The surf was churning on Saco Bay today, on the second day of the unnamed storm of September 2026. We don’t name our Nor’easters up here. We just watch them come.

This one has been working its way up the Atlantic from the Carolinas, stirring the water all the way to Maine. It has lingered off the Jersey Shore and, judging by the waves, has no particular hurry to leave.

I think it looks a little like Sandy. It has done enough damage that you might think it deserved a name.The weather people say there is more rain coming. More wind. More surf.So a late-September swim at Kinney Shores can wait.  The beach will still be here.

For now, the dune grass bends in the wind, the signs say what they need to say, and the Atlantic keeps coming ashore.  And somewhere out there, the 2026 hurricane season is still waiting for its first hurricane.  Storm damage doesn’t need a name.

The rain held off just long enough.

At Camp Ellis, the marina was still waking. Two fishermen stood on the dock beside their boat, ready to head out while the harbor was quiet. The sky was dark with rain, but the morning had found a way through.

A faint rainbow appeared beyond the boats, almost lost in the weather.

The sun was rising somewhere behind the clouds and behind us, putting just enough light on the water to separate the day from the night.

They would go fishing. The rain would come when it came.

For a few minutes, Maine gave them—and me—a break

Photographs speak for themselves. This one does. I took it at dawn on the Camp Ellis jetty in Saco, Maine. It was September 6, 2026. The best light always comes before the dawn. And in Maine, in September, close to the equinox.

Ansel Adams is credited with saying that photography is about standing in the right place at the right time.

If that is what he said, he was spot on.

I had gone out that morning in Bengaluru for coffee, an old Nikon in my hand and no particular photograph in mind.

Then the street gave me one.

A cow came around the corner. An auto-rickshaw waited behind her. People moved through the morning traffic as if nothing unusual was happening.

I raised the camera and shot quickly, almost from the hip.

I didn’t arrange it. I didn’t wait for it.  I was simply standing in the right place at the right time.

Sometimes photography is that simple.  And sometimes, if you’re lucky, the right place and the right time find you.

From the banks of a lough in Connemara, near Kylemore Abbey.

The light was gray and soft. Clouds had settled low over the Connemara mountains, hiding their peaks and turning the landscape into layers of green and mist.

The lake was dark beneath them. A cool wind moved across the water, making small waves that carried the gray sky toward the shore.

There was no bright sunshine. No clear view of the mountains. Just the quiet beauty of the Irish landscape—water, mountains, trees, clouds and rain.

This is Ireland.

The Wild Atlantic Way does not always give you blue skies and perfect views. Sometimes the Irish mist is the view. Sometimes the clouds make the mountains more mysterious and the landscape more beautiful.

Standing there with a camera, I realized that Ireland travel photography is not always about capturing what you came to see.

Sometimes it is about capturing what Ireland gives you.

And on this summer morning at Pollacappul Lough, Ireland gave us mist.

The sun was high over Monument Square.

It was one of those August days when the heat settles into the brick and stays there. The chairs stood empty around the little table. Their shadows stretched across the pavement, sharp beneath the midday sun.

No one was in a hurry. It was the dog days of August.

The kind of day when you find a shady place, sit down, and let the world pass slowly by.

There was a time when writing required more than a keyboard and a screen. It required a Royal.

I created this photoblog because I enjoy taking photographs and writing short stories and vignettes about the images I capture. For me, the two have always gone hand in hand. A photograph captures a moment. A few words can give that moment a little more life.

This old Royal caught my eye.

The black paint is worn. The keys have yellowed with age. The metal carries the marks of years of use. Yet it still has a certain dignity.

There was no delete button. No spell check. No easy way to fix a mistake.

You had to choose your words carefully.

I like that.

Perhaps that is what I like about the old typewriter. It reminds me that writing, like photography, is about slowing down and paying attention.

One letter. One frame. One moment at a time.

If you’re interested in acquiring any of the photographs shared on this site, or would like a custom piece, please contact me.

In New Orleans’ Audubon Park, the old live oaks measure time in centuries, not seasons.

Some have stood since before France built her outpost in the bayou and New Orleans became the city we know today. Their great limbs stretch across the sky while Spanish moss hangs like worn lace, drifting in the warm Gulf air.

Beneath their broad canopy, the noise of the city fades. People come and go, children play, dogs wander the grass, and afternoon light filters through the leaves.

The oaks remain, patient as ever, reminding us that while our lives pass quickly, some things are built to endure.

The aptly named lobster boat Touch of Gray—designated a F/V (Fishing Vessel) by the U.S. Coast Guard—motored up from her mooring in Cape Porpoise on a late July morning that felt more like early fall. Low clouds hung over Camp Ellis as an easterly wind swept across the water. She would soon slip past the granite blocks of the Camp Ellis jetty and into Saco Bay, where the captain’s day’s work waited among the lobster traps. This is coastal Maine, where the morning commute is often measured by tides and harbors rather than highways, carpools, or public transportation. 

From the observation deck at the Rachel Carson Wildlife Refuge in Saco, Maine on the penultimate day of July, I watched a family in the surf below. The sky was gray, but they paid it no mind. They came for the ocean, not the weather.

Summer has reached its midpoint. August waits just beyond the horizon with warm tides, long afternoons, and the quiet reminder that the season is already slipping away. Each evening, the sun will leave a little sooner. The air will cool. Before long, the beaches will belong to the gulls again.

That is how summer should be remembered. Not by the color of the sky, but by the sound of children in the surf and the pull of the tide.

On the coast of Maine, even a cloudy day at the beach is better than most anywhere else.