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.
Chris Eardley and Keith Darrock (and Rico and Cougar Keith) hit the Westend, searching for new waves to conquer. If they didn’t find gold. Not that I was seriously invited, but I was told the wooden path does not go all the way to the beach PLUS four days food and a big ass board. Plus… a few more minuses. What they caught and where? Stories vary.
To complete the story of the church steeple painting, I convinced Reggie Smart to finish the middle of the side of the church I couldn’t reach with the 65 foot boom. This required putting a ladder on the roof, attaching a ledger partway up to secure another ladder. You can see the setup in the lower photo. This little peak would have required some psycho setting up from the roof. It took fifteen minutes of positioning of the manlift and most of the boom to get to the spot, fifteen minutes to put a coat on the surfaces.
It was not required that we paint the cross on the top of the steeple, though the congregation clearly wanted it to happen. The difference between going above the steeple’s roof and painting below it is about twelve feet up into the wild blue yonder. I thought having Reggie with me in the basket might boost my confidence. It did not. “I’m going to throw up,” I said. “Yeah, well,” Reggie said, suggesting he might just soil himself (note my resistance at using the actual quote). Still; I do feel some shame around ‘hairing-out.’ Almost a week out, less shame. I did get the window on the fun car, damaged when I backed into the manlift turret, replaced, and I did repair the damage caused when I hit a spot on the steeple… twice. If I had the feeling, in the lift, that I’d used up my chances on this project; well, I will have to live with that.
This is a display, evidently, at the Jefferson County Fair, taken by Librarian Keith (a proposed nickname, “STACKS,” as in library shelving, has never caught on). MEANWHILE, Adam Wipeout, prominently featured, was doing double duty; attending a wedding of one or two co-workers, somewhere, and participating in the WARM CURRENTS activities at La Push. Here’s the story:
The takeway, first: Most often we listen to our own advice. SO, Adam called me this morning at 7:06. He was on his way BACK to LaPush and wondered if I wanted to catch a ride. He was probably ten minutes down Surf Route 101 and I had just gotten up. “What? No.” I asked him what he had done with his scheduling conflict from Saturday. “Dude, I did both. Didn’t you see the photo from La Push?” “The one with a one foot wave ten feet off the beach?” “No, no; it was crazy. La Push has this sandbar, and on a rising tide…” “Yeah, yeah; I’m working today so, maybe, if a swell shows up…” NOTE: the …s probably mean info I shouldn’t put out.
Two drawings I started while waiting for the Volvo’s back window to be replaced.
WSL STUFF- I did, of course, watch a lot of the surfing contest from Tahiti. More like the morning stuff, with scary scary waves the first day. I watched most of the heats on Friday, and, bucking a popular trend, didn’t really have issues with the judging. It does become obvious that the difference between winning and not is often whether a competitor’s drive overcomes his or her fear. Though there are a lot of heats to get through on the men’s side, the finalists on the women’s side, Caitlin Simmers and Molly Picklum fit that description. One thing that might improve (might) is having a non-final final with two or four of the non-finalists. I would choose Erin Brooks and Vahine Fierro. Your choice? Up to you. We’ll see.
NOT that I’m in any way political:
COMPLICITOUS
We lack empathy because we’ve never experienced real horror, We lack sympathy because we refuse to believe the horror to be as bad as we know it to be, We lack compassion because we don’t want that real horror to find us.
We look away, Complicit.
If you pass a starving child and do nothing to help, you should feel the shame, If you purposefully starve a child, Bomb a child, Snipe a child, You are the horror.
We look away, Complicit.
FROM the Old Testament, Volume II, Third Book of Netanyahu; Chapter Two, Verse three: “We basically could have eliminated the entire population of Gaza.”
Whatever God is or isn’t, God set the rules, the boundaries, the limits, God plays the long game.
We haven’t the time, We posture and push and out position, Swagger and strut past the meek and indecisive, We invest in our desires, gamble on our instincts, Hard focused on our dreams, Fame and glory and wealth and power, Power on power and power for power, Hate for hate.
God plays the long game.
Success begets success, Power attracts power.
Buffed and polished, chrome and gold and mirrors, Our lust, once everything, Breaks, Our overstuffed pockets spill out, Deeds and bonds and diamonds, Our treasures are stashed offshore, vaults, buried Pirate chests, Molding, oxidized, crumpled and corrupted, Not to be touched.
God plays the long game.
Our heavens, our yachts and cars and mansions and land, List and leak and sink, Monuments to what others will never have, Museums dedicated to someone we never will be, And never were.
God plays the long game.
Our souls, we believe, Might be retrieved, Whole. Pure. Redeemed. This is not true. We know this is not true.
We cannot love ourselves, And others will not Truly Love us.
We are unworthy of real love, Slanderers and abusers and deniers, Cheats and frauds and Liars, Painted, plastic coated, polished, And yet, Senses dulled, synapses crackling, our minds questioning Every decision, Aware we are rotting, shrinking, slowing, failing, skin sliding on the bone, Unable to recognize ourselves in smoke clouded mirrors or gold framed portraits. We fear all others.
We have to, They want what we have.
Whatever God is or God isn’t, we are not gods.
We cannot play the long game.
We haven’t the time.
AS ALWAYS, thanks for checking out realsurfers.net
WHY DON’T YOU WRITE ME? erwin@realsurfers.net
Here’s what I’m claiming rights to today: The illustrations and the poems. Copyright 2025. All rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
MEANWHILE, I have some surf plans. I’m thinking, maybe, if… Maybe I’ll see you out and around or driving past me. Good luck!
If I even say Port Townsend surfers, you have every right to ask, “What?” or “Where?” It’s, like, 80 miles, as the seagull flies, from the open Pacific, about 120 miles, as the roads bend and curve, from the actual coast. How could there be waves? Sooo, surfers go elsewhere. Yearly trips to exotic locales in Mexico, or even farther, exotic-er. Lucky. But trips end.
Chris Eardley, fish and wildlife guy, and his wife, Megan, fish and wildlife woman, are returning from Massachusetts, AND he made the possible mistake of texting photos. SO, there’s your, possibly, I’m guessing, typical New England in summer beach scene; Chris with the hat, possibly tied on, and looking very white and kind of muscle-ey (this assessment from another surf friend who got the same photos- and I agree), and an explainer text after Chris wrote, “Watch out for Dum Dum.”
I do not see any discernible wave action in the aerial shot, but I did warn Chris about getting any three hundred yards rides, or any multiple of number-of-rides-to-distance-per-ride that would put him into the area where the tagged great white shark might be lurking.
Meanwhile, surfers in my relatively small group of associates have been spread out across the country. Some are due back from inland, and even way inland. Yeah, great to travel, but it has to be compared to being here, waiting, hoping, checking the forecast… from the comfort of home.
NAM SIU UPDATE- I tried to call Nam Siu, mostly because people keep asking me how his recovery from a devastating illness is going. And because I recently did some work for HOWARD TEAS. Howard was/is a diver, used to surf in the Santa Cruz area, and does some creek water testing. Yes, Nam Siu is another fish and wildlife person. BUT, when I called him, the message was something like, “I do not recognize this number and I will not answer. If it is important…” He did text me, on my other phone, later. AND yes, Nam is ready to surf. All he needs is some surf. “I hear you.”
Here is a short story I’ve been working on while not working on the novel, “Swamis.” My problem with the novel is that, having watched too many shows on Netflix and Prime, and Apple TV (on my computer, thanks to Dru), I’ve decided that I have little time for dilly-dallying and padding and over-exposition. This story has Joseph Atsushi DeFreines, the narrator and main character from “Swamis,” a few years later.
What is true of Joey and is true of me is that rendering horrific acts of violence just seems wrong. Real people turn away from real horrors. Maybe. Anyway, if it seems the style is chopped up… yeah. It is. NOW, I really don’t want to get into, ‘here’s what I was going for here,’ BUT I wrote the opening paragraphs, had a violent act in mind for the ending, and wrote myself into a corner, mostly because Joey’s ‘voice’ is different than it is in “Swamis.” Then again, I’m still working on “Swamis.”
A Three Day Surf Trip to Porthclaw- Fiction by Erwin Dence
Everything I saw through the windshield, wipers half-scraping in an uneven mist, aware of the steep hill to my right and the row of steep shale roofs to my left, was in black and gray, gray on gray; the color of dreams; foggy, grainy, slightly out of focus.
If it was a dream, it was one I’d had before; scenes disassembled and altered each time.
I knew there was water beyond the tight row of dark houses. The ocean’s barely discernible horizon line disappeared as my head snapped back to the road, barely wider than the car in which I was a passenger, left side, front seat, sideslipped around a corner.
Context. “Car in which.” Ridiculous, as is describing this memory, or dream, at all. I knew where and how the story would end. I couldn’t stop it.
“The brakes,” I thought, or said, in dream-speak, pumping an imagined pedal, hoping for pushback.
“The brakes are a little… rusty.” I turned just far enough to my right, toward the silhouette of the driver, Samuel Hubbard/Jones, the features of his face made recognizable in the glow from his cigarette.
“Hot boxing, Samuel?”
“Nervous, Atsushi?”
There was a squealing, metal to metal, and what was as much a feeling as a sound of tires sliding, almost catching on a wet surface I knew to be cobblestone rather than asphalt. There was a push forward. “Downshift!” The car jerked. It did slow. The cigarette was in front of me. I took it. Because of some not-completely-gone habit, I inhaled.
“No. Maybe they’re… better.” Samuel laughed. “The brakes. Working.”
I exhaled, filling the car’s cabin with smoke.
Blink. …
Samuel’s car almost slammed against an ancient rock wall; mildewed, decorated with floats, chunks of the foam missing; with frayed ropes; with nets no longer worth mending. These and shark jaws and fish skeletons were secured to posts that had been thrown or pulled into the ocean; but had been returned, cast ashore; worn, bleached, worm-holed, the softer wood in the grain deteriorated. Between the posts there was a meant-to-be-artistic fencing of driftwood; delicate, stripped of bark, branches from trees miles inland.
Blink. I was outside, looking at the car, over-large, something short of a Bentley. Gravel road grime, a faded paint job, and a couple of unrepaired dings kept it from being embarrassingly showy. Still, ostentatious. There were two boards on a rusty rack. Mine was on top; a six-four Gordon and Smith twin fin. Samuel’s was a yellowed, almost browned-out, very thick, seven-two single fin. He had told me who custom shaped it. I’ve forgotten the name.
“Only surf shop in this part of Wales, Atsushi. They do have gloves, hoods, shit a California surfer doesn’t need. Don’t talk; they might not be fond of… Hawaiians.”
“But posh wankers from some fancy, upper crust part of London are…?”
Samuel was very close. “You’re stalling, Joseph Atsushi DeFreines; get on with it.”
“Okay.”
…
No. More exposition, more stalling: It was 1976. Without a law degree, and despite having passed the bar, I had couldn’t practice law in California without a sponsor. A sort of apprenticeship. I had just completed a four-year stint with the San Diego County Public Defenders’ Office. Low level paper shuffling, ‘keep ‘em moving,’ hanging out at traffic court, urging poor people to plead out, pay the fine, stay out of trouble, switch ‘non guilty’ to ‘guilty with an explanation.’ “And… I will speak to the judge… for you. What’s your… story?”
“Sincere, contrite” was my advice, “This judge doesn’t appreciate sarcasm.”
This was true. Mostly, though everyone appreciates a bit if the hurtful part is aimed at someone else. I was learning, in my few moments in court, how to… court.
I will mention, to continue to avoid writing about the incident in the bathrooms on the dock, that I was in England because Julie was taking a course on international law she might never use, but one that would help in her not surprisingly quickly advancing career, and, because my storefront law office in Mission Beach was bleeding money, and because I had a passport and an invitation, I dutifully followed my wife.
I had run into Mr. Hubbard/Jones in the hallway of a university town hostel; me with my board in an old cloth Surfboards Hawaii bag. Because Samuel, having identified himself as a surfer, having given me a not-unimpressive list of places he had surfed, was willing to blow off the first three days of the classes, plans were made. I tried to hide my excitement.
“Better off without the bag around these here parts, cowboy,” Samuel said in a Hollywood western drawl.
“Possibly not,” I said in a Michael Caine influenced rhythm.
“See,” Julie said, “another surfer.”
“Wales?”
“Yes. Waves in… Wales.”
…
I was, in this recurring dream, as I had been in real life, standing outside a dive shop that had only recently begun selling surf gear.
Three young men in clothing appropriate to the drizzle were checking out the car, and the boards, and Samuel, and me. It all seemed friendly enough. “I’ve been here before. But… Joe DeFreines… hasn’t.” Samuel said, “He and I… we’re not… trust me, aiming to publicize any spots. Just visiting.”
“Looks cold,” I said, looking at the lines of waves raking the distant breakwater. The small harbor was occupied by commercial fishing boats, mostly, day-trippers; the colors muted. Serious. Two short wharfs, or docks, or piers; I’ve never been clear on the distinctions; framed the view, perpendiculars to the horizontal layers of clouds. The larger building, to the left, was wood, probably stained, gray, originally. The mildew growing on it, green or almost black, was almost orange in some spots. The signage on the Porth Claw Dive Shop, black on white, had aged to gray on gray. “Surf supplies” were listed on a separate, newer sign, along with “Bait, and almost unreadably faded sign that read, “Tackle. Gear. Tanks Refilled while you wait.”
A cinder block building on the dock to the right had an almost unreadably faded sign that read, “Public Toilets and Showers.” There were two entrances, each marked with the broken front two-thirds of a surfboard, bolted into the block, graffiti scrawled, and flyers taped to them: “Surfers,” on one, “Surf Babes” on the other.
…
“What did happen, Joey?” It was Julie’s voice. Time and space, in dreams, are puzzle pieces, seeking a fit. I could see her reflection when she came into the room at the hostel, two days late from a three day surf trip. She turned on the lights and disappeared. “Are you ever going to tell me?” My unwillingness to fully talk about, to render an accurate image of violent incidents, images my mind wouldn’t allow me to fully see; what Julie perceived as a lack of trust, a lack of faith in her, a wound to any notion of true intimacy, of true love; this had been a major point of contention during our first divorce. Only divorce.
…
I was aware that a young woman had come out of the shop: Bright yellow raincoat, long blonde hair. “Claudia,” Samuel said. Claudia didn’t over acknowledge the greeting. Rather, she checked the expressions on the other locals. As did Samuel. As I did.
An old stepside pickup, the step long rusted out, backed in. There were crab pots in the truck bed. Or lobster pots. Cages, really, metal framework, netting. A metal tank took up most of the bed, extending onto the tailgate, water sloshing out of it. Four sets of scuba tanks were secured to the back posts for the racks. Two heavy diver’s wetsuits were flopping on the siderails. The locals looked over at the driver as he and another young man in the appropriately heavy clothing, got out.
“Claudia,” the driver said, as if it was a question, scanning between Claudia, me, Samuel, and the other three locals, “You know these… tourists?”
“Surfers, Ian,” one of the locals, tallest and skinniest of the three, said. “Passing through.”
“You know these… tourists… Claudia?”
Claudia’s response was to take a breath and shake her head. Not a deep breath. Not a real head shake.
“You don’t know Claudia,” Ian said, walking toward Samuel but talking to the skinny local. “Air me up, please, Barry; if you would.” Barry was moving a high-pressure hose toward the back of the truck, Samuel was shaking his head when Ian asked, “Do you?”
“Everyone knows Claudia,” the young man from the passenger side of the truck, lowering the tailgate and pulling a set of tanks closer, and picking up a spanner, said. “Claudia, your former girlfriend. Former.”
“And… never yours… Ollie.” Ian gave Ollie the reverse peace sign, two finger, English version of flipping someone the bird.
I must have chuckled. Everyone seemed to turn toward me. “She… Claudia… She is in the brochure, for ‘lovely, friendly Porthclaw,’” I said. “I saw it… on the counter.”
Claudia nodded, gave Ian a double handed flipoff, and headed toward the bathrooms.
Ian pulled a set of scuba tanks off the rail, set them on the ground, grabbed the high-pressure hose from Barry and tried to turn the valve. “Still fucked, huh?” He turned toward his diving partner, put one hand out toward the wrench he was holding. “And… fuck you, Ollie. If Claudia’s too good for me… mate…”
Ian held the hose as Ollie used the wrench to turn the valve on and off, several times. “Way too good, Ian.”
…
I was in the overstocked shop, my hands on the front counter, one hand in a very heavy glove, a pair of diver’s booties between me and the older man, smiling, holding the other glove open. “You’ll appreciate the good of it when you get in the water… son.”
…
I was in the dark, dank bathroom, seemingly desperate to piss. Urinate. Someone was crying from the other half of the building. Someone yelled, “Get out!” There were sounds of a scuffle. Several voices. One of the voices belonged to Samuel Hubbard/Jones.
…
“You have to tell them the story, DeFreines.”
“We shouldn’t have been there, Samuel. That’s my story.”
…
“What happened, Joey? Atsushi, I love you. You have to tell me.” Julie.
“Have to? Julie… I… will.”
…
I was in the dark. Or I had my eyes closed. “Mr. DeFreines, the court acknowledges the difficulty one would reasonably have in describing such an abominable, heinous act perpetrated on another human being. Your written statement has been recorded and read to the jury. Would you now reconfirm that the descriptions of the attack, the beating, the sexual… assault with the use of the… If it please the court… Thank you, your honor. Mr. DeFreines?”
“I stand by my account.”
…
I was awake. Or I thought I was. I was alone.
“What is it you’re not allowing yourself to admit?” A different woman’s voice. Therapist. “You say it’s guilt. For what?”
“For being there. In… these… places, and for being… unable…”
“What else do you believe you could have done?”
“They… they call a wrench a spanner. I could have… maybe…”
“Taken it? Stopped it?”
…
I was back in Porthclaw. A misplaced ray of sunlight hit me as I stepped out of the ‘surfer’ side. I saw the air hose on the cracked concrete. Taut. “Is this what you want, Claudia?” It was Ian’s voice.
There was a rushing of air. On. Off. On.
Claudia was crying, “No, no. No. Ian!” between the sobs and before they became one continuous scream.
I was frozen.
“Joey,” Samuel yelled as he passed me. “Come on!” He jammed between Barry and the two other locals at the doorway to the ‘surf babes’ side. I seemed to unfreeze. I knocked Barry out of the way and pulled on the hose. One or both of the locals said, “Not me. Not me, man,” as I struck each of them, straight shots to their chests.
“Ian,” I said.
“Ian,” Ollie said. “Ian. No!”
Claudia was still screaming when Ian let her fall from the farthest, darkest corner. Samuel sliding on the wet floor, was on his knees when he reached her.
“Your fault, Ollie,” Ian said. “You love her? Do you? Her?”
I looked at the spanner in Ollie’s hand. I looked at Samuel. He shook his head. I looked at Claudia. She was turning away, both hands on her lower abdomen. I looked at Ian, defiant, for a moment. I heard the squeak of the hose nozzle, not quite all the way shut off.
…
It seems to me that it’s unnecessary if not wrong to describe the absolute… absolute wrongness of moment, the aftermath of an “Abominable, heinous act perpetrated on another human being.” It’s not that I don’t remember; it’s that I do. Guilt. Regret. Pieces I can’t fit back into the puzzle. Still, the next time I had this dream, I took the spanner from Ollie and used it on Ian and his defiant look.
NOTICES- Original work by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. on realsurfers.net is protected by copyright. All rights reserved by the author. CONTACT- erwin@realsurfers.net
THANK YOU, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net WHETHER you’re here or there or somewhere else, get some waves when you can.
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.
CHRIS EARDLEY texted me this photo with the caption, “Is this Reggie on my bag of Inca Corn Snacks?” “Definitely Reggie, switch stance.” It does resemble REGGIE SMART on the bag of hipster-friendly chips (available on Amazon and I don’t know where else. Co-Op, maybe). Reggie, in addition to being a licensed painting contractor, has rented a space in Port Townsend and is available for your tattooing needs. I know he’s on social media.
CHRISTMAS is coming, and I did my yearly assist in decorating DRU’S house in Port Gamble. Because the town is so, let’s say, quaint, decorating for the various seasons and for whatever other reasons is sort of mandatory. Dru works part time at WISH, a wonderful card and gift shop over by the haunted house and the other vintage attractions. Check it out on your way to or from the Hood Canal Bridge or the Kingston Ferry.
It’s a joke between TRISH and Dru and I that, in movies, when there’s a moon, “It’s always a full moon.” I took this shot over my house last night. Trees could have been in the photo, but were not. In the ‘should have taken a photo’ category- After midnight, when the moon was scientifically at it’s fullest, I looked up in the living room skylight, and the moon was visible through the bare branches of a vine maple. I opened my wallet and did the pagan chant that, once I started doing it, has become as mandatory as any ritual, and as such, must be followed religiously. “Oh moon, beautiful moon; fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” MAYBE the ‘er part is some American-ish bastardization, but, hey, that’s how I leart it.
SWAMIS TO “SWAMIS”- While I am waiting for responses from literary agents, I have decided that I should submit something to “SURFER’S JOURNAL.” Before it all hits the big time, my favorite surviving surf-centric magazine could have something on my struggle to capture the magic of a particular time and place through fiction so cutting edge that… Yeah, and art-wise, my stuff, I can hopefully convince them, should grace the magazine’s slick pages.
To that end, I am super editing my submission; as in, I’ve already cut out more than I’m keeping in. OH AND I’m going through my final final version of the manuscript. One more time. A POLISH as they say in the biz. Shit, I want it ready to be glassed and polished.
MEANWHILE, because it’s off off season for painters and the darkest time of the year, I’ve been sleeping more, which mean dreaming more. Not all are worth keeping track of or even attempting to remember, even fewer worthy of trying to figure out some sort of meaning. SO, Here’s:
A Series of Dreams before Christmas
Second dream first- I was surfing, dropping into a left, turning hard off the bottom, going down the line. You know the angle; mine; close to the wall, the creases of the wave threatening, folding; and I’m climbing, too high, dropping, side-slipping, redirecting, racing into the glare.
Suddenly, dream time wise, I’m trying to get dressed, hurriedly, because I’m supposed to be somewhere, somewhere else. I pull on a t shirt with some sort of logo on it. I say, “I don’t work there.” I may add, “Anymore.” Dream talk. I put the shirt on anyway and look down several wide marble stairs. Almost landings. And, yes, marble, everything is marble, white with a very light green tinge. Or the greenness could be because there’s glass to the right, water behind it. An aquarium, perhaps, and possibly connected to a wave pool. Makes sense. Dream sense. Another view of surfers and waves. No, I didn’t see dolphins pressing close to the glass. I can imagine them, but I won’t add them as if they were there.
There is a woman sort of sprawled on the lowest stair, long black hair disappearing in all black clothing. All I can really see is her right hand and her face, in profile, very white, as I drop down and closer. Her reflection is on the glass and the walls between us. The walls, perhaps, are tiles, shiny, like the tile work in the Paris subways, but rectangular, horizontal.
“Did you see my ride?” Because the woman doesn’t answer I add, “I thought it was pretty good. My bottom turn was…” No answer. Her head turns a bit more toward me. “I figured, you probably don’t surf, so you might be…”
“Why do you think I don’t surf?”
“You’re very white.”
“Oh?”
“I mean, the sun isn’t… always…”
“Healthy? No. Not always.” The woman turns back toward the glass.
I notice there’s an above and a below the waterline. The last push of a wave hits the glass, pushing up above our ceiling. The woman seems to smile as she watches the bubbles rising and dissipating into an unseen sky, some of the greenness transferred to her face.
“I did see your ride. It was… from the perspective of a very white non-surfer, not as good as you probably thought, but… if you’re happy with it…” She turned toward me again. “Do you work there?”
I looked down at the shirt. “No.”
Different scene, same dream- It’s still very bright, but I’m driving in some flat, open country. Big windshield. Truck, I’m dream thinking. And I’m late. Probably the surfing. I hard turn into a driveway. No grass, no trees. A house. Covered porch all the way across the front. Imagine Australian Outback. Dust flies as I jump out of the vehicle. Trish appears at the front door, her hands on the opposite arms.
“I’m late,” I say, breathlessly.
“Oh?”
Oh? I feel in my back right pocket. I pull out a cell phone. “Oh.”
“If I were worried, I’d have called you. You know that, right?”
“Right.”
“Where’d you get that shirt?”
GOOD LUCK on finding and surfing some memorable waves. STAY WARM! Remember all original material in realsurfers.net is protected by copyright. All rights reserved by someone, my stuff by me, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
AGAIN, I missed an opportunity to take photos. I wasn’t aware randomly running into HELMET BOY would turn into a story, and I wasted some time looking for a photo I could use (you google what you want and only find people who want money for their photos), and then checked my stats. SHIT! I am trying to get people accustomed to checking out my site on Sundays and Wednesdays, but, no, I wasn’t ready.
SO, I went to the piece I wrote, and, naturally, had to do some editing. AND SO I’m posting this part now, and later… latest art attempts, almost-weekly ADAM WIPEOUT update, and the latest edit of my query letter as part of my attempt to sell “SWAMIS.”
The Cold Shoulder
Chris and I were on the bluff, doing that thing surfers do, talking previous sessions while keeping our eyes on the very late afternoon conditions in the water. Waves would rise on the kelp beds, black dots on brushed silver, line up, the faces of the lines going black. Clouds, heavy on the horizon, were threatening rain and promising nightfall.
Beautiful.
Three surfers were still in the water. Keith, a hyper-dedicated local, was surfing better, objectively, if objectively includes taking off at the proper spot, dropping in cleanly, driving through sections and pulling out with a loose and smooth style, the result of and proof that he has a very high wave count.
The wave count comes from a dogged dedication, enduring countless skunkings; from relentlessly searching for waves on a fickle, unpredictable coastline; and from a willingness to ride anything from barely breaking to ridiculously dangerous waves; all in cold water with nasty rocks and often vicious tides. It shouldn’t be surprising that riding a lot of non-epic waves prepares one for the rare gift of, not to exaggerate, decent waves.
That is not the story. Chris had surfed earlier on this day. I arrived minutes too late to suit up and get more than a couple or rides. But… Chris and I had been out days before for one of those rare sessions with rare and truly memorable waves (and yes, ‘rare,’ twice, it’s that rare. Word had gotten around. Surfers who don’t check the conditions religiously showed up; surfers who don’t know the lineup, paddle past those who do, blow takeoffs, get in the way. So, normal stuff.
Still, any discussion from the bluff or the beach includes who is surfing, how they’re surfing, and how they even knew there might be waves. Chris and I were beyond that, on to the subject of rights, and rights of way, and the seemingly unsolvable issue of priority. We were on how brutal that wipeout Joel got was, how long the rides were, how critical (and again, how rare) when a young guy (like, in his 20s) rides up next to us (switching to present tense, for fun) on a bicycle, slamming (to channel a little Springsteen) on his coaster brakes just before he would go over the six foot drop to driftwood and rocks. The obvious daredevil is wearing a helmet. Light yellow, maybe. He checks Chris and me out. He has a sarcastic smirk on his face and seems to want to participate in the conversation. Not someone either of us recognize, the standard practice is to not engage. If he gives me a tip of his helmet, I might break protocol and give him a half nod. Still, not an invitation.
Chris turns away, the literal version of the metaphoric cold shoulder. Because my right ear, narrowed by bone growth, is plugged up from not wearing my earplugs during my most recent three sessions, some wipeouts incurred in each, I face the bicycle guy. Lip reading has become something I attempt out of necessity, fully aware that being hard of hearing is somehow equal to being rude. Sorry. Speak up. Please.
“Oh, yeah,” Bicycle Boy says, followed by something like… Okay, I heard it wrong. Chris heard it correctly. “You guys are cracking me up over here. All like, ‘Yeah, top ten ____ ____!’ and, ‘____ ____ top ten!’” He throws his hands out toward the water. Chris mouths, “Top three! (Exclamation mark implied!!)” I nod. Big nod.
My response to Helmet Boy is something like, “Yeah, surfing, man, it’s so… juvenile.” But,
in the category of ‘what I should have said’ is, “Why don’t you tighten your chin strap, get back on your 3 speed Huffy, and go see what your mom’s making for dinner.”
What Chris did was raise his right hand over his shoulder as Bicycle Boy picked up his bike like a skirt, spun around, and rode past us. Single finger salute.
Good move. Smooth. Stylish. No wasted big arm movements.
NOTE- As far as photos of what might have been a top three session… Hmmm. There’s a policy. I don’t think you can buy any, but I haven’t really checked. Google “All time surf on the Strait of Juan de Fuca.” I did; it’s as frustrating as trying to find waves… not to dissuade you… too much.
TYPICAL November doppler image. TWO illustrations derived from the same source. I couldn’t wait for the scans. ADAM and his sister LISSA taken from a cookbook Dru’s friend LIESHA purchased. Modeling the wellies (proper term on tide flats, ‘pig boots’ otherwise) with style.
I have recently spoken with several people pushing me to self-publish my novel. Not my first choice. To that end, I’m trying to get an agent, necessary stop to not paying but getting paid. My daughter, Dru, is putting the package together; query, sample illustrations, first ten pages. HERE’S the query letter:
Query- “Swamis,” Fiction of the ‘totally could have happened’ strain by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
Dear _______ ________,
That my 92,000-word novel “Swamis” has become as much love story as murder mystery is a surprise to me. Almost. The action centers around the surf culture at Swamis Point in North San Diego County. It is 1969. An evolutionary/revolutionary period in surfing and beyond, to those who have only known crowds, this was a magical era.
Joey DeFreines, Jr, the narrator, is the son of a Japanese ‘war bride’ and a detective with the County Sheriff’s Office. The ex-Marine is trying and failing to maintain a balance and calm as marijuana becomes a leading cash crop in the unincorporated area that are his jurisdiction and as the completion of I-5 supercharges population growth.
Very close to turning 18, Joey is damaged, troubled, prone to violent outbursts, and possibly brilliant. A compulsive note taker, Joey, nicknamed ‘Jody’ after a military cadence, is an ‘inland cowboy’ outsider who wants, desperately, to be a ‘Local.’
And he is desperately attracted to Julie Cole, one of a few girl surfers in the beach towns along Highway 101. Nicknamed Julia ‘Cold,’ just-18-year-old Julie might appear to be a spoiled, standoffish surfer chick, rabidly protected by her small group of friends. She is also almost secretly brilliant, and quite strong willed.
Julie’s father is a certified public accountant who may, with help from outwardly upright citizens, be laundering increasing amounts of drug money. Julie’s mother, Julia, moves from fixer-upper to fixer-upper in a housing market about to explode. She may also be the head of a group growing, packaging, transporting, and selling marijuana. Once grown in orchards and sold to friends of friends, the product is moved through Orange County middlemen to the larger, more profitable, and more dangerous market of L.A.
Joey and Julie, both concentrating on studying and surfing, are rather blissfully unaware of what is going on around them. Joey’s father’s death, for which Joey may be responsible, has connections to the violent and fiery murder of Chulo, a beach evangelist and drug dealer, next to the white, pristine, gold lotus adorned walls of a religious compound that gives Swamis its name.
Finding Chulo’s murderer, with those on all sides believing Joey has inside information, pushes Joey and Julie together.
There is an interconnectedness between all the supporting characters, each with a story, each as real as I can render them.
“Swamis” was never intended to be an easy beach read. And it isn’t.
Me? I am of this period and place, with brothers and friends who were very involved in the marijuana/drug culture, both sides. I was not. It is very convenient that a Swami, like a detective, like many of the characters in the book, is a ‘seeker of truth.’
I have written articles, poems, short stories, screenplays, two other novels, some moving to the ‘almost’ sold category. I had a column “So, Anyway…” in the “Port Townsend Leader” for ten years, I’ve written, illustrated, and self-published several books of local northwest interest. I started a surf-centric website (blog) in 2013: realsurfers.net.
After many, many edits and complete rewrites, I believe the manuscript is ready for the next step. Thank you for your time and consideration,
Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
As always, anything that you think might be protected by copyright is. So, thanks for respecting that. MEANWHILE, if you have something to say to me, say it loud. AND, get some waves if you can, preferably EPIC! ALL TIME! TOP THREE! AND, Wednesday, like… 10ish..
Five frothed-out surfers from the cold northwest waters crewed-up and spent two weeks in some undisclosed location in Panama. No, I don’t know where, don’t have a passport, and… so I won’t or can’t spread it around. Panama, it’s, like, tiny on the map, with a canal in the middle of it.
Though I didn’t hear anything from either Chris (Chris Eardley and Christian Coxen), or either of Keith (Keith Darrock and Cougar Keith), or from Nolan (as with Cougar, don’t actually know his last name), it did seem interesting to me that, tracking my audience (not that many, but all over the wide world), I got a couple of views from, yes, Panama.
All right, all right, here’s the Eardley report, photos by Chris Eardley:
CHRIS EARDLEY’S PANAMANIAC REPORT-
Alright, alright. Here is a report for you: We have been surfing a lot. The waves have been good, the water is warm. We surfed something like eight spots, and we’ve been doing a lot of diving and fishing, too. Cougar Keith dropped a big fish on my foot, which clamped down immediately and made me bleed for hours, keeping me out of the water for a couple of hours due to fear of sharks (we’d already encountered several while diving). I still have teeth marks on my foot.
That’s okay, though, because Cougar got the worst sunburns. On the trip (he dominated a couple of the early surf sessions, too) and had a close brush with what he believes was a small bull shark 30 feet underwater.
The local librarian (non-cougar Keith) has been getting after it, as you’d guess, and we learned he can, in fact, go right on a wave as well. He’s also been reorganizing the hostel bookshelves in his down time.
Christian will be lucky to get out of here without breaking any more gear, as he’s been pursuing big fish and big waves. Best margarita on the trip has gone to him as well.
Nolan’s surf style has not been lost in translation down here.
Lots of great wildlife and good food. Craziest thunder storms we have ever seen, and the camp was nearly struck one night.
We are stoked!
DAMN, realsurfers, I screwwed up on another Eardley photo, a scary looking crab; and I am unable to share a video of a very close lightning storm. Maybe it’s the trip thing, but I have stories from Mazatlan, 57 years ago, with waves and storms and crab attacks. Yeah, another time. Since a big trip for me is, maybe, La Push, I’m anxious to hear more stories.
My most recent text to Chris (and thank you, incidentally) was, “If you’re looking for adventure, it’s nice to have some adventures.”
I can’t help but say that this photo looks kind of like a rare day on the Strait. Rocks, lefts, yeah, no wetsuits.
Meanwhile, I am working on “Swamis,” just went back to set up something that’ll pay off later in the story. Hopefully. Hint: based on some east coast guy in high school calling our chicks ‘broads.’ I had to look up “Jagoff.” Yeah, research. ALSO, I survived my second eye surgery. So far, it’s kind of like having sunglasses on one eye; irritating. Trish got me an eyepatch; pretty stylish but almost equally irksome. I’m not sure how surfing affects the post-op eyeballs; I’ll find out more with my next visit to the Retina Center.
LAST TUESDAY, my plans were to work on “Swamis,” which I did, watch a little of the possible running of the VANS PIPELINE MASTERS, do some house cleaning, go to the local recycling, load up all the food that got ruined during my recent five day power outage/failure, then go up to Port Townsend to do some work. I did work on the manuscript, in between checking the buoy readings, getting more coffee, feeding the birds, UNTIL I checked the tablet, and, after a lay day and a day of competition I totally missed, the show was ON.
I WAS AWARE that ripper on the mainland’s north shore, CHRIS EARDLEY was on THE NORTH SHORE. He’s in my contacts, so I texted him. HERE is how that went:
ME- Are you hanging at pipeline while I’m hanging in my living room watching pipeline?
CHRIS- Yes I was! Awesome event. Just got done surfing, though not there.
Me- I’m working for JOEL (another ripper). You probably have about 20 people you have to contact to say you were there.
Chris- Only the ones that have nothing better to do than text me about it.
Me- I had a lot of better things to do. I’m paying for it now working late.
Chris- Hahaha
Me- If you text me some shots of you hanging out on the North Shore with Scott Sullivan (PA ripper and, evidently, Pipeline photographer- water and, yikes, all) and Jamie O’Brien and all, I can put them on my site on Sunday and you would get TENS OF HITS. And I would appreciate it. It’d be great.
Chris- Jamie is coming over for beers later. I’ll see what I can do.
Me- Yeah. Um, what, yeah?
Chris- I kid. But I did just get out of the water on the WEST SIDE, n______ (yes, I know better than to name spots, even ones I will probably never surf). North shore is enormous and messy today..
Me- I actually was hoping you were serious, but a couple photos would be so lovely..
Chris- I’ll take some pics for you. I haven’t been taking many since I’ve been trying to leave my phone behind, and also due to being on the water or doing some work, which I’m also mixing in.
Me- You have probably already sent a photo of you working to your coworkers, so I don’t need that one.
Chris- (Upper photo) Here’s my morning.
Me- Other than the big ass hotel in the background on the one shot, beautiful and thank you. No shots of you ripping?
Chris- Nobody to take such shots. My surf missions are solo.
Me-Somehow you are making solo sound heroic. Solo, baby!
Chris- No complaints. Get to surf on my schedule.
Me- I think I want to surf on your schedule.
Chris- Obligatory sunset shot.
ME (to you, and to Chris)- My friends already know not to put me on speaker phone. Hopefully this won’t dissuade any of the few friends I have to be a little more… selective about texts.
I DIDN’T POST ANYTHING on Wednesday. I will this week. NO CONTEST to watch. OH, and I did get the garbage to the transfer station. Still have way too much recycling.. Getting close to Christmas. A nice present for a surfer might be… hope you answered waves.
Hawaii. No, it’s not the first time one of my t-shirts has hit the 50th state in the Union. Stephen R. Davis rocked (I don’t usually use this expression- fits with Steve) one or two of my designs, and, if I remember correctly, shared one with Cap. Not sure. Anyway, the Erwin Original shirts have been there before Chris Eardley, ripper on the North Shore of the contiguous US, showed up there.
Chris was nice enough to send me a photo. Here’s how the text exchange went:
Whoa! Is this, like the Volcom House? Florence residence? JOB’s pad? Wait, is that wave even rideable?
Chris: “Got my lucky shirt here at Pipe. Got some good waves at Sunset Point this morning before it got huge. The shirt keeps its lucky streak!”
Erwin: “Holy fuck, Chris, you hangin’ wit’ day (sp. I meant ‘da’) boys AND resenting (meant ‘representing’) OWWW! And I don’t use !!!!s without cause. Hopefully the slab work here helped you conquer. I have watched so many north shore videos I feel like I know the crew. Good luck!!!! Yeah, more of those, writer shakas.”
Yes, that is exactly how I wrote it; not that I actually talk like that.
More Erwin: “If you would send shot to __________ (email address, not really secret- we do get lots of unsolicited stuff). I would be proud and stoked to put it on my site. It’s just another north shore.”
Chris (next day): “I just got back, scored some great surf. Lots of positive comments on your shirt and, as usual, it brought good luck. It’s usually my shirt of choice when I hit the Strait because I’m on a streak with it!”
OKAY, so Chris followed local etiquette by not telling me about surfing in Hawaii until it was too late for me to show up. Good.
Erwin (while about to change lanes on freeway en route to job in Gig Harbor: “Great” (third attempt at completing this particular verbal text- no period or explanation point- or … I hate it when it shows up as something like- “. dot dot” or “Great” comma).
Because I wasn’t sure Chris would send the photo to my e-mail address, and because I wanted to share the shot with the few (seriously, few) surfers I have phone numbers for, I sent the photo to Stephen R. Davis with a request to send it back to me. I have a problem transferring photos from my phone to the e-mail. It could, possibly, be remedied if I allowed some sort of hookup that might mean every email would ping on my phone. Steve did send it, but Chris also came through.
Chris (via e-mail, and there may be a slight amount of redundancy, not that it bothers me): “Here’s a shot of me at Pipeline sporting an E. Dence original. I got quite a few compliments on the shirt in Hawaii, stayed up on the (other) north shore and scored some great surf. Did NOT surf pipeline, of course, but as you can see, had a pretty good view from the safety of the deck. Aaron’s coaching at some local slabs paid off as I pulled into some challenging ones elsewhere, though. For my next Erwin shirt, I think I’ll seek a lighter color as black got a little toasty in the Hawaiian sun.”
Chris Eardly is a guy who runs for fun, travels to the East Coast for Hurricane Season, hits the slopes and… yeah, he qualifies as a real surfer (skateboarding and snow stuff are optional, perhaps- but helpful). He is part of the PT Crew if there is such a thing, and, if there is, it would be so loosely connected and… really, how would I know? As far as scoring on the Strait- yeah, I thought that was pretty funny. Chris’s reference to Aaron might be the elusive and well-traveled “Short Board Aaron.” Slabs? It’s a matter of definition and proportion. And location; as in, somewhere else. So much for the disclaimer.
As far as Original Erwin t-shirts- If you have one, hang on to it, don’t spill paint on it. I haven’t made any in several years. I have no stockpile of them. I have done some drawings that could be shirts, I do plan on getting some more printed up, but… right now… collector’s items. Am I trying to hype up the value? Yes.
Not available… yetFor light colored t-shirt, perfect for tropical climes… coming soon.
Real Surfers 