My Life As A Shark Photographer
Beneath the rolling waves off the North Shore of Oahu, the water shifts from a translucent turquoise to a deep, endless blue. My office is here—500 feet above the ocean floor, surrounded by some of the most misunderstood creatures on the planet. As a shark photographer for One Ocean Diving, I get to capture moments that dissolve fear and ignite awe.
Every morning begins the same: I enjoy the long drive from town to the North Shore of Oahu, listening to my favorite podcast or audiobook. I stop to grab a coffee and breakfast at my favorite coffee shop in Haliewa town, Coffee Gallery before heading to the harbor. I grab my bag from the trunk of my car, my haevy water housing and trusty camera and greet the waiting guests before boarding the boat. The scent of salt fills the air, mingling with a mix of excitement and nerves from those about to share space with sharks for the first time. My job isn’t just to take pictures; it’s to capture these encounters, memories that will last a lifetime, to show people what I’ve seen time and time again—sharks are not mindless predators, but intelligent, graceful animals worthy of our respect.
Today, the ocean is calm, the water smooth as glass. As we drift further from shore, the familiar dark shadows begin to emerge beneath us. The sandbar sharks are usually the first to arrive—sleek and curious, their silhouettes weaving effortlessly through the water like silver ribbons. I slip into the ocean, camera in hand, my heartbeat steady as I descend. I work closely with a safety diver who guides our guests down into the depths, I follow behind or alongside them, capturing memories that will last forever.
The sandbars circle us in hypnotic patterns, staying just at arm's length but close enough to study every detail of their streamlined bodies. I line up my shot, capturing the moment a guest stretches their hand towards a shark—not to touch, but to connect. The sunlight scatters down in beams, illuminating the scene in dreamlike clarity.
Then, a shift. The sandbars part slightly, making way for the Galapagos sharks. Larger, bolder, they glide in with unmistakable confidence, their movements powerful and deliberate. I angle my camera up, framing a perfect silhouette against the sunlit surface. The Galapagos sharks seem to watch me as much as I watch them, curious about this strange creature holding a lens.
But nothing quite compares to the arrival of the tiger shark. Her presence is unmistakable—a massive, striped figure drifting in from the blue. She is beautiful and ancient, a living relic of the ocean’s primal majesty. My fingers remain steady on the shutter as I document her approach, her eyes dark and endlessly knowing. Guests hold their breath in awe, their previous nerves replaced by pure wonder.
For me, these moments are humbling. To share space with a tiger shark, to photograph her in all her power, is to understand how small we are in her world. I click away, capturing the way her stripes melt into the blue and the light dances across her skin. She passes close, calm and uninterested in us, a reminder that we are visitors here.
Back on the boat, the energy is electric. Guests chatter excitedly, reviewing the images on my camera. “I can’t believe how peaceful they are,” someone whispers, almost reverently. That’s why I do this—to change perceptions, to replace fear with respect.
As the boat heads back to shore, I look out at the vast Pacific. This job is more than photography. It’s a chance to tell the sharks’ story, one frame at a time—and to remind people that we don’t need to fear the ocean’s top predators. We need to protect them.