English Bay Sunset

It was one of those spellbinding and absolutely stunning English Bay sunsets, the kind that tourists travel from half a world away to witness, and I had wandered down to the beach and stumbled into it.

The sun was a huge warm fireball, sinking into a dusky lavender haze over the rippling water and a parade of cyclists, skateboarders, joggers and pedestrians streamed along the seawall, blending unselfconsciously into the beauty of it.

I settled myself on a bench at Sunset Beach above the walk, and prepared myself for the ritual watching of the sunset. It was then that I noticed the photographer, who had not been there a moment before, but had mysteriously appeared in position, tripod already spread, and at the opportune time and at the precise moment.

He was a young man in his early 30’s I guess, and dressed in work clothes, backpack and camera equipment bags slung over his shoulders, the garb of a photographer on the job I thought. Maybe he was shooting the cover of next week’s West Ender. He was totally focused and already snapping shots as the crowd passed him by, throwing cursory glances but not paying too much attention. He could have cared less. His camera was focused on the horizon and he was reaching for something ineffable, the perfect photo!

As I continued to watch the spectacle of the sunset, and the passers by, my gaze kept drifting back to him, and for the space of probably 45 minutes, he only shifted only once, and that was to set up again a few feet from his original position to get a better angle. He was hunched over the tripod, the very essence of a painter, pausing, reconsidering, taking the shot, then studying the view finder, barely looking up and paying no attention to the flow of traffic behind him.

The sun continued its rhythmic imperceptible descent below the horizon and still he stood focused, taking shot after shot, but not without long pauses between, always studying the viewfinder.

Finally the light began to diminish and his focus wavered a couple of times, once to take a shot in the opposite direction toward the Burrard Street Bridge and again when the mystical shadowy outline of a heron, crossed the water and his lens followed it.

Then with a few workmanlike movements, he dismantled the tripod, wrapped his camera in plastic, stowed it and walked away.

But before he left he turned once more, and with the air of a house builder who has driven the last nail of the day, leaned on his tripod and looked at the horizon, as though he had just arrived, and was seeing it for the first time.