Three Black Men Walk Onto a Beach
I’ve sat puzzling over how to write about the events of the past year and their deep impact on me. It has been very challenging to put pen to paper. The highs and lows alone have been difficult to process. With so many overwhelming feelings, one thought has consistently stood out—community. Even though there has been a tremendous loss of all different types of community in the past 12 months, building and fostering community has also been a lifeline for me. Community is the groups we turn to for comfort and reprieve, to learn and to grow, even as the world seems to fall apart around us.
With that in mind, I was finally able to connect with two members of my community—two Black men, whom I highly respect—while on a recent surfing trip to Shorts Sands beach in Oregon (Nehalem land). Outdoor recreation has brought a lot of my friends closer together over the years, and this setting was no different.
There is a comfort, a relaxation, in sharing recreation with those close to you, with those like you. It is subconscious, it is warm, it feels like family and home. The three of us share a love of the outdoors, surfing and also a shared profession of spending time in front of or behind the camera. We took the day to surf, relax but also to talk through feelings around topics as close to us as skin. After a few hours of surfing, we took a break from the waves and sat together, as we talked about the pandemic, the Black Lives Matter movement, and the highs and lows of enjoying the outdoors - in front of the camera - as outdoor content creators on social media.
Kenneth Hamlet
A 29-year-old filmmaker based in Portland, Kenneth travels throughout PNW working as a filmmaker, editor and photographer while living full-time in a short bus.
Elijah Burton
A 29-year-old commercial pilot and street photographer, Elijah lives and travels throughout the PNW in his built out Dodge Promax van.
Adam Edwards
A 33 year-old MBC writer, and kayaker based out of Portland, Oregon
(Responses have been edited for clarity and brevity)
How did you react to the explosion of social media and media attention towards the violence on Black bodies and communities?
Kenny: It was terrible. I pulled back from social media really hard at the height of it. Like I was seeing me, violence happening to people who look like me, day in and day out. That's trauma. That's triggering. It made me feel like, even though I’m successful and healthy and in my prime, I could just die tomorrow—for no reason—because that's what's happening to my people. I was seeing how fragile my life was in those moments. Any moment. I could go out for a run and get shot for being “in the wrong place.” and I felt like I couldn't express my anger.
I was seeing a lot of white people, white friends trying to run away from it. They posted a square, they bought a thing from a black business and, boom!—box checked. Brands too, we’ve got our multi-ethnic cast, box checked. Let’s move on. And I’m like, “ this is what I live with…we’ve been dealing with this our entire lives. How are you gonna run away because it’s scary and now you have to see it. So that upset me, and I had to pull back and start thinking about how I was going to change that.
Elijah: I went to the protests, some in LA and some in Portland. And I posted a lot about that. I took a lot of photos and told stories as I tried to explain what I was seeing, what I was feeling in those moments.
Like I grew up in Newark NJ. My parents moved us to South Jersey for a better education and a better life, but you know it's still second-generation hood. So I see this, I saw these things happening growing up. So I’ve got history. I remember feeling, when I made these posts—it was a kind of survivor's guilt. Like I made it out. Like I'm posting this but in a lot of ways I’ve been protected from a lot of what I’m seeing and posting about. I grew up in an area where I knew what the police did to our people but I also knew how to defuse the situation* before it got there. How to avoid it, skip it, slide by. But I was a kid. I shouldn't have known how to do that. I should've just been a kid. But I knew because at that age, the place I lived, and who I was—that was just part of it. Does that play into either of your feelings Kenny and Adam? That survivor’s guilt? Like we made it so we owe a debt? We are three black men and two of us live in vans. We spent all day talking about how the cops harass campers on the coast but there’s an extra layer of fear for us because of the history of violence against Black men and because of our own experiences.
Kenny: In my mind, my thoughts go to how much trauma my people have experienced in order for me to even exist. How many people actually made it from Africa, from the ships, through the fields, through the Jim Crow.
Elijah: —through mass incarceration
Kenny: and segregation and here I am. I’ve made it to nearly thirty years of age, I have never had any major problems in that vein. Here I am. I feel lucky and I feel like I HAVE to do something. I feel like the guilt and the need to have a legacy hit hard this year. Like I always had this thought of making and doing projects that would inspire the next generation, but I saw The Museum in DC and that made it like it's crazy not to do something with my life. It's a waste of my ancestors' energy. the pain, the effort, the love.
I think that's when I get into survivor's guilt. Like just posting isn’t enough.
Elijah: Like this did nothing to help the movement along if your post is the equivalent of a van lifer promoting their awesome #vanlife while actually spending most of their time in parking lots.
Kenny: Exactly. I’d almost rather people did nothing. I did nothing, until it was informed and I felt it would be worthwhile.
Elijah: I feel like when I post I'm tying into that lip service, and I don’t need or want that. I want my contributions to be meaningful. Our way of making it better is by existing, by having made it through, and being awesome. Ball out. Enjoy life. It feels cheap otherwise.
Adam: I feel that. For me it’s been through so many lenses but with social media/media, I’ve thought a lot about my years as an outdoor industry model. I know that industry has “valued” black bodies for so long, but not really. And now there's a pre-2020 value and a post-2020 value. A pre-murder of George Floyd value for black models and a post-murder of George Floyd value for black models. It sucks to know that. I’ve been trying and at times failing to navigate and express how I feel about that. I’ve been given so many opportunities, like sponsorships, the Just Add Water tour, being an instructor, to put us forward and I feel like I’ve done well for what I am and what I know. But also I feel remiss. Like I’ve been slacking. The last several years as well I’ve been chafing against that internally and kind of just let it out.
Kenny: Yeah you kind of leaned in. Almost like I'm gonna make you see this.”
Adam: That…yeah…it was basically that. It was that and the survivor’s guilt. My world had been changing so much and expanding these last few years. I’ve been relearning so many things I’d just let fall away. My world, my life, was at a point where my relative success and lifestyle insulated me from so much of what others who share my skin color experience. Yeah, I had pointless run-ins with cops, faced microaggressions, and even full-on racist experiences, but most of the time I was working or out in the woods, well away from most of it. Also, I was raised to turn the other cheek. No matter what. Cause Jesus loves them and loves you. So a lot of what I experience in life and have experienced I just let wash over me. And for years I thought, those negative experiences had in fact washed over, but, in reality, you end up carrying that with you. It builds up. The things you let slide, just linger. The issues for me were internal. I was carrying scars and built-up resentment towards the communities I played and worked in because of these issues I hadn’t dealt with. In the whitewater world, we talk about gender issues, access issues. Like deep down I still had that fear of white violence against black bodies—my own—but I had convinced myself that I was safe. That it was unlikely to affect me, even though I am a Black man and my community is predominantly white. I convinced myself that the danger didn’t exist. Like these people will vouch for me—it’ll be fine. Right? And then the murder of Ahmaud Arbery happened. And my partner at the time, was also a runner. And I was recovering from an injury and also running a lot. And then things just really hit home.
So yeah for me, it became a thing of how can I expose my predominantly white outdoor community to what we, as Black people, have always lived with and witnessed and been subject to. Regardless of what social stratum we exist in. Like I was with some friends on the river once, in a pretty sketchy rural area, and they were like “damn this is sketchy, anything could happen. There are confederate flags everywhere, some Qanon stuff. It’s so blatant, like N**** if we see you" vibes.” And I used that moment to explain that's what it feels like all the time as a Black person.
The pandemic has been illustrative and heartbreaking [for me] in this respect because, at the height of it, when lockdown was going on and people were still recreating and having abrasive interactions with locals I thought, this is what it feels like. I come here to escape this bull**** and y’all are still just sauntering around privileged and oblivious. It broke my heart.
*respectability politics
What are your thoughts on brands suddenly pivoting towards promoting BIPOC? Is it a knee-jerk response?
Kenny: Totally. But we have to look at whether or not the pros outweigh the cons. Having any of us out there taking up space and killin it—that's good. For me the pros outweigh the cons. It’s gonna help the next generation of us get up and be like, “ I can do that I’ve seen it. I can BE that. Last weekend I snowboarded and surfed and this weekend I’m surfing with all black men. Like, the dream is real, you just have to show them the dream is there.
Elijah: It goes back to the box checking. I want to see us out here, but I don’t want to tie into that fake energy.
Adam: I mean totally. Its back to knowing the value of myself in the industry. I’ve watched the same shift over the last ten years and last year and its crazy. But also, when in line with my values, I’m on board. Take it. Send it. Spread the love. I want the community lifted up, to get the same chances I’ve been getting.
both of you mentioned That you never Imagined yourselves out here doing this surfing van life. How does it feel to be here now?
Kenny: My dad didn't understand when I started climbing, and this. He’s just like, what the hell are you doing out there? Why are you buying this expensive stuff and just wrecking it? I’m out here now like THIS IS DOPE. THIS IS WHAT I WANT.
Elijah: I started skating when I was a kid and, at first, my dad was like, ‘no you're playing basketball or football.’ I'm 6'5” my brother is 6’6”. That made sense. Not skating. But my brother got me into it and my parents saw it was keeping me out of trouble. Like, the surf in New Jersey in winter is great too but a surfboard was $500 and a skateboard was $50 for the deck. I could keep that going with my minimum wage job. So being out here now is the dream. Its what I wanted but couldn’t have back then.
Adam: So the wealth gap, that access gap for both of you has been formative?
Elijah: Yeah I literally could not afford to get into surfing when I was younger. Like $1,000 was that magic number that no matter how many lawns I cut I wasn't getting that money. Stuff would come up. Even after we left the hood, I couldn't cross the line. And as I got older, the gap just got bigger. It was never my parents not wanting me to do things. We just couldn't afford it. And I attribute that to being second generation out the hood.
Kenny: Me too. I know like one friend from growing up that snowboards. The interest and the access just aren't there. The people around you matter, what you're exposed to matters. Like I didn't start camping till I was in my 20’s and it was amazing.
Elijah: Like I thought this was some shit Flanders did. But it's dope.
Kenny: Being exposed, being given access is huge. You can’t do what you can't see. You can't be what you can't see. Like kids now can see Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez, Kamala Harris, Zeb Powell, Mikey February. All realms everywhere, you’re seeing BIPOC folks. They can see womxn and men like them and be inspired and KNOW they can be that too. We just have to be out here showing them that whatever you're doing it's worth the investment. There's more than the sports, or music or whatever. There's all of it out here for you just come get it.
At the end of the day, we retreated to our vans. We continued enjoying the warmth, conversation and safety of each other’s company until late in the evening when eventually the state troopers had to remind us that the parking lot was closed and we would have to be on our way. As I drove home reflecting on the day I also reflected on that last moment which really brought the point home. Three black men in a van having an entire day of hard conversations around race, violence against black bodies and our hope for legacy. And at the end of the day we are met with a police officer. What a punctuation point.
A friend put it this way: we shouldn’t have to hope that a cop is a good person. This cop was friendly, but what about the next one, or the next time we are stopped, pulled over, or assumed to be out of place for being Black in a predominantly white area? It was interesting to watch each of us—in that very moment that we were approached by police—put our guards back up, codeswitch and prepare ourselves mentally for what we have been socialized to expect. And it didn’t happen. We all went our separate ways in the end. Quietly. Safely. But the hypervigilance and the scars will be hard to let go. I’m looking forward to more days and nights like this. Safely exploring, sharing and creating memories.
These six Black athletes are pushing boundaries and defying gravity in the air, at their local skate park and in the mountains.