Any seasoned divers we’ve met along our travels have all shared a common sentiment: the more you dive, the more you’ll encounter some pretty outrageous experiences. And we’ve heard plenty of wild tales from the very same people. But up until this point, I felt like my journey had been pretty tame when it comes to these wild encounters. And with this “tameness” on dive after dive came another sentiment expressed by these divers: a misguided sense of complacency. It happens when you’ve navigated enough tricky situations that you start to feel invincible. Like nothing can really go wrong. But when it comes to the power of the ocean, it’s a dangerous misconception for one to buy into. During a dive in Alaska, I fell victim to this complacency—and it was one of the biggest mistakes I’ve made since starting this expedition.
It all started with the growing comfort I was feeling in colder water. After three weeks of grueling dives in Canada—back-to-back sessions that felt more like military boot camp than fun scuba—I was finally starting to gain confidence as a cold-water diver. I was getting hooked, taking a closer look at marine life in these extreme environments, and, oddly enough, becoming a bit addicted to the cold.
While diving the seas of the Campbell River region in Canada, my local dive buddy and I had one of the most incredible octopus encounters imaginable—nearly a half hour of interaction that left us surfacing with cheers and high-fives. It was the kind of once-in-a-lifetime experience we both knew we’d never forget. My dive buddy mentioned that next time I found myself in cold waters like these, I should try taking off my gloves. Octopi, she said, loves the feel of skin. I didn’t give it much thought, assuming I’d never have another encounter like that, with an octopus out in broad daylight, curious and ready to engage with us.
In Canada, we’d been diving in waters ranging from 7 to 13°C (45 to 55°F), but now we were entering territory closer to 0 to 3°C (32 to 37°F)—glacial pools that form only for a season, about two hours north of Anchorage. These pools, ever-changing with the movement of the glaciers, would never be experienced in the same way again. From there, we planned to head three hours south to Seward, a small fishing town, to dive around the remote Fox Island off of Seward’s shores. Our goal was to document the masses of jellyfish that dominate the area, guarding the Y-754 shipwreck in Resurrection Bay.
This ex-Navy barge, which caught fire in 1950, was deliberately sunk thereafter. Our guides at Dive Alaska—who helped put this site on the map—warned us that the ship is highly unstable, its aging structure at risk of collapse with even the slightest wrong touch. They made it clear: under no circumstances should we attempt to penetrate the barge—it’s simply not worth the risk. We tend to be good listeners and follow the rules, so this advice was a no-brainer for us and stored in the memory bank as if we were not going to need to be reminded of this fun fact.
The morning of the dive in Seward, everything started off on the wrong foot. My team and I still run and operate our consulting business (that ultimately funds our work) all while living a double-life out in the field. I was tasked with an “emergency 4 a.m. wake-up call” to handle client fire drills, which was not how I envisioned starting an extreme cold-water dive day. However, life on the edges requires constant adaptation and acceptance of these unconventional and inconvenient states. I was already exhausted and the day had just begun. Then came a series of rolling mishaps: misplaced gear and frantic ad hoc phone calls plagued me until we finally lost service at sea and there was no turning back. But it wasn’t just me feeling the pressure that morning.
Marla had just completed her drysuit training and only had four cold-water dives under her belt. Adam was running on fumes after diving in a 5mm wetsuit layered with extra vests in these chilled waters. Our dive guide, Josh, had mixed up the schedule and arrived in Seward a day early from Anchorage, meaning he would have to make the long drive back the next day. To sum it up, nobody was on their A-game. As seasoned divers, we should have known better than to push it—diving with that much stress stacked against you is a recipe for disaster.
I tried to tune out the morning chaos and focus on easing Marla’s stress over her drysuit. Luckily, Josh stepped in to help her kit up, which gave me a little relief. I knew exactly how she felt—just a few weeks earlier, I too was obsessing over every tiny detail, like I was a beginner diver all over again petrified of the concept of TRUE cold. It took four weeks of non stop diving before I could even handle the struggles of proper cold-water diving. Marla was surely not alone. This was one of the most beautiful shore dives I’d ever done, with snow-capped mountains in the background, not a soul in sight on the beach and treasures from the deep washed up, leaving us so curious as to what was down there. The water was calm, still and exceptionally cold.
Starting our descent, we came across a massive tree wedged in the middle of the barge. Jellyfish of all shapes and sizes floated around it peacefully. I snapped photos of them all, from the massive lion’s manes to the small moon jellies. Earlier that week, we’d met with NOAA Fisheries in Anchorage, where they explained that jellyfish populations in Alaska fluctuate heavily due to changes in the climate and their role as both predator and competitors to other fish. We were fortunate to be witnessing a moment of abundance.
But it wasn’t the jellyfish that captured my attention. It was the massive giant Pacific octopus lurking in a small window of the vintage shipwreck. We started taking photos, and it was clear the octopus was curious, with a single eye watching us as its tentacles slowly unfolded from the hole. These tentacles were the largest I’d ever seen, even bigger than the giant Pacific octopus I’d encountered in Campbell River, Canada just two weeks earlier. Each arm stretched out, feeling its way toward us. Josh took a turn putting out a hand, Marla followed, and then it was my moment. Holding the camera, I remembered the advice about removing a glove for that skin-to-tentacle contact. I thought, “Why not? It will only last a moment.”
The octopus slowly worked its way up my right hand and arm, while I loosely held the camera in my left hand, tucking it under my armpit for balance. Its gentle tentacles reached my face, tugging lightly on my air hose and soon, my air source. The pulls became stronger, nearly yanking my regulator out of my mouth. By now, the octopus had fully emerged from its den and was practically wrapped around my upper body. I could tell Josh wanted to document, but I was quite literally getting wrapped up in the moment. Suddenly, those gentle movements shifted to a firm grip on my right arm. Four tentacles tightened around me, pulling my arm back toward the ship's window—its den. A place where my small arm just barely fit.
The squeeze was intense, completely locking my arm in place. I couldn’t pull it out of the hole, and touching the crumbling wreck was definitely not an option. This was the ultimate balancing act: my right arm in the ship’s window, a buoyant camera in my left hand, and a precariously delicate shipwreck that we were warned not to disturb below me. I was in one of those moments the seasoned divers had warned me about—the kind where you get too comfortable and forget the ocean's power. As the massive tentacle squeezed harder, I started losing feeling in my hand. I wiggled my fingers, hoping to remind the octopus that I wasn’t prey and was in fact still alive, but it felt eerily like the behavior it might use to bring larger food back to its den. Every time I tried to pull away, its grip tightened, like a game of tug of war I was never going to win. With four powerful tentacles wrapped around me, capable of lifting 160 kg (350 lbs), I was going nowhere fast.
For the first minute and a half, with my arm wedged into a tiny hole up to my shoulder and losing feeling in my fingers, I wasn’t too worried. I figured I’d get out of this. By minute three, I started checking my gauges and bodily functions. My tank was quite full, my heart rate was steady, and it wasn’t catastrophic. But by minute five, the grip had tightened so much that the octopus was now bending my arm in a way that I could no longer see the shipwreck. It was twisting me, so I was now facing the surface, with my arm awkwardly bent behind my back—prime position for a dislocated shoulder if it decided to take things further. Or a broken arm at the elbow joint if it kept pulling me backwards.
Marla was on the sidelines, holding the camera and my one glove, which had drifted out to sea. She was just trying to stay balanced in her new drysuit, watching with wide eyes, clearly trying not to panic. Josh was beside me, trying to pull my arm free, but we both quickly realized that we might need to consider a more drastic action. He kept asking if I was okay. I gave him the OK signal, though it was mixed with a bit of doubt. My arm was on the verge of dislocation, I was fighting a heart rate increase, and it was becoming clear that we might need to resort to the dive knives.
I didn’t want to hurt this animal—this wasn’t its fault. It was mine. I had taken off the glove, expecting a similar, if not better, encounter than what we had in Canada. By inserting myself, I disrupted nature and was getting exactly what I deserved. The massive suckers that had aggressively latched onto my hand at first, I now couldn’t feel them at all. Between the powerful grip and the cold, it felt like the blood had been completely drained from my hand. I prayed it wouldn’t bite me. While it wouldn’t take me down, an octopus bite is toxic and leaves a nasty wound, liable to become infected. Thankfully biting wasn’t what was happening. I was just getting a dose of the ocean’s power, right there on my fragile, puny right arm.
Typically, this species ambushes crabs, clams, and other mollusks, retreating to its den to enjoy the meal. It uses different techniques to break through shells—either pulling them apart, biting with its sharp beak, or drilling through with a tongue-like organ called a radula. Its 2,000 suckers serve many purposes: feeling, tasting, and gripping. At that moment, I was under the impression it was just feeling me out—no biting, ripping, or injecting venom. By minute five, we decided to tap the octopus’ suckers with the knife to see what would happen. If that would spark its desire to let go. And in that exact moment, it released me unharmed. The octopus was fine, but I was certifiably wrecked.
Exhaustion hadn’t hit me yet, but I knew it was coming. My hand was covered in deep purple and red sucker marks, like I’d just gotten 100 tiny hickies, and the skin looked ghostly pale, as if all the life had been drained out. The numbness had spread through my lower arm as well. We all exchanged glances—unsure whether we should feel amazed, relieved, or terrified. Surprisingly, we didn’t rush to the surface. Instead, we ascended slowly, letting it sink in that I’d just been fully pinned down by an animal that rivaled me in size. Once the initial shock wore off at the surface, I found myself more fascinated than afraid. I wanted to learn everything I could about giant Pacific octopus—and octopi in general. Rather than succumbing to fear, I had a newfound appreciation for their strength, power, and curiosity. I knew I wanted to dive in this environment again, but under different circumstances and definitely after some reflection on what had just happened.
Many divers relish the chance to interact with marine life, and octopi are no exception. I’ve seen it time and again—divers extending a hand, inviting the octopus to make contact. From brand new divers to those who have been out in the field for years. I’ve seen the most seasoned lay on the ocean floor to capture epic shots for their social media—destroying the bottom life with their heavy fins. And I’ve seen guides stick their hands right in dens to pry creatures out for their diver’s amusement. It’s something we’ve seen in movies, heard about on our journeys, and witnessed on countless dives ourselves. We want to form bonds with the animals we encounter. And even in more extreme cases, form relationships.
But when something goes wrong, the marine creature is often cast as the villain, something to be feared. Let’s take the octopus for example. We tap into ancient myths and folklore—tales of the Kraken from Norway and Iceland, Japan’s Akkorokamui, or Greece’s Gorgon. Stories of ships being dragged under and humans devoured when we entered their territory unannounced and uninvited. Yet the reality is, the true monster isn’t the octopus. It’s us apex predators. We dive to their depths, we harvest them for food, and then act surprised when they don’t welcome our human touch. This animal’s intelligence surely is attractive to us which makes us want to extend a bare hand to make us feel a deeper connection with the sea. Sometimes we get the love back. But other times, we don’t, and I can understand why.
In the days that followed, I was rattled. The pain in my hand, arm, and shoulder served as a constant reminder of my mistake—a reminder of the price paid for crossing a line that should never have been crossed in the first place. No matter how many dives you’ve done, no matter how tempting the moment, it’s our responsibility to remain observers, not participants. We are no match for the ocean’s raw force. And although as divers we are constantly seeking that bond with the ocean—to say we are one with the sea—there are other ways to do it that don’t involve direct interference. Our presence is frankly interference enough. Let this story serve as a cautionary tale, a reminder to fellow divers that our role in their world is neither to disrupt nor dominate. In the end, I couldn’t help but wonder: who’s the real Kraken here? And at that moment, I was certain it was me.
To be continued …
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