Prologue — From Lyon to Teahupo’o:
JOURNEY to the Heart of the Pacific
I originally come from Lyon, in France, a place where the ocean exists only on maps and where the sound of waves are not part of the everyday experience. Yet, it was there in France that I accidentally discovered surfing at the age of twelve, and later — at about age eighteen — I discovered a love of the ocean. It was a calling I could not ignore.
A few years later, Hawai‘i changed my life. After my first three months there shooting, surfing, and observing the movement of water, I understood that photography wouldn’t just be a passion for me, but a way of living. Photography became a way to translate what I felt in front of a wave, its light, and energy. And then, one day, I arrived in Tahiti.
The first time I saw Teahupo’o, I felt like the ocean was looking at me. This wave is not a surf break like the others. It’s an entity. Teahupo’o is like a living being, sometimes gentle, often brutal, always mysterious. I settled here three years ago because of my respect for this wave. Ever since, I’ve found myself belonging to it as much on its calm days as to when it rages. And yet, certain days rise above all expectation. Those days, well, you wait for them for years.
Anticipating the Impossible—
Code Red Swell
Every year, locals watch for a swell to arrive like the one from August 4-6, 2025. We watch for it constantly, but it doesn’t always come. The XXL swells, the real ones, the pure ones, the ones that overturn maps and certainties, show up sometimes only once every three, four, or even five years. You learn to recognize their signatures even before they hit the peninsula by a perfect curve in the wave models, a pulse from the South Pacific that rises slowly — almost sneakily — before arriving at full force. We all hope for a big “Code Red” entity to arrive. These are the real swells, the extraordinary ones, the ones that mark a decade. You can count them on one hand.
Towards the end of July 2025, the models started to look serious. A massive low pressure system began forming in the South Pacific with a perfect direction and a long-period swell that is rarely seen. The models showed — what we call here — a clean, sharp energy that wakes up the reef at Teahupo’o. As the days passed, excitement built as we watched the models. But with that excitement comes the stress. Because a swell like this is an event for the whole peninsula. Surfers prepare. Film crews mobilize. Captains reserve their boats. For a photographer like myself, the crucial question always is, am I going to get a spot on a boat?
On August 1st, the forecasts already looked unreal. They were showing the kind of charts you zoom into three times wondering if your screen has glitched. It was the kind of thing that wakes you up at night. With those forecasts comes an unusual mix of excitement, nerves, and a thunderstorm of logistics by way of WhatsApp messages, sudden phone calls and late-night discussions on finding a boat. Because at Teahupo’o, a swell of this size creates an entire solar system: surfers, jetski drivers, boat captains, videographers, and photographers. Everyone orbits the wave.
This time I was lucky.
Thanks to Thomas Bevilacqua from the agency Ores Collectif, who had come from France to film Matahi Drollet for a movie about the biggest waves Matahi rides, I was able to join the crew. He had booked a boat for the three days of swell, piloted by Matahi’s sister, Cindy — a skilled captain who knows this wave like few others.
I was deeply grateful to be brought onboard. It felt like being invited backstage to a concert you’ve dreamed of seeing your whole life — the film crew, a few photographers, and me — ready to experience one of the biggest swells in recent years.
Day 1 — BUILDING SWELL, Sand On the Road
On the morning of August 4, 2025, I left very early from Mahina in the north of the island. It was the kind of morning when even the road to the peninsula offers information to you. There was sand on the asphalt, torn from the reef by the first pulses of the swell.
When you arrive on this particular peninsula and see sand pushed onto the road by the swell, you already know the ocean is preparing something.
A sign. Always.
We boarded the boat with our captain to check on the wave before everyone else arrived. It was raining. The sky felt low and heavy. The wind was unpredictable. These were unstable conditions, or “sketchy,” as the locals call it. The mountain disappeared at times behind curtains of rain, and I had that familiar feeling in my stomach: the certainty that something was building, but nothing was guaranteed.
It was a privileged moment for me to see the pass early, observe the lines from the swell, imagining what would happen the following day if the wind decided to turn. The wave was definitely building, but only half-showing itself, as if testing the ones who had made the effort to come. There were plenty of people in the water: surfers, jetskis, boats, all hovering. But no one was surfing. The waves were too messy to be ridden.
We didn’t stay long on that trip, it wasn’t worth it. However, just being there, early for that beginning-of-storm atmosphere, was already a privilege. We motored back and found Thomas filming short interviews for his movie. It was fascinating to see the behind-the-scenes of filmmaking, those calm moments before potential chaos.
That night I slept close to the departure area. And maybe that moment is what struck me the most. During my night on the peninsula, I could hear the sound of waves smashing into the reef: a dull, regular, almost animal rumbling. It was the kind of sound that keeps you awake. Not out of fear, but from raw excitement.
Preparation Rituals
The day before a huge swell, as a photographer, you check every piece of equipment twice, perhaps three times. You have to be sure nothing will fail.
I use a Canon R5 with three lenses:
24–70 mm — especially when
I’m using my housing
70–200 mm
100–500 mm — my main
setup for big days
My DB Journey bag is a loyal companion: compact, sturdy, designed for days when you need everything within reach without losing control. I spent the evening cleaning my lenses, reformatting SD cards, checking batteries, inspecting my Aquatech housing which I planned to use on the third day if I went into the water with my fins. It is all routine, but the kind that can make the difference between a forgettable photo and an image that stays forever.
It was hard to sleep, hard to think about anything but the following day. The forecasts predicted August 5th would probably be the day.
Day 2 — TEAHUPO'O Awakens
August 5, 2025 is when everything began. Our crew left the dock early, very early. We launched at first light. The air felt heavy, full of humidity and tension. The light hadn’t yet chosen between blue and grey. On board, everyone was silent, focused. As we crossed the lagoon, the swell became clearer, stronger. As soon as we reached the pass, I understood.
The wave had arrived: massive, precise, thick, and alive. This was large scale Teahupo’o, leaving absolutely no room for error. The lineup was organized chaos with boats packed together, captains alert to every movement, jetskis rotating constantly, and surfers equipped like gladiators. In these moments, everything depends on coordination. A good captain makes all the difference.
A captain like Cindy is a treasure. She reads the wave better than anyone. She knows when to move forward, when to pull back, when to turn slightly so your lens is perfectly aligned — sometimes to the second — because at Teahupo’o a micro-mistake can send a boat straight into the lip.
As soon as we arrived, the first two waves unloaded onto the reef. Two signals. The second one detonated with a violence I had never heard before. It was not a wave sound, not a crash of foam. No. It was thundering. A sharp, dense, almost metallic impact. Everyone turned around. Nobody spoke. That sound is what announces a historic swell.
I spent the entire day shooting from morning until dusk. The waves were incredibly powerful. Each set lifted the entire water surface like a giant heartbeat. The rides were intense, the wipeouts unbelievably violent, and the barrels so deep you sometimes lost sight of the surfers entirely. Behind the viewfinder, everything mixes: light, raindrops, spray, shouts, acceleration, silences. You feel the waves as strongly as if you yourself were in the water.
Teahupo’o is not just another a surf spot. It’s raw emotion.
Being on a boat at Teahupo’o during an XXL swell is like navigating complex choreography:
safety jetskis
local boats
cameras popping
out everywhere
warning shouts
crashes
and the ballet of riders
Through the lens, you see everything:
dark lines wrapping in from
the ocean
metallic reflections in the
morning light
riders disappearing and
reappearing as if swallowed by
the ocean
the lip falling with the sound
of a steel door slamming
There were moments when I almost forgot to shoot. Moments when Andy Irons’ words echoed in my head: “The feeling I get from riding a big wave… nothing else compares.”
And even behind a camera, I know exactly what he meant.
AFTERMATH: A Full Day Inside the Wave’s Jaw
When you return to the dock after ten hours shooting, you are emptied. You’ve eaten two energy bars, drunk warm water, taken salt in your eyes, sun on your neck, and thousands of images in your head. Your body is tired, but your mind is buzzing. So in the evening, gathered around a meal, we began talking about it, reviewing key moments, wondering whether the next day would be even bigger. This kind of conversation is like a sacred ritual. Some photographers already begin to sort their shots, post, and send them to their publishers.
Not me.
I don’t like to rush. I prefer to let things settle. I choose to work on my photos with intention, focusing on my vision, and on my way of telling the story of this particular wave. I prefer artistry to rushing. I need the day to calm down and the raw emotion to clear. I deeply believe photography isn’t a sprint but more of an inner rhythm. Images need maturity, or time to arrive, just like the swell that birthed them.
Day 3 — Entering
into the Body of
the Beast
For the final day of the swell, I decided to get into the water with my water housing, fins, and a singular goal: to get closer to the energy of the wave. I wanted to see the wave from its stomach. It’s not the same experience. You no longer observe the chaos from the boat. You are inside the energy. You feel the currents, the pressure, the reef vibrations. You see the swell lines rise like transparent walls before turning into watery monsters.
That day, I understood - once again - that Teahupo’o isn’t a wave you capture. It tolerates you. It lets you tell the story it agrees to show you.
Reflections — Teahupo’o LESSONS
Teahupo’o teaches humility, patience, and respect. The experience is all about passion. This wave teaches me that the ocean is stronger than all of us, but that it can also — occasionally — offer moments of grace if we know how to listen, observe, and wait. Teahupo’o reminds us that nothing is guaranteed, that everything can flip in one second. It reveals what the ocean looks like when it arrives in full force without filters. It is magnificent, brutal, and indifferent. Yet it is essential.
Being a surf photographer at Teahupo’o means accepting being tiny. I accept that I have to start from zero every day. This work is not about pressing the shutter. It is serving something bigger than yourself. This work is translating the untamable into images. It is accepting that we will never fully capture this raw power.
Every Swell
Leaves A Mark
The swell from August 4–6, 2025 will stay etched in my mind forever, but the story never really ends. I am already watching for the next signal in the weather models. I look forward to that ridiculous rise of excitement again. I understand that I will charge my batteries three times too early. I know I can trust the ocean to surprise me. And maybe one day — maybe in a year, maybe in five years from now — a new perfect line will rise from the South Pacific.
And, I’ll be there.
Because you never really leave Teahupo’o and you never leave the ocean, either. Because this relationship is a drug, a necessity, a calling. And because every swell writes a new page. For now, I am content to wait for the next signal, the next swell cycle.
We are all waiting for the next vibration from the Pacific telling us: “Get ready.” We are all hoping for another Code Red swell, another miracle and another opportunity to go face-to-face with the monster. I also know that for as long as Teahupo’o breathes, I’ll be there — camera in hand — ready to listen to its story.
