Dillon Beach

**The Ray at Dillon Beach**  

This was my first commissioned photograph—my first chance to prove to myself that I had what it takes to create something meaningful. A couple had reached out to me, asking if I could capture the beauty of Dillon Beach, where they had gotten engaged. This place meant the world to them, and they wanted a framed piece for their home—a tangible reminder of the moment their story began. I knew the weight of that request. This wasn’t just a photo; it was a piece of their memory, frozen forever. I had to get it right.  

I did my research. I found photos online and saw that the cliffs around Dillon Beach were rugged and wild—perfectly photogenic with just the right light. After scoping out the weather forecast, I spotted a day with partial clouds. With luck, I’d get just enough of a break for the sun to deliver a gorgeous sunset. I packed my gear, hopped into the car, and started the two-hour drive.  

The whole way there, I couldn’t shake the nervous flutter in my chest. I kept wondering: "What if the clouds block everything? What if the shot I have in my head doesn’t match reality?" I’d only seen the landscape through photos online—just a two-dimensional glimpse of what was waiting for me. I had no clue what it would feel like to stand there, with the ocean and cliffs surrounding me.  

When I arrived, the first thing that hit me was the air. It was sharp with salt, a mix of seaweed, and the cool tang of ocean mist. The waves thundered against the shore in a steady rhythm, rolling in and crashing with a sound that felt ancient. Seagulls wheeled overhead, their sharp cries cutting through the breeze. As I dug my feet into the damp sand, the cold seeped through my shoes, and I took a deep breath.  

There was something humbling about standing on that beach, knowing the cliffs had stood there for centuries, unmoved by the tides or time. The house perched high above me on the bluff looked small against the massive rock face, but it stood proud, framed by tangled patches of green and burnt-orange vegetation clinging to the cliffs.  

I arrived well ahead of golden hour, wanting to give myself time to explore and find the right angle. I paced up and down the shore, studying how the cliffs carved into the ocean and how the waves broke against the rocks scattered along the beach. The light was soft but muted, the clouds overhead thickening as the afternoon wore on. It felt like nature was building suspense, holding back the moment I was waiting for.  

As the sky darkened, I realized things weren’t going as I’d planned. The clouds were settling in heavy and gray, swallowing the sun whole. No sign of the warm glow I had imagined—no fiery streaks of orange or pink to light up the sky. "This isn’t what I hoped for," I thought, frustration bubbling up inside me. I stood there, camera ready, but with each passing minute, it looked more and more like this would just be an ordinary, overcast dusk.  

And then it happened.  

Just as the sun dipped low on the horizon, a narrow opening appeared in the thick blanket of clouds. For a brief moment, a single beam of light shot through the gap and landed directly on the house perched on the cliff. The light was soft but radiant, and it wrapped around the house like a spotlight in a theater, casting long shadows over the cliffs.  

It was magic.  

I snapped to attention, raising my camera and firing off a series of shots. The shutter clicks were quick and mechanical, but my heart was pounding in rhythm with each frame. The light played along the edges of the rocks, glinting off the waves as they rushed toward the shore. The scene was alive, fleeting, and perfect in a way that only nature can be. The clouds were still heavy, the sunset muted—but none of that mattered.  

In that moment, I knew. This was the shot.  

The cold wind tugged at my jacket, and the wet sand squelched beneath my boots, but I barely noticed. The world around me faded as I focused on capturing every second before the light slipped away. And just like that, the gap in the clouds closed, the house falling back into shadow. The moment was gone as quickly as it had arrived.  

I lowered my camera and stood there, stunned. The ocean kept crashing against the shore, indifferent to what had just happened. Seagulls fluttered and cried, the wind bit harder, and night began to creep in. But I knew in my heart that I had gotten what I came for.  

It wasn’t the sunset I had imagined—it was better. A fleeting, serendipitous moment that no amount of planning could have guaranteed. The kind of moment that felt like a gift, as if the landscape itself had decided to show me something extraordinary.  

When I sent the photo to the couple a few days later, their response left me speechless. They called it “perfect.” And in that moment, I knew this wasn’t just a job—it was the beginning of a journey.  

As I drove home in the dark that night, the sound of waves still echoing in my ears, I couldn’t help but smile. Photography isn’t always about capturing what you expect. Sometimes, it’s about being ready when the unexpected happens.  

And sometimes, if you’re really lucky, the landscape gives you exactly what you didn’t know you were looking for.