Remembering Bob Grieser: Photographer and Beloved Figure in the Boating Community

Editor’s note: Bob Grieser was a legendary photographer, a frequent Soundings contributor and an all-around colorful character who was well-known in the boating community. “Bobby G” died in January at age 70. A longtime friend and colleague offers this remembrance.

It feels like the world has tilted. Familiar lines—up and down, right and wrong—seem scrambled, and the steady presence of friends who anchored us through life is suddenly gone. For those of us who knew Bob Grieser, the loss is not only of a brilliant photographer but of a companion who brought warmth, mischief and a fierce loyalty to every corner of the boating world.

I first met Bob in Mission Bay, California, during a blustery Cat Fight regatta. Boats were charging, capsizing and slamming into the jetty, and the event needed a photo-boat driver. Bob hired me, a stranger with an accent and a grin. It was a risky move on his part and a lucky break on mine—we managed to stay off the rocks—and that day set the tone for a friendship that would last a quarter-century.

Watching him work from the bow of that bouncing rigid-inflatable, I saw why he was so admired. His eye for a moment, his instinct for timing and his fearlessness behind the lens made him more than a photographer; he was a storyteller who chased light, weather and human character with equal passion. He had a way of directing people that got genuine reactions—sometimes by barking orders, often with a grin that disarmed those around him. It wasn’t sternness so much as a theatrical, affectionate command that loosened people up and revealed something honest in their faces.

Our journey together threaded through many kinds of water and many kinds of stories: gourmet cruising in the Caribbean, intense match racing on 12 Meters, a curious dive into a dumpster at Allemand Bros. Boat Repairs in San Francisco, squalls of rain and rum in Philipsburg, St. Martin, flying balloons at Red Rock, and even borrowing Humphrey Bogart’s yacht for an impromptu spin. We shared small, perfect moments—nursing a cold beer with the last watermen in the Maritime Republic of Eastport, Maryland—and large, chaotic ones that required quick thinking and a steady hand on the camera.

Bob’s humor and generosity were constant. When I lost my wallet in St. Martin—including my green card, which at the time meant I couldn’t board a plane back to the United States—he quietly handed me twenty dollars and told me to “stay clean.” That modest sum, and his presence, turned out to be crucial; on the expedition that followed, it made the difference between scrambling for paperwork at the U.S. Embassy in Barbados and being stranded. Those small acts of practical kindness are how Bob lived his life: ready to joke and ready to help.

He built friendships across oceans and social circles alike. Photographers, sailors, mechanics, editors, and watermen all found a place in Bob’s orbit. Pets, too, were always welcome—his dogs Sassafras and Choptank were famous in their own right for their spoiled, affectionate antics. His wife Georgia was the steady center of his life, and together they made a home that accepted stray souls in whatever form they came: people and animals, barefoot or muddy, all welcome by the hearth.

Bob’s experience extended beyond the boating world; he once worked as a White House photographer, a detail he shared with characteristic wryness. He’d joke that his bark even reached presidential ears, and that only one commander-in-chief ever barked back. That sort of story—half ribald, half reverent—captures him well: a man whose career traversed high-profile halls and messy boatyards with equal curiosity.

As a mentor, he gave as much as he took. Many young photographers and sailors learned from his willingness to teach, his knack for making technical challenges seem manageable, and his insistence on getting the story right. His images and his anecdotes continue to inspire; they remind us that the life we choose on the water is about more than boats—it’s about the people, the unpredictable weather, the laughter and the shared cups of coffee at dawn.

Bob left an imprint that’s hard to quantify but easy to feel: a grin in a crowded marina, a shouted joke across a regatta start line, a camera ready when the moment demanded it. Those of us who were fortunate enough to ride in his wake will carry those memories forward.

Fair winds, Bobby G, and an inch of water under the keel, wherever you are sailing now.

Dieter Loibner is the former sailing editor and a contributing writer for Soundings.

This article originally appeared in the April 2017 issue.