An Octopus Taught Me Compassion
By: Stephen Chamberlin
Tags: Life Lessons, Learning, Emotions, Love, Compassion

And in Return I Was Complicit in its Death

As the ink cloud around my face dissipated, I was able to see that the octopus, which I thought I had trapped in a small hole in the coral wall, had escaped.

I was floating perhaps 15 feet below the surface with the two “real” octopus hunters treading water on the surface above me, observing my incompetent attempt to help them catch the animal. These guys had handed me two machete’s and dispatched me to capture (not kill — the machetes were to be used to lever the small octopus out of its den) the octopus for them — it is a source of food in Guam.

I’m Not a Killer!

This occurred three decades ago, when, as a young Coast Guard officer stationed in Guam, I was SCUBA diving off a local beach. Two Chamorros (Micronesian men from Guam) were attempting to catch their dinner — octopus is a delicacy in Guam — and this one had embedded itself in a small cave just far enough under the surface that it was too difficult for them to capture it on a breath hold. Enter me. I happened to surface from my dive near them — and they asked for assistance.

Jeez. I don’t want to try and capture an octopus for so many reasons. It’s creepy, difficult and hell — I’ve never hunted anything. Ever. But being a people pleaser, I took the two machetes one man offered me and descended to the small cave wondering what the hell I was going to do with them. At that point I hadn’t even seen the octopus — I only saw where the men pointed.

Holding Hands with an Octopus

As I peered into the hole, all I saw was blackness. I looked up…the guys were waving me on…I looked back at the hole. Crap. Well here goes…I stuck both machetes in the hole, top and bottom, figuring I’d cross the blades and try to pull the octopus out. Instantly two tentacles shot out and attached themselves to both of my arms. What the hell did I get myself into?! I let go of the machetes — which were stuck in the hole anyway, pushed off of the wall and shook loose from the tentacles. I probably pee’d myself a little too.

Ugh. Well, I don’t want to disappoint these guys so let me try again. I swam back to the hole, grabbed the machete handles and went at it again. This time a cloud of ink shot out of the hole, completely obscuring my vision. I continued to work the machetes until the cloud began to clear. I happened to glance behind me at that point, only to see the traumatized octopus on the bottom, crawling away in a desperate attempt to escape.

I looked up and saw the two Chamorros pointing frantically at the animal. I looked back at the fleeing the octopus.

It was showing a range of emotions — as these intelligent animals do through color — rapidly changing from white, to red and back again.

I knew octopuses could do this. I knew they were intelligent. I could never have predicted that I would have inflicted this much fear and trauma on such a beautiful creature.

Cruel and Gratuitous

I could see, not just feel, that it was afraid, that it was upset, that it was, perhaps, very angry that this intruder (me) had come to its home, uninvited, unwanted and cruelly, nay, brutally, attempted to capture and kill it. I felt horrible.

I hovered in three dimensions and watched it run. I was done. I couldn’t capture this beautiful life form. I felt sad, I felt complicit, I felt evil. And then it was over.

From above one of the men dove down and grabbed it. With a rapid movement he pushed his hand up through the center of the octopus and appeared to have turned the sack…the brains…the innards…of the octopus inside out, killing it instantly.

To be clear, hunting octopus has been, for generations, a practice in Guam. The men and their families obtain sustenance from the octopus. I get it. But my reasons for helping them boiled down to ego, people pleasing…to not wanting to appear weak or incompetent…or unhelpful. NONE of the reasons were sufficient to do what I had done. My part in this was merely gratuitous violence inflicted on a fellow being.

Don’t Ever Forget How Compassion Feels

Thirty years later the image of that octopus, fleeing from me, showing such intense emption while doing so, haunts me.

I think of it whenever I am about to do something equally doubtful (not often fortunately).

Yes I am Flawed

Sometimes it stops me. Sometimes it doesn’t.

But I will never, ever, forget the intense compassion I felt for that animal and the sense of shame that accompanied the compassion — for having been the source of the trauma in the first place.