All summer, I'd tried unsuccessfully to take a close-up picture. I didn't own a wildlife lens yet; my pictures depended on proximity. Every time I approached, each little crab would dart immediately back to the safety of its hole. In early August, I finally spied my prize: an extra large crab on the beach near the Cape Hatteras lighthouse. I took a step, the crab disappeared, and my frustration level soared. As if to taunt me, the crab came back out, too far away for me to have a printable image.
In that moment of frustration, I received a gift of calm. I realized I had never asked any of the Ghost Crabs if I could take their picture. I'd assumed my right to do so, human hubris at its worst. I'd never once thought "please" or "thank you." So I asked. For the first time, a Ghost Crab let me come closer and closer. I took one photograph with each step. I had a second epiphany; I needed to be completely candid. I stared down at its little eye stalks. With a deep breath, I confessed: I am going to sell your picture. I winced; surely the crab would disappear forever now. But no. It moved back and forth on either side of its hole but never went back inside. I kept eye contact, moving slowly, amazed at how my earlier frustration had melted into this newly felt calm. Children love you, I told it. They are going to love seeing your photograph up close. Finally I was bending over it, at the closest focus distance for my lens. That click is this image.
At that, the Ghost Crab skittered backwards a few inches and turned sideways, as if to say, all good? All finished now? I stepped slowly backward.
Since that day, I have had the honor of saying please and thank you many times over to wild birds and animals, and even to the land at large. This blog is the result of these ongoing encounters.
August, 2006. Nikon D70s, 1/400, f/10, 70mm (105mm equivalent)
