Turks and Caicos, Swimming With Giants

Before I ever set foot on the boat in Turks and Caicos, the journey that led me there had already been years in the making.

I was twenty-one, a college kid living in Florida with a camera that rarely left my hands and a pull toward the ocean that had been there my whole life. Most of my early work revolved around surfers and coastal landscapes — the kind of shots that come alive in the early morning light when the water’s still and the waves are clean. I’d grown up diving with my dad, though I hadn’t been under in years. Jacksonville didn’t exactly offer world-class diving, and my photography had kept me mostly on the surface.

But lately, I’d been feeling that old pull again — the need to go back below. I wanted to find a way to blend photography with diving, to combine the two things that made me feel most alive. That’s what led me to a shark dive company in Jupiter, Florida, a place known for its clear blue water and thriving marine life.

A friend came with me, and together we loaded up my Salty Surf housing, good for about sixty feet, which would be plenty for the dive. The trip was led by Tanner Mansell, a now world-renowned underwater photographer and dive operator. That day would be my first time diving with sharks.

The water was impossibly clear, that deep tropical blue that feels endless. As we descended, the outlines of bull sharks appeared first — smooth, confident, unbothered by our presence. A few reef sharks circled lower down, moving like shadows through the sunlight. As a lifelong surfer, I’d always seen sharks as something to fear — the unseen shape in the wave. But being there among them, weightless and quiet, I realized how wrong that was. They weren’t monsters. They were part of the rhythm of the ocean itself.

That single dive lit a fire in me. I surfaced knowing I needed to do more of this — to tell these stories, to capture the beauty and truth beneath the fear.

Back home, I started researching marine organizations working in shark conservation. That’s when I came across Beneath the Waves, a nonprofit focused on shark tagging and ocean research. They were smaller then, but the work was fascinating — real science, real impact. I joined their online community, figuring it couldn’t hurt to get involved.

By chance, the same day I joined, a message went out offering fifteen-minute mentoring sessions with Dr. Austin Gallagher, the founder and CEO. I didn’t hesitate. I booked a call for the next day.

When the time came, I was nervous but prepared. I told him about my background, my photography, my interest in the ocean — and how I wanted to be part of what they were doing. Austin listened carefully and told me I should work on developing my video skills. “Photography’s great,” he said, “but storytelling through motion — that’s the future.”

That stuck with me. That same afternoon, I texted a buddy of mine who was a fisherman. His family had a couple of boats, and I asked if I could film one of our days out. He was all for it.

The next morning, we launched from the Intracoastal, the sun cutting through the fog and the hum of the outboard echoing off the docks. I had my DJI gimbal, my Sony a7R III, and my drone ready — determined to make something cinematic.

Everything was going perfectly — until we got near the naval base by Mayport. I sent the drone up, flying smooth over the channel, getting that classic boat montage shot I’d been picturing. But then, mid-flight, the screen froze red. A warning flashed. And before I could react, the drone started flying itself.

At first, I thought it was a glitch, but the controls were dead. I pushed the sticks — nothing. Then I realized what was happening: the Navy had taken over my drone.

I watched in disbelief as it banked hard left, turned toward the water, and plunged. Straight in. Gone. The screen cut to static, then black.

For a second, I just stared. Then I started laughing. What else could I do? The drone — my prize piece of gear — was now sitting on the bottom of the Intracoastal, surrounded by jellyfish. And there was no way I was diving in after it.

I shrugged it off, grabbed my Sony and gimbal, and kept filming. The footage turned out solid. When I got home, I spent hours editing, trying to craft something I could be proud of. I sent it off to Austin that night, figuring at the very least, it showed I followed through.

The next morning, my phone rang. It was him. He told me he was impressed — not just with the video, but with the initiative. Then he said the words I’ll never forget: “We’re heading to Turks and Caicos in two weeks. Want to come?”

Two weeks later, I was stepping off a plane into the Caribbean heat, gear in hand, heart racing.

Our crew was small but skilled — Diego, an experienced underwater photographer; Sami, director of photography; Jaime, his girlfriend and the one who kept everything organized; Natalie, a South African content creator who lived for the ocean; Jason, our boat captain; and Austin, leading the expedition.

We stayed in a rented house not far from the marina. I didn’t mind crashing on a fold-out couch — I was just happy to be there. We were partnered with Big Blue Collective, a local dive and whale-watching outfit run by Philip, a British surfer-photographer who seemed to have an uncanny sense of the ocean. He could point to a patch of darker water and say, “There’ll be sharks there,” and he’d always be right.

Each morning started early. I’d strap on my Garmin Fenix, pull on my Cressi fins and mask, check the seals on my Aquatica housing, and make sure everything was watertight. Then we’d head out.

The work was equal parts science and adventure. We’d deploy deep-sea camera systems — GoPros inside CNC-machined cages that we’d lower thousands of feet below the surface. Later, we’d review the footage and see creatures few people ever do — giant squid, deepwater sharks, flashes of life from the abyss.

While setting those cameras, the ocean around us would go still, and we’d sometimes hear it — the faint, distant songs of humpback whales. The sound would vibrate through the water, low and powerful, echoing across miles of ocean. It was haunting, beautiful, and strangely grounding.

Once the cameras and bait rigs were in place, the rest of the day was spent tagging sharks. When one was hooked, we’d bring it alongside the stern, securing it gently with ropes at three points. The team worked fast — taking measurements, collecting samples, attaching tags.

That’s when I’d slip into the water.

No cage. No tanks. Just free diving — the way I preferred it. It gave me the freedom to move, to get the shot from any angle, and it forced me to stay calm, focused, and efficient. Every second underwater counted. The Sony a7R III with its eight-inch dome port was my lifeline to the moment, capturing the over-under perspective — the shark below, the team above.

Some of the sharks were smaller reef species, others large lemon or tiger sharks, their movements deliberate and commanding. The first time one passed close enough for me to feel the displacement of water, I felt a surge of adrenaline — the kind that wakes every nerve in your body. But the fear quickly faded. The longer I was down there, the more I respected them.

By evening, we’d return sunburned and salt-streaked, laughing and reviewing the day’s footage. Some nights we’d find something incredible on the deep-sea cameras — a new behavior, a strange species, or a shark caught on film feeding at a thousand feet. Those discoveries made the exhaustion worth it.

On our final day, Philip suggested we go whale watching. None of us argued.

We motored out into open water. Philip cut the engines, listening. Then he pointed. “There,” he said softly.

We slipped in, cameras ready. The ocean was calm, the light clear and golden. Then came the sound — the low, echoing calls we’d heard all week while deploying cameras. This time, they were close.

Out of the blue, a humpback whale emerged. Massive. Elegant. It glided past, close enough that I could see the texture of its skin, the white scars along its flukes. For a brief second, it looked right at me. One mammal acknowledging another.

It’s hard to describe what that feels like — the mix of awe and insignificance, the reminder that we’re guests out here.

That night, packing up for the flight home, I thought about how far I’d come. A few months earlier, I’d been a college kid shooting surfers in Florida. Now I’d been free diving with sharks in Turks and Caicos, photographing whale encounters, and contributing to real research.

The trip changed everything for me. It showed me that purpose can live in the space between fear and fascination — that when you chase the things that make your heart race, you might just find the work you were meant to do.