No matter where I go, no matter how remote, scenic, or allegedly “about the light,” I always manage to stumble into something that reminds me of my wife – Trish.
This time… it was a buoy.
Now, let me be clear. I could have written about the rising sun, the golden-hour glow, the way the light kissed the surface of the water and turned this vivid red buoy into a painter’s palette of oranges and fire. I could have waxed poetic about color theory.
Red plus yellow equals orange.
Very artsy.
Very respectable.
But no.
We are not doing that.
Because this buoy did not whisper “photography.”
It screamed “TRISH.”
Here’s why.
Some people have favorite numbers. I get it. Most of us default to birthdays or anniversaries. Logical. Sensible. Normal human behavior.
And then there’s my wife.
For Trish, the number 4 is not a preference. It is a lifestyle.
Any number—any number—that can be bent, twisted, divided, multiplied, added, subtracted, or spiritually coerced into becoming a four is automatically lucky.
Hotel room numbers?
Gas pump totals?
Receipts?
Airline confirmation codes?
All fair game.
I have watched her stare at a receipt like it was a Sudoku puzzle sent directly from the universe. Digits get added. Then subtracted. Sometimes divided. Occasionally interrogated. And inevitably—inevitably—the math works out.
“See?” she’ll say.
“It’s four.”
I no longer ask questions. I simply slide back in my chair and enjoy the show. Because this is joy. Pure, harmless, beautifully ridiculous joy.
So there I am, camera in hand, minding my own business, when the buoy slowly turns in the wind.
And there it is.
4.
Not subtle.
Not hiding.
Just out there. Bold. Confident. Numerical destiny floating in saltwater.
At that moment, I had no choice.
This was no longer photography.
This was marriage.
Click.
For Trish.
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