The reference for this painting came from a photo I took on a Kenai Fjords boat tour in Seward—my first time out on those waters. I didn’t know what the day would bring; I just remember the air being sharp and salty, the mountains rising right out of the sea, and that quiet sense of anticipation that always settles in when you’re surrounded by wilderness.

Whenever I photograph wildlife, my perfectionism kicks in immediately. I start obsessing over settings, critiquing every shot before I even take it, convinced that if it isn’t flawless, it isn’t worth keeping. It’s the same perfectionism that follows me into my paintings—every detail has to be intentional, every stroke has to earn its place.

But nothing about this moment was planned.

We had stopped to watch a pair of humpbacks, and I was doing my usual frantic dance of trying to predict where they might surface next. The boat was swaying, my arms were burning from hours with my 600mm, and the whole thing felt like a guessing game I couldn’t win.

Then, out of nowhere, the ocean erupted.

A humpback breached—not far from the boat, not far from me—lifting itself into the air in one perfect, impossible moment. I didn’t have time to lift my camera to my eye. I didn’t get to frame or adjust anything. I just raised the camera from chest height, fired, and watched the scene unfold with my own eyes.

I was sure the photo would be unusable.

But when it loaded on my screen, there it was: this raw, powerful moment frozen by pure luck. Grainy, imperfect, and completely magical.

That photo became the inspiration for this painting.

And unlike the photograph, with its missed focus and imperfect details, the painting let me relive the moment the way my memory actually holds it—dramatic, awe-filled, full of motion and light. Every brushstroke is my way of honoring that split second I almost didn’t catch. The rise of the whale, the spray suspended in the air, the energy in its body—painting it allowed me to shape the chaos into something I could keep.

What I love most is that the painting doesn’t just show what I saw—it shows what I felt.

The surprise.
The adrenaline.
The reverence for a creature that moved with such effortless power.

This piece reminded me of why I create art in the first place: to capture the moments that change me a little. The moments that stick. The moments that don’t wait for anyone to be ready.

Every time I look at this painting, I’m taken back to that day in Seward—the sway of the boat, the cold wind, the shock of that breach—and I feel proud not because it’s perfect, but because it’s honest. It’s a core memory made visible.

And that makes it one of my favorite pieces I’ve ever created.