Through the Rain: A Wildlife Photographer’s Day

Documenting my experience photographing seals in Aberdeenshire with a Sony A6400 and 200–600mm lens, on a particularly wet and atmospheric day. 

I arrived at Newburgh Seal Beach in Aberdeenshire under a slate-grey sky, the steady drizzle drenching the dunes and turning the sand dark. As a passionate wildlife photographer, I had come prepared with my Sony A6400 and a hefty 200–600mm telephoto lens, determined to capture the resident seals despite the weather. Little did I know this rainy-day shoot would test both my technical skills and my emotions, blending the thrill of photography with a deep concern for the animals I observed.
Battling the Elements

The moment I stepped out of the car, the wind-driven rain peppered my gear. I quickly slipped a rain cover over the Sony A6400, knowing that while the camera’s body has some weather sealing, it’s not invincible in a downpour. My Sony 200–600mm f/5.6-6.3 G OSS lens, an off-white beast weighing over 2.1 kg, is fortunately designed for the outdoors with dust and moisture resistance. Even so, I kept one hand shielding the lens front element, using the lens hood and a microfiber cloth to wipe off persistent droplets. The camera felt front-heavy in my hands – the A6400’s small grip isn’t ideal for such a big lens, especially with cold fingers in gloves. Each gust of wet wind reminded me how physical wildlife photography can be.

Shooting in the rain presented multiple challenges. Autofocus occasionally faltered as the lens tried to lock onto subjects through veils of rain. More than once, I half-pressed the shutter only to have the lens “hunt” focus on a stray raindrop. I toggled into manual focus for critical shots, using the electronic viewfinder which fogged slightly each time I pressed my eye to it. Exposure was another hurdle – the midday looked like dusk under heavy clouds. I opened the aperture to its maximum f/5.6–6.3 and raised the ISO, pushing it to 1600 and beyond. I knew the A6400 could handle moderately high ISOs, but past ISO 12,800 image quality would noticeably drop as details turn to smudge. To freeze any seal movement at long focal lengths, I aimed for a shutter speed of at least 1/800–1/1000s, which meant balancing on the edge of high ISO noise. Despite these difficulties, I was determined to make the most of the moody, diffused light that the rain provided – a softbox from the sky, giving a gentle evenness to the scene. Each challenge in the storm became a part of the story I was capturing, and overcoming them felt rewarding.

The Seals of Newburgh Beach

Newburgh Beach is a wild stretch where the River Ythan meets the North Sea, creating an ever-changing estuary landscape of sandbanks and mudflats. Even in the rain, the natural beauty of the place shone through. Tall grass-covered dunes bowed under the wind, and the air was tinged with salt and earth. I trudged through wet sand to a vantage point on the southern side of the estuary – from here I could look across the water to the far sandbank which is part of the protected Forvie National Nature Reserve. This reserve hosts a large colony of seals; in fact, over 400 seals live here, hauling out in their hundreds on the shore when they’re not out at seal.

At first glance, though, the beach looked empty. Swaths of taupe sand and rippling slate water revealed no wildlife. I set up my tripod low and scanned the opposite bank through my lens. Moments later, I caught sight of movement: plop – a dark, round head emerged from the water, then another. Suddenly those “rocks” I had been ignoring began to move. What initially looked like an absence of seals turned into a thrilling discovery as black shapes bobbed in and out of the estuary’s currents. The seals were there, after all, playing a game of aquatic peekaboo with me. I let out a relieved laugh and started clicking away, grateful that my long lens brought their world closer without my having to wade in. Using a 200–600mm zoom on the A6400 (with its 1.5× crop sensor effectively giving 300–900mm reach) allowed me to observe the seals from a safe distance, in line with the wildlife watching code (getting closer than 20 m is strongly discouraged).

Through the misty rain, I could make out a huddle of seals on the far shore. Most were grey seals, recognizable by their long noses and flat heads, though there were likely some smaller, round-headed harbour seals among them. The colony was a mix of sizes and colours – I saw bulky adults with mottled grey fur and younger ones with paler coats. Some sprawled like lazy sausages along the sand, while others scooted awkwardly or scratched themselves with flippers. Every so often, one would raise its head high and let out a sound across the water. At first, I mistook the haunting noise for the wind whipping across the dunes, but then realized it was the seals’ deep, moaning calls, punctuated by the odd bark. The whole beach had come alive with a wild symphony of these calls and the crash of distant waves. Despite the pouring rain, I found myself grinning – witnessing this felt like being admitted to a secret, soulful concert of nature.

I watched a few younger seals splashing in the water not far from the main group. They seemed to be playing, popping their heads up then dipping under, almost as if to tease me. I tracked one through my viewfinder as it surfed a wave into the estuary, its head emerging with a whiskery grin. The autofocus on the A6400 locked onto the seal’s glistening face for a split second before a curtain of rain erased it again. I switched to burst mode and held down the shutter, hoping to catch the moment it reappeared. In silent excitement, I reviewed the frames – in one, a seal’s eyes and whiskers were perfectly in focus against the blurry rain, droplets flying off its whiskers. It was worth every challenge to capture that shot.

Throughout, I was careful not to disturb the animals. They were mostly on the opposite bank, which naturally kept us humans at a good distance. (Newburgh’s seals are accustomed to onlookers across the water, and it’s actually illegal to harass them at this designated haul-out site.) I stayed low, moved slowly, and refrained from loud noises. A couple of other hardy souls were on the beach too – a pair of birdwatchers in raincoats farther along, and an occasional dog walker passing behind me on the dune path. I reminded one man to leash his dog as he approached; the last thing anyone wanted was a loose dog spooking the seal colony and causing a panicked stampede. Not only would that be unethical, it could earn a hefty fine or worse (disturbing these seals can incur fines up to £5,000 or even six months in jail). Thankfully, everyone around respected the seals’ space, letting me focus on photographing natural behaviours.

One of the joys of wildlife photography is observing these little moments of animal life. I watched an older seal shuffle around and then flop onto its back, flippers in the air, seeming completely content. Another pair of seals in the shallows would disappear underwater for long stretches, then pop up next to each other as if playing hide-and-seek. The rain lent a certain atmosphere to it all – every seal’s coat was slick and dark, and a light fog hung over the estuary, making the scene feel beautifully melancholic. Despite my damp clothes and fogged-up viewfinder, I felt a surge of happiness. Here I was, alone in the drizzle, yet in the company of wild seals — a privileged spectator to their afternoon rest and play

An Unexpected Rescue

As I panned my camera along the shoreline, I noticed one seal much closer to me than the main group. Off to my left, on my side of the estuary, a small shape was lying on the wet sand near the water’s edge. Immediately, my heart skipped a beat – it was a seal pup. This little one was isolated, not on the far sandbank with the others. Through my lens I could see it was quite young; in fact, patches of white baby fur still clung to its coat, which told me it was a grey seal pup born this season. It looked thin and lethargic, lifting its head only occasionally. Alone on the beach, rain pelting down around it, the pup let out a faint, plaintive cry. I felt a pang of concern. Was it abandoned or just temporarily separated from its mother?

I recalled reading that grey seal pups are usually born in winter and stay with their mothers for about three weeks before weaning. After that, the mother leaves and the pup must fend for itself, and sadly only around two-thirds survive their first year. It was possible this youngster had already been weaned and left behind as nature intended – or it could have been separated too early by circumstances like a storm. The recent rough weather and high tides might have caused this pup to lose contact with its mother. Either way, its chances did not look good; I remembered that a healthy, well-fed seal pup should be plump (“like a big, stuffed maggot without a neck,” as an RSPCA guide vividly put it) whereas this one was skinny enough that it had a visible neck, resembling a thin dog. That was a red flag for an undernourished pup.

I lowered my camera and inched a bit closer (still keeping over 20 meters away, as required) to get a clearer view. The pup barely moved, aside from shallow breaths and the occasional bleat. Rainwater was dripping off its small muzzle. My instinct as a photographer was to document the scene, but my instinct as an animal lover was to help. I snapped a few quick photos for reference – these could be useful to show to wildlife rescuers – then immediately dug out my phone and called the RSPCA hotline.

Explaining the situation quietly over the sound of rain, I described the pup’s location and condition. The RSPCA responder thanked me and told me that a local wildlife rescue volunteer could be dispatched to check on the pup. I was advised to keep my distance and not to attempt any intervention myself, which I fully agreed with. They also asked if I could remain in the area for a little while to keep an eye on the pup until help arrived. Of course, I said. There was no way I was going to pack up and leave now. Waiting for the rescuers, I felt a mix of anxiety and responsibility. I had a long-distance eye on the pup through my lens, and I also kept scanning around in case the mother (if there was one) returned. A couple of walkers came down the beach, and I gently intercepted them, explaining the situation and asking if they could give the pup a wide berth. Everyone was understanding – one family even decided to turn back, not wanting their children or dog to accidentally disturb the animal. I remembered the RSPCA’s warnings that seal pups can bite (and carry nasty bacteria) and that stress from human presence can be harmful, sometimes driving a pup back into the dangerous waters. So I maintained my distance, continuing to photograph from afar. Through my telephoto I could see the pup’s eyes closing as it rested on the sand, rain pooling in the little divots around its body. I quietly spoke to it in my mind: Hang in there, little one.

After what felt like a long time but was probably only 30 minutes, I spotted two figures in high-visibility jackets coming along the dunes – likely the rescue volunteers. I waved and pointed them toward the pup. Not wanting to cause the pup further stress, I stayed back while the experts carefully approached. One of them gave a thumbs-up signal from a distance, indicating I could relax. I later learned they would assess if the pup was indeed orphaned or just temporarily alone; if underweight or ill, it would be taken to a wildlife care centre. As they tended to the pup, I finally exhaled the breath I’d been holding.

Reflections on Wildlife Photography

The rain began to ease into a light mist as evening approached. With the pup in good hands, I slowly made my way back toward the car, camera gear slung over a tired shoulder. I was soaked through and shivering, my memory cards almost full, and my heart full as well. The day had been a stark illustration of the dualities in wildlife photography – the immense beauty and the inevitable fragility of nature, the technical struggles and the emotional rewards.

On the technical side, I had pushed my equipment and myself to the limits. I dealt with rain on the lens, tricky focusing, high ISO noise, and the sheer weight of a telephoto setup in adverse weather. Yet, I walked away with images I was proud of: a seal’s head framed by rain ripples, a group of fat grey seals lounging unbothered by the storm, and even a documentation shot that might help save a young animal’s life. Every raindrop on my sensor or ache in my arms felt worth it. These challenges taught me new levels of patience and preparedness – I learned the value of always having a dry lens cloth handy, using lens hoods and covers, and that sometimes you must embrace manual focus and creative settings when automation falters. Shooting in inclement weather can yield uniquely atmospheric photos that fair-weather photographers might never capture.

On the emotional and ethical side, the experience was even more profound. As I photographed the healthy seals, I felt joy and reverence. There’s a thrill in witnessing wild creatures simply being – playing, resting, interacting – without our interference. I felt honoured that my long lens let me peek into their world from afar, a silent observer. It’s crucial to remember that this beach is their home first and foremost. The seal colony at Newburgh has been here for generations; they come onto the bay’s sands to rest and raise their young away from the harsh sea. We humans are guests, and responsible behaviour is non-negotiable. I made sure to keep my impact minimal, sticking to the guidelines (no closer than 20 m, never between a seal and the water, no drones, minimal noise). Practicing this kind of restraint isn’t just about obeying laws – it’s about respect. The reward is seeing natural behaviour: had I tried to get too close, I would have seen only frightened animals scrambling away, not the relaxed, authentic moments that made my photos special. Then there was the encounter with the stranded pup – an ethical crossroads for any wildlife photographer. Part of me wondered if documenting the struggle was the right thing to do, or if putting the camera down to help was more important. In truth, there was no question in my mind that welfare comes first. While I did take a few quick photos of the pup (primarily to aid in identification and treatment), my priority became ensuring it got help. I’ve heard of photographers who maintain a strict “observe and do not interfere” stance, and indeed, in many cases that is wise – nature often knows best, and human intervention can do harm. But there are times when compassion and common sense compel us to step in, especially when dealing with human impacts or an animal in distress. The ethics of wildlife photography require a constant balance: you want that perfect shot, but not at the expense of the subject’s well-being. In this case, making the call to RSPCA and momentarily sacrificing my shooting time was the far more meaningful act. No photograph would have mattered if I left feeling I hadn’t tried to help a suffering creature.

As I finally sat in my car with the heater on full blast, I reflected on the day over a steaming cup of coffee from my flask. I felt a twinge of sadness wondering about the pup’s fate, but also a sense of purpose. Being out there in the rain, witnessing the raw beauty of Newburgh’s seal colony and the vulnerability of one tiny pup, reminded me why I do wildlife photography. It’s not just about the images – it’s about the connection to nature and the responsibility that comes with capturing it. I was tired, yes, but also invigorated, carrying with me not only a memory card of photographs but a heart-warming (and at times heart-wrenching) story to share.

In the end, a rainy day at the beach gave me more than just dramatic lighting and moody pictures. It gave me a narrative of perseverance, empathy, and respect. Driving home as the windshield wipers beat away the last drops of daylight, I knew that this experience – battling the elements, marvelling at the seals, and answering the call to help – would stay with me far longer than any technical settings or camera adjustments. It was a reminder that as photographers of wildlife we are also custodians of the moment, and sometimes, if we are lucky, we become participants in the very stories we set out to document.