the dance, “It’s old,” she said, “True, but it’s warm and I swear that it’s genuine fur,” It’s the same one her mother once wore, the Hudson Street whore. I’ve heard her singing.
How this Fiction/Poem was inspired by Chris Eardley, and… an explanation:
It was too cold and, more importantly, too damp to be painting this close to the water this close to sunset. If the fog was to come in… I know the risks of painting exteriors in November in this part of the world. Still, after painting on the covered porch, I pushed my luck a bit, putting a coat on some columns.
That’s when Chris Eardley walked by from his office (with an envy-worthy view of the bend in the Salish Sea between the Strait of Juan de Fuca and Puget Sound) in another building in the Port Hudson marina/building/boat yard complex. Chris is another surfer overqualified to live in a surf-starved area such as the inland waters of the Olympic Peninsula.
Maybe we yelled greetings across the road and past the heavy haul-out movable crane. Or not. Maybe a wave exchange. But… because I was there under circumstances that could be reduced to “I’m here for the money,” I felt a certain amount of something resembling… guilt.
This is me, a self-identified paint-whore.
The fiction part- First, I do a minor cringe using a term as harsh as ‘whore.’ After writing and rewriting a few verses, I decided to make the narrator a woman (girl, age-wise), hoping, if I get to a complete version, that there will be some suspense, perhaps, that the story continues. And, somewhere in my confused, ‘let’s see’ mind, I want to connect the Hudson Street Whore to the ocean, to the whole tradition of Selkies and Sirens. And I will.
I’ll let you know.
The aforementioned Chris Eardley representing in some sunnier climes.
THANKFULNESS- Every wave is a gift. Even the ones you fall on, and the ones that fall on you.
The ghost in the laundromat dryer window is, yeah me, washing my paint-whore outfits.
SO, thanks for checking out my almost-humble blog; hope you’re enjoying the holiday, and, it’s not like we’re all a whore of some kind, but, as such, a surf-whore isn’t the worst thing.
“SWAMIS”- I’m almost through the first third of my latest re-write, front loading a bit more of the mystery aspect of the novel. I’m planning on publishing more here on a second page. Once I figure out how to do that. Stay tuned, stay frothy.
Not much to claim all rights to in this post, but, yes, I am on all original material. Thanks.
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.
I haven’t worked on my novel, “Swamis,” in a while. Long enough to run changes through my mind, the main one being that I need to stop over explaining stuff. I went through an outtake that would be part of a much longer version. And it’s a bit long itself. These scenes take place just after Joey and Julie have a bit of a romantic moment in the otherwise empty dark room at Palomar Junior College. Reminder, this is 1969, Joseph DeFreines’ father, a detective, had recently died in a car accident; Chulo, a surfer/drug dealer/evangelist, had been murdered at Swamis, and Joey is obsessed with solving the case, and has long been obsessed with surfer Julia Cole. Julie’s family is connected to the burgeoning marijuana trade. The connections in the North County were, obviously, closer then than at any time since.
What got me interested enough to do some more editing and posting this excerpt/outtake is the relevance it may or may not have with events we are still dealing with today. No more explanation.
But first:
Owen Wright at Cloudbreak, Fiji, from a few years back. EPIC. This year’s final five event. I believe the WSL may have cut off commentary. I got home in time to miss the first women’s heat. Caroline won, low scoring, against Molly (Pickles to some). Okay. I did watch Griff losing to Yago (is Yag the hipster version?). After, evidently, beating the other down-raters, it was one and done, Format wise, if Griff had won the first heat, two more heats were necessary to win the crown. Steph did it a few years ago; if the San Clemente surf-trained/programmed surfer had made the barrel at the last moment… Maybe. So, pretty exciting. Not to take anything away from Yags (Aussie version, perhaps, though Yago kind of fits), but Griffo was showing fatigue. And, not to take anything away from Picks, clearly in the Zone and ripping, but Caro seemed to not care enough. Or something.
The thrill of watching any sporting activity live, even golf, even Canadian Ice Bowling, comes down to the intensity of competitors, the make-or-break moments. I checked the results for the earlier heats, haven’t watched any of them, yet. And I gave up watching the post event awards stuff years ago. Not taking anything away from Joey and the crew thanking their sponsors and such. STILL, if I can stream a close heat live, like Kelly and John-John, or whichever of them went on to go against Gabriel… Yes; and I’ll be so happy I did.
Scam, Scheme, Schema, Schemata, Schematic, and the Crowded Lineup
You can learn a lot on PBS. Too much information, evidently, for the current administration. Not that I’m political, but truth seems very liberal to idiots and bigots and, basically, all the ‘ists. This isn’t me, devout hypocrite, saying some folks are idiots; that wouldn’t be kind. And it might be dangerous. However, if you have a chance to know the truth, to gain real knowledge, but you refuse the opportunity and try to block the opportunity for others, you are, by definition, ignorant. Being ignorant might, arguably, be more common among those who, through no fault of their own (not involving myself in the ‘nature or nurture’ discussion/controversy), be pretty fucking stupid. No offense meant.
Here’s the hypocritical part: What I learned by watching “Professor T” on PBS, is the word ‘SCHEMATA,’ in that instance applied to psychology. That I also watched the series in the original German is more because my hearing is so bad I read subtitles; the language less important; and this practice (also love “Astrid” in the original French) doesn’t necessarily make me that much cooler. Don’t fuckin’ call me an ‘elitist.’ Thanks.
Okay, so Professor Tempest, brilliant and quirky/damaged (obligatory for all detectives and such folks) criminologist, uses the word (singular form is ‘SCHEMA’) to describe how we, humans, from birth, learn, over time, patterns of behavior in others. This knowledge allows us to instantly discern whether someone is being honest, hostile, even dangerous. Further, we (as humans) can instantly know something about crowd behavior.
Okay, so here’s the actual hypocritical part: Want more waves in a crowded lineup? Yes. I’m guessing. Do you check out the surfers (competition) on the beach, guessing (with some clues) who is going to be a challenge in the water? Do you scan the lineup, checking out who is catching the most waves or the best waves? Do you use the information to your advantage once you’re in the lineup?
Also, it is important to evaluate yourself, your skill level in the conditions available, as honestly as possible, bearing in mind that very few surfers are as awesome as we like to think we are. Yeah, being able to get out at a spot doesn’t mean you’ll rip. There are the waves and there is the pecking order in the lineup. Not being the pecker doesn’t mean you have to be the peck-ie. VERY IMPORTANT- When you get your chance, don’t fuck up. No pressure.
Bear in mind, it’s okay to deny that you have some self-centered motives. You have a SCHEME, a plan; once you use tactics to take other surfer’s waves; yeah, then you’re SCAMMING. Some tactics are tolerated; blatant burning is, however, not generally a crowd-pleasing activity.
While I was thinking about what to write on this subject, not planning to write anything negative about any political regime, it suddenly occurred to me that a SCHEMATIC is what a wiring diagram is called. Wow! Knowledge. But, whoa! Project 2025, a plan, a scheme, drawn out in great detail, denied, denied, and denied, then… implemented.
I am not claiming ignorance of etiquette or innocence. With my motto (still) being “I’m here to surf,” I will take advantage of some advantages (wave knowledge, lineup management, bigger board) gathered over many years. AND, here’s where old school rules come into play: If a surfer blows a couple of takeoffs, doesn’t catch waves he or she paddles for, doesn’t make makeable sections due to lack of skill, I have been known to venture into the territory some might call SCAMMING.
More often I will use the time-honored traditions of SHARKING THE LINEUP and SNAGGING a wave someone else didn’t make the section on or fell on. This, in case you don’t know, might also be referred to as ‘SCRAPPING.’ I’m totally not immune to using the technique. I am here to surf.
Julie Cole reached to the right of the lightlock door and hit the light switch. The light over the door went out. She set the stack of contact prints just under the blow up from Beacons, dropped her bag just under the table. In the light of overhead fluorescent tubes and indirect sunlight, Julie did seem self-conscious. She set her glasses on top of my two PeeChee folders, put her left arm across her chest, set the sunglasses next to the prescription pair, pulled her sweater from the back of the chair, held it in front of her with both hands.
“Oh. Yeah. Admissions forms. Draft. It’s school or Vietnam. So, temporarily…”
Julie pulled the sweater over her head, watched my eyes as she pulled It down. I looked toward the table. “I noticed you… have….” I laughed. “More. Prints. Contact prints.”
“Thanks for noticing. But Joey…” She put a finger on the folders. “One’s thicker.” She looked in my eyes for an answer. I pulled the thicker folder out from under the glasses as Julie reached her hand toward it. “Julia Cole” was written, in ink, on the thinner folder.
“Not a… explanation. Apology.”
“You were going to… leave it?” I didn’t have to answer. “Can I read it?”
I picked it up. “Not now. No!”
Julie pulled her hair out of the sweater and pushed it back, put on her glasses, and walked to the table. She started spreading out the sheets, thirty-five-millimeter contact prints, several misaligned segments of film on each page.
“Mrs. Tony has… bosoms. I have… yeah, contact prints.”
I leaned over the table. “They look… nice. Prints.”
“Joey. Stop it! I am not trying to… just… Please… Your imagination.”
“Then quit… pleasing… my… imagination.”
“Please.”
“Okay. Sorry. Word play. So, uh, Julie; I believe… I don’t so much… imagine as remember. You… you’re the… imaginer.”
Julie took another step toward me. She squinted, half-smiled. “Just… I don’t want you to think I’m coming on you.”
“No; couldn’t even imagine it.” I tapped my head with three fingers of my right hand and showed Julie my blankest expression. “I do have to ask, though; where is Allen Broderick?”
“He insists on being called… Broderick. He’s… he has a class at ten; he’s probably…”
“Chasing another student, hoping his former student, current wife doesn’t… find out.”
“Possible.” Julie set the stack on the table, started pushing them off, spreading them to our right. I set the stack of seven notepads just past the contact prints. “Luckily,” Julie said, “I’m not his type.” She stopped the shuffling, looked down at her outfit. Loose sweater, gray cords, chukka boots. “I mean, in case you might have thought that we, we being he and I…” She was looking at me as she slid several more contact prints off the pile.
“Wait!” I put my hand down, hard, on the fourth sheet of photo paper. I leaned in.
“What?”
“Black car.” I grabbed the sheet. “Do you remember it? Do you have more? The guys. Do you have any… When, exactly, was this taken?”
Julie pointed to the lightlock door. “I have dates… on the cans. The film canisters. And I have, on the camera… dates.” Both of us were leaning over the sheet of tiny photographs.
“We should… Was this before or after Chulo’s…?”
“Julie.” A different voice. I turned. It was Allen Broderick, standing behind me and to my right. To his left was a young woman, giggling. I looked just long enough to get the impression she was an American Indian. Or she wanted to look like she was. Her right arm was under Broderick’s left. Her straight black hair was held in place with a headband of braided ribbons of different colors. She was wearing some sort of post Hippie garb, almost a dress, quite colorful, low cut. Braless. I did notice that. She was barefoot.
Broderick almost pushed off the woman to get next to the counter. He stood next to me. “You found something?”
Julie and I looked at each other. “No,” we said, simultaneously.
“Not really,” Julie said, looking around me and at the photography instructor.
The young woman had moved up next to Broderick and was leaning across him, looking at me. I glanced, smiled, politely, and turned back toward Julie.
Julie restacked the contract print sheets. I slipped in the one from my hand and shuffled in three from the bottom of the pile. “No, Broderick,” Julie said, “Joey. You know Joey. You spied on him.” Both Broderick and I nodded. “Joey just got a little… excited when he saw the sheet… incident at Beacons.” Swinging her left arm toward the enlargement by the light lock door, Julie turned toward the woman. Both of them smiled as if someone should introduce them.
The woman was still staring at me. Broderick broke away when he saw the edges of the two notepads hanging out of my pocket. He pointed with both hands. “Are those… those your father’s?”
“Do you remember me, Jody?” I turned my head toward the young woman. “Cynthia. Seventh grade. We were in the same home room.” I turned toward her. Allen Broderick stepped back. Cynthia stepped closer. I put my left hand on the table. Cynthia put her right hand to her nose and pushed it downward. “Cynthia.”
Dropping my left hand to the table and putting weight on it, I said, “Cynthia,” and froze.
…
Cynthia was in front of me, talking. I could see her, and the seventh grade Cynthia, at the desk next to mine, crying. There was laughter in the background. “The way the other kids treated you, I did. I… understood.”
In my memory version, the homeroom teacher, Mrs. Macintyre, in her last year of teaching, went behind seventh grade Cynthia’s chair, put her arms around Cynthia, and glared at me. She stepped to one side, half-lifted Cynthia from the chair, and walked her through a hushed classroom. Cynthia and Mrs. Macintyre looked back at me from the door. Mrs. Macintyre began to cry. Cynthia no longer was. I scanned the classroom, quickly passing over the faces of my classmates. All of them were looking at me. A boy one row of desks behind me said, “Way to go, Jap!”
The images faded. Both of Julie’s hands were over her face, middle fingers touching the inside corner of her eyes. She pulled at what might have been tears, slid her hands down and apart, and turned her eyes toward Cynthia.
I looked from Julie and Cynthia. Unaware that I had been, I continued crying. Cynthia’s expression was somewhere between curious and confused, possibly even concerned. “Cyn-thi-a, I… I am… so… so… ashamed.”
Cynthia placed her right hand on my left shoulder. “You are aware that, Jody, that your nose is… running?”
I wiped at my nose with the thumb side of my right hand. “You transferred… out. I’ve hoped… ever since… Did things get… better?”
Julie came up next to Cynthia. Shoulder to shoulder. “What did you do, Joey?”
“Navajo,” Cynthia said. “Jody wasn’t the first person to do… this.” Cynthia pulled down on her nose with her right hand. She turned toward me. “It was just… I didn’t expect it from… you.”
I had no response.
“I knew how badly you wanted to be… cool, Jody; to be… in… with the cool crowd.”
“That… never happened, Cynthia.” She gave me a half smile. “I am so, so… ashamed.”
“Good. Then, you should do the honorable… Japanese-ey thing.” Cynthia took a step back, pantomimed sticking a knife into her abdomen.
Julie said, “Hari-kari,” almost as a question.
Broderick laughed. Then Cynthia. Then Julie. Then me.
“Cynthia and I,” Broderick said, “We’re doing some…”
“Publicity shots.” Cynthia said, stepping away from Julie and me and putting her hands up to frame her face. “For my…” She threw her hands out. “…Professional… Agent!”
“So… fucking… groovy!” Julie froze. “Sorry. I never say… that, but…” Both of Julie’s hands were shaking as she reached out, not quite touching Cynthia. “I saw you, heard you. The VFW Hall. Vista. Teen dance. Last year. You were…”
Cynthia stepped forward into a hug. It took a moment before Julie allowed her hands to wrap around Cynthia. When she did, she looked at me.
Broderick put his right arm around Cynthia’s shoulder. His left hand was on Julie’s. “Cynthia’s fucking fantastic, Jody!”
The hug over, Cynthia turned toward me. “Funny thing, Jody; suddenly the cool people think I’m… I don’t know. Pretty. Different kind of pretty.” Cynthia gave Julie a sideways but intense look. “Teen dance? I would have noticed… you.”
“Probably not. Not really a… dancer.” Julie turned toward me. “Duncan.” She turned back toward Cynthia. “Big fan. He was… dancing.”
Cynthia looked from Julie to me. “Duncan?”
“Duncan,” I said, “Boyfriend.”
“Not… like that. Duncan…” Julie stopped but continued to blush. “Different.”
“You’re… her.” Cynthia pointed at Julie and turned toward me with a huge smile. “Is she her? She’s her, isn’t she?” I wiped my nose and eyes with the sleeve of my t shirt and shook my head. “The surfer girl. You drew her!” Cynthia was looking between Julie and me. I couldn’t see Julie’s face. “Crappy drawings. Grant; he started drawing because you… drew.”
“Grant. Still drawing.”
“But… now, here you both are; surfer girl and… you. Whoa!”
Whatever expression I gave Cynthia was taken as affirmation.
“Well,” Broderick said, “This is all kinds of fun.” I turned around. He was holding the contact prints up, close to his face, with both hands, raising and lowering them in a sort of peekaboo way. I grabbed the stack in the middle. I pulled them away quickly enough that I half spun toward Cynthia and Julie. They were looking toward the front of the classroom. I followed their eyes.
“Allen?” It was the woman I had seen at the San Elijo Grocery store. Allen Broderick’s picnic date. Or, possibly, Mrs. Broderick. High school class of ’67 was my guess. Dark hair. Pixie cut. Knee length skirt, matching top. Obviously pregnant. She raised a camera with both hands, and, without looking though the viewfinder, snapped several photos. “And this girl? Student or… another… client?”
Broderick said, “Andrea. No.” Andrea kept taking photos.
Cynthia posed rather provocatively. “Client. But I am… I’m flattered, Mrs. Broderick.”
“Not quite Mrs. Broderick… yet.” Andrea moved closer, aimed the camera at me. “You,” she said. “The detective’s son. Allen made me go with him… to see you.”
“At Mrs. Tony’s. Sure. Picnic.”
Allen Broderick moved closer to Andrea. He placed his hand on her left shoulder. She lowered the camera and pulled his hand off. “Picnic. Yes.”
“I am here with… Julia Cole. Julie. She is… taking… I would say, she’s taking advantage of the… college.” Keeping the contact prints against my chest, I swung my left arm around in the direction of the light lock door. “Julie and I are going to find out who killed Chulo Lopez. But, like you, Andrea, I don’t totally trust your husband to… We have to keep this all… secret.”
“All what?” Allen Broderick asked, extending both hands toward me.
Cynthia found another chair with an attached desktop area, sat down, put both elbows on the flat surface, both hands to her face, looked at me and said, “I can keep a secret.” She laughed. “Allen is… consumed with… this case,” Andrea said. “His life is so boring without the war and the killing. But he is pretty good at keeping secrets. A little too good, maybe.”
Allen stepped closer to Andrea. He put one hand on her shoulder, the other on her camera. She lowered it. “What would you rather have me consumed with, Andrea?”
“Me, Allen.”
Cynthia clapped her hands, very quietly. She pointed at Julie with her left hand, and me with her right. She crossed each finger over the other several times, then put the right finger under her nose, pushed it up, laughed, and said, as she stood up, “This is all kinds of fun, but… You guys look over my… head shots. I’ll trust you… Andrea. Whichever one you think is best. Broderick can call my… hooray for me… my agent.”
Andrea stood up, walked to the lightlock door, turned, took three quick photos of Broderick, Cynthia, Julie and me.
Cynthia said, “Sorry about your father, Jody.” She ran three fingers down Julie’s left arm, mouthed, “Surfer girl.” She half-sang, “Consumed,” as she walked into the brightness, in an exaggerated walk, her left hand moving in a beauty queen’s wave. “Oh, and Jody; a million ‘fuck you’s’ for being a. bullying fuck, and one ‘good luck’ for being ashamed.”
Broderick, next to the lightlock door, next to Andrea, looked at his watch. “I have a class. You can come back at noon. Or, if you trust me, I can do the contacts. Up to you.”
Julie nodded. I shrugged. Allen hit the switch for the red light and squeezed into the lightlock door, pushing his belly against Andrea’s.
…
Julie was sitting to my right at a large table in the history section of the Palomar Library. Admission application forms, partially filled out, were sitting on a PeeChee folder with. “For Julie” written on it. There were two sheets of contact prints in front of us. My stack, her stack. A large magnifying glass was in front of me, something that looked like an upside-down shot glass was in front of Julie.
“You comfortable now, Joey?”
I looked around. “Libraries. The wisdom of the world; categorized, filed, accessible. The Student Union. Noise. People. Disjointed conversations with a lack of… context.”
“Disjointed? Yeah, and you might run into someone else you… know.”
“You mean… offended. Or beat up. Never run into those folks in a library.”
“Palomar. They take… anyone. It is like failure to you. It’s not… Stanford?” Julie didn’t wait. “Yeah. I know shit. Stanford; got that from Judith, she from Portia, she from… your mom. Third hand. But… true or not true, Atsushi?”
“True… heart.” I slid the top sheet from my pile. “Going would have been a bigger failure.” Julie shook her head. “Irregardless, we’re looking for the black car, one of those muscle cars, and/or the two guys…”
Julie laughed, too loud, pulled it back, and said, “Irregardless.” I couldn’t help laughing. Julie leaned against me as if she couldn’t help herself.
Silence. Julie moved away, slowly, her left arm on my right. She picked up several photos from my stack. “These are from the Saturday. After. Early. If you notice, I wrote the dates on the photo paper before I exposed them.” She looked at me. “Didn’t notice? Okay.” Julie slid her right pointer finger down a row of prints. “You talking to that East Indian guy, the gardener; you getting your tape deck smashed; you getting hit by Dickson; him flipping us off before they let us go.”
“Dickson. You, um, made a… gesture, with your camera.”
“I did. Wish I had a longer lens. Prick like him…” Julie looked up. I looked up. “What was Detective… Dickson, Dick the Dick; what was he trying to… prove?”
“Dicky Bird, my dad called him.” I looked around the library, then back at Julie. My reflection was bouncing in the lenses of her glasses. “I think Dickson was trying to keep me… away. Maybe he thought he was doing a favor. For Wendall. He… I’m trying to be brief; he’s had… romantic notions about my mother… for a while.”
“Romantic notions? How…?”
“Quaint? Old fashioned? Un… um, hip? Wrong? Sorry.”
“No. Proof that you’re a… romantic.”
Silence. “Regardless, Julie; what about photos from… Wednesday, Thursday, Friday?”
“Sure.” Julie put her first two fingers up to her lips, kissed them, turned her hand around and moved it toward me. “Over… here.” Julie pulled up the top right-hand corner on five sheets, set them to one side. “So, Broderick. You didn’t trust him, and now…”
“Broderick’s knowing that I don’t trust him is good. For us. My mother… the photographers she works with… she says war’s ruined them for everything else except… more war. The game. And… he’s on our side.”
Julie looked into my eyes for a moment, then slid her chair to her right, noisily. “Our side?” She pulled the left sleeve of her sweater up with her right hand and checked her watch. “I didn’t ask to be in this game.” She let her tortoise-framed, oval glasses fall from her face.
I caught Julie’s glasses and put them on. “Whoa!” I handed them to Julie. “You. You’re as frightened, and confused, and… excited as I am; and you are… in the game.”
Julie chair scraped across the floor when she stood up. “I am… in it, Joey.” She kept her eyes on me as she crab-walked to the far side of the table. “You don’t have to be. You have to get that.”
“I… do get that. Or that you believe that. We’re not…” I wanted to say ‘friends.’ I wanted to say, ‘I love you.’ I said neither.
“This isn’t hypothetical or theoretical, Joey; you shouldn’t have any…. romantic notions about my life, who I am.”
“No.” I stood up, picked up the magnifying glass, and looked at the sheet on top of my stack, “Either should you. About me.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Your mother knows… I was driving my mother’s car… when my father pulled off the road…”
Julie’s expression said she didn’t know. She mouthed, “Sorry. So sorry,” leaned onto the table, and slid both forearms toward me.
I dropped the magnifying glass and took the ends of her fingers in mine. “I was… responsible.” I let her fingers go. ”And because of the accident, Langdon…” I sat back down.
…
If I was somewhere else, I don’t know where or for how long. Julie was, suddenly, it seemed, back in the chair to my right, leaning toward me. She took in a deep breath. “The guy… at Beacons, is Jonathan Barnhouse. It’s his brother in your dad’s notes. Sabastian Barnhouse, Junior. Dad’s a banker. North County Savings and Loan.” I forced my chair to pivot to get a closer view. “Went by Seb, or… Barney. He told me how lucky it was that a Jew like my dad could get accepted into…”
“The… country club?”
“Yeah. And he told me how beautiful I looked in a dress. Don’t… help me here. I have to… He said, no doubt, he was going to be rich; said he’d had a lot of success with girls. High school, and even more at San Diego State. Said he’d popped a lot of cherries. Yeah. And he told me I should feel honored that he was paying attention to a tomboy surfer chick like me.”
Julie was studying my reactions as she spoke.
“Women’s bathroom. There weren’t women around on a Wednesday. Golfers. I didn’t… lure… him in. I told him I was, I was fifteen. When I… turned him down, he…” Julie’s face was flushed. Her breathing quick and shallow. She was tapping on the table with the fingers of both hands. Little finger to index finger. “He said Cristine wouldn’t have.”
I let out more air than I thought I had in my lungs. I put my hands over Julie’s. “It’s… terrible. I… What happened? I mean…”
Julie pulled her left hand out and put it on top of my hands. “It’s… anti-climactic.” She pulled her head back, slightly, smiled, slightly. She looked around the library. I did the same. Our faces were close again. “So, Barney, Junior. He…” Julie’s smile was real. It was bigger, almost frightening. “At least, metaphorically, he got his cherry…”
At the very moment Julie scattered both piles of photos into each other, she sucked in her bottom lip, popped it out loudly enough that we both had to straighten up and look around.
“Popped!” I wanted to reach out to Julie, grab both sides of her face, kiss her. I didn’t. I did imagine it. I did, instantly imagine five different ways she could have done in real life what she did metaphorically. “My girl,” I said, way too loudly.
“Woman,” Julie said. “There were… repercussions, Joey. Both directions.”
“May I… guess?” Julie nodded. Her normal color was returning to her cheeks. Not instantly. “I know that… I have to whisper…” Julie and I moved toward each other. She pulled her hair back from her left ear. “Your father… maybe you thought the Twins… Swamis… were federal. I know… believe you looked.” She shrugged. “Orange County. You told me he said Certified Public Accountants don’t handle… money. Cash. Bankers do. Grocery stores… do. My guess is, molest the daughter of a CPA at your risk. I’m… shit, I don’t know.”
Julie turned her head toward me and came closer. She made a slight popping sound before our lips met. I made a similar sound, louder, after we had kissed.
…
Julie Cole and I were sitting together, scanning our separate stacks of contact print sheets. “Reverse shot-glass and full-on Sherlock,” I said, turning my traditional magnifying glass toward her.
“It was just a kiss, Joey.”
No, it was the kiss I have, since compared every kiss to. “What about… Duncan?”
“Duncan?” Julie’s head did a kind of sideways bobble. “Duncan needs me… more than…” She gave me a ‘you don’t get it’ expression. “Friend. Forever.”
“But he… loves… you.”
“He does.” Julie set the shot-glass down, put her left hand close to her mouth, and let out a breath. “I’m right about you.” She picked up the magnifier, held it against the right eye’s lens of her glasses, looked at me through it. “Besides being a genuine romantic, you believe you’re… funny.”
“To be more precise… precise-er…” I put the Sherlock up against the Shot-glass. “I’d rather be clever than… funny.”
“Keep trying, then.”
Julie checked my reaction. “Did I hurt your feelings?” She put a finger close to my lips.
I kissed her finger. “You did something to them, Trueheart.”
“Quit it.” She put her finger to her lips. “Later. Maybe…”
“Maybe?”
Julie blindly reached for her stack of contact prints, pulled one off the top, moved it in front of her, and set the shot-glass back on top of it. “Black car, Joey; remember?”
“Oh. Yeah.” I pulled a sheet from my pile, ran the Sherlock up and down the three strips. “Crowd. Wednesday morning. Lee Anne Ransom.”
“It was light by the time she got there.”
There’s… Do you recognize any of these people, Julie?”
Julie leaned toward me. She shook her head and pulled the sheet closer to her. “Okay, there’s… Jumper and… Sid. Must have walked past the… Petey Blodgett told me they wouldn’t let anyone into the lot.” She slid the shot-glass away and pulled the Sherlock out of my hand, fingers of her right hand on the frame. She grabbed the handle with her right hand, floated it over the images.
“We’re looking for two guys; one’s Mexican, the other white. From the loud black car. So, big… tailpipe… or pipes. And the other guys; also a Mexican and… critical, probably; the guys who brought Chulo to Swamis in a white pickup with duel back wheels. The white guy, he’s…”
Julie said, “Dulies” as she dropped the magnifying glasses. She took off her glasses as she stood up. She put the sheets we had looked at on top of my stack, that stack on hers. She grabbed the PeeChee folder with ‘For Julie’ on it, stuffed the photo sheets into the folder, that into her big gray bag. “These are mine, Joey. I have to go.”
“What did I do?”
Julie shook her head. She threw the reverse shot-glass and the magnifying glass into her bag, picking it up with her left hand, and spun away from me. “You should have listened to everyone, Joey.” She took two steps and stopped. “You should have stayed out of this.”
I leapt up, took the two steps, put my left hand on her shoulder. She stiffened. I circled around and in front of her. She pulled the hair from the right side of her head over her face.
“I don’t… understand.”
“No,” she said. “Not yet.” She looked at me for just a moment. There were tears. “Please, Joey; let me go.”
Julie did look at me outside the library’s main entrance. It was late afternoon. The sun’s rays, oranged-out like an old photograph by the northwest wind driven smog, was hitting her at a severe angle. “Atsushi.” She kissed me. “We were never…” With an expression somewhere beyond Julia Cold, Julie, pushing off me, was somewhere between panic and resolve.
Everything had changed. Again.
LATEST ATTEMPT AT SERIOUS POETRY-
An Accidental Smile
It was an accidental smile from a random, chance encounter, A passing glance at a passing stranger, Not inexplicable, just unexplained, It wouldn’t have been right to look back.
Of course I did.
It wasn’t you, It was someone too like you, Not you.
I thought that I forgot, I have not, Not yet, Not with the lightning quickness of synapses, firing, Triggered by unexplained chance, A random passing, An accidental smile.
What could I know from a moment, a first glance? Perhaps nothing, But, perhaps I’d passed someone I thought I forgot, Or, perhaps, I looked too like someone she once knew And believed she had forgotten.
Memories, then, images jumping around the neural passages, Lightning quick, faster than a heart beating, Too many, too fast, colliding.
I looked back, The woman who wasn’t you had stopped, Both of us smiled, shook our heads, and turned away.
I thought I couldn’t cry, I knew I wouldn’t try.
Why try?
Yet, safely away from the street, Most of those in the crowd dancing To too many rhythms, Their focus elsewhere, I had to lower my head, Knowing no one would notice.
Not on purpose.
Accidentally, maybe.
ALTERNATE ERWIN-
The photos of Owen Wright and the crowd in, I believe, France, are ‘borrowed.’ “Swamis,” the original pieces, the illustrations are copyrighted material, all rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
Ready to welcome Autumn. Hoping for some swell. See you out there.
WAIT! I am working on stuff. If you are reading this paragraph, check back later. I mean, if you would be so kind. Thanks. Working on it. EMERGENCY UPDATE (1 pm) It’s my birthday (13 plus sixty, if I base it on when I started board surfing), and I’m not going to have some of the new stuff I was planning on posting (surf, resistance stuff on Gaza, Epstein, Normalization of pedophilia and the discounting of damage to children, Hypocrisy in General, Selective Moral Blindness, Authoritarian/Fascist use of Gestapo/Mafia tactics, Fear, Fear Mongering, Hunger and Famine and Genocide and Ethnic/Religous Cleansing, and, oh yeah, Cowardice.
If I had a good reason to talk about surfing, present tense, I would. Past tense, I have been responding to some birthday texts that included questions about surf spots and such; future (hopefully) perfect tense, the WSL finals in Fiji are coming up and I’ve seen some videos. SO… hoping. No predictions, but some of the best tube riders are in the mix.
If you want to get a hold of me (other than by the neck), Please write me, erwin@realsurfers.net
“ERWIN” the film news: The short film by ANNIE FERGERSON has been making the rounds of art/surf film events, and will be shown twice at the upcoming PORT TOWNSEND FILM FESTIVAL (PTFF). If you can’t make it, I will post a link when I figure out how to do it. The VIMEO link I had no lonnger works. Sorry.
POETRY/SHORT STORY SECTION:In the course of a conversation with a woman I’ve worked for several times, me blathering on with stories, attempting to be clever if not amusing, my client, a few years younger than I am, said people younger than she and I do not understand sarcasm; that it’s dead.
“Replaced by what? Like, awkward situation humor?” “Maybe.”
“Well. Sarcasm is kind of, sometimes, mean spirited, BUT…”
Whoa! I thinkj I might need some therapy, or an intervention. I’ve pretty much been sarcastic as long as I remember, and, so far, no one has physically kicked my ass. Figuratively, yes; I have worked with masters of the craft of verbal repartee/battle; some of whom didn’t stop when the other participant surrendered.
That is, of course, wrong.
Now, I have said things like, “You win. I’m utterly destroyed by your superior putdowns.” It was a ploy. I didn’t mean it.
Occasionally I write something kind of snarky. Frequently I use sarcasm. Habit. If I say being passive aggressive is a defense strategy, I would be denying the times I’ve said mean things, said I was joking. Trisha’s response to this, on one occasion, was, “No, you always mean it; you’re an asshole, and you’re never sorry.” “Oh,” I said, “I am sorry; and anyway, if you say I’m passive aggressive, what about you? I mean…” “No. I’m not passive aggressive; I’m regular aggressive.” “You win,” I said. “I love you.” I mean both these things.
Here is a piece that may or may not contain sarcasm: Or, maybe I don’t really understand sarcasm.
Or the Midnight Amaretto
You dropped two dollars in the tip jar with an offhand, “I love you,” So casual, so smooth. The Barista smiled and said, “Oh, yeah?” Then, “Sure; okay… love you, too.” You winked. At me. I shrugged… at you. “Casual,” I said. “Smooth.”
You turned to the woman who’d given you her place in line, And asked, politely, if she had used the time to finally decide. The woman said, “I haven’t, so I guess the House Blend’s fine. Or, no, I’ll have half decaf, and half Valdez Valley’s Pride.” “Juan Valdez,” you said. “Classic allusion.”
The woman looked to me for reassurance, or, maybe, an explanation. She said, “I bought a house nearby, when I came here on vacation.” “I can’t help with your selection, Ma’am, I’m an artisanal ‘fail,’ I make my own, at home, most days, it’s ‘whatever is on Sale.’” “Like Maxwell House,” you said, nodding.
“I’ll take a half ‘Midnight Amaretto’, Love” you said, stepping in, “And half ‘Pirate Captain’s Blend.’ You well know I’d get a dipped biscotti if I had more cash to spend.” “Well know,” the Barista said. “Of course.”
The Barista, quite attractive, as Baristas tend to be, Looked around the crowded shop, tourists and regulars… a few dogs, She leaned in close to me. “You should ‘well’ know,” she said, “folks are serious here, you could just play the game. But…” and this she whispered, “To me, and please, keep my secret, All coffee’s pretty much the same. If I add whipped cream and chocolate, though it’d prefer whiskey or rum, I can put up with fake compliments and with those from whom they come.” “From whom they come,” I said. “Well said.”
She pulled back her hair, and I, undoubtedly blushing, Whispered, “I work for some of these same folks, I get it, the game and all, but I really must be rushing. So, I’ll have a dipped biscotti, please.” I leaned away and added, “And one for my old friend, And I’ll have whichever’s the larger size of the ‘Pirate Captain’s Blend.’”
The Barista said, “Then you’ll need whipped cream and chocolate, And may I recommend a double?” I said, “I’d prefer vodka, thank you, and I hope it’s not too much trouble.” “Not at all, Sir,” she said. “My pleasure.”
My friend and his new friend, Half Decaf, seemed curious or, maybe, jealous, I gave the new neighbor, Half Decaf, my biscotti when she said, “She whispered something… the Barista; don’t you think that you should tell us?” “Please don’t ask,” I said. “It’s… a secret.”
“Hey, man,” I said, “I’m heading out,” one foot pushing on the door, “I’m going to hang a while,” you said, “Have a good day,” And “Love you.” What I could have said was, “Sure, man… love you more.” Smiling appropriately, in keeping with the ambient ambiance, I said, instead, “Thanks for the invite, my… friend,” While stirring the double shot of chocolate, ethically sourced, The swirling foam, on the largest size, of my Pirate Captain’s Blend.
THE END
The original story and, I guess, all original (as in, by me) realsurfers.net content is copyrighted material, all rights reserved by the author/illustrator, Erwin A. Dence, Jr. If you want to use it, drop a line, erwin@realsurfers.net
Thanks to all who check out realsurfers. If you surf, good luck; if you don’t, today’s a perfect day to continue not surfing. It’s frustrating, crowded, and many surfers are, I must say, honestly, rather rude and possibly sarcastic individuals. DAMN, shouldn’t have said that; we all want to be individuals… together.
I had something almost ready for posting today that is based on two of my favorite words, “Esoteric” and “Eclectic,” the connection to the purer, less commercial, real-er aspects of surfing being that only a percentage of those who consider themselves surfers have the possibly exaggerated, possibly accurate view of surfing as ‘more than’ the sport of riding waves.
So, like esoteric humor, jokes that only a certain group, insiders, perhaps appreciate, surfers in a mostly wave-starved area, and defend and appreciate the waves when they do appear, and not to belabor this too far, somehow are… sort of insiders.
The surfers who wait for and search for waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca are a mixed group: Tech dudes and Tech Women, business folks, contractors, folks with lives that fill in the non-surf periods; it’s an eclectic mix.
I’ve written about NAM SIU before. When Nam got into surfing, he did everything he could to improve quickly; skateboarding, snowboarding, wing foiling. It worked; his surfing improved, quickly and dramatically. A message this morning from Nam’s significant other, JENNY LEE, was passed on in a group test by JOEL CARBON:
Photos from Chris Eardley
Nam and Chris work together at the Fish and Wildlife, or Fish and Game… one of those. Chris says “Nam is a friend first and a colleague second!”
Information on Nam’s condition is a bit sketchy, but it is known that the medical issues are serious enough that Nam was airlifted from Port Townsend to a hospital on the Seattle side. So… serious. The latest word as of Sunday evening is that Nam seems to be responding to treatment. So… some reason for optimism.
Nam is what we should want to be: Sincere, honest, dedicated, stoked, connected to whatever it is that entices, sometimes forces us, a very diverse group, age-wise, occupation-wise, any-other-measure-wise, to wait and search and push ourselves up or out. If there is a group that hopes and prays for certain conditions; offshore, lined-up, not too crowded; or, I guess, powder on the slopes and decent roads to get there, that group can use, perhaps, that same energy to be sent… elsewhere. Nam needs to recover. He and I have a contest going on, and I believe we’re currently tied; one heat each. GET WELL, NAM.
Real Surfers 