My Harley, my iPhone and the full moon

The Harley-Davidson and I ventured out for a moonlight ride Sunday evening, leaving the sissy bar and its cargo capabilities behind. I toured most of Brevard County, which didn't take long because I was averaging 90 mph. But I felt naked without my camera, a condition I regretted when the sun went down and I was equipped only with a cell phone camera. As our star dipped below the western horizon, our satellite rose in the east. Two phenomenons collided, though, as anticrepuscular rays (sunlight that appears to be emanating from the eastern sky at sunset) seemed to be shining from the full moon.

My mode of transportation is pictured along Pineapple Avenue in northern Melbourne, a roadway that parallels the Indian River.

Night exposures with an iPhone aren't easy -- and aren't that pretty either. This was one of about 10 shots I took of a stand of sea oats as they blew in the breeze along Cocoa Beach. It's so grainy that it almost looks like a bad painting.

Another of the moon near the Eau Gallie Causeway in Melbourne. And to address the reason why I haven't been taking thunderstorm photos this summer, read this.

A minor-league Fourth of July

I liked the smoke trails in this more than anything.

Instead of taking in one of the major fireworks displays on the Space Coast this Independence Day, I went with a few friends to a Brevard County Manatees minor-league baseball game, after which a show was scheduled to promptly take place.

The game was rained out because Mother Nature decided to be uncooperative for the first time in the entire summer. Cracker Jacks were abandoned. Mitts were stashed. Beer sales ended. Much to our delight, however, the announcer at Space Coast Stadium told us every 10 minutes that the fireworks would be shot up within the next 10 minutes.

We waited 10 minutes, and we waited 10 minutes, and so on and so forth. Delight became rage.

Ballpark staff members entertained the children by hurling various things -- oversize T-shirts and bags of non-trans fat potato chips -- into the rain-drenched stands. (How ironic, right? They don't want the kiddies eating trans fat, but here, have a Triple XL shirt because it's the only thing that'll fit you. Makes sense.)

I entertained myself by rapidly firing my camera flash at the woman who danced to "Y.M.C.A." in front of me (she was mentally deranged and likely intoxicated, so she did not mind, rather thought she was a disco star). Craning my neck backward, I looked straight up into the mist that floated on a tortuous path to the earth, which made it look like snow, which reminded me of a better place: Maine.

Then, a countdown. From 20. In a piercing, high-pitched voice. ... Talk about torture. I'd rather be waterboarded.

But then it was time. "3 ... 2 ... 1 ... blastoff." Silence. No blastoff. More bags of chips. More T-shirts for the fat kids.

Six 10-minute warnings later, ineptitude reared its ugly head again when the pyrotechnics crew finally started blowing up the rockets -- directly behind us, where we couldn't see them well. Mind you, the Manatees belong to the Florida State League as a Single-A affiliate of the Milwaukee Brewers -- small peanuts, really. And again, this is Brevard County, which says a lot in and of itself. They don't call its premier city "Melboring" for nothing. So we really shouldn't have expected more.

I took three photos, and I think that's overkill.

This shot accentuates the bokeh, or out-of-focus points of light. In this case, they're green sparkles.

A friend's 3-year-old, Jake -- a.k.a. Jacob, a.k.a. Jakers, a.k.a. Mermaid Boy -- covers his ears because they were cold, or something.

Pyrophotomania

A resident hoses down the side of his house in the Chelsea Park subdivision, where burning embers from a wildfire in a nearby bird sanctuary threatened to ignite the home.

Last Tuesday, the day of my return from the first of three consecutive long weekends, I was called to work by an editor who said Rockledge was ablaze. Actually, it was a simple wildfire near a subdivision in the city, a subdivision where a friend of mine happens to live. So there was an added concern. When I got there, though, I discovered that the flames were far from her home but very near about 20 along a few streets in the community. I covered it for the newspaper through words and photographs, more of which can be viewed here.

A teenager carries her most prized possessions - a surfboard and a skateboard - from her home after she was ordered to evacuate.

A county firefighter assessed the blaze from atop a special truck used in brush fires.

The firefighters had considerably more hosepower.

The fire and the homes were separated by a small canal, providing a natural barrier against the blaze. Still, residents used their garden hoses to douse small flames on the other side.

A woman, her daughter and some other local children gather closely while they look at flames shooting above their homes.

A father comforts his frightened 8-year-old.

All of these neighbors were quite concerned, but the firefighters stopped the flames.

Finally, when the wildfire was contained, everyone could take a break.

SpaceX's Falcon 9 and the disaster that didn't happen

For the maiden voyage of SpaceX's Falcon 9 rocket, I sat for four hours on a lens case, waiting for the thing to blast off. My makeshift chair was provided by James Murati, a contract photographer for United Launch Alliance, which could be considered a competitor for SpaceX in the commercial launch business. SpaceX is a leading candidate to provide cargo launch services to the International Space Station and possibly manned flights someday. This launch on June 4 was a demonstration - or test - flight for the rocket itself, and it had a high probability of failure. That's why James and I waited for four hours in the hot sun until the crew at SpaceX managed to shake off a technical glitch and finally push the button.

I set up my tripod and camera on the sandy shore of the Banana River - as opposed to the bank - along a stretch of Port Canaveral, the closest public viewing site for liftoffs from Launch Complex 40 at Cape Canaveral Air Force Station. My low angle put the horizon - the launch pad - out of site. The optical illusion that my angle created made it appear as though the rocket was emerging from the river.

During the entire flight, I trained my 150-500mm Sigma zoom lens on the rocket until it disappeared from view. That's because James and I both knew it could blow up. We also knew that would have made for an interesting shot.

The rocket engines light up some clouds.

The Falcon 9 is fueled by kerosene - not solid rocket fuel - so there is little smoke trail involved when it launches, much like is the case with Delta IV and Atlas V rockets without solid rocket boosters. This makes for a dull launch.

But some condensation did occur in the upper atmosphere, creating a bit of a contrail. Still, the highly probable disaster didn't materialize. And I suppose that's a good thing for the future of spaceflight.

An impressive storm and the ensuing rainbow

Click for full panorama. | These shots are from a few weeks ago - Saturday, June 5 - when Brevard County was hit by a few strong thunderstorms. Since then, there hasn't been too much activity. I'm hoping that changes. Without lightning, Florida is a bore. The above is a panorama stitched together from 11 photos of a storm as it blew over the Pineda Causeway just north of Melbourne.

A boat motored under the causeway as I pulled to the roadside.

Heavy rain falls near downtown Melbourne. I was fortunate to avoid most of the rain on the northern end of the thunderstorm.

Most of these shots look westward toward the mainland.

The view down the Indian River toward Melbourne.

Lightning was striking near the bright portions of these photos. The bolts were shrouded by rain, though, and they didn't show up.

This is the solitary shot I took from the causeway that looks eastward at Merritt Island as the storm reaches the horizon.

A rolling cloud feature.

This three-image stitch shows the rat tail.

A little lightning. As the storm passed, I huddled under the boardwalk over a sand dune to the beach at Patrick Air Force Base, which is at the end of the Pineda Causeway.

Later in the day, conditions were perfect for a rainbow: sun low in the sky, dark background from the distant storm. Sure enough, one formed over the Atlantic.

The thing I like about rainbows is that the lighting is often just perfect for photos: The sun is always directly behind you, providing sufficient light for the foreground and the background.

Lightning was striking inside the storm behind the rainbow. But I wasn't fortunate enough to catch both weather phenomena in one shot.

Brown pelicans enjoy an oil-free Atlantic Ocean.