I decided to learn how to surf after I'd had recurring dreams about wave riding for at least a year. This decision required that I learn how to swim, which I did, rather quickly and uncannily well. In August of last year, I took my first surfing lesson. I loved it. In February, I happened upon a girl who was looking to unload a longboard. I picked up the board from her apartment in the Village, and carried it for about 20 Manhattan blocks to Penn Station, where my chariot awaited. I'd never made so many fast friends in my life as I had that evening.

Right now it's too cold to surf in my neck of the woods as far as I'm concerned, but I know of one place where the surf's always up and the water's always fairly warm: Robertsport, Liberia. I've made mention of Robertsport a couple of times. The most recent mention was here. The first was to share with you the film, Sliding Liberia, a film about an American kid who "discovers" world-class breaks in the gloriously sleepy fishing village where my father and his father spent their boyhoods, as students at a boarding school perched on a hill overlooking "God's country." Much of the film is dedicated to the story of Alfred Lomax, a young man who becomes Liberia's first surfer after a harrowing turn of events.

I didn't get to meet Alfred during my recent pilgrimage to Robertsport, but I did get to catch up with his brother, whose name-- I am very embarrassed to admit-- I've forgotten. He was a dashing, gracious young fellow, and kind enough to let me capture a few snapshots. He surfs for hours on end everyday, but what he really wants to do, he says, is finish school. He hopes to become a computer engineer.

A couple of weeks into my Liberia trip, my father took me to meet some of the wood carvers from the Liberian Carvers' Association. He'd befriended them when he enlisted their help in acquiring a piece of redwood for one of his many pet projects. The gorgeous little guy is the grandson of the old man, who's showing off a piece of his son's work.

I met this knowing young man in Korma, the village where my grandmother was laid to rest last year. This isn't the best shot I captured of him, though; the best is a group shot with some of the other village children. While they smile and play to the camera, this fellow is sitting apart from the huddle, brow furrowed and head cocked-- as if to say, "What the f*ck?"

His skepticism (presumably of me)-- and the fact that he was positively, adorably swimming in his dashiki-- only served to draw me further in. He must have sensed my energy, which may account for his age appropriate softness here.

Of the nearly two thousand photos I took during my whirlwind of a sojourn to Liberia, this one is my favorite. I shot it-- and the most darling video ever-- from the passenger seat of my father's car, while these lovely little ladies enthralled at their reflections.

I'll be back soon.

In the meantime, if you've any suggestions as to where I could show this and other images from my trip, do send them along.