There are a lot of things I love about photography. The light. The storytelling. The excuse to buy wildly expensive gear. But above all, I love the chase. The exploring. The waiting. The lurking. Yes—lurking. The quiet thrill of lying in wait, hoping for a bird to land, or to take off, or just to acknowledge your existence with a blur of wings.
Some call it a passion. Some, a therapy. Others? Obsession. I call it Tuesday.
The Glorious Thwack of Commitment
Let me start with one of the great, underrated joys of my life: the sound of a DSLR mirror flipping out of the way. That ka-thwack isn’t just mechanical—it’s spiritual. It ranks right up there with a baby’s first cry, or that oddly satisfying clank when a surgeon drops an extracted bullet into a metal tray (yes, that’s specific, and no, I won’t explain). It’s the sound of a captured moment. Of composition, light, and instinct aligning in a kind of cosmic choreography.
Photography, to me, is a language. A reflex. A calling. And also a delightful excuse to spend inordinate amounts of time staring at wildlife, landscapes, architecture, and other stuff while ignoring my to-do list.
When a Stranger Becomes the Subject
Take that morning at Napatree Point. I was headed out early, bird lenses ready, boots sandy, caffeine pulsing. As I reached the tip of the trail, I spotted another lone soul about 40 yards away, out on the rocks of a jetty. Tripod set up. Back to me. Silent. Still.
Naturally, I stopped in my tracks.
He was photographing… what? The ocean? The Sky? A ghost? The concept of solitude?
I squinted. Nothing. So, I did what any self-respecting photographer would do: I delayed my hike, set up my tripod, and used my 800mm lens as a private telescope to investigate.
Still nothing.
Now I was obsessed.
What was this mystery man seeing that I wasn’t? I scanned the horizon. Nope. Still blank. Just rocks, surf, and an increasingly compelling sense of confusion.
And then it hit me. He was the subject. Not his photo. Not his camera. Him.
The Beauty of Getting Lost (Creatively)
I took his picture. It was… fine. But it didn’t capture what I felt. The confusion. The awe. The early-morning devotion that led this photographer to risk a twisted ankle and possible crab attack for the perfect angle. This image would be a tribute to maniacal devotion.
So I switched lenses. Still not right.
Then I did what I often do in moments of creative desperation—I decreased the shutter speed until the image looked like a hazy pastel sketch of a “Man on the rocks”.
Suddenly, it worked.
The ambiguity became the point. The image asked a question without answering it. Why is he here? What is he seeing? Do we ever really know what anyone else sees? Boom. Existential.
And in that moment, I felt completely alive. And it was only 5:45 AM!
And Then… I Remembered the Birds
This, right here, is what I love about photography. It’s not just about “getting the shot.” It’s about the journey to it. The unexpected detours. The creative rabbit holes. The way your camera becomes not just a tool, but an accomplice in mischief, curiosity, and meaning-making.
I think Ann Patchett got it right when she said, “Never be so focused on what you’re looking for that you overlook the thing you actually find.”
I eventually got back to the birds, of course. But that one weird morning detour reminded me why I do this in the first place:
Because photography isn’t about focus—it’s about being open. To wonder. To detours. To the odd beauty you didn’t know you were looking for until it stood there quietly, asking to be seen.
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