Complete Immersion

Complete Immersion

Philip wondered what profession one could pursue who loved creeks, brooks, streams, rivers, ponds, lakes, and oceans more than anything. He would rather live on water for one year -- even drown in it -- than commiserate on land for a hundred. The thought always passed through the mind of the twelve year-old as his canoe swayed with the current on the Huron River in southern Michigan.

But, like all thoughts, it was intellectual, and mental was absolutely the last relationship the boy wanted with his love. His joy came fromexperiencing. And at the moment he was staring at a small eddy in a shallow cove. A brightly colored pan fish wiggled its dorsal fin while simultaneously waving its tail in response to the ever-changing current. The fish protected its hollowed-out nest where its near-invisible eggs lay, precariously undulating in its small-pebble housing.

"What perfection," said Philip. "A perfect fish in a perfect setting doing the perfect thing." The scene so impressed the boy that from that moment he never left the water: as a teenager he worked as a Marina Guard, canoe and fishing guide, camp counselor, crew rower, sailboat deck hand. Later, he went to the University of Minnesota in Duluth and studied ichthyology, then spent his tour of duty in the Navy, and eventually owned his own cruising vessel. His love of water reminded him of Walt Disney's reputed summer stay at his uncle's farm at nine: ever after, the artist duplicated the animals he'd observed during that special summer.

Philip's father had a desk job, but his uncle owned a marina on Lake Huron. There was no place better for the young boy so in love with boats and water than Barry's Wharf. Philip's definition of Heaven was formulated there. The clinking of the mooring and halyard lines, call of the seagulls, waves' eternal splashing, white caps, early Fall morning mists rising like great phantoms off the half-visible shorelines, the smell of fish, the croaking of frogs, sight of mayflies and dragonflies fluttering and darting, bubbles, how the water reflected the sky: so clear and bright when the sun was out, so gray and dull when it was overcast, the chilling north wind, rain-bringing southerly, the mournful call of the loon followed by his

crazy, giggling laugh, the way sounds carry over the water, the still, lifeless mirror of a windless lake, the stewed rhubarb effect of grasses swaying in a river current, mud-clouds raised when a fish darts chasing his supper, cat tails jutting from the marshy shore, a clam leaving its track underwater, crayfish darting backwards when fleeing from a predator, ducks bobbing for food, a heavy loon skidding like a water-skier to a stop or running on the water to take off, his heavy wings whacking the surface at each stroke, the beaver swimming his winter's, green tidbits through calm-surface ponds, great blue herons standing stiff-legged in the early mist, pollen falling from a pine tree, water spiders darting about, mayfly corpses covering the surface of small, backwater coves, lily pads giving shade to the minnows below and a resting place for frogs above as they watch patiently for insects getting too close to his lightning-fast tongue, the swishing-swirling of a water snake in search of food, heavy waves tossing small waders on a big-lake shoreline, the roller-coaster waves propelling swimmers precariously positioned on their cheap plastic mattresses that deflated after their first use, sail boats forever listing as the wind catches their taut sheets high overhead, clouds-clouds-clouds, the thick, rich smell of the muskeg with the hot-summer sound of the white-throated sparrow twilling overhead, the thick, musk-smell of a beaver swamp, the tiny sperm-worms of mosquito larvae struggling to the surface for air, pollywogs in varying stages of development from round blobs to small tails and legs, water skiers following the wake of their tow-boats, paddles dipping and splashing, rudders holding tight, lee boards and centerboards fighting to hold vessels on an even keel, the roar and swirl of motors ripping through Nature's flexible skin, thousands of legs wading shallow water on miles of beaches, little boys emulating fathers skipping flat stones over the water's surface, sun bathers challenging the sun as they turn lobster-red on inner tubes the day before they call in to work, campfire smoke floating over small ponds, bonfire billows over frozen lakes to warm ice skaters, crystals flashing through cold air as the skates of hockey players slash the surface, ice-boat sailors watching the frozen glass as they whoosh where they once paddled, ice shanties snuggle in make-shift villages when frigid winds cut through the winter fishermen, cold-rod teenagers daring ice-bound lakes with their cars by turning steering wheels sharp to spin out, kids jumping on shore-close ice to see if it's thick enough to hold them, throwing stones and logs off bridges to see if they can break the new ice, showoff boys daring thin ice, the boom-

boom-boom of ice cracking in subzero weather, the frozen silence of a lake in January, the honeycomb ice during the Spring thaw, the heavy ice sheets flowing down a river and piling-pushing to create walls on the slides while bending and ripping out everything in its way, watching rain drops create underwater bubbles when they hit the surface, staring into the clear water, seeing brown oak leaves on the pond's bottom, seeing raccoon tracks along a pond or river shore in search of a marine meal, the primordial pull of the mother of all life, water.

Philip wanted to be with the water year-round but oceanography and marine biology limited him too much. So did guiding and resort work. Since he loved the sights and sounds so much, he became a photographer, complete with sound equipment so he could put the two media together. Philip sold records, cassette tapes, CD's, video tapes, DVD's -- any medium that allowed him to share his love with what he considered the less fortunate, those land-locked and unfamiliar with the treasures of the wetlands and water.

His choice of photography came about as naturally as his love of water. During the winter, before he was introduced to skating, ice fishing, and ice sailing, he could only look at pictures. His sense of aesthetics was so keen that he could almost feel the summer scenes depicted on the thirty-five millimeter slides. To him, the photograph captured Nature just as it had him, so he bought a small camera and, in time, turned his keen eye to the lens. Before he graduated from high school he had won several awards: one for redwing blackbirds on cat tails in a marsh, and one for a muskrat cutting through a small pond with tender grass hanging from his mouth. With photography as his hobby/profession, now Philip could spend endless hours outdoors catching the moods of water and all its visitors and inhabitants.

Philip's first book,Water, Water, Everywhere,grabbed the imagination of the public as ever did Richard Bach'sJonathan Livingston Seagull. And, just like 'Seagull,' the photographs caught the sentiment that underlay the striking pictures. His basic message was that lucky is the one with a good eye and ear and medium to share it through. To Philip, watching and listening are fine, but getting others to love and appreciate the sights and sounds is even better.