I couldn’t have put it into words as a kid, but now I understand what caught my imagination that day. How strange it was to see men do something beautiful, so pointless and elegant. Men and their boards carving along hills of glass for pleasure alone. The primary thrill of surfing was incontestable. The body rush brought on by flying down the line of a wave with the wind singing in your ears.
I didn’t know what endorphins were but quickly understood how narcotic the feeling was and how addictive it became. From day one, I was stoned from just watching. I had to get out there. Week by week, I literally found my feet, wobbling in across the shore break, smiling from ear to ear never wanting those few brief moments of living to end. Each time an echo of the initial thrill. Suspended in this moment, never having felt so good in all my life.
It has always been a feeling I’m never ready to give up. But each time the wave dies out and I’m left bobbing in the water, I remember where I am. The beating in my chest, the flit of excitement in my stomach, I linger for a moment before paddling back out for another one.
As a photographer, I try to translate this feeling. Every time I see a kid pop to their feet, arms flailing, all milk teeth and shining skin, I’m there. I know her, and some spark of early assurance returns to me like the rush of oxygen when I come up for air.
See more of Brigid’s work on her website and Instagram: @saltairian.
