Five years old again, 18 years later

Inspired by the snowboarding scene in "A View to a Kill," and some neon infused Warren Miller films, Tim (my brother) and I vetoed skis and started snowboarding in 1993. I was five and Tim was three. We obsessed, and thanks to our parents' support, rode the slopes on nearby Mt. Hood from December to April. We pushed each other, we chased each other down the runs and helped each other up from our frequent crashes.

When enough snow accumulated in our backyard, we made jumps and rode homemade rails. During the summer and fall, we strapped on our snowboards and bounced on our trampoline, hoping to perfect new tricks for the coming season.

Eventually, our appetite to play on boards drove us to skateboard. Familiar with grinds and pumping transition, we emulated early skateboarders, riding bowls at skateparks and the miniramp we built in our backyard. With the same attitude and excitement as our first day snowboarding, we rode for hours.

When I went to college in Maine, we continued skateboarding together on my breaks. Regardless of our location or the time of year, our sessions took us back to our early days riding together on Mt. Hood.

100 miles from the nearest paved road, we skated a miniramp on the beach in Nicaragua. A stone's throw from the thundering beach break, we skated when the waves closed out and the tides were wrong. Each sunrise and sunset, we took turns riding Tim's pool board.

Yours truly, five years old again, 18 years later.

Tim, catching his breath.

Anticipation.

Foreground.

It was beautiful.

Here are some more links,

Skateboardin' (Picasa),

Nicaragua (ART),

Boardin (Picasa).

Meet Me in Nicaragua

"Our phones won't work, so let's meet at the airport in Managua. My flight gets in at 3:30. We'll catch a cab there and bounce around on dirt roads for three hours on the ride to the coast," I told my younger brother, Tim, rocking in the comfort of my ergonomic office chair in Midtown Manhattan. "Where are you, anyway?"

"Waiting for my flight in Houston. This place is a zoo," Tim said under his breath. "I am going to stay at a hostel in Managua tonight, but you should probably give me directions to the place we are staying just in case something goes wrong and I need to get out there by myself."

"Sounds good, I'll text you it right now. Let me know if any plans change. I have to run, see you tomorrow afternoon. I'm pumped. See you on the other side," I said in one breath as I glanced down at my watch and realized I had a meeting in five minutes.

"Don't forget to bring the sunscreen," Tim joked in a motherly voice.

Little did he know, but in a fit of excitement and procrastination from my daily obligations, I had ordered sunscreen on Amazon, Bull Frog SPF 36, weeks in advance.

Flying the cheapest option through Central America to a remote country and meeting someone with no means of communication turned out as dubious as it sounds.

Five hours after leaving JFK, my empty flight landed to the elated clapping of the native Salvadorians and news of the cancellation of all the day's connecting flights to Managua. Envisioning Tim moping around the Managua airport for hours waiting for me arrive, I quickly found wifi and sent out a slew of emails telling him to make his way to the beach without me. After an hour of feeling like a derelict older brother, my iPhone vibrated, alerting me that Tim had skipped town soon after arriving in Managua the evening before and gone directly to the coast.

"That fucker! what if I would have showed up on time? " I smiled in relief.

A free night's stay, three complimentary meals and a 200 dollar flight voucher later I landed in Managua at 9am the next morning. Eager to dump my backpack, I converted the kilometers to miles in my head as the cab sped through dusty roads towards Popoyo.

Moo.

The ocean's spray and my brother's sheepish grin quickly made me forget about my travel hiccups. For a week, my brother and I enjoyed the carefree attitude of the handful of other surfers, drawn to this remote beach in Nicaragua. When the tide was right, we surfed. When it was cool, we skated the mini ramp. When it was hot, we read.

Mangos, freshly knocked down from a tree.

A horse under the full moon on Saturday the 19th. Aperture F1.4, shutter speed .4s, and iso 4000.

The miniramp, a stone's throw from the beach.

Time slowed.

Blue and Yellow.

Morning.

Starched with Salt.

Meet me in Nicaragua.

Here are some more links,
Nicaragua Dos (Picasa),

Nicaragua (ART).

Spring Forward

Break out the Vans and lose the socks. With the Ides of March passed, Spring looms in the not so distant future. After a winter of snowstorms and cold rain, I am looking forward to the season change like an eight-year-old to the ball pit at McDonalds.

I am swamped with work and preparing for a week long trip back to Nicaragua.

When work and responsibilities pile up, I turn to these blogs for an escape;
The Blue Hour,
Grass Doe,
Whole Lard Lover.

Be back soon.

Market

"Why do you like farmer's markets?" Alex asked.

Surprised by questioning such an apparent truth, I stumbled for a few moments as we navigated the dense crowds at the Union Square Farmer's Marker.

"It reminds me of places outside of New York. I grew up going to them with my parents," I continued. "Now that I live in New York, its grounding." Although our conversation stopped shortly thereafter that Saturday, I continued to contemplate my attraction to farmer's markets.

The next morning, I awoke early to a gray spring morning. Walking through the rain, I grabbed some coffee and then headed towards the farmer's market on 77th and Columbus. The rain fended off the strollers and golden retrievers and gave everything a green hue. Moving slowly down the row of vendors, I took my time hunting for the week's groceries.

Grass fed, yuppie bought.

All of these photos were taken with Sigma's 50mm f1.4 lens. It beats Canon hands down.

Greens and purples.

Browns and Tans.

Wet, gray and orange.

Exchange.

Oyster Mushrooms.

Eggs and Spuds.

Everything got wet.

Apples.

Lugging my groceries in an assortment of plastic and paper bags, I listened to the sound of loose change sloshing around in my pocket. As I counted the blocks down in my head, I regretted shopping on an empty stomach. With a snap, one of the plastic bags broke, spilling apples on Columbus Ave. Right there, I succeeded in answering Alex's question to Stuff White People Like, Article 5. I will be back next week.

Here are some more links,

Farmer's Market (Picasa),

Farmville (ART).