The surface of the Red Sea rippled gently as sunlight filtered through in golden strands, creating a luminous dance across the rocky floor below. Suspended mid-water, I felt as though I had found my natural element. This wasn't just another dive; it was the beginning of something uniquely mine. While most teenagers back home debated over the latest trends or practiced makeup routines, I was immersed in my own colorful world, waking up at dawn to prepare my dive gear and staying up past bedtime perfecting photographs on editing software.
Ever since I first plunged beneath the waves, the ocean had captivated me. When I was eleven, cartoons gave way to coral reefs. At twelve, instead of wishing for a party, I begged for an underwater camera housing. At fifteen, I found myself utterly entranced by the magical effect of combining macro photography with hand-crafted backdrops that sparkled like underwater stardust. That discovery shifted everything.
Photography, especially macro underwater photography, is more than clicking a shutter. It's an exercise in patience, precision, and passion. Capturing the minute world of nudibranchs, blennies, and seahorses demands more than a steady hand and a good lens. It requires creativity. That's where my secret tool came in: the bokeh slate.
For those unfamiliar, bokeh refers to the creamy, blurred effect in out-of-focus areas of an image. In macro shots, it becomes especially important as it gives depth and allure to the photograph, transforming a typical marine subject into a piece of underwater art. Unlike open water shots that benefit from the sheer scale and natural gradients of the sea, macro compositions often need an artistic nudge to stand out. My solution was unconventional and born from a moment of simple curiosity.
One still afternoon, while absentmindedly painting an old seashell with glitter polish, I noticed how the shell sparkled when held up to the light. That sparkle planted the seed of an idea. What if I could bring that glimmer underwater and use it to enhance the backgrounds of my macro photographs? That evening, I salvaged a piece of clear plastic from a food container, trimmed and sanded its edges, then layered it with cobalt nail polish and flecks of silver glitter. After sealing it with a topcoat, I let it dry and held it up to the light. It was radiant.
The next morning, I introduced it to the underwater world.
From Nail Polish to Ocean Magic: Creating DIY Bokeh Slates
My test subject was a sleepy little goby resting on a coral branch. The moment felt right. I had my camera settings dialed in: ISO 100, a fast shutter speed at 1/320, and the aperture wide open at f/4. With the glittery bokeh slate held gently behind the fish, the light passing through danced like underwater aurora. The image came alive. That one shot ignited a wave of experimentation.
Soon, my evenings turned into creative sessions in the kitchen, the table covered with bottles of nail polish in hues like emerald green, violet shimmer, bronze, and opalescent pink. I became a curator of colors, a painter of light. Each plastic slate was crafted with a different theme in mind. Some carried single tones to compliment certain species, while others swirled with gradients to echo the movement of the ocean itself.
To organize them, I looped each with string, labeled them in waterproof ink, and stored them in a zippered pouch tethered to my buoyancy control device. They weren’t just accessories; they were tools of transformation. Every dive felt like stepping into a world where I had control not only over my subject but over the atmosphere of each image.
And what’s truly enchanting is the spontaneity involved. There’s no template or formula to these slates. I don’t measure glitter quantities or calculate brush strokes. It’s art made by feel. The outcome depends on everything from the thickness of the polish to how the brush lands. A spilled drop becomes a galaxy swirl. A rushed layer creates an unexpected streak that refracts like lightning behind a tiny sea slug. Every imperfection becomes a unique element, and each slate tells its own little story.
Some of my most magical shots were captured during twilight dives. At a spot known as The Cathedral, famed for its cavernous silhouettes, I came across a juvenile seahorse anchored gently to a fan coral. The light was dim, but I had prepared a rainbow slate the night before. Even in the limited glow, the colors behind the seahorse radiated like an ethereal aura. The image was surreal. It didn’t look like a trick of plastic and glitter. It looked like marine art rendered with light and intention.
What surprises many is how well these slates hold up in saltwater. When properly sealed with a layer of clear coat or super glue, nail polish resists degradation from salt and pressure. Of course, over time they get scratched and frayed, but that only adds to their personality. I’ve had slates with tiny chips that ended up refracting light in unexpected patterns, adding unplanned but delightful textures to my shots.
These small handcrafted tools turned into a revolution in my workflow. Other divers started noticing and asked questions. Soon, they began making their own versions. Some preferred sequins or metallic gel pens, while others used bits of holographic paper. One friend crafted a slate using recycled candy wrappers, which produced a confetti-style background. But for me, nail polish remains my go-to. There's something satisfying about choosing a color, swirling it on, and knowing it might one day shine behind a curious blenny or a vibrant flatworm.
Art, Innovation, and Ocean Imagination: Crafting a Visual Symphony Underwater
What started as a personal creative project has grown into a full-blown artistic process. My younger brother, the inventor, joined the journey with his 3D pen skills. Together, we’ve crafted textured slates and experimented with prism shapes that bend and scatter light in abstract ways. Some of the results have been disastrous, but others have captured lighting flares so unique they look like optical illusions. We’ve even tried creating etched patterns that manipulate the light into forming subtle halos around the subject.
Of course, not every idea is a success. One failed attempt involved gluing feathers onto a slate. They soaked up water and collapsed into a soggy mess. Another time, I tried sand, hoping for earthy texture, but the result looked more like fog than clarity. But failure is just another brushstroke in this underwater canvas. Each misstep teaches me something new about how light interacts with water, angles, and materials.
Beyond the photos, what I treasure most is the rhythm this creative process has brought into my life. There’s a peaceful kind of joy in prepping slates at night, music playing softly, mint tea steaming on the side. The repetitive dabs of glitter and swirls of lacquer have become my meditation. It’s my way of staying connected to the ocean even when I’m on dry land.
To the average person, watching a teenage girl in line at the pharmacy with a stack of neon nail polish bottles and super glue might seem odd. But I smile at their puzzled looks. Let them think I’m prepping for some glamorous fashion event. In a sense, I am. Only, my runway is beneath the waves, and the models are the creatures of the sea set against backdrops of shimmer and light.
Every dive is an opportunity to combine vision, creativity, and the science of photography. It’s a dance of patience and spontaneity, structure and improvisation. The ocean is my studio, my slates are my canvas, and the sunlight filtering through the water is my brush. Through it all, I’ve learned to see more than what meets the eye. I’ve learned to imagine what could be and then bring it to life through layers of polish, glitter, and light.
As I pack for tomorrow’s dive, my camera is carefully sealed, fins tucked neatly beside my wetsuit, and a fresh batch of bokeh slates laid out to dry. That familiar flutter of anticipation stirs inside me. I am not just going to capture the ocean. I’m going to reinterpret it. With each frame I shoot, I get to share a vision shaped by craft, curiosity, and a love for the world beneath the sea.
The Sacred Pause Before the Plunge
There’s something quietly transcendent about that moment just before slipping beneath the waves. The sea holds its breath, reflecting the sky with a mirrored stillness. In those fleeting seconds, I always stop. Just for a heartbeat. It feels like crossing a threshold into another world, a world where time slows and vision sharpens. Before I submerge, I mentally scan my checklist. My subject is chosen, camera settings are locked in, bokeh slates are clipped in place, and tucked into my dive vest is a tiny arsenal of tricks, both new and familiar.
This ritual began not as a necessity, but as a sacred rhythm, a kind of meditation that steadies my mind. That moment of stillness, while the ocean hovers between silence and movement, prepares me not just technically, but emotionally. Photography underwater is more than pressing a shutter. It’s the art of listening with your eyes, of feeling with light.
Initially, I focused mostly on background techniques, using hand-painted or polished bokeh slates that shimmered behind my subjects. They added depth, mystery, and a dreamy texture to my images. I loved how the colors bloomed gently, how glitter refracted through saltwater like stars spilled across a canvas. But eventually, I craved more control not just behind my subject, but in front, where the drama unfolds in delicate, often fleeting detail. That's when I started shaping the light itself.
This desire led me to unconventional real money where craftiness met creativity. I began designing homemade snoots, not just as a money-saving hack, but as a deeply personal way to connect with the medium. The commercial versions often felt sterile, overengineered, and clunky. They lacked personality. So I rolled up my sleeves and got to work.
Handcrafted Light: Shaped Snoots and DIY Expression
If you’re unfamiliar, a snoot is essentially a light modifier, a narrow tube placed over a flash or strobe to concentrate light into a tight beam. In an underwater setting, it functions much like a spotlight in a theater. You can isolate your subject, pulling them from the complexity of the reef into center stage. The effect is transformative. A snoot can turn a tiny shrimp into a mythical creature or highlight the shimmer of a shell as if it were a precious gem.
But I didn’t stop at just directing light. I wanted to shape it.
I salvaged a cardboard roll from an empty cling film tube, cut it down to the right size, and lined the interior with matte black tape. This prevented light from scattering unpredictably. Then I sealed one end with waterproof glue and rubber bands, attaching it snugly to my underwater strobe. The real magic began when I started carving different shapes into small pieces of translucent plastic hearts, stars, spirals, teardrops, each one changing the beam’s profile.
The first time I used my handmade spiral snoot, I aimed it at a squat lobster nestled beneath a coral overhang. I paired it with a pale gold glitter slate placed strategically behind the creature. The result was surreal. A cosmic swirl of light danced over the lobster’s shell while the background glowed softly, like mist lit by a rising sun. It wasn’t a perfect shot by textbook standards, but it was utterly mine. That fusion of biology and fantasy, of control and spontaneity, marked a turning point in my creative journey.
As I grew more comfortable with these tools, I began experimenting further. I bounced light off pocket-sized mirrors I’d waterproofed with clear nail polish. I created colored gels from old candy wrappers and slipped them into my snoots. Sometimes I’d drape a translucent leaf over my strobe for a forest-filtered effect. I even cut slits into frosted plastic to create curved or feathered beams. One image featured a porcelain crab bathed in violet light, its claws glowing as though traced by moonlight. That single photo felt like an entire story distilled into a frame.
Friends and mentors call this approach unconventional. Some have labeled it experimental. But to me, it’s expressive. The ocean is already unpredictable. You can plan all you want, but currents can toss you, fish might dart away just as you hit focus, and light can shift within moments. What these handmade tools gave me was not just adaptability but intimacy. Each device became an extension of my instincts a brushstroke of invention that made every image feel hand-painted, sculpted by intuition rather than rigid technique.
Turning the Ocean into a Studio of Dreams
With each dive, my underwater kit evolves. Some days I head out with only a few slates clipped to my rig, minimal and mobile. On others, I bring a full suite of gearshaped snoots made from salvaged water bottles, key rings that act as hinge joints, colored gels stacked in plastic sleeves, and curved reflectors crafted from cut-up soda cans. My camera, encased in a waterproof housing that now feels like an extension of my hand, captures more than just scenes. It captures emotion.
What makes this process even more meaningful is its contrast to the structured world I live in above the waves. Being a teenager is its own kind of whirlwind. School, homework, assignments, exams, deadlines they all demand precision and order. But underwater, I get to breathe differently. I get to create without fear of judgment, to explore without boundaries.
This passion, however, requires dedication. Dive preparation can take hours, from checking gear to planning lighting. I review weather and tide charts. I sketch ideas in my notebook, sometimes entire layouts of how I imagine a shot should look. Then there’s the editing, the hours spent sifting through hundreds of frames to find the one that sings. Yet every time I see one of my images, the kind that makes you stop, lean in, and feel something, it all becomes worth it.
One evening, after a dusk dive off a volcanic reef shelf, I captured a polka-dotted filefish drifting against a slate I’d made with mint-green frost. I had used a curved slit snoot to shape the light like a northern light ribbon. The photo looked as though the fish was swimming through the aurora borealis. When I printed it and gave it to my science teacher, her reaction was unforgettable. She smiled, touched the frame, and said, “You don’t just take pictures. You paint with water.”
That nickname“the girl who paints with water”followed me into my next school term. It showed up in yearbook blurbs and on the margins of assignments. At first, I was shy about it. But gradually, I grew into it. Because it wasn’t just a flattering label. It was a reflection of the way I see the world beneath the surface, where light becomes pigment, water becomes canvas, and every flick of the strobe is a brushstroke.
Now, my goal isn’t just to capture beauty but to share it. I want others to see the ocean not just as a distant ecosystem or a dive destination, but as a living, breathing gallery filled with wonder. Each coral branch is a sculpture. Every anemone is a kinetic installation. Fish aren’t just creatures, they're performers, muses, stories waiting to be told in light and shadow.
What started as a hobby, a teenager fiddling with a camera in the shallows has become something more expansive, more poetic. I’ve learned that when you mix science with imagination, when you tinker and trust your instincts, the results can transcend the expected. You don’t need the most expensive gear. You just need curiosity, patience, and a willingness to get your hands a little glittery.
The ocean continues to surprise me. It challenges and rewards in equal measure. And as long as I can dive, as long as I can shape light and tell stories through handmade tools and heartfelt vision, I’ll keep painting with water. Because down there, in that fluid world of shadows and shimmer, I’ve found a language that speaks louder than words ever could.
The Accidental Alchemy of Glass and Grit
Every artist has that one defining moment, the point where curiosity collides with opportunity, and something new begins. For me, that moment wasn’t in a gallery, a class, or some exotic dive. It happened in a salt-stained alley behind the fish market of our small coastal town. The kind of place where the windows are coated in crusted brine and the air holds a strange perfume of cardamom, oil, and seaweed. I was scavenging, as I often did, for discarded glass jars. My aim? To repurpose them into makeshift lens filters for underwater photography, adding a touch of distortion and flair that conventional gear simply couldn’t provide.
That’s when I met Salem.
He was an older man, quiet and deliberate, with hands rough from decades of shaping molten glass. From the moment he glanced at my sketchbook filled with chaotic diagrams and filter ideas, something clicked. He didn’t laugh at my crude illustrations or ask why anyone would want to drag glass into the ocean. Instead, he invited me inside his studio workshop humming with heat and wonder.
The space was hypnotic. Flames danced in furnaces like caged spirits, casting flickering shadows across walls lined with jars of powdered pigments, shattered ornaments, and failed experiments. It was like stepping into a forge of forgotten dreams, where broken glass was reborn. We struck an unspoken deal. I’d help organize and clean his overstocked storeroom, and in return, Salem would teach me the delicate art of shaping glass for use beneath the waves.
That was the beginning of what I now call the prism era.
We started with throwaways. Broken beer bottles, failed sculptures, decorative glass chunks no longer good for display, each piece had history, and now, new potential. Salem taught me how to smooth rough edges, how to curve glass just enough to affect the path of light without endangering sea life or divers. I learned how subtle surface etching could scatter beams in magical ways and how spherical shaping could turn simple refractions into mesmerizing fisheye effects.
From day one, I knew I wasn’t chasing precision. I didn’t want the clinical perfection of high-end optics. I wanted character. I wanted a feeling. I wanted light to behave like a story twisting, shimmering, and evolving in unpredictable ways. My goal wasn’t to mimic nature’s clarity but to amplify its mystery.
When Light Becomes Story: The Magic Behind Each Frame
One of the earliest photos I ever captured using my handmade tools remains one of my favorites. It was a close-up of a blue-ringed damselfish, a tiny creature with intense hues and a wary personality. Behind the fish, I suspended a thin arc of smoky lavender glass. Paired with one of my early gold-glitter slates, the setup transformed ordinary sunlight into something ethereal. The glass bent the rays into gentle violet streaks while the glitter diffused the beam, giving the impression of ink bleeding into still water. It wasn’t just a photo. It felt like a whispered memory from a dream.
From that moment, everything changed. I stopped treating photography as a process of capturing and began seeing it as an act of storytelling. Each shot became a layered composition of mood, light, shape, and emotion. My bokeh slates added warmth and texture. The glass introduced an otherworldly unpredictability. And my carefully angled snoots sculpted the scene like a spotlight on an underwater stage.
I started combining elements in new ways. Imagine this: a near-invisible shrimp perched delicately on the web of a sea fan. A custom snoot casts a narrow, crescent-shaped beam across its body. Behind the shrimp, a fire-orange slate glows with diffuse light, while a curved shard of deep blue glass refracts the light like a comet slicing across the frame. That’s not just documentation. That’s composition. That’s poetry formed from particles, light, and chance.
Of course, not every idea succeeds. Creativity underwater is far from tidy. Sometimes the glass fogs up mid-dive, ruining the shot. Sometimes the slate drifts out of position or the snoot beam misses its target. There are times I come back to the surface with nothing usable, frustrated and cold. But that’s the nature of innovation. Real magic lives in that unstable place between vision and failure, where you surrender to chance and let nature shape your art alongside you.
These experiments are not for the faint-hearted. They require patience, play, and a willingness to fail beautifully. But when they work, they unlock something truly extraordinary--photographs that don’t just depict the underwater world, but evoke its emotion, its drama, and its surreal, alien grace.
Handmade Wonder: Collaborating for Imperfect Brilliance
Salem and I, over time, became more than collaborators. We became co-conspirators in a quest to reshape how light behaves below the surface. Together, we’ve begun designing a small line of portable bokeh prisms specifically tailored for underwater use. These aren’t factory-perfect tools. They don’t shine with industrial polish or come with user manuals. They’re scratched from use, often asymmetrical, and every one of them bears a handwritten mark or scribbled note. But they feel alive.
Each piece of glass we make tells its own story. One prism might cast a diffused rainbow halo when placed at a certain angle. Another might split light so sharply it appears as if the frame has been painted with a brush dipped in sunlight. They are unpredictable, which is exactly what makes them indispensable.
We’ve also begun exploring dual-layer prisms/glass pieces fused with subtle metallic flakes or etched patterns that react to sunlight like micro-spectacles. When used correctly, these layers can mimic the depth of field tricks that high-end software applies post-process, only mine happen live, in-camera, beneath the waves. It brings a tactile truth to each image that editing simply can’t replicate.
There’s something deeply satisfying about working with tools born from imperfection. It reminds me why I fell in love with photography in the first place. Not for the gear, not for the accolades, but for the moments when light, life, and imagination align just right. When the chaos of the ocean becomes a canvas for personal myth-making.
In many ways, I owe it all to that day in the alley, that accidental detour that led me to Salem and his fire-lit studio. I was searching for junk. I found a mentor, a medium, and a way of seeing the world not as it is, but as it might be if light had its own dreams.
Now, whenever I prepare my rig before a dive, I’m not just assembling equipment. I’m gathering possibilities. A glittered slate that might reflect a sea dragon’s shimmer. A warped glass shard that might make a jellyfish glow like a phantom. A prism that could make a common seahorse look like a mythical beast.
The Magic Beneath the Surface: Where Curiosity Meets Connection
Underwater photography might seem, at first glance, to be all about capturing images. But the deeper you go, both literally and metaphorically, the more you realize it’s about something far greater. It's about connection. It's about telling stories that live in silence, revealing the hidden wonders of a world most never truly see. It’s about bringing to light the marvels just below the tidewonders that shimmer, shift, and vanish with a breath.
When I first dipped my toes into this world, I wasn’t thinking about legacy. I was just a curious teenager experimenting with plastic sheets and nail polish in my kitchen, wondering if I could shape light the way I imagined. I didn’t have fancy tools or expensive gear. I had glue, glitter, and questions. Over time, I turned those modest materials into handcrafted lighting tools/slates that shimmered with painted color and snoots made from kitchen scraps. Each creation was a spark of imagination molded into something functional.
As my experiments grew into experience, something else happened too. I started becoming a guide. Not because I set out to be one, but because people began to gather. Younger divers at my club started watching with wide eyes as I unpacked my DIY slates. They asked about the process. They borrowed pieces to test in the water. They started crafting their own versions. Suddenly, I wasn’t just a curious creator anymoreI was a mentor. And nothing has been more fulfilling.
What started in a quiet kitchen became a ripple of shared inspiration. Seeing younger divers realize they could turn common craft materials into photographic tools was a revelation. They didn’t need the most expensive rig or commercial lighting. They needed creativity, curiosity, and a little courage. And the ocean, for all its vast mystery, responded to their efforts. It gave back light, shimmer, and magic in return.
Crafting Wonder: From Glitter to Legacy
A few months ago, I hosted a workshop for kids between the ages of nine and twelve. I brought with me a suitcase of supplies, plastic squares, glue sticks, nail polish in every color, tiny jars of glitter. We sat together and made our own slates. Some were wobbly. Some were bright. Some sparkled like galaxy fragments. Afterward, I set up a small water tank and placed toy figurines inside. Then we slid the slates behind them and lit the scene from different angles.
The transformation was immediate. The kids gasped as the water exploded into color. Their eyes glittered brighter than the slates themselves. One girl leaned close to the tank and whispered, “It’s like the ocean is dreaming.” And in that moment, I realized what had truly brought me back to underwater photography over and over again: the ability to dream, to imagine, and to help others see beauty where no one thought to look.
This craftthis underwater artistry is a kind of time travel. Every click of the shutter freezes a fleeting instant that will never return. The light might hit just right for a second. A fish might pose unknowingly in front of your frame. A curtain of bubbles might dance through your background. You can't go back and reshoot it exactly the same. The ocean moves, flows, evolves. And when you've built the tools yourself when you've spilled glitter on the kitchen floor and waited impatiently for nail polish to drythat captured moment feels even more personal.
There is something powerful about using handmade tools. Your slates carry the scent of craft glue. Your snoots have fingerprints on them from late-night adjustments. These aren’t mass-produced. They’re artifacts of imagination. And because of that, the photos they help create hold a piece of your story. A sliver of your own creativity rides the currents and settles behind every captured crab, every gleaming seahorse, every waving anemone.
Sometimes I think about the future. I wonder who might one day discover a faded print of one of my images tucked away in a dusty archive. Maybe they'll notice a rainbow glint behind a crab shell and feel something tug at their imagination. Maybe they’ll pause, tilt their head, and wonder if the light was bent by something handmade by a teenage girl armed with nothing but nail polish and a dream. Or maybe they won’t think about the tools at all. Maybe they’ll just feel something stir inside them, a mix of wonder, curiosity, and inspiration. And honestly, that’s more than enough.
Because legacy isn't always about leaving behind names or accolades. Sometimes it's about sharing wonder. Sometimes it's about giving permission to others, especially the young and uncertain to be bold, to experiment, to fail and try again. It's about passing down the invisible thread of creativity, so the next generation can tug on it and follow the sparkle into the deep.
Dive with Imagination: Embracing the Unpolished and Unusual
To any young explorers or curious creators who might be reading this: don’t wait for someone to tell you it’s okay to start. Don’t look around for polished tools or flawless setups before you begin. Your ideas don’t need to be conventional. Your gear doesn’t need to look professional. The ocean doesn’t care about perfection, it thrives on authenticity.
Make a slate with chipped edges. Paint it with wild swirls. Use a flashlight and a bottle cap to guide light into the perfect spot. If your snoot is made of cardboard and duct tape, let it be. If your first photo is blurry but full of color, treasure it. These are not flaws. They are proof of your courage. Proof that you dared to make something out of nothing.
Every handmade tool you bring into the sea is an act of quiet rebellion. It says: I don’t need permission to create. I just need a vision. And the ocean listens. It wraps around your craft, turns your glitter into stars, and rewards your curiosity with scenes no one else will ever see in quite the same way.
The next time you dive, bring something you made yourself. Maybe it’s a bokeh slate painted with nail polish. Maybe it's a homemade gel holder or a reimagined reflector. It doesn't matter how simple or strange it looks. What matters is that it came from your hands, your heart, your vision.
Let your creativity shimmer in the current. Let your tools tell their own stories. Because the world needs more color. More unexpected angles. More stories from beneath the surface. When others see your images, they won’t care that your snoot was made in a garage or your slate started as a piece of a cereal box. They’ll feel the magic. They’ll sense the authenticity. They’ll glimpse a little world painted by passion and lit by wonder.
Conclusion
Underwater photography isn’t just about gear or technique, it's about the soul. Each handcrafted bokeh slate, every improvised snoot, becomes more than a tool; it becomes an extension of imagination. The ocean rewards curiosity with beauty, transforming even the humblest materials into portals of light and emotion. In this ever-shifting world beneath the waves, artistry thrives not in perfection but in passion. So whether it's glitter on plastic or glass forged from forgotten scraps, every frame tells a story only you can share. Let your vision flow, let your hands create, and let the sea echo your wonder with every shimmering dive.