Through the Lens | The Unique Challenges of Photography at Sea with P&O

I have been lucky to work in some very varied places over time, and for several years I documented life aboard the ships and ferries that criss-crossed the seas around Europe, connecting the mainland with outlying islands such as the UK and Ireland.

These links are vital for trade, freight and tourism. They operate 365 days a year in almost any weather. A typical ship carries hundreds of vehicles and lorries per journey, with some unloading and loading a full compliment in as little as 45 minutes on the short-sea routes. Standing in the Ports at Dover, Calais or Rotterdam offers a glimpse of just how quickly these ships can be turned around between sailings.

To operate these ships, crews live on board, some up to six months at a time. Others board daily or follow weekly shift patterns. Within these crews there are day and night shifts, enabling an almost constant cycle of shipping between countries.

The sea is a fickle mistress, as the infamous saying goes. On a warm summer’s evening, there is nothing quite as serene as sitting on the helipad on top of a ship, watching the sun set over the azure sea whilst gulls swoop and dive into the wake drifting away into the twilight. But on a stormy day…

Ships are cramped and confined spaces. They are solid metal, with riveted bulkheads, low deck heads and steel decks on all sides. Heavy, water-tight doors divide the ship into compartmented areas, as oil, grease and grime coat surfaces to prevent corrosion from the ever-present salt water.

A passenger ship has comforts of course, for the passengers to enjoy, but this rarely extends beyond the front-of-house. Behind the crew doors you enter a world of machinery, technology, and functional, utilitarian space. In stormy weather these areas become particularly difficult to work in.

I quickly learnt that tripods and lights were useless on a ship - they got in the way, there wasn’t enough room for them, and as soon as the ship swayed or rolled over a wave, they fell over anyway. My only options were to work with handheld equipment, keeping it as light and agile as possible.

One particularly bad storm in the Baltic Sea, in the depths of winter, left the ship rolling violently in all directions. In the passenger bar where the freight drivers gathered, bottles and glasses fell from the shelves and shattered, the storm rails unable to provide enough support against the pitching ship.

Outside, freezing spray battered the decks and froze in long, horizontal icicles that shot out from the guard rails and derricks in angry, jagged rows. Every surface was coated in foamy, boiling ice formations.

On the bridge, the Officer of the Watch rocked in his chair, the suspension working hard against the constant rolling motion of the ship. The horizon ahead, partially obscured by snow and cloud, swayed unsteadily from side to side, up and down, never level and never still. It was a very long overnight journey, and when I did go to my bunk, I had to strap myself in to prevent myself from falling out in the night.

One memorable Christmas shoot on board, to photograph some promotional products in the onboard shop, resulted in Lego scattering all over the deck as the ship pitched from port to starboard in an autumn storm, sending the display I’d carefully built and was about to photograph crashing onto the tiles and dispersing in every direction. We had wanted to capture the Lego set on location within the ship, to show it really was available on board, but in the end after several failed attempts and over three hours spent trying to stick it in place on the display podium, it was decided this would be best photographed back at the studio on-shore.

A valid lesson learnt thanks to the sea.