Froth.

 When a trip ends and the unpacking begins. The smell is unmistakable.

Two week old neoprene is a black cauldron of stink. Urine, brine, aloe and campfire all fighting for top honors in your nose. For the unsuspecting passer by, it can kick the ole gag reflex into high gear.

But when it is your own pew – it’s different. Romantic in a twisted way. You inhale deeper and it kicks all your senses into high gear -the sound of waves fill your ears. Eyes squint, trying to see the sets on the horizon and you rock slowly back and forth in a daze as the concrete melts away and turns into the ocean.

 Every aspect of riding waves is intoxicating. Impossible to get out from under your skin. And that toe headed kid in point break had the choice words “Surfing's the source. It'll change your life, swear to God.”

I suck. Can’t surf to save my life. But the camera is sort of like a dream machine that makes anything possible. Mind surfing and watching walls of water peel and break, seeing black suits scattered in the line up – paddle, paddle, pop.