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For several minutes, it wandered along the shoreline and through the shallow surf. I kept taking pictures, following it with my camera without knowing what, if anything, was about to happen.
Then it came out of the water carrying a starfish.
The starfish was stretched across the gull's beak as it made its way onto the beach. I kept photographing as the gull carried its catch along the shoreline.
And then I watched it eat one of the starfish's legs.
At that point, being an impartial observer went right out the window.
I felt bad for the starfish.
I shooed the gull away, and in the process, it dropped its catch and moved on. Had I left them alone, the gull very well may have eaten the entire starfish. That's nature, of course—but standing there watching it happen was another matter entirely.
When the gull was gone, I walked over and took one last photograph.
The starfish lay alone on the wet sand.
Four legs remained.
Looking back at the photographs, what strikes me most is that I hadn't set out to document any of this. I was taking pictures of an ordinary gull at the water's edge, and within minutes I had unintentionally photographed a tiny story of predator and prey—and then changed its ending myself.
I don't know what happened to the starfish after I left. I only know what happened during those few minutes when our paths crossed.
That's one of the things I love about photography. Sometimes the most memorable photographs aren't the ones you went looking for.
They're the moments that simply unfold in front of you.
Nature, unscripted.
