Even asleep, we are in motion. Breath comes in and out. The heart beats. We toss and turn. And think of the many ways we cross distances in our dreams. We can run and jump over impossibly wide gulfs. Effortlessly, we can move in the way many of us wish we could when awake. Asleep, we can fly! In my dreams, however, it’s not the liberty and loft of flying that I wish for. Rather, only then can I move suspended, at ease and free from restraint through water. Only then can I swim like, well, a fish.
To satisfy my curiosity about the ways animals who live in the ocean get around, I arrived at the Monterey Bay Aquarium for an early morning visit. There I was greeted by senior biologist Mary McCarthy, curator of fish and invertebrates and Erica Kelly, director of exhibition content. How and why do Giant Seabass, sardines, jellyfish, octopuses and more get from place to place? A lot of the animals’ motivation for moving is, no surprise, to get something to eat or to not become somebody else’s something to eat.
In what ways can these animals move that humans can’t? An octopus can spit water as a form of communication, to repel unwanted guests, to aid movement and to engage in play. And wouldn’t you like to be able to squirt ink to foil an enemy? As a writer who has spit ink more than once, I’d sure like to have that built-in ability! Octopuses can change not only the color of their skin in order to hide but also the texture of their skin!
Before this recent visit, what I loved best at the Aquarium were the jellyfish. No surprise, right? Watching them, I’m reminded of ballet dancers in pink tutus, of clouds at sunset, and of open parachutes descending. Watching the jellies graceful movement causes my cares to dissipate, and I receive a much-desired sense of being unburdened. With my feet firmly on the floor, it’s as though I too am floating with my head under water.
An enthusiastic scientist, McCarthy is a walking Aquarium encyclopedia. Knowledge about what we’re seeing is intrinsic to her, and, lucky for us, McCarthy loves to share it. Watching a school of sardines swimming altogether, one goes rogue, changing direction, then recognizing its folly, the little fish turns around and joins the other. McCarthy tells me there isn’t necessarily a leader though this group of swimmers reminds me of bicycle racers.
“Are they drafting?” I ask. “A little bit,” McCarthy answers. “Fish have a lateral line with hair cells, tiny sensory hairs, that are triggered by pressure, so that’s one way they can tell what’s happening around them. That lateral line is how they keep track of their neighbors.”
“The finlets that small fish have,” McCarthy tells me, “help them to be fast. Big fish like seabass don’t need them because they don’t need speed.” Clearly, the seabass on the other side of the glass has rank here. He’s in no hurry to go anywhere. Though the downturned look on this one’s face reminds me of my grandfather’s expression when disgruntled, I’m sure this well-fed seabass isn’t displeased, just rightfully owning his space.
At the Aquarium, of course, it’s not only the sea creatures who are engaged in movement, visitors are too. Right at the moment, standing transfixed, looking up at the fish, as I’m trying to restrain myself, McCarthy says, “It’s interesting to see how people relate to the animals. Sometimes people will lie down at the sardine roundabout and just watch them.” Observing the fish in perpetual motion is compelling, getting the opportunity to witness what, within the open ocean itself, few of us get to.
Though I’m impatient to see and learn more about the jelly fish, and we do get there, first we head over to visit the Great Pacific Octopus. There he is in full view, swimming in his tank in a relaxed manner, stylishly extending leg upon orange leg. This is beauty in motion. While standing there, I become enraptured, and my life changes. Yeah, that sounds a bit dramatic, I know, and it’s not like something monumental transpires, but a big, subtle thing does.
By allowing himself to be visible knowing we’re watching him, to not retreat into a hiding place, and to watch us, the octopus conveys a sense of awareness and curiosity— consciousness, perhaps. This quality of presence is more than what I’d seen when viewing any of the fish, and more than I could have anticipated. Even having read about octopuses and watched movies about them, I’m mesmerized by this creature, by his almost variegated orange color, so many legs with so many more sucker cups, the ease and elegance of movement, the large bell and (am I reaching too far?) expressive, attentive eyes.
I’ve lost a sense of time, have momentarily nearly forgotten about my guides and whatever else the day may next hold. This experience causes me to recalibrate my sense of place on the planet. So much of life’s meaning comes from relationship — the moments when we experience connection with another, know empathy and respect, the times we see and feel seen. It’s not that I feel recognized by the octopus; it’s that I sense I’m seeing this creature in his being-ness. To call this witnessing the “identity” of another species, one quite different from my own, might be a stretch. But maybe not. After all, what do I know? I’m only human.
Del Rey Oaks writer and poet Patrice Vecchione is the author of several books including, most recently, “My Shouting, Shattered, Whispering Voice: A Guide to Writing Poetry & Speaking Your Truth” and “Step into Nature: Nurturing Imagination and Spirit in Everyday Life.” Her titles are available wherever books are sold. More at patricevecchione.com
