The Burning House

If your house was burning, what would you bring with you?

It's a philosophical conflict between what's practical, valuable and sentimental. You're forced to prioritize and boil down a life of accrued possessions into what you can carry out with you. What you would bring reflects your interests, background and priorities. People's stage in life also dictates their selection. A father of five in his forties would grab very different things than he would have as a bachelor in his twenties. Think of it as a full interview condensed into one question.

Here is a list of what I would bring,

My Granfather's Explorer Scout shirt

Naked and Famous Jeans (three years old)

Zeiss 35mm f/2

Nike SFB boots

Ralph Lauren alligator belt (well loved)

Leatherman Wave Black

One basalt rock from the Columbia River Gorge

One shell from Nicaragua

Three shells and one stone from the Maine coast

45 RPM orange bandanna

Vintage Woolrich Horse skin hunting gloves

LaCie rugged hard drive (all of my photos and image research)

Rolex Submariner Date with a Zulu Ballistic nylon band

Oakley Razor Blades

Ernest Thompson Seaton, "The Two Little Savages" (well worth a read)

iPhone 4

Not Pictured*

Canon EOS 5D Mark II

Sigma 50mm f1.4

What would you bring?

Here are some more links,

The Burning House (Picasa).

End of the Line

The C train slowly emptied as we crept east away from Manhattan. Consumed by my book, Let My People Go Surfing, I lost track of the stops. Forty five minutes after leaving Columbus Circle, the C emerged from a tunnel into residential Brooklyn.

Distracted by the changing scenery and influx of light, I started reading the same sentences over and over again. Taking this as a hint, I zipped my book back into my backpack and focused on the new surroundings. The "Kuchunk Chunk Chunk," of the subway zipping eastward punctuated Neil Young's "Cortez the Killer" as I looked back at the retreating Manhattan skyline.

I had left Midtown wearing an RRL flannel shirt, and the weather here felt different from the microclimate of Manhattan. Unimpeded by hundreds of skyscrapers, the wind whistled around the occasional concrete building and group of trees. After a few moments of shivering, I pulled a sweater from pack and started for the beach.

C to the S.

Boardwalk.

It's not hard, not far to reach...

Shadows.

The beach was deserted, save for a handful of surfers catching waves around the 89th Street jetty. After chatting with two surfers jumping into their wetsuits about the water and the waves, I headed down the beach, meandering towards Coney Island.

The deserted beach and biting wind instantly reminded me of my time spent wandering the beaches of Popham and Reed State parks in Maine. The roar of a jet taking off from nearby JFK brought me back from my daydreams. My frigid hands and the sand in my shoes sufficiently satisfied my desire to leave the city on an adventure.

As the sun sank towards the horizon, I walked back to the station and caught the lumbering S train into Manhattan. I can't think of a more enjoyable way to spend five dollars than on two MTA tickets to and from Rockaway Beach.

Here are some more links,
Rockaway (Picasa),
Canon EOS 5D Mark II ,
Zeiss 35mm f/2 .

Five years old again, 18 years later

Inspired by the snowboarding scene in "A View to a Kill," and some neon infused Warren Miller films, Tim (my brother) and I vetoed skis and started snowboarding in 1993. I was five and Tim was three. We obsessed, and thanks to our parents' support, rode the slopes on nearby Mt. Hood from December to April. We pushed each other, we chased each other down the runs and helped each other up from our frequent crashes.

When enough snow accumulated in our backyard, we made jumps and rode homemade rails. During the summer and fall, we strapped on our snowboards and bounced on our trampoline, hoping to perfect new tricks for the coming season.

Eventually, our appetite to play on boards drove us to skateboard. Familiar with grinds and pumping transition, we emulated early skateboarders, riding bowls at skateparks and the miniramp we built in our backyard. With the same attitude and excitement as our first day snowboarding, we rode for hours.

When I went to college in Maine, we continued skateboarding together on my breaks. Regardless of our location or the time of year, our sessions took us back to our early days riding together on Mt. Hood.

100 miles from the nearest paved road, we skated a miniramp on the beach in Nicaragua. A stone's throw from the thundering beach break, we skated when the waves closed out and the tides were wrong. Each sunrise and sunset, we took turns riding Tim's pool board.

Yours truly, five years old again, 18 years later.

Tim, catching his breath.

Anticipation.

Foreground.

It was beautiful.

Here are some more links,

Skateboardin' (Picasa),

Nicaragua (ART),

Boardin (Picasa).

Meet Me in Nicaragua

"Our phones won't work, so let's meet at the airport in Managua. My flight gets in at 3:30. We'll catch a cab there and bounce around on dirt roads for three hours on the ride to the coast," I told my younger brother, Tim, rocking in the comfort of my ergonomic office chair in Midtown Manhattan. "Where are you, anyway?"

"Waiting for my flight in Houston. This place is a zoo," Tim said under his breath. "I am going to stay at a hostel in Managua tonight, but you should probably give me directions to the place we are staying just in case something goes wrong and I need to get out there by myself."

"Sounds good, I'll text you it right now. Let me know if any plans change. I have to run, see you tomorrow afternoon. I'm pumped. See you on the other side," I said in one breath as I glanced down at my watch and realized I had a meeting in five minutes.

"Don't forget to bring the sunscreen," Tim joked in a motherly voice.

Little did he know, but in a fit of excitement and procrastination from my daily obligations, I had ordered sunscreen on Amazon, Bull Frog SPF 36, weeks in advance.

Flying the cheapest option through Central America to a remote country and meeting someone with no means of communication turned out as dubious as it sounds.

Five hours after leaving JFK, my empty flight landed to the elated clapping of the native Salvadorians and news of the cancellation of all the day's connecting flights to Managua. Envisioning Tim moping around the Managua airport for hours waiting for me arrive, I quickly found wifi and sent out a slew of emails telling him to make his way to the beach without me. After an hour of feeling like a derelict older brother, my iPhone vibrated, alerting me that Tim had skipped town soon after arriving in Managua the evening before and gone directly to the coast.

"That fucker! what if I would have showed up on time? " I smiled in relief.

A free night's stay, three complimentary meals and a 200 dollar flight voucher later I landed in Managua at 9am the next morning. Eager to dump my backpack, I converted the kilometers to miles in my head as the cab sped through dusty roads towards Popoyo.

Moo.

The ocean's spray and my brother's sheepish grin quickly made me forget about my travel hiccups. For a week, my brother and I enjoyed the carefree attitude of the handful of other surfers, drawn to this remote beach in Nicaragua. When the tide was right, we surfed. When it was cool, we skated the mini ramp. When it was hot, we read.

Mangos, freshly knocked down from a tree.

A horse under the full moon on Saturday the 19th. Aperture F1.4, shutter speed .4s, and iso 4000.

The miniramp, a stone's throw from the beach.

Time slowed.

Blue and Yellow.

Morning.

Starched with Salt.

Meet me in Nicaragua.

Here are some more links,
Nicaragua Dos (Picasa),

Nicaragua (ART).