SATURDAY UPDATE: Not all writers and/or artists are anal retentive. Some might be the opposite (anal explosive, I’ve been told- kind of believe it). And while I’m thinking about it, the opposite of PHALLIC symbolism in art and architecture and billionaires’ private spacecraft; and I have noticed this in art and in “Lord of the Rings,” is, I’m informed, by various sources on the internet, YONIC. References the womb. I didn’t get too investigative. Okay, but, years ago, an artist whose work was totally not phallic, told me it was VAGINAL. All this time, I was fine with that.
All that aside, my stuff, particularly on PAGE III, Serious Writing, is mostly written on-site rather than on Microsoft Word, and even if it originally was, I can’t help going back over it, refining, editing. YES, this explains something about my novel, “SWAMIS,” the anal retentive part being how difficult it is to delete something that I believe is kind of decent.
I have a new piece, part of my occasional dream diaries, and I’ve made changes to two pieces on PAGE III: “Between the Walls of Trees,” a short short story, and “Into the Void,” a poem/song. Since I’m stuck on differences, I usually develop songs while driving; repeating one verse, adding others in. Because of this process, I remember the words better than something I write on the computer. BUT THEN, I want the piece to make sense and have a certain flow. Retentive.
Update complete for now.
SEVERAL FRIENDS hepped me to this; it’s a screen grab from this guy, R. Jesus Delacruz (translates to ‘of the cruz’), evidently talking some shit about Port Townsend folks. Not that I don’t. Nothing too serious from me. But, yes, folks selling a mid-priced hone in CA and buying a McMansion here is kind of erksome.
Not sure if he focused on me, or if I was just part of a pan, left or right, but…this was taken at the SAVE THE WAVES event in which a short film, “ERWIN” (available for viewing on the ‘about’ page), was being aired as part of a worldwide tour.
Doesn’t mean I am not from California. I AM A REFUGEE. Of sorts. Sold a house in San Diego in 1978, moved to Quilcene. Two of my three children were born in Port Townsend. Not sure when or where Mr. Delacruz was born, and don’t care.
ALSO, while trying to shed any vestiges of my California-ness, I’m not trying to get him more coverage.
Got to go. Work to do in Port Townsend for folks who are from somewhere else, but not from California. No, no; again; don’t care.
erwin@realsurfers.net
Occasionally I post on Instagram. More often I comment on other people’s posts. Can’t help it. Need counseling. It’s just… putting emojis isn’t, like, much more meaningful than hitting the heart symbol. It’s realsurfersdotnet.
Great weekend for hanging on the beach, any beach, trying to will a swell. Good luck, and thanks for checking out my humbled blog.
July 28- PAGE VI NOW includes illustrations from 2016. Check it!
July 27- There are new posts on PAGE III, ‘serious writings,’ and PAGE VII, ‘Erwin talks to strangers.’
SKIP FRYE, PB POINT, AND PIRACY
Trish and I got married in November 1971 (she just 19, me a mature 20). We moved to Pacific Beach (PB), first to a one bedroom on Felspar, two blocks from Crystal Pier, then to the La Jolla Bella apartments, just up the hill from Tourmaline. $185/month for two bedrooms, two bathrooms.
And, for the first time since I was a baby, in Surf City, North Carolina, I was a local! Yee-haw (only carryover from babyhood)! I could skateboard or bike down to the pier, or hit the canyon, always hoping PB Point would break or there would be a connecting wall. Rare, but appreciated.
It’s not as if I made friends. There was a sort of ghetto mentality. Head down, no real eye contact. But, I did become known in the lineup and did become familiar with local standouts. I was aggressive, but teenage “pier rats,” led by Joe Roper, were always there, kicking boards at non-stop locals from, like, Claremont.
I had some run ins, but not really with the young guys. This is me, working man, before or after work and weekends. Here is where Skip Frye comes in. He would be out, somewhere on the stretch, navigating the crowd. I was most impressed at how he found waves between set waves, and casually found smooth lines while others were dropping in, bailing if the wave closed out (I meant when) relying on kook cords to save them from swimming. This with, possibly, me behind them, maybe someone within the length of the leash.
As always, I was thrashing and repairing (mostly thrashing) boards. I would go to the Gordon & Smith factory for materials. I often saw Skip Frye. Working. My image is of him, beside a dumpster, possibly trying to figure out if he recognized me. I don’t believe we ever spoke.
NoAt that I didn’t want to.
Somewhere before Trish an I bought a condo in University City (east of I-5…ahhh) Morey-Pope introduced the Waterskate. Thick down rails coming up to a raised line, that dropping to a flat deck. The boards were being produced by G&S.
I wanted one. I had pretty much totaled the cutting edge Surfboards Hawaii twin fin Trish had custom ordered for me. I had a tentative relationship with the PB Surf Shop, having done some graphics and having done menus and such for a hamburger/sandwich shop that shared the space.
Some guys with some connection were trying to sell custom garage soul boards out of the shop. They pirated the waterskate, shaped it, I painted the blank, they glassed it.
I cruise down to Tourmaline, after work, to try it out. There, on the beach, looking at me as if he might recognize me… Skip Frye.
We didn’t speak. Still, I felt a Pirate’s guilt.
The problem with the design was that stress cracks came on quickly, following the ridges. I ended up ripping off the deck’s glass, sanding out the ridges, reglassing. .
I probably bought materials at G&S. That may be where one of my lasting image of Skip Frye comes from.
Last thing: In his segment on “Pinch my Salt, ” Skip mentioned an encounter with a seal ” Out by the boil” at PB Point. One of my fondest memories is of surfing a perfect little peak alone. I took off deeper on each wave. I tried to backdoor the wave, my fin skidded out, my brand new leash dragged me across the reef. I came up with seagrass in my fingernails. And so so stoked!
I should mention thankful. Skip would. Thank you!
I am doing this on my tablet. I have some new stuff on other pages. I will update… Later.
UPDATES- NONE at the moment- Saturday, July 18.BUT…
Skip Frye and I, Skip Frye and Me- Several Anecdotes
INTRO-
A sudden, not-going-to-last obsession with classic surfer Skip Frye was triggered by an episode of “Pinch my Salt” showing up on YouTube. I’m fine watching a snippet of the pretty smarmy Sterling Spencer, but I’m never ready to spend an hour plus watching… anyone. This is what fast forward is for.
This episode promised an interview with Skip; but it did start without him. So, fast forward; though I had to watch a portion where Sterling claimed someone ‘picked his pocket.’ It turned out to be a not unusual ‘chat and steal.’ One of my standard moves. Or so I’ve been told.
Then, on to the interview. If someone personifies an eighty-three-year-old lifetime (not Skip’s, probably yours) San Diego surfer, no one better fills the role than Mr. Frye. The hosts were respectful, though Skip was pushed to say something negative about soft tops (he said someone gave him one, but he’d never ride it), surfers who put their names on popouts (almost did because Donald Takayama wanted him to make some real money, but died before it might, or might not have happened), and modern surfing competition, the toughest and truest thing he would say, though he did contests, is that the one winner ruthlessness takes something away from what is often referred to as soul surfing.
Skip, who tries to turn out six boards a week, none cheap, all highly sought after, is still the epitome of soul. Surfing or otherwise.
The other guy on the podcast, Sterling’s cousin Ryan Spencer, asked the viewers to pleas be nice to Skip in the comments. I checked. Not a negative comment in the bunch, and, when Skip pulled out a harmonica at the end and played a mellow version of, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus,” well, people broke into tears. Or so they said.
TAMARACK, 1965-
My family (seven kids, our mom) was parked in the lower lot, as always. I was a total beginner/kook, just switching over from mat to board. I was probably still sharing my older sister’s (Suellen’s) 9’4” stock Hobie. There had been some sort of contest. Surfers and their entourages were loading up, ready to head home. “Skip was robbed!” “Skip should’ve won!”
I have this image, real or not, in my permanent files: A blond-haired guy shrugging off the comments meant to reassure him.
PACIFIC BEACH, SAN DIEGO- 1971-1973- Later. I gotta go. But, coming… STEALING a design from TOM MOREY, surfing from Tourmaline to Crystal Pier ala Skip, finding nuggets in a crowded lineup, soul arching, ala Skip, just for the fun of it.
The Morey-Pope WATERSKATE, produced by Gordon & Smith; probably shaped by SKIP FRYE.
ULTRA CLASSIC TRIO- Photo by RON STONER, MICHAEL HYNSON paddling out, and SKIP (never not in trim) SKIP FRYE soul arching at THE RANCH.
I want to stress that I have been doing some research on this stuff. I have always been intrigued by the Hynson/Frye friendship, partially because they seem like such different individuals. If I give Hynson a lot of credit for downrail surfboards, prove me wrong. It was interesting to learn, from the podcast, that they were riding boards Michael had shaped for the 1966 Duke Kahanamoku contest. Cool.
I have some new stuff on PAGE VII, ‘”Erwin Talks to Strangers,” and on PAGE VIII, “Love Songs for Cynics.” I’m doing this as a new post, but will probably move these drawings to Page VIII later.
If I stop writing new material and re-re-re-editing older pieces, I have enough for a book. I need to look through my collection (not that there’s any real organization) of illustrations to find work that goes along with the songs and essays and… And, problem is so much is surf related and/or landscape rather than portrait, format-wise.
MEANWHILE, I ENJOY doing these border things and… I enjoy drawing. YEAH.
AND, more meanwhile, life continues to provide more material. Jeez, an annoying splotch on my. scanner. That isn’t a metaphor. No, ‘course it is. Get some surf. Keep your secret spots secret. Thanks for checking out my site.
UPDATE- July 6- ANNOUNCEMENT! PAGE VII has been added. It is focused on my upcoming collection, “LOVE SONGS FOR CYNICS.” Check it out.
UPDATE- July 4, 2026- 2:12 PACIFIC DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME
I just posted something on PAGE III. Check it out if you get a chance. This image is a clue.
I have, according to my phone used up all the storage for the ‘gallery.’ What this seems to mean is that I cannot film myself playing harmonica and singing original songs. SO, there goes my Instagram career hopes. I recorded two versions of my song, “Soft Persuasion,” which has a particular relevance on the day before the Fourth of July. In one, the harmonica sounds screechy and my voice sounds… kind of like it usually does; nasal-ly, flat…whatever. The second one, recorded by a local lake with the phone in the back of the Toyota, has me and the harmonica sounding okay, but, possibly because of the angle (SURE), I look, in an oversized white t shirt, well, fat. Not that I’m not. And my hair… awful.
So, I deleted all of the videos on my. phone, but, maybe because the trash section is full, no storage.
Anyway, I have been working on formatting a collection of poems and essays and songs. I do enjoy this. I’m pretty close to having “Love Songs for Cynics” ready. Because poetry is so… fancy, I plan a separate and definitely not equal section for ‘Down and Dirty Blues’ songs. This is more a ballad. Fiction, actually, with an opportunity to throw out some non-political Independence Day references. Here goes:
You offered me such SOFT PERSUASION, on the night before the fourth of July, Began as such a festive occasion, you held me close, I never asked you why,
I went off just like a Roman candle, I’m sure the light lit up half of the night, But love, that’s something we could never handle, True love’s one thing that we can’t get quite right.
(Chorus). Misunderstanding, misunderstood; I thought that we could make it happen, Now I see it ain’t no good; Misunderstanding, I got it wrong; You took the words that I has written, and wrote yourself another song.
You said it’s just a misunderstanding, said you’d never meant to lead me along; You hoped I’d have a really soft landing; You wrote down all the words to my last song.
All in all, you treated me quite kindly, You said there were some things you should explain; I had rushed in way way way too blindly; And love’s that blind can only bring one pain.
Chorus
“Some things,” you said, “Are best left unspoken,” Some things I said I never should have said; Some spells, once cast, should never be broken; some love’s not in your heart, it’s in your head.
But you’d already. heard my. confession, There is no other woman I think of; “Sometimes,” you said, “love’s really obsession;” Well, sometimes, what we think is love is love.
Chorus
I walked into the teeth of the morning; Where firecrackers popped and fuses burned; I had been knocked down without a warning; I couldn’t put in words what I had learned.
All I knew is I had never known you; And everything I thought was right was wrong; Didn’t know, from there, where I could go to; Couldn’t find a tune for my new song.
Misunderstanding, misunderstood; I thought that we could make it happen; Now I see it ain’t no good; Misunderstanding, you got it wrong; You took the words that I had written, but now I have another song.
I have been updating my artwork; check out. PAGE VII.
ALL RIGHTS ARE RESERVED ON ALL ORIGINAL writing and artwork on this site by Erwin A. Dence, jr. Thanks for honoring my copyrights.
AS ALWAYS, THANKS for checking in and checking my humble blog out, GET SOME WAVES, AND, PLEASE, CELEBRATE! Happy Birthday, America, and good luck to us all!
Tuesday, June 30- TRISH IS CANCER FREE! She saw the Oncologist yesterday. The numbers are all good. Thank one and all for your concern, prayers. SHE IS NOT OUT OF THE WOODS AND BACK ON THE BEACH YET. Progress is being made. Trish is trying to regain lost strength. I have a new appreciation for the hardships endured by those stricken by cancer. As always, FUCK CANCER!
ALSO, there is a new post on. PAGE VII, ERWIN TALKS TO STRANGERS. Check it out.
– PAGE VI, Original Erwin art, as of Saturday, June 27, is up to all of 2015. Give it a scroll if you get the chance.
…some stuff on what I devised for the mural project at Port Townsend’s Seamus Skate Park, an upcoming Original Erwin Coloring Book, an upcoming album of poetry and essays and blues songs, “Love Songs for Cynics,” and a possible start for a poster for the next Occasional Surf Culture on the Strait of Juan de Fuca and the Salish Sea Event. AND, promising not to whine because I was not selected for the top three contestants/applicants for the Skate Park Project.
PEOPLE often stop in Port Gamble, close to where my daughter Dru (and Trish, still recovering from Cancer and Chemo) lives. The sunsets tend to be spectacular; often with that orange popsicle color. In Quilcene, the Eastern foothills of the Olympics dominate the view; that and all the trees.
SKATE PARK- I did get all jazzed up at the prospect of making big money for artistic… stuff; and got into doing some sketches. I did wait until the finalists were announced (whimper) before posting any.
I thought it would bee dramatic to have an action image on an inside corner of the low walls. I wasn’t sure how this would work, so I did a sketch, and bent it. Okay, that’s how it would work!
ORIGINAL ERWIN COLORING BOOK-
I am going through and placing artworks on a separate page. I have completed 2013, the first year of realsurfersnet, and 2014. I plan on selecting images and producing another limited edition. Soon.
“LOVE SONGS FOR CYNICS”-
My current plan is to have something that mimics a record album. I am in the process of formatting, all with an increasing awareness of the expense involved in getting an actual book together. For all the projects I have done in the past, including ORIGINAL ERWIN T SHIRTS, the artist got screwed and the publisher/manufacturer/whatever made (some) money. NOTE- Exclusivity has value. Hopefully.
SURF MUSIC AND…
If you are an actual musician, you know this isn’t actual music.
THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT my humble blog. Side note: I was kind of called out for ‘going political.’ Sorry. Couldn’t help it. I have a bit of a platform, I have fears and opinions, and, for now, freedom of speech. And you are free to not read… anything.
HIT some waves when you get the chance!
OH, and all original works by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. are copyright protected, all rights reserved. AND, no AI involved. Thanks.
I was working in Port Angeles all week, never had (or gave myself) a chance to even check out the surf; but, then, wait for it (I have), I went. Yeah, I joined the seeming caravan of time-offers and weekenders and vacationers headed toward the Olympic Peninsula, home to the Olympic Mountains, named, appropriately, after the mythical home of the mythical gods. It’s like… Nirvana, with a different lineup (do I have to add ‘not the bend? Probably). Yeah, and there’s, like forests and… lakes, and… It is enticing, entrancing, inviting those stuck on I-5 to drive however many hours to get here. And the weather has just been so… Southern California-ISH. Not that I’m complaining.
This was a side project. I was painting an ADU on the Port Angeles property. Someone else cut out the trees a while back. The homeowner, who has a lot off artsy stuff going on, gave me free reign. Thanks.
The job done, I traded ladders for a thrashed out board, and headed back north. It’s not that I want to share the road OR the waves. Dawn patrolling might help. Still, I worry. I am still trying to get past a severe thrashing from mid-winter, and have had few opportunities to rebuild my. confidence. What if, I was thinking on the way up Surf Route 101, it’s closed out and crowded and… ?And then, when I arrived… no worries; no ‘got to go NOW’ conditions. Barely breaking. It was a ‘it might get better’ situation, so, normal. Not crowded… yet. No side wind. Yet. I took my time, chatted with PA locals, Bill Truckenmueller (sp?) and his son, who talked about how the day before was better, and never got out of their van, and told me they were leaving as a sacrifice to the swell gods. “Thanks. I’ll let you know what you missed next time I see you.”
Parked in my favorite spot was THOR. I’ve surfed with him quite a few over the years. He said the previous day started similarly weak and inconsistent, and got better. The last time I saw Thor was at the Lower Elwha gas station. He had just suffered a serious injury. He’s fully recovered now. I filled him in on what is happening with me. I did, because I do, mention this blog. “You. mean your personal complaint department?” ‘Huh? What? Um, yeah.”
Still taking my sweet time getting suited up, a rig pulled up next to me, two young (relatively) men jumped out, instantly started putting fins on their fancy wood boards. Just making conversation, because ERWIN TALKS TO STRANGERS, I mentioned their parking gave themselves plenty of room, but they could have parked closer, allowing the next folks room. “No.” Okay. No disagreeing. I asked one of them how long he’d been surfing. “A while.” “Oh. Did you, like, start during Covid?” “Give me a break.” “Okay, so… adult learner. Surf school.” No answer. “It’s pretty flat. Hobuck’s probably big. Maybe you should go there.” The other guy came around the corner, turning his Patagonia wetsuit rightsideout while doing modified squats. “Why don’t you go, then?” “Too far. Too scary.” “Sure.” Possible sarcasm. “Um, where’d you, if I might ask, come from?” No answer. “I live in Quilcene. It’s down the canal.” “Okay. Sure.” Somewhere it was revealed they were from Kirkland. “Might be bigger there,” one of the Kirkland dudes said before he raced his friend toward the water.
It’s fine that, when flipping friendly-ish shit, some gets flipped back. The test of surfing is in the water. By the time I got out, there were five or six other surfers out. Long boards. I took off on a wave, not believing (or looking) behind me. “Hey!” A guy on a green longboard, who wasn’t on the wave, yelled, “You have to look. That’s it! You get. one. drop-in!” He paddled out. I paddled out. He back paddled me. Evidently backpaddling was acceptable. Fine. Game on!
I don’t mean to overdramatize this; not high tension. Just, with not-great waves, kind of unnecessary.
There were some other ‘your wave, my wave’ things happening over the course of the session, but I didn’t have any other disputes with the unofficial regulator. He did continue to backpaddle, I played my game, managed to get some rides I was really happy with. Meanwhile, the Kirkland guys did not dominate. The lineup had the usual small day ratio of beginners to experienced surfers, and I noticed several of the guys in the water looked… similar. We all want to identify who, in the water, is going to blow a takeofff, who is a bit too aggressive; all of which helps us catch more waves and stay out of trouble. Maybe. Plus, it’s not cool to stare at your. competition. Or talk too much.
None of these societal restraints kept me from paddling over and making a comment to the large (not that I’m small) woman with a bright red, full-brimmed hat on. It seemed, not staring, that it was attached to a hood. Maybe it just had a very practical chin strap. “You’re doing your best to avoid cancer,” I said. “I’m trying.” She took off on a wave, went straight, and two other women, with similar hats, about to paddle out, hooted, wildly, as if their friend had won the contest. Perhaps she had. We are all competing in our minds. Aren’t we?
I managed to outlast the green board enforcer, but he did paddle out next to Thor, and, possibly because Thor was, my assessment, the best surfer out at this time, engaged him in conversation. I mentioned that when the waves dropped back to minimal as the tide drained out. “Yeah, I told him you’re old, you have really bad knees, your wife is battling cancer, and you should give you a break.” “Thanks, Thor, but… about those two times you burned me…” “Oh, one was for the guy you burned, and the other… It was my one free burn.” Fair. Enough.
I had to take this photo. The guy sat there a while, looking like Rodin’s “The Thinker.” I asked if he was thinbking, “Damn, should have gotten here earlier.” “No, I was thinking… maybe it’ll get better.” Eventually. Yes.
Contact- erwin@realsurfers.net
Instagram- realsurfersdotnet
Thanks; catch some waves when you can, limit your dropins, backpaddle at will, keep it friendly, keep it fun. But, FUCK CANCER!
Oh, shit! I forgot. I do have some new ORIGINAL ERWIN illustrations. I will post them soon.
I have done a few drawings lately. I need to get them to a print shop to reduce the size to work with my printer/scanner. At least one drawing is for a potential Original Erwin coloring book. Several are for a potential collection of poems and essays, “Love Songs or Cynics.” To that end, I contacted Port Townsend’s new Poet Laureate, and got her permission to send her some samples of my writing. The goal, for me, is to get some traction within the communty of serious writers.
Traction? Serious writing? What the fuck do I know about any of this? “Swamis” is done. This version. I haven’t looked at in a while; and I keep thinking about little changes I should make to make it better. Sellable. Marketable.
I am, meanwhile, trying to process not making the top three finalists among 17 submissions for a mural project at the Seamus Skate Park in Port Townsend. I wanted the opportunity. There is a ridiculous amount of money involved. For artists, almost all of whom paint and draw for little or no money, little or no recognition, so much of what is produced getting a quick glance, maybe a nod, this is a rare offer.
There’s a story of what was required in the submission process. To this point, the emphasis was not on ideas and visuals for the murals but on experience in doing this type of work. I believed, or wanted to believe, that 57 years (as of yesterday) as a professional sign painter, regular painter, might help. But, not having initially read the entire requirement page, I went full on into thinking about possibilities, doing sketches. Then, with so much help from my daughter, Dru, I worked on my resume’.
Again, processing; I got the email late last night. So, whining. Apologies. Submissions. Submitting, by definition, means you are being judged, that you have no control. No, it comes down to what is being judged. Part of the deal. Not good enough. Not what the deciders are looking for.
So?
So… I have to go. There’s a house to paint. I submitted a proposal, as I do, and, yeah, I got another job.
I’ll get some new stuff on here. Soon. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net
I will probably add yet another page to my site. It would focus on my habit of talking to people I don’t actually know. Strangers. I get material from these interactions. We all have stories. If you don’t talk to people, there are other people between you and the story. If it’s not first person, second story is better and truer than third, fourth, whatever person.
Erwin talks to Strangers- Real conversations with real people
EPISODE ONE- Not chronological at all.
The Checkout Guy at the Poulsbo Central Market…
…Told me he doesn’t usually chat when doing his job, but there was no one behind me when I slid my purchases forward, emptied my front right pocket, and asked him if he saw a hearing aid in the little pile. That’s how it started. Then, paraphrasing:
“Oh. Okay. Found it… Wrong glasses.”
“Uh huh.”
“It’s, uh, I had to take it out. I hear fine. When I’m on the phone, but, hearing aids, they’re really good at hearing fans, motors… conversations from, you know, like, two aisles away.” As the Cashier is shuffling purchases- “If I could wear earmuffs that worked with my narrowed ear canals… From surfing… I’d totally…”
“I got some for my mom.” Questioning look from me. “Costco.”
“Really. I checked it out. Three brands; all starting at around $1,500. These cost, like, $150. Amazon. My last ones*…Anyway, I can buy… more… Like, more. Ten sets, maybe.”
“Did you say ‘surf’”? (I nod as Cashier finishes my order) “Are you familiar with ‘Endless Summer?’ (I nod, pull out my debit card) “Bruce Brown. He also made ‘On Any Sunday,’ a motorcycle movie.”
“Yeah. I saw it… before it went national… like, 1966, ’67; underground theater in San Diego.(talking faster as someone comes up behind me). I was so disappointed it was a regular theater. Above ground. But… but the really cool people, like my friend Phillip’s older sister; she was, like, ‘Yeah, well, I saw it at State, and Bruce Brown narrated it… in person.”
“No. Tap it… here. (Tap). I saw this customer’s card… this was years ago. Bruce Brown. (I’m pulling my grocery bag close, quickly checking the line forming behind me) I asked him, ‘Are you THE BRUCE BROWN, the movie maker?’ He threw up both hands… you know, like when someone scores a goal… (I nod rather than raising my hands) and says, ‘You just made my day.’”
“Well; you just made mine.”
*Peripheral story. **Flushing hearing aid moment-
These hearing aids, pushed into my surfer’s ears, with the narrowed canals, and, seemingly, always kind of dampish conditions, quickly become uncomfortable. This, plus the squealing caused by the imperfect fit, caused this incident:
I’m standing at the toilet, just finishing up; I flush with my left hand, and, for one of the conditions described above, I reach for my right ear. The hearing aid pops out at just the right moment had my intention been to lose the device.
I told this story, on the cellular phone device, to Adam ‘Wipeout’ James when I thought I had lost my brand-new hearing aids. “So, I was looking at this project, and they. Had a sani-can, and I figured, ‘why not?’ I discovered, and not for the first time… but never before I got into my seventies… that my boxers were on backwards.
“Whoa.”
“So, I thought, ‘I’m wearing short pants; I’ll just drop them and straighten this situation out.’
Laughter from Adam. “Sure.”
“So, I think that’s where I must have lost the hearing aids.” “Makes sense.” “But I’ll check inside the car again.”
Ten minutes later- “I’m kind of sorry I told you that story.”“Found them, huh?”
I’m almost finished with this sign down Linger Longer Road in Quilcene. Suddenly, the town on Surf Route 101 I’ve lived in almost 48 years, is hip, cool; hip and cool go there. On purpose. And, with rich folks building mansions on Olympic foothill acreage, there has been an influx of a young demographic.
You can cruise on the massive, wonder of a bridge, just opened, that goes over the remodeled lower stretch of the Big Quilcene River/flood plain, cruise along the mud flats of Quilcene Bay (filled in at high tide with water warm enough in summer to allow swimming sans wetsuit), and, just before you get to the oyster hatchery and Herb Beck Marina, check it out. Am I trying to blow up the spot? Maybe.
If Surfing Fills a Hole…
If surfing fills a hole in your life, possibly in your soul; if your self-image and the image you’ve worked for and work to project is that of a person who surfs, a surfer, with any and all of the real or romanticized attributes given, and appreciated even by the most random, holiday surfer; if you live for and lust after waves, fun-sized to crazy to death barrels; if you are that person, and you can’t surf for a while, as in longer than it took for you to recover from this or that medical setback, or a work or situation-caused injury that required time away from waves; if you cannot surf… what fills that hole?
Stories of past glories are not enough. Enough retellings of even the most mundane tales of riding spots now incredibly crowded on even an average day sound exaggerated. Or worse. Even surfers your age might question whether your authenticity. Young surfers will dismiss you and your tales, just as you put little faith in the stories told by people over thirty when you were under twenty.
Still, people riding emptier lineups, even on pre-revolution boards… that’s something. Memories have value. Times edits out those that don’t.
Yeah. I’m writing about surfing instead of doing more surfing. I have excuses and explanations and situations, and, mostly, or partially, I have a lot of other things I have to do; most of which interfere with other things I want to do.
Surfing is on the ‘want to do’ list. There is that hole, that desire.
“When I was younger,” a sentence begging to be ignored or half-listened to begins, I was critical of surfers who weren’t frothing to go out on waves I couldn’t resist. But then, and now, I tried to adjust my life, or, at least, my schedule, to allow the opportunity, and, non-epic waves, enough of them, with, maybe, that one sneaker barrel… worth it.
Most of my contemporaries are not surfing. Kudos to the ones who are.
A good friend, legendary (I try not to over or misuse that description) gave up (not ‘quit’) surfing a few years ago. Bad shoulders, bad knees, crowds. Age. Mix and match. He told me that he says, if asked, that he loves surfing, always will, but, luckily, he has a lot of other activities and responsibilities that keep him occupied. He may have said fulfilled.
Still, I have seen other, most-likely retired folks, and this was a while ago, at Pipes, hanging on the fence, looking at other surfers paddle and bob and blow takeoffs and ride awkwardly, and I thought how lucky they were. Then Ray and I walked down and paddled out.
The hole. I am fond of thinking that it’ll always be there, as filled in as best I could; still anticipating the next session.
Lucky me.
Contact- erwin@realsurfers.net
Instagram- realsurfersdotnet
Check out the other Pages, including the newly-added PAGE VI, a collection of my original art works. I have been working on a collection of poetry/songs/stories, with a plan to publish it. Soon.
I have a new copyright for “Swamis,” the novel, mostly because I’vve gotten a bit more protective, partially because it is so different than the draft currently copyrighted. The above story is, as all original works by me, protected under copyright, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.
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