Sometimes, the best photographs don’t come from what you set out to capture, but from what distracts you along the way. On the Sachuest Point coastline, I first found myself drawn not to the surf, but to a vine twined in bright, porcelain-like beads. Porcelain Berry, the invader in the grape family, looked like nature’s jewelry—clusters glowing in turquoise, lavender, pink, and purple. I remembered a Northern Mockingbird perched here a few days earlier, and thought maybe, just maybe, the scene would repeat itself.
The berries had their own story: irresistible to birds, yet lacking the rich fats that native fruits like dogwood offer. They sparkle like candy, luring robins, starlings, catbirds, and waxwings—unknowingly deputizing them as couriers of invasion. A reminder that nature’s beauty is rarely simple, always layered.
Just then, a different call drew me closer to the shoreline—the rhythmic clap of waves against rock, like a drumbeat urging me to look again. At first glance, the beach seemed empty. But then I saw them: a quiet congregation nestled in the chaos of surf and stone.
Sanderlings.
Not darting, as they so often do, chasing the retreating tide. Instead, they were still—huddled in tight formation, bills tucked neatly under wings, one leg drawn up. From a distance, they looked like a pale, feathered boulder, a single shape sculpted from rest and rhythm. In reality, it was a masterpiece of survival: conserving heat in the chill of dawn, blending into the rocks to foil a predator’s eye, finding strength and warmth in the company of others.
It was a slumber party, yes—but also a strategy honed over millennia. A choreography of energy, warmth, and trust.
I raised my camera and felt that familiar thrill—the privilege of being let in on a secret of the shoreline. What began with the curiosity of berries became a meditation on resilience, adaptation, and the quiet poetry of creatures who live on the margins of sea and sand.
In that moment, I was reminded why I do this—why I keep coming back with a lens in hand. Photography isn’t just about recording beauty. It’s about learning to see: to notice the porcelain beads on a vine, to hear the invitation of surf, to witness a flock of sanderlings resting between tides.
Nature is always writing its story. I’m just grateful to be holding the pen—and the camera—when a chapter like this unfolds.
I’d love to share my posts with you. If you subscribe, they’ll come straight to your inbox—most days, like a little note from me to you. It means a lot to know you’re reading along.
Click on the link to view and purchase an image in my online gallery at ImagesByGACioe.shop
Leave a Reply