Tag Archives: surfing stories

Content with the Content? NO

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, surf art, surf illustrations, surf novels

Because it’s been preternaturally cold (I looked it up; it could mean ‘extraordinarily’ f’ing cold, as in, yeah, it’s been this cold before… in, like, Canada, Siberia, anywhere east of the Cascade mountains, just not lately), I have had some time, afraid, perhaps, to risk the icy roads (“I’ve heard of Quilcene,” the Facebook site our daughter, Dru, started, and Trish helps monitor; had reports of multiple cars in the ditch… and, perhaps, you remember I totaled a car against a tree in black ice two years ago, and, since, have become, I admit, less willing to assert my mastery over slippery roadways), and, anyway, someone has to run around and make sure no more pipes freeze up; BECAUSE OF ALL THAT, and the fact that folks don’t really think about house painting when it’s like this…

…I have had some time to work on my ART, on my NOVEL, on REALSURFERS.NET, what others always refer to as a BLOG. “I call it a WEBSITE.” “Yeah, you would.” “Yeah, and I do, and what I want to present to the tens of people who see it, is CONTENT.” “Oh. Sure. Content. What do you have?”

I HAD PLANNED to post images of recent illustrations, but, even after Dru switched the images of drawings from PDF to JPEG, they came out looking as if someone had placed a piece of frosted glass over them. SO, nope, I’ll get the originals back and rescanned. AND, though I wrote two pieces I might have used in today’s posting, AND wrote them in Microsoft Word rather than, kinda like LIVE, on the Word Press site, I, in the extended darkness of mid-winter night, under a thick pile of sheets and blankets, the heater set at “Roast,” decided they just weren’t good enough to share with you. WHY? CONTENT.

A drawing I didn’t think good enough to use on a t shirt, but, now that I see it after some time has passed; hmmm… maybe put a border on parts, and… yeah, that might be better.

WE, as consumers of ENTERTAINMENT, are constantly looking for BETTER CONTENT. If a TV channel doesn’t provide it… NOPE. We can scroll through the available options on ROKU, Prime, Netflix, whatever you or I have. NOPE; though I spent too many of my cabin fever hours watching one of those binge-worthy (the producers hoped) series(es?), the ending so rediculus (shit- Word has spell-fix, Word Press doesn’t), that I wanted my time back. I could have been doing something useful, like CONTENT.

YouTube; yeah, I’m a bit of an addict; surfing (I am caught up on Nathan Florence exploits, now fast forward paddling out sequences), politics (some I have watched LIVE, like Hunter showing up for sham committee and MTG acting… trashy, and when NSNBC stopped showing it, I, YES, watched some more on, yes, C-SPAN), some historical stuff that looks interesting (Bigfoot- not historical); OH, and I just discovered that, on my tablet (never on the laptop, but some surf stuff has been moved to the BIG TV), if I watch one of those quickies, I can scroll down and watch another, and then… another..

AND eventually, bored or fed up (which typically suggests some sort of anger), or SATIATED (seems more positive), or just OUT OF TIME, we… quit.

NOW, I do PROMISE new illustrations, several I’m really pleased with, and properly scanned, will be posted on WEDNESDAY. Meanwhile, the polishing of my manuscript continues. And, NOTE; I didn’t stop posting excerpts because they weren’t good enough, it was because the content is still changing. Of all the things I am involved in, in all aspects of life (other than surfing, where, still enjoying the hell out of it, I may have peaked a while back), what I’m striving for is to be… BETTER.

SO, other than all of the above (and Microsoft Word would give me a word count), no real posting today. STAY WARM, find some SURF. Oh, and, as always, thanks for checking out realsurfers..net

“It’s Always a Full Moon, Drucilla”

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf stories, surfing the strait of juan de fuca

It’s almost a joke between my daughter, DRUCILLA (Dru), and me, that, any time there’s a moon on a movie or advertisement, it is always a full moon.

THE MOON, of course, isn’t a joke. There’s the tides affected by its gravitational pull; important to a surfer, and there is the LUNACY (Moonacy in English, perhaps) caused by the LUNA BELLA, the beautiful moon. And werewolves, of course.

There are ancient PAGAN RITUALS playing homage to the sphere, and, of course non-pagan references such as God giving us “The moon and stars to rule by night…” King James Version, Psalm 136:9.

SPEAKING of pagan-stuff, someone taught TRISH a most-certainly (or not) pagan ritual in which one holds out an open purse or wallet to the full moon and chants (maybe it’s just ‘says’ if it isn’t, like, repeated), “Oh moon, moon, beautiful moon… fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up.”

Now, the use of “filling ‘er up” kind of suggests a bit of loosening or democratization or cheapening of some sort of rule- doesn’t bother me one bit.

The followup, with the proper move probably being closing one’s wallet or purse, is to say, “Thank you, thank you, thank you.” Three times; kind of a chant.

THE THING WITH RITUALS of any sort is that, if you connect things that went right for you since the last full moon to the practice, it is almost frightening to miss an opportunity.

THIS PHOTO, the full moon rising over Mount Baker, is quite similar to what I witnessed late (like 4:20- no snide allusion intended) yesterday, though, season and location (I was probably farther out on the Strait, the moon was on the other shoulder of the mountain) were most likely different. And, before the moon got lost in the clouds, with an almost visible trail of light under it, the rising was spectacular.

THIS PHOTO, most likely taken from Kitsap County, has the moon setting over the Olympics. I live, probably, on the far right side of the image, between the dark line of the Coyle Peninsula and the ragged edge of the mountains, SURF ROUTE 101 and my place following the bluffs along the Hood Canal, and, heading north, along the beds of ancient fjords, around a couple of bays and… out, north and northwest.

On a recent surf attempt/trip, after witnessing the full moon rising in a clear cold sky the night before, I felt entirely privileged to see the moon in the high trees as I loaded up pre-dawn, and some sightings of the orb as I headed out. I lost it up by the Casino. Damn the luck!

IF YOU ARE A REAL SURFER, you have, I would tend to believe, a certain reverence for and appreciation of the beauty we witness: Sun, clouds, waves from glassy to blown out; but, if you’re a non-surfer, witnessing just how rattled and jazzed and stoked and electrified and excited a surfer can get about even the possibility of decent waves… well, yes, those surfers must be and are, indeed, LUNATICS.

IF YOU MISSED the opportunity last night, I think it’s acceptable to do the little chant tonight also. I have been known to take the full moon time period as it is in the Werewolf canon; three days. Yeah, it is kind of like hedging your bet. THANK YOU, thank you, thank you!

I may actually have some time to finish the manuscript for “Swamis.” I was hoping to have the many-ist edit done by Christmas (last Christmas, the one before that); so, maybe, by New Years. I’ll let you know. Meanwhile, good luck; I’ll be posting on SUNDAY. Oh, and “GO HAWKS!”

That Wave’s Gone, Man… cont.

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I am often unsure as to whether I wrote about something, talked about it (more likely), or just thought about it. In a prolonged period of not surfing, and if one (presuming I can serve as an example) waits for waves on the Strait, this can be an extended time between swells, rumors of swells, and just swells that have no chance of threading the needle; a comparatively tight fit if you’re looking from space; and hitting a spot I’m willing to go to, the desire to surf and the frustration… builds.

In addition to predicted swells not behaving to the forecast models, there are the other factors, adverse winds, mostly, chopping up whatever swell is heading east.

Tensions mount, and even the mellow-ist surfer is ready and planning to go for as many waves as possible. So, if a swell, forecasted well ahead, that doesn’t do the drop-off as the actual day approaches, people, surfers of all ability and stoke levels, show up ready to rumble.

Resentments, to narrow this, are what I’m attempting to focus on here, specifically holding on to them. In my most recent session, not that it was all that recent, with the window closing, I had the opportunity to, possibly, run over a guy who ruined two rides, like, a year ago, and, not only didn’t apologize for not even trying to get out of the way, but actually may have not even noticed, or cared, or may have even thought he was, somehow, getting even with me. No, I didn’t yell or try to push him back, I just rode past him.

EVEN? Who knows. Happy? Not really, but it was important enough to think/talk/write about it.

This photo is, obviously not current. Yeah, I remember Thorpe. And Bellore is still playing. Here’s how it relates: I watched some YouTube last night, MIC’D UP segments. The one from two weeks ago featured Pete Carroll. At one point, he talking to running back Dallas, who had just made some mistake, possibly even a fumble, and was obviously upset. “It’s over,” the coach said, “Keep playing.”

I’m trying to remember the times I’ve been resentful of someone in the water. Having five guys show up on stand up paddleboards when I’m on a regular longboard was one. Tough to compete. I got out of the water and went somewhere else. They won. If there is winning in surfing.

Because I watch too many YouTubes, I recently saw one in which Matt Archibald was on the beach at very crowded Lower Trestles, discussing how, when he started out, the less experienced surfers got the scraps and worked their way up the pecking order. It is a competition for the best waves, and reaching a certain skill level allowed one to challenge those at the peak. Now, he said, eight-year-olds are going for bombs.

Fully realizing that I have caused others to be frustrated because I’m competitive, riding a big board, with a paddle, I… really, I’m not sure where to go with this. I’ll have to think about it.

OKAY, having thought for about two minutes, here’s an example: There were three good surfers at the peak, waiting for the sets. There were six or eight surfers on the down-wave side of the peak. Unwilling to wait, I had to watch as the surfers went for the (relative) ‘bombs’ I would have loved to have been riding. On the beach, I was sort of pleasantly surprised when others were grumbling about someone other than me. Several surfers were visibly pissed, talking about ‘backpaddling,’ and such crimes.

The truth is, if they wanted the set waves, all they had to do is paddle outside and wait. Turns were taken, mostly. Not that I defended the surfers at the peak too stridently. I was thinking about the rides I had gotten. Happily.

Still, the froth is building. If we’re in the water together, come sit by me. No, really.

“Swamis” excerpt on Wednesday, come hell or high surf. OH, and I’m working on some new t-shirt designs. Thanks for reading.

“It’s Not the Destination,” He Said, Ruefully

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, real surfers, surf novels, surf sessions

Permission to use this photo, here, was given to me by a client, Lana. It is pretty much the (or a) view one might get traveling to or from the Olympic Peninsula to or from Whidbey Island. I liked the shimmer on the ruffled water, the too-deep-to-be-real sky color, and the gauzy clouds aimed toward distant, partially shrouded mountains. AH, THE JOURNEY.

If you are someone who occasionally makes this journey, you can probably identify where this is.

What I get to see is, hopefully, a dark road, one traffic light, more road, more traffic lights, school zones, curvy roads, maybe that one forty mile per hour town, curves,, log trucks, the possibility of waves.

OR, big ass and blinding sun just over the horizon, lighting up every highway sign in front of me, and I’m trying to outrun the glaring sun on a stretch that is basically in line with it.

OR, the sun hitting clouds and that ragged ridge lines of the Easternmost Olympics, and I’m trying to race it to the corner. At one point, a twisting S curve, dropping, easing into the uphill recurve, there is a perfectly framed image, trees on both sides, and a mountain impossibly high (this is one of my favorite descriptions, used because it is true).

OR, MAYBE, thinking of going to Westport or down toward Chinook, where my father lived, the journey could be broken into its parts: Hood Canal, McClary cutoff, watching the power plant stacks go from distant to even to behind, and then the roads, the speed trap town, the lack of reception, and/or, bays and bays and curves, and, as always, THE ANTICIPATION.

BEAUTIFUL.

STILL, any beauty along the way is tangential; nice, but. I go surfing to surf, and though I will surf anything I can catch, getting skunked is disappointing. OH, I should throw in traveling with someone else. Not something I do often; my tendency to get caught in the Sequim vortex too well known, my tendency to avoid long, steep hikes better known, but conversation does shorten the trip, even if you’re the one of three in the back seat. There is a social aspect to surfing, and conversations on the beach are often the highlight of a trip. Again, not as great as great waves.

CHIMACUM TIM let me know, recently, that he went to every spot he knew, paddled out at one as far as he was willing to go on this day, and caught it good “For about forty minutes. How’d you do?” I was lucky (luckier, perhaps), got forty minutes of mediocre waves (realistic analysis) five miles from where I was working. I was quite happy to get them.

OH, and, the last time I was skunked, the conditions were perfect: Tide, wind, lack of clouds, swell angle; just no waves. OTHERWISE…

Enough rationalizing. What’s important, and I’m not, hopefully, sermonizing, is, coming, going, in the water, to remember that each of us has had moments on waves that we long to repeat. The few times I forgot this and allowed myself to be over-frustrated, are regrettable. Not that many.

THANKFULLY.

LOOK FOR the next installment of “Swamis” on Wednesday. I have to admit to still making changes in chapters I have already posted. It’s all to make the manuscript tighter, more readable, hopefully, saleable. If I get to an acceptable end, I will print up some advanced copies. A pre-first edition, limited number, signed, of “Swamis” would make a great gift for the holiday season. SHIT, I better get on it1

More to Being Local than Location

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, old surfers, real surfers, surf fiction, surf novels

Left to right: Randy Bennett, George South, Abner Agee, Kent Sunday (aka Cheetah), a Tom LeCompte (RIP). Photo courtesy of Abner Agee by way of Tom Burns.

TEXT from TOM: “Back in ’74 when I came up here. I discovered Westport, my locale ever since. Back then, this was the crew. All these guys had tales to tell of the old Grenville days. TODAY only Cheetah still surfs and now lives in Sequim. He spent 30 years in the Coast Guard as a rescue swimmer. The last ten years at Cape Disappointment where he flung himself out of helos on the Columbia River bar to rescue and recover victims. The stories he had!” Has, not to correct Mr. Burns.

Readers of “Surfer’s Journal” are aware that a portion of each issue is devoted to old stories from back in some simpler time; less crowded, for sure; the remembrances, possibly, sanitized, negative aspects edited out, joyful moments, again, possibly, enhanced.

In my advanced age, I’m as guilty of this as anyone. I’m a couple of weeks older than Seahawks head coach Pete Carroll, and really close in age to TOM BURNS. So, yeah, old-ish.

NOW Tom has stories, only some of which overlap with mine. AND YES, he has a story about running into Pete Carroll on a dawn patrol, in some not-distant past, in the parking lot at Westport. “Wait, Tom, Pete surfs?” “Sure. He asked me how the surf was. I said, ‘Well, Pete…'” “Okay. Makes sense.”

What is different about Mr. Burn is that he remembers names, even names of surfers he has met on the Strait. “That guy, ‘Dumptruck Dave…'” “Big Dave.” “What about ‘Tugboat Bill’ and ‘Concrete Pete?'” Yeah, those guys. Haven’t seen either in a while. We’ll run into each other again.” “Sure. Say ‘Hi’ from me. And, hey, what about old…”

Here’s more texting from this week, Tom doing some of his yearly hanging out and surfing down in Southern California, hitting San O and Doheny on 0dark-thirty strike missions: Ya know, Erwin, in my surfing Westport for close to 40 years, the place I held pretty close to my heart died in 1991 when beach erosion took out the bathhouse, the fog horn, and broke through the jetty at the corner, destroying one of the best waves on the coast. After beach nutritionment the break became like today, inconsistent and, like today, as more folks venture into my old locale, I find it hard to find any solace in the place or even the wave that used to exist there. But back in the days, there was no other place I loved to surf more. April ł987, a great day at the jetty. I was riding a 6’9″ Barnfield and bagging rides like this all day on a great swell. Jim Wallace took this pic of me on that day.

When I texted back that I was sitting in a lot overlooking a cove where I first saw waves in Washington State, 1978, and it was almost, almost rideable, Tom texted back that, even in California, “No waves for me today. No swell and a funky wind. It’s San’O tomorrow!” The next day, I drove farther, got skunked. I didn’t bother to tell Tom about it.

POSSIBLY related side story- I had a dream in which, possibly, I was imagining, or changing a scene from my manuscript for “Swamis.” A surfer comes up to some locals, all of them in their mid-teens, in the parking lot, tries to join in, says he just moved into Encinitas. The locals shine him on, quite rudely. When he persists, Duncan or Rincon Ronny, himself a transplant, says something to the effect of: “It takes more than just being local to be a local,” to which the non-accepted surfer says, “Surfing is just like high school… only worse.” Not a scene that’ll make it into some final draft, but the narrator, Joey, whispers if he doesn’t say it out loud, “More like Junior High.” THEN Joey also avoids the newcomer.

I will be posting the last Chapter 12 subchapter on Wednesday. Chapter 13 is way shorter.

MEANWHILE, remember what you can about your surf adventures, maybe the names of some of the folks you run into (not, hopefully,, literally), on the beach or in the water. Then, later… stories.

Epic-Ness and Other Subjective Subjects

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Here is a quote from the speaker of the U.S. House of Representatives Kevin McCarthy after resorting to using Democratic votes to forestall shutting down the government, kicking the next episode of this ongoing drama to a time closer to Thanksgiving: “You can always count on the American people to do the right thing after they’ve exhausted every other option.” No comment, Kev, not even “Get fucked and go back to the valley.”

Here is a quote from Trish after I bought, with her help (so adept at on-line buying), some new (zip up- a surrender move to bone spurs- like, real ones) booties after using some (pull on) not-totally-worn out models borrowed from Keith after I (you may recall) accidentally threw away a bag containing my wetsuit, vest/hood, booties, and my day-glow leash: “How are you doing with gloves?” My response: “Oh, I don’t really need gloves.”

Here is my right hand after being knuckle-dragged across the ‘rock garden’ at a northwest break:

It isn’t just the cuts. If any exposed skin (including the face) hits the rocks at almost any spot on the Strait, there will be cuts. The bruising is an option not exclusive to, but definitely more common among the thinner-skinned less-young. It may get worse among the actually-old.

Here is the scene: The window of rideable waves was closing, the tide was dropping, and I was looking for one last wave. Or another last wave. Just another wipeout, really, but Cougar Keith, who had been too early for the waves, and too late to ride them during this session, was witness to the whole awkward thing; me rolling around, trying to stand up, getting knocked down several times.

Next time, my new gloves (thanks, Trish), will be on. I will sacrifice feeling the water to not feel the rocks.

Odd to me that as hard as I try to be fluid in the water, I look so embarrassingly dorky trying to get back ashore. When I recounted the session story to Adam Wipeout, someone who “Just knew, he said,

“It wouldn’t be an Erwin session without some blood.”

I do have a photo somewhere on when I decided I didn’t need booties. Again, rocks; big crusty rocks. No one got a photo, though everyone in the lineup noticed, when, in my excitement, I bit my tongue on takeoff on a wave early in a session. Evidently a red mustache is noticeable. Cougar Keith may have been out on that occasion. Witnesses. Accounts vary.

WAIT! This is what I really wanted to write about today: An Objective Look at Subjectivity.

AS I WAS waking up this morning, I guessed that it was 6:24. I looked up at the projected time on the ceiling from the clock radio on Trisha’s side of the bed. 6:26. Wow. My brain is just so… I looked at the non-projected time on the other clock radio. 6:29. Oh. I guess I’m just alway a little ahead. OR…

BEFORE I woke up I had this dream in which I was paddling for a wave. There was a sense of urgency. It was a left, and I took off on the shoulder, had an on-the-wave view of the face and the barrel as I rode it, ending with a Hawaiian pullout on the sand. NEW SCENE- I was walking up to someone who was standing by the open trunk of an older American car. “I got a 6.75,” I said, “might have won the heat if I’d gotten another wave.” “Really?” “Yeah. Why?” “Nothing.” “Oh, you just don’t believe I would ever get a 6.75.” “6.25, maybe.”

That’s when I woke up.

We have all noticed that the best waves and the best rides are the ones we didn’t see. Someone else’s story. EPIC. Sometimes, however, the same dreamy setup gets scored… differently when reported on by multiple witnesses. “Longboardable.” “Chest-to-shoulder, bigger on the sets.” Very popular.

I’m never really sure how to respond to reports of epic-ness that I miss. I am prone to believing the person who downplays size and wonderful-ness. Perfection-ness. One surfer I have respect for says, “So, what? A kook on a perfect wave?” And then there’s the “Have you ever seen ______ breaking, with the indicators going off and big roll-throughs and…” “Yes.”

STILL, the opportunities, real or exaggerated, that we miss sometimes stick with us longer than the sessions and conditions and rides we can exaggerate or embellish into the world of EPIC.

Not that I ever have, but, this one time, surfing Upper Trestles, glassy, knee-to-waist, with no one else out… Yeah, I know, it sounds like I’m lying, even though it was 1975, and it is, objectively, true… If someone else told me this, I would be… skeptical.

Look for the next sub chapter of “Swamis” Wednesday. I am thinking about resentment as it applies to surfing. Meanwhile, may everyone, even kooks, score EPIC.

On Not Judging While Judging

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence surf illustrations, hipster surfers, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations

It isn’t that I want to ridicule or make fun of or hate on people who want to engage in the exciting world/culture/sport/lifestyle, imagined or real, that is SURFING. I just want to understand some of the folks I see heading for waves, or hanging out near or on the beach, bobbing and/or weaving in the water.

Motivation. I know mine. I just want to ride waves.

Not party waves, and most likely better waves, bigger waves, and as always, I want to ride them better. “Better than whom” is a good question. Better than me. Mostly. Better than you. Yes, if possible. BUT, if you rip, great; I am always ready to identify and appreciate and applaud shredding and ripping and cruising and flowing; surfing done well. I’m really, and this has been true throughout my surfing, uh, life, trying to surf as well as I can during any session and given any and all other factors.

And yes, I am aware of my limitations, and that, to some young hipster I might seem worthy of… let’s say, assessment.

Fair game. See you in the water.

SO, I have been missing a bet by not photographing some of the people I see. Particularly ones I have some conversation with. I have the stories; I need the images.

This is a non-rendering of the guy I saw recently; walking across the entire length of the parking area to, maybe, check out whether there were some waves up thataway. There weren’t. In doing the drawing, I didn’t allow room for his sidekick. Now, It isn’t like anyone can really tell if someone is a good surfer by their outfit, or posture, or by what they say. BUT, if I judged this Grizzley Adams dude harshly, despite his tricked-out surf rig, with overhead sleeping deal AND bike/cooler/campstove rear bumper setup, and his quiver of board-bagged boards, and I shouldn’t have, I did judge his sidekick as a, um, newcomer. Neophyte in, potentially, neoprene. Hard to say. Dudes paraded back across, hopped in the rig, and skedaddled. Maybe you saw them. 

Okay. So, yeah, something that connects most of us is a desire to be considered/judged as cool/hip, maybe even rad/whatever the current word is WHILE also trying to be… better. Me too. WHEW! Wow, confession is so… so something. I’m thinking about that. But, Coolness; never achieved it; still trying to get, you know, like, better at it.

Meanwhile, thanks for checking out realsurfers.net and remember that the next chapter of “SWAMIS” on Wednesday. I think we’re up to Joey going to Swamis a few days after Chulo was killed. If so, because I have each chapter covering a single day, that chapter is a three-parter, mostly so it doesn’t not overwhelm any potential reader. Be one of them. And another thanks.

All content on realsurfers.net is covered by copyright protection. All rights reserved by the author/artist.

Hipsters and Kooks and Kids and Swells Gone Awry

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, real surfers, surf fiction, surf novels

HAPPY LABOR DAY, I guess, sorry I’m, like twelve hours late with a Sunday posting. One hour, actually, since I woke up from going to bed early to work on this. I have, since I started working, fifty-four years ago, or so, traditionally worked on Labor Day. Yeah, poor me. I spent most of the accumulated martyr points going surfing when other people were working. Poor them.

YES, I did go on a scientifically based, surf forecast driven, search for surfable waves. And it wasn’t just me. People who surf, folks with all levels of skill and expertise and stoke, head out on three day weekends, value added and backups (traffic, ferry waits, Gorst, Tacoma) avoided (maybe) by starting on Thursday and/or heading back to civilization on Tuesday, pack up their board-bagged quivers and their surf-slick modified rigs, their pop-tops, and roof tents.

NO, I can’t really tell you where I went or what I found, wave-wise. This isn’t a self-imposed rule; there have been, um, reminders that blowing up spots is not in the best interest of someone who lives on the Olympic Peninsula. WHAT I CAN SAY is that, and mostly because we all look at the same forecasts, I did see a lot of CHARACTERS,

THIS ISN’T NEW. And, yes, I might put on my lucky HOBIE shirt, try to do a bit of posturing on the beach, trying, and failing, to look, you know, cool. I mean, as cool as someone who just turned 72 can manage.

YOU DO KNOW. Thought so.

FORECASTS- If one looked beyond the numbers, one could find that the swell numbers were one thing, the overall direction of the waves another. There is a real explanation as to why a long period swell might avoid the (relatively) shallower water and cruise on past the relatively narrow entrance to the Strait. I just don’t have it. And either do the many many enthusiasts who pull into the parking and/or viewing areas for known spots, discuss it among the other members of their crew, and move on. And, of course, on.

BECAUSE I’ve been doing this for so long, spent so much time in pull outs and lots, I almost always run into people I’ve seen in the past. This is usually great; reliving stories, waiting for the swell to change direction slightly, the tide to rise or fall appropriately.

BECAUSE I have seen such a wide variety of surf… people, I thought that I am missing a bet by not taking a few cell phone photos of interesting folks. WHAT really prompted this was seeing this one dude, big, bushy brown beard, distinctive hat, some sort of beverage in one hand, wearing shorts to best show off his calf tattoos, some short of shirt that matched his beard; and he’s cruising across the rocks with his, I’m guessing, sidekick, not as hipsterly dressed, and they’re heading up the beach to determine, I guess, if the waves are actually larger than they appear. Something. I don’t know. They weren’t gone long. Before I could get my shit together and chase them down, they were back in their custom surf rig and moving on.

OPPORTUNITY MISSED. Regroup. I will get a HIPSTER OF THE WEEK thing going soon. MAYBE not every week. ANYWAY, I took a photo of these guys to hold us over.

Okay, so it’s BARRY, whose name I remember because my son Sean’s cat is also named Barry, and who wondered that, not only I didn’t remember him, but the legendary TIM NOLAN also didn’t remember him, specifically, when they crossed paths recently. “I had longer hair,” he said. “Oh. Okay.” Next to him (and I did point out the double beach chair) is… no, not sure of his name. Didn’t get enough clues. Both of those guys had little kids who they would deck out in kid-sized suits and take out to challenge the waves. I did take a photo, but it might reveal the actual spot, and it might look as if there were actual waves. On the right is MIKE, who I’ve seen for years. Same van. I called him STU. No, not Stu, who, coincidentally, I ran into later at what was FRANK CRIPPEN’S surf shop, NORTH BY NORTHWEST, in Port Angeles.

IF I can’t collect photos, I do collect stories. For all the surf enthusiasts who got to if not into the water, you also have stories. Adventures. I tried to wave at all the surf rigs I passed on my way back down Surf Route 101. HEY, I DON”T know, maybe that change in tide and/or angle might have set the stage for someone’s awesome tale.

Surf rigs from some not so distant past. I kind of thought Mike’s VW might have been in this shot. I do remember there was one more there before I decided to take the photo. That’s my now-deceased Toyota wagon. I think all these surfers are saying, “Hey, Dude, don’t blow up the spot!” Or, “Hey, man, does this place ever have good waves?” No.

SO, do try to check out realsurfers on Wednesdays for the continuation of “Swamis.”

Accidentally Deleted Comments And Questions…

Posted on by under surf stories

…ANSWERED.

SKIP FRYE gliding and cruising through, and toying with a wave at P.B. Point, 1965.

I delete a varying number of spam comments every day. Most of them seem to come from one source, and, I have checked them out, they seem to make little to no sense. Perhaps they do to the many writers, each with the last name of Jerry. The comments have nothing to do with surfing or surfers, real or otherwise. I am happy word press determines the relative spam-iness, and have stopped going through them to determine if even one is real and relevant and… and, even if a comment is less than complimentary, I do appreciate that someone went to the trouble of writing and sending it through the not-so-easy process.

The other day I got a comment on one of several pieces I have posted concerning my ongoing battle with completing my manuscript, “Swamis.” It was sent by, the note said, a college student who “grew up at Swamis.” Perhaps he meant “in the vicinity of Swamis.” No biggie. He wanted to know more about the place in the late 60s and early 70s (exactly the time in which I most frequently surfed Swamis). “Did I ever surf with Skip Frye? Ron Stoner?”

The truth is… Skip Frye, definitely. Mr. Stoner, maybe. Probably.

“SURF WITH,” though only two words, is kind of loaded. There is an implication of togetherness, that the esteemed, known surfer might actually have some sort of knowledge of or relationship with the lowly surfer. Additionally, there is an expectation that, in a crowded (for the time) lineup, a fourteen-year old might just hear, “Holy shit! Someone said L.J. Richards is out! (Pipes, 1966),” and respond by asking, “Who?” And then look around to see if L.J. Richards surfs so fantastically much better than the other surfers out at that particular place and time.

If I became aware that L.J. Richards was out, he wasn’t aware of me.

The revelation, on the beach or in the water, that someone with a reputation is considering going out, is out, or was just or recently out, has been repeated, um, repeatedly: Mike Doyle at Stone Steps or Swamis or the little jetty at Oceanside Harbor with Reno Abellira (neither of whom went out); Mike Purpus at Grandview; Mike Hynson at La Jolla Shores (and those are just the Mikes).

The more common surf celebrity session sharing involves recognizing someone you had seen in magazines or surf circuit movies, then, or YouTube clips, other social media content producers, more recently. I recognized Corky Carroll and Billy Hamilton at Swamis on a day (in 1967) in which I believed my own performance in the water was my best ever. Instant realization that my best was not even close to mediocre for Mr. Hamilton (Corky was on the stairs, pointing out Billy to someone he was with). I recognized Herbie Fletcher at Lower Trestles (1975) by his stance and because he was sideslipping from the nose. I recognized Donald Takayama at Seaside Trailer Park (1969- oops, going backward) because he was Donald Takayama.

Then there are the local (only or mostly local) stars, rippers and assholes, surfers one runs into repeatedly. When I was a true local in Encinitas and Pacific Beach, there were ‘regulars,’ surfers I knew by their performance in the water, and had no real relationship with otherwise. Joe Roper at P.B. is an example, as is, yes, Skip Frye. As far as, to answer the question originally asked, surfing with legendary surf photographer Ron Stoner- don’t know. Maybe. I did get burned once, severely and purposefully, by noted surf and skate photographer Warren Bolster, Swamis. It was okay; I caught the next wave.

It is probably worthwhile to remember that for every surfer one recognizes, there are legions of non-legends, and that legends are, by definition, history. History, the stories in time, is the ultimate cleanup set. It moves on. I realize, in writing this, and somewhat sadly, that some of the surfers whose names I am dropping are gone.

My motto has always been, “I’m here to surf.” Explains something. My more recent motto is, “That wave is gone.” The unspoken second part might be, “I’m looking for the next one.”

What every real surfer has, I believe, is a memory of several best rides, best moments, best waves. Stories. Images. What we all want to do is add to that mental list, those stories, that legend.

Feel free to comment.

Over Time, Comparatively Speaking

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

                         With the inclusion of inarguably life-changing events, we determine what we remember, over time, of the rare but truly horrific and the rare but truly blissful events.

Recalling a specific moment once makes it easier to remember, more clearly, the next time.

Memory banks and memory files, images and sounds and feelings, still shots and little videos; something that happens in the present snaps the synapses and, whoa, yeah… that one time…

I quite surprisingly and suddenly realized that the official start of Autumn is only days away, one of two moments, and I may be wrong about this, when the earth is in true balance and there are equal amounts of day and night. From that point, the next defining point is the dropping of Daylight Savings Time, somewhere around Halloween, the semi-unofficial end, for the most part, of the exterior painting season in the Great Northwest.

Yet, somewhere in here is the start of the surf season, such as it is, with the hope of North Pacific storms and waves over knee high. Hope is different than expectation. Around the Strait, even hope is tempered by experience; skunkings when forecasts call for waves, defiant winds when the forecasts call for calm.   

In the Summer of 1968, the summer season defined as the interval between school sessions, Ray Hicks and Bill Buel and Phillip Harper and I were cruising in one of their cars, returning inland from a day of cruising Surf Route 101, anywhere from San Onofre to, most likely, Cardiff, in search of a beach with some possibility of girls hanging out, and with rideable waves, and with the hope that the lineup was not too crowded. We did, no doubt, surf, most likely at Grandview or Swamis beachbreak.

Whichever vehicle we were in (again, not mine) featured the latest in in-car entertainment, an 8 trac tape player. Because we were middle class suburban teens, we related to the non-bubblegum-pop tunes of Cream, the Beatles (less and less), and the Doors. Most shared, most sung along to. Yes, if we were a year younger, Led Zeppelin’s orgasmic rock might have taken over. We weren’t. We listened to the Doors. We could relate.

It wasn’t just the AM-radio/garage-band-at-the-VFW-hall stuff. Deep cuts. “Wait until the war is over, and we’re both a little older; the unknown soldier.” The war wasn’t over. It would still be there when we were older… old enough.

It was almost dark, we were parked somewhere, facing west, perhaps, more likely facing some thicket of sage like brush off Mission, the route from one or our homes to another- extending the length of the surf trip/adventure. Smoking. Click. Another tune. “Summer’s almost gone, summer’s almost gone; Where will we be… when the summer’s gone.” There was an instrumental fill at this point, the perfect four beat place in which, from my spot in the back seat, I added, “We’ll be in school.”

It wasn’t well received. ‘Fuck you’ and ‘oh, man,’ and ‘get out’ didn’t make for a unified chorus.

Yet, summer had gone on long enough that the days of not surfing, of hanging out or playing some pickup game at the high school, of listening to other groups, other songs, had gone on long enough. School was… we’d be seniors, there were girls, guaranteed. There was a certain level of anticipation.

Time seems to move faster as we get older. I have noticed. I have decided it is because, the longer we are alive, rotating and spinning, the shorter the comparative time is of any particular season. So, summer is, relatively, short. That’s my theory.

Incidentally, the reason I know it wasn’t my car is this: My vehicles never seemed to have a functioning radio. Fifty-four years later, my current surf rig’s radio started shorting out a few years ago; irritating; and then it quit completely. I do have my harmonica, and, since I usually go surfing alone, I don’t mind my singing and playing. Other than my own tunes, I will do a few of Dylan’s. I have a killer version of “All Along the Watchtower.” The Doors? No, not really.

The subject next time, perhaps, could be: “Froth.”

I’m getting some stick-on lettering made saying, “realsurfers FROTH!” So far, Keith is signed on to get one. Steve and Adam, the only others I’ve offered them to, didn’t seem enthusiastic enough; I will not beg them. So… as with everything, forever, we’ll see.

HAPPY EQUINOX!  

“Whoa, dudes; it’s like… Fall, man; it’s the best. This one time… Hey, thanks for loaning me your spare suit; you should know, three more steps, I’m peeing. Traditional. So, like, glad it’s less crowded. Those Summer-only kooks, huh? I totally plan on dominating. Say, you even wax up this board?”

FUCKCANCER UPDATE:

Dru is probably going to have radiation treatments, but, hopefully, not Chemo. Trish is doing most of the hanging out with our daughter over in Port Gamble, making sure Dru doesn’t lift heavy stuff. I’ve done like one night a week, but I, um… well, I do plan on going over tomorrow for the Seahawks game, partially so Trish can get her hands back on this computer, probably do some lifting.

Stephen R. Davis is staying in Bellevue and going for procedures in Seattle. He is getting a full ‘workup’ (not fun in itself) ahead of two doses of Super Chemo. I will get a proper copy of Steve’s painting of a fantasy surf spot this week and will post it here with info on how you can purchase a limited-edition copy. Evidently Steve has already promised the original to some lucky person.