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On Sunday, we lost one of the good ones.

One of the first people I met when I got to UF in 1996 was a photo student named Bob Croslin. He was a total badass. He was a skateboarder turned cyclist. He was married to an amazing woman, and soon after, they had an amazing daughter. He was gruff but kind. He was making incredible photos. He was a few years older than me and just about done with the program, but his photos, the way he used light, and the ideas he had were light-years ahead of the rest of us.

I had an old Pentax K1000 camera that I brought with me to college, and I wanted something better. He was selling his Nikon N90s. I bought it, hoping some of his juju would come with it¹. For a long time, my entire portfolio came from photos made with that camera. I used it until the world went digital, and I had no choice.

Our paths crossed a handful of times in the next decade. Then we both ended up on staff at the Tampa Bay Times². I can’t remember why he left the paper a few years later to freelance, but I know he was ready — from hip hop magazines to Sports Illustrated, he did it all. When I left the paper eventually, he gave me a pep talk and told me I was ready, even if I didn’t think I was at the time.

He was an APAD OG. Really active on the APhotoADay listserv early on. I went back through the archives recently, and there were multiple times in the early aughts when he had the front page of the website, multiple days in a row. I tried to mix it up, but he was so good, always inspiring us with his work on there. He was also one of the people whose constructive criticism was legendary.

One friend recently told me that Bob was tough love. He was never mean about it. And he was usually right. Always the first to say something didn’t quite work as well as you thought it did, but just as quick to tell you how it could’ve been better and what you should try or how you should approach it differently next time. That same friend also said that when Bob liked something of yours, you knew it. You knew those words meant something because he wasn’t one to say something or offer praise if he didn’t mean it.

It was a no-brainer for me to bring Bob onto the APAD board. He ran a lot of the tech for us and gave lighting demos. He spoke at at least one GeekFest, and then helped run the College APAD stuff we took on the road to a few universities. He was a natural teacher. He was also the perfect person to get real with the students.

We worked side-by-side on a film in Oahu together in May 2018. The best part of that trip was the conversations we had at the end of a long day under an endless Hawaiian sunset. The woman we were filming was a total badass free diver. She was also a spearfisher, only taking what she planned on eating, and always giving thanks for the animal that gave its life. So she caught a huge mahi mahi the day we were filming, and brought it home, filleted it, grilled it, and then shimmied up a coconut tree in her backyard to chop down a few coconuts with which she whipped together a curry using coconut milk and some herbs from her garden. This was a legitimate 5-star dining experience. The nightcap was a fat joint the freediver rolled for us. Lying on the grass, listening to the ocean, counting more stars than you ever thought existed, Bob rolls over and says, " You know, a lot of the time this job sucks. But not today… Enjoy it. It may never be this good again.”

And I think about that moment a lot.

A few months after we got back, he was tired a lot, short of breath, and thought he had a never-ending flu. He was 47, super healthy, and just thought stress had worn him down. The doctor’s tests said otherwise: acute myeloid leukemia.

That was 8 years ago.

One of his passions was photographing birds. I think he enjoyed the challenge. But there was also admiration and awe. Sometimes he was so wrecked by chemo that he couldn’t get off the couch, so he rigged up lights and had a tripod aimed at the bird feeders in his yard. Trying to keep himself sane, he’d still find ways to make beautiful photos. Always pushing himself.

I’d get these really positive texts from him, saying his numbers looked great. That doctors comments were positive. That his outlook was good. That he was getting back on the bike. That he was traveling.

Then he’d text me asking if he could send me some bike jerseys, saying he wasn’t going to ride again. He’d ask if I could send cute pictures of my son, to make him smile, while updating me on his daughter or his rescue dogs.

His mood and our conversations were up and down like that. Mostly up. But I don’t think many, myself included, knew how low his downs really were. I think he did a good job of hiding it. Maybe it was what he needed to feel like things were “normal.” Maybe it was to protect us.

In September, he relapsed again and spent most of October in the hospital. His daughter Emily was getting married on January 17, and he told me he was just trying to get healthy for the wedding. All he wanted, more than anything, was to walk her down the aisle. And, he did.

I texted him again on February 10 to tell him happy birthday. He liked it and responded with a heart emoji. It was the last text I got from him.

He’d hate this post.

He’d think it’s too much about him.

All he’d really want you to know was that he loved his wife, daughter, and rescue chihuahuas hard. He treated his friends well. He liked great coffee, good beer, and things with wheels. And occasionally, he got to see and do some cool things, and he maybe even got to make a picture or two he liked along the way.

And as for life, he’d simply say, “Enjoy it… It may never be this good again.”

1. It did. It definitely did.

2. née St. Petersburg Times.