It’s said that we are made of “star stuff.” Most of the elements that compose all living things on Earth are the same ones released by exploding stars billions of years ago.

A tidbit you hear, nod at, and forget—until you find yourself floating in a glow that blurs the line between ocean and cosmos.

From the first time I took my camera underwater, particles showing up in my images became one of my greatest frustrations. This backscatter is largely out of your control—and while you can mitigate it by getting closer to your subject, fast-moving whales on the hunt don’t offer much room for adjustment.

Before boarding the small Zodiac boat each morning, I was told that witnessing a bait ball hunt would make me feel like I was swimming among the stars. At the time, it seemed like one of those poetic exaggerations—how often does reality measure up to expectation?

But sure enough, as orcas passed on both sides and below me, I found myself in a galaxy of particles—small, silver specks that shimmered as they caught the little light that snuck into the fjord this time of year. With water over your ears, all you hear are the squeaks of the orcas coordinating their operation. You feel suspended—adrift in the agar of a petri dish larger than your mind can grasp.

A moment far better suited for feelings than words.

You can remove backscatter from images in post-production—but this was a moment the particles had to stay.

They complete the story.

These tiny, silver flecks are the scales of the herring the orcas had eaten moments before.

In a scene full of contrasts—large and small, predator and prey, animal and human, life and death—there's a common essence. These particles are made from the same elements that once came from distant stars.

The same elements that shape the five-ton hunters.

That make up you.

Looking down into the dark water became an exercise in looking up—but also within.