Camera-touting kayakers along New Brunswick's Fundy coast discover that although fog alters your vision, it doesn't limit it.

It. Helena Island is shrouded in the kind of fog that Fundy fishermen claim to lean on. It hangs thick and wet around our tents, concealing the shores of nearby Deer Island and obliterating the water where we're supposed to be shooting the sunrise from kayaks. I rack my brain for alternatives to the itinerary for my Cameras in Kayaks workshop I'd planned in last week's bright sunshine. We could easily do soft focus portraits, no filters necessary.

For years I'd been dreaming about teaching a course that would introduce people to the joys of picture taking on salt water, and I eventually teamed up with Seascape Sea Kayaking on Deer Island, off New Brunswick's southwest coast; they would provide the guide and the equipment, while I could focus on the photography. Our weekend workshop started yesterday morning, as the small group arrived at Seascape's headquarters at Northwest Harbour. Each person had a different motive for coming, and all but one had some trepidation about kayaking: Paul and Wendy shared a desire to gain more control over their auto-matic cameras; Don, a pro-fessional nature photographer, wanted to explore marine flora and fauna in a new way, while Evan was a seasoned white water and racing canoeist who had bought his first camera in years.

I knew that our guide, Chad, would teach people how to kayak and keep them safe, but it fell to me to protect their photography equipment. We were about to enter the worst possible environment for a camera-salt water and sand. My method was an old trick for rainy days. First, the camera and lens were put in a large plastic baggie with the opening positioned over the camera back. Next, a lens hood or a step-up ring was screwed into the front of the lens through the plastic. Finally, the circle of plastic over the lens element was cut away. Add a bit of duct tape to secure the baggie to the lens and voila! A homemade camera housing.

After we packed our gear into the boats, Chad introduced the paddling strokes, braces and rescue techniques a beginning sea kayaker needs to know. Our plan was to circle a few islands outside the harbour to gain confidence, then paddle across the wide channel known as "the river" to Campobello Island. After photographing the distinctive Head Harbour lighthouse, we would camp on an island, enjoy a gourmet meal and discuss composition before turning in for the night.

That's when, to paraphrase the immortal Robbie Burns, our best-laid plans went awry. We were barely out of Northwest Harbour when the morning's promise of bright skies ended in a thick blanket of fog. Given the dangers of unseen boat traffic and hidden shoals, there was no question of open-water paddling. Instead, we opted to explore the gems off Deer Island's shores.

As I showed the others how to minimize camera motion by holding elbows in tight and using the left palm as a platform, I had a hard time not laughing. With the baggies covering our cameras, it looked more like we were eating sandwiches than taking pictures. But my talk about the challenges of sunlight on water, not to mention the tips for avoiding tilted horizons, was unnecessary. In the fog, there was no horizon.

Our kayaks glowed with saturated colours against the monochromatic mist, and we paddled in a woolly white world where sickle-finned porpoise, red-legged guillemot and bright-eyed seals surfaced out of nowhere only to vanish a moment later. Dark seaweeds festooned the fishing weirs and dripped from the rocky shores. In the fog, each fishing weir was a geometric sculpture, wet nets dripping seaweed in strange suggestive patterns. It's easy to forget how exotic the familiar looks to those who have never seen it before.

Eventually, after lunch, a hazy sun burned through the fog and we headed off to photograph a busy aquaculture site. Barges bustled about, carrying food to be loaded into automatic feeders, while silver salmon leapt high in their circular cages. Nearby, a row of green-and-white awnings could have been an aquatic café instead of a nursery for young haddock.

We lingered and paddled more and more slowly as each new subject appeared. When Chad finally managed to herd us onto St. Helena Island, we photographed men in orange overalls harvesting rockweed in the evening light, holding up supper until dark.

This morning, our second and last day, the fog is the thickest I've ever seen. There's no way we can leave the island safely until it lifts. Fortunately, the smell of fresh brewed coffee penetrates the fog better than the light does, and by the time we're working on a second pot, new ideas are also percolating. I cling to my caffeine-induced optimism and turn to the beach for inspiration. Maybe we can't photograph the invisible seals heard grunting and groaning on the offshore ledges, but life abounds on a Fundy beach at low tide. I am reminded that successful photographs are about more than correct exposures and good composition. The best images give insights into subjects by showing how they connect to their surroundings.

Over breakfast, we look at the rockweed draped over nearby boulders and speculate about its role in this tidal ecosystem. From a book by environmentalist Rachel Carson I read aloud a description of a floating rockweed forest where young fish shelter at high tide. We don waterproof clothing and head down the slippery shore on a quest for the essence of rockweed.

At first it is hard to get excited about the grey-green landscape. Then, the magic happens. Paul and I stop to photograph a periwinkle grazing and when we look up, the others are kneeling beside tide pools and sprawled in the rockweed. Even Chad has abandoned his chores to perch atop a rock with his lens.

The fog softens harsh lines and intensifies subtle colours, providing an otherworldly feel to the scene. We bring out polarizing filters to shoot through the water, try high-speed films for extra depth of field and experiment with long exposures and motion. Evan finds a female crab clutching a mass of bright orange eggs to her shell. We observe carefully as Don uses an extension tube and flash set-up to do the macro work that is his specialty; we each take shots of the crab before putting her safely back under a veil of rockweed.

Before we realize, it's late morning. The sunlight has broken through once again and the tide has risen, bringing us back to our kayaking plans. The rest of the day is a visual feast. Skirting the islands, we stop below a massive eagle's nest with a young chick flapping and squawking. Chad picks sea urchins from the shallow water and lines them up on his kayak skirt where they wave their spines on tiny ball joints. We use wide-angle lenses to capture abandoned boats along the shoreline as we land on a sandy beach for lunch.

It's late afternoon by the time we paddle to the traditional fishing village of Leonardville. Beautifully maintained boats are tied at the wharf not far from a pound where live lobsters are stored to ship around the world. Finally, we turn for home, cruising back up the shore with a following wind and wave hurrying us along.

It's hard to come to land after being a creature of the sea. After we've gathered our belongings and said fond farewells, I sit alone to assess the weekend. It's been an incredible privilege to help introduce people to the environment where I work and play, and I'm thankful that they were an enthusiastic and open-minded group. Most of all, I'm thankful for the fog, which helped us become better at creating meaningful images of the world around us.

As it turned out, the blinding fog helped us learn how to see.