KIT ERICKSON SAFETY THIRD AT SAFEWAY

June 1991. I had just broken free from the meat grinder of high school and scraped together enough cash to buy my first real camera—straight from the hands of San Francisco legend Tobin Yelland. One week later, I’m in Isla Vista, riding shotgun with a buddy heading to UC Santa Barbara, where he’d already entrenched himself in the SoCal student/surfer lifestyle.

“Dude, you gotta meet this local named Kit,” he tells me. “You should shoot with him. He rips.”

He wasn’t wrong.

From that trip on, Kit and I were thick as thieves—instant combustion. Northern California grit met Southern California soul. Me, still wet behind the ears with a borrowed aesthetic and a burning need to document. Him, pure unfiltered charisma on urethane. Surfer vibes and a smile that made strangers feel like blood brothers. It was yin and yang with a six-pack in the middle. When he moved up to The City, we were skating or partying together six out of seven days a week.

He became my muse. My test pilot. My brother. Kit gave me the confidence to chase the craft of photography with reckless joy. And I got to watch him weave through life with that easy, genuine energy that drew people in like moths to a bonfire.

Now, about the photo…

We were just supposed to skate. No cameras. Just the two of us and the Safeway curbs near the house—a local crust spot with enough grind to keep things interesting. We get there, and there’s this guy asleep on a bench. Dead to the world. Kit’s sessioning the curbs, I’m across the street housing a burrito, when out of nowhere—boom—he ollies the dude. Just floats over him like it was nothing.

I leapt up, wide-eyed, burrito still in hand: “I’m getting the camera!”

Problem: the gear was all the way uphill at Guerrero and Duboce. And I mean uphill like you question your life choices with every push. I skated like a man possessed, every breath praying the sleeping man wouldn’t move. If he got up, the moment was gone.

Somehow I made it back in record time, sweating bullets, hands trembling with anticipation. Kit drops in, pops… and hangs up on the bench. Truck clips. Board ricochets off the guy’s ribs. He wakes up mid-dream and starts freaking the hell out.

Kit, always the diplomat, calms him down—says something smooth, helps him settle back to sleep. Then, once the guy’s snoozing again, Kit lines it up, digs deep into his bag of pop, and clears both man and bench like it was his own private airstrip.

I hit the shutter. One frame. Magic.

And now, all these years later, it still burns in my head like a blessed hallucination—etched in silver halide and concrete dust.

Thank you, Kit. You beautiful bastard.
Rest easy, Brother. You’re still flying.

• 10 mil (0.25 mm) thick
• Slightly glossy
• Fingerprint resistant
• Paper sourced from Japan