The First Frame
The very first time I picked up a camera, I was 12 years old and had just moved to Miami with my mom. We drove an hour to Everglades National Park and walked through the rivers of grass, surrounded by the sound of dragonflies and the branches of cypress trees dancing in the warm summer wind. I asked if I could hold her camera. A few moments later, a dragonfly landed on a blade of sawgrass only a few inches away. Without hesitation, I got down to its level, lined up the frame, and snapped the photo. That moment and memory are frozen in time.
Today, 14 years later, that feeling of lining up a frame that catches my eye still excites me just as much. Photography has been my way of documenting life through a perspective shaped by my identity and experience. It taught me to pay attention to light, movement, timing, and the small details that make a place feel alive, which is probably why I still find myself drawn to places that are always changing. It is the early mornings chasing the swells along the Florida coast, the hours spent sitting in the water waiting for manatees to swim through a patch of light, and paddling through the maze of roots in the mangrove forests looking for wildlife. Those are the moments when it all comes together. For me, time spent outdoors is the ultimate luxury, where the landscapes and ecosystems make you feel part of something bigger. Over time, Yerba Madre has become part of that ritual too, something I bring along for the moments that keep me moving.
Pulled Toward the Water
Growing up, my mom always made a point of getting my siblings and me outside. I spent hours out there, finding ways to solve my boredom through surfing, climbing trees, making forts, drawing shapes in the sand, and observing the patterns nature had created. I still find myself pulled toward those same things today, only now that same curiosity keeps leading me back to the water.
When you first look out at the ocean, it is easy to feel overwhelmed by the idea of not knowing what is out there, the vast blue depths filled with wildlife, and the powerful storms that circulate offshore. But to me, that is what is interesting. I am drawn to capturing the moments most people fear, and to showing that there is more beneath the surface. The more time I spend in and around the ocean, the more I have learned that what first feels unknown starts to reveal its own rhythm.
Surfing new beaches brings that same feeling of the unknown. But when you take the time to observe the wave, to see how it breaks across the sandbar or the reef, you begin to recognize a pattern. Waves come in sets. Tides change every six hours, and sandbars shift with changing swell directions, creating patterns in the sand that are visible from outer space. Those rhythms are part of what I picture when someone asks me what the ocean means to me.
Where I Come to Life
That is what keeps every day on the water different. The conditions dictate which sport is best that day. Flat days call for ocean swims, finding a rhythm in my breath. When the water is clear, I spend time exploring the details of lively coral reefs. Days when lines of swell fill the horizon call for surf. And the days when wind makes the palms dance are made for sailing the emerald water of Biscayne Bay, looking for pods of dolphins. There is never a dull day on the water when you learn all the different ways to enjoy it.
Having something that helps me stay present matters just as much. Yerba Madre helps me stay in the moment without sacrificing my focus. It is part of the rhythm that helps me come to life, whether that means longer surf sessions, ocean swims, or more time exploring the places I love most in my home state of Florida. It leaves me feeling refreshed and ready for whatever the day holds.