I'd been mugged and robbed in Dublin. I left the city and drove diagonally across Ireland to the Dingle Peninsula and holed up in an inn while it rained for a week. One day the innkeeper offered an outing on his sailboat to see Fungi, the wild dolphin who lives in the harbor. He said Fungi and his dog had "a relationship." I saw no future in this outing. Seasickness possibly, but no pictures.

For awhile, things went as I expected: nothing. Then, abruptly, Fungi shot straight out of the water high over our heads, looking down for the dog. Pandemonium. The barking dog went for the railing. The innkeeper shouted, "Grab the dog!" The cook collared the dog before it jumped. Fungi disappeared.

I got serious, and built a composition in three layers: the dog in the foreground, the hills in the distance, and the middle empty. Then I awaited the dolphin.