I’m not by any stretch a landscape photographer. In fact, I find the majority of the landscape photography I see to be pretty meh. When I find myself in a particularly moving landscape environment, I’m more likely to just stand there and bask in it than attempt to capture that feeling in a picture, because I don’t think I possibly could. But during a photo workshop in Cuba a couple of weeks ago, I changed course a bit.

As we drove along the coastline of the Granma province, our merry band of photographers came upon a particularly spectacular view that included an eroded sea wall. The group voted overwhelmingly to stop and spend time photographing it. I briefly stayed in the van in silent protest but quickly grew bored and thought, Oh just take a look and see. It’ll do you good to stretch your legs a little. Famous last words.

The sound of the crashing waves was mesmerizing. The ocean — as we had seen from the comfort of the van — was a stunning spectrum of crisp blues that bordered the contrasting blue of the sky. I shot that view a couple of different ways, playing with the horizon to create some additional visual interest.

After a couple of minutes I looked around for more layers to add. The dark grey rocky beach seemed to be a good option. It was quite a ways down to the sea wall and then the beach but I wasn’t planning to go anywhere near that far, just a couple of strides closer to fill the bottom third or so of my 50mm lens. I took a couple of careful steps and was able to take a couple of shots, the last of which is the one posted here. Then I suddenly noticed I was falling.

With my left foot twisted awkwardly behind me, I slid a couple of feet and landed on my butt. My hand hit the ground and my trusty D750 bounced a few inches away. As the pain in my ankle spiked, I wondered how badly my camera might also be damaged.

We had spread out so thankfully my tumble had gone unnoticed by the others. Still, I was mortified and tried to shift my body and scramble back to the van. But I could barely put any weight on my ankle and swayed with a wave of nausea. Only the horror of being discovered crumpled on the rocks, spattered with my own vomit, propelled me to safe refuge in the van.

For the few moments until the others returned, I whimpered to myself and attempted to cradle my already bruising limb. Recovering quickly I admitted to the others that I had slipped, accepted our first aid kit’s sole ace bandage, popped an Aleve, and winced at every bump in the unpaved surface of our hour long road trip.

Over the remaining nine days of the trip, the swelling never went down completely but damned if I would spend the workshop in bed, staring at the ceiling and lamenting all the people and historic murals I could have photographed. So I hobbled on, with the support of a cuff crutch generously loaned by one of our host families, and offers from my fellow photographers to carry my camera bag, guide me on and off vehicles and up and down stairs, and procure extra chairs to elevate my leg.

Once back in Brooklyn, after retrieving Milo from doggy overnight camp, I took a Lyft to urgent care to finally have my ankle examined and x-rayed. I learned I had fractured my fibula (and that a “fracture” and a “break” are the same thing 🤯). For three days I wore a temporary cast and nearly broke my wrists on a torturous pair of crutches, and had to limit Milo to only two walks per day (vs. four) and they were only as far as the building next door. As usual, he was a trooper.

Finally I was fitted for a walking boot. I never thought an orthopedic accessory could be so liberating. While it’s a bitch to sleep in and sometimes irritates the dozen mosquito bites I suffered on that leg, I’m able to move around and walk Milo all the way to the corner three times a day, slowly but relatively painlessly.

I head back to the doctor in 4 weeks.