It is a picture of Ryder, but it’s also a story.
1972, Miami Beach. The weather is unbearably hot, but the waves are breaking high and heavy. The air, thick with humidity, does not bother me. I am here to play.
As I look to the shore, I catch a glimpse of the wave rider. He is waiting for me to recognize him, but I do not. Who is this old soul masquerading as a young boy? There is joyful mischief in his eyes, his posture erect with confidence. The familiarity confuses me.
“Hi there,” I call. He hears but does not move, smiling ever so slightly in response.
“Have we met?” I ask tentatively. Silence.