Ebb and Flow

The night before, out in the same bay on a manta ray excursion with my wife, I’d looked back at the shoreline and watched the swell going off against the lava — and made a note to get myself over there.

Because there’s no straightforward way in from the road, we booked a room at the hotel that sits above it, which bought us the access.

Getting out onto the rock at golden hour is its own small project. Lava breaks into edges; it’s uneven, sharp, and slick where the spray has been landing, and there’s no smart way of crossing it quickly.

Years of the same waves hitting the same place have cut the shelf into arches and blowholes, so a good set doesn’t just break — it detonates. Water comes up through the holes in improvised geysers and throws plumes fifty feet into the air, and if you’re out there with a tripod you’re standing inside the spray for the whole session.

At 0.8 seconds the shutter is open long enough to hold one whole surge rather than one instant of it, which is the only way I know to photograph water that’s moving like this and have it look the way it felt.

After every wave the whole face of the cliff drains — sheets breaking into rivulets, running back down the black rock, catching the last of the sun on the way.