It all started with a Humpback whale.

My left hand cradled binoculars close to my fleece-lined chest. My right hand rested at the ready on the shutter of my Nikon. We were the only crazy-enough (and totally numb) passengers still glued to the bow of the Aialik Voyager. Three hours into our sail through the Kenai Fjords of Alaska, we’d outlasted all but the five-piece environmental research team stationed on the benches behind us, merrily geologging wildlife sightings.

We were scanning the horizon in no particular direction when Sally the Senior Researcher jumped from her bench, thrust her finger to the west and squealed WHAAAAALE!

By the time I whipped my frozen nose left to make out a fuzzy grey dot on the horizon, the Voyager had already about-faced. We began climbing knot by knot towards what can only be described as ludicrous speed. At this time, I allowed the shoulder straps to do their jobs in holding my optical equipment and reverted to white-knuckled ninja death grip on the bow railing.

As I steadfastly maintained my existence at the front of the boat, eyes squinted in expert sea spray deflection mode, I saw an unmistakeable silhouette emerge from the surface of the water.

With long, happy-to-see-you pectoral fins a’waving, it was a Humpback whale.

My heart began an Irish step dance so fierce it could break through the floor.

The Voyager slowed to enter the breach zone, and I spared a glance down to my telephoto lens. I gave it a decisive nod of assurance. This is what you were made for, buddy. The boat stopped and everyone piled on each other at the side railings, elbowing for the clearest view. It got quiet.

Too quiet. The whale had last breached three minutes before, and there was no way of knowing where it might pop up next. The water was still as I got into shooting position. My eyes darted side to side with frightening robot accuracy. We held our breath.

Thirty feet off the bow’s left side, a giant, glistening, glorious humpback whale exploded from the surface of the water.

Directly in front of me.

Directly in front of my lens.

I didn’t know that morning, when I woke up in our Seward hostel bedroom, that I was about to experience the most magical moment of my life. Once the humpback completed her leap, I hit my playback button and saw that photo. I could have cried, but tearing up in the freezing Alaskan air would have given me ice face, so instead I yelled “I GOT IT!!!” at the top of my lungs. Bathing in glory, I shared my camera screen with the surrounding crowd. I got it. The whale was preserved in a fully magical state. I discovered a very real magic that exists in this world.

The whale changed everything for me. Before that photo, I regarded my camera as a reliable travel companion and record-keeper. After I shared my photo with a boat of humans electrified by a whale’s leap of glory, I realized my camera’s truest power.

It was my magic wand.

I pointed my camera toward a space of possibility, directed my energy and focus intently, and wished magic into existence. This was my Humpback Revelation.