David Rudder and the photographer, on location at Westmoorings.
Two grown men peer at the screen of a telephone, both wrestling with the metaphysical considerations of the now ubiquitous wefie.
Behind are palm trees, the edge of a building's roof and a Photex Softlighter, all offering tangential clues of the afternoon's activities.
The business of the day is done. Mr Rudder, finished with splashing about in a pool is now gamely indulging the photographer's invitation to be a participant in his first public, non-family wefie.
It's an odd moment for them both. A few minutes ago the snapper directed the famous singer/songwriter in a shoot that would normally feature a far more nubile and determinedly female subject.
But, Mr Rudder is a manly man, and carried it off with aplomb.
Now he stands alongside the photographer, waist deep in a pool, arm perched on its deck, the photographer lying alongside him, the smartphone dangling perilously above the cool and very chlorinated water.
The picture captures two men with the required manly space between them, a distance commanded by decades of being a dude in the Caribbean. Ya know, we're close, we just not that close.
Look here, the digital reflection of their gaze commands, so they do, bemused by this fun house refraction of themselves, the mirror that captures a moment, if not souls, a slice of time raddled with bemusement and befuddled curiosity.
Take another picture, it seems to urge. So we do.