One man. Two Harlequins. Ten thousand gallons of seawater. And a camera that deserves hazard pay.
Should I?
Absolutely not.
Am I going to?
Absolutely.
And therein lies the fundamental problem with wildlife photography.
Common sense and I have a rather complicated relationship.
Especially when there are ducks involved.
Not just any ducks.
Harlequin Ducks.
Two of the most spectacularly dressed little daredevils ever to grace the waters of Rhode Island.
And today, they were closer to shore than I had ever seen them.
Close enough to photograph their extraordinary plumage.
Close enough to see the brilliant white markings, chestnut flanks, slate-blue feathers, and those ridiculous little racing stripes on their heads.
They look like someone handed a duck to an Italian fashion designer and said, “Go nuts.”
And boy, did he.
Unfortunately, Mother Nature had apparently hired a demolition crew.
The wind was howling.
The surf was pounding.
And waves were exploding against the rocks with enough force to rearrange my dental work.
Salt spray hung in the air.
The rocks were wet.
Slippery.
Treacherous.
And I was contemplating taking thousands of dollars’ worth of photographic equipment down to the water’s edge.
What could possibly go wrong?
Back to the inner monologue.
You could slip.
True.
You could roll an ankle.
Also true.
You could fall and break something.
Possibly several things.
You could destroy your camera.
Now THAT would be a tragedy.
But look at those ducks!
They’re RIGHT THERE!
And they’re BEAUTIFUL!
Besides, you’ve already carried all this equipment down here.
It would be a shame to waste the opportunity.
There’s just one problem.
The sun.
It’s too harsh.
Wait!
Look at those clouds!
In about ten minutes, they’ll soften the light beautifully.
Perfect!
Now all I have to do is survive the next ten minutes.
Decision made.
Down I went.
Carefully.
Very carefully.
With all the grace and athleticism of a refrigerator being moved down a flight of stairs.
And then the show began.
These little feathered lunatics were riding waves that looked large enough to swallow them whole.
Up they’d go.
Down they’d go.
Gone!
Wait.
There he is!
Nope.
Gone again.
Was he diving?
Was he behind a wave?
Was he behind a rock?
Was he being delivered to Block Island?
I had no idea.
And just when I thought I’d lost him, he’d pop up again, looking perfectly composed.
Not a feather out of place.
I, on the other hand, was trying to keep my balance, protect my lens, find the bird in the viewfinder, and avoid being baptized by the Atlantic Ocean.
Simultaneously.
It’s a skill set.
Not necessarily a useful one.
But a skill set nonetheless.
Here’s something remarkable about Harlequin Ducks.
They actually LIKE this stuff.
While most sensible creatures would seek shelter from pounding surf, Harlequins deliberately inhabit turbulent, rocky coastal waters during the winter.
They’re powerful diving ducks that feed on small marine invertebrates, including crustaceans and mollusks, among submerged rocks.
Think of it as an underwater seafood buffet.
Except the dining room is being repeatedly struck by a freight train.
And the customers couldn’t be happier.
Their compact bodies, powerful swimming abilities, and remarkable agility allow them to maneuver through water that would send most of us scrambling for higher ground.
They even have a wonderfully appropriate scientific name.
Histrionicus histrionicus.
The name refers to their theatrical appearance.
And theatrical they certainly are.
In fact, watching these two males navigate the surf was like watching a synchronized swimming competition organized by the Navy SEALs.
Except nobody was wearing a bathing cap.
And nobody seemed remotely concerned about drowning.
Meanwhile, back on shore, I was having a very different experience.
A wave would rise.
I’d track the duck.
The wave would crest.
I’d lose the duck.
The wave would break.
I’d lose sight of practically everything.
Then came the spray.
WHOOOOSH!
A thousand glittering droplets exploded into the air.
For one glorious instant, it looked like the ocean had turned into a snow globe.
A very angry snow globe.
I actually photographed one of those explosions.
Not because I thought it would make a particularly beautiful wildlife photograph.
But because I wanted evidence.
In case anyone questioned the extraordinary bravery, determination, and questionable judgment involved in this expedition.
Please examine that photograph carefully.
Those are not snowflakes.
That’s seawater.
Airborne seawater.
Lots of it.
And somewhere behind that aquatic curtain was a photographer wondering whether his homeowner’s insurance covered acts of stupidity.
Fortunately, the clouds arrived.
The light softened.
And the ducks cooperated.
Well.
Cooperated might be a generous description.
They continued doing exactly what they pleased.
Which mostly involved disappearing whenever I achieved perfect focus.
But every so often, everything came together.
A Harlequin would rise between two waves.
The light would catch the brilliant white markings on his face.
His chestnut sides would glow against the deep green water.
And for a fraction of a second, the extraordinary beauty of this little bird would reveal itself.
Click.
Click.
Click.
Magic.
Then he’d disappear again.
Of course.
You may remember that a couple of days ago I photographed two Harlequin Ducks perched on a rock at Sakonnet Point.
One photograph.
That was it.
Hardly the photographic extravaganza I had envisioned.
Well, apparently these fellows heard about my disappointment.
Because this time they gave me a performance.
A spectacular, wave-riding, diving, disappearing, reappearing, heart-stopping performance.
And I loved every minute of it.
Well, almost every minute.
There were a few moments when I seriously questioned my life choices.
But here’s what stays with me.
Not the slippery rocks.
Not the wind.
Not even the salt spray threatening to turn my expensive camera into a very sophisticated paperweight.
It’s the contrast.
These tiny, exquisitely beautiful birds living so comfortably in an environment of extraordinary power.
The ocean doesn’t accommodate them.
It doesn’t calm down.
It doesn’t offer a sheltered lane or a gentle current.
They simply belong there.
In all that magnificent chaos.
And there’s something wonderfully humbling about watching a creature so small navigate forces so enormous.
It reminds me that nature doesn’t always reveal its greatest beauty in peaceful places.
Sometimes you have to look for it in the turbulence.
Sometimes you have to wait for the clouds.
And sometimes you have to take a calculated risk.
Preferably one that doesn’t involve orthopedic surgery.
Would I do it again?
In a heartbeat.
Although next time I might bring a helmet.
And a life jacket.
And perhaps someone with enough common sense to tell me to stay on the trail.
On second thought.
Forget that last one.
I’d never get any photographs.
Enjoy the Harlequins.
I certainly did.
When I could see them.
And remember: When life throws a wave at you, don’t forget to duck!
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