This... this is the place where people propose.

I've watched it happen dozens of times. This gazebo, perched on its stone jetty, has witnessed more bent knees and held breaths than I can count. It's where couples redefine and cement their passion and love. Where he will ask, "Will you?" And she will say, "I do."

The location is popular for a reason. Something about standing at the edge of the water, surrounded by nothing but sky and stone, makes the moment feel bigger than yourself. The reflection, when the tide is right, doubles everything—the structure, the feeling, the weight of what's about to happen.

But capturing it empty? Nearly impossible.

This gazebo was constantly in use, so I had to wake up early one morning—earlier than the lovers, earlier than the light—to claim my window. Even then, I wasn't alone. The wind was relentless, the cold biting. I set up my tripod, locked in my composition, and waited.

And waited.

I spent approximately 20 minutes watching the tide move, waiting for the water to reach that perfect stillness. Too low, and the rocks dominate. Too high, and the reflection fractures. I needed that mirror—calm, complete, unbroken. The kind of stillness that only exists in the few minutes between chaos.

When it finally came, I made the image I'd been holding in my vision. Not the gazebo as decoration. Not as a backdrop for someone else's story. But as a monument to all the stories it holds. The yeses. The forevers. The moments that change everything.

This print captures that brief, sacred pause—before the next couple arrives, before the water shifts again, before the world wakes up and fills the space. Just the structure, the stone, the water, and the weight of every promise ever spoken here.