Lomography

cartwheel

I never think of myself as a water person. When people ask "Are you a beach person?" or "Are you a water person?" the more sardonic part of me wants to reply by informing them that the human body is about 60% water, so we are, in fact, all "water people", myself included — we literally cannot exist without it. Usually though, I respond by stating that, although I'm very fond of the ocean, for example, I'm only fond of it in the sense that I like knowing it's nearby. The thought is comforting somehow. But even though I quite like living close enough to the sea to look out at it, or breathe in the salt air, or listen to the waves lap at the shore at nights, I'm not really sure what to do with the ocean. I'm an animal of the inner city. I live amongst the power lines and alleyways and hole-in-the-wall cafes and bars; rooftop gardens and dirty gutters. I like looking for beauty in the decaying concrete jungle, and the only swimming I do seems to be in the mountains of work that pile up around me. Having said that, I'm also a traveler. If not by design then out of necessity. And looking back over my lomographs it's suddenly clear to me how much water I've crossed on my travels, and how much time I've spent on the sandy edges of continents — sipping cocktails while the sun goes down, or marvelling at bikini-clad beauties, or throwing frisbees, or spearing calamari. Once I had to drive speedboats for a children's tv show I was in. I wish I had some pictures of that... So what would I miss the most about water if it was suddenly and inexplicably taken away? That's an easy one: Life. And I don't mean existence — the two are different things. I don't just mean waking up in the morning, opening your eyes and breathing the air into your lungs — I mean living; diving headfirst into a crashing wave at Maroubra, feeling a bite on the end of your fishing line at Cape Leveque, watching the sun rise over Lake Michigan, cartwheeling down Huntington Beach. Water is life.