#1: IAN WILSON
Ian Wilson is a 30-year-old professional photographer originally from the Florida Keys whose career has been focused on, in, under, and around the ocean in various capacities across the globe. You can find him on Instagram (@ianwilsonn) and view his portfolio at ianwilsonphoto.com.
I wasn’t a great student. I spent more time daydreaming about surfing than paying attention in class. My mom is from Nicaragua, and I started going down there regularly when I was 3. By the time I was a teenager, I was surfing there and at the beach breaks back home in Florida regularly. Around 14, something clicked. I’d obsess over issues of Surfer magazine in the airports, not just for the waves, but for everything behind the images. I was intrigued with the idea of traveling to remote corners of the world, documenting the ocean and the cultures surrounding it.
I got my first camera (an early generation GoPro) right after graduating high school in 2013 and started messing around, taking it diving and spearfishing with friends in the Keys. That’s when I realized I truly wanted to be in the water, capturing what I loved most.
At 18, I set off backpacking through Central America—from Guatemala to Panama—to learn Spanish and surf. I was living out of a pack with basically nothing, surfing where I could, and taking photos with my GoPro and iPhone. At the time, I thought I had a decent understanding of the ocean. I’d been around it pretty much forever up to that point. I was young, fit, and full of confidence. That confidence nearly cost me my life.
A friend and I decided to explore Guatemala’s pacific coast for surf and ended up in Puerto San José, Guatemala—a random port town that had nothing but massive empty closeout beach breaks. There’s no reason we should’ve been there, really. It wasn’t a backpacker hub by any stretch, but it’s where the bus dropped us, so we figured we’d give it a shot. We booked a cheap, ant-infested room near the beach, and I vividly remember a few locals muttering “Gringos locos” under their breath as we walked down to check the surf. In hindsight, we probably should’ve heeded that warning. But on pure impulse and an itch to get wet, I decided to swim out to get some shots. No fins, no floatation, no one else anywhere near the water—just a heavy dose of ignorant stoke.
While I’d spent a substantial amount of time surfing, most of my recent swimming experience had been in the flat, relatively calm waters of the Keys. The surf wasn’t huge that day—maybe 4 to 6 feet—and I didn’t think anything of it. I didn’t look around the beach at all. I saw waves. I saw barrels. I just went, hoping to get my first barrel photos on a camera.
I swam out quickly, way out, past multiple sandbars. At first, I was fired up—an 18-year-old kid living the dream! Traveling the world… In a remote destination… taking barrel shots… just like the magazines.
Yeah…
After getting some shots (and taking a few beatings in the process) I started getting tired and decided to swim in, but I wasn’t gaining any ground, it just kept sucking me back out. What I didn’t notice in my frothy haste was that I had swum straight out in the center of a massive rip the size of a football field. I recognized what was happening, but I couldn’t get out of it. I tried to bodysurf forward, swim laterally—nothing worked. I started to wish I’d brought fins on this trip. Every time I made a little progress, another set would land on my head and I’d get dragged back out. Over and over. And over. And over.
I started to panic. I was exhausted. I remember trying to signal for help at one point before realizing no one even knew where I was. No one knew I was in the water, except for my friend somewhere down the beach, way out of sight and earshot. I was out of energy, out of options, and I was in real trouble.
After what felt like fighting forever, my toes just barely grazed the sand. That tiny moment of contact gave me the mental edge I needed to dig deeper. When the next set pounded me, I pulled as hard as I could to use the push from the whitewater and finally make a little progress. After a few more cycles of this, I eventually stumbled back to shore, and immediately collapsed—completely wiped out, embarrassed, angry at myself, and crystal clear on one thing: I’d just gotten lucky. Really lucky.
That experience changed everything. I realized how little I actually knew about ocean safety. I hadn’t trained. I had zero equipment. I didn’t understand the potential of rips like I thought I did. I didn’t respect the risks of swimming out at a foreign break completely alone. I knew if I wanted to keep doing this—getting in the water, shooting, chasing waves—I needed to be smarter. That moment was my wake-up call. It redirected the course of my life and my career.
After the incident in Guatemala, I carried on with the trip. I was still surfing, still taking photos, and trying to shake the close call. I didn’t fully process it at the time—I just moved on, like a lot of people do. I headed to El Salvador next, where I found myself on the other side of the coin.
It was a mellow afternoon in El Tunco. The waves were relatively small and my friend and I were surfing near the rock, only the two of us out in the water. I was sitting on my board just looking at the horizon waiting for a set, when I heard something barely audible off to my left. It was just a faint squeak, just enough to catch my attention.
I turned and saw a woman maybe 150 feet away near the rock doing the death crawl—arms vertical, head back, you know the stroke when you see it. Right as I turned her head was dipping below the surface, arms still protruding silently above the water. No flailing, no yelling. Just quietly slipping down. I shouted to my friend who was closer and we both sprint-paddled as fast as we could in her direction. He got to her just as the last of her hand was going under for good and yanked her up onto his board. I got there seconds later and kept her above the water while we processed what was happening. She was conscious but completely limp—expressionless, silent, in shock, just flopped on the board.
With precisely zero technique, we awkwardly swim-shuffled her to shore, trying to pin her limp body down to prevent her from getting pushed off as we worked through the waves. When we finally got in, she said nothing. She just stood up, walked up the sand, and just sat there staring. Her husband came over totally confused while her kid just kept playing in the sand. There were people all over the beach and this woman just came within an instant of dying in plain sight of everyone, and no one knew. To the rest of the world, it was just another sunny, peaceful day. We paddled back out, quietly shaken. It was so surreal—how quickly it happened, how silent the whole thing was…
When I got back home to Florida after that trip, my mindset shifted. I realized that if you spend enough time in the ocean, it’s not a matter of if something goes wrong—it’s when. I knew I had a lot to learn if I wanted to do this, so I got to work. I started paying more attention to my physical fitness and breath control. I pushed myself to be calmer in heavy situations. I ran more. I leaned into free diving and spearfishing. I even got into underwater hockey, which has been some of the best breath-hold training I’ve ever done.
In 2023, I drove 8 hour to the BWRAG summit in Daytona Beach, FL. I’d known about BWRAG for years. I had seen the Patagonia film and knew it was something I wanted to do eventually. I wasn’t CPR certified and I had no first aid experience at that point. No idea how to get someone out of the water properly in the event of a neck injury or anything. I’d been working as a photographer/surf guide in remote places like the Mentawais and Panama before that, and the fact that I didn’t know how to handle a real emergency was starting to feel irresponsible. It’s honestly pretty embarrassing thinking back on it.
But that summit changed everything. It gave me the tools I wish I’d had years earlier—how to assess risk, how to transport an unconscious surfer, how to respond instead of react. I realized just how much I didn’t know—and how much I needed to know. I would much rather be an asset in the water, not just another person hoping someone else knows what to do. Especially as a photographer… we’re typically the ones who see things happen first because it’s literally our job to be watching.
I tap into that toolkit all the time now. Today, I’m working toward my captain’s license, and logging hours as a crewmember on a boat on Maui where I’m constantly monitoring swimmers and assisting with water safety. I’m spending more consistent time in the ocean, training, refining my breath-hold, and building toward the kind of photographer and waterman I want to be. I’ve had some incredible experiences—but I still feel like I’m just getting started. I’ve got a lot more to explore—in the ocean, with my camera, and with myself.
(Also… I’m colorblind. I can’t see pinks. Still figuring that part out.)
