Why I don't want to take a camera on holiday

January 2010: "We call this whale Jack," said the Whale Watch operator over the loudspeaker. "He's a five-year-old male who feeds here regularly. We recognise him by his crooked tail flukes."

I and 25 other tourists gazed in awe from the swaying deck of the boat towards the surface of the ocean just metres away, where the shiny black barrel that was a breathing sperm whale could be seen appearing and disappearing among the choppy waves. We could see the blowhole open for each breath and shut up tight when a wave splashed across it. If we let our gaze wander a seemingly impossible distance toward the north, we could sometimes catch a glimpse of the remarkable creature's eye - making literal eye contact with a being that had recently been maybe kilometres below the ocean surface.

It was a profound moment. "This whale has now been on the surface for around 20 minutes," the operator interrupted, "so he could sound soon. I'll let you know when he looks like sounding so you can get your cameras ready for that all-important tail shot."

And I couldn't help thinking, all-important? Really? Did we come all the way out here just to take pictures? When there are thousands and thousands of whale photos on the web, all vastly superior to anything we could hope to achieve here with our substandard equipment and nonexistent skill. When we've just spent 10 minutes in the company of one of the largest creatures on the planet, an experience many of us will never repeat. Did we really mean to spend the time gazing through a viewfinder? Will we remember this by nothing more than a photo that didn't come out very well?


Does this look like a profound moment to you?

Do we really want to go through life taking pictures in case we forget something, instead of making memories we can't forget?