This time, our journey took us north, to Władysławowo, where the horizon was no longer framed by pines but stretched endlessly across the sea. Each morning, the Baltic greeted us differently — one day whispering, the next roaring. Standing there with my camera, I wondered: Does the sea have moods, or is it reflecting our own?
The seafront became our ritual. Steps tracing familiar paths felt unfamiliar each time. I carried both my camera and DJI Pocket 2, chasing fleeting details: the weathered boards of the pier, a child’s kite caught in the wind, Monty’s paws leaving tiny imprints that vanished as quickly as they were made. Was I preserving moments, or merely acknowledging their fragility?
We ventured further—cycling to Chałupy, where the road seemed to dissolve into sand and sky, and another day to Jastrzębia Góra, where cliffs rose like vigilant guardians over the coast. Each turn of the pedals reminded me that landscapes reveal themselves slowly, through effort, sweat, and time.
One day, we reached the very edge—Hel, the narrow spit of land where sea meets sea. From above, using the DJI Mini 3 Pro, the coastline unfolded like a map drawn by a hand older than memory. Looking at that image later, I asked myself: What does it mean to stand at the end of land? Do journeys ever truly end, or do they fold into the next horizon?
Evenings were surrendered to the rhythm of the tide. The sun slipped lower, casting the water in silver and fire. I often hesitated to press the shutter—some beauty feels too alive to trap. Yet still I raised the camera, because perhaps photography isn’t about freezing time, but about reminding ourselves that time was once here.
Have you ever stood at the sea’s edge and realised it isn’t the waves moving — it’s you?
