08/23/2026
I built this lens about six years ago, back when I was still living in Russia. I designed a custom part to adapt it to Sony cameras, had my machinist make it, tested the lens on the Sony I owned at the time — everything worked perfectly.
Then I listed it for sale.
Years passed.
This year I rediscovered the lens in a forgotten corner of my website and decided to bring it to Georgia. I checked it, was pleased to see that it had survived the years beautifully, updated the description and price, and put it back up for sale.
Then a buyer from Canada appeared.
Let’s call him John.
John was extremely polite. We exchanged many messages, and I offered to service the lens again for free before shipping. He agreed, bought it on eBay, I serviced it, took some test shots with my current Sony and sent them to him.
Everything looked great. Everyone was happy.
So I went to ship the lens.
That was when the Universe gave me its first hint.
My shipping company informed me that they were temporarily unable to accept parcels to Canada.
I told John immediately. He said that for such a rare lens, he was perfectly willing to wait.
eBay, however, was less patient.
A few days later, eBay started reminding me that the order needed to be shipped and that further delays could affect my seller rating. So while John and I were peacefully waiting for shipping to Canada to resume, I had to mark the order as shipped without a tracking number.
A few more days passed.
The “temporary” shipping problem was looking increasingly permanent.
I realized that pretending a parcel had been shipped while having no tracking number was an excellent way to become personally acquainted with eBay’s Department of Problems.
So I cancelled the transaction, refunded John in full, and sent him a detailed message explaining several possible ways we could solve the shipping problem.
I had no idea what a wonderful evening was waiting for me.
Because of the time difference, John’s reply arrived while I was walking through evening Tbilisi.
At first, I thought someone else was writing to me.
Polite John had disappeared.
In his place was a furious man from Canada informing me that because I had cancelled the transaction, he had lost 40% of the purchase price.
I actually found a bench and sat down.
As my phone delivered one angry accusation after another, I tried to understand how cancelling a transaction with a full refund had somehow turned into a financial disaster of Great Depression proportions.
I asked for actual numbers and immediately told him that if the cancellation had genuinely cost him money, I would reimburse him.
Eventually the mystery was solved.
The lens was listed in USD. John had paid with a Canadian credit card. His bank converted CAD to USD and charged a fee. When I refunded him, another conversion took place.
His actual loss was not 40%.
It was about 5%.
By this point, however, I knew one thing with absolute certainty:
I no longer wanted this lens — something I had put a great deal of work and soul into — to belong to this man.
An hour later, another miracle occurred.
John called his bank.
The bank refunded all of his currency-conversion losses.
And apparently, along with the money, they also returned the original John.
Polite again. Courteous again.
He apologized for his behavior and, as though nothing much had happened, suggested that we continue discussing how he could buy the lens.
I thanked him, explained that I thought it would be better for us not to continue doing business, and blocked him on eBay.
You think that’s the end of the story?
Ha.
A few hours later, eBay informed me that my payouts had been put on hold and my account was under review.
Thank you, my Canadian friend John.
Pure coincidence, obviously.
I’m a great believer in coincidences. 🙂
But the most interesting part happened today.
I decided it was time to photograph the lens again and relist it.
I mounted it on my Sony and went out to photograph my usual flowers and little scenes from around the neighborhood.
And suddenly my camera started going crazy.
Sometimes the shutter worked. Sometimes it didn’t.
Settings changed by themselves.
I went home, removed the lens, sat down at my workbench and started investigating.
And I found the problem.
Six years ago, I had designed that custom part incorrectly.
The mistake had never revealed itself on my old Sony. But on a modern Sony body, the lens construction interferes with the camera and causes malfunctions.
I sat there looking at the lens and mentally replayed the entire story.
For six years, it didn’t sell.
Finally someone bought it — and suddenly my carrier stopped shipping to Canada.
We decided to wait — eBay started pushing me to ship.
The “temporary” shipping problem continued — so I cancelled the order rather than risk sanctions from eBay.
The buyer became so furious that I decided I would never sell him this lens.
And only after all of that did I discover the design mistake I had missed for six years.
Now imagine the alternative reality.
The parcel goes smoothly to Canada.
John receives his long-awaited rare lens.
He mounts it on his Sony.
The camera starts going crazy.
And then my Canadian friend John really would have eaten me alive.
Judging by the little rehearsal I had already witnessed, slowly and with considerable appetite.
So now I see this entire chain of disasters a little differently.
Sometimes it feels as though the Universe is deliberately putting obstacles in your way.
And then you discover that it wasn’t putting obstacles in your way at all.
It was stopping you from driving off a cliff.
Have you ever had something like this happen — when you were absolutely certain everything was going wrong, only to realize later that it was probably the best thing that could have happened?
