When Cameras Fly….

I am a photographer.  Sometimes we can become obsessed with our work, and creating our latest best pictures.  After college in the seventies, I saved money to buy my first SLR camera, which turned out to be a less famous GAF camera.  They were primarily manual then. No light meter either. Since I wanted to be an “art” photographer, I started with black and white film which was challenging for me, and soon went for the then more expensive, “color photography”.  My ego was boosted when an older professional photographer who worked at film processing store in town took me informally under his wing.  It also helped when a co-worker presented me with a photo contest application and said, “No excuses, enter it”. Two of my photos were chosen for a six month travelling show.

I often drove to the seacoast to do my work. I quickly created the habit of bringing extra pants, shoes, and socks as I was notorious for wading more than I should, sitting on a wet rock and a sundry of other ways where I need dry warm pants afterwards.

One day I went to Reid State Park north of Bath Maine.  Reid State Park used to be rarely visited by tourists, has two long beaches, lots of rocks jetting out into deep pools and great waves. It was fall, brisk, and energizing. The waves rose particularly high and made the pebbles and quartz granules sparkle.  Gulls, comorants, and an occasional hawk cruised the skies. The day perfect captivated my visions. I had plenty of film. Grand pictures dived into the magical box. Light etched the film. Joy filled my senses. And then, moving quickly ahead I tripped, splashing into oncoming surf. Adding insult to injury, I screamed while watching my beloved camera fly high beyond the next big wave.  My world stopped.

Anxiety set in and I scrambled to my feet. Dashing into the surf I tried to calculate the probability of retrieving the camera. I could barely swim, let alone dive and deal with the undertow too.  Besides it was cold in the late Maine fall afternoon.  The walk back to the car already would prove challenging. A shiver of defeat passed through my wet body. Again I scanned the shoreline. No camera.

Now what? I did what any good feminist New Englander would do ( well, maybe not most New Englanders). I looked directly into the next wave, and politely asked, “Could you give me my camera back?” Well maybe not those exact words, c’mon this is over 30 years later. As I turned around the next wave shot gently my camera to shore where I had to run fast for a few yards and nearly do a dive to pounce on it. I rewound the film and put it into a canister, and dried and cleaned the camera the best I could.  I stood up laughing, looking at the ocean and beach in new wonder. I began walking back to the car, humbled. I realized, as I saw the world as if for the first time, that being present holds greater vision and wonder than any camera ever might capture.  Now what did I trip over?