Low Frequency Waves

Last week in Vancouver I stopped at Ambleside Park on my way back to the hotel. It was late but I couldn't pass up an opportunity to get the full moon behind the bridge. I climbed down a rock and concrete barrier in total darkness to get my camera down close to the still waters of the bay. I started shooting and saw a ship approach the bridge. Perfect; a bridge, a moon, a ship; elements for a composition. From the ship's bow I couldn't tell how big it was as it slowly approached head on, then it turned slightly to head out to sea. It went under the bridge and I began to see it's profile, much bigger than I thought. As it came alongside I realized it was some type of a super-massive cargo ship, maybe seven hundred feet or longer. I watched in stunned awe as it passed slowly in the night with the low sound of the engines, hardly breaking a wake. Hardly. About a minute later the glassy still water started to move and large low frequency waves began to wash on shore. In effect a mini tsunami. The sound of the wave breaking along the entire length of the shore broke the silence as I grabbed my tripod and jumped for higher ground. Let's just say I was a little lucky. Perhaps there was no harm, but I left there a little shaken from the ordeal and wondering if I had let my enthusiasm overpower my better judgement.
Last week in Vancouver I stopped at Ambleside Park on my way back to the hotel. It was late but I couldn’t pass up an opportunity to get the full moon behind the bridge. I climbed down a rock and concrete barrier in total darkness to get my camera down close to the still waters of the bay. I started shooting and saw a ship approach the bridge. Perfect; a bridge, a moon, a ship; elements for a composition. From the ship’s bow I couldn’t tell how big it was as it slowly approached head on, then it turned slightly to head out to sea. It went under the bridge and I began to see it’s profile, much bigger than I thought. As it came alongside I realized it was some type of a super-massive cargo ship, maybe seven hundred feet or longer. I watched in stunned awe as it passed slowly in the night with the low sound of the engines, hardly breaking a wake. Hardly. About a minute later the glassy still water started to move and large low frequency waves began to wash on shore. In effect a mini tsunami. The sound of the wave breaking along the entire length of the shore broke the silence as I grabbed my tripod and jumped for higher ground. Let’s just say I was a little lucky. Perhaps there was no harm, but I left there a little shaken from the ordeal and wondering if I had let my enthusiasm overpower my better judgement.

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