Growing up in Campbelltown, New South Wales, we travelled as a family every summer to the South Coast, staying at various beaches along the way. Although home wasn’t too far from the ocean, I never felt connected to it, except for on those memorable family trips. When, at the age of 11, my parents revealed we were moving north to Tweed Heads for a warmer lifestyle, I was thrilled – coastal living wouldn’t just be for the summer anymore.

It was a move that would change my life.

My eldest brother, a keen body-boarder, taught me how to handle the surf. It was this process that allowed me to develop a deeper understanding of the ocean. The power and vibrations of surging waves were intoxicating, the fizz of white water enlivening. You didn’t need to be able to hear in order to listen to the ocean.

The ocean quickly became an obsession. My parents would drive me to the beach most days after school as well as on weekends. They would patiently sit in their car for hours waiting for me to come out of the water, often after sunset. When I was old enough I would ride my bike from Tweed Heads to the water’s edge, one hand on the handlebars, the other gripping my bodyboard.

Then there were the special trips around the Gold Coast with my brother, full of open roads and barrelling waves. We would often admire beautiful waves from afar, letting them roll in untouched by man or board. Trips would centre around the pursuit of perfect swells, and we talked about waves as things of grace and wonder.

Much like the rollers that I chased, life had a steady rhythm to it. The ocean and me. And so it continued for many years, the connection growing ever stronger, my bodyboarding skills developing. But frustration grew too, like clouds tumbling in from the horizon to end a sunny day. My inability to share the beauty of the ocean with others bothered me. Friends had no concept of life within a wave, or the tricks achievable on a bodyboard.

I needed a camera.