James' World 2

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Light spatters on the seafloor, creating a moving kaleidoscope of greens, blues, and beiges as seagrass sways back and forth in the current. Shoals of fish shimmer in and out of rock formations while rays fly above, casting their shadows over crabs trawling the mudflats for edible detritus. And surveying it all through two oblong eyes, the octopus glides in the open water like a frictionless spaceship. As an eight-armed cephalopod, it neither looks nor moves like its aquatic peers. Up, down, left, right, forward, or backward – all are accessible to the octopus. And though elegance and structural integrity are often inseparable in nature, the octopus can break its streamlined form at any moment, splaying its body and collapsing onto (or into) the rocks below. From the refuge of a rocky crevice, it watches and waits patiently. When prey passes, it may shoot out an arm or two to encircle an unlucky passing shrimp; or it may erupt from cover, lunging its entire body wide like a net cast by a fisherman.

The octopus may navigate its ocean home with ease, but it can seem like a creature from another planet. It populates our popular visions of cosmic beings and extraterrestrial life, with its eight arms, three hearts, and a malleable body without bones. What’s more, its ability to camouflage itself, coupled with a propensity to hide in tight holes, make it a master of disguise. If seen, a water siphon that expels inhaled water can instantly propel the creature away from danger in any direction in three-dimensional aquatic space. Its web of radially symmetrical arms allow it to crawl in any direction with equal competence, regardless of how its head is oriented. Its soft and malleable body can move through any crevasse larger than its beak. And with its two eyes positioned on opposite sides of its head, it has a near-total field of vision with almost nothing hidden ‘behind’. These abilities give the octopus a radically different relationship to its surroundings compared with other species, human or otherwise. It is a relationship free of constraints.

And what about our bodies? Compared with the octopus, human beings appear corporeally constrained. We lack the fluid mobility and wide field of vision of our (very, very) distant cephalopod cousins. Instead, we have two eyes stuck in the front of our heads. We have a paltry two legs, hardwired for forward movement. And we are bound to our terrestrial ecological niche, where our bodies must continually counteract the downward pull of gravity.

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