I was born to the ebb and flow of a sailboat's rhythm, and it is in that cradle of wood and water that I found my truest sense of home. Yet, on a sailboat, my comfort perpetually teetered on the edge of danger.
The sea, with her capricious nature, oscillates between exhilarating freedom and tranquil calmness. You learn to surrender to her will, accepting that you are but a speck in her vast embrace, and that she will take what she desires without hesitation.
This is the feeling that sears moments like these into your memory. The wonder of the weather, the splendor of the sky. It's a view often obscured by towering cityscapes, easy to forget when concrete replaces the horizon.
The photos you see here were captured in the waters near Ketchikan, Alaska. When I gazed into the distance, I thought a storm had set loose its fury upon the island ahead. I drew closer and realized that the veil of rain was the shadows cast by a forest of trees, perfectly aligned. I had never witnessed this before. In that silence, I drifted nearer, my camera the only sound as it clicked away. Each click felt intrusive, a breach of the reverent silence. I set the camera down, choosing instead to watch the shadows lengthen as the sun descended.
In that moment, an absurd thought crossed my mind: if those shadows could reach me, would they pull me into their depths? Absurd, I know, but in that instance, I felt profoundly small among the world.
