. . . or at least that's what it seemed like at Three Tree Point today.
Bob and I kicked out a ways, decided to drop down, and when our heads went underwater, we could see the bottom. Always a pleasant surprise around here, but almost unprecedented when the bottom is at THIRTY EIGHT feet!
We dropped next to a kelp-covered mound, over which was hovering a large school of shiner perch, scintillating in the sunlit water. We sat there and admired them for a while, and both of us tried pictures. I doubt mine will come out, but Bob might have one. As we turned away, we saw the first of several ratfish. I love the little guys, with their Stealth fighter shape and their white spots and their big, puppy-dog eyes. As he wandered idly off into the dark, we headed downslope.
The bottom was littered with sole, many in pairs, and we found one very cute couple where he had his head on her back. Bob and I both snapped them (Bob said his were too dark; I've been afraid to look at mine yet.) Just a couple of minutes later, Bob found us an octopus who, annoyed at the flash, came out of his hiding spot under some kelp and sat and glared at us while gracefully curling and uncurling his tentacles. He eventually got tired of cameras and swam off, pausing once for Bob to get a last portrait.
We swam on a bit and came to an area which was literally a field of dironas -- alabaster and golden. You'd spend a minute or so carefully taking a picture of one, only to realize that, eighteen inches away, was a bigger, prettier and better posed one.
The satellite dish had a penpoint gunnel on it, although it wouldn't cooperate with the photographers. But the Hermissenda nudibranch did, and so did the white sea cucumber on the dark red kelp. There was a kelp greenling sitting on the bottom there who was surprisingly tolerant of me. I had wild ambitions of getting a picture of it, but at the last moment, it decamped.
As we turned back, I realized how much current had come up. The second half of the dive was great fun -- I tried to see just how long I could sit in the water without moving any part of my body. The sunlight was dancing on the kelp, and there were more large schools of juvenile fish, like big silver kaleidoscopes. We passed a couple more ratfish, and saw a young salmon, the first time I have done that. Sole were everywhere, many of them swimming in their odd, undulating fashion.
We slowly made our way up to about five feet of water, and Bob popped his head up and motioned that we were still a ways from the exit, so we idly swam along in the shallows, admiring the pebbles with the light on them. Eventually, we just had to stand up.
It's been almost exactly a year since my first dive with Bob. The contrast is amazing to me. We've gone from instructor and student to partners in the dive, and good friends. And today, we got to marvel at how rich and amazing the life in Puget Sound is when you can actually see it . . . Wow.
Bob and I kicked out a ways, decided to drop down, and when our heads went underwater, we could see the bottom. Always a pleasant surprise around here, but almost unprecedented when the bottom is at THIRTY EIGHT feet!
We dropped next to a kelp-covered mound, over which was hovering a large school of shiner perch, scintillating in the sunlit water. We sat there and admired them for a while, and both of us tried pictures. I doubt mine will come out, but Bob might have one. As we turned away, we saw the first of several ratfish. I love the little guys, with their Stealth fighter shape and their white spots and their big, puppy-dog eyes. As he wandered idly off into the dark, we headed downslope.
The bottom was littered with sole, many in pairs, and we found one very cute couple where he had his head on her back. Bob and I both snapped them (Bob said his were too dark; I've been afraid to look at mine yet.) Just a couple of minutes later, Bob found us an octopus who, annoyed at the flash, came out of his hiding spot under some kelp and sat and glared at us while gracefully curling and uncurling his tentacles. He eventually got tired of cameras and swam off, pausing once for Bob to get a last portrait.
We swam on a bit and came to an area which was literally a field of dironas -- alabaster and golden. You'd spend a minute or so carefully taking a picture of one, only to realize that, eighteen inches away, was a bigger, prettier and better posed one.
The satellite dish had a penpoint gunnel on it, although it wouldn't cooperate with the photographers. But the Hermissenda nudibranch did, and so did the white sea cucumber on the dark red kelp. There was a kelp greenling sitting on the bottom there who was surprisingly tolerant of me. I had wild ambitions of getting a picture of it, but at the last moment, it decamped.
As we turned back, I realized how much current had come up. The second half of the dive was great fun -- I tried to see just how long I could sit in the water without moving any part of my body. The sunlight was dancing on the kelp, and there were more large schools of juvenile fish, like big silver kaleidoscopes. We passed a couple more ratfish, and saw a young salmon, the first time I have done that. Sole were everywhere, many of them swimming in their odd, undulating fashion.
We slowly made our way up to about five feet of water, and Bob popped his head up and motioned that we were still a ways from the exit, so we idly swam along in the shallows, admiring the pebbles with the light on them. Eventually, we just had to stand up.
It's been almost exactly a year since my first dive with Bob. The contrast is amazing to me. We've gone from instructor and student to partners in the dive, and good friends. And today, we got to marvel at how rich and amazing the life in Puget Sound is when you can actually see it . . . Wow.
