One of my favorite places in South Florida is 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 great for surfing, beachcombing, or watching the boats as they navigate the tricky tides to leave or enter the inlet. 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. Curious, I grabbed the Nikonos underwater camera I always carry with me, 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 up of solid granite, 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.
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 into 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, for that matter--to be seen, but here sat this beautiful pelican, eyeing me. He was still 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, seeming to say, "Well, are you just going to stand there, or are you going to take my picture?"
And so I did. Just as I raised my camera to take that last photo, he raised his wings in some sort of pelican pose, and I snapped it. 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, I knew immediately that I had to make a digital 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.
-- Harald