THE STILL ONES: LIFE AMONG PACIFIC NORTHWEST ANEMONES

STORY & IMAGES: THOM ROBBINS

H/T Tracing The Fjord | Winter ‘25

Drop beneath the surface of Hood Canal, and the world does something strange. The noise you never realized you carried slips away. The cold presses close, the green water folds around you, and what felt familiar on the surface becomes something older, slower, more deliberate. Down here, even the smallest things can pull your attention, and few creatures lure you in like anemones.

The first time I hovered eye-level with a pair of orange-and-white plumose anemones, anchored together, I realized I’d stopped breathing. They rose from the rock like a lantern someone forgot to snuff out, their feathery rings swaying with the patience of something that had never once needed to rush. I had dropped into the water that day looking for wolf eels, maybe a wandering Pacific octopus if I was lucky, but instead I found myself suspended in the water, staring at a creature that held the whole moment in its grip.

The light from my dive torch slid across its surface, and the anemone flared gently, as if waking. The muted fire of orange and white felt older than anything else on the reef. I stayed there longer than I meant to, caught by something anchored in place, looking back without eyes and waiting without fear.

People often imagine anemones as simple flowers of the sea. They are anything but. Spend enough time underwater with them and you see the truth: they are predators, architects, survivors, and quiet powerhouses of the Pacific Northwest. They feed the ecosystem, help shape the seafloor, and provide shelter for everything from tiny shrimp to juvenile rockfish.

And they manage all of this without ever taking a single step.

Up close, anemones feel uncanny in a way only the sea manages—rooted creatures that still seem alert and watching. Divers tend to lump them together, these bright creatures pinned to the rocks, but the truth is far older and stranger than it appears. They all belong to the same ancient lineage, the class Anthozoa, animals that appeared long before fish, long before bones, long before anything with a face to show its intent.

Each anemone follows a familiar blueprint: a soft column crowned with tentacles and anchored by a disc. That disc holds the animal to rock, piling, sand, or shell and lets it ride out currents that could peel skin from stone. For a few species, it even becomes a getaway tool. When conditions turn bad, some Pacific Northwest anemones release their grip, inflate slightly, and drift away like pale balloons searching for safer ground.

Stillness is their choice, not their limitation.

In the Pacific Northwest alone, there are several dozen species of sea anemones. Within that shared design, each species holds its own personality, its own way of surviving a world that rarely shows mercy. Some anemones are patient hunters, waiting for fish or shrimp to brush against their tentacles so their stinging cells can fire like tiny traps tucked inside a single hair. Others are filter feeders, living a life where the current does the work, sweeping plankton across their tentacles. A few do both, depending on what the tides bring, switching strategies the way a writer changes pens—steady and deliberate.

Some swallow crabs whole. Others feed on jellies. Some are as small as scattered beads on the rock, and others rise tall enough to brush a diver’s mask.

They are family in the scientific sense, but in the water, they feel more like estranged relatives gathered in the rooms of the same old house. They share the same history, but each carries its own hidden secrets. Some shimmer with light borrowed from algae living inside them. Others wage quiet chemical war against their neighbors.

A few clone themselves into armies that spread across the seafloor like a slow tide. Others, despite their rooted appearance, quietly unstick and sail off into the dark if the world around them shifts.

They may look decorative at first, but spend enough time with them and the illusion dissolves. Beneath the calm is intention. Beneath the color is strategy. And beneath the soft drift of tentacles is a creature that has been perfecting survival since before the ocean knew anything more complicated than hunger and light.

Once you start paying attention, their structure begins to make sense through function rather than form. At the top, the tentacles guard a single opening that leads into the coelenteron, the chamber where circulation, digestion, and waste share a common path. There is no heart or specialized organs, only water moving through the body to do the work. It is simple on the surface and efficient beneath, a design nature created early and never had reason to revise.

If you understand that basic framework, the distinctions between species sharpen, almost like personalities rather than anatomy.

Giant green anemones are usually the first to pull you in, their bodies lit from within as if they are holding on to every bit of sunlight they ever borrowed. The color runs deeper than the tissue because of the algae living inside their cells, tiny partners trading photosynthesis for shelter. Brush too close and the whole ring of tentacles snaps shut, quick and certain, a reflex shaped by millions of years of ambush. To us, the sting is little more than a pinprick. To anything small enough to count as prey, it is a door shutting for good.

Plumose anemones follow the same plan but stretch it into something ghostly. They rise from pilings and rocky shelves as pale towers, their feathery tentacles blooming under a dive light. They do not hunt so much as gather. They stand in the current and let the world pass through their arms, sifting plankton with steady ease. On night dives, they look like candles lining some forgotten aisle, pale glimmers flickering each time a tide pulse rolls through. I have floated among them with only my breath for company and felt, for a moment, that I had wandered someplace sacred and not entirely safe.

Painted anemones carry the same architecture but disguise it under carnival colors. Reds, purples, creams, and browns swirl across their columns, so vivid you almost doubt what you see through your mask. They hold perfectly still, predators that know stillness can be its own kind of lure. I once watched a hermit crab inch across the edge of a painted anemone, as if easing across ice that might crack beneath it. One careless touch, one stumble into the tentacles, and that would have been the end of him. The anemone never twitched. It didn’t need to. Time does the work.

Then there are the aggregating, or clonal, anemones, the most abundant anemones on the tide-swept rocky shores of the Pacific coast. They repeat their small green design across whole stretches of reef, shrinking the instant a finger or wave brushes them. Most people never realize these harmless-looking colonies wage slow territorial wars, leaving chemical borders etched into the rock long after the fighting has ended.

And in the dimmer reaches of the walls, you find the strawberries—small and intensely bright, gathered in clusters that shine like embers against the rock. Their red and pink tones come from pigments in their own tissues, natural shields that help them handle shifting light rather than anything they eat. A single anemone barely catches the eye, but together they form tiny reefs, pockets of shelter where young fish slip out of the current. Shrimp thread themselves between the bodies, and tiny crabs wait out storms beneath the guarded crowns, trusting something that looks delicate yet stays anchored through anything the water delivers.

That is the truth anemones keep tucked beneath their soft crowns. They look like decoration, the ocean’s wildflowers, but nothing could be more wrong. They are shelter and glue, hunters and architects, patient predators and caretakers. They build structure where none would stand. They root the ecosystem in place. Without them, parts of Hood Canal would feel hollow in ways you only understand after you have spent years underwater, watching the quiet power of creatures that never move and never need to.

They are not background. They are the bones around which the seafloor grows.

For something anchored in place, anemones live complicated lives. They begin as drifting larvae, tiny specks carried wherever the tides push them. Most never make it, swept off or swallowed long before they touch stone. The few that survive settle on a rock, shell, piling, or even an old bottle and anchor there. Once they attach, they stay for life, which can stretch for decades if the currents and predators leave them be.

Once settled, anemones grow slowly and steadily, unfurling their tentacles to hunt. Those tentacles are loaded with tiny stinging cells called nematocysts. Under a microscope, they look like harpoons coiled in a trap, waiting for anything soft enough to touch.

Here’s a quiet bit of trivia: the same stinging machinery that makes box jellies deadly exists in Pacific Northwest anemones. Ours are far gentler, but the machinery is the same—just scaled down.

Some reproduce sexually by releasing eggs and sperm into the water, letting the current handle the matchmaking. Others, like aggregating anemones, clone themselves until an entire colony becomes one genetic individual. Kneel beside one and you might be looking at hundreds of copies of a single ancestor.

It’s an ancient strategy, and it works.

Underwater, alliances are messy, and enemies show up in strange shapes. Small crabs hide beneath anemones. Shrimp thread between their tentacles. Juvenile rockfish hover above them like nervous birds perched on an unseen rail. Anemones are living real estate, shelter for whatever needs protection from the current or from things waiting to strike.

Some fish even learn to hover close enough to avoid predators but not so close that they get stung. It’s an uneasy arrangement, but down here, even bad roommates can get along if the alternative is being eaten.

Crabs, strangely enough, are both protected by and prey to anemones. I have watched decorator crabs tiptoe across their tentacles with scraps of sponge strapped to their backs like makeshift armor. They move with a careful, testing gait, feeling for the slightest hint of danger. Sea stars sometimes pry anemones off rocks, consuming them in slow, patient mouthfuls. It is not a quick process. Nothing underwater ever is quick.

And then there are the battles you never see, the chemical duels between neighboring colonies. Aggregating anemones have specialized “fighter” polyps that they use to burn competitors. The line between territories is drawn in sting scars. Some anemones even fight themselves by accident, clone battling clone after currents shift them into the wrong arrangement.

Everything in the ocean is friend, enemy, or dinner. Sometimes it is all three at once.

If you ever want to understand the Pacific Northwest, descend into Hood Canal when the water turns green and the current softens. Look for the places where color gathers on the stone. Where tiny tentacles reach and sway. Where something motionless begins to feel like it is breathing with the sea.

Anemones are easy to overlook, but once you notice them, they pull you in. They are the quiet machinery of the ecosystem, visible only when you slow down enough to see them. They filter water, provide habitat, feed predators, and shape entire stretches of shore with time and patience.

On one late-winter dive, I found a single giant green anemone perched on a rock, its tentacles half-closed against the surge. I hovered there, just watching it. A whole world moving around a creature that stayed fixed in place. I raised my camera, took the shot, and realized something simple.

Not every marvel in the Salish Sea chases you or darts across your light, trying to be seen. Some simply wait to be noticed. And once you do, you begin to see the seafloor differently. You understand how much depends on what stays still.

THOM ROBBINS BIO

I spend as much time underwater as life allows, teaching diving and photography, chasing the perfect shot, and writing both nonfiction and fiction inspired by these waters. You can explore more of my work at www.thomrobbins.com.

Crabby Characters: Stories from the Seafloor

Thom Robbins | story and pictures

Spend enough time beneath the surface of Hood Canal, and the silence starts to speak not in words, but in motion. Everything down there moves slower in the cold except the crabs. The crabs are always busy. Always urgent. I’ve watched one spend ten full minutes excavating a hole no deeper than a coin is thick, only to abandon it and scuttle off as if remembering something more important. One squared off with its own reflection in my camera dome, claws raised like a boxer waiting for the bell. And another cleaned algae off its shell, as if preparing for a first date.

They aren’t graceful like the kelp fish or hypnotic like moon jellies. They’re rough-edged little bulldozers, powered by instinct and old armor, constantly on patrol. You’ll find them under ledges, in discarded cans, perched on the pilings of a long-lost dock. Red Rock crabs, kelp crabs, decorator crabs, hermits dragging their spiral shells like tiny trailers behind them, all of them crawling, shoving, digging, sparring, eating, surviving.

To dive in Hood Canal is to enter their world, not as an observer but as a trespasser in a busy kingdom. And the deeper you go, the more you start to wonder: who’s really watching who?

There are over thirty species of crab living in the Salish Sea, and I swear I’ve startled half of them just getting my fins on. Big ones, small ones, legs like knitting needles—some so camouflaged they vanish if you look away. They're not background players down here. They're the quiet architects of the seafloor. Scavengers, cleaners, prey, and predators, they keep the submerged machine running.

Take the Dungeness crab. Everyone knows that name from a dinner menu, but out here, in the cold green quiet, you see the other side of it. These are not docile creatures. They fight like boxers in the sand, claw-to-claw. I once watched two square off over a fish head, each strike spraying up little clouds of silt. No hesitation, no mercy. The winner dragged the prize beneath a ledge and vanished. The loser waited a few beats, then started digging like it had never happened.

Red Rock crabs are the neighborhood bruisers, bad-tempered, road-shouldered, all edge. Their claws are darker than blood, twice as quick.  You don’t want to get too close. They make sure you know when you’ve stayed too long.

Then there are the kelp crabs, graceful, spindly, with legs that seem to unfold forever. They cling to the long, swaying forests of bull kelp like sentries, their shells often coated in fuzz or film. I’ve seen them frozen in place for minutes, like a spider in a web—until they move. And when they do, they move fast.

But my favorite? The decorators. They’re the mad geniuses of the crab world—slow-moving and soft-shelled, but never unprepared. They tear pieces of sponge and algae from their surroundings, stitching them onto their backs like makeshift armor or fancy hats. Sometimes they vanish into the scenery. Other times, they look like moss-covered monsters crawling across the sand.  I found one once with an entire anemone riding on its back, swaying as a crown.

Crabs do more than scuttle around at our feet. They oxygenate sediment, recycle waste, and form the base of countless food webs. Otters eat them. Octopuses hunt them. Even gulls have learned to flip them over like breakfast pancakes. But somehow, they endure.

Out here, beneath the weight of the water, they don’t feel small at all. They seem ancient, as if they’ve been here longer than we have. As if they know something we don’t, and maybe they do. Watch them long enough and you start to see why: crabs are built like tanks, only stranger. You don’t realize how alien they are until you’re face-to-face with one in the dark, thirty feet down. Your dive light catches the gleam off that hard, unblinking shell. They look back with stalked eyes, unmoving, weighing whether to run, fight, or decide you aren’t worth the thought.

Like spiders and shrimp, crabs are arthropods wrapped in an exoskeleton that is both armor and skeleton, with no bones inside and everything important protected on the outside. That shell, or carapace, is tough as old fiberglass, etched like a puzzle box, often scarred from past fights, and it doesn’t grow with them. When they get too big for it, they crack it open like a coffin and climb out soft and defenseless until the new shell hardens. I’ve found husks underwater that look like dead crabs until you realize they’re ghosts on the sand.

Most crabs have ten limbs, eight legs, and two claws, but don’t let the symmetry fool you. Those claws aren’t there just for show. They’re everything. I’ve watched crabs use them like tools, snapping open clam shells with surgical efficiency. I’ve seen them fight, claws locked like wrestlers on a mat, each trying to twist the other into submission. And once, on a night dive near an old piling field, I caught sight of a male crab slowly waving one claw back and forth in the beam of my flashlight, rhythmic, almost elegant, like conducting the tide. Mating display. Or maybe a warning. Hard to say. But whatever it was, it felt old. Practiced.

Even the Puget Sound king crab, the largest crab you’re likely to see in the Pacific Northwest, with a carapace that can span nearly a foot across, is unforgettable when you’re lucky enough to spot one. Its shell flashes red-orange under your dive light, edged with faint blue highlights as if brushed with frost. 

Sometimes, you’ll notice asymmetry in its claws, with one noticeably larger than the other. This can happen after a molt, when a lost claw is still regrowing, or from years of favoring one claw over the other, like a boxer’s strong hand. That imbalance isn’t clumsy, it’s deliberate. Bigger doesn’t always mean better, but it does mean louder. That oversized claw speaks before the crab ever moves. It says: I’ve survived something you haven’t. I’ve fought. I’ve rebuilt.

Many of them have. Crabs here lose claws to predators, traps, and each other, but they don’t stay broken. They molt, wait, and grow it back slower, a little different, but the same. When you see that heavy claw raised like a crooked banner, it’s not just a weapon, it’s a story of survival, hard-won and costly.

Down here, everything fights to keep going—sometimes with teeth, sometimes with venom. Crabs fight with whatever they’ve got left, rebuilding one joint, one muscle fiber at a time. There’s an honesty in that brutality.

You never forget the first time you see a crab run. It’s not a graceful thing. Not smooth like a seal gliding past or a school of herring flickering in unison. It’s sharp. Sudden. Like something went off inside it. One second it’s there, perfectly still, and the next it’s gone—vanished sideways into the shadow of a rock or beneath a curtain of eelgrass.

That sideways sprint comes from design. A crab’s legs hinge on the sides, not underneath like ours. Each leg pushes like an oar, catching the bottom and shoving the body across the sand with precision. When you see it up close, there’s a rhythm to it, like a dancer on a single beat.

And when they move, they move faster than you'd think. The crabs here in Hood Canal—Red Rock, Dungeness, and the occasional Northern Kelp Crab aren’t built for land speed, but underwater? They’re spring-loaded traps. One second, they’re still, blending into sand or clinging to a piling; the next, gone. Just a blur of motion and a trail of stirred-up silt.

I’ve watched a Dungeness bolt sideways across a sandy shelf with such force it left a trench behind, vanishing beneath a ledge before I could even lift my camera. Kelp crabs don’t move quite as fast, but when they do, it’s sudden, those long, delicate legs pulling their mossy bodies up and over kelp blades like they’re trying to escape the light. Helmet crabs and graceful kelp crabs can vanish into the gloom in a blink if you come too close.

They don’t waste energy, every movement counts. When they go, it’s all at once, like something spooked in the woods, sharp and armed.

I’ve chased more than a few across the bottom camera in hand, bubbles rising just trying to land one clean shot. But more often than not, all I’m left with is a cloud of sand and a shape disappearing into shadow. That’s the game—they always win.

Not all of them run. Some freeze, legs tucked tight, trusting camouflage to outlast your curiosity. Decorator crabs are masters of this—covered in algae, sponges, and stitched-on debris, they hold so still you doubt they were ever moving at all. You notice them only when they twitch once, like something from a dream that leaves no footprints.

Others bluff. The Red Rock raises its claws in defiance, even when outmatched, daring you to come closer. And I’ve seen graceful kelp crabs pull themselves into near-vertical poses, legs extended, trying to look bigger. They don’t want to fight, but they’ll make you think.

Then there are the burrowers, smaller crabs like helmet crabs or hairy shore crabs. When spooked, they vanish downward instead of outward, kicking up sand as they wedge themselves under rocks or into old clam holes. They disappear.

Every crab makes a decision in that split second before it moves: fight, freeze, flee, or fade.  They don’t choose wrong more than once. Here, hesitation means you get eaten. And if you’re lucky and quiet, you get to watch them make their choice. When they stop—when they finally wedge themselves beneath a rock or vanish into the reef’s contours—they don’t pant or pulse like a fish might. They just stop, as if nothing ever happened.

Down here, it’s not the fastest creature that survives. It’s the one that knows when to run, how to vanish, and what angle to take when it does. Crabs figured that out a long time ago.

The eyes are the first thing you notice, two dark marbles on stalks, swiveling like radar dishes in the murk. They move independently, scanning front and back at the same time, and it’s unsettling in a way I can’t quite shake. I’ve knelt in the silt, barely breathing, and watched a crab watch me, one eye fixed on my mask while the other seemed to scan the reef behind it, like it was calculating the best escape route. Or maybe waiting to see what I’d do next.

But crabs aren’t just watching. They’re communicating in ways most people never notice. They tap, drum, raise, and wave their claws in deliberate patterns, not just to warn or threaten but to talk. Males might flash their chelae, the front claws built like living pliers—part weapon, part tool—each ending in a sharp, hinged pincer. Look at me. I’m strong. I’m ready. Don’t come any closer. It’s a kind of semaphore, silent and specific, evolved not for show but for survival. Some species send messages through the seafloor by drumming with their legs.

The closer you look, the more the body itself becomes a language.

Beneath that armored face, their mouthparts are hidden in plain sight, tucked up under the shell like something secret. Most people never notice them. But divers have time. We wait. We watch. And if you’re patient, you’ll see those tiny, feathered appendages in constant motion, pulling in food, sorting it, filtering it, working like a factory line. It’s never still. Even when a crab looks motionless, it’s chewing through the world one particle at a time.

And they’re not picky. Crabs are opportunistic feeders—algae, plankton, fish scraps, rotting kelp, even other crabs if the tide turns cruel. I’ve seen it happen fast, almost clinical. No ceremony. No malice. Just need.

They speak through motion, posture, and action, enough where sound doesn’t carry and light doesn’t last.

Beneath the shell, hidden to most, lies one of the weirdest parts of crab biology: they breathe through gills, just like fish. The gills are tucked into chambers beneath the carapace, kept moist by leg movements and flaps called scaphognathites that pump water over them.  I’ve seen crabs dug into damp sand during low tide, perfectly still but alive, waiting for the tide to return.

Here's something most folks don't realize: you can tell male and female crabs apart by flipping them over. Males have a narrow, pointed abdominal flap; females have a broad, rounded one shaped like a dome. That’s where they carry their eggs, thousands packed tight like orange caviar, gently fanned with back legs to keep oxygen flowing. It’s a strange kind of tenderness, watching it happen underwater. There’s something ancient about it. Something careful.

When you see a crab crawling across the bottom, it’s easy to think of it as just another bit of marine clutter, another scuttling shape in the gloom. But inside that shell is a creature perfectly engineered for survival, part armor, part instinct, part mystery. The more time I spend with them, the more I believe they’re not just part of the seafloor. They are the seafloor, living, crawling, biting proof that nature doesn’t waste time on beauty when function works better.

And still, somehow, they're beautiful.

Crabs aren’t just skittering distractions; they’re survivors in a complex life cycle that begins as floating larvae barely bigger than plankton. After hatching, young crabs go through multiple molts, shedding their exoskeletons to grow. These larval forms, called zoeae, drift with the currents—tiny, vulnerable—before settling to the bottom where the real battles begin.

Molting continues in adulthood. During these soft-shelled interludes, crabs are most vulnerable. Many hide in the sand or under rocks. For females, it’s the only time they can mate, making it a moment of both risk and opportunity.

Once fertilized, females carry eggs on their undersides like a clutch of orange grapes. Watching a crab fan her eggs with rhythmic leg flicks reminds you that even armored creatures tend their young with surprising delicacy.

Not all eggs survive, and not all crabs do either. For every empty shell tumbling in the current, another waits just out of view, ready to take its place.

As a diver, I’ve learned that the best moments often happen in the periphery. You come for the wolf eel or the octopus, but you stay because something small scuttles in and steals the show. Crabs are like that, endlessly watchable, hard-wired to move, eat, and thrive.

Next time you’re under the surface or in a tidepool, watch a crab at work. There’s a world in those legs, strange and alive as anything in the sea. A reminder, we’re only visitors in their kingdom.

Thom Robbins Bio

I am fascinated with the underwater world here in the Pacific Northwest. I have been a diver for over thirty years and have never been happier than underwater with a camera. I spend as much time underwater as possible, writing, shooting pictures, or teaching diving and photography. You can learn more about me at https://www.thomrobbins.com. 

When not diving, I spend time with my wonderful, patient wife, Barb. We live in Shelton, Washington, where we relish a relaxed lifestyle close to world-class diving spots. Barb’s support has been instrumental in my passion for diving; she is my best and often harshest critic, constantly pushing me to capture better photos. Our 21-year-old son inspires me to be a better person every day. Completing our family are our two English Bulldogs, who bring us endless joy.

Discover the Magic of Sunrise Resort on Hood Canal – A Pacific Northwest Hidden Gem

Tucked along the pristine shores of Hood Canal, Sunrise Resort is more than a destination—it’s a tradition. With stunning waterfront views, unmatched diving access, and deep roots in the Hoodsport community, Sunrise offers adventure, tranquility, and unforgettable memories for families, travelers, and divers alike.

In this video, meet the people behind the transformation of this iconic resort, explore breathtaking footage of its natural surroundings, and hear why divers from around the world call this place home. Whether you're planning a weekend getaway, a dive retreat, or just want to reconnect with nature—Sunrise Resort is your gateway to the best of the Pacific Northwest.

Feast your eyes on a face with personality to spare!

Story & Pictures, Thom Robbins

Get any group of divers together in the Pacific Northwest and ask them what makes for a great dive. Everyone will agree that a wolf eel was somehow involved. There is something unique about the supremely ugly faces of an adult wolf eel staring at you from its den.

Hood Canal Wolf Eel | Photo credit: Thom Robbins

This can turn an ordinary dive into a great one. The conditions don’t matter – cold, terrible visibility or strong currents are forgotten once a wolfie (as we call them locally) appears publicly.  It’s not surprising why divers worldwide travel to places like the Hood Canal to catch a glimpse of these fantastic creatures.

Meet wolfie

Hood Canal Wolf Eel | Photo credit: Thom Robbins

Throughout history, the peoples of the northern Pacific have held wolf eels in deep respect. Many of the native tribes in the area viewed the wolf eel as a creature of strength and resilience, symbolizing protection due to its robust and intimidating appearance. This belief often extended to the spiritual realm, where the wolf eel was thought to embody protective spirits. In Washington, the wolf eel is now a protected species in the Puget Sound and Hood Canal.

This is not because they are endangered but because their value as a living resource to divers and photographers far exceeds whatever commercial value the species could provide as a food source.  Some dive sites, like Sund Rock in the Hood Canal, are well-known locations where wolf eels interact with divers and provide unique photo opportunities.

Wolfies are not related to eels. Instead, they are part of a family known as the wolf fishes.

Hood Canal Wolf Eel | Photo credit: Thom Robbins

They belong to an even larger group of fish known as Perciform, generally considered perch-like fish. But their long-bodied, eel-like appearance is unique in this group of fishes. The wolf eel can be found as far south as San Diego in southern California, then northward up the Pacific coast to the Aleutian Islands in Alaska. The popular term “wolf eel” comes from the large frontal canine-like teeth used to seize their favorite meals, mainly hard-shelled crustaceans and invertebrates.  The typical menu includes crabs like Dungeness, Red Rock, and Green Urchins.

Most wolf eels can grow to about six feet long and weigh almost thirty pounds, although they can grow to eight feet. These massive fish are speculated to live up to 10 years in the wild, though no research is available on their longevity. Scientists have found that they can begin reproducing between four to seven years, suggesting they may be long-living fish. One fact that I find fascinating is that they lack a swim bladder, a feature commonly found in most fish species. The swim bladder is an internal gas-filled organ that helps fish regulate their buoyancy and control their vertical position in the water column. However, the wolf eel has evolved without this organ, relying on its muscular body and strong pectoral fins to maneuver and maintain its position in the water. The lack of a swim bladder allows wolf eels to lounge around on the bottom or lay in their home lairs.  Like snakes, they swim by making S shapes with their bodies and use their pectoral fins to steer. This unique adaptation allows the wolf eel to thrive in rocky coastal habitats, where it can navigate through crevices and caves with exceptional agility. By forgoing the swim bladder, the wolf eel has developed a specialized set of skills, making it an expert hunter and a master of its underwater domain.

Additionally, wolf eels have a slimy coating on their bodies, which serves several important purposes for their survival and protection in their marine environment. First, it acts as a natural defense against infections. The slime contains antibacterial and antimicrobial properties that help prevent the growth of harmful bacteria and parasites on their skin, reducing risk of infection.

The slimy coating makes it difficult for predators to grip or hold onto a wolf eel.

When threatened or attacked, a wolf eel can release more slime from its skin, making it slippery and challenging for predators to maintain a firm grip. This slippery defense mechanism allows the wolf eel to escape from potential threats. The slimy layer reduces friction when the wolf eel moves through the water, allowing them to easily pass through tight spaces and narrow cracks without getting stuck.

Lifecycle of a Wolf Eel

Approximately 24 hours before mating, the female wolf eel’s abdomen becomes noticeably distended. When this happens, the male will butt his head against the back of her abdominal region. This action appears to stimulate physiological activity. A series of waves move through the female's body from her head to her tail, particularly pronounced in her abdominal area. The male will then wrap himself around the female so that their heads will be side by side and their genital regions adjacent. In this position, the female releases the eggs, usually between 5,000 and 10,000, and the male fertilizes them as they appear. After fertilization, the female will coil about the eggs, molding them into a ball-like cluster. The eggs are adhesive to each other but not to the rocky walls of the den. Both parents will then coil themselves about the egg mass, sometimes together and at other times individually, tending the eggs and ensuring they are rotated so that a good flow of water passes through them.

After about 16 weeks, the eggs hatch, and the larvae float towards the upper part of the ocean or the sea, where they spend nearly two years of their lives. The tiny fish are born brownish pink, about 1 1/2 inches long. They turn dark gray within a day and start snacking on small shrimp after a few days. The larvae that emerge are left on their own to swim with the plankton in the ocean. From birth, they are voracious predators and will strike at their planktonic prey, much like a coiled snake will strike at a mouse. Constantly searching for prey, the larval wolf eels will lead a pelagic existence. Eventually, the maturing youngsters settle on the ground and enter a den. Denning will typically occur in the Puget Sound area from February through April.

Juveniles wolf eels exhibit a more vibrant and striking appearance. | Photo credit: Thom Robbins

The change from a pelagic to a bottom-dwelling existence spawns physical changes in the juvenile wolf eel. Juveniles exhibit a more vibrant and striking appearance. A vivid orange or reddish-orange color with darker markings often characterizes their appearance. This vibrant coloration helps juveniles blend in with their surroundings, such as rocky reefs or kelp forests. As they mature into adults, their coloration becomes more subdued brown or reddish-brown. The skin often has spots of a darker color, which may be outlined in a lighter color.  The males will also develop a puffy face, enlarged jaws, huge bulbous lips, and a powerful sagittal crest at the top of their heads to support the increased muscle mass required for the jaws.

Friends & enemies

There is no fairness in the realm of a Salish Sea rocky reef. A fierce battle for ownership unfolds around the most desirable den sites. The key contenders are the Giant Pacific Octopus (GPO), and the formidable wolf eel.

Both species vie for control over these coveted shelters, which serve as their sanctuary in a harsh underwater world. This struggle is fueled by their shared habitat, prey, and an unyielding desire for the same type of den sites.

With its unmatched dexterity and cunning, the octopus poses a formidable challenge to the wolf eel. I have watched the battle when a GPO ruthlessly evicts a wolf eel, sometimes even targeting mated pairs, and claims the den as its own. Despite the wolf eel's valiant efforts, there is little it can do once an octopus of even modest size has set its sights on a particular den.

Ask any diver, and they can attest to the futility of trying to dislodge an entrenched octopus from its chosen abode.

Submerging into the chilly embrace of the Salish Sea transforms the ordinary into the sublime. A serene quietness wraps around you as you descend below the waves, echoing the solitude of an explorer charting new frontiers. Gripping your camera firmly, you traverse this alien landscape, feeling every inch an astronaut on an oceanic planet.

Hood Canal Wolf Eel | Photo credit: Thom Robbins

Before long, you approach a wall, its vastness urging you to uncover. You glide along its face, examining each nook, cranny, and boulder with a mix of awe and curiosity. The vividly colored marine life enchants you, each organism a stroke of brilliance from nature’s palette. In this marine maze, your adventure takes a thrilling turn.

From the periphery, a wolf eel appears, locking eyes with you. There’s a mutual recognition, a shared wonder between you and the creature, silently communicating in this mesmerizing undersea world. The thrill of the encounter sharpens your focus, and with camera in hand, you ready yourself to document this surreal moment. You aim and capture the scene, forever preserving your encounter with the wolf eel.

 

Hood Canal Diving:

Sund Rock Marine Preserve

26472 US-101, Hoodsport
sundrock.com

YSS Dive Charters

24080 N US-101, Hoodsport
yssdive.com/charters

About the Author: Thom Robbins

"Fascinated with the underwater world in the Pacific Northwest,I have been a diver for over thirty years and have never been happier than underwater with a camera. I spend as much time underwater as possible, shooting pictures or teaching diving and photography. You can see and purchase my photo collections at robbinsunderwater.com. If you want to learn about diving or photography, reach me at thomrobbins@gmail.com.

When not diving, I spend time with my wonderful, patient wife, Barb. We have just relocated to Shelton to enjoy a more relaxed life. Without Barb, I wouldn’t have continued my passion for diving. She is my best and often harshest critic, pushing me to explore better photos. I also have a 21-year-old son who makes me want to be a better person daily. Last but certainly not least are my two English Bulldogs, essential to my family's life."

Don’t let the chilly water discourage you…dive in!

Just below the surface of the waters of the Hood Canal, a whole new world exists waiting to be explored. It is carpeted with sponges and seaweed, populated by wolf eels and octopus and visited by the occasional seal and even (rarely) a six-gilled shark. Although the cold water of the Pacific is daunting, the variety of marine life it holds is well worth the chilly SCUBA dive. 

With its comparably slower currents (to the rest of Puget Sound), the Hood Canal offers many opportunities for rewarding shore dives and live boat dives of various experience levels. Diving is not just for the summer time, the winter and early spring offer excellent opportunities because the cooler weather means clearer visibility (rain run off notwithstanding). 

We have coalesced a list of some of the top dive sites of the Hood Canal as recorded by excellent books such as Betty Pratt-Johnson’s 141 Dives in the Protected Waters of Washington and British Columbia (1977) and Stephen Fischnaller’s Northwest Shore Dives (2000), as well as diver’s blog reviews, such as Scott Boyd at Emerald Sea Scuba and Nicolle Prat at Pacific Northwest Scuba.

Mikes Beach is one of the oldest and most picturesque resorts in hood canal with a unique blend of the rustic look of the Northwest and the relaxed, charming and cozy German Chalet style

#1. Flag Pole Point
East and West

Outside of Lilliwaup, just to the South of Mike’s Beach Resort is a dive site more comfortably accessed by boat (but you can free swim to it also).  Called “the knuckle” this dive site consists of a series of rock formations, rising like a mini range of mountains from the ocean floor.  Because this formation is farther out and more exposed to currents, this site usually has excellent visibility and there are lots to see. Lingcod lay their eggs at this protected site, and there are resident wolf eel and octopus populations. Since the rise of “the knuckles” is so rapid, the site can be difficult to locate— check the dive blogs for more information and ask your local dive shop.

#2. Potlatch Park -

While the diving at Potlatch is less dramatic than the site above , if you are just getting your flippers wet, this is a great place to start out. This shore diving spot is easy to get to, has showers to wash off gear, and it provides opportunities to get comfortable with your equipment and practice techniques.

#3. Scenic Beach State Park –

Like Potlatch, this site is accessible from the beach and it is rewarding for all experience levels. There are plenty of marine life to observe on this sandy-cobble beach, which shifts after 15 ft into a large eelgrass bed, likewise teaming with all the sea creatures that are heir to this environment.

#4. Octopus Hole –

Although parking for this site is limited, this wall site is easy to access from shore and gratifying for all experience levels, but it is a popular spot! It is recommended you brings a flashlight to see the friendly octopuses and wolf eels. Remember this is a protected site, so no harvesting or disturbing the site (and no taking of the glass bottles that octopuses like to hide in).

#5. Sund Rock Marine Preserve

Easy beach access to this site is available through Hoodsport ’N Dive for $20 per diver. This is an iconic dive spot of the area —Hoodsport ’N Dive even offers diving classes at this site.  From the beach you swim out through eelgrass environs filled with perch, crabs and other types of sea life. When you reach the Rock you are greeted by wolf eels, octopuses, sea stars, lingcod and other bottom fish.  As it is a marine preserve it is closed to harvesting and fishing — so no spear guns!

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Twanoh State Park offers easy access to the water.

#6. Twanoh State Park –

This full service park, has a gentle current, which gives divers the freedom to dive whenever— independent of slack tides. You will find a large eelgrass bed filled with interesting fish, such as tube-snouts, black eye gobies and sticklebacks. After about 40 foot depth you can find tube-dwelling anemones. These anemones are entertaining to watch as they feed with their long graceful tentacles. Use a dive flag and submerge when you pass the roped swimming area (and stay submerged and deep to avoid any boat traffic).

#7. The east side of Hood Canal Bridge

This is a more intermediate dive. Leaving from the park at Salsbury Point heading toward the Hood Canal Bridge, this shore dive requires you time your swim out to the dive area right before the beginning of slack tide, so that the current pulls you out to the bridge, then you can save your energy for the swim back. On your swim out to the bridge you pass through eelgrass beds, which are teeming with perch, soles, shiners and other sea creatures. When you reach the concrete bridge supports you are greeted by a fantastic display of plumose anemones and many different types of nudibranchs. Be careful of boat traffic and pace yourself for the long swim to and from the bridge. 

For more information on scuba opportunities in the Hood Canal area, visit our scuba things to do page! 

The Mountains are calling... ANSWER!

A weekend warrior is a 21st century beast whose population seems to be exponentially growing. As the “rolley chair blues” epidemic proliferates across the Pacific Northwest, so does the drive to combat it with an epic 48-hour adventure.

Here’s to those who burn the midnight oil finishing up reports and rise with the birds to knock presentations out of the park. This one’s for those who are at the gym until it closes so that their lungs are ready to be filled with alpine air come Saturday morning.

For those that simply cannot wait to escape Seattle’s concrete jungle when the clock hits 5 on a Friday, we have good news: Hood Canal is waiting for you in your backyard.

How to Get to Union, Washington

The Bremerton Ferry sets sail from Pioneer Square in the heart of Seattle over 15 times a day. As it scoots around Bainbridge Island, the impressive Olympic Mountains rise ever higher off of the water as your weekend playground draws ever nearer.

A short 45 minutes from the Bremerton Ferry Terminal lands you at Alderbrook Resort & Spa. But you’re a weekend warrior—you’ll take the extra half-hour trip to Lake Cushman. Or possibly even forge on a bit further in order to get in the thick of it with a visit to Staircase in Olympic National Park.

How to Make the Most of it

Breathe in, breathe out. You made it. Waking up underneath behemoth, moss-covered, primordial-looking trees and a tangle of lacy moss is what makes it all worthwhile. And you’ve got two whole diems to carpe!

Access to the Olympic National Park is second-to-none from Staircase Campground and it just so happens that some of our favorite biking trails are just down the road. The Lower South Fork Skokomish Trail #873 is bar-none one of the best trails around.

If a two-wheeled ride is not your pick of weekend poisons, Mt. Ellinor is a short drive away. An intrepid 6 miles of trail give way to breathtaking 360 degree summit views. And, as one of the more notable peaks in the area, bagging this peak will earn some serious bragging rights.

There is a wealth of adventure waiting around every twist of trail in Hood Canal. For more ideas, check out our extensive To-Do list.

How to Celebrate in Shelton, Washington

During a weekend away, we think just about anything is cheers-worthy. The good news? There’s no lack of handcrafted libations in Hood Canal. If you’re a gin or whiskey drinker, The Hardware Distillery crafts some of the best spirits in the Northwest. Their tasting room is open from 11am to 6pm Friday through Sunday.

If you find yourself drawn to a glass of wine made with locally sourced grapes as an after-adventure drink, Walter Dacon Wines in Shelton makes some of the best wine in the area and is dedicated to Rhone and Mediterranean styles. Their tasting room is open Wednesday through Sunday from noon until 6pm.

As weekend warriors ourselves, we revere those who rise early on Saturday and Sunday to take advantage of the precious weekend freedom. We’d love to see what you get into in our neck of the woods; tag your photos on social media with #wildsideWA, and be sure to find us on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and Pinterest for more.