I grew up in Maine. My clearest childhood memories are of being pummeled in the cold, Atlantic shorebreak. Even as a small child, I craved reckless abandon; not feeling subordinated by the power of the ocean, but comforted. With opened eyes I would remain submerged for as long as little lungs would allow, searching the cloudy darkness for the mermaid I felt sure would come for me (considering that Splash was released in 1984, I am likely not unique in this fantasy). I would swim away with her and never return to land; I would finally belong somewhere.
I never met a surfer in Maine, although I know now that they exist.
I went to college in the desert (obviously I had yet to discover surfing in 1997). Everything happens for a reason, one look at my life’s timeline proves it. People who surf don’t spend four years in Santa Fe, New Mexico, but if I hadn’t attended St. John’s College I may never have begun to surf. They taught me what I was capable of— on levels good and bad. I learned to trust my intelligence and my ability to decide for myself. I can’t explain to you what graduating from St. John’s College is like unless you went there. It’s rough and it’s amazing. If you survive it you will never be the same. A lot like surfing, really.
The Rest is History
Like everybody else, a lot happened in the ten years since I graduated College. Only three are important. One, I had a son, Dylan. Two, I became a designer. Three, I learned to surf. The circumstances surrounding each of these events are etched with both joy and pain and I wouldn’t have it any other way. I do what I love all the time with the people that I love. And no matter what, I know my set will always come.