Blue hour in the harbour
Twenty minutes of impossible colour, a borrowed tripod, and every fisherman in the port wondering what the tourist is doing.
Blue hour is a lie, technically. It is not an hour. On a good evening in a north-facing harbour you get maybe twenty minutes — the window after the sun is gone but before the sky admits it — when the water and the air are the same deep, saturated blue and every light in the port reads warm against it.
You cannot rush it and you cannot extend it. You set up early, you wait, and you shoot everything you can while it lasts. Then it is over, and you are just a person standing on a wet quay in the dark, packing a tripod, very happy.
