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Two hours into a surf session after a two-year hiatus, my lower back convulsed and shoulders felt like they were about to pop off. It was Aug. 23, and I had joined a few friends on the beach just north of the Naples Pier to enjoy the fruits of Hurricane Dean, a Category 5 storm that had formed a week earlier off the coast of Africa.

Tristan Spinski / Daily News

Our World: Communion with the surf

I used to see myself as a surfer. It was my priority. It was, in a way, my identity. My real job was inconsequential. I remember visiting a friend in Philadelphia when I was in my early 20s and feeling sorry for people who didn’t get to experience what I did — getting a piggyback ride on a rendezvous between wind, water and land.

But on this day I found myself tired and old. Where once I could paddle half a mile to a reef break and surf all day, now I clumsily struggled to maintain a fixed position with the water’s current. My bathing suit was too tight. Defeated, I retreated to shore and grabbed my Holga — a cheap, medium-format film camera that can’t keep the light from leaking across the negative (hence the dark corners around the edges of the frame).

Over the past two years I came to find myself in a daily pattern of focused high-resolution images. Working as a staff photographer at the Daily News was my first “real job” and I learned so much about making pictures at the professional level. On my days off I was too distracted to find waves.

My comfort and my job was in making pictures. Pictures that convey a whole story in a single frame. Looking for the good light. Finding the moment. Filling the frame. Watching to make sure my backgrounds were clear of visual clutter. Focusing.

Two weeks later I stood on the beach outside of Wilmington, N.C. I’d quit my job, packed all my belongings into my van, and was in the process of moving to Washington, D.C., to be with my fiancee.

I promised myself a surfing indulgence on the drive up. Out in the water, I took the first wave, and easily settled into a 40-yard ride down the beach. As I paddled back out beyond the break to sit and wait for the next set, I was relieved to be back in the Atlantic, and finally surfing again. I felt like I was home, and it wasn’t in 8.2-megapixel resolution. It was scratched and speckled with dust, out of focus and mostly out of my control. I grew more confident with each wave. Between rides, I sat and waited as the swell rolled underneath.

It was like lying on the chest of the one you love most, feeling the breath of the world.