As I ran down the bay with my family last evening, the temperature dropped noticeably as we approached the inlet. The tide was flooding, and cool tendrils of ocean water flowed into the bay dropping the local air temperature. When we left our back bay creek, we were sweating; by the time we got fully out into the ocean–just two miles away–we were reaching for sweatshirts.
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My longtime photographer-friend and mentor, Mike Fuller, is leaning out over the photo boat’s bow rail 12 feet in front of me, gesticulating with his hands and flashing a big grin to the driver and passenger of the boat that’s running 25 mph just inches off my port side. My eyes are on Fuller for only a second, but my concern for his well-being is at an all-time high. My peripheral vision keeps tabs on his footing and his stance while my primary focus shifts to the proximity of the riverbank streaking by. My eyes pan back to the small jet boat now tucked a mere inch or two under the spread of our bow. I’m locked in. One wrong move by me and we all could be in for a very bad day.