The volcanic disaster in Tonga strikes to my heart. My husband Mike and I have traveled to that island kingdom three times – in 2005, 2009, and finally in 2013. It is so sad to think of those pristine blue waters, tropical beaches, and palm forests covered with ash. Tonga is not a wealthy country and I am sure the inhabitants are suffering greatly from the damage to their homes and livelihoods.
I wonder too how badly the coral reefs and sea life will be affected. At least the humpback whales, who migrate to Tonga annually in the July-October time frame to raise their babies, are far away in their migratory feeding grounds this time of year.
Pictured is our boat Raven, a 64 foot long ocean capable sailboat. We bought her on Christmas Eve 2004 in New Zealand and our first cruising adventure the following season was to Tonga. Here we are anchored in the Ha’apai Group, stern-tied to a palm tree.
Our two boats, the sailing yacht Raven succeeded by the powerboat AVATAR, traveled to a total of 40 different countries from 2004 to 2016 before we ended our cruising lifestyle. During those years I kept a photo-journal blog initially named The Raven Logs and later re-christened The AVATAR Logs in keeping with the change in vessels. The blogs began as emails home to family and and friends, written while struggling with what was then prehistoric internet technology in a third-world country.
Those were life-changing years that I will never forget. My early photography efforts were snapshots, but each year both my camera and my writing skills improved, so those journals document that growth as well. The blog still exists but links have broken and photos have turned into ? marks. I’m starting to go back in time to polish up those posts, year by year, to bring them back to life. There might even be a book hidden away in there! Did you ever notice that my online portfolio was heavily weighted towards seascapes and underwater scenes? Now you know why!
I polled my audience and the consensus was unanimous that I should resurrect my sea-going stories and share them again. Stay tuned!
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I wanted to repost a story I wrote a few years ago as the cover feature for Berthon Lifestyle, a yachting lifestyle magazine published in the U.K. It was one of those times when the words came together extraordinarily well to help me express what photography means to me, how I approach it, and why I share my images.
A dozen years ago, my husband and I surprised ourselves by making an impulsive, pre-retirement decision to purchase a bluewater sailboat located in New Zealand, ideally situated for exploring the prime cruising grounds of the South Pacific. My first (as it turned out, naive) impulse was to cultivate an artistic hobby to fill the leisure time generated by our idyllic new lifestyle. Many options – oil paints, watercolors, pastels – were discarded as too messy for a vessel’s tight quarters. Finally I settled on photography and embarked on not one, but two new adventures.The best camera, as they say, is the one you have with you. Photography on a boat can be pursued with a smartphone or a pro DSLR. It is neat and clean and portable, whether on deck or ashore or even underwater. Add a computer and appropriate software for organizing and editing the images, and the onboard studio is complete.
From the deck of a cruising yacht there is a wealth of inspiration and source material that ranges from scenic vistas to wildlife to foreign cultures. These days my photo platform is a rugged aluminum FPB64 motor yacht, supplemented by an aging much-loved inflatable kayak.
All it takes is one simple click to ‘take a picture’, a rectangle, destined to hang on the wall as a print or glow on a screen as a digital image or join a collection in a book. But as a photographer/artist I don’t want to just record a photograph. I want to create art, to meld technical material with creative insight, elevating that rectangle to a higher plane.
The equipment and software available today are sophisticated and powerful, but to transform photography into an art form requires more than just good tools. Is a great novel the product of a good typewriter? It takes more than a good camera to produce an artistic photograph.
My finished photo-based artwork results from multiple technical choices made prior to pressing the shutter button – lens selection, exposure, depth of field, shutter speed, ISO, white balance, dynamic range and more. On the creative side I incorporate composition, light, shadow, color, texture, gesture and motion, all to play their part in capturing the raw image, the first step.
Step two is the selection process that takes place in the digital darkroom (my computer) reviewing and culling to find those select images that resonate with my imagination. The third phase is post-processing, the judicious application of a variety of digital darkroom tools – software and filters, layered and retouched by hand to manipulate the image into its final form.
In the beginning I took a cyberclass that taught me how to get the most out of my Nikon’s buttons, dials and menus. Early on I learned the important camera techniques necessary to achieve the best results. But on a boat, many of those best practices are impractical. Focusing on a cavorting dolphin or a diving pelican while striving for balance on a boat navigating ocean swells is not an ideal scenario for keeping the camera steady. A shore expedition in the company of non-photographers is a source of irritation for those who don’t appreciate a 20 minute pause for setting up and composing the perfectly executed shot.
As a result I’ve learned compromises. On a moving deck I compensate by shooting at higher shutter speeds or raising the ISO setting. To keep my balance I bend my knees and widen my stance to absorb the shock. I jam my elbows into my ribs and mash the camera viewfinder into my eye socket for additional stability. Often I fire off a burst of photos knowing that one of the bunch will by sheer luck be more crisp and clear than the others. There will be a lot of throwaways, but a few will be keepers.
I do a lot of shooting from my kayak. It’s a soothing, soul-satisfying experience to rise just before dawn and glide silently in quest of a sunrise, or a seabird, or a village just starting the day. Again, the gently rocking boat and the low light of early morning limit my choices, demanding compromise.
A good image should relate a story to the viewer, not simply recreate a scene but instead share an insight into the very essence of what first captured the photographer’s imagination. It may be about how the interplay of light and shadow illuminates a seascape for a brief magical moment. It may be about reflections on glassy water, or how a bird’s feathers flare in flight. Perhaps it’s a story of village life, a new friend, a beautiful scene, or the devastation of a storm.
But there’s a second story that accompanies each image, and that is the story that belongs solely to the photographer. The travel, the gear, the camaraderie, the solitude, the discomforts, the challenges, the accomplishments – all are embedded into the making of that simple rectangle. Not just sight but also sound, touch, smell, even taste, are part of the experience. Whenever I review my work the memories come flooding back to let me relive the adventure once again.
To illustrate, this particular image tells the viewer the story of a mother whale helping her new calf breathe in clear blue tropical water. But for me it contains the hidden short story of how she first swam away from me, then changed her mind and returned to within touching distance of her own volition, lingering passively in the water next to me, eye to eye, observing me as I observed her, while her baby slept.
An even lengthier version of that narrative begins with a 6,000 mile journey to the tropical kingdom where the humpbacks congregate. It includes my history of previous whale-watching expeditions led by professionals, where I learned whale behavior and how to observe them in the water safely and respectfully. It is colored by a Sunday morning sail in search of a cooperative whale, and the frisson of excitement as I donned snorkel gear, grabbed the underwater camera, and slid into the water from off the stern of the boat.
Each photo, that deceptively simple click, is embedded with two stories, one for the viewing public and one for the photographer alone. To produce them with forethought, investing time and energy into making them the best they can be, is to embed that memory even more deeply into my being.
All photos are copyrighted and registered with the U.S. Copyright Office. Enjoy but please respect.
This is the wildlife image that holds the most meaning for me of all the photographs I have taken over the past ten years. I have it hanging in my kitchen where I see and marvel at it each and every day.
My husband and I are fortunate to have had access to a cruising yacht based in the South Pacific over the past several years. One of my favorite destinations is the small Kingdom of Tonga, where humpback whales migrate each year from the Antarctic to give birth and mate. We have visited several times during whale season and each time I took the opportunity to go out with whale watching professionals, over time learning the basic elements of locating and interacting with the whales in the water.
On our last visit in 2013, we were out for a cruise and scouting for whales on the way. The ocean was empty, no whales or whale watching boats in sight. Then suddenly we spotted a blow quite nearby. Luck was entirely on our side. We had found a mother and very young calf that were floating quietly near the surface. They showed no signs of avoiding us or moving on, and no licensed whale boat operators were in the vicinity to ‘appropriate’ our find. I couldn’t resist such a golden opportunity. I quickly peeled off my clothes down to the swimsuit underneath and grabbed my underwater camera, fortunately already assembled and leak-tested and ready to go. There was a mad scramble gathering the bare necessities – fins, mask and snorkel – and then I eased into the water off the boat’s stern.
The two whales were maybe 150 feet away and I located them instantly through my camera’s viewfinder. I swam slowly and carefully towards them, minimizing any splashing or sudden movement, and they allowed me to approach without showing any skittishness. After a few minutes, mom turned and started swimming slowly away, giving me a rear view of her tail. But as I watched her go, snapping my last few photographs, I realized that her path was curving back in my direction. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the pair drifted back towards me until I found myself so close that I started backpedaling to avoid making accidental physical contact with mama’s long pectoral fin.
I spent nearly twenty minutes eye to eye with this calm and generous whale, while her baby slept and breathed above her, as we silently communicated with each other. I finally cut the session short when a third whale, probably her escort, arrived on the scene.
In itself the opportunity to swim alone and close to a cooperative whale is a rare and awe-inspiring experience. For the whale herself to voluntarily initiate that interaction was such an amazing, incredible privilege, never to be forgotten.
I don’t often post photos of myself (especially in a swimsuit!), but my husband took this photo of the three of us from the deck of the boat.
Nikon D4, 1/180 sec at f/2.8, ISO 400, 35mm (17.0-35mm f/2.8)
Photo is copyrighted and registered with the U.S. Copyright Office. Please respect.
