During my stay in New Zealand, I met Craig, a deaf man, while working at a bottling factory.
We shared long shifts, packing beer cans side by side, and somewhere between laughter and signs, a friendship began to form.
We shared long shifts, packing beer cans side by side, and somewhere between laughter and signs, a friendship began to form.
One day at work, he told me he was a dancer. I was stunned. How could that be possible? Curious, I asked if I could visit him at home so he could show me.
That afternoon, Craig welcomed me into a world I had never imagined.
He explained that, ever since he was a child, he had learned to dance by feeling the vibrations of the music.
Though he couldn’t hear the songs, he could sense the rhythm through the floor, the walls, and the beat within his own body. He watched the people around him, and somehow, his movements found their place in the rhythm.
Over time, he refined his skills enough to compete—and even win third place in a dance competition.
Though he couldn’t hear the songs, he could sense the rhythm through the floor, the walls, and the beat within his own body. He watched the people around him, and somehow, his movements found their place in the rhythm.
Over time, he refined his skills enough to compete—and even win third place in a dance competition.
It was during that visit that Craig shared something even more powerful.
When he comes home, he stomps his feet on the floor so his wife can feel the vibrations and know he’s there.
No words. No sounds. Just connection.
When he comes home, he stomps his feet on the floor so his wife can feel the vibrations and know he’s there.
No words. No sounds. Just connection.
Craig and his wife were born deaf.
Another one of Craig’s passions is fishing.
In his spare time, he crafts his own fishing lures—small, colorful creations full of care and detail.
I found it beautiful that he chose a hobby so deeply rooted in silence, where every sensation—every tug, every ripple—becomes its own kind of language.
In his spare time, he crafts his own fishing lures—small, colorful creations full of care and detail.
I found it beautiful that he chose a hobby so deeply rooted in silence, where every sensation—every tug, every ripple—becomes its own kind of language.
During the two months we worked together, Craig taught me that communication doesn’t begin and end with words or sound. While I thought I knew a few ways to connect with the world, Craig knew many more. A deaf person dancing had once seemed impossible to me.
Until I met Craig.
In the final photograph, Craig is tuning a radio gifted to him by one of his closest friends.
Who would have thought?
Who would have thought?
