My New Hampshire home was just 20 minutes from the Atlantic coast. Though the White Mountains Region was my favored shooting area, I spent a great deal of time hanging around the seashore with my camera. There’s a lot to be said for proximity.

Over time, I zeroed in on one spot in particular: a tidal pool in Rye.

Just on the other side of huge boulders – a storm surge barrier – lining a section of Ocean Boulevard, it was, and still remains, my little jewel on the shore. (Actually, the pool is rather sizeable; it's pictured above.)

At high tide there’s virtually nothing to see. Waves push nearly all the way to those roadside boulders, leaving very little shoreline space in which to walk. Most everything is completely submerged. When the tide retreats, though, the chaotic churn of water transforms into a serene, reflective pool dotted with rocks of various shapes and sizes.

I never knew exactly what I’d see upon arrival at first light; there were many variables to contend with, and each morning brought new possibilities. Low tide has more than one personality: was it ebbing, completely low, slack, or rising? Was the air calm, or was there a breeze? Were there clouds overhead to catch some color? Was the eastern horizon clear? Was a front advancing, or a storm moving out to sea?

Each of these factors influenced the scene. Of course, there was the added challenge of trying to avoid visual repetition.

It could be a demanding location, but over a period of five or six years, I started my day at that tidal pool more times than I can count. I return there whenever I’m back in New Hampshire.

What is it about that spot?

“I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied…”

John Masefield - Sea-Fever

It’s easy to fall into the trap of believing that great photography requires new horizons. While there is nothing wrong with a change of pace, familiarity offers immense benefits. When you visit a place over and over again, you begin to peel back the layers. You notice things – little things – like the way a storm rearranged the smooth pebbles overnight, or the subtle progression of seasonal algae, or how a single rock takes on entirely different character depending on the water level or time of year. You see how the disposition of the place shifts – sometimes dramatically.

You stretch as an artist. Nobody wants to make the same photograph over and over again; revisiting locations forces us to look for different stories.

Perhaps starting the day on the Atlantic shore – or wherever your “old standby” location happens to be – isn’t only about photography. It’s also about being there. Belonging there.

It’s the smell of sea salt and seaweed, and the crunch of damp gravel as I navigate around sizeable rocks scattered at the water’s edge hunting for a composition. It’s the hum of lobster boats heading out to sea, the ringing of buoy bells, and the cries of seagulls. It’s watching the sun climb above the horizon as a new morning begins. It’s blissful solitude.

It's sinking your roots deep into one small patch of earth and celebrating that connection.

Even on the mornings when the conditions were flat and I didn't release the shutter a single time, I left richer than when I arrived.

Missed last week's post? Follow the link to read it:

Deconstructing the Landscape