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Gingerbread in the “SWAMIS” Parking Lot, Old Man Corner, Rainbows on a Day that wasn’t a 5

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf satire, surf sessions, surfing novels, surfing Swamis, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

CONCRETE PETE, A 68-year-old GUY who was really pissed off, Legendary TIM NOLAN, photo by another guy in what IAN described as the OLD GUY CORNER. The rest of available parking area was pretty much filled. THE ONLY REASON I am showing a spot that might be recognizable is that SURFLINE, evidently, said it was going to be, on this day, eight feet. There were, at this time, eight people in the water, and eight inch waves, and not many of those. The pissed off guy did go out, came in more pisssssed. I apologize for not getting his name.

HANGING OUT is kind of fun, but my motto is “I’m here to surf.” And I was. So, to use another word I’m using lately, I spent some time ‘Stwaiting.” When the parking lot emptied out and there was only one surfer in the water, and squalls were coming through more consistently than waves, I went out, ready to face another near-skunking.

Yeah. EPIC! Now, perhaps it cleaned up and the waves showed up. Or not. MORAL- DON’T BELIEVE THE FORECASTS. Also, don’t always believe the POSTCASTS. “It was all time, man, chest to shoulder on the sets, rides all the way to the fence (or the woods, or the rock face, or the wherever).”

I COULD GET INTO how the discussion at the old man corner devolved, with input from someone way under 70, into priority and backpaddling and who deserves an asterisk next to their name. It’s a constant issue, not resolved, might never be. Still, if you’re the only one out…

                        CHAPTER EIGHT- WEDNESDAY, MARCH 19, 1969

Some people come to the bluff at Swamis just for the sunsets. Carpenters and insurance salesmen mix in with the surfers, just out of the water, who have to have one more look.

On this afternoon, the water appearing, deceptively, enticingly, both soft and warm, the waves appearing gently, though too small to do more than wash onto the rock shelves, I was sitting on Falcon’s tailgate, middle row, writing in a notebook. “It’s a picnic and the ocean is the meal.” I scribbled over that and wrote, “After school, after work surfers. Medium crowd. No hassles. Sunset watchers took over the bluff. One lady, business outfit, thanked LA smog for nice orange sunset.”

It was through this crowd of sunset watchers that Portia Langworthy walked, right to left, from the Jesus Saves bus at the far west end of the parking lot to the new brick bathroom and shower facility on the 101 side of the stairs. With something bulky under her left arm, right arm and hand out, palm down, as if floating. Dancing.

Portia was wearing a long blouse, set off with a cloth sash, wide, purple. Violet. Her skirt stopped just above her ankles. Her feet were bare and tan. The blouse and skirt were in dark and almost competitive prints, Gypsy/Peasant/Hippie look. Her hair was long, straight, almost black, accentuated with a band around her head that almost matched the sash. No jewelry, just a smaller version of the cross Chulo wore, hers carved from a conveniently shaped piece of driftwood, hanging on hemp twine.

Pretty at a distance, I couldn’t describe Portia closeup. Inexplicable. When she spoke with others, close to them, she seemed to have an intimidating intensity that said she cared about them, but also understood them. Understood enough that she couldn’t be lied to. Frightening. I didn’t believe it was just me who couldn’t look into her eyes. Not straight on.

In the very middle of the pack of sunset watchers, Portia stepped between the sun and a man straddling a bicycle undersized for him. Gingerbread Fred. Portia blocked his view of that moment just before the sun exploded and spread at the horizon. It took another moment before she hugged him. I could see her face over his right shoulder. Dark, shadowed. She looked at me for a moment.

Losing focus on everything else, I knew her eyes were a blue that didn’t match anything else about her. Maybe the sash.

I saw her, there, and I saw an overlapping image of her from another time. Mid-day, I was taking a break, just around Swamis Point at Boneyards. Lying on the largest, flattest of the big, soft edged rocks, I was close to being asleep. Portia’s shadow blocked the sun. She asked, “Do you know Jesus?”

I didn’t open my eyes. “Whose version?”

“Yours,” she said, without any hesitation. She dropped a pamphlet on my chest and moved back, allowing the sun to hit me full on. I blocked the sun with a hand and opened my eyes. The pamphlet was hand drawn, hand lettered, eight-and-a-half by eleven, folded, with some vague message about some vague but wonderful Jesus. I sat up.

That was when I saw her eyes.

Portia backed rather than looked away, as if we had both seen some truth of who we really were. She turned into the glare, danced up to two young women in street clothes, handed them pamphlets, and danced into the shallows. One, and then both young women danced. Not for very long.

The Portia on the bluff let Gingerbread Fred’s hand slip away as she stepped away. I would save this image: Hands stretched between them, nothing but light behind them.

I had heard stories about Gingerbread Fred. Almost myths. Tijuana Sloughs, breaks outside of Windansea; Fred was on a list of names of surfers from the pre-Gidget past. Legends: Simmons, Blake, Holder, Edwards, Richards; stories enhanced, gilded with each retelling.

This was the current version: Fred was damaged, burned out, not fully there. Korea was the rumor. Or Vietnam. Or both. Yet, he was here, the bluff at Swamis Point, as he was, seemingly, religiously, for the sunset.  

Legends are one thing, parking is another. Someone pulled a car out of a space two spots over from the optimum location. Not taking the time to retrieve my notebooks and binders from the tailgate, I got in, and backed out and over, narrowly beating another car as I eased into the spot. Exciting. A little victory.

I was aware that something had blown off the tailgate. I opened the door carefully to avoid hitting the car to my left, got out, and walked to the middle of the traffic lane. A man was holding the North County Free Press, eight pages, stapled in the middle, open and up to his face.

There was an ad for a farm cooperative on the back page, a photo of me on the front. Me, behind the plate glass window. “Local Detective Dies in Mysterious Car Accident.” The heading for the lead story, right side, balanced by the photo, was “Joseph J. DeFreines, Heroic by Nature.” The by-line was “Lee Anne Ransom.”

I imagined what the man was looking at: The coverage and the photos from the funeral. In the featured photo, top right, page five, my mother was looking down, holding the folded American flag, with Freddy, on one side, crying, me on the other side, looking at my mother and not crying. Or he could have been looking at the photo of the crowd, San Diego County Sheriff O’Conner and a group of detectives and deputies, all in uniform, Detective Wendall holding the department’s show horse, a magnificent Palomino, the saddle empty. Wendall looked honestly broken. Or the man could have been reading the testimonials. Or he could have been reading the article on the bottom right, “Is Marijuana Now the County’s Top Cash Crop?” Also written by Lee Anne Ransom.   

Or he might have been using the paper as cover to look at me.

The man lowered the paper, held it out, still open, with both hands. He was of East Indian descent, I guessed. I had seen him before, different setting, different clothes. He was, on this afternoon, wearing workman’s clothing; heavy, blue-gray pants with worn and wet knees, lace up boots with the toe areas scuffed, a long sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He had a faded red bandana half hanging from his left front pocket. His hair and beard were black, both reaching just below his collar.

“I can get another… copy,” he said. “They are, of course… free.”

“No. I have… another copy.” I shook my head. “Free. The free thing.”

“Then, thank you so much.” The man folded the paper, folded it again, tucked it under his arm, did a slight forward tip of his head. “I do some… gardening.” He moved his left hand behind him, pointing toward the wall to the Self Realization compound.  “Outside, mostly.” I returned the head tip. “Volunteer.” English accent with East Indian rhythm. Perhaps.

“Oh,” I said, looking along the white stucco wall and suddenly remembering where I had seen him, “You’re a… member?”

He smiled, one of those half face smiles. Right side in this case. “Loosely… connected. Less so all the time. I saw you once. Inside.” He nodded toward the far-left portion of white wall of the Self Realization Fellowship compound. “The meditation garden. Do you remember?”

I tried not to visualize. It didn’t work. I closed my eyes, opened them again. I could still see the gardener, along with another version. Same man, dressed in a robe. He was standing next to an older man, with even longer hair and beard, gray, and dressed in a robe made from a silkier, more colorful fabric. That man was possibly an actual Swami, or Yogi, possibly even the Swami. They were smiling. At me. Appreciative smiles. I jumped up from the bench and ran down the manicured paths with hand-set stones, perfectly cared-for plants, flowers year-round.

“I… ran.”

“You did. Yes, you do remember.”

“I was… studying. Not… anything else, Swami.”

“Perfectly fine. Meditation is… one’s own time. And… not a Swami.”

“Sorry. Not a Swami.”

“If Swami means ‘seeker of truth,’ perhaps, we…many of us are, perhaps, Swamis.” ”

I followed the man’s eyes back to the bluff. Portia was returning from the bathrooms with a different bundle under her arms, with different clothing, a very different look. Braided strands from the front of her hair were wrapped around to hold the rest in place. There was, perhaps, a ribbon. She was wearing a loose top, long, with long sleeves, a subtly patterned or even one-color Pendleton, with bellbottom pants and sandals.

Portia was walking behind the sunset watchers. “Conservative,” I said, pretty much to myself, but expecting some comment from the volunteer gardener. No. He was gone. He was crossing the lawn by the white stucco compound wall; and was halfway to Highway 101 when the Hayes Flowers van entered the lot.

…

I was in front of the Falcon. The people had formed a sort of wall at the bluff, watching the burnt orange in the wispy cirrus clouds at the horizon fade. I was watching Portia. She was watching the yellow van go down the far row. She stepped onto the pavement, and stopped on the passenger side of my car. The van stopped at the squared off end of the asphalt, next to the Jesus Saves bus. 

I opened the driver’s side door. I stood there too long, watching Portia. She was not moving closer to the bus and the van. Waiting. She glanced toward me. I am certain she smiled. Because I had to say something, I said, “I got a good… spot.”

“Good,” she said. “Great sunset.”

“Yes.” I glanced toward it, then back toward Portia. Her face was shadowed, but this Portia, in regular clothes, seemed younger.

“Oh,” she said, “It’s… you. How… are you?” I couldn’t think of a response both quick and clever. I gave her a weak smile/nod combination. “Chulo… and me… I, we… have to go to Balboa, the, uh, Naval hospital. His friend… Juni. That’s what Chulo calls him.” She laughed. “It sounds more like ‘hu’ni’ when he says it. Juni. Chulo says you know him… from before.”

Before.

Portia walked to the front of the Falcon, setting her bundle on the hood. I shut the door and moved toward the front of the car, across from her. “Jumper. Jumper Hayes. He’s… there? Balboa?” She nodded. “He allright?”

“He’s alive. He was just flown here… there. From Hawaii.”

There were voices coming from the space between the Jesus Saves bus and the Hayes Flowers van. Portia, keeping her eyes on me, moved closer. Several of the sunset watchers beyond her looked toward that end of the lot each time the two men’s voices were raised, short bursts back and forth, not quite distinguishable words.

I didn’t look. Portia didn’t look. She said, “I have never met him. Jumper.” Portia’s eyes were, with her usual dark eye makeup gone, a softer blue than I had remembered. Or imagined. Her black hair was, at the roots, lighter. “We’re going… with Mr. and Mrs. Hayes… their car. Good citizen car. It’ll get us through the gate.”

“The yellow Cadillac. Yeah. That’ll work. And… Gustavo’s a vet… veteran.”

Portia put her right hand on my left arm. “We didn’t say nothing… about… you.” I looked at her hand until she removed it “Langdon… he wasn’t there because of that.”

“No?”

“No. Never even went to… look. And anyway…”

“I wanted to… It was…” I was trying not to get lost, trying not to cry. I slid my hand across the hood, toward but not quite touching Portia’s. “Thank you.”

Portia had to say something or walk away. The muffled back and forth at the Jesus Saves bus continued. “Your father…” I kept my eyes on her. “Good man. Chulo and me…” She touched my left hand, slid her right hand on top of it, both of our hands resting on the top edge of the door. “He… introduced me and Chulo. ‘Troublemakers,’ he called us. Got me a job with…” She laughed. “You’re there now. Mrs. Tony’s.” I must have looked surprised. “Then I got on with Mrs. Hayes. Consuela. Arrangements, mostly. Shop work.”

Portia paused to make sure I was listening or that I understood. “The religious thing. That was Chulo. Converted and all. Work camp.” She had a ‘taste’s bad’ expression, just for a moment. “Jail. East County. You probably knew about that.”

“In Fallbrook it was known as, ‘The Great Avocado Robbery.’”  

Portia laughed. I reevaluated her age again. She was barely over that line I’d set between me and adulthood. “They do love their avocados,” she said, with a surprising amount of enthusiasm.

“They do. Chulo and Jumper and some mysterious guy from… somewhere. A buyer. Supposedly. Never caught him. I got that from the papers. Never… my father didn’t tell… ‘war stories.’” I laughed. “Of course, he did; just… not to me.”

Portia. I was trying to think of a word for the look she was giving me. Earnest. Sincere. “Chulo says he did his best. The Deputy… Bancroft… Well, sorry God, but… fuck him.”

It was my turn to speak. I didn’t. I was visualizing Deputy Bancroft from the few times I had seen him at the Vista Substation. Once was before he had crippled Chulo, all smiles and backslapping his fellow deputies. A second image was of him looking worried and angry, trying to get the others to support him. Some took his side. My father did not.

“Butchy Bancroft,” I said. “Yeah. He’s, uh, he’s changing tires. Escondido.”

Portia shrugged. She may have smiled. “I see… your father, in you. He… sorry for saying this again… He was a good man.” I had to look at her. Sincere. “You are your father’s son.”

The light had become grainy, the smog-enhanced colors at the horizon had gone gray. The few lights around the parking lot, just coming on, had to compete with the advance of night. The sunset show was over. Most of the watchers moved away from the bluff and, at various speeds, toward their vehicles. A few stayed on as if, perhaps, they were waiting for closing credits.

Not yet.

“Really?” It was loud. There was a softer, muffled response, followed immediately by, “Fuck you and Jumper then… Chulo!” Loud and clear. Both Portia and I looked over. The Hayes Flowers van blocked the view, but occasional columns of cigarette smoke raising up beyond the two popout surfboards revealed where Chulo and the man doing the yelling were standing. “Last run.” The other man’s voice was lower but clearer. “There and back. Simple.”

A skinny man wearing a cowboy hat, straw rather than cloth, went up the stairs of the Jesus Saves bus, closed the doors, started the engine, revving it quite unnecessarily.

“Asshole,” Portia said. She looked up and whispered, “Sorry. Again.”

Asshole was honking the Jesus Save bus’s horn, flashing the headlights. The running lights and the inside lights in the driver’s area were flashing. The bus’s engine was racing. I looked over as it passed. Asshole, wearing sunglasses, a bandana around his neck, looked straight ahead, rode the clutch, then popped it.

Chulo limped around the front of the van, and got in. “Different clothes,” I said. The engine was still running. He pulled the van forward and started down the bluff side lane. Counterclockwise. The van stopped, passenger door even with me.

Chulo nodded. I nodded. “Get any… good ones?” he asked through the open window, both of us aware of the sound of gears grinding between second and third as the Jesus Saves bus headed north on 101.

“A couple,” I said, to Chulo, as Portia walked past me, “Before the tide got too high.” She opened the van’s passenger door, set her bundle of clothes on the bench seat, held the door open, and looked at me as if she expected me to say more to her or Chulo. “Different clothes,” I said, more to Portia than Chulo. “I mean,” I said, looking directly at Chulo, “this is not the, um, John the Baptist look.”

“Yeah! Most people get it wrong,” Chulo said. “Jesus, way classier dresser.”

“Oh. Sure. Jesus. Whole cloth. Yeah.” I stepped away.

“You know the gospel.”

“Partially by choice.”

“Holy Spirit, man,” Chulo said, moving his fingers like a piano player. “Mysterious.” Portia closed the door. Chulo looked at her before he looked past her and at me. “I told them, Jody; Wendall, the State Patrolman, everyone… Plymouth. Gray Plymouth. Old guy, I said; probably didn’t even realize… what happened. And besides, your dad had already…”

“What about Langdon?”

“I can handle… Langdon. God… God love him.”

“He means ‘fuck Langdon,’” Portia said. “Another asshole.”

Portia looked at Chulo and then at me. I looked away and then up. There was something about the popout surfboards the van. Different boards, not the same ones I’d seen at my father’s wake. I took a step back to check out the skegs. Quickly, aware Portia and Chulo were watching me, aware someone was approaching from my left.

“Asshole,” I said. “God love him.”

             “No shortage of assholes.” Someone was beside me. Gingerbread Fred. Threadbare sweater over a once white t shirt; maximum fade on his Levis, sewn-on patches of different fabric at the knees; no shoes; long, once-red hair, grayed-out and as stringy as his beard; glasses patched and listing to the left; Gingerbread Fred was looking up. He was looking beyond the popout surfboards, beyond the palm fronds and the pine branches. I had to follow his eyes.

A gauze of cloud had caught the last of the day’s sunlight, impossibly mixing pink and blue in a colorless sky. Gingerbread Fred moved close to the van’s still open passenger side door. “Boy gets it,” he said.

Portia, in a voice as gauzy as the clouds, said, “Fred’s here for the show.”

“Fred Thompson, the legend,” Chulo said. “Fred. Me and Portia; we have to get going. Juni… Jumper, he’s… They got… overrun. His platoon. He’s… wounded. He’s in Balboa.”

“Oh,” Fred Thompson said, “so Petey was right. That cocksucker DeFreines did get Jumper to fuckin’ join up. Semper Fi, motherfuckers.”

Neither Chulo nor Portia looked at me. Chulo looked at Portia. She shook her head. Chulo said, “Juni’s choice. Jumper. He wanted it kept… secret.”

Fred laughed. Not a crazy man’s laugh. “Yeah. Well, Petey and me… and secrets. No. At least he… Jumper… had a choice.”

“Mister Thompson, I heard you were out and you…went back in.” I realized, even as I was saying the words, that I had said too much. “Sorry.”

“Mistake. Crashed twice, shot down once.” Fred Thompson seemed to drift away for a moment. I had to look, had to see what that looked like. He came back with a snap. “Sometimes, like, the right wave can make the wipeout and the swim in… just part of the price. Worth it.” He looked at me. I nodded. He shook his head. “Sometimes… not.”

 “Bad knee or not, Fred; I still wouldn’t have chosen the Marines.”

“I’m no Catholic, Chulo, but…” Fred made the sign of the cross, then threw his right hand out, fingers spread. “Hope our friend’s… better. And, catholic-wise, I do like the gesture.”

“It is a… good one.” Chulo shook his head, only slightly, did a version of the sign of the cross between the steering wheel and his chest, and revved the engine. “He’s coming back.”

“Jesus?”

“Yeah, Fred,” Chulo said, laughing. “Him too.”

Portia kissed the palm sides of the fingers on her right hand before folding them into a fist. She tapped her fist on the middle of her chest, three times, opened her hand, placed it over her heart. After five or six seconds, she wrapped her fingers around Fred Thompson’s right hand for another five or six seconds.

…

As the van pulled away, Fred held out his right hand. He looked at it, refocusing on me, as if, perhaps, he was supposed to know who I was; as if we had, perhaps, spoken before. “We come back. We just don’t come back the same.”

I copied Fred’s smile.  

“You one of their… Chulo’s and Portia’s… followers?” He pointed roughly toward the highway. I shook my head. His hand staying in pretty much the same place, he turned the rest of his body toward the remains of the sunset. “You staying for the encore… kid?”

I wanted to ask Fred Thompson about Tijuana Sloughs, about Windansea and Simmons’s Reef and San Onofre before foam boards, about Malibu and surfing before ‘Gidget,’ about Korea and Vietnam, helicopters before they were gunships. I wanted to ask why he went back in the Army after Korea.

I didn’t. I followed him through the now-empty space next to the Falcon and to the bluff. His bicycle was on the ground, too close to the edge. When Gingerbread Fred looked up at the sky, I looked up. “It’s darkness, for sure, but it’s not… night. We’re in the… shadow.”

Fred Thompson, facing the horizon, extended his left arm and hand forward, level, cocking his hand back at the wrist. He extended his right, creating an almost ninety-degree angle. “Perpendicular,” he said, holding that position for a second before throwing both arms back until they were straight out at his sides. “Parallel.”

He clasped his hands behind his back. I had to step back as he spun around, one, then another revolution. “You’ll get it,” he said, regaining his balance. “You know why?” I shook my head. “Because you… are… looking.” He turned to what was left of the sunset colors.

“Shadow,” I said.

“Ha! Yes. Shadow.” Gingerbread Fred came close enough to me that I could smell his breath. Milk, perhaps, soured. I tried not to react. “You probably heard. I’m… crazy.”

“There’s… a lot of that going around, Mister Thompson.”

“Yes!” He stooped down a bit, still too close to me. “You get it.” I nodded. “This one night, clear, like now. Now, I was raised on the Bible. Not a Catholic. Not a heathen, neither.” He laughed and raised his right hand straight up. “An explosion. There was a… rainbow. So high up… the zenith… that high. The sun was still on it. ‘Every eye shall see him,’ the Book says. People here, in this very parking lot… they were panicked.” He lowered his right arm, stretched out his fingers, brought his arm back until his hand was between us. He, then I looked at his palm. He lowered his hands just enough to look at me. “None of us are ready for… that Jesus.”

“I saw it! Here! I was… here, Mr. Thompson! Swamis!”

“Whoa-aaaa-ooooo!” Fred Thompson’s zoomed to the highest octave he was capable of, and dropped, rapidly. He closed his eyes and looked up. His voice was gravelly when he tapped me, three times, on the chest, and asked, “Can you still… see it?”

“In my mind; yes, sir, I can.”

I could remember, perfectly, what I saw from the back of Gary’s real dad’s Ranchero in the Swamis parking lot. My back was against the cab, three towels wrapped around me, ballast for three longboards, stacked, longer to shorter, and extended out the back. Gary, Roger, and Roger’s second girlfriend were in the cab. The girlfriend was in the middle. I was the only one to see the bright glow, expanding, somewhere between the clear sky and space, the zenith; high enough the sun was still on it. Rainbows.

I had thought about that Jesus, having judged the wicked and the righteous, returning in glory, as advertised. I was sixteen. I wasn’t ready.

When I was dropped off, I peered into the cab of the Ranchero and pointed to the spot in the high sky. I described what I had seen. Roger and Gary and the girlfriend got out and looked up. The glow was a ghost of what it had been. I got a ‘sure,’ an ‘okay,’ and a ‘sorry I missed it.” The girlfriend. She was nice. She didn’t believe me, either.

I opened my eyes. Gingerbread Fred Thompson was six feet away. “I’m sure you know this,” I said. “Vandenburg Air Base. Rocket. Explosion.”

“Sure.” He turned toward the stairs. “I have chosen to believe it was a… a glimpse at what is… beyond, that it was a tear… in the shroud.”

“I’m… fine with that. But… we… you and I, we saw it.”

“We did. You and I… did.” Gingerbread Fred twisted the frames of his glasses, put a finger in his left ear, and yawned. He used the same finger to tap, three times, on his forehead, and said, “Keep it… here.” He clawed at his hair. He tapped his finger, three times, on his chest. “Here, too.” He pulled at his sweater. “I do hope you will excuse me. I am going to… quick dip. Therapeutic. And, kid, what I said about… your father. Yeah. Just checking. Good man, Joe was… for a Jarhead… and a cop.”

As he was dropping down the stairs and out of sight, I looked back up at the highest part of the sky. Zenith. Shadow. Stars, planets. Closing, and later, opening credits for the next show. “A tear in the shroud,” I said, out loud.     

MORE CONTENT ON SUNDAY. “Swamis” and all other original material is protected by copyright, all rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr. THANKS, get some waves when you can.

Surf Friends, Shared Photos, “Swamis”- Chapter 4, and, of course, MORE

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FIRST- THANKS. I like to tell people, when I am begging them to let me use something they said or wrote on my SITE (personal preference over ‘blog’), that realsurfers.net has an audience of tens of people from all around the world. For this I am grateful. If I can get through to one lone surfer in China, pining to know there are never any waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, great.

I DID SURF, and there is, as always, a story; joining constantly frothed out KEITH DARROCK, on his ongoing mini-slab tour, at a super-sketchy spot with his pre-attempt warning, “You are going to get SO WORKED.” And I did. Leash ripped off by rogue wave, Hobie on a rock, fin at an angle way off perpendicular to the deck, me swimming, then having to get back up the cliff. So, worked… BUT I did get some great on-the-shoulder angles of some of Keith’s barrels, and I got some shoulder takeoff rides. And I survived. NO PHOTOS, but REGGIE SMART did witness the spectacle through binoculars. “Either Erwin has a really long leash or he lost his board.” NO, he evidently didn’t witness any of my successful rides. THE HOBIE WILL LIVE ON! Maybe.

ADAM ‘WIPEOUT’ JAMES heading out. Photo (used with permission) by ERIN KATE MURPHY. Erin and her husband, SEAN, and their son (sorry I forgot his name) all surf. More like rip. OH, I did have to promise never to take off in front of her AND to let her have any wave I may have wanted. Worth it.

BIOLUMINESCENCE and NORTHERN LIGHTS, or some other PHENOMENON. Photo by Adam James.

OFTEN, sitting in a parking lot somewhere, waiting for some tide shift or some hoped-for swell to show up, other surf seekers show up. RAJA, who achieved local fame years ago by sticking my lost paddle in an offshore dolphin, the remnant of an old boat tie-uo, is sporting an ORIGINAL ERWIN t shirt. Raja has been involved in several of my stories over the years, including when I burned DANE PERLEE and his friend. INCIDENTALLY, the paddle was rescued and removed by my friend, STEPHEN R. DAVIS. So, SURF FRIENDS, bonded by some, some, something.

I didn’t ask CLINT THOMPSON, bi-coastal surfer and super craftsman on wooden boats, if I could use his photo. Hopefully he’s okay with it. I should say tri-coastal, since Clint goes between Port Townsend and his family home somewhere in Florida, where, he says, he’s halfway between the Gulf of Mexico and the coast. Clint, when we first met, was highly critical of my wave-hogging, no etiquette way of surfing. Perhaps because I’m older and slower, or maybe because crowded conditions often have a number of kooks (no, I don’t want to say that), or perhaps because I do try not to burn people i know (and I know a lot of surfers), Clint did say, a year or so back, “I want to see you dominate.” Well, other than surfing radical conditions with rabid rippers (knowing my place in that lineup), I always try.

Me on a peak. When I called TRISH from the LOWER ELWHA gas station to tell her about how her man nearly drowned, she said, “Well, you wanted to go.” When she told me I need to get this painting project finished, I sent her this photo (by Steve Davis). She texted back, You’re giving me a heart attack! OMG!!”

I am reading a memoir by legendary boat designer and surfer, TIM NOLAN, shown surfing his home break, Abalone Cove in Palos Verdes, way back, and at a Surf Culture Event in Port Townsend a couple of years ago. It’s incredibly hard to have people read one’s stuff AND give feedback. Mine, so far, is that TIM has great stories BECAUSE he’s done some extraordinary things… and continues doing things. His most recent words of wisdom related to surfing, particularly for older surfers (he is older than me), is “You’ve got to want it.” The stories are there, AND his watercolors and photos illustrating the stories are great. As with any and all writing, it comes down to focusing and editing.

After several people have been unable to get through the earlier versions of my novel. “Swamis,” I did get some encouraging feedback from one of my longterm clients, SANDRA STEELE, a woman who reads detective/mystery books voraciously, and, in fact, gave me a box full of them. I read all of one, parts of several others. She said, “I didn’t throw it at the fireplace,” adding, “It seemed… hopeful.” “Is that good? It’s kind of turning into more of a… love story than…” “Yeah, I see a lot of Trish in there.” “Well, yeah.”

IF YOU DON’T READ ANY FARTHER, “Swamis” and other original material is protected by copyright; all rights reserved by the author/artist/photographer. Please respect this. And thanks,

                                    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 of the full lot at Swamis- front row, two cars off center. It was cool but sunny. I was dead center on the Falcon, leaning over the hood. I checked the diving watch on my wrist. It was fogged up. I shook my wrist, removed the watch, set it on the part of the Falcon’s hood my spread-out beach towel didn’t cover; directly over the radiator, the face of the watch facing the ocean and the sun.

            Spread about on the towel was 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; and 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’!”

They looked at each other. They looked over me at their car, 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 lifted two of the strands.  “Going out or been out?”

            “Both. Man.”    

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

“Good spot,” the driver, with bottle bleached hair, a striped Beach Boys shirt, and khaki pants, said. I nodded. Politely. I smiled, politely, and looked back and down at my notebooks. He asked, “You a local?”

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

 A car honked behind us. Love Beads raised his voice enough to say, “At least go get the boards, Shorty.” The Driver ran toward his car. As Shorty reluctantly walked away from the bluff, Love Beads gave him a shove, pushing him into me. A possibly accidental nudge.

Shorty threw both hands out to signal it wasn’t his fault. Behind him, Love Beads Guy said, “You fuckers down here are fuckin’ greedy.”

“Fuck you, Brian,” Shorty said before running out and into the lane.

Love Beads Guy, 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 set the notebook down and picked up my diving 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 pointer finger of my right hand. “The joke, you see, Brian, is that, once it gets filled up with water, no more can get in. Hence, Waterproof.” I put the watch on. “Nope, don’t have to leave yet… Brian.”

Brian was glowering, tensed-up. “Brian,” Shorty said as he carried two boards over to the bluff and set them down, “You could, you know, help.”

Brian raised his right hand, threw it out to his left and swung it back. I took the gesture to mean ‘shut up and keep walking.’ 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 used to… strike out, and quite violently… when I felt threatened.” I blinked. “Brian.”

Brian looked around as if Shorty, packing the third board past us, might back him up. “Quite violently?”

“Used to… Brian. Suddenly and… violently.” I nodded and rolled my eyes. I moved closer to his face. “But now… My father taught me there are times to react and times to… take a moment, assess the situation, but… watch, and 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.

“Brian,” Beach Boy, at the driver’s door of his parent’s car 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.

Brian may have said more. He 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. “They don’t know you, 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 blink of a red light. Every three seconds. Approximately.

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. Red light. I looked at the school drinking fountain. A bit of blood. Red light. I saw more faces. The red lights became weaker, and with them, the images.

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

I smiled. That smile.

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

I turned toward the Falcon, closed the blue notebook, set it on one side of the open Pee-Chee, picked up the red 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, the… shitless guy…”

“Brian. Shirtless.”

“Yeah. That dude. You may have… Fuck, man; he 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, and closed the notebook. “By the time they get back to wherever they’re from, Brian would’ve kicked my ass.” I looked around to see if any of Ronny’s friends were with him. “I was… really… polite, Rincon Ronny.”

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

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.”

Ronny nodded and looked at my shortjohn wetsuit, laid out over my board.  “Custom. Impressive.” I nodded and smiled. “One thing, Junior; those… fuckers, they won’t fuck with you in the water.”

“Joey,” I said. “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.”                                   

FINALLY, I do have a limited number of Original Erwin t shirts at TAIT TRAUTMAN’S NORTH BY NORTHWEST SURF COMPANY (NXNW). Stop by if you’re cruising through Port Angeles on the way to or from your next surf adventure. And GOOD LUCK!

When You RIDE With Erwin… It’s a Story

Posted on by under Erwin Dence illustrations, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, surf art, surfer Archie Endo, surfing art

Very bad day yesterday. All I wanted to do was get my panels up to Port Townsend for the August Art Walk, AND take ARCHIE ENDO out to lunch. Short Version: Van got accidentally locked. Not blaming. Keys and cell phone inside. Van parked in handicapped spot. $120 cash to unlock. Move panels and remaining Original Erwin shirts. Now to lunch. NO. Van won’t start. Tried jump starting. Thanks, LOU. NO. Waited for tow truck, arrived while trying to eat something at La Cucina, across the street. Slugged down last of quesadilla and milk. KIRK LAKENESS was the tow truck driver. Perhaps you remember Kirk from the time I crashed vehicle on Eaglemount in black ice. Kirk towed van to electric shop. Archie and I got a ride to his house in DIscovery Bay area with REGGIE. Archie gave me a ride home.

Here’s a shot of Stephen R. DAVIS’S friend from the Big Isand, ‘CAP” (real name Brian, though, he says, only his mother [and I] call him that), stylishly sporting the latest ORIGINAL ERWIN T SHIRT and posed as if he might be checking out surf. NO. No surf ’round here. Incidentally, he and other Big Islanders call Steve “Moose.” I don’t.

HERE is the poster I was hoping to sell multiple copies of at the COLAB during the Art Walk. Hoping. I was sure enough that it would be a popular item that II had forty of them printed, 20 at 11’by 17′, twenty at 8and1/2′ by 11′. LIMITED EDITION.

SPEAKING of which, when I was waiting for RANDY at COHO PRINTING to finish the project, I said that I love doing the artwork, but hate trying to sell my works. “Well,” he said, “My suggestion would be to put them all in a drawer somewhere.” “Thank you, Professor, might I have another?” “It should be ‘Sir.'” “I know. I gave you a promotion.”
MEANWHILE… WORK. A different story.

Find some waves. Ride them. Later. Oh, and the poster is covered by copyright, all rights reserved.

“Not Without Incident” Incidents

Posted on by under northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf sessions, surf stories, surfing, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

Let me see if I can tell this quickly. It isn’t as if I haven’t told the story to pretty much everyone I’ve spoken to for longer than the “Yes, I found what I wanted (corn dogs); thank you” at the QFC.

I roll up to an unnamed beach. It’s early, but not pre-dawn early. Waves, but small. But waves. There’s one guy in the water on a giant longboard, and he’s getting out. He comes up the beach toward his (of course) white sprinter van. The woman sitting on a beach chair in front of the van reading a book, that, judging by the gold-edged pages might be a Bible, or not, jumps up to help him up to the van, then helps him pull his wetsuit off his shoulders. Nice.

He’s a BIG guy, possibly bigger than me, so I am sorely (subtle Bible reference) tempted to yell, “Hey, get back out there! I don’t want to be the fattest guy in the water.” I don’t.

I’m trying to get into my own wetsuit (not the front zip with the patches, particularly the one on the, um, butthole-adjacent area), which, top this point, I have not donned without some assistance. I see this guy headed over to the sani-can. “Hey… a little help if you would. Old guys… you know. Now, on the velcro… Thanks. You going out?” “When the tide gets a little higher.” “Supposed to get windy.” “Yeah.”

By the time I grab my board there’s one surfer out on the lefts and two guys heading over to the rights, one of whom is doing warmup moves. The other one waves at me. “Oh, it’s Sean.” I wave back.

I paddle up to the one guy at the lefts, nod, and, polietly, say, “I’m going to back-paddle you.” He doesn’t respond. I move over about twenty yards, turn, and catch a wave. The guy is down the line and paddling for it. I don’t, like, yell. Maybe I say, “Hey” or “Whoa.” he backs off. I ride on. Paddling back, I say, “Maybe I was rude.” “That’s obvious; taking the first set wave.” I didn’t ask, “That was a set wave?” Instead I explained that, because of injury and eye surgery, I hadn’t surfed in two months.

Since we were the only ones out and there weren’t more set ‘bombs’ on the way, the guy said, “Oh. I read your blog; I thought you were all over that.” “The eye, yes; the wound… ongoing.”

So, then he’s talking about how difficult it is to predict waves on the Strait. “It’s like… magic,” he says. “Sometimes this spot breaks, sometimes another spot.” “It is magic. Sometimes everywhere is breaking, sometimes no where. Any waves are a… gift.” Bear in mind, I’m still sitting deeper than my new friend is, and, perhaps, I actually have some legitimate claim on priority. I would have caught his name if he had stayed out longer.

Meanwhile, the guy who helped me with the wetsuit, and another guy, both wearing boonie hats, with straps, and a woman, with a wetsuit hood, paddle out and are sitting in what would be the inside section of a wave if a wave actually lined up. Several do, and I’m kind of weaving between the three a couple of times, waving nicely as I do.

Another dude, average size, maybe kind of tall, out on a super long board, takes off in front of me, twice. the first time I didn’t make the first section, so… okay. The second time, I did, and I ride behind him for quite a while before he kind of looks around. “Might as well keep going,” I said. He didn’t respond.

My goal was to make sure I could still surf, and to surf. So, mission accomplished, I get out of the water, and, after drinking some coffee, head over to where Sean is parked. He’s pretty much dressed and chatting with someone who may or may not be Bricky. I do ask, politely, if I can hang out with some local hipsters for a minute. Sean says, “For a guy who’s so smooth in the water, you kind of looked like a sea monster when you got to land.” “Yeah. All I was thinking was, ‘shit, when did the beach get so steep? Where did all these rocks come from?'”

Because I had stayed up late and gotten up early, my plan was to take a nap, in my wetsuit, maybe surf again. Meanwhile other surfers entered the water, and a series of squalls brought in side chop and brief periods of heavy rain.

Because I’m trying to diet (because I was actually put on scales and my blood pressure recorded), I have been avoiding ice cream and Little Debbies, and going for high fibre foods. Because of this, there was a necessity to… anyway, I would need more help with the wetsuit if I was to go for a second session.

This time I elicited help from a woman who had just come in. “Yeah, the velcro, it’s… yeah thanks. You get some good… waves?” At this time, the wind was, I swear, offshore. “Yeah. Great! It was supposed to get windy.” “Well, it probably will. Gifts, huh?”

My goal was to get ten waves. There are four or five guys out and the wind switches back to sideshore. I blow my first takeoff, my board popping up close. “Peripheral vision,” I said. I go for a second wave. Two guys, one doing that windmill, head down, ‘I’m a kook’ paddle, take off in front of me. I ride past both of them, in the soup, the kook doing that ‘Oh my God, arms straight out, hope I don’t pearl’ thing. I keep going until the wave cleans up.

On the way back out, I notice Brett is out. I haven’t seen him in a while, so we’re chatting. Somewhere in there I mention that it was way cleaner earlier. One of the two drop-in dudes turns around and asks, “Oh, so you were out… earlier?” I asked, politely, if he was inferring (or implying, whichever is correct) that I had, perhaps, gotten my share of the waves. “You almost ran over us,” he said. “You dropped in on me, man.” “No, I was already paddling.”

That explanation has never worked for me. I have tried. I wanted to tell the dude he should go back and read the rule book. I didn’t. Meanwhile, the water starting to show whitecaps, Brett says, “I will burn you, Erwin.” I respond that I haven’t forgotten that he gave me the biggest burn of my career. He may have said, “You’re welcome.” If not, I’m sure he meant to.

I got a couple more rides (eight total, not ten), several of which went near the two guys in the boonie hats and the woman, all of whom were, one, still out, and all of whom had moved closer to the real lineup, and, I’d witnessed, were catching and riding waves. “Keep this up and you’ll be ripping,” I said before I got to shore, sea-monstering my way to my car.

NEXT TIME- Stephen R. Davis goes to the card show in San Francisco.

Time Out of Water, Not out of Mind

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers

BECAUSE I fell off a ladder, because I didn’t treat a leg wound quickly or seriously in time, because I had a detached retina that necessitated an operation, I have been out of the water for well over a month. BECAUSE my being forced to go to a doctor (forced as in, I lost sight in the bottom fourth of my left eye, as in I could not operate on my swollen leg) for the first time in twelve years or so, with conditions there was no way for me to treat, I also discovered my blood pressure was high enough that there was some doubt as to whether I was a decent candidate for the eye surgery, AND, meanest thing that was done to me, I was weighed.

TWO THINGS: Adam “WIPEOUT” James, forced to help me zip up my wetsuit a while back, asked me, “Do you have to have ice cream every night?” Keith Darrock has been bugging me for a while to lose weight, claiming that if I lost 75 pounds, I could “Dominate even more. Maybe, like, pop up.”

Seventy-five pounds is not enough.

NOW, with the eye almost totally restored to its previous state, the leg wound/infection being treated with $600 a tube ointment and round-the-clock wearing of compression socks, my blood pressure being monitored daily, a shift in my eating habits (more fibre, less coffee, no Little Debbie’s, no ice cream, no chocolate- yet), and the possibility of waves, like, maybe, maybe, an hour ago, I’m still out of the water, I want to assert that I will be back, and, when I’m out, I’ll be frothed-out, and, as alway, there to surf.

Fair warning. Catch them when you can. I’m not looking for sympathy. Injuries happen. I’m not looking for excuses. I’m not quitting. And no, I don’t want to go watch others surf. Again, “I’M HERE TO SURF!”

Be real if you can’t be nice.

Name Dropping: Chas Smith, Jimbo, Tyler Wright… PART ONE

Posted on by under hipster surfers, northwest surfing, real surfers

Pushed into it by my friend, Olympic Peninsula ripper/librarian KEITH DARROCK, I’ve become, reluctantly, a sort of (UNSUBSCRIBED) fan of CHAS SMITH. He first came into my narrow world as a writer/columnist at what was “Surfing” until it transformed into “Trans-World Surf” or whatever, his photo with a cigarette (so rebellious) and one of those haircuts I’ve always associated with hipness, one that one must constantly push out of one’s eyes (the first such do I noted was on Twyla Tharp when I was in Junior College, well before I lost my own forelock in my twenties). ANYWAY, if DREW KAMPION pushed the boundaries, as in, if he was critical of some things in surf culture, contest situations, corporate holding companies, and, ‘oh, my god,’ individual surf stars, CHAS is taking it to new frontiers.

Not that there isn’t a lot to criticize/snipe at in the WSL, the branding of surfing while dropping support of actual surfers, etc. etc. etc. And, along with DAVID LEE SEALES, Chas, on BEACH GRIT, SURF SPLENDOR (I’m not sure how many sites, but my YOUTUBE does seem to sort them out), get to name and shame and drop surfers such as: JIMBO, TYLER WRIGHT, FELIPE TOLEDO, KELLY SLATER, and, of course, JOHN PECK.

Not that I don’t want to. And not that I’m in any way saying the criticism isn’t justified, and I do claim that many surfers have kind of sociopathic… tendencies, including me; David Lee Seales and Chas Smith might go a little mean on… I’m particularly thinking of their stories on JIMBO; funny he lost his board, not so much he lost his arm, and the ‘shit stain’ thing. I did kind of feel sorry for the guy whose main sin seems to be that he’s fat and loud and obnoxious. LIKE THERE’S SOMETHING REALLY SINFUL about that?

Maybe what continues to intrigue me is… A lot. I’ll get to it in PART TWO.

BUTtttT… what the overlong pod/blogcasts seem to really be is folks talking the way real surfers do, going on about who is, in reality, a REAL SURFER. One thing I gleaned from my most recent listening is that, if you can’t surf for some reason for a while, if you miss the actual surfing more than the more social aspects of the activity, you are, perhaps, possibly, more likely to be considered, you know, like, real.

NExt time… probably apologies. HIT SOME SURF when you can. Be real when possible.

Additions and Corrections and, Yeah, More

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, real surfers, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing art, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing Swamis

“SWAMIS” UPDATE- Working on it. Here is a quickie flyer for a fictional Newspaper. I can’t say that there wasn’t such a weekly paper back in the time my novel covers, 1969. My guess, yes. I do know, based on a story I heard, later, like 1971, when I went to work in the Big City, San Diego, from an older guy, that there were Free Clinics, or, at least, one. “So, I picked up this hitchhiking Hippie chick, and I’m thinking… you know, free sex and all that, and she says she’s trying to get to the free clinic.”

Also not related, directly: I noticed, on occasional trips south, in the narrow strip that is Mission Beach, a storefront law office that, real or imagined, seemed to offer free services. Hard to imagine that now. Parking, incidentally, was pretty much as bad then as it is now.

If writing, journalism or fiction, or drawing, or any form of art is someone trying to transfer imagination to paper or wood or film or any other medium, images stored and remembered are the critical ingredient.

Although I haven’t quite gotten to THE END of the fourth or fifth rewrite of “Swamis,” I do have plans, beyond it, for the main characters. The storefront law office might be part of that.

MEANWHILE, I am still recovering from cuts and an infection on my leg, the treatment keeping me out of the water for at least the rest of this week. SO, IF THERE ARE WAVES, I won’t be competing for them. GOOD LUCK.

SCREW UP of the day- I did write something, using Microsoft Word, filling in some omissions from my last posting. Halfway through this, I realized I hadn’t copied it. Not wanting to lose what I had, I… well, I’ll get back to you on what is partially “Guilty with an explanation” stuff.

In the “I’M NOT POLITICAL, BUT…” category, something about the delays in the trials of the former president, and the inability of some other citizens to see a grift when it’s reaching into their pockets, caused me to draw… this:

It’s already, liike, last week’s news. Ordinarily I claim all rights to my work, but, this time, in the spirit of freedom, free press, all that, if you want to borrow it… FEEL FREE.

Original Erwins in Progress, “Swamis” Again

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing art, surfing Swamis, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

Now that I am committed to putting out a new round of ORIGINAL ERWIN t-shirts, I’m going through my past drawings AND doing some new ones. I scanned these two on my printer AND I have two more illustrations that I have to take to a print shop. AS ALWAYS, attempting to go simpler, I fail.

LET’S DISCUSS THE SURF SITUATION on the Olympic Peninsula and the Strait of Juan de Fuca. NOT GOOD. Now, if you’re almost anywhere SOUTH of here, you should be scoring. AND the forecast is not too… thrilling. BUT I do have my HOBIE patched up and I’ve done some work on the MANTA. I’m ready to leap into some wind chop when it… let me check the forecast. Yeah, wind chop. That’s official.

As far as “Swamis” goes, I am committed to what JUST HAS TO BE a final draft before the ridiculously scary act of trying to actually sell the novel. I moved the former first chapter to the end, and though I am dying to write about what fictionally happened to the fictional characters between 1969 and now, I’m going to NOT… not yet.

My hope is that, now that I’ve completely mind-surfed the hell out of plot and characters, I might be able to cut the length down from the current 104,000 thousand words. HERE IS the new prologue and a bit more:

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

                                    PROLOGUE

            Some events, terror and bliss, mostly, which occurred in seconds, in moments; those almost nothing in the expanse of time; expand, over time, into placemarks; a corner turned, a road taken, a life changed. Magic.

            Half a century after the events, I started writing “Swamis,” as memoir. It no longer is that. This is my fourth full rewrite, with so many discarded words, deleted chapters, all in attempting to turn notes and dreams, images and remembered dialogue, into a story. I have tried to do justice to the various people, characters here, but real people with real lives, who changed mine. There are people who have come into my life, changed it in some way, and gone out. Somewhere. For the most part I do not know where they went, but I do wonder. Wonder.

            The story centers on a very specific time, 1969, in a very specific place, North San Diego County. I was turning eighteen, in love, and the world I wanted swirled and revolved around surfing, and surfing revolved around Swamis.

            My apologies for my writing style. Years of writing briefs, documents. Dry, perhaps, but thorough. A friend’s review of an earlier draft concluded I went for detail and clarity rather than flash and description.

“I don’t use a lot of adjectives in regular speech,” I countered.

“But this is writing,” she said, “The prologue shouldn’t be an apology.”

“Honest.”

“Sure, and it is… your own voice. Yes, it is that, and, as your mother said, ‘the mind fills in the colors.’ Different thing, I know. Photos, stories; it still applies.”

“Not arguing.”

“Not yet. But… ambiguity and bullshit aside, you don’t exactly nail down who the killer was. Or killers were. Some detective novel, Atsushi.”

“It’s in there. And… doesn’t that explain the need for detail and clarity? And, more importantly, I never said it was that… A detective novel. Trueheart.”

“There’s no such thing as a seventeen-year-old detective. Not in real life.”

“It’s in there; that quote; in the text. And… as far as real life goes…”

“From your particular viewpoint.”

“That’s all any of us have.”

 “But… Joey… you called me a friend. ‘A friend’s review.’”

“Just another draft, Julie; I can… change it.”

“To what?”

“Keep reading. It’s in there.”

                                    CHAPTER ONE- MONDAY, NOVEMBER 13, 2023

            “The allure of waves was too much, I’m told, for an almost three-year-old, running, naked into them. If I say I remember how the light shone through the shorebreak waves, the streaks of foam sucked into them; if 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; if I say I remember anything other than my mother clutching me out and into the glare by one arm… Well, that would be, this all happening before the accident; that would be… me… creating a story from fragments. Wouldn’t it, Doctor?”

            “Memories. Dreams. 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…”

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

            “I am aware. Just… humor me.”

            “He said I had a pretty big… dick… for a Jap. I said, ‘Thank you.’ All the Varsity players came in. Most stood behind him. He said, ‘Oh, that’s right; your daddy the cop, he’s all dick.’ Big laugh.”

“Detective,” I said. “Sorry about your brother at the water fountain, but I’m on probation already… and I don’t want to cut my hand… on your front teeth.’”

            “Whoa! Did that end it? Joey. Joey, are you… You’re remembering the incident.”

            “I tried to walk away. He… Basketball. I never had a shot. Good passer, great hip chuck.”

            “All right. So, let’s talk about the incident for which you are here.”

ALL RIGHTS to all ORIGINAL WORK by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. are reserved by the author/illustrator. THANK YOU for respecting these rights, AND, AS ALWAYS, for checking out realsurfers.net

Cut Out of “Swamis”

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel

The novel is complete… but… HERE is something I tried to write to tie all the stuff together. After the story exposition. Perhaps. The characters have lives after the novel; I’m in the process of deciding that doesn’t have to be explained. I probably will cut Grant Murdoch out of the novel, or at least, edit him down. SIDENOTE- I really didn’t want the dialogue to sound TOO HIP. I read some of my stuff; most likely too hip. Shit!

‘Let me show you my latest acrylic.” Grant Murdoch, Jr.  moved his foot against the Costco cooler bag that was leaning against the chain link fence and turned toward the shower between us and the bathroom building.

I pulled two old PeeChee folders, three notebooks in each, from the bag, coughed, and said, “I hope you’re not… perving out, Grant. I don’t want… guilt by association.”

“Because you’re a local?”

“Because it’s… yeah; the local thing. It’s…”

            Grant was smiling when he turned back toward me. “So, my father said that what he learned from all the notes was…”

            “The notes stolen from me.”

            “I thought you said it was a relief.”

            “It was. I didn’t know shit. People thought I did and told me… everything.”

            “Exactly. You and Grant Fucking Murdoch, Sr. agree. But… then you did.”

            “And… I am curious as to who stole my folders.”

            “Attorney-client privilege?” Grant nodded. “Inherited clients?” Grant smiled.

I put the folders back into the bag, pulled out the twelve-by-eighteen stretched canvas.

            A woman shuffled toward us. She was wearing a spring suit; short legs, full length arms; half-wrapped in a towel and wearing sandals. She leaned a well-used mid-length board against the fence, said, “Boys,” and moved toward Grant for a hug. Not a long one. Greeting length.

“Joey tells me you think he should cut me out of the book?” She didn’t respond. “I don’t move the plot… enough.”

“We’ll see. Joey can’t seem to let the… writing… go.”

            I handed the seascape to Grant, pulled a pair of glasses from the pocket of my sweatshirt, and handed them to Julie. She looked at the painting, put one hand on Grant’s shoulder, the other on mine. “You almost caught the magic there, Grant.”

            “Almost,” Grant said.

            “Magic,” Julie and I said, me just a moment behind her.

COPYRIGHT Erwin A. Dence, Jr. All rights reserved. Thanks for reading. NOW, WHERE are the waves?

Double Eagles and Other Greetings

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Leaving the studio space Stephen R. Davis’s friend Cosmo is letting him use, squeezed tightly into my stealth surf rig, my pristine Hobie on the racks, I gave Steve what I believe I have him convinced is the official surfer greeting, a sort of ALOHA (like ‘hello’ and ‘goodbye’) for haoles (and I’m only saying haoles as counterpoint to the aloha spirit thing I’m not certain is as widespread as presented in ads targeting tourists, some of whom are haoles) who aren’t into the now-and-possibly- increasingly common practice of hugging people we don’t know well (or don’t actually know at all).

I think I picked up the connection back when, 15 1/2-years-old, proud possessor of a learner’s permit, I was driving with my mother in the family 9 passenger station wagon (this was way pre-Sprinter), our collection of surf-riding equipment on the racks, I noticed Phil Harper’s sister Trish (not my Trish- didn’t surf, didk date one of my first surf heroes, Fallbrook local Bucky Davis) coming toward us. I may have been ready to wave, possibly even with my hand out the window, when she flipped me the bird. SINGLE EAGLE. Now, Trish may not have noticed my Mom… or, more exciting in a rebellious kind of way, may not have cared. In order to not completely freak out about the situation, I tried to convince myself that my mother didn’t know what the gesture meant. I mean… my Mom?

INTERESTINGLY ENOUGH, the double eagle is pretty much the way I greeted Steve when he surprised me by paddling out unannounced (he was supposed to be in Hawaii) on a day when the waves were… I’ll say challenging, in a good way. As I recall, he said something like, “Happy to see you, also,” possibly in a sarcastic way. REGGIE was a bit more… I’m going to say unappreciative when I gave him the double fisted hello on several occasions. I can’t say for certain if he’s convinced yet that I meant something positive, like “Glad to see you, can’t wait to compete for waves with you… brother.” Oh, also something I can’t get going on, even though I have three brothers.

WHAT IS INTERESTING HERE is that Steve sent the photo to our mutual friend, ARCHIE ENDO. When I say friend, though Archie and I, and Archie and Steve and I went on many an exciting surf adventure, I haven’t kept in touch the way I should since he went to Thailand for work a few years ago, had a stroke, is still recovering, and is still there. Trish (my Trish) has been communicating through the Facebook, and Steve does that and the Instagram; BUT Archie sent Trish and Steve a lovely note that included the photo, and Trish sent it to my phone.

Knowing Archie does read this blog, I tried to save his post and put it on here but the transfer didn’t work. Here is what he wrote:

“Hoping you guys are doing OK in the cold weather. I hoped I cold come home this winter but I couldn’t (partner’s family’s health). So much for the El Nino ‘warmer’ winter, though. In my dreams the other day; I saw you guys at Swami’s parking lot.. Young Erwin was giving me… fingers! Nice photo.”

Bad friend (and young Erwin) aside, I named the narrator of my novel Atsushi, Joseph DeFreines’ middle name, Archie’s actual first name. I do miss going surfing with him. He’d play cassettes of surf music from Japan(and many other places) if he was driving, I’d play harmonica, and, if I was driving, he would never complain about having to go to Costco on the way home. Trish really likes Archie, possibly because his calmness is so radically different than my… I want to say higher energy-ness, and my saying I was going with Archie was quite persuasive. STILL, Archie is radical in his own way, always stylish, always in control.

We are bonded, I believe, through our mutual love for surfing. As are all real surfers, something I had intended to write about as of Tuesday morning.

Atsushi ‘Archie’ Endo styling.

I MUST ADD that I call a zone inside the big rocks at a spot known for closeouts ARCHIE’S REEF. He knew how to navigate through the sections and find a clean face. I can easily remember walking along the trail, and, visible through and just above the line of trees and shrubs and blackberry bushes, Archie was streaking past.

WEIRDLY CONNECTED story-

We have a cabinet in the breakfast nook where the cat, Angelina’s, food is kept. Also inside are these postcard sized postcards, I guess, that Dru gathered back when we would frequent the ROSE THEATRE in Port Townsend. When I opened it this morning, this photo, found somewhere else and put in the cabinet, already mildewed, fell out. I made the mistake of trying to clean it with something a bit too strong. Wiped out the lower portion. This was (maybe you’ll notice the painting on the back seat side window) my stealth surf rig circa 1970. That’s Trisha’s VW coming up the road. My replacement for the Morris Minor I loved was this Hillman Husky.

I told BUDDY ROLLINS, my boss at Buddy’s Sign Service in Oceanside, that I wanted to get a VW, and we were doing some signs for the local dealer, and he could possibly… you know, do a deal. Since Buddy, real name Lacy, hence a nickname was necessary, learned how to letter signs in a Florida prison, I thought he could, you know, do a deal. He did, but not for a VW. “Kid’ll love this way more than a bug. It has so much more power and…” That was the guy at the dealership. Not sure where he learned his tactics. “Has to buy it today, though.”

I didn’t love the car, I did love the power. I’m not sure how long I had it, but I blew the engine heading to Palomar Junior College, passing another guy from Fallbrook who was driving a, yes, VW. I think he flipped me off when he re-passed me, the Hillman coasting to the side of the road.

SIDENOTE- I did love, for the most part, as a 17-20 year-old, working at Buddy’s, two blocks from Oceanside pier, in a converted newspaper building where I could work on my own art projects, and though the varied nub/apprentice/shop manager experience did greatly assist in my getting a job as a journeyman painter at barely twenty, I didn’t totally love Buddy. Didn’t hate him. AND I do have a character in “Swamis” named Buddy Rollins, a bowling alley owner and ‘pro.’ Maybe it’s the swagger Buddy had that made him seem the model for the fictional version.

AS PREVIOUSLY MENTIONED, I did want to write about bonding in surfing. I will. But, since I am thinking about it, perhaps, in life, we are bonded with those we don’t love as well as those we do.

I don’t want to wear you out. THANKS for reading. I do have some recent illustrations. Next time. Meanwhile, double eagles to you in only the most gracious, way. Beware, however, of the single eagle with a half twist; that one is serious.