Johnny River, A Northwest Surfer

It’s snowing foam. I’m perched on a ladder in the corner of the room, anxiously guarding the ground glass viewfinder of my 6x7. Johnny is working diligently. It’s really something to observe folks lost in the act of creating—total focused intensity on one thing. You don’t see that very much anymore. I press the shutter, and the slap echoes in the small room, but the strobe I’ve set up outside the window misfires. “There goes a buck fifty..” Just the price of admission, I suppose.