Tag Archives: Surf Route 101

The Hole in Your Heart (Only) Surfing Fills

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf culture, surfing blogs

I’m almost finished with this sign down Linger Longer Road in Quilcene. Suddenly, the town on Surf Route 101 I’ve lived in almost 48 years, is hip, cool; hip and cool go there. On purpose. And, with rich folks building mansions on Olympic foothill acreage, there has been an influx of a young demographic.

You can cruise on the massive, wonder of a bridge, just opened, that goes over the remodeled lower stretch of the Big Quilcene River/flood plain, cruise along the mud flats of Quilcene Bay (filled in at high tide with water warm enough in summer to allow swimming sans wetsuit), and, just before you get to the oyster hatchery and Herb Beck Marina, check it out. Am I trying to blow up the spot? Maybe.

                                                 If Surfing Fills a Hole…

If surfing fills a hole in your life, possibly in your soul; if your self-image and the image you’ve worked for and work to project is that of a person who surfs, a surfer, with any and all of the real or romanticized attributes given, and appreciated even by the most random, holiday surfer; if you live for and lust after waves, fun-sized to crazy to death barrels; if you are that person, and you can’t surf for a while, as in longer than it took for you to recover from this or that medical setback, or a work or situation-caused injury that required time away from waves; if you cannot surf… what fills that hole?

Stories of past glories are not enough. Enough retellings of even the most mundane tales of riding spots now incredibly crowded on even an average day sound exaggerated. Or worse. Even surfers your age might question whether your authenticity. Young surfers will dismiss you and your tales, just as you put little faith in the stories told by people over thirty when you were under twenty.

Still, people riding emptier lineups, even on pre-revolution boards… that’s something. Memories have value. Times edits out those that don’t.

Yeah. I’m writing about surfing instead of doing more surfing. I have excuses and explanations and situations, and, mostly, or partially, I have a lot of other things I have to do; most of which interfere with other things I want to do.

Surfing is on the ‘want to do’ list. There is that hole, that desire.

“When I was younger,” a sentence begging to be ignored or half-listened to begins, I was critical of surfers who weren’t frothing to go out on waves I couldn’t resist. But then, and now, I tried to adjust my life, or, at least, my schedule, to allow the opportunity, and, non-epic waves, enough of them, with, maybe, that one sneaker barrel… worth it.

Most of my contemporaries are not surfing. Kudos to the ones who are.

A good friend, legendary (I try not to over or misuse that description) gave up (not ‘quit’) surfing a few years ago. Bad shoulders, bad knees, crowds. Age. Mix and match. He told me that he says, if asked, that he loves surfing, always will, but, luckily, he has a lot of other activities and responsibilities that keep him occupied. He may have said fulfilled.

Still, I have seen other, most-likely retired folks, and this was a while ago, at Pipes, hanging on the fence, looking at other surfers paddle and bob and blow takeoffs and ride awkwardly, and I thought how lucky they were. Then Ray and I walked down and paddled out.

The hole. I am fond of thinking that it’ll always be there, as filled in as best I could; still anticipating the next session.

Lucky me.

Contact- erwin@realsurfers.net

Instagram- realsurfersdotnet

Check out the other Pages, including the newly-added PAGE VI, a collection of my original art works. I have been working on a collection of poetry/songs/stories, with a plan to publish it. Soon.

I have a new copyright for “Swamis,” the novel, mostly because I’vve gotten a bit more protective, partially because it is so different than the draft currently copyrighted. The above story is, as all original works by me, protected under copyright, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers. Get some waves, make some memories, live your own story.

Almost forgot… FUCK CANCER!

Asterisks on Mother’s Day: Nam Siu Recovering, Sally **Finals, Surf Route 101 Traffic ***Jams…

Posted on by under Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf culture, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing in Washington State, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

*Surfer, diver, spear fisher, foiler, skateboarder, snowboarder, guardian of the water quality in the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the branches thereof, Nam Siu is out of the hospital after a traumatic month long fight with toxic shock syndrome; essentially an infection that, shutting down vital organs, threatened to kill him. It didn’t, but, with his kidneys still not responding, his road to full, ripping recovery is still in is going to continue.

Photos by Megan Hintz-Eardley, recently married to the guy in the mask, Chris. I don’t know cards, but it appears Megan is holding a full house plus.

My friend George Takamoto is suffering from kidney failure. The need for dialysis three times a week is a daunting reality. Horrific. George is twice Nam’s age. While his situation is chronic, Nam’s is Acute, sudden onset. The prognosis for Nam’s kidneys to begin working is optimistic; as in possible, his situation for a transplant, should it be necessary, is good; he should be a good candidate. You can find out more on social media. You know how to do it.

** I might be a person who follows the World Surf League, watches it when possible, reads some of the commentary on the YouTube posts, and complains the least about the judging. Yes, I thought Felipe got overscored on the 9.10 in the final, the one scoring wave that didn’t get a replay (or three, one in slow motion), AND I have been rooting for Sally Fitz, the oldest woman on tour, AND she did compete her way into the final, SO… so, good. There’s still a lot of drama befopre the next contest, And there’s the dramatic CUT, so… so, go Sally.

Feral-ish cat, Joey. Obviously related to our sometimes-inside cat, Tony, I cannot yet get close enough to Joey. Yet. We do get other visitors. Teddy, a long legged tabby, and, if I leave food out and Joey doesn’t show up, Pedro O. Possum will invite himself. This is not to mention the occasional cruise through by bears and cougars. We used to get raccoons. I did mention the bears and cougars.

Speaking of cruising, the season for doing the 101 Loop is just getting going. Packs off overweight motorcyclists, log trucks and chip trucks, people forced to ‘go around’ because the Hood Canal Bridge is stuck open, Adam Wipeout or Soupy Dan going helter and/or skelter from or to the Hama Hama, me, occasionally. Note the RV holding up traffic on Surf Route 101. RVs are typically being driven, according to those stuck behind them, by “Free Time RVMFs.” Motor Folks, perhaps. But… free.

Quick story: I was heading up 101 when I saw a big yellow motorcycle behind me. Leader of the pack. He passed me, followed, on a sketchy stretch, by three pack members, hell bent in leather. Okay. I get onto Highway 20, and there they are, all pulled over, all off their rides. Apparently, the wild bunch head honcho had something on his sunglasses, like, I don’t know, a bug, and his buddies were trying to help. I thought about helping, thought about giving them the Easy Rider salute, but just kept putting on. I didn’t say it was a great story. Share the road… man.

****HAPPY MOTHERS’ DAY! I have mentioned this before, but I (probably) wouldn’t have ever started surfing if my my mother hadn’t been so willing to take her seven children to the beach. Often. Never often enough, but she was supportive. And other wannabe surfer’s moms. Thanks. And, despite surfing always being the ‘other woman’ in my life, Trish, the mother of our three distinctive, totally individualized, now-adult children, has almost always been… let’s say accepting of my obsession/addiction, and, if I’m particularly stressed, she might say, “You’re being a dick (more like asshole), you need to go surfing. Now.” “There are no waves.” “Oh, there’ll be waves.” “Okay.” Trisha, love of my life; love you to the moon and back!”

More on this and something I want to say about whether any of us deserve good waves. Next time. Meanwhile, please pull over if you’re holding up traffic. Free advice.

It’s a Story Either Way

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf contests, surf culture, surf satire, surfing, surfing stories, writings of Erwin Dence

Watercolor skies, hazy sunshine, and, not shown, tourists behaving like they just, like, always go to the beach, always stand on the bluff, a hand shading their eyes, looking over the conditions. This act, one might consider while wondering if any of the wavelets wistfully washing over the rocks are rideable; is it some ancient and instinct-driven holdover, some bowing to the ocean, from whence all… No, probably not that, it’s just folks posing as seafarers before challenging the elements, taking off their shoes, rolling up their pants legs, holding someone’s hand as they go looking for colorful rocks, all the while while dodging the seaweed and the driftwood and the other revelers, all the while skirting the dying energy of long-traveled waves, the scallops of foam pushing up and… “Damn, that water’s cold!” “What time’s the next ferry running, Honey?”

I should have no problems with tourists and sunny day beach visitors; I was kind of wishing I had a dash cam; saw a dude inn total Huck Finn mode; straw hat, peddle pushers, possible piece of reed in his mouth, possibly whistling: I saw a woman seemingly, this based on her choice of outfit, displaying her extensive leg tattoos while walking her dog (no visible green poop bag in hand), I saw a woman with a green poop bag and no dog, picking up scraps of papers that blew out of people’s cars (not mine- this time); I saw a lot of chunky folks (not that I’m not), and, oh yeah, I did see a bride (this because of her oversized white dress) getting her photo taken. Maybe they were planning on adding the groom (I didnn’t see one) later- trick photography, AI.

Also, while hanging around, scanning the horizon, watching what may have been a slow motion sailboat race, trying to conjure up anything lined up or just decent, wave-wise, a guy, a car with three dogs inside cruised up, one car between us, The non-dog passenger looked at me with an oversized smile. “What are you smiling at?” “Well, I’ve never seen an SUP so thrashed.” “Thank you. I put every ding on it… probably hit every rock on the Strait.” Perhaps it was this obvious exaggeration that prompted him to say, “Hey, I know who you are.” “Oh?” It turns out Aaron (hope I got this right; and, no, not shortboard Aaron- Chef Aaron) is part of the Olympic Peninsula paddleboard scene, possibly builds SUPs, AND is known for bringing food to homeless encampments, stuff like that. “Pleasure to meet you,” I said, maybe; even more of a pleasure to know Chef Aaron is out doing good works.

I went a little too descriptive on describing the scene on a sunny spring Saturday. I’m trying to think a bit more poet-ish. I attended a poetry reading at the Port Townsend Public Library on Thursday, mostly (no, totally) because I want to present some of my stuff there, and this requires being invited by the official PT Poet Laureate, Conor. Since I already e-mailed him some stuff and missed my chance before the readings got under way, I was required to sit in the back, not hear a lot of the poems (they had a microphone, could have, like, moved it closer to their mouths). According to the library manager, surfer Keith Darrock, I was unable to not fidget, and, how did I know that turning off the rinng tone didn’t stop the volume when I thought I’d watch a few heats from the WSL Bell’s Beach contest. Rude. Philistine-like behavior. Uncultured.

Yeah. I thought poets are supposed to be rude if not drunks and/or otherwise deviants.

WSL WHINING- Yes, Sally Fitz got kind of screwed in her heat. It seems, to commenters on any WSL video, that someone is getting over or under scored. Yes. Always, at every level of almost any subjectively-judged competition. Great story when Sally beat current leader, Caitlin Simmers, and she wasn’t underscored in the heat with Brisa Hennessy (and this is a separate argument from the one in which a nine point ride for a woman would be a six pointer for a man- not arguing that, but I do make an exception for Stephanie Gilmore), it’s just that the story for Brisa was that her mother was on the beach AND it was her mother’s birthday. My belief: It’s a story either way.

WSL NON-WHINING- I was talking to Randall, fellow ex-North County surfer. He had also been watching some of the WSL coverage. ‘Did you notice that Encinitas local Jake Marshall was doing really well?” “I did.” We both agreed that he did well because Bells is so much like SWAMIS. “And Caity does so well because… Oceanside; and… ordinarily I’d root for her, but…” “Hey, Erwin, I’ve gotta go.”

SURF ROUTE 101 STUFF-

If you’re cruising up or down 101, before or after stopping in at HamaHama Oyster Company, check out the Historical museum in Quilcene, just off the highway on Center Road. I just added this. ALSO, if you can get behind a log truck, empty or loaded, rather than any sort of RV or anyone towing a boat or a trailer, or both, you’ll get there faster.

SURF REPORT- I almost surfed almost waves. Others did better… elsewhere. “SWAMIS” and ARTWORK REPORT- I haven’t worked on the last touches on the novel; I haven’t done any drawing since I did a couple of illustrations at Les Schwab while waiting for my tire to be replaced. Couldn’t find the tablet immediately this morning. Next time.

LATEST POEM/SONG-

BETWEEN ALONE AND LONELY There is time to reconsider, All the pieces you have scattered from your jigsaw puzzle life, The pieces you’ve discarded from your jigsaw puzzle life, Your jigsaw puzzle life, Jigsaw puzzle life.

Between love and rejection, Meditation, introspection, It’s hard to turn away from bridges you had never meant to burn, You’ve found someone to blame for all the bridges you have burned, The bridges you have burned, Bridges you have burned.

Between midnight and morning, There are whispers in the kitchen, There are shadows on the ceiling, there are footsteps in the hall, Soft whispers, shadows, footsteps that you cannot quite explain, You cannot quite explain, Cannot quite explain.

Between pride and delusion, If you listen in the stillness, There are answers to the questions you’ve been too. afraid to ask, And long-discarded pieces of your jigsaw life, Your jigsaw puzzle life, Jigsaw puzzle life,

Between alone and lonely in your jigsaw puzzle life.

FUTURE POEM/SONGS- “And Then There’s Music,” more. THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT realsurfers.net. All. content on this post by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. All rights reserved.

SOMETIMES YOU GET WAVES, SOMETIMES THE WAVES GET YOU, sometimes you paddle out, paddle around, paddle back in. It’s a story either way.

Speeding Surf Route 101

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, real surfers

It wasn’t an accident that got me a ticket the other day, one hundred and ninety dollar fine for going seventeen miles an hour over the posted speed limit. I got a fucking speeding ticket because I was fucking speeding.

I do have an explanation, but not one that would get my fine reduced in a courtroom. Ya see, Judge; I was just pissed off; corona virus, people out of work, all kinda kooks coming over to the Peninsula, leisure time MFs (if you know what I mean), big trucks hauling bigger trailers and/or boats, cabover campers, and… anyway… oh, and earlier in the day, cruising up surf route 101, three vehicles passed me… me; one on a curve- had to pull over so I didn’t get hit by any shrapnel; I mean; good citizen, huh? Oh. Okay. So, I’m busy thinking about all that, and the stock market, and how black lives matter, and about Russia, China, Hawaii; whether the beaches will open in Mexico; lots on my mind; oh, and it looked like there might be waves the next day and whether I should go to bed as soon as I got home; and, yeah; I get down to 101 at Discovery Bay, over by Fat Smitty’s with his big Trump sign and folks waiting outside; not wearing masks, and I see all this traffic coming at me; so I pull out and I gun it. Now, I know it’s a 1987 Toyota Camry, but, maybe because of a hole in the muffler or something, it sounds like a sports car… and I’m moving along, thinking about the humane society and such, and… yeah, I’m slowing down because I’m catching up with other cars; you know, highway speed; and this car in front of me pulls over, over by West Uncas, in case you’re hep to this chunk of highway; and then, whoa, he pulls back out, lights flashing.

And he’s not really buying my story. “I had you clocked at 72.” “Well; I was slowing down; I wasn’t going to, you know, hit you.” Oh, I’m trying to be nice; figuring it’s all on body cam; and hoping… long story short, shorter; I get the ticket, three options, fifteen days to respond; and I instantly start thinking about how mad Trish is going to be, one, and that the surf will undoubtedly be good the next day because there’s no f’ing way I’m going to get to go.

And, of course, Trish is, mad, and, of course, there is surf, like, maybe knee high, but… but, of course, every person who owns or can borrow a surfboard is on it, and their cousins, and their cousin’s kids, and… anyway; maybe you don’t care about surfing; but, then we’re supposed to go over to our daughter, Dru’s, place in Port Gamble for dinner and a movie… George Takamoto drove the Camry; Trish went on ahead; and, and all I see out Dru’s window, heading east, are rigs with surfboards on ’em… oh, and, yeah; the movie was “Ford vs. Ferrari;” so, of course, there are jokes. “There goes Erwin.” That kinda thing.

No, I’ll probably pay the one hundred and ninety dollars.

HERE’S SOMETHING THAT I will take credit for; though it was an accident. I did a drawing, added a bit too much shading; figured I would redraw it. Because the original was on card stock, I couldn’t just tape it to a clear drawing board and use that as a template for another, hopefully better, version. So, I stuck it in the printer, but the printer ran out of black ink. So, I printed it in color. Everything that had been black came out white. So, I added some more lines and… here it is:

I may use it for my someday-to-be-finished novel, “Swamis.” Incidentally, I did use some of the time in which I would have been driving (too fast, no doubt) to and from the Strait, ripping up waves… whatever, to work on the manuscript. It is coming along. Really.

A Nod is Good Enough- John Severson

Posted on by under real surfers, surf culture, surfing, surfing Southern California in the 60s, Uncategorized

 

 

IN MY MIND-VIDEO VERSION of the very brief encounter; looking past the front desk where the receptionist was still telling me that “John, John Severson, actually reads over all the submissions himself, so, so…” when John, John Severson; appeared through an open door, moving from the right to the center of the (my) frame, to the center of what must have been the visitor side of his desk. He stopped, looking at something, then turned toward the visitor side of the “Surfer” magazine office, maybe focused for a moment, and gave the almost-seventeen kid a nod.

I probably just froze.

A NOD is everything, really; an acknowledgement of co-membership, perhaps; a gesture that says, depending on who gives it, that things are all right between us.

YEAH, maybe that’s reading too much into a simple gesture. Or not. Maybe a nod is just so ancient, so basically human, we forget that each one of us learns more from studying expressions than we do from language. In a fight-or-flight world, a nod can and has stopped many a conflict.

OKAY, now I’m thinking of times I’ve paddled out into a lineup, seen a surfer I chatted with on another beach. Nod. Nod returned. AND NOW I’m thinking of my first venture out at Windansea, seeing two guys I’d surfed around in Pacific Beach. I nodded, they, sitting well on the shoulder, kept their gaze down. No eye contact. AND NOW I’m thinking of the times my nod, paddling toward the lineup, was returned with the STINKEYE.

SO, I had written a bunch of stuff, my best longhand on college-ruled notebook paper, and had sent it, along with a self-addressed, stamped return envelope, to “SURFER” magazine. I waited for fame and recognition, my writings in the preeminent surf publication, the magazine I studied, front to back; the basic visual images that popped up like a slide show in my dreams.

“They’ll probably have to put some in one edition, other stuff in the next one,” I, no doubt, thought. “My friends will be so… so stoked. Me, my writings…”

I did mention I waited, telling myself this sort of self-induced insanity (waiting for someone else to realize one’s stuff is great), is what a real writer endures.

THIS WAS ME in the summer of 1968, living in Fallbrook, twenty miles from Oceanside pier, about the same distance, straight west, across Camp Pendleton, to San Onofre. If I was riding with someone who had the proper ID card, we’d often surf there, park on the beach. Otherwise, it was go to Oceanside, north on 101 (pre- I-5 connection), deemed “Slaughter Alley.” The “Surfer” magazine headquarters was somewhere north of there. I’d find it.

A WORD on what I’d written: Mostly, I’ll have to guess, crap; the kind of overwrought drivel one might expect from a hormone-afflicted, surf-crazed, skateboarding-‘cause-I-fuckin’-live-in-the-hills dreamer, just starting to get competent at surfing might right. There were pages of the stuff.

borrowed from “Surfer,” article on John Severson staring down Richard Nixon

WHAT I WROTE as a twelve verse (epic?) poem on those blocking access to surf beaches, became, in the fall of 1968, when I was back in school, shorter, better. I’m not sure if I ever got my original pages back, but I received a check for ten dollars and a copy of the magazine.

I WAS PUBLISHED. Oh, I mean, I WAS PUBLISHED! But, what John Severson had done is take the first verse, delete everything from the middle, add some of the lines from the last verse. It had changed enough from the original that, when asked to read it aloud in English class, I couldn’t quite get it right. “Didn’t you write this?” “Yeah, yeah, but…different.” Penny had to read it. She did a great job.

STILL, it was, probably, still a bit, um, overwrought.

IN 2001, the poem showed up again, in “The Perfect Day… 40 Years of Surfer Magazine.” I was, by this time, up in the Pacific Northwest, rarely surfing. Trisha’s nephew, Dylan Scott, surfing down in San Diego, saw the coffee table book, surprise, on a coffee table at his dentist’s office. “That’s my uncle,” he, according to him, said. “Whoa. Really? My poem?” Yes, we do own the book; it’s on a coffee table.

HERE’S the poem, written by me, edited by John Severson (he even shortened the title, though I forget what it was).

REFLECTION

The promised sand, Forbidden land,

Restraining line With sharpened spine;

NO SURFING HERE: The warning sign.

Perfection waves, Reflecting mind;

Humanity

Could be so blind.

HERE’S WHAT JOHN SEVERSON DID: He gave a nod to all the punks and kooks and kids who wanted to be surfers. He took a disparate group and made us a tribe. If we don’t always acknowledge this in the competitive, sometimes combative setting of the lineup; it’s hopefully different when surfers meet in some other setting, a grocery store or distant parking lot. A nod of acknowledgement.

I’m actually a bit amazed at how shocked and saddened I am at hearing of Severson’s passing.

photos from fairly recent encounter

Posted on by under aggressive surfers, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, real surfers coloring book, Secret spots in Oregon, SUP surfing, surf adventures, surf culture, surf photos, surf sessions, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing in Oregon, Uncategorized

My sister, Melissa, took a few photos when we were both down at Chinook, visiting our Dad. I wrote and posted about the session earlier, and Melissa and I went over the photos she took of the session (one did include the guy who, when I moved just a little too far up the point, told me I needed to get myself over to the beach breaks). Hey, I was ready to get out anyway.

DSC_0621 (3)

Since then our 92 year old father has had, after many delays and a couple of stints in the hospital, an angioplasty procedure, successful, with a stent put in. He’s recovering; I’m going to go down to see him, and, if I see something breaking I can’t resist…

DSC_0715.JPG

…if you have a problem with me showing up, maybe you’ll have to talk to my father about it.  No, you can talk to me. I’d post more photos, but I asked Melissa to only send me ones where the waves were bigger and/or I was thinner. Big rocks, huh; at this semi-private, semi-secret spot?

Meanwhile, I’m way too busy right now to even get the additional pages for my coloring book set up… but I’m working on it.

 

new, revised, or redrawn images

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, Port townsend surfing, real surfers, real surfers coloring book, realsurfers illustrations, surf art, surf culture events, surfing, surfing art, surfing illustrations, Uncategorized

I’m preparing to add some more images to the realsurfers coloring book, getting them resized, adding some lines; redrawing a few. Here are some I’ve been working on:

Image (79)Image (78)Image (80)Image (81)Image (82)And here’s a backstory on the drawing of the guy on the nose. I’ve drawn it several times, had it all finished, but it didn’t seem right. I went back to the drawing I took this from, realized the surfer’s left arm is supposed to be in front of his face. Oops. And now it’s a bit darker. If I could, on occasion, sort of duplicate the silky, magic-lighting look of classic John Severson photos, I would. Maybe this is as close as I’ll get (not that I won’t keep trying).

Hey, it’s all just lines and dots. Suddenly I’m not sure if I reported on how the poetry/singing/book selling event went with “Awkward Guy” writer Franco Bertucci and I… it went well, probably better than expected. We’re not done. I’ll let you know.

Don’t Challenge the Locals, unless…

Posted on by under aggressive surfers, mind surfing, northwest surfing, old surfers, oregon surfing, real surfers, surf adventures, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing in Oregon, surfing satire, surfing stories, Uncategorized, wiped-out surfers, wipeouts, writings of Erwin Dence

…I was just about to leave, anyway; after my third trip onto the rocks (boulders, really); but I figured I’d paddle a little farther up the point, just to see… what?

That was my mistake. It’s clear now; but it wasn’t at the moment the white-haired guy started yelling at me. Yes, he had been silent when I was surfing the next peak down, though he had given me the stink eye when I sort of approached the main peak, a glare in response to my nod (and a nod, unreturned… ooh, that does say something).

But this time, I had paddled past him, farther up the point, taken the ‘inside’ position. This was, at any break, and particularly at a notoriously localized Oregon break, criminal. And I was on an SUP. True, bad knees, a bad ankle, and way too much weight (confirmed by photos my sister Melissa took) tends to keep me from standing on any but the longest waves) and these barrels all ended up on those boulders.  Stay too long over the boils, or get caught inside, it’s, well, difficult; but (this guy, probably my age, was on a short board- and I never really saw him make a wave- irrelevant, I know, but…) I was on a big board, pushing to the head of the pack (three other surfers, pack-wise), the point of the spear. It was like I, the non-local, was making a statement. He had to say something.

“Why don’t you… those things… one of our guys had to be airlifted outahere…geez… why don’t you go over to…” he nodded (unfriendly kind of directional nod), toward the miles of mushy and/or closeout beachbreak to our north… “those things don’t belong…”

“Yes, they can be dangerous,” I said, and paddled north, catching one more barrelling rock-roller, careful to pull out the back over the outside boils.

I had some time to think about the little confrontation, that, obviously, the local won, on the long paddle back, (catching another couple of mushburgers in the kook/non-local/SUP-allowed area. “One of our guys.” This wasn’t me. Only a little ironically, I had a discussion earlier with a guy in the parking lot on how locals “get all butt-hurt” when someone they don’t know makes the trek or paddle over to this semi-sacred spot.

Butt-hurt.

Another surfer, over at the showers, said a sponsored shortboarder he knows had to walk past the fire on the beach, in someone’s yard, where the locals sometimes hang, got heckled; then ripped it up enough that he was ‘nearly embraced’ on his way back past the same fire. The next guy in line for the shower (and I gave way) actually was the guy who was hit by some SUP A-hole’s board, suffered a concussion, and had to be airlifted out. Was that a lot ironic, or merely a lot coincidental?

He was nice, 68 years old, thin, formerly of the Sunset Cliffs area of Ocean Beach, San Diego. “Luscombs; that’s where I cut my teeth.” “Yeah, I’ve surfed it; mostly when I lived in PB.” He knows the guy who asked me to leave. “Yeah, well; give him my best,” I said.

I immediately went back to thinking about the confrontation. “I’ve never run over anyone,” I had said to the SUP victim, not forgetting (but not mentioning) that I had once run into Archie’s board. And I told him about my worst-ever, non-self-inflicted injury, a full-body hit by a guy on a regular longboard. Still, he had to mention how SUP’ers can catch more waves, overwhelm a lineup. No, that hadn’t been me. Not that day, anyway. I did wait my turn; I did sit ‘down-wave’ from the main peak.

Melissa told me that no one owns the ocean, and I shouldn’t help carry someone else’s garbage; and, when I didn’t, she said “just get over it.” I’ve had more time to think about it. Maybe a couple of those locals might show up to a beach I frequent some time. Thinking, still thinking. I’m back home on Surf Route 101 now, another spot on my list of places surfed (next to Luscombs, maybe); but I am going down to do some work on my Dad’s house soon.

Thinking, just thinking. Oh, and now I’m wondering if the victim, who hadn’t been out at the sacred spot on this day (though he said he reached his quota- 15) was hit over in the main break. I mean, wouldn’t that kind of suggest it wasn’t the board, it was the paddle-past?

 

Buy This Classic Hobie Now, Now, Now

Posted on by under adam wipeout, northwest surfing, real surfers, surfing, Terry Martin shaped surfboards, Uncategorized

Real Surfer/surf journalist/Drewslist owner/operator Drew Kampion contacted me to see if I could use my contacts among the surfing community in the Great Northwest. So, you; whichever sub-tribe you sort of belong to, or maybe just, too cool to belong-to, you hang, loosely, on the periphery of. Yeah, Drew kind of kissed-up to me, so, now, I’m passing the love on to you.

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Drew was contacted by a friend who wants to sell this 50th anniversary Hobie, shaped by renowned shaper Terry Martin. Drew took the photos, and says it’s in pristine condition. I thought maybe P.T., soon to be P.A. local Clint (still don’t know his last name), who has been on a board-buying tear of late, might be interested. Maybe he is, but, in case he isn’t, some hip (didn’t say Hipster) surfer who knows a classic collectible when it’s available might be ready to own a piece of history. So, I’m taking a a breath before I give the price out, but the asking price is…

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$2,000.00.

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Yeah. I know. It’s not like I can afford it; but I am really happy with my Hobie 10’6″ SUP I’m buying (easy payments) from Adam Wipeout James, who, if you scroll down, is in possession of a board he found on the southbound side of Surf Route 101 down by Shelton. But, that’s that and this is this. If you’re interested, or know some one who would just love to decorate his life with a classic, contact Erick at conundrum@yahoo.com.

And, incidentally, when Adam Wipeout said he would fix my thrashed, never-been-patched, ridden-over-every-rock-on the Strait SUP, I thought I might get a break on the Hobie I’m buying. Didn’t work. He’s a professional negotiator; I’m not. Whether you are or aren’t, contact Erick (jeez, couldn’t his parents decide which way to spell it?). My sister’s first board, first one I rode, was a 1962 Hobie 9’4″. Loved it, thrashed it. In fact, I’ve thrashed every board I ever owned; part of the reason I had to BUY the SUP.

Lost/Found Surfboard on Surf Route 101 and Panama Surf Revealed

Posted on by under adam wipeout, real surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, surf sessions, surfing, surfing in Washington State, Uncategorized

Adam ‘Lucky and or Wipeout’ James called me yesterday, Thursday, April 21, just after 2pm. I was talking to a client and told him he’d have to call back. He did, five minutes later; quite excited, maybe more excited than the time he called me back to go over the incredible barrel he made the other evening in Westport on the new 6’4″ Takayama he purchased, or was able to justify the purchase of, because I’m buying his 9’6″ Hobie SUP. Making payments. Soon. Really.

“Dude,” he started out, “I just found a surfboard… on the side of the road… 101… Yeah, okay, surf route 101. Down by Shelton. What? Wait. What?”

What he meant is, “What do you think I should do?”

I recommended taking a photo of the board some traveling surfer evidently, unknowingly lost off his or her southbound vehicle, and sending it to me. I could post it and tag it, “surfboard lost/found on 101 near Shelton,” or something.

But then… wait a minute; if there’s a photo, no one has to describe it to reclaim it. Hmmm, better think of something else.

steve5steve2steve3indexFirst we have some shots Hydrosexual Stephen Davis sent to Keith “Stealth” Darrock via Facebook (because Trish hasn’t friend-requested Stephen yet). I think the first one is the local surf club. Steve is down there with his son, Emmett, and Scrimshaw Peter; and I told Steve before he left that I’d love to reveal all the secret spots in Panama because, durn it, I’m not going.  And I would reveal all, but I don’t have the information.  I’m sure if Steve described it, or when he does, it’ll start with, “Dude; you can’t even imagine how awesome it was.” And I’ll say, “Hey; why does everyone call me Dude?”IMG_2163Here’s a photo of Steve on his boat, about to say, “Dude, you can’t even begin to know…” Yeah, yeah.

MEANWHILE, thinking it’s probably not the best to give out Adam’s phone number; and it’s actually kind of a pain to write a comment on this site; if you, by some miracle, find this posting, and you, indeed, lost a surfboard that you can describe accurately, give me a call, (360) 774-6354. Limited time offer.