A Fist Full of Film

The Real House of Sand and Fog

The funny thing about surfing, is that sand, and seawater and cameras do not mix.  I chanced it one day and exposed one of my babies to the sand, and seawater, because that’s what living is, where life is for me, and the blending of all my idiosyncracies of nature, of sport, of solace, and where I can find peace amongst the Created Nature of the universe.  

So on my blanket in a secret spot up the California coast, I could spot my Rollei from the ocean, as sets of rollers would come and return, and I would dangle my legs off the edges of my board, knowing full well the sea life both antagonistic and friendly that swam under in the blue.  The serene of leaving it all on the blanket, the electronic leash that is constantly pinging for work, and duty, and friends that are wondering where in the world you have been.  All that gave way to the roll of the blanket of ocean, breaking softly to the right, providing enough of a face have a cut on, fast enough to enjoy, but not too fast to pearl.  A few missed waves, a few slow inches, and the moment is gone, but then you get that third or fourth wave of the day, that is just bombing.  You see the rock fly underneath, and small fish scatter, as you cut it deeper  feeling the roll start to catch up as your weight begins to drag.  So you choke up walking up higher on the board, picking up speed, while the math in your head ticks away invisible seconds to when you apply pressure for the repositioning turn to find your line, and guide your board “home,” or at least until the wave dies out.

A good ride will warrant a jump of joy off the board.  Perhaps a friend with light eyes is waving to you from the shore, a buddy in the lineup who vicariously breathes your 10 second ride with fist pumps and smiles.

You get back on the board, a little inside, and pick a point to paddle to, to meet your friend, and say, a thousand different ways to say the word, “Wow.”  Cresting the final series of waves to get past the break, you paddle strong and fast up the face of this last wave, feeling the sudden drop of making it over it and not under it, landing, hearing the roar fall behind you.  Paddling in what is silence in comparison to the churning ocean you just left inside.  

The senses are acute, and voices spoken low, can be heard with fiber optic clarity.  And it feeds you a little more, and now your mind is on the next wave, and not just recreating that feeling but building on it.  Can’t keep from grinning, and feeling that God is out there, and this is His gift to you.  Thankful.  Serene.  Calm.  Peace.  

This escapism may last another hour or less, or more, but when the waves die down, and the sun loses its power, and it begins to get colder, its only then, I remember…oh my Rolleiflex is on the beach, I should make sure its not getting wet in its bag.  That’s how intoxicated I can lose sense of some of my most prized cameras.  So I ride a slow one in, on my belly, not wanting to chance the rocks on something underpowered.  The fins cut a little into the sand, and I lift the board up and wrap the leash.  Towel dry my face, hair, and hands, and pull my camera up and fire this parting shot before working the wetsuit off and putting on dry clothes.  Looking back I see everyone else come in too.  My footsteps paving the way to a warm hoodie, some ugly flip flops, and some boxers that have been cooking in my backpack.  This is going to feel so good.  Goodnight Moon.  Thanks for the Ride.

California Coast

Rolleiflex 2.8E Portra 160 NC