I can't make something 'useful' to me in a writing sense for a very long time. I don't have any journalistic instinct. And I do keep a journal, but it's neither very revealing nor fruitful for work. Stuff just bubbles up from the swamp later.

Who wants to be reputable? That's for golfers and tycoons with a sleazy past.

And you can't help but worry for them, love them, want for them - those who go on down the close, foetid galleries of time and space without you.

The ocean is a supreme metaphor for change. I expect the unexpected but am never fully prepared.

I just sit here and tell the story as though I can't help it. There's always something in the day that reminds me, that sets me off all hot and guilty and scared and rambling and wistful, like I am now.

The health of our seas determines the future of humanity.

Surfers are the canaries down the mine. Those of us who surf spend more time than anyone soaking in whatever the sea has become. We're suspended in consequences, you might say.