Yaquina Head – “Birds, Fog, and the Ghost of the Sea”

The ocean doesn’t care about you.

Not in a poetic way—not in that “vast and beautiful indifference” kind of nonsense. I mean really doesn’t care. It would swallow you in an instant, spit your bones back onshore, and let the gulls pick through what’s left. And standing on the edge of Yaquina Head, lens in hand, I believed it.

The wind hit like a slap from Odin himself—cold, briny, full of warnings. Fog rolled in off the water like a summoned spirit, swallowing the cliffs, muting the world. The lighthouse stood there—ancient, defiant, and just a little pissed off—watching it all like a one-eyed sentry waiting for Ragnarök.

We made our way up through the basalt, boots crunching wet gravel, gulls screaming overhead like winged demons with blood feuds. I swear one was following me. I made peace with the fact I might have to fight a seabird to get my shot.

And still… I raised the camera.

The waves below weren’t crashing—they were slamming. Like a war drum, beat by Neptune’s furious little brother who still hadn’t gotten over being left out of mythology. Foam churned like madness. The sea lions barked in the distance like hecklers at a funeral.

Then the fog shifted—just for a breath—and light from the tower sliced across the haze. That was the moment.

Click.

Long exposure turned the ocean into a bruised mirror. The lighthouse beam became a ghost’s spotlight. The bird? Still watching me. Probably plotting something.

This wasn’t serenity. It was confrontation.

The kind of truth that only comes when you’re standing on the last rock before the world ends and the sea begins.

Yaquina doesn’t offer comfort. It offers clarity.

Cold. Salty. Unforgiving.

And if you point a lens into that abyss, you better be ready for what looks back.