Tag Archives: travel

Stitches and Protests and Poetry, Oh My

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf culture, surf fiction, surfing stories, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

Update on Sally Fitzgibbons- Out off the El Salvador contest. Damn! Not that I typically root for Lakey Peterson, raised in a house on the point at Rincon (possibly- her mother lives there, so I’m, yeah, assuming), but she was eliminated in a tight heat, and was, as shown on WSL footage on YouTube, visibly upset. Since I seem to have hopes for surfers based on age and, to a lesser degree, niceness, perceived or real; I guess I’m hoping Tyler Wright continues on, quite possibly eliminated by… Caitlin Simmers. Yes, a prediction. Or maybe the inheritor of the Stephanie Gilmore grace and power school; you know… Pickles.

On the mens’ side, someone from Brazil, home of endlessly, and, it seems desperately competitive and acrobatic surfing. Or Griffin, end result of coaching, video feedback, and the surfing equivalent of studying-to-the-test; not that he isn’t good or that his path to success isn’t legitimate. Or difficult.

No, of course I wouldn’t be worried about surfing contests, or spending too much time watching YouTube content by Jamie and Nate and Mason, sometimes lesser social media stars, or watching another ‘Maps to Nowhere’ video, or cursing at the tablet or the phone or the laptop because the fucking angle of the promised swell is wrong, wrong, wrong, AND the size of the swell is disappointingly not as promised; I’d worry about none of that if I was out in the water, concentrating on waves and not even thinking about how fucking much avocados and coffee are going to cost when I cruise through Costco on my way home. I also would not wonder why, with the barrel price of oil having dropped ten dollars, why, why, why the pump price hasn’t dropped.

Ah, surfing, where we can forget the world, and worry about how a drop-knee turn is as good as a kick stall, and wonder why what was once called a roller coaster is now referred to as a re-entry, and contemplate on how long it’s been since we’ve seen a reverse kickout with amplitude. Oh, and while scanning the horizon for a three wave set, we might not worry about just how far the stock market is going to fall on Monday. And, besides that…

CHRIS EARDLEY, Olympic Peninsula ripper and occasional surf traveler, may have been more concerned about the rip and the raggedy rocks than the possibility of getting hit in the face by his board at a notoriously sketchy break. Well. It happens. Chris was helped to his car and to the emergency room by a couple of other surfers. “No…” gag, gag, “It’s not that bad.” “Yes, I can see a little daylight, but… a few stitches and…” Seventeen stitches, more inside the lip than outside. Chipped and loosened teeth. Pain.

So, naturally, one of Chris’s first texts was to another surfer, inquiring about how the rest of the session went. “Not that great,” which is code for, “Awesome!” He’s doing okay. I saw him yesterday, should have taken a photo. “Yeah, Chris; you should stay out of the water a while. I got my twenty stitches out (non-surfing injury) I’m hoping to go tomorrow.”

I kind of missed the protest in Port Townsend yesterday. I knew protests were planned in all 50 states, and I got a reminder from Keith Darrock, who reported his mother, LORRAINE, was part of the mile-plus lines of folks on the main drag. Since the average age of Port Townsend residents is… yeah, my demographic; old, I lent a bit of support, I thought, by honking (if someone else did a two honker, I echoed it; three honks, same thing) and exchanging peace signs and thumbs up gestures to the crowd as it was, peacefully, thinning out.

I was driving my big boy van rather than my left-leaning Volvo and I didn’t go all the way through town, but I was happy to see folks involved.

Meanwhile I am still checking the buoys, still trying not to worry too much.

Here is a poem from my saved file of ‘works in progress.’ I just finished painting a house, ADU, and garage for Marti and Andy, both of whom were very helpful when I fell and cut my head. And they are just very nice folks. I was discussing my poems/songs with Andy over the course of the project. I told him I have a lot of lines, but have only a first verse for a song, and a whole lot of writing but only a last line that is the basis for a poem.

As sort of a gift I printed up what I have on those as a sort of gift. On the other side of the pagek, because I was impatient and ended up printing multiple copies, then put the paper back into the printer, there was a completed song, “Out of the Wind,” on the back. They were gracious.

Here’s the verse: “Between alone and lonely, there is time to reconsider, all the pieces you have scattered from your jigsaw puzzle life.” Here’s the last line: “…And you can almost see the ocean from there.” As a bonus, I threw in a little ditty I wrote:

“Call me DAREDEVIL DAN, I’m a Daredevil,” Dan said,

But, like many a daredevil, Dan ended up dead.

Dead Dan was found in the bathroom, end of the hall,

Someone spiced up Dan’s drug cocktail with a pinch of fentanyl,

Or a dash, I’m not sure, accounts vary.

The Devil Dan dared,

If aware, did not care,

And all of Dan’s people said, “That’s not right, that’s not fair,”

And the Devil, I’m told, had no comment.

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net. I should give Chris Eardley credit for the selfie. It did come from him, along with… kind of, permission to write about it. Hey, if pushed, I do claim some rights as a journalist (of sorts). Please remember any original writing by me is protected by copyright.

If I Forgot to Criticize the World Surf League…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Competitive surfing,, real surfers, surf contests, surf culture, writings of Erwin Dence

…let me join the Bashers and Critiques in bashing and critiquing the folks who bring us contest coverage from wave pools and sometimes-awesome breaks throughout the world. Some times. And I tune in to check out when the events are scheduled to start. The convenient count down shows only three days and five hours until the dawn patrol gives us all the scoop, but… no, conditions aren’t right. Next check, only 13 hours and ten minutes until the first heat does or doesn’t hit the water. Three person, non-elimination heats. And don’t forget, the “Cut” is coming… soon; if your favorite surfer isn’t cut throat enough, ready to play the priority and interference rules to his or her or… (no, it seems the trans-athlete thing might not be a thing) advanntage, well… again… the CUT; demotion to the Challenger Series.

SO, SALLY FITZGIBBONS, fifteen year veteran of the WSL world tour, four time International Surfing Association (which I’ve never heard mentioned in contest coverage), and current vice-president of the ISA (just learned this on Google), I am rooting for you. Now, perhaps this is because Sally Fitz is the senior woman on the tour, and whether she’s fake nice or genuinely what she seems to be, and you can also say I have an age-centric bias because of my age. I may as well add that, like a vast majority of the complainers, I do watch and have watched WSL events, back from when Martin Potter gave his take on surfers and surfing (not sure why he’s gone), I watched Sally wrap her head after blowing an ear drum, and winning in Fiji, AND I saw her lose out on the world title at Honolua Bay, hiding her tears in a car with her parentsm, AND I witnessed her playing with the tubes at the same spot until she was pitched and injured. Tough. Resilient. Competitive.

The WSL seems to concentrate on the newer generation, surfers coached from toddler age on, taking over. Katie Simmers is older than Erin Brooks… oh, no… but both have an Oceanside connection- so, lesser rooting for either of these two from former North County resident who worked in Oceanside for three years- where one learns to surf anything.

from WSL

I should mention, while I am, obviously concentrating more on the easier to follow women’s tour, easier to follow, that Trisha’s favorite woman surfer was Courtney Conlogue. Similar reasons: Courtney was tough, and she was real. Trish would ask, “Is Courtney still in it?” She isn’t. Maybe she didn’t want to go through the Challenger Series. Maybe… as with other commentators, some of whom I really liked, surfers move on or are moved out.

Courtney Conlogue of the USA advances to the Semifinals of the Outerknown Fiji Women’s Pro after defeating defending event winner Johanne Defay (FRA) in Quarterfinal Heat 1 at Cloudbreak.

It is obvious that once Kelly Slater shows a fins-free-pivot/cutback, every coach is going to make sure his or her competitor has that move down. So, progression. Through in some gymnastics, that young surfers have an advantage seems obvious.During a crucial heat at the Portugal contest, the coverage, with two minutes left, blipped and buffered and froze. Oh, it came back fine after the heat. BUT, you say, there are heat recaps almost instantly available on YouTube. YES, but even though they eliminat a lot of dead time, they are not LIVE.

The El Salvador contest is coming up in… 02 days, 20 hours, 18 minutes. I’ll, most probably, be checking it out. TO RECAP: Go, Sally, go! Or…

Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net and big thanks to the WORLD SURF LEAGUE for these images and for the memories. NOTE: I didn’t watch more than five minutes of the Abu Dhabi contest and I don’t really care who won except that it affects the CUT. Also, I didn’t mention Stephanie Gilmore, probably, no definitely my favorite female surfer, all time. With all the accolades and championships she’s earned, with her untouched gracefulness on a wave, she doesn’t gets enough credit for just how hard she charges. Style, grace, fluidity in a fluid environment. Few of us really now the professional surfers other than what we see. Fans, not friends. I’m fine with that.

I’ll try to have something new on Wednesday. It’s, like, three days, a couple of hours away.

RIP Tom Decker and Bucky Davis

Posted on by under Uncategorized

Surf Heroes, Surf Villains, Surf Legends

We can all break down our surfing lives into where we first attempted to ride waves, the places we have surfed, our most memorable sessions and rides, and who we surfed with. We’ve all run into surfers we admired and surfers we hated- heroes and villains.

While new people are making the same attempts we made, surfers are lost at the other end- heroes and villains and all those who don’t fit into either category.

Tom Decker and Bucky Davis passed on recently. If you surf in Washington State, you have probably heard of Mr. Decker, an ENFORCER at Westport and elsewhere. He may have invited you to get out of the water or not even go out.  You probably have not heard of Bucky.

If Bucky was my first and possibly last surf hero, I never fully bought into Tom as a bad-to-the-bone villain.

-Tom Decker- I first ran into Tom when I first ran into Northwest surf pioneer Darrell Wood when I moved from San Diego to the Olympic Peninsula in late 1978, believing I had given up surfing. In February of 1979, a portion of the Hood Canal floating bridge, the peninsula’s connection to the world, including Bremerton, where I worked, sank. A week later the state set up a horrible boat/bus network and, aboard the passenger-only boat, the first person I met was Darrell. The next weekend I was attempting to surf a point break. One of the locals I met was Tom Decker. He lived as close to the break as he could, worked at a restaurant, this allowing him maximum daytime to search for waves. Tom was respectful of Darrell and polite to me. We tried to make a deal for me to buy a wetsuit from him to replace the only one I could find, a diving suit- two-piece, crotch strap, minimal stretch, super uncool. I did ‘borrow’ the suit, didn’t end up purchasing it. No, never loan anyone a wetsuit.

I heard Tom had moved to Bellingham or somewhere, pursuing a career in filming videos or something, but when I was convinced to go out for a Ricky Young-sponsored longboard contest in Westport in the late 1980s, there was Tom Decker, in my heat. “No,” he said, after he advanced and I didn’t, “I moved here a while back.” “Oh, great.”

I heard stories from Westport surfers who ventured up to the Strait, stories of crowds and locals, including Tom Decker, rebelling against the flow of kooks and people who are, rather than committing any obvious sin, just plain in the way. This cajoling and directing (such as, “Get the fuck out of the water!”) would seem slightly more noble if enforcers were trying to impress upon other surfers that etiquette is important.

When my son Sean was going to Evergreen College in Olympia, and when I had a surf-relationship with Jeff Parrish, husband of my daughter, Dru, I made some trips to Westport. I have written about this, but my encounters with Tom Decker (I remembered him, not sure he remembered me) were, well, memorable. He was still riding a short board while I was making the older-guy switch to bigger boards. Respect for that. His ‘disagreement’ with a guy in the water, in pretty heavy conditions, started when the other surfer blew three takeoffs. Yeah, there is something irritating about this. When Tom mentioned this, the takeoff-blowing surfer snapped back. “Oh, I didn’t know I was surfing with… royalty!” And then Jeff lost control on an attempted takeoff. I caught the next wave, went in. Jeff was running out of the water. “Did I almost hit you?” “Yeah. Why?” “That guy called me a kook, and said I almost killed my friend.” “Oh?”

Tom Decker didn’t call me out. I felt kind of… good about it.

This is not to say I have not been called out for kook moves throughout my career. I have, even fairly recently, and I deserved most, but not all of the call outs. None of the people pointing out my kookish behavior would be classified as villains. I’m perfectly willing to not classify Tom Decker as one. Rest in peace.

-Bucky Davis- I know almost nothing about what Bucky Davis has done in fifty-five of the very close to sixty years since I started board surfing. Other than surfers I read about and saw photos of in magazines, Bucky was a sort of best-example-of if not surf hero. He had that aloof sort of coolness, surfed Grandview rather than Tamarack, dated Trish (not my Trish) the equally cool, even more aloof older sister (and personification off a late sixties surfer girlfriend), of Phillip Harper, my first surf friend. And Bucky was willing to take a couple of freshmen kooks with him on a couple of very memorable surf adventures (Grandview, where he pushed me off the bluff; across Camp Pendleton to San Onofre, to New Break at Sunset Cliffs).

My first attempt at a surf novel, “Inside Break,” used the interactions I had with Bucky and Trish, and what I knew of their real-life story, and in particular, my encounters with Bucky after I could drive myself, and ran into him, as the arc of my fictionalized, undoubtedly romanticized narrative; romanticized in that, in my novel, years later, Bucky and his Trish get back together.

The novel really is about how what we idealize is great, and it’s real. There is magic. Moments of it, hours, possibly days; but there is reality; harsh, mundane, boring. The era was, as it is in “Swamis,” the supercharged mid-to-late 1960s. The reality for someone coming of age was that decisions had to be made changes had to be dealt with: College, work, family, surfing, having a relationship, and the ongoing war, more specifically the draft.

My finite number of actual encounters with Bucky were landmarks on my own journey. There were some similarities. He showed up at Swamis beachbreak in ’68 or so. Surprise. He had fun. We all did. I saw him at Grandview in ’70; I was going to Palomar Junior College and working at Buddy’s Sign Service. My mother had just died in a car accident. I knew his brother had been killed in some sort of incident. We didn’t talk about it. The last time I saw him my girlfriend and I went to Tarramar because Trish didn’t want to do the stairs at Swamis, and because the access at Grandview had been filled in. Bucky was there with a girl I knew from school in Fallbrook. She was pregnant. Bucky and I surfed.

If there is a moral to “Inside Break,” it’s possibly that, contrary to the adage, ‘never meet your idols,’ maybe knowing a little more about anyone, saint or sinner, hero or villain, allows us to know something about ourselves. We need role models, good and bad. That’s not magic; but there is magic somewhere in that knowledge.

It’s not magic if it’s real. Or… magic is real.

Thanks for checkiong out realsurfers.net. I’m pushing Dru to get to work formatting my novel, “Swamis.” I have other stuff I wanted to include today. SO, something to look forward to for next time.

All original work on realsurfers.net is protected by copyright. Thanks for respecting that. NOW, get some waves!

Super Busy Working on Being Forgotten

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf addiction, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing Swamis, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, women surfers in the Northwest,, writings of Erwin Dence

That may be a bit cynical. I have been surfing a bit (never enough) lately, trying my darndest to make up for a 2024’s bad session/wave count. I’m back to trusting my reborn VOLVO to make it up SURF ROUTE 101 far enough to find some rumored waves. MEANWHILE, rumor-wise, there have been times when surfers just had to check out the Strait. Whether or not it was working, surfers did show up and I did not. The sentiment among those lucky or stubbornly willful enough to live on the Olympic Peninsula is to try to avoid the forecasted days, particularly on the weekends (Friday through Monday, sometimes Thursday -Tuesday) to avoid any crowds.

CROWDS- Here is my wish/prayer list- 1. Waves. 2. Good tides. 3. Favorable winds. 4. Good parking spot. 5. Uncrowded lineup.

OBVIOUSLY there is a correlation between the parking and the number of surfers in the lineup. I have seen days where all semi-convenient parking spots were taken, some with occupants sleeping or making brunch, and the crowd is mostly surfers on the beach watching and waiting. And I have seen days with no crowds and rideable waves.

Here’s what happens: You surf. It’s, you know, decent. You tell one or two of your closest surf friends. They don’t believe you. That’s fair; you don’t believe them when they talk about barrel fests and such.

This lack of belief shouldn’t be a problem. REAL SURFERS do it for the soul enriching wonderfulness of the experience of climbing into a cold, damp wetsuit, booties and gloves and hood, and venturing into cold ass water to surf waves, their wonderfulness in the eye and mind of the venturer. BUT, NO, a little acknowledgement is, at the very least, appreciated. I’ve seen the most soulful of soul surfers surf just a bit better when someone else shows up. It’s the nature of the beasts we are.

BECAUSE I’M candid by nature as well as competitive, I admit, now, in writing, that I kind of enjoy having some sort of reputation for showing up when waves are rideable. I enjoy seeing surfers I know, or recognize; and I collect little stories from many of them. AND, since I’ve shown up less frequently, I… neurotically, self-centered-ly, worry, just a bit, or, more accurately, have considered that I am in the process of being forgotten.

It happens. Years ago, now, I read a piece on some older surfer who quit surfing urging other older practitioners of the sport/art/lifestyle to just fucking quit and become a legend. Sure, but legends only last as long as people remember. Do you remember ARCHIE or BIG DAVE or a growing number of surfers who made the same searches you are making, suffered the same skunkings, found the same rare gems, felt the same chill and the same magic?

MAYBE you do. Or you have your own list. This all leads me to surfing in crowded conditions. Is it worth it? I’ve seen so many times when people piled out of rigs and raced into the water without even checking the conditions, all based on ‘the rule of the parking lot;’ if surfers are out, it must be worth joining them.

AGAIN, crowds are number five on my list. I might just snag a few. As much as I appreciate the atmosphere of even, let’s say, the whole circus-like scene at Westport, my motto continues to be: I’m here to surf.

International Women SURFERS’ DAY- I do not have a problem with women surfers. At all. Some have had issues with me. Understandable. There were fewer, percentage-wise, girls and women surfing when I started. AND, I know I’ve said this before, but my sister Suellen got me into board surfing, our mother drove us and our siblings to the beach because she loved it, and went to better surfing beaches because we surfed.

It isn’t an accident that one of the two main characters in my novel, “SWAMIS,” Julia ‘Cold’ Cole, is a surfer AND a strong and intelligent woman. Persistence is absolutely required for anyone to attain any level above mere competence in surfing, the sport, and is also necessary to fit in as an equal in the art/lifestyle part of trying to ride waves, an objectively ridiculous and so-often frustrating activity/obsession/addiction.

I am pushing my daughter, DRU, to format and, maybe, do a little editing, if necessary, on my manuscript. MEANWHILE, though my painting life has suddenly gotten way busier, I am working on getting pieces together for my poetry/song (mostly song, some essays, some illustrations) book, “Love Songs for Cynics,” together.

Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net. Get some waves!

Doing the Loop, Sunday Quickie, Less

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing, real surfers, surf culture, surf fiction, surfing blogs, Uncategorized, writings of Erwin Dence

I’m not giving up any spots. I think this is from San Diego.

I actually don’t have a lot of time this morning. Work, and planning for more work. The winter work famine might just be giving way to, yeah, work. the VOLVO continues to run great, knock on wood, I’m waiting to see if my daughter will kindly format my “Swamis” so I can do something with it, I’m moving ahead, slowly, on getting songs and poems and essays and artwork together for “Love Songs for Cynics,” and… surfwise; with a few notable exceptions, the surf doldrums continue.”

I’ve been doing a virtual dawn patrol lately. No, I’m always checking the buoys (taking advantage before they disappear in a whiff of doge-shit). What I don’t check is the forecast sites. Perhaps it is nice to have Surfline to blame for your latest trip by ferry, and across bridges, and through a few stoplights and past some downed trees on long and winding roads to end up with you, speeding from known spot to known spot, to be skunked. That with the added bonus of hanging out, at length, or hiking in, watching a lack of rideable waves for a number of hours, hoping, waiting, and then considering the miles and bridges and ferry wait times between there and home.

Still, I believe, anticipation doesn’t just ebb and flow; we store it up, tighten that spring, until…

Until. Hopefully, until, for you, is now. Or soon. I have my big, gnarled and thrashed board on my car, I have buoys on my phone, and… I’m ready. See you.

OH, yeah, on an I’m-not-political side note, I am not ready to go commie. Now, or ever. And… I’m not sure even red state, all-in Magamaniacs are really, really ready to go that red. Meanwhile, for book banning enthusiasts, a must-ban is “The Manchurian Candidate,” and any other book that even hints at… whatever that book hints at.

I Guess I’m Lucky… Occasionally

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence Cartoons, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, real surfers, surf adventures, surf art, surf culture events, surf fiction, surf novels, surf sessions, surf stories, surf trips, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing novels, surfing Swamis, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

There are some surf windows that become legendary; December of 1969 and August of 1975, California swells, one north, one south; epic enough to get a mention in *MATT WARSHAW’S “Encyclopedia of Surfing,” and extremely memorable to me because I was out for both of them; the first at Swamis, the second at Upper Trestles.

And then there are the legendary sessions we miss. Waves are breaking, brown-green slop to sparkling barrels, all over the world; and it is easy to believe even the most fickle spot gets something rideable to all time, some time. Rather than tales told in parking lots and over coffee or beer, or perhaps, in the bread section of a grocery store, YouTube and Instagram pushes almost-live images that are so much easier to find than the waves themselves. Trip to Bali because you saw something? Hawaii? Maybe, if you’re lucky, you can hit something all time in Australia or France. Gee, Mundaka and Uluwatu look fun. Malibu? Sure, and maybe a few leg burners at Rincon or Jeffry’s Bay. It would be so awesome to hit Cloudbreak on, you know, an almost survivable size. Yeah!

Maybe. Time and money and, even if you study the forecasts and hack Kelly Slater’s schedule, luck. The WSL’s version of a Pipeline contest has been on hold for… a while; one day’s competition in self-admitted beachbreak-like conditions. Still, it’ll get better. Hopefully.

Getting back to me; it’s not like I dominated SWAMIS in ’69, with overhead waves as barreling, offshore winds as strong as I ever experienced there, and with a certain amount of pre-internet hype and publicity adding to the crowd of takers and watchers. No on the domination. Swamis was, for the time, extra crowded, this exacerbated by the fact that when the surf gets big, the places one can reasonably surf in San DIego County gets reduced to Swamis, Cardiff, Windansea, Sunset Cliffs, maybe that non-surf spot, La Jolla Cove. Remember, I did say ‘reasonably;’ as in get out, catch more than one wave. Undergunned on the first day of a five or six day run, I did better as the waves evened out and the crowds diminished. A week or two later, the surf was just as big, less hype, less crowded. I went out, feeling lucky.

TRESTLES: Warshaw quoted MICKY MUNOZ as saying the south swell in August 1975 was as clean as any he remembered. Mr. Munoz was the first person I saw when I paddled out on my round-nosed, small wave board at Upper Trestles. I, admittedly, shoulder-hopped the first few waves, my fin just vibrating. Still, I made a few waves. I feel, this many years on, so lucky that I had the opportunity to work up the hill from a classic spot, park on the beach, and surf it, from barely breaking on, with what would seem an absurdly small crowd.

LOCAL OR LUCKY, it’s a term that comes up often out here on the fickle-as-shit Olympic Peninsula. The sessions worth remembering do happen. As they do everywhere. Maybe not as often. It’s probably acceptable to savor, or even recount the magic of the best sessions while waiting for the next one. I mean, not like bragging. It just seems like bragging.

Okay, maybe it is bragging, but, hey, you have stories I might not totally believe. Tell me those next time I run into you at Costco or Fast Taco or… wherever.

*Port Townsend Librarian Keith Darrock would love to get (now)Seattle-based surf historian/writer for the next OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA EVENT. Not the only reason he is mentioned here.

I’m working on my collection of songs and (I always kind of chuckle when I say this) poetry, and used some of my winter down time to do a potential cover. I should apologize here for posting “If It’s Over” twice. So… Sorry. If you stick with me, we’ll get to “I Guess I’m Lucky.”

I’m not (all that) political, but I do pay attention.

I would have done it in color, but that might make me seem… political.

I GUESS I’M LUCKY, because I never get the blues; Oh, yes, I’m quite lucky, because I never get the blues; Now I might get suspicious, and sometimes I’m anxious, too; I might even get desperate and tear up a thing or two; But I count myself lucky because I never get the blues.

Please don’t tell me your problems, and think that I can relate; I don’t harbor jealousy and I won’t subsidize hate; If you want to complain, you can just go to Helen Waite; Don’t be telling me gossip and acting as if it’s news, ‘Cause I can’t share your problems, and I want no part of your blues.

Dream of tomorrow, you sacrifice all your todays; You’re so busy workin’, you haven’t got time just to play; But you still have to crawl on your knees to pick up your pay; Though I’m selling my blood just to pay up my Union dues; I still count myself lucky because I never get the blues.

My old truck’s still running, my dog didn’t die; not in love with a woman who told me goodbye; And my Mama still talks of her baby with pride, and I can’t remember the last time I cried.

But then… I’m lucky, because I never get the blues; oh yes, I’m quite lucky, Because I never get the blues; Sure, sometimes I get angry, and sometimes I’m hurtin’ too; I might even get lonely, but not like most people do; Then again, I’m just lucky; yes, I count myself lucky; Hell yes, I’m quite lucky… because I… never get… the blues.

PHOTO voluntarily REMOVED.

All original work on realsusrfers.net, unless otherwise attributed, is covered by copyright protections, all rights reserved by the author/artist, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

YOU WON’T get lucky without trying. Find some surf, get on it! MORE stuff on Sunday, and yes, I’m, like, 170 pages out of 214 or so on my latest rewrite of “Swamis,” suddenly concerned that I did not, perhaps, put in enough description of the characters. You know, like, “Roger and Gary were both blonde, both assumed a stance that said, ‘casual,’ both with expressions that said, ‘cool.’ For the most part they maintained the image.” I have been, so far, realizing it’s almost a requirement for a novel, resisted describing the breasts of the women in the novel. So far.

Groundhog Day Revisited Again and…

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, surf novels, surfing novels, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing stories, surfing Windansea in the 1970s, writings of Erwin Dence

…AGAIN. Yeah. I turned on the Seattle news station to see if there is a possibility of waves, where the snow is sticking, and while maintaining what has. become my new and elevated level of anxiety and concern over definitely destructive tariffs; over the imminent acceptance of more crazy and objectively and blatantly unqualified nominees, each ready to facilitate and complete the takeover of all branches and functions of government, and reek vengeance on lists of those not onboad; over the US Congress continuing its obviously suicidal mission to trade a legislative branch for executive whims and lightning round edicts; and, while wondering how the stock market will react tomorrow, I accidentally, almost, discovered Michael Hynson has died. WHAT?

This is a photo taken from a 2007 article written by Steve Barilotti, entitled “Rainbow’s End. It is also proof that a surf shop in La Jolla I visited once actually existed.

Famous, of course, for his role in “Endless Summer,” Mike Hynson was of the Miki Dora, Butch Van Artsdalen, Herbie Fletcher school of surfers with that ‘fuck you, I’m surfing’ attitude. He was about nine years older than me.

For surfers in the early to late sixties, the ability to surf way better than the post-Gidget, post-Endless Summer group (I’m from the group in between) made them stars. In my abbreviated catchup this morning, I read a piece in which Hynson claimed he and other “Red Fin” surfers (Barry Kanaiaupuni, Billy Hamilton, others) would go to WIndansea and, basically, dominate.

Surfing coverage in the sixties was limited to occasional surf movies at, in San Diego County, Hoover High, by word of mouth, and through every-other-month magazines. Surf heroes were the ones in the photos. Hynson was among the group.

When I moved to Pacific Beach in 1971, I was in Hynson territory. I knew he had a connection with Skip Frye, who I would see quite often, surfing his way from tourmaline to Crystal Pier, finding waves the hordes were missing. In building boards of my own, I would see Skip Frye at the Gordon and Smith factory. Skip had a completely different reputation than Mike’s, more cleancut, kind of religious. I always thought it a bit strange that they were friends.

Then again, there is reputation and there is reality. Surfing at crowded, late morning La Jolla Shores in, probably 1974, word spread in the lineup (such as there was) that Mike Hynson was coming out. “Doper,” “Asshole,” “Druggie.” Still, I watched him wail on a couple of walls.

The surfboard shaping world in the late 60s, early 70s period was, I believed, centered in San Diego; and the evolution of board design was the most important since balsa gave way to foam. Surfboards Hawaii in Encinitas and Gordon and Smith in San Diego were, I still believe, the leading innovators, with garage shapers and engineers (like Tom Morey) and ever-moving professionals (like Donald Takayama) melding radical contours into ever better wave riding vehicles. If others do not give Hynson at least partial credit for boards with down rails, nose to tail, I will. As does Gerry Lopez. RIP MR. HYNSON.

SURFERS OUT OF THE WIND

PHOTO voluntarily REMOVED.

Some fat guy in an ORIGINAL ERWIN hoodie, holding a ‘graveyard’ mixed soda and Jamie Fox standee at the Emerald Queen Casino. My daughter, Drucilla (Dru) had to have surgery last week in Tacoma. ADAM LARM, a friend of two of Trisha’s and my three children (Sean is less so because Adam and his brother James sort of, kind of, definitely tortured him a bit as a child- as friends of brothers do- still kind of friends), now a nurse (and a lover of casinos) decided to treat Dru to a night at the adjoining hotel prior to her 5am check in at St. Joseph’s Medical Center.

The surgery went well, Dru is recovering at her home, with help from Trish. There are a couple of worth-telling stories around the adventure. Another time. OH, and I did get a photo of my daughter in the recovery room, but she asked me not to post it. SO, you know, another time.

A SONG/POEM FOR TODAY- from “Love Songs for Cynics’ and upcoming collection:

IF IT’S OVER, then it’s over, guess we’re through; there’s no reason I should go on loving you; but you know that’s exactly what I’ll do; if it’s over, then it’s over, guess we’re through; but I JUST CAN’T SEEM TO LET GO OF THESE BLUES.

YES, I treated you unkindly, as you say, though I loved you, love you blindly, still today; it’s a love I’ll likely take right to my grave; If it’s over, then it’s over, guess we’re through; but I just can’t seem to let go of these blues.

Like the clouds the winds have scattered, my heart’s broken but not gone; like the coast have battered, I’ve no choice but to hold on; like a river at the ocean, I’ll give in eventually; but I’ll hold on, long as I can, to the memory.

I can find the bbroken pieces of my heart; I can build myself another from the parts; I need a new life, and it’s time for me to start; if it’s over, then it’s over, guess we’re through, but I just can’t seem to let go, gotta find a way to let go, I just can’t seem to let go OF THESE BLUES.

SURF REPORT- YES. Waves continue to break. Waves continue to break. Waves continue to break. Find some. Don’t be a wave hog if you can help it. Don’t be a wave hog if you can help it. Happy GROUNDHOG DAY!

All original works by Erwin Dence on realsurfers are protected by copyright, all rights reserved by the author. Swamis update on Wednesday. THANKS FOR CHECKING OUT realsurfers.

Access DENIED! Surf Tresspassing Etiquette

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If surfing is important to your life; if your self image is as a surfer, there are few things more upsetting, when there are waves, than the lack of ACCESS. In California and Hawaii (not sure about Oregon), the beaches are public and there are constant lawsuits against super rich (obviously) beachfront owners, many of whom promised to provide access and then decided rude, noisy beach goers could just, to coin a phrase, ‘Pound sand.” Like, somewhere else. If you have enough beachfront, say like “The Ranch,” it might not be that difficult to keep surfers in their place. Some other place.

In Washington State, with our thousands of miles of saltwater frontage, the beaches and the valuable tidelands belong to the landowners. It’s not all tideflats rich in oysters and geoducks and all that; some people just agree with the opinion that beachgoers and surfers somehow wreck the view.

It’s not just that the surf is fickle, or that most surf spots on the Olympic Peninsula can only be reached with driving and hiking, and possibly climbing down cliffs, add in that there are spots visiting surfers cannot access. I have checked one break three times. Cops were called twice. The woman patrolling the zone and very proud of her efforts, was unapologetic. The surfers with me (two different ones) and I were apologetic. “Yeah, we just went across someone’s lawn to check it out. And… what about those two guys who are out?” They probably paddled from way around the point or boated in, “Yeah, I’m going to deal with them, too.” “Have a good day, Ma’am.” And we were out. Elsewhere.

Another spot, with much easier access, is, and this should be noted, private. I have run into the owner several times. I was SO POLITE. It’s just counterintuitive to be otherwise. Back to my motto: “I’m here to surf.”

Another quickie: I know of another spot I’ve surfed a couple of times. I was invited to park out on the point and surf there, but it was years ago. Since then, with some, um, people, doing damage to the property, or misbehaving, or camping, or whatever, cameras were installed. Not to check out the surf but to check on assholes.

ASSHOLES. So, here’s a recent deal. Spot on the coast. Private Property. Gated. Homeowner shows up, identifies himself as such. Surfers curse at him. A dick image is traced on the seasonal dirt on his car. He sees some other surfers closer to the beach, tells them it is private property and their Hobuck or La Push pass doesn’t cover this place. More cursing. More disrespect. SOLUTION: Better gate. DENY ACCESS!

IN THE PAST, surfers made deals with farmers and foresters, people who owned waterfront. Access was on a personal basis. Then someone spotted surf rigs, spread the word, and the next time there was a possibility the spot was breaking, more cars. The farmer or the forester sells the spot, homeowners move in, fuck a bunch of surfers; ACCESS DENIED!

THERE was, of course, the UNCLE DOUG (I never called him that) access. As someone who never paid to park and surf, I had no problem sliding five bucks into the can. It isn’t just that the property was disrespected, but Doug died, the ACCESS WAS DENIED!

I DO FEEL AS IF I should defend myself against charges of blowing up spots. I consciously try not to mention even well-known spots, try to not be too specific as to even WHEN I surfed. I’ve spent years trying to increase my chances of finding waves. THIS IS totally self-serving. While I appreciate the characters I’ve met over the years, if they all showed up at one time at one spot, it would be… soooo crowded.

ANYWAY, it would be helpful if you, as a visitor on someone else’s beach, pick up your trash, maybe someone else’s, be respectful, and, you know, don’t be an ASSHOLE.

Uptown characters.

THIS GUY called me off a porch on a main street in Port Townsend, I was painting. He asked if I wanted to paint for his movie. WHAT? Yeah, I would be interested if it was a legitimate offer. After ranting about car crashes and how he was changing his name, and his upcoming tour to promote the movie, with hius co-star, 36 compared to his 75 and OH, BABY!… and, when asked, he said the folders at his side were part of his latest law suit, worth millions, and… and… and… “Hey, whatever you said your name is… um, I gotta go.”

I should post this under “CRAZY RECOGNIZES CRAZY.”

This was after, stepping out of my van after eating a sandwich, this really old woman comes cruising up to me. She is pushing a walker and I make the mistake of saying, “Hey, you’re getting along pretty well.” Without missing a beat, she asks if I can help her. “OH, no!” Yeah, she hit me up for money. I didn’t want to go into my own issues, but begrudgingly gave her four bucks. “JESUS LOVES YOU,” she said. “Yes, I know that, but…” So, then the crazy guy, then the woman comes back and to the other side of my van. “I’m up here,” I said. “Can you help me?” “Already did. And, hey, I have a few questions. No time. She was gone.

I texted a photo of the filmmaker to a friend who works in the Uptown area, someone who must deal with the occasional Port Townsend fun people. He wrote back, “Avoid that guy at all costs.” In later discussion, we decided the dude is kind of like me in that he will talk to strangers. He is, hopefully and maybe, a bit more crazy-ish than I am. Yet.

UPDATE- Still Wednesday- My new friend and possibly future employer showed up at Dru’s workplace, revealing her with pretty much the same spiel he gave me. Did I tell you the movie’s A musical? Well, he told my daughter. And he added he was leading a singalong on Thursday. When she said she’s having surgery, he invited her to “zoom in.”

“Maybe.”

After half an hour, Dru’s said, “I gotta go.”

I GOTTA GO. Trisha’s and my daughter, DRU, is having more cancer-related surgery tomorrow. Thank you for your wishes. We’ll see how it goes. MAYBE giving the woman four bucks and the love from Jesus might help. GO,JESUS! and, oh yeah, FUCK CANCER!

MORE songs and poems from my previous collection, “LOVE SONGS FOR CYNICS,” and some newer stuff, all under consideration for my upcoming (definitely) book on SUNDAY. As far as “SWAMIS,” I’m regrouping after not getting my first choice of agents, HILLARY JACOBSON, and almost considering doing an e-book. NOT YET.

Meanwhile, try not to do anything you should apologize for.l And find some waves.

Dream Journal, Surfer’s Journal, “Is that Reggie?”

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, hipster surfers, mind surfing, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf fiction, surf novels, surfing, surfing art, surfing the strait of juan de fuca, writings of Erwin Dence

CHRIS EARDLEY texted me this photo with the caption, “Is this Reggie on my bag of Inca Corn Snacks?” “Definitely Reggie, switch stance.” It does resemble REGGIE SMART on the bag of hipster-friendly chips (available on Amazon and I don’t know where else. Co-Op, maybe). Reggie, in addition to being a licensed painting contractor, has rented a space in Port Townsend and is available for your tattooing needs. I know he’s on social media.

CHRISTMAS is coming, and I did my yearly assist in decorating DRU’S house in Port Gamble. Because the town is so, let’s say, quaint, decorating for the various seasons and for whatever other reasons is sort of mandatory. Dru works part time at WISH, a wonderful card and gift shop over by the haunted house and the other vintage attractions. Check it out on your way to or from the Hood Canal Bridge or the Kingston Ferry.

It’s a joke between TRISH and Dru and I that, in movies, when there’s a moon, “It’s always a full moon.” I took this shot over my house last night. Trees could have been in the photo, but were not. In the ‘should have taken a photo’ category- After midnight, when the moon was scientifically at it’s fullest, I looked up in the living room skylight, and the moon was visible through the bare branches of a vine maple. I opened my wallet and did the pagan chant that, once I started doing it, has become as mandatory as any ritual, and as such, must be followed religiously. “Oh moon, beautiful moon; fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up, fill ‘er up. Thank you, thank you, thank you.” MAYBE the ‘er part is some American-ish bastardization, but, hey, that’s how I leart it.

SWAMIS TO “SWAMIS”- While I am waiting for responses from literary agents, I have decided that I should submit something to “SURFER’S JOURNAL.” Before it all hits the big time, my favorite surviving surf-centric magazine could have something on my struggle to capture the magic of a particular time and place through fiction so cutting edge that… Yeah, and art-wise, my stuff, I can hopefully convince them, should grace the magazine’s slick pages.

To that end, I am super editing my submission; as in, I’ve already cut out more than I’m keeping in. OH AND I’m going through my final final version of the manuscript. One more time. A POLISH as they say in the biz. Shit, I want it ready to be glassed and polished.

MEANWHILE, because it’s off off season for painters and the darkest time of the year, I’ve been sleeping more, which mean dreaming more. Not all are worth keeping track of or even attempting to remember, even fewer worthy of trying to figure out some sort of meaning. SO, Here’s:

                                    A Series of Dreams before Christmas

Second dream first- I was surfing, dropping into a left, turning hard off the bottom, going down the line. You know the angle; mine; close to the wall, the creases of the wave threatening, folding; and I’m climbing, too high, dropping, side-slipping, redirecting, racing into the glare.

Suddenly, dream time wise, I’m trying to get dressed, hurriedly, because I’m supposed to be somewhere, somewhere else. I pull on a t shirt with some sort of logo on it. I say, “I don’t work there.” I may add, “Anymore.” Dream talk. I put the shirt on anyway and look down several wide marble stairs. Almost landings. And, yes, marble, everything is marble, white with a very light green tinge. Or the greenness could be because there’s glass to the right, water behind it. An aquarium, perhaps, and possibly connected to a wave pool. Makes sense. Dream sense. Another view of surfers and waves. No, I didn’t see dolphins pressing close to the glass. I can imagine them, but I won’t add them as if they were there.

There is a woman sort of sprawled on the lowest stair, long black hair disappearing in all black clothing. All I can really see is her right hand and her face, in profile, very white, as I drop down and closer. Her reflection is on the glass and the walls between us. The walls, perhaps, are tiles, shiny, like the tile work in the Paris subways, but rectangular, horizontal.

“Did you see my ride?” Because the woman doesn’t answer I add, “I thought it was pretty good. My bottom turn was…” No answer. Her head turns a bit more toward me. “I figured, you probably don’t surf, so you might be…”

“Why do you think I don’t surf?”

“You’re very white.”

“Oh?”

“I mean, the sun isn’t… always…”

“Healthy? No. Not always.” The woman turns back toward the glass.

I notice there’s an above and a below the waterline. The last push of a wave hits the glass, pushing up above our ceiling.  The woman seems to smile as she watches the bubbles rising and dissipating into an unseen sky, some of the greenness transferred to her face.

“I did see your ride. It was… from the perspective of a very white non-surfer, not as good as you probably thought, but… if you’re happy with it…” She turned toward me again. “Do you work there?”

I looked down at the shirt. “No.”

Different scene, same dream- It’s still very bright, but I’m driving in some flat, open country. Big windshield. Truck, I’m dream thinking. And I’m late. Probably the surfing. I hard turn into a driveway. No grass, no trees. A house. Covered porch all the way across the front. Imagine Australian Outback. Dust flies as I jump out of the vehicle. Trish appears at the front door, her hands on the opposite arms.

“I’m late,” I say, breathlessly.

“Oh?”

Oh? I feel in my back right pocket. I pull out a cell phone. “Oh.”

“If I were worried, I’d have called you. You know that, right?”

“Right.”

“Where’d you get that shirt?”

GOOD LUCK on finding and surfing some memorable waves. STAY WARM! Remember all original material in realsurfers.net is protected by copyright. All rights reserved by someone, my stuff by me, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

Memorable Surf Sessions, When and Why

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing, old surfers, perfect waves, real surfers, surf addiction, surf adventures, surf culture, surf novels

The most recent full moon on the Salish Sea. Perfect evening for a paddle.

                                    Sessions Worthy of Remembrance

There are several things that can make a surf session memorable, memorable enough to last years: That time you surfed an often crowded spot alone; that special ride on an otherwise not-special day; that trip with a friend (or potential lover) or friends that you remember more for the friendship (or the movement from potential) than the time in the water; that time where the waves were solidly pumping and you were ripping at the very peak of your ability… and, and, and- yeah, those times.

Think of a spot you’ve surfed, once or many times. Or think of a friend you surf or have surfed with. Think of the music that was playing in the car or in your head. Think of fog, or sideshore winds, or dawn patrols, or skunkings, or the road to here or there, or where you ate on the way home from somewhere you did or didn’t find waves. Think of anything that leads you back to a magical adventure, or ride, or session.

Okay, why was one session, or one ride during the session memorable?

I can’t speak to the adrenalin and dopamine and endorphins, and whatever our bodies and minds create when we anticipate what could be, some fantasy session; and remember or imagine when you find that dream setup, and then you’re in it. If it takes some time, hours, even days, to come down from the high, it takes years before you are unable to bring the memory out of your vault.

You’ve felt it, clueless kook to wherever you are on your journey; the rare-but-there moments are what surfers live for, why surfers ride crappy waves and call it ‘practice.’ The waves are working, you got into the lineup, jockeyed or waited for position, you’re on the wave, committed, driving… and you’ll make the wave… or you won’t.

If you’re not surfing for the thrill of it, the magic of it, please, just take up another hobby.

A memorable session:

Mostly I remember being cold, getting out of the water at Grandview with the sun already down, silver lines on a silver platter. This session was memorable enough that it became part of the reason I started writing, “Inside Break,” the precursor to “Swamis.” It was a different take on my early surfing life, one not much different than any surfer who started before he or she could drive; riding with your parents or someone else’s, then begging older surfers to take you along.

Phillip Harper and I, possibly sophomores, got to go, after school in Fallbrook, with Bucky Davis and Phil’s sister, Trish (not my Trish- different Trish). Backseat. She was driving, headed to modeling school in Encinitas. They were, to me, the perfect surfer couple. Not that she surfed. Maybe she did later, years after that romance ended. Maybe. I tend to push things toward the romantic.

To me, having learned at Tamarack, with some trips to ruin real surfers waves at Pipes and Swamis, Grandview was a surf spot I knew about. I also knew I was not going to be welcomed by the locals and the older inlanders for whom it was their chosen North County spot. Phil, who had surfed there, told me.

Nevertheless, we were there and I was going to show Bucky… something. The waves were “Not good enough,” he said, “Not yet.” This was just before he pushed me into the washout that was the way down to the beach, long filled-in, replaced by a house and fence.

Before it glassed off (alternate title for ‘Inside Break,’ ‘Afternoon Glassoff’), Phil and I went out, only ones in the lineup. Bucky paddled out. We surfed. It got dark. I was bragging about my nose rides. “No,” Bucky said, but only later, Trish now driving, heater maxed out, “you… he, he kind of slides up to the nose. If you want to be a real surfer, you have to go foot over foot.”

“Yeah,” Phil said, “Foot over foot.” Real surfer. Yeah.

Hama Hama News- Adam “Wipeout” James got into a a group text sort of bemoaning that he had done a lot of driving, hadn’t scored great waves, BUT, good news, his son Emmet (Adam spelled it with one ‘t’, so I will also do so) got (may have said ‘bagged’) his first buck.

Congratulations! Adam has another son, Calvin. One is nicknamed ‘Boomer.’ I believe it’s Calvin. NOW, hunting and fishing and all that is kind of a deal down here on the Hood Canal section of SURF ROUTE 101; up there with first Bigfoot and/or UFO sightings; so I had to respond. I said I got it with a ’59 Chevy, but it was probably with a Toyota. Crushed front quarter panel. Dead dear. My older son, James, got his buck with a Buick; big ass Buick Trish pushed him to buy because it seemed safe. Deer over the windshield, James… safe.

CHIMACUM TIMACUM NEWS- For the second time ever, the last being ten years ago, Tim and I were in the water at the same time. I don’t think either of us burned the other. Next time…

“Swamis” NEWS- In looking for an agent, I wrote a query letter, sent it to several people whose judgment I trust to check out. THEN, panicked it wasn’t good enough, I started editing the hell out of it. THEN KEITH, after I told him to wait for a better version, said he liked it. SINCE I am not that stoked on the rewrites… yes, he can send it back, and then… I am not changing the first ten pages, and will post another chapter or sub-chapter on WEDNESDAY..

I’M NOT POLITICAL STUFF- I’m considering getting an alias. BUSTER WALLS came to mind because I wanted something that suggests but can’t seem to remember that term for the subversive, covert kind of sarcastic attack that I have often been accused of.

ANYWAY, I hope you find some waves, and if you don’t, hope you have a great time looking. Don’t steal my stuff. Thanks for reading.