For years I’d wondered whether I could successfully use an Olympus OM underwater. I already owned an EWA Marine housing and had previously used it with my Nikon F80, but I kept coming back to the idea of trying it with an Olympus.

A few days in Newquay gave me the perfect excuse to finally stop thinking about it and give it a go.

To keep the experiment honest, I purchased two Kodak waterproof disposable cameras. They weren’t there as backups. They were there because I wanted to know whether the extra effort of using an SLR inside a waterproof housing actually resulted in better photographs – or whether a £20 disposable could do the job just as well.

This isn’t a review of the EWA Marine housing.

It isn’t a guide to underwater photography either.

It’s simply an honest account of what happened when I finally stopped wondering and took an Olympus into the Atlantic.

Although this experiment uses an Olympus OM-10, many of the lessons apply equally to other 35mm SLRs used in flexible underwater housings.

Preparing the Camera

One of the aims of this experiment was to use equipment I already owned.

It would have been easy to buy a Nikonos and declare it the perfect solution, but that wasn’t really the question I wanted to answer. The Nikonos has a deserved reputation as one of the greatest underwater cameras ever made, but it’s also another camera system to buy, maintain and trust. Waterproof cameras rely on seals and O-rings being in good condition and, unless you know their history, there’s always a small question mark hanging over them.

I already owned an EWA Marine housing and several Olympus OM bodies. Before investing in another camera, I wanted to know whether the equipment already sitting in my camera cupboard could do the job. If it worked, I’d save myself buying another camera. If it didn’t, then at least I’d know why.

The OM-10 quickly became the obvious choice.

I owned several of them, so if the worst happened it wasn’t irreplaceable. It also accepted the Olympus Motor Winder 2 and offered aperture-priority auto exposure, two things I thought would make life considerably easier in the water.

The lens was a Zuiko 28mm f/2.8.

A wide-angle lens made sense underwater. I could get physically closer to my subjects and, by pre-focusing the lens before sealing the camera inside the housing, rely on depth of field rather than trying to focus through layers of flexible plastic.

The Motor Winder 2 turned out to be an essential part of the setup.

Using the advance lever inside an EWA Marine housing isn’t awkward.

It’s virtually impossible.

The motor winder solved that problem completely. One press of the shutter and the camera advanced itself ready for the next frame. As an added bonus, I’ve always loved the sound it makes. There’s something incredibly satisfying about hearing it wind on after every photograph.

For the surf session I loaded Kodak Gold 200. Bright sunshine and plenty of contrast made it an easy choice.

For the snorkelling session, I loaded Portra 400. I wanted a little more flexibility underwater and hoped the finer grain and colour would suit the calmer conditions if everything else went to plan.

Before sealing the housing, I also packed a couple of silica gel packets in the hope they would deal with any moisture trapped inside.

As it turned out, they had other plans.

Alongside the Olympus I packed two Kodak waterproof disposable cameras.

Originally, they were simply there for comparison. If the OM-10 justified all the extra effort of using a waterproof housing, great. If the disposables held their own, that would be equally interesting.

One final twist came before the experiment had even started.

My original plan had been to use my black OM-10, but it developed a fault on the first evening in Newquay before it ever reached the water. Fortunately, I’d packed a silver OM-10 as a spare.

It wasn’t supposed to be the camera for this article.

It quietly became the camera that made it possible.

Surfing

The surf session was the part of the trip I’d been looking forward to most. After all, this was the reason I’d brought the housing in the first place.

I’d already used my Nikon F80 in the EWA Marine housing on a previous visit to Newquay and came away with photographs I was genuinely pleased with. This time, I wanted to find out whether an Olympus OM could produce similar results.

Unfortunately, the experiment went wrong almost immediately.

As soon as I entered the water, the inside of the housing fogged with condensation. I’d packed silica gel hoping it would prevent exactly that, but it made little difference. Apart from the first couple of frames, the remaining thirty-five photographs disappeared behind a layer of mist.

There wasn’t much I could do about it.

Once the housing is sealed and you’re standing in the Atlantic, opening it simply isn’t an option. I carried on shooting, hoping something might be salvageable, but by the time I came back to shore I already knew how the roll would look.

It was disappointing.

That’s exactly why I wanted to do the experiment.

If I’d left the camera at home, I’d still be wondering whether it would work.

Now I knew.

Fortunately, I also had a waterproof disposable camera.

Originally it was there as a benchmark. Instead, it quietly became the star of the surf session.

It’s wonderfully uncomplicated. No housing. No settings. No worrying about expensive equipment. You simply point it in roughly the right direction, press the shutter and get back to enjoying the water.

That simplicity made a huge difference.

Instead of thinking about the camera, I could think about where the surfers were, where the light was coming from and where I needed to be before the next wave arrived.

The action photographs were satisfying, but they weren’t the ones I kept coming back to.

What interested me more were the moments between the waves.

Most people imagine surfing as constant action, yet the reality is very different. You spend far longer sitting beyond the break, watching the horizon and chatting while waiting for the next set than you do actually surfing.

Those quieter moments felt like the real story.

That was certainly true of this portrait.

While we waited for the next set, I paddled over, explained that I was experimenting with underwater film photography and asked if he’d mind me making a portrait. He smiled, was more than happy to help and sat there while I made the frame.

It’s probably my favourite photograph from the surf session.

Not because it’s technically the strongest image, but because it captures something the action shots don’t. For a few minutes, I wasn’t photographing surfers from the beach.

I was simply another person sitting in the water with a camera.

The disposable even produced the occasional surprise.

One frame picked up a light leak. Normally it would have gone straight in the reject pile. This time it stayed.

It somehow suits the photograph.

Perfection was never really the point of this trip.

It was about seeing what happened.

By the end of the morning I’d learnt something I wasn’t expecting.

The OM-10 had never really had a chance.

The waterproof disposable had quietly produced my favourite surfing photographs of the trip.

I hadn’t packed it expecting that.

Snorkelling

After the surf session, I wasn’t expecting much from the Olympus.

Thankfully, the snorkelling trip couldn’t have been more different.

Instead of fighting breaking waves, I was able to drift slowly over the reef, taking my time and looking for photographs rather than reacting to them. It immediately felt like a much better environment for the OM-10 and, for the first time during the trip, I could use the camera in the way I’d imagined when I first packed it.

Using two cameras underwater also turned out to be much easier than Iâ€d expected.

The EWA Marine housing hung around my neck, with one hand permanently inside the sleeve ready to press the shutter whenever something caught my eye. The second waterproof disposable camera was clipped to the housing strap with a cheap karabiner, so it was always within easy reach. It wasn’t the most elegant setup, but it worked surprisingly well and meant I could swap between the two cameras in seconds without worrying about dropping one into the sea.

One of my favourite photographs from the morning is of one of the snorkelling instructors waiting on the surface while the rest of the group caught up.

It isn’t the most dramatic image from the trip, but I like it because it captures the atmosphere of the morning perfectly. Calm water, clear visibility and absolutely no rush.

The pace of snorkelling is completely different to surfing.

Instead of constantly watching the waves, you’re free to stop, look around and notice the underwater world beneath you. Small fish appeared between the rocks, patches of seaweed moved with the current and every few metres seemed to reveal something else worth photographing.

It felt less like chasing photographs and more like discovering them.

Then came the jellyfish.

This was the photograph I’d been hoping to come home with.

Not because it’s technically perfect, but because it’s exactly the sort of image that had inspired the whole experiment in the first place. A photograph I simply couldn’t have made standing on the beach.

If I’d come home with nothing else from the Olympus, this frame alone would have made carrying it worthwhile.

For the snorkelling trip, I also brought along the second waterproof disposable.

Just like the first, it reminded me why these cameras have remained so popular for holidays and days at the beach.

The wider photographs of the reef, seaweed and underwater landscape all came from the disposable. It was quick, uncomplicated and encouraged me to photograph anything that caught my eye without wondering whether it was worth taking.

That freedom encouraged experimentation.

Patterns in the kelp, sunlight filtering through the water and the textures of the rocks all became photographs simply because making them felt effortless.

Ironically, the simplest camera I carried often encouraged the most experimental way of photographing.

The same was true of the underwater selfie.

Trying to turn the OM-10 around inside the housing would have been awkward and, if I’m honest, a little nerve-racking.

The disposable, on the other hand, made it easy.

It’s hardly the best photograph from the trip, but it remains one of my favourites because it captures something the others don’t.

The simple enjoyment of being in the water.

By the end of the snorkelling trip, I’d stopped thinking about which camera was supposed to win.

The Olympus had produced the photograph I’d hoped for.

The disposable had encouraged me to make photographs I probably wouldn’t have taken otherwise.

That wasn’t the result I’d expected when I arrived in Newquay.

Waiting for the Results

Leaving Newquay didn’t mean the experiment was over.

Before heading home, I dropped all four rolls of film off for development at a local lab. That answered the first question almost immediately. There were photographs on the negatives.

After the surf session, that alone felt like good news.

Of course, negatives only tell you so much.

You can hold them up to the light and convince yourself you’ve got something, but it’s not until they’re scanned that you really know what you’ve made. That part of the experiment had to wait until I got home.

Back in front of the scanner, the story slowly began to reveal itself frame by frame.

The surf roll looked exactly as I’d feared. The first couple of frames survived before condensation gradually swallowed almost everything that followed.

The snorkelling rolls, however, told a completely different story.

The instructor was there.

The jellyfish was there too.

The disposable had quietly recorded the reef, seaweed and underwater landscapes that I’d enjoyed photographing so much.

It was only then, seeing all four rolls together, that the experiment finally made sense.

The Olympus hadn’t failed.

The disposable hadn’t unexpectedly won.

Each camera had simply found the conditions that suited it best.

With the scans complete, I finally had the answer I’d travelled to Cornwall to find.

Conclusion

So, was the experiment worth it?

Absolutely.

The OM-10 gave me my favourite photograph of the trip. The image of the jellyfish alone justified carrying the extra equipment into the sea, and the snorkelling session proved that, in the right conditions, an old Olympus inside an EWA Marine housing is perfectly capable of producing photographs I’d be delighted to come home with.

The surf session, however, taught me something just as valuable.

Condensation isn’t a minor inconvenience; it’s the biggest challenge I encountered during the entire experiment. If I take the OM underwater again – and I will – solving that problem will be my first priority.

The biggest surprise, though, came from the waterproof disposable cameras.

I packed them simply as something to compare against the Olympus. Instead, they became some of the most enjoyable cameras I’ve used in years. They encouraged me to experiment, to stop worrying about equipment and simply react to whatever was happening around me. Some of my favourite surfing photographs, the reef, the underwater landscapes and even the underwater selfie all came from cameras that cost less than a filter for the Olympus.

That wasn’t the result I expected.

Looking back, the experiment answered every question I’d set out to answer.

I know what the OM-10 is capable of underwater.

I know where the EWA Marine housing falls short.

And I know I’ll never underestimate a waterproof disposable camera again.

Will I take the Olympus underwater again?

Without hesitation.

And next time, there’ll be another waterproof disposable clipped alongside it.

The post Using a 35mm SLR Underwater: Testing an Olympus OM-10 with the EWA Marine Housing appeared first on Zuikography.

I bought it because I spotted a 50mm f/1.4 clinging to a badly written eBay listing and recognised the familiar danger: something valuable hiding in plain sight. Forty-two pounds and fifty pence later, a box arrived containing fungus, dead light seals, a Quartz Data Back nobody likes to admit owning, and a camera that had clearly been left alone for a very long time.

After cleaning it properly and replacing what time had reduced to sticky foam, there was only one honest thing left to do.

Load a roll.
Leave everything as it was.
And take it out into the world.

So I did – HP5 in the body, fungus-ridden 50mm still attached – and took it with me on a day trip to the Isle of Wight to test.

A Camera With No Performance Anxiety

Cheap cameras remove the imaginary audience.

There’s no sense you’re making work.
No pressure to justify the frame.
No voice asking whether this would survive later scrutiny.

If something caught my eye, I photographed it. If it didn’t, I didn’t. Platforms, ferries, buildings, shoreline, light slipping across water – nothing dramatic, nothing designed to impress. Just the ordinary visual rhythm of being somewhere for the day.

That absence of pressure matters more than most people realise.

Expensive cameras encourage performance.
Clean cameras encourage caution.
This OM-10 encouraged neither.

The Weight, the Sound, the Feel

This OM-10 feels different to my other OM-10s.

Part of that is literal. The Quartz Data Back – usually removed on principle – adds just enough weight to change the balance. It grounds the camera slightly, gives it a sense of density that many OM-10s lack.

And then there’s the shutter.

Some OM-10s sound thin, almost apologetic. This one doesn’t. The shutter has a composed, confident note to it – not loud, not muted, just assured. It sounds like a camera that expects to be used rather than handled carefully.

Even the data back behaved itself. I didn’t use it to vandalise negatives with dates – absolutely not – but as a clock. A small, practical detail while waiting for ferries and trains. An accessory built for the wrong idea ended up being quietly useful.

Black Paint, Brass Showing Through

Then there’s the brassing.

Black Olympus bodies wear beautifully when they’re allowed to age honestly. The edges soften. The corners glow faintly gold where the paint has given up. Not abuse – use.

This OM-10 isn’t pristine, and that’s exactly why I like it. The brassing tells you it’s been handled, carried, trusted. It removes any temptation to treat the camera as an object rather than a tool.

Brassing lowers the stakes.
Lower stakes improve photography.

You stop protecting. You start looking.

The Lens Everyone Would Dismiss

The 50mm f/1.4 is objectively compromised.

The fungus is internal, well established, and not interested in leaving. Wide open, the lens shows it – lower contrast, a softness that reminds you why people panic when they shine a torch through old glass.

So I didn’t shoot it wide open.

Most frames landed between f/2.8 and f/8, and something quietly reassuring happened. The lens behaved. Sharp where it needed to be. Enough contrast to hold form. No collapse, no drama, no visual apology.

Is there anything spectacular here?
No.

And that’s the point.

This roll wasn’t about brilliance. It was about whether a lens most people would bin could still make honest photographs when used sensibly.

It could.

HP5 didn’t mind.
Neither did I.

When the Camera Gets Out of the Way

As the roll went on, the OM-10 disappeared.

That’s always the tell.

When you stop listening to the shutter, stop watching the meter, stop waiting for something to fail, the camera has done its job. It steps aside and leaves you alone with what’s in front of you.

By the end of the day, this no longer felt like a test roll. It felt like photography – attentive, unforced, and slightly forgetful of itself.
That feeling has repeated itself every time I’ve loaded it since.

The Surprise I Didn’t Plan For

Of all the Olympus OM bodies I own – including the OM-1 and OM-2 – this is the one that feels right.

Not because it’s better. Not because it’s cleaner. Not because it wins on paper.

I didn’t notice it immediately. It happened gradually, over repeated outings, when I realised this was the camera I kept reaching for without thinking. The one that ended up in the bag by default. The one I didn’t negotiate with before leaving the house.

It doesn’t demand care or reward discipline. It simply accepts whatever attention I give it and returns something usable every time.

At this point – after different days, different light, and more than one roll – itâ€s still the OM I trust most.

That may change. Cameras reshuffle themselves over time.

But some first impressions don’t fade. They settle.

What the Negatives Confirmed

The negatives were unremarkable in the best possible way.

No light leaks.
No exposure surprises.
No erratic behaviour.

Just negatives that confirmed what repeated use had already suggested: the camera works, and it works calmly.

The images shown here are straight scans from the negatives, presented as they are. They don’t need explaining or defending. They show a forty-year-old camera doing exactly what Olympus built it to do, long after anyone expected it to.

What £42.50 Actually Bought

It didn’t buy perfection.
It didn’t buy a lens worth saving.
It didn’t buy anything impressive.

What it bought was a camera with no ego.

A camera I don’t negotiate with.
A camera I don’t justify.
A camera that lets me look without commentary.

The cheapest cameras often carry the least pressure.

And sometimes the ones you buy for the wrong reason quietly become the ones you trust most.

Part One: Where This Camera Came From

This OM Story is Part Two of a longer journey.

If you want the full context – the original eBay listing, the fungus reveal, the dead seals, the questionable accessories, and the reality of what £42.50 actually buys you online – that story lives elsewhere on Zuikography.

This piece only exists because of that one.

Read Part One: What £42.50 Buys You on eBay – An Honest OM10 Autopsy

The post The £42.50 OM-10 That Changed the Rules appeared first on Zuikography.

A kind of gentle, delusional hope we choose to carry because life is simply more fun that way.

And so, one evening, against my better judgement, I found myself staring at a £42.50 Olympus OM-10 bundle that appeared – depending on the angle – either:

1. a hidden gem overlooked by the masses
2. or a box of problems wrapped lovingly in bubble wrap

Naturally, I bought it immediately.

The listing photos were let’s call them ambiguous.
The sort of images taken in a dim hallway with a 2005 digital camera where everything looks slightly better or slightly worse than it actually is.

But the headline features were solid enough to trigger the Zuikography reflex, that ancient instinct that whispers:

That looks like an OM-10 with a 50mm f/1.4. You can’t just scroll past that.

There it was:

• an OM-10 body
• a mysterious 50mm f/1.4 attached
• a Manual Adapter (the grown-up bit of the OM-10 family)
• something pretending to be a flash
• and a set of additional items that ranged from possibly useful to what in God’s name is that?

The seller assured me it was untested, which in eBay dialect translates directly to:

I know it’s broken but I’m hoping you’re in a good mood.

Still £42.50.
And every OM shooter has that one story where an absolute bargain arrived and turned out to be a mint-condition treasure.

This was not that story.
But it was a story.

And so the box arrived.

Time for the autopsy.

What Arrived in the Box

By the time the parcel arrived, expectations were already adjusted.

Buying untested OM bodies on eBay is less about anticipation and more about preparation.

I opened the box like an archaeologist uncovering a forgotten site – carefully, reverently, and with the quiet awareness that anything handled too quickly might crumble.

Inside, wrapped with the enthusiasm of someone who wanted it gone rather than protected, lay the remains of someone’s Olympus dream.

And what a collection it was.

The OM-10 Body – Alive Against All Odds

The first thing to emerge was the OM-10 itself, looking slightly shell-shocked, as if surprised to see daylight again.

Cosmetically?
Not bad at all.

There’s brassing along the edges – the honest kind, earned through use rather than neglect. On a black OM body it adds something I’ve always liked: proof that the camera lived a life rather than sat on a shelf.

Mechanically?
That was a mystery for later.

At first glance, it didn’t look promising. The shutter was jammed, the camera lifeless in the hand, exactly the sort of thing that convinces people an OM-10 is finished.

As it turns out, most dead OM-10s aren’t dead at all. They’ve just been written off too quickly.

The Manual Adapter – The Unexpected Win

Next came the Manual Adapter, the little plug-in brain that turns the OM-10 from training wheels SLR into something approaching adulthood.

These alone often sell for £15-£20, which means the adapter had just justified half the purchase price before I’d even finished unwrapping things.

A rare win in an otherwise suspicious-looking box.

The Zuiko 50mm f/1.4 – Hope, Followed by Immediate Disappointment

Ah yes.
The emotional centrepiece.
The crown jewel of the listing.
The reason I clicked Buy It Now faster than a toddler grabs sweets.

At first glance?
Perfectly respectable.

At second glance?
A little hazy.

At third glance, with a torch?
Fungus. Internal. The kind that laughs at home repair.

You know that scene in films where someone taps on a submarine hull and you hear the ominous echo?
That was me tapping the rear optical group.

But more on that shortly.

The Winder 2 – Surprisingly Cooperative

This was a surprise addition – the Olympus Winder 2.

It looks like ambition bolted to the bottom of a camera, and usually behaves accordingly.

In this case?
It works.

Smooth advance, no tantrums, no dramatic battery-draining protest. It makes the OM-10 feel slightly weightier and more planted in the hand – not refined, but confident.

A genuine win.

The Flash – A Device in Name Only

Technically, a flash.
Realistically, a prop.

It didn’t fire when tested, which surprised nobody involved. It looks like it last worked during the Thatcher administration and has been coasting on nostalgia ever since.

Into the not coming back pile it went.

The Data Back – The Unsung Villain

No OM tragedy is complete without a Quartz Date Back, that bulky appendage from the 80s that stamped the date onto your photos whether you wanted it or not.

Nobody likes them.
Nobody uses them.
Nobody asked for one.

But there it was, clinging to the OM-10 like a parasite.

For now, it stays.

The What Even Is This Collection

Every eBay lot has a wildcard.
Mine had several:

• a Vivitar relic with fungus blooming like a forgotten apple
• a fake Carl Zeiss Jena zoom that wouldn’t mount on anything Olympus-related
• a right-angle attachment apparently designed for photographing around corners, perfect if you’re a pervert, otherwise baffling
• a cable release – the only genuinely useful thing in this subgroup

Together, they formed the perfect still life titled:

The Reason This Lot Was Only £42.50.

The Fungus

Every bargain camera lot has a moment of truth.
A moment when you stop, hold your breath, and shine a torch through a lens while whispering:

Please don’t be fungus. please don’t be fungus

And then, of course, it is fungus.

The 50mm f/1.4 that came with this OM-10 had internal growth tucked safely between elements – the kind you can’t reach without specialist tools, specialist knowledge, and a willingness to ruin your afternoon.

This wasn’t wipe-away haze.
This was settled, established, paying-rent fungus.

And here’s the truth nobody likes to hear:

If fungus is between elements, it’s game over at home.

But here’s the twist:

Stopped down to f/4-f/8, the lens still produces usable negatives.
Contrast dips slightly, but nothing HP-5 can’t handle with a shrug.

It becomes a character lens – which is photographic shorthand for it’s flawed, but interesting.

Financially worthless.
Educationally invaluable.

Does the OM-10 Actually Work?

With the lens drama behind me, it was time to answer the only question that really matters.

I opened the battery compartment and found batteries that looked as though they’d been fitted decades ago. Whatever charge they once held had long since gone.

They came out. Fresh LR44s went in.
The switch flipped to Auto.

The shutter released immediately.
The viewfinder LED lit up.

The camera hadn’t been broken at all. The shutter hadn’t failed. The advance hadn’t jammed. It had simply been running on batteries that were long past any useful life.

It’s a common OM-10 story, and one worth noting: many bodies sold as faulty are nothing more than electrically exhausted.

With fresh batteries installed, the camera settled quickly.

The shutter fired cleanly across speeds.
The meter responded logically.
The advance was smooth.
The winder behaved.

The light seals, however, were dead – decayed into that familiar grey paste best described as industrial sadness.

Nothing unexpected.
Nothing terminal.

The Honest Maths

Once everything was accounted for:

• OM-10 body: working
• Manual Adapter: working
• Winder 2: working
• Flash: dead
• Lens: optically compromised but usable stopped down
• Extras: mostly landfill

Add the cost of new light seals and you’re into this OM-10 for just under £60.

In return, you get a fully functioning body, genuine accessories, a lesson in lens fungus, and a camera with real character.

That’s a fair trade.

A Comedic Guess at the Camera’s Previous Life

Based on the evidence – the fungus-infested 50mm, the random spy attachments, and the overall archaeological feel – it’s possible to reconstruct the OM10’s previous existence.

It likely went something like this:

1. Someone bought it in 1983.
2. They attached the 50mm f/1.4.
3. They took exactly seven photos of a family barbecue.
4. They put it in a drawer.
5. They never opened that drawer again.
6. The lens grew fungus like it was auditioning for Planet Earth.
7. The camera fell asleep.
8. It was donated to a charity shop.
9. It ended up on eBay for £42.50, which is how all great legends begin.

There is no scientific proof for this timeline,
but the fungus alone suggests at least two decades of complete neglect –
which, strangely, is how many film cameras survive long enough to find new owners.

Final Thoughts (For Now)

£42.50 didn’t buy a perfect OM-10.
It bought a story.

It bought brassing, quirks, compromises, and just enough reliability to make the whole thing worthwhile.

That alone makes it worth understanding properly.

Since opening the box, the light seals have been fully replaced, and the camera is now light-tight and ready for use. For the time being, I’m keeping the Quartz Date Back fitted – not because I love it, but because it’s part of this camera’s history.

What mattered most, though, was how it behaved once film was involved.

That question has now been answered, not in a test or a checklist, but by taking the camera out and using it repeatedly, exactly as it is.

Part Two continues the story: The £42.50 OM-10 That Changed the Rules

The post What £42.50 Buys You on eBay: An Honest OM-10 Autopsy appeared first on Zuikography.