We squeezed into a parking space between two fishermen on the edge of a reef system called The Aquarium, groaning all the while about the crowds and familiar territory. But that was topside posturing, another pollutant of the air. And, always, the red-gold giant kelp, seeming more alive than plants usually do because they're always in motion, always changing. A storm may tear into a kelp bed and sweep away the floating canopy like a crown fire decapitating a pine forest, leaving it bare, an uninteresting ledge of rock with tattered streamers blowing in the current. But dive that same spot a month later.
Giant kelp can grow a foot a day, sometimes two.
I follow the garibaldi's flicking tail down the tunnel into the strange amber darkness, gently parting the strands of kelp on each side. I've dived Cat Cove a dozen times but have never seen this strange tableau before. Later, back on the boat, Chris reminds us of the animal life, even game, among the tall trees. We talk about three or four possible sites for our second dive, the most popular being the kelp-covered ledges around Cat Rock a few hundred yards to the west of us. The rock is about 50 feet high and just barely detached from the island.