An exploration of the intertidal zone
A a story of mighty small and unassuming messengers
As usual, I cannot help myself and walk over to have a quick look at the rockpool just below us.
We have just dropped off our cooler bags and barbecue on the high-water line for our lunch later, when a flicker in the seaweed catches my eye.
Almost instantaneously, I am transformed into an excited little girl, nearly tripping over my own feet as I come to perch on the side of the pool. A visual that those who know me are well acquainted with.
The reason for my happy squeals is a little catfish shark embryo turning around in its golden, translucent egg case that is nestled carefully amongst a patch of seaweed and coral.
I can see everything, and the promise of life is rather beautiful.
The red veins on the yolk sac that is still taking up much of the space. The almost imperceptible lines of where the mouth will soon be. The little black buttons that are the beginning of its eyes.
Everything about it looks fragile, and viscerally vulnerable.
Attached by two seemingly simple strings, you cannot help but wonder how it will survive when the tide comes rushing back in in a few hours.
How all the creatures’ lives out here could tell impressive tales of utter strength and resilience, no matter the impression they may give off at low tide.
I am mesmerised and cannot believe my luck for having stumbled across such a rare find.
To me, it tells tales of the sheltered patch of seagrass in this lagoon just around the corner.
And it makes me smile. After all, how often have I told the children during our environmental education tours this year about the importance of seagrass and how you just never know what one might find in that unassuming world right by our feet.
In fact, anyone who has ever spent time with me by the water’s edge or beneath the surface will know that I can spend hours looking for the small animals, often hiding in plain sight.
I have run out of time before and missed my chance to see marine megafauna for not being able to leave a coral-covered pool or reef unscanned.
Locally known as nine-by-five – a reference to the length of our coastline – this little island home is full of paradoxes.
Welcome to Jersey, my chosen island home in the English Channel where our lives are in many ways dictated by the wind in the tides and where yet, the average islander knows relatively little about the special character of our territorial waters.
We are so small and unbeknownst to many that on a regular basis we don’t even feature on many world maps.
I, however, like to say that we are small but mighty.
From secluded little bays, white-sandy and vastly open beaches to the ragged cliffs of the North, this little granite rock off the French coast offers something for everybody.
Our coastlines are dramatically transformed by one of the biggest tidal ranges in the world.
With a high tide of up to 12 meters, low water reveals a moonscape of rocky reefs that increase the landmass of our humble home by up to 30 percent. It is part of the reason why our island is an important stop-over for many migrating birds and why vast areas are officially part of the RAMSAR network, too.
We are also home to one of the biggest bottlenose dolphin pods in Europe. Our breeding puffin pairs are in need of help, but still return loyally every year.
Due to a unique and complex political history, our waters have become an accidental and oh so rare safe haven for the mighty Atlantic Bluefin Tuna. Sunfish are seen by few lucky ones every year, maybe even a Basking Shark or two. Common and Risso’s dolphins, even pilot, humpback and fin whales are finding their way here as temporary residents if not every, every other year.
And yes, it speaks of a changing climate. But it also speaks of the massive potential of our waters to be thriving with spectacular wildlife that I only ever dreamt of seeing up close.
What has all that got to do with little baby shark
(I had to, forgive me).
For starters, it got me writing in the hope to deliver a message that goes far beyond the edges of its little rockpool home.
That little catfish was in its very early developmental stages, and in many ways, the same applies to Jersey and the local marine protection efforts.
Our territorial waters are almost 20 times the size of our island. And yet, less than 10% is officially protected.
When I first came here, publicly visible efforts of marine protection were lacking, given its an island.
Almost 8 years later, things are starting to change. Years of work done behind the scenes will hopefully come to fruition slowly.
Marine education is growing, and we now have a collaboration of different bodies aiming to create an MPA network covering almost 30% of our waters, joining the worldwide initiative for governments to designate 30% of Earth's land and ocean area as protected areas by 2030.
These things are never easy, and always complex.
But there is a growing sense of ownership over our waters and its inhabitants, and I see the little dogfish in its egg case as a symbol of just that. Or should I say, the emotions it evoked.
When posted in our local marine wildlife Facebook group, the response was wonder, marvel, and intrigue to learn more.
It brought me back to an experience I had when assisting with a PhD thesis in the Dutch North Sea years ago. A seahorse had landed in one of the nets and luckily survived. I will forever remember how it melted the hearts of even the burliest, hard-shelled and rough-edged of seadogs.
To many, our reefs are modest slabs of brown and grey rocks when to me they are a playground for all ages, and a potentially powerful teacher of the unexpected wonders in the unassuming beauty that surrounds us. There is such a vastly beautiful, entire, and entirely wonderful world right by our feet that goes mostly unnoticed.
Just stand still for a while though and curious shrimp will come out like eager little puppies needing to check out the intruder on their home turf. They are here to keep things nice and tidy after all. Sometimes, their ghostly white moulds are all that’s left of them as they shed their protective exoskeleton in favour of growth.
Stand in the shallows at an incoming tide and watch the shrimp effortlessly lifting off the seafloor, letting themselves be swept in as a floating army of 10-legged scavengers.
Branches of seaweed suddenly become trees of shelter for little fish pooling all around. Starfish wave at you, maybe on their way to suck a limpet shell off its carefully carved-out spot on the granite rock.
What you thought was algae being moved by water now tickles a delighted little giggle out of you as it transforms into a decorator crab doing its best to blend in with its surroundings.
The water surface provides a stellar mirror for everything below, and you feel like your very own Alice in Wonderland for the illusion that is created.
Delicate fan worms and their relatives play hide and seek with you and their prey, and neon-green anemones with bright pink tentacle tips are waiting for unsuspecting food to come their way.
Hermit crabs are lugging their homes around, on their journey to finding the next, bigger and better shell to inhabit – and who knows, maybe swap with another fellow crab.
Petite nudibranchs flash you boldly with their incredible designs of patterns and colours from when evolution felt particularly inspired, rivalling any artist’s imagination.
When I got my underwater camera housing this year, it is of no surprise that the first animal I wanted to capture was a sea slug. Oh, how I could marvel at the beauty of nudibranchs and sea slugs all day long.
For 2 ½ hours I scrambled over our local rocky reefs on a hot summer day – without luck. Just 5 minutes from the car park, when frankly I had given up, I struck gold and found a single branch of seaweed harbouring a good dozen of the stunning Elysia viridis.
With winglike appendages to surf underwater currents, Elysia’s body sparkles turquoise green. It is that very sparkle that made me notice it the very first time a couple of years ago and hints at why she is commonly known as the solar-powered sea slug.
After 40 minutes of rock acrobatics, snapping hundreds of shots, I returned to my car and a couple of the locals came to ask me what I had found.
I have always marvelled at the unique power that lies within the smallest of encounters.
The sometimes minute and oh so unassuming inhabitants of rockpools can be messengers of bigger conservation needs and hopes, and hence contribute to a growing sense of ocean stewardship.
That little catfish embryo flicked its tail utterly unaware to the knock-on effect it may have on the protection of the very grounds it needs to survive.
There is a glimmer of hope that it played a small role in nurturing a pride of our island home that will translate into a responsibility over protecting what we have here.