Saved by Arpoador-Happy International Surfing Day

Before moving to Brazil, I had photographed surfing exactly once.

Surfer Stefanie Gunneman-Gallo gives thanks in Seaside Heights, New Jersey where we spent a chilly day capturing her passion for the sport during the winter of 2005.

Back in the winter of 2005, I put out a call looking for a local winter surfer willing to be photographed along the New Jersey shore. A young surfer named Stefanie Gallo responded, and we arranged to meet in Seaside Heights. We spent a frigid day documenting her passion for the sport as she carved through icy Atlantic waves.

At the time, I never imagined surfing would become such an important part of my life. It was cold, windy, and difficult to see beyond the discomfort of the moment. Looking back now, that day produced one of the earliest images I ever created that truly meant something to me.

Fast forward more than twenty years.

Pro surfer Bernardo Dobordovsky flies high in Arpoador

I now live in Ipanema, just a stone's throw from Arpoador, the birthplace of Rio de Janeiro's surf culture. A few months after moving here, my wife brought back some of my "real" camera equipment from New Jersey. For the first time in nearly six months, I felt like a professional photographer again after shooting exclusively with an iPhone and a Sony point and shoot for too long.

I was also looking for distractions.

While my wife was working one morning, I wandered down to the beach to check the surf. Among the dozens of surfers in the lineup, one immediately caught my eye. He wasn’t just riding waves he was absolutely ripping them. Launching off the lip, he seemed to fly above the wave before landing cleanly and throwing 180s and other aerial maneuvers. Compared to everyone else in the water, he looked like he was surfing on a completely different level.

Anderson ‘Pikachu’ Carvalho

After posting a few photos on Instagram I asked innocently, "Does anyone know who this guy is?" I received replies from dozens of surfers and Arpoador regulars. Their responses were polite but almost incredulous.

"Of course that's Pikachu, the Prince of Arpoador."

Later I learned that Pikachu's real name is Anderson Carvalho, a 25-year-old professional surfer with an inspiring story. Raised in the Cantagalo community, he learned to surf at just four years old.

Before long, he became my muse.

Pro surfer Gabriel Palmeira inside a barrel on Arpoador

Then there were others: Gabriel, Ariane, Pedro, Magno, Dudinha, Luiza, maybe my favorite was a remarkably talented five-year-old Jack Russell Terrier named Benji.

Little by little, I ingratiated myself into this unbelievably welcoming community of surfistas. I'd heard the horror stories of territorialism and localism in surfing, what Nirvana once called “territorial pissings,” in places like Australia and California. But I found none of that here.

Benji a popular Jack Russell terrier who learned how to surf from his dad, Bernardo

What I found instead was surf culture at its finest.

Soon, leaving the apartment just after the sun rose and telling my wife, "I'm going surfing," became part of my daily routine, even though I never touched a surfboard.

I had found my own version of surfing.

Sometimes I photographed from the beach. Other times I climbed onto the iconic Arpoador Rock, where I captured some of my favorite images. One morning, I photographed Gabriel riding through a perfect barrel an image that became my Holy Grail of sports images. The moment was so special that I immediately texted my wife.

"Sweetie, I think I just got the picture of a lifetime."

MARIA EDUARDA CESAR carves through the waves during the Tyr Energy Circuit Arpoador Surf Club Arpex Groms 2025 competition at Praia do Arpoador in Rio de Janeiro. The annual event highlights emerging talent in Brazil’s junior surf scene, with boys and girls competing in several age divisions. “Groms” is surf slang for young, up-and-coming surfers. Arpoador, considered the birthplace of Brazilian surfing, is an iconic break known for its consistent waves and passionate local surf culture.

Surf photography took on even greater meaning after the loss of my mother-in-law and, later, my best friend, Bodhi. (Named after the Bodhisattva, not Patrick Swayze's character in Point Break.)

I would spend hours perched on the rock, camera in hand, listening to The Tragically Hip as I worked through my grief. Around me were the sounds of crashing waves, shouting vendors, and the occasional whistle of a lifeguard cutting through the ocean breeze.

One day, while photographing from the rock, I noticed what I thought was a dog swimming among the surfers. Curious, I zoomed in for a closer look.

It wasn't a dog.

It was a penguin.

Far from home, it had somehow found its way to Ipanema, perhaps on a journey to find a mate. For a few moments, it shared the waves with the surfers below, another traveler finding its place in unfamiliar waters.

And maybe that's why the sight resonated with me.

Because, in many ways, I was that penguin.

This is my long-winded way of saying that maybe surfing saved me.

Not in the literal sense. I never felt like I needed saving.

But surfing and the people who surrounded it, gave me a gentle nudge toward something unfamiliar. It pulled me out of grief, out of routine, and into a community filled with positivity, kindness, and joy.

Without realizing it, I found exactly what I needed to thrive in my adopted hometown.

I came to Arpoador looking for photographs.

But what I found was a home.









The King and the Rose

My first time seeing Roberto Carlos was at the Prudential Center in Newark, New Jersey, in 2012, and I had no idea what to expect.

I knew he was called O Rei…“The King”…and that in Brazil he’s revered the way Americans revere Elvis Presley. I knew he had collaborated with Jennifer Lopez, and that songs like "Chegaste" drifted out of our kitchen on Saturday nights while Claudia cooked, music that quietly, and sometimes not so quietly, became part of our lives.

But I didn’t truly understand him until I saw him.

Here was a man who has carried a career from the 1960s to today, still touring at 85 (feliz aniversário, Rei!), still filling theaters and arenas, still the center of the famously sold-out Roberto Carlos “Beyond the Horizon” cruise.

I fell in love with his voice and his songs, but even more with what he meant to my Brazilian family.

At some point, it became about more than me. I wanted to capture something, create something, for my mother-in-law, her favorite song, O Concavo e o Convexo the one that meant everything to her. Capturing it o video and sending it to her so it was almost like she was with us. Because even herself at 80, she had never seen The King in concert… and we weren’t sure she ever would.

My favorite part of every show? The rose toss.

It’s pure Elvis. Pure Vegas. At his age, an octogenarian who still has women of all ages losing their minds, eating out of the palm of his hand. At the end of each concert, an assistant brings out armfuls of red roses. The first few rows, and then farther back, as ambitious fans rush the stage, become a frenzy, everyone reaching for a single rose (sometimes more).

And yes, I was the gringo at every show, pushing forward in my seat. I needed that rose. I had promised my wife.

In the end, the best moment wasn’t mine.

At our last show, I came the closest. Third-row seats at DAR Constitution Hall in Washington, D.C., in 2022. One of the few men in the crowd, I was pointing to my wife. I think Roberto saw my desperation, because when our eyes locked, I knew the next rose was coming my way. I even have the photo that captures the moment.

But it wasn’t meant to be.

The throw was perfect, it hit my wife’s seat… and bounced straight into someone else’s hands.

As we were leaving, a young girl, maybe noticing my disappointment, or my wife’s, peeled off a petal from her rose and handed it to her.

My mother-in-law did get to see The King. We found three tickets at a small, intimate venue called Vivo Rio, and she had the time of her life. We all did. It was one of those nights that became legendary.

Moments like that make the loss of a rose seem so unimportant. A rose’s life is fleeting, but the memories remain.

Next time, King!

My beloved Mother in Law, Simy and Claudia after the show as The King continues to throw out roses to fans

Rio Carnival – An Experience Beyond Words

Every year, the city of Rio de Janeiro transforms into a living, breathing celebration of drums, rhythm, color and culture during Carnival, the largest carnival in the world. With roots in Portuguese colonial festivities and deep influences from Afro-Brazilian heritage, samba and community traditions, Carnaval has grown into a spectacular showcase of storytelling through music and movement. At the iconic Sambadrome, each samba school spends an entire year preparing for its moment on the “avenue.” Each school parades with roughly 3,000 to 4,000 performers, including dancers, musicians, flag bearers and elaborate float teams a literal army of passion and precision moving to the thunder of the drums. The stadium itself holds around 80,000 spectators all united in one electrifying celebration that lasts until dawn. Most, if not all, arrive having memorized that year’s samba-enredo, proudly singing along during each school’s 80-minute performance from the first beat to the final note.

A highlight of each carnaval is the sheer, shocking scale and detailed artistry of the floats. Towering several stories high and stretching the length of many city buses, the floats are moving works of art. Built over months of design and construction, they feature intricate carvings, mechanical elements, dramatic lighting and layers of hand-crafted detail. Performers dance atop these massive structures as they glide down the avenue, transforming the Sambadrome into a stage of history and imagination.

NEY MATOGROSSO performs as Imperatriz Leopoldinense parades during Carnival, presenting the theme “Camaleônico” (Chameleonic), a tribute to the singer and performer—one of Brazil’s most influential and boundary-breaking artists. Drawing on his chameleonic career, the enredo celebrates artistic freedom, transformation, and cultural expression through elaborate allegories and striking costumes.

This year’s opening schools: Imperatriz Leopoldinense, Estação Primeira de Mangueira, Unidos do Viradouro and Portela set the tone with unforgettable energy, creativity and heart. I was blessed to experience it all alongside my wife, my brother, and my sister-in-law again this year. We arrived at 9:30 at night and didn’t stop celebrating until the sun came up the next morning, completely immersed in the rhythm, the joy and the magic of it all. Experiencing Carnaval for the second year in a row only deepened my appreciation. Rio Carnival defies description. As many seasoned Cariocas say, ‘you can’t explain Carnaval, you have to experience it.’

Channeling My Inner Capybara: Why This Chill Creature is My Spirit Animal

I don't know when exactly the capybara became my spirit animal, but it’s clear now that it has.

While in Rio, I’ve photographed toucans, monkeys, fur seals, penguins, all in their natural habitats, right in the middle of an urban setting, which is wild. But there’s something uniquely special about the capybara, something I’ve been dreaming of ever since my first walk around Rodrigo de Freitas Lagoon. I remember seeing a sign that said, ‘Attention, Capybara Wildlife Crossing.’

It took me about three months of daily walks around the five-mile lagoon before I finally spotted one. A woman had been staring at something from one of the stone walls surrounding the lagoon, and as she moved on, I cautiously approached. What could it be? And there it was: the world’s largest rodent, the new pop culture icon and meme, the capybara.

My first Capybara sighting, March 27, 2024 the day that will live in infamy

Since that first encounter, I’ve had many others, all at different locations around the lagoon. But last week’s was truly one of a kind.

Recently, a newly restored naturalized area opened along Rio’s Rodrigo de Freitas Lagoon. The city’s nature-based project diverted a bike path to reduce flooding and restore the lagoon’s ecosystem, its first major restoration in over a century. A family of ten capybaras, five adults and five pups, now call this restored area home. The capybaras, South America’s largest rodents and semi-aquatic by nature, have become a beloved fixture in Rio’s urban green spaces.

This week, I went for my usual walk and noticed two capybaras from the family of ten. They were hanging out in the restored naturalized area, set back among the mangroves. There’s a particular spot along a restaurant where you get a great side view of the area, so I circled around to get a better look. To my surprise, I found a few of the pups. I spent the next hour hopping between locations, observing the family. Then, something extraordinary happened.

An adult capybara had a visitor: a juvenile Yellow-headed Caracara landed on its back and began grooming it. True to capybara form, the adult didn’t flinch, it simply continued sitting, calm and mellow, as if this was the most normal thing in the world. I couldn’t help but rush home to send the images to my agency. I was so happy to have witnessed such a beautiful act of nature’s symbiosis.

Two days later, I returned to the lagoon. Again, I saw the juvenile Yellow-headed Caracara, this time trying to take some parasites or insects from the capybara’s back. In the most cartoonish fashion, the adult rolled onto its back and let out a small grunt. Later, the bird jumped onto one of the pups, which startled him and the other three pups. They jumped up, barking (capybara vocalizations sound like a dog’s woof), and rushed into the lagoon.

They came back soon after, and when the bird jumped up on one of the pups again, the little capybara, just like its parent, rolled over onto its side. With its feet extended and those cute little webbed toes, the pup remained calm while the bird continued its grooming.

It was the highlight of my capybara adventures, and I have images from that day that I’ll never forget.







Right Place, Right Time: Capturing a Triumph in Copacabana

“It is not the strength of the body that counts, but the strength of the spirit.” – J.R.R. Tolkien

Supported by lifeguards, disabled athlete JERRY FERNANDES DE SOUZA proudly finishes the 1.5 km challenge helped onto the beach by firefighters during the Travessia de Copa, Brazil’s largest open-water race. Hundreds of swimmers took part in the iconic event

Sometimes, it’s just as important to have good timing and a little bit of luck, as it is to be skilled. I happened to be in the right place at exactly the right moment, and it made all the difference.

Some of the best traits for a photojournalist (my two favorites)are patience and persistence. Timing, curiosity and a little bit of fearlessness don’t hurt either.

I had a fun day on Sunday, starting with a walk to Posto 6 in Copacabana for the start of the Travessia de Copa, Brazil’s largest open-water race, which crosses between the historic forts of Copacabana and Leme. The event featured 1.5 km and 3.8 km courses. I photographed the pre-start scenes for the 3.8 km race and, after a few shots just before the women’s start, I jogged down the Avenida Atlântica (closed to traffic on weekends and holidays) to the nearest Itaú Bike station, hopped on in my bare feet, and biked 2.5 miles to the swim finish at Leme Beach.

When I arrived, I immediately noticed a group of lifeguards carrying a man toward the finish line. I assumed he was just exhausted from the 1.5 km swim, but when he reached the finish, a friend greeted him with crutches. This disabled athlete had completed the grueling open-water swim and then walked across the finish line on crutches, a triumph worthy of a Hollywood movie.

I followed him through the finish as friends and family celebrated around him. I asked one friend for his name: Jerry Fernandes de Souza. After hugs and kisses, I introduced myself in my broken Portuguese: “I’m a photojournalist for an agency in California, and I’m going to make you world famous.” The group smiled, I’m not sure if it was my statement or my very heavy American accent.

One of my photos of Jerry was later chosen as one of the best images of the day, and the following day, it made the top images of the month. I got so “high” making these images, so completely satisfied that I could share Jerry’s triumph with the world, that it reminded me why I became a photojournalist. Over time, it becomes less and less about the photographer and more about the people we’re profiling. I’m very happy with that hierarchy. Sunday reminded me why I do this work, and I’ll always remember the moment I shared with this extraordinary athlete.

Never Meet Your Heroes

The adage "never meet your heroes" suggests that encountering someone you admire sometimes leads to disappointment. It reflects the idea that the reality of a person may not live up to the expectations you've built in your mind. Heroes are often seen through an idealized lens and meeting them in person might reveal flaws or behaviors that diminish the image you had of them.

As a photojournalist, I've had the opportunity to photograph and occasionally engage with celebrities, sports stars and even notorious figures. One encounter that stands out was with the John Gotti. During his annual 4th of July party in Howard Beach, Queens, I asked if I could take a photograph of him as he held a baby. He politely declined, but with respect: "Thank you for asking, you’re a real gentleman, but no." Despite my desire to capture that moment, I respected his wishes. As Shakespeare famously said, "Discretion is the better part of valor."

Another "hero" I met was Jon Bon Jovi on March 30, 1989, in Sayreville, New Jersey, a singer well established but with the newly released album, "‘New Jersey,’ his star was about to rise even higher. At the time, I was working for the Newark bureau of the Associated Press and assigned to photograph Jon at his childhood home. For context, in February of that year, MTV had purchased the home. Though Jon's parents and brother still lived there, they stayed until June so Matthew, Jon's younger brother, could finish school. The network claimed to have paid fair market value for the property, which The New York Times reported was around $300,000, based on the prices of similar homes in the area.

It was Matthew who came up with the idea of MTV buying the family home and giving it away to one lucky fan. The only cameras allowed inside the house on Robin Hood Drive were mine and MTV’s.

I had been a massive fan of Slippery When Wet, and while I was a diehard Springsteen fan, any artist from New Jersey always caught my attention. It’s a Jersey thing.

The couple who won, Jay and Judy Frappier, were sitting on the couch when Jon walked in. He looked every bit the rock star, tall, skinny, and, yes he was impossibly handsome. I was surprised by how striking he was. Despite never being starstruck (except for my first time photographing Bruce Springsteen and later Barack Obama), I was psyched for this assignment.

Outside, it was pouring rain. I could see friends and fellow journalists covering the event from a distance, while I was inside enjoying hors d'oeuvres served by Jon's lovely mother, Carol. I kneeled down to take a few shots of Jon and the winners, but after a few flashes, Jon suddenly shot me an angry look and said, “ARE YOU THROUGH YET?” It threw me off balance. I quickly said, "I got what I needed," thanked him and the Frappier’s and headed for the door a little more deflated than when I walked in feeling like hot stuff.

That moment never stopped me from listening to his music. I suppose it served as a reminder throughout my career to stay grounded. Whenever I got too full of myself, there was always a Jon Bon Jovi moment to bring me back down to earth.

Behind the Photos–Teen Files Lawsuit Against Parents for College Funds: 2014

Throughout my 30 years photographic at the Morris County Courthouse in New Jersey, I've captured countless somber and haunting moments—dozens of murder trials and even the rare instance of photographing both a father and son convicted of the same crime, nearly two decades apart. (https://bit.ly/3U6nYuj) One of the most poignant and unusual images I ever took wasn’t related to a crime at all.

Rachel Canning’s case became a well-known story in the U.S., centering on a dramatic legal battle between a teenager and her parents. As I prepared to photograph Rachel being sworn in, I faced a choice between a long lens for a close-up or a 16-35mm lens for a broader context. Opting for the latter, I captured a frame that, though not a crime scene, conveyed profound emotion and familial strife.

In 2014, Rachel Canning, an 18-year-old high school senior, sued her parents, Sean and Elizabeth Canning, for financial support to cover her college education and other expenses. Having moved out of their home in October 2013, Rachel claimed her parents had ceased their support, citing issues of rebellion and poor behavior as reasons for their decision to cut her off. The Cannings argued that Rachel had left of her own accord and that they were no longer obligated to support her.

The case drew significant media attention and sparked debates about parental responsibilities and legal obligations. In March 2014, a judge ruled that Rachel was not entitled to financial support, given that she was considered emancipated after leaving home.

Rachel’s story became a symbol of the complex interplay between family dynamics, legal obligations, and teenage rights, illustrating the profound and often challenging nature of familial and financial responsibilities.

Following the legal battle, Rachel Canning continued with her education. She graduated from college and has kept a relatively low profile since the case.

"May your grandfathers spirit still speak to you.”

Yesterday, I was blessed to witness one of the most powerful moments of my career. The moment was one of the reasons I got into the career as a photojournalism and a perfect metaphor for the 30 years of service spent by Rev Dr. William Barber during his Pastoral Retirement Sermon as senior pastor at Greenleaf Christian Church.

“I wasn’t even born. My father began to write a book about the churches of Christ in Eastern North Carolina. I buried him on Fathers Day so the level of emotions are very high for me. On the next page there is a dedication, “To my son, William Joseph Barber II, and any and all of his future brothers and sisters, may this work provide for them an incentive to further seek to link their past, their present, their future in logical and rewarding continuity.”

As he called his son Andrew to the stage, he continued, “One of my prized possessions, none of the people in your family have been perfect, but we have all tried to make a difference. May you also be able to understand your history and place it in some form of rewarding continuity, may your grandfathers spirit still speak to you.”

After accepting the book, Andrew briefly started to walk from the stage, but came back to give a hug and comfort his father on Fathers Day, the anniversary of the day Rev Barber buried his own father. A most profound moment for everyone who witnessed.

Signs of kindness after a night of anger

On May 30, 2020, a peaceful protest event named "A National Day of Action — Justice for George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery and lives cut short by Raleigh and Durham police departments" began in downtown Raleigh, NC as outrage over the death of George Floyd spread to cities in North Carolina. What began as peaceful marches with more than 1000 protesters, ended in violence, with clashes between protesters and police, fires set, windows smashed and looting.

But these are the stories that ALSO need to be told. The “morning after” I was in downtown Raleigh making images of the aftermath of night of anger, I was headed to my car when I passed a woman scraping paint off a window. A man pulled up at a red light and I heard him yell, "HEY LADY! You're going to need some window cleaner to get that off!" I immediately thought this was a passing troll who would hit the gas and take off without a second thought. At that moment, my jaded heart from the previous night got the best of me. What happened next was almost shocking. The man quickly pulled over, jumped out of his car and retrieving some window cleaner from his trunk, he proceeded to help the woman clean the defaced window. Minutes later, A Wake County Sheriff's Officer joined in with her own bottle of cleaner.

It's easy to get jaded by headlines, but sometimes there are rays of light, if you look. Or, if you just happen to be at the right place at the right time.

Behind the Photos–When Linebackers Attack: 1989

One of the more infamous moments of my career came the day I was assigned to get a photograph of New York Giants Lawrence Taylor after he was charged with DWI. On March 24, 1989, I was working for the Newark, NJ bureau of the Associated Press when I was assigned to stake out a Paramus, NJ service station where Taylor’s car had been impounded after he was issued a summons for DWI. We had heard LT was going to come o the station to retrieve a golf bag for a golf trip he had that weekend.

I had waited for most of the morning with a reporter in a cold New Jersey Spring rain when a car pulled up, journalists ran towards it, the passenger window rolled down to reveal the future Football Hall of Famer who politely answered general questions for TV cameras before turning his attention to me, the ONLY still photographer and said adamantly, “Don’t take my fucking picture!”

I went into the office of he service station and called the office and said, “He seems pretty firm not wanting to have his picture taken, what do you think?” We already knew that LT was legally below the limit and was most likely suffering from food poisoning when he was found unconscious and sprawled across the front seat of his truck on the Garden State Parkway.

My boss said, well, there’s already a national advisory that there will be a picture, so go get a picture. So, I headed back to the car where there were still a couple of New York TV journalist talking with LT. As they finished, they started to step away, LT and I locked eyes once more and he again said,this time, a little more adamantly, “DON’T TAKE MY FUCKING PICTURE!!” Well this was literally do or die, so I lifted my camera and “BOOM" the strobe went off making this surreal moment even stranger as I captured the 6’3” 240lb outside linebacker looking incredulously at the 5’ 8” 170lb photojournalist who against anyone’s better judgement dared to push the shutter on his Canon F-1.

I got one frame off before Taylor, showing his 40 yard dash 4.6 sec form was directly in my face. I explained how this was a news story with national interest and if he had a problem, he could talk to my editors. After calling me an “A-hole,” calmer heads kind of prevailed, Taylor getting back into the car as his driver and two other passengers tossed various obscenities in my direction.

I approached the car once more to give my side and hoped he’d understand. Instead he reached down in front of him, picked up a fast food wrapper, and threw it at me along with another curse. I instinctively threw up my hand and the wrapper deflected back into the car onto his lap. I left with mixed emotions that I made that image. I had a job, this was the story and sometimes photojournalists can’t choose what images we are asked to provide.

About 6 weeks later, LT had his day in court where he was acquitted of DWI. The real villain was revealed as ‘acute food poisoning,' from some bad fettuccine with cream sauce Taylor ate on a flight. 'I feel happy. The justice system works,' a beaming Taylor said after his acquittal in a Saddle Brook Municipal Court trial that lasted less than four hours. I thought to introduce myself and again plead MY case but thought best to let him enjoy the victory without any lasting negativity.

20 Years Ago Today, A very lucky Angel Fish

January 8, 2003, I was covering a lumberyard fire in Morristown, NJ when I hear I heard the sound of steps on a metal fire escape. It was Morristown Firefighter, Fred Richardson as he rescued a little girl’s angel fish from an apartment that was next to a burning abandoned lumber yard.

This image was the only one out of forty I had shot where the fish was clearly visible & the water was splashing out of the aquarium.

Sixteen years later, by chance, I met retired Morristown firefighter Fred Richardson at 70South Gallery holding a framed photo I shot of him exactly twenty years ago today. One of the owners of the gallery knew I was hanging out at Smartworld coffee shop next door and heard Fred talking about the photo that appeared in the Daily Record. She stopped in and said, “there’s a firefighter next door who just picked up a frame and I think it’s your photo.”

I walked over and saw Fred holding a shopping bag and asked if I could see the photo. It was this photo, already one of the most memorable of my career. We talked for a while about that freezing cold morning and of course his rescue that day. I was honored and flattered when Fred asked me to sign his print. A moment I’ll never forget.

Just another reason why local news matters.

9/11 From Recovery to Renewal

Ed Note: I’ve added many new images to the gallery. Some from my original time at Ground Zero, others from New Jersey ceremonies and many new images of remembrances in North Carolina.

September 10, 2001 was an extremely normal day filled with its typical and unusual errands. Coffee at Dunkin Donuts, packing a lunch, reading the paper. Before my shift on at the Daily Record, I made a trip to the Salvation Army thrift store in downtown Dover, NJ. I was a competitive runner at the time and looking forward to taking some time off with a few friends to travel to Las Vegas to participate in a mens only “Red Dress Race” 5K fundraiser. I found three modest short red skirts that my friends and I would wear and brought them home to be packed.

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The following morning was a perfect Fall day. I had just dropped off a book at the Morristown library just after 9am when a man stopped me on the way out and said, ‘a plane just flew into the World Trade Center.’ I jumped into my car to head to work, we had a planned a days worth of shoots in Madison for the entire photo staff for our ‘Day I the Life Of’ sections, but I thought this might take one or two of us off the schedule.

Driving up Route 287 north towards the Daily Record, 1010WINS was already reporting a second plane hitting the South Tower at 9:03 a.m. Minutes later, a live (false) report that the ‘US Capitol itself had been hit.’ I pulled onto Parsippany Road, and said aloud to myself, ‘This is it, this is really the end of the world.” There’s no way I could have known, but by the end of that perfect Fall day, 65 Morris County natives would be among the nearly three thousand killed.

I decided to drive to Powder Mill Heights, one of the highest points in Parsippany with gorgeous views of Manhattan. It was the first place I thought people might be gathering to watch this disaster unfold. Driving west on Route 10 was the first moment I felt the true enormity of what had just happened. From nearly 30 miles away, I could see smoke rising from downtown Manhattan, from my rear-view mirror.

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When I arrived at the condos, I photographed a security guard watching the live coverage on TV while calling to check on her daughter who was in New York City that morning. Walking back outside, people were starting to line the balcony edge looking east as the smoke rose from downtown Manhattan, holding binoculars, cameras, making calls on their cell phones. A woman who came to see what people were looking at immediately put her hand over her mouth and gasped, shocked by her first sight of the scene.

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The frivolous shopping spree the day before seemed like ancient history. My vacation would now be spent in and around Ground Zero photographing the aftermath of the attacks. Each morning, I would take the train into Penn Station and walk the 2 1/2 miles down to Ground Zero. Some days we had access, other days we were collected into Press pens where we waited for hours for access to shoot. I remember passing by countless people along my walks to and from the trains. The grief was palpable and unbearable. One day I wished that we could jump ahead five years just to get past the agony we were sharing.

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My most memorable and heartbreaking moment was a woman I met on a train into Penn Station who had just arrived from Florida. Her son was a firefighter and she had not heard from him since before 9/11. She noticed my cameras and asked me what I had seen and what I thought the chances were that her son was still alive. I tried to be as encouraging as possible knowing as each days passed, the chances of survival grew less and less. When we pulled into the station, I wrote her son’s name on a business card and tucked back into my wallet. I told her I would pray for them every day. When I returned home, I pinned the card to my bulletin board and checked the papers every day, hoping for just one miracle. Weeks later, I saw her son’s name listed in the New York Times as “remains that had been recovered.”

Years go by too quickly and the belief you will ever understand and reconcile any pain accumulated. As a journalist, closure is not one of the luxury we are afforded. Over the course of three decades of photojournalism, I’ve covered countless positive, inspiring stories and yet it’s the tragedies you can never quite erase from the back of your mind. And in the twenty years since I found myself documenting the aftermath of 9/11, I’ve covered too many tragedies to count. Murders, hurricanes, accidents, and even a pandemic. So many of my brother and sister photojournalists who were down at Ground Zero on 9/11/01, still carry the scars of that terrible day. The words bravery and courage are too often forgotten when used to describe the essential front-line communications done by journalists at Ground Zero.

For years, every time I had drove up the Turnpike seeing that stunning New York City skyline, now missing its Twin Towers, I would keep checking over my right shoulder knowing that the next time I looked they would surely be back where they belonged. They were the perfect background for photographers and tourists and if you got a little lost, they were always there to point you in the right direction. This was the inspiration for Bruce Springsteen’s song, “Empty Sky.”

Since that day, I’ve been documenting memorial ceremonies in and around New York City, New Jersey and now North Carolina, as journalists do, we look to tell the story, to comfort and to move people through our images. We were witnesses to history long before that day, but on 9/11/01, there was never a story in our lifetimes that needed to be told more. My first year in North Carolina, I found a 9/11 ceremony in Apex, to again do what I have done for the two decades since 2001 and tell the story of how we recover, how we heal.

Twenty-two years now have passed by in the blink of an eye.

Wishing all of us a peaceful day. Be kind to each other.

Never forget.

Coming Full Circle

In 2014, today was a very good day. Part of Gannett New Jersey photo staff, I was asked to come down to Asbury Park to work for a month or so. My first assignment, I felt like I had come full circle as a photojournalist & adopted New Jerseyan. I was given the difficult task of heading to the coolest hotdog joint at the Shore and photographing one of my favorite recording artists since college. Backstory: As a junior and photography major at Syracuse University I photographed Southside Johnny and the Asbury Jukes on the SU quad in 1980.

34 yrs later, working for the Asbury Park Press, I was assigned to shoot Southside atop of the Windmill in Long Branch. Before the show, I was “backstage” and introduced myself to Southside Johnny, so proud to be a working photojournalist at a newspaper at had respected for so lone. He shook my hand and said I looked very familiar. I mentioned the only place we would have met was the 1980 concert in Syracuse. With a complete straight face he said, “Nope, that’s not it.” Moments like this that bridge my career as a photojournalist is why I got into the “business” of making pictures. And the interesting people and moments that you meet along the journey.

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(thank you to drummer Tom 'The Goose' Seguso for offering to let me up on your shoulders for the shot)

Also big thanks for my personal archivist Rick Berger for still having the original Southside image from September 1980

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30 Years Ago Today: 'The greatest high school game ever played'

December 1, 1990, Randolph High School football made history. My single favorite moment from all my years as a photojournalist happened 29 years ago today! What’s been called 'The greatest high school game ever played' Randolph High school holder Eric Schaub & Mike Groh (now offensive coordinator of the Philadelphia Eagles) celebrated as Groh's 37 yrd FG with 0:01 seconds left in the game cleared the uprights at Woodman Field in Montclair. Randolph beating heavily favored Montclair 22-21 to capture the 1990 Group 4 Sec 2 State Championship.

Randolph holder Eric Schaeb (left) and quarterback/kicker Mike Groh rejoice after the game-winning field goal in the 1990 title game. Montclair’s Garland Thornton, sprawled on the field, narrowly missed blocking the kick.

Randolph holder Eric Schaeb (left) and quarterback/kicker Mike Groh rejoice after the game-winning field goal in the 1990 title game. Montclair’s Garland Thornton, sprawled on the field, narrowly missed blocking the kick.

”I’ve been around long enough to know how many ways there are to lose a football game. And during this streak there have been about 10 games that you’d ordinarily lose. But the ball keeps bouncing our way. Maybe the Lord is rewarding me for all my hard work over the years.” --Randolph Coach John Bauer Sr.

The time clock showed 0:00. Randolph’s miracle season was over, the score was 21-19. Montclair fans rushed the field as the dejected Rams walked to back their sidelines. After four perfect years, there would be no fifth straight championship, the win streak was over at a state record 47 games. The favored Mounties, the number one team in the state would beat number two Randolph. Seventeen days after the death of their beloved coach John Bauer Sr., the Rams had run out of miracles in the 1990 North Jersey Section 2, Group IV State Championship game. Legendary Coach John Bauer Sr. had planned on retiring after the 1990 season but insisted that he wouldn’t quit until the team lost. He said he didn’t want his son to carry the burden of Randolph losing its first game. As if empowering his team from the great beyond, Bauer Sr. who had coached Randolph since 1965 wasn’t about to let his Rams dream season end with a loss. There was one more victory cigar for him to smoke.

mir·a·cle Pronunciation: \ˈmir-i-kəl\ Function: noun Etymology: Middle English, from Anglo-French, from Late Latin miraculum, from Latin, a wonder, marvel, from mirari to wonder at Date: 12th century 1 : an extraordinary event manifesting divine intervention in human affairs 2 : an extremely outstanding or unusual event, thing, or accomplishment

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The next moments on December 1, 1990 are the things Hollywood movies are made of. The kind with tidy, clean, happy, Hollywood endings. Events that couldn’t possibly happen in the real world. But this epic wasn’t made on a sound set in California, it was fought on the cold tundra of Montclair’s Woodman field. What been known as ‘The greatest high school game ever played’ Holder Eric Schaeb, l, and Mike Groh celebrate as Groh’s 37 yrd FG with 0:01 seconds left in the game clears the uprights at Woodman Field in Montclair. Randolph beat heavily favored Montclair 22-21 to capture the 1990 Group 4 Sec 2 State Championship. The first miracle came with seconds to go in the game. Thousands of Montclair fans rushed the field prematurely as clock hit 0:00, Montclair apparently winning the game by two points. Before the time clock had actually run out, Montclair was whistled for delay-of-game. It was now fourth down and the celebrating fans had to be pushed back into the stands. Montclair was now forced to punt from inside their own 10-yard-line. Six seconds were put back on the clock. The kick went up, straight up, coming down somewhere around the 20 yard line into the arms of Billy Williams of Randolph who smartly called for the fair catch as he went down to one knee, stopping the clock. It was then that Mike Groh stepped back on the field for the last time as a high school star, attempting only his second field goal of the year. With one second left, Eric Schaeb took the snap and Groh took two steps kicking the football 37 yards through the uprights leaving 12,000 fans on Woodman Field stunned at the miracle they had just witnessed. The score was now 22-21, the Randolph Rams were the State Champions, their win streak now 48 games. One New Jersey newspaper calling it the “greatest high school football game ever played.” Mike Groh, 47, who was a celebrated quarterback for UVA in the 1990s currently serves as Offensive Coordinator for the Philly Eagles, talked with me back in 2009 about the highs and lows of Randolph’s miracle season and of course, “the kick.”

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“I had only attempted one other field goal all season long and that was a twenty-one yarder. I did make it, however. We rarely needed to kick field goals. When we got in a situation, we usually went for it on fourth down.” He added, “We were fortunate that Billy Williams made the fair catch with a second left which allowed us the opportunity to attempt the kick. I knew I’d make it if we could just line up and try it. I always felt my team had the best chance to win when I had the ball at the end of the game. No matter the sport, I wanted that responsibility. I just focused on the same routine that Eric Schaeb, Mark Schmidt and I worked on every Thursday afternoon.”

I remember very clearly before the fourth down penalty was whistled, running across the field to the Montclair Side so I could shoot straight at Randolph’s bench. I have always preferred taking jubilation over dejection photos, but if Randolph was about to lose this historic game, I had to document it. In a matter of moments I was rushing back to the other side of the field, this time, to make a photo of a dejected kicker and holder after what would certainly be a missed field goal. I can remember looking through the viewfinder, holding my breath as I always doing when I’m about to shoot. And waiting. The ball was snapped, the kick was up, at that moment, my entire world existed in only what I could see through my viewfinder. Whether the kick was good or not, it would be history. Through my whirring shutter, I suddenly saw Mike Groh throwing his arms up in the air. It wasn’t possible! It couldn’t be! It was a miracle! I knew immediately this would be an important photo, my only thought at the time, ‘please let it be in focus.’ Over a twenty five year career where Ive literally made millions of frames, it easily remains one of my top five favorite moments and certainly one of the reason I got into photojournalism.

Montclair alum John Amos

Actor John Amos, graduate of East Orange High School but on the Montclair sideline cheering on the Mounties

I got a call the next day after my photo appeared dominantly on the front page of the paper. A fellow photographer shooting the game for a weekly newspaper had left prematurely thinking he had made all the photos he needed of the winning Montclair celebration. All I heard after picking up the phone was, “YOU SONOFABITCH!” It was a compliment I’ll always cherish. When I asked Mike Groh how it was possible to stay focused after the loss of their legendary coach, he gave credit to the coaches and assistant coaches (particularly John Bauer Jr.) saying the focus was a tribute to Bauer Sr. “They never wavered in their message of what the goals were for our team. As seniors, we wanted to make sure that our legacy would be secure by winning a 5th straight title and setting the consecutive win record. We knew that would be the best tribute we could ever make for our coach.” -Mike Groh Legendary Coach John Bauer Sr. in his last game with the Rams. John Bauer Jr. would say during an interview ten years after the historic win, “Our primary concern was making sure that the young people who we were with were able to finish what my father had begun. Their legs were cut out from under them, it’s really hard to fathom how a 15 to 17-year-old will react under those circumstances.” Bauer added,

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“My Dad told them before the season that they were the best, and I don’t think they believed it before today.”

Groh finished our interview by saying, “Great moments are born from great opportunity. Our team had made a commitment to each other back in the beginning of the summer and playing against a great team like Montclair was the payoff. In order to become one of the great teams in Randolph Football history, we had to have the mindset that we wouldn’t be denied. We knew that if we all just did our job, played with discipline, toughness, effort and relentless competitive attitude that would carry us to victory. I will always be proud to say I played football at Randolph High School, for Mr. Bauer, Sr., and Mr. Bauer, Jr., the coaching staff and all my teammates.” Twenty-five years ago, throughout a historic win streak, a physically and emotionally demanding season and one of the most improbably finishes in high school football history, Mike Groh, his teammates and Coach John Bauer Jr. played like champions giving their beloved coach, John Bauer Sr. the tribute that he deserved.

All my respect and condolences to the family of John Bauer Jr., the architect of Randolph’s stunning 1990 championship who passed away this October.

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Bullied

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I wrote this blog post 10 years ago, I thought since October marks the start of National Bullying Prevention Month, it would be a good time to reshare it.

I can still remember their names. Kenny, Peter, Louis, Dan and many others who weren’t even considered my ‘friends.’ As far as bullying is concerned, much has changed in the methods of bullying, but in the end nothing has changed when it comes to stopping or preventing this behavior. 35 years ago, I was a victim of this senseless, despicable behavior. I remember very clearly, a day in seventh grade English class, being picked up off my feet by two of my classmates. Through their laughs they said how funny it was going to see me fly as they carried me to an open second floor window, pushing me the sill as I was kicking my legs to no avail. I never once thought they would actually follow through with the ‘joke,’ but it was still no comfort after I was dropped onto the floor, quickly running into the coat room so none of my classmates would see me crying. My humiliation was compounded by a compassionate female friend who came in to ask if I was alright. After her kind act, the best thanks I could muster through my tears was, “just leave me alone.”
 
There were muggings by nameless, faceless creeps who traveled in packs almost on a daily basis. Their taking of our lunch money almost became a cliche. Hiding behind a giant delivery van at Stork’s Baby Wash on Delaware Avenue, we’d walk towards Hackett Junior High after being dropped off by the bus. Three or more would jump out and the biggest of the group would step up and say, “Got a dime?” This was our cue to empty our pockets. Growing up, with all the amazing lessons I learned from my loving mother and father, what reason would they have to think that self defense would be one of the lessons they should have taught me. Why would they. We were a good family in a good home, they had raised two good children.
 
Throughout my youth, I thought all kids were separated into two categories, the tough kids and the weaklings. I never thought to ask them what their motivations were. I just knew my role was the latter. I would head back to my good home after being spat on or thrown around by my winter jacket into a mailbox (at that same bus stop) feeling ashamed, trying my best not to let anyone know about my daily humiliations. I was skinny, innocent, red-headed and pimply faced, an easy target mainly because I only saw kindness in people. Violence and bad behavior was beyond my understanding. Through all the humiliation, I never found myself asking, “why me?”  

When I ‘came out’ to my mother after writing this piece, looking extremely distressed and crying, she asked the question so many parents ask, “Why didn’t you tell us?” My only response was that there was nothing anyone could do. Keeping some of the truth from her, in all honestly, it never would have occurred to me to share my experiences. Somehow trying to protect her from my pain. I thought and still think, how lucky I was, no matter how bad the humiliation, I would always come home to a loving home with two loving parents. A safe haven where I would always feel protected. Occasionally, I would get anonymous calls saying, “Your ass is grass at Hackett tomorrow.” The next morning, I would do what I always did, get up, go to school and deal with whatever was to come.
 
As a sophomore in high school, My dad, my Uncle Jay and I went out and bought a weight set which we assembled down my basement. As I became more involved in weight training, martial arts and boxing, I met a group of bodybuilders at the Jewish Community Center in Albany who took me under their wing and encouraged me to find my potential. In my damaged mind, I wanted to become a giant, a monster, at my towering 5′ 8″ tall I wanted to be an intimidating force, ready for the next bully to attack. I was never the kind of person who ever wanted to fight. But, there I was, waiting with perverted anticipation for the next bully who I was going to take great joy in making an example of, to make them pay for all the punishment and humiliation I was subjected to. But, in another lesson learned, at their very core, bullies are cowards, and no sooner than I was able to stand up and defend myself, they magically stopped showing interest in picking on me.
 
I overcame my past and found my retribution (if not vengeance) at a cafeteria lunch table. I was a senior a Albany High School where during lunch times, arm wrestling was the social networking of its time. Classmates would line up around tables one by one and take each other on. At the time, I was bench pressing close to 300 lbs, there were only a few in a school of 3000 that could beat me. One day there was a buzz in the cafeteria, there was a new kid at the tables. I recognized him immediately, it was Kenny, one of the two classmates that had lifted me off the ground and scared me into thinking I was going out a window. I took my place in line and waited my turn. One by one, he took down his opponents, laughing smugly just the way I remembered him laughing a me. The only difference was that he had changed very little in the five years since I’d last seen him. I had put on more than 25 lbs of muscle and had been waiting for a chance at retribution for much, much longer.

Finally, it was my turn, I stepped up, resting my elbow on the table, I looked into his eyes and saw a wave of recognition, then contempt. He sat back in his chair roaring with laughter. “YOU, I KNOW I CAN BEAT!!”  As we clasped hands, I took a a second to savor my moment. It was over very quickly. I soon as I heard “GO,” his hand was slammed backwards, making a loud SMACK onto the cheap Formica lunch table. I stared deeply into his eyes and saw as if in a mirror, my previous self, the insecurity, fear and humiliation I once harbored. It wasn’t just the shock in his eyes that changed the perception I had of myself, it was a metamorphosis that I felt, I could fight back. Not literally with my fists but I would refuse to make myself a target again. I was empowered.

At that moment I remembered something he said to me years ago during one of the moments of my biggest humiliation. He grabbed me by the bicep and started pulling me, this time, more out of fear than defiance, I pulled back hard and resisted, to which he said, “you’d probably be pretty strong if you weren’t so afraid.” I wasn’t afraid anymore. It was a turning point for me. Even with that one life changing victory, bad memories still linger. I still, often wake up in the middle of the night or am startled by past thoughts while I’m awake. I still have flashbacks from my years of indignity. My constant silent companion, hidden away, deep down waiting for something (or nothing) to trigger it to rear its ugly head. This is why bullying must be stopped before it takes another life, through suicide or even a life’s worth of internal torment.
 
One of the things that motivated me to write about my experience was seeing the face of a 15-year-old Morristown High School freshman who had taken his life. His friends saying because of a few intolerant classmates, bullies who tormented him only because they could. This young man had so many friends, such a good family. Why didn’t he tell someone, why couldn’t he just….exactly. That’s just what bullies count on, shame and silence.

Perhaps this post could motivate someone to stand up for themselves, perhaps tell someone, maybe even motivate a bully to see how pointless and destructive the choices they are making. When every day seems like a never-ended cycle of abuse, it’s impossible for someone who is being bullied to look ahead one week let alone thirty years. But please, please, please step into my shoes. If you had told me as a 15-year-old pimply faced, red-headed boy that 40 years from now, I’d be living the life of my dreams, traveling the world with my soul mate and loving life with beautiful friends and a great career, I would have called you crazy. Though the memories still linger, time passes, wounds heal, bullies go their way, the bullied generally go the opposite direction.

My message isn’t to fight back but to stand up. If every one of us all stood up for ourselves and one another, refusing to accept this kind of behavior it would disappear. I’d appeal to anyone reading this, parents, teachers, administrators and most of all, children…stand up and stop this nonsense before it takes one more life.

Childhood is a priceless gift. And no one has the right to take that gift or tarnish it just because you think your victim won’t fight back, yet.

My DMs are open if you need to talk.

BK