It’s said that we are made of “star stuff.” Most of the elements that compose all the living things on Earth are the same ones that burst into the universe from exploding stars billions of years ago.

From the first time I took my camera underwater, I found the appearance of particles in my images to be one of the greatest sources of frustration. This backscatter is out of your control, and while you can mitigate it by closing the distance between yourself and the subject, fast-moving whales on the hunt don’t allow for much control over positioning.

Prior to getting on the small Zodiac boats each morning in search of orcas, I was told that the experience of being present in a bait ball hunt makes you feel like you’re among the stars. This, of course, could have easily turned out to be hyperbole. How often does reality fall short of expectations?

But sure enough, as orcas were passing on both sides and below me, circling the mass of fish that they worked so hard to corral, I found myself in the midst of a galaxy of particles—small, silver specks that shimmered as they caught the little light that made it into the fjords at this time of year. Water over your ears mutes all but the squeaks of the orcas coordinating their operation. You feel like you’re suspended in the agar of a petri dish larger than your mind understands. A moment far better suited for feelings than words.

It’s possible to remove backscatter from images in post-production, but this was a moment where I knew the particles had to stay—they complete the story. These small, silver specks are the scales of the herring that the orcas had eaten moments before.

In a scene of opposites—large and small, predator and prey, animal and human, life and death—the essence is shared. These particles are made of the same elements that originated from the stars. The same elements that make up the 5-ton hunters consuming the herring. That make up you.

Looking down into the dark water became an exercise in looking up—but also within.