The Quiet Operation

Long before I ever carried a rifle, I carried a camera. Both have shaped the way I see the world - one through the discipline of precision, the other through the pursuit of patience. For most of my life, my world revolved around preparation and focus, qualities that once defined every Special Forces mission I was part of. That mindset has never left me. Now, it simply finds expression through a different kind of operation: photography.

In Special Forces, detailed preparation is everything. Each member of an Operational Detachment Alpha has a specialty, but every mission requires the team to plan as one cohesive unit. Terrain, timing, weather, wind, light, movement - every variable is considered. We gather intelligence, visualize the environment, and prepare for what we can’t control.

That process feels almost identical to how I approach a photograph.

Before each shoot, I study the terrain, the angles, the light. I check moon phases, sunrise and sunset times, the tide charts, and the wind forecast. I walk the ground before the shot, sometimes days in advance, to understand the rhythm of the place. Where will the first rays of light fall? How will the tide change the reflections? Will the air be still enough for a perfect mirror on the water?

And then there’s the gear. In Special Forces, we used to say that humans are more important than hardware - but that never stopped us from being gear guys. We knew our tools inside and out because the right equipment could mean the difference between success and failure. Photography isn’t much different. Each lens, tripod, and filter has a purpose, and part of the craft is knowing when and how to use them.

That familiarity with gear and preparation has always connected to something deeper for me. I’ve loved shooting since I was six years old, when I first held a .22 rifle. That early fascination never really faded - it simply evolved. Over the years, I grew to appreciate what makes marksmanship such a perishable skill - the need for focus, calm breathing, and consistent execution. Even though I was never sniper qualified, I’ve always respected the patience and precision required to make every shot count.

Behind the camera, that same discipline comes alive in a different form. I line up the shot, pause my breath, and feel that same quiet stillness settle in. The moment the shutter closes, there’s a satisfying clunk - the same certainty I used to feel when a good shot broke clean. You know the result before you see it. Photography gives me that same blend of control and instinct - that assurance that, just for a second, everything aligned exactly as it should.

Sometimes, everything comes together - light, tide, stillness, reflection. Other times, nature has other plans. Clouds roll in, winds shift, and I pack up knowing I’ll be back another day. In that way, photography feels like an operation with no guaranteed end state. The mission is to show up, to prepare well, to stay patient, and to respect whatever unfolds.

The difference now is that no one’s life depends on the outcome - and that changes everything. The same mindset that once served mission success now serves a different purpose: appreciation.

Every photograph begins with reconnaissance, but it ends with gratitude - for the light, for the stillness, for the chance to witness what so few others do. Photography, for me, isn’t about control or perfection. It’s about readiness. It’s about being there when the moment happens.

That’s the quiet operation I now live for.