Don’t tell anyone, but ten years ago today, I was on a trip in Mexico. I was doing my usual thing, wandering off from everyone and everything. I was inhaling hot sun and exhaling residual U.S. toxins. One of my favorite pastimes. I was admiring the cactus. I was a little nervous; on edge. I felt alone.
I mean really alone. I felt as existential as a roadside chicken.
Then I saw it. There at my feet was a piece of cloth; worn burlap. It appeared to be something buried. I squatted and began to dig. My mind said, walk away, this is trash. What are you doing? But I couldn’t stop. My curiosity had me.
Have you ever seen the picture of what people look like today climbing Mt. Everest? It’s bizarre to say the least. They’re packed like sardines on the mountainside.
They pay huge amounts of money to have a guide show them the ropes, so to speak. Why aren’t they out seeking new adventure? Why aren’t they climbing a mountain no one else has been on? Or at least, maybe just a few.
It’s called adventure. verb [ no obj. ] dated-engage in hazardous and exciting activity, esp. the exploration of unknown territory: they had adventured into the forest.
This is a pic, I took a while back, on the Island (Amelia Island, Florida), which use to be known as Fernandina Beach, until the Amelia Island Plantation was developed on the south end. Such is real estate; sales and marketing. It’s all important, WHO you are, and WHERE you’re from. Location, Location, Location.
Sean Poynter grew up surfing on the island, and has gone on to be one of world’s best SUP surfer. Last summer, he told me what transpired in his life, altering his surfing path to the SUP. I thought, what a smart man. What a nice guy. And that’s what I think of him, today. He is an incredible, over the top, athlete. I admire Sean.
Today I made a remark on my photography page, concerning him calling his hometown, a California beach community. It was an editorial comment and one I thought was interesting. I was blasted by a few people. It seems they took it as I said—-I don’t even know what they thought, but it was obvious I had hit an exposed nerve. Such is social media.
I think I’ll leave all editorial comments alone. I don’t want an opinion. I just want to take my photos.
Surfing, where my home break is, in a foreign country, I often get asked by tourists, “where are you from”? It’s a common, everyday question, like little kids asking, “what’s your name”? Sometimes, it’s one of those identity, snide whips, like teenagers wanting to know, “who’s your Daddy?”
I rarely answer the Westside of Jacksonville, Florida. It’s fame hinges on a statistic: it’s known as a dumping ground, for dead bodies and the southern rock band, Lynard Skynard.
But hey, who gives a ____. I’m just a lowly kook, trying to get a life.
Fish Eye Farm 