The most recent full moon on the Salish Sea. Perfect evening for a paddle.
Sessions Worthy of Remembrance
There are several things that can make a surf session memorable, memorable enough to last years: That time you surfed an often crowded spot alone; that special ride on an otherwise not-special day; that trip with a friend (or potential lover) or friends that you remember more for the friendship (or the movement from potential) than the time in the water; that time where the waves were solidly pumping and you were ripping at the very peak of your ability… and, and, and- yeah, those times.
Think of a spot you’ve surfed, once or many times. Or think of a friend you surf or have surfed with. Think of the music that was playing in the car or in your head. Think of fog, or sideshore winds, or dawn patrols, or skunkings, or the road to here or there, or where you ate on the way home from somewhere you did or didn’t find waves. Think of anything that leads you back to a magical adventure, or ride, or session.
Okay, why was one session, or one ride during the session memorable?
I can’t speak to the adrenalin and dopamine and endorphins, and whatever our bodies and minds create when we anticipate what could be, some fantasy session; and remember or imagine when you find that dream setup, and then you’re in it. If it takes some time, hours, even days, to come down from the high, it takes years before you are unable to bring the memory out of your vault.
You’ve felt it, clueless kook to wherever you are on your journey; the rare-but-there moments are what surfers live for, why surfers ride crappy waves and call it ‘practice.’ The waves are working, you got into the lineup, jockeyed or waited for position, you’re on the wave, committed, driving… and you’ll make the wave… or you won’t.
If you’re not surfing for the thrill of it, the magic of it, please, just take up another hobby.
A memorable session:
Mostly I remember being cold, getting out of the water at Grandview with the sun already down, silver lines on a silver platter. This session was memorable enough that it became part of the reason I started writing, “Inside Break,” the precursor to “Swamis.” It was a different take on my early surfing life, one not much different than any surfer who started before he or she could drive; riding with your parents or someone else’s, then begging older surfers to take you along.
Phillip Harper and I, possibly sophomores, got to go, after school in Fallbrook, with Bucky Davis and Phil’s sister, Trish (not my Trish- different Trish). Backseat. She was driving, headed to modeling school in Encinitas. They were, to me, the perfect surfer couple. Not that she surfed. Maybe she did later, years after that romance ended. Maybe. I tend to push things toward the romantic.
To me, having learned at Tamarack, with some trips to ruin real surfers waves at Pipes and Swamis, Grandview was a surf spot I knew about. I also knew I was not going to be welcomed by the locals and the older inlanders for whom it was their chosen North County spot. Phil, who had surfed there, told me.
Nevertheless, we were there and I was going to show Bucky… something. The waves were “Not good enough,” he said, “Not yet.” This was just before he pushed me into the washout that was the way down to the beach, long filled-in, replaced by a house and fence.
Before it glassed off (alternate title for ‘Inside Break,’ ‘Afternoon Glassoff’), Phil and I went out, only ones in the lineup. Bucky paddled out. We surfed. It got dark. I was bragging about my nose rides. “No,” Bucky said, but only later, Trish now driving, heater maxed out, “you… he, he kind of slides up to the nose. If you want to be a real surfer, you have to go foot over foot.”
“Yeah,” Phil said, “Foot over foot.” Real surfer. Yeah.
Hama Hama News- Adam “Wipeout” James got into a a group text sort of bemoaning that he had done a lot of driving, hadn’t scored great waves, BUT, good news, his son Emmet (Adam spelled it with one ‘t’, so I will also do so) got (may have said ‘bagged’) his first buck.
Congratulations! Adam has another son, Calvin. One is nicknamed ‘Boomer.’ I believe it’s Calvin. NOW, hunting and fishing and all that is kind of a deal down here on the Hood Canal section of SURF ROUTE 101; up there with first Bigfoot and/or UFO sightings; so I had to respond. I said I got it with a ’59 Chevy, but it was probably with a Toyota. Crushed front quarter panel. Dead dear. My older son, James, got his buck with a Buick; big ass Buick Trish pushed him to buy because it seemed safe. Deer over the windshield, James… safe.
CHIMACUM TIMACUM NEWS- For the second time ever, the last being ten years ago, Tim and I were in the water at the same time. I don’t think either of us burned the other. Next time…
“Swamis” NEWS- In looking for an agent, I wrote a query letter, sent it to several people whose judgment I trust to check out. THEN, panicked it wasn’t good enough, I started editing the hell out of it. THEN KEITH, after I told him to wait for a better version, said he liked it. SINCE I am not that stoked on the rewrites… yes, he can send it back, and then… I am not changing the first ten pages, and will post another chapter or sub-chapter on WEDNESDAY..
I’M NOT POLITICAL STUFF- I’m considering getting an alias. BUSTER WALLS came to mind because I wanted something that suggests but can’t seem to remember that term for the subversive, covert kind of sarcastic attack that I have often been accused of.
ANYWAY, I hope you find some waves, and if you don’t, hope you have a great time looking. Don’t steal my stuff. Thanks for reading.
I just and finally got this Wheelie, and, I know, it’s kind of cheating, but, if you’re riding an e-bike down the trail, or a regular bike, um, yeah, I’ll cheat… a bit. OH, yeah, I agree that riding an SUP is cheating. So… don’t.
I was the only one checking for surf after a very dark and very night. Me and this seagull. All I had was a banana. One-third for me, two thirds for… this guy.
When I have some free time, I sometimes do some drawing. the excerpt from “Swamis,” chapter nine, has Joey going to a clinical psychologist, court-mandated after he had an incident in which he ended up with his foot on another student’s neck. ANYWAY, you don’t have to psychoanalyze me because I can’t seem to not go a bit too psychedelic.
CHAPTER NINE- MONDAY, MARCH 24, 1969
I was driving my mother’s 1964 Volvo four-door. Because I never told the DMV I had a history of seizures, I did get a license, I did drive. Because my mother believed I was getting better, she allowed me to drive. Still, she looked in my direction frequently. Because my father believed I was getting better, he taught me. If I did, indeed, have some kind of brain damage, I could force myself, will myself to control the freezes my father called ‘lapses,’ and the outbursts he called ‘mistakes.’
There are stories for each sport I was pushed to try, each team I did not become a part of. Each story involved my lack of attention at some point of time critical to practice or a game. More often, I was asked to leave because, while I had not been what my father called ‘fully committed,’ I had committed violent, unsportsmanlike attacks on an opponent. Or a teammate.
I was, initially, pushed toward surfing. My father’s answer to my fears was, “If you have a lapse, you will drown. So… don’t.” It was the same with driving. “Concentrate. You’re always thinking behind. You have to think ahead. Got that, Jody?”
My mom and I were heading down the grade and into La Jolla. “Favorite part of the trip, Mom; the ocean’s just spread out… so far.”
“Eyes on the road, please.” I glanced past her, quickly, hoping to see some sign of waves around the point. She gave me her fiercest look. I laughed, looked at the road, but looked down and out again on a curve. Scripps’s Pier. Waves. “Are they testing you again, this time?”
“I don’t think so. The new doctor. Peters. She’ll, I guess, analyze whatever they found out last time with the wires and the fancy equipment.” I looked over at my mother as we dropped down through the eucalyptus trees at the wide sweeping right-hand curve that matches the curve of La Jolla Cove. “So, maybe we’ll find out; either I’m crazy or brain damaged.”
“Eyes on the road, please.”
…
I was in the office, standing under a round ceiling light installed a few inches off center. I had two PeeChee folders, three notebooks in each, set on a long, thin, empty walnut table. I opened the blue notebook in the top folder, wrote something I had just remembered, and closed it and the folder. I moved my pencil between my fingers until I dropped it.
The cabinets on two of the walls were cherry. A tile countertop featured a double sink. Porcelain. This was a rented space, easily converted. The six windows on the south wall extended from about a foot-and-a-half from the floor to eight inches from the ceiling. Four of the windows offered a view of tropical plants up against a mildewed redwood fence, eight foot high, no more than three feet away. The light that could make it through the space between the eves and the fence hit several, evenly spaced, colored glass and driftwood windchimes. The sound would be muted, nowhere near tinkly.
The fourth wall had a door, hollow core, cheap Luan mahogany. Several white lab coats were hanging on it. There was an added-on closet, painted white, with another mahogany door, this one rough at the hinge side. Cut down and re-used. There were, on one wall, six framed copies of diplomas or certificates. Three doctors, two universities. Two unmatched wingback chairs, each with an ottoman, were canted toward each other, facing the window wall.
The mahogany door opened. Dr. Peters entered, carrying a large stack of folders, most tan, several in a gray-blue. She kicked the door closed, dropped the stack on the table. She removed her white lab coat, hung it on the door, turned and pointed, with both hands, at the Gordon and Smith logo on the t shirt she was wearing.
“More of a San Diego… city thing, Dr. Peters.”
“Susan. I met Mike Hynson once,” she said. “He was in ‘Endless Summer.’ I figured you’d be either put at ease or impressed.”
“Once? Mike Hynson? Professionally?”
She shuffled through the stack, breaking it into thirds. Roughly. “Funny.”
“Is it?”
“No. It’s… funny you should come back with… that. If he was a… client, I couldn’t say so. I nodded. “So… I’m not saying.”
“No.”
Dr. Peters shook her head. “I went to his shop. Really cool. It’s not like I surf. I am petrified of the ocean.” She pulled out a folder from what had been the bottom third of the stack. “You?”
“Sure. There’s… fear, and there’s respect. A four-foot wave can kill you.” She may or may not have been listening. “Is that my… permanent record?” Dr. Peters laughed as if the remark was clever or funny; it wasn’t either. I didn’t laugh. She let her laugh die out.
She pointed toward the wing chairs. I shook my head. “Okay.” She pulled an adjustable stool, stainless steel, on rollers, from the corner on the far side of the closet. She motioned toward it. An invitation. “Or… we can both stand.”
“If it’s… okay with you, Ma’am. Dr. Peters.”
“Susan. What do your… friends call you?”
“Trick question?”
“Maybe. Okay. Yes.” We both shrugged. “And the answer is?”
“Surf friends. A couple.” Her reaction was more like curiosity than disbelief. “Friends call me Joey. So… Joey, Dr. Peters. I… I’m not… accustomed to calling my superiors or my elders by their first names. Respect.”
She leaned in toward me. “I’m fucking thirty… thirty-one. Joey. Young for a clinical psychologist. So?”
“Now I am impressed, and at ease. So… okay.” The Doctor squinted. “But, uh, Dr. Peters; you’re now, I’m guessing, my court mandated doctor of record?”
Dr. Peters restacked the folders. “Your father… and you… agreed to that.”
“Negotiated. Grant’s dad’s an… attorney.”
“Your father’s… was… a detective. Couldn’t he have…?”
“Never. My fault. Best he could do, with me too close to turning eighteen, is… this. A… choice, an option. We… discussed it. But… question; you’ve already suggested I might be a bully; how do you feel about… another smart ass trying to get off easy?”
“Most of the smartasses I deal with aren’t so… smart.”
“And the bullies?”
“That… urge; it shows weakness; I’m sure you agree.”
“That I’m weak? I agree. My dad’s take: I either don’t think or I take too long thinking.”
“Thanks, Joey.” Dr. Peters wrote something down. “Now, your dad didn’t want to go with… what he called ‘Psycho drugs.’” She moved from the stool to the larger of the two wing chairs. She sat down and used one foot to pull the ottoman into position. She put both feet up on it. She looked at the other chair, then at me. Another invitation. I remained standing.
“How long since you had an episode? Full?” I glanced at her folders. “Okay; three years ago, lunchtime, evidently out on the square at Fallbrook High School. Embarrassing?” I must have smiled. “Okay. Different subject. Grant Murdoch, your foot on his throat.”
“Weak… moment. But, previous topic… subject… The drugs, never were an option.”
“No. Of course not. But… Grant Murdoch, his faking a seizure caused you to…?”
“He wouldn’t have done it if he’s known I… I never went to Friday night football… activities. My surf friends… persuaded me… to.”
“Had Grant done this prank… before?”
“You mean, did my friends know he might?” I shook my head. “I haven’t asked.”
“So, this time, the prank, you acted… hastily?”
“Prank? Yes, I did.” I closed my eyes, envisioned the episode. Ten seconds, max. I pulled the metal stool over, sat it, spinning around several times. “He was… really good at it. Foaming at the mouth and everything. I was… Doctor Samuels, your electrode man. Spike. Do you have any… results?”
“Inconclusive.”
“You’re… disappointed?”
“No; but skipping over how you, just now, called another doctor, a grownup, by his first name… the tests; it was… bad timing.”
“Because I didn’t have a seizure, or even a… spell? And… Spike is a nickname. If you have a nickname… that you‘re willing to share.” She smiled. “By inconclusive, Dr. Susan Peters, do you mean… normal?”
“Pretty much, Mr. DeFreines.”
“That is… disappointing. The doctor, two doctors back…” I pointed to the files again. “He insisted I was just faking it.”
“Are you?”
“Inconclusive.”
“You didn’t have a… you know about the most common seizure, right?”
“Petit’ mal. Absence. Thousand-yard stare. Yes.”
Dr. Peters smacked the top of my stack of folders. “You study… everything.”
“Some things. Only.”
Dr. Peters looked toward her stack of files. She took a breath, looked at the plants outside the windows, at the chime swaying slightly and silently, then back at me. “You went back into… regular, public school, in the third grade. Tell me about that.”
“One of the… teachers… decided I might not be a brain-damaged… retard; maybe I’m… a genius.” I waited for her reaction. Her expression was hard to read. Blank. I danced the stool around until I faced the windows and the plants and the mildewed fence. “I’m not.”
“That’s why you turned down the scholarship?”
I made the half spin back toward the Doctor, waited for her to explain how she knew that. “School records came with a note.”
“Vice Principal Greenwald. Sure.” I spun around one more time and stood up, spinning my body a bit, unable to not smile. “I turned down Stanford because I am a faker, a phony. I… memorize.” I gave the seat of the stool a spin. Clockwise. It moved up about three inches. “I wouldn’t be able to compete with people with… real brains.”
Dr. Peters leaned forward, then threw herself back in the chair. “Okay. We’ll… forget about the competition aspect… for now. This… memorization. Yes. In medical school, I had to… so much is repetition, rote, little mnemonics, other… tricks. My roommate called me… don’t use it. Re-Peters.”
“I won’t… repeat it.” I swept one hand back toward the table. “Sorry. Too easy to be… clever. Or funny.” Dr. Peters shrugged. “So… Tricks. Files. Pictures. Little… movies. I… wouldn’t it be great if we could…?” I walked closer. Dr. Peters pulled her feet from the ottoman. She leaned toward me. “There are the things we miss. They go by… too quickly. If we could go back, just a few seconds, review… See what we missed.”
“And you can?”
“Can’t you? Don’t you… you take notes, you… Do you… rerun conversations in your mind, try to see where you were… awkward; where you… didn’t get the joke?”
“I do. I try not to. I’m more of a… casual observer.”
“That’s me, Dr. Susan Peters; Casual.”
“Observant.” Dr. Peters stood up. The ottoman was between us, but she was close. Too close. She was about my height. Her eyes were what people call hazel. More to the gray/green color used in camouflage. “Tell me…” she said, quite possibly making some decision on the color of my eyes, “I’m trying to determine if there’s a trigger, a mechanism. Tell me what you remember about… the accident?”
“The… accident?”
“When you were five.”
“I don’t… remember that one. I was… five.”
“No, Joey, I believe you do remember… that one.”
…
This wasn’t a brief remembrance of past events, this was a spell I couldn’t avoid, couldn’t think or will myself out of, and couldn’t stop. I stepped back, turned away. I shook my head. I tried to concentrate on… plants, the ones outside the window. Ivy, ferns, the mildew, the grain of the wood… “Like Gauguin,” I told myself, “Like Rousseau,” I said, out loud. “There’s a lion in there… somewhere.”
“Can you tell me what you remember, what you… see?”
I could not. The Doctor stepped between me and the window. She started to say something but stopped. She looked almost frightened. The image of the Doctor faded until it was gone. I was gone.
…
Everything I could remember, what I could see, was from my point of view.
I pulled down my father’s uniform jacket that been covering my face. I was in my father’s patrol car. Front seat. He took his right hand off the steering wheel and put it on my left shoulder.
“Our secret, Jody boy. Couldn’t put you in the back like a prisoner.” I didn’t answer. “Too many of you Korean War babies. I can’t believe… if they’re gonna have half-day kindergarten, they should have… busses both ways.” No answer. “Best argument for your mother getting her license.” No answer. “When I get on the school board…”
The light coming through the windshield and the windows was overwhelmingly bright. There was nothing but the light outside.
My father yelled something, two syllables. “Hold on!” His hand came across my face and dropped, out of my sight, to my chest.
His arm wasn’t enough to keep me from lurching forward. Blackness. I bounced back, then forward again, and down. Everything was up, streams of light from all four sides, a dark ceiling. My father was looking at me. His shadow, really, looking over and down. “You’re all right. You’re… fine.” He couldn’t reach me. The crushed door and steering wheel had him trapped. His right hand seemed to be hanging, his fingers twitching. He groaned as he forced his arm back toward his body. “We’re… fine.”
There were three taps on the window beyond my father. “Stay down,” he said. I could see my father’s eyes in the shadow. He looked, only for a second, at his gun belt, on the seat, coiled, the holster and the black handle of his pistol on top.
“You took… everything!” The voice was coming from the glare. “Everything!”
The man came closer. The details of his face were almost clear, then were lost again to the glare, like a ghost, when he leaned back.
“If we could just…” my father said as the suddenly recognizable shape of a rifle barrel moved toward us. Three more taps on the window. “If we could… relax.”
I could hear a siren. Closer. I tried to climb up, over, behind my father’s shadow.
“Everything!”
“No!”
The first gunshot, my father screaming the shattering of glass in front of and behind me were all one sound. The pieces of glass that didn’t hit my father blew over me, seemingly in slow motion. A wave. Diamonds. My father’s left hand was up, out. A bit of the light shone through the hole. I could hear the siren. I could see a red light, faint, throbbing, pulsing. The loudness of the siren and the rate of the light were increasing. I could see the man’s face, just beyond my father’s hand. His eyes were glistening with tears, but wide. Open. His left cheek was throbbing. I could see the rifle barrel again. It was black, shiny. It was moving. It stopped, pointed directly at me.
My father twisted his bloody hand and grabbed for the barrel. Again.
I could see the man’s face. Clearly. His eyes were on me. Bang. The second gunshot. The man looked surprised. He blinked. He fell back. Not quickly. He was a ghost in the glare, almost smiling as he faded and disappeared.
Tires slid across gravel. The siren stopped. The engine noise was all that was remaining, that and something like groaning; my father, me, the guy outside. Mr. Baker. Tom Baker.
“Gunny?” It was a different voice.
“I’m fine.” It was my father’s voice, but at a slower speed.
“Bastard!” It was the new voice, followed by a third gunshot.
Dr. Susan Peters came back into focus. She looked quite pleased.
I HAVE COMPLETED my many-ist rewrite of “Swamis.” AFTER chatting for an hour on the phone with the head of a publishing outfit, I am now looking for an agent. I’ll get into this next time. THIS time, thanks for reading. Remember that original stuff on realsurfers is protected by copyright, all rights reserved. Thanks for respecting this.
AS FAR AS WAVES, best of luck; if I don’t see you on the water, maybe I’ll see you on a trail. WHEELIE!
There is the no waves skunk; the wait for hours for waves to show up and then go out in waves that are or become way worse than the waves you could have ridden; and the show up with good waves but suffer some breakdown (ie; broken and lost fin) or run out of time before you can get out because you have to, HAVE TO LEAVE. We could add the times you just know it’s going off and you just cannot, this or that obligation, go, BUT you will hear about how awesome it was. Somehow being there and not surfing is more painful; what could have been for you and was for… them. Yeah, that’s petty. We all should be accustomed to this and not harbor resentment. Should. Jimbo and Buster got waves, supposedly, allegedly ‘All time, Epic, etc.’ You were working on your resume, trying to make yourself seem a bit more regime-friendly. Worth it.
Right Decisions, Wrong Decisions, Indecision, and/or Three Degrees of Skunk
“Time and tide wait for no man.” I don’t know who to credit the quote to, and frankly, I’m not motivated enough to even try to look it up. Here’s another quote, from me, probably said earlier, possibly better, by someone else: “There are good and bad decisions; sometimes the worst decision is indecision.”
I have missed more waves through indecision than bad decisions. I could trade this possible aphorism, as it relates to my most recent attempt at finding and riding waves to, “Always listen to Trish,” and/or “Trish is almost always right.”
Yesterday was my wife’s birthday. Always a year and a bit behind me, age-wise, always ahead of me, decision-wise. YES, Trish knew the election was getting blown out while I still held on to some desperate belief that even people I am going to say are fooled rather than that they are fools might vote self-interest over grievance, YES, Trish said I shouldn’t agree to go with ADAM “WIPEOUT’ JAMES if he had to get back to HamaHama by 11 am. YES, Trish did say, when I got home at 10am, that I should just go back out. YES, Trish was right.
The, let me see, 1971… 2024… 53rd wedding anniversary (I was 20, Trish was 19 years and eleven days old) is coming up; you’d think I’d believe her by now.
I am extremely bad at giving presents. To anyone. If giving a compliment on, say, a surfer’s, even a friend’s ride or style, is a sort of gift; I’m stingy enough to never give false praise. RUDE SARCASM, yes, though, since you should believe Trish, she says… well, a lot; all of it honest. “You always try to be cool. Give it up!” This was when we were first dating; still holds up. “You say you’re just joking. No, you almost always mean it.” Okay. “You never listen.” No. What? “You’re an asshole and you’re never sorry.” Okay, there Trish is wrong. I am sorry. Sometimes.
I’m sorry right now. Sorry for myself that I didn’t set up an alternate plan, ride back with someone else, sorry I actually (broke a rule here) got word that a spot that wasn’t working pre-dawn was working (hence regret for now heading back out), and I found out, way after the fact, that I could have abandoned Adam, surfed the spot that was working at dawn and beyond, and gotten a ride back. So, TRISH. Right.
Some SOLACE, me trying to lessen the pain of carting my gear all the way to the beach with a thirty-minute window to change, surf, change again, head for the car. Since donning a wetsuit is approximately a ten-minute process, getting out of it, another ten to twelve; there was, realistically, only time to watch surfers catch and not catch waves. OH, and a chance to look like the guy…
SO, there’s the paddle of shame; paddling rather than surfing in because the waves went away (frequent and forgivable on the fickle Strait) or because you are, perhaps daunted by the surf at hand (semi-forgivable if you’ve been surfing for three hours and there’s a seven-wave set approaching); and then there’s the greater shame of being all set to go and then not going out because the waves are not what you are prepared to ride.
This was not the case, and, no, I don’t want to be that guy, OR the old guy who dispenses ‘back in my day’ stories rather than subjecting himself to paddling out and providing proof that this is not his (apologies for using the masculine) day.
RIDING WITH ADAM, I have to say, is very enjoyable. He has great stories that go way beyond surfing, BUT, as I told Adam when we were hightailing it back to his car, me with my bag of dry wetsuit and supplies, Adam with a fresh ding in his latest favorite board of all time, if I had made a deal to get a ride back with KEITH and RICO, I’d have abandoned him in a fucking heartbeat and gone out. I WASN”T JOKING.
Wipout-wise, REGGIE SMART did suffer an injury recently; his board smacking him in the jaw, teeth going through his lip. He drove himself to the emergency room and, in true Reggie style, wouldn’t let the nurse touch him after she touched way too many things with her gloved hands, turned down a stitch from the doctor, saying he had ‘peroxided and denatured the shit’ out of the wound, and couldn’t he just shave off his soul patch and put, like, one of those butterfly things on it? Sure. Did he want vicadin? “No, I’m good.” I’m not all over instagram, but Reggie is. Check him out.
I WROTE a first verse of this poem and/or song (song) a while back. I have been working on a second verse. And a chorus. One I know but one that doesn’t actually fit is something that someone in my family of seven kids came up with. Not sure who should get credit.
Cookies and candy and ice cream and cake, donuts and brownies and pie, and for dessert, Jello.
Hold off on that sugar, Honey, I don’t want to die, I just need a taste of something sweet to get me by; Honey, you should know by now that I might never be, Someone who’s as good for you as you have been for me.
I still can’t believe it, Honey, you have been so sweet, Didn’t know I needed you to make my life complete; Honey, there are universes dancing in your eyes; It’s not just that, it’s so much more that’s kept me hypnotized.
The world of surf, what it is and what we believe it to be, and surfers, real and otherwise, keeps spinning. Some can articulate the range of emotions and sensations flowing through a surfer in the most magical, intimate moments. The addiction is the desire to feel that release again. And… again.
ANYWAY, more to come. I am almost done, like 15 pages from my latest edit of my novel, “SWAMIS,” and I did talk on the phone to the president/owner/whatever of a Seattle publisher. I’ll get to that on Wednesday. RIGHT NOW I am considering whether to take off and look for waves with a dropping swell or… I’ll check with Trish and get back to you.
ALL ORIGINAL stuff on realsurfers.net is copyright protected, all right reserved. Thanks for respecting that. GOOD LUCK.
‘STWAITING” (add a lisp to get the word right), the fine art of waiting around on the STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA for the swell to rotate, or the tide to drop, or rise, or the waves to just get a little bit bigger, a bit more consistent; and then, finally, going out just as the 13th squall blows it all out AND, catching four waves total, you are forced into doing The paddle of shame.
STILL, THERE’S ALWAYS A STORY- But first…
Trisha’s brother’s son, our nephew, DYLAN SCOTT. I sent him an ORIGINAL ERWIN shirt for his birthday and as a house warming present. He sent me a video from SURFLINE REWIND of him at one of his local ENCINITAS spots, D Street. Since I have the non-premium WordPress package, I can’t display it here, but in the clip Dylan tucks into an offshore-enhanced and throaty barrel, doggy-dooring it at the last possible moment, and doing what appears to be, on my phone, a non-claim claim. I did send the video on to the surfers on my stealth phone.
I TOLD this guy that, although it was early, he would, no doubt, be the fashion crusher of the day. It turned out he had a flat tire up the road, and, although he had a jack and a spare, he was waiting for triple A to come from civilization. I guessed he didn’t want to get grease on his poncho.
THE NEXT wanna surf person I saw (should have taken a picture) was suited up and ready to go out. “Really?” “They said it’s supposed to be good,” he said. “Who? Who said?”
TONY AND FIONA are from Vancouver, B.C. where you can get a wavestorm in different, Canada-only colors. Vancouver is kind of like Seattle in that it costs money and takes ferries to get to surf. Evidently it’s cheaper, or as cheap to go to, like, Westport, than it is to go to Tofino. They were camped at LaPush, but left because ‘they’ forecast, like, 16 foot (like, 5 meter) waves, so they left. Quite irritated that my own forecast was proving, possibly, wrong, I gave Tony and Fiona grief, as in, “SO, are you just going to get in everyone’s way when the waves start pumping? How long have you been surfing? Did you go to surf school?” Yes, I sort of apologized, promised to put them on my site with tens of followers in Canada AND throughout the free and unfree world. SO, promise kept. AND, since the waves were so shitty, I have to believe they had a great American time.
THE FADED RAINBOW seems to frame what could be a six foot set at a great distance. It isn’t. It’s a six inch set fairly close. AM I BLOWING UP THE SPOT? My argument is that, if you head out, frothed out by the forecast, expecting epic conditions… well, don’t. As much as I don’t trust forecasts, I think post-casts saying what was rather than what could be, are also dangerous. Since I’m going on years of experience, anecdotal evidence at best, and somewhat relying on actual buoy reports (which are trickier than you might think), and I get skunked… well, there are always waves in WESTPORT.
QUIRKY SCOTT, who does not like his nickname, even when I told him it really means ‘eccentric’, dominated on this day. I am actually a little shocked at how model-like he looks in this photo. NOW, when I say dominated, I mean he caught more tiny waves than any of the other beginning or desperate surfers. I’m in the second category, hopefully.
AT SOME POINT in my paddling for waves that disappeared or disappointed, a woman was staring at me. Wasn’t sure why. It turns out JOSIE (another no photo) heard me talking to Scott, and asked him if I’m that guy who posts stuff on the internet. He said, paraphrasing, “Erwin. Yeah. Tell him you recognize him; it’ll do something for his giant ego.” This wasn’t the first time I’ve been identified, the reaction usually negative. “I like the way you use words,” she said. “Uh, yeah; I know it seems like it’s all stream of consciousness, but, really, I work at, and, yeah, thanks.”
I also, to round out a day of stwaiting, talked to SEAN GOMEZ, Port Angeles teacher and ripper, who got some epic waves recently (I missed it- have friends who didn’t), and to Reggie, who missed out on reportedly epic coast waves in order to make a bunch of money (familiar story for me, newer for Reggie), and saw, on my way home, many more surfers headed to where I had been. “Good luck. They say it’s supposed to be good.”
MAYBE, and this is always the story, it got good after I left.
A photo of a moonset over the unseen Olympics from my front yard. A moment later the full moon was covered by clouds from the latest atmospheric river, a moment later, the moon was back. And then…
NON-POLITICAL STORY: As a decent American, I recycle. I devote what could be a tool shed to saving cardboard and plastic and paper. Enough so that I took half a van load to the QUILCENE transfer station. I’m putting the stuff in the proper bins when this dude comes up to me, looks in my big boy van and says, “Wow, you actually work out of this.” “Yes.” He has spoken to me before, the gist being he’s a painter, ready to work. He actually talks way faster than I do, and had a lot to say about wages and drunk and/or cheap contractors and stoned painters who don’t know shit. “Uh huh,uh huh.”
Somewhere in there he asks me how to register to vote locally. “I, um, got my ballot yesterday. I voted. I… don’t know. You could go to the courthouse, maybe.” “No, man; I don’t want that vote by mail shit. I’m an American. I want to vote in person.” “Well, I think… actually, if you’re voting for Trump, maybe you…” “Damn right I’m voting for Trump.” I tried to dissuade him, but his argument that ‘Kamala isn’t really black’ seemed to be stronger than my ‘Trump is a fucking crook who fucked over every contractor who worked for him’ counter.
He did the violin-playing gesture, usually with ‘cry me a river’ lyrics. I slammed the door to the van, but he, no doubt feeling tough and manly, jumped into his sub compact and drove off. On leaving, I saw MISTER BAKER, former Quilcene Science teacher over by the ‘paper’ bin. “I’m glad to see you survived that encounter,” he said. “Me, too. Yeah. I don’t usually talk politics, but…” “Seems like the last time I saw you, at the Post Office, you were in a heated political… discussion.” “Oh yeah. Mr. Hodgson; he was going on about how he was ‘woke.’ I had to tell him when people like him use ‘woke’ it’s always sarcastically, and if one isn’t smart enough to know being aware of the inequities in society is not a bad thing, one shouldn’t attempt sarcasm. Yeah, and now he’s on the school board and talking about banning books.”
ANYWAY, I didn’t argue with Mr Baker. I do, however, believe he knows where I stand based on the one time I was invited to a cheese and wine (cheese and crackers for me) thingie. And that was before citizen Trump de-evolved into whatever he is now.
IF YOU SEE ME, remind me to take your picture. ANOTHER sub-chapter of “SWAMIS” will be posted on Wednesday, along with whatever fun stuff happens in between. Tensions are only going to get worse between now and election day. Stay cool, surf ’em if you find ’em.
Slightly crooked scan of possible new ORIGINAL ERWIN longsleeve t-shirts. AND I do still have some of my more recent designs with some hoodies. If I get up to Port Angeles, I will add to whatever shirts are remaining at NXNW SURF SHOP. I will update this with the latest sub-chapter of my novel, “SWAMIS” on Wednesday.
JOEL CARBON, Port Townsend surfer, originally from Long Island, sent some shots he took on a recent trip; ROCKAWAY BEACH, evidently, one of the only surf spots in New York, or, at least, the best known. Joel is representing the Olympic Peninsula by wearing a hoody from the HAMA HAMA OYSTER COMPANY.
Worldwide local from Hama Hama, ADAM ‘WIPEOUT’ JAMES sent a few photos from Wyoming. Adam and his family seem to go to their to play cowboy and, evidently, hunt.
I know Montana is the Big Sky state, but Wyoming, with its unofficial state motto being “Equal Rights,” might just believe they deserve a bit of that. This is actually the hunting party headed back to the ranch, but you have to like the look. A little spooky.
SPEAKING OF SPOOKY, I was trying to find my way back to SURF ROUTE 101 from a job in Sequim when I came upon this yard display. WHOA! Not sure what I was looking at, I had to do a u-turn, and then another. I stopped across the street and took a photo, a little concerned that if I stayed too long in my decorated Volvo, it might not be appreciated. SNAP. Shift. Go!
I DO TRY and fail to convince people (well, potential clients, anyway) that I am not political, but, really, is this pro or anti-Trump?
I AM WORKING OUT a concept for an ideal for an essay (chuckling here because of Citizen Trump’s plans for everything other than revenge) on time and dreams and whatever else comes to mind when I actually write the piece.
Here are a couple of the pieces: Wanting to get up early to give me more of a chance to hit some waves, I went to bed early. I woke up at 11:11, time confirmed by the projected light on the bedroom ceiling.. Then I woke up at 1:11, then 4:44. Thankful that the geniuses who created time and divided it into smaller segments, all so we can increase our anxiety just a bit more. Tick, tick, tick; I’m just grateful there no 6:66.
NOW, THE HORSE- I had a dream where I was actually surfing rather than searching for waves that go away when I get closer. I rode a wave, evidently at a beach break, though there was some reference to Windansea earlier, as in me saying to someone who wasn’t in the dream frame, “That’s Windansea over there. Not really breaking. If you look over there (farther away than it is in real life) that’s Big Rock.” ANYWAY, I get something like a GoPro view of a frothy wave, pull out into more froth, look outside to see a broken wave headed toward me. I push through that one, with another bearing down on me. SUDDENLY a white horse comes up beside me out of the foam. “Oh, a sea horse,” I say, possibly out loud. I didn’t check the time on the ceiling.TICK, TICK, TICK. I woke up at 5:25. Thinking I might get another few minutes of sleep, I got out of bed at 5:55.
It is now 8:19 Pacific Standard Time, confirmed by some sort of satellite, though probably not the one that controls the weather and targets trailer parks.
Gotta go! Daylight to burn and hay to make (metaphorically) while the sun shines. When the rain comes and the swells rotate in… that’ll be another story. Hit some waves, share some waves, be nice in the water, and, um, you know, have a good TIME.
Maybe you check the World Surf League site often, even knowing the big time contests are, like just about everything else, on hold, put off, or just plain off; maybe hoping there’s a little video or something that might give you some inspiration.
If so, you could easily find the photo that I have adapted for this drawing. I won’t say copied because it’s like, if ten people draw their interpretations of the original Mona Lisa or a statue of David, which one is a copy? Which one, objectively, does the original justice? Also, this isn’t the final version. I’ve done some printshop magic, reversed the black and white, and added some highlights that will, hopefully, add to the same feel that the original photo has. I’ve also reversed the image (going left rather than right), made some other changes.
Oh, yeah; after Keith Darrock, Olympic Peninsula soul rebel and librarian whose library is currently closed to the public, said “the nose of the board is a little too kicked-up and pointy” I fixed it. So, sure, I can adapt.
I’m getting ever closer to finishing a full manuscript editing of “Swamis.” Keith and I have discussed the possibility of doing some sort of online reading. We’ll see. I would, of course, let you know.
I hope you’re all hanging in here, adapting to whatever new reality this is; and getting a few sliders when you can.
The event last night at the Port Townsend Library was billed as a ‘Hodown,’ and featured a local (but world-traveled) bluegrass band, which was really good, and please forgive me for forgetting the band’s name (something something String Band). I was pretty nervous about reading my stuff, hoping people showed up despite the crowd that did show up (including me) pretty handily fit into the demographic most at risk of dying from any episode of the virus.
Or a person could die on stage. Not that there was a stage. I did get some photos sent to my phone from Stephen Davis (thanks for attending), and a video and photos from my daughter, Dru (who sent them live to Trish- great). I could share them with you, but I won’t; and not just because I’d have to set up some deal on my phone that would probably send me endless bits of junk email; it’s just that…
…It’s all pretty embarrassing, really; publicly reading something I wrote and, probably, hold too dear; and yet I keep trying. I keep thinking I’ll learn something. Other than that I really need something to stand behind that’s wider than I am, and that I should wear glasses selected for reading the pages rather than hiding behind them, and that I should read slower, and only read things shorter than twelve hundred plus pages… oh, and that I shouldn’t wear any pants that might, in contrast to my upper body, look like skinny jeans; giving the effect of a bear keg with a glowing red bulb on top, balanced precariously on sticks… other than that… I still, after risking stroking-out from the first reading, really did want to read my excerpt from “Swamis.”
So, maybe I learned something, just not quite enough.
Now Keith Darrock, PT ripper and my contact at the library, did say he’s ‘always willing’ to subject me to this type of public, um, scrutiny. I did notice that he said ‘always’ with the same gleam in his eye that he has (could have chosen ‘might have’ if that was true) when paddling around me to catch a wave (in, of course, a friendly, competitive way). Keith and I have been talking about having a THIRD OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA AND THE SALISH SEA event.
“Then you can read something from ‘Swamis.'” “Oh. Yeah.” “You know, after it’s actually published.” “Oh. Yeah. Sure. Then. Uh huh.”
I am working on the re-re-re-re-edit, a hundred or so pages left to work on; and then there’s the process of having other people look it over, possibly edit it, and then there’s the task of, yeah, selling the thing.
SO STAY TUNED. Meanwhile, here’s what I read last night: It is fiction. I never was a cowboy, never was a log truck driver. I have driven I-5, straight through, many times.
Never Was A Cowboy
I never was a cowboy, never rode a fence line, alone. Still, I believe I can relate.
It’s the aloneness.
Whatcom, Skagit, Snohomish, King, Pierce, Lewis, Cowlitz, Clark; Multnomah, Clackamas, Marion, Linn, Lane, Douglas, Jackson; Siskiyou, Trinity, Shasta, Tehama, Glen, Colusa, Yolo, Solano, Sacramento, San Joaquin, Stanislaus, Merced, Madera, Fresno, Kings, Kern, Los Angeles, Orange, San Diego.
I count the counties, North to South, border to border, rather than the miles. Rather, I count the counties I drive through, rarely all the way North, rarely all the way South. Seattle or Portland, L.A. or some indistinguishable suburb, if there is such a place- it’s all city down there. Urban: Warehouses and apartment houses, single family homes; squeezed and stacked and spread; criss-crossed with congested surface streets and ever-under-construction highways, never quite wide enough; overpasses and underpasses, on and off ramps, collector/distributer lanes with one-at-a-time lights; ever-competitive drivers in sub-compacts sliding in between house husbands in oversized pickups, women executives in luxury Sports Utility Vehicles, motorcyclists splitting the lanes; any patch of open road demanding kamikaze/video game speed; and there are road signs and arrows and overhead indicators flashing updates on how long it will take to get the next so-many miles; billboards, some lit up and flashing a succession of ever-brighter messages about Casinos and Recreational Vehicles and spa retreats and exclusive resorts; neighborhoods designed, obviously, from thousands of feet up; strip mall here, Starbucks there, McDonalds caddy-cornered from Burger King, various Crayola colors on houses, duller colors on warehouses, each building trimmed in white.
Like white lines, between lanes, fog lines and rumble strips to keep us out of the ditch, away from the guardrails.
Drop the load, get another trailer, reverse the order, South to North. Orange, Los Angeles, Kern. I count the rest stops. I count the gas stops, keep track of which ones had the cheaper diesel last time. I keep track of how many miles I have left between, say Redding and Grant’s Pass, then there and Medford. Portland. Tacoma. Closer, closer.
Miles are converted to minutes. Oregon, on I-5, is almost exactly three hundred miles, with markers, south to north. If I stop only once for gas, whiz, maybe get a quickie mart burrito, I can average fifty miles an hour. So, 300 divided by 50; six; yeah, six hours. If I want to make it in five hours: 300 divided by 5 equals, yeah; sixty. The speed limit for semi-trucks is… anyway, I’ve done it; even with half the state mountains and the other half one big valley, even with the seemingly permanent slowdown south of Portland.
That would have been in Summer, of course; none of the chaining and unchaining, avalanches and black ice and whiteout snowstorms; and without some fool sliding and jack-knifing and closing all the lanes. This rarely uneventful trip would be what high lead loggers, back in the northwest, in the country, in the woods, would call ‘spooling;’ the choker-setters hooking the freshly-felled, limbed logs onto the overhead lines; a variety of whistles, controlled by the Whistle Punk, signaling the movements, the Yarder Engineer at the tower, on signals from the Hook Tender (these are all semi-official titles), stopping and starting the lines; logs eased onto the landing, loaded onto a waiting log truck. Spooling.
Things almost never go that way.
If I hadn’t gotten hurt by an improperly choked log (my fault) I wouldn’t have become a log truck driver. If I hadn’t parked too close to the edge (my fault), if my dad’s truck hadn’t rolled, sideways, down two hundred foot of mountain when the constant rain weakened the old tires and rock and gravel landing until just enough of it gave way (not my fault); if I had, actually, been a cowboy, I wouldn’t be one of an army of long haul truckers; I wouldn’t be sitting in my ergonomic, multi-position, massage-available, heat on demand chair/throne/saddle; in my temperature controlled cab/office/cubicle/cell; with a corral full of horsepower in the front and a full bunk in the back; a great sound/video system, and a hands-free telephone with, nowadays, only a few blank spots, the deepest valleys between the highest peaks.
I could make more comparisons between me and a cowboy. I wanted to. It was the telephone thing that stopped me. No one, really, left to talk to. A hundred-seventy-five-thousand-dollar semi-truck with all the customized amenities wasn’t enough to keep my woman (woman does sound more cowboy than wife or girlfriend or fiancé) riding with me. Time on the road, even together, time away doesn’t help a relationship. Blank spots, increasing over time.
Over time, without real movement, real exercise, with real gravity and the inevitable weight gain, road food becomes something like skittles or pretzels, doled-out a few at a time. Time. Time, that’s what I keep track of. A cigarette takes about seven minutes to smoke, a cigar can last longer; road songs rarely go over ten minutes; even the Grateful Dead, live, in concert. Road songs might not keep you awake, but you can sing along. Maybe. You can listen to local radio. It used to be that the choice, out in the boondocks, came down to country-western or some preacher.
I frequently chose the preaching. “Amen.”
It’s about twelve hundred miles of road, Seattle to L.A., with regulations on how many hours you are permitted to spend behind the wheel. Averaging fifty miles an hour, that’s twenty-four hours. Eight, eight, eight.
There are places, landmarks by now, where a trucker can get a shower and a meal, with lockers and a lot big enough for however many trucks from the almost-unbroken caravan stop in. There are dealers who can amp you up or chill you out; women who don’t mind climbing into your bunk, who might comment on the luxuriousness without asking who you customized it for.
That might make you feel less alone.
For a certain amount of time. Are you then more alone? I can’t answer that. I try to avoid questions. I have a job, some sort of load to deliver. It doesn’t matter what it is. It matters that I get it there. And then, another load. Another schedule. Same road, same mountains you can’t quite see, low toward the coast, jagged to the East- same mountains, different side.
Then again, maybe loneliness is like… I’m trying to think of a proper metaphor. Loneliness is one blanket when you really need two.1
Best I can come up with.
My favorite spot on the route, I-5, north to south, is heading down Mount Shasta, slaloming, foot off the pedals, half an hour before sunrise, the sky some crazy shades you might never see; purple to green, orange to red to blue-white-purple on the rock pile peaks so close to me; reaching up as I’m threading, weaving, winding my way down.
It’s my name on the doors of my rig, hand lettered, with drop shading and highlights. I’ve been known, window down, to tap on it to some road song beat, so many minutes to somewhere, my left arm perpetually tanned, drafting off of the rig in front of me, a variety of people passing me in the fast lane. Sometimes, sometimes when everything’s just spooling, I feel like I am so incredibly, impossibly free.
I never was a cowboy, but, from my office, my cubicle, my cell; I can’t help wondering where your fog line is, your rumble strip, your guardrails, your landmarks.
Though I’m quite focused on finishing my novel, “SWAMIS,” surviving Winter and its lack of real revenue, and keeping my heart healthy enough to survive at least one more SEAHAWKS game; I have taken a little time to work on artsy stuff.
AND, partially due to a recent event in which I selfishly burned (as in took off on a wave next to but down the line from) a well known local surfer… Here’s the rule on that: Burn someone who is equally aggressive (and transgressive, etiquette-wise), or burn someone who is a relatively close friend; and you might be forgiven (plus, you have given that surfer the right to burn you on one [only] equally or better wave); but take off on someone who seems to follow all the rules (that is, is patient, passes up incredibly seductive set waves without whining, as in saying ‘wave of the day’ in the most sarcastic way, or splashing water); and, even if this surfer doesn’t instantly (and rightly) call you out for the callous, childish, greedy wave hog that you are; anyone else who witnesses your selfish move (and there’s always a witness) will; and if you cemented your own reputation for ruthless surf crimes, years ago, for burning, among others, this very same individual (even though you apologized and he said, “It’s all good.” It’s never all good. No one ever means this); and, even though you did, indeed, apologize for your most recent lineup infraction (this time he said, “You don’t really mean it,” and you- I mean me, of course- kind of lost the first person/second person narrative for a second- said, “No, I do,” and you meant that- mostly due to now realizing you’ve sentenced yourself to another seven years or so of bad karma and mandatory niceness/deference toward that individual any time you/I and he are in the same lineup); and partially due to my telling another local surfer (and witness) about how Trish, not surprised at my criminal behavior, would call this incident ‘just another greedy fat boy trick;’ and then I had to explain the history of that phrase; and partially due to Trish getting all excited (not about the incident) and suggesting I might write a series, possibly for future publication, entitled, “Erwin and His Greedy Fat Boy Tricks;” because of all this; I’m thinking about it.
It being my recalcitrant behavior, and, just to throw in another word I looked up just to make sure I spelled it correctly, yes, I must be, might just be, despite repeated claims to be changing my ways, a recidivist wave hog.
Again, trying to change.
The first and defining ‘greedy fat boy’ story would be this: Second eldest of seven children, with both parents working, I, partially because I seemed to be the one who got up earliest, made sack lunches for the nine of us from the age of twelve or so, about the time, coincidentally, that I started board surfing. Sandwiches. Lots of peanut butter and jelly or lunchmeat, about a loaf a day. My parents would bring home a bag of cookies each night, and it was my job to dispense them. Evenly. “Okay, eight cookies each.” Crunch, crunch. “Seven each.” More crunching. I once did get down to three and a half each, but it might have been a smaller bag.
Greedy fat boy.
Other stories would have to include my insistence that I developed my bad (O could say unpopular but effective) surf techniques and (oh, I want to say skills- that would be wrong) skills, my ‘ghetto mentality,’ surfing in crowded city lineups.
“But you’re not in the city now,” you might counter. Hmmm.
“And then,” Trish said, “You can go with the greedy fat man.” “Hey.” “It’d be all right; you’re only being self-deprecating.” “Oh; okay then.”
Still love cookies. Too many fucking cookies.
Okay, so here’s my latest illustration. Yes, it’s all out black and white psychedelia. Yes, I have told those who I’ve shown it to that, yes, I want people to wonder what kind of drugs the person who drew this is on.
Here’s my fake flyer for fake wetsuit company, Polar Bear Wetsuits. “Maximum stretch, minimum shrink.”
MEANWHILE… Good etiquette has its rewards (or so they tell me).
People frequently ask me about Archie Endo, world traveler, salmon roe expert, former fixture on the surf scene (such as it is) on the Strait of Juan de Fuca. Archie was working (I think tuna, the processing and distribution of, was the fish he was connected with) in Thailand when he suffered a stroke. This was about two years ago, and his recovery has been slow.
I did, however, just get a reassuring email from him. He’d gone to a couple of spots in Thailand, and actually got in the water. He said he needs a lot more physical therapy before he’ll be back to reasonable form. “More water time seems best,” I wrote.
Here’s a shot he sent of a crappy beachbreak with some Thailandian version of a Hawaiian kickout. I think. Maybe. And a shot of a reef break that Archie discovered. If you’ve ever surfed Crescent (not a secret spot and please forgive me for naming it here), the takeoff zone inside the boil adjacent to the island is called by me, and should be by you, Archie’s Reef. He was a master of zig-zagging from there into the creek. When he gets back into form, he will, no doubt, master Archie’s Reef Thailand.
Archie did go with me a couple of times when he was back in the Northwest. He wanted to go, and seemed relatively content to watch from the beach, talking with some of the other regulars, offering me advice when I came in. Example: “The waves are long enough. You could, I think, stand up.” “Yeah.”
A few great things about going surfing with Archie: One, Trish really likes him; and it’s always all right to go if he’s going. Two, despite the fact (pointed out to me numerous times) that Archie is incredibly courteous and well behaved in the lineup and I’m not, that he’s quiet and reserved and I don’t even try to be; Archie seems to enjoy surfing with me. Three, Archie is a musician and there might be some singing and harmonica playing on the road there and back (if I was driving), or taped surf music from an incredible variety of world locations (and some singing and harmonica playing) if he drove.
OH, and, four, he doesn’t at all mind if I have to stop in Sequim to hit Costco and/or WalMart, maybe a couple of other stops on the way home. Shopping there is part of my justification for surfing; Trish, on the other end of the cellular device, seems to appreciate this, though she always has at least one (very specific) item I can’t find. Otherwise, date night for Trish and me is a SequimTrip, or worse, Silverdale/Poulsbo.
Yes, I do imagine it seems a bit weird, perhaps, to see Archie and me cruising the aisles, him pushing the cart, me elbowing my way to collect a double dose of food samples. Odd couple.
I should add that Stephen Davis has also done the Sequim Stop a few times, without complaint; added stops, probably, at Michael’s, where he has a great discount, and Office Depot if I happen to have some art piece ready for printing. Soul Rebel/librarian Keith (different than Cougar Keith, who will appear shortly) went with me several times, got a ticket for no seatbelt in the backseat on one adventure. Keith did the Sequimstop maybe twice; took the car over to get gas while I (short list) Costco-ed. We met up in Sequim the next time, rode with him, and he just had to tell everyone that I spilled pretty much a whole cup of coffee into his glovebox (“Hey, I thought it was, like, a fold down tray”) somewhere on Surf Route 101.
“I don’t want to get caught in that vortex,” Aaron (formerly ‘shortboard Aaron,’ now, maybe ‘omni-board Aaron’) told me in declining my invitation to ride together when it appeared we were headed to pretty much the same spot. Oh, sure; it was fine for Cougar Keith to meet with Aaron at the DISCO BAY OUTDOOR EXCHANGE and ride with him.
In the end, of course, Aaron was right. Vortex. On the way home I stopped at the Lower Elwha gas station, had to go inside with a line of folks buying ‘half a rack’ because the card reader wasn’t reading (at least not my card); ran into the Office Depot (without any current artwork) to buy envelopes for our (yeah, it’s late) Christmas cards; into PetSmart for two replacement blankets for the cat in our mudroom (I fixed the leak that soaked the others), hit Costco (spending way too much time looking for gloves- managed to buy the wrong ones), then WalMart (always a joy, always overdressed), then, because neither of those places had the proper Christmas ham, Safeway, (where the fucking russet potatoes not in bags were fucking not in the produce section but at the fucking front of the fucking store). Then Burger King; no pickles no mayonnaise for Trish. All the while, because the proper shopping pair of glasses had a broken earpiece, and the glasses I grabbed on the way out (for drawing) were waaay too strong for shopping (or walking, or reading a menu board at Burger King); the experience was, yes, Aaron, a fucking Vortex.
My older son, James, still uses Sequim as a verb (sequimed) and as an adjective (sequiming), and as a noun (sequimers) when Jason Finley referred to Sequim as “the pullout capital of the world,” adding, “those old people just don’t care.” Before the highway bypassed downtown, I said “it takes as long to get through Sequim as it takes to get to Sequim.” This was years ago now, I qualify, almost (always someone older), as one of those old people. Still; VORTEX.
Okay; I’m calm now. As it says in our (modified, late) Christmas cards, “If you can’t hibernate peacefully, Holiday Joyously!
Let’s discuss the FROTH SCALE, the STOKE SPECTRUM; the level to which your adrenalin spikes and your heartbeat soars in a direct relationship (or proportion if your mind is more math-ish) to rumors, predictions, short term forecasts of waves; and, more specifically, how you react to those soothsaid prophecies (as in, “Did you see the forecast for next Wednesday [only an example]? Sooooo sickkkkkk. Dude.”); adding in how you *spontaneously, viscerally respond to the anticipation factor, the increased possibility of real-life, rideable, possibly-rippable, possibly-uncrowded, possibly-perfect waves as you approach a beach; and then, we’ll add in how you react when the actual waves and the actual conditions, skunk-to-score, shit-to-all-time classic ultimate; this reaction, the **intensity of this reaction shows where you are on THE SCALE.
So, yeah; pretty much just standard surf talk.
EXAMPLE ONE- You’re probably, statistically, way more likely to get a speeding ticket heading for waves than going from waves.
EXAMPLE TWO- Access to beaches, including possible surf spots, on the Strait of Juan de Fuca often requires a hike. Often, the waves cannot be seen until one is close. There’s faith and hope but no guarantee. If you have hiked a mile, half of which is steeply downhill on a muddy, slippery path, and you, on first hearing waves, even before trying to discern the relative strength of the waves or an interval; break into a run… that’s probably three-quarters of the way up the scale.
*The actions our bodies take without our minds playing a major role (breathing, breathing, digestion, for example) are generally categorized as part of the bodies’ autonomic system. Yeah, yeah; we’re talking about how we react in the moment, without allowing our trained, worn-down and cynical brains to lessen the impact.
**Flight or fight; fear or some sense of invincibility; depression or elation. The worst and lowest place on the scale is ***NO REACTION.
FORGET THAT; we’ll start with WETSUIT WORTHY. It seems fitting to have Jack O’Neill, pretty much the soul daddy of cold water surfing hypothermia prevention garb, trying to decide if the waves are worth turning a not-quite-dry wetsuit back to right-side-out.
You, no doubt, have stories of times you went out when the surf was marginal, only to discover it turned into something epic. Place that story on the scale. Sure, you can embellish it a bit, after the fact. This is where our brains add the color.
There is, of course, GIGGLE WORTHY, HOOT WORTHY, WET YOUR WETSUIT BEFORE IT’S ON WORTHY. There is, or shouldn’t be a CALL YOUR FRIENDS WORTHY. Maybe way after the fact. At the top of the scale, just after HYPERVENTILATION WORTHY is HEART ATTACK WORTHY.
It doesn’t mean you are required to have one.
***I didn’t mean to go to three asterisks, but, if you see pretty darn good surf conditions and have no reaction, QUIT SURFING. NOW.
Real Surfers 