Guch always had the best projects. The next one he called me for was a show set in Hawaii, LIVING LAHAINA. Initially I was hired as the water cinematographer for the surfing scenes, as the show was based on a group of kids living together at Royal Hawaiian Surf Academy on Maui, surfing and partying, a perfect fit. After watching their sizzle reel, I thought of it as the LAGUNA BEACH show but for guys. Not much drama and relationships, just fun. At the first meeting I had with the producers, they mentioned one of the episodes we’d be going on a boat trip to the Mentawai Islands. My friend Anthony Marcotti happened to be running the bookings for the biggest, baddest boat in Indonesia, the Indies Trader IV, captained by one of the pioneers of surfing in that area, Martin Daly. I introduced them to Anthony, and we were set for a ridiculous surf trip on a boat I’d only dreamt of being on. Leading up to our stay in Lahaina for the show, I spent a few weeks on Oahu with David Pu’u, shooting various things all over the island, including documenting the Buffalo Big Board Invitational at Makaha, where he introduced me to legendary Hawaiian families like the Keaulanas and DeSotos, as well as his friend, lifeguard legend, Jaws big-wave pioneer, Archie Kalepa. Archie is the seventh generation in his family from Lahaina, and it turned out his house was just down the street from the condos I’d be living in there. After the contest, I flew over to Maui, where production was trying to get water safety to work on the show. I took Guch down the street and knocked on Archie’s door; being the head lifeguard on Maui, he and another surfing legend, Buzzy Kerbox, were a perfect fit to do water safety for the show.

Living in Lahaina for the show was a dream. I always loved Hawaii and planned on moving there someday, although around that time in my life, partying was beginning to take the front seat, and my surfing time was dwindling, but not nonexistent. The months of that show are a blur, but some amazing memories: Archie taking me on a motocross ride up the hardest trails and hill climbs I’ve ever done in the most beautiful environment, and our boat trip on the Indies Trader was truly a once-in-a-lifetime trip. Swimming across the long channel from the boat to Lance’s Left with my camera, taking in my surroundings, being in one of the most remote island chains in the world, I heard the putter of a small outboard engine and “Tyler! Tyler!” I looked over to see one of my oldest friends, Ben Murphy (the friend in Morro Bay), on a little tin boat with our friend Dom from Kona. Apparently, they were on a surf trip of their own, and we just so happened to run into each other in one of the most remote oceans riddled with hundreds of world-class waves. We met some guys from the indigenous tribes that inhabit the remote islands, and I traded one of them a few T-shirts and a pair of sunglasses for a bow with poisoned-tip arrows. From there, we went on an overnight ocean crossing through a heavy storm (the kind that throws you from your bunk across the cabin into the wall if you’re sleeping too soundly) to get to Bali, where we did another couple weeks. Living Lahaina was a dream show to work on, and because I was out partying with the cast every night anyway, also became the nightlife camera guy, but the show didn’t get picked up for a second season.

Back in LA, I was doing my regular routine, and Anthony called me up one day, saying Brad Gerlach asked him if he knew a good camera guy for some surfing projects. He introduced us, we got along well and started traveling and shooting together. He and his tow-surfing partner Mike Parsons were on a mission to surf the biggest waves they could find at the time. This was another example of peculiar events in my life that led me to become friends with guys I had posters of on my wall as a kid. During this time, I was also approached by a friend, a guitarist/singer in a band I hung out with and filmed a lot, Christian Letts, who was a camera operator on the first show I did with MTV. Christian called me and asked me to come shoot a live DVD at The Roxy for a band, Ima Robot, who I listened to and met through Chris McPherson some years prior. I was very familiar with The Roxy; I spent a few nights a week there with my roommates Punky and Nick (also from Brooks), filming or just hanging out, as well as all the other clubs and bars on the Sunset Strip in the early/mid 2000s. Alex, the singer of Ima Robot, was a visionary, and he had an idea to perform in a skintight tan leotard, looking like he was naked, and at the end of the show, mimic the closing shot from this French film 400 BLOWS. During the last song, I would move from the stage to the front door along Sunset, he’d jump off the stage, run through the crowd, and he would follow me into the street, where he’d stare at the camera lens with traffic going by. We filmed the show, and as the last song on the set list started; I moved to the front door, Alex jumped into the crowd, and we ran out the front. What we didn’t consider was that the packed room of rabid teenage fans would chase him, we shrugged our eyebrows at each other and started running. He ran east on Sunset Blvd in his leotard along the center yellow line, cars narrowly missing him, as I ran parallel to him in the street between the parked cars and the traffic. The crowd followed.

We ended up in a dead sprint trying to outrun them as I did everything I could to keep the camera steady on him; we got past the Viper Room and almost to the Hustler store when we thought we’d have enough time to get the shot of him walking up to the camera. We slowed down, and right there in the middle of the road, Alex walked up to my camera, staring into the lens, as he was swarmed and hugged by hundreds of teenage fans. In my eyes, it was an example of something that went completely off the rails and ended up being better than anything that could be planned. After the show, we were packing up all our gear when two guys came up to me that were behind the whole production we just shot, Matt Amato and Heath Ledger. Matt is a very talented director who had his finger on the pulse of all the newest upcoming music, and Heath was, well, Heath Ledger. They couldn’t have been more nice and complimented my camera work and adapting in the moment. Matt gave me his number and told me to come by their office in the morning.

The next day, I went to the address of what appeared to be an abandoned antique store on South La Brea, parked, and went upstairs to an unmarked office. There was no sign, just a girl working as a producer in the first room, followed by a conference room with a little kitchen nook, windows overlooking La Brea; turning the corner to another large room with a couple desks and computers used for editing, some chairs and a couch with a chessboard, and another room with two more guys editing projects. The walls were carefully curated with classic film posters. Matt introduced me to everyone there and explained that he and Heath started this network of artists they call “The Masses”; they mostly made music videos and filmed bands, while independently working on documentaries, writing screenplays, and all kinds of things. It was a hodgepodge mix of actors, musicians, directors, cinematographers, visual effects artists, all at the top of their chosen craft, with the common thread of having a passion for music, and above all, filmmaking. I started hanging out there a lot. I became friends with everyone, helped shoot bands, and we’d all go to shows, have parties, and form a little crew to go surf together.

It was a strange time in my life, and one I should’ve been more thoughtful and conscious of, because I found myself in three completely different worlds: the big-wave surf scene, television, and this network of filmmakers, musicians, and actors all supporting each other’s projects. Despite my successes at the time, If I would’ve buckled down and focused on any one of the three, I could’ve made an even better career for myself doing the things I love. Well, I didn’t necessarily love being a camera guy on TV shows; I wanted to be creative and write my own projects, but the camera was my steady income stream that paid the bills, so that’s the one that always took priority. I missed some once in a lifetime surf trips for paychecks around this time. But above all, partying took priority, and instead of spending my free time focusing on making my own projects happen, there was always a party to be had, and if there wasn’t, I’d make one.

One day I’d be working a camera gig on MTV or VH1; the next, Brad would call me to go to El Salvador that weekend or go shoot him and Mike surfing big waves somewhere; and the next day, Matt would call me to come shoot some new musician he just connected with, like Bon Iver, or Heath wanted to take a couple days off shooting The Dark Knight and go camp and surf in Baja. It was a very busy time for me and a lot of fun, but my partying was beginning to sabotage my work life. As I hinted, I was spreading myself thin instead of pausing and focusing on any one of the amazing opportunities I was presented with, diluting those possibilities more with a never-ending stream of whiskey and tequila. Alex, Christian, and other musician friends around The Masses formed a new band, Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros, and Heath was producing their debut album. It was something new and fresh and exciting; their music was like a time capsule, and we were all excited for them. Heath rented them Frank Zappa’s old log cabin in Laurel Canyon to write the album in, and we found ourselves there many nights, laughing, listening to music, and speaking for myself, eating mushrooms and wandering the hillside. It was as close as I could possibly imagine to what it must’ve felt like to live in the Laurel Canyon scene of the ’60s. I had just moved to Santa Monica and was living with two bartender friends who lived a very similar nighttime lifestyle to me, so it was a good fit to nurture my drinking.

Suddenly one day, Heath passed away. It was jarring and shocking to say the least, for all of us. We set up a sanctuary in The Masses office for all of us in the weeks after his death with music, art, board games, and blankets. Friends and family from all walks of life camped out on the floor of the office, and we essentially had a nonstop wake and hideout. Since I lived on the west side, I shuttled Heath's little sister to and from The Masses office from the Beverly Hills Hotel every day on my way to and from, trying to shield her from the scummy vultures of the paparazzi. We all dealt with the grief and loss in different ways. Some slowly stopped hanging around The Masses; others doubled down on their efforts. I never really stopped and processed; I just kept drinking and working as much as possible.

I started to experience withdrawal symptoms during my days of work, though I didn’t know what they were in the moment. Guch called me for a new show they were doing with Dickhouse that just got picked up for a first season, NITRO CIRCUS, and it was right up my alley. It was like JACKASS but with dirt bikes and ridiculous stunts. The camera crew was already filled, so they made me an associate producer. I had no idea what I was supposed to be doing as an associate producer, and I never asked. I showed up to the office every day and didn’t really do much besides chime in occasionally when we’d have creative meetings, and if someone asked me to call or email someone, I did; otherwise, I just hung on until we clocked out, and I could get a drink to feel normal again. On set was a different story; I knew what to do there, and I would just do whatever needed to get done. And the cast and the crew were all great people; we all became friends and did lots of stupid things together, partying every night. I made it through the first season but didn’t know if I’d be asked back off of my poor office performance.

I was half there while we were working, weak and shaky, head fuzzy. One day, filming big waves at Todos Santos, I was unprepared and showed up with a giant Pelican case full of gear, not knowing what I might need, so couldn’t swim from the jet ski to the island through the surf with my hundred+ pound gear case; I didn’t even bring fins. So Mike dropped me off on someone’s boat in the channel. I shot all day from the bow, feeling crippling anxiety and shakiness, in seventy-foot-plus surf. A large set swung in wide, and the captain, Corky, told me to put my camera down and pull up the anchor. I stood on the bow, pulling on the line hand over hand as the boat climbed up the face of the wave. I thought, “If we go down, this is it. I’m in no shape to be out here right now.” I finally got the anchor up as we reached the crest of the wave and shot over the back of it, bucking me from the bow into the air; all I saw was sky, I didn’t know if I was in front of the wave or behind it. Suddenly it got quiet, and I heard the boat land peacefully in the still water, then THUD as my spine landed square on the corner of my massive Pelican case in the boat. The drive home, I laid in the backseat of Mike’s truck as Mike said, “I’m thinking about asking Billabong for a ski for Tyler to use.” Brad replied, “Tyler got more hurt than anyone today, and he was on the boat. What makes you think he even wants to shoot us anymore?” I was embarrassed and thought if I'd only brought fins or a smaller case I wouldn't have got hurt, and would've got better shots. Deep down my soul loved all the big ocean stuff, but with the lifestyle I was living, my body wasn’t equipped to put myself in those situations at the time. Nonetheless, it didn’t slow me down on the partying.

My back was tweaked for the better part of a year; I found myself laid out on the floor a lot throughout the day to relieve the pressure. Later found out the vertebra was broken, along with a hefty bend in my spine, but I never did anything about it—just drank for the pain and rested my back whenever I could. I would go visit The Masses, drink and lay flat on the floor to relieve my back pain, while watching videos Matt was editing and give my input. If it was daytime, I became harder and harder to get ahold of. Crippling anxiety during the day made me horrible at responding to emails or returning calls, then at night I would turn up, become the life of the party, and began sleeping through my alarms and showing up to set sometimes hours late. Surfers needing footage for their sponsors or competitions like the XXL Awards had a nightmare getting clips out of me; my brain was so scattered, and I was barely hanging on; it took a lot of effort to go through tapes and hard drives to find the footage and send them out. Editing projects I booked would take ten times as long as they should for me to turn around. Burning the candle at both ends for years was beginning to catch up.

One day, Matt called and said he wanted to introduce me and Joaquin Phoenix. I met them at the office, and we sat around talking for a bit, exchanged numbers, and agreed to talk about a project soon. He called me to meet for coffee one morning. I was so hungover and had only gone to bed maybe an hour prior, and by the time I made it to the coffee shop on the other side of the hill, I was forty-five minutes late. (I was probably the only guy in Hollywood that would made Oscar-winning actors wait around). Nonetheless, we sat, shot the shit, and laughed for a couple hours, and he said he and his brother-in-law, Casey, had some projects they might want my help with. He had me meet him at a martial arts studio one day to film his sensei. I got the feeling that it was an audition for me. We shot an interview, went to have lunch together next door, where I couldn’t eat lunch. My alcohol withdrawals were beginning to get bad enough to where I was not able to eat unless I had drank some first to calm down my nervous system. I made an excuse that I didn’t like the food, and we moved on. I could tell he knew something was up with me. He said, “Let’s meet back here in a couple hours.” So I went back to Santa Monica and drank a little vodka to get things under control before going back to shoot more.

When I got back to the dojo, it was a full class we were filming, and the heat from all the students in the room mixed with my toxic blood had me sweating profusely while shooting—enough so that after we were done, he laughed, “Man, you got more of a workout than they did, huh?” I chuckled and pretended that it was normal. We kept in contact for a little while; I came up with a couple ideas for projects, even shot some stuff for a sizzle we talked about. I’d call him up late at night, drunk, sometimes on drugs, pitching ideas. He always answered the phone and always humored me, but after a while of waking up looking at my call log from the night before, I was embarassed and stopped calling. And he never called me for the project he and Casey were doing. I’m pretty sure it was for that avant-garde performance piece he did called I’M NOT HERE, which was a sort of mockumentary on him leaving acting to become a rapper. I watched that film and wondered if he took little pieces of me and used them in his trainwreck of a character. Many more scenarios like this kept happening the more of an alcoholic I became and the more I used drugs. I would get booked to shoot a band or event and not even show up. I would wake up to calls from producers asking where I was, and I’d be two hours late for a Miley Cyrus or Jonas Brothers music video. I’d be filming in Atlanta and sleep through my alarm and miss my flight home.

I was flirting with sobriety but kept going back and forth. I moved out of the apartment with my bartender friends and into a house in Venice with Brad and his then-fiancée. Halfway through filming JACKASS 3D, I drank pretty hard the last night on a trip in Tahoe, and I had a hair of the dog the next morning before flying back to Burbank. Driving home from the airport, I rear-ended someone in my truck and got taken to jail for a DUI. The producers had a meeting with me that I needed to get sober for the rest of the movie, which I did. I had about three years there where I was sober. I did the second season of Nitro Circus sober, this time as a camera guy, a job I knew how to do, which was, surprisingly to me, still fun. I did some random jobs between big shoots, like writing and directing porn for a massive porn empire because it paid very well. I was able to upgrade all my camera and editing gear, which I hadn’t done in a while. I did some commercials, directed some music videos and shot NITRO CIRCUS 3D. I moved out of Brad’s and to the South Bay with my girlfriend at the time. I put together a couple pilots for shows myself and pitched them but didn’t get much traction. I kept booking little jobs here and there and surfing a lot more again since I was sober. I did another show with Dickhouse called LOITER SQUAD with Tyler The Creator and kept trying to get my own projects going. But eventually, I fell off the wagon again and couldn’t get back on. My girlfriend kicked me out, and I went and got a studio in the marina.

Living by myself, I became more reclusive, really only coming out at night, except for a few days a month I needed to work to pay my bills. And often to get through those, I’d fill a few five-hour energy shots with vodka and put them in my camera bag to help get me through the day. I would be in my hidden camera spot on PUNK'D, taking my shot of vodka to calm the shakes, waiting until it was my cue to film the mark. I also got hired by a POV camera company that did random jobs where hidden cameras or car-mounted cameras were needed, so I did sporadic days on shows like TOP GEAR and BIG BROTHER and a gaggle of hidden-camera prank shows. One day after doing camera prep, I got picked up in Burbank by the police on a warrant for not finishing one part of the dui program, and got taken back to jail, missing the shoot I was prepping for. Another time, they needed me to go shoot a show in Vegas, so I drove on out, drinking as little as I could to safely operate a vehicle without having the withdrawals so bad I’d shake the car off the road, while not getting intoxicated enough to cause an accident that way. It was a delicate high-wire dance I had grown accustomed to, and only one that real alcoholics know, to keep from entering dangerous withdrawals but to not get drunk, so you can perform necessary daily functions.

A couple hours outside Vegas, production called me and told me the shoot got postponed a day. I saw a sign for Lake Las Vegas and knew my old drinking friend from Santa Monica had moved out there. So I called him up and went to see him. It was the first time I disappeared on a multi-day bender with no communication. Production thought I died on the road somewhere and had all my friends they knew in LA trying to figure out what happened to me. A few days later, I plugged my phone in to find the world was searching for me. How embarrassing. Well, another one bites the dust. Back to LA.

I got called to work on Bad Grandpa, and I thought, “Shit, I’m gonna have to get sober again.” The shooting was spaced out; we’d spend a few weeks on location filming, then be home for a few weeks, sometimes filming at home and sometimes just on hiatus before flying back out to the east coast to film more. My sobriety on Bad Grandpa was spotty, drinking while at home usually before pulling it together and going out on the road. Towards the end of production I was slipping again but remained just sober enough to not drink during the day and sneak a few drinks at the bars at night. But my mind was a mess. And while at home, I couldn’t even open my mail. I had started accumulating more debt and was living a lifestyle well above my means; Dimitry, the director of photography, insisted on loaning me money to pay my union dues so I could work on the movie. After we wrapped up shooting and I was again in a sober period, I started opening my mail only to find that my check bounced to the union after my wages were garnished for another debt, and a medical bill from one of my bad withdrawal episodes that almost killed me, and cleared out my bank account. I was too ashamed to say anything to anyone and hoped the union would miss it. With everything piling up, I couldn’t afford my expensive waterfront rent anymore and got evicted. Guch let me come stay with him for a bit, but I fell off the wagon again and instead of intruding on any more friends, I went to San Diego and stayed with my parents for a bit. I don’t think the union missed my dues bouncing because I slowly stopped getting called for big jobs, and for the premiere of BAD GRANDPA I was seated in the overflow theater, where all the ad agency assistants and people that had little to do with the movie were sent. No one said anything to me about it, and I didn’t say anything to them.

While staying in San Diego, I would get the occasional job in LA that I drove up for, but it wasn’t enough to get me back on my feet. Surfing one morning with my friend Ben (the one I ran into in the Mentawai), he mentioned he and his brother were short-staffed at their surf shop. I said I’d come work there, and he said, “We can’t afford you,” but I had eaten a lot of humble pie the past year and said, “Pay me whatever the rate is; I need a job.” So I started working at the surf shop and moved into the back. I stayed sober for a good while and loved spending my days revolved around surfing again. At some point, I met a girl; we started drinking together; I sabotaged my job at the surf shop, got kicked out; we moved to Cardiff; and I started picking up random film gigs again to get by. Sometime in here, I was part of a startup whose mission was to showcase young surfing talent and try and get them more exposure and resources, which only lasted a few months before folding. I edited a B or C grade horror film from my dining room. I was deeply unhappy and unfulfilled, which, now I know, is what led me to compulsive drinking. I always did what I needed to do to get by instead of chasing my dreams and being creative with my own thing, writing and making my own art. And if there’s one thing I’m certain of: if you waste your life not chasing what you’re passionate about, it’s a slow killer of your soul—just like alcoholism.

One of my spiritual hippy friends was going to Brazil to work with this healer, John of God—yeah, that John of God. If you don’t know, Google him. I gave him some money and asked to heal my alcoholism. And I thought maybe, just maybe, he did, and I could drink responsibly now. Nitro Circus was still around and kicking; their offices were in San Clemente, and they were touring, doing live arena shows now. A couple of the guys I knew asked if I’d come on tour and make commercials for the advertisers at every stop. I thought this was the perfect opportunity to get back on my feet. I flew out to the east coast, and the first night, we went to an Applebee’s; everyone ordered a beer, and I thought to myself, “Shit, I might be cured of my alcoholism; I can get a beer.” I was wrong; John of God did not cure my alcoholism, and throughout the tour, my drinking got worse and worse. Halfway through, we were filming on a mountain in Colorado, and I fell snowboarding on a sheet of ice with my camera bag on my back and broke my tailbone. The rest of the tour, I'd drink to get through the discomfort while hobbling around the arenas with my camera, and sleeping on my stomach on the bus at night. By the end of the tour, I was a mess. I was back to drinking all day just to get through and barely got anything done. Within a week of the tour wrapping up, I was fired from the office part of the job.

The next few years were a downhill spiral: in and out of jail cells and hospital beds, delirium tremens and close calls, living in a tent on a ranch my parents were living on in the middle of nowhere, isolated, no car because I almost drove it off a cliff and totaled it, occasionally being presented with an opportunity to get back on my feet and squandering it—like flying to Alaska to be a shooter/producer on The Deadliest Catch, which was a perfect job for me when I’m sober; I’m great at multitasking and problem-solving; I love living on boats and adventures on the high seas—but I got to Dutch Harbor and started drinking before we even pushed off the docks and got sent back home. With the little bit of money I made from the few days of work I did on The Deadliest Catch, I bought a cheap old van and lived in the back of that, fixing it up enough to get my shit together and start working again. Around the same time I got the van running well enough, I booked a commercial gig, shooting and editing, which took a long time to get paid for; during that time, my van blew up, so I sold it for a few hundred bucks, and when I finally got the check for the commercial I did, I spent the whole thing on a rusty 1985 Ford F250 truck camper made for Baja. I was starting to slowly dig myself out of the hole I buried myself in and knew if I fell off again, there might not ever be coming back from it.

I had done a lot of research on things that were curing people of addiction since all my years in AA and other recovery groups never stuck with me, and psychedelics are the one thing that kept standing out. But I didn’t have access to any, and I didn’t have the money to go to Mexico to do ibogaine or ayahuasca, but I had read the body processes edible marijuana differently than smoking it; it metabolizes into a compound called 11-hydroxy-thc, which crosses the blood-brain barrier more effectively. With high doses of edible marijuana, the thc overstimulates cannabinoid receptors, messing with how the brain processes sensory input, memory, and emotions-causing a psychedelic state with intensified visuals and time distortion. So I went to the dispensary and bought a 1,000-mg edible. That night, I sat at the dining room table in my camper parked on the street and ate the whole thing. It was the first time in a long time I prayed to God. I asked for help in using this as medicine to heal me. It was my last hope. I sat and waited. And sat and waited. And blastoff. I had a truly spiritual experience that night, and when I woke up the next morning, I felt different—like really different. It felt like a huge weight had been lifted off my chest, literally. I was lighter. I felt free and conscious, and my head felt clearer than it’s ever felt. Even other people saw it. The whites of my eyes were pure white. I had a glow, and life in my face. They told me I looked like a different person, and asked what happened. "I had a vision quest" I would say. From that moment on, I’ve been fixed. I’ve never even thought about having a sip of alcohol since then. Even though I felt cured, from my past experiences I had skepticism about everything, and hadn't read studies on cannabis like the psilocybin studies with rewiring neural pathways. So six months later or so, I happened upon some psilocybin and decided to do the experience again with that to solidify the deal, which again was a great experience and I think helped rewire those neural pathways if they weren't already, but really believe it was that first trip and God that did the work. The psilocybin just solidified it.

From there, I got the truck running good enough to go stay in it down on the coast and get my job back at the surf shop. I had to build trust again, starting with some construction projects Matt and Ben had, but quickly morphed into managing the shop. I’d get up in the morning, surf, shower in my camper in a makeshift shower I built, go work the shop. On my lunch break, I’d work on my truck, which was constantly breaking down, and after work, if it was light out, I’d go surf again, eat dinner from a Crock-Pot I had going in the camper while I was at the shop or grab a burrito, and I’d park where I wanted to surf based off my forecasting for the next morning and do it all over again. On weekends, I’d do more major work on my truck, trying to make it reliable, and I’d clean it out and provision it for the next week of work. This was my routine for a year and a half, before upgrading again and moving into the back of the surf shop. I had sworn off dating at this point and decided I was better off alone. My plan was to get the truck running solid, squirrel away enough money from my job at the shop, and push off for a long, solo, open-ended drive south—taking as long as I felt, driving the whole Pacific coast of Baja, camping and surfing until moving onto the next spot, spend some time around the East Cape, take a ferry from La Paz across to mainland Mexico, and continue slowly down the Americas, ideally the end of the road in Chile or wherever my truck blows up, whichever comes first. And depending on funds at that point, either fly to Jakarta or Denpasar, or try to get a gig on a container ship heading that way. Then I’d make a little business shooting and editing surf videos for tourists, work on writing books, and live out my days as a complete solitary expat feral, working and surfing around Indonesia. But then the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met walked into the surf shop and ruined the whole damn plan.

One August afternoon in Bird Rock, I was running around the busy shop helping customers when one of our teenage employees, Colin, said, “Tyler, we don’t rent new surfboards, do we?” Before I could say no, I turned to see the customer he was asking for, and there she was. As soon as I locked eyes with her, it felt like we connected, locked in on a spiritual level; I could physically feel my blood pressure lower, heart slow down, and a deep sense of calm and balance came over me as I looked at the most beautiful woman in the world to me. I asked her what she needed the board for, and she said as a prop for a photo shoot. I explained that yeah, it just needs to come back without any scratches or dings, so I’ll help her pick out the right board for her shoot and send her off with it in a board bag to keep it safe. We walked around the shop as she told me about her jewelry company and the photo shoot they’re doing; I met her son, who just turned fourteen; we picked out a board that had a nice shape and complimentary colors for her vibe and talked about life while doing rental paperwork and putting the board in a thick board bag. I walked her out to her rental SUV with the board and had this strange feeling like we were lovers reconnecting after being separated by war—the stories you hear about from Vietnam, where a man ends up in a POW camp for years after the war is over, the wife presumes he’s dead, and one day he’s released and shows back up at their home. This unusual feeling I’ve never experienced before that was like we have been together for lifetimes, and our souls just found each other again. As she opened the hatch above the tailgate, she pointed out her mobility scooter and said she has to use it to get around because of her Lyme disease. I had no idea what Lyme disease was, other than it came from ticks, I was pretty sure. I felt sad for her, not knowing just how bad it was or could be, just sad that this amazing soul has to deal with any medical issue and use a mobility scooter to get around. Our talk in the parking lot, less than a half hour after meeting, was deeper than any conversation I’ve had in years. We had a very deep connection and somehow just knew each other. We said goodbye and good luck with the shoot, and I’ll see you when you drop off the board.

I walked back into the surf shop dumbfounded, made my way up the ramp to the board room where my old friend/coworker Jim Thorpe was sitting. “What’s up, Ty?” “I’m in love. I’m gonna marry that girl,” I responded. Jim's jaw dropped at what just came out of my mouth, but without skipping a beat exclaimed “Isn’t love bitchin’?!”

Jim was right, love is bitchin’, and I did marry that girl. Her name’s Jamie, and within 6 months of meeting in the surf shop we were getting engaged on the North Shore, right where my lifelong love affair with the ocean began. What followed was a whirlwind- after falling in love and moving to Oregon to build a life together with her amazing son Kaden, we packed up and moved to Hawaii, but her health battles with Lyme disease took a devastating turn. Over the next few years, she faced excruciating pain, frequent hospital visits, and more near-death episodes than I can count as her nervous system faltered under the strain of chronic illness. I became her full-time caregiver, navigating a frustrating medical system that often left us helpless, and the unrelenting stress of trying to save her took a bit of a toll on me, leading to my own health struggles. Through it all, we moved from Hawaii back to Oregon, and back to where it began in San Diego, to seek better care. Recently her condition has stabilized somewhat, and we’re hopeful, but the journey has been a relentless fight- one that’s tested us deeply while strengthening out bond.

So here we are, held fast, pushing along, as I begin Seavants- run from the living room so I can continue caring for Jamie. A creative outlet to pour my ocean obsession into, while hopefully keeping us afloat, and a way to provide some of that seafaring nostalgia, along with some damn fine coffee, and give back to the surf and ocean community that shaped me, that was always there when I fell. Built from decades of hard lessons, hunting swells, adventure, and stories that feel like multiple lifetimes. Hope you enjoy, and it can bring a little salt to your day, no matter where you find yourself. Stay strong, stay happy, hold fast, and above all remember, isn’t love bitchin’?!

Godspeed.

Tyler