Chapter Fourteen #2
I consult the laminated identification chart we were given. “I think it’s a sea star. Pisaster ochraceus, the purple sea star. Though this one looks more orange than purple.”
“They come in different colors,” Derek reads from the chart. “Orange, purple, brown, even yellow sometimes. They’re a keystone species; they control mussel populations by eating them.”
I sketch the sea star in my field notebook, trying to capture the texture of its rough skin and the way its five arms radiate from the central disc.
It’s harder than I expected to draw something so three-dimensional, but there’s something satisfying about the process of really looking, really seeing the details.
“Movement at two o’clock,” Derek says quietly.
I follow his gaze to see a hermit crab scuttling across the sandy bottom of the pool, dragging its borrowed shell home. The crab pauses occasionally, waving its claws at us as if warning us to keep our distance.
“Pagurus samuelis,” I identify from the chart. “Blueband hermit crab. Look at those blue bands on its legs.”
“Why do they use shells instead of growing their own?”
“Says here their abdomen is soft and vulnerable, so they protect it by living in empty snail shells. When they outgrow one shell, they have to find a bigger one.”
“That seems stressful. Like constantly having to move apartments.”
I laugh, imagining the hermit crab real estate market. “At least they don’t have to pay security deposits.”
We work our way around the pool, identifying mussels clustered on the rocks, tiny shore crabs hiding in the crevices, and delicate sea lettuce swaying in the current. Each discovery feels like a small treasure, and I find myself completely absorbed in the process of observation and identification.
“Time check!” Dr. Cole calls from across the tide pools. “Fifteen more minutes, then we head back for equipment fitting and underwater training.”
I realize I’ve been crouched by the tide pool for over an hour without thinking once about my phone, about Emma’s silence, or about any of the complications waiting for me back home.
The simple act of paying attention to something outside myself has been the most effective distraction I’ve found yet.
“This is actually really cool,” Derek says, carefully photographing a cluster of barnacles with his disposable camera. “I mean, I knew the ocean had stuff in it, but I never really looked at it before.”
“I know what you mean. It’s like discovering a secret world that’s been here all along.”
“Makes you wonder what else we’re not seeing because we’re too busy looking at screens all the time.”
The observation hits closer to home than he probably intended. How much of my own life have I missed while staring at my phone, waiting for messages that may never come?
“All right, future ichthyologists, back to base camp!” Dr. Cole’s voice carries across the rocky shelf. “Time to get you properly equipped for tomorrow’s underwater adventures.”
We pack up our notebooks and identification charts, careful not to disturb the tide pool ecosystems we’ve been studying. The hike back up the hill feels easier now, fueled by the excitement of discovery and the anticipation of tomorrow’s snorkeling expedition.
Back at the research station, we gather in the main building for lunch—sandwiches, fruit, and chips spread across the long tables. Derek and I claim seats by the windows overlooking the cove, our field notebooks still open between us as we compare observations from the tide pools.
“So according to my highly scientific notes,” Derek says, holding up his notebook with sketches that look more like abstract art than marine life, “we discovered either a sea anemone or a very colorful hamburger.”
I lean over to look at his drawing, which is indeed unidentifiable. “That’s definitely a hamburger. See the sesame seed tentacles?”
“I prefer to think of it as artistic interpretation. You know, capturing the essence of the creature rather than getting bogged down in details like ‘anatomical accuracy.’”
“Right. Very avant-garde marine biology.” I show him my own sketch of the sea star, which is more detailed but still far from perfect. “Though I’m not sure my purple sea star looks much better. It looks like it got into a fight with a starfish-shaped cookie cutter.”
Derek studies my drawing seriously. “No, I think you captured its personality. This sea star clearly has trust issues and questionable life choices.”
“How can you tell?”
“The way you drew the arms. They’re all defensive, like it’s protecting its snacks from other tide pool residents.”
“You’re reading way too much into my terrible artistic skills.”
“Or maybe I’m reading just the right amount. This sea star has depth, Olivia. Complexity. It’s not just any echinoderm; it’s a sea star with a story.”
I can’t help laughing. “Should I put that in my field notes? ‘Subject displays complex emotional range and possible abandonment issues?’”
“Dr. Cole would love that. ‘Behavioral observations: sea star appears neurotic, may benefit from therapy.’”
“Therapy with who? A counselor crab?”
“Obviously. ‘Tell me about your relationship with your mother kelp.’”
We’re both laughing now, drawing looks from other students who probably think we’ve inhaled too much salt air.
“I can’t believe you just made sea star psychology funny,” I say, wiping tears from my eyes.
“It’s a gift. Wait until you hear my theories about the emotional lives of hermit crabs. Very deep stuff.”
“Let me guess. They’re dealing with housing insecurity and identity issues?”
“Exactly! ‘Who am I without my shell? Am I defined by my protective exterior?’ It’s very philosophical.”
Maya, sitting across from us, raises an eyebrow. “Are you two seriously psychoanalyzing marine life?”
“It’s called advanced behavioral observation,” Derek says with mock seriousness. “Very cutting-edge stuff.”
“Right. And I suppose the barnacles have commitment issues?”
Derek considers this. “Actually, barnacles are permanently attached to their rocks, so they’re probably the most stable relationships in the tide pool. The hermit crabs could learn from them.”
“But then the hermit crabs would argue that the barnacles are stuck in unhealthy codependent relationships,” I add. “Too afraid to explore other rocks.”
“This is why you two are perfect for each other,” Maya says, shaking her head. “Only you could turn tide pool exploration into relationship counseling.”
Derek reaches over and steals a chip from my plate. “Hey, marine psychology is a legitimate field of study.”
“Is not.”
“Is too. I’m going to pioneer it. Get my PhD in Crustacean Counseling.”
“That’s not a real degree.”
“It will be once I invent it. Dr. Derek Lance, specialist in hermit crab housing anxiety and sea star self-esteem issues.”
I steal his pickle in retaliation for the chip theft. “And what would you prescribe for a neurotic sea anemone?”
“Group therapy with other cnidarians. Build a support network. Learn healthy boundaries, literally, since they’re all about stinging things that get too close.”
“You’ve thought about this way too much.”
“I’ve had a very educational morning with my research partner. She’s been a bad influence on my scientific objectivity.”
“I think you mean good influence.”
“Same thing, really.”
The easy banter feels natural and comfortable, like we’ve been doing this for years instead of just figuring out how to be together.
There’s something liberating about being able to be completely silly without worrying about how it looks or sounds.
Students try on different sizes of masks and fins, practicing breathing through snorkels and learning to clear water from their equipment.
Dr. Cole moves from group to group, adjusting straps and offering technique tips.
“The key to successful snorkeling is relaxation,” he explains to our group. “If you’re tense, you use more energy and enjoy it less. Float, breathe slowly, and let the ocean support you. It’s been holding up whales for millions of years; it can handle one teenager.”
Maya struggles with her mask, which keeps fogging up despite repeated cleaning. “I feel like I can’t see anything clearly.”
“Anti-fog solution helps, but the real trick is not breathing through your nose when you’re at the surface,” Dr. Cole advises. “Save the nose breathing for when you’re floating face-down, watching the fish. Speaking of which, let’s practice some basic hand signals.”
He demonstrates the signals for “okay,” “problem,” “up,” and “look,” emphasizing that clear communication underwater is essential for safety and enjoyment.
“Remember, you can’t talk underwater, so these signals are your vocabulary. And if you see something amazing, the proper scientific response is to point excitedly and make muffled noises through your snorkel. We call it the ‘underwater discovery dance,’ and it’s perfectly acceptable behavior.”
As the equipment session winds down, the sun begins to set over the Pacific, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that would look oversaturated in a photograph but seem perfectly natural from this rocky promontory.
“Tomorrow, we’ll be entering the kelp forest,” Dr. Cole announces.
“It’s one of the most productive marine ecosystems in the world, and you’ll be swimming through what I like to call an underwater cathedral.
The kelp can grow over sixty feet tall, creating a canopy that filters sunlight and provides habitat for hundreds of species. ”
Sophie raises her hand. “Is it safe? I mean, can you get tangled in the kelp?”
“Excellent question. The kelp is surprisingly flexible; it’s designed to bend with the waves and currents.
As long as you stay calm and don’t thrash around, it’s perfectly safe.
Think of it like swimming through an underwater forest. You wouldn’t run frantically through the woods, right? Same principle applies underwater.”
“What kinds of animals will we see?” asks Jessica.
Dr. Cole’s eyes light up with enthusiasm.
“Garibaldi fish, they’re bright orange and surprisingly territorial.
Sea urchins that look like underwater pin cushions.
Leopard sharks that are completely harmless despite their intimidating name.
Rockfish hiding in the kelp fronds. Moray eels in the rocky crevices, though they’re shy and usually hide when snorkelers appear. ”
“Moray eels?” Maya’s voice climbs an octave.
“Completely harmless unless you stick your hand in their cave, which we strongly discourage for obvious reasons. Think of them as underwater puppies. Very large, very toothy underwater puppies.”
As we head back to our cabins to change for dinner, my disposable camera bounces in my day pack, still loaded with twenty-two unused shots. The weight of it feels different from my phone, more deliberate, more precious. Every photo will be a conscious choice rather than an automatic reflex.
“So what did you think of your first day as a marine biologist?” Derek asks as we walk along the wooden pathway between cabins.
“I think I could get used to this. There’s something nice about focusing on things that have nothing to do with social media or college applications or family drama.”
“The hermit crab real estate market was definitely a highlight.”
I laugh, remembering our earlier conversation. “Wait until we see what’s available in the kelp forest. Probably some real luxury accommodations down there.”
“Premium locations with ocean views.”
“Great schools for the little crabs.”
We’re both grinning now, caught up in the silly conversation and the lingering excitement of the day’s discoveries. As we reach the split in the path where Derek heads toward the boys’ cabins, he catches my hand.
“Thanks for being a good research partner today.”
“Thanks for helping with my mask. And for making me laugh about hermit crab apartments.”
He leans down and kisses me quickly, tasting like salt air and sunscreen. It’s brief but warm, a perfect end to a day spent discovering new worlds together.
“See you at dinner,” he says, heading toward his cabin.
Back at the cabin, Maya is already changing into clean clothes and brushing sand out of her hair. “How were the tide pools with Derek?”
“Educational. We learned a lot about marine ecosystems.”
“I’m sure you did.” Her knowing smile suggests she saw our goodbye kiss. “And how are you feeling about being completely cut off from the outside world?”
I consider the question while changing out of my sandy clothes. “Actually? Pretty good. It’s nice to have a break from constantly checking my phone.”
“No regrets about missing messages?”
I realize that I hadn’t thought about Emma’s continued silence once during our time at the tide pools. For a few hours, I’d been completely present, completely engaged with the world around me instead of the world in my pocket.
“Not yet,” I say, and mean it. “Ask me again tomorrow.”
As we head to dinner, the last light of sunset reflects off the research station’s windows, and the first stars begin to appear in the darkening sky above the island.