Tag Archives: writing

Solstice, “Swamis,” and Nothing Remotely Political

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, non-political Erwin,, real surfers, surf fiction, surf novels, surf stories, surfing blogs, surfing Southern California in the 60s, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

We’ve almost made it to the WINTER SOLSTICE. Almost. The atmospheric rivers continue to hit, SO, if you want snow, there may be some, good luck getting there. If you want waves… take a chance. The windows are as small as the days are short. BUUTTT, the celebration is justified; the days are getting longer and… YEA! And good luck.

Photo from the FULTON LIBRARY. Shadows. GINGERBREAD FRED, one of my characters in my when-the-hell-is-is-going-to-be-done novel, “Swamis,” goes to the parking lot every evening to watch the sun set. A burned-out veteran (helicopter pilot- medivac) of Korea, wounded and pushed farther into craziness in Vietnam (gunship), who “Crashed twice, shot down once,” and who is also a legendary surfer from the fifties, having pioneered waves at the Tijuana Sloughs and outside La Jolla reefs, says, about night; “It’s not dark, really. It’s shadow. The curtain drops and it’s a different show. An encore.”

Gingerbread Fred is, I hope, as I hope of all the players, someone a reader can visualize. Not a stereotype but a mix of real people I have come across. And he is critical to the plot. If we are all Alice in Wonderland, Candide, any narrator in a Franz Kafka story, and I believe we are, those characters, those people. we remember we remember because they are part of our story.

Anyway, not sure if this is bragging or apologizing, but here’s more from “Swamis.”

CHAPTER THREE- SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1968

My nine-six Surfboards Hawaii pintail was on the 1994 Falcon station wagon’s factory racks, as much rust as chrome. The seven-eight Sunset board I’d bought off the used rack was inside, the back seat lowered to accommodate it. It’s not like I ever had riders other than my brother. I was headed from Grandview to Moonlight Beach on Neptune. The bluff side was either garage and fence or hedge, tight to the road. There were few views of the water. I was, no doubt, smiling, remembering something from that morning’s session.

There had been six surfers, including me, at the preferred takeoff spot. Some of them recognized me, and I them, but they all knew each other. There was no way the local crew and acceptable friends would allow me to catch a set wave. No; maybe a wave all of them missed or none of them wanted. If I paddled for a wave, one of the crew would act as if he was going to take off, even if he didn’t, just to keep me off it. And then turn toward his friends to receive credit for the act.

The first one in the water, before dawn, I had surfed the peak, selecting the wave I thought might be the best of a set. Two other surfers came out. Okay. Three more surfers came out. One of them, Sid, paddled up and sat next to me without looking at me. I was the farthest one out in a triangular cluster that matched the peak of most of the approaching waves. I knew who Sid was. Older. Out of school. A set wave came in. It was my wave. I paddled for it and took off.  Sid dropped in on me. I said something like, “Hey!” 

Rather than speed down the line or pull out, Sid said, “Hey,” louder, and stalled. He cranked a turn. It was either hit him or bail. I fell onto my board, wrapped my arms around it. My board and I went over the falls, pushed sideways until I rolled with it and got out of the soup.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, paddling, following Sid back toward the lineup.

The four other surfers held their laughter until Sid paddled past them, maneuvered his board around, laughed, and said, “Wrong? Junior broke the locals rule.” Sid pointed to the lefts, the waves perceived as not being as good, on the other side of a real or imagined channel. “Local’s rule. Get it?” Sid turned to the other surfers. “Watch this guy, guys. Daddy’s a cop. You know him; DeFreines. Married a Jap-a-nese… woman. Junior’s probably a fucking narc. Hide your stash!”

Trying to ignore the taunts of the others, I caught an insider and moved over.

After three lefts, surfed, I believed, with a certain urgency and a definite aggression, I prone-paddled back to the rights, tacking back and forth. A decently sized set wave was approaching. I wanted it. 

“Outside!” I yelled, loud enough that the pack, including Sid, started paddling for the horizon. I paddled at an angle, lined up the wave at the peak. Though the takeoff was late, I made the drop, rode the wave into the closeout section, pulling off the highest roller coaster I had ever even attempted. I dropped to my board and proned in. I kept my back to the water as I exited, not daring to look back at the surfers in the water or to look up at the witnesses on the bluff. I did hear them hooting.

I grabbed my towel from where it was stashed, visible from the water, on the low part of the bluff, my keys and wallet and cigarettes rolled up in it. Tromping up the washout to Neptune, I tried not to look at the surfers, tried not to smile as I leaned my board on the Falcon and unlocked the front door.  

…

Almost to Moonlight Beach, there was a late fifties model Volkswagen camper van, two-tone, white over gray, blocking the southbound lane. Black smoke was coming out of the open engine compartment. Three teenagers, my age, were standing behind the bus: Duncan Burgess and Rincon Ronny on the right side, Monica, on the left. Locals. Names divulged by second tier gremmies. Or from observing them on the beach or in the water.   

I pulled over on the northbound lane side, squeezed out between the door and someone’s bougainvillea hedge, and walked into the middle of the street, fifteen feet behind the van. “Can I help?” 

Duncan, Ronny, and Monica were dressed as if they had surfed but were going to check somewhere else: Nylon windbreakers, towels around their waists. Duncan’s and Monica’s jackets were red with white, horizontal stripes that differed in number and thickness. Ronny was wearing a dark blue windbreaker with a white, vertical strip, a “Yater” patch sewn on. Each of the three looked at me, and looked back at each other, then at the smoking engine. The movement of their heads said, “No.”

Someone stepped out of an opening in the hedge on the bluff side of the road, pretty much even with me. I was startled. I took three sideways steps before I regained my balance.

Julia Cole. Perfectly balanced. She was wearing an oversized V-neck sweater that almost covered boys’ nylon trunks. Her legs were bare, tan, her feet undersized for the huarache sandals she was pushing across the asphalt. She looked upset, but more angry than sad. Or even worried. But then… she almost laughed. I managed a smile.

“It’s you,” she said, almost laughing. I smiled. “Are you a mechanic?” I shook my head, took another step toward the middle of the road, away from her. “An Angel?” Another head shake, another step. She took two more shuffling steps toward me. We were close. She seemed to be studying me, moving her head and eyes as if she might learn more from an only slightly different angle. “You’ve gotten… better.”

“Better? Yes, that’s what I tell people. Better.”

Julia Cole shook her head. She was still smiling. I was studying her. Staring. I looked past her. Her friends looked at her, then looked at each other, then looked, again, at the subsiding smoke and the growing pool of oil on the pavement.

“We saw what you did,” she whispered. I turned toward her. “From the bluff.” She raised both arms, the left arm higher, pointing with her right hand, and yelled, “Outside!” She and I looked at her friends, then back at each other. She said, “Outside,” again, softer.

“It… worked.”

“Once. Maybe you believe Sid appreciated it.” She shook her head.

I shook my head, still focusing on Julia Cole’s eyes. “I had to do it.”

“Of course.” By the time I shifted my focus from Julia Cole’s face to her right hand, it had become a fist, soft rather than tight. “Challenge the… hierarchy.”

I had no response. Julia Cole moved her arm slowly across her body, stopping for a moment just under the parts of her sweater dampened by her bathing suit top. Breasts. I looked back into her eyes for the next moment. Green. Translucent. She moved her right hand, just away from her body and up. She cupped her chin, thumb on one cheek, fingers drumming, pinkie finger first, on her lips. “You. I could use you, Junior, if you…” She pulled her hand away from her face, moving it toward mine. 

“Julie!” It was Duncan. Julie, Julia Cole didn’t look around. She lowered her hand and took another step closer to me. In a ridiculous overreaction, I jerked away from her.

“I was going to say, Junior…” Julia looked, if anything, irritated. Stupid me. “If you were an attorney… then…”

“I’m not… Not… yet.”

Julia Cole loosened the tie holding her hair in a ponytail. Sun-bleached at the ends, dirty blonde at the roots. She used the fingers of both hands to move her hair to both sides of her face.

“I can… give you a ride… Julie, I mean… Julia… Cole.”

“Look, Fallbrook…” It was Duncan. Again. He walked toward Julia Cole and me. “We’re fine.” He extended a hand toward Julia. She did a half-turn, sidestep. Fluid. Duncan kept looking at me. Not in a friendly way. He put his right hand on Julia Cole’s left shoulder.

Julia Cole allowed it. Her expression suggested I was confused.

“Phone booth? If you need one. There’s one at… I’m heading for Swamis.”

Julia Cole shook her head, smiled, did a sort of almost blink, then looked, briefly, toward the house closest to the bus. I twisted my mouth and nodded. “Oh. Okay.”

            A car come up behind me. I wasn’t aware. Rincon Ronny and Monica watched it. Duncan backed toward the shoulder. Julia and I looked at each other for another moment. “You really should get out of the street, Junior.”

            “Joey,” I said. “Joey.”

            She could have said, “Julie.” Or “Julia.” She said neither. She could have said, “Joey.”     I checked out Beacons and Stone Steps and Swamis. The VW bus was gone when I drove back by. Dirt from under someone’s hedge was scattered over the oil, some of it seeping throughCHAPTER THREE- SUNDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1968

My nine-six Surfboards Hawaii pintail was on the 1994 Falcon station wagon’s factory racks, as much rust as chrome. The seven-eight Sunset board I’d bought off the used rack was inside, the back seat lowered to accommodate it. It’s not like I ever had riders other than my brother. I was headed from Grandview to Moonlight Beach on Neptune. The bluff side was either garage and fence or hedge, tight to the road. There were few views of the water. I was, no doubt, smiling, remembering something from that morning’s session.

There had been six surfers, including me, at the preferred takeoff spot. Some of them recognized me, and I them, but they all knew each other. There was no way the local crew and acceptable friends would allow me to catch a set wave. No; maybe a wave all of them missed or none of them wanted. If I paddled for a wave, one of the crew would act as if he was going to take off, even if he didn’t, just to keep me off it. And then turn toward his friends to receive credit for the act.

The first one in the water, before dawn, I had surfed the peak, selecting the wave I thought might be the best of a set. Two other surfers came out. Okay. Three more surfers came out. One of them, Sid, paddled up and sat next to me without looking at me. I was the farthest one out in a triangular cluster that matched the peak of most of the approaching waves. I knew who Sid was. Older. Out of school. A set wave came in. It was my wave. I paddled for it and took off.  Sid dropped in on me. I said something like, “Hey!” 

Rather than speed down the line or pull out, Sid said, “Hey,” louder, and stalled. He cranked a turn. It was either hit him or bail. I fell onto my board, wrapped my arms around it. My board and I went over the falls, pushed sideways until I rolled with it and got out of the soup.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, paddling, following Sid back toward the lineup.

The four other surfers held their laughter until Sid paddled past them, maneuvered his board around, laughed, and said, “Wrong? Junior broke the locals rule.” Sid pointed to the lefts, the waves perceived as not being as good, on the other side of a real or imagined channel. “Local’s rule. Get it?” Sid turned to the other surfers. “Watch this guy, guys. Daddy’s a cop. You know him; DeFreines. Married a Jap-a-nese… woman. Junior’s probably a fucking narc. Hide your stash!”

Trying to ignore the taunts of the others, I caught an insider and moved over.

After three lefts, surfed, I believed, with a certain urgency and a definite aggression, I prone-paddled back to the rights, tacking back and forth. A decently sized set wave was approaching. I wanted it. 

“Outside!” I yelled, loud enough that the pack, including Sid, started paddling for the horizon. I paddled at an angle, lined up the wave at the peak. Though the takeoff was late, I made the drop, rode the wave into the closeout section, pulling off the highest roller coaster I had ever even attempted. I dropped to my board and proned in. I kept my back to the water as I exited, not daring to look back at the surfers in the water or to look up at the witnesses on the bluff. I did hear them hooting.

I grabbed my towel from where it was stashed, visible from the water, on the low part of the bluff, my keys and wallet and cigarettes rolled up in it. Tromping up the washout to Neptune, I tried not to look at the surfers, tried not to smile as I leaned my board on the Falcon and unlocked the front door.  

…

Almost to Moonlight Beach, there was a late fifties model Volkswagen camper van, two-tone, white over gray, blocking the southbound lane. Black smoke was coming out of the open engine compartment. Three teenagers, my age, were standing behind the bus: Duncan Burgess and Rincon Ronny on the right side, Monica, on the left. Locals. Names divulged by second tier gremmies. Or from observing them on the beach or in the water.   

I pulled over on the northbound lane side, squeezed out between the door and someone’s bougainvillea hedge, and walked into the middle of the street, fifteen feet behind the van. “Can I help?” 

Duncan, Ronny, and Monica were dressed as if they had surfed but were going to check somewhere else: Nylon windbreakers, towels around their waists. Duncan’s and Monica’s jackets were red with white, horizontal stripes that differed in number and thickness. Ronny was wearing a dark blue windbreaker with a white, vertical strip, a “Yater” patch sewn on. Each of the three looked at me, and looked back at each other, then at the smoking engine. The movement of their heads said, “No.”

Someone stepped out of an opening in the hedge on the bluff side of the road, pretty much even with me. I was startled. I took three sideways steps before I regained my balance.

Julia Cole. Perfectly balanced. She was wearing an oversized V-neck sweater that almost covered boys’ nylon trunks. Her legs were bare, tan, her feet undersized for the huarache sandals she was pushing across the asphalt. She looked upset, but more angry than sad. Or even worried. But then… she almost laughed. I managed a smile.

“It’s you,” she said, almost laughing. I smiled. “Are you a mechanic?” I shook my head, took another step toward the middle of the road, away from her. “An Angel?” Another head shake, another step. She took two more shuffling steps toward me. We were close. She seemed to be studying me, moving her head and eyes as if she might learn more from an only slightly different angle. “You’ve gotten… better.”

“Better? Yes, that’s what I tell people. Better.”

Julia Cole shook her head. She was still smiling. I was studying her. Staring. I looked past her. Her friends looked at her, then looked at each other, then looked, again, at the subsiding smoke and the growing pool of oil on the pavement.

“We saw what you did,” she whispered. I turned toward her. “From the bluff.” She raised both arms, the left arm higher, pointing with her right hand, and yelled, “Outside!” She and I looked at her friends, then back at each other. She said, “Outside,” again, softer.

“It… worked.”

“Once. Maybe you believe Sid appreciated it.” She shook her head.

I shook my head, still focusing on Julia Cole’s eyes. “I had to do it.”

“Of course.” By the time I shifted my focus from Julia Cole’s face to her right hand, it had become a fist, soft rather than tight. “Challenge the… hierarchy.”

I had no response. Julia Cole moved her arm slowly across her body, stopping for a moment just under the parts of her sweater dampened by her bathing suit top. Breasts. I looked back into her eyes for the next moment. Green. Translucent. She moved her right hand, just away from her body and up. She cupped her chin, thumb on one cheek, fingers drumming, pinkie finger first, on her lips. “You. I could use you, Junior, if you…” She pulled her hand away from her face, moving it toward mine. 

“Julie!” It was Duncan. Julie, Julia Cole didn’t look around. She lowered her hand and took another step closer to me. In a ridiculous overreaction, I jerked away from her.

“I was going to say, Junior…” Julia looked, if anything, irritated. Stupid me. “If you were an attorney… then…”

“I’m not… Not… yet.”

Julia Cole loosened the tie holding her hair in a ponytail. Sun-bleached at the ends, dirty blonde at the roots. She used the fingers of both hands to move her hair to both sides of her face.

“I can… give you a ride… Julie, I mean… Julia… Cole.”

“Look, Fallbrook…” It was Duncan. Again. He walked toward Julia Cole and me. “We’re fine.” He extended a hand toward Julia. She did a half-turn, sidestep. Fluid. Duncan kept looking at me. Not in a friendly way. He put his right hand on Julia Cole’s left shoulder.

Julia Cole allowed it. Her expression suggested I was confused.

“Phone booth? If you need one. There’s one at… I’m heading for Swamis.”

Julia Cole shook her head, smiled, did a sort of almost blink, then looked, briefly, toward the house closest to the bus. I twisted my mouth and nodded. “Oh. Okay.”

            A car come up behind me. I wasn’t aware. Rincon Ronny and Monica watched it. Duncan backed toward the shoulder. Julia and I looked at each other for another moment. “You really should get out of the street, Junior.”

            “Joey,” I said. “Joey.”

            She could have said, “Julie.” Or “Julia.” She said neither. She could have said, “Joey.”     I checked out Beacons and Stone Steps and Swamis. The VW bus was gone when I drove back by. Dirt from under someone’s hedge was scattered over the oil, some of it seeping through

CONTACT erwin@realsurfers.net

COPYRIGHT protected material. All rights reserved by the author, Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

HAPPY SOLSTICE AND WHATEVER ELSE YOU CELEBRATE!

Whale Songs and Bargains Made

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Melissa Lynch illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf culture, surf culture events, surf novels, writings of Erwin Dence

An illustration by my late sister, Melissa Jo Dence Lynch. Copyrighted. All rights reserved by her estate and Jerome Lynch. No, Melissa didn’t drown… unless cancer is a sort of drowning. Fuck Cancer!

I’ve gotten into a bit of a thing, lately, Selkies and dark mysteries. Drowning is a part of it. For a surfer, to not consider this is… to not be prepared. SO, I was supposed to use some available time to work on actually completing my novel, “Swamis,” BUT I’m also working on some songs for the still-in-the-planning stage next Surff Culture on the Strait of Juan de Fuca event, to be held in late January or early February of 2026. AND I am still working on collecting and editing material for a possible song/poetry/essay book.

YES, Trish is correct in saying that writing and drawing have affected my life. For years. I’ve given up opportunities to make actual money to pursue these passions, which are now, evidently, replacing surfing as the ‘other woman.’ STILL, Trish has some faith in my novel. “It’s a good story; can’t you concentrate on that?” Yes.

Having just spent some time thinking about and starting to write a post-“Swamis” story, I kind of committed myself to working on the novel last night. BUT THEN, after doing some real world computer work, and wanting to post something decent on a Sunday, I got caught up in the following piece. An essay, I guess, and I made some changes this morning, pasted it on the site, made more changes. OBSESSIVE? Yeah.

Breaching Whale by Stephen R. Davis. All rights reserved by the artist.

                                    DROWNED OUT

What the drowning person hears. Silence? No. The thrashing, if nothing else, creates a sound. Chaotic. Bubbles rising, air to air.

Perhaps the kelp or the sawgrass make a muffled rustling sound as they sway to the rhythm of the river or the tide. The air escaping the lungs whistles, holding back a scream.

There are voices beyond the panic; a song, a whale calling from some unknown distance, or music, crazed and discordant, from some unseen orchestra. The pounding heart sounds the beat. Desperate.

The symphony ends, or will end, in a soft surrender. Peaceful, we’re told.

We don’t believe this. Clawing, kicking, we breach as high into the air as we can; choking, gasping, grasping at the surface of the water as if it is safe. Solid.

We do not return the whale song. We are not whales. We do not understand their language. If a whale heard our scream, it is one among many, many among millions, with a constant war of machines whirring and growling and belching and breaking on the land and in the air. No rhythm, No melody. Chaos.

I don’t wish to drown. Yet, knowing something about drowning, I go into the sea.

Away from sea, I bargain, trade time for time, to get back into it.  

I’m reachable: erwin@realsurfers.net Thanks for checking out my humble site. “Drowned Out” is protected by copyright, all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

WAVES? I’ve heard some stories, but, for skiers and surfers on the Olympic Peninsula, atmospheric rivers are not what we’re looking for. If you are looking, GOOD LUCK!

Cold Plunge at the Selkie Reach Resort

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, short stories on surfing, surf culture, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, surfing, surfing art, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

Although I have yet to finish a seriously publishable version of my novel, “Swamis,” I put some thought and time into thinking about and writing a couple of ‘short’ stories with the same characters. Later. Because I have been considering Selkies recently, though I’ll have to think about what got me on the subject, I started working on a story that would include surfing and… Selkies. Here’s the start of it:

Cold Plunge at the Selkie Reach Resort

“No, can’t find an At… At…sush…i… DeFreines.” The woman behind the resort’s front desk looked between Julie and me. Not suspiciously, but for a bit too long. She was trying to connect the patient woman in an unnecessarily thick and long coat, given the conditions, and me, unnecessarily irritated, even with having to give way to four already checked-in and overly giddy older women, by which I mean, women somewhere around our age. 2016, so, late sixties.

One of the four may have been younger.  A sister, perhaps. Not that I cared. Not            immediately. Not before they started chatting it up.

The desk clerk was somewhere in her twenties, gray top under a darker gray sport coat, a pearl necklace that was almost a choker, hair that was almost straight, pulled back, black and shiny, but with an undertone that suggested it could go gray at any moment. Her eyes were dark. She could tell I was studying her. She sucked in her cheeks for a moment before showing her teeth. Very white. I’m sure she nodded as I looked away and at Julie, knowing my ex-wife had caught the young woman’s look and knowing she believed I deserved worse, staring and all. 

Fresh from the resort’s bar, each of the women was wearing a flannel coat and/or a scarf with a tartan pattern, something identifying some clan unknown to them. No, one woman, the leader, if not merely the most assertive, spent a certain amount of time presenting herself, with some Americanized version of a Scottish brogue, as, “Positively Scottish on my mother’s side. I’m, like, Sedona, Arizona’s representative for the Clan Adair.”

“Then, ‘failte.’ Welcome to the Selkie Reach Resort.”

“And… thanks. What clan might you be from, Love?”

I took the ‘Love’ part as something the woman had picked up from watching “Vera” on PBS. Yes, but it’s set in Northeast England rather than Scotland. Not to nitpick.

“I’m from Wales,” the clerk said, adding, “I’m here for the weather.”

The group took it as a joke. It might have been. Julie nodded and kicked at my backpack. I coughed and kicked at her three matching suitcases.

Since I’m wasting your time on wardrobe, I should say that I was dressed in an off-white cable knit sweater, fairly new Levis, waterproof hiking shoes. New sweater and shoes, hastily purchased from L.L. Bean. Online.

“We’re here for the cold plunge. Love.” It was the last of the group to pick up a room pass, one of the non-Adairs, unnecessarily showing her ID. “How far is the sauna from the water?”

“Too far at low tide. Big tidal shift here. Dangerously so. Flat beach. We have a safety line. If you can see it on a dry beach, don’t go. We have charts in the shower room and… Actually, our pool is plenty cold enough for most.”

When the women gave a unified groan, the clerk added, “Should be perfect tide, slack, in about an hour.” 

I stepped forward and set my passport on the counter. The clanswoman stepped in front of me. “The Selkies? The Sirens? Is there, like, any connection to, maybe, the moon?”

“I’ve heard tell… No, Love, I realize the older brochures might suggest some… Myths. And… not exactly here.” The clerk was looking at her computer rather than the woman. “Area’s called a ‘reach’ because it’s favorable sailing between the rocks at the north headland and the, the safe harbor. South, southwest. Sirens and Selkies were useful to lure tourists.”

“Based on ‘wreckers,’ that’s what I heard.”

“Myth. And, again, not here. Novels. Movies.”

“So, you’ve never seen a Selkie?”

“Seals. Plenty of seals. No Selkies, no Sirens. But…” The clerk handed the woman the room pass. “234. Yes. It’s in the original part, pre-renovation, and you’ll have a view of the water. There’s a telescope and… full moon tomorrow night. Okay?”

I stepped up to the counter as the cold plungers danced back toward the bar, a carved image of a Selkie over the doorway. “Joseph. Joseph A. DeFreines. Party of two.” The clerk looked at her computer and looked back at me, shaking her head.

Julie stepped past me. “Julia Cole-Wilson. Emailed… yesterday.”

“Oh, then,” the woman said, with a quick glance between me and Julie.

“I forgot, Atsushi. You paid for the flight. I just…”

“She didn’t forget, Miss…”

“Jones. We’re all named Jones where I’m from.”

“Right. Wales. I was down there… a few years ago. Quite a few years ago. Surfing.” Miss Jones may have mouthed ‘surfing.’ She blinked. Definitely.  “Lovely place, sad story… Otherwise, great, surfing wise.”  

Julia moved next to me. “We’re here for the disappearance.”

“A friend,” I said.

“Our goddaughter.”

The clerk tried to maintain her neutral expression. “Rita.” She failed. “Rita Longworthy?”

Her eyes were so dark, so moist.                                    

 Feedback- You’ve gone a bit David Sedaris… Love… in your advanced age. I thought this was going to be a ‘short’ story. Otherwise… okay. See you soon. Get the fuck better. Please! Your Trueheart, forever.                                                                                   

Image, obviously, ‘borrowed’ from Stablediffusionweb.com. It’s an AI prompt, as if I know what that means.

Then, again, maybe I’ve always made some connection. Unprompted. The first drawing was done in the late 1980s. I added the lettering more recently. Capturing the essence and the allure of the sea; I’ve never quite gotten it right. And… I keep trying.

As, I’m sure, you do.

All original works by Erwin A. Dence, Jr. are protected by copyright. All rights reserved. TO CONTACT, email erwin@realsurfers.net. Thanks or checking it out!

If Ben Gravy Surfed Epstein’s Island…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or I’ll delete it.

Oh, and fuck cancer!

Reggie Blows Up, Chimacum Tim Outer Reefs It, and Cold Plunge at the Siren’s Reach Resort

Posted on by under hipster surfers, mind surfing, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, perfect waves, real surfers, surf adventures, surf culture, writings of Erwin Dence

I shouldn’t tell you where or when some guy, a ripper on an SUP, took these photos of REGGIE SMART, this after the ripper’s wife took photos of the ripper, and yes, I did see photographic proof that the photographer does, indeed, rip… oh, and I saw some photos of HAWAIIAN BRIAN, yes again, ripping, but, if seeing is believing (not always true; proof being shots of a rare lined up wave at any random beach break), but, as some other Olympic Peninsula surfers who saw the photos somewhere on the world wide web, over ripe with content and revelations, have saiid, “Yeah, great wave, great positioning”… shit like that, SO, yeah, kudos to Reg on forcing himself, with a definite lack of funding (check almost in the mail- not from me- different story) to cruise out to some unnamed coastal sometimes-heaven, sometimes not, spot and… wail.

The sign is another Reggie piece of art. His Port Townsend tattoo parlor’s new location is in the McCurdy building. Hey, it’s not my job to pimp out Reggie, but give him a call for all your body decorating needs.

CHIMACUM TIM took some free time, in between shifts on the Washington State Ferries, to do a stealth strike to Maui. Interestingly enough, at the very time he was doing a half mile paddle out to hit some outer reefs there, big time North Shore Oahu web stars, safety and camera crews and drones with them, were creating content there, and yes, I watched some of it.

The difference being, they didn’t send me exclusive photos and stories. Thanks, Tim.

I got this image from a resort on Lopez Island. I am intrigued by the whole hipster (possibly) fad of cold plunging. It’s a thing. Because I am still working on “The Hudson Street Whore,” about a possible landlocked SELKIE, and I’ve done some research on the whole Selkie, Siren, Mermaid mythology, and because my mind just keeps grinding away, I’m in the imagining stage of writing a dark (of course) piece that combines surfing with the rest of what I’m under-describing here, and includes surfing and ATSUSHI DEFREINES, the character from “SWAMIS.” The tentative title is, “Cold Plunge at the Siren’s Reach Resort.”

Meanwhile, I’m looking at doppler images, buoy reports, and forecasts, and trying to finish an exterior or two between atmospheric rivers and the usual doses of drama, spending some (not enough) time on the writing and drawing. Hopefully your too-close-to-winter time is going well. Hit the surf when you can. Thanks for checking out realsurfers.net

Don’t be afraid email me, erwin@realsurfers.net, and you have my permssion to blow up my humble blog. I can take it.

Thanksgiving Much? Surf Music, Ghosts, More

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, Original Erwin, real surfers, realsurfers illustrations, surf culture events, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, writings of Erwin Dence

WORKING ON IT- Librarian/ripper Keith Darrock and I have been discussing having a SURF MUSIC theme for the next Occasional Surf Culture event. I am working on a poster. The above start, not nearly psychedelic enough, may be used once we get details sorted. If you have surf-centric music, let Keith know via the Port Townsend Public Library, or you could e-mail me at erwin@realsurfers.net

It’ll probably kick ff in, like, January, preesumed (but not always true)height of the local surf season.

Photo from Unsplash. After scrolling and scrolling, this one fit best. Could have scrolled on.

Vintage Victorian Sealskin coat. Out of stock. Photo from MODIG. 1900s Faux fur coat from New York Cloak and Coat House. SHIT! Fake? Evidently you can get real ones in Canada. Might be a tariff. And it might be illegal if immoral isn’t enough, And it’s not like I want one, I just wanted the fictional character to have one.

The Store Owners’ Daughter and the Hudson Street Whore

When the night got too harsh, she moved under the awning, in front of my parents’ hardware store, the Hudson Street whore. I’ve heard her singing.

She twirled for a bit, in the display window’s light, her long coat a part of the dance, “It’s old,” she said, “True, but it’s warm and I swear that it’s genuine fur,” It’s the same one her mother once wore, the Hudson Street whore. I’ve heard her singing.

How this Fiction/Poem was inspired by Chris Eardley, and… an explanation:

It was too cold and, more importantly, too damp to be painting this close to the water this close to sunset. If the fog was to come in… I know the risks of painting exteriors in November in this part of the world. Still, after painting on the covered porch, I pushed my luck a bit, putting a coat on some columns.

That’s when Chris Eardley walked by from his office (with an envy-worthy view of the bend in the Salish Sea between the Strait of Juan de Fuca and Puget Sound) in another building in the Port Hudson marina/building/boat yard complex. Chris is another surfer overqualified to live in a surf-starved area such as the inland waters of the Olympic Peninsula.

Maybe we yelled greetings across the road and past the heavy haul-out movable crane. Or not. Maybe a wave exchange. But… because I was there under circumstances that could be reduced to “I’m here for the money,” I felt a certain amount of something resembling… guilt.

This is me, a self-identified paint-whore.

The fiction part- First, I do a minor cringe using a term as harsh as ‘whore.’ After writing and rewriting a few verses, I decided to make the narrator a woman (girl, age-wise), hoping, if I get to a complete version, that there will be some suspense, perhaps, that the story continues. And, somewhere in my confused, ‘let’s see’ mind, I want to connect the Hudson Street Whore to the ocean, to the whole tradition of Selkies and Sirens. And I will.

I’ll let you know.          

The aforementioned Chris Eardley representing in some sunnier climes.

THANKFULNESS- Every wave is a gift. Even the ones you fall on, and the ones that fall on you.

The ghost in the laundromat dryer window is, yeah me, washing my paint-whore outfits.

SO, thanks for checking out my almost-humble blog; hope you’re enjoying the holiday, and, it’s not like we’re all a whore of some kind, but, as such, a surf-whore isn’t the worst thing.

“SWAMIS”- I’m almost through the first third of my latest re-write, front loading a bit more of the mystery aspect of the novel. I’m planning on publishing more here on a second page. Once I figure out how to do that. Stay tuned, stay frothy.

Not much to claim all rights to in this post, but, yes, I am on all original material. Thanks.

That “**&%$#@!! It All, I’m Gonna Go Surfin'” Moment

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, Erwin Dence illustrations, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, Original Erwin, real surfers, surf culture events, surf fiction, surf illustrations, surf novels, surfing, surfing art, surfing illustrations, writings of Erwin Dence

I was actually planning on leaving it at that. All clickbait, no content.

Not that I’m going surfing. Not today. Maybe you’re out there, hoping for the right window to open up: Tide and size and direction, cooperative wind, amiable crowd (or no crowd). It might work. It might be working now; more likely after you give up on one spot and cruise, along with others, to another spot, always hoping, anticipating,

Yep.

Just in case music is part of your surf life, some tune in your head as you search or surf, I want to mention that I’ve been discussing having SURF MUSIC as the dominant theme for the NEXT (It’s, like, the 6th or 7th, one virtual) OCCASIONAL SURF CULTURE ON THE STRAIT OF JUAN DE FUCA (I’m ready to drop the ‘Salish Sea’ part) EVENT with Your PORT TOWNSEND PUBLIC LIBRARY dude (afraid to give him a title, but he may be the Head Librarian), and well known ripper, KEITH DARROCK.

It would probably be in JANUARY of 2026, and would include SURF-CENTRIC LOCAL ART, and SPECIAL GUESTS like… Working on it. I’ve already signed up PETE RAAB, non-surfer, but a man with an impressive knowledge and collection of SURF MUSIC, and I’ve approached Legend TIM NOLAN about performing with some of his friends.

Consider this an invitation to any OLYMPIC PENINSULA surf music performers, singer-songwriters or bands. We’re still at the ‘think about it phase,’ so… THINK ABOUT IT!

MEANWHILE, as your anticipation level spikes, here’s a surf song I wrote quite a while back:

I’ve got a whole lot of work, so I’ve just got a little time; got a whole lot of work, so I’ve just got a little time; now, they say everybody chooses their own mountain to climb.

I’m gonna climb that mountain, gonna start about four am; gonna climb that mountain, gonna start about four am; and I’ll stop about noon at a lake that I know for a swim.

When I get to the top, I’m gonna check out the other side; when I get to the top, I’m gonna check out the other side; and if I see the ocean, you know that I’ll be satisfied.

I JUST WANNA GO SURFIN’, now tell me, is that such a sin; I just wanna go surfin’, now, tell me, is that such a sin? When you know, damn well, it’s been a mighty long time since I’ve been.

I’m gonna take off late, freefall drop, cave off the bottom and fly off the top, locked in so tight the wave spits me out, hit the shoulder and turn one-eighty about, moving down the line like a water snake, saving my best moves for the inside break.

Hit the inside section, arching, hanging five, That’s when I’ll know that I’m still alive.

Yeah, I wanna go surfin’, and I’m gonna fine me some time; yeah, I wanna go surfin’, and I’m gonna find me some time; Now, if you get to go surfin’, and you need a good board… borrow mine.

NOTES: One- I previewed these lyrics to Pete Raab when I was working for him and on them. I need a rhyme for ‘inside break.’ Water snake? Yes. Works. Two- No one should borrow any board I own. I thrash my boards. Always have. That’s what they’re for. If your board is too, too precious to you; hang it on your wall. My motto, still, “I’m here to surf!”

I do continue to work on my novel, “Swamis.” I’m either going to have a second page on this site devoted to the book, or I will post chapters on Wednesdays. Thanks, as always, for checking out realsurfers.net

You can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net

All original works are copyright protected all rights reserved by Erwin A. Dence, Jr.

See you.

*One Thousandth Posting and Much More

Posted on by under "Swamis" the novel, northwest surfing blog,, old surfers, real surfers, surf contests, surf culture, surf fiction, surfing, surfing blogs, surfing in Washington State, surfing novels, surfing Swamis, writings of Erwin Dence

*I’ve been doing this blog for almost thirteen years, and because I’ve been checking on my stats a lot lately, and have actually been in contact with the platform realsurfers shakily is built on, I discovered this would be post number 1,000. NOW, the explanation for this is that not-quite-perfectionist that I am (mediocratist, high end, is more like it), I typically edit each post, like, multiple times. NEVERTHELESS, it’s some sort of milestone. OR a testament to stubbornness.

This image, possibly taken by Peninsula ripper, Chris Eardley, has already appeared on instagram. NO, Mikel Squintz, it is not anywhere, secret or not, on the Strait. Some sort of Hurricane, so, different body of water. STILL, offshore winds and possibly makeable waves does make one less worried about the rocks as well as envious.

Reggie Smart’s dog, Django, looking, well… smart. “Who’s a Smart dog?” Photo by… you know, Django’s owner. Not totally unchained. But smart. Reggie is opening a new Tattoo shop in Port Townsend. Look him up on the social if you need a little body decorating.

JOHN PECK died this week. I get the word on surfer deaths, typically, via texts from my contemporary, TOM BURNS. My story on Mr. Peck is this: Back in the late 60s, when signature model surfboards became a thing, my Fallbrook surf friends (and some kook semi-surfers) and I would share the latest “Surfer” bi-monthly. PHILLIP HARPER may have had a subscription. So, Phil, RAY HICKS, and BILL BUEL (who I still consider more of a surf-adjacent dude- Sorry) were over at Phil’s house perving out on the mag. Not like all at once. There was an ad for the MOREY-POPE designed PENETRATOR; all well and good, and an ad for several other signature boards. When Phil’s mom came into the dining room, Buel said, “Look, Mrs. Harper, there’s a board called the RAPER.” Because I was, possibly, more pedantic than I am now, and to reassure Phillip’s mom, I corrected Bill, effecting a French-ish accent. “I believe it’s pronounced, ‘Ra-pe’-air,’ like, like a sword.” And yes, I definitely went into a swashbuckling stance, which, oddly enough, is goofy-foot.

John Peck, a legendary surfer, doing a bit of kneeboarding. Photo by Nathan Oldfields. Find it, if nowhere else, at mollusksurfshopscom

SONNY OWENS also died recently. Here’s a bit on Sonny from Tom Burns: “My friend and former surf judge passed on at his home in CANNON BEACH. He was an early HUNTINGTON PIER standout in the late 60s, early 70s and migrated up here to the PNW, We surfed and judged contests over the years. Truly a good friend and a gentle soul who will be missed.”

I did meet Sonny on the Strait a year or so before my ill-fated foray into surf contest judging. Sonny and a woman I assumed to be his wife were at a barely-breaking, almost flooded-out spot, and despite being somewhat crippled, he went out. When I was at the contest in Westport, trying to fit in, I mentioned the sighting to one of the real judges. “Oh yeah? Sonny, Erwin here says he saw you surfing at ______ _____.” “Yeah, I did. Once,” To paraphrase Tom Burns, “If you’re lucky enough to surf long enough, you’re going to end up kneeboarding.” Agreed.

Let’s just say I’m posting this sideways to be less… shocking. Not true. Maybe, when I edit…

Me at Trisha’s most recent Chemo session. Photo by Trish. I’m really not supposed to make a deal out of my wife of almost 54 years undergoing treatment for breast cancer. I was not allowed to take her photo, in the chair, or later, when she was checking out and selecting a wig. Usually our daughter, DRU, herself a two time cancer survivor, takes Trish over for this kind of thing, as Trish did for her. Dru was off at a conference for organizations such as the OLYMPIC MUSIC FESTIVAL, with EMELIE BAKER (not sure what her married name is or how, exactly, to spell Emelie). So, I got the opportunity to share in the ordeal.

I try not to get too gushy about these things, but I am amazed at how strong Trish AND Dru have been, how positive. I do realize, we all have our struggles, injuries, afflictions, physical, mental, spiritual; many of which are crippling. We always hear “Fight cancer.” Yes. Yes. Allow me to repeat, “Fuck Cancer!”

I AM WORKING ON “SWAMIS,” and I promise to back off on the neurotic/obsessive re-writing. AND I’m continuing to write new songs and poems while collecting some of the old ones. Here’s one of each:

                                    EMPTY

 Empty stairwell, empty halls, Empty paintings on empty walls, Desperate conversations on the telephone, You say my heart is empty, but it’s heavy as a stone.

You know I don’t believe it, You know it can’t be true, How can my heart be empty when it’s filled with love for you.

Empty blankets, empty sheets, Empty sidewalks and empty streets, Looking out the window, I see I’m still all alone, You say my heart is empty, but it’s heavy as a stone.

You know I don’t believe it, You know it can’t be true, How can my heart be empty when it’s filled with love for you.

Empty like those scattered wishes, Empty like those shattered dishes, Empty like my old broken cup, If I’m so empty, Fill me up.

Empty ocean, empty skies, Empty faces with empty eyes, Thinking ‘bout those sins for which I just can’t atone, You say my heart is empty, but it’s heavy as a stone.

You know I don’t believe it, You know it can’t be true, How can my heart be empty when it’s filled with love for you.

Empty me, empty me, I’m as empty as I can be, I’m empty like my old broken cup, If I’m so empty, If I’m so empty, If I’m so empty… fill… me… up.

                  The Psychic and his Sidekick

The psychic and his sidekick, Sedrick,

Shared an Uber home from the wedding of a mutual friend.

Cindy was the bride, Archie was the groom,

The psychic said he knew the marriage was, “Quite doomed,”

Sedrick thought so, also, but he was willing to pretend,

Mostly, he said, at the Psychic’s funeral, “Not to offend my friend.”

“Shocking,” Cindy said, placing flowers on the headstone,

“Indeed,” Sedrick said, adding, “Are you here alone?”

I DO TRY TO GIVE PROPER CREDIT for photos and such. Please respect my rights to my original, copyrighted work.

OH, AND NOTE you can write me at erwin@realsurfers.net. AND, HOWEVER YOU’RE RIDING WAVES, KEEP GOING!

Thanks, World, for Checking Out Realsurfers.net

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

WORDPRESS KEEPS STATS on how many folks find my humble (not because I’m particularly humble- though often humbled) blog/site. Lately,affter twelve years of pushing and pumping out eclectic and not-always-surf-centric content, and for no reason I can discern, I’m getting more hits. Significantly more. From all over the world. I’m grateful, and, for no reason I can explain, kind of worried.

“So, Mr. Kotter; there was a locker check. Am I in trouble?” “Well, I don’t know, Epstein, maybe it was something you wrote in your notebook.” “Oh. No. Nothing to see there.” “Well, Juan, truth will out. Huh?” “Huh?”

ANYWAY; GRATEFUL. THANKS. And, I have finnally gone back to working on my novel, “SWAMIS.” I checked it out, and, surprise, it’s fucking good. Just a few… tweaks and… yeah. Swamis.

I’ve also been working on my competitive poetry. I do have an extensive portfolio, way more songs than upper crust, pretentincous (sp?) poems, Here’s one from way back:

                                    REDEMPTION CENTER

Though Little Joanie’s pregnant, she still dressed all in white, The Bridegroom told me they’d already had their wedding night, Joanie’s Grandma clutched a bag of rice, then threw it, just or spite, And the veil was left out on the Elks Lodge floor, Pardon me, but haven’t we seen this before?

Two Coat Charlie’s asking me for an advance in pay, Charlie ran into Fast Betty, Betty took his stash away, He was naked when he ran out, he was begging her to stay, When he left he must have closed the motel door, Now Betty’s checking at the Family Grocery Store.

I called Ken the Banker sleazy when he disapproved my loan, Kenny sent his cousin Leonard out to disconnect my phone, But I saw Ken at the Tavern, and he was not there alone, He was hanging onto Betty for dear life, I don’t feel so bad now, having done Ken’s Wife.

Reverend Bob was crying for forgiveness at the wake, Bob told us all that it was such a terrible mistake, Still, Bob swears he’d seen the Devil wielding OId Joe Conner’s rake, Now a white cross marks where Debra Conner fell, And I, for one, believe Bob, what the hell.

Seems it’s either sex or money, that is, when the truth gets told, Sometimes drugs are mentioned, though not from whom they’re bought or sold, Me, I told tales in the city, and my business just went cold, Man, the gossip blows like dust right through this town, Hey, you must be new, I ain’t seen you around.

No, the freeway don’t go through here, and the locals congregate, Checking our post office boxes, though the mail is often late, It seems like everyone’s related to at least someone you hate, As it is, we know the players very well, These ain’t half of all the stories I could tell.

Redemption Center, there’s Saints and Sinners, You’ll see us all on Sunday, heads bowed down, Redemption Center, Losers and Winners, But you have to laugh, it’s just like your home town.

NOTES- It’s not, like, viral; just kind of a minor cold. Still, I appreciate it. Thanks, and to all the s, real or otherwise, surf on!

And, of course, I reserve all rights to my original content. Other people’s… thanks for letting me borrow.

Atmospheric Maelstrom, Erwin Loses His Voice Again, Visitors, ‘Patriot Parking,’ Mistaken for Angels Poem, and, uh… Stuff

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

On the computer, the clouds were swirling, down and around the Olympics, up the Hood Canal and Puget Sound. I’m pretty much at the left of the flash blowout, catching the curl of the my-golly-durn atmospheric river maelstrom. I’m fine. Not sure how this affects the surf at Westport.

NOT A POLITICAL THING, BUT I think it’s a bit ironic that this bad-ass lifted, four-wheel drive, manly to the Mad Max degree truck is parked in the handicapped spot. The messages reflect, perhaps, a sort of hard right mindset. So manly. One of the stickers says something about people who disrespect the flag. All fine, for sure; the flag is a symbol of our country. If this outsized, yelled-out ‘patriotism’ display is meant to elicit a response, mine might be, “Yeah, but those who disrespect the Constitution… huh?”

ALSO, and maybe it’s the camera angle, but “TACO” appears to be highlighted on the tailgate. Doesn’t that refer to some meme, like “Tump Always Chickens Out?” Maybe. I hope the owner can climb into the cab of the rig without too much discomfort.

MY DAUGHTER, DRU, and I met up at the Hama Hama Oyster Bar with my late sister, Melissa’s (hurts to say this) widow, Jerome Lynch, their son, Fergus, and his girlfriend, Kelsi. Jerome, who lives in his native Ireland, spends some time working in these here United States. Down south, mostly, where the name Lynch draws instant attention from the locals.

Adam “Wipeout” James was not there, off with his boys, and, I believe, Soupy Dan’s kids, getting skunked catfish hunting somewhere between eight and ten hours east, over by the Snake River.

The luncheon went pretty well. Three trays of oysters mostly went to Fergus and Jerome. Dru had clams. Kelsi and I had the grilled cheese sandwiches. She had one oyster, on a dare.

Not that I really should mention this, but the most awkward moment came when Jerome, talking about how he was doing the ‘cold plunge,’ followed, as is proper, by a sauna (not like most of the lunatics do this in Port Townsend), hinted he had a girlfriend. “You mad bastard,” I may have said. It was okay. Maybe I was joking. Jerome, who Trish and I (and Dru) adore, deserves to not be what he called “the lonely guy,” and he did wait six years. SO, okay; I take the ‘mad bastard’ back.

Our niece, Emma, who lives in Ireland, and was, for a time, Dru’s room mate in Chicago, is getting married next may. Her fiance, Barry, surfs. I met him. I like him. Dru is definitely going. Trish and I, I told Jerome, would love to go to Ireland. We’d love to move to Ireland. “How long is the shortest day over there?” “Gets light about eight, dark by half-four.” “Oh. Good to know.” “Farther north.”

I threw in a photo Jerome or Fergus took from Mount Walker, near Quilcene, and one of several photos Fergus took at a very localized spot a few years ago. He was told this was forbidden, asked if he got a decent shot of the local. He did.

RICO MOORE’S LATEST- Rico, local PT coffee shop critic and poet/surfer, just had an article published in the “MARGIN.” He contacted surfers via group text. I tried to look at the piece about allegations of abuse and contaminated water and, of course, corruption at an ICE facility in Tacoma. I say I tried to look at it. My phone froze up. Hard freeze; take the battery out freeze. Wow. Rico’s out there. I looked at it on my tablet, but got bogged down. There is a lot of research, obviously, that went into the reporting, and, having dabbled in the discipline of journalism, I have to ask where the poet fits into this.

I know the answer; it’s trying to fit the humanity, or lack thereof, into the narrative, trying to make the reader feel. Rico succeeded. Check it out. Be careful.

https://themargin.us/features/licensed-to-contaminate

Erwin Will Not be Silenced… For Long

It’s happened before; my voice getting raspier, then croakier, then… worse. It’s some combination of postnasal drip and my body trying to maintain some temperature control as I’m alternating between sweating while working and chilling down when I stop. The result, the supposedly always-talking me not talking.

Swamis, 1967, the Sunday before what was then referred to as Easter Vacation. Phillip C. Harper may have had his driver’s license. I did not. We were riding with my sister, Suellen, and were surfing small (barely breaking) waves without a crowd. It was dark and dreary, and we’d surfed all day. My throat was getting noticeably sore. In my memory there may have been a fire on the beach. Probably not, just towels, maybe a coat. Phillip was going to Lake Tahoe with his family for the coming week. I was hoping to do some more suring. But…

Here’s the ‘but:’ Phillip, who started surfing pretty much the same time I did, had a new Surfboards Hawaii V bottom board, and when he went back out, he was surfing really well.

Well, I couldn’t have that. I had to go back out. Competitive and petty.

Two days later, Phil is at Lake Tahoe and I’m sick. I lost my voice; not partially, as I had a few times before, times I was not that unhappy that I had a sort of humorous froggy voice. No voice, and my throat hurt.

My mom took me to the doctor. “Worst case I’ve ever seen,” he said. I had open sores in my throat. I got some sort of prescription, told to gargle and not speak. I croaked out an, “How long?”  “Until you can,” he may have said.

“He didn’t say what it’s the worst case of,” my mother said as we were leaving. I would have said, “Erwin Syndrome” if I had been able.

When Phillip got back, he asked what he had missed.

“I have no idea,” I probably answered in my regular, deep and resonant monotone.

A DRAWING by my late sister MELISSA JOANNA MARIA MARLENA DENCE LYNCH. Some of the names were added by our mother, the Lynch is from Jerome.

ORIGINAL POEM that would fit into my collection, “Mistaken for Angels.”

                  That Knowing Angel Smile     

Angels, you tell me you’ve seen Angels, An Angel riding on the L train, one hand on the pole, An Angel, backseat in a car, idling, one lane over, outside the Dollar Store, Turning, just for a moment, and smiling, An Angel squeezing random avocados at the Uptown Street Fair, Handing one to you, An Angel, down in Nogales, Sweeping the gravel with a wide, rough broom, Leaning into the strokes, Dust, like smoke, twirling in the wind, And the Angel looked through the whirlwind, at you, With that knowing, Angel smile.

You know that Angel smile, you tell me, It’s a smile of recognition, and you can’t just look away.

No one should.

But I do, I look away, coughing into my hand, Hiding my smile until the elevator doors close.

THANKS FOR checking out my site. Remember you can email me at erwin@realsurfers.net AND don’t let anything keep you out of the water for longer than prescribed and/or necessary.

All original artwork and writings are protected by copyright. All rights reserved.