For a medium meant to evoke feeling, there are times when you can’t escape the reality: you're playing a numbers game.

In these icy waters, there’s no studio.
No controlled lighting.
No models.
No bait.
Just a pair of freedive fins.
A wetsuit that feels like it’s choking you.
A camera encased in a cumbersome housing.

And a prayer.

Over nine days in Norway, five were spent cruising the northern coastline. Each day, you spend four to six hours in a small Zodiac, searching. On a good day, you get about 45 minutes in the water—when the animals feel comfortable enough to allow your presence. Of those, only five to ten minutes bring you close enough to photograph the whales.

In total, maybe a minute or two across the entire week offers a real chance to capture an image that holds up. You need your settings dialed, your awareness sharp, and a fair bit of luck.

Five or six photographs—if everything aligns—worthy of a place on paper.

On the third morning, we found a pod beginning to hunt deep in one of the fjords. Amidst the frenzy—orcas circling the fish, bits of herring sparkling below, colossal humpbacks and fin whales surging from the deep—it's hard to know where to point your camera.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of two bull orcas maintaining the shape of the bait ball. I turned, locked focus, and managed a few images.

A half second earlier they were too far apart.
A moment later, overlapping.
But this frame—this moment—was just right.
A coordinated dance of two apex predators.
Not their last, but likely the last many of those herring would witness.

Despite the rush and awe of being in the water with the orcas, it still comes down to chance.
The house should always win.

But you dive in anyway.
Trusting even in this cold, dark world below,
you can shape the chaos into something that resonates.