Adam “Wipeout” James, super critical seafood person at Hama Hama Seafood, was supposed to go surfing, supposed to cruise up Surf Route 101 and drop off some Hood Canal Shrimp/Prawns at my house for my daughter, Dru’s, upcoming birthday. It’s also Earth Day, and if I got this right, the first Earth Day was right around Dru’s birth. I’d check it, but I’d rather keep the myth going.
I wanted to show Adam the board I made by cutting down the first SUP (of two) I owned by two feet. The idea was to keep as much width and thickness as possible. The hope was that I could still use a paddle on a more maneuverable board, like, one that would cut back in less than twenty yards. That didn’t work.
Adam, who, to my knowledge, didn’t go surfing on this day, took a couple of photos of me and the board, and it’ easy to see why it takes more foam to float the guy in the pictures. Gnome.
Yeah, the one pants leg not all the way down is part of the look.
Adam’s first comment on seeing the board was, “Oh, it’s just like the other one.”
I had to stew on that one for a while before I texted Adam. “The difference is that I own this one,” to which Adam responded with, “Laughed at…”
In more Hama Hama news: Stephen R. Davis, heading down Surf Route 101 to San Francisco to check out a greeting card convvention, stopped in, sold some of his greeting cards. Adam, running around, as always, making sure the oysters are thriving, met up with Steve, got him a check, and gave him this hat:
Stephen R. Davis self portrait.
I’m going to have to update my copies of Stephen R. Davis cards. They are available at several spots in Jefferson County. I’ll get a list together. I do apologize
ALSO, if you’re a realsurfer regular, you probably realize that what I’m doing is redoing and tightening and improving the artwork on the MANTA. I made it, originally, as a twin fin, the boxes routed by CHRIS BAUER, Port Angeles board maker. Peninsula rippers AARON LENNOX and KEITH DARROCK rode the thing, the mat coming unglued as Keith ripped a few waves. Because Aaron said he thought the twin fins were not enough on the wide board, I added a full length middle fin and tried to ride the board in some small but powerful waves. Pretty much belly boarding, the board definitely found the tubes. The big fin threw the balance off. I ripped it out, replaced it with a smaller fin, mostly to kind of hide the hole.
I have to put a coat of resin on the top and bottom, and then… backup board, maybe. OR… I am losing weight, or trying to, mostly because, at Jefferson General Wound Care because of an infected cut to my leg, the nurse insisted on taking my blood pressure (high) and putting me on the scales. My friend Keith has been bugging me to lose, like, 75 pounds, after which, he claims, I’d “Really be dominating.” No, 75 isn’t enough. Fat people never tell you what they weigh until they lose some of it. So, not saying.
OH, and because I have my art (and the cedar board) on display for two more months at the COLAB in downtown Port Townsend, I plan on putting the Manta on display.
UPDATES FORTHCOMING. Maybe not Wednesday. I’ve been trying. It’s not content, it’s time. Stuff to do.
Remember to respect the copyrighted material, mine and Steve’s. And remember to be real if you, try as you may, can’t be nice.
JOEL and RACHEL CARBEN are the proprietors of the COLAB in downtown Port Townsend. Colab as in Collaborative Work Space. Joel is one of the members (if there is such a thing) of the rabid-if-desperate and frequently-disappointed Olympic Peninsula/Strait of Juan de Fuca surf community. There is an ART WALK each month in PT (I’ve never gone on one), so, partially in the interest of promoting the COLAB enterprise (more people hanging out with laptops and connections), why not have me and two other artists show our stuff? I mean, after all, Joel does actually own the cedar art piece/surfboard shown below. Long story. I was supposed to spray paint “Locals Only” on it or something, but…
ARTISTS, huh?
As usual, I didn’t do everything right. I had a whole room to display my stuff. I didn’t put prices on things, didn’t put business cards out. And, I didn’t hang out in the room, charming the folks who came in. BUT, I now realize, the main thing I did wrong is that I didn’t take some photos of STEPHEN R. DAVIS, KEITH DARROCK, and, yeah, me, cruising around to the various galleries.
If I had you could see LIBRARIAN KEITH, as rabid a surf fanatic as I have ever run into (or been burned by), but a solid citizen, mingling with the tourists and the artists, and in the company of two, perhaps… no, I don’t know how to describe Steve and I except we’re probably not as out-there as we believe ourselves to be. I mean, I’m as CITIZEN as the next person, but Steve? ARTISTS, huh?
And we’re checking out everyone else’s art, chatting with artists, partaking in the free snacks (no wine for me, not that I’m bragging. A nice expresso would have been… appreciated).
AND IT kind of worked out. EXAMPLE- We’re at the fanciest gallery in PT (prices fancier, also- wine from bottles with, probably, recognizable names for wine aficionados- no, not Ernest & Julio), and Steve is kind of (I thought) kissing up to this artist with the tiniest possible ponytail (so high concept/fashion), and I see this kid sitting on a bench with a sweatshirt with a logo from CHRIS BAUER SURFBOARDS. “Hey, where’d you get that sweatshirt, kid?” “He’s my dad. Chris Bauer.” “Oh.” When one of the board members (because fancy galleries have boards and directors) comes over and says I’m getting a bit rowdy, I acknowledge this and ask her if he knows KEITH.
THEY chat and I go outside. Again, as with my leaving first at other venues, I sort of think, as I acknowledged, that, if I still smoked, I’d be having one at this point. OUTSIDE the gallery.
I am not a marketer. Particularly not of my stuff.
HERE’S WHERE STEPHEN R. DAVIS got it right. I was critiquing and moving, asking quick, real questions of the folks showing and explaining and (you have to guess) trying to sell their works, questions such as: “How much are the dues? How much floor time do you have to put in? Do you sell enough to make it worth it? Meanwhile, Steve, a bundle of his cards in his hand, was showing his stuff, handing out samples as business cards, making, you know, inroads into the PT art scene.
NOW WE’RE on to the post event CRITIQUE, as in, what did I do wrong? What can I do NOW? I probably should have hung around in the space at the COLAB, charminig the folks who stumbled in, maybe selling
EVEN WITH THE BARAT, would you buy art from this double-chinned fat guy in the sweatshirt for the OLYMPIC MUSIC FESTIVAL (though several people thought OMF stood for Old M F-er)?
Here’s a shot of Keith, Joel, me (hiding the double chin), and Adam “Wipeout” James.
Here’s Steve on his boat from a few years ago. AGAIN, I should have taken a few photos from the ART WALK.
BUT I did, because I was displaying some drawings I did years ago of houses in Port Townsend, get an opportunity to draw one for someone. AND I DO OWE a big thank you to JOEL and RACHEL for the opportunity. TRISH says I should give them a piece of my art. “WHY? He already has the surfboard?”
So, BIG THANK YOU! Heart emoji, hang loose emoji.
MARKETING. I’m working on it. AND I did actually have a good time, chatting it up with people I don’t know, running into some I do know (shout out to Ian), hanging with friends.
Perhaps, on Wednesday, I’ll go over how I’m getting over and/or dealing with the detached retina, the infection in my leg, both related, possibly, to a fall, and a high blood pressure situation I discovered because I just had no choice but to go to a doctor; and the double chin thing. I am totally ready to get back in the water. TAKE THIS AS A WARNING.
Good luck. And, again, if you can’t be nice, be real.
Leaving the studio space Stephen R. Davis’s friend Cosmo is letting him use, squeezed tightly into my stealth surf rig, my pristine Hobie on the racks, I gave Steve what I believe I have him convinced is the official surfer greeting, a sort of ALOHA (like ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’) for haoles (and I’m only saying haoles as counterpoint to the aloha spirit thing I’m not certain is as widespread as presented in ads targeting tourists, some of whom are haoles) who aren’t into the now-and-possibly- increasingly common practice of hugging people we don’t know well (or don’t actually know at all).
I think I picked up the connection back when, 15 1/2-years-old, proud possessor of a learner’s permit, I was driving with my mother in the family 9 passenger station wagon (this was way pre-Sprinter), our collection of surf-riding equipment on the racks, I noticed Phil Harper’s sister Trish (not my Trish- didn’t surf, didk date one of my first surf heroes, Fallbrook local Bucky Davis) coming toward us. I may have been ready to wave, possibly even with my hand out the window, when she flipped me the bird. SINGLE EAGLE. Now, Trish may not have noticed my Mom… or, more exciting in a rebellious kind of way, may not have cared. In order to not completely freak out about the situation, I tried to convince myself that my mother didn’t know what the gesture meant. I mean… my Mom?
INTERESTINGLY ENOUGH, the double eagle is pretty much the way I greeted Steve when he surprised me by paddling out unannounced (he was supposed to be in Hawaii) on a day when the waves were… I’ll say challenging, in a good way. As I recall, he said something like, “Happy to see you, also,” possibly in a sarcastic way. REGGIE was a bit more… I’m going to say unappreciative when I gave him the double fisted hello on several occasions. I can’t say for certain if he’s convinced yet that I meant something positive, like “Glad to see you, can’t wait to compete for waves with you… brother.” Oh, also something I can’t get going on, even though I have three brothers.
WHAT IS INTERESTING HERE is that Steve sent the photo to our mutual friend, ARCHIE ENDO. When I say friend, though Archie and I, and Archie and Steve and I went on many an exciting surf adventure, I haven’t kept in touch the way I should since he went to Thailand for work a few years ago, had a stroke, is still recovering, and is still there. Trish (my Trish) has been communicating through the Facebook, and Steve does that and the Instagram; BUT Archie sent Trish and Steve a lovely note that included the photo, and Trish sent it to my phone.
Knowing Archie does read this blog, I tried to save his post and put it on here but the transfer didn’t work. Here is what he wrote:
“Hoping you guys are doing OK in the cold weather. I hoped I cold come home this winter but I couldn’t (partner’s family’s health). So much for the El Nino ‘warmer’ winter, though. In my dreams the other day; I saw you guys at Swami’s parking lot.. Young Erwin was giving me… fingers! Nice photo.”
Bad friend (and young Erwin) aside, I named the narrator of my novel Atsushi, Joseph DeFreines’ middle name, Archie’s actual first name. I do miss going surfing with him. He’d play cassettes of surf music from Japan(and many other places) if he was driving, I’d play harmonica, and, if I was driving, he would never complain about having to go to Costco on the way home. Trish really likes Archie, possibly because his calmness is so radically different than my… I want to say higher energy-ness, and my saying I was going with Archie was quite persuasive. STILL, Archie is radical in his own way, always stylish, always in control.
We are bonded, I believe, through our mutual love for surfing. As are all real surfers, something I had intended to write about as of Tuesday morning.
Atsushi ‘Archie’ Endo styling.
I MUST ADD that I call a zone inside the big rocks at a spot known for closeouts ARCHIE’S REEF. He knew how to navigate through the sections and find a clean face. I can easily remember walking along the trail, and, visible through and just above the line of trees and shrubs and blackberry bushes, Archie was streaking past.
WEIRDLY CONNECTED story-
We have a cabinet in the breakfast nook where the cat, Angelina’s, food is kept. Also inside are these postcard sized postcards, I guess, that Dru gathered back when we would frequent the ROSE THEATRE in Port Townsend. When I opened it this morning, this photo, found somewhere else and put in the cabinet, already mildewed, fell out. I made the mistake of trying to clean it with something a bit too strong. Wiped out the lower portion. This was (maybe you’ll notice the painting on the back seat side window) my stealth surf rig circa 1970. That’s Trisha’s VW coming up the road. My replacement for the Morris Minor I loved was this Hillman Husky.
I told BUDDY ROLLINS, my boss at Buddy’s Sign Service in Oceanside, that I wanted to get a VW, and we were doing some signs for the local dealer, and he could possibly… you know, do a deal. Since Buddy, real name Lacy, hence a nickname was necessary, learned how to letter signs in a Florida prison, I thought he could, you know, do a deal. He did, but not for a VW. “Kid’ll love this way more than a bug. It has so much more power and…” That was the guy at the dealership. Not sure where he learned his tactics. “Has to buy it today, though.”
I didn’t love the car, I did love the power. I’m not sure how long I had it, but I blew the engine heading to Palomar Junior College, passing another guy from Fallbrook who was driving a, yes, VW. I think he flipped me off when he re-passed me, the Hillman coasting to the side of the road.
SIDENOTE- I did love, for the most part, as a 17-20 year-old, working at Buddy’s, two blocks from Oceanside pier, in a converted newspaper building where I could work on my own art projects, and though the varied nub/apprentice/shop manager experience did greatly assist in my getting a job as a journeyman painter at barely twenty, I didn’t totally love Buddy. Didn’t hate him. AND I do have a character in “Swamis” named Buddy Rollins, a bowling alley owner and ‘pro.’ Maybe it’s the swagger Buddy had that made him seem the model for the fictional version.
AS PREVIOUSLY MENTIONED, I did want to write about bonding in surfing. I will. But, since I am thinking about it, perhaps, in life, we are bonded with those we don’t love as well as those we do.
I don’t want to wear you out. THANKS for reading. I do have some recent illustrations. Next time. Meanwhile, double eagles to you in only the most gracious, way. Beware, however, of the single eagle with a half twist; that one is serious.
Here’s a photo from March of 2004. My son, Sean, daughter Drucilla, and I were down south for a sort of family reunion/celebration of my father’s 80th birthday, arranged and staged by my sister, Suellen, and centered in Oceanside. I used the occasion to go on a sort of show-and-tell trip that included staying as close to the coast as possible, with, no doubt, stories of every spot. The south jetty, where I most often surfed before work at Buddy’s Sign Service, the building in which I worked, the pier, the auto repair shop where my dad worked two nights a week and Sundays for years, Tamarack, Grandview, Beacons, Swamis.
Swamis, just before the applause on the bluff.
My plan was to write about two things here: Dru’s cancer and my novel, “Swamis.” Plans change. ALWAYS.
ME FIRST. Dru is recovering from surgery, like, a week ago. Trish has been taking care of her, staying at her place, twenty-two minutes away (if no one crashes on or near the Hood Canal Bridge, or some sailboat or nuclear submarine has to go through it) from our house. In order for Trish to do some other stuff, and to give her a break, I got to take over for a day, like, yesterday. Trish left a list of chores that I almost totally ignored. NOW, I have been telling/warning our daughter that I would not help her if she didn’t read the latest chapter I wrote, my third complete rewrite (counting the outline that turned into a sort of treatment) of my novel, “Swamis.” Dru, of course, though I had sent it to her, had not yet read it.
AND YET I came over, watched a horror movie, tried to sleep on her futon, did not make her a delicious breakfast as her mother had been doing, but did, while Dru was scrambling some eggs for simple breakfast burritos, start reading the chapter to her. There were interruptions, including a rare call from George Takamoto. I had to take the call, and somehow, managed to sit on my plate of burritos. Wouldn’t have been bad if it hadn’t been for the toothpicks. SO DRU started reading the chapter to me.
IT WAS GREAT. A couple of awkward parts. Fixable. Here’s the sort of unexpected thing: “Dad, it’s a short story.” No. “Yes. I can stand on its own. Short story.” Yeah, that’s what I was afraid of.
Over a hundred pages into the manuscript, sixty thousand plus words, CHAPTER FOURTEEN has enough of the story to ALMOST stand alone. Not completely, but, as each version of “Swamis” focuses more on the main story line, the plot, if I now go back, if Chapter Fourteen becomes Chapter Five, say, with three more after that, all leading to a non-conclusion… well, that would be a novel I wouldn’t have to beg or threaten someone to read. OR THAT IS THE HOPE.
Dru and I, 2004. Still surfers in the water. Dru’s hair now is back to dark, mine is pretty much white. No, I, unlike Trish and our three kids, was never a blonde. I do enjoy it when people think I might have been.
THE OTHER THING that was on the agenda for yesterday was a zoom call with Dru’s surgeon. Bearing in mind that I am quite uncomfortable talking about this, Dru had decided to go with radical surgery with some hope if not expectation that Chemo and/or Radiation might not be necessary. THIS, almost of course, is not how it is going. Though other testing and discussion and shit has to happen, the Doctor said the two (rightfully) scary options might be in her future. THE ANTICIPATION of surgery- frightening; but she’s past that and recovering. WHAT WE KNOW about others who have undergone these procedures caused me to ambush the doctor when she asked Dru if she had any other questions. “Yeah, I do. I thought we got rid of the cancer. It’s not in her lymph nodes, so?” The doctor referred to the size of the tumor and how much it had grown since first discovered. “But the tumor’s gone. Past tense.” Not so easy. There are ‘maybes’ and ‘we don’t know yets.’ The doctor explained those and tried to lessen any anxiety. “Thank you.”
SO, Yeah. So, “fuck!” So, sure; it can’t just be over. No. Few things are easy. Nothing is EVER simple.
WE ALL GO THROUGH our lives among and between waves of hopeful anticipation and troughs of fearful anticipation. Few events are as blissfully, floatingly good or as full-stop, unbearably bad as the renderings, mosaics, perhaps, our imaginations create from the collected bits of shattered dreams, and the pieces of scattered moments of magic and peace and joy and BLISS.
What we really do, all we really can do is KEEP GOING.
I have to say that Dru seems to be more optimistic about enduring further treatment than I am. Trish, as always, will be supportive. Disappointment. Regroup. Keep going.
MEANWHILE, my good friend Stephen Davis, having made it through six rounds of Chemo, with his cancer knocked-back, is currently getting ready to take another step; a massive dose of chemicals that will do so much damage that, once through it, he will have to retake all his childhood inoculations. And that might not be the end of it. He will be unable to work or, probably, surf, for six months or so. SCARY!
This is a not-quite complete version of Stephen R. Davis’s painting of a mystical, possibly mind-created spot. Steve took it off the frame, took it to the PRINTERY in Port Townsend. There it was scanned on the big-enough unit used for blueprints, which doesn’t print in color, and transferred to a thumb drive. Steve has ordered prints of various sizes. The plan is to produce several, possibly full-sized giclee prints, up about a hundred limited edition (which would be numbered and signed) photo prints on 11″x14″ paper, with the possibility of also doing a number (limited by Steve) of smaller versions, some as greeting cards. I am not sure what Steve plans to do with the original. Trish and I have one of his original works, directly across from our bed. From that distance, it looks perfect. Part of the magic. If you notice, the land on the left of this painting is totally abstract, nonsensically so. If you Iook at the wave in the foreground in the completed version, it is perfectly rendered. If you step back, just far enough, the whole scene is fantastically real.
OKAY, I’ll get a photo of the completed version on here. Soon.
Here’s a photo of a spot you or I will, most likely, never surf, and a painting (in progress) of a spot that exists, possibly only, in the artist’s mind:
What they have in common is the atmosphere. It can be bright and sunny on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, but the darkness, the variations in gray; shining silver to near-black; this is more common. With the orientation, north shore, low sun over high mountains, it can seem like dawn in the daylight hours; 7:30 or so to 4:30, right about now; and almost a month until the solstice.
The painting is by Stephen Davis. My critique, shared with him: Love the sky, love the waves; not sure about the green foreground. Steve’s response: “I’ll be going back in; I’m trying different techniques; want to get the cobbles just right.” Stay tuned.
Oh, and about the photograph. It’s not where I thought it was, and I had many more clues than I’m willing to share with you*.
Oh, oh; I am taking some advantage of the short days, working on my novel, “Swamis;” and, editing the shit out of what I’ve already written first, second, third drafts of, without getting to the exciting climax, the famous December ’69 swell, I have gotten to the point where I’m a bit afraid to share too much. I am (possibly delusion-ally) envisioning it as a limited series. Netflix, Prime; yeah, they could use a surf-centric/murder mystery/coming of age story/fake memoir with way too much dialogue (and not enough surfing for a real surfer) set in a world of hyper change: Home grown marijuana, revolution, war, love, and magic; North County, San Diego, 1969.
See? In 90,000 (or so) words less than the novel, I may have just said too much. Happy Thanksgiving.
*If we talk in person, I do have some session stories I could tell. (crowds, skunking’s, scores, entanglements, wind, rain… all the usual northwest stuff). See you out on Surf Route 101.
WAIT, WAIT; I’m adding another painting; entirely because I made some reference to ‘the ninth wave’ in an email to Drew Kampion, and, well, I felt compelled to look up slash Google the term, one that I’ve heard, casually, as in “So, you’re probably going for the ninth wave, huh?” No, I probably tend to go for the first or second wave; and I have tried to explain to people that waves rarely show up in nine wave sets. Doesn’t matter.
So, evidently there is a book, “The Ninth Wave,” with some references to surfing in the nineteen thirties and forties, written by Eugene Burdick. I haven’t read it. Burdick died of a heart attack at age 46, in 1965 (the year I started board surfing, not that that is in any way ironic).
AND there’s a famous painting, “The ninth wave,” or, possibly, “After the ninth wave,” which I have seen, not in person, but on TV; described as probably the best marine painting of all time by, if I remember correctly, Rick Steves. The work is by Russian painter, Ivan Aivazovsky, and, possibly coincidentally, it goes with the theme of this piece. Since I already downloaded it, I figured I might as well display it here.
Real Surfers 