Tag Archives: travel

Superbowl Rehash/Recovery/Convalescence and…

Posted on by under northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf culture events, surfing blogs, surfing Southern California in the 60s, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

Me, with hearing aids, and Dru’s ginger cat, NICHOLAS, aka Sam Darnold.

DYLAN SCOTT, the son of TRISHA’S brother and his wife, JIM and GREER (note how inclusively proper I’m being), sent me this shot of him surfing at a spot he (and SURFLINE, to whom [whom because corporations are people, too] he pays a possibly significant monthly fee) identify as “GEORGE’S.

It is obvious, at 9:53 or so on SUPERBOWL SUNDAY, that goofyfoot Dylan has the green light in his favor as well as a reduced crowd because all the North San Diego County surf enthusiasts were, no doubt, pulling avocados off the trees to prepare a satisfying snack. WHAT wasn’t obvious to me, when I was checking out the photo on the phone, in bed (after a game that was probably boring [other than the half time show] for everyone who wasn’t a SEAHAWKS or, you know that other team fan, with us [Seahawks fans] absolutely riveted/worried, clutching our skittles, and oysters, and rosary beads, and listening to STEVE RAIBLE and DAVE WYMAN on the radio because we just don’t trust or like commentary from CHRIS COLLINGSWORTH)… exhausting… what wasn’t obvious to me was, where the hell is George’s. SO, I texted Dylan.

Evidently George’s is on the section of beach between CARDIFF REEF and SEASIDE TRAILER REEF, both of which, according to my research on the GRAM, were going off on this day. SO, I had to do more texting, the you-really-don’t-want-to-hear “Back in my day” stories, bearing in mind that I started surfing the North County beaches beyond Oceanside Pier and Tamarack in 1965, and left the area in late 1978. “Just in time” you might say. “Yes. I hear it has become more crowded.”

SO, Dylan, ya see, that part of the beach, in the mid seventies, when I lived in Encinitas, was called STRETCHMARK BEACH. This was, according to the hipster who hipped me to it, because, paraphrasing here, “Surf chicks who, like, had babies, they would take them there rather than, you know, other spots.” However rude and inappropriate, I stand by the previous name.

Continuing the ‘my day’ stuff, before my day, there was a pier in Cardiff, and, when I moved to the Great Pacific Northwest, SEASIDE TRAILER PARK was not yet a parking lot. AND, and, yes, I did once surf there, on a Sunday afternoon, with DONALD TAKAYAMA the only other surfer in the water.

NOT bragging, but grateful.

“ERWIN” THE MOVIE news:

Not sure this will work. I have the cheapest WordPress account, and didn’t think I could have videos. I ran into JASON QUEEN, both of us getting skunked. He stumbled onto the beach and into this video by Annie Fergerson. The link I previously posted no longer works. Possibly because the video was picked up and shown as part of the PORT TOWNSEND FILM FESTIVAL and was part of the worldwide SAVE THE WAVES festivals, Jason seemed to believe there is some fame attached to being in it. YES, there is now a sub-genre of videos featuring old surfers still at it, but, no, I don’t seem to have any lingering side effects of my notoriety.

All I was really trying to do was post the link. If you haven’t seen this, yes, I do realize there’s a bit of comic relief here, and, yes and again, I do realize my level of ridiculousness. I just keep trying to rise above it. OR, maybe it’s part of my evil scheme to get a few more waves in a crowd.

GRIPES AND HYPES, and any comments, write me at erwin@realsurfers.net

INSTAGRAM ME- realsurfersdotnet

HEY, if I can, indeed, post videos, I might try putting up another page with some MUSICAL ERWIN stuff. FUN. Hope you’re getting enough waves that you won’t be there when I go the next time. Nothing personal. HAPPY VALENTINES DAY to those I love, and to all lovers. HAPPY HATERS’ DAY (whenever that is- seems to be most days) to all the haters.

There is no top to love short of heaven, no bottom to hate. The difference between love and hate is the difference between flying and falling. It’s where you land. Oh, yes, and how you land.

Trying to Look at Surfing from Multiple Angles Pre Superbowl Stuff

Posted on by under Uncategorized

I had to double back after passing CHIMACUM TIMACUM at Worthington Park in Quilcene. Tim called me as I passed, the recently replaced fanbelt on my car squealing. “Oh, so you’re the kind of guy who drives twelve miles to walk his dog?” “Yes. And my ex-wife’s dog.” “Good. When’s the surf going to happen?” “It’s always, like, maybe two days out.” “Always.”

          Amalia and Dru and my thumb or forefinger.               

  Attempting to Change to be Culturally… Um… Semi Cultured… Or…

There wasn’t actually a ‘come to Jesus’ kind of moment in which I, miraculously, discovered that I may be prejudiced (as in pre-judging) in believing, or thinking, that the perfect woman surfer should be STEPHANIE GILMORE, or a woman with the attributes of Stephanie Gilmore: Stylish, graceful, feminine (whatever that means), absolutely fierce in her surfing, savage as a competitor, and yet…

And yet, following the latest Pipeline contest, GABRIELA BRYAN, frequently identified as Gaby, always referred to as a ‘power surfer,’ very capable of getting an excellent score with one reentry, one wave-wrecking hack, won. And yes, this means she won the final, in what was, as described by a local, as “A beach break over a shallow reef.”

Let me now say that I only go to Port Angeles to go past it and on to somewhere with the (remote) possibility of rideable waves. NO, TRISH and I did go up there for a DAVID SEDARIS concert/reading. Trish is a major fan, which I take some credit for, always alerting her to his being on “This American Life” on NPR.

I missed the last semi-final because I was going to a ‘cultural event’ at the Field House in Port Angeles that featured writer LINDY WEST, who, coincidentally, lives in Quilcene (where Trish and I have lived for forty-seven oh-my-God years, and where our children were raised). DRU discovered this Quilcene connection, not one Lindy, in her presentation, mentioned, but was the instigator behind our cultural journey up Surf Route 101. We picked up Quilcene raised AMALIA BAKER (who also has a connection with Dru’s job with the Olympic Music Festival) in a fogged-to-the-max Sequim and found our way to the waterfront venue.

Very nice. We were seated in the balcony, third row from the railing. Cheaper seats, Dru said, but we were in the middle. Fine. Though the row in front of us was empty (great- chance to hang my legs over) our row was filled, which meant that other attendees, mostly women (actually, like 90%) had to squeeze past from both directions, coming and going. Fine. The stranger to my left whipped out a pack of gum, and possibly because I looked around, offered me a stick, “Not that you need it.” Whether I did or didn’t, it would have been rude to decline. And, once chewing, there was really no un-rube-like way to dispose of the gum, me in my black on black outfit with my non-Seahawks cap and my no-paint-on-them shoes, my hearing aids pre-installed and adjusted so I could, one, hear more than every fan or motor, and, two, so that the devices didn’t squeal, a piercing alarm evidently discernible from a distance.

This photo was identified as Jenny Jimenez, possibly a pseudonym, possibly the photographer,. Lindy West and her husband, photo possibly taken in the wilds of Quilcene

DON’T PANIC!  It went fine. Fine despite the women to my left laughing almost hysterically at humor that evaded if not escaped me. And, of course, I laughed at things in the presentation that no one else seemed to get. Amalia (always called Molly) and DRUCILLA (usually called Dru) were properly reserved in their appreciative responses.

Not to belabor this much further, but the message from Lindy West, who had a TV series (“Shrill”) for three years, has been (I would say) successful as a writer, is that she considers herself as pretty-much a loser… BUT, hey, why not try to do modified standup?

I get it. Self-deprecation seems like modesty. It isn’t.

So, somewhere between my accepting the gum and the start of the powerpoint presentation, I admitted to Dru and Molly that I may be wrong in not fully appreciating the ability of a ‘big girl’ (got this from Dru- some reference to “Silence of the Lambs”) like Gabriella, usually referred to as Gaby, to turn or win a heat with one big off the lip or one big power hack. I mean, really, how can an old fat dude be critical of… anyone who competes and wins?

Sure, I can; I’ll just try not to.

Oh, and did you notice my self-deprecation there? Totally fake.

Oh, and I’m still rooting for Sally Fitzgibbons, often called Sal or Sally Fitz, known for charging, to get back on the big tour.                 

A photo by ADAM ‘WIPEOUT’ JAMES from a recent trip to the coast. ‘SOUPY’ DAN, restauranteur surfer previously and sometimes known as YODELING DAN was also in attendance. There may or may not be photos available of incredible waves with offshore winds. It’s always more appropriate to post photos with less than awesome waves. However…

CONTACT- erwin@realsurfers.net

INSTAGRAM- realsurfersdotnet

Page Two- May or may not mention that I got a sudden bunch of hits from Israel. Not sure why.

I am considering starting an account on SUBSTACK. This may focus on my novel, “SWAMIS.” I’ll keep you posted.

Get some waves, and…

GO SEAHAWKS!

Glassy Conditions on Surf Route 101, Medical Updates, Instagram Stuff- New Harmonica Erwin Video Available

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, real surfers, surf trips, surfing blogs, writings of Erwin Dence

OUT ON SURF ROUTE 101, the waves might not be much bigger on the STRAIT than the ultra glassy Lake Leland. I had to get a photo of the only one at the lake; talked him into putting his leg up on the rock the way it was when I (almost) drove past.

Our family friend George Takamoto has been enduring the horrors of three-times-a-week dialysis, not to mention the kidney failure and the times where infections and other side stuff from his treatment risked his life. He called my on Monday with the news that he got the kidney transplant. George’s sister, Valerie, came up to help out. George has already been released and is staying on the Seattle side for a while to help with her many trips to the University of Washington hospital.

In other medical news, Trish has been (slowly) improving, recovering from the post surgery chemo. She still has to go through radiation, so… as always, fuck cancer!

This photo from somewhere on the coast was taken by RICO MOORE. I planned to do a drawing of this, but, so far, haven’t. I didn’t want to use this amazing shot today, but… yeah, I am, BUT, to make up for using it, I will probably have to give the illustration to him. But, yeah, I’ll have copies.

INSTAGRAM NEWS- I’m on it; still haven’t figured it out. I will. I plan on making more HARMONICA ERWIN videos. Check me at realsurfersdotnet OR, I don’t know, search for Erwin Dence. Meanwhile, I’ve been following a lot of surfers, comedians, singers, artists… so much politics that, with my personalized algorithms, I feel like I might be in a left wing echo chamber. I do know what the right wingers are saying, so… staying there. I do wish more of my local Olympic Peninsula friends would post more frequently.

“SWAMIS” the novel news- I’m about two-thirds of the way through the, hopefully, final draft. I’ve been putting chapters on this site, but, this close, fighting to get something publishable for this wrong, editing out stuff that didn’t move the story along (painful), and loving every moment I’ve spent thinking about it, working on it, I’m considering not posting too much of it. NOT that anyone could actually steal the story- way too complex, and hopefully, way too real.

SURF FORECAST- It seems like the storms have been missing the Strait. Hopefully the waves have been showing up wherever you’re surfing. Find them; surf them. Good luck!

Check Me Out on the Gram; Me, Some Surfing, Some Seahawks, Some Music Stuff, and Everything Marshawn Lynch… Oh, and… NEW- Page II, NON-POLITICAL ERWIN

Posted on by under northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, writings of Erwin Dence

I believe I got this from the NFL. Marshawn Lynch got fined, famous, and somehow, beloved.

After an extended period of not being on Facebook, Linked In, and Instagram, because I want to further my non-house-painting ambitions, and acting on some advice from… NO, it was partly because Olympic Peninsula ripper KEITH sent me a video of soul surfer CLINT THOMPSON (clintthompson1065 instagram handle) playing a guitar and singing a song he wrote and… AND Keith, Port Townsend Librarian, and I have been discussing and sort of planning the NEXT OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA EVENT, placing an emphasis on SURF MUSIC… AND I (admittedly and sadly not a great singer) do some song writing… AND I wanted to watch the video, but couldn’t… AND because Keith has spent some of his TIME SUCK hours on Instagram… AND… so… now…

I’M BACK on Instagram. Yes, I needed DRU to find my password and all that, BUT, once on there, I possibly posted a sketch, possibly wrote a comment urging anyone to check out my blog. I say ‘possibly’ because I haven’t figured out how to find my site. OKAY, for you, it’s either under REALSURFERSDOTNET (probably lower case), OR you can look for Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

My next step was to get the App on my phone. Got it without help. Then… THEN I started ‘FOLLOWING.’ Maybe it’s like Facebook, when I, very briefly, tried that out, before the thought of begging anyone to ‘like’ me (the theory being if I like you, maybe you might like me back) slowed me down to… a… stop. It’s out there, along with my abandoned LinkedIn account and my lapsed membership in several organizations. But, maybe, later, I’ll be more of a joiner.

THE NFL CONFERENCE GAME IS TODAY, so all these SEAHAWKS SITES (players with highlights, critics with critiques, soothsayers with sooth, and I just kept hitting “FOLLOW” like I was another football adjacent and rabid believer/fan, ready for any content, real or (even) AI, that projected OUR TEAM as WINNERS.

The ALGORITHMS are clear; I need MORE MARSHAWN!

THIS is me writing on Saturday night. There are many anxious hours before Marshawn raises the 12th man flag tomorrow.

We don’t know what’s going to happen tomorrow on the SEAHAWKS side of things. I did look for Clint Thompson on Instagram; didn’t find him. I WILL and I’ll let you know. YES, I did ‘follow’ some more folks, did watch some more vids. Sorry.

ACTUAL SURF STUFF- The coast frequently has waves. True. I did get in a couple of sessions since my rejection a while back. Not all time; one was almost fifty/fifty between awkward-but-reasonably okay rides and blown waves, with at least one makes-it-worth-it ride, the second was maybe 60/40, good to crappy, with more of those swoopy, slippery rides I love. Next time…

NEW, NEWER, NEWEST- PAGE II – NON-POLITICAL ERWIN-

You may not check our realsurfers.net to read about politics. That’s fair. Perhaps your world is so focused on getting barreled that you don’t want to devote the head space to considering just how fucking dangerous our country is right now. Sure, tens of thousands (unbelievably) are being killed in Iran for protesting and, you know, like only a few hereabouts, so…

So I decided to add a page for NON-POLITICAL ERWIN. Check to top line. If you click on Page II, yeah, political shit. As with everything to do with my site, your choice. It’s (still) America. Freedom!

A sign for 37-year-old Alex Pretti, who was fatally shot by a U.S. Border Patrol officer earlier in the day, is displayed during a vigil Saturday, Jan. 24, 2026, in Minneapolis. (AP Photo/Adam Gray)

A final motivation in my pushing the boundary of my computer skills is the murder, yesterday (this is me editing on Sunday) of ALEX PRETTI. TRISH got an email from her cousin, STEVE, in Minnesota. Steve is retired Air Force, and recently went through a horrific fight with cancer of the tongue. Horrible. Mr. Pretti was an ICU nurse on his case. So, a real person doing a job that, forgive me if I’m wrong, a hateful person cannot do. Dead. Pepper sprayed, beaten, shot ten times.

Again, forgive me if I’m concerned enough to write something about this. SO, PAGE II.

NOTE- I do edit the shit out of my blog, but I haven’t figured out how to edit the page II, so there’s not much on there this time. As with all things real: NEXT TIME.

To quote the Stephen Stills/ Buffalo Springfield lyrics, “Something’s happening here, what it is ain’t exactly clear, there’s a man with a gun over there, telling me I’ve got to beware.” What I might say, if I were to be in any way political (or bolder than I am) of the intimidation tactics so popular with ICE is that “It works either way.” If agents of the government, pocketing their shockingly high signup bonus, jacked up on fake machismo, brandishing automatic weapons against civilians, hiding their faces because soldiers for a just and righteous cause should be anonymous, promised immunity by unelected, power and hatred-maddened advisors, unchecked by those elected to contain egregious overreach, unrestrained by the laws, the Constitution, and any sense of a shared humanity, kill Americans with impunity, it chills the rest of us. If one or more of these murderers is brought to justice… same result; bad apple in a supposedly just role. Beware.

There are heroes out there. There is truth. Out there.

I am available; erwin@realsurfers.net. Don’t be afraid to write.

Trisha’s Last Chemo (f%$# Cancer), Dru’s New Ride, and “Rejected,” The Old(er) Man and the Sea, No AI on this site, I won’t be performing at the T/Kennedy Center, Oh, and HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Posted on by under learning to surf, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf satire, surf sessions, writings of Erwin Dence

I chose this ‘fuck cancer’ because it looks like waves. TRISH got her 12th and last Chemo the day after Christmas. She still has to go through radiation, 6 plus weeks, but she gets a break. We are all touched by cancer. I have a new appreciation of how horrific the disease AND the cure are.

DRUCILLA and I went over to Edmonds to try to purchase a vehicle to replace her Honda Odyssey, recently totaled by a Yeti-sized deer. I will have a more in depth accounting next time. Short version; I hard bargained them down three hundred bucks and a full tank of gas. Something. Dru is stoked!

I am hoping that, early in the coming year, I will be able to come back from my latest session. Here’s the story: YOU CAN’T SURF IF CAN’T MAKE IT OUT

THIS piece is directly related to my most recent humbling. Not that I haven’t had my share. The OCEAN is not designed to keep one’s ego pumped up. We wish it could; not, maybe for others, but, yes, any time we go out, we want to rip, to excel, to improve on our best PERFORMANCES, to do better. BETTER, damn it.

NOT arguing the implications of ‘performance’ and ‘better’ here, though both words suggest something more than the SOUL SURFER paradigm, real or imagined.

ALSO not discussing the anthropomorphism of bodies of water and, specifically, waves. It’s hydro physics that rejected your undoubtedly pure desires to dominate and/or flow with the Universe, it’s not some assigned assassin wave that kicked your ass; it’s not personal. Seems personal, nonetheless.

I’ve told this story several times to non-surfers. The mystique and mythology around surfing contends, beyond that surfing is cool and that getting a five second ‘straight-hander’ with five friends is fun, that a surfer can ‘conquer’ a wave, and that one successful challenge can change his or her life. Though I want to say ‘doubtful,’ I’m reconsidering. So, ‘maybe.’

My recounting of my humiliation drew laughter more than sympathy. This was right. I wasn’t looking for anyone feeling sorry for the old dude who shouldn’t have gone out on a day in which… to quote fictional George Costanza, “The ocean was angry, my friend.”

The surf desperate old guy who couldn’t wait for a better tide, or for the swell to back off, was REJECTED. Me, ego-heavy wave hogging dude, humbled.

YES, I waited on the beach like Greg Noll at Pipeline (according to legend, his last surf), waiting for a lull. I started paddling at something close to one, waded into the shorebreak and… No there was not a lull, and…

Here is something about surf spots on the Peninsula: They are almost all connected to streams or rivers. The rivers and streams are all bloated lately, that push adding to any wave/tide related currents. I started out in my usual zone, quickly ended up in a wish/wash rip, sixty yards east of where I wanted to be. I couldn’t get to my knees to use my paddle, and was trying to push through the soup as each wave came at me. I was, I’m pretty sure, almost to cleaner water when a line I thought I’d punch through spun me around, and suddenly, I was heading, hurdling, ‘hell bent for leather’ (two people really appreciated the use of the phrase), toward the beach.

Rejected. NOT ONLY did I not make it out, but, for further drama, I was in the ‘boneyard,’  caught in a swirl (something less than a whirlpool), in eight feet of water ten feet from the beach. I had lost my grip on my paddle somewhere in the fifty yard, out of control, proning-in, I was leashed to a thirty-plus pound board alternating between crashing in on each new wave and floating back out in between waves. I climbed back on and decided to just take whatever wave would get me ashore.

Paddle and… BOOM! Straight in and onto the steep beach. Not the first time for this part of the show, though, sometimes I do make a nine-point slide, jump, move up the beach (three points if I was thirty years younger). Unable to jump up, getting pummeled in the shorebreak, I was crawling (I mean, like belly, then hands and knees crawling), pushing my board ahead of me.

There were, as Luck (change that to circumstance) would have it, a tourist couple, walking their dog in a little-green-bag-free-zone were witnesses. “You all right there?” “Yeah. Where’s your green bag?”

I was safe. No rescue needed. But three or four surfers (dressed out after their sessions in unfriendly conditions at what is typically, if breaking, a fairly user-friendly spot) arrived on scene. “Need me to carry your board?” “No. I lost my paddle.” “Tough break, man.”

I was ungrateful enough (or discourteous, or rude, or hyper-angry/embarrassed/humiliated enough) that they all ran back to the fire, leaving me to do a WALK OF SHAME (1) seventy yards or so back to my car.

Yes, it is a different thing if your moments of shame are not witnessed. No one notices you in or getting out of the water, your story can’t be disputed. “Yeeahh, doggies; that one wave… historic!” “Sorry I missed seeing it.”

WALK OF SHAME 2. Someone, a young guy on a short board, rescued my paddle. “THANKS.” All I had to do was walk another fifty yards, past all the other surfers, to retrieve it. AND THEN, was there anyone who thought, “He’s going to go back out, try to recapture some of his dignity.” ? Probably not.  

I did wait around, in my wetsuit, hoping the rips might subside, hoping for less outside roll-throughs, hoping the swells might clean up and hit the reef the way I know they can. I was ready for redemption. It will have to wait.

PART TWO- Discretion. I should have had some.

THREE- Age? Fuck you. I mean, no, not yet.

FOUR- Analyzing. Every surfer experiences the failures, the awkwardness, the wipeouts and beatdowns. When we start out, we’re just so excited to be surfing that these setbacks are part of the fun (okay, two-foot slop with four friends is big fun for kooks). If I admit that I have felt frustration in the past when my surfing didn’t come up to my artificial standards, I must also say that I was wrong in this. So far, I’ve managed to get thrashed, crashed, even hurt while surfing; I’ve come too close to drowning, too close to sharks and out of control kooks and crazies. I can recount many of the times I’ve been rejected by the ocean. BUT none of the beatdowns take away the times of total bliss.

And yes, I’m not above the occasional anthropomorphizing.  

erwin@realsurfers.net

Original material by Erwin Dence in realsurfers.net is protected by copyright. All right reserved by the author/artist. Thanks.

Good luck

SADness, Dreaming “Swamis,” First Drafts, TDS, and PS and STUFF

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing blog,, real surfers, surf culture events, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

I will attempt to focus. Attempt. Trying again. Okay: Seasonal Affected Disorder. Warranted. It’s the (real astronomic science) Winter Solstice. Is it dark yet? Then, soon. Oddly, I get more depressed when the Summer Solstice hits, knowing it’s downhill to… to now. Winter. Still, with the first real, deep frost hitting my neighborhood (ancient fjord- real geographic science) yesterday (and thank you real or fictitious climate change), I realize, crappy, damp, dank, dark, dismal, cloudy, rainy, possibly snowy, or worse, icy weather ahead of us, there might be… waves. Yes, winter waves. Cold(er) water, and the possibility (based on my non-scientific remembrances of… counting… forty-four winter solstices in the Pacific Northwest) of a (limited) number of sneaky swells ripe for stealth surf swoops.

Swoop it up if you get a chance. Watch out for me. Surf Abstinence Disorder (a different SAD), whether from bad luck (skunkings, broken vehicles or other broken shit), lack of opportunity (working, mostly), lack of swell (or missing actual swell through lack of belief or lack of checking for tight window), real world time requirements (work, mostly, again), is different than not wanting to surf (for a variety of reasons including a fear of or knowledge that you are not able to pop up like you swear you once could), for which a beautiful wave stretched out in front of you might be a cure, a bigger board and/or a paddle might be another). This Performance Anxiety, pretty natural and common (Okay, you once ripped. I’ll believe you if you believe me), is still better than Surf Celibacy. I looked it up; abstinence is attempting to give something up. Celibacy is, face it, quitting; consciously committing to never surfing again.

Forgive me, please, but I can’t help but wonder what the celibate surfer dreams of. Last night (or tonight, not totally sure) is the longest of the year. I will, undoubtedly, have a dream, or multiple dreams involving surfing. Bypassing the dreams in which the ocean gets farther and farther away as I try to get there, and the ones where waves come over mountains like avalanches, I have no way or will to stop any dreams in which I am ripping, gliding, moving down the line, and… Yeah, those dreams.

HAPPY SOLSTICE!

Sorry, got carried away for a moment, ignoring all the bad political news out there, seeking some relief from a persistent case of TDS. I do attempt to repress anger and frustration, so I guess I am repressed. Good. Perhaps it’s that, reviewing my options, merely redact those that are any more extreme than whining a bit.

Still, I’m always thinking, and, out in the world, I do talk to strangers. Yes, I chatted it up with two women cashiers at a hardware store the day after the Seahawks clutched victory out of the hoofs of the LA Rams (talons/hoofs, obvious); yes, I do go off on political rants on occasion. This does not always go well. But it does give me some talking points, it does edit banter into more lucid, focused… banter.

I’ve decided that my discussions are the first drafts of what I write.

As I continue working on my novel, “SWAMIS,” I find myself dreaming, or just imagining, changes on the particular chapter (I do think of chapters as scenes; dialogue, setting, movements) I’m… refining, putting some emphasis on adding more drama, front-loading clues, all while eliminating stuff that doesn’t move the plot along. Some of the ideas I use.

Here’s one alternative for the most recently posted chapter (3… scroll down): Yes, I am making the attraction/romance between the narrator, Joey, and Julia more… mainstream (not quite Hallmark-y). I imagined having Julie and Joey, together in the street, laughing about something. Later, the plan was, to have one of the North County locals ask her about the conversation. She says, “I asked him what color our babies’s eyes will be.” After suitable shock, she continues, “He said, ‘brown,’ most likely, but our grandkids… more options.'”

Something else: I’ve spent some energy/time presenting Joey as a damaged person (as all fictional detectives seem to be, Sherlock), with a history of striking out physically. I, perhaps accidentally, also established that he is capable of wicked sarcasm, the outsider’s method of bullying. IF a writer’s characters are based on real people, as I insist mine are, I do know someone who may or may not use sarcasm as a weapon, or a defense mechanism/way to keep people at a distance.

TALKING is helpful. Usually. Thanks for checking out my site. Write me with comments/criticism erwin@realsurfers.net

POSTSCRIPT- The next occasional surf culture event will be happening in late January or early February. The emphasis will be on SURF MUSIC. Here’s the first verse of the UKULELE SONG:

I see she has an ukulele, ukelele, ukulele, I betcha that she plays it daily, ukulele, ukulele, I’d love to play the ukulele, she could teach me how to play.

Other first lines: I’m headed down to San Onofre… You know I came from California… I do not smoke the marijuana… I ride a Donald Takayama… In progress. Catchy tune. I can play it on my Hohner Blues Harp, Hohner Blues Harp…

SIX MONTHS until the SUMMER SOLSTICE! COW-A-FUCKIN’-BUNGA!

ORIGINAL WORK by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. protected by copyright. Thanks

If Ben Gravy Surfed Epstein’s Island…

Posted on by under northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf satire, writings of Erwin Dence

…I want to see the video! I mean, man, do I! Maybe he found the list while scouting out whatever breaks are available. THAT would be some clickable content.

Okay, so here’s my thinking on this: I’ve been fooled into checking out a few videos on YouTube because non Andy Irons AI algor-rhythms (or is it Al Gore rhythms) believe, because I watch, like, every Nate Florence or Mason Ho post, and most Koa Rothman and Jamie O’Brian offerings, I must want some of these other pretenders to the “Yes, I make a living surfing and providing content” hierarchy, sub-title “And I still, and myyy management team will confirm this, don’t consider myself a sell out. Oh, and buy some of this super body wash. I use it myself.”

In researching New Jersey surfer Mr. Gravy (not his real name), I discovered his cover story is that he started the video thing when he quit drinking, as a way to stay sober. Good work. I mean, not like giving it up to run the Department of War and Manliness, but… something. SHIT! Never really a devoted drinker, I quit the cult in 1990. Mostly I keep not drinking to stay sober. Seems to work.

When watching surf videos, I do fast forward the more obvious ads (out of respect, more like not losing more respect for the surfer). One obvious effect big time sponsorship has had is cutting down the swearing count from surfers who previously, and, I’m assuming, in real life, dropped f-bombs more often than they dropped in on, yes, bombs. And surfers who might, might be unapproachable assholes must, must project a friendly, nice guy image. And, realness wise, I am aware that I am, possibly, competitive if not ruthless in the water, frequently grumpy, and always sarcastic on land, and, you are correct; my little blog ain’t shit in the scheme of things. Fuck!

Now, if I had someone sponsor me to paddle around Little Saint James Island, located in the American VIRGIN Islands, in the Caribbean, looking for surf, I’d do it. Great content. Possible surf. I would have to recheck the maps, make sure it’s not too close to Venezuela.

Warning! Almost political stuff. Don’t read further and/or delete from your history after reading.

Anyway, I’m not aiming to hop onto the Vlog gravy train. I do want to keep the Epstein thing alive. With the “Kill them all,” and the health care/food affordability crises, and with the “I’ll take it in gold” Trump Cavalcade of Incompetence and Corruption on a constant march toward… maybe you know where; a little thing like old rich people molesting children gets lost.

Or I’ll delete it.

Oh, and fuck cancer!

My Aunt Tifa on Protests, J.D. Vance don’t surf, and… Other Non-Surf and Yes-Surf Free Speech Stuff and Sort of Anti-Poet Poetry

Posted on by under northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, writings of Erwin Dence

Photo courtesy of non-government-funded NATIONAL PUBLIC RADIO. One of thousands of NO KINGS demonstrations, all off them peaceful, across the beloved and besieged U S of f’in’ A.

John Deere Vance watches the fun as I-5, on which 800,000 vehicles pass per day, is shut down. It’s not clear if the LIVE-FIRE exercise (my God, like missiles and shit, like the movies… whoa!) included live rounds going over the freeway, the main and only coast route, but Gavin (is his nickname ‘GovGav’?) may have pointed out the latest in Vance’s machismo/vacation tour shenanigans by shutting down the freeway for four hours. “Hey, man,” an unofficial White House spokesperson may have said, “Don’cha want our military prepared for full invasion slash assault? I mean, like, if it works on this stretch… who knows?”

I’m only writing about this because I once commuted from Encinitas to the Trestles end of the 17 mile stretch, 1975, and remember riding on the old 101, Pre-I-5, nicknamed “Slaughter Alley,” and distinctly remember seeinng surfers, parked on the side of the road, being rounded up by Marines and turned over to the California Highway Patrol. I knew there had to be some awesome waves on the other side o the bluffs. Waiting for the official report from JD. If I get an AdVance note, I’ll pass it on, though I won’t believe anything about him shredding and or ripping. Or wave size. Nope.

ODD THOUGHT- It’s impossible not to notice how all the sycophant/loser trump appointees have to hold a pose of non-commitment, or even belief when trump or one of his chosen flock speak. This stifling of emotion, forced non-rolling of the eyes must be just so, so difficult. It reminds me (though I try to resist) of the Presidential feature at Disneyland. Video animatronics. Pretty basic back when you had coupons and it was this or another swirl n the teacups, but, say, Lincoln was unmoved, stone-faced, like he hadn’t heard a whopper from Douglas, until… whoa! Lifelike. And I’m still waiting for someone, any of these toadies, to just fall down laughing. Not yet.

Keith Does Oregon for Real- Peninsula ripper Keith Darrock is from, among other places, Yachats, Oregon. He recently took a trip down there, did some surfing (undocumented or un-shared). His takeaway; surfing on the Strait is, possibly, less ‘real’ than the hiking, rock-jumping, and generally unfriendly waves on the, you know, coast. It’s not that I disagree. Incidentally, my dad lived across the river from the Astoria bridge. Chinook.

“Don’t Tell Me You’re a Poet” from “Love Songs for Cynics.”

Don’t tell me you’re a poet, I saw you at the laundry, Your costume in the dryer and your quarters keeping time, We made small talk conversation, I’d expected something grander, I mixed my whites and colors, you traded quarters for my dimes.

You know, I saw you at the reading, your performance so dramatic, And the lighting was just perfect, all words in the present tense, And you listed your credentials, said you’d weave a world of moments, That’s when I stashed my poem away for it just seemed to make no sense.

I know that you’re a poet, you wear sorrow like a garment, You have words on scraps of paper in the pockets of your clothes, Which are washed and dried and folded, sorted neatly on the table, Though the words I’ve heard so far are not quite poetry, but prose.

I can’t say I’m a poet, I’m a casual observer, Looking over someone’s shoulder at last Sunday’s New York Times, But the Laundry’s glass doors shudder, there’s a world pressing against them While you’re busy with the syntax, with the rhythm and the rhyme,

And all I know for certain is that I got four quarters for five nickels and six dimes.

Copyright Erwin A. Dence, Jr. All rights reserved. I wrote this folksy piece many years ago, immediately after attending a CENTRUM performance that was a culmination of a weeklong Poetry thing attended by our older son, James, his friends Brian Pitts and Adam Larm. Performance art. My response, appreciation and sarcasm, possibly made stronger when I criticized something to the main instructor and she responded with something I took as, “You think you could do better?” Probably not.

Bonus Photo-

ON NO KINGS DAY, I was driving out in the wilds of the Coyle Peninsula, and couldn’t help but notice this house. I followed the one sign’s advice, and drove slow enough to take this photo. I figured not honking was the closest I could get to peaceful protest. Gosh, such a resistor.

Hey, get some real waves where and when you can. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net and remember you can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net

Interrogatory, as in “Where You Going With All Those Surfin’ Boards?”

Posted on by under Uncategorized

I have a habit of going out of my way to ask people who have surfboards on their rigs where they are going, where they have been, whether or not they got waves, or think they might find waves; easy questions like that. This happens out on Surf Route 101, and since I am doing a lot of work in Port Townsend, and it is a route from the northern reaches of the state, I might, at least, wonder what the answers folks cruising on or off the ferries might have ffor answers. It’s painting season, with clients worried about impending winter, and doom, and the crash of civilization, but I just can’t help wondering.

One problem is, I might come across as hostile, creepy, even scary rather than friendly, outgoing, even gregarious, and, overall, very willing to talk to strangers. So… ANSWERS, PLEASE.

Okay, I’ll go first. Where am I going with all those ladders on the FUN CAR?

BUT FIRST! Tickets go on sale on Monday, September 15 for the Port Townsend Film Festival. The short documentary films, including “Erwin,” by Annie Fergerson, will be part of the offering on a Friday and a Sunday. This won’t be your only chance to see the almost five minute rendering of an obviously ridiculous old-timer surfer. The doc has toured the world with the Waves for Change program, and it will be coming to PT in October.

BUT SECOND! Bear in mind you can always email erwin@realsurfers.net with your own questions; such as: When did you start losing your hair? Did you used to, like, you know, stand up on a board? What was it really like surfing in California in the sixties? Shit like that. Or… your own stories. I obviously want to know. Don’t make me ask you in the parking lot of the QFC.

The one photo, third from the bottom, is of Shortboard Aaron, lured into action, performing an acrobatic high ladder act in a confined space. The second from the bottom is me trying to capture a sunset (while driving), smoke from down canal fires filtering the light. I did say ‘trying.’ The bottom shot came from Keith Darrock, heading toward Port Townsend.

So, yeah; there are rumors of waves, as always; and as much as I want to know who is surfing where, as much as I am anxious to hear about how awesome your last sessions were, I really just want to surf. And I will; probably won’t tell you about it.

LAST THING- It’s contest season on the northwest shores; Westport this weekend, then… I am hoping to get a report. Not like I, you know, HAVE to know. Thanks for checking out realsurfers, and get some waves.

Summertime, and the Living is… Easy

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf contests, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surf stories, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing in Washington State, surfing novels, surfing Oceanside in the late 1960s,, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

Faith, Hope, Confidence, Broken Window, Sally and Courtney, and Somewhere on the Coast, Somewhere on the Net… and on Being Hard to Follow

IT’S SUMMER. The odds of having waves on the Strait of Juan de Fuca is slim-to-flat. Several of my surf friends are currently out on the West End on a hike/camp/surf adventure, but, even though it’s the actual Pacific Ocean, the swell forecast isn’t stellar. Knowing the players, they’ll find waves AND there will be stories.

One of those players, in a recent cellular conversation (yeah, could have said ‘convo’), when I brought up something I had told him before, said, “Sometimes you’re kind of hard to follow.” Today’s posting will prove his point.

I have been watching the WSL contest from Huntington Beach a bit, catching up when I get home. In fact, it’s finals day and I just turned off the tablet… too distracting. I’m not sure what the WSL online complainants have to say about, say, scoring or that some glory-hogging CT surfers are involving themselves, but… highlights: Kind of rooted for nepo surfer Kalohe “Get it right” Andino; he’s out. Always root for Sally Fitzgibbons. She was number two in the Challenger Series ranking going into the event, and the number one was eliminated early. Earlier. Sally’s out. I did find out that the surfer Trish rooted for, Courtney Conlogue, is not in the contest but is working as a lifeguard in Huntington Beach and mentoring a surfer in the event (eliminated). “Good for her,” Trish said.

I did notice that a lot of the surfers, male and female, are on the Simone Biles side of Jordy Smith. Gymnast-sized hydrobats. Just an observation; no judgment.  

I’VE BEEN surfing long enough that SURFER’S JOURNAL’s section that focuses on old timey surf stories is pretty much up to the era when I switched from surf mats to surfboards. SO, okay, like it’s 1969, I’m working at Buddy’s Sign Service, 1st and Tremont; close to the Oceanside Pier, one block off this stop-lighted section of Surf Route 101. The shop, in the gutted former newspaper building, a glorious place to work for a recent Fallbrook High School graduate, was also one block south and west of the then notorious Tenderloin downtown section. With the Vietnam War in full escalation mode, Commanders of Camp Pendleton were constantly threatening to not allow Marines to go to Oceanside, with the hawkers and prostitutes. Most of the Marines my age, many from small towns, they were enroute to war, yes, but Oceanside… maybe too dangerous, too scary.

Again, for me… glorious. Still, scary.

There were reasons Oceanside and Imperial Beach offered the cheapest oceanfront and ocean adjacent properties south of Orange County.

But, in the summer I had to sign up for the draft, and for classes at Palomar Junior college, with my surf friends scattering; I had a job (apprentice/nub), I had a girlfriend (Trish, same girl fifty-six years later), I had a semi-reliable car (Morris minor), and I was figuring out how to manage the fickle, sometimes frightening waves at the pier and the various other spots. I would surf before or after work, or head to Swamis or Grandview or Pipes.

Sorry. Exposition, scene setting. The freedom I felt is the very basis for my never-quite-done novel, “Swamis,” the magic I felt is the magic I want to convey. Working on it.

I convinced myself I was getting better known in the North County surf scene beyond Tamarack and Oceanside. I was becoming a regular. What I noticed, and this was discussed when I actually spoke to other surfers, that there was an influx of surfers from Texas. Texas? Yeah. According to actual locals, these dudes seemed to have money. They would stay at the motels in the Leucadia area, chase the local girls. More irritating, they’d catch some. Or the locals imagined they had.  And they’d add to the congestion in the lineup, more irritating than the kooks from West Covina, only slightly less irritating than seeing the pros and magazine stars coming down from the north. I mean, like, “Fuck, man, that’s Billy fuckin’ Hamilton.”

SO, one afternoon, I’m checking out the waves at Grandview from the bluff. Four to five, maybe, and glassing off. Two guys come up to me. I shouldn’t try to copy or mimic their accents, but the waves seemed big to them, and they questioned why I’d paddle out.

FAITH.

Faith, foremost, in my ability to challenge a situation out of my comfort zone. This is a faith learned through attempting and failing, retrying and almost succeeding.

FAITH ONLY WORKS IF WE BELIEVE HAVING FAITH WORKS.

Not to get religious-ey on this, but ‘blind faith?’ No. Jesus praised those who were not witness to his miracles and yet believed. Fine. But surfers don’t take other surfer’s word for things: “Do you have any photos? Witnesses?” “Yeah.” “Oh, and I’m supposed to believe that guy; dude who said it was eight feet when it was… I was out… more like six feet?”

There is a difference between having the confidence to believe you can paddle out and ride a few waves and the wisdom to decide you probably shouldn’t try. It’s learned, usually the hard way. A lot of experience may or may not give one a bit of knowledge.

EQUIPMENT- Almost immediately on starting work at Buddy’s I was sent out (alone) to repaint some metal structures that hold interior lit plexiglass signs. One of the first ones I attempted was on a severe slope. Daunting. Ladders require an even footing. I figured it out, got it painted despite being scared shitless, and got questioned (chewed out) on how long it took. “What?”

Next challenge- a forty-foot ladder. Like a kook paddling with too much nose in the air, a rookie ladder person will try to make the clime less steep. There I was on the main drag in Oceanside, the angle probably 45 degrees. Boing, boing. Next challenge- Manlift. The guy from Federal signs was operating the boom. I was painting the pole with aluminum paint, and the cross at the top with white. I worked my way up. Okay. Take it slow. Got to the cross. Switched paint. Started at the top. When I reached for the cross, it moved. A lot. Almost lost my balance, almost lost my breakfast. “You okay, kid?” “I don’t know.” The man was laughing. “Yeah, you’re fine.”

SLOW FORWARD to now; I’m working on a job (with Reggie Smart- he’s on social- look him up) I would have been happy not doing. A church steeple that requires the use of a manlift with a 65-70 foot boom. SCARY.

But I have faith in the equipment. So far, and I’m almost done, the faith is well founded. I only bumped into the building, softly, a couple of times… OH, but I did back the fun car into the turret. Shattered but intact. Fuck! The white trash, duct tape fix didn’t make it from Port Townsend to Quilcene. I’m getting it replaced on Wednesday, hopefully just in time for the next pulse of waves. I’ll let you know. I mean, after the fact.

It is summer, but… after faith comes HOPE.

Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net AND, with your praise and your own stories, please (if you’re not a site-builder or content consultant) fly me a line at erwin@realsurfers.net

Let’s see- I borrowed the surfing photo. All others and the content is original, so, protected by copyright UPDATE- I would have thought Kanoa would win. Despite my not rooting for him, he was just eliminated. On to Tahiti!

Get some waves!