My Octopus Mother – a life-changing encounter in the Emerald Sea

The harsh, cold waters of the Pacific Northwest are thriving with intelligent life. Seattle-based marine biologist Isabella Zandoná tells the story of her extraordinary encounter with a giant Pacific octopus and her story beneath the waves of the Emerald Sea

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Words and pictures by Isabella Zandoná

The morning starts the way so many dives do in the Pacific Northwest: quiet, cold, and full of small rituals. The sound of tanks clinking against the gravel parking lot. The hiss of air as I check my regulator. The faint hum of rain against my car as we gear up in layers: thermals, drysuit, hood and gloves.

There’s a kind of stillness before a dive, a pause that feels as though you are standing between two worlds. Behind my dive buddy and me, the forest drips with rain. In front of us, the water stretches out, grey and calm like a pool. Just a few metres below the surface, the colours shift from Seattle grey to an emerald green, and an entire world awaits.

The wind picks up and the air smells of pine and salt. My buddy and I look out into the water. ‘Kraken time,’ my buddy jokes. The green waters swallow us whole, and we start a dive that changed my life forever.

THE GIANT OF THE EMERALD SEA

When people imagine diving in cold water, they picture darkness, silence and little to no life. The Pacific Northwest doesn’t seem like a place where colour and movement thrive. Yet, beneath the emerald green waters lies one of the most dynamic ecosystems, a world ruled by creatures so intelligent and mysterious they’ve inspired myth, science and storytelling: cephalopods.

Here, they sit at the top of the invertebrate hierarchy. Not because of their strength or size, but because of strategy. Their intelligence, adaptability and ability to blend into their environment make them both master hunters and masters of disguise, influencing the balance of life in this ecosystem.

Among them, the giant Pacific octopus (Enteroctopus dofleini) stands out. It is the world’s biggest octopus species, with larger individuals reaching 6m (20ft) and weighing up to 50kg (110lbs), but what makes them remarkable is not just their size, but their intelligence.

Each arm operates semi-independently, coordinated by a complex network of neurons, and their skin contains specialised pigmented cells known as chromatophores, which enable the animal to change its colour within milliseconds.

Octopuses communicate through body language using specialised muscles called papillae, which enable them to form bumps and spikes in response to action around them. The changes in skin texture and colour provide not only effective camouflage, but can also signal aggression, fear or curiosity to other octopuses or potential predators.

In an instant, smooth skin can turn jagged and rough, while their colour becomes a bright red – a visual warning that says: stay back. During calmer moments, they flatten their papillae and soften their colour, even turning white when relaxed.

Chromatophores and papillae can also be used during courtship displays, flashing colour patterns and raising textures in rhythmic waves to communicate mating intent. Every shift in their skin is a part of a complex visual language.

Seeing a giant Pacific octopus out in the open is like finding gold, as they usually stay tucked away in their dens, only emerging to hunt. Their shyness is part of their survival strategy; avoiding exposure keeps them safe.

They are most often spotted during low-light hours and at night, hunting for their next meal from a simple menu of crabs, clams and fish, which they eat with their strong, bird-like beaks.

ALIEN ENCOUNTER

It’s one thing to know the science behind these great animals. It’s another to experience it first-hand, and an encounter with a giant Pacific octopus would change the way I think about these animals, and about what it means to meet another creature in its own world.

We had descended into the green, following a naturally formed boulder wall, looking for signs of life. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw movement between the rocks. I signalled with my flashlight to my buddy, then, before I could turn around, a large, alien-like creature was right in front of me.

I froze in the moment, making eye contact with a 2.5 metre (8ft) octopus. Slowly, she reached one arm toward me, and I mirrored the motion. Her suckers started wrapping around my hand.

I felt the strength of them through my thick 5mm gloves as they kept grabbing for more. Soft. Firm. Curious. She was inviting me into her world, just for a moment, completely on her own terms.

Each sucker contains thousands of specialised sensory cells – chemoreceptors and mechanoreceptors – which detect both the texture and chemical makeup of what they come into contact with, effectively enabling her to taste by touch.

An octopus can tell not only the shape of an object, but also whether it’s food, rock or a potential danger, through the surface of its arms. Another arm extended, meeting mine. I was a mystery to her, as she was to me. We were both studying each other.

Each arm has roughly 250 suckers, each of which can lift up to 16kg (35lbs) – and she has around 2,000 of them in total. Thankfully, she approached me with pure curiosity. As one arm drifted too close to my regulator, I gently guided it away.

Calmly, she released all her suckers from my body and drifted back to her den between two large stones. In the moment I shared with her, she didn’t seem like just an animal; she felt like an individual. Her eyes fixed on mine with unmistakable curiosity.

My dive buddy and I returned every weekend to see her after this experience. Over those weeks, we watched her mate arrive; he was one of the largest octopuses we had ever seen. They initiated courtship, and a few weeks later, hundreds of small, off-white eggs appeared in clusters, tucked safely within her den.

We knew our time with her was limited; after her eggs hatch, she will die. Mothers vigilantly guard their eggs without feeding; their bodies slowly start to fail during this process.

Octopuses are semelparous, meaning they reproduce only once in their lifetime. It’s not uncommon to see mother octopuses being eaten alive by other animals while they guard their eggs. Witnessing this cycle first-hand is profoundly humbling.

THE PULSE OF THE PACIFIC NORTHWEST

The Pacific Northwest is a dynamic and harsh ecosystem. Currents, temperatures, salinity and oxygen levels all shape the lives of cephalopods. Short-lived species like the opalescent and stubby squid are indicators of change.

A warmer winter can accelerate and alter the timing for their eggs to hatch, while shifts in predation populations move through the food web.

Octopuses and squid are both predator and prey – lingcod, seals, sea lions and other creatures rely on them for food, while they themselves hunt crabs, shrimps and even other cephalopods.

Observing these animals over time offers insight into the shifts in our underwater environment that might otherwise go unnoticed. During these visits, I began to feel a connection with them, wanting to know them as individuals.

The octopus we had come to know, the giant Pacific octopus mother who had so bravely reached out to touch my hand – her life was fleeting, measured in weeks after she laid her eggs.

Yet her presence left a mark on the waters she called home and in my story as a scuba diver. I found myself thinking about her often.

A RETURN

Returning to that dive site was no longer just about curiosity; it was about witnessing the full arc of a life, about understanding the balance of the Emerald Sea. And so, with my dive buddy by my side, I made one last descent to the place where we had first met her, ready to witness what she had left for us, excited to see her again.

Her den, it was lifeless. The pile of shells and crab legs remained, the only evidence of her existence. The current moved gently through the space where she had once watched us.

I hovered there for a while, taking it all in. We missed the hatching. She was gone.

Her body was now part of the ecosystem’s quiet exchange. Bits of her were scattered around, some drifting in the current. Crabs moved across what remained of her; a lingcod hovered nearby, patiently waiting. The same creatures she once preyed upon were now sustained by her.

Somewhere in the open water, her offspring drifted – thousands of tiny paralarvae, each the size of a grain of rice, suspended alongside the plankton. Only a few will survive the long drift. One day, one of them might find a rocky ledge to call home, gathering shells and hunting in the currents of the Hood Canal.

I hovered for a while, watching the ocean reclaim our beloved octopus. What was left of her would soon vanish, carried off piece by piece by the current and predators, her den reclaimed by other residents.

When I finally turned to leave, I looked back one last time. Her den was just a gap between two rocks again. Ordinary, unremarkable, yet we knew who had lived there.

Life goes on here beneath the Emerald Sea, always changing, always beginning again.

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