The Angriest I’ve Seen the Sea

1 year later. (A narrative piece I’ve been working on for tomorrow but throwing it here as a draft.) 

There’s a certain thrill to chasing storms—a mix of awe and respect for nature’s raw power. But there’s also a line, an ethical boundary, between witnessing these forces and exploiting them. Over the years, I’ve found myself choosing not to chase aftermath after the storm. I can count the tornados I’ve seen in 2 years on both hands, but both times I’ve witnessed a significant tornado impact a town I coincidentally grabbed lunch in hours before it’s a deeply unsettling, grounding experience that reminds you these events are far from cinematic.  

When the largest coastal storm I’ve ever chased barreled toward Maine, I found myself at Portland Head Light. It was nearing high tide, and the storm was relentless. Rain, wind, and sea spray battered the few of us who had ventured out. In my car, the National Weather Service’s flash flood warning for the storm surge blared, a soundtrack to the chaos outside. The waves were monstrous, crashing into the rocks with such force it felt like the ground itself was shaking.  

From our overlook, a particularly large set of waves rose high above eye level—dozens of yards away—and sent us sprinting back to safety. It wasn’t just the power of the storm; it was the knowledge of how close we were to being part of the chaos. Minutes before high tide, I stood there, with 1 bar of cell service, woefully watching the hydrograph for Portland Harbor go vertical. The surge had already surpassed previous days and was now smashing past the record set during the Blizzard of 1978, maxing out at 14.53 feet.  

As I stared at the waves, I couldn’t help but think about what was being lost. Buildings, homes, and landmarks were being battered and washed away along the coast. Messages flooded in—destruction at Old Orchard Beach, severe damage in South Portland. I thought about the rising sea levels and the implications of climate change. Storms like this are becoming more frequent and more intense, a sobering reminder of the precarious future we face.  

Photographing these moments is always a balancing act. I’ve seen storm photography and journalism drift into a space that feels voyeuristic, chasing devastation without pause for the human cost. For me, the power of storm photography lies in capturing nature’s might, not its aftermath of broken lives, restaurants and fishing docks ruined. Standing at Portland Head Light that day, I felt the weight of it all—the storm, the rising water, the uncertain future. It was the angriest I’d ever seen the sea, and for once, it didn’t feel right to press the shutter. Instead, I stood in the storm’s fury, bearing witness. 

CC @RyanBretonWX