An Octopus in Cool Waters
By tiani dun
I wade into the cool water, covered in thick neoprene.
The waves roll over the reef further out, but here close to the shore lies a protected lagoon. White sand stretches for a few hundred metres to my left.
I’m alone.
I slip on my fins, spit into my mask and rinse it out.
It’s summer, but the water is still freezing. The most painless method is to jump in, and quickly, before your mind tells you that you’re crazy and should go home.
A few deep breaths, and that’s what I do.
The water is as clear as anybody could ever wish for. It also feels like ice on my skin, but I’m distracted from the stabbing feeling by the countless colours that lie before me.
I’ve entered another world. The light dances over the reef, reflecting movement at the surface. I can see my silhouette wiggle over the contours of the corals.
Rugosity. I remember using the term in my Master’s research seminar. I had given a whole hour-long speech on this topic, how I would measure it through recreating a 3-D replica of ten coral reef patches, how I would compare it with types of coral to measure how effective they were at creating habitat for animals.
“It was a great presentation,” my Mum had said. “I just have one question though. What does ‘rugosity’ mean?”
My palm had gone straight to my forehead. Being intimately connected to the marine science realm had meant that I was socially distanced from the rest of society. Rugosity, which had become so engrained into my vocabulary, was (of course) not a term used by the general public. I had briefly interacted with a common case of ‘academese,’ and had used scientific jargon without explaining what it really meant. I had never thought I would become one of those boring lecturers who demanded an unnecessary amount of knowledge from my audience. But for my friends and family outside of my field, my presentation was the opposite of viewable.
“It means ‘roughness’ Mum,” I sighed. She obviously had not understood a single word of my presentation past the first slide. “It refers to how much surface area a reef has. Rugosity is important because many fish like to hide in the nooks and crannies of a reef. So, if a reef is rougher with a higher ‘rugosity’ more creatures will tend to live there.”
To describe it in scientific terms, the reef I was looking at was highly rugose. Structures surrounded me, with caves and overhangs that made for fun little swim-throughs. In some places, the reef would break through the surface. These, I found, had made for food reef-walking.
Like me, the wildlife appeared to appreciate the roughness. I had already come across two baby sharks, rabbitfish, a huge parrotfish, and a little crab. It was nothing like the reefs I was used to up north. I was swimming at the southern-most coral reef in the world. Sure, I had expected something diverse, but I couldn’t have predicted these incredible colours. It was like somebody had thrown a packet of skittles onto the rocks and gone, “there, that’ll do it.”
Lord Howe Island lies at the crossroads of five major ocean currents. Most importantly, the East Australian Current brings warm waters and coral spawn down from the Great Barrier Reef and delivers them south to the Tasman Sea. Of course, not all corals can survive here in the (much) colder waters. In fact, a mix of warm and cool ocean currents means that the island is home to a mixture of both tropical and temperate species. Not only that, but being located ~600km east of the Australian mainland means that the island is one of the world’s endemic hotspots. This all meant that the island was well-known for its truly unique ecosystem, enticing marine biologists from around the world (like myself) to its shores.
“I’m looking for new crew for this next expedition,” the captain had said, his voice cutting in and out over the phone. “We’ll be sailing from the Gold Coast, out to Middleton and Elizabeth Reefs, and then past Lord Howe. Whenever there’s a good weather window, we’ll make our way back to the mainland and dock in Sydney.”
I could hear the wind yelling behind him as he spoke into the receiver.
“All in all, it should take us about six weeks.”
The island’s proximity to not-much-else along with the chance of encountering its rare and endemic species was enough to put me on board for the trip. I’d never sailed before, and only ever lived on boats for a few days. But it was coming to the end of my research project, and I had planned to head south before the summer heat wave up north. I knew I could get seasick, but how hard could a few weeks be? Adventure was literally calling.
“I’m in,” I said.
Six weeks had quickly turned into three months, without complaint from a single soul on board. The island was a magical, distant land, far away from the clamour and commotion of the mainland city in which I lived. There was no phone reception, just little telephone boxes you could use to call your family (if you remembered their phone numbers, that is). The highest peak, Mt Gower, apparently rose 875m above the sea from a volcanic eruption seven million years ago. Living here was like stepping back in time, or into a scene from Jurassic Park.
One day I was walking along the same beach. The tide was low, so I wondered out along the reef flat. I came across a little nudibranch, curling its way across the algae.
Nudibranchs are my favourite creatures, ever. This is possibly because I had only just recently stumbled upon their existence. They represent an evolutionary marvel, are decedents from a shelled ancestor but have evolved with a range of chemical defences rather than shells. Other animals are driven away by their ‘aposematic’ colouration. Their bright colours advertise their toxicity and make them great photography subjects. Two years ago, I hadn’t known of their existence. Now, I have a T-shirt with a nudibranch on it.
Naturally, I squealed a little in excitement when I saw this one. I spent almost an hour that day watching the nudibranch slink over the reef. The rocks were sharp, though, and I had forgotten my booties. I left the beach with a huge smile on my face and a cut on my foot.
I could stay here forever.
I sing to myself as I observe the soft corals, sponges and bryozoans on the rocky substrate. The undersea world is a respite from my daily chores and frustrations.
The past few weeks have been a whirlwind. Constantly being surrounded by people has taken its toll on my introverted side. My monkey mind has started to question my own intentions in many things, including the man I have chosen to spend most of my time with.
Why am I putting his needs before my own?
Am I afraid to be alone?
I am still ruminating when I see her, a beautiful octopus darting towards the neighbouring coral stack. I stop and watch, she changes shapes and textures to match the algae that she sits on. She moves from algae to coral, to sand and rubble and then into a little alcove. I follow and watch her every move, each step graceful as she walks along the rubble, two arms moving, like she’s pedalling a bike.
She makes herself thin as she squeezes through a gap in the reef. I swim around to meet her on the other side, where she is suddenly large, like a balloon as she eats a crustacean. Still, she blends in perfectly; there’s no chance I would’ve noticed her without her movement.
And then it hits me. She’s alone as well. Here is this strange and beautiful creature of the earth, a part of the natural world. She lives and blends in with the other creatures on the reef. She is alone, but she isn’t separate from them.
This thought is suddenly liberating. Gone are the feelings of loneliness, of separation, of feeling sorry for myself. I watch as my ego quiets and feel the truth of the wisdom that has just washed over me.
She watches me too.
She’s just like me.
I hang out with the octopus for a couple of hours, until I am reminded that I am still a visitor to this world. I start to feel the chill under my wetsuit. The tide has also begun to get precariously low, so I exit the water, shivering.
I walk up the beach feeling like I have just left another dimension.
Later, I discovered that an octopus has nine brains: one main brain, and one small one at the base of each arm which allows each arm to move, taste and touch independently.
Clearly, they are very intelligent creatures. But how do they manage? I struggle with just one brain, which is constantly racing with thoughts and ideas.
Trying to understand my own mind is what led me to my first degree in Psychology. After four years of study, I am still yet to have any idea of what truly goes on up there.
Swimming in the sea is much more satisfying than swimming in my mind. The underwater world is where the brain takes the back seat. Listening to the sound of one’s breath and bubbles is like a peaceful meditation soundtrack. I step out of my own story and become the observer of another’s.
Nothing is so humbling as being in awe of these creatures, watching them live their unique lives amidst the busy ecosystem. I’m not religious, but I’m starting to understand this whole ‘oneness’ idea. It’s this smallness without fear; a gratitude of being connected to the natural world.
This one’s not a thought, but a feeling.
