If It’s the Journey, and not the Destination, then…

FIRST, and I’ll be removing this later, but, to terrorist/cowards everywhere, who chose soft targets rather than any battlefield, who consider themselves martyrs when they are murderers who create martyrs; there is no glory in this; there is no reward waiting, there is no God anywhere (and if you, as I, believe there is but one God, is that God not the God of all children?) who would condone massacre, the killing of the innocent and unarmed. And to those who incite and promote violence: Your hatred and fear are consuming you; the flesh is already rotting from your bones. May this only hasten, destroying you rather than infecting others. May God extend peace, wisdom, and mercy to the many. And True Justice. I wrote this to vent after the attacks in Paris; but it applies in way too many places around the world. Always has.

This is a photo taken on a recent day when Tom Burns did a lot of driving and never got to ride a wave.

OlympicsFromElwhaTBurns

He took this while on a long walk with Doug Charles. “Kindred spirits talking story” is how he described the visit. If your search for waves takes you to the Strait of Juan de Fuca, you probably know who Doug is. He’s “Uncle” Doug to many, the guy who tells you “you’re really not supposed to be here” to others. If you do surf, you are a guest.

Respect given is respect returned.

Hey, I’m not all enlightened. Far from it. My inner motto, in the water, is “I’m here to surf.” We can get into the sociopath-ic-ness of that another time.

I’ve been trying to include the journey, the there and back, the interactions with other surfers, even with non-surfers, as part of my surf sessions. This is not a natural or easy thing for me. If I were a fisherman, I’d be inclined to only count the time as ‘fishing’ when I was reeling something in. When there are lulls between waves, I’m more prone to sharking, paddling left and right, than patiently waiting. Even if I chat with some other searcher, I’ll most likely be checking my lineup, looking for indicators, trying to make sure that, when the set comes, I’m in position (that is, a better position than others in the water). More likely, I’ll go for some of those inside waves and hope I’m not on one when the set arrives. I’ve only sort of given up on counting my waves. Sort of.

I’ve also been trying to come up with a phrase that might crystallize the experience for surfers in a place that is so rare; the fickle, imperfect, wild, access-so-frequently-denied, beautiful, frustrating secret coast. I haven’t been successful, but now claim ownership of “Keep it Strait.” It was a throwaway line in an reply (to one of my usual overly prosaic emails) from Drew Kampion, the man who penned “Always Summer on the Inside” for O’Neill Wetsuits (with the image, made quite an impression on the 16 year old me) and the now-and-for-years cliche’, “Corduroy to the horizon.” I’m saving his email saying I can have it, but, all respect, Drew.

It’s tempting to add, “If you can’t keep it secret… keep it Strait.”

It’s semi-related to the North Shore expression, “Keep the Country Country.” I do include all the negatives in thinking of how to illustrate this. Those are all part of the journey. The journey is part of the session. As in all things, working on it.

DISCLAIMER AND ALERT- Immediately after I read the RANT section to my wife, Trish, with the intention of deleting it from the post (she asked why, if I meant it, should I delete it; so… maybe later), while checking my e-mails (and all this was immediately after the Seahawks lost the Sunday night game), I discovered I had a comment pending. It was from Foamclimb (probably not a given name- self-given, maybe). “Could read a bit homophobic, no? How about ‘Sometimes better than Lake Michigan?'” It just didn’t compute. Was he saying something about the RANT?

Maybe I was delirious from the defeat and the ‘knock-em-out’ pills Trish had given me for the headcold I’d exacerbated by surfing two days in a row; whatever; it was when I woke up (sort of, not actually fully awake yet- this is how those pills work) that I realized it was about “Keeping it Strait.”

OH, SURE. NO; never gave a thought to how that might sound to, you know, surfers who might not be heterosexual. AND, OH, maybe (referencing an earlier usage of ‘straight,’ as in not drunk or stoned) surfers who might be stoned or drunk or otherwise drug-influenced (like me on the nighttime cold pills) may also take offense. We can’t have that. No. AND, when I thought it might be good to add, “If you can’t keep it secret…” GEEZ. NO.

SO, let me say I did not mean anything mean, or to demean anyone except those who do not respect and appreciate the rare gift we are sometimes given of a few cold sliders. AND, when I say a few cold sliders, I’m talking about waves and really can’t imagine any other twisted usage of the phrase. It’ not like I said, “a few long straight tubes” or…

WAIT; In going through a few wave descriptions that could (maybe) be construed as sexual, and not wanting to be too crass, I’m thinking back to the artwork by a guy in San Diego who managed apartments for my brother-in-law. His stuff was definitely not in any way PHALLIC. Quite the opposite. So, I asked him what the opposite would be. “VAGINAL,” he said, with a straight face. “Uh huh,” I said, “vaginal.”

OKAY, THEN; I may not ever progress farther with “Keeping it Strait.” I’d give it back to Drew Kampion, but, once he sees how negative it can be, he may not want it.

A Temporary Monument to A Notorious Wave Hog

Posted on August 22, 2015 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under aggressive surfers, gopro shots on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, secret surf spots on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, SUP surfing, surf adventures, surf culture, surf photos, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing in Washington State, surfing on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, surfing tales, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

Maybe it was just a sort of harmless prank; maybe it’s a statement that those wave-hogging, SUP-riding, Aloha-be-damned surfers should always hold on tightly to their paddles. Yeah; even if there’s sixty yards of spinning inside tube ahead of him. And yeah, even if the set-wave-grabbing lineup Dominator is somewhere on the downhill side of sixty, with bad knees and… I mean, you should have seen him trying to get to his paddle as the tide dropped… yeah, he may have deserved this.

I might agree if it wasn’t my paddle.

I’ve been working toward posting something on realsurfers that might go viral. A few pieces, over the three years or so since realsurfers hit the electronic cosmos, have had a sort of slow-motion version. But, what I do know is, even if someone as athletic as whoever found the paddle and jammed it into the wire rope-held pilings pulls it out, King Arthur style, the story will spread. Quickly. After all, surfers hanging out on the Strait, waiting and hoping some sort of swell might show up, might just have to tell the tale of how the baddest-ass, kook-burning-est, wave-catchin’-est, loudest, least cool guy ever to knee-board an eleven foot board from the pilings to the fence got a sort of comeuppance.

I’d argue with the description if it wasn’t supposed to describe me.

There is more to the story; coming soon. If this wasn’t a happy ending for me (still feeling a bit outside of the tribe of mellow, never-took-off-on-anyone-ever-no-really-like-never-surfers, I’d probably guess anyone ever frustrated by SUP-riding over-compensators might just go, “Right On, Man!”), there is a surprise twist in this little morality play. This twist is forcing me to question my initial reaction to be hurt, then pissed-off at being singled out for this little prank; then humiliated by my pathetic, clumsy, and unsuccessful attempts to retrieve the paddle (witnessed by anyone who cared to look among a gathering crowd on the beach). These feelings were followed by a momentary-but-deep (why me? am I really that much of an asshole?) depression combined by a significant amount of anger at people who I would like to think of as peers (even friends). I aimed these feelings to those responsible, and to those who (owing to a different strain of tribal-think) would never reveal who did this. This rather quickly morphed into ‘fuck them/I don’t need them,’ a throwback to my days as a loner/outsider (yeah, I know you think you are. Probably not) with a fully-functioning (as in, I got waves) ghetto-mentality surfer in Oceanside and Pacific Beach, and Swamis, and Trestles, and made me almost proud to be the Antagonist.

Still, until I sort it all out in my mind, I’m leaving it at this. [not true- I’ve already added to this piece several times] I’ve been very satisfied with the many surfers I’ve met over my years surfing in the northwest, an contrast this, happily, with my time in California.

Here are a couple of things: I won’t drop a paddle again. I catch almost every wave I try for. If you aren’t getting enough waves, take off in front of me. Really. I’ve never really yelled at anyone for this (wait, once I yelled, “Really?”), though my usual thing is to sarcastically yell, “Waikiki!” or “Party!” but, my new and humbler self might just smile and say, “Aloha!”(Durn; still a bit bitter, but working on it)

I’d give acknowledgement to the photographer, but, just in case he’s maintaining a safe distance, I’ll just say, ‘nice photo.’ Oh,and Trish said, “If you had a ladder, you could have walked out and climbed up to get it.” “Oh, uh huh.”

Email To Ray Hicks, 1,100 miles down Surf Route 101

Posted on March 25, 2015 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under northwest surfing, real surfers, secret surf spots on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, surf adventures, surfing in Washington State, surfing Southern California in the 60s, writings of Erwin Dence

Hi Erwin,

Thanks for writing, I’ve been dragging my feet with no news. I’ve been ready for several weeks to get back in the water but when there was surf it was way bigger that I wanted to get into out of shape. Then there was none but I’m ready when there is some. So you should be getting a surf story soon.

Hey, Ray,
I know you’re all busy with your new house and all, but, man, you must have done some kind of surf activity by now. It’s been a pretty bad winter, supposedly the season, for surf on the Straits. The coast has been, overall, the place to go, but it’s farther away. I took off at 6:25 am on Saturday, with the buoy readings having just gone from iffy to a pretty good signal there might be waves. There weren’t. I hung at T— R—– a while, did some sewing and gluing on my gloves and wetsuit, took a nap, loaded up some rocks, chatted with a couple of other searchers, and with a father/son team checking crabpots, the father on shore and the son out in a dinghy. Mark, the dad, invited me to surf at the spot near his house some time. I know the spot, D— C—-, have checked it, but it’s farther out and is usually smaller than T— R—–. I was offered some fresh, live, Dungeness crab, but declined. Though we both love crab, it’s the live part that might freak Trish out, and keeping them alive would be a chore for me.
After two and a half hours, I left, drove back towards home and checked out C——-. Also flat, but, en route, I had passed Big Dave, once of PB, on his way out. Having talked on the cell phone to Keith, in PT, who was supposed to go with me, and hearing the buoy readings were even better and the tide was coming in, and thinking maybe Big Dave knew something I didn’t, would hit it big, and I wouldn’t hear about it until the next time I ran into him; I did something I rarely do; I headed back to T—-. Up the hill from the spot, I spotted Dave’s truck. Having already decided T—- wasn’t working, Dave, recently laid off from the mill in PA, was picking up cans on the side of the road (not so much because he was desperate- a little extra money when the surf might happen). He was planning on hitting C——- on the high tide, still hours away. While chatting with Dave, a three vehicle caravan with surfboards headed down the hill.
“Maybe it’s turning on.” “Doubt it.” “I’m going.” “See you.”
It was the cool hip Seattle crowd, “Oh, and we also surf;” checking out the scene, preparing a seaside brunch, letting their dogs go leashless. “What’s your name again,” Brad asked. “We’ve spoken before.” “Uh huh.”
There were a few waves catchable with the SUP, sort of protected from the rising west (sideshore) wind. I thought I’d go out. Then Dave showed up. “Pretty sad,” he said. Dave left, I went out, caught a few waves that required paddling to stay in them. I may have been the only one to go out on the Straits, mostly because I was desperate.

sorry to interrupt my own story, but in this version I added color to the original larger drawing.

Archie, back temporarily from Thailand and a business trip to Boston, and his friend Sandro had been planning on hitting C——- on the high tide. I called Archie and found they were at the state park having a sandwich. I was hungry; met up with them at a picnic table that overlooked the break. Not breaking. At least we couldn’t see waves from there.
Then I went to Costco, Petco… so much fun, then stopped at Archie’s house. Then I got a call from Keith saying N—- B—- was breaking and he was going home to get his stuff. I called Trish, she said, “Have fun, lock the car; and, by the way, I’m not making dinner.” Good enough. I hauled ass.
About five minutes away, Keith called back. “Oh, it’s gone?” “No, it’s better.”
Three waves in I forgot about the rest of the day. Great fun, with just Keith and Brett (who showed up already suited-up while I was suiting-up) and I trading waves. Brett had a girlfriend or wife on the beach, and got out before Keith and I did. We got out sometime after sundown, the waves having peaked, the window having closed.
My next posting will include my new motto: “You can’t get skunked if you don’t go.” Everyone I’ve tried it on goes, “ew.” And then there’s the glass half full version, “You can’t score if you don’t go.”
So, I got back in my driveway at 8:25. Fourteen hours, dark to dark. I drove about 180 miles, round trip. Keith did about 18 blocks.

Anyway, get some surfing in. And let me know.
See you, Erwin

A Christmas Retelling of “Joyce Hoffman’s Bra”

Posted on December 25, 2014 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under surf adventures, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing art, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing tales

This piece was originally written in March of 2013. I did reach out to Joyce Hoffman, via her website; but did not receive a response. Okay. It’s fine. It has, however, given me some sense of (maybe) accomplishment, that, if you google “Joyce Hoffman,” somewhere on the first page, is my little story. I have a couple of other ideas for Christmas stories as I sit here on the very morning, thinking about how the present surfers were given yesterday are probably still working today; but I have places to go and… maybe this isn’t atypical: If I hadn’t stayed up so late last night I’d be out right now. Well, I did open my present early… a few long lines… anyway… hope your season has a few that stay open long enough to tuck in or glide through, Oh, the stuff in [brackets] is kind of like the commentary. The stuff in the (these things) was already here.

JOYCE HOFFMAN’S BRA

My boss, Buddy Rollins [real name Lacy, which partially explains why he went to prison in Florida, where he learned sign lettering], of Buddy’s Sign Service, sold Christmas trees for several years at an otherwise empty lot next to Master’s Automotive, right on Oceanside Boulevard (U.S. Highway 101) in Oceanside, California.

Master’s Automotive, or, as we, in my family, referred to it, Mac’s Garage. Mac’s was where my father worked all day on Sundays, and Tuesday and Thursday evenings after his regular job on Camp Pendleton. It’s not like my dad and I hung out during the two seasons I untied bundles of trees, cut a little off the bottom, set them up on wooden supports, sold trees, and tied trees onto cars. We were busy.

I enjoyed the selling of the trees the most. I had received some experience helping out at the lot set up by my Boy Scout Troop (724, Fallbrook, California). At that time, I thought the whole place was like a clean, moveable, and fake almost-Disney Christmas woods, conveniently set up on blacktop. I could easily imagine background music from the March of the Tin Soldiers. I could fully visualize the cute girls who occasionally came in frolicking with me in the big military-issue (originally) tent; the little post-Mouseketeer, pre-Beach Party Annette Funicellos all giggly and…

Hey, I was, like, eleven to, maybe 13. So, not much actual frolicking. Mind frolicking.

But now, on Buddy’s lot, I was eighteen [the first year], then nineteen. I had a girlfriend, Trish, a real surfer girl- blond hair, not afraid of waves, not irritated by the sand as Annette had been rumored to have been.

And, in 1970, my second season on Buddy’s lot, Trish [who had her own job] worked a few shifts with me. That is, she sold lots [lots] of trees, and kept me busy loading and tying-on, while not merely holding several for her customers to decide between. “What do you think?” they’d ask. They’d ask her.

“Um, Erwin; could you load this please?” Sure.

So it was that I didn’t sell but did get to carry a tree to Joyce Hoffman’s VW bus, two surfboards on top. This was JOYCE HOFFMAN, the famous surfer, world champion, everything champion, the first woman to surf [I read this- didn’t see footage] the Banzai Pipeline, the only surfer to be named “Person of the Year” by the Los Angeles Times, the first woman to (later) be be inducted into the Surfer’s Hall of Fame.[‘On her way home from surfing Trestles, Rincon, some other mythological spot, she had stopped in here!’ You should read the previous line like the voice-over from “A Christmas Story”]

Blonde, fit, Joyce Hoffman had competed in a male-dominated sport and conquered. “Hey,” I wanted to say, “I surf. I have a VW bus. I, I surf, too.” I didn’t. I did say something like, “Joyce Hoffman,” to which she responded with something like a polite, casual, “Uh huh.”

It seemed just knowing who she was would have been enough to prove I was a surfer. A real surfer, dammit.

Then she opened the side door. There, on the bed, was a bra. Nothing else. [nothing else I instantly focused on] “Um.” I turned around quickly, politely, adjusting the tree a bit. When I turned back, the bra was gone. Joyce looked only slightly less casual, arms kind of crossed.

taken from Matt Warshaw’s Encyclopedia of Surfing

NEAR MISS. In 1976, living in Encinitas, I was painting most weekends for Two-Coat Charlie Barnett. I had actually gone back to work for the Navy Public Works in San Diego. Charlie wanted me to call in sick a couple of days to help out him and his brother, Olie, on a job in Leucadia, near Moonlight Beach. An added incentive was that the job was for a famous woman surfer, Joyce, and her husband.

I really couldn’t, and I didn’t. It turned out that the job involved bleaching and stripping real wood paneling, and somewhere in the process, Olie, who regularly sprayed lacquer without a respirator, got ill enough to have to be rushed to the hospital, and then stayed there a couple of days. No smoking, either.

Well. Missed opportunities. Had I worked the job at Joyce’s house, I could have said, waiting for the ambulance, probably in an only slightly chemically-altered state, “Hey, I once loaded a Christmas tree in your VW bus, and…” chuckle, chuckle, end of this imagined scenario.

Other than Joyce Hoffman might have said, giving me one more, slightly skeptical check-out, “Uh huh.” If she’d kind of crossed her arms, I’d have known she remembered.

[Merry Whatever-you-celebrate-during-this-season to all the real surfers; to all the former surfers who remember there was, on rare occasions, something magical about surfing; to all the kooks and posers and after-work-and-weekenders; to all the girls who couldn’t just sit on the beach and watch; to all the young frothers, and to all those who merely simmer. If I can’t be surfing, I do feel thankful that I sometimes have a few moments to write about it (Not that I wouldn’t rather be pulling up high and tight on a runner)]

Surfing Cornwall Walls with Nick Evans

Posted on December 18, 2014 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under surf adventures, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing Cornwall, surfing tales

This is a photo of Nick Evans at some secret spot on the west coast of Cornwall. Well, maybe it’s a secret; but the photo Nick’s cousin, Frances, sent me (at my request, several of them) labeled it as Nick at Hamblyn Bay. Wait; I may have misspelled that name; the photo may have been mislabeled; and, anyway, I don’t live in England, and, even if I did, I’d probably miss these conditions.

Now, if I captioned the photo, it’d have to be “Nick Evans bottom turns into a Cornwall wall.”

Oh, I just checked, while adding the additional photos, and it may actually be Harlyn Bay. Hey, I have a bit of trouble pronouncing old world English. When another surfer from there, a few years ago, whipped out a map after I’d told him I get most of my surf forecasting from Magic Seaweed, which, evidently, comes from somewhere where they actually are in the same time zone as Greenwich (Green’-witch, right? No) Mean Time; I pointed to ‘Bude,’ mentioned occasionally on one of our favorite (favourite maybe, to ya’ll) PBS imports, “Doc Martin;” said, “Yeah, Bude;” and he corrected my mistake of thinking it would possibly be a one syllable word. “It’s pronounced ‘Be-ude.’ ”

Also, I should say the other photos may not be Uncle Nick, but photos taken by him. Just to clarify, though, the surfers do seem to be in position on waves I’d love to share*.

I actually almost met Nick, his obvious coolness revealed by his not donning the hood along with the gloves and booties, when he visited his niece and her husband, Morgan, at their second home high above the bay at Pulali Point in Brinnon, Washington, one of the fingers of the Hood Canal. I was there for a meeting in connection with bleaching and refinishing the place, just for informational purposes. Nick was asleep, resting after a trip up to British Columbia to surf the Canadian (still closer to England than we are) waves at Tofino. I’d pronounce it ‘Tow-Fee-No,’ correct at will.

It may be just too too obvious that I’d be very happy to have a few more eyes on realsurfers.net from the British Isles (is it okay to call them that? It’s not like they all get along). My mother’s family came to America from Wales. My family name, Dence, dates back to middle English, first used on the Northeast side of the island, and evidently means ‘The Dane,’ and, I like to say to pretty much anyone who would still be listening, “And not in a nice way.”

Vikings, just another group wanting to conquer and rule. Or maybe they just wanted to share; as in, cruise around “Doc Martin” territory, share a few waves with Nick and his surf buddies, head down to the local pub, throw back a pint or three. “Throw back,” would that make me sound, you know, local? What if I wore a tweed coat? Forget it, I don’t even fit in here.

Disclaimer: If it suddenly gets crowded with Yanks (Yankers?) at your favourite surf spot, please don’t blame Nick Evans. Blame his Americanized niece, Frances. “Frances?” “Yes, like the country.” “Okay. Frances.”

*share- (Erwin’s definition)- to catch all the waves I can, often calling for the second or third wave in a set so others can get the first ones. As far as sharing a wave- okay if you’re WAY out in front.

Illustration for Musical Event On Surf Route 101

Posted on August 27, 2014 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Uncategorized

Here’s how this poster came about:

I was asked by musician Franko Bertucci (who heads up his touring band, Locust Street Taxi, participates in other musical groupings including “The Village Idiots,” and with his wife, Arianna, doing most of the work, has a small farm) to ‘draw up’ a t shirt design for the ninth annual “Shin-Dig,” a musical event in the town of Quilcene, Washington. If you’ve driven ‘the loop’ that US Highway 101 makes from down at the Columbia River, Chinook, the small town my Dad lives in, and go up the coast (sort of, more woods than waves), possibly making a detour to hit La Push, another turn at Sappho to check out Neah Bay, stay on 112 instead while heading toward Port Angeles, then head East and South; and you get to about mile marker 294, you’ll have passed my house and found yourself having to slow down once again for some small town before heading up and over Mount Walker and down the Hood Canal, the east side of the Olympic Mountains still on your right; well, that big curve is Quilcene, and exactly on the apex of that curve is where the Shin-Dig will be happening this coming Saturday.

So, since the event is held just outside what was once a theater, next to what was once a church, on that curve was once the center of what was once a thriving lumber town, with a railroad line that actually cut across what is now my property, and that former theater is now home to Waltz Lumber, a business that sells slabs of wood (for things like coffee tables) and other exotic wood products (like maple for guitars and such), I thought it might be good to have a drawing of a wood carving (this is just in case you don’t get it from the drawing), and, since my son Jaymz (formerly J.J., actually James) is a lead guitar player and professional musician, I thought a wood carving of… anyway, the whole thing ended up looking more like a poster than a t shirt design, so… I did the black and white, got some copies, added some color and… poster.

So, if you’re headed up or down Surf Route 101 on Saturday, this Labor Day weekend, and you just happen to get to Quilcene between noon and dark; stop in; it’s free, and, well; I have been threatening to participate, possibly to play harmonica and sing something like… “It’s a hard 1,200 miles; that old surf route 101; some are headed for the clouds, some are searching for the sun…”

ADRIFT- Chapter, I Don’t Know, Like, Maybe, Four

Posted on August 9, 2014 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Uncategorized

Stephen Davis is, evidently, headed back home from several months working in the Midwest. His son, Emmett, with him, they apparently took the train from the Chicago area, down to Ohio, picked up a car from an Aunt, kind of a replacement for the car Steve gave to his Psychic in an earlier chapter of his life.
I’m guessing it was valuable father/son bonding time, but it doesn’t look like he scored epic San Onofre. That would be using the surfer logic, “It can’t be good; no one’s out.” I’m looking forward to Stephen’s return. We have a plan to hit an elusive spot on Cape Flattery. Wait, maybe there’s one person out, and, way over to the left, that might be just the edge of someone. This is a different angle of the whole San Onofre/Church/Trestles area than I saw, back when we’d trek there from Fallbrook. This is quite a ways south of the power plant in the area where, back in the pre-I-5, Slaughter Alley days, cops and/or Marines would often be seen escorting surfers off this same beach; possibly, if the surfers were lucky, just back to their vehicles parked off Surf Route 101- possibly minus surfboards. If they were even luckier, the surfers may have scored some epic Camp Pendleton waves.

ADRIFT (Part Two), FIght or Flight

Posted on May 15, 2014 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Uncategorized

“Got my foot down to the floorboards, making time; got it pressed down to the floorboards, making time. Though she said I’d never learn, she gave me love I did not earn; Got to shift down as I start that uphill climb; got my foot down to the floorboards, making time.

“It’s a chance I had to take; there’s some money I can make; but to make it, have to go so far away. I could turn this rig around, roll it right on back towards town; But I won’t, and if that’s wrong… it’s my mistake. I’ll return or more than one heart’s gonna break.” lyrics by Erwin Dence, Jr.

This is Stephen in Port Townsend (photo courtesy of Stephen Davis- not sure who took it) with what he identified as his ‘fight or flight’ expression. He had returned home from working on a construction project in Colorado that had just recently fallen apart when the primary financial backer suddenly died of a heart attack. Different story. The immediate impetus for returning was that his brother had been involved in a car accident that sent him, the brother’s daughter, and a friend of his daughter’s to Harborview, the regional trauma hospital, in Seattle.

Stephen and his wife are partners in a Port Townsend restaurant with Stephen’s brother. Stephen had been a cook, but, with tensions high, and, he said, “everybody blaming him,” he was working in Colorado because he had, after suitable worry and debate, walked away. He had been raised in Colorado, playing hockey and skiing, before coming to the northwest to study at the Wooden Boat School more than twenty years ago.

It was in Port Townsend that Steve honed skills in surfing, picked up kite surfing for those windy, choppy days on the Straits. He traveled for surfing extensively (at least compared to me), and knew every secret spot from Port Townsend to Neah Bay, having explored the points and rivermouths. His master plan had been to build an Auxiliary Dwelling Unit (ADU) on his property, move into it, rent out the main house, and use this income to allow him and his wife Stephanie, and son Emmett, to spend some time living in Mexico.

Things change. Because his brother couldn’t compete in an ice hockey league that competed in Bremerton, Stephen was quite excited to take his place, “And I get to play for free.” It’s not clear whether the Psychic knew this in advance, but the day after Stephen helped his brother’s team secure a victory, champions for the season (“I got a hat trick and made a couple of awesome defensive hits- bam”), Stephen Davis met me at the Henery’s Hardware store in Quilcene (on Surf Route 101), I paid him the two hundred bucks I owed him, and…

“It’s all surfing.” Anon.

Yeah, that’s Stephen’s mom’s car, now the Psychic’s.

Adrift with Stephen Davis (Part One)

Posted on May 15, 2014 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Uncategorized

“Clouds are skidding down the highway, and so am I; Clouds are rolling down the highway, and so am I. I’m in the desert headed East; guess I’m gone at last, at least; they’re not clouds, they’re really shadows from the sky; Clouds are rolling down the highway, and so am I.

“Storm clouds gather on the mountains like a shroud; cloaked around the distant mountains, like a shroud. There’s some one I love the most; but I left her on the Coast; never did one single thing to make her proud; Storm clouds gather on the mountains like a shroud.” lyrics by Erwin Dence, Jr.

This is a photo Stephen Davis sent me from his trip from Port Townsend, Washington to Dayton, Ohio to bury his mother’s ashes. Stephen, it seems to me, has thrown himself off another ledge. The perfect guy to go surfing with, generous, willing to celebrate someone else’s ride, he has no real agenda.

“My Psychic told me I have to go.”

“Psychic?”

Somehow, Steve is also giving his Psychic, who he’s meeting for the first time; his car. “Because she needs one.” “Uh huh. And then…?” “I’m not sure.” “And yet…?”

This seems like classic Stephen Davis. Though I’ve lived my life close to the edge; I always looked for certainty; jobs in the future, hopefully lined up; this one, then that one. Lined up toward some distant channel. If a section falls prematurely, I push through.

But Steve… different. He (forgive any forced metaphors), just pulled through, out; hit another wave. He seems, to me, to be like some incarnation of Candide; not quite clueless, but, maybe, optimistic.

Oh, I know that’s not totally true. He has demons; a father who was (and is) forever disapproving. “You have to get over that,” I told him en route from Fat Smitty’s, along Surf Route 101 in Discovery Bay, to some waves on the farther Straits. But, somewhere approaching Sequim on the way home, I was pounding the dashboard with my free hand, yelling, along with Stephen, “You (meaning Stephen’s Dad) ______ (I’m going to say ‘had sex with’ because my family members might be shocked at what I/we were really saying) Lenny’s (made up name of one of Stephen’s ice hockey teammates at, probably, the pre-high school level) mom!” Now, put it together with both of us pounding and laughing.

I don’t know if my weak on-the-road counseling was helpful for Stephen. He’s had plenty of counseling, even pre-Psychic. I did once receive a text from a surf spot in Oregon. He had, he wrote, sitting outside on a day in which the surf came up enough to wash the other surfers to the beach, heard the Universe ring. Clearly.

But that’s not the beginning of this story; it’s not even the middle. There’s more.

Woosh… A Couple of Days Working in Seattle and… Woosh

Posted on March 16, 2014 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Uncategorized

Sometimes my tendency to make more out of some experience than it deserves, to expand a moment to metaphor irritates me. Even me. Still, I think of all experiences as part of some story; meaning some puzzle piece we haven’t found a place for yet. Not yet.

I occasionally work on ‘the other side,’ in the city, Seattle. In the Pacific Northwest, this is like a reverse surf trip. Still, there are more surf shops in Seattle than on the Olympic Peninsula, and more surfers as well. Cities are where the jobs are. It makes sense.

And maybe it’s been too long since I lived in a city. The overload of competing stimuli strikes me even before it’s my turn to get off the ferry. My Google Map directions not quite memorized, I have the printed version in one hand, ready to take on the crazy traffic, always with someone who knows where he or she is going moving up quickly in the lane I may have to switch to. Instantly. And of course, it’s raining. The storefronts are passing quickly, sideways vision blurred. There are red traffic lights on clutch-burning hills, pedestrians, and heights, and reflections, and curtainless windows shining; and signs I have to read among those I cannot.

All of it is too much.

And yet the houses in the neighborhoods can seem deserted if not for the rain-coated landscapers raking and cutting; if not for the dog-walkers, plastic bag held in a plastic glove, each of them blind to some worker leaning into the side door of his van (though the dogs haven’t learned the city-posture, the ghetto-mentality, and sniff between the coffee and the paint on passing); if not for the occasional children who chirp like stellar jays at a freshly-filled feeder; if not for the car alarms and the whoosh of passing cars, and the sound of some ambulance siren, moving, moving, blocks over; stopping, evidently, but with the siren still going.

That sound becomes something like seagulls on a rooftop; eventually.

And yet, with the city humming like redundant jazz, I’m listening for the sound of the ocean, maybe remembering the excitement of the stimuli overload from my years in San Diego; taking cross streets and alleys to check the surf between PB Point and Crystal Pier, or dropping down the winding roads out of Mission Hills, hoping to beat a couple of traffic lights en route to Sunset Cliffs. Yes, I have been that guy moving up in the right lane, knowing where I was headed, annoyed by those who are overwhelmed.

Woosh… pick up some masking stuff and some tools, remember to lock the door to the van… woosh. Count the seconds…

Woosh.

I will have to write something about localism as it has been redefined in the northwest. With Seattle a ferry ride and another two and a half hours of driving to get to pretty much anywhere on the Straits, and about two and a half hours of driving to get to Westport, depending on traffic… well, it’s like being a surfer who lives in Sacramento, maybe even Los Vegas. Okay, maybe Needles.

Or, thinking from another angle, it’s like (checking the Google Map) living in Fallbrook, California, where I was raised as a suburban non-cowboy, and surfing 1), Oceanside Pier- 25 minutes, 2), Huntington Pier, one hour and twenty minutes, or 3), Malibu Point, two hours and a half; all depending on traffic (jams).

So, this relates to me, now; as: 1), Port Townsend, 2) My favorite Straits spot, and 3) either the real coast near Neah Bay, La Push, or, in the other direction, Westport.

There are other spots, kind of like Fallbrook to Swamis, or La Jolla, or, no, Tijuana Sloughs is probably Huntington-ish. Ish.

Still, even if you live in Port Angeles, it’s over fifty miles to the real coast.

This isn’t that story. And yet, I purchased my latest wetsuit at a Seattle surf shop, cruised through another one over by Gasworks Park. “Don’t touch that,” the guy working there said as I leaned in too close to one of their boards.

“I live on the Peninsula,” I said. “Local-er,” I’m thinking. If I’d needed to, I would have added that I own land and live ON Surf Route 101. Not the local-ist, and I did once own a cowboy hat. Didn’t seem right.

Oh, I’m still going here. So, I did see some legitimate locals late one winter day, on beyond Joyce. I got out of the water because it was getting too dark when two pickups pulled in, logging gear and surfboards in the back. “Doofy has to go out because he missed it this morning,” the guy in the first truck said.

As Doofy (might have had a different nickname) suited up and paddled out, I talked to the local logger/surfers. “Well, there are so many spots,” he said.

“Really? Where?” He looked at me. Owning a house on Surf Route 101 wouldn’t have helped at all. “Nevermind,” I said as Doofy cruised across a dusky left.

Real Surfers

Shoulder-hoppers and name-droppers

Tag Archives: Surf Route 101