Struisbaai is one of those places that doesn’t ask for attention — it just settles into you. It’s a quiet harbour village near Cape Agulhas, where the land softens into sea and time feels slower. I spent days there watching the fishermen move with a rhythm that’s older than memory. Nets, boats, hands — everything shaped by salt and wind.

The beach stretches impossibly far, and the light shifts constantly — soft, then sharp, then golden. There’s a stingray named Parrie who glides through the shallows like he’s part of the town’s heartbeat. And the wreck of the Meisho Maru leans into the surf like a rusted prayer — broken, but still listening.

It’s not dramatic. It’s not loud. But it stays with you. Struisbaai is where I go to remember how stillness can speak.

Where Stillness Holds.

I didn’t go to Struisbaai looking for stories. I went to listen.

There’s a rhythm to the harbour — slow, deliberate, shaped by tide and time. The fishermen move like the sea taught them how. Nets are cast, boats return, and the wind carries everything that isn’t said.

This series is my way of holding that rhythm. Of tracing the quiet strength in rusted hulls, weathered hands, and the long wait between departure and return. The Meisho Maru stands in the surf like a memory that won’t let go — broken, but still anchored.

Each image is a pause. A breath. A moment where the ordinary turns symbolic. I hope you feel the stillness. The resilience. The echo.

“Parrie — the harbour’s quiet guardian. He’s been here longer than most remember. Drawn by the sound of boats and the promise of fish scraps, he moves through the shallows like a whisper — soft, steady, and strangely familiar.”

Parrie, The Stingray.

Make It

Hands on flesh, salt in the air. The fish is fresh, the cut deliberate. This is not violence — it’s rhythm. A daily ritual shaped by hunger, memory, and tide.”