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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.

They are gone.

This species has a recorded northern limit of something around 26.3ºN.

They appeared at a location of 31.6ºN several years ago (about 550km distance), and reproduced in earnest. By 2024, there were lots of baby goatfish around.

Friends and I had witnessed northern migration and colonisation in real time.

Or so we thought.

This species, along with several other types of fishes that seemed to have moved north during same period of time, has disappeared without a trace. No adults, no babies.

There was a brief period of unusually cold water earlier in the year, dipping down several degrees below normal. That might be a contributing factor. But in truth, the reason for the sudden sayonara is a mystery.

What I've learned is that de-migration can happen just as quickly as northern migration. Ecosystems are always in flux. Observations made at a given point in time may or may not hold true later, even when the temporal differential is short—like one year.

As sensible as this seems, it is still difficult to process such dramatic shifts in such short periods of time. My history with temperate waters is not long, so perhaps this has always been the way (hello Mandalorian fans). Though the fact that my friends who've dived the same area for nearly two decades are also surprised (at both the arrival and the disappearance of goats et al) suggests that such volatility might not be baseline.

The final sentence of my April post was: "I think it reasonable to conclude that this species has successfully extended its range (and might still be doing so)."

Doh.

Live and (hopefully) learn.

This pair was engaged in courtship, the darker whale in the foreground being the female:

The above photo is from an extended encounter in 2008. The whales engaged proactively with us for hours. It was a beautiful experience. I was using a Canon 5D at the time, the original one, with a grand total 12.7MP (woohoo!) shooting at a maximum of 3fps. Quaint, no?

The next image shows an injured male calf with his mother in shallow water, followed by an escort and another male. There were more males in an extended line. 

I documented this calf and his mother over a 33-day period in 2011. I first saw the calf almost immediately after he sustained serious injuries due to an attack of some sort (I'm guessing a pack of marine mammals). I watched as he recovered, grew in size and became healthy, playful and confident. I hoped for many years that I'd meet him again. I'd recognise the wounds easily. But I never did.

I did, however, meet his mother once more in 2014. She had a female calf at the time. She was comfortable with me from the first moments of our second meeting. I had a feeling about her, so I checked through records and confirmed that we had already met (and actually, spent a lot of time together). I'm not saying humpback whales can recognise people. That'd be silly, right? But I can say that she didn't bat a proverbial eyelash when we met again.

And finally, here is a photo of another male calf, this one having a blast while swimming with his mother:

My friend Douglas and I came across these whale when they were resting. We floated with them for a long time, the calf surfacing now and then to breathe and check us out. When the calf decided it needed morning exercise, the pair set off on a leisurely stroll. We swam alongside for something on the order of 30 minutes. I heard some commotion and lifted my head above water to see us completely surrounded by a dozen boats or more. Happy to share, I pointed into the water to indicate the position of the whales, which were still swimming—slowly and relaxed.

Then I noticed that people were stabbing the air, shaking their fists, screaming at the top of their lungs. When my ears cleared of water, I heard them condemning me as stupid swine of Chinese origin, whale-harassing scum.

We got out of the water, me befuddled. I confirmed with my French-speaking local friend what the beet-red people were screaming. We left, just as the dozen+ boats disgorged their passengers onto the whales, some still hurling insults.

I'm sure the whales were happy to have been rescued by such enlightened tourists.