That picture and the six people in it have, over the years since, become my primary memory of that trip. All six of them are silhouettes in my picture, and in my memory. I do not remember seeing them, let alone noticing their faces. I couldn't tell you whether the couple fixed their camera, or if for that matter it was actually broken. The girl by the palm tree may be dancing, or she may just be turning around. I can't know. All I can do is look at the picture and imagine. For them it's probably a completely forgotten, incidental moment—just one more second in a long or short or possibly lifelong visit to Maui. For me, it has become the very centre of my memories of a wonderful week. The whole trip has taken on the happy glow of those clouds. If I weren't a tightly wound white guy I could even say that I dance like that girl.
             That's the beauty of photography. A single picture can encapsulate huge emotions—not just a thousand words, but a thousand feelings. After all, I can't remember anything specific about that night except that I took that picture at some point. But in retrospect, thanks to that picture, that night has become a turning point in the story of my life, not just a moment but a Moment, the sort of incident that would make it out of the book into the film adaptation. If I hadn't taken that picture, I might well have let those humid days on the water become just another vacation. But thanks to George Eastman, that sunset grabs me, pulls me into my past with her rosy red fingers, reminds me how much pleasure I took in my time in Hawaii.
             Or not. The photo, like any other myth, is only partly true. The feelings it "reminds" me of are a construct I've invented in my memory to concentrate my attention on the best parts of the vacation. If I start actually trying to remember the ten days, there are other stories to tell that I haven't integrated into that part of my personal mythology. Even the other good things that happened I have unintentionally, but effectively, cut out and declared unimportant to who I am. According to me, cycling down the volcano and snorkeling in the reef were entirely unimportant since—unfortunately for them—I didn't take pictures. I certainly don't focus on all the days that were cloudy and didn't have sunsets, on the cuts we all got on our feet from the grass, or the smell from the pumping station next door, or the coming pain of breaking up with the girl I was calling every night while I took the pictures. Thanks to my camera, my ten days in Hawaii are summarized by a golden glow in the west and people dancing in the foreground, whatever else may have happened.
             For a long time I thought that the rather pretty version of the picture I have to reminisce over was the original. I told myself that it sprung like that from reality, a lucky and beautiful shot. That was part of the story. It also wasn't true. I accidentally hit "revert to original" one day, and the myth disappeared. The colours lost their saturation, and the asymmetrical parts I had cropped came back. The sun jumped back into the right side of the picture, blindingly and unattractively white and surrounded by lens flare. I had recoloured and cropped my picture into what I wanted it to be, and then forgotten that I had changed it.
             After seven days in the house by the water we left it and moved across the island to another, older house on the side of the volcano, a long way from the beach, where it was hotter and more humid. We did very little in our three days there, or at least I didn't take many pictures.

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