Note: I used Mailchimp to send out emails automatically for each blog post. Mailchimp discontinued this service. I have not been able to find a replacement that does the same thing.

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Finally, you can use Feedrabbit to receive an email every time I write a blog post. I've tested the service. It works.

Three years. Four actually, if you count the year of our initial sighting and head-scratching.

That’s how long three friends and I have devoted to figuring out and documenting the reproductive social behaviour and biology of moray eels.

I am proud and delighted to share the news that one of my photos resulting from this project is the winner of the underwater category in the Wildlife Photographer of the Year contest for 2026 (WPY62). 

At this point, I have been thinking about eel spawning for exactly twenty years. My obsession began in October 2006 when I saw my first dragon moray eel (Enchelycore pardalis, not the species pictured above). I researched, soon learned that basically nothing was known about spawning eels. Ever since, I’ve asked anyone and everyone I’ve met who might have some idea of how these fish reproduce for clues. Nada.

This project, this subject, was the most difficult and challenging photographic endeavor that I have ever undertaken. 

It was probably a good thing that the lucky break did not come until 2023, when we first stumbled upon spawning.

First of all, eel spawning takes place at night. It has to be dark, meaning you can’t use light. Not to see. Not to photograph. Eels seem to be relatively less sensitive to the red end of the visible light spectrum. They can tolerate weak, red light. But if you use strong red light, i.e., enough to accommodate normal human vision, it affects them. And if you turn on white light, fuhgeddaboudit. You’d be disrupting the eels’ behaviour, so that is an absolute no go.

No light = no autofocus.

Next, to say that the eels are lightning-fast is an understatement. They go up, they spawn, they go back. Around 1.5 seconds door-to-door in the case of my winning image. If you are not looking straight at them, you’ll never know that anything transpired. This in fact happened to me early on. While squinting to observe one pair of eels, another spawned directly behind me, almost on top of my head. I would have never known had one of my friends not been looking at me, gesticulating wildly. I spun around. There was nothing to see. Eels 1. Tony 0.

And even if you are staring at the eels when they spawn, it is impossible for our eyes and brains to process such rapid movement. 

Let’s say you are in the right place, at the right time, aimed in the right direction, and you also manage to hit the shutter button. Capturing a coherent image with all the vital elements visible—male, female, gametes—means a fraction of a fraction of a split-second. Did I mention they go in unpredictable directions for unpredictable distances?

Also, remember that it’s dark. So the only light available is that which you apply, i.e., via flashes. 

So there you have it. A summary of the photographic challenge. No light. No autofocus. The decisive moment being measured in milliseconds. Not to mention the usual challenges of being in the sea, at night, with limited air supply.

Easy peasy.

This is why I say that it was probably for the best that my chance to document this came now. 

My friends Koji, Mei and Oyama-san were the ideal people to work with. Each of us has specific skills, experiences, and things we are good at. None of us alone could have pulled this project off. In fact, it was the exact combination of our abilities and temperaments that made it possible. Mei was the first among us to see spawning. She started all of this! Koji is a marine-behavior savant. Absolute world-class. Oyama-san is one of the most dedicated, diligent and insightful researchers I have ever come across.

Modern cameras can shoot many frames per second. The more fps, the better the odds of getting the decisive moment.

The flash I needed, the Backscatter HF-1, appeared exactly when I needed it, almost like magic, just weeks before I started. The flash can keep up with shooting at high frame rates. This was critical, because remember, the only light on the subject is the light one creates.

The lens that I ended up using the most was a modified Nikonos RS 13mm fisheye, courtesy of Isaac Szabo, certified genius and talented underwater photographer. Isaac had two(!) images among the Underwater category finalists in the contest this year.

National Geographic Society came into the picture with funding. I did not plan for this. I would never have thought to ask for it. But it happened. And thanks to NGS, I was able to transform this effort from me trying to get a photograph, to us researching and documenting the reproductive behaviour and biology of moray eels via direct observation in the eels' natural environment—the first time this has ever been done.

I won’t go into detail here about our research. I will just make the point that figuring out the social structure and behaviour of morays during the reproductive season was not just fun (and hard, hard work), but also a prerequisite for even having a hope of capturing this image. Our first academic paper, describing the reproductive behaviour of Gymnothorax eurostus, was recently accepted by the journal Marine Biology. I expect it will be published soon. 

Lastly, I will highlight the fact that among the four of us, only one is an academic, a newly minted PhD. We had no academic institution behind us. Three out of four of us are not qualified to research anything, at least not on paper. We had no official anything, as a matter of fact. We are proof of what you can accomplish when you’re not educated enough to be convinced that you cannot.

The award ceremony was wonderful, as always. It was nice to see familiar faces, as well as to make new friends. The atmosphere of comraderie is palpable. I was particularly pleased to see many underwater photographers among the attendees. Especially the younger ones. I look to them to carry on the mission of figuring out and highlighting the beauty of lesser-known, non-charismatic subjects.

The event is held each year in Hintze Hall, the main atrium of the Natural History Museum London. The museum is of course jam-packed with people during the day. Upon closing at 17:50, the museum needs to prepare for the WPY evening. I don’t know exactly how things go in the hour+ prior to the event, but I imagine there is a considerable measure of chaos and consternation. It is no small feat to prepare the area beneath Hope the blue whale to host a dinner and show for hundreds.

Category winners each received this blue whale, which I assume represents Hope as she would have looked in life.

It is particularly meaningful, given how much time I've spent with blues, including swimming along several times with individuals within arm’s reach, accepting the gift of a spat-out krill from one, and finding myself two blue-whale lengths or more deep while freediving (more accurately, sprinting underwater at max effort), wondering how in the heck I’d ever get back to the surface alive (nearly didn't). They are…in case it needs to be said…big. And gorgeous. The experience of having one stare straight at you, follow you with its eye, stays with you for life.

The museum live-streamed the entire award ceremony. If you’d like to watch it, the link is here. My part starts around 2:01:00.

There is a meet-and-greet the night before the award ceremony. Photographers and friends who’ve already arrived in London have an opportunity to get together for a chat in a cozy venue on museum grounds. It is an opportunity to say hello and catch up. The award event the next evening goes quickly. There isn’t much time for conversation.

A feature of this first evening is a welcome speech from Gemma. She manages the competition, has done so for years. She says hello, tells us important things we should already know and need to remember, then chides us for inevitably forgetting. It’s a tradition. Especially the forgetting part.

There are two things you need to know about Gemma. She hates giving speeches. She hates having photos taken.

Naturally, I took photos of her while she was giving her speech. What are "friends" for?

Always on the lookout for critical behaviour, I managed to catch the moment Gemma gave a shout-out to her adoring fans. That’s just the kind of person she is. Magnanimous.

The official WPY exhibition launch took place on the final night, with hundreds of invited guests. This year featured two large puppets(?) that ambled through the crowd. One was something with two horns. I was too far back to see. I assumed it was a bovine of some sort. There was a giraffe as well, which—being tall—was something I could discern.

“Huh, there may never be another occasion when a blue whale and a giraffe are together like this,” I thought. Hence, photo.

Here is a view of Hintze Hall that same evening, looking straight in from the museum entrance area:

This year was the year of bloopers, at least for me.

When I got to the airport in Japan, I found out that I need a visa to go to the UK, officially called an Electronic Travel Authorisation (ETA). I have traveled to the UK dozens of times over decades. This was news to me. Fortunately, I was several hours early, so I had time to fumble through the application procedure. I accidentally applied for a full-on immigration visa. Doh. Then managed—with help from concerned airline staff—to find the correct application for the ETA. ETA approval in hand, I got to the UK. While in-country, I was informed by relevant authorities that my application to immigrate was stupid. Not the word they used, but I got the message. And yes, I concede the point.

About 30 minutes prior to the award ceremony, I found myself half-dressed. There are three button holes at the top half of my tuxedo shirt. There are nice pretty button/ clasps that go into these three holes to prevent the shirt from flying open. Under normal circumstances, this poses no issue. Insert buttons, shirt secured. There was one minor problem though. The buttons were in Japan.

There I stood, facing the mirror, shirt askew. “This will not do,” I thought as I struggled with the implications.

Mental gears cranked. Creaking sounds and puffs of smoke ensued. The answer revealed itself.

I had a second pair of cuff links. Don’t ask why I had four cuff links but no shirt buttons. I used two of the cuff links to secure two of the button holes. They looked not entirely out of place. The third hole, however, did what buttonless button holes are wont to do. As long as I stood completely straight and still, the shirt sat pretty. One whiff of movement and it opened right up, introducing my mid-torso to a rather refreshing autumn breeze.

More turning of jet-lagged mental gears.

I had surgical tape. Don’t ask why I packed surgical tape but no shirt buttons. I used the surgical tape to tape the remaining buttonhole shut. I had to tape the inside of the shirt of course. The process involved creative articulation of fingers and thumbs. Eventually I got it all to work. Most surprising is that no one noticed and it all held together for the evening.

Take that, MacGuyver.

When I eventually got back to the hotel room, it was around 02:00. I wanted to shower and sleep, but I made time to post a short announcement/ thank you note in Japanese on Facebook, then crashed. I did not have time to go online for a day and a half or so. When I did, I noticed several messages, not a one that I understood. The messages were from people who do not speak Japanese. They hinted at something gone horribly wrong.

Friends in Thailand cleared it up.

Facebook’s AI had decided that when I wrote the Japanese word for Gymnothorax eurostus moray eels, what I actually meant to write was sea cucumber. A sea cucumber that lays eggs, no less. Presumably sits on them until they hatch.

Silly me. Where did I go wrong?

Later, the Guardian decided that moray eels (or sea cucumbers as the case may be) are mammals:

To be fair to the Guardian, WPY itself mis-labeled the category as Urban Wildlife during the award night (See photo above of me on stage).

This is all just proof that editors are necessary.

It is not the first time something like this has happened. Back in 2022, when my spawning starfish photo won the Underwater category, National Geographic Thailand decided that I had photographed mating electric eels:

The only thing I was upset about was that I hadn't thought of that myself!

And finally, I saw this parked in front of the main gate of the museum:

It was an advertisement for Yumove digestive supplements for pets.

"Cheeky," I thought.

I was, of course, obliged to wait for a representative of the target audience to show up before taking a photo.

Maybe Yumove will sponsor next year’s contest? I sense a new category waiting to happen.

Speaking of which, I will be one of the judges for the upcoming WPY63. 

I did this for WPY60, not that long ago. It is a lotta work. This year there were more than 64,000 images. All judges have to look at every image. Say you take 10 seconds per image on average. That’s > 640,000 seconds. As basic algebra teaches, x = !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! collapse.

The upside is that judges get to see the best collection of entries in any nature photography contest in the world.

The process culminates with all of us coming together in a cold, dark room next year for a week. Long days, minor breaks, little to no sunshine. The process can be exhausting, draining, frustrating. I can say from my previous experience though, seeing the final result makes the toil worthwhile.

As a bonus, I get to take more photos of Gemma.

That's like 1400 years ago in Internet time.

So much has happened.

I'm twenty years older, for a start. I've had incredible experiences, made lots of friends, and somehow managed to stay reasonably even-keeled(?) in the face of all manner of social, economic and political turmoil.

Count my blessings, I do.

I figured I should mark this date somehow, commemorate the fact that I've been writing and posting images on various iterations of this site for two decades.

I spent a big part of that time with humpback whales (Megaptera novaeangliae) and sperm whales (Physeter macrocephalus), so I looked through archives for images of these two species, which resulted in (way too) many hours flipping through photos and reminiscing. 

In the end, I picked a few to re-process. I've shared most of the images before, but I thought it worth trying again with modern software (and more experience/ knowledge on my part).

First is a photo that I took almost exactly two months after starting this blog.

It was sunny, the ocean calm, whales chill. 

Next is a male humpback whale calf playing in front of his mother:

There is no mistaking the joie de vivre.

This is a young male blowing bubbles:

This calf was attacked early on, most likely by marine mammals (judging by the scars). In spite of the trauma, he healed, became strong and confident, and was a wonderful friend during the couple of months we had together.

This is a closest I ever got to seeing mating:

The pair descended, making it impossible to see what might have taken place. Then again, maybe nothing happened. Who knows?

I recalled the following moment with great fondness, when the juvenile sperm whale flipped upside-down for a wee squiggly play:

Adult females in a given sperm whale social unit raise young in a communal manner, so it is not possible to know if the big whale here is the mommy or an auntie. Whatever the case, the little one was clearly happy.

This is another adult female, one that had just come up from foraging in the abyss. See the bit of squid stuck to her upper jaw?

There is a chance that the squid part is from an Architeuthis dux giant squid. That's a popular dish among the sperm whales that frequent this area.

How do I know?

A year prior, I met this female:

Swimming under and past my friends and me, this female turned out to be the matriarch of the social unit foraging in the area. She buzzed and scanned us several times, getting to know us in a manner of speaking.

When she brought up a mouthful of giant squid a few days later, she swam directly beneath us, giving us a perfect view.

"Now why," you might think, "would a sperm whale bring giant squid to the surface?" Seems awfully inefficient, doesn't it?

The reason is probably the calf on the left of the photo. It was pretty big. Big enough perhaps, to be learning about deep-dining. Our working theory is that she brought the squid up to educate the calf, part of the weaning process.

I'll wrap-up with a couple of images that I did not edit/ process at the time I took them for some reason (probably because I got sick of staring at a computer screen).

A classic humpback whale image of a mother with calf...tough to be beat in terms of tugging at heartstrings:

And finally, a social unit of sperm whales enjoying some quality time with one another:

Twenty years is a long time to be doing anything.

But I can't think of anything that I would have rather been doing for those twenty years.

FWIW: For photographers, I took these images with Canon1DsMkII, 5DMkII, 7D and 5DMkIII cameras—all museum technology at this point. Revisiting the photos with recent software was a pain, but the resulting files are better in every way than what I was able to output originally, especially the high-resolution versions in wider colour spaces.

Take these anemone hermit crabs (Dardanus pedunculatus) for instance.

The one in front is a fetching female.

The one behind is an amorous male. You can tell by that look in his eyes.

As the female ambled, the male followed. I trailed the lovebirds (lovecrabs? lovehermits?), as anxious for consummation (or more perhaps) as the impassioned male crustacean.

We traversed the seafloor in this manner for nearly an hour.

They came together. The romantic tension crescendoed. "This is it!" I thought.

Then the male stepped away. Something had caught his eye. He didn't go too far, maybe 30cm or so (Imperial units people: inches =  cm/ 2.54).

That was enough.

Sensing opportunity, the female bolted. Making full use of her six running legs, she pressed the pedal to the metal. The female was more than a meter away before the male regained focus. He turned, became perplexed, and undoubtedly thought, "Doh!"

A mad dash ensued.

The male set off at high speed. In a completely different direction. 

Freed from her suitor, the female relaxed, began to forage...

...as the male faded into darkness.

A life lesson worth pondering.

It happens to be a colony of females, so those long strings oozing out from the ball of corrugated coral (Pavona varians) comprise eggs, tens of thousands—hundreds of thousands perhaps. And that happy little fish with a huge smile is an oriental butterflyfish (Chaetodon auripes) eyeing the buffet line.

This is what it looks like when a butterflyfish partakes of a coral-egg Slurpee:

Corals in the genus Pavona live throughout the Indo-Pacific region.

The 20 or so species in this genus are not particulary eye-catching, They tend to take the form of leafy cabbages or encrusting rocks. As far I have seen, their colours are best described as yaaaaawn. They are often overlooked.

Spawning is when they shine, visually at least.

There is a catch though. Coordinated release of gametes across a reef can take the visibility from good to zero in minutes, the ocean turning an opaque milky-white. It is perhaps not so much the eggs that cause this, but sperm.

It is more difficult to photograph male corals than females. Male colonies tend to send out thin, wispy strings, barely discernable to the naked eye. Not what you'd describe as photogenic. The colony above was an exception.

It doesn't take much imagination to picture what happens when large aggregations of coral fill the sea with gametes like this. Each colony might send out what seems to be a small amount, but it adds up. Quickly.

In practical terms, time is not your friend if you're hoping to photograph this spectacle.

The following photo, from my first experience several years ago, is a good example:

Being unfamiliar with Pavona spawning at the time, I needed time to figure out what was happening. There is a slow release in the beginning, a few corals here and there. Some corals then go for it, sending out lots of gametes. Others prefer to chill. A bit here; a bit there. Then go back to sleep. Patches of coral seem to take turns. You can be among dozens of inactive coral heads, while those a few metres away—just beyond visual range—can be partying like its 1999.

I missed almost every opportunity. I was unable to judge which coral heads might be active vs. those that might peter out. I could not discern female vs. male. I got horribly lost the in murk of genetic fog.

The only moment I managed to catch is the male colony in the photo above. Through sheer dumb luck. I happened to be in the right place when the corals decided "Go, Go, Go!"

Those are streams of sperm. You can see that visibility was already limited. It dropped to zero within minutes. I was fortunate to have come out of that virgin experience with one photo, but I knew I could better.

In the following years, high water temperatures led to bleaching. Twice.

I did manage to get a close-up of a male colony weak-spawning:

But in general, spawning either did not take place or was subdued. Corals are animals. They need time to recover from trauma.

And recover they did.

This is a large colony of female Pavona decussata sending out strands of eggs:

By "large", I mean bigger than me, lengthwise at least.

Here is a closer look at the spawning, same colony:

And closer still:

I was fortunate enough to witness spawning of a third Pavona species recently.

Pictured here is a colony of female Pavona cactus corals engaged in broadcast spawning:

There were male colonies as well, but as I alluded to above, the release of gametes from the male colonies I came across were less than visually inspiring.

I'll leave you with this photo of another female P. cactus colony, close-up and intimate so you can see the eggs:

Even the most drab of animals have their moments of glory.

Note: Contrast Pavona spawning with Acropora spawning

Ron's daughter painted it, based upon a photograph that our mutual friend Patrik took of us in 2013, when Ron guided us on a beautiful trip around the islands and inner waterways of Palau via kayak.

We were camping for the night. Sunset looked to be gorgeous. 

Ron went feral. I had to do something about it.

Twelve years later, Ron's daughter expressed her appreciation for seeing her dad spanked for bad behaviour. 

What can I say? I am a good influence on kids.

You'll note that the young artist refrained from signing her artwork...in order to avoid any association with her dad no doubt. 

Excellent judgement.

PS: Ron sent me this almost a year ago. It slipped my mind. Communication from Ron induces trauma.

There is a zero, which means Oogway didn't eat any turtle-pellets that day.

Follow the line to the note above: "Angry turtle pee and escape."

I am not fond of heading into Tokyo. It is a terrific city, but many areas are jam-packed; trains can be miserable if you hit peak travel times; concrete and asphalt are not my scene. 

So when I must go into the city, I pack my schedule. Get as much done as possible. Take my medicine and get it over with, so to speak.

On that day, my itinerary involved hooking up with two people at opposite ends of the metropolis, one in the morning, one in the afternoon. That might not sound ambitious, but Tokyo is huge. Budget three hours total travel time, two hours with each person. Add an hour to grab a meal and for delays. Eight hours door to door.

Which meant Oogway was alone for that long (actually a bit longer) after our customary morning greeting.

I said hello. She looked upset. 

I made small talk. She looked upset.

I offered her food. She looked upset.

I picked her up. She glared. Then released a torrent of pee. Turns out, she really was upset. Pissed off, one might say.

The thing you need to know about cute little pond turtles is that—in defiance of all known laws of physics—the quantity of pee they are capable of discharging can substantially exceed the volume of their entire body. I once described it as peeing "like Niagara Falls to express irritation." That is only a mild exaggeration.

So it was that on 17 March I found myself drenched, sopping wet. The floor was soaked. I made things worse by turning quickly in panic. Picture a firehose of pee forming a magnificent arc in the air, propelled by the centrifugal force I had inadvertently engendered.

To any impartial observer, the scene must have resembled a skit from I Love Lucy or The Benny Hill Show. Complete with audience laugh track. Those few seconds probably would have made for terrific slo-mo video footage, guaranteed to go viral.

It took some time to clean everything. I placed Oogway back in her terrarium. She scaled the wall and escaped.

I was both impressed and dismayed. She had climbed up and over a tall, smooth, slippery wall. Still not sure how she managed that. But she also peed again, creating an archipelago of not-unsubstantial puddles. She peed once more when I approached, giving me her best reptilian stink eye.

As my additional calendar notes document, Oogway's displeasure persisted for some time. It took nearly a week for her to settle down, longer to forgive me.

The conclusion was inescapable.

Oogway was now a teenager.

Unrelated to the Great Pee Incident of 2026, Oogway moved into her outdoor house—a large rectangular flower pot filled with dirt, equipped with an on/ off ramp, a removable bamboo stick roof and a bathing pool under the ramp—on 22 March.

This is where she spends most days during the warm months. She comes in at night, sometimes during the day as well if the mood strikes her. She also has an indoor pool for relaxation and contemplation. Every civilised turtle does.

The photo above shows her on top of the slotted bamboo roof. 

It's a mystery how she gets up there. There are no obvious foot/claw-holds. The bamboo roof is not attached. It slips off easily. But she's always been a climber, and she is crafty. It doesn't surprise me (much) when I see her on the roof.

The beauty of the summer house though is the shade.

It gets really hot. Days exceeding 30ºC are normal. (Fahrenheit people: F = C*9/5 + 32)

That would cook an exposed turtle.

As the temperature rises, Oogway retreats to the climate-controlled comfort inside her shelter.

I position the bamboo covering so she can choose to look outside. She can also hide completely under the faux grass area when she's not feeling sociable. 

This is all the proof you need to know that she is happy in her summer home:

If you're wondering about the other notes in the calendar and why there were so many days in March when Oogway did not eat, this is the reason:

Mature female Mauremys reevesii pond turtles lay eggs in the spring, irrespective of whether there is a male around or not. Eggs that are not fertilised won't produce babies of course. 

During egg-laying time, females lose their appetite. That's the reason for all the zeroes.

Oogway has been big enough to lay eggs for a few years now, but she's never actually done so.

The note "Egg stuff start" in the calendar is a reference to white stuff Oogway leaves in the water. It's probably material that would be have been used for eggs, but is expelled instead. She's done this for several years, so we're accustomed to it.

We worried in the beginning. She's been healthy and happy throughout (except for on 17 March), so we don't worry as much now. 

The photo above is from the morning of 16 April, when Oogway dug a hole. For the first time ever. 

"Giddy" is perhaps a good word to describe the babbling idiot I became. It seemed as if our little Oogway would finally lay eggs.

She spent over an hour making the perfect hole. Just the right width, perfect depth.

I watched. Waited. Camera in hand.

Then Oogway covered the hole. Flattened the dirt so there was no hint of earlier excavation.

No eggs. Bummer.

On the positive side, she's got the whole dig-hole-fill-hole thing mastered now.

Baby steps.

Winter is actually when we spend the most time together.

When Oogway first came to live with us, I happened to meet one of Japan's top turtle doctors. Yeah, I didn't know there was such a thing either.

I learned that pond turtles like Oogway can hibernate, but that they don't have to. He said that some young turtles that hibernate never wake up. The smaller they are, the greater the risk. I wasn't willing to take that risk. 

Oogway is big enough now that she has enough energy packed away to make it through hibernation, but we've spent every winter together. It's a thing. She has an indoor play area. I let her roam around when I can keep an eye on her. She knows the floor layout and has her favourite places. She talks a lot. I talk back. We chat.

More than anything though, she like to hang out with me. Or rather, to make use of me as a combination jungle-gym and heated recreational centre.

That's her this past winter. The oversized orange fleece pullover is big enough to give her space to sleep in the front pocket of my grey hoodie (which I have on underneath the fleece pullover), then emerge to look around when she feels like it.

She climbs up my body, using the material of the grey hoodie for traction, the orange fleece above her for comfort and warmth. She pops out under my chin or at my shoulder. It's like the juvenile xenomorph in the movie Alien bursting out of its host's chest, except Oogway is cute and friendly.

She also helps me work.

Helping me work = giving me an excuse to do ridiculous things as a means of not actually doing any work. It is hard work being ridiculous. Which is why I need Oogway's help.

To wrap-up this commemoration of eight years having passed since Oogway became part of the family, I dug up a series of photos to illustrate her growth.

When she was almost three, we discovered that Oogway likes to embed herself in soft, fluffy pockets. 

I can't remember how she got into that fleece pocket, but there she was, snug and happy. I am not sure if all turtles of her species enjoy and appreciate such creature comforts, or if it's an acquired taste. She may have developed her fondness for such spaces from spending her younger years riding around in my pockets (cargo pants pockets in warm weather, sweatshirt pockets in colder weather).

This is Oogway a few months later in the same pocket:

The following winter, she had outgrown that soft space, so I got her an upgrade—a fluffy slipper:

She eventualy got too big for the slipper. Next was a foot warmer (a cute one of course, this being Japan):

It takes some time for Oogway to accept new things. Perhaps turtles are cautious by nature?

When she did finally decide to make use of the foot-warming pocket, Oogway entered head first. And went to sleep. 

She eventually worked out how to turn around to face outward, but I like this photo the most, because...well...it's so cute.

I had to find an even bigger space for her this past winter. It's always a bit of a challenge, because you can't really walk into a store and ask someone to show you a selection of snuggly pockets for homebody turtles with a penchant for fluffiness.

While shopping one day (i.e., standing around looking absurdly bored while holding shopping bags and doing my best to smile) I saw a holder for a warm-water bottle—the kind you use to heat your belly in the winter—and thought, "Hmmm, I wonder if Oogway would fit in that?" Not the intended use for the product, but as it turned out, perfect for the purpose:

Oogway took to the pocket within a few days. There's enough space for her to fit inside with room to move around. It's lined with plush, soft material. She can peek out when she wants. She can retreat to the back and lower the flap for privacy when she wants alone-time.

Happy Birthday Oogway!

Related Posts:

• Oogway Turns Seven
• Oogway is Six
• Five and a Half Years
• Oogway Visits the Doctor
• Oogway is Five
• Oogway’s Third Anniversary
• Oogway Update December 2020
• Oogway Is Two Years Old Today
• Oogway Update
• Oogway's One Year Anniversary
• Mornings With Oogway
• The Dream of the Brown Turtle
• A Christmas Tail 2
• Turtles Are Fast
• Oogway’s Progress
• Oogway’s Outing
• Adopting Oogway

The large individual in the foreground is the matriarch. The trio in the middle were juveniles at the time. It took a long time for the whales to warm up to me, but eventually the young ones' curiosity got the best of them. One swam over, mouth agape, biosonar pinging. I passed inspection and became a playmate.

Good times.

Note the bone structure in the pectoral fin of the matriarch. Those are analogous to the bones in our hands. Different, but the same.

The pretty pink balls are bundles of gametes, i.e., sperm and eggs, released by polyps—individual corals that comprise coral colonies. As the bundles float up to the surface, they split open to release their contents, the goal being mixing of gametes to make cute little coral babies, called planulae (planula = singular). Planulae then saunter off to find a suitable place to settle, with the hope of establishing a new colony.

This reproductive strategy is called broadcast spawning. Once settled, corals can't move, so instead of getting together like more mobile animals do, they cast their genetic material out into the water, all at the same time.

Sheer quantity ensures many opportunities for success, in spite of high loss due to factors like predation and stranding.

Fish love a free dinner as much as anyone else. Corals like this tend to be in shallow water near land. Currents can nudge bundles and planulae onto shore and into other dead-ends like tide pools.

Coral spawning is a reasonably well-documented thing. In many places, researchers and divers have figured out when spawning takes place, down to the pertinent day or days, as well as time. People travel from all over the world to areas like the Great Barrier Reef to witness this spectacle. In Japan, there are popular spots in Okinawa and other areas.

I've always wanted to see this happen, but have never been able to find the time to go to well-known spots on the appointed days. Such areas also tend to be crowded, which would make photography a frustrating endeavour.

Surfacing after a dive one night, a friend said, "I think the coral is going to spawn tonight." We were in a location we'd collectively dived thousands of times. Although we were aware that it was the correct season for coral spawning, figuring out the timing was not the focus of our efforts. We were occupied with other things.

My friend had seen polyps preparing bundles though, the telltale sign of impending reproductive activity. He described the location. I knew it immediately.

We went back in after a while. Just three of us.

Soon thereafter, little pink packets appeared. A few at first. Tentative, wobbly bundles that seemed unsure of themselves. They jiggled and swayed on their way to the surface some eight meters above (25ft give or take). The upward flow became a steady trickle. Dozens turned into thousands. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Until the sea became a blizzard of pretty pink pellets.

I picked the spot that I did for a couple of reasons. First, my two friends were not in my line of sight. This is important when photographing with a wide perspective. Second, there was an ever-so-subtle current, just barely perceptible. 

You see how the coral colonies extend far into the background?

The current flowed from the background directly toward me.

"When the bundles rise," I reasoned, "the current should bring everything toward me." No matter where I positioned myself and where I looked, the frame would be filled with gametes. But with coral formations stretching back in a row and ocean current herding bundles in my direction, the result would be visual depth—pink balls near me appearing large; ones in the background looking smaller and smaller with distance, fading into darkness just like the colonies of coral.

As Hannibal from the A-Team was fond of saying, "I love it when a plan comes together."

"Why would intelligent, well-educated, sensible students voluntarily spend time with Tony?" you might wonder.

They asked for it.

Sort of.

During our National Geographic Society event in January, I had to chance to speak with some of them. In thinking about those conversations, it occurred to me that there might be a common thread. Namely, the desire to learn more about how to photograph their own research subjects. I replied the best I could at the time, but there was a lot going on. It was not possible to engage in meaningful dialogue.

Before I could stop myself, I had contacted Adam and asked if he thought any of his students might appreciate a more in-depth discussion.

Next thing I knew, I had committed to three hours.

Though much of our time together was dedicated to the subject of photography, I framed the discussion in the context of visual communication. What I wanted these students—who are at the beginning of their careers—to understand, is that effective communication is critical to everything in life. After rambling about the importance of visual communication in general, I explained the mechanics of photography, followed by discussion of some of the principles underpinning effective images. A short break, then a practical demonstration.

Time flew. I had fun. 

I did this with the hope that I might help these budding academics learn skills and techniques to communicate their research results as effectively as possible.

As I made my way back home, it occurred to me that I had also learned something. 

The thirst for knowledge is an insatiable drive. It is timeless, without boundaries, with no biases. 

I saw it in their eyes and expressions. I felt it through their questions, body language.

I recognised it.

They were me, forty years or so ago.