My teenage brother is a surfer dude.
He has surfing on the brain.
He eats, sleeps and dreams surfing.
His surfing gives my mother grey hairs.
I think surfing, and surfing alone, is the only reason he worked with the Boss and I this week.
We were working five mintues from the beach.
I take that back.
I don’t think.
Because I asked him.
Because he gave me a mile-wide surfer dude smile.
He asked me to take photos of him surfing, and being the super great awesome sister that I am, I said I would.
Little did I know…
Photographing a surfer is like watching your washing dry.
It’s like lying on your back and trying stare at the sun.
It’s like trying win a snail race when someone’s sold you a doggy snail who has snail racing issues and spends the whole race doing snail donuts.
What I’m trying to say, is photographing a surfer requires a lot of patience, self-sacrifice, and love.
Patience: For all the times…
Don’t bother counting how many times it happens.
Self-sacrifice: For all the times you have run away from waves, scramble to higher rocks, get your work boots wet and all when you’re not really a beach person.
And love: For after two days, four separate attempts, a million dud photos, and head-splitting case of sun stroke.
Just so you don’t strangling him when flashes you his surfer dude smile.
Or dunk him under the water when he swaggers up to you.
Or hit him with your camera when he says,
‘Let’s do that tomorrow!’
May younger brothers never give you grey hairs.
xx The Girl in Trousers