Tag Archives: travel

Texts and Incomplete Stories and Drop-Ins and Re-Entries and Joel Visits the North County and…

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, surf trips, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

I got this text with the note, “Who’s burning whom?” Someone is definitely tucked into a small tube (a tuberoonie), and some, possibly entitled, dick is dropping in. This was kind of a ‘guess who’s on the wave’ and a ‘guess the spot’ thing. I immediately thought the surfer was Stephen R. Davis. I’ve seen him pig-dog barrels of any size many times. The kelp fooled me. “Oh? Really? Okay.” I certainly do not want to blow up the spot, which I am aware of, but, hearing it’s often crowded and because it would require a ferry ride, I haven’t attempted to surf there; so… Your turn; maybe you know the drop in dude. For the record, it wasn’t me.

FIRST- I am available at erwin@realsurfers.net

SECOND- You can ignore my previous post. It’s fine. I really don’t like to get political, but… ignoring reality doesn’t do anything to change it, or help us to be better prepared for whatever changes are coming. We all, eventually, must face hard truths that are true nonetheless. ANYWAY, just hyping myself up enough to write something someone might consider as opposing their position, thinking about what really angers/bothers/hurts me the most, I find it’s the level of hate that people who consider themselves good, Christian, American, patriotic (choose one or all- options include ‘white’ and ‘no way related to any immigrants,’ and ‘fuck you.’) are willing to spew, the lack of compassion, the apparently ease with which horrors inflicted on others somehow is some righteous vengeance for wrongs you believe were done to you. A HARD TRUTH I must accept is that I understand where some of this comes from, how easy it is to lose any sense of empathy or compassion, to put myself in another person’s shoes and then turn away when basic decency is ignored, or worse, if inhumane treatment of fellow humans is celebrated. It is, I would think, hard to be SAVED, redeemed, by the grace of GOD, AND to part of the hateful mob. I can’t help thinking about JESUS asking his, our, father to forgive the jeerers and the mob celebrants, “For they know not what they do.” YEAH, use the ‘I didn’t know; argument when you’re searching your soul.

Joel Carben (not carbon- “I’m not an essential element”) and his family are down at the San Elijo Campground. It seems like it’s an annual thing. He sent me this text with the line, “Name the spot.” Because my board surfing life started in North San Diego County, and because I’m just kind of a ‘know it all,’ I wrote back, “Cardiff Reef? It was once, yeats(sic) go, Cardiff Pier.” “Yes, Cardiff Reef, Swamis is peeling in the background.” I didn’t see anything peeling. “There is solid S swell forecasted for the weekend. What’s your call on S swell? It’s like 3 @202 degrees, peaking Saturday. I can surf anything from Cardiff to Swamis.” “I didn’t really study it when I lived down there. It was either waves, or no waves. I was never that fond of Cardiff because it’s always kind. of bbrokenbut you should probably try suicide reef, please. Form of a called seaside trailer. Park formerly called.”

On July fourth, Joel, who started his surf career on Long Island, New York, was a commuter/surfer living in Seattle before moving to the Olympic Peninsula, sent these: “My guess: somewhere between Cardiff and Pipes.” “Yessirf! Cardiff Reef left (not in the photo) Surfed it this AM, nicce S swell hitting.” “Nice. Innsider information. AThe beach, just south of Cardiff ws ccalled stretch mark beach because women who had babies would go there go there.” “LOL” “Also, since I’m sharing all this ancient historical stuff. There was no spot called brown house. A result (should have been ‘it was all called’) Swamis beachbreak. There was a pull out on 101 where the house or houses are now. Good place to check out the surf. Phil harper and I got Busted for sleeping in the back of his Truck. No, we told the cops we had our parents permissiannd they said we did not have their permission. And being 117, we drove away. And when we got back swamis’s was crowded. Of course.”

“Is all this going to be in the movie?” “Maybe” “Can I be Keith’s stunt double please (prayer imoge)” “There are no surfers your age h in the novel. Sorry Keith is not ibn iit either” “But he will be crushed Keith has to have a cameo or I’m boycotting it (Included is a photo of Keith Darrock doing a ‘dab’ cutback on a very small wave close to very big rocks) Or maybe that’s the follow up to your multi million dollar book and movie empire. Keith and his bannd of Strait chasers.” “Sounds good to me. I promised Stephen (R. Davis) he could play Gingerbread Fred. When he and I were speaking.”

“There’s the cover photo.” “Okay, Joel, there might be a tale or two.”

“First session ever at Seaside Reef (coral and wave emojis)” “I think I only served there one time and it was a Sunday and the only other surfer in the water was Donald Takiyama. I did not speak to him. But we did trade-off waves. And there might have beenn a couple of nods.” “Takayama is a legend.” “Takayama.”

Photo of Joel on a trip back to the alternate coast, representing. Most recent text: “I do enjoy surfing here but…”

Yes, there is more to every story. For example, that one time at Seaside Trailer Park… My not-yet brother-in-law and his first wife lived in Solana Beach. My vehicle must have been broken at the time. I got dropped off by Trisha’s mother. Trish was supposed to go but wasn’t up to it. Awkward ride there and back as my future mother-in-law wasn’t a big Erwin fan. Yet, and possibly, ever. Anyway… blah, blah, Takayama.

LASTLY, since I’ve kind of gotten into this Sally Fitzgibbons vortex; I stayed up the other night to watch some Challenger Series surfing from South Africa. Sally won her heat in the round of sixteen with some solid surfing and competitive skills, but some falls and some drama. The winners at the Ballito Pro become wildcards at the upcoming CT contest at Jeffrey’s Bay, so… not really stoked on the Challenger Series level of surfing, and because watching any sporting event live is better than a rehash (usually), I was rooting for Sally. I went to bed, but, luckily, woke up just in time for the quarterfinal heat. Again, some drama. Sally won.

Last night, semi-finals. I stayed up late enough to watch it. Sally was, in, leading with great wave selection, but the eventual winner of that heat, and of the contest, Nadia Erostarbe, got some really big scores on one-move re-entries. Not to be a sideline whiner, but there are quite a few surfers, particularly on the women’s side, who count on the bottom turn to re-entry move for seven or eight point rides, rather than the down-the-line rail-to-rail, with slashing, and freefalls, and stylish cutbacks surfing that garners six point rides, maybe. Anyway, I thought it would be a cool story for Sally… It takes the complete package to win at J-Bay. I will be checking it out, live or otherwise, but probably not until the elimination rounds. Stories. There are always stories.

I AM STILL working on the novel, “Swamis.” Not, like, full time. THANKS again for checking out realsurfers.net OH, and a south swell? Might not work for the Strait.

Casualty of the Cool and Casual, and a Haiku or 2

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

I was thinking, yesterday, about casualness; specifically, about whether I have ever been casual about surfing. Maybe not. If casualness is being cool, that being something like indifferent; the answer is probably no. The closest I have come is deciding whether I want to paddle out in questionable conditions. If the conditions are even moderately surfable, and the options are getting skunked or trying to find somewhere else that might be marginally better, I have, historically (and it’s a long history) paddled out. Once in the water, my attitude has always been to surf as well as I am able.

Sometimes there is no decision. I have to go out. There is no way I’m not paddling out.

Because my love, respect, and a certain level of fear of waves has not diminished, I approach each session with anticipation, always hoping to get a wave or waves that offer that unmistakable level of thrill, those moments of barely controled weightlessness in a heavy, uncontrollable world.  Maybe it’s making a wave I shouldn’t have made, the lip hitting me as I was driving across the face, and somehow, I didn’t just crash. Whatever the moment is, or the moments are, I still want to be cool about it. Casual.  

Back to yesterday. I had a job to finish, and I’d spent some time writing, conscious of how much work I had and how much time I was willing to spend before I was scheduled to meet a possible client about a possible project. I took off, chatting on the phone with my daughter, Dru, about behind the scenes stuff concerning the movie, “Nosferatu,” which she had seen, alone, practically, in a theater, and I had screened the night before. Less than a mile away, a not-unfamiliar whump-whumping made me check my tires. Yep. Cruise back home, take the tire off, drop it off at Les Schwab. Should be quick.

It wasn’t. I am not a stranger to flat tires, or to changing them. Using the jack from my work van, I got the tire off. Because I had to shift gear to the van, I reached into the front seat. That’s when, because I was so casual that I didn’t believe I had to block the wheels…

Minor setback. I was able to get the jack out, lower it (slow process), block the tires (like, both front tires, blocks on both sides of each), get the back axle off the ground.

Shouldn’t have been THAT casual.

This, sadly, isn’t the first time I was irresponsibly casual about changing tires. Possibly inspired by the father in “A Christmas Story,” I once changed a tire in record time on a small pickup while Trish was watching. I think we were actually talking about the movie as I did the job. The next morning, leaving at the last minute to meet the vanpool to my job at the shipyard, a mile or so from home, I noticed a certain weirdness in the way the truck handled. I thought or said, “Probably forgot to tighten the lug nuts when the truck was lowered. Probably okay.”

Going down the last hill, my turn to the park and ride lot on my left and the van coming up to the stop sign, my back left tire came rolling up beside me as the axle hit the pavement, sparks flying, and all I could think of as I screeched and slid to a stop was, “I pretty much have control.”

A car pulled alongside me as I jumped out. A fairly freaked-out passenger asked, “Hey, are you all right?” “Yeah,” I said, “I gotta make that vanpool.”

I couldn’t, of course. And the only other vanpooler who lived in Quilcene was, not unsurprisingly, given the pre-dawn light show, reluctant to let me borrow his car.

It all worked out pretty well yesterday. There was a record lack of crowd at Les Schwab, and I was able to get my tire replaced quickly. It had a square drive screw in it, but… note… any driving on a pretty flat tire will ruin the sidewalls. I should remember that. As for the other incident, the truck required a replacement half-axle. ‘Dirty’ John McKinley (I didn’t give him the nickname) asked how it was I didn’t lose control and crash. “Lucky?” “Yeah. Lucky.”

HAIKU- I’ve been, in my attempt to fool other into believing I’m some sort of poet, been writing some Haiku (I believe Haiku is both singular and plural- don’t quote me). Enough so that I’m starting to think in five, seven, five syllable patterns. So, it is only natural that I write a few about surf spots.

REMEMBER, YOU can write to realsurfers, or submit your own story at erwin@realsurfers.net

Haiku for You- A few surf spots I would never blow up and a couple that are already blown

Cape Kiwanda-

Beachwalkers walking… There are multiple web cams… The empty waves roll.

Boats crash through the waves… Portland rippers are elsewhere… Short Sands or Seaside?

Short Sands or Seaside? Okay, Seaside-

The Cove, not the Point… You…get out of my lineup… I’ll kill for this wave.

Westport- 

You see my new board?… Got it custom, so special… It cost more than your car.

I learned to surf here… Jumping into the reforms… I’m an enforcer.

Friends left me stranded… Need a ride to Lake Union… Yes, Fremont’s okay

Sort of secret spot(s) on the Strait and/or the Northern Coast-

You claim there are waves… Is this the only way in?… Can’t be worth the hike

I know that I rip… I once made a long wave here… So, now it’s my spot

The parking lot’s full… So, the waves must be pumping… Can you drop me off?

There almost are waves… There are tourists a’plenty… Watch out for dog shit

I love the vibe here… Great brunches and campfires… And sometimes I surf

Locals aren’t friendly… With a tough reputation… I got a nod once

The surf’s always flat… The ferry waits are brutal… And gas isn’t free

Other People’s Surf Stories and…

Posted on by under Uncategorized

rrosurf session ealsurfers.net now has a dedicated email location. Not surprisingly, it’s erwin@realsurfers.net This gives you an opportunity to send your comments, good or, like, really good. It isn’t as if I’m out of stories, and every surf session, every surf trip is another opportunity. Still, it is obvious that I’m chronicling an objectively fickle little zone in a world of surf spots, and I have a limited number of close surf friends, and that I’m further limited in what I can write about by a host of self-centered and perfectly logical restrictions on what spots I can mention, and whether any of these unnamed destinations might ever have decent waves.

YES, I have tales yet untold from the last century; with less crowded waves, possibly more colorful characters, and yes, there is the drawing and the endlessly unfinished novel (“Swamis,” as a reminder), BUT, allow yourself the opportunity to have something published; your art, your story, your pithy and well-formed critique, or your clever commentary on anything related to surf culture. OR you can just write something like, “Hey, dude, you would have loved the session you missed at ______ the other day.” Feel free to blow up any spot not on the Olympic Peninsula, so… Ocean Shores south. No, you should think before you, you know, sell out somewhere you might want to surf again… but Westport is fair game.

AND, as a bonus, if having tens of readers from all over the world skim over or dive into your work isn’t enough, you can get a share of the money I take in (which is, so far, nothing- I have no control over those ads). So far. Note: When I had a poem (edited) in “Surfer” in 1968, I received $10 and a copy of the magazine. I have neither at this point, BUT once YOU’RE on the big web… Oh, yeah; fame will stck to you like something between a groovy tan and a bad sunburn. Still, better than a rash. Not that I know. I’m… guessing.

I’ll be checking my mail, erwin@realsurfers.net I’m not yet swamped. I’ll probably write back.

Images by Keith Darrock, who cruised down to Westport to hang with a friend from high school, caught some beach break waves, and broke his toe in a bicycle mishap. This didn’t totally curtail Keith’s surfing; boogie board and using his smallest board as a kneeboard (three uses of the word ‘board’ in one sentence- now four) is taking up some of the slack.

SAY- Surf injuries; another possible subject.

Adam Wipeout recently (vague) went up to help Soupy Dan build out this trailer. Since they were by the water… accidental score. Sure. Accidental? Or one of those times when all the plan works out? SIDE NOTE” That orange-ish board is on permanent loan to Adam after/while on permanent loan to me from Atsushi “Archie: Endo, he on longterm loan to Thailand.

The Ballad of Joey and Tony (Joey is in the photo, above)

I should tell the version I spewed, rapidly, while holding up the line at the Pet Smart, Trish on the cell phone giving the clerk the information on how they, according to their website, had a ninety-nine-dollar cat tree available for pickup. Simultaneously, the next person told me Costco has cat trees. “Thanks.” Getting the phone back, I said, “Trish. Costco…” “Fine.”

So:

“I’m not really a cat person. My wife is. We always had cats. The last one died… But these other two cats showed up in our driveway. We thought it was one cat. We’ve gotten other cats this way. Feral. Abandoned. Some of each. People… have you heard of this? People get these cats, get them neutered, then, snip off the end on one ear, and, like it’s kind or something, they let them go. We had a cat lady who lived nearby. But… it’s Quilcene. Dangerous. We’ve had bears… Once we had a cougar kill a raccoon… right in front of our Ring camera. So… Tony, the friendly one… I put a heat lamp in the mud room in the winter. Eventually, he became an indoor/outdoor cat.“

But the other one, Joey… we gave them androgenous names… I never could get close to Joey until, the other morning, he was out where I put the food. Dead.”

“Oh, my.”

“Except… he wasn’t. Tony, and they had to be related, he was scared shitless. After an hour or so, I go out in the mudroom with a cup of coffee, ready… And… he moved.”

“Moved?”

“Moved. I took him to the vet. Had to. He had come to us for help.”

“Did they help him?”

“No. I don’t know what I thought they could do. Adrenaline. Something.”

At about this time, another cashier showed up to open another register. My cashier tallied the treats and toys an inside cat might need. I paid, picked up the bag. The woman with the Costco suggestion moved her stuff up. I turned back.

“I told the people at the vets that I was practical enough to have put a shovel in my car.” I took two more steps. “What’s… something, something that still bothers me. A couple of people gave me shit for paying for a cat’s… you know, paying, when Joey wasn’t my cat.”

The woman just nodded. “Costco? Okay,” I said.

Tony? He’s… adapting.

I am working on some poetry. Yes, the acceptably pretentious kind… Except, I can’t seem to stay within the boundaries. I wanted to post something I’ve been working on, two poetry adjacent pieces. I opted to put out the more quickly written and not as precious story about Joey and Tony. No, a bit more refining. As a warning, I took the HAIKU format, and wrote five related, uh, haikus. One story. I did and I am still considering writing some sort of chorus. We’ll see.

Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net. I look forward to hearing from you. Meanwhile, hit some waves when you can!

Where We Come From, Where We’re Heading,,,

Posted on by under Uncategorized

…Who we meet along the way.

BUT FIRST- Reggie’s dog, Django (“The ‘J’ is silent”), and sometimes lunatic-al Reggie jumping off a forty foot cliff into freezing water at (I’m not sure this is even legal) some place called, if I remember correctly, the Devil’s Punch Bowl. Definitely not Hawaii.

SPIEL- I was born in Surf City, North Carolina. In a car. Delivered with the help of my father. I am happy to continue the possible or partial truth, or legend, that there was a hurricane and/or we were passing the beach. My parents did, oddly enough, have a waterfront house that, family lore has, they purchased for, like, a thousand dollars in the late forties, and sold it for the same amount in 1954 or so. It was, soon thereafter (again, lore) washed away in another hurricane.

I know we went to the beach often. Another North Carolina story is of me, maximum three years old, toddling down and having to be rescued by an Aunt from the shorebreak. I will get to mat surfing in a bit…

BUT FIRST… I was half under my Volvo at a beach parking lot (no surf), pulling a branch that had been stuck and was causing me stress/worry almost equal to that of my concern about an oil leak (possibly/hopefully from the valve cover gasket rather than anything worse, when a car pulls up. It’s the legendary TIM NOLAN, his wife (who I have met several times, but may not have been properly/formally introduced), and this tallish guy. It turns out it’s EMERSON SWANK, someone who Tim met while on a boat/surf trip in Alaska. And, it turns out, Emerson is from North Carolina. “Oh. I was born there… Surf City.” “That’s where Emerson’s from,” Mrs. Nolan says.

So, because I always forget I have two cell phones, each with a camera, I asked Tim to take a few shots of Emerson Swank, possible nickname ‘Extra Swank.’ Because the first two are East Coast, my best guess is Tim asked Extra Swank to send him a couple. AND I might not have made a big deal of the coincidence if I hadn’t told TRISH. She was amazed. Then again, Trish makes a deal out of the fact that, our fathers both in the Marine Corps, she was conceived in North Carolina, born in San Diego, lived on base at Camp Pendleton in the officer’s housing while my family was in the enlisted section (yeah, okay), and that we met, as fate would have it, in Fallbrook. Fate, coincidence. Yeah. Okay. The bottom photo is of Emerson on the Olympic Peninsula coast.

SURF MATS- I’m doing some work for surfer JOEL CARBON, originally from Long Island, New York. Reggie was working with me the other day when Joel showed up. He and Reggie did some surf bro talk about a session they had recently both been a part of. Shortly thereafter, Joel, with me unwilling to trade out for an inflatable SUP, suggested that I should consider, at my advanced age, switching to a surf mat. NOW, I know Joel realizes I loved surf matting, and continued doing it, with Trish, for a while after I started riding boards (1965). Still, not interested. Yet.

GEORGE GREENOUGH, hailed as surfing’s only genius (disregarding/disrespecting Tom Morey, possibly LibTech dude, Mike Olson, others you can add), who, famously, shot the inside the tube footage for “The Innermost Limits of Pure Fun” from a mat. Way before GoPro.

Joel on a mat on a tiny wave. I believe this is some secret Long Island spot. ALSO, something to add to my “Surf Injury” file. Here’s one of several Mat Mad texts from Joel:

“This thing is mind blowing! Just as XZanadu Rocket Fish open up my surfing 15 years ago to riding everything, the mat is opening up my perspective on wave riding in new waves. The speed and feel of being in (as opposed to on) the wave is really cool. It’s like bodysurfing on a thin layer of air… and the view riding low on the wave in the barrel is unreal, leaves me smiling every time. Yew!”

“Yeah, Joel, I remember.”

It is the heart of the painting season, and I have missed several opportunities to pursue the innermost limits of pure fun… including right now. I was discussing all (actually only) things surf related with surf obsessed Olympic Peninsula ripper, Keith Darrock, while trying to put this version of my ego centric blog together. l said I don’t really want realsurfers to be documentation of the last hurrah of my surf life. “Downward spiral,” he said; “Death spiral.” “Wow. Thanks, Keith.” “Maybe you can go surfing tomorrow… or something.”

I’m scheming. Always. Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net. AND, I don’t actually care what a real surfer rides (maybe one of those hand dealies for body surfing or an Alaia(sp?) might suggest to me that you are surfing a bit too much), with the possible exception of a blow up SUP, just, if you’re surfing… enjoy it to the limit.

OH, WAIT… ONE MORE THING: I was at the gas pumps recently, bemoaning that if I had purchased some petrol a few hours earlier, I could have saved twenty-one cents a gallon. This cool young man, in cool attire, with a cool hat, gassing up his cool VW van, said, “I’ve discovered that… (cool pause) everything costs something.” WOW! Thanks.

Humbled and Humble and Remembering and Memorial Day and… You Know, Surf Stuff

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, old surfers, Original Erwin t-shirts, real surfers, short stories on surfing, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf art, surf culture, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, surfing, surfing art, surfing blogs, surfing illustrations, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing stories

Poem. Fear of Crying- “It takes a lot to make me cry, so please don’t try; and if you do, I promise you, I’ll try to make you smile.”

My finger, someone else’s wave.

What We Deserve- We all deserve better; or we believe we do; better or more; less stress, more success; less pain, more gain. Yeah, slogans; the salesperson’s pitch, the trap of new age clap trap; me-ism, we-ism, jingoism. And it’s not that I don’t buy into it. If I put off the work I should be doing, get up early, load up, and drive out for a minimum of half an hour, full of anticipation; by golly, I sort of believe I deserve waves; good waves, uncrowded waves, and lots of them. And I sort of know that belief has no basis… except I want my reward to be as great as my desire, as true as what I imagine it could be.

The Truth is- Sometimes we get skunked. Sometimes someone else gets the wave of the day; someone newer to the game, someone to whom a lucky make on a wave on which the surfer displayed no style, no sign of years of accumulated wave knowledge; and yet, that surfer’s dreams were surpassed. Blissfully so, because a ride like that deserves to be properly appreciated.

Humbled, Not Humble- My most recent surf expedition left me searching for excuses for why I performed so badly; and I hate excuses. Still, I have some: Pressed for time, mind set more on real life than surfing, chose the wrong place to paddle out, relentless set waves. Those are the easy ones. The more fear inducing mind fucks: It just might be true that waves I would have once relished seem daunting, dangerous even. Perhaps my age is catching up with my self-image as someone who tries, as hard as possible, to defy if not deny it.

Still, a Great Session, Other than the Surfing – I got to use my wheelie to pack my board down and back, I met an old friend, TYLER MEEKS, chatted with CHIMACUM TIM, and a couple of other surfers. In processing my latest embarrassment, not that it was witnessed, more that I haven’t been able to not talk about it, I have to go back and take a mental count on other times I’ve been treated unfairly by the ocean (not that, again the ocean plays favorites or that any surfer deserves favor), and there aren’t that many. Did I learn something from my failures? Yes. Do I count the times where I left the water because I lost a fin or was injured or caught three waves in an hour because of the crowd? No. But I can easily recall the sessions in which I was humbled, in which I didn’t live up to whatever standards I believed I had set for myself. Again, belief versus reality.

The John-John Effect- Perhaps you remember a World Surf League contest in France a few years ago: Roll-throughs, brutal death pit shore break; every reason to be intimidated if not scared shitless; and everyone is getting slaughtered… except John Florence. He was ripping the place like it was his back yard. I don’t need to add to that, do I? One surfer’s nightmare is another surfer’s dream.

Cold Comfort- Though I refuse to admit that there is any real value in talking about what I or you or anyone “Used to” do, I do, while wishing I could still ride a six foot board in six foot beachbreak, still wish I could spin and one-stroke into a late drop, crank a vicious hit on an oncoming section, or do a reverse flyaway kickout, and with full awareness that bragging about what I once did only shows what I can no longer do, I do take some solace in my own history; successes and failures.

What Failure Guarantees- A better next time.

Next Time, Man…   

ACTUALLY, I wanted to write something about friends, surf friends, close friends, not that kind of friends. The idea is that we have surf acquaintances, and often, our only thing we have in common is that we are surfers. Some, but not all, of my best friends are surfers. Yes, I have so many writing projects in the process of becoming something worthy of sharing. What I’ve been thinking about has some connection to my last humbling. The gist of the story is that I sort of stole PHILLIP HARPER’S car and drove it to a surf spot I was sure I was going to do well at. I didn’t. I lost my 9’9” Surfboards Hawaii noserider paddling out. Lesson- Hands tight on the rails when turning turtle, arms loose to make it through the turbulence. Other lesson, learned when Phillip, who gave me permission through his mother while he was ill and in bed at the motel adjacent to the Cantamar trailer park, Baja California, Easter Vacation, 1968, had a miraculous recovery when he realized that I was driving his Chevy Corvair with a desperate oil leak to K-38, a place where, on the way down, we saw multiple boards destroyed on the rocks. When I got out and up the cliff, all the other dudes, invited and self-invited, and a very angry Phillip, showed up. I don’t remember anyone asking how I did. Later in the week, an offshore wind made Cantamar, which I had tried to surf because I didn’t have a car and everyone else slept in, became rideable for a while; we surfed some blown out shit waves south of Ensenada, paddled out at a spot that was more crowded than it probably was in North San Diego County, and had some other, non-surfing adventures; fireworks, lack a proper bathroom/shower facilities, a lot of hanging out, and a bit of what folks would refer to as partying. Memorable trip for a sixteen-year-old.

What is interesting to me is that I forgot that I had stolen (borrowed) Phillip’s car until I was writing about this trip, fictionalized, as “Inside Break,” the alternate (in a way) coming of age novel that has been (is still being) transformed into “Swamis.” Because I was thinking about this, I accumulated a list of the cast of the actual incident. I’m listing them here because I will forget the names again. The trip was organized by Phillip’s stepfather, Vince Ross. Vince was borrowing a trailer. He and Phillip’s mother, Joy, and Phillip’s sister, Trish (not my Trish) were to stay at the adjacent motel. INVITEES: Phillip Harper, Ray Hicks, Erwin Dence, Melvin Glouser, Clint/Max Harper, Mark Ross. We were supposed to stay at the borrowed trailer, which did not, and this became an issue have a sewer hookup. But, because of the UNINVITED surfers, Dana Adler, Mark Metzger, and Billy McLean; Mel and Ray and Phil and I got to stay in tents outside the boundary, adjacent to a field of, I’m guessing, sugar cane. There were other American surfers also camped there; way cooler than we were.

If this is in some way connected to friends, Phillip was my first surf friend, Ray was a friend before he started surfing (classmate, Boy Scouts).  I am still in occasional contact with Ray, and credit him with inspiring me to get back into surfing at fifty, after an eight or ten year near drought. I haven’t been in contact with Phillip for years. While I’m fine with knowing something about what has happened with Mark and Billy and Dana, and others, I do feel bad that I might not have been a good enough friend to Phillip.

Tyler Meeks when he had the sorely missed DISCO BAY Equipment Exchange. His hair is longer now. I didn’t recognize him immediately when I last saw him. He is supposed to call me about t shirt opportunities. Call me, Tyler.

What We Don’t Know- DELANA is a DJ on the local Port Townsend public radio station, KPTZ. The program is ‘Music to my Ears,’ 4 to 5 pm on Wednesdays, repeated on Saturdays at 1pm. I’ve caught her show quite a few times when driving. Old tunes, little stories about the artists involved.  What gets me is that at the end, and I’m paraphrasing, she says, “Remember to be kind to those we meet. Each of us carries a burden that others do not see.” What we know about our surf friends is what we have in common; and sometimes surfing is pretty much it. And… that’s fine. In fact, it’s great.

The step parent of “Swamis,” different take on the same era. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. Oh, and Happy Memorial Day, and, oh, good luck, Sally Fitz. They may or may not hold the next round tonight. As with everything, we will see.

Of Course it’s Cool to be a Surfer, and…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Competitive surfing,, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, short stories on surfing, surf addiction, surf contests, surf culture, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing, women surfers in the Northwest,, writings of Erwin Dence

…what is really important, if one of the supporting columns of your self image is that you are a surfer (hence part of the could-be-more-inclusive club), to be recognized as a surfer is quite obviously way better than being seen as, let’s say, because you are standing at the edge of an increasingly busy surf spot, fully dressed in your “I’m going to Costco outfit, and, yes, Walmart, on my way home, and, incidentally, I already surfed somewhere else (and I ripped, if I do say so myself), and I’m only here to make sure my friends who I know are here, because I saw their rigs on the road, and people have been known to exaggerate;” and, it seems, most of the surfers arriving or departing, some in groups, don’t recognize you, and you are, yes, old, and yes, kind of chunky… there might be some assumption on the part of these surfers, almost all of whom give you at least a nod, which is, at least, some sort of acknowledgement that you might not be some sort of pervert, having anyone believe that you are not, indeed, a real surfer, a member of the select group of proud wave riding enthusiasts might be… hurtful.

It’s really not worth defending yourself. Yes, I tried. True confession: Yes, I still try to convince people, surfers and non-surfers, that I have surfed and continue to surf.

Because my being forced to view myself as a greeter is based on a recent incident, I should add that on the same day I walked along the beach to where a better vantage point was available to check out the corner section of a long and closed out wall. The up the line view. A man was there, kicked back on a big driftwood log. I joined him. I, of course, got into my favorite game, “Who do you know?” It’s really, “Who do we know in common?” It turns out he is one of the pioneers of surfing in the northwest, Bill Truckenmiller. I had heard the name, most notably from Tom Burns, and have probably surfed with him. He is a few years older than me and has had issues with his shoulders. Common issue. He hasn’t surfed in a while but hasn’t given up on it. And he was checking out the surf from a great angle.

I have heard of surfers who, unable to surf for any number of reasons, want to be as far away from surf as possible. I haven’t met any of them.

SALLY FITZGIBBONS WATCH- I’ve kind of gotten onto this rooting for Sally thing; didn’t mean to, but, since I left the Margaret River contest on the big screen the other evening, went to sleep, woke up, watched Sally and Betty Lou Sakura Johnson, top two finishers at the Gold Coast contest, get sent to the elimination round. With THE CUT imminent, the next heat is vital, the stakes are high. I was ready to watch it unfold yesterday, 4:15 pm, PDST, but no; on hold. So, maybe today, Sally will not throw everything at each wave, and… we’ll see. On the men’s side… hard to keep track. But, there’s a reason why sports are best live.

Not promoting the WSL on purpose. Proof- Every venue has a particular setup. The judging seems to favor a certain approach to the wave; pretty much two turns on the outside, big finishing move. There is a redundancy to the whole thing, heightened when the surf is manufactured. Surf to the criteria, crank a bit harder turn, play the priority game. The game remains the same.

SURF AURA- I spend an inordinate amount of time pondering the allure of surfing, the pride one has in being counted as a surfer. There is, of course, the absolute bliss of getting an unexpectedly great ride and the hope for another. And another. But… are any of us better people because we did what it takes to be decent at paddling, at wave selection, at timing, at cranking a turn or staying this much closer to the power of a wave?

If I may make a sort of political comparison (not that I’m all that political), I heard something about MAGA folks and how resistant they are to believing they are supporting policies that are detrimental to the country, of course, and detrimental to the demographic they are part of (if they are blue collar workers, or social security/medicare beneficiaries, or veterans, or… okay, pretty much anyone who isn’t in the top, say 10% percent, income-wise); the point being made being they believe they are part of some group that actually knows more than the ‘elitists,’ which is, possibly, code for knowledgeable folks. SO, there’s a certain smugness, a certain arrogance that is very difficult to break through.

SO, does a surfer have to be smug and, possibly, arrogant?

ANSWERS: “No, but it doesn’t hurt;” or “Yes, it is part of the reward for challenging the ocean;” or “Yes, but the humbling reality is the ocean kind of levels this out; but still, yes;” or “Who the hell are you to ask me that?”

SALLY FITZ/Contest update: While I was pondering and writing, and taking a couple of phone calls, and drinking more coffee, and checking the buoys, I checked with the WSL; the contest is on hold until at least tomorrow. Oh, the anticipation.

WRITINGS of Erwin Dence update: No, I haven’t been working on a couple of little changes to “Swamis,” and no, I haven’t done more on “Love Songs for Cynics,” and no, I haven’t drawn anything for a while, BUT I did write a short story with characters from “Swamis,” particularly Joseph Atsushi DeFreines. It, like the other projects mentioned, is not quite ready. Hopefully by Wednesday.

SHIT! I gotta go. If you see waves… you know what to do. As far as arrogance goes; I’m holding on to mine as long as I can. If or when it gets to the point I can no longer float or bob or catch a wave, I’ll still have that knowledge that I almost learned the secret.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net See you out there!

And… greetings.

Just In- Keith’s Mexico Surfcation

Posted on by under northwest surfing, old surfers, perfect waves

Olympic Peninsula frothed-out ripper and (seemingly) mild mannered Port Townsend Librarian has agreed to send some photos and coverage during his trip to mainland Mexico. He set off early today to find a rumored left hand point break. It was about an hour’s walk and the waves were… “Mellow? Soft?” Keith invested, like, somewhere between a penny and five cents a minute to give me a call, freshly back from his early morning exploration. “No, it was barrelling” There were, he reported, several Mexican locals, maybe a tourist in a rented boat, and some guy, probably an ex-pat, who had his own boat. He just anchored and jumped in.

Keith did not jump in. “Wait, no board?” “No, no board.” “Painful.” “Yes.” Already stung by jellyfish and still bearing the broken ends of sea urchin spines, missing a firing, reeling, possibly righteous left hand point break had to be the most painful part of the adventure, almost particularly for Keith.

“Wait, was it harder than hiking into __*&^%$#__ or ___$#@!@#?” Yes, way harder. Next time, boat.

Official report from Keith:

Here’s a few photos from Chacala. I’m here looking for a left hand point that’s proving difficult to access without a boat. I have a rental car but it seems risky to drive it out there. I’ve made some progress talking to locals about renting a panga and connecting with some expat surfers here. This zone from here to San Blas is intriguing.

The little town is super pretty, sitting on a small jungle lined bay. Classic scene with lots of Mexican families hanging out on the beach. It’s nice to see that Mexico is still relatively unchanged.

Meanwhile, for those of us who aren’t surfing, even vicariously at the moment: I did drive through the now-weekly demonstration activity in Port Townsend yesterday. I had to go to the hardware store, and while waiting for a key for my van, I commented that with all the people who fit into my demographic out on the street, it was surprising to see so many in the store. The keymaker, grinding away, and who, incidentally, probably fit into the younger ranks of the older crowd, smiled but did not comment, possibly concerned I might be a closet Trumper. No, and fuckk, no!

Photo from the “Port Townsend Leader,” or the “Rainshadow Journal.” One of them.

Here’s another incident from yesterday: Reggie ran into this guy in a jeep with Trump stickers all over it yesterday morning. The guy said something that Reggie ignored, possibly testing to see if the multi-tattooed Reggie was sympathetic to guys with jeeps and stickers, and who was wearing a hat that said, “OBEY.”

Obey. Okay, so I looked it up. Reggie said it has something to do with skateboarding. Yes, an allusion to a film in which humans are secretly manipulated by aliens, the slogan/brand was designed, back in 2001, to be provocative, sort of a call to question authority. Here’s a quote from Wikipedia: “How did OBEY go from an anti-corporate, anti-MAN street un-brand to Made in China fratboy wear?”

Well; I’m sure I don’t know. Reggie said he would have confronted the dude, but he was with his wife and at least one kid. “Oh, so maybe the guy thinks his wife should obey him… something like that. You know, these guys who are so worried about their masculinity.” “I don’t know. Whatever. The guy kept pressing me, so…” So, because Reggie HAD to say something, “What I did say is, “Your hat says it all.”

All. Nothing. Hard to say.

I did honk, to the tune of “Louie, Louie,” something easily recognized by the thousands of sign-bearing (anti-genocide, anti-King, pro-rule-of-law, signs mentioning the various things Trump and his thugs should keep their hands off, a couple of references to Jesus, some clever puns and caricatures of our clown in chief) citizens along Sims Way. When I got to the only streetlight in Port Townsend, among the tourists, was a guy holding a sign that said, “Support Veterans.” Since my passenger side window was open, I thanked him for being there.

I do thank Keith for his photographs, all rights, I’m sure, reserved, but, one last thing; because I do pay attention to the stock market, oil prices, that kind of thing, one of the signs I noticed read, “I’m tariff-ied!” The China teriffs kicked in after the stock market closed on Friday. The number of cargo ships reaching America’s shores has already dropped significantly. The “two dolls instead of 30; and maybe they’ll cost a couple of bucks more’ president is calling for patience. Supply-Chain issues? Tomorrow we’ll see if any of this means anything to the investor class. “OBEY?” If it isn’t a question, it should be.

MEANWHILE, I’m sure Keith is checking into the cost of renting a boat for an all time session. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. As always.

In the Street, On the Road, Down the Road… MAY DAY/International Workers’ Day, and…

Posted on by under Uncategorized

…and sure, why not celebrate the folks who actually DO THINGS, BUILD THINGS, providing services to the folks who profit on the backs of workers. Not to be in any way political; it’s more like a cultural anthropological and historic question broken down to a harsher core: Do slaveholders support the slaves, or do the slaves support the slaveholders? Okay, change it to stockholders and CEOs, and workers.

If you are a worker, celebrate other workers… and yourself. In the midst of a hostile takeover of our fought-for, bled-for, died-for, always fragile democracy, it isn’t a bad time to take to the street in support of the former, supposedly, right wing ideals of rule of law, of due process, of independent and co-equal branches of government, of freedom of speech, of common fucking decency; not to mention, because I don’t want to go religious zealot here, but folks who boast about or even claim some loose connection to ANY religion or ideology that values treating other human beings with some amount of respect, how about a little fucking compassion?

INTERMISSION- SURF STUFF-

Olympic Peninsula ripper KEITH DARROCK is in Mexico, hoping to score at several mainland spots, and has agreed to represent.

“Waves all day right out front of where I’m staying. That’s Stinky’s, a mellow right hand reef. Pretty ideal for easy longboarding. Lots of surfers around. There are other spots nearby up the point and down that look bigger. It’s pretty chill except that I’ve already been stung by jellyfish and gotten some urchin spines in my foot. Not too stoked on that!”

STUFF I COULDN’T get right from Sunday:

A lovely spring day with no surf but lots of characters and sailboats and stuff, a cruise down Surf Route 101, a new sign on the Quilcene Historical Museum, also on 101.

INTERMISSION OVER, back to May Day:

Again, I am not a radical of any sort; and either are those on the street protesting; but there has been a shift in who believes what. Conservatives, out of fear, or hatred, or blindness, and perhaps this is what is meant by ‘staunch conservative,’ now embrace the lies, that, if you’re not someone who benefits from corporate greed, seems to not be in your best interest. That doesn’t seem really, um, uh, intelligent. AND, It is now radical to ask for the truth from those who deny it; to question the lies designed to further the interests and the accumulated wealth of… not workers, not folks who get W-2s, who pay into social security for years; nope, that money could be better served. Or, wait, is that a lie?

That’s my rant. Done. I have to go work. Because I mentioned the phrase, ‘down the road’ is a term I learned when I went to work painting Navy housing. It was late summer, 1971, families were being transferred, and painters were needed. It was a ‘temporary’ job. As the season wound down, less painters were necessary. Some were sent ‘down the road.’ It makes sense, and the fear if not acknowledgement of losing my job has always been there, and I did everything I could, learned all I could, because I wasn’t going to be selected for a layoff because I wasn’t good enough.

It’s May day, 2025, and… guess what? All work is temporary. Any worker can be replaced. But, any politician can be replaced, any CEO can be voted out, golden parachute and all. And, just because it’s so exhausting thinking about how dire our country’s position is right now, I have to mention that we are all here on a temporary basis. Again, not to go religious-ish, but when you do ‘down the road,’ where do you believe you’re going?

WORKS IN PROGRESS- Two from when I was waiting for a tire repair at Les Schwab, one from something else I’ve been working on.

That’s it. Happy International Workers’ Day! If you’re not getting waves today, I’m sure you will soon. They are out there. Thanks for checking out realsurfers. The drawings are subject to copyright restrictions, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

It’s a Story Either Way

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf contests, surf culture, surf satire, surfing, surfing stories, writings of Erwin Dence

Watercolor skies, hazy sunshine, and, not shown, tourists behaving like they just, like, always go to the beach, always stand on the bluff, a hand shading their eyes, looking over the conditions. This act, one might consider while wondering if any of the wavelets wistfully washing over the rocks are rideable; is it some ancient and instinct-driven holdover, some bowing to the ocean, from whence all… No, probably not that, it’s just folks posing as seafarers before challenging the elements, taking off their shoes, rolling up their pants legs, holding someone’s hand as they go looking for colorful rocks, all the while while dodging the seaweed and the driftwood and the other revelers, all the while skirting the dying energy of long-traveled waves, the scallops of foam pushing up and… “Damn, that water’s cold!” “What time’s the next ferry running, Honey?”

I should have no problems with tourists and sunny day beach visitors; I was kind of wishing I had a dash cam; saw a dude inn total Huck Finn mode; straw hat, peddle pushers, possible piece of reed in his mouth, possibly whistling: I saw a woman seemingly, this based on her choice of outfit, displaying her extensive leg tattoos while walking her dog (no visible green poop bag in hand), I saw a woman with a green poop bag and no dog, picking up scraps of papers that blew out of people’s cars (not mine- this time); I saw a lot of chunky folks (not that I’m not), and, oh yeah, I did see a bride (this because of her oversized white dress) getting her photo taken. Maybe they were planning on adding the groom (I didnn’t see one) later- trick photography, AI.

Also, while hanging around, scanning the horizon, watching what may have been a slow motion sailboat race, trying to conjure up anything lined up or just decent, wave-wise, a guy, a car with three dogs inside cruised up, one car between us, The non-dog passenger looked at me with an oversized smile. “What are you smiling at?” “Well, I’ve never seen an SUP so thrashed.” “Thank you. I put every ding on it… probably hit every rock on the Strait.” Perhaps it was this obvious exaggeration that prompted him to say, “Hey, I know who you are.” “Oh?” It turns out Aaron (hope I got this right; and, no, not shortboard Aaron- Chef Aaron) is part of the Olympic Peninsula paddleboard scene, possibly builds SUPs, AND is known for bringing food to homeless encampments, stuff like that. “Pleasure to meet you,” I said, maybe; even more of a pleasure to know Chef Aaron is out doing good works.

I went a little too descriptive on describing the scene on a sunny spring Saturday. I’m trying to think a bit more poet-ish. I attended a poetry reading at the Port Townsend Public Library on Thursday, mostly (no, totally) because I want to present some of my stuff there, and this requires being invited by the official PT Poet Laureate, Conor. Since I already e-mailed him some stuff and missed my chance before the readings got under way, I was required to sit in the back, not hear a lot of the poems (they had a microphone, could have, like, moved it closer to their mouths). According to the library manager, surfer Keith Darrock, I was unable to not fidget, and, how did I know that turning off the rinng tone didn’t stop the volume when I thought I’d watch a few heats from the WSL Bell’s Beach contest. Rude. Philistine-like behavior. Uncultured.

Yeah. I thought poets are supposed to be rude if not drunks and/or otherwise deviants.

WSL WHINING- Yes, Sally Fitz got kind of screwed in her heat. It seems, to commenters on any WSL video, that someone is getting over or under scored. Yes. Always, at every level of almost any subjectively-judged competition. Great story when Sally beat current leader, Caitlin Simmers, and she wasn’t underscored in the heat with Brisa Hennessy (and this is a separate argument from the one in which a nine point ride for a woman would be a six pointer for a man- not arguing that, but I do make an exception for Stephanie Gilmore), it’s just that the story for Brisa was that her mother was on the beach AND it was her mother’s birthday. My belief: It’s a story either way.

WSL NON-WHINING- I was talking to Randall, fellow ex-North County surfer. He had also been watching some of the WSL coverage. ‘Did you notice that Encinitas local Jake Marshall was doing really well?” “I did.” We both agreed that he did well because Bells is so much like SWAMIS. “And Caity does so well because… Oceanside; and… ordinarily I’d root for her, but…” “Hey, Erwin, I’ve gotta go.”

SURF ROUTE 101 STUFF-

If you’re cruising up or down 101, before or after stopping in at HamaHama Oyster Company, check out the Historical museum in Quilcene, just off the highway on Center Road. I just added this. ALSO, if you can get behind a log truck, empty or loaded, rather than any sort of RV or anyone towing a boat or a trailer, or both, you’ll get there faster.

SURF REPORT- I almost surfed almost waves. Others did better… elsewhere. “SWAMIS” and ARTWORK REPORT- I haven’t worked on the last touches on the novel; I haven’t done any drawing since I did a couple of illustrations at Les Schwab while waiting for my tire to be replaced. Couldn’t find the tablet immediately this morning. Next time.

LATEST POEM/SONG-

BETWEEN ALONE AND LONELY There is time to reconsider, All the pieces you have scattered from your jigsaw puzzle life, The pieces you’ve discarded from your jigsaw puzzle life, Your jigsaw puzzle life, Jigsaw puzzle life.

Between love and rejection, Meditation, introspection, It’s hard to turn away from bridges you had never meant to burn, You’ve found someone to blame for all the bridges you have burned, The bridges you have burned, Bridges you have burned.

Between midnight and morning, There are whispers in the kitchen, There are shadows on the ceiling, there are footsteps in the hall, Soft whispers, shadows, footsteps that you cannot quite explain, You cannot quite explain, Cannot quite explain.

Between pride and delusion, If you listen in the stillness, There are answers to the questions you’ve been too. afraid to ask, And long-discarded pieces of your jigsaw life, Your jigsaw puzzle life, Jigsaw puzzle life,

Between alone and lonely in your jigsaw puzzle life.

FUTURE POEM/SONGS- “And Then There’s Music,” more. THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT realsurfers.net. All. content on this post by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. All rights reserved.

SOMETIMES YOU GET WAVES, SOMETIMES THE WAVES GET YOU, sometimes you paddle out, paddle around, paddle back in. It’s a story either way.

Easter Updates: Old Dogs, Rippers, and…

Posted on by under Uncategorized

A shot of the Big Island heavens from Florida-grown, intermittent Port Townsend resident Mikel ‘Squintz.’ I’m using the photo from mikelcumiskey.net as a bit of a shout out to Jesus, and, not to get into any religious or political commentary, not to be any more sacrilegious than those who claim to love Jesus, but… (no, not commenting), but I’m pretty sure the surfer in this photo is about to give Jesus his own shout out.

I didn’t want to steal/borrow all of Mike’s photos, but here’s a sort of mysterious selfie.

The Hama Hama Oyster Company is the must-stop location on the Hood Canal section of ‘the 101 Loop’ around the Olympics. In this case, Jeffry Vaughn, headed down and out to do some clam digging before cruising back to the Strait, happened to run into Stephen R. Davis, no doubt headed to some secret spot down south. the ever-gregarious Adam ‘Wipeout’ James happened to be on site. If you’re a surfer, Adam might just offer you a grilled cheese sandwich or some of surfer/restauranteur “Soupy” and/or “Yodeling” Dan’s soup and/or some chowder. In this case, Steve gave Adam an original painting and Adam gave him… oysters. “Wait, you didn’t give him a Hama Hama hoody (total status symbol, as is any post cards or other art from Mr. Davis)?” “Should have.” “Yeah.” “Next time.”

NAM UPDATE- Since this message from Nam Siu’s fiancee, Jenny Lee, he has shown signs of improvement in his kidney function and mental awareness. It’s still very serious, but, if hopes and prayers work… it seems like this confusing and tragic medical event might be a chapter in a much longer story.

NEW TRICKS AND OLD SURF DOGS

It may have been commentary on my very thrashed board, or just fun, but Jeffry Vaughn is riding a log on my Volvo (itself a rebirth story thanks to ‘blue devil’ and help from Adam Wipeout). I got out of the water, saw the log, and was a bit disappointed I didn’t get to keep it.

Tugboat Bill at some random beach break, coming in after riding some prime number number of waves. 11. 13. 17. “It gets tougher after 23,” he said, “gotta go to 31.” I may have some numbers wrong. I lose track after ten or so. Incidentally, because some whippersnapper, out in the water, asked, Bill is 72, so, like a year, give or take, younger than I am.

Tim Nolan, renowned boat designer/artist/writer, was once, like, four years older than I am. Somehow he’s narrowed the gap. We’re shown here, Tim, perhaps, trying to appear to be more of a curmudgeon than he is, me trying to appear friendlier than I am; both of us modeling our modesty/changing robes. Trish just got me one. It’s big enough. Yes. I’m still working out how to do the changing thing… discreetly.

YOUNG SURF DUDES

This is, left to right, Donovan, a total ripper from San Clemente, and two Not Donovans from LA. All three attend U dub. I saved this for last, figuring many of the tens of readers might give up before they get this far.

I saw Donovan getting in the water on my second attempt to keep both earplugs in my ears. “Hey, man, no booties,” I yelled at the young man with the almost-long board, black tape on the rails at the nose. I had gotten out because I lost one of the special, plastic, comfort ear plugs after a wipeout caused, at least partially, because some dude was right in my path. This was his second time being in the way. I will go back to the wax plugs. Not that fond of dragging my ass and my waterlogged Hobie up the beach. Less fond of a plugged up ear for three days, alcohol and antihistamine, and, “What? Sorry. What?”

I really can’t blame the guy for yelling, more like loud growling, at me; I had said, as I took off on the second wave he would block me on, “Hey, man; you’re not in the lineup, you’re in the way!”

So, I come up, almost caught the lost earplug inn the foam (almost), and the guy’s pointing and yelling. “Can’t hear you,” I try to explain, pointing to my ear. He repeats whatever he had previuously growled. “Still can’t hear you.” He shakes a fist (maybe, I might be adding this) and clearly says, “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

What I figured he thought was that he set the old guy straight sent him straight into the beach. While on the beach, I got a replacement ear plug, had a shot of coffee, and explained the story, in my outdoor voice, to several others on the beach; mostly to ‘IT’ Darren One of two women a few vehicles down, said, “You should have growled back at him.” “I think I did.” “I’ve seen you here before.” “Oh, yeah; that’s because… I’ve been here before.”

While hanging, I couldn’t help but notice that the kid without booties, and without a leash, was cranking deep bottom turns, nose riding, switching stance; generally killing it. I asked Jeff to “take a photo and find out where this guy comes from… if he ever gets out of the water.” Jeff agreed, and said, “He’s having a hell of a good time.”

I did not notice the growler in the lineup or the way when I got back in the water. I caught a few waves, dodged a few closeout roll throughs, and got caught inside a few more times than I would have liked. I also chatted with Donovan. “I’m from San Clemente,” he said. I quickly commented on the crowds, and e-bikes, and how I worked up the hill from Trestles for ten months in 1975, parked on the beach (this is in between waves). and how he shouldn’t tell any other California surfers about any, ANY waves around these parts, and how I was actually raised in Fallbrook, and…

“Fallbrook?” It turns out Donovan had relatives in Fallbrook, avocado orchard owning relatives. “Harris. Know any people named Harris?” “I left in 1971, moved to P.B., and… Oh; a set.”

My motto is, of course, “I’m here to surf,” I surfed. As much as I’ve always claimed to be a ‘soul’ surfer, content with an empty lineup, I’m so much much more competitive when others are in the water (or on the beach). So, I might have stalled a little longer on a wall, crannked it a bit harder on a turn; still, Donovan’s surfing was good enough to probably draw some attention at Trestles.

When I got out of the water after an unforced, unblocked wipeout, Donovan and two other men in their early twenties, if that old, were hanging out at a car on the far end of the lot from mine. We started chatting. “How long have you been surfing,” one of the non-Donovans, hanging over the roof, asked. “Board surfing? Since 1965. But…” The other non-Donovan, who I said could pass for a Colapinto if not a Gudauskas, asked, “Are you, like, an enforcer here?” “No. There’s no enforcer. I’m just here to… dominate.”

When I was in my teens, I paid little attention to surfers over, probably, thirty. When I was 27, part of what I told myself when I was ready to move from San Diego and, as far as I knew, give up surfing, was that it was a sport for younger people. What was interesting, and I have to say, gratifying, was that the group seemed to appreciate the place an old surf dog might have in… yeah, the lineup. Not just in the way.

NOTE- I do have some new drawings and some new poems/songs I was planning on posting. I’ll save them for next time. I do have a lot to say about the current threats to our democracy, to the rule of law, to the Constitution, and to basic human decency, and I feel a bit chickenshit for not speaking up more forcefully. I would like to confess to how saddened I am by supposed Christians hanging on so desperately and wrongly to some twisted and self-centered, hateful belief in a remodeled version of the compassionate redeemer prophesied in the Old Testament, and chronicled in the New Testament; someone else’s Jesus. There really can be nothing more self-serving than saving one’s soul. It seems hard to see how hating your neighbors, or worshipping money, or going against your own morality to follow vengeful, corrupt, morally bankrupt rulers gets one anywhere closer to that goal.

Someone else’s Jesus.