Tag Archives: Surf Culture on the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the Salish Sea Event

I Guess I’m Lucky… Occasionally

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence Cartoons, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, real surfers, surf adventures, surf art, surf culture events, surf fiction, surf novels, surf sessions, surf stories, surf trips, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing novels, surfing Swamis, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

There are some surf windows that become legendary; December of 1969 and August of 1975, California swells, one north, one south; epic enough to get a mention in *MATT WARSHAW’S “Encyclopedia of Surfing,” and extremely memorable to me because I was out for both of them; the first at Swamis, the second at Upper Trestles.

And then there are the legendary sessions we miss. Waves are breaking, brown-green slop to sparkling barrels, all over the world; and it is easy to believe even the most fickle spot gets something rideable to all time, some time. Rather than tales told in parking lots and over coffee or beer, or perhaps, in the bread section of a grocery store, YouTube and Instagram pushes almost-live images that are so much easier to find than the waves themselves. Trip to Bali because you saw something? Hawaii? Maybe, if you’re lucky, you can hit something all time in Australia or France. Gee, Mundaka and Uluwatu look fun. Malibu? Sure, and maybe a few leg burners at Rincon or Jeffry’s Bay. It would be so awesome to hit Cloudbreak on, you know, an almost survivable size. Yeah!

Maybe. Time and money and, even if you study the forecasts and hack Kelly Slater’s schedule, luck. The WSL’s version of a Pipeline contest has been on hold for… a while; one day’s competition in self-admitted beachbreak-like conditions. Still, it’ll get better. Hopefully.

Getting back to me; it’s not like I dominated SWAMIS in ’69, with overhead waves as barreling, offshore winds as strong as I ever experienced there, and with a certain amount of pre-internet hype and publicity adding to the crowd of takers and watchers. No on the domination. Swamis was, for the time, extra crowded, this exacerbated by the fact that when the surf gets big, the places one can reasonably surf in San DIego County gets reduced to Swamis, Cardiff, Windansea, Sunset Cliffs, maybe that non-surf spot, La Jolla Cove. Remember, I did say ‘reasonably;’ as in get out, catch more than one wave. Undergunned on the first day of a five or six day run, I did better as the waves evened out and the crowds diminished. A week or two later, the surf was just as big, less hype, less crowded. I went out, feeling lucky.

TRESTLES: Warshaw quoted MICKY MUNOZ as saying the south swell in August 1975 was as clean as any he remembered. Mr. Munoz was the first person I saw when I paddled out on my round-nosed, small wave board at Upper Trestles. I, admittedly, shoulder-hopped the first few waves, my fin just vibrating. Still, I made a few waves. I feel, this many years on, so lucky that I had the opportunity to work up the hill from a classic spot, park on the beach, and surf it, from barely breaking on, with what would seem an absurdly small crowd.

LOCAL OR LUCKY, it’s a term that comes up often out here on the fickle-as-shit Olympic Peninsula. The sessions worth remembering do happen. As they do everywhere. Maybe not as often. It’s probably acceptable to savor, or even recount the magic of the best sessions while waiting for the next one. I mean, not like bragging. It just seems like bragging.

Okay, maybe it is bragging, but, hey, you have stories I might not totally believe. Tell me those next time I run into you at Costco or Fast Taco or… wherever.

*Port Townsend Librarian Keith Darrock would love to get (now)Seattle-based surf historian/writer for the next OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA EVENT. Not the only reason he is mentioned here.

I’m working on my collection of songs and (I always kind of chuckle when I say this) poetry, and used some of my winter down time to do a potential cover. I should apologize here for posting “If It’s Over” twice. So… Sorry. If you stick with me, we’ll get to “I Guess I’m Lucky.”

I’m not (all that) political, but I do pay attention.

I would have done it in color, but that might make me seem… political.

I GUESS I’M LUCKY, because I never get the blues; Oh, yes, I’m quite lucky, because I never get the blues; Now I might get suspicious, and sometimes I’m anxious, too; I might even get desperate and tear up a thing or two; But I count myself lucky because I never get the blues.

Please don’t tell me your problems, and think that I can relate; I don’t harbor jealousy and I won’t subsidize hate; If you want to complain, you can just go to Helen Waite; Don’t be telling me gossip and acting as if it’s news, ‘Cause I can’t share your problems, and I want no part of your blues.

Dream of tomorrow, you sacrifice all your todays; You’re so busy workin’, you haven’t got time just to play; But you still have to crawl on your knees to pick up your pay; Though I’m selling my blood just to pay up my Union dues; I still count myself lucky because I never get the blues.

My old truck’s still running, my dog didn’t die; not in love with a woman who told me goodbye; And my Mama still talks of her baby with pride, and I can’t remember the last time I cried.

But then… I’m lucky, because I never get the blues; oh yes, I’m quite lucky, Because I never get the blues; Sure, sometimes I get angry, and sometimes I’m hurtin’ too; I might even get lonely, but not like most people do; Then again, I’m just lucky; yes, I count myself lucky; Hell yes, I’m quite lucky… because I… never get… the blues.

PHOTO voluntarily REMOVED.

All original work on realsusrfers.net, unless otherwise attributed, is covered by copyright protections, all rights reserved by the author/artist, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

YOU WON’T get lucky without trying. Find some surf, get on it! MORE stuff on Sunday, and yes, I’m, like, 170 pages out of 214 or so on my latest rewrite of “Swamis,” suddenly concerned that I did not, perhaps, put in enough description of the characters. You know, like, “Roger and Gary were both blonde, both assumed a stance that said, ‘casual,’ both with expressions that said, ‘cool.’ For the most part they maintained the image.” I have been, so far, realizing it’s almost a requirement for a novel, resisted describing the breasts of the women in the novel. So far.

The Big Event, Babies, and CoinciDENCES

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, oregon surfing, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, surf adventures, surf culture events, surf trips

It’s the big Sunday edition. FIRST, a reminder that the FOURTH OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT is coming up on Wednesday, July 17, 6-8pm, Port Townsend Public Library. Special guests, art, and an emphasis on ‘TALKING STORY.’

BABIES- Ripper Mikel ‘Squintz’ Cumiskey, seemingly ping-ponging between Florida, the Pacific Northwest, and the Big Island (currently), and his wife, Kelsey (sp), had a second child. Since Mike sent texts to every surfer on his contact lists, it seems it might be worth spreading the word farther. It might have been, you know, nice if he had included more info, but… yeah, congratulations!

                        CoinciDENCES

My sister, Suellen, masterminded a reunion of her brothers and sisters in Long Beach, Washington, near Chinook, the last place our father lived, and meant to coincide with what would have been ERWIN ALLEN DENCE, SENIOR’S one hundredth birthday. He had every intent to make it to this landmark, but, having survived World War II, Korea, eight children and three wives, he did not. Our sister, Melissa, passed on several years ago, and the thought is this might be the last chance the rest of us have to see each other.

If it had all worked out perfectly. It did not. I had a short window of availability and missed seeing my brothers Jonathan and Philip. I did see Suellen, Mary Jane, and our youngest brother, Edwin (who assures me that, no, Erwin and Edwin are not variations of the same name… as in, ‘I’m Darrell, this is my brother, Daryl, and my other brother, Derrell.’)

Edwin lives most of the year in the “Chinook House,” and has done extensive remodeling on the place a block from Surf Route 101 (on which I live 290 plus miles away by the “Loop,” much, much closer via McCleary Cutoff), a block from the Columbia River. Chinook is the closest town on the Washington side to the Astoria Bridge. I made some (not enough) trips down when our father was alive, almost always heading over to Seaside (or Short Sands) for a few waves. 

It is nice to have a place to stay down that way. There was a tradition of Peninsula surfers heading down when a northwest swell just isn’t happening, and, of course, ever friendly, ever sharing Seaside locals heading up to the Strait of Juan de Fuca when there is some rumor of, you know, waves. The friendliness, stay-at-a-friend’s-house factor may have deteriorated somewhat over the years.

I did, of course, as is my tradition, trek over to Seaside while down there.  I had some notion that I might find a used SUP to back up my dinged-to-shit Hobie. Enough so that I didn’t bring it. I did check out the Cove and the Point. Northwest wind, weak swell, no one in the water two days before the fourth of July. Disappointing. Similar conditions on the Strait would probably have enticed surfers to attempt surfing.

Neither shop in Seaside had SUPs designed for surfing. “We have some of the… flat water kind. It’s just not that popular here.” Nor do they, possibly, wish it to be.

Because I had taken off so early and had plans to meet my siblings at the Pig N’ Pancake in Astoria, I hung around the shops a bit longer than I ordinarily would, eventually purchasing a t shirt from each; one for grandson, Tristen, and one for his son, Zander, due to come down on the Fourth with my daughter, Dru, our ex-daughter-in-law, Karrie, Tristen, his wife Aisha (sp?), and their daughter (complicated- Trish keeps track for me), and take over the room Suellen had set up for me at the RESORT (time share).

WHEN I go into a surf shop, I have always, and evidently still do feel like a KOOK. I did admit that to the three salespeople behind the counter, adding that if one works at a surf shop, one is, one, automatically cool, and two, automatically assumed to be a great surfer. They all nodded.

I had already talked to the guy in that group, 26 years old and self-identified as a Seaside resident. He said he is all right with the tourists and, of course, if the Point is pumping, he can, by status or skill level, join the local rippers hanging out in a private lot partway up, allowing locals the position to encourage interlopers to not take photos and to surf the Cove. Or go home. “Nothing too serious.”

“Of course not,” I said, recounting how I was yelled at for paddling past a local (for a look, only- I swear). “If you think the locals are… serious… here, it’s nothing like the localism on the Strait.”

To those of you who are… serious; you’re welcome.

With time, still, to kill, I went to the Costco in Warrington to pick up a watermelon for Suellen, some ground coffee (because I’m too cheap or stubborn to buy from a stand), and a Costco-sized container of Churros/donut holes, the intention being to turn them over to Dru and the crew from Idaho (yeah, Idaho- our son, James, went to college there, and stayed). I didn’t. I finished the last churro yesterday.

ANYWAY, the parking lot at the Costco is huge, and I could not remember where I parked the Volvo, exactly, so I headed out for the farthest reaches. No Volve, but I did start chatting with another self-identified lifelong local, a woman probably in her late fifties, of course, trying to separate myself from the Costco-sized tourists, mentioning that my had father lived in Chinook.

“We all surf here,” she said. “Probably started about eighth grade.”

“Oh, that’s about when I started board surfing.”

It isn’t so remarkable that I ran into someone in a legitimate surf town who surfed or surfs (and I’m always ready to make some surfing connection with anyone I meet). What is worthy of note is that, if she was behind the counter, or a customer, at a surf shop, I would totally believe she, one, surfs, and two, surfs well. I’m always disappointed in myself when I miss an opportunity to take a picture. It, of course, last longer. I did get a couple of shots at the Astoria Pig N’ Pancake.

LEFT TO RIGHT: A possibly exasperated or exhausted (it was between breakfast and lunch crowds) waitperson; me; Suellen’s grandson, Yurick (sp?); my brother, ED; brother-in-law, Stan; sisters Mary Jane (Janie) and Suellen. I’m sort of questioning whether to use this photo. In real life, Edwin is way bigger than me, and what’s the deal with my serious expression? I should add that Suellen did surf and, in fact, got me involved in board surfing, BUT, if any of us showed up in a surf shop…

DRU AND THE CREW did make it back from the coast late last night. I have to process all the adventures. All of them love the coast. Well. Yeah. 

T SHIRTS: I will definitely have more on the upcoming EVENT later in the week. I will have some ORIGINAL ERWIN T-shirts available. AGAIN, More, later.

BACK to “Swamis,” Surf Culture Event, More

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THE FOURTH OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT is scheduled for Wednesday, July 17, 6 to 8 pm, Port Townsend Public Library. The emphasis is on “Talking Story,” with distinguished story talkers and… regular-but-real surfers, AND there will be surf focused art by Olympic Peninsula artists, AND there will be outtakes or a gag reel, at least, or the actual world premier of a short documentary on a longtime surf villian blowing up at (or just blowing up) a local not-secret-enough spot.

I’m not sure how to link stuff, but more information on the participants, and updates are available at https://ptpubliclibrary.org/library/page/fourth-occasional-surfing-art-culture-salish-sea

Or, of course, I will post whatever I know. AND, I am making efforts to have some ORIGINAL ERWIN T SHIRTS available. New ones.

I have several other illustrations that haven’t been scanned. So… decisions.

“SWAMIS” UPDATE- With my fourth oir fifth total edit/rewrite was stuck at over 105,000 words, I have been dealing with the knowledge that I would have to further cut back on the timeline. Because Microsoft Word on the laptop I am ‘borrowing’ from my daughter, Drucilla, suddenly started going… really… slow, I found a pretty good place to end what may or may not be the first book of… I don’t know, at least one more, THOUGH I’ve pretty much had enough of the writing style of the fictional narrator, JOSEPH ATSUSHI DE FREINES. He’s just a little too OCD for me AND it makes me worry.

So, currently, the manuscript is down to under 90,000 words, AND, because I was in severe panic mode, I took the thumb drive to COHO PRINTING and had 8 copies printed up. I’ve already given away two of them. AND, because the new epilogue and the new, foreshortened ending were the last things I wrote, AND because I am, in addition to the other psycho damage, evidently anal retentive about writing and cannot look at my work without changing it, I have done more on the first several pages.

I plan on printing them up separately, and… yeah, planning.

DRU updated the Microsoft, so, fast, fast, too fast. The good news is, with all the stuff I have written in the bloated, unexpurgated versions, I have lots of material, AND because I have what I intended to be the ending at a state where I was… almost… satisfied with it, it might be easier to continue with “Swamis.”

HINT- I’m considering “Beacons,” another Encinitas surf spot, as a subtitle for part II, then… “Grandview…” maybe. Anyway, here’s the latest. I’m pretty satisfied… Almost.

“SWAMIS” A novel by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

                                    PROLOGUE

            Some moments, terror and bliss, mostly, that occurred in seconds, become, over time, placemarks. A corner turned, a decision made, a life changed. The mundane and the magic become part of the story. It’s easier to remember the magic.

            I started writing “Swamis” as memoir; fifty years after a specific time in a location that was, to me, magical. Swamis. If I believed I was the observer of other people’s lives, a part of someone else’s audience, listening to their stories, remembering the best parts, recording them; the real people placed, as characters, into positions in some larger story I believed I understood; and I did believe that; I was wrong. Wrong about it all.

            Whatever I saw, whatever I recorded, whatever role I played made little or no difference in what seemed inevitable. Still, I was there, almost eighteen, and thrilled to be there.

            Recalling, and writing, and editing, and rewriting has come to mean throwing out the peripheral and tangential stories, the ones I love knowing, the deep cuts. I have, finally, concluded that I want to tell more than one book’s worth. Still, this manuscript, with fifteen-thousand words cut and saved in some other file, might be the end of my trying to recapture the feel of a time in which change hit a new gear. Surf and evolution and revolution and peace and love and a war in the background, a drug culture morphing into an industry, heroes and villains, if anyone fit into either category, impossibly connected.  

            The murder and the mystery, all the other stories; “Swamis” was always going to be about Julie. And me. Julie and me. Magic.

                                    CHAPTER ONE- MONDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1969

            “The allure of waves was too much, I’m told, for an almost three-year-old, running, naked, into them. If I tell you I remember how the light shone through the shorebreak waves, the streaks of foam sucked into them; if I remember the shock of cold water and the force with which the third wave knocked me down, the pressure that held me down, my struggle for air; if I say I remember anything other than my mother clutching me out and into the glare by one arm… or even that… Well, Doctor Peters, that would be, this all happening before the accident; that would be… me… creating a story from fragments. Wouldn’t it… be… that?”

            “Memories. Dreams. We can’t know how much of life is created from… fragments. But, please, Joey; the basketball practice story; I didn’t get a chance to write it down. So, the guy…”

            “I’m not here because of that… offense.”

            “I am aware. Just… humor me.”

            “I was… Freshman team. Locker room. They staggered practice. I was… slow… getting dressed. Bus schedules. He… FFA guy… Future Farmers. JV. Tall, skinny, naked, foot up on a bench. he said I had a pretty big… dick… for a Jap. I said, ‘Thank you.’ It was more like a question. All the Varsity players came in. Most stood behind him. He said, ‘Oh, that’s right; your daddy; he’s all dick.’ Big laugh.”

“’Detective,’ I said. ‘And, Rusty, I am sorry about your brother at the water fountain. I’m on probation already… and I’m off the wrestling team, and…’ I talk really fast when I’m… forced to… talk. I’m sure you’ve made note. I said, ‘I don’t want to cut my hand… on your big buck teeth.’ Bigger laugh. Varsity guys going, ‘Whoa,’ and… He was embarrassed. His brother… it’s in the records, that incident. Fourth grade. Right after I… came back.”

            “Joey, are you…? You’re picturing it… the incident. You are.”         

“No. I… Yes. I quite vividly imagine… incidents. In both cases, I tried to do what my father taught me… or tried to. ‘Walking away is not backing down.’ Basketball. I never had a shot. Good passer, great hip check.”

            “He… Rusty, he charged at you?”

            “He closed his eyes. I didn’t.”

            “All right. So, so, so… Let’s talk about the incident for which you are here. You had a foot on… a student’s throat. Yes? Yes. He was, as you claim, already on the ground… faking having a seizure. He alleges he wasn’t a threat to you; wasn’t charging at you. Have you considered…?”

            “The bullied becomes the bully? It’s… easy, simple, logical… not new; and I have… considered it. Let’s just say it’s true then. I am… this is my story… trying to mend my ways. Look, Grant’s dad alleges… assault. I’m… I get it; I’m almost eighteen. Grant claims he and his buddies were just… fooling around; adolescent… fun; I can, conceivably… claim, and I have, the same.”

            “But it wasn’t… fun… for you?”

            “It… kind of… was. Time’s up. My mom’s… waiting.”

            “Joey… I am, can be… the bully here. So… sit the fuck back down!”

Chimacum Tim Pauley sent me this photo of PAVONES. The memorial for EDINSON SERNA is today. Edinson’s brother lives near this epic Central American break. Some secret photos Tim has sent me in the past were taken by Edinson. One of them, secretly circulated among, you know, friends who wouldn’t share it except to, you know, a few friends, always had the question of who caught this magic moment on at was, up until this very time, an uneventful/normal session.

Thank you, Edinson, rest in peace.

LATE BREAKING and INCOMPLETE…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, Seattle surfers, surf culture events, surf novels, surf posters, surf stories, surfing tales, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

WORD ON THE STRAIT. More on all of this on Sunday, including a list of scheduled, distinguished speakers, artists’ work on display, short documentary, and more.

Classic stylist Archie Endo is back from Thailand. Temporarily. I am hoping to do a surf trip with him before he goes back.

Stephen R. Davis conquers another peak.

SAD NEWS via CHIMACUM TIMACUM (Tim Pauley) on the passing of EDINSON SERNA:

“There will be a celebration of life for Edinson Serna this Sunday at Myrtle Edwards Park at 4pm. We will be meeting by the PI building by the sculpture garden on the water.

Many of us knew Eddie fron surfing in the Pacific Northwest. He was always a vvery likable guy, super stoked, positive, and excited to be in the water surrounded by people. Hope to see everyone this Sunday. RIP”

NOT-SECRET-ENOUGH stuff. Professional videographer ANNIE FERGERSON (left) will be, if not premiering a short documentary on a notorious wave hog at the upcoming CULTURE EVENT, at least showing outtakes or a gag reel. NOTE; The goonball with the cap ON TOP OF the hoodie put this off fro a while, then, in true self-centered, sociopathic fashion, agreed to be filmed (with certain restrictions as to the angle from the beach, no gratuitous nudity, etc.). “Yeah, I figured, at my age, I would love to see a slow motion video of me, you know, like, cruising, and, uh, yeah… what?” WHAT?

DETAILS ON all of this and more on SUNDAY, you know, like, maybe don’t look for it before, like 10am, Pacific Daylight Savings Time. There will also be updates on ORIGINAL ERWIN T SHIRTS and, now that my daughter, Dru, fixed the slowdown on microsoft word, the novel, “SWAMIS.”

MEANWHILE, keep working on your surf stories. We’ll talk soon.

Barrel Dodging, Inspiration, and Eventual New Surf Rig

Posted on by under Seattle surfers

This is the piece I didn’t read at the THIRD SURF OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT. I kind of free-balled on what the piece may or not say:

Art, Surfing, and Barrel Dodging

IMAGINATION connects surfing and art. Surfers imagine how they’re going to cruise or glide or dance on waves… or rip them up. Artists look around, or they, perhaps, stare at a blank canvas and imagine some piece of artwork. It starts with the IMAGE.

The image is, quite possibly, perfect, perfectly rendered, real. Or there are variations, slight or major changes, embellishments, color, perspective, shape, shading, formatting.  

REALITY. This is tougher. Image to reality.

Unless you live at a beach, surfing requires getting your gear together and heading out. Maybe you have reason to believe there will be good waves. EXPECTATION. ANTICIPATION. Even if someone broke a major rule of etiquette and called you, you can’t be entirely certain the waves are chest high and perfect. So, you’re anxious, excited.

You arrive, gear assembled. It’s time for the GREG NOLL MOMENT. Not at third reef pipeline. I’m sure you have that image cataloged in your brain somewhere. Every surfer takes that moment, mind surfing a few waves, putting yourself in the picture. You will wait for a lull, jump in and… surf. Timing, timing, COMMITTMENT. You either wade or you leap.

For a writer or an artist, a blank page or an empty canvas can be daunting, even frightening. Getting started can easily be put off with real life chores and commitments. Eventually you make the first sketchy strokes. Wading. Or leaping.

It shouldn’t really be surprising that things don’t go as you hoped. Your words or colors or that six wave set that catches you inside, or wave selection, or just plain PERFORMANCE don’t go as you had imagined. Almost never. Still, you’re doing… okay.

Okay. Let’s say you have a piece of art that you’re pretty satisfied with. Not fully stoked, not ready to sign your name to it. You could do more to it, maybe improve it. But you could also, by continuing, destroy it, lose some quality you almost accidentally, but happily achieved.

Twisting and squeezing this metaphor; you’re surfing down the line, high on the wave face. The wave is getting critical. You could tuck into a barrel you may not make it out of, risk getting pitched over the falls, or you could drop down, attempt to go under and around that section, maybe connect back with the green wave face on the other side.

BARREL DODGING. The result is a less than memorable, could-have-been great ride. And you still might have been wiped out by the broken wave.

The rides that are memorable, the ones that make whatever sacrifice we tell ourselves we’re making to surf, or write, or pursue some sort of artistic accomplishment, are the sections we didn’t think we would make, barrels we didn’t think we would come out of. But we did. Sometimes, even if we didn’t make the wave, we were in there.

I believed I would be a successful artist, or writer, or both, at about the same time I started surfing. If I was grateful any time I got a good ride, I wasn’t satisfied with anything but getting better. I would get frustrated and even angry when my performance in real life, hard, tedious, overwhelming, that Cinerama, surround-sound, twenty-four-seven real world didn’t live up to my great expectations. Pretty standard story.

There are waves, specific rides I remember. Name a spot I’ve surfed, and I will tell you my best ride there, or a perfect wave on which I blew the takeoff, or I didn’t grab the rail when I might have made it if I had; or, here’s an example: Warmwater Jetty, 1970. I pulled out, over the top of a steep section, and watched from behind it peel off perfectly for fifty more yards.

There are things I drew or painted or wrote that I hold, or held, in high regard. And there are all the other drawings and paintings and stories. If I go back and check out works from my past, I am occasionally surprised. Time has given me a chance to be more objective. Some are good enough I can’t believe I did them; others are not.

If we actually had movies, videos, some actual real-time, real-life visuals of any of us surfing, we would learn something our mental GoPro misses. Not as smooth, not as graceful, not as deep in the barrel as we imagined.

With art, there is something to read, or look at, or touch. Almost none of it is perfect. Or sacred. The truth is almost nothing is perfect. If we insist on perfection to be happy or satisfied, we won’t be. Still, we don’t want to settle for ‘good enough.’ We can set a project aside, repaint, redraw. Or we can hit ‘save as’ and keep writing, keep editing. Or we can take that step of putting the brush or the pen or the pencil back onto the surface, boldly going somewhere just past where our imagination has taken us. Or we can tuck in and hang on.

Wipe out or come out.

Either way, the possible gift is another moment we might remember. Art, surfing, life. If our memories aren’t as tangible, as real, as any story or song or painting or sculpture or assemblage, our mental images are what remains, and almost all that remains, of anything we’ve seen or read or experienced.

As surfers, as workers, as artists, as people who are in this real world with other real people, we seek to form new images, future memories.

The best memories, of the near perfect and near-weightless, blissful moments, allow us to forget the anxiety, the fearful and the hateful times we’ve experienced, the real and psychological pain we’ve felt.

These images are our personal art collections, and, hopefully, they last as long as we do.  If there’s a message in here it’s this: Be brave when you can.

Not me, obviously, and possibly a set up for the next section rather than barrel dodging the first section.

SIDE (SLIP) STORY- In between rides, I told BIG DAVE, who will sideslip a steep section, plow through a barrel or even a closing-down section rather than drop down and go around it, something like, “You know, sometimes, in order to make the wave, I kind of go through a slower section and then…” “Oh,” he said, “What part of __redacted___ are you from?”

FUTURE SURF RIG- I’ve been waiting for, and finally got my new surf rig. Great! Then, something wasn’t working. NEW BATTERY. Then, something else. Possible ALTERNATOR. I’m working on getting it worked on. I will update on WEDNESDAY, with the next installment from “SWAMIS.”

COPYRIGHT STUFF- Both local newspapers used stuff I wrote as a press release for the EVENT, edited it to suit their purposes, and published without giving me credit. IF YOU want to take anything from the above little piece, help yourself. THIS PIECE ONLY.

OTHERWISE, good luck in getting a few barrels, a few cruisers, and home safely.

After the (successful) Event

Posted on by under northwest surfing, real surfers

Oops; me, slightly before the Salish Sea Event. Portrait by CHIMACUM TIM(acum). Love the cropping; no visible baldness.

REGGIE SMART’S display. It’s not like Reggie disappeared into the crowd. He did have an RV (for sale) parked out on the street. Private tours, perhaps.

STEPHEN R. DAVIS’S wife, SIERRA, in the foreground, her husband’s painting on the back wall, with TUGBOAT BILL (red shirt, next to clam wood and, damn, I have some photos- I’ll put them in on Wednesday). ADAM ‘WIPEOUT’ JAMES is in the middle of the frame, talking story with JEFFRY VAUGHN. A couple of paintings by JESSE JOSHUA (I substitute Merle for his middle name, after the bluegrass musician, so I can remember it) WATSON are visible on the wall to the right. I didn’t take any photos, so I’m using shots by others. Oh, and the young VIOLINIST (REBECCA, I think) who played her heart out and was, mostly ignored. Good job, hope she was compensated. She is, incidentally, also involved in a young musician’s workshop that is connected with the OLYMPIC MUSIC FESTIVAL, which, coincidentally, my daughter, DRUCILLA, works for.

CHRISTIAN COXEN in the very foreground, NAM SIU beyond him, and one of my illustrations projected onto the screen. My daughter, DRU (Drucilla- I only have one daughter), set up my presentation, for which I thanked her almost enough times, and also set up slide shows from thumb drives for REGGIE, photographer DOUGLAS FIR (name de art, from his middle name, Christopher- forgot his last name), and did a little assist for the presentation for TIM NOLAN.

DRU and I (I’m in the Hawaiian shirt I wore to the other two events, probably was wearing for the Zoom event during Covid, and never otherwise wear) semi-hiding out next to NAM SIU’S display when I was supposed to be speaking. Too many people. I did speak later when a woman from Port Townsend, who I don’t know, but who knew so many people I have worked for, semi-shamed me (and semi-complimented me, saying I am [somewhat] famous for talking, talking, talking) into speaking to a smaller crowd.

TIM NOLAN speaking after I did. The crowd is all squeezed into this half of the big room, and, according to ADAM, paying rapt attention to two elder dudes. Yes, well received.

THE FOUR people who claim some stake in the board (bottom shown here, top equally fantastic)-Librarian/ripper KEITH DARROCK (who put the board back together and did some refining of the shape after he SHORTBOARD AARON, CHRIS EARDLY, and maybe JOEL CARBON tried to ride it); realtor/ripper JOEL CARBON (who was given the board with the thought being to sacrifice it on the Summer solstice, last and then this year), me (I finished the sanding, stained and painted and varnished it with what Keith now calls ‘leftover paint,’ all in what he now calls ‘spare time.’) and ADAM JAMES, who cut down the cedar tree, took the slam (and maybe other slabs- it was originally going to be a coffee table) to Seattle to be milled, spent time (spare?) shaping the board, attaching fins.

Unseen in the photo; our lawyers. SO, during the EVENT, a woman came up to Adam and asked what the board might be sold for (she may have offered $250- accounts vary). Adam told her she’d have to ask ERWIN. I said, quickly (and my imagined value on the board went up with every coat of varnish and/or paint, and even more with every compliment), “three thousand dollars.” She said, “Oh, but I’m a local.” Okay. “Actually, I’m from Washington… DC.” “Thirty-five hundred.” She didn’t write a check.

There has been discussion on what to do with the board. Keith said, “If she’d offered a thousand, you would have take it.” Yes. Probably, and then sort out who owns what percentage. But she didn’t. The board will be at the PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY for a while. IF IT COULD BE auctioned off for a decent amount of money for some charity, I am pretty sure the stakeholders would be pleased. Sort of.

MEANWHILE, if you absolutely need It, and are willing to pay the three grand, contact Keith at the library. I sort of trust him, though I once gave him a board (5’9″ BIC) he was supposed to pass on to MIKE NORMAN as partial payment for finishing the shaping on and glassing a board for me; short version, Mike never got around to shaping the board, CHRIS BAUER would have (if he didn’t put his name on it), I shaped and glassed and painted the board, and when I asked Keith what happened to the Bic, he said he sold it. “WHAT?” “Well, a guy wanted it, and I did give you some plywood.” “Oh.” Jeez, it was leftover plywood Keith gave me in his spare time.

HEY, check out realsurfers on Wednesday. I’ll have some photos on the specialty wood TUGBOAT BILL brought to the Event. And more. To all those who attended the EVENT, mucho thanks. Great fun, no backpaddling.

Adam Wipeout’s Solstice Survivor and “Swamis” Chapter Two

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel

The photos don’t do the board justice. I mean, if I do say so myself. The board will be on display at the THIRD OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT, this Friday, June 30, Port Townsend Library, 6pm.

                        CHAPTER TWO- SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1968

My nine-six Surfboards Hawaii pintail was on the Falcon’s factory racks. I was headed along Neptune, from Grandview, toward Moonlight Beach. The bluff side of Neptune was either garage or gate 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 out at the preferred lineup for righthanders. They all knew each other. If one of them didn’t know me, the asshole detective’s son, others would clue him in. There was no way the local crew and acceptable friends would allow me to catch a set wave; maybe a wave all of them missed or none of them wanted. No. One of the surfers would act as if he was going to take off on some smaller waves, just to keep me off them.  

As the first one in the water, I had surfed the peak, had selected the wave I thought might be the best of a set. Three other surfers came out. Okay. Three more surfers came out. Sid was one of them. A set wave came in. I had been waiting. I was in position. It was my wave. I took off.  Sid took off in front of me, ten yards over. I said something like, “Hey!”

Rather than speed down the line or pull out, Sid stalled. It was either hit him or bail. I bailed. Sid said “Hey!” Louder. He looked at me, cranked a turn at the last moment. He made the wave. I swam.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, back at the lineup. The four other surfers there were laughing with Sid.

“Wrong, Junior; you 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?” 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 paddled back, staying prone on my board, tacking back and forth. A wave was approaching, a decently sized set wave. I wanted it. 

“Outside!” I yelled, as loud as I could; loud enough that four of them, including Sid, started paddling for the horizon. I paddled at an angle, forty-five degrees from straight out, 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.

There had been no outside set. I kept my back turned to the water as I exited, not daring to look up at the surfers on the bluff, hooting and pointing. Maybe I looked up for a moment as I grabbed my towel, my keys and wallet and cigarettes rolled up in it, tromped up the washout to Neptune Avenue, trying not to smile.   

Just before Moonlight Beach, a late fifties model Volkswagen bus, two-tone, white over gray, was almost blocking the southbound lane. Smoke was coming out of the open engine compartment. Black smoke. Three teenagers were standing behind the bus, two young men, Duncan Burgess and Rincon Ronny, on the right side, one young woman, Monica, on the left. 

There was more room on the northbound side. I pulled over, 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. Those three were wearing nylon windbreakers, towels around their waists. Duncan’s and Monica’s were different, but both were red with white, horizontal stripes that differed in number and thickness. Ronny was wearing a dark blue windbreaker with 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 almost fell back. Three steps before I regained my balance. I stared.

Julia Cole. She was wearing an oversized V-neck sweater, beige boys’ nylon trunks, bare legs, and huarache sandals. She looked upset, more angry than sad. But then… she almost laughed. I managed a smile.

“It’s you,” she said. It was. Me. “Are you a mechanic?” I shook my head, took a step toward the middle of the road, away from her. “An Angel?” Another head shake, another step. She took two more steps, forty-five degrees from straight, 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. I couldn’t continue to study Julia Cole. 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 said. I took a sideways step, my eyes back on her. She smiled. “From the bluff.” Her voice was a whisper when she added, “Outside,” the fingers of her right hand out, but twisting, pulling into her palm, little finger first, as her hand itself twisted. “Outside,” she said again, slightly louder.

“Oh,” I said. “Yeah.”

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. She 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 hand, just away from her body, up. She cupped her chin, thumb on one cheek, fingers lifting, pointer finger first, drumming, pinkie finger first. Three times. She pulled her hand away from her face, reaching toward me. Her hand stopped. She was about to say something.  

“Julie!” It was Duncan. Julie, Julia Cole didn’t look around. She lowered her hand and took another step closer to me. We were very close.

“If you were an… attorney. I could… use an attorney.”

“Oh. No.” I leaned back before I stepped back. “Not yet.”

“Okay, then. You can’t help.” Julia Cole loosened the tie holding her hair. Sun-bleached at the ends, no darker than dirty blonde at the roots. She used the fingers of both hands to straighten it.

“I can… give you a ride.”

“Look, Fallbrook…” It was Duncan. Again. He walked toward us, 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 was still smiling when I asked, “Phone booth? There’s one at… I’m heading for Swamis.”

            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.     

No one got a ride. I checked out several spots, didn’t surf. 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.

“Swamis,” copyright 2020, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

Erwin on the Radio, Blues, Excuses… more

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel

The big cultural event is coming up, and I’m going to be pimping it on the local Port Townsend radio station (KPTZ, 91.9, available for streaming on your devices, hearing if you’re anywhere east of Pillar Point and South of North Whidbey Island) next Friday.


FRIDAY NIGHT BLUES with Barney Burke
Friday 8-10pm
Barney’s been hosting the Friday Night Blues since the launch of KPTZ and he’s always live on the air. He’ll get your feet tappin’ with all kinds of classic blues (and plenty of live tracks) plus a half-dozen soul and R&B tunes.
June 23  Longtime Quilcene painter/writer/artist/surfer Erwin Dence sits in with Barney Burke to discuss blues lyrics and local surf-inspired artists and other highlights of the upcoming Third Occasional Surf Culture on the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the Salish Sea event at the Port Townsend Library on Friday, June 30 at 6pm. Having Erwin Dence live in the studio will be one of those fasten your seatbelt moments … more compelling that an NPR driveway moment, even.
 
Barney texted me he was going to mention me during last Friday’s show. I tuned in too late, missed it, had to go to the archives the next morning. Yeah, good intro, tough to live up to. I will try.

Now, I did go on another show, Ron McElroy’s ‘Free Spin,’ to promote the first SURF CULTURE EVENT, about ten years ago. I was supposed to be on for about seven minutes, I got Ron talking about how he was in a car that went over the cliff at Santa Cruz… and survived. I am a competitive talker. I was on the show for about forty minutes.

THIS TIME, I got the opportunity because Barney Burke and I both once wrote for the Port Townsend Leader, I did some painting for him (how I meet some great folks- and others), and because I sent him the lyrics for fifteen or so blues songs I have written. Blues. SO, YEAH, we’ll see how that goes. I am bringing my harmonica, and I’ll be ready to talk, recite some lyrics, and try hard not to swear, belch, actually attempt to sing, or melt down on air. Yeah, it’s fuckin’ hard for me to keep a civil tongue.

I do have a couple of things I wrote that I plan on reciting at the SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT. They were written as songs, but, because I’m pretty good at talking, even reciting, singing… no.

THE DIFFERENCE between reciting and singing is kind of like the difference between speed-walking (possibly still an Olympic event) is with speed walking, both feet are never off the ground at the same time. I will try.

OKAY, HERE IS WHAT I wrote for this Sunday’s post:

                                    EXCUSES

It might actually happen that no one asks you why you missed the last swell window. You, a person who monitors forecasts and buoy readings, who said last time that the next time you’d not miss the chance to maybe, just maybe… score. Even before you got the after-session (as is proper- depending on who they are shared with) reports from several sources and several spots, you knew, while you were doing whatever you were doing in the place of driving and hiking and waiting, that you were missing it. And you were. And you knew it. Confirmed. 

There was no one but you to blame, no one but you to hear your explanation of exactly what was more important than loading up, driving out, catching a few waves, maybe after the tide evened out or the swell found its way to where you were waiting, watching, hoping.

Excuses. You give me your list, and I’ll give you mine.

Yeah, my surf rig is dead, and I’m trading out work to get a replacement, and the job is not quite done. No, I’m not willing to take my work rig, with its less than wonderful miles per gallon rating and the current, inexplicable (retail compared to the per barrel crude oil cost) and  high price per gallon. Yes, the forecasts are almost always iffy. Winds can wreak a strong swell, tides can be too high or too low, perfect tide and wind conditions can’t beat a swell that angles somewhere else.

Excuses. Here is my quote on people’s excuses: The laziest people have the best excuses.

It’s not laziness. Though I’ve said for as long as I’ve known Trish (55 years) that surfing is the other woman, and that there have been ‘surf or me’ moments, I must add that WORK is the cruel mistress that has most often kept me painting, sometimes on the bluff, with perfect and glassy waves being enjoyed and missed and misridden well within my view.

Oh, and if I’m being this honest, I must add that poor life planning is part of the reason that an old fart still is working. Oh, and laziness-wise, though I’ve done it throughout my work life, I seem to be increasingly unwilling to even talk myself into racing out for a quick session, and back for work. No, I want the all day option. 

Or, if I just happen to be working close to some wave possibilities… sure; amazing how one can shake off the tiredness with cold water and a some tantalizing wave possibilities.

Next time, next time, next time…

I’m a couple of days short of getting my new-to-me surf rig.

Yes, it will double as a work rig on those days I don’t need a big boy van full of tools and dropcloths and ladders. WORK RIG. Surf rig. YES! And I’ll go stealth for as long as I can.

As with the anticipation for the next swell window, I can hardly wait.

Thanks to Barney Burke for the opportunity. I’m positive it won’t be as I imagine it, but I’m sure it will be… interesting. REMEMBER to check out realsurfers.net for the remainder of Chapter One of “SWAMIS” on Wednesday, tune into KPTZ 8pm on this coming Friday, and make plans to be at the Library, uptown Port Townsend for the Event, Friday, June 30. Oh, and please respect my copyrights.

Almost This and Almost That

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, northwest surfing, Original Erwin t-shirts, perfect waves, real surfers, surf art

Always trying to improve, I have decided (or am deciding) that the advice I gave lip service to years ago was, often, right. My commercial art professor treated drawings we students believed to be high art as sketches, with mistakes that could be improved with the next attempt, or the attempt after that. “Two-Coat” Charlie Barnett (I didn’t call him that until later) was right that two coats of paint is almost always the way to go. Maybe someone should have told me that nothing we write is perfect, even after multiple drafts. Art, life, surfing; ten point rides, ten point anything is rare.

STILL, we try. I tried for years as a sign painter to try to get my block letters perfect, only to be out-performed by computer technology. I try to please my customers by making their house look, well, as good as possible. Some are perfectionists. Great. Here is my line on that: Perfection is very difficult to attain, and impossible to mainain.

SO, and maybe it’s because I’m stubborn, I have put some more time into previous ‘sketches.’

SO, the first image is a possible ORIGINAL ERWIN t shirt design, totally redrawn after my first attempt. Because I draw these in reverse (white and black), I don’t really know how they will look until I go to the PRINTERY in Port Townsend. First one, guy’s arm too long, I didn’t like the lettering. This one… yeah, lettering doesn’t stand out enough. Maybe I’ll… yeah, probably a redraw coming up.

THE BOTTLE. On the top one, I colored in the white lines on the reverse image of the original white and black illustration. Second one, water-color on the original and then reversed. Third one, to show the difference; I used colored pencils on the original. I am quite excited about the process of reversing the color spectrum, but I think I went to yellow on a night sky because I figured out how to get it. Purple, darker the better.

THERE ARE, as always things I like about each of the attempts. Attempts. More to follow.

MEANWHILE, in preparation for the upcoming SURF CULURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA EVENT, I am trying to get a collection of (the best of) my years of art stuff together and scanned, the hoped-for result a sort of powerpoint thing that can be displayed on one of two screens in the PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY, 6pm, Friday, June 30.

At least seven other Olympic Peninsula surfer/artists will be displaying their work. I am planning on reciting at least two surf-related poems (actually songs, but I will try not to sing them). Other stuff going on, music, food, readings, are still in the getting-there phase, all under the management of surfer/librarian Keith Darrock.

MORE NEXT SUNDAY.

Remember that I do claim all rights to my work, perfect or not. THANKS, and by all means, get some waves when you can. Perfect or not.

Not Quite a Sea Shanty

Posted on by under surf culture

Here is the doppler radar image I couldn’t find for my last posting, The blue hole in this case is white. No, not the area over the Olympics, the smaller one, kind of shaped, here, like a wishbone. Wishbone. Wishing. Sounds about right.

I did several illustrations and wrote two things for a future Salish Sea cultural event. I posted “The Blue Hole, Specifically” last week, Because the event might not be for another year, why not post this one? Not that I should over-explain, I will, anyway. It isn’t a sea shanty. I hate to claim it as, like, poetry. I have written quite a few songs, and I love to sing, it’s just that… no, not really a singer. But I do kind of think my voice fits with these words. And I’ve been practicing. Anyway:

                        OUT BEYOND THE SALISH SEA

Foghorns are sounding on the Salish Sea,

Foghorns are sounding on the Salish Sea,

Hoped you might take a chance and sail with me,

Foghorns are sounding on the Salish Sea.

            I can’t bring the sun and I can’t stop the rain,

            I can’t part the clouds and I can’t switch the tide,

            I can’t calm the winds and I can’t ease your pain,

            I can’t replace the tears you’ve cried.

And I can’t explain,

Hard as I’ve tried,

The way the waves, the winds, the clouds, the tides keep calling me,

Tempting me, taunting me, haunting me,

Promising

Further horizons I have not yet seen.

The fog is lifting on the Salish Sea,

The tide is shifting on the Salish Sea,

East winds are blowing, and I’ll be going,

Hoped you might take this chance to sail with me,

Horizons out beyond the Salish Sea.

SIDE NOTE: I actually stole a line from another song I wrote, “Gone, Gone, Gone, Gone, Gone.” In that case it was, “Sure, you put me in my place, but you lied right to my face, you never can replace all the tears I cried, so why don’t you tell the truth and admit you lied?” Possible copyright infringement. ALL ORIGINAL material on realsurfers.net is protected by copyright.

GOOD LUCK for whatever you’re hoping to do. It’s DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME again. Longer, warmer days. We’ll see how that works for surfing.