All summer New York surfers daydream of hurricane season, lust over barreling waves, ocean size, the possibilities of a perfect storm. Surfline is our addiction, hope and despair. This time around we got it all. New Yorkers played hard. No jokes, no foamies. Spikes, walls, free falls, tubes, sweeping currents, dark and stormy horizons. The line up cleared, with only the brave and experienced.
For two weeks life stopped here. The beach was the office, home and playground. I got to photograph the high of endless barrels, fearless drops, liquid mountains, big carves, broken boards, and the faces of satisfied surfers. The Atlantic Ocean was moody, explosive, at times a massive attack. A playful contrast of foggy shadows, warm sunsets, stormy skies and sparkling sunshine.
On the beach everything is raw, uncontrolled, and spontaneous. The light changes constantly and every wave is different. The surfer is my art form, and the ride is their expression. Photographs are creative conversations. When all the variables line up, we share a perfect fleeting moment. The beauty in the madness. Being out there in the elements, capturing the raw beauty of nature and the surfer’s moment on water is my creative fuel and salty intoxication. Giving back these moments to the surfer and documenting a piece of New York surf history is precious.
New York was hot and heavy. Surfed out in the city has a whole new meaning, and for once the West Coast was watching the East Coast cameras wishing they were here.
