There’s a frame of a bird standing on a post, frozen against a bright sky. It’s simple — quiet, even — but on film, the stillness feels heavier. The grain gives the sky texture, the silhouette of the bird more presence. It’s not dramatic, but it lingers. Like a pause that says more than a sentence.

The morning light spills over the Atlantic, casting long shadows on the soft sand as the city behind me slowly comes to life. Miami Beach walks are a ritual — the sound of waves mixing with the distant hum of traffic, the scent of salt and sunscreen, and the skyline standing tall, watching it all unfold. There’s a strange kind of peace here, where palm trees sway with the breeze and joggers pass by with headphones in, chasing a rhythm of their own. It’s a place where the chaos of the world pauses, just for a moment, and lets you breathe.

The savannah teaches you to be still. It rewards patience, not pursuit. I had never taken wildlife photos like this before—never waited this long for a heartbeat, a twitch, a stare that cuts through the lens and into your chest. The cheetah stood poised in the grass, elegant and alert, while the lioness walked like she owned the dust beneath her feet. And then there was the lion by the water—his reflection stiller than the beast himself, as if the earth needed a second to understand what it was seeing.

There’s something surreal about watching a pig swim beside your boat in water so clear it looks unreal. In the Exumas, it makes perfect sense. The line between wild and whimsical blurs—this place bends the rules of nature and joy. The swimming pigs aren’t just a photo op; they’re a reminder that paradise can be unexpected, silly, and free. Here, in the heart of the Bahamas, even pigs know how to live.