In a moment when everyone was occupied in their own activities, I snuck away to focus on some other photos. A large (LARGE) piece of driftwood lay just down the beach a bit, and I had ideas.
Along with photos of the bleached, textured, driftwood, I was feeling particularly lovely in the summer dress I was wearing, and I thought the breeze might do nice things to it and my hair photographically as I stood on the log, looking out to sea.
After setting up about five or six shots, I heard a soft pitter-patter, pitter-patter in the sand. The sound of a child moving near by. I ignored it at first. I was in a photographer's zone. I did not want to risk making eye contact with some small person who wanted to explore the log. If I made eye contact, then I would see them waiting. And they would see that I could see them waiting. And then they would ask for a turn; if not verbally, then with their eyes. I've worked with children a long time; I know how this works. Selfishly, I set up for another shot, my back to the sound. I figured whoever else was interested in this log could wait just a few more minutes. But as the pitter-patter got closer, I eventually turned to the source of the sound. Fear that they would knock the camera off the log overtook worrying about having to give it up.
It was not just any small person."What are you doing, Aunty Gina?"
My heart melts and the selfishness dissolves. "I'm trying to take a picture of myself on this big piece of driftwood." He was intrigued by the fact that I was using a remote to take the picture without having to be behind the camera. "Want to try it?"
He nods.
Well, come on, then. Get up here with me.
"Do this, Aunty Gina," he says, arms out wide to catch the breeze.
How can I say no?
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