Why must it pour every time I shoot something outside?
Running down the Stone pier wharf on Chebeague Island yesterday my mind was full of dreamlike images of the Deborah Lee, run aground, so it’s captain could check out the damage he did to her over this past scalloping season: Him inspecting her wooden hull, peering under the massive boat as she leaned against the wharf on the beach.
But it was pouring. And he was hiding inside. And I’m not sure how wet I should let my camera get. After trudging around in the mud and seaweed, shooting the old girl but seeing rain marks on my lens in the preview, I ran back up to the car, waving to the islanders as they walked hunched to the commuter ferry, “What a rig!” one guy said, taking a picture of the Deborah Lee with his camera phone. “Yea, I know, right?” I shouted hopping into the truck a little disheartened. And this morning, I’m back in Portland via the Casco Bay Lines, praying that she’ll get hauled out again this spring for painting and I’ll get the images that are in my head and not my camera.
