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!
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.
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.
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
…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.
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
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.
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!
I have a self-imposed deadline for posting. It’s, like, noon on Sundays. I wrote about the big incident without the input from Tim Pauley. THEN, heading off somewhere, and because surf journalist emeritus (I hope he’s not offended) Drew Kampion commented on today’s posting with a bit of a cosmic message(as of there was a photo included, but there wasn’t). Thinking I couldn’t see it because IO was on the tablet, I checked the big computer. WHOA! message from Chimacum Tim. So, of course, after practically begging him to write up the incident, I have to post this. I;m not deleting what I wrote (yet). See if they, you know, match. SO…
A few days ago while surfing the 10th St. jetty in Avalon, New Jersey I saw the mast of a sailboat on the other side of the jetty, dangerously close to the rocks. Thinking to myself there might be people in danger, I abandoned my surf session and ran to the jetty. There was a group of us that witnessed eight kids and two instructors on the tiny 24 foot sailboat. Having sailed across oceans and worked on tugboats offshore, this was the heaviest thing I’ve ever seen. There was nothing we could do for the kids. The boat swayed violently in the waves against the jetty, and jumping off the boat was putting your life in peril. We yelled to the kids to stay on the boat and help was coming. But all us responders were helpless to watch the carnage unfolding. It wasn’t until the keel snapped off the boat and the jetty released the hull of the boat that the kids had a chance. The boat started to drift away from the rocks, but was taking on water. Once the boat was almost entirely underwater, the entire crew made a jump for it into the raging current. Fortunately, they all had life preservers, and there were a couple other boats at the mouth of the inlet to scoop them up.
Everyone made it back to the Beach. The kids were beyond brave, and a number of people in the community, on the boats, and on the beach were able to assist. It was pretty cool to experience that in this day and age. There are still people willing to put their life on the line in order to help others.
Tim
My take:
I’ve been checking out Chimacum Tim’s chickens while he was on the East Coast. Tim’s father has had some medical issues; Tim has been helping out. AND, of course, surfing. Tim’s dad lives in New Jersey, in or near Avalon, which is, evidently, an island, so… surf. I wasn’t sure when Tim was coming back, so, on Friday, I cruised by. Tim was there, and he looked like shit. I, of course, told him so. Not the first person to say so, so… confirmation.
Tim, rather politely, explained he had a hell of a flight getting home, AND… “Oh, did you hear about the sailboat crashing. Wednesday. It was the heaviest thing I’ve ever seen on the water.”
I asked Tim, politely, to write something about the incident and send it to erwin@realsurfers.net so I could post a first hand account. He didn’t. He’ll have to rely on my second hand narration. I will try to duplicate my friend’s voice, though without the Philly/Jersey accent or attitude. Paraphrasing:
“It was a pretty north swell. Waist to chest. Pretty good. Not too crowded. I see this sailboat. It’s headed toward the jetty. There were two instructors and eight kids… students.”
Okay, I’ll skip the fake quotes. Tim and some other surfers run over to the jetty. The boat’s engine had failed at the worst time, the boat was hitting the rocks, and it looked like the crew and the kids were ready to bail. This would have been a very bad choice. Tim and the others were frantically yelling. It was… heavy. AND THEN another boat pulled the sailboat off the rocks, but THEN the boat began to sink.
In the end, the ten sailors were saved. It made national news. When I told Trish about it, she, of course, already knew. “Yeah, but Chimacum Tim was there!” “Uh huh. How are his chickens?” “Fine. The one hen is still sitting on the eggs, the others are still being mean to her, and Tim says…” “Yeah; I have to go.”
RECAP- Tim surfed. One of the heroes on Wednesday, flew home on Thursday, looked like shit on Friday. I’m sure he’s recovered by now. He will have to go back to work on the Washington State Ferry system soon. “You must have had some heavy moments on the ferries.” “Sure.” “Maybe you could write something, send it to me at erwin@realsurfers.net and…” “Yeah. Hey; thanks for checking on my chickens. I gotta…” “Yeah; maybe a nap, huh?”
Surf adventurer Tim Polley explaining how waves are still necessary for real surfing
Dru’s new cat, Nicolas, checking out the Port Gamble traffic. Yeah, Nicky, they’re all heading for or coming back from the Olympic Peninsula by way of the Hood Canal Bridge. Some have boards.
Idling, sounds, not quite music, droning to match the stops and goes,
Heading somewhere you have to be
More than you want to be,
Somewhere where the redundancies cannot be denied.
You long to be somewhere, somewhere else.
There, not here.
Time and space and gravity,
All the rules and laws and circumstance,
Somewhere else is where your mind has gone,
Somewhere where you’re sliding,
Weightless,
Smooth across a tilting sea,
Tucking under showers,
Gliding in a perfect light,
Dancing to music you have heard before,
Smiling, sending laughter back into the thunder,
One hand touching magic.
Wake up! The light has changed
And you’re almost there.
No, I don’t call myself a poet. Yet I’m putting together (some of which is adding to) a book of songs and poetry and some pieces that might be called essays under the title, “Love songs for Cynics.” The problem is, more blues than love songs. So, I’m working on this. Here’s an attempt:
“Dream,” You Said
If it was a dream, and it may have been… You were in it. But then, you were my dream, are my dream. Don’t laugh.
Your right arm was stretched toward me. Your hand was close, delicate fingers tightly squeezed together. My focus, even as you moved your hand away from your face, remained on your palm; life line and wish line and dream line and fate line.
You rotated your hand, slightly, at the wrist. Your little finger, closest to me, curled in. The others followed. One, two, three, four. The fingers straightened together. One, two, three, four. And again. One, two, three.
A twist of the wrist ended the rhythm. You were pointing at me.
The last knuckle of your pointer finger moved, slightly, then re-straightened. Your thumb remained up, like a hammer on a pistol. You pulled it back with the thumb and first finger of your left hand. The word ‘yes’ was part of a laugh.
You moved your left hand away as the finger pistol recoiled. The fingers on both hands exploded out. You laughed. “Poof” was the word within this laugh.
Your right hand moved against your lips, fingers wrapped over your nose and left eye, moved, slightly, to your rhythm: One, two, three, four.
Porcelain nails, jade green with ivory tips; ivory, ivory with a slight coral tinge; were almost tapping.
“Dream?”
“Dream,” you said, as you slid your hand down your face, the first two fingers following the ridge of your upper lip: Pulling, but only softly, on your bottom lip. Revlon red lips, since I’m naming colors. Your eyes, fully open, narrowed. Green. Of course, green; translucent, with electric lines of yellow and blue. More blue or more yellow, but always green.
Your right eye widened, a half-breath ahead of the left, to fully open.
“Dream, then,” I said.
Your right hand twisted and opened, almost like a wave. I’ll rephrase. It was almost as if you were waving, but, as you pulled your fingers in, one, two, three, four, I heard, or imagined, a sound, a wave, breaking; up, over, the wave becoming a fist. Open, repeat; one, two, three.
After the fourth wave, you threw your fingers out; that wave hitting a cliff. Perhaps.
“It could be, perhaps,” you said, something like a laugh, but softer, within the words, “That it’s you, that you’re in my dream.”
I’m reserving copyights on the two poems. THANKS for checking out realsurfers.net I am available for complaints and compliments and stories. Write me at erwin@realsurfers.net
I am, not surprisingly, continuing to write/edit my Joseph Atsushi DeFreines short story about a surf trip to a spot in Wales. This is the second drawing I did to go along with the story. I then changed what I was planning to write to go along better with the illustration. BUT FIRST:
A thumbnail shot (forgive me for the thumb… and for thinking it’s funny) of THOR, left, and CONCRETE PETE, and a shot of REGGIE SMART delivering my new-to-me Surf Tech board. NOT a HOBIE.
UPDATE/OOPS- In my original posting, I failed to mention that Northwest surf pioneer TOM BURNS beat me in the race to being 74 years old. He did call me from Cannon Beach to give me the surf report with a subtle reminder, something like, “Yeah; not that great; lots of traffic; got some complaints from friend in Seaside about all the Washingtonians coming down; can’t get near Short Sands; and hey; you forgot my birthday.”
Tom Burns, a few years back, setting up for the next section
Not that it’s a competition, but I’ll catch up with Tom in late August, slightly ahead of Coach Pete Carroll, who, side story, Tom chatted with in the Westport parking lot a few years ago. “Wait, Pete surfs?” “Of course.” Going, still going.
A Little Heckling from the Back Pews
The belief that surfing is a spiritual form of expression, allowing one to move, gracefully, perhaps, through a greater energy, to flow with this gift, and, in a perfect moment, with the stars and the moon and the tides and the other elements aligned, and that the quest for this enlightenment can transform one into a better version of one’s self; this belief is great. And it is real. And I share this belief.
Two things often, to use a once cool phrase, harsh this paradigm: Surfing is fun, one, and two, the reality that even non-perfect waves frequently draw crowds means that too many others are in the water seeking spiritual awakenings, connections with the Universe, and moments of ultimate bliss.
Your quest, their quest, everybody’s questing like crazy. And some are kooks. Not that this is, in itself, a sin.
But some are surfers you’ve surfed with before; surf acquaintances if not surf friends. And sometimes, the fun part includes getting loud, participating in what a guy in the water called heckling; as in: “Hey, you’re doing a lot of heckling. I just want to see you stand up on that board.” My response was, “No.” Hard no, perhaps.
Now, I really hadn’t singled that surfer out for heckling. It was more like I was acknowledging other surfers I’ve known for a long time, as in, “Tim’s on the wave. Tim’s wave! Hey, look around!” Or, if someone was taking off down the line from me, a simple, “Really?” Or, if a big roll through was approaching, “Take off! Be a hero!” Or, if I see three surfers going for one wave, “Everybody go! Everybody… go, go, go!” Or, if someone is directly in my line, I might say, “Paddle!” or “Don’t move!” Depends.
Whoa; maybe I do a bit of heckling.
But when I told this woman to “Paddle. Paddle!” and she got, evidently, a good ride, she mentioned I should have whistled. “You mean, like, ‘good ride’ kind of whistle?” “Yeah.” The next time I saw her complete a ride, I gave her the ‘both arms up’ signal.
When the guy who later, on the beach, claimed to be from Capitola, adding that he once almost burned Tom Curren at Rincon, mentioned my heckling, Thor, formerly of somewhere down Surf Route 101 from me, recently hanging at his sister’s place on Maui, said, “It’s not heckling, man, it’s hassling.”
I deny that.
It might actually be that I was having a lot of trouble adapting to my new-to-me Surf Tech Balboa model. The same length as my well-thrashed Hobie, but with clunkier rails, it almost refused to turn on my first three waves, and while trying a high line on another wave, the board broke free and I dropped, out of control, the trough. This gave me more to talk about when Reggie, who sold me the board, showed up and started dominating the inside waves. And then inventor/entrepreneur Mike Olson showed up, continuing to try to master his wing foil, so I had to try to say something to him on the way by. He said when he gets it on rail, “It really is like flying,” and he did mention how much fun he was having. Fun. Yeah.
So, yeah; a lot of banter/talking, made all the more annoying by my out at sea voice, that all the louder by both being hard of hearing and having to wear ear plugs.
Occasionally, and it seems to coincide with my catching a lot of waves and having a good time, I can’t help but feeling a bit apologetic. Not during, afterwords. Like, maybe, you take my loudness as abrasiveness. I get it. Nothing has come close to ruining a session for me like obnoxious surfers teaming up and disrespecting the true value of the gift of waves while I’m, in silence, praying for a bomb set wave with no shoulder hoppers.
I realize this sounds like a non-apology apology, but I do sincerely consider, as in think to about, briefly, how my being in the water might negatively affect others. Briefly.
Oh, so after Capitola guy and I exchanged a few stories on the beach, and I, as usual, pushed my blog, he mentioned again that he’d like to see me standing up on my board. There may have been a bit of spitefulness, and I hope you’ll consider forgiving me, when I replied, “No, no, and… no.” And, yes, even though I punctuated this with a double flip-off, the friendly sort, and he seemed to take it in the friendly way in which I meant it, I did feel a bit… almost but not quite… apologetic.
Here is the addition to my short story abbout a fictional surf trip to Wales in 1975. I’ve made significant changes, will make more. I will repost when I’m satisfied it works. SO:
Some events are so horrific that, even as they are happening, we wish them, desperately want them to be something else. Not real. In the aftermath we want them to not have happened, to have those few worst sessions to not be real.
But they are. Samuel Hubbard/Jones, in what I’ve long referred to as his ‘lord high barrister lingo,’ described what he witnessed, what we both became a part of, as “Discordant.”
“Discordant? Yeah. Okay.”
“I just didn’t want to say ‘surreal.’ When… when we entered the bath/shower room on the pier at Porthclaw, Claudia… Claudia; she was smiling as if she wasn’t in… that much danger. As if it might be, still, a joke. What was happening. With everything else dark, her attacker and… and she was wearing that summer dress… So bright. I know why you’re asking me this, Joey. I mean, now. I’ve come to grips with it. The image… it’s still there, but it’s… I’ve had fifty years of other images of… of unspeakable violence. As have you. But I can describe every moment; and I have. It’s part of the process. You could… and don’t. This is why you can’t finish “Swamis.” I read… almost all of your most recent draft. Better. You cannot bear to go to those most monstrous, those darkest places, and you refuse to believe that those are the places readers insist upon your going. And, you don’t have to write this, so I understand. And… you’re right, fuck any readers who insist on cruelty rendered so they can imagine it while lying on their beds. You look for sense, for a story, for heroes and villains. For… justice. But, fuck, man, we’re… old. Why haven’t we learned that life is…”
“Discordant.”
“Discordant indeed.”
Have the perfect combination of fun and inspiration the next time you surf. Remember all original material on realsurfers.net is protected by copyright, all rights reserved by the author/artist, Erwin Dence. AND do write me at erwin@realsurfers.net with your high praise and anything else. So far, I’ve received mostly offers to improve my site for, I’m guessing, money. AND, as always, thanks for checking it out!
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