Tag Archives: “Swamis” novel by Erwin Dence

“Swamis” & RSRD; A Cutback Wraparound

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I continue to tighten my manuscript. This is something I cut. Because, some day, in some quite obviously self-imagined and delusional future, publishing it here might be prove to be instructional; and really, truthfully, because I have severe Written Stuff Retentive Disorder (RSRD), and hate to just throw stuff I’ve written into some dark void; because I feel the need to explain where stuff came from and why I thought this stuff needed to be in “Swamis,” the novel, originally. But, without explaining why it now needs to be cut, here’s… this:

No, not quite yet. I steal stories from other people’s lives, rearrange stories from my own. My father is not the same person as Joseph DeFreines. No, but the story is stolen (or adapted) from a real life incident, one in which my father was sent home, quite bruised up, after an altercation on his Civil Service job with the then phone service on Camp Pendleton, run with civilian workers and Marine supervision. My father’s boss was always a Marine. The phone service has long been since taken over by corporate providers.

One of the Marines assigned to the crew did refuse my father’s kind request to get off of the backhoe. Somehow, in the incident, someone wrapped a chain, at speed, around my dad. He came home bruised. There was an investigation; mostly, I have to guess, on how polite my father actually was in his request. The “So, not a fair fight then?” quote is probably pretty accurate.

My father kept his job, retired from it.

The story was meant to show something about the character of Officer and then Detective DeFreines. The story of an incident between Joseph DeFreines, Junior and another Little League player was one of several anecdotes showing how Joey/Jody DeFreines, particularly when he was younger, was capable of violence. That background information would, hopefully, set up some tension going forward in the novel as the situations become more intense.

I took (or stole) the nickname Shiner from a guy I was in the local Volunteer Fire Department with. I never asked him where the name came from, never really had a run in with him… except that one time, when I borrowed his turnout gear and climbed under a car with a severe gas leak. Shiner was pissed, the gear was… well, it may or may not have been salvageable. Shiner and I do exchange nods or more when we run into each other at the Quilcene Post Office. So…

Stolen image: Other kids’ parents misbehaving

My father didn’t tell war stories from the World War II or Korea. “Long gone,” he would say. He created new stories. With the driest, wryest sort of expression he would retell ‘The Kindly Step Out of My Car’ story.

I was thirteen, had just started board surfing, and my mom promised she would take us to Tamarack, but only after we went to Freddy’s little league game. I had been removed from my team after an incident. The discussion between the coach and my father ended with my father saying, “No, I won’t let him quit; you have to say you’re kicking him off.” Decided.

My mom guilted my dad into meeting us at Freddy’s game. “It is in Vista, Joseph. You work in Vista.” He showed up, fourth inning. Some kid’s dad was three innings drunk and belligerent, screaming at players and coaches and umpires from the right field fence.  

To calm the Drunk Dad down, my dad walked him over to the parking lot. He did not invite Drunk Dad to sit inside his brand-new unmarked car, and especially not in the front seat.

“With him ready to puke and all, I did, politely, ask the gentleman to, kindly, step out of my car.”

At this point there would be a pause or a switch in tone, or an actual wink.  

My mom and some Fallbrook folks and I watched from the left field bleachers. Vista folks grouped up on the right field side. We couldn’t really hear what was said. Pantomime. Several Vista Dads headed toward the show. A Friend of the Drunk Dad, also drunk, hit my father across the back (three cracked ribs) with a bat (all were wooden in those days- hickory, mostly), and, when my father turned around and requested a fair fight, politely; smack (severely bruised left arm).

In telling this story, my dad, in his professional and quite monotone voice, would say, “At that point, the gentleman did get out of my car, but decided to tackle me from behind. So, I’m on the ground, I look up at these two, um, citizens, and I say…”

On the various occasions when my dad would break into this story, someone would finish his quote. “So, not a fair fight, then?”

Both of the Drunk Dads ended up on the ground, a foot on one (broken jaw), a bat (in my dad’s left hand) tight against the chest of the other (bruised sternum). 

My father’s next line was, “So, the judge asks me if I’m sure I said, ‘kindly’ in a polite sort of way. Since he’d already given the Drunk Dads total exoneration and the Sheriff’s Office, worried about being sued, had paid for all their medical expenses, I said, ‘Judge; when I say kindly, I don’t always say it… politely.’” 

He told the story enough times that the pauses were appropriately placed, the timing perfect.  “Politely.” 

…

Because I do tell stories, here is “More Tits, Bobby:”

“You shouldn’t have run,” my father said, “it made you look guilty.” Oh, we were. I was eleven (1962), my down the block neighbor, Bobby Hudson (who got away, temporarily) and I had been digging through my dad’s assortment of “National Geographic” magazines in one of the big greasy drawers in the old Post Office oak desk that became the base for the garage workbench.

“It was Bobby’s idea. He was finding the pictures, I was just…”

“Looking? Yes. Junior, I heard ‘More tits, Bobby,’ from outside.”

I didn’t consider, at the time, why my dad kept those particular issues, each one containing at least one topless ‘native,’ in that drawer.

…

The “Just Smile” story:

This was, again, the summer of 1965. I was almost fourteen, had started surfing, but was expected to live up to my commitment and to graduate from Little League to Pony League baseball. That didn’t happen.

“Anger is almost always because we’re mad at ourselves,” my father said. I hadn’t told the Coach and wouldn’t tell my dad why I punched out the kid from Rainbow, wouldn’t tell him what the kid called me. I knew I didn’t have to.

“The next time someone gives you… guff,” my dad said, as he exited and I was about to enter the one bathroom at our Magarian tract house, “just smile. Really. Laugh; it’s even better.”

“So, he wins?”

“He’s still on the team. Is that winning?”

“But Dad, see; I did do that. I did… smile.”

I wanted to cry; knew I couldn’t cry in front of him. He knew I’d cry if he left. He stayed. We practiced my smile at the bathroom door mirror, trying to find, so we could eliminate it, the one I gave the kid from Rainbow before I smacked him with his own glove.

“That one, Junior; that is one scary fucking smile.”

It was the first time he used any swear word at all in front of me. It was an evil, crazy smile. I tried to hold it, broke into a laugh. And my dad laughed.

“Half of that, that would be perfect. People like that; they have to know you mean business but you’re holding back.”

“Here’s my… on-the-job smile.” Confident, with a faked friendliness, his eyes moving, calculating. Anyone receiving that smile would have to know Joseph DeFreines was capable, if necessary, of violence. “Practice, Junior; and, really, don’t feel like you have to get even. If you knew that kid’s family, um, situation, you’d… save your guilt and, and your anger… for something bigger.”

Guilt?  I hadn’t felt particularly guilty for hitting the Kid from Rainbow, or for striking out of Little League.

“Oh, incidentally,” my father said, with a slightly less friendly version of the same smile, “since you’re freed up from baseball, I’ve signed you up for Devil Pups.” He did a little marching move on the way out of the hallway. “One two three four… one two… three four.”

“Nip,” the Rainbow Kid called me, again, two days later, in the cafeteria; loud enough for those in the vicinity to hear. He was smiling, others were laughing. “Jap,” he added.

I sat down next to my tormentor, squeezing another Rainbow kid over. Rainbow, for reference, is an area East of Fallbrook, out on highway 395, now Interstate 15, south of Temecula, which is now huge. I set my metal tray of food in front of me, looked at each of his friends until they looked away, looked at him, at his swollen eye. If he didn’t look as if he’d take his words back, he did look a bit worried as I moved even closer.

I know I had my new smile on my face. Practice. “Shiner,” I said, and laughed.

There was a pause. I waited. Patiently, eyes on the Kid.

“Shiner,” someone else said; then another; everyone at the table except Shiner laughing.

And then Shiner laughed. The nickname stuck. Shiner. Never surfed. Became a civilian Firefighter at Camp Pendleton.

Okay, so the “More Tits” portion: True stuff, based on my neighbor, Bobby Turner, and me going through Bobby’s father’s collection of “National Geographic;” definitely porn for eleven year olds.

I have, incidentally, figured out a way to include a condensed version of the “Kindly” story in with the STUFF currently in the manuscript.

PREVIEW: I am working on a piece on the most disputed part of surf etiquette; THE BACKPADDLE. No, I am not admitting to any guilt; merely pointing out the subtleties. Soon.

Cheer Critchlow Cut from “Swamis”

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Or, maybe not.

I am at a point in my tightening the plot of “Swamis” where the narrator has to have a reason to take a night class in Police Science. The scene has the introvert (with exceptions) Joey/Jody running out of the Public Speaking class (with some backtracking as to why). The inspirations are these: My old neighbor in Encinitas, Frank Andrews, who did some painting with me on weekends, told me that if he had to give a speech or take an ‘F,’ he’d choose the failing grade. This was shocking to me. I would race through any oral report. The other thing is the actual night class I did take at Palomar Junior (long since ‘Community’) College. I wrote about my experience for this site in 2013, so this is a rerun. Or a reprise.

Greetings to Cheer, seems like you’re doing well.

SO:

There probably should be some time stamp here. Along with the peak of the Baby Boomer wave, I graduated from Fallbrook Union High School in 1969. “Sixty-nine, Man!”

Before I went to Palomar Junior College, the closest I’d come to hanging with anything that could be called “the North County Surf Community” was when I was on the Fallbrook wrestling team, going against San Dieguito. That school district included Leucadia, Encinitas, Cardiff, maybe even Del Mar; and excluded Carlsbad and Oceanside- separate tribes, separate Junior College. But Fallbrook was included in the Palomar district. Sure, Escondido and Vista were also included. But, what going to Palomar meant…

…it meant a lot to me. Now I knew other surfers ‘from school.’ I could nod to them, maybe, on campus, or, better, at the top of the Swamis stairs; maybe even hang for a while, comparing notes on the surf, they drinking homemade smoothies, some talking about Jesus; me with my chocolate milk, and, having already used a few swear words to describe the crowds, unable to testify, to say I also had a deep love for our living Savior from before it was cool.

I knew who Charles ‘Cheer’ Critchlow was before he showed up in Speech 101, one of the night classes I took to allow more time for work/surf/girlfriend/church, Speech. It was his image, tucked into a little tube, that was on the sign for Hansen Surfboards, A photograph had been in “Surfer” Magazine, tucked into another tube at a surf contest in Santa Cruz.  I’d seen Cheer and Margo Godfrey casually walking out to surf the outside peak at Swamis on a big choppy afternoon when Scotty Sutton and Jeff Officer and I kept to the inside peak.

So, I tried to use the original photo that became this part of the signage at the Encinitas Hansen store (way different than a surf shop). The site where I found the photo of Cheer crouched in a tube said it couldn’t be used for commercial purposes, but editorial usage was okay. Okay, I don’t make any money on realsurfers, so… so I saved it, then couldn’t find the file. Oh, there it was, but, well, no photo, just various ways I could pay to use the photo. So, no. Another option was to use a photo I couldn’t actually be positive is Mr. Critchlow, another to use a much more recent photo of the obviously successful Charles Critchlow. It seems he is a CPA*. Interesting.

Mr. Critchlow had actually, though he was also still in high school, been a judge at a North County high school surfing contest at Moonlight Beach. Jeff and Scott and I, though we’d ripped in the warm up, were harshly eliminated in our first round heats. We were gone so quickly that several girls from my school showed up after we’d taken off.  Maybe I’d lied about even being in it.

No, Jeff’s Dad took us to 15th Street in Del Mar, near where they had a beach house- and we ripped it up again. No points.

Cheer Critchlow was one of the surfers I viewed, from the shoulder, wailing from fifty yards deeper in the pit during the first day of the swell of 1969. “They (the surfers who were successful) must have some Hawaii experience,” I said at the time.

When I gave a speech on our trip to Mazatlan in my nervous-as-shit, rapid-fire delivery, Cheer Critchlow spoke clearly and calmly, and with some humor, about his first time surfing big Sunset Beach with Mike Doyle.

“So, Mike just told me, ‘If you don’t just go, you’ll never go.’ And I went.”

When I brought in a surfboard I’d shaped and painted as a visual aid, Cheer brought in templates he’d used with and borrowed from, again, Mike Doyle.

When I gave a speech on my future plans, writer, artist; Cheer’s speech revealed school was part of his backup plan. He’d tried very hard to be a professional surfer, and it wasn’t working. Maybe someday, he said, a surfer could make a living from surfing. Very convincing, moving, successful speech.

*Interesting because the character I thought would be the closest thing to a true villain in “Swamis” is a Certified Public Accountant. No, not based on Cheer Critchlow, but, since I am just reworking the part of the story where Joey and Mr. Cole meet, and, because a CPA’s most valuable asset is a perceived or real belief that this person is trustworthy, and since I already had the fictional CPA possessing that same combination of confidence and coolness, with just enough self effacing modesty, qualities Cheer seemed to have… to seem… well…

No, David Cole doesn’t surf, but his daughter, Virginia, does.

Still, he could have given me, maybe, a few more points at Moonlight.

“Swamis,” Right Now

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This is another part of my manuscript that I am completely changing. It wasn’t some obvious attempt at having Ginny and Joey ‘meet cute.’ Still, I thought it was kind of cute/authentic. I will restate that Joey is not me. I did try to sneak into advanced photography without the prerequisite. No Ginny, no Big Jackets; ran into them later when I was writing for the “Port Townsend Leader.” Like the look, can’t pull it off myself. The having to pee but can’t leave the photos developing thing is real.

Oh, I did notice that Joey mentions Bucky Davis. He is a real person. When I said something about him and my early Kook days, a friend (okay, ‘Shortboard’ Aaron) said that Bucky Davis is the perfect surfer name. Yes.

As far as the sort of magical aura of being in a red-lit darkroom: When I was working in the Sign Shop at the Puget Sound Naval Shipyard, I did, on my first trip to the yard’s photo lab, go into the darkroom with, rather than the burly main photo guy, a woman who was not all that attractive in regular light, but, with the added mystery of it being very close to Halloween, and with the woman in some sort of costume (cat, I think, with appropriate makeup), it was sort of, um… let me not get myself in trouble here… it gave me something to use here, thirty-plus years later.

This works. Kind of.

Everyone in the correct classroom seemed to know each other. They were standing around in small groups, some in those multi-pocketed, khaki-colored newspaper photographer vests or coats; versions, I thought, of great white hunter jackets, modified trench coats. Big Jackets. Some had more than one camera, more than one leather camera bag. The more pockets on the coat, the bigger the camera bag, the better the photographer must be. One guy was wearing a green beret (French artist, not Army Special Forces style), another had on a gangsters-in-old-movies fedora. Very noir, I thought. One guy had on the fishing version of a pork pie hat; the look completed with a couple of fishhooks. None of those obviously real photographers, I thought, could possibly take Fish-hat seriously.

Poser. Faker. Hodad. Kook. Like me; trying to blend in without having taken the prerequisite.    

I looked down at my favorite vinyl windbreaker, selected because it had pockets for holding the two rolls of exposed film I had with me, one per pocket, balanced.  An inside pocket contained a pack of cigarettes, my dad’s lighter, four ballpoint pens and a Surfboards Hawaii decal I’d picked up at the shop, free, to me, the girl at the counter said, with my purchase of two bars of wax, as if I was special. 

Most of the Photography II folks were men, grownups, though not as old as the potential realtors. I couldn’t help thinking that most were probably most interested in artistic nude photography. Artistic. Nude. Perverts. Little groups of perverts with multiple pockets on Big Jackets.

Then there was Virginia Cole; a ponytail hanging out of a hand-crocheted girly version of something between a watch cap and a French beret. She may have had on some makeup. If so, it was minimal. She was wearing a neutral-colored and oversized sweater, and Levis, 501s; boy jeans. She had that large, gray-and-stained, possibly-leather bag on the floor in front of her. She had that Ginny Cold look (I would say neutral, but it was cooler than that) on her face.

Not that I knew her.

I did know the look; the don’t-even-think-about-it expression necessary for a young woman’s survival in the surfing community. Or any community, including night class.

Trying not to so obviously looking at Virginia Cole, I leaned against the table, close to her, checking out the black and white framed photos on the wall, and more samples, unframed, spread out on this and other tables. I did glance over occasionally. Virginia Cole didn’t look around.

“Hi,” I said. No response. “It’s like a pervert convention,” I said. No response. “The Big Jackets.”  

No response. I chuckled, Virginia didn’t. “I surfed Pipes this morning… pretty good. Dawn patrol. All the high schoolers… back in class. I had some day classes. I work… yesterday.”  

I was undoubtedly talking too fast, definitely nodding like a fool. “I mean ‘worked’ yesterday. At the market. Cardiff. San Elijo Market. Lot of people call it Mrs. Tony’s.” 

Virginia cleared her throat. “Got a great deal on grapes.” Nothing. “Seedless.” I thought I saw a bit of a smile, quickly dropped. “You get any waves?” No response. “They’re seedless; on sale. Grapes. Mrs. Tony’s.”

Virginia Cole turned toward me. She had the ‘drop-dead-and-die’ look ready to go; with the possibility of her expression moving from there to the ‘may-your-dick-fall-off-just-before-you-drop-dead-and-then-die’ look; but just as she turned, as can happen in the hours after a person surfs, water, trapped in the sinuses, suddenly, uncontrollably, flowed out of Virginia’s nostrils.

It was less than ‘poured,’ more than ‘dripped.’  No, poured is more accurate.  She pushed herself away from the table and quickly brought a hand up to stop the flow.

She looked at her hand, looked at the wet streak down her sweater, the drips on the floor, looked to see if any of the Big Jackets had witnessed this. They hadn’t. Then she looked at me. I wasn’t laughing. I must have shared Virginia Cole’s expression; both of us cringing.

Virginia Cole tried to reset her serious expression and couldn’t. “Seedless, huh?”

“Okay, class;” a man’s voice from the front of the room announced, “time to pick a partner for the dark room.”

Frightening; the choosing process. Always.

I took the neckerchief I had around my neck (part of my junior college-cool outfit), handed it to Virginia. She looked at it for a second, unraveled it, wiped her nose, her eyes on me. Green, yes; translucent. She reset her polite-but-serious face, looked down as I wiped at the puddle with my bare feet.

“No shoes,” she said.

“No. No shoes. Wasn’t expecting…” I did an unnecessary sniffle.   

Virginia Cole folded the neckerchief so that the wet part was on the inside, gave me a lesser version of the cringe. I moved one of my rolls of film to the other pocket, accepted the neckerchief, stuck it in the other pocket. I raised my Yashica 35-millimeter camera, briefly considered pointing it toward Virginia Cole.

She looked at the camera, then at me. No.

“My mom,” I said, “she bought it from a Marine, he’s… was, back from Vietnam, at her work. On the base. Photo lab, matter of fact. He’s dying, maybe he has died by now… probably. They sent him back to Arkansas or some place; some, some unspecified disease. I think it might be, um, syphilis. ‘So young,’ my mom said.” I moved the camera closer to Virginia. “So, ‘Fifty bucks,’ my dad said. It was more like a question. ‘Fifty bucks?’ ‘It’s for Junior,’ my mom said. ‘Guess it’s better than that Brownie,’ he said. So, um, she actually got it for thirty-five, cash, gave me the rest… for film. So, it’s mine.”

Ridiculous scattergun blathering. Still, I must have wanted to see, again, her ‘drop dead’ expression. I did raise my camera, did look at her through the lens. Though I never took the shot, her face, just before she put her hand over my lens; that is still my top Virginia Cole image.

 …

This was new. The darkroom. A certain foggy closeness, warm, chemical smells. Different.

Something about being with (that is, near) a woman in a dark room; the lighting so different; highlights and profiles in shades of red; a certain intimacy. I was a little too thrilled. This wasn’t a date.

With me so obviously amazed and clueless, Virginia almost shoved me toward an empty station near one of the many sinks set and spaced out on several long black counters. She took my camera, made sure it was rewound, opened the back, took out the roll of film, unfurled it, cut it into several sections, put on some heavy rubber gloves, then, using tongs, placed those sections into the tray of developer.

“How did you even get into this class, Junior?”

I put on rubber gloves. “Beginning photography was closed.” I just stood there, stood by. Eventually the first roll of film I would ever watch develop was coming to life. Images were emerging. Negative images; everything white gone black. So excited. Not that it’s necessarily connected, but I had to piss. Desperately. I couldn’t leave. “You?”

“Me? What?”  

I tried to pass on my question by sweeping my hands toward, then past her, then around the darkroom. “Photography… Two. Two, as in, with a prerequisite.”

 “Me? Oh. Took it while I was in high school. Last year. It’s… probably didn’t tell you out in Fallbrook. It’s… possible. It’s allowed. Quit dancing.” Maybe the ‘quit dancing’ was too much like an order. “Please.” She looked at my feet. “I don’t get your no shoes look.” I looked at her feet; brushed leather almost-hiking boots. Hush Puppies. I guessed with socks. “You know, there are… chemicals… in here.” Maybe I looked like I didn’t understand. “Shoes, Junior; at least some go-aheads; something… sensible.”

“Shoes. Shoes. Good. Good idea. Sensible. Yeah. I, um, had some Hush Puppies; got them because Phillip, a friend, from, um… he surfs. Pretty well. Phillip… fashionable… he had some. I kind of…”  I put my hands on my knees. “Bowlegged. Me. Sort of. I ran them over… at the heels. They were… I liked them. Mine. You?”

“Me, again. Me what?”

“You, uh, Hush Puppies; you like them?”

Virginia Cole just shook her head. She nodded toward my first roll of film, floating in the developer. I gave her a look that requested her permission. She gave me a look that said, ‘yeah, dumbass, you can pick it up.’ What she did say, pointing to the other tray at our station, was, “Now, Junior, the fixer.”

I grabbed my roll from the tray, by the edges, held it up to the red lights. There were the images, negative, 35 millimeter, white-and-black images of Swamis, of friends on the beach, two shots of waves at Oceanside Pier. I let the roll slide into the fixer and took the second roll, gloved fingers on the edges.

“How long in the fixer.”

“Long enough.” Insufficient information. “Until it’s fixed.”

“Some of the shots are from the time Phil and Ray and I were at Swamis… shorebreak; and Bucky Davis, he was a Junior at Fallbrook when we were freshmen, one of my earliest surfing heroes; he showed up packing a seven-six, and said surfboards need to get even shorter. Shorter? I had waded out, down where the rip-rap starts, got, yeah; two shots of Bucky, cheater-five on one, and look, he’s smiling, kind of a closeup, on this one.”

Virginia did look. “A little blurred, Junior. Shutter speed, maybe, but, uh, kinetic.” Pause. “Artsy. Bucky Davis; perfect surfer name. I’ve heard it.”

“Yeah.” Something positive. “I, uh, I don’t actually know his real name.”

“Well. Maybe it’s… Bucky.”

Virginia took my roll, hung it on the line with her five rolls of negatives: Flowers, spears of that dark and heavy kind of iceplant hanging onto steep bluffs, palm trees and sunsets and clouds, and various groupings of the San Dieguito surf crowd in the Swamis parking lot.

“Whoa,” I said, “it’s so… magical. Poof; images.”

“You could act like you’ve, um, seen this magic… before.”

“I will. I have been to my mom’s work, never in the darkroom.”

“Shit, Junior; here comes Broderick. Quit the dancing.”

The instructor, Mr. Broderick, middle-aged guy with extended sideburns and a combover, was approaching Ginny and me from another sink/rack setup; but stopped to inform the shortest guy among the Big Jacket crew that Broderick’s Photography and Fine Arts Studio in Escondido should not be referred to as a ‘shop.’  

“Okay. Studio then.”

Broderick, Short Big Jacket, and Short’s lab partner, Rotund Big Jacket, began whispering; sharing some rude, no doubt, remark about the model photographed by a different Big Jacket they referred to as Nikon Nelson, who, evidently, heard his name, and, along with his (Nikon’s) partner, Black Big Jacket (not because he was black- his jacket) came over to join in.

What I overheard, from various voices, was, “Coarse. Grainy. Well lit. Butterfly lighting.” “Kind of chunky.” “Hey, that’s my wife!”  “Oh, yeah; but she looks so much… sexier in my photos.”  “Gentlemen…”  Laughter.  “Asshole!”  “Hey, partner; I was joking; your wife looks just as fat in my photos.”

Virginia pulled on my arm. Swinging around, I ended up quite close to her. She whispered, “Broderick’s had to figure out; or he will, soon. You… here.” Our faces were, maybe, too close.  For her. She moved back a bit. “You’re… quit it… the dancing.” It was more like slightly off rhythm marching in place. “You have to…”  She followed my arm, my hand, down to my crotch area, for a second, half second. “Go.”

“Go? Yes. Go. It’s just…” The developing; so… exciting.”

“Go. Please. But, uh, take the gloves off.” I peeled the right glove off, left the other. “We’ll, when you get back, make some contact prints.”

“Uh huh. Great!” I avoided eye contact with Mr. Broderick, side-stepped him and two Big Jackets, two stations over, all busily looking at sheets of white photo stock that were, most likely, contact prints, the images, obviously, nudes.

“Well lit,” I said, in passing, “Grainy, but yes; subtle.” Two of the Big Jackets nodded, one more pleased than the other. The other one gave me a look, kind of blocked me from coming closer or looking more closely. “Not fat. Statuesque.” Broderick gave me a look. I gave him a nod. “Bathroom,” I said.

TONE- I can’t seem to help it. I am writing “Swamis” as neither gritty nor light; rather as how I envision our lives. We stumble through, try to maintain a balance, some sort of dignity, and a perspective; optimistic if possible. I can’t help it if sometimes shit’s just really cutesy.

Lost in the Moon

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I am posting this here before I submit it for inclusion in the Quilcene Community Center Newsletter. I have a certain resentment (shouldn’t, but do) for the time I spend thinking about, writing, and re-writing material that goes out to an unknown number of readers when I could be using my limited mental bandwidth and time working on my manuscript for “Swamis.” Then again, I have an unknown number or readers for realsurfers, so…I

INSTANT REVIEW: “You man’splained that to death.” Trish

This piece was inspired by a recent and beautiful full moon.

My original choice for a title was “Into the Moon,” a possibly-not-obvious-enough allusion or reference to a more common phrase, ‘heading into the sun.’ I also considered, “Driving into the Moon,” “Lost in the Moon (even more obscure baseball outfielder allusion),” and “Strait Into the Moon.”

All this internal debate, sheer lunacy.

I had an internal chuckle over the last sentence. Internal only, fingers still on the keyboard, ready at any moment to hit the ‘backspace.’ And why? Because I care.

First, I should explain the ‘Strait’ thing: My day started before dawn, rifling around the yard, loading my really big, old guy’s surfboard and trying to ensure that I had the proper gear for both the surfing, somewhere on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, and for a painting job in Port Angeles. The surf can be fickle. Waves, even when predicted to show up, even when the buoys in the open ocean show a swell, frequently fail to find their way down the Strait.  

I knew, because Trish told me, that there was a full moon. To me the whole fullness timeline is more like a Werewolf thing, a three-day (night, rather) event between waxing and waning, with, according to meteorologists and astrologers nd astronomers, one exact moment of peak fullness.

Yes, full and non-full moons have a religious aspect. Genesis 1:16- “God made two great lights: The greater light to rule the day and the lesser light to rule the night. And he made stars as well.”

It isn’t just Christians and Jews; most other religions have a reverence for stuff going on in our vast firmament. Again, because I care, I did Google searches for, yes, ‘firmament,’ ‘Pagan,’ ‘Infidel,’ ‘Religion,’ and ‘To follow something religiously.’ Let me save you some research; Pagans and infidels are folks who follow a different God or gods than the one or ones you believe in, or no god at all (note the monotheistic use of capital letters); hence, if I interpret this correctly, each of us is a pagan to someone.

And, yes, I also Google-searched “Monotheistic.”

Okay. So, going back up a few paragraphs, I was out getting ready to go work (definitely) and surf (possibly), when, through the trees, hanging over the eastern foothills of the Olympics, I saw… yeah, the moon. Moonset.

Oh! I ran into the house, got my wallet out of my work pants (shorts because it was still summer), ran back out, found the moon, even lower, opened the wallet, and said, “Moon, moon, beautiful moon; fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

“Oh my,” you are quite possibly now saying, silently or out loud, “that’s pagan.”

I believe you are right.

Or it could be up for interpretation. I will interpret it to suit my, um, behavior. 

Same mountains, different view from my house. Closer.

But, once I started doing this monthly ritual (didn’t look up ‘ritual’), I just sort of have to do it; religiously (as in, faithfully, as in, one can rely on my doing this- Google). The moon through the skylight, or a different skylight, through the trees, though the clouds; even if I can’t see the moon, I have faith that it is there.

There were waves on the Strait. Sort of. I went to one spot, donned the appropriate gear for the cold water, caught a few tiny energy bundles. The tide was wrong. Not discussing the effect of the moon on the tides at this time, but, okay, tidal change is caused by the gravitational pull of the moon, as crazy as that might sound.

I drove, in my wetsuit, to another spot where the tide was just getting high enough for the waves to clear the rocks. Surf. Two hours later the tide was too high. Go to work. Take a brief van-nap. Paint.

As usual, to take advantage of already being nearby, and as kind of a weak payback for surfing, it was pre-planned that I would make some stops in Sequim: Walmart, Costco, Tootsies (take-home dinner for Trish and me- glad they were open). My friends who surf have declined to go with me because of my time spent in what one refers to as the “Sequim Vortex.”

Vortex- “Something that resembles a whirlpool.” Merriam-Webster via Google.

Surf Route 101, basically North-South, runs East-West through Sequim. This can cause full-on sun blindness. Without going into how the sun sets farther north in the summer than the winter*, and how September’s full moon aligned almost perfectly with the Autumnal Equinox, that time when day and night are of equal length**; as I was headed home, sipping on my chocolate milkshake, there was the moon; straight ahead; full, huge, hanging just above the highway in an empty, Maxfield Parrish sky; the entire visible surface gloriously reflecting our more distant sun.

It could be mentioned that the curvature of the earth acts as a magnifying lens, giving the moon (and the sun) at the horizons the appearance of being bigger. All right, I mentioned it.

I pulled out my wallet, opened it. “Oh moon, moon, beautiful moon…” Slurp, slurp… “Fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up.”

Really, what kind of pagan says, “fill ‘er up?”

As always, thank you for reading. 

Stone Henge; Sun dial or landing zone for Aliens?

*Architects, throughout the ages, have designed structures to take advantage of the north south positioning of the sun. Example: One day a year the sun perfectly aligns with the Huntington Beach Pier, setting dead center. Similarly, and closer to home; going up the hill on the Jefferson County side of the Hood Canal Bridge one afternoon, the sun was perfectly situated in the gap and right on the highway. Perfect, and perfectly blinding.

**I have held the belief that, two times a year, the Vernal and the Autumnal equinox, the earth is in a sort of perfect balance, with equal amounts of day and night everywhere. Well, I looked that up; it is ‘almost’ true, ‘approximately’ a perfect balance. There was an explanation. I didn’t dig deeper.  

Legends and “Swamis” Outtakes

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The main complaint I’ve gotten in the feedback from my most recent manuscript is the side-stories, the deviations and detours from the direct route. I-5 is the fastest route from where I live to San Diego. If you’re in a hurry, take it. I have, and, metaphorically, I am trying to do the same with “Swamis;” focused, tight, direct.

It won’t happen. Because I am past this point in my latest rewrite, I will post it here. I have always envisioned my friend Stephen Davis as Gingerbread Fred (maybe it’s vice-versa). Steve and I have, particularly on long drives to and from surf trips, gotten a bit… verbal. Scream therapy I call it. If you know Steve, sure, picture him. He says he doesn’t mind.

We’ll scream it out soon.

Oh, I mention the Holders in this chapter. That’s going away. I haven’t really done the research to know if Carson Holder, about my age (70- echhh), who I met years ago at Grandview, is related to Dempsey Holder, legendary surfer from the late 1950s, or not. It’s a minor thing in the story, and it’s being cut, but, yeah, I do wonder.

Because I definitely over-explain, including this and other little true life references, is in part, part of my trying to make anyone willing to push through the turns and twists to possibly, actually believe this fiction is… believable, maybe even part of a view worth slowing down for. This doesn’t mean I disagree with the criticism. It is accurate.

I just realized my friends Day and Phillip are in this chapter. It is true they were busted for ditching school and did have to do cleanup for team remainder of our senior year.

Although some of this won’t survive, it is still copyright protected.

Thanks to real life role models for fictional characters.

the real Ray Hicks, circa 1968, Surfboards Hawaii Model A. Note the shadow of the fin.

The real life Stephen Davis, fashion model for Gingerbread Fred

CHAPTER 12- FRIDAY, MARCH 21, 1969

It wasn’t even dusk yet. I could have been surfing. Instead, I was at home. I had pulled the cord to the phone in our living room as far as it would reach, pulled the cord from the phone to its limit, and leaned against the picture window with a view to the coastal foothills to the west. 

This paragraph is in present tense; it works better.

“I get it, Phillip, you can’t go.” I listen. “Okay. Hanging out at the base stables, yeah; probably more important.” Listen. “No, I think she does… like you. You have to… passing glances aren’t enough. You must… talk to her.” I nod, tap on the window. “No, man, before dawn; beat the crowd. Weekends. Shit.” Move toward the coffee table. “Yeah; it is so…” Set the base of the phone down, whisper, “Fucked up. Chulo. Yeah… so weird he was there… when my dad…” Inhale. Chuckle. “No, you’re right; he wouldn’t have intervened with the school board. Not for you and Ray… or for me… whatever people say.” Listen. “Really. Superintendent; not just the Vice Principal? Multiple truancy. Ditchers. So, what’s your punishment?” Turn on the TV. “Really?  That’s it; pick up trash around the campus?” Laugh. “Every day? Nutrition and lunch?” I sit on the couch. “Well; no; I knew there weren’t enough detention hours before graduation. Still…” Laugh. “Good luck with the horsie girls then. Bye.” 

…

My mother had not allowed me to go to the coast after school on the days immediately after Chulo’s murder. Just after arriving home, with Freddy, she was questioning my going on Saturday. “Too soon,” she said. “I don’t trust… the station wagon. It needs a tuneup. And… Larry says the investigation is ongoing and the scene is all a mess.” 

“Larry says?” Larry. Wendall. She clamped her mouth shut. “I do have to go to work. Saturday? Tony’s? I can take the Volvo.”

“My car?”

The Volvo had been picked out, with my father’s help, from vehicles the Sheriff’s Office had impounded for various reasons, and, for various other reasons, these vehicles had not reclaimed. While my father would say, “it’s Swedish,” he meant ‘exotic,’ my mother routinely followed “Swedish” with “Safe, and practical.” What she meant was that it was hers. Freddy and I were not allowed to eat in it, and it was definitely not a car she would, or I could take to the beach.  The Falcon had been the family station wagon, mostly, before the Volvo, before my father was allocated a full-time county rig, before I got a license. It had become the school and back vehicle, the beach vehicle, the mildew smell probably permanent.

“Just be careful. No one’s been arrested… yet.”

If my mother had been able to read my mind, as I often believed (not just mine), she would have known my look was a question as to whether this was inside information- Larry. I held the look a while. “It was on the radio,” she said.

The sound came from the TV before the black and white image cleared. A commercial. We would get a color set when they got it perfected, my father had said, not because my snotty and spoiled friends had one. Ours was the kind where the TV screen was only one part of the TV/record player/AM FM radio console. Furniture, nonetheless. Swedish modern. Blonde. Exotic? Practical.

I considered sitting in my spot on the sectional my mom had covered with some sort of almost-burlap fabric that was pretty much impervious to spills and such. I looked over at my father’s chair, overlarge, overstuffed, a rough sort of brocaded material in a purple-ish red, worn armrests. I hadn’t sat in it since his death. Actually, I had never sat in it.

My mother looked at me, turned her eyes toward the recliner without turning her head. 

“We sent a crew back up to North County, following up after Tuesday night’s… murder.” I sat down. It was comfortable; it had the perfect view of the screen. Optimal.

“Gingerbread Fred,” I said, louder than the news anchor, jumping up, moving closer to the screen.

It was daytime in the footage and the camera seemed to select him, Gingerbread Fred, from the small group over by the bluff. No shoes, no shirt under a well-worn v-necked sweater that I knew to be tan on the greenish side. He had on an almost-matching and equally worn, hand-crocheted watchcap on his head, his almost-matching blondish-red hair exploding from underneath it. The camera seemed to move in, then up to his face, a lot of gray in his beard.

I hadn’t noticed Freddy behind me, takeout from the Fallbrook A&W, my dinner, in his hands.

“Fred,” the man on the TV said, microphone too close to his face. “Fred Thompson, Ma’am. Folks ‘round here call me…”

“Fred,” Freddy said, moving around the chair, and very close to blocking my view, “like me.”

Our mom smiled, ruffled Freddy’s hair. “No, Freddy; you will get a haircut.”

“Nothing like you, Freddy,” I said.  “Gingerbread Fred’s supposed to have surfed Tijuana Sloughs and Killer Dana, and some mysto breaks outside of Windansea.  Simmon’s Reef.”  Not looking away from the TV, I added, “It was verified, I’m told, by one of the Holders.”

“Oh,” my mother and brother both said.

“The kid, lives… around the corner; he’s a Holder. Not sure if he’s related. Dempsey, Dempsey Holder… pioneer, legend.”

“Holders,” my mom said. “You should ask him… the kid.”

“I just saw the flame, man; it was so, um, uh, intense. You know?” Gingerbread Fred’s hands seemed outsized, moving around the same way they did when he talked surf. “Bright. You know?  I thought I’d heard something, over by the…” All his fingers, both hands, were pointing. “The… compound. There was just a sliver of moon. I was coming up, just at the top of the stairs when I seen it. The flames.” Fred clapped his hands in front of him, way too close to the reporter. “Flash!”

She and the camera angle jerked back.

“Poof!”

It was a woman reporter this time; young, thin, with a sort of post-beehive but sprayed-stiff hairdo. When she didn’t move the microphone closer, Fred moved closer to it. He was looking at her, then directly into the camera. “And a car was pulling away. No lights. It didn’t squeal out, but… it was loud.” Fred moved his right hand to mimic a car taking off fast.

Gingerbread Fred mimicked the sound. A rumble turned into “Errrrrrrcuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhh!”  He stopped, put a hand on the reporter’s hand, on the microphone. The camera jerked again, from her frightened expression to Fred’s face, his eyes equally as wide. “Just, um… that might have been… before… before the, the… fire. Yeah. No. After. That’s why I looked over; it was the fire. And then, there was… screaming. The… all at once. In the air. Scream. Ffffwwwwwwweeeeeewwwww! And… it seemed like someone else, like… I thought I saw… on fire. Fire. Fire in the air.” He paused. Rather, he just stopped speaking, but kept looking straight into the camera.

The camera panned smoothly back to the reporter. Fred released his hand from hers. When he stepped back into view again, he was crying. “It was, it was a long ways away. I couldn’t…” He stopped again. His hands dropped down, out from his sides; then moved forward, palms out, then up, into a gesture, I thought, of surrender. “I ran, but, you see, I don’t run. Used to.” The camera moved in too close to Fred’s creased face. “It was like, um, the second coming; maybe; But then… then I could smell the… the fire. Chulo. Good surfer. One time, down at Windansea…”

Gingerbread Fred was gone, gone into his memories. The camera switched, abruptly, to the reporter. She seemed more frightened than moved by Fred’s meltdown. Irritated. “Well,” she said, “we will continue to follow…”

She continued. She looked, I thought, angry, pissed at herself for losing her composure. TV. It shows every emotion. I stopped listening. Gingerbread Fred, looking even more confused, walked past, in the background, and over to an older man in a heavier-than-necessary coat. That man allowed Fred to come close enough to embrace him.

“Wally,” I said, pointing at the screen.

I jumped up and moved closer to the screen. I was pretty sure I had seen Ginny Cole, a camera at her face, standing with but behind Wally; but the pan of the crowd passed too quickly.

“Ginny,” I said. “Ginny Cole,” I whispered. Ginny. There was no rewind.

I had my own rewind.  Words.  Images.  Blink.  Remember.

I was standing. I was frozen.

“And now, the weather,” a voice on the TV said.

“It’s all right, son; you can sit in your father’s chair… if you wish.”

“No; it’s fine, Mom.”

“Well, sit somewhere; your food’s getting cold.” I sat in the middle of the larger section of the sectional. “Oh, and… I, we… have an offer on the place. Where would you like to live?”

I briefly tried to picture everyone who had been at the wake; then, in my mind, I was cruising Neptune Avenue, looking at houses.  Waterfront, on the bluff.  Out of reach.

“Nine seconds,” Freddy said, sitting in our father’s recliner, motioning me away from his view of the screen. “I took a few of your fries because, you know… nine seconds.”

One Page Tightly Wrapped

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It has become kind of a thing with me; anything I’m writing that isn’t “Swamis,” it just means something if I can keep it to one page, 12 point, Microsoft Word. This piece is not inspired so much by Trish, who claims she is an empath, and she is, if being one is somewhere beyond intuitive; she is almost always correct in her assessments of people and situations. No, this doesn’t explain her sticking with me for something over fifty years- different thing, that.

I have run into various people who have felt too deeply; a firefighter/EMT who broke mentally before he broke down physically, several veterans who couldn’t cope with what they had seen or done; but the actual impetus was trying to figure out a client who claimed empath status as if… anyway, that got me started, but then, with the love part; yeah, I kind of steered it back to Trish.

Couldn’t help it.

I have surf-related stories I am just saving up. Less than forty pages to polish on “Swamis” and I’m going to put them out there… I mean, here.

Okay, I did run into JOEL KANESHIRO, who works for BING surfboards and was up in the Northwest looking for waves, in a should-have-been-empty parking lot. We actually went out in should-have-stayed-on-the-beach conditions. Pretty sure Joel will go back, report on the total lack of surf around these parts.

                                                EMPATH, YOU SAY

“No, I said I was an empath.” ‘Was an empath’ as in you are no longer an empath? “No, I am an empath… still.” Oh. “Yes, oh.” Okay; so, as an empath, you can… it’s like you can sort of feel what others are feeling; joy, pain, deep, deep depression, anger. Correct? “Pretty much.” Okay then, this, uh, if it’s like you can get into another person’s head, then… “Didn’t say that.” So, then, maybe you only feel emotions that are directed at you. “Why are you going in this… direction.” Not to be mean, or to, um, demean; I just want to understand. Understand you.

“Well then, fine. If, for example, I see someone who is clearly struggling with some issues, emotional issues, I can feel what they, that person is… feeling.” Okay. “You say ‘okay,’ but you keep on… questioning.” No; I’ll stop. “Good.” What am I feeling… right now? “Angry. No, more like… frustrated.” Wow.

“What do you mean, ‘wow?’ You mean, wow: I guessed, but correctly?” Yes. “So, I’m not an empath; just… sensitive?” Definitely sensitive, but are you, maybe, are you sympathetic to how I feel? Am I justified in feeling… frustrated? “No, you’re bringing this frustration on yourself. I feel that.” Okay.

“What do you mean, ‘okay?’ You’re, are you trying to say, again, I only feel for others as it relates to me?” I wasn’t but, yeah, maybe. “Maybe?” Not, uh, necessarily. Do you believe we cry, when we cry; I mean as adults, not out of pain; for others; are we really crying for them as… kind of like that we’re glad it’s them and not us?

“Whoa!” Whoa? “No. Not true.” Am I being an asshole? “Obviously. An empath detects and feels the emotions of others in the same way that person does.” So, that’s, uh… what you’re really saying is you’re more aware, more sympathetic, more… feeling, caring than most… people. “Only because it’s true.” And, because you are, you’re more, we could say, vulnerable? “Probably.” Delicate? “No; that’s different.”

Different. Great; so, hey, you know, I feel for you; delicate flower in a harsh world. “Asshole.” Yes, but you understand me. “No, I don’t know why you have to be that way.” I’m not ‘that way,’ I’m this way. I have my reasons; and even if I didn’t, you would… get it. Me.

“No, you don’t have an excuse, not a real one.”

Oh, but, in my mind, I do. Am I so… self-centered, even narcissistic; me and my blocking or ignoring or not feeling all the pain in the world? “Wait. What you’re trying to say is you’re… pragmatic.” Maybe.

“But, really; it seems like you might be trying to say that I’m… something… negative… about me.”

No, I am trying to say that, maybe, it might be better to understand more and feel less.

“Do you believe that you… understand… me?”

Not even close. But I know that I love you. “You can’t just say that.” I did. “You did.” I had, um, hoped you already knew.

“I, uh, felt like I did.”

Okay. “Okay.”

Image result for photo of empath
Not my artwork. Googled “Empath.” I don’t even come close to qualifying.

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Sometime there are things I just have to write about. I can’t tell you where I surfed most recently, or how good it was, though I feel perfectly unrestrained in recounting how many times I’ve been skunked out here on the inside elbow of the last push west and north in the contiguous United States. Numerous, with sessions where it was the wrong tide and closed out but one had to surf because it was going to get windy, so one (meaning me) did, and it did get windy, so much so that it was completely blown out by the time the tide did allow the waves to properly line up. Or the time when one (still me) waited a few hours for the swell to get in, and they sort of did, but the objectively weak, measure-ably small waves completely disappeared by the time I got into my wetsuit and back down the beach. Or… or…

Or I can post something I just had to write one morning, a piece I wrote and polished and sent to Keith, because he’s in it, and Drew, because he’s a huge Dylan fan. And now you.

                                                IN DYLAN’S DREAMS, PERHAPS…

Perhaps it’s because I was working in Uptown Port Townsend the last few days, and perhaps it’s because I was bleaching and pressure washing decks until dark last night; and bleaching always makes me feel a bit like I’ve spent too much time in the pool; but, in the dream I’m trying to put back together, Librarian Keith and Bob Dylan are skateboarding on the sidewalk alongside a block of Victorian era buildings.

The action isn’t like ollies and flips and that kind of skateboarding; they are gliding, slaloming, leaning into easy turns, scootching into the entryways, clipping a hand on the corner of the alcove, coming perilously close to the curb, but staying on the sidewalk. And then I join them.

“I’ll let you be in my dreams if I can be in yours… I said that.” Bob Dylan, ‘Talkin’ World War III Blues.’

I got the impression, perhaps realizing I was dreaming, that neither Keith nor Bob really appreciated my joining in, but this being a dream and all, my knees are flexible, my ankles fine, I am spry and holding my own. Yeah, Dylan, ten years my senior in real life, is also ripping; smooth moves, never even having to put a hand up to avoid losing his white, flat-brimmed, Panama style hat. You know the one.

In another dream scene, just before I woke up, an hour later than usual; with our cat, Angelina, sounding an alarm halfway down the hallway; I was looking through a window (pretty sure it was from inside the Rose Theatre and through the ticket booth) a guy blocking a couple, a man and a woman. The man was trying to reach over the guy to get a ticket to see, of course, Bob Dylan. I had the impression this was a sort of a date. The guy blocking them doesn’t move until the man with the woman reaches over his shoulder with a wad of, yeah, cash. Rose Theatre; pretty good place to go… on a date.

“Meow! Me-ow. Wake up!” Angelina.

This isn’t my first dream featuring Dylan, and, in fact, there was more Dylan in last night’s: Somehow, I had some connection with finding a place for him to stay in the area, and two people were selected to have the privilege of hosting him, preferably in a place near the water.

“Wait a minute,” I said (or maybe I didn’t have to say it, this being a dream and all) folks know these folks, and those folks’ll just cruise in, hang out;” and Dylan says (or doesn’t have to say- and this is the older, Salvador Dali looking Dylan), “The question here is, do you know where they live?” “I do.” “Oh.”

Yes, that does kind of leave it hanging.

So, here’s a question: Do you ever have those dreams that are so real you put them into your memory bank as if some of what happened is… real?

Don’t answer; I can’t hear you. These are just keystrokes. History. I’m not here.

Anyway, I have had several dreams in which I’m in what I have to believe is some sort of roadhouse, and, somehow, I’m thinking it’s somewhere up in, like, San Bernardino (weird in itself, San Bernardino being way south from where I am), and the room is filled with musicians, sitting around, evidently taking turns playing guitar and singing; and Dylan’s there, but he’s not playing… or singing… or talking.

But then he turns to me and, specifically, he looks at a harmonica in my hand. And then I see he has a harmonica in his. And then I notice one of his eyes is kind of, I have to say, quivering. And then, pencil-thin mustache and all, he smiles. Not a friendly kind of smile; a resolved kind. Perhaps.

A different Dylan smile

Side note: I have limited time and my list of ‘should do’ and ‘must do’ is way more pressing than my list of ‘want to do.’ I want to work on “Swamis.” I am making progress. But, something I’ve already cut from the manuscript pertains to how, back in the late 60s, there was a persistent rumor of an FM radio station in San Diego that played stuff we didn’t hear on the AM channels. KPRI, barely-catchable from the North County; but what has remained in my memory cache is listening, with my dad’s earphones, and the DJ says, “We’re going to go in the back now and get our heads on,” and put on “John Wesley Harding,” in its entirety. I’m not sure if someone had to return to flip the record, but, in the years since, my mind has added someone coming in, and in a voice an octave lower, saying… shit, I don’t know what, I was fifty miles away and it was fifty-plus years back.

When I am not writing about surfing…

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…or trying to make “Swamis” perfect-er, or -ish, I write about other stuff. This is my submission for the Quilcene Community Center newsletter for April. I wrote it in between getting really small surf among really big rocks, and riding blown out surf, and getting skunked. If I did manage to ride some quality waves, I certainly wouldn’t share that with the non-surfing folks over here on the near side of the Olympics. So, okay, let’s see:

Oh, yeah; I wrote about getting my second Covid shot, but, somehow, I didn’t set this up correctly to actually include the piece. Let me see if I can…

                                Anticipation of Inoculation and Other Things…

…things like the latest topic of conversation: Vaccinations. You get yours yet? Scheduled? Fully inoculated? Half? Pfizer, Moderna, J&J? Side effects? Jump in anywhere.

“Oh, I don’t think I will get one; you know, because of the…” “See you… (from a reasonable social distance) later.”

It just so happens I am getting my second dose this afternoon; heading back to Manresa Castle’s back lot, hoping I don’t have to fill out the form again, and fully prepared to not cry. It’s not that I’m all that worried; not like I cried when I got the first dose of Pfizer cold gold, the first needle stab. It’s more like I whined beforehand.

I can’t help but remind myself of another experience, back when I was eleven or so and started crying while only lining up for some shot or another, a tetanus booster, perhaps. This was quite embarrassing for my mom, me being the second oldest of seven children, and the oldest male- back when this gender bias, wrongly of course, seemed to make a difference.

“Fine example, Junior.” “Waaaah!” “I thought you might act more, well, grown up… Junior.”

Saying, “Wow, it didn’t even hurt” didn’t help after the fact. No way any of my siblings would even consider crying after my mature display.

To be clear, I did, two weeks ago, warn several of the many, many folks of the remote possibility of tears, if not full tantrum mode. Many of the many checkers and re-checkers and line monitors are actual volunteers, making themselves available for the processing and administration and delivery of a shot to individuals proceeding, ever so slowly, in our vehicles, single file.

When I finally got to the last temporary carport, sleeve rolled up, I told one of the several people there, “Yeah, I get cut and gouged and hurt all the time; it’s the knowing it’s going to happen; that’s what’s scary. You know, like, just do it; don’t tell me you’re about to.”

“Done.”

“Really?”

“No. Joking. Wait for it… wait… wait…”

One person on the inoculation squad, possibly because she believed I was making it up about my fear of needles and all, did point to another member who might be willing to slap me so I wouldn’t be concentrating on the long, sharp needle. He did look willing.

“Most of the crying, so far,” another shot squad member told me, “has been out of gratitude. You know, older people.”

I do. Older is my demographic. 65 to infinity. I have lived long enough to have had measles and mumps and chicken pox (no rubella, whatever that is) before they had vaccines (I might have to fact check that- maybe my family just didn’t get them). I am old enough to have had both runs of polio vaccines; the one with the needles, the one with the little cups. No problem with the cups; stand in line, take a swig, get a sticker. Or was it a sucker? Maybe.

Maybe it only seems like everyone I speak with is around my age. Saying I am over 65, as I did, above, is easier on the ego than saying I will be 70 in August; and no, I never answer the question of how old I am with the question, “How old do I look?” Not any longer.  So, how we survived the pandemic, so far, seems like a likely topic for lively discussion, much better than “did you hear about good old so and so?”

Whatever it is about good old so and so, it’s probably not great news; even if it’s “She’s 89 years old and just won a lifetime supply of (merely an example) Rice Krispies.” Oh, you heard that joke.  

Now, I do have a lot to say about getting older and the benefits of aging.

Benefits? Maybe next time.

So, closer to topic: Vaccinations. To tie life-saving vaccinations to Spring, we are all looking forward to actually being free of this pandemic. Like Spring (or each season) full victory over this pandemic won’t come all at once. Still, there are signs, reason for hope.

People who are way younger are now getting inoculated. I’m not talking about the Spring Breakers and the anti-vaccers and the scofflaws (scoff-mandates might be more accurate). Our son Sean, 38 and a front-line worker, is getting the Johnson & Johnson this afternoon. One of my surfing friends, somewhere around 43, just got one yesterday. J&J, one shot and done.

Since I ask pretty much everyone I come into nowhere-near-contact with about their status, I am surprised to hear how many folks have already been fully immunized. Without getting into the variants and mutants and strains of the virus, each one named after some spot; I am imagining the Miami Beach strain, the patient’s head throbbing to a sort of techno/disco beat.

So, a couple more hours and, barring any unforeseen consequences, I will be ready to (always responsibly) PARTY!

You can imagine tears of gratitude if you want. I’m a grownup, and I’m in anticipation mode.  

OH, SHIT, I JUST ‘CUT’ THE PIECE OUT OF MY FILES. DAMN IT, when Ken Burns does the 9 hour documentary on me, they won’t have it. WAIT, MAYBE, IF I… see you out on the trail.

Ginny and Joey in the Photo Lab

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

I’ve known for a while I might have to cut part of this chapter. Because I wrote myself into a bit of a corner by having the chapters of “SWAMIS” coincide with particular days, the chapter covering this day, with sub-chapters given letter headings, was up to “M” or so. I kind of liked the idea that both Joey and Ginny had been snobbish and/or cruel to other students they went to high school with, and this gave them a chance to do some small amount of karmic redemption.

I’ll save any other explanation for future therapy sessions, but, briefly, this is just after Virginia Cole and Joseph DeFreines, Jr. get busted making out in the photo lab. OH, and there is a setup mentioning how a Southern California Santana condition can end with a giant wave of thick fog coming off the ocean. OKAY, now you’re ready:

M…

Ginny and I were passing the Student Union. There were twenty-five or thirty colorfully dressed potential marchers, butcher paper signs protesting the war being painted, cardboard placards painted and nailed on sticks and leaned in stacks. 

Among those milling about was Alexander.

“Alexander,” I said, looking just for a second in his direction.  “He’s a guy I always thought, even though he took lunch in the chemistry lab, was, um, not that smart.”   Alexander was carrying a briefcase and sporting a goatee, a French baret, a tweed sport coat with elbow patches over a day-glow t shirt. 

Ginny stopped.  I stopped.  “He looks smart enough.  Activist.  That’s good.”

“Yeah.  I think these are the same kids who were decorating and moving chairs and tables for high school dances; and now… junior college activists.”

“What did you do?  Dances?”  A moment later.  “Oh, you just didn’t go.”

“No.  I did have to spend some lunch time in the chemistry lab, cleaning all the desks.  I was busted drawing on one in English and the word got around.  Teachers.  My biggest fear was that I fit in too well with Alexander and his friends, hiding out in the sulfur-smelling safety of the chem lab.  They seemed to think… they laughed at everything I said.  They seemed to believe I, like them, didn’t actually fit in with the ‘normals’.”

“Probably not.”  Ginny pushed hair back out of my face.  “I, um; I danced.”

“Of course.”

Alexander saw me.  Or maybe it’s that he saw me with Virginia Cole.  “Hey,” he said, “DeFreines.  One; what the fuck (he was obviously just getting used to using the word) are you (emphasis on the ‘you’), Brain DeFreines, doing at Palomar?  Two; are you still into that surfing thing?”  He did a kook surf pose, the briefcase in his lower hand.  “And, three…”

“Three; how’d I get to walk around here with such a fine looking… young woman?”

“Bingo,” he said, head nodding, eyes on Ginny.  “Al.  Name’s Al.”  He switched hands on the briefcase, offered his right hand.  “Al Weston; Palomar Peace Initiative, and, and I am passionate about peace.”

Ginny took his hand, said, “Gin, short for Virginia.”  She dropped his hand, grabbed mine, did an exact replica of Alexander’s surf pose, my hand replacing the briefcase, and said, “Surfers; they’re so… sexy.”

“Obviously, then; you must surf.”

“She does.  Obviously.  Look, Alexander; you’re… (gesturing to include the gathering protesters) really into… all this.  Activist.  Good.  Good work.”

“Cynthia,” Ginny suddenly almost shouted at one of the young women painting signs.  “Cynthia!  Come here.”  Cynthia, who looked like she was about as close to Ginny, social clique-wise, as Alexander was to me; gave a half smile and approached us.  A bit chunky, Cynthia was wearing painters’ coveralls that, probably, didn’t help, chunkiness-wise; with a few bits of paint showing and one strap undone.  Cynthia had a red bandana around her neck, another, for some reason, around one thigh, and because the collar of the paint-splattered brown t-shirt she was wearing was stretched and loose, a bit of cleavage was showing.

“You know Alexander here, Cynthia?  Al?”  Cynthia looked up at him, he at her.  “He’s, yes, from Fallbrook; but he’s so passionate about peace.”

“You are?”

“I am.”

Passionate.

“I’m, um, painting some signs.  Over there.”  Cynthia pointed to a group of tables with more young women than young men.  Al Weston made a fist, looked at Cynthia, looked at Virginia Cole, looked back at Cynthia, then back at me.  “Gotta go, Brain.  Peace.”

“Yeah.”

Alexander and Cynthia practically skipped toward their fellow activists.  “I was, uh, very mean to Cynthia,” Ginny said.  Once.  Only once.  She got even with me.  If you saw the yearbook photos of me…”

Ginny made the ugliest expression she was capable of, pushing her nose down, crossing her eyes.  Still beautiful.

“If I hadn’t gotten into surfing, I’d probably be one of them,” I said.

Ginny looked at Cynthia and Alexander, back at me.  She rubbed her own chin, then mine.  Yes, I was trying, quite diligently, to grow some whiskers.  It wasn’t really working.  Peach fuzz, even that splotchy.  “I can see that, Brain DeFreines.”

Ginny started to unbutton her sweater, looked at me when one side was off her shoulder, whispered, “Skin,” pulled it back together, buttoned two buttons, and kissed me.  Once on the cheek.  She looked at the other students, the cooler ones, the ones only watching the protesters; then back at me.  She kissed me again, on the mouth. 

I was kind of happy she wasn’t better at kissing.  Better than me, of course.  I leaned in, my hand on her arm this time.  She didn’t move away. “For practice, Ginny,” I said as the wave of fog rolled over us, turning everything gray.  I said “Ginny” again, for practice.

“Joey,” she said.

YEAH, I have a better ending for the way shorter version; for the book. “Swamis.”

AND, incidentally, I’m not sure what to call it when you wait around for the right tide, get your wetsuit on because there are some weak waves, paddle out and… nothing. I guess it’s called PRACTICE. No, that’s what I call riding really small waves. PADDLING. Yeah. Not nearly as much fun as surfing.

Darryl Wood hits and Outtakes

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First, I would like to thank Darryl Wood’s daughter, Kaylee, for spreading the word that my site has several posts about the legendary surfer of the Strait and the Pacific Northwest. Darryl was the first surfer I met when I moved up here from San Diego. In order to get to our jobs in Bremerton, Darryl a Union Carpenter and me a Civil Service painter, we were both forced to ride a passenger-only ferry when part of the Hood Canal Floating Bridge broke off and sank, Tuesday, February 13, 1979. The state set up the route across the canal in about a week, I met Darryl on, I estimate, checking with my googled calendar, on Monday, February 19, instantly discovered we both surfed, and on Saturday, February 24, I was bobbing around at a break I still am not supposed to name, California wax on my sister Melissa’s board, the only one I had left, wearing a diving wetsuit, no gloves, no hood; my board popping up and away when I tried to sit on it, and the waves so steep, the drop so quick, the wetsuit so ridiculously ungainly, my body so frozen that, despite being 27 years old and a pretty decent surfer, I was unable to pop up as I dropped in.

Sign of things to come.

I’m pretty sure Kaylee’s checking out my site is somehow connected to her father’s birthday, which is on St. Patrick’s Day or fairly close to it. It’s always a pleasure for me to run into or talk to Darryl. Is he, as Kaylee asked, the quintessential Pacific Northwest badass? Yes. Is he a real surfer? Definitely.

ANYWAY, I’m pushing through on polishing and editing “SWAMIS.” If writers say the story leads them, rather than that they write and somehow control the story, I would have to agree. It seems my novel is getting a bit more romantic (and I kind of squirm just typing that). The relationship between Jody DeFreines and Ginny Cole is, in the constant editing/thinking/writing/rewriting process, getting, slight squirm, fleshed-out.

I was pretty happy with the way a chapter was going, set up, dialogue, action, ending; and I was left with this. Some of the exposition would be helpful later, and I hate, as always, to just toss out… yeah, word retentive. SO, here is an outtake from the third night class Ginny and Jody are in together:

GINNY WOULD, according to the plan, earn her Associates Degree at Palomar in a year and a half, transfer to a four-year university, most probably U.C.S.D., still nearby, in La Jolla (above Black’s beach); and she would become an accountant, like her father; with her own office, like her father.

“And vote Republican, like my father.”  Evidently imitating her father, Ginny said, “If Goldwater’d been elected, Hanoi’d be a big-ass hole.”  In her own voice she added, “Big ass hole,” then looked to see if I thought that was important or interesting or amusing.  I did.

I asked her why she didn’t seem to have to go to her dad’s office, “to get a feel; do some accounting, some math shit.”

She said her father had told her “there’s plenty of time for work, for that boring shit.”

David Cole and Glor were fine with her surfing, she said, even with her hanging out with surfer boys, with her dawn-patrolling with Wally’s crew.  “My dad does Wally’s books,” she said, “everybody’s books, actually, but he says Wally’s smart; smart enough to wholesale all his pots rather than trying to go through flea markets and…  Smart. Besides, he has a son my age and…”

“And?”

“Yeah; and…  And they either figure I’m some sort of lesbian; or they figure I learned something from my older sister.  Caroline’s her name; not that you’ll remember.  She’s what my… our Real Mom calls…”

“Judith. Your real mom, Caroline your sister.”

“Yeah.  Judith says polite society would call her, Caroline, ‘boy crazy.’  Glor has called her ‘a wanton slut.’  Couple of times.  She, Caroline, got PG, preggo, pregnant… senior year.  ‘Got herself knocked up’ as Glor would, and did say.  She, Caroline, wasn’t showing, so she did get to go to the graduation.  San Dieguito, huh?  That shit doesn’t happen in Fallbrook.”

Of course, it did.  “No; boy craziness, wanton sluttiness, and preggo-ness; not allowed.  It’s all in there with the dress code.  No hats, no facial hair or hair over the ears for boys.  For girls it’s, there’s a minimum skirt length on dresses.  They will measure, girls on their knees, pervert teachers with rulers.  Really.  Two inches, I think.  Oh, and it’s dresses only; no jeans, no slacks, no culottes, no pregnancies.”

“Wait, Junior; no culottes?”

“No, Virginia Cole, no culottes.”

“My sister should have gone there, huh?”

“Caroline.”

“Correct.”