Octopus Hugs

I heard a really lovely story not too long ago. This is second, maybe even third hand (how fitting!), so I may not have all the details quite right. If not, I apologize in advance. What happened is this:

At any one time, the Monterey Bay Aquarium has two Giant red octopus on display. Each in their own, neighboring tanks. These octopus live about five years. They are one of the largest octopus species known: the ones in the Monterey Bay grow to have an arm span of 15 feet, which is plenty big enough, but the biggest specimen ever measured was more than twice that big, with an arm span over 32 feet wide.

Giant octopus are highly intelligent animals. In captivity they often form attachments to the aquarists who feed and care for them. The octopus can distinguish and recognize individual aquarists within two seconds of touching their skin with the sensitive tip of a tentacle.

A couple of months ago, it was time for one of the octopus, a large female, to be released back into the Bay.

She’d grown close to a particular aquarist (we’ll call her Sam), who was chosen to be the person to release her. Sam took the octopus out on the Bay and dove down into the water with her. At the appropriate depth, she opened the container and the octopus swam free.

The animal clearly understood what was happening to her. She “hung around” in the water near Sam for a few minutes.

As if to say goodbye.

Then she swam away and disappeared.

Sam went on about her business, doing whatever it is the aquarists do out there, examining, and measuring, counting and collecting. I’d guess for half an hour or so, maybe longer. And was probably a little sad. Or at least had mixed feelings: sad to see the octopus go, and glad that she’d been released to live out the remainder of her life in the wild.

When she was done with whatever her tasks were for that dive, Sam swam back in the direction of the boat and prepared to ascend.

And suddenly the octopus appeared again, swimming toward her.

This creature, who she’d tended for several years, and who she’d released to swim free in the vast depths of the Monterey Bay, came back.

The octopus swam right up to Sam, gently wound one long tentacle up and around her arm and, very gently, squeezed.

Once, twice, three times.

Then she slowly withdrew her tentacle, looked Sam in the eye one last time, and swam away.

Holy mola!

No mola molas, also known as ocean sunfish, in the Outer Bay or any other exhibit at the Monterey Bay Aquarium yet, but rumor has it that there are two being groomed behind the scenes.

One has some health issues. Molas are prey to a mind-boggling array of parasitic and bacterial diseases. If he can’t be cured, he’ll be released back into the Bay to live out his natural life span.

And the other mola is just not big enough yet. Despite the fact that hammerhead sharks in general are usually considered more dangerous (#10 on the Most  Dangerous to Humans list, world-wide), it’s the Galapagos sharks in that exhibit that everyone worries about.

Divers go into that tank in pairs. One to do whatever, the other to keep an eye on the Galapagos.

(Shortly before her release, the Great White shark had apparently had enough, and gave one of the Galapagos a nasty bite. The Aquarium’s fabulous vet, Dr. Mike, decided that it would do more harm than good to try to take the bitten shark out of the water to examine and treat her wound. Any thrashing she might do in the process of being lifted out of the water could open the wound further. But he thought it would be a good idea to give her an antibiotic, to be safe.  So an intrepid diver was sent into the tank, WITH A BIG HYPERDERMIC NEEDLE ATTACHED TO A  VERY LONG STICK, to inject the shark. What followed was a good half hour of diver-with-a-big-needle-on-a-long-stick chasing a MUCH faster, MUCH more agile, MUCH more dangerous animal with MANY more teeth around and around (and around and around….) the two-million gallon, 60 foot deep tank.

Keep in mind that there are TWO Galapagos in that tank, three hammerheads, and, at that point, an increasingly cranky Great White. Kind of a high-stakes aquatic Keystone cops routine ensued. And you know, they almost never get their shark, er, man.

This all happened last week, and I’m really sorry I missed it. By all accounts it was a sight worth seeing…

I don’t know think the diver was ever successful—the person telling the story had to leave before the show was over. If not, there are also several other ways the antibiotic could have eventually been administered: in the shark’s food, or with a needle (attached to a shorter stick) when the shark came to the surface in response to food. In any case, the Galapagos seems to be doing fine.

I’m pretty the final score was Galapagos-1, Diver-0.)

But back to the molas. Or lack thereof.

Before a mola can be added to the exhibit, the fish needs to be big enough to avoid getting eaten. By one of the Galapagos, or anything else.

Molas are slow, strange creatures that look like a fish cut in half. They’re just a giant head, with two long, flat triangular fins sticking straight out the top and bottom, and then…nothing. The fish stops there. No long body, no split tail fins, just a a funny, slightly ruffled edge, like a torn piece of paper, that passes for its tail.

And, head on, the wrinkled, toothless face of an old, old man.

They’re the most fecund fish in the ocean—they produce jillions of eggs, which hatch into teeny tiny little molas. As young fish, molas are slow, and have no natural defenses. Other fish like to pick on them. Sharks, orcas, and sea lions like to eat them. Years ago one of the aquarists told me of a collecting trip out on the Bay, where he observed a couple of sea lions flicking a young mola back and forth between them on the surface like a helpless, living Frisbee.

The molas that survive, eating mostly jellyfish, which are mostly water, grow as big as they can, as fast as they can.  Eventually they get so big that their size alone protects them.

When they get too big, the Aquarium releases them back into the ocean. A couple of years ago, a mola in that exhibit grew from 55 lbs. to 880 lbs. in just fifteen months. That’s a LOT of jellyfish.  There’s a great picture of him (her?) here: http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Mola_mola_ocean_sunfish_Monterey_Bay_Aquarium_2.jpg

That’s really what they look like. Completely improbable. That particular one really did grow that big. (That’s one of the Galapagos sharks in the bottom right corner.) The Aquarium had to use a special crane to hoist it out of the tank—quick—before it got any bigger.

But in the ocean, sunfish grow even bigger. Much, MUCH bigger. One caught off Santa Catalina Island in 1910 weighed over 3,500 pounds. http://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Enormous_Sunfish.jpg

And even bigger ones—up to 5,000 pounds—have been reported. I would love to see one in open water—somehow my brain balks when I try to imagine a fish that size. Even half a fish.

I’m a big fan of science fiction, a geek from way back. If there are creatures this weird or weirder in our oceans—and there are: science knows more about the dark face of the moon than about the deep oceans here on Earth—then the chance of life on other planets seems inevitable. Which is a thought I find comforting.

Maybe somewhere out there is a world where giant molas are in control. Beaming out telepathic commands as they scud peacefully, unmolested and mostly unobserved,  through deep, wide seas that cover most of the planet.

Maybe it’s this one.

Some poor schmuck at the Aquarium has been sorting through sea turtle poop.

Really.

It turns out that the sea turtles won’t be returning to the Outer Bay exhibit at the Monterey Bay Aquarium just yet.

The back of the giant, almost two-million gallon tank is covered in tiny tiles. Almost impossible for the public to see, but the turtles discovered them a while ago.

I don’t know if they were just bored, or hungry, or acting out. It’s not unusual for sea turtles to nibble algae, so that may have been it as well, although great efforts are made to keep those walls very clean.

Or maybe the turtles had an artistic vision—a kind of abstract, negative mosaic—in mind. Maybe they were spelling out a message.

Regardless, tiles began disappearing from the wall. And appearing (seems they’re not digestible) in turtle poop.

So some poor schmuck got assigned the task of collecting and sorting through the turtle poop and counting the tiles they found.

The good news is, careful turtle poop sorting was successful: they recovered exactly the number of tiles that had gone missing.

This is dedicated science in action.

The bad news is, that until the aquarists come up with a way to keep the tile-tasting-turtles from tasting tiles, the turtles will remain behind the scenes, in off-exhibit tanks not visible to the public.

Too bad. The turtles are a big crowd-pleaser, and a personal favorite. It would be nice if there were somewhere else they could be exhibited safely, without the dangers of them tasting tiles, or the occasional Great White shark tasting them.

The people at the Aquarium are the best in the world at what they do. I’m sure they’re already working on it.

And I’m still holding out for a mola.

Great White Beauty

I haven’t had time to write, or do much of anything lately but work on a project that’s due the 15th. But tonight I had to take time for this:

As a kid, there was a book I loved (and yes, I still have it--and I know right where it is!) called “African Great Cats.” There’s an anecdote in there I’ve always remembered:

A tourist on safari hears a growling cough in the dark beyond the tent, and, frightened and excited, asks his guide, “Is that a lion?” “No,” says the guide, “that’s a hyena.” It happens again, a low growl in the night. “But that MUST be a lion!” the tourist says. “Still a hyena,” the guide responds. It happens again. And again. “You’ll know when it’s a lion,” the guide says. Disappointed,  the tourist finally falls asleep. Suddenly, a growl begins, in a register so low that it makes human blood vibrate before human ears can register sound, and then the roar of a lion splits the night wide open.

“See,” says the guide calmly, to the tourist who is frozen, dumbstruck, bolt upright on his cot, “when you hear a hyena, you may think to yourself, ‘Is that a lion?’ But when you hear a real lion, you have no doubt. You didn’t even have to ask.”

It’s after 10 pm and I just got back from the Monterey Bay Aquarium. At night—when there’s almost no one around—the Aquarium is a very different place. I’m looking forward to spending more time there.

But tonight I got to see, for the first time,  the Great White shark that’s been on exhibit since the end of August.

The huge Outer Bay tank was dark. They’d just switched off the lights, and for long moments we just stood there, watching tuna and silvery barracuda flash by the giant window in the faint light from the viewing area. A shark swam in a curving line up from the depths. “Is that her?” someone asked. “That’s a hammerhead,” someone else replied, and as it came closer we could see the distinctive-shaped head. There are two or three hammerheads in that exhibit, and each time one appeared someone asked—“Is that her?” No—each time.  A Galapagos shark came up—also no. And then again, another. Still no.

And then the Great White shark rose, in a fast, clean line from the dark below and NO ONE had to ask. When a real lion roars, you know it. And when you see a Great White Shark, rising, turning in the blue depths before you, heading straight at you for a breath-stopping instant, before veering up and away in line with the curving window and passing so close overhead that you could reach out and touch her through those inches of window glass… you don’t have to ask.

She’s beautiful. I mean, drop-dead, take-your-breath-away BEAUTIFUL. She’s young, and ‘only’ about five or six feet long, and so perfectly adapted to her environment that even in an aquarium tank, even with the lighting turned off (which makes the tiled back wall of the tank very obvious), I felt a shiver. A thrill of fear, or just a primal acknowledgement of power. Of grace. Of beauty.

She’s darker above, and lighter below, and the tips of her fins look black, and no one could ever mistake her for anything but exactly what she is. (That might be a life lesson right there.) And she’s perfect—still young enough that there is hardly any of the scarring we’re used to seeing in those open-jawed, feeding-frenzy Discovery documentaries. Her skin is smooth, glowing. She glides through the water with no visible effort, and is gone. Disappears. The tank isn’t THAT big. Each time she reappears again, materializing suddenly, I can hear, or feel, the gasps from the handful of people around me. Maybe it’s me. I could stand there and watch her all night. I keep forgetting to breathe.

If you have a chance, if you’re anywhere near Monterey, go see her. In 2004, the first time the Aquarium had a Great White on exhibit—the first live Great White EVER on exhibit anywhere—Peter Benchley came to see it.

If you can’t make it, you can learn more about her on the Aquarium’s Great White Shark blog: http://montereybayaquarium.typepad.com/sea_notes/white-shark/

or read the press release here: http://www.montereybayaquarium.org/cr/cr_whiteshark/whiteshark_ours.aspx

Ninety-eight percent of the living space on this beautiful planet is underwater. And for millions of years the shark has been the apex predator there. I’ve been in open water with sharks; one of my favorite dives ever was 100 feet down, where there were sharks as far as I could see in any direction—20 to 30 of them at any one time. Three, four, maybe five species, ranging from little blacktip reef sharks at three to four feet, to lemon sharks and nurse sharks over nine feet long. It was an incredible experience. The more so for being completely unexpected.

But tonight I’m grateful for glass viewing windows, and for people who dedicate their lives to preserving the planet and all the creatures who live here, and for coming face-to-face with Great White beauty.