We Are Never Prepared For What We

I Love Writing. I Love The Swirl And Swing Of Words As They Tangle With Human Emotions.

About A Billion Years Ago, Long Before The Continents Had Separated To Define The Ancient Oceans, Or Their Own Outlines Had Been Determined, A Small Protuberance Jutted Out From The Northwest Corner Of What Would Later Become North America.

I Wish I Could Tell You About The South Pacific. The Way It Actually Was. The Endless Ocean. The Infinite Specks Of Coral We Called Islands. Coconut Palms Nodding Gracefully Toward The Ocean. Reefs Upon Which Waves Broke Into Spray, And Inner Lagoons, Lovely Beyond Description. I Wish I Could Tell You About The Sweating Jungle, The Full Moon Rising Behind The Volcanoes, And The Waiting. The Waiting. The Timeless, Repetitive Waiting.

During My Lifetime I Have Met Dozens Of Writers And Photographers In Dozens Of Different Countries. But I Have Encountered No One Who Could Both Write And Photograph With The Artistry Of Robert Vavra.

All I Can Do Is Play The Game The Way The Cards Fall.