First, my congratulations to Tom for his exciting new blogs that educate and inspire photographers of all levels. I instantly said Yes when Tom approached me about this new blog with its theme of creativity and reflection. I may not be as visionary as others, but my photography has been a constant to me over the past decades, not only as a photographer but also as a creative/art director, designer, and author. So if I can share some of my excitement for photography with you, I’m glad to join in.
Pelican Salute, © Harald Johnson
Nikonos II, 35mm lens, Fuji Velvia 100 then scanned
I spent a winter in South Florida a few years ago, and one of my favorite places to go was Jupiter Beach Park at the Jupiter Inlet. This is an area just north of Palm Beach on Florida's bulging Atlantic side, where they say the Gulf Stream comes the closest to land. It's a great spot for surfing, beachcombing, or watching the boats as they navigate the tricky tides to leave or enter the inlet. Which makes it a great location for photography.
On this particular day, I noticed from the beach that there were no fishermen at the end of the short stone jetty that brackets the inlet opening. Always on the lookout for a self-assignment photo opportunity, I grabbed the Nikonos underwater 35mm film camera I always carried with me back then (I now use an Olympus Stylus 770SW underwater digital), put on my flip-flops (to protect my feet from loose fish hooks), and headed out to see what was going on. It didn't take me long to discover why I was virtually alone.
A major winter storm had passed through the area the day before, and although the air was still, and the sky was clear and blue, the remnants of the storm's energy could clearly be seen in the form of gigantic waves that were pounding the end of the jetty. These monsters were only visible as humps in the open water, but as they encountered the leading edge of the jetty's boulders that sat in shallower water, the waves peaked up and then exploded onto the jetty, shooting foam and spray 20 feet or more in the air. The waves were so powerful that, even though the jetty was made of solid granite blocks, it shuddered as each successive wave hit.
I was in awe of this display, and within minutes, was completely drenched from the spray. Luckily, my camera was waterproof, so I positioned myself on the leeward side of the jetty's walkway, and started taking pictures with the 35mm slightly-wide-angle lens that I knew would take in all the action where I had no room to back up. I tried to time each wave's apex, and in that frozen moment, I found myself looking into a deep green sheet of suspended water that radiated an eery calmness. I was intoxicated by it, and I had to catch myself more than once from reaching out to the deceptive beauty of that water mass, which, if I had done so, could have easily swept me off my feet.
I was happy, clicking away with my camera, and smiling at the one or two other adventurous souls who would cautiously join me for a moment before shaking their heads and scurrying away to safety. Then, the most amazing thing happened. I had looked down to see that my camera was on its last frame: #36. When I raised my head again, a lone pelican was just landing on the guard railing directly in front of me. There were no other birds--no other animals of any type--to be seen, but here sat this beautiful pelican, eyeing me. He was motionless and as peaceful as he could be, seemingly oblivious to the fury and the danger that was boiling only a few feet from where he sat. He was looking right at me, appearing to ask, "Well, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to take my picture?"
Just as I raised my camera to take that last photo, he raised his wings in a kind of pelican salute, and I snapped the shot. He then immediately took flight just before the biggest wave of the day crashed down and completely buried the railing he was sitting on. That wave also swamped me, and it was only because I was able to grab hold of the guard railing that I was not catapulted onto the jagged boulders below.
After I processed the slide film and digitized it, I knew immediately that I had to make an artistic collage showing some of the waves of that day, and ending it all with that magnificent pelican, just as he was, in that magical moment in time.
I’ve since printed, published, and sold or donated the image (both the solo and the composite) to beach and nature lovers all over. And I always try to include the story of that day.
My website: www.dpandi.com
On this particular day, I noticed from the beach that there were no fishermen at the end of the short stone jetty that brackets the inlet opening. Always on the lookout for a self-assignment photo opportunity, I grabbed the Nikonos underwater 35mm film camera I always carried with me back then (I now use an Olympus Stylus 770SW underwater digital), put on my flip-flops (to protect my feet from loose fish hooks), and headed out to see what was going on. It didn't take me long to discover why I was virtually alone.
A major winter storm had passed through the area the day before, and although the air was still, and the sky was clear and blue, the remnants of the storm's energy could clearly be seen in the form of gigantic waves that were pounding the end of the jetty. These monsters were only visible as humps in the open water, but as they encountered the leading edge of the jetty's boulders that sat in shallower water, the waves peaked up and then exploded onto the jetty, shooting foam and spray 20 feet or more in the air. The waves were so powerful that, even though the jetty was made of solid granite blocks, it shuddered as each successive wave hit.
I was in awe of this display, and within minutes, was completely drenched from the spray. Luckily, my camera was waterproof, so I positioned myself on the leeward side of the jetty's walkway, and started taking pictures with the 35mm slightly-wide-angle lens that I knew would take in all the action where I had no room to back up. I tried to time each wave's apex, and in that frozen moment, I found myself looking into a deep green sheet of suspended water that radiated an eery calmness. I was intoxicated by it, and I had to catch myself more than once from reaching out to the deceptive beauty of that water mass, which, if I had done so, could have easily swept me off my feet.
I was happy, clicking away with my camera, and smiling at the one or two other adventurous souls who would cautiously join me for a moment before shaking their heads and scurrying away to safety. Then, the most amazing thing happened. I had looked down to see that my camera was on its last frame: #36. When I raised my head again, a lone pelican was just landing on the guard railing directly in front of me. There were no other birds--no other animals of any type--to be seen, but here sat this beautiful pelican, eyeing me. He was motionless and as peaceful as he could be, seemingly oblivious to the fury and the danger that was boiling only a few feet from where he sat. He was looking right at me, appearing to ask, "Well, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to take my picture?"
Just as I raised my camera to take that last photo, he raised his wings in a kind of pelican salute, and I snapped the shot. He then immediately took flight just before the biggest wave of the day crashed down and completely buried the railing he was sitting on. That wave also swamped me, and it was only because I was able to grab hold of the guard railing that I was not catapulted onto the jagged boulders below.
After I processed the slide film and digitized it, I knew immediately that I had to make an artistic collage showing some of the waves of that day, and ending it all with that magnificent pelican, just as he was, in that magical moment in time.
I’ve since printed, published, and sold or donated the image (both the solo and the composite) to beach and nature lovers all over. And I always try to include the story of that day.
My website: www.dpandi.com
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