All life depends on another form of life. Treat them with respect.
In the waters off Cape Town and the plains of Kenya, wildlife photographer Chris Fallows has spent decades bearing witness to the full arc of nature — its ferocity, its fragility, and its stubborn capacity for return. A single photograph of a breaching great white shark launched his career in 2001, but it was the mysterious disappearance of those same sharks a decade ago that deepened his purpose, transforming him from observer into advocate. Fallows and his wife Monique now invest the proceeds of his art directly into the land itself, acquiring thousands of acres for restoration across southern Africa. His lens has become an instrument not merely of wonder, but of conscience.
- A seven-second moment in False Bay — a thousand-kilogram shark suspended in midair — produced one of wildlife photography's most iconic images and set an entire career in motion.
- The great white sharks that defined Fallows' work vanished without clear explanation roughly a decade ago, leaving behind empty waters and a community of tourism and research that simply collapsed.
- Rather than retreat into grief, Fallows redirected his shock outward — expanding his focus to elephants evading poachers in Amboseli and humpback whales gathering in numbers not seen in generations.
- Humpback populations have rebounded dramatically since the 1985 whaling moratorium, offering Fallows — and the field — a rare, tangible proof that human restraint can reverse ecological loss.
- Fallows and his wife are now channeling photography profits into land acquisition, with 61 acres already under restoration in South Africa and a 26,500-acre Namibian property in progress to expand wildlife corridors.
Chris Fallows was drifting in a boat near Seal Island off Cape Town in 2001, towing a seal-shaped decoy through False Bay, when a great white shark erupted from the water — a thousand-kilogram animal, airborne, jaws open. He was shooting film, so he spent the entire weekend not knowing whether he had captured anything at all. On Monday, the lab erupted in applause. The photograph, which he named "Air Jaws," ran in publications around the world and became the foundation of his career.
For the next decade, Fallows returned to those waters obsessively, diving without a cage to photograph great whites from below as they hunted the seals of Seal Island. At his peak, he was documenting between 250 and 300 individual sharks each year. Then, without clear explanation, the sharks disappeared. Sightings dwindled, tourists stopped coming, and the ecosystem he had spent years documenting simply ceased to function as it had. The loss shook him. "It really showed to me just how fragile our planet is," he said — and rather than withdraw, he let that fragility reshape his purpose.
His work expanded. In Kenya's Amboseli National Park, he photographed a rare long-tusked elephant matriarch — a survivor of snares and poachers — leading her herd across a dried lakebed. He called the image "Defiance." Off South Africa's coast, he witnessed the recovery of humpback whales, whose global population has rebounded dramatically since the International Whaling Commission's 1985 moratorium on commercial whaling. Where he once saw a handful, he now encounters groups of 150 or 200 at a time.
Fallows' wife Monique has been central to all of it — her understanding of animal behavior keeps him safe in open water and positions him for the shots that matter. Together, they have turned the profits from his photography into land. In 2017, they purchased 61 acres in Cape Infanta for habitat restoration. They are now acquiring a 26,500-acre property in Namibia to expand wildlife corridors at scale. Fallows urges small, deliberate choices — keep plastic out of the water, treat other species with the respect owed to beings with their own families and ecosystems. His photographs have become something more than records of beauty. They are invitations to witness, and to take responsibility for what remains.
Chris Fallows was in a boat near Seal Island, off the coast of Cape Town, when he saw something that would reshape his entire life. It was 2001, and he'd been towing a seal-shaped decoy through the waters of False Bay for about an hour with little to show for it. Then, in the span of seven seconds, a great white shark erupted from the water—a thousand-kilogram animal suspended in air, jaws open, teeth gleaming. Fallows' camera clicked. He was shooting film then, which meant he couldn't check the back of the camera to see if he'd captured anything. He spent the entire weekend wondering if the image existed at all, if his memory had simply enlarged what he'd witnessed into something more dramatic than reality. On Monday morning, he walked into the lab. Everyone was clapping. The photograph, which he would call "Air Jaws," was sharp, perfectly exposed, and extraordinary. It would be published in newspapers and magazines around the world.
That single image became the foundation of Fallows' career as a wildlife photographer. For the next decade, he returned to False Bay again and again, diving without a shark cage to photograph the great whites from beneath the surface as they hunted the tens of thousands of seals living on nearby Seal Island. At his peak, he was seeing between 250 and 300 different great white sharks each year. The animals were predictable, almost reliable in their behavior. Few people on Earth had witnessed what Fallows witnessed regularly—the raw power of a apex predator in its element. "To see a 1,000-kilogram great white shark come flying out the water, well, that's something very few people get to see, and certainly I never got tired of it," he said.
Then, about a decade ago, the sharks began to vanish. The disappearance was not gradual or explainable by any single cause that scientists and conservationists could agree upon. The sightings dwindled. The tourists stopped coming. The thriving community that Fallows had documented so meticulously simply ceased to exist in those waters. The loss struck him deeply. "It really showed to me just how fragile our planet is," he reflected. But rather than retreat, Fallows transformed his shock into purpose. The collapse of the great white population became a catalyst. He would use his camera not just to celebrate what he had seen, but to document what remained and to advocate for its protection.
His work expanded beyond the sharks. In Kenya's Amboseli National Park, Fallows photographed a long-tusked female elephant leading her herd across a dried lakebed—a rare sight in an era when elephants with tusks of that length are routinely killed by poachers. He called the image "Defiance." The matriarch had survived snares and hunters and had managed to keep her family sustained and safe. In the waters off South Africa, Fallows witnessed the recovery of humpback whales. Since the International Whaling Commission imposed a moratorium on commercial whaling in 1985, the global population has rebounded dramatically. Where he once might have seen a handful of whales, Fallows now encounters groups of 150 or 200 together. "There can probably be no more sensorial experience than photographing them," he said. "You smell them, you see them, you hear them, you feel the whale breath on you."
Fallows' wife, Monique, has been essential to his work. She understands animal behavior in ways that keep him safe while diving in open water, and her knowledge allows him to position himself for the best possible shots. Together, they have channeled the profits from his photography sales into conservation. In 2017, they purchased 61 acres in Cape Infanta on South Africa's south coast for habitat restoration. They are now in the process of acquiring a 26,500-acre property in Namibia to expand wildlife corridors and increase the scale of their restoration efforts. Fallows has become an advocate for small, deliberate actions—don't throw plastic in the water, he urges, because he has seen too many animals wrapped in it. "All life depends on another form of life," he said. "Great white sharks, elephants, lions, penguins, they all have their own little families and ecosystems in which they live. Treat them with respect." His photographs are no longer just records of wonder. They are calls to witness, and to act.
Citas Notables
To see a 1,000-kilogram great white shark come flying out the water, well, that's something very few people get to see, and certainly I never got tired of it.— Chris Fallows
It really showed to me just how fragile our planet is. It affected me very deeply, but it was also a catalyst to doing what I do today, to try and showcase what I've been so privileged to see.— Chris Fallows, on the disappearance of great whites from False Bay
La Conversación del Hearth Otra perspectiva de la historia
When you saw those great whites disappear from False Bay, did you consider stopping? Leaving the work behind?
No. If anything, it made me understand why the work mattered more. I'd been privileged to see something most people never would. That privilege came with a responsibility to speak for it.
Your wife Monique—how much of what you do depends on her being there?
Everything. She's not just keeping me safe. She's reading the animals, understanding their mood and movement. Without her, I'm just a man in the water with a camera. With her, I'm positioned to actually capture something true.
You've spent decades photographing predators. Are you afraid of them?
I've learned to respect them, which is different. Fear comes from misunderstanding. The sharks I've worked with have shown me tolerance, not aggression. They allow me in their space.
The humpback whales seem to give you hope in a way the sharks don't. Why?
Because we can see the recovery working. The moratorium in 1985 actually changed the trajectory. It proves that if we stop the harm, nature can come back. That's not abstract—I'm seeing 200 whales where there used to be a handful.
You're buying thousands of acres now. Is photography enough anymore, or do you need to do something bigger?
Photography opened the door. It gave me a platform and resources. But a photograph is a moment. Land restoration is a commitment. Both matter, but one without the other feels incomplete.