Renowned conservation photographer Duncan Murrell reflects on a lifetime spent in intimate pursuit of the ocean’s most majestic creatures—whales, whale sharks, and rays. His story is one of grit, solitude, and a passionate connection to the natural world that surpasses mere adventure. Murrell’s experiences offer not just stunning images, but a living testimony to the planet’s rapidly shifting ecological balance. His lens is not only a tool of artistry, but of activism.
I first became aware of Duncan Murrell during the annual Ocean Art underwater photography competition. His spectacular image of courting Devil Rays in Honda Bay, Palawan, had just been awarded “Best in Show.” Yet despite his new title and the acclaim it brought, Duncan remained unreachable. Repeated emails and messages went unanswered. It was only later that I learned the reason: he had been living out of a kayak deep in the remote waters of Raja Ampat. This absence was emblematic of Duncan. He is not just a photographer—he is a whaleman, a drifter, a conservationist.
Duncan’s life is not curated for social media. His journeys involve no tour packages, no luxury yachts, and no satellite connection. They are raw, solitary, and real. With only a kayak, a camera, and a deep well of conviction, he follows the migrations of some of the largest beings on Earth. The world he occupies is wild and waterlogged—a space where the ancient rhythms of whales and weather still rule.
Becoming the Whaleman
Duncan Murrell was born in Devon, United Kingdom. In 1978, he crossed the Atlantic and made his way toward one of the last great whale havens—Alaska. His route was far from direct. He hitchhiked from British Columbia to Fairbanks, battled a case of hepatitis in Mexico, worked illegally in salmon canneries, navigated coastal waters by wooden sailboat, and found brief companionship in a relationship with a Norwegian-Alaskan woman. Through it all, he remained captivated by one goal: to encounter whales.
In Alaska, Duncan discovered his calling. He found that approaching whales by kayak allowed him to get closer than any motorboat ever could. Not only was it non-disruptive to the animals, it also placed him at the center of their world. For years, he followed humpback whales through Southeast Alaska’s Inside Passage, observing their feeding rituals, especially the breathtaking spectacle of bubble-net feeding.
That behavior became Duncan’s obsession. His persistence eventually paid off. In 2002, one of his images captured a close-up of humpback whales during a lunge feed. The photo earned him international recognition, winning the mammal behavior category in the BBC Wildlife Photographer of the Year competition. It also became the cover image of BBC Wildlife Magazine, and his accompanying article brought further attention to his work. It was, by his admission, the pinnacle of his career.
The Heartbeat of an Ocean Ballet
Even decades after that defining moment, Duncan remains energized by the encounters that shaped him. During our conversation, I asked him what stood out among the many moments he had experienced in the wild. He didn’t hesitate. His most powerful memory occurred during one chaotic and unforgettable day in Alaska.
He recalled being surrounded by playful sea lions, a frequent occurrence near his kayak. A large bull sea lion suddenly locked eyes with him before diving beneath the surface. Minutes later, chaos erupted. That same bull was being hunted by orcas. As Duncan watched the scene unfold, humpback whales joined the fray and were attacked as well. He was caught in the center of a battle between titans. Orcas zipped past his kayak. Humpbacks slapped their massive fins in an attempt to deter the attackers. The sea vibrated with energy and violence. Murrell was overcome by adrenaline and awe. It was one of those rare, primal moments when nature reveals its full force. His only regret was having no one to share it with.
Trials on the Edge of the World
Duncan has never shied away from danger or discomfort. His journeys often took him to the margins—geographically and emotionally. One of the most emblematic tales of his isolation and resilience occurred in Madagascar. There, he became the first person to kayak up the island’s eastern coast. The feat later earned him an invitation to Buckingham Palace, where he met the Queen.
But the achievement nearly ended in disaster. On his very first day paddling the treacherous waters of the Indian Ocean, Duncan attempted to land his kayak amidst towering swells and coral reefs. A poorly timed wave flipped him, sending both him and his month’s supply of gear into the sea. As he struggled to regain control, a local man appeared on the beach and helped him recover the kayak. It was a gesture of kindness Duncan has never forgotten.
That memory sits beside another, equally tender moment. After capsizing and relocating to a more sheltered part of the coast, Duncan was watched by a crowd of curious locals as he tried to reassemble his sand-clogged kayak. When the rain began to fall, a little girl silently stood beside him and held an umbrella over his head. These are the moments that reveal the shared humanity in Duncan’s otherwise solitary path.
The Evolution from Whales to Whale Sharks
After years immersed in the chilling waters of Alaska, Duncan Murrell felt the pull of warmer currents and unfamiliar marine giants. His journey led him to the Pacific, specifically to the archipelagic waters surrounding the Philippines. There, another leviathan awaited—one that dwarfed most others in scale yet moved with a tranquility unlike anything he had previously known. The whale shark, the largest fish in the ocean, became Duncan’s next muse.
Settling in Palawan, Murrell adapted to a new rhythm. Here, the creatures did not breach or slap the water’s surface dramatically. Instead, they glided with quiet purpose through the tropical waters, surrounded by a dynamic ecosystem of fellow travelers—remoras, jacks, tuna, and plankton in pulsing clouds. To Duncan, photographing whale sharks was less about drama and more about immersion in a grand procession. The scene was not simply a snapshot but a moving narrative of ecology in motion.
He described it in vivid terms. The whale shark would dive deep, then rise in a slow, powerful arc toward the surface, herding tiny prey toward the light. At the same time, schools of skipjack tuna would burst into the frame, slicing through the currents like silver bolts. The water shimmered and churned with life. Duncan likened the experience to being pulled into a living machine—one organism composed of many species, each responding to the signals of the other. At the center floated the whale shark, vast and serene, like a mothership in an aquatic cosmos.
It was this holistic vision that set Duncan apart. He did not isolate his subject from its environment. He saw the shark not merely as a singular spectacle, but as the axis of a broader system. His photographs reflected this understanding. They were not just portraits but tapestries, woven with the threads of interconnected life.
A Singular Moment: The Devil Ray Ballet
While Duncan had spent years seeking the extraordinary through patience and perseverance, one of his most iconic images came unexpectedly. On a return trip to Honda Bay, he found himself amid an ethereal phenomenon: a courtship dance of Spinetail Devil Rays. The moment unfolded in a sudden flurry, a burst of energy, light, and movement as the rays began their mating ritual.
They spiraled and surged, forming arcs in the water. Fins stretched outward, their silvery bodies catching the sun’s refracted rays. Their motions were purposeful, not frantic—an elegant choreography driven by instincts as old as the sea itself. Duncan had seen manta rays and other mobulid species, but never before had he witnessed such a fluid display of coordinated movement.
His camera captured it all. The resulting series of images was not only technically excellent but emotionally charged. One frame stood out—a frozen instant of the rays mid-flight, curved in unison like dancers on a vast liquid stage. That image won him the Best in Show award at the 2018 Ocean Art competition and went on to become a symbol of what underwater photography could achieve: artistry and awareness intertwined.
But beneath the beauty lay a darker narrative. Duncan was acutely aware of the vulnerability of mobulid species. Rays, like sharks, were increasingly being targeted for their gill rakers, falsely believed to possess medicinal properties in some cultures. Demand in markets like China had led to a surge in harvesting, decimating populations that once glided through tropical waters in abundance. His photograph was thus both a celebration and a lament—a monument to wonder, and a plea for protection.
In Pursuit of Endangered Moments
Duncan Murrell’s work is rooted not only in aesthetics but in urgency. Every expedition he undertakes is animated by a belief that these animals—whether cetacean, elasmobranch, or ray—are slipping away from the world’s grasp. In their place, humanity is erecting walls of plastic, noise, and warming seas. His mission is to capture them before they vanish, to archive their existence, and to stir those who still care enough to protect them.
But his conservation efforts go beyond documentation. Duncan has often engaged directly in local and international campaigns aimed at protecting marine species. In the 1980s, he played an active role in raising awareness about the hunting of humpback whales and the need for sanctuary zones in feeding grounds. He collaborated with scientists, provided photographs for marine ecology textbooks, and advised policymakers on the realities of whale behavior, migration, and habitat vulnerability.
His methods, though unconventional, yielded results. Rather than speaking in technical jargon or lobbying in halls of government, Duncan let his images speak. His photos reached audiences that statistics never could. They appeared on magazine covers, in documentaries, in schoolrooms, and on conservation billboards. They lingered in the public imagination, reminding people that whales were not myths or figures from folklore—they were here, real, breathing, singing, and worth saving.
Solitude and the Sea
Though Duncan’s images have reached millions, his life remains largely solitary. This solitude is neither burden nor choice, but consequence. To follow whales across oceans, to rise before dawn and paddle silently among giants, to wait for days just to witness a single breach—this path is not easily shared. Even those who accompany him briefly often retreat to the comforts of civilization, unable or unwilling to endure the extremes.
Duncan has grown used to it. Solitude, he explains, sharpens his senses. It attunes him to the language of wind and water, to the subtle changes in whale song, to the flicker of movement that signals a feeding event. Yet there are moments when the silence weighs heavier than usual. He speaks candidly of times he wished for company—not just for safety, but for the simple joy of mutual wonder. When orcas chased a sea lion beneath his kayak, when humpbacks brawled with the killers in the foam, when devil rays danced around him—these were moments he wanted to share, not just document.
Still, he does not regret his path. The rewards, though intangible, are profound. Duncan describes a kind of spiritual intimacy he feels when face to face with a whale. There is no fear, only connection. The eye of the whale, he insists, sees more than we give it credit for. There is recognition, curiosity, perhaps even empathy. And it is in these silent exchanges that he finds what many seek in temples or cathedrals—a sense of awe, of insignificance, and of belonging to something vaster.
The Cost of the Calling
Living the way Duncan does comes at a cost. Financially, his lifestyle is uncertain. Sponsors come and go, and grants are rarely tailored for solo nomads with waterproof cameras. Yet he persists. He repairs his gear, stretches resources, and often goes without. Comfort, for Duncan, is not the end goal—access is. If a crumbling kayak and a borrowed wetsuit can take him to the heart of a whale nursery or the edge of a reef under siege, it’s a trade he’ll make every time.
Emotionally, the work is taxing. Duncan has witnessed reefs bleach into ghost towns, bays emptied of fish, and coastlines once teeming with life now littered with debris. These losses cut deeply. For someone who has spent his life bearing witness to nature’s majesty, its degradation feels personal. He does not mask his frustration with humanity. At times, he describes our species as disconnected, distracted, and dangerously indifferent. But he is not without hope. He has also seen acts of courage, resilience, and kindness—both in people and in the animals he photographs.
And physically, the toll is undeniable. Decades of paddling, diving, and exposure have worn on his body. Joints ache. Eyes strain. Yet his drive remains intact. He speaks of upcoming trips with the same excitement as a young explorer. There are still places he wants to go, species he has not yet seen, behaviors he has only heard of. The sea, despite its changing face, still calls.
The Story Behind Every Image
What distinguishes Duncan Murrell from many photographers is his insistence that every image must carry a story. He does not chase the perfect shot for fame or technical acclaim. He chases moments that matter. The photograph is not the end—it is the record of a lived experience, of a minute in time when something extraordinary occurred and someone was there to see it.
Often, that someone is Duncan alone. He camps in mangrove swamps, sleeps on storm-battered beaches, eats modest meals cooked on portable stoves. His cameras are protected by layers of makeshift waterproofing. When he dives, it is often without backup or safety teams. These choices are deliberate. They allow him to remain invisible, to observe rather than disturb.
He has no interest in staging or sensationalism. His photos are raw because the moments themselves are raw. A breaching whale, an inquisitive ray, a shark trailing tuna across a boiling sea—these are not performances but pieces of life. He captures them as they are, not as we wish them to be. And in doing so, he reminds us that nature does not need embellishment. It needs space, respect, and time.
Bearing Witness to Change
As Duncan Murrell entered the later chapters of his career, the world around him continued to change—both the natural ecosystems he once explored untouched, and the human contexts encroaching upon them. Where there had once been silence and wilderness, there was now the drone of engines, the glare of cruise ships, and the ever-present threat of industrial overreach. Duncan became not only a photographer of nature’s majesty but also a chronicler of its slow disappearance.
In Alaska, the bubbling calm of humpback feeding grounds had become increasingly difficult to find without the interference of boat traffic. Coral reefs in the Philippines, which had once bloomed with color and life, were being smothered by sediment, heat, and overfishing. In Madagascar, the coastal villages that had once welcomed him with curiosity and kindness were now struggling under economic and ecological stress. For Duncan, these changes were not theoretical. They were painfully tangible.
He recalls returning to sites where he had photographed thriving whale pods years before, only to find the same waters disturbingly quiet. Places once teeming with fish had turned barren. The haunting absence of life told its own story. And it was one he struggled to ignore. Over time, Duncan’s photography evolved from observation to documentation of decline—a shift from wonder to warning.
But while the transformations brought sorrow, they also deepened his sense of purpose. Duncan no longer saw his images as mere reflections of beauty but as instruments of urgency. They were not just to inspire, but to awaken. His mission was no longer just to show what was out there—but what was at risk of vanishing forever.
The Human Element in Conservation
Through decades spent in the field, Duncan came to understand that the plight of marine life was inseparable from the human story. The same villages that once thrived near the ocean had become victims of its depletion. Coral destruction, overfishing, climate change, and pollution were not only eroding biodiversity but disrupting livelihoods.
He saw how well-intentioned conservation initiatives sometimes excluded local communities, creating resentment or misunderstanding. Duncan believed that true conservation must involve those who lived closest to the threatened species. Protecting whales, rays, and sharks could not happen in isolation from the people who fished near them, navigated with them, or lived beside their habitats for generations.
In the Philippines, he became acquainted with local fishermen who, for generations, had shared the water with whale sharks. Many of them were unaware of the laws protecting the species or of the long-term benefits of ecotourism and scientific research. Through conversations, images, and informal education, Duncan began to bridge the gap between conservation science and local knowledge.
In some regions, he offered photographs to local schools, helping create visual resources that made marine life feel immediate and relevant to the younger generation. In other places, he worked with grassroots NGOs to use his images in campaigns to stop dynamite fishing and promote marine protected areas. His photography became not only a tool for international exhibitions but a shared language between worlds that often failed to understand one another.
Photography in a Digital Age
The rise of digital photography and social media changed the landscape of nature documentation. Duncan, whose career had begun with rolls of film, darkrooms, and physical portfolios, now found himself navigating a sea of images that poured daily into the internet from every corner of the planet. Wildlife photography had become popular, accessible, and highly competitive.
He did not resent the change. He welcomed the growing interest in nature and the influx of new voices in conservation storytelling. But he also felt the urgency to remind emerging photographers of the responsibility that came with pointing a lens at a wild creature. To him, a photograph was not a trophy but a trace of a moment that must be earned with humility, respect, and presence.
He worried that speed and spectacle were replacing patience and depth. The temptation to get the perfect shot quickly could lead to invasive behaviors: drones hovering over nests, divers chasing animals for clicks, snorkelers crowding coral reefs for selfies. Duncan warned against this commodification of wildlife. He believed that the best photographs came not from manipulation but from quiet coexistence.
In recent interviews and talks, he began speaking about the ethics of photography. He encouraged young artists to learn about the species they were capturing, to wait rather than interfere, and to ask what their images were saying. Was it just about awe? Or was it about connection, responsibility, and consequence?
Reflections on a Life in Water
Looking back, Duncan spoke openly about the physical and emotional demands of his lifestyle. There were moments of real danger—storms, capsizes, equipment failure in remote areas—but it was the emotional isolation that left the deeper mark. He had sacrificed a stable home life, missed birthdays and funerals, and spent holidays alone in camps far from civilization. Yet he insisted that his life, though solitary, had never been lonely in the conventional sense.
The animals became his community. The sea was his companion. He spoke of whales and rays not with scientific detachment but with the language of relationship. He noticed individual differences in behavior, suspected complex social bonds, and often described their interactions in terms of emotion. This was not anthropomorphism, he argued, but recognition. Anyone who spent years observing the same pod of whales would eventually sense that something profound was unfolding—something beyond instinct.
Among his most vivid memories was a humpback whale who lingered around his kayak for nearly an hour, circling and diving gently, never breaching, never leaving. There was no drama, only presence. That hour, he said, felt like a lifetime. It was a conversation without words, a mutual acknowledgement between two sentient beings sharing the same ocean.
In such moments, Duncan found the fuel that kept him going. These were not just highlights in a career—they were affirmations of his life’s purpose. They told him that despite everything—the loss, the noise, the pollution—the ocean still held miracles. And as long as it did, he would keep bearing witness.
New Frontiers and Lingering Questions
Even as age tempered his physical strength, Duncan showed no signs of slowing down. His mind remained sharp, his curiosity undimmed. He continued to plan expeditions, research new regions, and experiment with evolving technologies. He spoke about exploring Arctic waters, documenting species in the Coral Triangle, and perhaps even diving into the little-studied deep pelagic zones.
Yet, along with ambition came introspection. Duncan began to ask deeper questions about legacy and impact. What would become of the hundreds of thousands of images he had taken over decades? How could they best serve the creatures he loved? Was awareness enough, or did photography need to go further—toward policy, education, and activism?
He had begun archiving his work more systematically, working with conservation groups and digital libraries to ensure his photographs remained accessible for future generations. He wanted students, scientists, and conservationists to use his images not as static records, but as living tools—evidence of beauty, evidence of loss, and hopefully, inspiration for renewal.
He also began mentoring younger photographers, offering advice not only about aperture and shutter speed but about humility, patience, and purpose. His goal was not to pass down technique, but philosophy. The ocean did not need more images, he argued. It needed more protectors.
Intimacy with the Wild
A defining feature of Duncan’s photography has always been intimacy. His images are rarely taken from afar. They place the viewer within arm’s reach of the subject—close enough to feel the movement, the water, the breath. This proximity is not achieved through drones or telephoto lenses, but through trust. The animals let him in. They allow his presence. And that is perhaps his greatest achievement.
This intimacy extends beyond visuals. It is felt in his writing, in his voice, in the way he tells stories. He does not dramatize, nor does he romanticize. He simply relays what happened. And in doing so, he invites others to draw closer—not only to his world, but to their relationships with nature.
He tells of manta rays brushing against his arms without fear. Of whale calves lifting their heads to look him in the eye. Of coral gardens that shimmered like stained glass. Of being wrapped in silence so complete, he could hear his heartbeat echo through his mask.
These stories are more than anecdotes. They are lessons in presence. They teach that nature is not something to be conquered or cataloged, but something to be entered into—carefully, reverently, and with open senses.
Toward a Legacy of Reverence
Duncan Murrell has never been interested in fame. He avoids the spotlight, shuns commercial partnerships, and rarely updates his online platforms. Yet his work continues to circulate, influencing generations of photographers, filmmakers, and conservationists.
His legacy is not built on brands, but on a body of work that speaks quietly and profoundly to anyone willing to listen. His images remind us that the ocean is not just a resource—it is a realm of wonder, intelligence, and irreplaceable life. His life’s message is clear: we do not protect what we do not love, and we cannot love what we do not see. His photographs let us see.
As the planet faces unprecedented environmental crises, voices like Duncan’s carry increasing weight. They come not from headlines or politics, but from lived experience. From the edge of a kayak, from the depths of a reef, from the brief meeting of eyes between man and whale.
He hopes that his work continues to foster a sense of reverence. Not admiration from afar, but involvement. A reverence that leads to action, to policy, to protection. A reverence that begins not in museums or magazines, but in the heart of each person who stops and truly sees a whale, a ray, or a shark—not as “wildlife,” but as kin.
Kayaking Through Change: A Lifetime in Motion
Duncan Murrell’s career spanned decades, and across the years, the marine world he so deeply loved was changing rapidly. The ocean, once filled with seemingly endless abundance, became a mirror reflecting the pressures of humanity’s expanding footprint. Where humpbacks once roamed freely, shipping lanes, sonar, and pollution began disrupting their songs and migratory patterns. It was during this phase that Duncan's role evolved beyond that of an observer and into that of an advocate.
Despite being deeply immersed in his solitary experiences with whales, Duncan was never disconnected from the broader environmental picture. He started using his photography and personal storytelling to raise awareness about the threats facing marine mammals. His images, often captured from precarious positions in a small kayak just meters from giants of the deep, offered viewers a window into a vanishing world. They were not just portraits of animals but testimonies of trust, wildness, and ecological fragility.
Murrell’s methods were unconventional, but they had an undeniable impact. Where marine biologists brought data and conservationists brought policy, Duncan brought empathy—an emotional connection that stirred curiosity and compassion. People who had never seen a whale in person felt their majesty through his images. His photographs were featured in environmental campaigns, exhibitions, and publications worldwide, each carrying a message: this world is worth saving.
A Life Etched in Salt and Silence
After his years in Alaska and the Pacific Northwest, Duncan turned his attention to the warm, teeming waters of the Philippines and Southeast Asia. While these environments differed in temperature and species, they echoed the same harmony and vulnerability he had found with the humpbacks. Dugongs, spinner dolphins, and whale sharks became his new muses. He continued his explorations with the same simple setup—a single-man kayak, camera gear carefully wrapped against saltwater, and days spent adrift in the ocean’s vastness.
It was here that he mentored younger photographers and conservationists, quietly becoming a teacher not through lectures, but through living example. He never demanded attention, yet his actions invited others to reconsider their relationship with nature. For Duncan, the kayak had always been more than a vessel—it was a symbol of humility. It represented a way of being in the world that required respect, adaptability, and a deep listening to forces larger than oneself.
Murrell’s legacy is particularly striking because he stood outside the typical frames of fame or recognition. He wasn’t attached to institutions, he didn’t chase awards, and he shunned social media. His renown spread organically, passed on by word-of-mouth in conservation circles and wilderness communities. He was a man who found meaning in anonymity—not to escape the world, but to blend into it more completely.
The Last Paddle Strokes
Eventually, age and health began to slow Duncan’s relentless explorations. But even as physical journeys became harder, the ocean never left him. He continued to write, reflect, and share his stories through local talks, essays, and community outreach. He became a quiet elder of the sea, a sage who had listened longer than most and now had wisdom to impart—not through dramatic speeches but through careful observation.
He passed away in 2020, leaving behind a body of work that speaks as vividly today as it did in the moments it was captured. His photographs endure not just for their technical quality but for their emotional resonance. Each frame is filled with a quiet reverence, the kind that only someone who has truly surrendered to the wild can express.
His kayak, worn by years of salt and sun, has become almost mythic among those who followed his journey. It’s a reminder of the courage it takes to travel slowly, to paddle instead of motor, to witness instead of interfere. Duncan's life is a testament to the idea that one does not need large platforms to make a lasting impact—only presence, persistence, and passion.
Conclusion:
Duncan Murrell was never just a man in a kayak. He was a bridge between two worlds: the human and the wild, the curious and the endangered. In a time when speed and spectacle often dominate our interactions with nature, Duncan offered something radical—patience. He showed that you could get closer to the heart of nature not by overpowering it, but by meeting it on its terms.
His story reminds us of the power of one life lived deliberately. He didn’t have a research grant, a documentary crew, or a corporate sponsor. What he had was an unshakable love for the sea, a camera, and the willingness to sit with silence long enough to let it speak.
Today, in conservation conversations, photography festivals, and ocean advocacy movements, Duncan Murrell’s name surfaces like the creatures he once followed—quietly, beautifully, and always with a sense of awe. His work continues to inspire, not because it shouted the loudest, but because it listened the longest.
As we confront growing environmental crises, perhaps the greatest lesson we can take from the life of Duncan Murrell is this: fall in love with the world slowly, thoroughly, and without ego. Let it shape you. Let it humble you. And when it finally lets you in, tell its story—not for yourself, but for the generations who might never know its wonder unless you do.