One weekend early in the semester, my class went on a boat tour through the Pacific mangroves. This was my first weekend trip with classmates I still barely knew.
Whispers floated through the group.
“Crocodiles.”
I smiled and lifted my camera.
~
We all boarded a boat and headed into the swamp towards a pack of yellow eyes and jagged teeth rising above the waterline.
The tropical air was hot, humid, and unfamiliar to me and my new friends.
We cowered in the shade of the canopy and wished for a breeze, but the air only brought more warmth.
The boat rocked.
My friends laughed.
Then I raised my camera and the world shrunk. It was just me and the crocodiles, lurking like fierce shadows in the green water.
I hammered on the shutter button, watching as we neared the beasts. Then our tour guide lured the giant crocodiles from the water with scraps of raw meat. When one climb on the land to get it, he then dropped it right into its lunging jaws.
Through the telescopic lens of my camera viewfinder, I was free to focus on my framing. The scene felt fascinating but detached, like a documentary, not something happening right in front of me.
My surroundings disappeared, briefly registering, only when they got in the way of me and my shot.
The boat became an obstacle, my new friends, an annoyance.
My framing got tighter, the crocodile’s teeth became clearer.
Then I set my camera down.
The water jumped closer.
The rail felt lower than it should have.
The scaled monsters snapped into focus, close enough to touch.
I stepped back too fast and hit metal.
My classmates looked back.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. It’s… nothing.”
I lowered the camera.
My hands were still shaking.
“Hi. I’m Caleb, by the way.”