A (Revised) Last Look at the Second Occasional Surf Culture Event- and A Bit on Drew Kampion and Something on Author Justin Hocking

Alienating Drew Kampion is something that sits high on my worry list; right up there with being called a Kook or a Hodad (first I was thinking young surf punks who don’t appreciate the experience and innate coolness of someone who has been surfing for, forever- but then I really mean anyone, even if I’ve done something Hodad-ish or Kook-like). Mr. Kampion is held in a rare position in the surfing community. While surfers like Miki Dora and Greg Noll are admired for living a lifestyle unavailable to those of us who love adventure yet opt for some sense of security, and other surfers are noted for gloriously blazing and tragically (but, maybe predictably) burning-out, Drew Kampion has kept a toe in the waters and an eye on the changes in the surfing world since the evolution/revolution in the mid-to-late 1960s, pushing “Surfer” into new-age journalism while most of us were cutting old boards down and sticking one hand in the wave to duplicate some controlled sideslip we saw in the magazine. It would be pretty difficult to find a surf-related book without a forward or comment or endorsement by Drew Kampion. Or written by him.

It was with great excitement that Port Townsend Librarian Keith Darrock was able to persuade Drew to come over from Whidbey Island for the first Surf Culture on the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the Salish Sea Event. This photo is from the second time I ever met the legend in person. When I first met him, last time, I said, “My only hope is that this isn’t all too cheesy.” “Have no fear,” he said, “I live in the cheese.”

Well, there’s cheese and there’s cheese. As I mentioned, I’m fortunate enough to be included in a group receiving a weekly email featuring a poem by Walt Whitman. I always write back something long, frequently something about the latest surf trek to the wilds of the Olympic Peninsula; sometimes a rant. I get back (thrilled to get anything back) some terse and brilliant. I may never reach brilliant… or terse, but I am grateful to not be called out as a poser/kook/hodad; but if I did get called out, I’d have to believe it.

REVISION/NEW MATERIAL- Just to show there were younger folks at the event, and because he was the keynote speaker, I had to get back to this to say something about Justin Hocking, author of “The Great Floodgates of the Wonderworld.” Just this last weekend I ran into someone on the Strait who, like Justin, surfed Rockaway Beach in New York State. Connection? Because Justin spent some time in Colorado, and because Stephen Davis was raised there, and because Stephen read his book before Mr. Hocking was invited to speak, and was impressed by it, Steve sort of grabbed (someone more sophisticated than I would say ‘button-holed’) the author during the after-presentation part of the program; and then I attacked him, interrogated him. “San Diego, huh… what part?” “Well, and this affected my skateboarding verses surfing; it was mostly geographical.” It turns out he lived in La Jolla for a while, then, when his father remarried, moved inland. “Not to, like, El Cajon?” “Yes. El Cajon.”

It explains a lot. Stephen wanted to buy a book. I wanted a book. I had money, but someone else gave Steve enough for two books. “Steve, I can buy my own book.” “No, I’m buying you one.” Slightly more aggressive, maybe, than Stephen, Justin was busy writing something on mine when Keith came up, saying he wanted a book. He was out of books, but I still had some money, and bought one for Keith, offering some extra money for shipping. In my mind, it all kind of evened-out, and, anyway, I have my personalized copy.

So, what I’d like to say is, as always, there are connections, if we attack/interrogate/converse with someone enough to find them. I know this book isn’t the end of Justin’s work; I know attending cheesy gatherings and such activities is important to the promotion process; but, in the same way I hope for the best for those who are daring enough to pursue a career in the dangerous world of art and literature, like surfer/artists Todd Fischer and Jesse Watson, I would like to think Justin’s ride will find success. Go, Justin!

A legend on the Strait, TIm Nolan. Google “Tim Nolan and the Wave of the Day” for more. It’s somewhere in the realsurfers.net archives. Still dominates. Oh, and check out the paintings in the background by Stephen Davis (center) and Todd Fischer.

part of the crowd at the event. Hey, there were some younger folks, also. No, really. That’s Stephen Davis with the man-bunn.

In Case You Missed the Surf Culture Event

Posted on July 16, 2015 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Erwin Dence illustrations, Port townsend surfing, real surfers, secret surf spots on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, surf adventures, surf culture events, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing in Washington State, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

Here’s the piece I read, with minimal ad-libbing, at the recent Surf Culture On the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the Salish Sea Event. I plan on adding some more photos, but it’ll probably be in another post. A pretty successful event- no one drowned, though I did hear some coughing.

CONJURING UP SOME MAGIC

ONE- I knew the two young guys, one on a soft top, the other on a yellow-but-at-one-time-white board were from Gold Bar, a town somewhere between I-5 and the Cascade Mountains. Because I asked them. Nicely. But I always ask surfers I haven’t seen before. This time, we were at a spot that, legend has it, sometimes features rights, off the island. That’s a clue. I’ve only experienced this lowtide phenomenon once; closeouts across the small bay many times.

Archie and I had gotten skunked at the place we had wanted to surf. At this spot there was a sandbar, there was a makeable right. There were several other surfers out, including a guy on the longest longboard ever, paddling with way too much nose out of the water (sure sign of a beginner/kook), but waiting in the perfect spot, catching the best waves (as in, the ones I wanted), jumping up, clumsily riding, arms flailing, and, somehow, making waves.

“Hey,” I said, nicely, “you don’t need that much nose out of the water.” “Hey,” he said, kind of snottily, looking at me kneepaddling a stand up paddleboard; “aren’t you supposed to be standing up on that thing?” “Oh,” I said, “yeah, I think so.” Eventually, whether or not he appreciated it, the surfer from… I didn’t ask where he came from… he got a rare treat; really great waves. Archie and I enjoyed them for another forty-five minutes after Long Longboard Guy left. Then the waves left.

But, the Gold Bar Boys. On this day it was a very high tide and the waves were wrapping around what in normally beach rather than sandbar. The best waves ended up in the creek. Another clue. “Um, maybe, if you want to actually catch waves, you might move over here,” I offered. “Thank you, sir.”

So, several waves later; and this was a few years ago, and I was on a non-SUP… just so you know… I took off and did what old fat guys who have ripped or torn, or merely worn out, tendons and ligaments on each knee, do on very small-but-peeling waves; I rode them on my knees. That made the wave, like, chest high. One of the Goldies was on the shoulder, doing the head down paddle-like-you-mean-it, and… and I know every gremmie practices this, the jump up to spiderman move, on the carpet of his mom’s house, out in the schoolyard to impress inland girls, wherever, and, whether they’ve actually caught the wave or not, the beginner is likely to leap up.

This time Goldie did catch the wave, jumped up, arms pumping, and actually was trimming down the line, on the shoulder, totally unaware I was behind him. Kneeboarding. It’s a long wave, as I intimated, and, though my fin was almost dragging, I kept going, into the creek. The wave sort of died in the deeper water, I did a smooth pullout while he just sort of stepped off the side of his board. He didn’t appear shocked he had ridden a party wave with a guy who isn’t fond of party waves, turned to me and said,

“That was EPIC!”

“Um; yeah, it was.”

TWO

Up until a certain point in my board surfing… career, life, experience… I truly believed, and frequently stated, that I could remember every wave I’d ever ridden. And, further, I believed that there was something magical about catching, riding, or even watching a wave from the first line on the horizon, to the last wash up the beach.

I still believe in the magic, and, though I have trouble remembering individual rides, even from my most recent session, my mental harddrive is crammed with images from 50 years of board surfing, with mat surfing, surfie surfing, body surfing before that, and, possibly, I like to believe, even some foggy recollection from my first three years of life, on the beach in Surf City, North Carolina, toddling down a bit of an incline, somewhat ahead of my mother, toward the waves.

Waves. The early morning light on the east coast is like evening on the west; the view from the water reverses the colors, dawn to dusk. In winter, on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, the sun hugging the mountains, it’s dawn all day. And then it’s dark.

The images are all so clear; things I’ve seen- storm surf with sideways-ripped waves, lines of broken soup to the horizon, indicator sets in the kelp beds with the greenest color on the wall as each wave lifts, toward the peak angle on a surfer hard against the wall, a whale in the darker corner of a cove blowing a geyser, the view of waves between the houses and along the low sections of old Highway 101, Oceanside to La Jolla, nineteen fifty-something.

And more. I can conjure up the photo of Rincon from the hill, from a mid-sixties “Surfer” magazine, a guy on the hill at dawn, witnessing lines to the horizon, and… and maybe you know the photo.

So, my beginning hypothesis was: If we store a mental slideshow, and add to it over time, then, if a surfer wants to do some mind surfing, at any given time, those images can be brought forth, and that would be magic. And I want surfing to be magic.

The problem is, all our memories are fiction. There’s some Master Record of All Truth, and then there’s our version. “Overhead and glassy at an afternoon session at Cardiff Reef in 1967, the time Phillip Harper had to get rescued?” Maybe.

And that photo. I looked for it online. No, it was afternoon, the same lines at Rincon to the horizon, and published in “Surfer” in 1973. 1973? What? Can’t be. I wasn’t studying surfing magazines in 1973; maybe a glance at the grocery store.

If I’m wrong about that, what about the image of the competitor freesurfing before the Oceanside Invitational in 1965? My slideshow has the guy taking off, dropping with the wave, an attempt at a headdip turning into a vicious lip-to-the-head, pile-driving wipeout. Wrong. I was the kook, paddling out because I was too embarrassed by my sister, Suellen, running around the beach, collecting autographs from surfers like Mike Doyle, even chatting with Doyle’s mother, that kind of thing. The real truth might be that the surfer possibly could have made the wave if some gremmie hadn’t been directly in his way.

Still, I like my fiction better.

THREE

It was still an hour and a half before dawn when three Peter Pans met at Fat Smitty’s, quickly moving boards onto and gear into the vehicle owned by the oldest of the three Pans. Heading west/northwest, coffee and expectations bouncing around inside, there would be adventure and excitement on this, as with most expeditions. Stories would be created: The drunk/or/sleepy driver; traffic tickets; a ripped-loose leash and a lost board saved by Big Dave; waves cresting near the pilings; the guy with the Shamrock on his board shoving Brett’s board back as he attempted to even a score for undue set wave hogging, and the follow-up screaming match in the lineup.

But, each of the Peters ended up with his fictional(-ized, maybe just slightly) account to save; each of us caught enough waves, got enough good rides. Other things, like real life, could be discussed on the way back home.

A few days after the above session, Jeff, a guy I occasionally sought waves with before his wife, my daughter’s old school friend, Ruth, got into surfing and they became what I call a ‘surfing power couple’, and who I didn’t realize was on the beach on that day, sent me a video of me ripping three bottom turns and totally in position on three sections before making a smooth kickout.

So, I was right. I do rip.

FOUR

So, here’s the go pro my daughter bought me. Thanks, Dru. GoPro selfies always, and it doesn’t matter if the surfer is on a small wave or huge, just look like someone doing calisthetics. But, a shot down the line… better.

If you could access your mental slideshow, bring up a just-glassed-off afternoon session. Now, a wave approaches. You paddle over to get near the peak. You wait, wait, then turn, throw your weight down, then use that rebound to start your paddle. One stroke, two; you’re dropping. You lean a bit more toward the peak, allowing the board’s dropping ease your leap to your feet, with, in the same motion, a smooth turn off the bottom. You spot a place high on the shoulder and down the line… When you hit it, you’re so close to the top, ribs of feathering wave in front of you. There’s a real question as to whether you can make the wave. You shift your weight forward, allowing the back inside edge of your board to release.

There’s one moment, the briefest of moments here for you to tuck, drive…

All right, so you made the wave. Great. Or you wiped out. That happens. No big deal, unless you had put yourself in that one moment; then it’s memorable. Click.

Now you’re looking up the barrel at me in a similar moment. I’m standing tall, allowing the lip to move my hand back and down as my board freefalls a bit. At that questionable moment of making it or not, I just can’t help but channel some ancient surfing magic, and lean back, arch, and I may be screaming some one-syllable non-word. “Owwwwww!” which really means, “hey, look at this.”

I want you to add this image to your harddrive, and, later, when you bring it back up, and bearing in mind you just got a great ride, you can only respond by saying, “That was EPIC!”

May all your sessions be epic. May all your magic be real. Thanks

A Look Back at the First ‘Surf Culture on the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the Salish Sea Event’

Posted on July 8, 2015 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Port townsend surfing, real surfers, surf culture events

Somewhere before it was my turn to present my short story, “Locals,” I realized a twenty minute reading wouldn’t work with the somewhat fractured audience. By fractured, I really mean distracted. There was a lot going on in and around the Cotton Building, the former Port Townsend Police Station, and, for this evening, the site of the first ever Surf Culture on the Strait of Juan de Fuca Cultural Event.

The Kinetic Kar thingie was happening nearby, there was a dance about to happen at the American Legion Hall, and, hey, it was a High Season Saturday night on Water Street. Former “Surfer” magazine (and many others) editor and the man whose name must appear somewhere on any jacket for any authentic surf-related book, Drew Kampion, was just finishing a slide show. He’d been there (everywhere, with photos to prove it) during surfing’s post-Gidget, short board evolution. As a writer/journalist, Kampion was the Hunter S. Thompson, the Tom Wolfe for surfers. Yes, Wolfe wrote about surfing, but he wasn’t a surfer.

Somewhere after Drew’s casually-presented show-and-tell, with insider stories; with Archie Endo (he volunteered for this, and was very well received) playing surf tunes through a little amp; with people milling about near the tables and easels of art work by legitimate, professional artists Todd Fischer and Jesse Watson, checking out a painting by Stephen Davis that just (I mean just) sold to a surf shop in Malibu; with photographs by Christian Coxen; with some people taking to seats who clearly thought this was some other event; with people (some possibly bored tourists) wandering in off the street; I knew it would soon be my turn.

Gulp.

This first event came together much like the actual local surf scene; word of mouth, which includes texting, e-mails, random meetings between surfers at Waste Not Want Not (used merely as an example). Keith Darrock, surfing Librarian, came up with the idea of doing a surf-centered event, possibly including me because we ran into each other while looking for surf at a sort-of secret occasional-breaking surf spot. But this is how it worked. Tim Nolan, boat designer, will be displaying his new paddleboard and the cad drawings for it at the upcoming event, partially because Keith ran into him at a surf spot past Joyce.

“Yeah, but, Keith,” I had said prior to the first event, “if it’s sponsored by the library, shouldn’t there be something, you know, like, literary?”

“You know anyone… literary?”

I recommended Mr. Kampion, who actually dedicated a poem to me in “Surfer” magazine in 1969 (possibly because I have a funny name and did have a poem, heavily edited, published in the magazine in late 1968, written when I was 17), and who now lives on Whidbey Island. Keith reached out to him, he agreed to come over, and, relief, now I was the opening act.

Except I wasn’t. I was scheduled last. I tried to appear calm, but actually was unable to see the audience through my reading (only) glasses. That was just as well. I had rehearsed, thrown in some choreography, timed my readings. I didn’t want to screw this up.

At a normal, conversational rate, it took about nineteen minutes to read through.

And so I began.

“Whoa,” someone said, (like, fifteen minutes) afterward; “I didn’t think someone speak so… clearly, while talking so… (pause for a breath)… fast.”

So, this time, for this event, with the Northwind Gallery involved, there may be a bit of a change in the demographic. I would say more sophisticated. Maybe. Maybe the Port Townsend literati. We’ll see. Most of the original artists will have works on display. Background music will be provided by Pete Raab, including a couple by Archie currently working and surfing in Thailand). Drew Kampion has agreed to come back. Author Justin Hocking will be the main act, and I’m not sure how Keith arranged this, but, wherever I am in the lineup, I’ll be reading something shorter. And slower.

But I can read it faster if I have to.

See you this Saturday, starting around 6pm, uptown Port Townsend, upstairs at the Carnegie Library.

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

The Same Wind

Posted on February 28, 2015 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, real surfers, secret surf spots on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, surf adventures, surf illustrations, surf sessions, surfing drawings, surfing illustrations, surfing in Washington State, surfing novels

Does this drawing make me look gay? I only ask because, going back to do some work on it, adding the black lines (and I should add that the color, in person, is more intense and the lines that form the border are actually even on all four sides), I asked my wife, Trish, as I usually do, what she thought. “Pretty,” she said. Then she chuckled. “Is it meant to be… um… a gay wave?” “What? No. I just wanted to add some rainbows on a wave and… oh; now I see it.” This started a conversation that made me ask her if the rainbow lei, the faded one that’s been hanging, along with a Saint Christopher medal and a long-worn-out scenty thing, for about a hundred thousand miles, on the mirror in the old work/surf van, which had originally been her mini-van (way cleaner, didn’t smell like paint OR wetsuits)… um, is that a… I mean I always just thought it was, you know, Hawaiian… it’s not… I mean, would someone think that…I mean, it’s not, like, a rainbow coalition-y thing?”

Yesterday, in my new surf/not-work wagon, I was looking for surf on the Straits of Juan de Fuca. There’s been a serious lack of properly-aligned swell for most of February, and, though I’d almost decided to trek the extra hour or so to the coast, it looked like the waves might just cooperate at the second secret spot I checked. So I hung around, thinking how the coast has been the place to go all this winter; offshore winds, reasonably sized waves… no, I’d go out here and catch a few, maybe my timing would seem, once the long peelers started hitting the reef, brilliant.

Didn’t happen. The same east wind that was blowing against the open palms of the broken lines approaching the shores beyond the farthest headland I could see, out where the sun had already broken through the squalls; that same wind was reeling around the little point, ripping scars into the weak energy pockets I was trying to harness. I don’t give up easily. ‘Exercise,’ ‘practice,’ ‘just had to get wet,’ take your choice. ‘Desperate’ is another motivational catch phrase.

And the wind got stronger, soon howling across the swells as they moved past me, sideways, tops blowing off. Once I got my fill of practice and exercise, once I had gotten wet and was no longer as desperate, using my car as a buffer, and just as I was about to lean over to grab my hoodie from the front seat… woosh! Whoa! Head dip! My big ass board flew over me, landed eight feet away.

The duck and tuck was the best surf move I’d made all day. And I did get home in time to check the buoys and the camera at La Push (not a secret spot). Swell up, direction better, and that same east wind that would bring better weather today was grooming the outside peaks. Brilliant.

“Maybe my mistake,” I told Trish about the time I realized the contest at Snapper Rocks had been on line for hours, and Kelly Slater had already lost in round one, “was I went too early.” “Oh,” she said, in sort of a mock-caring tone, “and now it’s almost dark.” By the time we had the discussion about the gayness, real or imagined, of my drawing, the women’s surfing had started. Full screen. Full color.

Trish looked at a replay of a woman in a bright orange bikini bottom bottom-turning into a decent walled-up section. She looked at me. “It’s Hawaiian,” she said. “What? Oh. Uh huh; I thought so.”

Hey, take a few minutes, when you get a chance, and check out ‘Inside Break,’ the novelization, a couple of place down from here. Thanks.

Not Talking About a Non-Secret Surf Spot

Posted on February 3, 2015 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under northwest surfing, real surfers, surf adventures, surf photos, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing Swamis, Uncategorized

“You don’t even know,” Stephen said. “You wouldn’t believe how… good… double-overheaddddd…”

The cell phone connection, these being cosmic and pure, only made scratchy and difficult by the devices, modern versions of the tin can and string, wasn’t good*. I was in my work van, cruising south on Surf Route 101. I had made three phone calls to Stephen, left one message, left the other two before I would have had to. “Missed” calls. Steve was, evidently, on a break, just outside of the kitchen at a restaurant at Fort Warden.

I should have pulled over, but it was dark. I just wanted a report. I had heard he and his friend Stig, over in Washington State from the Aloha State, big wave charger, had surfed a legendary spot on the northern coast. **

“Wait,” I said. What?” I asked. “I mean, what did you say?”

“I said you can never go there with me. Look, Erwin; I have to go. My life’s… it was; just take my word for it. I can’t even… Soooo unbelievable.”

“Wait, Steve, Stephen… you mean you surfed there and survived, but… I mean, I’d drown?”

“I just can’t be responsible. I’ll… I’ll send you some photos.”

Okay, it was either a challenge or a statement (I’ll say ‘statement’ rather than ‘put-down’) that I was not up to the task. That may be true. Setting aside my age, I haven’t taken a lot of time to explore the wild coastline, take the logging roads, walk paths along bluffs and cliffs, but I do know there are several (there just have to be) spots where, on some particular swells, under some conditions, waves follow the rugged points, peel into log-jammed beaches.

And, Stephen had sent me some photos from an earlier trip; a shot of a random, unnamed and probably-never-surfed slab, which I posted on this site, and a photo of the spot he and Stig had so recently ridden, taken from a high cliff; spooky, congested inshore on a rocky ledge, and scary-if-enticing lines peeling to a certain closeout section. I didn’t post it, on Stephen’s quite-adamant insistence. He and the surfer with him on that quest, and others they met on site, also declined the opportunity.

Stephen did send photos from this session, when he and Stig got there before the south Devil wind came up, chop blowing into the wash-throughs, the sneaker sets hitting unknown outside reefs. From the beach, from the photos, it looked, to me… possible.

But, you won’t see those photos here.

Oh, the photo above is of somewhere, somewhere else, borrowed from nwframeofmind. *Someone told me the cosmic string theory. I just said, “Uh huh.” **I actually saw super 8 movies of this very spot over thirty years ago. When I said, “It looks like Swamis,” I was booed, corrected, and, most tellingly, not invited to the next private surf movie night.

Probably my second thought on hearing the challenge/realistic assessment from my friend, was that it would make a great short story; old(er) guy takes on surf spot, does or doesn’t get a few great rides, does or doesn’t drown. Really, my biggest fear is getting back up those cliffs after, after what? Meanwhile, Stephen is working on his own surf-centric story that he will, he says, allow me to publish to the pure dark cosmic internet.

If you pull the string really really tight…

A Slightly LarGER VERsion of the Drawing for ‘Joyce Hoffman’s Bra’

Posted on January 2, 2015 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under surf adventures, surf illustrations, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing art, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing tales, uncatagorized

I posted the story before I finished processing the drawing; and then the drawing- I don’t know why- can’t seem to figure this stuff out- came out smaller than I’d like. So, I hit ‘edit.’ Not sure what happened to that version. Anyway, if you’re looking at this, just keep moving down to the next story. And the next, and… Hey, Happy New Year!

December’s Lost Boards- Swami’s ’69, Straits ’14

Posted on December 30, 2014 by Erwin A. Dence Jr. under northwest surfing, secret surf spots on the Straits of Juan de Fuca, surf adventures, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing in Washington State, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing Swamis, uncatagorized

photo by Steve Kohr, stevekohr.com

12/28/14- FORMERLY SEMI-SECRET SPOT- STRAITS OF JUAN DE FUCA.
It would be half an hour before the winter sun would rise, and even then it would be blocked for hours by the Olympic Mountains, then the nearer tree lines. In fact, at this time of year, on the north shore of the west coast, the sun merely hugs the mountains like an all-day dawn. At 7:30 am, what could be seen was grainy, almost colorless; headlights in the parking area, semi-clear sky, the water was the color of drowning, of death at sea.
And I was in it trying to swim, side-stroke, one hand on my paddle; and I hadn’t even caught a wave yet.
Yeah, it’s over-dramatic; but I was the one caught in it, swimming because I had tried to cut across the usually waveless channel, the deep spot between two reefs; so confident; thinking I could snag an inside left on my way out to a lineup in which the first members of the dawn patrollers were trying to find the perfect place to take off in a crazy sea.
Sure, I’d seen, even in the dim light, the sets breaking on the outlside indicators, the roll-throughs, the waves that closed out the channel and the ones that could provide those storied rides that start on the outside reef and end up past the parking area, past the fence.
“I ended up way past the fence, man.” “Whoa.” Meaningful.
But this is my favorite spot on the Straits of Juan de Fuca; I’ve surfed here (first time, 1979, next time 2005, if this means anything) in every condition, from low tide rights you couldn’t catch with a regular board, fin clicking across rocks; to those just-mentioned left peelers; to bouncy just-after-a-storm surf, waves blown by winds from sideshore squalls, rain or sleet, cold offshores from fresh mountain snow; fun, user-friendly conditions- but I’ve also surfed days with these outside roll-throughs, almost out of control, where the hard part was not panicking, holding my position, waiting for the reef to catch the bottom of the swell, to shape it properly.
Big Dave had been on the wave, dealing with an inside close out, almost directly in front of me; the wave that ripped the leash that, evidently, hadn’t had enough Velcro ‘bite.’ It wasn’t a big pull; my board was just gone.
Oh, I could see it, tantalizingly close, just out of reach; then, another wave, and it popped up again, farther away.
I was only yards from the beach, but I knew the waves wouldn’t help push me to shore. The tide was too high, washing up on the river-rock bank; pushing up and rolling rocks and foam uphill. Then there were clackity-thunk sounds as the energy tumbled back down, crashing into the next surge. I knew there would be no bottom to put my feet on to take a last leap forward.
still, not panicking.

actual shot from ’69

DECEMBER OF 1969- SWAMI’S-
It was the second day of the famous swell. I had survived the first, seriously undergunned with my regular short board (probably around 6’6”) in well-overhead waves with an unusually strong Santa Ana offshore. Yes, I was one of those guys hanging on the shoulder. In my memory bank’s version (probably in a Super 8 format- still), I was out very early and the tide was at that height where there is no inside and outside; merely a long wall that required a crazy-late takeoff, offered a crazy-long barrel past the shoulder-hoppers, and rewarded the best surfers with the best rides Swami’s could possibly offer.
I know I didn’t do a ‘paddle (in) of shame,’ but I couldn’t say I caught anything but a few insiders.
But, on the second day, the waves only a bit smaller, on a different, longer (still round-nosed- hate a pointy nose) board, the weather was stormier, the tide lower, the waves more broken up, and I was attacking the inside lineup, lined up on the palm tree on the cliff, that below the solid line of onlookers at the edge of the parking lot; scratching into waves that ‘went wide’ and peaked on the inside lineup or had closed out on the guy riding from the outside peak.
Still, I was looking for the smaller waves. I caught a few, but it was rough. I did keep getting caught inside, part of the crowd the riders had to navigate. The thrashing-to-riding ratio wasn’t really going my way, and too many waves I wanted went to others. “One more wave” I told myself.
And I caught it. If you know Swami’s, particularly the inside section, you know there’s a drop and a wall, then an area to cut back, cruise back and forth, and then, over the grassy finger slabs inside, often there’s another little section. Maybe I was too far outside. I made the drop and was totally in position for the wall. Too far back.
It wasn’t like the worst wipeout/holddown of my career, another wave at Swamis where I fell from the top (of note: On a turn, not dropping-in), to the trough, had the wind knocked out of me, came up seriously out of breath, sucked in part of twelve inches of foam. This was more a whacking, a full-body punch, the energy as much out as down.
I wasn’t panicking. I was swimming. “Fine,” I thought,” I’m done for the day.”
STRAITS- After a couple of shorepound knockdowns I found footing, slogged up the steep beach, my paddle in my hand; breathing in deeply, coughing out. The water, probably 45 degrees or so at the nearest buoy, is so much colder when you’re between two streams coming off fresh mountain snow; and seems even colder when you’re swimming.
My board was not on shore, however. It had drifted down past the fence and was headed out. I hurried down the beach until I was even with it. In that time it had moved farther out, headed toward the other reef. Tim Nolan, who, for once, I had beaten to the beach, was ready to paddle out. I was too far away to yell at him to help me and a bit too shaken up to swim, my board now a hundred yards out. I threw the paddle up onto the higher beach and thought, “Maybe it’s just not my day.”
FATE AND KARMA- Each of these seems to be about things in life kind of evening-out. My own philosophy is somewhere in there.
Maybe it was because I had thought it amusing when I saw someone in a car with a longboard getting a ticket over by Discovery Bay when I was on my way home from working in Port Townsend that, earlier this very morning, I had gotten a speeding ticket near Port Angeles. Maybe it was fitting that several of the folks in the rigs in the parking area had passed by us (Stephen Davis, Keith Darrock also in my car) in front of the car with the flashing lights, maybe it was only right other surfers should mention it, chuckling as they did.
Maybe there’s some wicked form of Fate/Karma in that, cruising up Surf Route 101, we chanced to be behind someone either sleepy or drunk, weaving across the center line, then across the fog line; and Steve called 911, and we gave them the license number; and I had Steve tell them the car would be behind a white car with several boards on top; and, when the officer returned with our tickets (Keith got one for no seatbelt- also, really my fault), the drunk-or-sleepy guy drove right past.
“I hope he gets home all right,” the State Patrolman said.
That karma’s on him. Maybe. Oh, and maybe it’s this: The last time I was out in similar conditions in the Straits, the first (and only) guy out that morning tried desperately to catch an inside wave, caught the third he tried for, came in, ran up the beach, and, wide-eyed, asked, “Is it always like this?” “It’s never like this.” Another surfer and I, both on longboards, started paddling out, he a bit closer to the reef. A wave closed out immediately in front of us. I turned turtle. When I came up, he had lost his board. I kept paddling.
At least he was close to the reef.

another retro shot; I’d be further to the left.
RESOLUTION-
IN 1969, not finding my board on the rocks or beach, members of collective crowd on the bluff were pointing and yelling, “It’s in the rip!” It was. I looked up, looked out, swam almost to the inside lineup, climbed on my board, caught one more wave. A good one according to my Super 8 file; and went in, did better the next day.
THE OTHER DAY I almost thought I’d lost my board forever, thought I’d be watching Keith and Stephen deal with the Dawn Patrol Syndrome, watching the waves get more and more crowded. But, Big Dave left the lineup, paddled over, grabbed a hold of my board, started paddling it in. Push, paddle, push. When he got close to the inside waves, I swam out. I still had a bit of trouble getting it and me in. When I did, I dragged it (by the leash) up the beach, took a break, reclaimed some (not quite all) of my usual confidence. Four hours after Keith was the first one in the water, the day now sunny, the tide more normal, the waves more in control, way too many people in the water, we all agreed it had been, ON BALANCE, a great session. Each of us had a few good ones, a few ‘past the fence.’
Maybe not for everyone (there were some words exchanged among others, at volume, in the water), but for each of us.
THANKS, Big Dave; I owe you (another) one.

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.

Real Surfers

Shoulder-hoppers and name-droppers

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