Tag Archives: writing

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

Joe Roper Rules Kearney Mesa, Drop me a line at erwin@realsurfers.net, Please, and Not a Meme! Especially not THAT Meme!

Posted on by under aggressive surfers, classic surfboards, northwest surfing, old surfers, real surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, surf satire, surf sessions, surfing Southern California in the 60s, writings of Erwin Dence

“This calls for an investigation;” a man claiming to be from Lindell TV told her viewers; “People are posting scurrilous images of our Vice President, Jon Doe Vance, son, we now believe, and contrary to his own biography, Paddy ‘Loan’ Vance; and this cannot be tolerated in this here United States. If you cannot respect the man, respect the office; at least as much as our much maligned president, a true leader truly beloved by all the rightest, brightest, shiniest people, does.”

Now, it’s not like I even know how to watch the channel put out by My Pillow guy, loser in a multitude of defamation lawsuits. I was hepped to this by someone… Can’t reveal source. Seems like fun to me; the pillow guy, alternating between hugging and crying into his pillows made (using the Colonel Sanders playbook) by poor and desperate American widows. Maga Mike and the guy with some alleged ties to advanced couch… surfing (?) Alleged. But, NO, this might even be a conspiracy designed by secret cat lovers, unwed and otherwise. You know the type. I mean, yes, there are at least two illustrations of cats in the background. AND a wolf. Wolf? Russia? Yeah. Maybe it’s a coyote. Mexico?

After careful analysis, it seems like my nose is larger. And redder. If it’s Hegseth Red, it’s coincidental. Sunburn in my case. BUT, maybe with a little Maybelline, some botox, a bit of the Kristi Noem line of Revlon lip gloss, and… As our leader would say, backed up by the man most responsible for his very presence everywhere we look (make you own list: Include McConnell), I should just fucking get over it.

OKAY. Over it.

I saw a thing on YouTube about JOE ROPER celebrating fifty years as the preeminent ding repair guru in the San Diego area. Because I can’t help myself, while waiting for the ads that precede most videos to end, I check out the comments. The second one from about a guy who was mercilessly and purposefully slammed by Joe’s board and told to go back to Clairemont (maybe Joe called it ‘kookmont’ or ‘Shitmont’). The purpose was to dissuade non-locals, and the victim seemed to kind. of understand that, despite Clairemont Mesa being just over I-5 and way less than five miles from Pacific Beach.

I have a few connections to Joe Roper. I lived in Pacific Beach, very very close to Tourmaline Canyon Surf Park, from November, 1971, until the spring of 1973. I was twenty, Joe was probably 15, and he was one of the only surfers, back in my city surfing days, during which I developed my ‘ghetto mentality,’ whose name I knew; mostly because he was a standout surfer, and partially because I witnessed several incidents very similar to the one described in the comments. I did ask him why he full-board-to-the-full-body slammed the surfer in the shorebreak. You know the answer.

In a case of poor editing, let me now jump to the possibly ironic fact that the ding repair business that is celebrating fifty years in business is located beyond Clairemont Mesa. Next mesa over, Kearney Mesa, east of I-5 and ‘the’ 805. Not that I care.

I wrote several pieces for realsurfers on Mr. Roper. One was that he surfed Crystal Pier like it was Pipeline. Totally true. That he became a known name at Pipeline was not a fluke, though I was surprised, after a few years of living up the way, University City (slightly inland) and Encinitas (both east of I-5), when I saw Joe, in a Gordon and Smith ad, at Pipeline.

Another, even more tenuous connection, is that I have run into two other surfers who knew Joe. BIG DAVE RING was part of the ‘pier rats’ group Joe was a part of, if not the leader of. CHRIS BAUER, now building quality surfboards on the North Olympic Peninsula, got his start working for Mr. Roper. “All he let me do when I started was sand,” Chris told me. When I started telling my stories, Chris had to remind me that he and I are of different generations. “Yeah. I get it.”

This is kind of a quickie posting. I’m working on several other pieces for the bigger deal on Sunday. Topic: Casual Surfing; Myth or Fantasy?

I hope you’re doing some surfing, casual or intense. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.

erwin@realsurfers.net

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!

No Comments, Parades, Waves, and the Fun Car Abides… Still… WAIT, new way to Comment

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

I signed up for an email account through Word Press. I tried it out, it seems to work. I can now be contacted by writing to erwin@realsurfers.net. Yeah, I guess that means I’ll kind of know who is sending me the love… or whatever. And yes, I can take criticism. Sort of. And no, I can’t really reveal when or where I’ve surfed recently. Still, I am open to publishing surf stories by others. And I have. Give it a shot when you get a chance. I’m actually pretty excited about this.

OOPS, I googled “Big parade yesterday.” Kim Jong Un, “Little Rocket Man,” may or may not have sent a message to his US counterpart; congratulatory or otherwise. I was actually not going to participate in the “No Kings” demonstration in Port Townsend yesterday (not PT in the photo), the deal set for the polite hours, noon to one, designed not to interrupt coffee, brunch, with lunch delayed, BUT, because I doddled and dilly-dallied, watching just ‘one more heat’ at the Big Show WSL event at Lower Trestles, and because I had to buy some stuff before going to a job, I got stuck driving past the early arrivers, and, because I said I might do this, I drove past the folks, mostly in my age demographic, lining both sides of Sims Way. AND, yes, I honked. And waved. Some anti-fascism, pro-rule-of-law, pro-democracy people may have noticed the beat to “Louie, Louie.”

Anyway, sorry Donny, that your party pooped out. Kind of surprised you didn’t wear some sort of uniform. Maybe you did. Nice of all the ‘suckers and losers’ to march on by. Not like Miss America contestants, but… I would have considered checking it out, but… no; I was busy. I am a bit curious about the size and shape of the cake.

ROY, THE RIGHT PERSON FOR THE JOB.

THE FUN CAR survives another scare. I had a ‘crank, no start’ episode that coincided with an oil leak from the 1994 940 Volvo wagon’s crank case. Mysterious. I fooled around with the wiring, pulling things off things, putting them back on. I called my mechanic friend, George Takamoto, no longer working on rigs because he has dialysis three times a week (though, good news, he is scheduled to go the University of Washington hospital soon with the hope of getting on the transplant list), from the counter at Napa Auto Parts. I had already bought a replacement coil from O’Reilly, whose motto should be, “Our parts are shitty, but we’ll replace them when they fail,” but was checking whether Napa had a Bosch part like the coil I’d taken off (because it was easily done and because I, somehow, trust Bosch more than O’Reilly. George was against wasting my money, suggested I get an electrical probe. I did. Less than four bucks.

I went back to the job where the fun car had failed to start, put the old Bosch back in with the help of the guy who was receiving all the furniture the next day for the house. The fun car was a blockage. It didn’t start. I left, checked out the possibility of surf sort of nearby, came back, and, in yet another miracle, it started right up. AND, knock on wood, it’s started every time since.

My daughter, Dru, asked me what I want for Fathers’ Day. Well, because my car is still stuck in Port Townsend, and because I am petrified to even attempt anything mechanical, and because she works across the street from a shop that worked on Volvos, and usually parks in front of it, I asked her if she ever sees people there. The rumor is that it’s only open two days a week or so. Because I had to give Dru some items that came to my house, I checked the place out, opened the door, and met Roy. Because it was a Volvo of a certain age, and because Roy had genuine Volvo gaskets around, and because I agreed to talk more softly, he agreed to replace the gasket.

I found a reason to come back the next day. The job was almost done. A buddy of Roy’s, Paul, who works on tugboats, was hanging out. It all would have been easier if I hadn’t asked Roy to replace the existing, blown head gasket surviving (thanks to Adam Wipeout) spark plugs with new one I had purchased but not installed because YouTube said it might be tricky. I gave up when the first one didn’t want to come out. SO, of course, the plug hardest to get to caused problems. Cursing, a prerequisite of wrenching, ensued. This tool, that trick… success!

SURF STUFF- I believe it’s only the second time I drove my big boy work van out to the Strait. I was that desperate. Damn the expense, I need waves! I may have gotten a few. Or a few more. And then…? And now, the Volvo’s (knocking on more wood) back. ALSO, I was a bit surprised to see Yago Dora and Betty Lou Sakura Johnson prevailing over the locals at Trestles. I did watch some of the early action, and post-watched a few recaps. What I didn’t do, but frequently do, is check out the comments, see who was under or over-scored, all that stuff.

SPEAKING OF COMMENTS, I got one from a guy with his own site, possibly drawn to realsurfers because I got a tiny bit political. He asked me to check his site. I did. He asked me to comment. I tried. I stopped the process when Word Press wanted my email address and, maybe I’m wrong, my password. NO; it’s not worth it. I do get some feedback, mostly at the beach or in the lineup, often directed at some one else. “Is that the guy who posts all kinds of stuff about spots on the Strait?” No. Which really means, ‘not any more.’ Learned that lesson.

It is painting season, and I haven’t had much time for drawing. I did this while waiting for my wife, Trish, at a doctor’s office. Sketch, meant to go along with my song, “Between Alone and Lonely.”

BECAUSE KEITH DARROCK’S MOM sent him a passport photo of Keith’s dad at 31 year old; and because I worked with JOEL CARBEN, and because I have this photo of my father from about the time I was born, and because it’s Fathers’ Day… some photos.

Because Chris Eardley said he would love to see a photo of me with hair and without a mustache, here is one of Trish and me from 1969. Or 1970. My or her Senior Prom. I could be wrong. I’ll ask Trish.

Incidentally, because I am usually one of the oldest surfers at any session, and because I have a damaged or lack of a filter, I too-frequently ask other surfers how old they are. “Whoa; you look way older.” This doesn’t get a great response, but I do follow up with, “Makes me wonder how the fuck old I look.” Most surfers are too polite to answer honestly.

Happy survived yesterday day. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.

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.

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.

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.