Seventeen years ago I shot my first coastline photograph. A quiet series that seems to never end; a beloved image on a postcard to a long lost lover or friend that reads: "Wish You Were Here". Buried in my closet is the color photograph I printed by hand along with precious negatives of many beach adventures and familiar strangers. He was a long limbed surfer with salty blonde hair that plopped as he walked straight into the sea. The red longboard under his arm belonged like certain things always do. His gaze was fixed on the waves and I felt some peace he was seeking drift a bit my way. Over time, the series has evolved as I've ventured inland, scrambled up rocks or driven down country roads but the sentiment is the same--wandering quietly, observing this little piece of earth I am on and other beating hearts there too.

When I look in the mirror I see fine lines on my forehead. A map of aging, but also a map of adventuring exposed. I raise my eyebrows a thousand times in the sunshine or beneath gray clouds in awe with the beauty of this place. I still live to run on the beach alone with my camera laughing into the light, breathing with the ocean and finding smooth stones that ache to be held.
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