WORKING ON IT- Librarian/ripper Keith Darrock and I have been discussing having a SURF MUSIC theme for the next Occasional Surf Culture event. I am working on a poster. The above start, not nearly psychedelic enough, may be used once we get details sorted. If you have surf-centric music, let Keith know via the Port Townsend Public Library, or you could e-mail me at erwin@realsurfers.net
It’ll probably kick ff in, like, January, preesumed (but not always true)height of the local surf season.
Photo from Unsplash. After scrolling and scrolling, this one fit best. Could have scrolled on.
Vintage Victorian Sealskin coat. Out of stock. Photo from MODIG. 1900s Faux fur coat from New York Cloak and Coat House. SHIT! Fake? Evidently you can get real ones in Canada. Might be a tariff. And it might be illegal if immoral isn’t enough, And it’s not like I want one, I just wanted the fictional character to have one.
The Store Owners’ Daughter and the Hudson Street Whore
When the night got too harsh, she moved under the awning, in front of my parents’ hardware store, the Hudson Street whore. I’ve heard her singing.
She twirled for a bit, in the display window’s light, her long coat a part of the dance, “It’s old,” she said, “True, but it’s warm and I swear that it’s genuine fur,” It’s the same one her mother once wore, the Hudson Street whore. I’ve heard her singing.
How this Fiction/Poem was inspired by Chris Eardley, and… an explanation:
It was too cold and, more importantly, too damp to be painting this close to the water this close to sunset. If the fog was to come in… I know the risks of painting exteriors in November in this part of the world. Still, after painting on the covered porch, I pushed my luck a bit, putting a coat on some columns.
That’s when Chris Eardley walked by from his office (with an envy-worthy view of the bend in the Salish Sea between the Strait of Juan de Fuca and Puget Sound) in another building in the Port Hudson marina/building/boat yard complex. Chris is another surfer overqualified to live in a surf-starved area such as the inland waters of the Olympic Peninsula.
Maybe we yelled greetings across the road and past the heavy haul-out movable crane. Or not. Maybe a wave exchange. But… because I was there under circumstances that could be reduced to “I’m here for the money,” I felt a certain amount of something resembling… guilt.
This is me, a self-identified paint-whore.
The fiction part- First, I do a minor cringe using a term as harsh as ‘whore.’ After writing and rewriting a few verses, I decided to make the narrator a woman (girl, age-wise), hoping, if I get to a complete version, that there will be some suspense, perhaps, that the story continues. And, somewhere in my confused, ‘let’s see’ mind, I want to connect the Hudson Street Whore to the ocean, to the whole tradition of Selkies and Sirens. And I will.
I’ll let you know.
The aforementioned Chris Eardley representing in some sunnier climes.
THANKFULNESS- Every wave is a gift. Even the ones you fall on, and the ones that fall on you.
The ghost in the laundromat dryer window is, yeah me, washing my paint-whore outfits.
SO, thanks for checking out my almost-humble blog; hope you’re enjoying the holiday, and, it’s not like we’re all a whore of some kind, but, as such, a surf-whore isn’t the worst thing.
“SWAMIS”- I’m almost through the first third of my latest re-write, front loading a bit more of the mystery aspect of the novel. I’m planning on publishing more here on a second page. Once I figure out how to do that. Stay tuned, stay frothy.
Not much to claim all rights to in this post, but, yes, I am on all original material. Thanks.
Poem. Fear of Crying- “It takes a lot to make me cry, so please don’t try; and if you do, I promise you, I’ll try to make you smile.”
My finger, someone else’s wave.
What We Deserve- We all deserve better; or we believe we do; better or more; less stress, more success; less pain, more gain. Yeah, slogans; the salesperson’s pitch, the trap of new age clap trap; me-ism, we-ism, jingoism. And it’s not that I don’t buy into it. If I put off the work I should be doing, get up early, load up, and drive out for a minimum of half an hour, full of anticipation; by golly, I sort of believe I deserve waves; good waves, uncrowded waves, and lots of them. And I sort of know that belief has no basis… except I want my reward to be as great as my desire, as true as what I imagine it could be.
The Truth is- Sometimes we get skunked. Sometimes someone else gets the wave of the day; someone newer to the game, someone to whom a lucky make on a wave on which the surfer displayed no style, no sign of years of accumulated wave knowledge; and yet, that surfer’s dreams were surpassed. Blissfully so, because a ride like that deserves to be properly appreciated.
Humbled, Not Humble- My most recent surf expedition left me searching for excuses for why I performed so badly; and I hate excuses. Still, I have some: Pressed for time, mind set more on real life than surfing, chose the wrong place to paddle out, relentless set waves. Those are the easy ones. The more fear inducing mind fucks: It just might be true that waves I would have once relished seem daunting, dangerous even. Perhaps my age is catching up with my self-image as someone who tries, as hard as possible, to defy if not deny it.
Still, a Great Session, Other than the Surfing – I got to use my wheelie to pack my board down and back, I met an old friend, TYLER MEEKS, chatted with CHIMACUM TIM, and a couple of other surfers. In processing my latest embarrassment, not that it was witnessed, more that I haven’t been able to not talk about it, I have to go back and take a mental count on other times I’ve been treated unfairly by the ocean (not that, again the ocean plays favorites or that any surfer deserves favor), and there aren’t that many. Did I learn something from my failures? Yes. Do I count the times where I left the water because I lost a fin or was injured or caught three waves in an hour because of the crowd? No. But I can easily recall the sessions in which I was humbled, in which I didn’t live up to whatever standards I believed I had set for myself. Again, belief versus reality.
The John-John Effect- Perhaps you remember a World Surf League contest in France a few years ago: Roll-throughs, brutal death pit shore break; every reason to be intimidated if not scared shitless; and everyone is getting slaughtered… except John Florence. He was ripping the place like it was his back yard. I don’t need to add to that, do I? One surfer’s nightmare is another surfer’s dream.
Cold Comfort- Though I refuse to admit that there is any real value in talking about what I or you or anyone “Used to” do, I do, while wishing I could still ride a six foot board in six foot beachbreak, still wish I could spin and one-stroke into a late drop, crank a vicious hit on an oncoming section, or do a reverse flyaway kickout, and with full awareness that bragging about what I once did only shows what I can no longer do, I do take some solace in my own history; successes and failures.
What Failure Guarantees- A better next time.
Next Time, Man…
ACTUALLY, I wanted to write something about friends, surf friends, close friends, not that kind of friends. The idea is that we have surf acquaintances, and often, our only thing we have in common is that we are surfers. Some, but not all, of my best friends are surfers. Yes, I have so many writing projects in the process of becoming something worthy of sharing. What I’ve been thinking about has some connection to my last humbling. The gist of the story is that I sort of stole PHILLIP HARPER’S car and drove it to a surf spot I was sure I was going to do well at. I didn’t. I lost my 9’9” Surfboards Hawaii noserider paddling out. Lesson- Hands tight on the rails when turning turtle, arms loose to make it through the turbulence. Other lesson, learned when Phillip, who gave me permission through his mother while he was ill and in bed at the motel adjacent to the Cantamar trailer park, Baja California, Easter Vacation, 1968, had a miraculous recovery when he realized that I was driving his Chevy Corvair with a desperate oil leak to K-38, a place where, on the way down, we saw multiple boards destroyed on the rocks. When I got out and up the cliff, all the other dudes, invited and self-invited, and a very angry Phillip, showed up. I don’t remember anyone asking how I did. Later in the week, an offshore wind made Cantamar, which I had tried to surf because I didn’t have a car and everyone else slept in, became rideable for a while; we surfed some blown out shit waves south of Ensenada, paddled out at a spot that was more crowded than it probably was in North San Diego County, and had some other, non-surfing adventures; fireworks, lack a proper bathroom/shower facilities, a lot of hanging out, and a bit of what folks would refer to as partying. Memorable trip for a sixteen-year-old.
What is interesting to me is that I forgot that I had stolen (borrowed) Phillip’s car until I was writing about this trip, fictionalized, as “Inside Break,” the alternate (in a way) coming of age novel that has been (is still being) transformed into “Swamis.” Because I was thinking about this, I accumulated a list of the cast of the actual incident. I’m listing them here because I will forget the names again. The trip was organized by Phillip’s stepfather, Vince Ross. Vince was borrowing a trailer. He and Phillip’s mother, Joy, and Phillip’s sister, Trish (not my Trish) were to stay at the adjacent motel. INVITEES: Phillip Harper, Ray Hicks, Erwin Dence, Melvin Glouser, Clint/Max Harper, Mark Ross. We were supposed to stay at the borrowed trailer, which did not, and this became an issue have a sewer hookup. But, because of the UNINVITED surfers, Dana Adler, Mark Metzger, and Billy McLean; Mel and Ray and Phil and I got to stay in tents outside the boundary, adjacent to a field of, I’m guessing, sugar cane. There were other American surfers also camped there; way cooler than we were.
If this is in some way connected to friends, Phillip was my first surf friend, Ray was a friend before he started surfing (classmate, Boy Scouts). I am still in occasional contact with Ray, and credit him with inspiring me to get back into surfing at fifty, after an eight or ten year near drought. I haven’t been in contact with Phillip for years. While I’m fine with knowing something about what has happened with Mark and Billy and Dana, and others, I do feel bad that I might not have been a good enough friend to Phillip.
Tyler Meeks when he had the sorely missed DISCO BAY Equipment Exchange. His hair is longer now. I didn’t recognize him immediately when I last saw him. He is supposed to call me about t shirt opportunities. Call me, Tyler.
What We Don’t Know- DELANA is a DJ on the local Port Townsend public radio station, KPTZ. The program is ‘Music to my Ears,’ 4 to 5 pm on Wednesdays, repeated on Saturdays at 1pm. I’ve caught her show quite a few times when driving. Old tunes, little stories about the artists involved. What gets me is that at the end, and I’m paraphrasing, she says, “Remember to be kind to those we meet. Each of us carries a burden that others do not see.” What we know about our surf friends is what we have in common; and sometimes surfing is pretty much it. And… that’s fine. In fact, it’s great.
The step parent of “Swamis,” different take on the same era. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. Oh, and Happy Memorial Day, and, oh, good luck, Sally Fitz. They may or may not hold the next round tonight. As with everything, we will see.
*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.
I had something almost ready for posting today that is based on two of my favorite words, “Esoteric” and “Eclectic,” the connection to the purer, less commercial, real-er aspects of surfing being that only a percentage of those who consider themselves surfers have the possibly exaggerated, possibly accurate view of surfing as ‘more than’ the sport of riding waves.
So, like esoteric humor, jokes that only a certain group, insiders, perhaps appreciate, surfers in a mostly wave-starved area, and defend and appreciate the waves when they do appear, and not to belabor this too far, somehow are… sort of insiders.
The surfers who wait for and search for waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca are a mixed group: Tech dudes and Tech Women, business folks, contractors, folks with lives that fill in the non-surf periods; it’s an eclectic mix.
I’ve written about NAM SIU before. When Nam got into surfing, he did everything he could to improve quickly; skateboarding, snowboarding, wing foiling. It worked; his surfing improved, quickly and dramatically. A message this morning from Nam’s significant other, JENNY LEE, was passed on in a group test by JOEL CARBON:
Photos from Chris Eardley
Nam and Chris work together at the Fish and Wildlife, or Fish and Game… one of those. Chris says “Nam is a friend first and a colleague second!”
Information on Nam’s condition is a bit sketchy, but it is known that the medical issues are serious enough that Nam was airlifted from Port Townsend to a hospital on the Seattle side. So… serious. The latest word as of Sunday evening is that Nam seems to be responding to treatment. So… some reason for optimism.
Nam is what we should want to be: Sincere, honest, dedicated, stoked, connected to whatever it is that entices, sometimes forces us, a very diverse group, age-wise, occupation-wise, any-other-measure-wise, to wait and search and push ourselves up or out. If there is a group that hopes and prays for certain conditions; offshore, lined-up, not too crowded; or, I guess, powder on the slopes and decent roads to get there, that group can use, perhaps, that same energy to be sent… elsewhere. Nam needs to recover. He and I have a contest going on, and I believe we’re currently tied; one heat each. GET WELL, NAM.
Update on Sally Fitzgibbons- Out off the El Salvador contest. Damn! Not that I typically root for Lakey Peterson, raised in a house on the point at Rincon (possibly- her mother lives there, so I’m, yeah, assuming), but she was eliminated in a tight heat, and was, as shown on WSL footage on YouTube, visibly upset. Since I seem to have hopes for surfers based on age and, to a lesser degree, niceness, perceived or real; I guess I’m hoping Tyler Wright continues on, quite possibly eliminated by… Caitlin Simmers. Yes, a prediction. Or maybe the inheritor of the Stephanie Gilmore grace and power school; you know… Pickles.
On the mens’ side, someone from Brazil, home of endlessly, and, it seems desperately competitive and acrobatic surfing. Or Griffin, end result of coaching, video feedback, and the surfing equivalent of studying-to-the-test; not that he isn’t good or that his path to success isn’t legitimate. Or difficult.
No, of course I wouldn’t be worried about surfing contests, or spending too much time watching YouTube content by Jamie and Nate and Mason, sometimes lesser social media stars, or watching another ‘Maps to Nowhere’ video, or cursing at the tablet or the phone or the laptop because the fucking angle of the promised swell is wrong, wrong, wrong, AND the size of the swell is disappointingly not as promised; I’d worry about none of that if I was out in the water, concentrating on waves and not even thinking about how fucking much avocados and coffee are going to cost when I cruise through Costco on my way home. I also would not wonder why, with the barrel price of oil having dropped ten dollars, why, why, why the pump price hasn’t dropped.
Ah, surfing, where we can forget the world, and worry about how a drop-knee turn is as good as a kick stall, and wonder why what was once called a roller coaster is now referred to as a re-entry, and contemplate on how long it’s been since we’ve seen a reverse kickout with amplitude. Oh, and while scanning the horizon for a three wave set, we might not worry about just how far the stock market is going to fall on Monday. And, besides that…
CHRIS EARDLEY, Olympic Peninsula ripper and occasional surf traveler, may have been more concerned about the rip and the raggedy rocks than the possibility of getting hit in the face by his board at a notoriously sketchy break. Well. It happens. Chris was helped to his car and to the emergency room by a couple of other surfers. “No…” gag, gag, “It’s not that bad.” “Yes, I can see a little daylight, but… a few stitches and…” Seventeen stitches, more inside the lip than outside. Chipped and loosened teeth. Pain.
So, naturally, one of Chris’s first texts was to another surfer, inquiring about how the rest of the session went. “Not that great,” which is code for, “Awesome!” He’s doing okay. I saw him yesterday, should have taken a photo. “Yeah, Chris; you should stay out of the water a while. I got my twenty stitches out (non-surfing injury) I’m hoping to go tomorrow.”
I kind of missed the protest in Port Townsend yesterday. I knew protests were planned in all 50 states, and I got a reminder from Keith Darrock, who reported his mother, LORRAINE, was part of the mile-plus lines of folks on the main drag. Since the average age of Port Townsend residents is… yeah, my demographic; old, I lent a bit of support, I thought, by honking (if someone else did a two honker, I echoed it; three honks, same thing) and exchanging peace signs and thumbs up gestures to the crowd as it was, peacefully, thinning out.
I was driving my big boy van rather than my left-leaning Volvo and I didn’t go all the way through town, but I was happy to see folks involved.
Meanwhile I am still checking the buoys, still trying not to worry too much.
Here is a poem from my saved file of ‘works in progress.’ I just finished painting a house, ADU, and garage for Marti and Andy, both of whom were very helpful when I fell and cut my head. And they are just very nice folks. I was discussing my poems/songs with Andy over the course of the project. I told him I have a lot of lines, but have only a first verse for a song, and a whole lot of writing but only a last line that is the basis for a poem.
As sort of a gift I printed up what I have on those as a sort of gift. On the other side of the pagek, because I was impatient and ended up printing multiple copies, then put the paper back into the printer, there was a completed song, “Out of the Wind,” on the back. They were gracious.
Here’s the verse: “Between alone and lonely, there is time to reconsider, all the pieces you have scattered from your jigsaw puzzle life.” Here’s the last line: “…And you can almost see the ocean from there.” As a bonus, I threw in a little ditty I wrote:
“Call me DAREDEVIL DAN, I’m a Daredevil,” Dan said,
But, like many a daredevil, Dan ended up dead.
Dead Dan was found in the bathroom, end of the hall,
Someone spiced up Dan’s drug cocktail with a pinch of fentanyl,
Or a dash, I’m not sure, accounts vary.
The Devil Dan dared,
If aware, did not care,
And all of Dan’s people said, “That’s not right, that’s not fair,”
And the Devil, I’m told, had no comment.
Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. I should give Chris Eardley credit for the selfie. It did come from him, along with… kind of, permission to write about it. Hey, if pushed, I do claim some rights as a journalist (of sorts). Please remember any original writing by me is protected by copyright.
It isn’t, of course, the falling that hurts or kills you. It is the sudden stop. Or it’s what you fall against. Every surfer has fallen, this getting more intense by having a wave actually causing us to fall, with force, and/or falling on us with more force. And then there is what we are falling into and/or slammed against: Reefs, rocks, gravel, and/or a combination of these, with or without added jaggedess. And then there is the added joy of having our board becoming a weapon that can provide blunt force trauma, a cut from a fin, and/or a stabbing-type wound. Might as well add in other people’s boards, and/or other people. Sounds dangerous.
I suddenly feel compelled to list every actual injury that can be connected to ladders in my fifty-six year (in June) career in painting. This excludes cuts and bruises from knives and scrapers, the smacking of a thumb or finger with a misaimed hammer, punctures from splinters, some quite long and quite deep, from sanding straight grain fir, and other injuries too common and/or ridiculous to list. None super serious.
Despite many sketchy ladder moves and spooky positioning, any of which could have had consequences, and the fact (or my line on the issue) that a ladder has 29 ways to hurt a person, and then one can fall, the number comes in at… tabulating… six. The list of injuries includes TWO sprained and/or broken ankles (never got x-rays) from missing a rung on now-illegal extension ladders that had a missing run on the ‘fly’ section; ONE chest-compression injury from trying to carry too much stuff down a ladder, facing out (heels don’t have the ‘purchase’ feet do); ONE ‘legs stretched to ballerinas-only position injury on a three-legged ‘picker’ ladder after one leg sank in a recent backfill, and one of my feet stayed on the rung; ONE injury from a ‘kick-out’ because the ‘stand-offs’ on the ladder were not on the roof (imagine teeter-totter); ONE accident, yesterday, when, and I’m still evaluating exactly what went wrong, I was coming down a ladder with two buckets of paint, avoiding tree branches, with the ladder in a less than ideal (though frequently necessary) position… AND, I swear, I would have been fine in the tumble if I hadn’t hit the edge of a planter pot.
I probably wouldn’t have gone to the JEFFERSON GENERAL HOSPITAL Emergency Room if there hadn’t been so much BLOOD. This is me in the outfit I was wearing when they released me. “Are you attached to these clothes?” I was asked as a nurse cut my two layers of shirts away. “No, they’re attached to me,” I said as I pulled the very long long sleeved shirt out of my pants (just in time, I was thinking). I was also wearing a beanie, but it got kind of ruined by my using it to hold pressure.
It’s actually quite a story, from my perspective, and I have people to thank: My clients- MARTI insisted I go to the ER. “You look like a Texas Chainsaw Massacre victim,” she said. I checked it in a mirror. She was right. ANDY drove me to the ER and waited until the stitching (20) was done, hung out until I was released, and drove me back to my car. Sorry about the blood in your car, Andy. DONITA, a nurse at Jefferson General, who, informed there was a bloodied painter with a head wound, instantly recognized me, from the back of my head. Donita, who Trish and I have known the entire time we havde lived in Quilcene, acted as a liaison with the staff, mostly saying, “No, he’s always like this. It’s (maniacal behavior and joking in the face of imminent catastrophe) normal… for him.” In exchange, I said, “Donita and my wife and I were all EMTs together. Donita always volunteered to be a victim. I never did.”
The attending physician, KEVIN R. BOWMAN, MD, should also be mentioned. As should that none of this bumping and bleeding was actually painful. Sticking needles into my head; that was. MEANWHILE Trish was calling and texting, the ER folks (of various ranks) were looking for the needles and thread and extractors and other tools, mostly unsuccessfully, some persistent but tiny artery was still pumping, and I was saying things, like, “Reminds me, for some reason, of ‘MASH,’ ‘big stitches.’ MEAN MEANWHILE, Dr. Bowman, having revealed he lives in Bellingham, left himself open to me discussing all things surfing. Him admitting he is trying to learn Wing Foiling led to more discussion of surf hierarchies and ‘adult learners,’ and why I find that in any way amusing.
When it was determined that I would survive despite my killer blood pressure, and while Dr. Bowman was still stitching (“Probably won’t leave a scar.” “Will I be sprouting new hair?” “No.”), I was trying to arrange a ride back to my car. My friend, Keith, who had recently received another (I’m not counting) big ass bruise (on his thigh) from bouncing off rocks, agreed to come get me when I was released, but a woman from the front came in and asked me if Andy could come back. “He’s been here the whole time?” Yeah. So he came back, and, while waiting, we chatted about all kinds of deeply and shallowly philosophical stuff, and Bob Dylan (Andy has a gre-eeat story about a friend of his at Newport, 1965, front row tickets courtesy of Joan Baez). I called Keith back.
This morning Keith texted to see if I am okay. I am. Just a cut. “Good. I was a little worried with the last minute ride cancellation and sort of giddiness on the phone.” Giddy? Me?
Since I’m oh so close to getting my novel, “Swamis,” ready to publish, and my songs/poems collection, “Love Songs For Cynics,” I decided to overwrite an overwrought poem. This one:
The bodies still strewn on the battlefield, fires, once flaring, still smoldering, blood, once pumping, pooled or seeping, quietly, from bodies, once soldiers or shoppers or farmers or children of this or some other tribe, the survivors were, briefly, giddy, out of ammo, fingers flexing and relaxing, adrenaline pushing, unrestrained, from every poor, paused a moment before reloading.
It seems to be a thing we participate in, the ranking of surfers based on criteria other than a person’s ability to ride waves. The ranking system varies but usually is skewed toward the person placing each of us into categories. It was once that the ultimate “Waterman” or water-person was skilled in multiple facets; yeah, but… I took this photo of ALLEN mostly because someone on the beach said it’s, with the roof extension lowered in this image, probably a hundred-thousand dollar rig. “No,” Allen bought it used for Forty grand (not sure if that’s with or without the camper). Points for Allen on one scale. “I traded out about fifteen-hundred worth of work for mine,” I said. I’m not claiming bonus points, but for $98,500 I can make a few trips searching for waves. Or maybe I can buy a newer board. Or…
Again, am I judging? Constantly, though I’m trying to quit. I told Trish that, in the movies, someone who hits something like a planter pot and busts upon his head, dies. “No,” she said, “Sometimes they wake up with amnesia.” She laughed. “You might wake up and not know where you are and ask, ‘how the hell’d I end up in this dump?'” It’s a long story, and with every story, I’m working on it.
Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. Wing Foilers, non-wing foilers, E bike riders, kite surfers, some e foil riders, some kayakers, shortboarders, longboarders, snow riders, skate boarders, any and all learners or almost masters, of any age, of the fine art of flowing and gliding and ripping and falling are welcome.
I am past the pissed off, embarrassed, relieved, and the giddiness phases. I am still cruising in the thankful phase. For every accident we are involved in, there are so many near misses, so many ‘could have beens,’ any of which would change our story. As Andy said, “There are miracles on both ends; we don’t remember our birth, and our death is still a mystery.” Yeah, I told you it was philosophical.
I’m not giving up any spots. I think this is from San Diego.
I actually don’t have a lot of time this morning. Work, and planning for more work. The winter work famine might just be giving way to, yeah, work. the VOLVO continues to run great, knock on wood, I’m waiting to see if my daughter will kindly format my “Swamis” so I can do something with it, I’m moving ahead, slowly, on getting songs and poems and essays and artwork together for “Love Songs for Cynics,” and… surfwise; with a few notable exceptions, the surf doldrums continue.”
I’ve been doing a virtual dawn patrol lately. No, I’m always checking the buoys (taking advantage before they disappear in a whiff of doge-shit). What I don’t check is the forecast sites. Perhaps it is nice to have Surfline to blame for your latest trip by ferry, and across bridges, and through a few stoplights and past some downed trees on long and winding roads to end up with you, speeding from known spot to known spot, to be skunked. That with the added bonus of hanging out, at length, or hiking in, watching a lack of rideable waves for a number of hours, hoping, waiting, and then considering the miles and bridges and ferry wait times between there and home.
Still, I believe, anticipation doesn’t just ebb and flow; we store it up, tighten that spring, until…
Until. Hopefully, until, for you, is now. Or soon. I have my big, gnarled and thrashed board on my car, I have buoys on my phone, and… I’m ready. See you.
OH, yeah, on an I’m-not-political side note, I am not ready to go commie. Now, or ever. And… I’m not sure even red state, all-in Magamaniacs are really, really ready to go that red. Meanwhile, for book banning enthusiasts, a must-ban is “The Manchurian Candidate,” and any other book that even hints at… whatever that book hints at.
…AND REGGIE and DJANGO (the ‘d’ is silent) unleashed… and more
THIS is my VOLVO just after ADAM ‘WIPEOUT’ JAMES did almost all the tricky technical stuff in my attempt to save the ‘SUPER FUN CAR’ (the previous owner had a license plate ring that reads, ‘chocolat du coeur,’ chocolate of the heart) after, probably twelve miles from home and with darkness falling fast, a broken fitting on the hose that goes through the firewall causing water to spew out, the lack of water leading to overheating. I could, of course, stopped and called for a tow. I DIDN”T. Because of a stubborn insistence on my part to make it home, and with the added belief I could because folks stopped out in the middle of nowhere to give me, like, three gallons off water, I kept going. THIS involved, watching the temp gauge, stopping short of the red zone, allowing the engine to cool down, adding water, driving, cool down, water, driving, cool down, more water, driving. The gauge was approaching the red line again when I limped down the driveway.
As seems to be my usual response when driving in dangerous and/or tense situations that are no longer shared-with-if-not-mitigated-by chain smoking, though my white knuckled grip on the steering wheel remains, I spent an almost equal amount of the time between breakdown and home (probably and hour-and-a-half) swearing and praying.
AND THEN I replaced the broken heater thermostat, myself, and then, though the FUN CAR didn’t overheat, I discovered I had a blown HEAD GASKET. My friend and mechanic, GEORGE TAKAMOTO, currently being treated for kidney failure, asked, on the phone, “Is it water in the oil or oil in the water?” “I think it’s, like, both.” “OH. Bad.”
BEFORE I called KIRKY, local tow truck driver and junk hauler, to offer him the FUN CAR, I consulted a guy who works on cars all the time, MICHAEL SPEARS. He wasn’t interested in the car, even for free, but said, given the difference between the worth of the car and the cost of a professional head gasket replacement, I might consider trying this stuff, BLUE DEVIL.
SO, and I wouldn’t have attempted this without help, Adam agreed to help. ROUND ONE seemed to do the trick; but I didn’t trust driving it, and, since I still had half a bottle of the Blue Devil, we gave it another go. AND I AM pretty convinced the car is running decently. Adam also cranked up the idle a bit because, my gorilla hands trying to wrangle hoses and stuff, I did something to the linkage. I can’t explain it, but Adam figured it out and fixed it. NOW, the van story: It’s a thirty-year-old rig and, just before George had to go into an assisted living/rehab place, he diagnosed the problem with the back door on the van not opening from the outside as a broken bulb-like dealie on the end of the linkage. “Huh?” I couldn’t fix it, or wouldn’t try, and have spent a month or so crawling through the van to open the door from the inside. Not fun.
I purchased a replacement on Amazon for, like, $115.00. While we were waiting for the Fun Car to cool down enough to replace the engine’s main thermostat, Adam asked what else I had that needed fixing. The part, of course, did not come even close to fitting, BUT, and I give full credit to Adam’s inventiveness to living down at the HAMA HAMA, being involved in the oyster business, with all kinds of gear and gear breakdown issues, Adam figured out a way to open the door. “Does it bother you that you won’t be able to lock the door?” “Hell, no; I was ready to go full white trash and put a latch and a padlock on it.”
IF ADAM is a superstar in the seafood/oyster industries. He is or should be legendary in the surf world. Because he travels frequently to places that buy oysters and, incidentally, have waves, he is known and ACCEPTED (this is a major part of this) at a lot of local (and localized) breaks.
Adam and I had a bit of a discussion on how many legendary surfers are among our group of friends, and why this or that surfer fits into the legend category. It comes down to this: A LEGEND IS A STORY. LEGENDARY figures in any and all fields have, ONE, stories to tell, and TWO, others have stories to tell about them. SO, if you want to be a legendary surfer, SURF.
REGGIE SMART, surfer, independent contractor, tattoo artist, working on his own legend, illustrated, working downtown with his new dog (not posing), DJANGO.
PICTURE-WISE, I just deleted, by his request, a photo of surfer/journalist/poet RICO, but now, because I want to call myself a surfer/journalist/poet, I’ve decided I shouldn’t be dissuaded from capturing images of surfers or whoevers. It’s integrity. Maybe. I did allow COUGAR KEITH the opportunity to pose, he declined and ran away too quickly for me to get my phone ready.
AFTER AND BEFORE photos of this dude who bothered me a while back while I was trying to work in Uptown Port Townsend, and then, more recently, at the hardware store. He also rudely wasted some of my Daughter Dru’s time while she was working, last day before her surgery, at the OLYMPIC MUSIC FESTIVAL office. I seems he’s in this play in which he plays his father- hence, and it makes perfect sense, he in the navy getup, no beard, dyed hair. When I accused him of wasting Dru’s time, he said, “Geez; old guys talk; that’s what we do.” OKAY. I did hear that he may or may not have been the old guy who was hanging around the middle school asking kids if they wanted to be in his play… or the guy was until cops told him he had to leave. SO, he has stories; stories are told about him. Legend? Maybe. He doesn’t surf. I asked.
SURF NEWS- I surfed. Once I complete a few test runs and get the insurance, including towing, reinstated on the Fun Car, I’ll be venturing farther out, working on some new surf tales.
‘SWAMIS’ NEWS- It’s more like bidding season than painting season for the ERWIN DENCE PAINTING COMPANY, and I’m actually working on doing some advertising. YELP! This is my excuse, ten or twelve pages from wrapping up what’s listed on the thumb drive as ‘final final final Swamis.’ Maybe, since I’m working on this tonight, I can write tomorrow. Yes, after I write two more proposals.
LOVE SONG FOR CYNICS-
Right now it’s time for TRUE CONFESSIONS, time for you to just come clean; Right now it’s time for true confessions, time for you to just come clean; Now, don’t be lookin’ at me that way, you know exactly what I mean.
Today your husband came to see me, after all I’m his best friend; Today your old man came to see me, after all I’m his best friend; He said he knows that you’ve been cheatin’, and now it’s too late to pretend.
He says he’s got his pistol loaded, he says his finger’s got an itch; He says he’s got his pistol loaded, and says his finger’s got an itch; And when that other man gets cornered, he’s gonna shoot that sonofabitch.
I said, friend, you’d better calm down, it won’t be worth the price you’ll pay; I said you’d better, better, better calm down, it won’t be worth the price you’ll pay; He said, “All I ever wanted, is a woman who will stay.”
Well, I can’t preach or shout if I’m talkin’ about the way you’ve been misbehaving, Bug your man’s made a stand, and he has a new plan, for a love he feel’s worth saving; If you can’t take a chance on one sided romance, ’cause of all your indiscretions, Then it’s best that you run, ’cause your man’s got a gun, this might be your last confession.
Right now it’s time for true confessions, they say the truth will set us free; Oh, yes, it’s time for true confessions, they say the truth will set us free; It’s hard for me to talk about this, because… the other man… is me.
Thanks for checking out realsurfers. Now go find some real waves, create some real stories.
ALL original work on realsurfers.net, unless otherwise noted, is copyright protected, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
If surfing is important to your life; if your self image is as a surfer, there are few things more upsetting, when there are waves, than the lack of ACCESS. In California and Hawaii (not sure about Oregon), the beaches are public and there are constant lawsuits against super rich (obviously) beachfront owners, many of whom promised to provide access and then decided rude, noisy beach goers could just, to coin a phrase, ‘Pound sand.” Like, somewhere else. If you have enough beachfront, say like “The Ranch,” it might not be that difficult to keep surfers in their place. Some other place.
In Washington State, with our thousands of miles of saltwater frontage, the beaches and the valuable tidelands belong to the landowners. It’s not all tideflats rich in oysters and geoducks and all that; some people just agree with the opinion that beachgoers and surfers somehow wreck the view.
It’s not just that the surf is fickle, or that most surf spots on the Olympic Peninsula can only be reached with driving and hiking, and possibly climbing down cliffs, add in that there are spots visiting surfers cannot access. I have checked one break three times. Cops were called twice. The woman patrolling the zone and very proud of her efforts, was unapologetic. The surfers with me (two different ones) and I were apologetic. “Yeah, we just went across someone’s lawn to check it out. And… what about those two guys who are out?” They probably paddled from way around the point or boated in, “Yeah, I’m going to deal with them, too.” “Have a good day, Ma’am.” And we were out. Elsewhere.
Another spot, with much easier access, is, and this should be noted, private. I have run into the owner several times. I was SO POLITE. It’s just counterintuitive to be otherwise. Back to my motto: “I’m here to surf.”
Another quickie: I know of another spot I’ve surfed a couple of times. I was invited to park out on the point and surf there, but it was years ago. Since then, with some, um, people, doing damage to the property, or misbehaving, or camping, or whatever, cameras were installed. Not to check out the surf but to check on assholes.
ASSHOLES. So, here’s a recent deal. Spot on the coast. Private Property. Gated. Homeowner shows up, identifies himself as such. Surfers curse at him. A dick image is traced on the seasonal dirt on his car. He sees some other surfers closer to the beach, tells them it is private property and their Hobuck or La Push pass doesn’t cover this place. More cursing. More disrespect. SOLUTION: Better gate. DENY ACCESS!
IN THE PAST, surfers made deals with farmers and foresters, people who owned waterfront. Access was on a personal basis. Then someone spotted surf rigs, spread the word, and the next time there was a possibility the spot was breaking, more cars. The farmer or the forester sells the spot, homeowners move in, fuck a bunch of surfers; ACCESS DENIED!
THERE was, of course, the UNCLE DOUG (I never called him that) access. As someone who never paid to park and surf, I had no problem sliding five bucks into the can. It isn’t just that the property was disrespected, but Doug died, the ACCESS WAS DENIED!
I DO FEEL AS IF I should defend myself against charges of blowing up spots. I consciously try not to mention even well-known spots, try to not be too specific as to even WHEN I surfed. I’ve spent years trying to increase my chances of finding waves. THIS IS totally self-serving. While I appreciate the characters I’ve met over the years, if they all showed up at one time at one spot, it would be… soooo crowded.
ANYWAY, it would be helpful if you, as a visitor on someone else’s beach, pick up your trash, maybe someone else’s, be respectful, and, you know, don’t be an ASSHOLE.
Uptown characters.
THIS GUY called me off a porch on a main street in Port Townsend, I was painting. He asked if I wanted to paint for his movie. WHAT? Yeah, I would be interested if it was a legitimate offer. After ranting about car crashes and how he was changing his name, and his upcoming tour to promote the movie, with hius co-star, 36 compared to his 75 and OH, BABY!… and, when asked, he said the folders at his side were part of his latest law suit, worth millions, and… and… and… “Hey, whatever you said your name is… um, I gotta go.”
I should post this under “CRAZY RECOGNIZES CRAZY.”
This was after, stepping out of my van after eating a sandwich, this really old woman comes cruising up to me. She is pushing a walker and I make the mistake of saying, “Hey, you’re getting along pretty well.” Without missing a beat, she asks if I can help her. “OH, no!” Yeah, she hit me up for money. I didn’t want to go into my own issues, but begrudgingly gave her four bucks. “JESUS LOVES YOU,” she said. “Yes, I know that, but…” So, then the crazy guy, then the woman comes back and to the other side of my van. “I’m up here,” I said. “Can you help me?” “Already did. And, hey, I have a few questions. No time. She was gone.
I texted a photo of the filmmaker to a friend who works in the Uptown area, someone who must deal with the occasional Port Townsend fun people. He wrote back, “Avoid that guy at all costs.” In later discussion, we decided the dude is kind of like me in that he will talk to strangers. He is, hopefully and maybe, a bit more crazy-ish than I am. Yet.
UPDATE- Still Wednesday- My new friend and possibly future employer showed up at Dru’s workplace, revealing her with pretty much the same spiel he gave me. Did I tell you the movie’s A musical? Well, he told my daughter. And he added he was leading a singalong on Thursday. When she said she’s having surgery, he invited her to “zoom in.”
“Maybe.”
After half an hour, Dru’s said, “I gotta go.”
I GOTTA GO. Trisha’s and my daughter, DRU, is having more cancer-related surgery tomorrow. Thank you for your wishes. We’ll see how it goes. MAYBE giving the woman four bucks and the love from Jesus might help. GO,JESUS! and, oh yeah, FUCK CANCER!
MORE songs and poems from my previous collection, “LOVE SONGS FOR CYNICS,” and some newer stuff, all under consideration for my upcoming (definitely) book on SUNDAY. As far as “SWAMIS,” I’m regrouping after not getting my first choice of agents, HILLARY JACOBSON, and almost considering doing an e-book. NOT YET.
Meanwhile, try not to do anything you should apologize for.l And find some waves.
…Except when I am. Not right now. Or, if I am worried, I’m trying my best not to outright panic.
It is fitting that each new year starts so close to the shortest, darkest day of the year. So, if everything is bleak; better days are ahead. If new year’s day was in April, or worse July, we’d be forced to celebrate that slow roll into the uncertainty that is, for many of us, winter.
For surfers and snowsliders, of course, winter brings some increased hope of waves. It has been brought to my ATTENTION that I am, possibly, the only one consistently writing about the very fickle and utterly inconsistent waves on the STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA; this with the possible downside that my even mentioning the possibility might influence surfers to make their way to the Olympic Peninsula.
I DO CONFESS that, back in 2013, I did name a couple of spots that can, occasionally, get crowded. I stopped that practice, partially in my own self-interest. BUT, if someone asks you why you’re searching for waves out in this (let’s face it, the strait is a harbor) area, you should probably also confess. “Yes, Erwin seduced me into believing I could find such blissful happiness here.” ALTERNATE (and more realistic) RESPONSE- “Who?”
I have always written songs and, another confession, poetry. I’ve been concentrating on it a bit more lately. I am not sure if I posted this song (yes, it’s singable) before on realsurfers. If I have, PLEASE FORGIVE ME!
Nothing to worry about
OUT OF THE WIND
There’s something sublime, a soft summer breeze, But the cold gales of winter will bend you to your knees, Yes, you can resist, but you’ll never win, No matter how fierce, all storms have an end, But… I just want to get out of the wind, out of the wind, out of the wind.
Most colors will fade, some colors still shine, Other colors just refuse to stay within the lines, While some colors clash, still others will blend, Some take you to the clouds and back again, Still… I just want to get out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.
Small change is dirty, big money’s all clean, I just need some dollars that are somewhere in between, If there’s none to save, still need cash to spend, If money’s your love, please find a new friend, And… I just want to stay out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.
All truths remain true, all lies are still lies, Politicians smile and hit you right between the eyes, False stories they spread, still others defend, The damage, once done, is too hard to mend, So… I just want to stay out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.
Looking for justice, it’s always on sale, You won’t change the system if you know you’re bound to fail, The world isn’t fair, it never has been, The answer, my friend, got lost in the wind, And… I can’t seem to stay out of the wind… out of the wind, out of the wind.
I sailed for safe harbor, I couldn’t outrun the squall, I’ve tried to live my life in Summer, but I’m heading for the Fall, You say there’s no sanctuary, well, I’m still willing to pretend, We’ve made it through so many winters, But winter’s coming ’round again…
THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT REALSURFERS. Important NOTES: I don’t get any money from whatever ads WordPress puts on my site. I wish I did. Remember- any original stuff is protected by copyright. All rights reserved by the author/artist, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
May we each get some rides worth putting in our ‘best of 2025’ memory files! Example- “This one time, Westport was sooooo good, and me and my crew, we was on it.” OKAY, now I’m blowing up Westport. I’d apologize, but…
Real Surfers 