I walked onto Chapoquoit beach on an evening when there wasn't enough wind for the surfers and thought about bringing out my gear. There were some people having picnics and others just out walking with their dog. I was surprised at how out-of-place I felt without the surfers being there. Setting up a camera with a big lens on a tripod looks reasonable when there are giant colorful kites flying back and forth across the shoreline. I was sure it would look suspicious without the surfers.
When I finally did bring out the cameras this couple got up and started playing badminton without a net. I took several pictures.
This one was not well-composed. I don't like that I didn't get the woman from head-to-toe in the frame and I almost deleted it. But then I looked more closely at the shuttlecock captured a fraction of a second before its collision with the badminton racket. It is 1/1600th of a second out of their whole life. A frozen moment that wouldn't be remembered if my camera hadn't captured it. What would it mean to them if they could see it years from now? What will their grandchildren think about them if they find this photograph, faded and forgotten, in a box in the back of a closet?
Of course, I'm making up a story about two people I don't know. Maybe they aren't planning a life together. Maybe they are brother and sister! Maybe they just got married, but won't stay together long enough to have children or grandchildren. I know as little about what the future holds for these two people as I do for myself.
Idyllic moments, like the one in this photograph, get scattered among all the other stressful and monotonous and unpredictable events of our lives. We hope to have more of them. We plan for them. But we can't escape the anxiety of knowing that, like this couple, we are living and playing without a net.
Monte