It had been a quiet year behind the camera for me — the kind of stretch where even your own gear starts to feel unfamiliar. This is the photograph that reminded me why I picked it up in the first place.
I crawled out of bed early one morning, grabbed a cup of coffee, and headed for the coast with my camera in tow. I was determined to have a good outing. It had been a quiet year for me behind the lens, and every time I had picked up my camera, it felt like a stranger in my hands. In preparation, I’d been flipping through the manual and my old notes, trying to shake off the cobwebs and get reacquainted with the tool that once felt like an extension of me. What struck me most this morning was how odd it felt to be at a place I know so well—a spot I’ve visited and photographed over and over through the years—yet feel so unfamiliar. Like showing up to an old friend’s house and forgetting where they keep the coffee mugs. Still, it was a beautiful morning. And as the light shifted and the tide rolled in, something in me started to shift, too. By the end of the outing, my fingers were turning dials and pressing buttons almost instinctively— freeing up my mind to just feel. This was one of the last images I made that morning. I love how the vertical composition draws your eye into the distant sun. It’s not just a photograph—it’s a step back home.
Some mornings aren’t about getting a great shot. They’re about getting reacquainted with yourself. This one just happened to end with both.
There’s something honest about a photograph made on a morning when nothing came easy. This sunrise behind Rocky Point Pier is quiet, unforced, and real — the kind of piece that adds a moment of calm to any room, not a showpiece, just a place to rest your eyes.