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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.

That event took place during the weekend of 10-11 January at Tokyo Metropolitan University, bringing together 13 Japan-based and Japan-associated Explorers, as well as one each from Thailand and the Philippines. Many of us gave short talks to introduce our work, under the common theme "How I Became an Explorer."

Though I was generally familiar with what most people do, there were some interesting revelations. Did you know, for instance, that penguins eat jellyfish? I didn't. At first pass, this doesn't make a lot of sense. Jellies are mostly water. This implies that calories expended for the effort of grabbing a jellyfish most likely exceed calories gained. [Scratch head here.]

The penguins' trick appears to be choosing to scarf down only/ mainly jellyfish with gonads, presumably because reproductive organs are relatively high in energy content. Clever birds—not only can they swim and huddle against bitter cold, but they're good at math too!

The group owes a huge debt to Adam (the bald Aussie who isn't nearly as grouchy as he might appear). He volunteered to herd kittens for an entire year to make this event happen (I use the term kittens instead of cats because we are in Japan. Kawaii matters.). Let's just say getting hard-working Explorers dedicated to their intellectual pursuits to focus on meeting logistics is a challenge. The good thing is that everyone recognises and super-appreciates how hard Adam worked.

Arigatou gozaimasu, Adam-san.

From a personal perspective, I was particularly happy that I had the opportunity to talk with many students, mostly from TMU, but also from other universities, including one visiting from Singapore where I lived for many years (turns out, we have mutual friends), and even a recent graduate (a really talented science illustrator, please hire him if you need scientific art). It was nice to know that the serious message embedded in the silliness of my talk got through.

On a separate note, I was featured in the Dare to Explore section of National Geographic Kids magazine last November.

The story depicted is of my first meeting with a juvenile sperm whale. She is the whale who changed my life.

The story is accurate. My wardrobe is stylised. I am definitely not that colour-coordinated 😊

Sperm whales live a long time. I like to think that she's still out there, somewhere in the Pacific, occasionally wondering, "I wonder how my chew toy is doing?"

For reasons I explained in a previous new year post, Japan marks the change of lunar zodiac animal with the change of the solar year. Mixed temporal metaphor, I know. It is what it is.

2026 is the year of the horse.

I don't see many horses underwater. Best I can do is a seahorse, which of course is actually not a type of horse, but you get the idea.

The above photo depicts a male Hippocampus haema seahorse giving birth. 

The male goes through a series of full-body contractions, convulsions, twists and turns, during which he ejects a full assembly line of mini-me seahorses. As you can see, the babies greet the world in curled-up launch configuration, unfurling in the blink of an eye, fluttering out into pitch-black darkness. Birth happens in the middle of the night, presumably to minimise chances of predation.

In some ways, birth is an apt metaphor for the arrival of a new year. It marks a moment of renewal, with all the promise and potential of what lies ahead; when energy and enthusiasm peak, when everything seems possible. Challenges lie ahead of course—situations to be faced, managed, hopefully overcome.

Something to ponder before setting forth into 2026.

They are relatively big and conspicious by their candy-cane-colouration—popular among divers.

I came across this friendly female one night:

To my surprise, she did not slide away into a nearby crevice when I approached. She stood her ground, unfazed by both light and human presence.

To say I was thrilled is a major understatement. (I confess to having squealed a little.)

She was carrying a bellyful of eggs, reasonably mature ones. Tiny eyes were visible.

Someday I hope to come across one of these shrimps in the process of releasing juveniles. Chances are slim, I know. I imagine any such female would bolt to shelter at the first sign of anything large getting close. 

Witnessing such a miraculous moment would certainly be eggstra special though.

It is perched upon Undaria pinnatifida kelp, also known as wakame (which FWIW is yummy).

The little ones are...little, say 1-3cm or so stretched out (up to an inch-ish). At this size, Liparis agassizii juveniles are fond of wakame. The reason is obvious once you see this:

Intricate folds make for perfect hideaways. Small crustaceans and other kelp-residents probably make for tasty treats as well.

This species lives in the northern Pacific Ocean, more on the western side than the east it seems. It is related to Liparis tanakae, the species I wrote about at the end of last year. The adults are found in deeper water, down to 100m or so according to online sources. 

I have never seen an adult, and I don't know much more about this fish. I cannot find any information on how this species reproduces, though I'd wager the process is similar to that of Liparis tanakae.

There is variation among the young ones. Some are striped, some have no patterns, some are polka-dotted. There are colour subtleties as well. I imagine this is for risk management on a species level. Different costumes = range of potential for remaining undetected—a matter of survival for small fishes with ambitions of becoming big ones.

Photographing little Liparis-es is often pure frustration. Kelp sways. It bends, folds, flops and flutters. Juvenile snailfishes blend in. They hide. And when they do decide to move, the clever little fish flip, zip and poof! vanish.

But every once in a while, one sits still and the kelp moves in exactly the right way.