As photographers, we often get caught up in the pursuit of perfection — the perfect light, the perfect pose, the perfect moment. But some of the most meaningful growth in our craft comes from simply playing — experimenting with no expectations, chasing light or movement for the sheer joy of seeing what happens. For me, that sense of play comes alive whenever I photograph the ocean.
The ocean is my muse because it never looks the same twice. Every tide shift, swell, and change in temperature transforms it into something new. One day it’s glassy and calm, a mirror reflecting the sky; the next it’s wild and foaming, full of sound and motion. Learning to photograph it — and the people who move within it — has taught me to embrace impermanence and creativity in equal measure.
When I’m out on the coast, I’m constantly reminded that the sea has its own rhythm. Tides roll in and out, reshaping the sand beneath my feet. Swells arrive from distant storms, creating patterns and textures that didn’t exist the day before. Even the water’s color shifts — from deep cobalt to clear turquoise — depending on the light, the wind, and the hidden life moving below the surface. Playing with photography in these moments means letting go of control and responding to what’s right in front of me.
There’s also a living ecosystem in constant motion. I’m fascinated by the kelp beds — how they sway just below the surface, reaching for sunlight in slow, graceful dances. Photographing them underwater or from above the surface is a reminder of the beauty that exists when nature and patience meet. Sometimes I’ll spot a child swimming near the kelp, wide-eyed and fearless, discovering crabs, shells, and the small wonders that the tide reveals. Those are the moments that remind me why I fell in love with photography in the first place: to capture the connection between people and the natural world in all its raw honesty.
Personal work — the kind that isn’t created for a client or a brief — allows space for discovery. It’s where I try new lenses, experiment with color, or follow a spontaneous idea just to see where it leads. It’s where mistakes often turn into art. The ocean gives me permission to do that — to experiment with long exposures that blur the waves into silk, to photograph the same stretch of coast at sunrise and again at dusk, and to find something new every time.
Photography, like the ocean, is about movement, depth, and change. The more I play — with light, perspective, and the unknown — the more I grow. So whether it’s the laughter of children chasing the tide, the rustle of seaweed in the shallows, or the endless pull of the horizon, I keep returning to the water. It teaches me that creativity, like the sea, is never still.
