Tag Archives: surfing

Promises, Negotiations, Wolf Super Moon, King Tides, “Swamis” Chapter 4, More

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, non-political Erwin,, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing Swamis, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

Borrowed from Sheridan Media. There are a lot of images with wolves if you dance on over to Google. The moon is responsible for the globe-wide waves that are the tides. King tides and low pressure and a swell have produced some classic conditions and total beach reformation in the past. Maybe there’s a swell you can get to. Good luck.

I got a call from TOM BURNS, longtime surfer, California to the Northwest the other morning. “Is that your daughter’s cat on King 5 News?” “What?” “Yeah, it said the photo was from Drucilla D. Has to be her.” It was a photo of her cat, NICHOLAS, sent because they were showing other cats “Not nearly as cute as my Nicholas.” WELL, Nick, who is extra wary of me since I had to assist in a cliff-hanger removal operation, got a repeat the next day with no competition.

I can’t upload videos on my site without upgrading, though I do have the video, so this is a shot TRISH sent to Dru, Dru to me, me to you. Yes, he’s adorable, though I described his expression, the one he usually gives me, as “Disgruntled,” possibly because he wasn’t supposed to be there.

DRU brought me along last week to help negotiate for a new (to her) vehicle to replace the Honda Odyssey totaled in the Yeti/deer attack. Not that I am in any way skilled in the art of the (or any) deal, but, after pretty much telling DAN, our contact at Doug’s Hyundai (not an endorsement, just where the car that fit what Dru wanted/needed was located, found through one of those car finding sites) because the real salesman, Mike, was overbooked (judging from Mike’s, who only talked to Dru for a moment, stress-reddened face, I believed it), that I totally don’t trust salespeople. I softened this by adding that I do not want to identify myself as a salesman, but, yes, we’re all in sales (and I’m still working).

Anyway, after threatening to leave and go check out another van at another dealer along the PACIFIC AVENUE STRIP, and asking for a two thousand dollar price cut, and after dropping several ‘add-ons’ from their first, second, and third quotes (all sent from mysterious guy behind the curtain- cubicle wall, actually), we arrived at a price reduction of $300 and a full tank of gas (Seattle prices). AND coffee and a small chocolate for me, hot chocolate for Dru.

THEN it was time to meet the FINANCE MANAGER. He discovered that if Dru paid $500 more on the downn payment, she could, because it was a one-owner car with low mileage (a major selling point, the van obviously a trade in), she could get a great warranty.

STOKED to be done with the ordeal, Dru promised DANIEL PILON and MAKSIM MARTEMYANOV that she would put in a good word on social judging media. I said, after Dan checked out realsurfers.net during a lull, that I would put something on the site… today. So, keeping my promise:

SEAHAWKS NEWS: It may be that all the swells of late have been very south, south-west at best, that PT charger Keith Darrock has gotten his feet wet on watching football. Because TRISH cannot tough it out, endure the tension and drama that are the only reason to watch ANY sport, I watched it without her. I did exchange some commentary (“Lots of missed opportunities,” “Seems like they should be up by three touchdowns instead of one.” I did call Keith during the last three minutes, with victory pretty much assured, and called Trish when victory was official. “Really? They won?”

Because I listened to the first quarter on the radio, and because I have regretted the times I watched games instead of doing something, like, more rewarding, I would really love to hear Steve Raible’s take on the end of the game. “Holy catfish!”

“SWAMIS” CHAPTER FOUR- WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 23, 1968

            Christmas vacation. I had surfed, but I wanted a few more rides. Or many more. I had the time, and I had the second-best parking spot in the almost full lot at Swamis: Front row, two cars off center. It was cool but sunny. My short john wetsuit was pulled down. I was in front of the Falcon, dead center, leaning over the hood. I checked my diver’s watch. It was fogged up. I shook my wrist, removed the watch, and set it directly over the radiator, the face of the watch facing the ocean and the sun.

            There was, on the beach towel I had spread out on the hood, a quart of chocolate milk in a waxed cardboard container, the spout open; a lunch sack, light blue, open; an apple; a partial pack of Marlboros, hard pack, open, a book of paper matches inside; three Pee-Chee folders. One of the folders was open. A red notebook, writing on both sides of most pages, was open, five or six pages from the back.

            A car stopped immediately behind the Falcon. Three doors slammed. Three teenagers, a year or so younger than me, ran down the left side of my car and to the bluff.  Jumping and gesturing, each shouted assessments of the conditions. “Epic!” and “So… bitchin’!”

The three surf hopefuls looked over me and at their car, driverless, idling in the lane. They looked at me. The tallest of the three, with a bad complexion, his hair parted in the middle, shirtless, with three strands of love beads around his neck, took a step toward me. “Hey, man,” He said in an artificially lowered voice, “Going out or been out?”

“Both.” I added a bit of hoarseness to my voice. “Man.”   

“Both?” Love Beads moved closer, patting his beads. “Both. Uh huh.”

“Good spot,” the visitor with bottle bleached hair, a striped Beach Boys shirt, and cut off cords, said. I nodded. Politely. I smiled, politely, and looked back at my notebooks.

The surfer I assumed to be the Driver; big 50s horn-rimmed glasses, a button-up shirt, khakis and leather shoes, asked, “You a local?”

I shifted the notebooks, took out the one on the bottom, light blue, opened it, turned, half sat on my car, and looked out at the lineup, half hoping my non-answer was enough for the obvious non-locals.

 A car honked. Love Beads pushed Striped Shirt into me as he tried to pass by. I shoved him away with my right hip and shoulder. He regained his balance, put his hands out, continued toward his car. Big Glasses, evidently not the Driver, raised both hands out to signal he hadn’t done the pushing. Behind him, Love Beads said, “You fuckers down here are fuckin’ greedy.”

“Fuck you, Brian,” Striped Shirt said before running out and into the lane, followed by Big Glasses.

Brian moved directly in front of me. He puffed out his chest a bit. He looked a bit fierce. Or he attempted to. “You sure you’re not leaving?”

I twisted my left arm behind my back and picked up my watch. When I brought my arm back around, very quickly, Brian twitched. I smiled.  I held my watch by the band, close to its face. I shook it. Hard. Three quick strokes, then tapped it, three times, with the end of the nail on the pointer finger of my right hand. “The joke, you see, Brian, is that, once it gets filled with water, no more can get in. Hence, Waterproof.” I put the watch on. “And… nope, Brian, don’t have to leave yet.”

Big Glasses, a surfboard under each arm, squeezed between the Falcon and the car next to it. Brian, glowering, still looking at me, threw his left hand out as his surf friend walked past. He hit the board, instantly pulling his hand back. I chuckled. Brian moved his right hand closer to my face, pointer finger up.

I moved my face closer to his hand, then leaned back, feigning an inability to focus. “Brian,” I said, “I have a history…” Brian smirked. “I would… strike … when I felt threatened.” I blinked. “Quite violently.”

Brian looked around as if Big Glasses, having set the two boards down at the edge of the bluff, might back him up. I looked Big Glasses off. He shook his head. Brian turned back toward me. “Quite violently?”

“Suddenly and violently.” I nodded and rolled my eyes. “But now… My father taught me there are times to react and times to… take a moment, assess the situation, but… be ready. It’s like gunfights… in the movies. If someone… is ready to… strike, I strike first. I mean, I can. Because I’m… ready.” I moved my face back from Brian’s and smiled. “Everyone… people are hoping the surfing is… helping. I am not… sure. I’m on… probation, currently; I get to go to La Jolla every Monday, talk to a… shrink. Court ordered. So…” I took a deep breath, gave Brian a peace sign, and whispered, “Back the fuck off, Brian.”

“Brian,” Big Glasses said, “we’ll get a spot.”

“Wind’s coming up, Brian,” I said, pointing to the boards. “Better get on it.”

“Oh, I have your permission. No! Fuck you, Jap!” Brian moved back and into some version of a fighting stance as he said it.

“Brian. I’m, uh, assessing.” I folded my hands across my chest. “And Brian, trying to surf is good for your… complexion.” Brian’s face reddened further. “Osmosis. The water in your skin cells, compared to salt water…”

Brian moved even closer, his mouth moving, his face out of focus; background, overlapped by, superimposed with, a succession of bullies with faces too close to mine; kids from school, third grade to high school. I couldn’t hear them, either. Taunts. I knew the words: “Retard!” “Idiot!” “What’s wrong with you?”

 My father’s voice cut through the others. “Jody. It’s all a joke. Laugh.”

In this vision, or spell, or episode, each of my alleged tormentors, all of them boys, fell away. Each face was bracketed by and punctuated with a flash of a red light.

One face belonged to a nine-year-old boy, a look of shock that would become pain on his face. He was falling back and down, blood coming out of his mouth. Two teeth in his cupped hand. I looked at the school drinking fountain. A bit of blood. I looked around. All the other kids were afraid. Of me.

The lighting changed. More silver than blue. Cold light. I saw my father’s face, and mine, in the bathroom mirror. Faces; his short blond hair, eyes impossibly blue; my hair straight and black, my eyes almost black. “Jody, just… smile.,” he said. I did. Big smile. “No, son; not that smile. Frightening.”

I smiled. That smile. Frightening.

Brian’s face came back into focus. I looked past him, out to the kelp beds and beyond. “Wind’s picking up.” I paused. “Wait. Did I already say that… Brian?”

I turned toward the Falcon, closed the red notebook, set it on one side of the open Pee-Chee, picked up the blue notebook from the other side. There were crude sketches of dark waves and cartoonish surfers on the cover. I opened it and started writing.

“Wind is picking up.” I may have spun around a bit quickly, hands in a pre-fight position. It was Rincon Ronny in a shortjohn wetsuit, a board under his arm. Ronny nodded toward the stairs. “Fun guys.” He leaned away and laughed. I relaxed my hands and my stance. “The one dude, with the Hippie beads. Shirtless.”

“I almost said something about his… pimples. Brian. Shirtless.”

“Don’t care about his name.” There was a delay. “Fuck, man; Shirtless was scared shitless.”

“It’ll wear off.” I held the notebook up, showed Ronny the page with ‘Brian and friends’ written in larger-than-necessary block letters, scratched out ‘Brian,’ and closed the notebook. “By the time they get back to wherever they’re from, Shitless Shirtless would’ve kicked my ass.” I looked around to see if any of Ronny’s friends were with him. “I was… polite, Rincon Ronny.”

“Polite. Yeah. From what I saw. Yeah. And… it’s just Ronny. Now.”

“Could be Swamis Ronny, or Moonlight Ronny.”

“Or Ronny Ronny.”

“Ronny.” I had to think about what Ronny might have seen, how long I was in whatever state I was in. Out. I started gathering my belongings, pulling up the edges of my towel. “I just didn’t want to give my spot to… fuckers. Where are you… parked?”

“I… walked.”

I had to smile and nod. “You… walked.”

“One thing, Junior; those… fuckers, they won’t fuck with you in the water.”

“Joey,” I said. “And… Ronny, someone will.”

Ronny mouthed, “Joey,” and did a combination blink/nod. “Yeah. It’s… Swamis. Joey.”

Ronny looked at the waves, back at me. A gust of west wind blew the cover of my green notebook open. “Julie” was written in almost unreadably psychedelic letters across pages eight and nine. “Julie.” Hopefully unreadable.

I repeated Ronny’s words mentally, careful not to mouth them. “From what I saw.” And “Joey.”

CONTACT- erwin@realsurfers.net

COPYRIGHT protected material. All rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr,

Get some waves, Go Sea…Hawks, and Fuck Cancer. No comment (yet) on war and peace and all that. It’s a NEW YEAR. So… new dramas, new tensions, AND the same old ones. Best Wishes!

Trisha’s Last Chemo (f%$# Cancer), Dru’s New Ride, and “Rejected,” The Old(er) Man and the Sea, No AI on this site, I won’t be performing at the T/Kennedy Center, Oh, and HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Posted on by under learning to surf, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf satire, surf sessions, writings of Erwin Dence

I chose this ‘fuck cancer’ because it looks like waves. TRISH got her 12th and last Chemo the day after Christmas. She still has to go through radiation, 6 plus weeks, but she gets a break. We are all touched by cancer. I have a new appreciation of how horrific the disease AND the cure are.

DRUCILLA and I went over to Edmonds to try to purchase a vehicle to replace her Honda Odyssey, recently totaled by a Yeti-sized deer. I will have a more in depth accounting next time. Short version; I hard bargained them down three hundred bucks and a full tank of gas. Something. Dru is stoked!

I am hoping that, early in the coming year, I will be able to come back from my latest session. Here’s the story: YOU CAN’T SURF IF CAN’T MAKE IT OUT

THIS piece is directly related to my most recent humbling. Not that I haven’t had my share. The OCEAN is not designed to keep one’s ego pumped up. We wish it could; not, maybe for others, but, yes, any time we go out, we want to rip, to excel, to improve on our best PERFORMANCES, to do better. BETTER, damn it.

NOT arguing the implications of ‘performance’ and ‘better’ here, though both words suggest something more than the SOUL SURFER paradigm, real or imagined.

ALSO not discussing the anthropomorphism of bodies of water and, specifically, waves. It’s hydro physics that rejected your undoubtedly pure desires to dominate and/or flow with the Universe, it’s not some assigned assassin wave that kicked your ass; it’s not personal. Seems personal, nonetheless.

I’ve told this story several times to non-surfers. The mystique and mythology around surfing contends, beyond that surfing is cool and that getting a five second ‘straight-hander’ with five friends is fun, that a surfer can ‘conquer’ a wave, and that one successful challenge can change his or her life. Though I want to say ‘doubtful,’ I’m reconsidering. So, ‘maybe.’

My recounting of my humiliation drew laughter more than sympathy. This was right. I wasn’t looking for anyone feeling sorry for the old dude who shouldn’t have gone out on a day in which… to quote fictional George Costanza, “The ocean was angry, my friend.”

The surf desperate old guy who couldn’t wait for a better tide, or for the swell to back off, was REJECTED. Me, ego-heavy wave hogging dude, humbled.

YES, I waited on the beach like Greg Noll at Pipeline (according to legend, his last surf), waiting for a lull. I started paddling at something close to one, waded into the shorebreak and… No there was not a lull, and…

Here is something about surf spots on the Peninsula: They are almost all connected to streams or rivers. The rivers and streams are all bloated lately, that push adding to any wave/tide related currents. I started out in my usual zone, quickly ended up in a wish/wash rip, sixty yards east of where I wanted to be. I couldn’t get to my knees to use my paddle, and was trying to push through the soup as each wave came at me. I was, I’m pretty sure, almost to cleaner water when a line I thought I’d punch through spun me around, and suddenly, I was heading, hurdling, ‘hell bent for leather’ (two people really appreciated the use of the phrase), toward the beach.

Rejected. NOT ONLY did I not make it out, but, for further drama, I was in the ‘boneyard,’  caught in a swirl (something less than a whirlpool), in eight feet of water ten feet from the beach. I had lost my grip on my paddle somewhere in the fifty yard, out of control, proning-in, I was leashed to a thirty-plus pound board alternating between crashing in on each new wave and floating back out in between waves. I climbed back on and decided to just take whatever wave would get me ashore.

Paddle and… BOOM! Straight in and onto the steep beach. Not the first time for this part of the show, though, sometimes I do make a nine-point slide, jump, move up the beach (three points if I was thirty years younger). Unable to jump up, getting pummeled in the shorebreak, I was crawling (I mean, like belly, then hands and knees crawling), pushing my board ahead of me.

There were, as Luck (change that to circumstance) would have it, a tourist couple, walking their dog in a little-green-bag-free-zone were witnesses. “You all right there?” “Yeah. Where’s your green bag?”

I was safe. No rescue needed. But three or four surfers (dressed out after their sessions in unfriendly conditions at what is typically, if breaking, a fairly user-friendly spot) arrived on scene. “Need me to carry your board?” “No. I lost my paddle.” “Tough break, man.”

I was ungrateful enough (or discourteous, or rude, or hyper-angry/embarrassed/humiliated enough) that they all ran back to the fire, leaving me to do a WALK OF SHAME (1) seventy yards or so back to my car.

Yes, it is a different thing if your moments of shame are not witnessed. No one notices you in or getting out of the water, your story can’t be disputed. “Yeeahh, doggies; that one wave… historic!” “Sorry I missed seeing it.”

WALK OF SHAME 2. Someone, a young guy on a short board, rescued my paddle. “THANKS.” All I had to do was walk another fifty yards, past all the other surfers, to retrieve it. AND THEN, was there anyone who thought, “He’s going to go back out, try to recapture some of his dignity.” ? Probably not.  

I did wait around, in my wetsuit, hoping the rips might subside, hoping for less outside roll-throughs, hoping the swells might clean up and hit the reef the way I know they can. I was ready for redemption. It will have to wait.

PART TWO- Discretion. I should have had some.

THREE- Age? Fuck you. I mean, no, not yet.

FOUR- Analyzing. Every surfer experiences the failures, the awkwardness, the wipeouts and beatdowns. When we start out, we’re just so excited to be surfing that these setbacks are part of the fun (okay, two-foot slop with four friends is big fun for kooks). If I admit that I have felt frustration in the past when my surfing didn’t come up to my artificial standards, I must also say that I was wrong in this. So far, I’ve managed to get thrashed, crashed, even hurt while surfing; I’ve come too close to drowning, too close to sharks and out of control kooks and crazies. I can recount many of the times I’ve been rejected by the ocean. BUT none of the beatdowns take away the times of total bliss.

And yes, I’m not above the occasional anthropomorphizing.  

erwin@realsurfers.net

Original material by Erwin Dence in realsurfers.net is protected by copyright. All right reserved by the author/artist. Thanks.

Good luck

SADness, Dreaming “Swamis,” First Drafts, TDS, and PS and STUFF

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing blog,, real surfers, surf culture events, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

I will attempt to focus. Attempt. Trying again. Okay: Seasonal Affected Disorder. Warranted. It’s the (real astronomic science) Winter Solstice. Is it dark yet? Then, soon. Oddly, I get more depressed when the Summer Solstice hits, knowing it’s downhill to… to now. Winter. Still, with the first real, deep frost hitting my neighborhood (ancient fjord- real geographic science) yesterday (and thank you real or fictitious climate change), I realize, crappy, damp, dank, dark, dismal, cloudy, rainy, possibly snowy, or worse, icy weather ahead of us, there might be… waves. Yes, winter waves. Cold(er) water, and the possibility (based on my non-scientific remembrances of… counting… forty-four winter solstices in the Pacific Northwest) of a (limited) number of sneaky swells ripe for stealth surf swoops.

Swoop it up if you get a chance. Watch out for me. Surf Abstinence Disorder (a different SAD), whether from bad luck (skunkings, broken vehicles or other broken shit), lack of opportunity (working, mostly), lack of swell (or missing actual swell through lack of belief or lack of checking for tight window), real world time requirements (work, mostly, again), is different than not wanting to surf (for a variety of reasons including a fear of or knowledge that you are not able to pop up like you swear you once could), for which a beautiful wave stretched out in front of you might be a cure, a bigger board and/or a paddle might be another). This Performance Anxiety, pretty natural and common (Okay, you once ripped. I’ll believe you if you believe me), is still better than Surf Celibacy. I looked it up; abstinence is attempting to give something up. Celibacy is, face it, quitting; consciously committing to never surfing again.

Forgive me, please, but I can’t help but wonder what the celibate surfer dreams of. Last night (or tonight, not totally sure) is the longest of the year. I will, undoubtedly, have a dream, or multiple dreams involving surfing. Bypassing the dreams in which the ocean gets farther and farther away as I try to get there, and the ones where waves come over mountains like avalanches, I have no way or will to stop any dreams in which I am ripping, gliding, moving down the line, and… Yeah, those dreams.

HAPPY SOLSTICE!

Sorry, got carried away for a moment, ignoring all the bad political news out there, seeking some relief from a persistent case of TDS. I do attempt to repress anger and frustration, so I guess I am repressed. Good. Perhaps it’s that, reviewing my options, merely redact those that are any more extreme than whining a bit.

Still, I’m always thinking, and, out in the world, I do talk to strangers. Yes, I chatted it up with two women cashiers at a hardware store the day after the Seahawks clutched victory out of the hoofs of the LA Rams (talons/hoofs, obvious); yes, I do go off on political rants on occasion. This does not always go well. But it does give me some talking points, it does edit banter into more lucid, focused… banter.

I’ve decided that my discussions are the first drafts of what I write.

As I continue working on my novel, “SWAMIS,” I find myself dreaming, or just imagining, changes on the particular chapter (I do think of chapters as scenes; dialogue, setting, movements) I’m… refining, putting some emphasis on adding more drama, front-loading clues, all while eliminating stuff that doesn’t move the plot along. Some of the ideas I use.

Here’s one alternative for the most recently posted chapter (3… scroll down): Yes, I am making the attraction/romance between the narrator, Joey, and Julia more… mainstream (not quite Hallmark-y). I imagined having Julie and Joey, together in the street, laughing about something. Later, the plan was, to have one of the North County locals ask her about the conversation. She says, “I asked him what color our babies’s eyes will be.” After suitable shock, she continues, “He said, ‘brown,’ most likely, but our grandkids… more options.'”

Something else: I’ve spent some energy/time presenting Joey as a damaged person (as all fictional detectives seem to be, Sherlock), with a history of striking out physically. I, perhaps accidentally, also established that he is capable of wicked sarcasm, the outsider’s method of bullying. IF a writer’s characters are based on real people, as I insist mine are, I do know someone who may or may not use sarcasm as a weapon, or a defense mechanism/way to keep people at a distance.

TALKING is helpful. Usually. Thanks for checking out my site. Write me with comments/criticism erwin@realsurfers.net

POSTSCRIPT- The next occasional surf culture event will be happening in late January or early February. The emphasis will be on SURF MUSIC. Here’s the first verse of the UKULELE SONG:

I see she has an ukulele, ukelele, ukulele, I betcha that she plays it daily, ukulele, ukulele, I’d love to play the ukulele, she could teach me how to play.

Other first lines: I’m headed down to San Onofre… You know I came from California… I do not smoke the marijuana… I ride a Donald Takayama… In progress. Catchy tune. I can play it on my Hohner Blues Harp, Hohner Blues Harp…

SIX MONTHS until the SUMMER SOLSTICE! COW-A-FUCKIN’-BUNGA!

ORIGINAL WORK by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. protected by copyright. Thanks

Solstice, “Swamis,” and Nothing Remotely Political

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, non-political Erwin,, real surfers, surf fiction, surf novels, surf stories, surfing blogs, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

We’ve almost made it to the WINTER SOLSTICE. Almost. The atmospheric rivers continue to hit, SO, if you want snow, there may be some, good luck getting there. If you want waves… take a chance. The windows are as small as the days are short. BUUTTT, the celebration is justified; the days are getting longer and… YEA! And good luck.

Photo from the FULTON LIBRARY. Shadows. GINGERBREAD FRED, one of my characters in my when-the-hell-is-is-going-to-be-done novel, “Swamis,” goes to the parking lot every evening to watch the sun set. A burned-out veteran (helicopter pilot- medivac) of Korea, wounded and pushed farther into craziness in Vietnam (gunship), who “Crashed twice, shot down once,” and who is also a legendary surfer from the fifties, having pioneered waves at the Tijuana Sloughs and outside La Jolla reefs, says, about night; “It’s not dark, really. It’s shadow. The curtain drops and it’s a different show. An encore.”

Gingerbread Fred is, I hope, as I hope of all the players, someone a reader can visualize. Not a stereotype but a mix of real people I have come across. And he is critical to the plot. If we are all Alice in Wonderland, Candide, any narrator in a Franz Kafka story, and I believe we are, those characters, those people. we remember we remember because they are part of our story.

Anyway, not sure if this is bragging or apologizing, but here’s more from “Swamis.”

CHAPTER THREE- SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1968

My nine-six Surfboards Hawaii pintail was on the 1994 Falcon station wagon’s factory racks, as much rust as chrome. The seven-eight Sunset board I’d bought off the used rack was inside, the back seat lowered to accommodate it. It’s not like I ever had riders other than my brother. I was headed from Grandview to Moonlight Beach on Neptune. The bluff side was either garage and fence or hedge, tight to the road. There were few views of the water. I was, no doubt, smiling, remembering something from that morning’s session.

There had been six surfers, including me, at the preferred takeoff spot. Some of them recognized me, and I them, but they all knew each other. There was no way the local crew and acceptable friends would allow me to catch a set wave. No; maybe a wave all of them missed or none of them wanted. If I paddled for a wave, one of the crew would act as if he was going to take off, even if he didn’t, just to keep me off it. And then turn toward his friends to receive credit for the act.

The first one in the water, before dawn, I had surfed the peak, selecting the wave I thought might be the best of a set. Two other surfers came out. Okay. Three more surfers came out. One of them, Sid, paddled up and sat next to me without looking at me. I was the farthest one out in a triangular cluster that matched the peak of most of the approaching waves. I knew who Sid was. Older. Out of school. A set wave came in. It was my wave. I paddled for it and took off.  Sid dropped in on me. I said something like, “Hey!” 

Rather than speed down the line or pull out, Sid said, “Hey,” louder, and stalled. He cranked a turn. It was either hit him or bail. I fell onto my board, wrapped my arms around it. My board and I went over the falls, pushed sideways until I rolled with it and got out of the soup.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, paddling, following Sid back toward the lineup.

The four other surfers held their laughter until Sid paddled past them, maneuvered his board around, laughed, and said, “Wrong? Junior broke the locals rule.” Sid pointed to the lefts, the waves perceived as not being as good, on the other side of a real or imagined channel. “Local’s rule. Get it?” Sid turned to the other surfers. “Watch this guy, guys. Daddy’s a cop. You know him; DeFreines. Married a Jap-a-nese… woman. Junior’s probably a fucking narc. Hide your stash!”

Trying to ignore the taunts of the others, I caught an insider and moved over.

After three lefts, surfed, I believed, with a certain urgency and a definite aggression, I prone-paddled back to the rights, tacking back and forth. A decently sized set wave was approaching. I wanted it. 

“Outside!” I yelled, loud enough that the pack, including Sid, started paddling for the horizon. I paddled at an angle, lined up the wave at the peak. Though the takeoff was late, I made the drop, rode the wave into the closeout section, pulling off the highest roller coaster I had ever even attempted. I dropped to my board and proned in. I kept my back to the water as I exited, not daring to look back at the surfers in the water or to look up at the witnesses on the bluff. I did hear them hooting.

I grabbed my towel from where it was stashed, visible from the water, on the low part of the bluff, my keys and wallet and cigarettes rolled up in it. Tromping up the washout to Neptune, I tried not to look at the surfers, tried not to smile as I leaned my board on the Falcon and unlocked the front door.  

…

Almost to Moonlight Beach, there was a late fifties model Volkswagen camper van, two-tone, white over gray, blocking the southbound lane. Black smoke was coming out of the open engine compartment. Three teenagers, my age, were standing behind the bus: Duncan Burgess and Rincon Ronny on the right side, Monica, on the left. Locals. Names divulged by second tier gremmies. Or from observing them on the beach or in the water.   

I pulled over on the northbound lane side, squeezed out between the door and someone’s bougainvillea hedge, and walked into the middle of the street, fifteen feet behind the van. “Can I help?” 

Duncan, Ronny, and Monica were dressed as if they had surfed but were going to check somewhere else: Nylon windbreakers, towels around their waists. Duncan’s and Monica’s jackets were red with white, horizontal stripes that differed in number and thickness. Ronny was wearing a dark blue windbreaker with a white, vertical strip, a “Yater” patch sewn on. Each of the three looked at me, and looked back at each other, then at the smoking engine. The movement of their heads said, “No.”

Someone stepped out of an opening in the hedge on the bluff side of the road, pretty much even with me. I was startled. I took three sideways steps before I regained my balance.

Julia Cole. Perfectly balanced. She was wearing an oversized V-neck sweater that almost covered boys’ nylon trunks. Her legs were bare, tan, her feet undersized for the huarache sandals she was pushing across the asphalt. She looked upset, but more angry than sad. Or even worried. But then… she almost laughed. I managed a smile.

“It’s you,” she said, almost laughing. I smiled. “Are you a mechanic?” I shook my head, took another step toward the middle of the road, away from her. “An Angel?” Another head shake, another step. She took two more shuffling steps toward me. We were close. She seemed to be studying me, moving her head and eyes as if she might learn more from an only slightly different angle. “You’ve gotten… better.”

“Better? Yes, that’s what I tell people. Better.”

Julia Cole shook her head. She was still smiling. I was studying her. Staring. I looked past her. Her friends looked at her, then looked at each other, then looked, again, at the subsiding smoke and the growing pool of oil on the pavement.

“We saw what you did,” she whispered. I turned toward her. “From the bluff.” She raised both arms, the left arm higher, pointing with her right hand, and yelled, “Outside!” She and I looked at her friends, then back at each other. She said, “Outside,” again, softer.

“It… worked.”

“Once. Maybe you believe Sid appreciated it.” She shook her head.

I shook my head, still focusing on Julia Cole’s eyes. “I had to do it.”

“Of course.” By the time I shifted my focus from Julia Cole’s face to her right hand, it had become a fist, soft rather than tight. “Challenge the… hierarchy.”

I had no response. Julia Cole moved her arm slowly across her body, stopping for a moment just under the parts of her sweater dampened by her bathing suit top. Breasts. I looked back into her eyes for the next moment. Green. Translucent. She moved her right hand, just away from her body and up. She cupped her chin, thumb on one cheek, fingers drumming, pinkie finger first, on her lips. “You. I could use you, Junior, if you…” She pulled her hand away from her face, moving it toward mine. 

“Julie!” It was Duncan. Julie, Julia Cole didn’t look around. She lowered her hand and took another step closer to me. In a ridiculous overreaction, I jerked away from her.

“I was going to say, Junior…” Julia looked, if anything, irritated. Stupid me. “If you were an attorney… then…”

“I’m not… Not… yet.”

Julia Cole loosened the tie holding her hair in a ponytail. Sun-bleached at the ends, dirty blonde at the roots. She used the fingers of both hands to move her hair to both sides of her face.

“I can… give you a ride… Julie, I mean… Julia… Cole.”

“Look, Fallbrook…” It was Duncan. Again. He walked toward Julia Cole and me. “We’re fine.” He extended a hand toward Julia. She did a half-turn, sidestep. Fluid. Duncan kept looking at me. Not in a friendly way. He put his right hand on Julia Cole’s left shoulder.

Julia Cole allowed it. Her expression suggested I was confused.

“Phone booth? If you need one. There’s one at… I’m heading for Swamis.”

Julia Cole shook her head, smiled, did a sort of almost blink, then looked, briefly, toward the house closest to the bus. I twisted my mouth and nodded. “Oh. Okay.”

            A car come up behind me. I wasn’t aware. Rincon Ronny and Monica watched it. Duncan backed toward the shoulder. Julia and I looked at each other for another moment. “You really should get out of the street, Junior.”

            “Joey,” I said. “Joey.”

            She could have said, “Julie.” Or “Julia.” She said neither. She could have said, “Joey.”     I checked out Beacons and Stone Steps and Swamis. The VW bus was gone when I drove back by. Dirt from under someone’s hedge was scattered over the oil, some of it seeping throughCHAPTER THREE- SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1968

My nine-six Surfboards Hawaii pintail was on the 1994 Falcon station wagon’s factory racks, as much rust as chrome. The seven-eight Sunset board I’d bought off the used rack was inside, the back seat lowered to accommodate it. It’s not like I ever had riders other than my brother. I was headed from Grandview to Moonlight Beach on Neptune. The bluff side was either garage and fence or hedge, tight to the road. There were few views of the water. I was, no doubt, smiling, remembering something from that morning’s session.

There had been six surfers, including me, at the preferred takeoff spot. Some of them recognized me, and I them, but they all knew each other. There was no way the local crew and acceptable friends would allow me to catch a set wave. No; maybe a wave all of them missed or none of them wanted. If I paddled for a wave, one of the crew would act as if he was going to take off, even if he didn’t, just to keep me off it. And then turn toward his friends to receive credit for the act.

The first one in the water, before dawn, I had surfed the peak, selecting the wave I thought might be the best of a set. Two other surfers came out. Okay. Three more surfers came out. One of them, Sid, paddled up and sat next to me without looking at me. I was the farthest one out in a triangular cluster that matched the peak of most of the approaching waves. I knew who Sid was. Older. Out of school. A set wave came in. It was my wave. I paddled for it and took off.  Sid dropped in on me. I said something like, “Hey!” 

Rather than speed down the line or pull out, Sid said, “Hey,” louder, and stalled. He cranked a turn. It was either hit him or bail. I fell onto my board, wrapped my arms around it. My board and I went over the falls, pushed sideways until I rolled with it and got out of the soup.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, paddling, following Sid back toward the lineup.

The four other surfers held their laughter until Sid paddled past them, maneuvered his board around, laughed, and said, “Wrong? Junior broke the locals rule.” Sid pointed to the lefts, the waves perceived as not being as good, on the other side of a real or imagined channel. “Local’s rule. Get it?” Sid turned to the other surfers. “Watch this guy, guys. Daddy’s a cop. You know him; DeFreines. Married a Jap-a-nese… woman. Junior’s probably a fucking narc. Hide your stash!”

Trying to ignore the taunts of the others, I caught an insider and moved over.

After three lefts, surfed, I believed, with a certain urgency and a definite aggression, I prone-paddled back to the rights, tacking back and forth. A decently sized set wave was approaching. I wanted it. 

“Outside!” I yelled, loud enough that the pack, including Sid, started paddling for the horizon. I paddled at an angle, lined up the wave at the peak. Though the takeoff was late, I made the drop, rode the wave into the closeout section, pulling off the highest roller coaster I had ever even attempted. I dropped to my board and proned in. I kept my back to the water as I exited, not daring to look back at the surfers in the water or to look up at the witnesses on the bluff. I did hear them hooting.

I grabbed my towel from where it was stashed, visible from the water, on the low part of the bluff, my keys and wallet and cigarettes rolled up in it. Tromping up the washout to Neptune, I tried not to look at the surfers, tried not to smile as I leaned my board on the Falcon and unlocked the front door.  

…

Almost to Moonlight Beach, there was a late fifties model Volkswagen camper van, two-tone, white over gray, blocking the southbound lane. Black smoke was coming out of the open engine compartment. Three teenagers, my age, were standing behind the bus: Duncan Burgess and Rincon Ronny on the right side, Monica, on the left. Locals. Names divulged by second tier gremmies. Or from observing them on the beach or in the water.   

I pulled over on the northbound lane side, squeezed out between the door and someone’s bougainvillea hedge, and walked into the middle of the street, fifteen feet behind the van. “Can I help?” 

Duncan, Ronny, and Monica were dressed as if they had surfed but were going to check somewhere else: Nylon windbreakers, towels around their waists. Duncan’s and Monica’s jackets were red with white, horizontal stripes that differed in number and thickness. Ronny was wearing a dark blue windbreaker with a white, vertical strip, a “Yater” patch sewn on. Each of the three looked at me, and looked back at each other, then at the smoking engine. The movement of their heads said, “No.”

Someone stepped out of an opening in the hedge on the bluff side of the road, pretty much even with me. I was startled. I took three sideways steps before I regained my balance.

Julia Cole. Perfectly balanced. She was wearing an oversized V-neck sweater that almost covered boys’ nylon trunks. Her legs were bare, tan, her feet undersized for the huarache sandals she was pushing across the asphalt. She looked upset, but more angry than sad. Or even worried. But then… she almost laughed. I managed a smile.

“It’s you,” she said, almost laughing. I smiled. “Are you a mechanic?” I shook my head, took another step toward the middle of the road, away from her. “An Angel?” Another head shake, another step. She took two more shuffling steps toward me. We were close. She seemed to be studying me, moving her head and eyes as if she might learn more from an only slightly different angle. “You’ve gotten… better.”

“Better? Yes, that’s what I tell people. Better.”

Julia Cole shook her head. She was still smiling. I was studying her. Staring. I looked past her. Her friends looked at her, then looked at each other, then looked, again, at the subsiding smoke and the growing pool of oil on the pavement.

“We saw what you did,” she whispered. I turned toward her. “From the bluff.” She raised both arms, the left arm higher, pointing with her right hand, and yelled, “Outside!” She and I looked at her friends, then back at each other. She said, “Outside,” again, softer.

“It… worked.”

“Once. Maybe you believe Sid appreciated it.” She shook her head.

I shook my head, still focusing on Julia Cole’s eyes. “I had to do it.”

“Of course.” By the time I shifted my focus from Julia Cole’s face to her right hand, it had become a fist, soft rather than tight. “Challenge the… hierarchy.”

I had no response. Julia Cole moved her arm slowly across her body, stopping for a moment just under the parts of her sweater dampened by her bathing suit top. Breasts. I looked back into her eyes for the next moment. Green. Translucent. She moved her right hand, just away from her body and up. She cupped her chin, thumb on one cheek, fingers drumming, pinkie finger first, on her lips. “You. I could use you, Junior, if you…” She pulled her hand away from her face, moving it toward mine. 

“Julie!” It was Duncan. Julie, Julia Cole didn’t look around. She lowered her hand and took another step closer to me. In a ridiculous overreaction, I jerked away from her.

“I was going to say, Junior…” Julia looked, if anything, irritated. Stupid me. “If you were an attorney… then…”

“I’m not… Not… yet.”

Julia Cole loosened the tie holding her hair in a ponytail. Sun-bleached at the ends, dirty blonde at the roots. She used the fingers of both hands to move her hair to both sides of her face.

“I can… give you a ride… Julie, I mean… Julia… Cole.”

“Look, Fallbrook…” It was Duncan. Again. He walked toward Julia Cole and me. “We’re fine.” He extended a hand toward Julia. She did a half-turn, sidestep. Fluid. Duncan kept looking at me. Not in a friendly way. He put his right hand on Julia Cole’s left shoulder.

Julia Cole allowed it. Her expression suggested I was confused.

“Phone booth? If you need one. There’s one at… I’m heading for Swamis.”

Julia Cole shook her head, smiled, did a sort of almost blink, then looked, briefly, toward the house closest to the bus. I twisted my mouth and nodded. “Oh. Okay.”

            A car come up behind me. I wasn’t aware. Rincon Ronny and Monica watched it. Duncan backed toward the shoulder. Julia and I looked at each other for another moment. “You really should get out of the street, Junior.”

            “Joey,” I said. “Joey.”

            She could have said, “Julie.” Or “Julia.” She said neither. She could have said, “Joey.”     I checked out Beacons and Stone Steps and Swamis. The VW bus was gone when I drove back by. Dirt from under someone’s hedge was scattered over the oil, some of it seeping through

CONTACT erwin@realsurfers.net

COPYRIGHT protected material. All rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

HAPPY SOLSTICE AND WHATEVER ELSE YOU CELEBRATE!

Whale Songs and Bargains Made

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Melissa Lynch illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf culture events, surf novels, writings of Erwin Dence

An illustration by my late sister, Melissa Jo Dence Lynch. Copyrighted. All rights reserved by her estate and Jerome Lynch. No, Melissa didn’t drown… unless cancer is a sort of drowning. Fuck Cancer!

I’ve gotten into a bit of a thing, lately, Selkies and dark mysteries. Drowning is a part of it. For a surfer, to not consider this is… to not be prepared. SO, I was supposed to use some available time to work on actually completing my novel, “Swamis,” BUT I’m also working on some songs for the still-in-the-planning stage next Surff Culture on the Strait of Juan de Fuca event, to be held in late January or early February of 2026. AND I am still working on collecting and editing material for a possible song/poetry/essay book.

YES, Trish is correct in saying that writing and drawing have affected my life. For years. I’ve given up opportunities to make actual money to pursue these passions, which are now, evidently, replacing surfing as the ‘other woman.’ STILL, Trish has some faith in my novel. “It’s a good story; can’t you concentrate on that?” Yes.

Having just spent some time thinking about and starting to write a post-“Swamis” story, I kind of committed myself to working on the novel last night. BUT THEN, after doing some real world computer work, and wanting to post something decent on a Sunday, I got caught up in the following piece. An essay, I guess, and I made some changes this morning, pasted it on the site, made more changes. OBSESSIVE? Yeah.

Breaching Whale by Stephen R. Davis. All rights reserved by the artist.

                                    DROWNED OUT

What the drowning person hears. Silence? No. The thrashing, if nothing else, creates a sound. Chaotic. Bubbles rising, air to air.

Perhaps the kelp or the sawgrass make a muffled rustling sound as they sway to the rhythm of the river or the tide. The air escaping the lungs whistles, holding back a scream.

There are voices beyond the panic; a song, a whale calling from some unknown distance, or music, crazed and discordant, from some unseen orchestra. The pounding heart sounds the beat. Desperate.

The symphony ends, or will end, in a soft surrender. Peaceful, we’re told.

We don’t believe this. Clawing, kicking, we breach as high into the air as we can; choking, gasping, grasping at the surface of the water as if it is safe. Solid.

We do not return the whale song. We are not whales. We do not understand their language. If a whale heard our scream, it is one among many, many among millions, with a constant war of machines whirring and growling and belching and breaking on the land and in the air. No rhythm, No melody. Chaos.

I don’t wish to drown. Yet, knowing something about drowning, I go into the sea.

Away from sea, I bargain, trade time for time, to get back into it.  

I’m reachable: erwin@realsurfers.net Thanks for checking out my humble site. “Drowned Out” is protected by copyright, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

WAVES? I’ve heard some stories, but, for skiers and surfers on the Olympic Peninsula, atmospheric rivers are not what we’re looking for. If you are looking, GOOD LUCK!

Cold Plunge at the Selkie Reach Resort

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, short stories on surfing, surf culture, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, surfing, surfing art, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

Although I have yet to finish a seriously publishable version of my novel, “Swamis,” I put some thought and time into thinking about and writing a couple of ‘short’ stories with the same characters. Later. Because I have been considering Selkies recently, though I’ll have to think about what got me on the subject, I started working on a story that would include surfing and… Selkies. Here’s the start of it:

Cold Plunge at the Selkie Reach Resort

“No, can’t find an At… At…sush…i… DeFreines.” The woman behind the resort’s front desk looked between Julie and me. Not suspiciously, but for a bit too long. She was trying to connect the patient woman in an unnecessarily thick and long coat, given the conditions, and me, unnecessarily irritated, even with having to give way to four already checked-in and overly giddy older women, by which I mean, women somewhere around our age. 2016, so, late sixties.

One of the four may have been younger.  A sister, perhaps. Not that I cared. Not            immediately. Not before they started chatting it up.

The desk clerk was somewhere in her twenties, gray top under a darker gray sport coat, a pearl necklace that was almost a choker, hair that was almost straight, pulled back, black and shiny, but with an undertone that suggested it could go gray at any moment. Her eyes were dark. She could tell I was studying her. She sucked in her cheeks for a moment before showing her teeth. Very white. I’m sure she nodded as I looked away and at Julie, knowing my ex-wife had caught the young woman’s look and knowing she believed I deserved worse, staring and all. 

Fresh from the resort’s bar, each of the women was wearing a flannel coat and/or a scarf with a tartan pattern, something identifying some clan unknown to them. No, one woman, the leader, if not merely the most assertive, spent a certain amount of time presenting herself, with some Americanized version of a Scottish brogue, as, “Positively Scottish on my mother’s side. I’m, like, Sedona, Arizona’s representative for the Clan Adair.”

“Then, ‘failte.’ Welcome to the Selkie Reach Resort.”

“And… thanks. What clan might you be from, Love?”

I took the ‘Love’ part as something the woman had picked up from watching “Vera” on PBS. Yes, but it’s set in Northeast England rather than Scotland. Not to nitpick.

“I’m from Wales,” the clerk said, adding, “I’m here for the weather.”

The group took it as a joke. It might have been. Julie nodded and kicked at my backpack. I coughed and kicked at her three matching suitcases.

Since I’m wasting your time on wardrobe, I should say that I was dressed in an off-white cable knit sweater, fairly new Levis, waterproof hiking shoes. New sweater and shoes, hastily purchased from L.L. Bean. Online.

“We’re here for the cold plunge. Love.” It was the last of the group to pick up a room pass, one of the non-Adairs, unnecessarily showing her ID. “How far is the sauna from the water?”

“Too far at low tide. Big tidal shift here. Dangerously so. Flat beach. We have a safety line. If you can see it on a dry beach, don’t go. We have charts in the shower room and… Actually, our pool is plenty cold enough for most.”

When the women gave a unified groan, the clerk added, “Should be perfect tide, slack, in about an hour.” 

I stepped forward and set my passport on the counter. The clanswoman stepped in front of me. “The Selkies? The Sirens? Is there, like, any connection to, maybe, the moon?”

“I’ve heard tell… No, Love, I realize the older brochures might suggest some… Myths. And… not exactly here.” The clerk was looking at her computer rather than the woman. “Area’s called a ‘reach’ because it’s favorable sailing between the rocks at the north headland and the, the safe harbor. South, southwest. Sirens and Selkies were useful to lure tourists.”

“Based on ‘wreckers,’ that’s what I heard.”

“Myth. And, again, not here. Novels. Movies.”

“So, you’ve never seen a Selkie?”

“Seals. Plenty of seals. No Selkies, no Sirens. But…” The clerk handed the woman the room pass. “234. Yes. It’s in the original part, pre-renovation, and you’ll have a view of the water. There’s a telescope and… full moon tomorrow night. Okay?”

I stepped up to the counter as the cold plungers danced back toward the bar, a carved image of a Selkie over the doorway. “Joseph. Joseph A. DeFreines. Party of two.” The clerk looked at her computer and looked back at me, shaking her head.

Julie stepped past me. “Julia Cole-Wilson. Emailed… yesterday.”

“Oh, then,” the woman said, with a quick glance between me and Julie.

“I forgot, Atsushi. You paid for the flight. I just…”

“She didn’t forget, Miss…”

“Jones. We’re all named Jones where I’m from.”

“Right. Wales. I was down there… a few years ago. Quite a few years ago. Surfing.” Miss Jones may have mouthed ‘surfing.’ She blinked. Definitely.  “Lovely place, sad story… Otherwise, great, surfing wise.”  

Julia moved next to me. “We’re here for the disappearance.”

“A friend,” I said.

“Our goddaughter.”

The clerk tried to maintain her neutral expression. “Rita.” She failed. “Rita Longworthy?”

Her eyes were so dark, so moist.                                    

 Feedback- You’ve gone a bit David Sedaris… Love… in your advanced age. I thought this was going to be a ‘short’ story. Otherwise… okay. See you soon. Get the fuck better. Please! Your Trueheart, forever.                                                                                   

Image, obviously, ‘borrowed’ from Stablediffusionweb.com. It’s an AI prompt, as if I know what that means.

Then, again, maybe I’ve always made some connection. Unprompted. The first drawing was done in the late 1980s. I added the lettering more recently. Capturing the essence and the allure of the sea; I’ve never quite gotten it right. And… I keep trying.

As, I’m sure, you do.

All original works by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. are protected by copyright. All rights reserved. TO CONTACT, email erwin@realsurfers.net. Thanks or checking it out!

If Ben Gravy Surfed Epstein’s Island…

Posted on by under northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf satire, writings of Erwin Dence

…I want to see the video! I mean, man, do I! Maybe he found the list while scouting out whatever breaks are available. THAT would be some clickable content.

Okay, so here’s my thinking on this: I’ve been fooled into checking out a few videos on YouTube because non Andy Irons AI algor-rhythms (or is it Al Gore rhythms) believe, because I watch, like, every Nate Florence or Mason Ho post, and most Koa Rothman and Jamie O’Brian offerings, I must want some of these other pretenders to the “Yes, I make a living surfing and providing content” hierarchy, sub-title “And I still, and myyy management team will confirm this, don’t consider myself a sell out. Oh, and buy some of this super body wash. I use it myself.”

In researching New Jersey surfer Mr. Gravy (not his real name), I discovered his cover story is that he started the video thing when he quit drinking, as a way to stay sober. Good work. I mean, not like giving it up to run the Department of War and Manliness, but… something. SHIT! Never really a devoted drinker, I quit the cult in 1990. Mostly I keep not drinking to stay sober. Seems to work.

When watching surf videos, I do fast forward the more obvious ads (out of respect, more like not losing more respect for the surfer). One obvious effect big time sponsorship has had is cutting down the swearing count from surfers who previously, and, I’m assuming, in real life, dropped f-bombs more often than they dropped in on, yes, bombs. And surfers who might, might be unapproachable assholes must, must project a friendly, nice guy image. And, realness wise, I am aware that I am, possibly, competitive if not ruthless in the water, frequently grumpy, and always sarcastic on land, and, you are correct; my little blog ain’t shit in the scheme of things. Fuck!

Now, if I had someone sponsor me to paddle around Little Saint James Island, located in the American VIRGIN Islands, in the Caribbean, looking for surf, I’d do it. Great content. Possible surf. I would have to recheck the maps, make sure it’s not too close to Venezuela.

Warning! Almost political stuff. Don’t read further and/or delete from your history after reading.

Anyway, I’m not aiming to hop onto the Vlog gravy train. I do want to keep the Epstein thing alive. With the “Kill them all,” and the health care/food affordability crises, and with the “I’ll take it in gold” Trump Cavalcade of Incompetence and Corruption on a constant march toward… maybe you know where; a little thing like old rich people molesting children gets lost.

Or I’ll delete it.

Oh, and fuck cancer!

Reggie Blows Up, Chimacum Tim Outer Reefs It, and Cold Plunge at the Siren’s Reach Resort

Posted on by under hipster surfers, mind surfing, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, perfect waves, real surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, writings of Erwin Dence

I shouldn’t tell you where or when some guy, a ripper on an SUP, took these photos of REGGIE SMART, this after the ripper’s wife took photos of the ripper, and yes, I did see photographic proof that the photographer does, indeed, rip… oh, and I saw some photos of HAWAIIAN BRIAN, yes again, ripping, but, if seeing is believing (not always true; proof being shots of a rare lined up wave at any random beach break), but, as some other Olympic Peninsula surfers who saw the photos somewhere on the world wide web, over ripe with content and revelations, have saiid, “Yeah, great wave, great positioning”… shit like that, SO, yeah, kudos to Reg on forcing himself, with a definite lack of funding (check almost in the mail- not from me- different story) to cruise out to some unnamed coastal sometimes-heaven, sometimes not, spot and… wail.

The sign is another Reggie piece of art. His Port Townsend tattoo parlor’s new location is in the McCurdy building. Hey, it’s not my job to pimp out Reggie, but give him a call for all your body decorating needs.

CHIMACUM TIM took some free time, in between shifts on the Washington State Ferries, to do a stealth strike to Maui. Interestingly enough, at the very time he was doing a half mile paddle out to hit some outer reefs there, big time North Shore Oahu web stars, safety and camera crews and drones with them, were creating content there, and yes, I watched some of it.

The difference being, they didn’t send me exclusive photos and stories. Thanks, Tim.

I got this image from a resort on Lopez Island. I am intrigued by the whole hipster (possibly) fad of cold plunging. It’s a thing. Because I am still working on “The Hudson Street Whore,” about a possible landlocked SELKIE, and I’ve done some research on the whole Selkie, Siren, Mermaid mythology, and because my mind just keeps grinding away, I’m in the imagining stage of writing a dark (of course) piece that combines surfing with the rest of what I’m under-describing here, and includes surfing and ATSUSHI DEFREINES, the character from “SWAMIS.” The tentative title is, “Cold Plunge at the Siren’s Reach Resort.”

Meanwhile, I’m looking at doppler images, buoy reports, and forecasts, and trying to finish an exterior or two between atmospheric rivers and the usual doses of drama, spending some (not enough) time on the writing and drawing. Hopefully your too-close-to-winter time is going well. Hit the surf when you can. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net

Don’t be afraid email me, erwin@realsurfers.net, and you have my permssion to blow up my humble blog. I can take it.

That “**&%$#@!! It All, I’m Gonna Go Surfin'” Moment

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, Original Erwin, real surfers, surf culture events, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, surfing, surfing art, surfing illustrations, writings of Erwin Dence

I was actually planning on leaving it at that. All clickbait, no content.

Not that I’m going surfing. Not today. Maybe you’re out there, hoping for the right window to open up: Tide and size and direction, cooperative wind, amiable crowd (or no crowd). It might work. It might be working now; more likely after you give up on one spot and cruise, along with others, to another spot, always hoping, anticipating,

Yep.

Just in case music is part of your surf life, some tune in your head as you search or surf, I want to mention that I’ve been discussing having SURF MUSIC as the dominant theme for the NEXT (It’s, like, the 6th or 7th, one virtual) OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA (I’m ready to drop the ‘Salish Sea’ part) EVENT with Your PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY dude (afraid to give him a title, but he may be the Head Librarian), and well known ripper, KEITH DARROCK.

It would probably be in JANUARY of 2026, and would include SURF-CENTRIC LOCAL ART, and SPECIAL GUESTS like… Working on it. I’ve already signed up PETE RAAB, non-surfer, but a man with an impressive knowledge and collection of SURF MUSIC, and I’ve approached Legend TIM NOLAN about performing with some of his friends.

Consider this an invitation to any OLYMPIC PENINSULA surf music performers, singer-songwriters or bands. We’re still at the ‘think about it phase,’ so… THINK ABOUT IT!

MEANWHILE, as your anticipation level spikes, here’s a surf song I wrote quite a while back:

I’ve got a whole lot of work, so I’ve just got a little time; got a whole lot of work, so I’ve just got a little time; now, they say everybody chooses their own mountain to climb.

I’m gonna climb that mountain, gonna start about four am; gonna climb that mountain, gonna start about four am; and I’ll stop about noon at a lake that I know for a swim.

When I get to the top, I’m gonna check out the other side; when I get to the top, I’m gonna check out the other side; and if I see the ocean, you know that I’ll be satisfied.

I JUST WANNA GO SURFIN’, now tell me, is that such a sin; I just wanna go surfin’, now, tell me, is that such a sin? When you know, damn well, it’s been a mighty long time since I’ve been.

I’m gonna take off late, freefall drop, cave off the bottom and fly off the top, locked in so tight the wave spits me out, hit the shoulder and turn one-eighty about, moving down the line like a water snake, saving my best moves for the inside break.

Hit the inside section, arching, hanging five, That’s when I’ll know that I’m still alive.

Yeah, I wanna go surfin’, and I’m gonna fine me some time; yeah, I wanna go surfin’, and I’m gonna find me some time; Now, if you get to go surfin’, and you need a good board… borrow mine.

NOTES: One- I previewed these lyrics to Pete Raab when I was working for him and on them. I need a rhyme for ‘inside break.’ Water snake? Yes. Works. Two- No one should borrow any board I own. I thrash my boards. Always have. That’s what they’re for. If your board is too, too precious to you; hang it on your wall. My motto, still, “I’m here to surf!”

I do continue to work on my novel, “Swamis.” I’m either going to have a second page on this site devoted to the book, or I will post chapters on Wednesdays. Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net

You can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net

All original works are copyright protected all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

See you.

Trisha’s Birthday, Like Kids in the Park, F**CK Cancer, Beaver Moon, Snow in the Mountains, Gillnetters in the Canal, Chapter One, “Swamis,” many-ith rewrite. Sunday, November 9th

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf sessions, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

I went to a party at TRISHA SCOTT’S house in Fallbrook, November 9, 1969. She was turning sixteen. I had been seventeen for a little less than three months. Part of the invitation, delivered in a phone call to my house from one of Trisha’s friends, included a request to talk my way more popular friends, Ray Hicks, Phillip Harper, and Dana Adler, into coming. “Her father is in Vietnam and her mother will be playing cards. Supposedly her brother is going to chaperone, but…”

No ‘but,’ I was going. As were my friends.

Trish was one of those new girls at Fallbrook, daughters of Marines, trying to fit in with students who had gone to public schools since kindergarten. BUT, she had contacts; she had lived in Oceanside as well as Philadelphia. While the local girls had spray-frozen beehive haircuts, she had a Vidal Sassoon sophisticated do, wore monogrammed sweaters (KPS); she was blonde, tall, thin, AND she had surfed (boards, while I was riding mats).

None of this was as important to me as my belief that she was absolutely unimpressed with me; this reinforced when she came up to me at a party in Janie Pollack’s (one of Trisha’s contacts, one time girlfriend of Phillip’s) barn. I mean, yes, I was rude, and possibly still drunk (peer pressure and some depression that I had lost in the first round of a contest at Moonlight Beach- Cheer Critchlow one of the biased judges), but, I mean… why didn’t she like me?

TRISH AND I count November 10 as the anniversary of our, you know, boyfriend/girlfriend thing. Powerful, all-consuming, and yet, one has to learn how to navigate a, or any relationship; and we were so so young. We have a photo in the living room of Trish and her father at our wedding. So young. Trish was nineteen years and eleven days old, I was twenty and almost three months old. Long time ago.

I’m trying to not get too sentimental, but we’ve been through a lot. You don’t need a list, but our house burning down is on there. Throughout, Trish has been… the only word is resilient. This doesn’t mean she doesn’t (temporarily) freak the fuck out when her husband does something like quit a government job with paid days off to pursue some dream of being self-employed, and, ultimately, a professional writer. And, of course, there’s the other woman in our relationship.

Surfing, if you haven’t guessed.

TODAY, three days after getting another round of post-surgery chemo (fifth, I think), Trish is at the low point in this horrific cycle. On her birthday. She is living at Dru’s, house, having gone over there to help our daughter with her own battles with cancer. I’m twenty miles away, not fixing up our house as I’m supposed to, making it comfortable for when Trish can come home.

Writing. This may be the real other woman. Trish and I have discussed it. “Rich and famous” was my line fifty plus years ago. Dream. And I’ve written and drawn and painted and… spent time on a screenplay and short stories and songs and murals… time I could have been insuring that I’d be successful, at least, at house painting. And maybe I have been. Work comes first. STILL… The dream persists. I can’t really express how grateful I am that the true love of my life has stuck with me, me trying to convince her, all these years later, that she should love me.

My love for Trish is a given; there before we first spoke in the barn. She is my ocean and my sky.

“Like Kids in the Park”

Forgive me, often-accused (frequently guilty) backpaddler, for being vague about some details in this story. I surfed at a spot that is close to private homes. Not a thing, necessarily; beach access in Washington state is not a right. So, let’s say there’s a sort of public area at this spot, and, because I was working at one of these private homes, I didn’t feel like a total intruder/interloper surfing there. It turned out there were other surfers I knew out or hanging on the beach.

I surfed; I went back to work. There is a certain distraction level associated with being close to possible waves, so, taking a break, I returned to the scene of me, MR. LOUD and obnoxious, dealing with the other surfers, in and out of the water. No, I didn’t purposefully backpaddle a ‘more’ local surfer to get my wave of the day. Yes, I did backpaddle others, but I only purposefully burned one guy. Payback.

Yes, there were still surfable waves. Not as crowded, but I had work, and I was tired, and my wetsuit was wet. AND…

There were two older women (not older than me) on the beach, one of them taking pictures. Of course I warned them about posting them on social media, and, looking at a very small but perfectly peeling wave, offshore wind making it even prettier, I said, “I hope you appreciate how rare this is.”

“Sure,” the one without a camera said. “We were gardening. We came over because we heard all this hooting. I sounded like kids in a park. We had to come over.”

“How long ago was this… hooting?”

“About noon.”

“Okay. I was part of that. Oh, and you’re exactly right; kids in the park.”

“Wake up, Donnie, shit’s going down.” Photo from Just Jared, quote from anonymous American. “Fuck cancer.” Quote from anyone who has had or knows anyone who has or has had or died from a disease that says, “I’m in charge. We do it my way.” NO. Fight cancer.

NO KING, NO CAMERA: I had opportunity, two cell phones with cameras, and I saw a sign where someone with a spray can had changed a No Parking sign into “NO …KING.” No, it wasn’t me vandalizing, but if I don’t approve of the act, I did appreciate the sentiment.

I DIDN’T take any photos when I, in my continuing efforts to present myself as a serious (mostly) poet, attended a poetry reading/ book launch for NICK HILL at the Port Townsend Public Library. I did get real poet, GARY LEMONS (look him up), also presenting his poetry, and someone I’ve known, off and on, for many years, to check out a sampling of my stuff. My real attempt was to get myself in on the reading opportunity. Didn’t work. I get it.

Nick’s book is, on the surface, about a sport rather like baseball, played throughout ancient Mexico and Central America, but his poetry seemmed to be a chance to comment on current political craziness. Gary’s poetry, mostly, is based on struggle and loss, and getting past or learning from tough circumstance. With some almost shocking humor thrown in.

Text from Gary: “…also I really liked your work a lot and I can see how you said that it is songwriting as much as it is poetry- I don’t know if you play guitar, but I could certainly see some of these pieces put to rhythm- sort of a folk/alt kind of thing like Fleet Foxes.” No guitar, Gary; harmonica. SO, inroads; if I could only fucking sing.

Top to bottom: Beaver moon from my front yard; my front yard; gillnetters on the Hood Canal from someone else’s back porch (waterfront people call the water side the front, but…); and a shot courtesy of Keith Darrock of the Olympics over the hedge and the fog- Yeah, Autumn, we’re in it. Waves on the Strait? No comment, no images. Another example of when not sharing is a practical alternative to total denial. Still, no waves is policy as well as almost always true.

“SWAMIS” A novel by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

            The surf, the murder and the mystery, all the other stories; “Swamis” was always going to be about Julie. And me. Julie and me. And… Magic.

                                    CHAPTER ONE- MONDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 1969

            “Notes. I take a lot of… notes. Your stack is bigger. Is that my… permanent record?”

            “Ah. Humor. Yes, Joey, I guess it is. But you, and your… copious notes… Do you write them as a… an aide? Visual.” 

            “As my own record. Some time I might not remember. Correctly.”

            “You brought them into the office; so, can I assume that your mother drove you?”

            “We took my car. The Falcon. I drove. My mother… snoops.”

            “Detective’s wife. Sure. Would you read me something from one of your notebooks? Your choice. Maybe something about… surfing.”

            “Kind of boring, but… give me a second. Okay. ‘The allure of waves was too much, I’m told, for an almost three-year-old, running, naked, into them. I remember how the light shone through the shorebreak waves; the streaks of foam sucked into them. I remember the shock of cold water and the force with which the third wave knocked me down, the pressure that held me down, my struggle for air, my mother clutching me out and into the glare by one arm.’ It’s more a story. What I thought I remembered.”

            “You wrote this after the accident? Of course you did. What you think you remember?”

            “Yes, Doctor Peters; it’s me… creating a story from fragments, from what an aunt or my mother told me. Or from dreams. Seems real.”

            “We can’t know how much of life is created from… fragments. But, please, Joey; the basketball practice story; I didn’t get a chance to write it down. So, the guy…”

            “I’m not here because of that… offense.”

            “I am aware. Just humor me.”

            “Basketball. Freshman team. Locker room. They staggered practice. I was… slow… getting dressed. Bus schedules. He… FFA guy… Future Farmers. JV. Tall, skinny, naked, foot up on a bench; he said I had a pretty big… dick… for a Jap. I said, ‘Thank you, Rusty,’ just as the Varsity players came in. Most stood behind him. He said, ‘Oh, that’s right; your daddy; he’s all dick.’ Big laugh.”

“’Detective,’ I said. ‘Rusty, I am sorry about your brother at the water fountain.’ I kind of… whistled, stuck out my upper teeth. Bigger laugh. Varsity guys were going, ‘Whoa!’ Rusty was… embarrassed. His brother… That incident’s in the records. Fourth grade. Three broken teeth. Year after I… came back. That’s why the… Shouldn’t have done the whistle; thought I was… resisting, standing up for myself.”

            “Joey. You’re picturing it… the incident. You are.”

“No. I… Yes. I quite vividly picture, or imagine, perhaps… incidents. In both of those cases, I tried to do what my father taught me; tried and failed. ‘Walking away is not backing down,’ he said. Anyway. Basketball. I never had a shot. Good passer, great hip check.”

            “Rusty… He charged at you?”

            “He closed his eyes. I didn’t. Another thing I got from my father. ‘Eyes open, Jody!’ Some other freshman, Umberto, squealed. No one else did. Rusty and I denied anything happened. It didn’t make us… friends.”

            “All right. So, so, so… Let’s talk about the incident for which you are here. You had a foot on… a student’s throat. Yes? Yes. He was, as you confirm, already on the ground, faking having a seizure. He wasn’t a threat to you; wasn’t charging at you. Have you considered…?”

            “The bullied becomes the bully? It’s… easy, simple, logical… not new; and I have… considered it. Let’s just say it’s true. My story is… I’m trying to mend my ways. Look, Grant’s dad alleges… assault. I’m… I get it; I’m almost eighteen. Grant claims he and his buddies were just… fooling around; adolescent… fun; I can, conceivably… claim, and I have, the same.”

            “But it wasn’t… fun… for you?”

            “It… kind of… was. Time’s up. My mom’s… waiting.”

            “Joey I am, I can be… the bully here. So… sit the fuck back down!”

ALMOST SERIOUS POETRY

                  The Psychic and his Sidekick

The psychic and his sidekick, Sedrick,

Shared an Uber home from the wedding of a mutual friend.

Cindy was the bride, Archie was the groom,

The psychic said he knew the marriage was, “Quite doomed,”

Sedrick thought so, also, but he was willing to pretend,

Mostly, he said, at the Psychic’s funeral, “So as not to offend my friend.”

“Shocking,” Cindy said, as she placed flowers on the headstone,

“Indeed,” Sedrick said, adding, “Are you here alone?”

THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT realsurfers.net. REMEMBER you can reach me at erwin@realsurfers.net on the worldwide net. Original works by Erwin Dence are protected by copyright. All rights reserved.

LAST WORD- When I was working in my government job, dreaming of something freer, I had some level of respect for those who were complacent in their position, counting how many days until retirement, how much money they would have. TO THE DAY, TO THE PENNY. So, if you’re on the edge of the ledge, look out and forward, but, for God’s sake, lean back!