A Photographer’s Evolution from Land to Sea

My hands trembled as I clutched my camera underwater for the first time, the cold seeping through my 7mm wetsuit. As a newly certified diver in the cold, murky waters of False Bay, Cape Town, I was still grappling with diving anxiety. The water temperature hovered around 15°C (59°F), and the visibility was a mere 3 meters – barely enough to see my fins. But through my camera's viewfinder, something magical happened - the fear melted away. What started as a distraction from diving anxiety would become my gateway to a hidden world, where light behaves differently and colors tell new stories.

I never set out to become an underwater photographer. Growing up in landlocked Johannesburg, my wildlife photography dreams were limited to terrestrial subjects. But life has a way of submerging your plans, sometimes literally.

Love of Photography

Photography has been my language for understanding the world since I was around 12 years old. I used my parents' point-and-shoot camera—a chunky silver Kodak that used film. In our Johannesburg garden, I'd lie belly-down, capturing close-ups of our German Shepherd, the delicate veins in rose petals, and my baby nephew as he wobbled around the garden.

My first experience with professional equipment came when I borrowed my uncle's old Minolta with a zoom lens while on holiday in Cape Town. I took it on all our outings and zoomed in to capture little birds or Robben Island in the distance.

My teenage years led me through the usual photography jobs - portraits of my friends, school photos of the children at my sister’s creche, second shooter at weddings, and family portraits. I also worked at a photo stall when the questionable trend of Photoshopping children’s faces into the middle of flowers was a thing. It was a fun learning experience but my heart remained with wildlife photography. But living in the city, I felt like a wildlife photographer without a wilderness.

Two White Rhinos playing, Private Game Reserve, South Africa

That changed when I moved to Gordon's Bay with my husband Marius. The ocean became our backyard, and suddenly, I had access to a whole new kind of wilderness - one that required not just a camera, but the courage to venture beneath the waves.

Underwater Photography

In 2013, fresh from my Open Water certification and still nervous about diving, I made what seemed like a crazy decision: I invested in an underwater camera setup - a Canon Powershot S95 with an Ikelite housing. It wasn't just photography equipment; it became my emotional anchor underwater.

A picture of me in the very beginning holding my Canon S95

That camera became my constant companion underwater. In over a decade of diving, I can count on one hand the times I've descended without it. False Bay's challenging conditions - the cold, the often murky visibility - would deter many photographers. But these limitations pushed me to understand light in ways I never had to above water. In the depths, colors vanish quickly, and everything turns into greenish monochrome tones. Adding a strobe light to my setup wasn't just about better pictures - it was about bringing back the astonishing vibrant colors of the reef that low-lighting conditions had stolen. The electric blue of gasflame nudibranchs, the deep red and oranges of sea fans, and the metallic shimmer of hottentot seabream all came rushing back to life in my images.

Image of the reef without a strobe light (left) and with a strobe light (right)

A Flow State

Underwater photography didn't just help me overcome my fears - it introduced me to a state of being I'd never experienced before. The moment my head dips beneath the surface, something shifts. The anxious chatter of daily life fades away, replaced by the rhythmic sound of my own breathing and the subtle movements of the ocean. Time becomes fluid, measured not in minutes but in the gentle drift of kelp forests, the patient wait for a shy octopus to emerge, or the split-second dance of a school of fish.

This is what psychologists call "flow state,". Flow is where you enter into a state of mind where you become fully immersed in an activity. It's a state of focus where you are highly involved and absorbed in what you are doing. You are fully present. Experiencing this creates great enjoyment and energy. My consciousness narrows to three elements: my breath, my camera, and the endless possibilities swimming before my lens.

Every dive brings that familiar surge of anticipation - will today be the day I capture a rare nudibranch, or find that perfect shaft of light piercing through a kelp forest? Even after a decade, that excitement hasn't dimmed. Whether I'm photographing fellow divers threading through rocky swim-throughs or waiting motionless for a shy pipefish to turn just the right way. I'm completely present, completely alive.

Evolution of a Photographer

As my underwater vision evolved, so did my gear. That first compact camera taught me the fundamentals, but it also taught me patience. Especially when I ended up with countless photos of fish tails because of the shutter lag, the subjects having darted away before the shutter finally clicked. Each missed shot was a lesson in timing, in understanding marine life behavior, in anticipating moments before they happened.

The transition to a DSLR marked a turning point. Suddenly, I could capture the split-second when a cuttlefish changes color, or when a ray emerges from the gloom. The trade-off was hauling what felt like a small submarine through airports and onto dive boats. But when you're hovering in the beautiful blue, watching scores of sea goldies dart together over the reef, camera weight becomes meaningless.

Sea goldies and soft corals on a reef in the Red Sea.

Today, I work with both a mirrorless system and my trusty DSLR. Some dives call for the precision of macro photography - capturing the delicate patterns on a thumbnail-sized nudibranch. Others demand a wide-angle lens to showcase the grandeur of our kelp or sea fan forests. Having both options allows me to tell the ocean's stories in all their scales, from the microscopic to the magnificent.

Beyond the Lens

Every time I surface from a dive, I carry with me more than just images. I carry a responsibility. False Bay's waters hold stories that most people will never see firsthand: the ancient Sevengill cow sharks gliding through kelp forests that have stood for ages, the delicate nudibranchs painting the reefs with colors that seem impossible, the playful seals that remind us how much we still have to learn about consciousness beneath the waves.

Hawksbill sea turtle Critically Endangered (Population decreasing)

These waters are changing. Warming temperatures, overfishing and pollution threaten the underwater landscapes I've grown to love. My camera has become more than just a tool for making art - it's become a voice for an ecosystem that can't speak for itself. Through my lens, I hope to show people why the ocean and especially these cold, sometimes murky Cape Town waters matter, why they're worth protecting.

A diver exploring the vibrant reef in False Bay.

When I teach underwater photography, I'm not just sharing technical skills. I'm passing on a way of seeing, of being present in nature. Every student who learns to capture these underwater moments becomes another witness, another voice for ocean conservation. Some of my proudest moments come from watching former students discover their own flow state underwater, seeing their eyes light up when they capture their first perfect nudibranch portrait or when they finally master the art of lighting a reef scene.

One of my students taking pictures in the kelp.

The ocean taught me that beauty doesn't always announce itself. Sometimes you have to wait patiently, move slowly, and trust that moments of magic will unfold. Whether I'm photographing a curious octopus investigating my camera or capturing the ethereal dance of jellyfish in the water column, each image is an invitation to care about this hidden world.

Bottlenosed dolphins, KwaZulu Natal

Conclusion

Today, the ocean continues to surprise and inspire me. Its waters hold endless possibilities for those willing to take that first step beneath the surface. Whether you're an experienced photographer looking for new challenges or someone who's never touched a camera underwater, these waters welcome all who approach them with respect and wonder.

I invite you to explore this extraordinary world. Maybe you'll find yourself hovering weightlessly among the kelp forests, watching the sunlight create dancing patterns on the seafloor. Perhaps you'll discover the thrill of capturing your first seahorse portrait or witness the majesty of a shark gliding past your lens. Whatever draws you to the ocean, know that it has a way of transforming observers into storytellers, and visitors into advocates for it's preservation.

The journey that began as an escape from anxiety and burnout has become my life's passion. And the best part? The story isn't over - there's always another dive, another photograph, another moment of underwater magic waiting to be discovered.

This journey has taken me far from that anxious new diver clutching a compact camera. But in many ways, I'm still that same person - still falling in love with the ocean, one frame at a time.

My Canon R6 underwater setup

If you’re keen on getting more serious about underwater photography, you can check out this course: PADI Digital Underwater Photography. Not a PADI-qualified diver? Then this course is for you: Underwater Photography Course.

Not a scuba diver yet? Why not book a try-scuba experience to see what it's all about?

We Protect what we Love. Join the movement!

by Madelein Wolfaardt
All images ©️ by @sealife_madeleinwolf