Essay: An encounter with a captured octopus

After a morning spent scouring for life amid gray coral, my friends and I trudged out of the Mediterranean Sea, clutching snorkels in numb hands.

We sprawled out on a shallow dock to thaw and spotted a submerged crab trap swinging from the end of a fraying, algae-encrusted rope. I slid off the rotting wood to inspect the cage and found a gray mass huddled in one corner, alive.

I plunged under and held the contraption in both hands, my snorkel mask level with a pair of round eyes. The octopus shrank away, as if trying to pour herself through the dime-sized holes in the wire. I spun the cage gently, and she rolled a tentacle over my hand, suction-cupping along my palm to the octopus ring on my index finger. I wondered if she sensed the difference between the steel trap and the iron pumping through my blood. As she relaxed, her limbs bloomed a soft purple.

Given an octopus’s short lifespan, I guessed she had just a few months left. Better to spend them wild, I thought. I surfaced for a breath and dropped back under to feel around for the trapdoor, pressing on levers and handles until I found the spring release. I moved slowly to calm us both, repressing my fear of her venomous bite. With one last breath, I pushed the door down, subjecting my entire arm to the mercy of her beak. I curled my fingers around her soft mass, tipped the cage, and pulled her out.

Her tentacles unfurled like a billowing ball gown. Flashing a mottled red, she disappeared into the reef. I exhaled bubbles, triggered the trapdoor with a rock, and left the empty cage swinging.

Better the crabs stay wild, too, I thought.

When she’s not face down in a tide pool, Molly Herring can be found wandering the Blue Ridge Mountains with people she loves.