More than thirteen years ago, Joel and I escaped to Tasmania for a little boys’ time away from the complications of real life. He was about to become a father for the second time, while his relationship was already beginning to fray at the edges. I was carrying my own disappointments. I had failed my fellowship examination, and with it went much of the confidence I had once taken for granted. I was uncertain where life would lead me next.
In those days, Joel and I were also finding our way back to each other after years of drifting apart. Perhaps the trip was as much about rediscovering an old friendship as it was about photography.
Photography was supposed to be the reason for the journey. I had only recently returned to the hobby, armed with a rather modest Canon setup and even a few lenses I had bought back in my university days. There was nothing particularly sophisticated about the equipment, but perhaps that was part of the charm. I was simply happy to be looking through a viewfinder again.
Then came the Bay of Fires.
It was already an iconic corner of Tasmania, with its rust-red granite glowing against the cool Tasmanian sea. We pointed our cameras towards the rocks and water and, with the modest tools we had, somehow managed to bring home a few frames that still hold their own.
The first is almost a classic: that unmistakable red stone, softened by the silky, creamy movement of the ocean as it slipped around the rocks. The second caught something altogether more dramatic—a great burst of water frozen at precisely the right shutter speed, as though the sea itself had exploded into the frame.
Looking back now, the photographs seem to belong to a simpler time. Two old friends, two cameras, a rugged coastline—and for a little while, an escape from everything waiting for us when we returned home.
Canon 6D
EF 70-200mm f2.8
Linking Sunday Best
