Sunset, Merewether Ocean Baths.

Sunset, Merewether, Newcastle, Australia (buy print)

When I headed down to the beach I had intended making some B & W storm cloud pictures. I had set up my Linhof 6x17cm camera and loaded it with Agfa Scala film. Then the clouds behind me parted and allowed the last rays of the setting sun to burst through...

Frantically, I pulled the unexposed film from the camera and re-loaded with Fuji Velvia. I hate wasting film but when the transparencies came back a week later I didn't mind on this occasion.

the moment

© Paul Foley - Purchase

I remember the anticipation I felt when I took this image. I had been down at Newcastle Ocean Baths since before dawn and had already made what I thought would be one or two good pictures.

I had set up for this composition with the tilt shift lens dialed in to isolate a small plane of focus.  An elderly lady was swimming a slow breaststroke from the south when a blurred figure came into frame on the left. He was oblivious to my camera. Standing upright, he looked ahead as if bracing for the pool's cold water.

I was tempted to take a photo then but had a sense that something more interesting would happen. Although I was using a digital camera and knew I could take many pictures my instinct was telling me to wait.

Under my breath, I pleaded for him do something before the woman swam too far into the picture and ruined the composition I was visualising. Then he looked down.

The deliberate way I make pictures is rooted in the creative photographic process I first learned when I shot on large format film. It required planning, contemplation and patience. Catching the right moment pitted that patience against an excited anticipation. The knowledge that swapping around a sheet film holder and waiting for the camera to ‘settle’ took minutes not milliseconds meant I had to choose my timing carefully. Lots of missed moments were hard but important lessons.

Thanks for checking my blog. You can see more of my moments at paul foley.com.au

If you are interested in this image please click to purchase. It is limited to an edition of 25 prints.

Farmer, Phoenix Park, Hunter Valley, Australia

Gary Burton © Paul Foley

I drove past Gary Burton as he wheeled a strange device across a brown dirt paddock. It was like a wheelbarrow without the barrow. I had to stop and ask for a photograph.

While I went about setting up my paraphernalia we talked about his farm, his grandfather, his father and his children. He told me about the watermelon plants that were just sprouting and about the ancient machine he was using to tend them.

I made pictures as I listened. This is the moment I felt I best appreciated the stories his words, face and well worked hands were telling me.

Thanks for checking this blog. You can see the range of my corporate photography at lightmoods.com.au

Ten years ago I nearly lost my sight - a brief 'About Me'...

At Newcastle Ocean Baths © Paul Foley.  Fine Art Gallery

 'Today, an amazing picture can be swiped away in seconds. To stand before an impactful, well crafted print is to experience the soul of thoughtful photography.'

My first attraction to photography was through the pages of 1970’s surf magazines. Inspired, I saved for a Pentax and a cheap 400mm lens then began photographing my friends surfing. I was full of teenage ambition of seeing my pictures on a magazine’s page.

After a week of waiting, the Kodachromes would come back from processing. I would project the best on my bedroom wall, imagining them as magazine covers with mastheads and headlines.

Between the mid '70's and '80's there was some limited publishing success. But even more fun and adventure travelling to various surf locations around the world.

Travel opened my photographic soul - it encouraged me to better understand my craft. I discovered (and devoured) the images and teachings of Ansel Adams. Practical instruction came via many workshops conducted by contemporary masters of photography. I was also fortunate to receive some mentoring from iconic Australian photographer, David Moore.

This mix of 'on page' and in person tuition taught me to photograph with precise techniques and greater reflection. In time I would make photographs using only large and medium format cameras. 

Later on, I settled into a professional photography career in Newcastle, Australia. Commissioned by local, national and international clients I was a busy pro. All the while though, I made pictures for me. Everyone needs a hobby as a break from everyday work and for me that hobby was photography.

Ten years ago I almost permanently lost my sight after eye surgery. It took two years for my eyes to recover and then several more to come to terms with the associated depression. Even now I am somewhat limited by the amount of commissioned work I can comfortably undertake.

The recovery period gave me more time for my ‘hobby’. I used it to express how that smeared vision, in the months immediately after the surgery, filtered the world. Now, with eyesight repaired, I still find myself drawn to disguising scenes and details with blur and motion.

I make pictures to express how light and shadow shape my creativity. While I do photograph single experiences or light events, I am most attracted by the coast and the horizon for inspiration. 

I call my process ‘finding pictures’ and it may help explain my eclectic range of subjects. It grows from an inquisitive interest in the human condition as well as a passionate search for light.

I am also an avid user of Instagram - @lightmoods - @blurrytravels . It satisfies my impulsive creative urges and trains my eye to find pictures in everyday scenes.

You may first see my photographs electronically and that might be the only way you experience them. Which is as it is in 2016. My process, though, is only complete when it is before the viewer as a print - it is the essential finale.

Photography isn't real for me until I can feel it. It is the tactile confluence of light and shadow - when I am ’holding the pixels’.

The Rhythm of the Waves

Dark Shore, Shellharbour, Australia © Paul Foley (Click to Purchase)

"Although the rhythm of the waves beats a kind of time, it is not clock or calendar time. It has no urgency. It happens to be timeless time. I know that I am listening to a rhythm which has been just the same for millions of years, and it takes me out of a world of relentlessly ticking clocks. Clocks for some reason or other always seem to be marching, and, as with armies, marching is never to anything but doom. But in the motion of waves there is no marching rhythm. It harmonizes with our very breathing. It does not count our days. Its pulse is not in the stingy spirit of measuring, of marking out how much still remains. It is the breathing of eternity, like the God Brahma of Indian mythology inhaling and exhaling, manifesting and dissolving the worlds, forever. As a mere conception this might sound appallingly monotonous, until you come to listen to the breaking and washing of waves."
— Alan Wilson Watts

Alan Wilson Watts was a British philosopher, writer, speaker, who held both a master's degree in theology and a doctorate of divinity. Famous for his research on comparative religion, he was best known as an interpreter and popularizer of Asian philosophies for a Western audience.
http://www.alanwatts.com/

The Dancer, MoMA, NYC

I recently was able to contact dancer Lenio Kaklea and pass on a series of pictures I made of her during a visit to MoMA in NYC back in 2013.

I always enjoy my visits there but on this day it was even more memorable. As part of the Museum's Performance Program 20 dancers were performing spontaneously around MoMA. I found it amazing to be able to witness these wonderful artist in closeup as they moved past exhibits and around us gallery visitors.

Lenio is an amazing dancer - every graceful and powerful movement gave me many sculptural photographic moments in her short but energetic piece.

Lénio Kaklea, '20 Dancers for the XX Century' at MOMA, NYC, Oct 2013 © Paul Foley

The Performance Program is part of MoMA’s increased focus on the historical as well as the contemporary practice of performance-based art. The ongoing series brings documentation and reenactments of historic performances, thematic group exhibitions, solo presentations, and original performance works to various locations throughout the Museum.

20 Dancers for the XX Century (2012/2013) presents a living archive. Twenty performers from various generations perform, recall, appropriate, and transmit solo works of the last century that were originally conceived or performed by some of the most significant modernist and postmodernist artists, dancers, and choreographers. Each performer presents his or her own museum of sorts, wherein the body becomes the primary museological container and object. Accordingly, there is neither a stage nor a demarcation of performance space; rather, the performers circulate freely between the Museum’s Marron Atrium, the Museum galleries, and other public spaces.
Cast: Magali Caillet-Gajan, Ashley Chen, Jim Fletcher, Brennan Gerard, Trajal Harrell, Burr Johnson, Lénio Kaklea, Catherine Legrand, Morgan Lugo, Richard Move, Mani A. Mungai, Banu Ogan, Leiomy Prodigy, Christopher Roman, Shelley Senter, Valda Setterfield, Gus Solomons, John Sorensen-Jolink, Meg Stuart, and Adam Weinert
Source: MOMA Website
See more here.

Wonderful Chaos

Wonderful Chaos (2) © Paul Foley (Click to see more)

The random blend of nature and movement intrigues me. It helps soothe my internal chaos.

For this series I combine portions of several long exposure captures of the ocean as it crashes against the shore. I add to the natural chaos by reversing, flipping and otherwise blending various layers of motion and time. My process is a testament to the always changing shoreline and a mind that is not always settled.

At some stage I reach a calm place. Then I press print.

The best day. Ever.

Port Stephens © Paul Foley (Click to purchase)

After so many great expectations the best day ever had begun not so well. ‘Goodsey’, his best mate, had planned a midweek surf at a favourite, isolated spot and they had both been able to wrangle a guilt free day off work.

Years ago a surreptitious day off work was much more satisfying than a sanctioned one because of the lack of guilt it illicited. But that was in the days before responsibility, love, children and mortgages.

So the day was arranged weeks before in the hope of good surf and weather coinciding. That it would also be his birthday made it more special to his family and his mate. His own birthdays weren’t such a big deal for Luke. But hey, if it helped justify a day surfing then so be it! Luke enjoyed other people’s birthdays more than his own and found it hard to accept any fuss that was made about his.

With age came more reflection and less lifting of carpet for the brushing of truths and secrets under. The last year or so had seen Luke struggle with a hidden darkness that lay just behind his bright green eyes and sun-weathered, omniscient smile. The black dog, however, had been coaxed out for more regular walks and years of happy hidden sadness was being talked about, understood and, better still, accepted.

Last night, backed by a great forecast, held the anticipation of clean waves, and a blue sky. The spot was isolated enough that not many would make the 2k walk in when there were other places, easier to get to,  that would have good waves as well.

The spot was their place. He and Goodsey had first camped there as 14 year olds when the surf first took hold of their bodies, souls and, for a long time, sole possession of their hearts. Others knew about it and it could often be crowded on weekends but, midweek, at this time of year it would not be.

At 5am Luke heard Goodsey’s old 4WD ute rattle onto his drive. He gulped a last mouthful of Weetbix and half rinsed the bowl before setting it quietly in the sink. His board and gear were in the carport ready for loading and he got downstairs and out the front door so quickly that the ute had barely stopped.

The quiet excitement and anticipation disappeared with one look at his friend’s face.
‘Sorry mate,’ he said, hardly able to look up. ‘Hank can’t make work and I need to be there for today’s pour.’

Hank was the foreman at Goodsey’s concreting business and it was his experience, trustworthiness and reliability that allowed Goodsey the time and peace of mind to take the occasional day off.

‘What’s up with him?’ Luke knew Hank well and if he couldn’t make work it had to be serious.

‘It’s that fuckin son in law...’ was enough for Luke to know that Hank’s daughter had probably been hit again.

'Why does she stick with the bastard? She ok?’

‘Yeah, a bit of a shiner, but nothing broken. At least this time she called the cops. Hank’s helping her move out.’

‘Well, at least that’s good,’ Luke said putting down the board he had just picked up.

‘Hey mate, what are you doin’? You go - the waves will be great. It’s offshore, five foot - perfect birthday pressie, mate’

Goodsey grabbed Luke’s board putting it and his gear in the ute with the food and water he’d organised last night. ‘You take the ute, I’ll catch up later in one of the work trucks.’

He could see Luke was hesitating and spoke quickly as he moved around to the passenger side, ‘Drop me off at the site on ya way! Don’t miss these waves mate - you’ll be dead a long time and ya gettin’ bloody old now!’

So, before he had a chance to back out he had dropped Goodsey at work and arrived at the break in the trees where the track to the sand dunes began. The old ute meant he’d be able to get  much closer to the break so he’d only have to climb one or two sand hills.

From the top of the last one he could see a perfect little peak peel off across a shallow bank with fast, tubing left and right walls. No one was out and the beach was empty - a perfect present.

In younger, invincible times there would have been no second thoughts. He and Goodsey would be rushing to the water barely taking time to wax their boards.

Now, though, he was more measured. The allure of a perfect empty break was tempered by the occasional fins they had seen at their spot over the years. They had never been hassled by a shark but surfing alone had made Luke a little uneasy the older he got.

Besides, Goodsey was bigger and a little slower - something to be considered when choosing a surfing buddy. Luke smiled at the joke they often shared and his mate’s retort that he would be fine because ‘Sharks don’t like blackfellas!’

As he walked down the dune and closer to the shore a new set broke and any reticence was set aside. Methodically, he stripped down and then pulled on his wetsuit. It would be a warm day but this early in spring the water was still cold. Besides, last night at dinner, hadn't his kids said he was ‘really old’ this time? Just before they sang him ‘Happy Birthday’.

The cold water was quickly forgotten as he broke through the shore break . The surf wasn’t big - just a good, fun, comfortable size. Perfect to play and relax in.

His first wave peaked quickly and he hardly had to paddle. Just turn and sink the board backwards into the face. Momentum launched him and in a single motion was on his feet leaning low to make the turn before the lip crashed onto his back. Tucked up tight, he crouched, becoming wrapped in a watery blanket. Some long seconds later the wave pushed him out across the wall as it feathered far down line preparing to close out. He pushed down into a final bottom turn and launched the board up over the lip. In younger times he would have attempted a crashing re entry just like his heros in the surf magazines. Now though, he was content to glide down the back of the wave looking for the next one.

It was already the best day ever….

Over the fence

White Picket Fence, Newcastle, Australia © Paul Foley (Purchase here)

She was coming home and the tattered picture stuck to the inside of her carry on pack was the only reality of ’home’ she possessed. Her memories were now more like third party recollections. The concept of home wasn't even tangible now. Her parents had died years ago and her siblings had long since escaped the home town just as she had (albeit well before them).

The best of her friends knew this before her. They hadn't given up on her - just given her time. The precious gift that only true friends have and only bequest to those they know best deserve it. Even when they're not sure why. The kind of gift that allows the giver moments of pride and satisfaction that don't wash over until well after it is given.

In her secret, dark moments, when she most missed the place she had wandered from, the fear of going back was stronger than any pull drawing her there. Now though, as the plane banked over the inner west of Sydney her face was up close to the window beside her. Fingers unconsciously tracing across the cold pexi-glass outlining the city below. 

It was moments past dawn and to the east patchy clouds scrambled across the horizon. The sun was bursting through right now - below the tilting right wing as the plane slowly turned through north then north east. It would land from the east and as it completed the turn she saw the harbour reflecting the low glaring light. To the west of the bridge a long shadow defined it - an arch of endeavour, connection and strength. She couldn't believe how sentimental she felt about coming home. It was unexpected. So not her. But there she was, home. Nearly.

She opened the flap of the pack that held her tattered picture. She had made it many years ago with her first camera (a then treasured Pentax). It had lots of bright Australian blue sky and in the bottom right hand corner of the frame was a white picket fence caught by winter’s afternoon sun.

Though the picture didn't show it, the fence guarded against the lure of a cliff and the long fall to rocks licked by the Pacific Ocean.

She remembered ‘seeing’ that picture before she raised the camera to her eye. It was when she knew she could translate things she saw and felt to a reality she could show to others. Even if they didn't always get it.

She chose to show a lot more sky and just a little fence. She could have easily moved closer and pointed the camera over the cliff’s edge and down to the rocks and waves.

Instead, she had looked at that blue, blue sky and, with the press of the shutter, made the photograph that helped her decide to leave and find other skies.

Nostalgia was shuddered away by the plane’s wheels almost soft bounce on the tarmac. How planes left air and kissed ground was one of those things she had long accepted she could never explain. She understood why planes crashed - just not how they landed.

It was very weird how she felt right now as the plane shuddered to taxi speed. So excited to be ’home’. The dread she had felt when she boarded this flight was gone. She was ready to climb back over from the sky side of that white picket fence.

Felt good.

First Date

For some reason he had thought he'd have a chance if he asked her to the dance. Always the optimist. Though never confident. It was something he didn't understand right now but somehow knew this trait (flaw?) would be important to him one day.

The Party Dress © Paul Foley (Purchase here)

Tonight, however, he was fifteen (nearly sixteen) and he was about to take the most beautiful girl he had ever seen to the school dance. That he'd found the courage (or lost his mind enough) to ask her in the first place was nearly a month behind him. That she'd said yes was a fantastic and unbelievable concoction. Tonight was the night and here he stood at her front door ready to knock.

Actually, it wasn't the “actual” night - just a memory from 40 years ago. For some reason it had flashed into his immediate existence as he was about to knock on another door, a whole lifetime later.

The memory of the long wait for that door to open and the sight of her appearing down the hallway was almost mystical. He had looked past her smiling mother, his eyes glassy yet locked on her. His date. The most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

What a moment for a flashback like this. This, in fact, was the night he was taking out his first online date and, due to a long email courtship period, he knew it was her first time as well.

His first eBay date. No, wait! eHarmony date. Perhaps it was an innate scepticism of this whole internet dating thing that he always got the two mixed up.

They had both been advised to meet somewhere neutral for the first time but the emails and phone calls had helped them each feel comfortable about this ’traditional’ first date process. The ’man picks up woman’ approach was the way it was done when either of them had last dated. (He was pretty sure, though, that the door wouldn't be opened by her mother.)

Both had been married for very long periods and had taken a long time come to terms with the idea of another relationship. They'd endured some well meant setups and somewhat less innocent approaches that friends, family or acquaintances had arranged (or inflicted). They just hadn't really been ready.

But lately they had each sensed the timing was right to meet someone new and here they were - either side of a door.

So, a fifty-five year old man with a lifetime of experiences behind him was about to knock on a door. About to go on a date?! OMG! his daughter had texted with a smiley face. (The next text had helpfully explained what OMG meant.)

He knocked - a jamble of nerves, anticipation and a somehow comforting random flashback.

OMG indeed.

The Pelican, the Boat and Ellen.

He hadn't really noticed it before Ellen passed. He'd seen a pelican sitting on the stern many times but hadn't thought it was the same one. You could easily tell it had been visiting there for a while though. A pelican's shit is hard to hide.

Lake Macquarie, Australia © Paul Foley (Purchase here)

The little wooden row boat sat out on the lake as though moored in a time warp. It had been a long time since the old man standing on the shore had actually used it. Occasionally, and usually after rain, he would wade out across the matted seaweed to bail it out and give a cursory clean. Mostly though, he glanced at it through his binoculars from the balcony of his lakeside home.

It was a part of his life that had been left behind slowly. So slowly at first that he didn't even notice the first Saturday morning when he missed the usual pre dawn fishing expedition.

He had built the boat himself in another time when things were done that way. Long ago he would row but eventually a little putt putt outboard would meander him around this part of the lake he knew so well. Hands, much less weathered then, would guide the bow around the point. The small motor's idle pace was in scale to the short distance to be travelled making it seem a journey to a place far away.

His house was not visible once he rounded the point and the view from that side was so different. There the lake had not been developed, the bush ran down to the rocky shore and the cold, green water told of its depth.

It wasn't a great place to catch fish but it had always been the perfect place to appear to fish. All the serenity without the hassle of the actual catch. Real fisher folk wouldn't bother him and the narrowness of the bay made it unsuitable for the water skiers.

Now, though, he stood down on the edge of the lake across the road from his house. Gnarled, craggy feet blotchy with age were soaking in the shallow warm water. It was a hot day, no wind, just still, heavy air smothering the landscape. But not it's colours. The light, on these days, thrives in the inferno. Colours are thrust at your eyes emphatically. You cannot mistake this light or this place as anything but Australian.

So there the man stood, perhaps 20 meters from the large bird perched where he once commanded his vessel. It's pure black and white strong against all the blue. The pelican refused to look at him and he knew it knew he was there. It was too hot to shout or shoo it away and why would he want to anyway? Sure, it was his boat but that pelican was making better use of it than he had for quite a while. The white stains of its excrement plastered as if a flag of possession across the bow.

Ellen would be laughing. He knew that she had noticed that first Saturday morning 'fishing' excursion he'd missed. Nothing was said at the time. Or on subsequent Saturdays. Eventually though, she found things for them to do and before long the habit of not fishing on the other side of the point wasn't even a memory.

And here he was now, half considering to reclaim the boat. Not to go 'not fishing' - just to have that time again.

It was then he smiled. Just a little and maybe only inwardly. Those facial muscles had not been used for a few months now. No matter how strong a relationship is, how much two people are honestly interested in each other, after 57 years together the expectation of the others presence can be taken for granted. Ellen's death had been hard to deal with. Very hard.

But just now he had smiled at a thought of her. No sadness, no anger, no despair. Just a happy memory prompted by a pirate pelican crapping on his boat.

Regrowth

There must have been a moment. Just one instant when the forest was about to change. How that happened is for speculation. Lightning storms often visit this place - blasting down gigantic sparks powerful enough to ignite dead, brown leaves in spite of the accompanying rain.

Regrowth, Australia © Paul Foley (Purchase here)

Many cars also pass nearby on their way up or down the coast. On heavy, humid days when summer defeats even the best of car air-con a casual flick of a thumb and finger can lead to this. The last glow of tobacco launches into the rushing, hot air beyond an open window to find succour in the eucalyptus detritus.

Whatever the cause the effect overwhelms all it touches.  Fire cares not for species or intelligence. It just burns until there is no more or humans somehow manage to 'contain' it. It is never completely defeated - just delayed. There will be more storms, more flicks of fingers and thumb.

What is left when fire has moved on is smouldering devastation. The shock and awe of flames and smoke is seemingly final and for a few days the survivors stand silent and defeated.

The nights immediately after the fire are quiet. Even when wind rustles the scant leaves at the tips of trees it is with the sound of soft, tired sighs. No small animals scurry for food - no larger ones stalk ready to pounce.

The morning light shows earth burnt bare - stabbed all over with black sticks. These dark reminders of recently new growth, of promise, were in reality just food for the fire that destroyed them.

Within a few short days grasses sprout from the coarse, grey sand in exclamation points of green. That anything can grow here in such soil is a wonder. That the battered survivors can be so straight, tall and resiliant is inspiring.

It is in the glow of afternoon light that beauty washes over this place. Nothing is forgotten, the evidence of devastation is still overwhelming. Yet, a little green and the warmth of burnished bark hints at a tomorrow not imaginable just a few days ago. A regrowth.

Waiting

Today, like yesterday, Thomas was waiting. He was thousands of kilometres away from yesterday and the similarity of the difference struck him just here. Just now.

Waiting, The Cowrie Hole - Newcastle, Australia © Paul Foley (Purchase here)

Yesterdays wait had been in Darwin Airport and added yet another delayed flight to the hours (days?) of life lost to the whims, vagaries and sometimes pandemonium of departure boards. 

He had travelled enough that delays failed to antagonise him like they once had. This time though, his reaction had been so jaded that it almost jolted his 'here we go again' resignation. Almost.

Instead he made the call telling Bec he'd be home by dinnertime and not by lunch. So he couldn't pick Tim up from childcare. And Bec had an afternoon conference call. So she'd ask Sally to collect Tim when she picked up Ava. And Sally would say 'Poor Thomas - so unlucky with flights'. And Bec would think how patronising that sounded but say 'I s'pose so. Thanks Sally… I owe you.' And almost hear Sally say 'again..' as they hung up.

Thomas was a one man operation just two years into a five year plan so business class travel and executive lounges were not part of his expense budgets. Yet. And hadn't the cynic inside once wonder if delays were just an airline ploy to make the cost of lounge membership seem worthwhile? But this was now so he went looking for somewhere else to have a late breakfast. All the while the departure board pondered who went where and when. He'd been told two hours. Maybe.

Thomas travelled with two compact bags. One he dragged behind him by a handle - its small wheels scurrying quickly as if trying to keep up. The other was over his shoulder and carried his clothing - carefully packed to provide five days of clean variety and utility. Although two carry ons made for quick exits on arrival he ran the occasional risk of being stopped at the gate for having too much hand luggage.

If a smile didn't get him on board with both items then he would let the clothing be checked in. The equipment in his wheeled bag was too precious. Besides, he had a smile that got him past most frowns and used it in a way that seemed both innocent and familiar. Never cocky. For now, though, the need for that strategy was at least two hours away and Thomas was hungry.

Darwin Airport terminal is not large so it didn't take long to find a place to eat. Although it was crowded he found a table with another single traveller who didn't mind sharing. Some small talk then both settled into the zone that seasoned travellers can find in busy, noisy terminals.

Thomas ordered what would be a very flattened toasted focaccia with teabag green tea and opened his laptop for effect - not really wanting to work. He wanted to be home and away from this hubbub of tourists and raucous, drinking offshore rig workers...

And now, this morning, he was home - about to surf for the first time in 8 days. Yesterday had ended in bed with Bec. Before that a soft kiss on Tim's wispy blond hair as he slept with dreams he would never remember.

Just thirty minutes ago he slid slowly away from Bec. She was asleep but still mumbled something. 'Yes' he said 'I'll drive you to work'. Which was probably the answer to the question she may have asked.

There were still ninety minutes till then and he could hear the surf through the walls. Plenty of time for a couple of waves. Or more.

So here he was, thousands of kilometres from yesterday waiting for this set to play out. Waiting for the lull when it would be safe to jump. To skim across the white water for just a little. Then belly down and with arms digging deep. Paddling to beat the next waves so determined to wash him back onto the rocks.

No more waiting...