I am not a photographer, yet I sometimes tote a still or video camera to play the part of a photographer -- which I do very badly. Many of my images are out of focus, and I do not understand shutter speed, light or when to use a flash. There are abbreviations that make little sense to me, adding to the reasons I struggle.
Yet I try. My office is filled with hundreds of videotapes, and I have a file on my computer that contains thousands of pictures of my world outdoors -- fish, game, trees, trails, boats, the sea, friends, strangers, a few dogs, even fewer trucks and images that I struggle to clearly understand.
When I settled upon outdoors writing as a hobby, I felt obligated to capture images of success and failure on film. It goes without saying that many of us flip through magazines and journals, and we quickly study the images and skim the words, though it is the images we like.
For this writer, there are many outdoor scenes of which I am fond, though most fail to compare to what is witnessed at the coast and at sea. I have spent many hours at sea taking pictures of scenes, fish and of people.
I once was so impressed by the sunrise that I filmed it for 40 minutes as it stretched beyond a lighthouse.
But while a camera's image is important for sharing, I have learned that what I view at sea and on land are even better when filed in my mind.
The blue water of the sea is impossible to replicate on film, so all that I can do is describe how it looks. This water is a virgin blue that is kissed by the sun and is clear like a thin pane of glass.
From my mind, I can see this blue water and can feel the warmth of the sun and the sea air, and I can smell things that only are found offshore.
In my home, there is a single picture of a sunrise that I took in June of 2004. This was a sunrise that was visible to many, yet it was one that appeared as if it spilled across the horizon. With a cheap camera, I held steady and pressed the button, then I watched and I let my mind capture the moment.
I turn my head from my desk and see this picture now. Yet when I close my eyes and open my mind, I see much more of this scene. The sea and sky are united, and it is a moment that few see and I feel lucky to have seen and now remember.
The sun appears to have been birthed from within the sea as the sky changes from dark and gray to orange and purple. From this place, the sun is not bold but instead is round and meek.
There were other pictures taken on that day and because fish were caught, too. However, I need pictures to remind me of what was caught, who fished and that this was a day of success.
Yet beyond the fish in coolers and the people who shared a day at sea, it is the sun that I remember.
There was a recent trip to the sea when I took a single picture with a simple camera. There was poetry on the water this day, and the first line began in a canal where marsh grass is tickled by the wake of passing boats.
There was a sunrise, its colors projected onto the sea. Fish were seen and caught. There were friends that leapt with joy and fish that leapt to be freed.
The sky, sea and horizon were friends this day. Not a photograph was taken until a particular catch.
Reaching for the camera was a reflex after a sailfish had been hooked. Near the boat, the sailfish was bronze, blue and silver -- its sail was dark, and its bill purple and blue.
I darted for the camera and held it beyond the boat, 10 feet from the fish and snapped but one photograph.
The fish shook the hook a moment later, and before we could release it properly, the sail was gone and so was an image.
Yet this scene was stored for this writer and for a handful of anglers, and one week later, I shared the only picture of the fish for all to see.
I look at the picture, then close my eyes. From this mental image, I can see the lines of the fish and its colors -- and I can feel, hear, see, taste and almost touch.
And these mental images are free and always in focus.
Enjoy your time outdoors.
You may contact Jason Hawkins at hawkinsoutdoors@msn.com.
