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This post addresses other important aspects of lighting, namely power and speed.

I am going to start with the conclusion.

I have been using the Backscatter HF-1 almost since the day it came out in 2024. It is my favourite all-around strobe ever, because of its power and speed.

My objective with this post is to explain why I love the HF-1 and to share specific examples of how the flash's capabilities have helped me to take photos that otherwise may not have been possible.

Before I get into it, let me state for the sake of clarity that this is not a paid/ compensated post. No one asked me to write this. Backscatter was not originally aware that I was writing this, but is now because I mentioned it to them last week in the course of other communication. Backscatter has had no advance knowledge of the contents of this post, and may or may not like/ agree with my views. Backscatter sent me two HF-1 units in 2024 at my request. I purchased two strobes thereafter because I like them so much.

Let me start with this image, which was the winner of the Underwater category of the 2026 Wildlife Photographer of the Year contest (WPY62).

The image above is one of many that came out of a three-year research project, during which friends and I documented the reproductive behaviour and biology of four species of moray eels. The photo shows spawning moray eels. The male in the foreground has done his thing and is headed back to the cover of coral (Yes, yes, I know. Men.). The female, on the other hand, is still hard at work. She is shooting out eggs and stirring them in with the male’s gametes to maximise odds of fertilisation.

The moment depicted is a fraction of a fraction of a split-second. Describing it as the blink of an eye would be to grossly overstate the duration.

This image would not have been possible without the HF-1. 

"Why?” you might wonder.

Because of two things—power and speed.

Let me define those terms before going on, so we share the same understanding.

By power, I mean the output of light, the absolute quantity. This is often expressed as guide number, which helps for comparisons among different strobes. The bigger the number, the more light the strobe produces. FWIW, the guide number for the HF-1 at full power is 29, with two extra levels above full that provide guide numbers of 34 and 40. The guide numbers are expressed in metres at ISO100.

If this is semi-gibberish to you, don’t worry about it. The exact definition and calculation are less important than hands-on experience. 

The bottom line is that the HF-1 pumps out a lot of light. And the light coverage is wide and even to boot.

This description is an intentional simplification. If you are interested in charts, comparisons and such, people who do tests under controlled conditions can tell you more.

I prefer to get into the ocean, find something stationary, take photos. Figure out how things work.

The HF-1 provides more light output than any strobe I have ever used. This is not to say that there are no other strobes that can do the same, or perhaps even produce more light. Many strobes have come out in the past two years since I started using the HF-1. I have not tried them all, so I am not in a position to assess.

What I am saying is that finding myself with such a massive upgrade in light output was welcome. And necessary actually, in order to document the types of cryptic behaviour that I have been pursuing in recent years.

All other things being equal, having the option to apply more light is better than not having that choice available. You can turn down light. You can’t turn up light that isn’t there to begin with. (I know you can use software to futz with exposure, but that is a different subject.)

However, having a flash that can output lots of light does not ensure success in situations where fractions of a second can mean the difference between an incredible image and  ^&$%*(OI#!!!!

You need a strobe that is capable of throwing off light over and over, as quickly as possible (to keep pace with rapid shutter rates), in a sustained manner (i.e., dropping as few frames as possible).

This is what I mean by the term speed. 

How quickly can the strobe recycle to provide the power that you need? Emphasis on “power that you need."

Manufacturers’ specs often provide recycle time to full power, a useful benchmark. We would all rather have 1 second recycle after shooting at full power than 3 seconds, for instance.

But in most real-life situations, one doesn’t need full power. 

More useful to me is, for example, how quickly can the strobe recycle back to say, 1/8th power? 

If the recycle time is rapid enough, you can shoot at that setting and keep shooting until you stop shooting. The practical implication is that you open up the possibility of capturing behaviour too rapid for our eyes, brains and reaction times to follow, by pairing your strobe's power and speed with the rapid frame rates of modern cameras.

This is where the HF-1 excels.

I have spent much of my time in recent years trying to document split-split-split-second moments. Things that take place so quickly that I can’t actually see and perceive what is happening, much less react to it in a deliberate manner.

The amorous eels above are a perfect example.

Here is another one, the moment of birth of a Hexagrammos otakii greenling:

The juvenile is probably around 1cm ( about 0.4 inches) in length. The entire hatching process can take some time, but lift-off happens quickly. Sort of a “wait for it….wait for it…WTF? Where'd the baby go?"
 
Close-up, at super-macro scale and distance, I only needed a fraction of the HF-1’s full light output. I don’t remember the exact settings, but I’d wager that I had my strobes at maybe one notch above lowest power, for f16 @ ISO500.

I used a Sony a1, mechanical shutter at 10fps. The HF-1 strobes kept up, meaning that the time the strobe required to recycle back to the power setting I was using was faster than 1/10th of a second, for the duration that I had the shutter depressed. This made it possible to capture the exact instant when the young fish achieved escape velocity (after many, many failures and accompanying expletives over the course of many days).

Another example from colder climes—freshwater in this case—is this male pink salmon (Oncorhynchus gorbuscha) shooting through a curtain of bubbles during reproductive season:

I picked a spot that allowed me to lie prone in front of a waterfall. I waited. And waited. Fish charged through. I missed. And missed. Not because of equipment, but because my reactions were too slow. Predicting and reacting to the moment a fish jets out from a continually morphing maelstrom of mayhem is difficult.

In this instance, I caught a glimpse the tippy-tip of the fish’s rostrum (aka, nose) just before the fish emerged.

I was able to photograph several frames, again at 10fps, every frame fully illuminated by my HF-1 units. Time elapsed was maybe a third to half a second.

The next photo shows spawning of ayu sweetfish (Plecoglossus altivelis), an amphidromous fish species, in a river.

The colourful one with flared fins and an expression of triumph is the primary male. The drab fish beneath is the female. The others behind are more males trying to get in on the action. Despite what appears to be less-than-optimal positioning of the secondary males, these fish must succeed sometimes, fertilising a portion of the eggs during the spawning scrum. Otherwise, why bother?

Like many other spectacular moments in nature, the lead-up to spawning can be uneventful and oh-so-ridiculously boring. The ayu lull you into complacency. Then spawning happens. Or rather, happened. By the time you’ve cottoned on, it’s ancient history. 

This is what it looks like when a pack of the smug little fish rush past to mock your sluggish reactions:

At the risk of being repetitive—power and speed. 

I got lucky, pressing the shutter when I did, but the fleeting nature of the decisive moments in all of these instances is such that the chances of hitting the exact point in time by shooting a single frame is exactly zero.

Rapid-firing results in lots of less-than-useful RAW files after the fact. I generally do not photograph in this manner. I shoot relatively few frames, having been conditioned by the 36-photo limit of film.

But there is no alternative when attempting to capture behaviour of this nature.

Until recently, the primary bottleneck for most underwater imaging of this nature has been light. More specifically, the inability to apply artificial light at quantities and rates sufficient to keep up with modern cameras.

The HF-1 has gone a long way to solving this problem.

It can’t keep up with the highest end of the fps spectrum (which I think is the Sony a9iii at 120fps at this point), but in many instances, the HF-1 can shoot continously for long enough and rapidly enough to open up the possibility of documenting impossible-to-see decisive moments.

In practical terms, this means the bottleneck is now less about equipment and more about human perception and reaction time.

I should point out that besides helping me to document split-second behaviours, the HF-1 has been particularly helpful in two other situations.

The first is sort of obvious—those cases where showing entire sequences is useful.

Take this series of three images showing Centropyge vrolikii angelfish spawning for instance:

I used a Nikon D850. The camera shoots 7fps, meaning these three consecutive images depict elapsed time of less than ½ a second. 

Three back-to-back images convey more information than a single image can. 

Cool, no?

You might think that three images in a row is not impressive, meaning that many strobes can do the same. Some probably can. But I also have behavioural sequences comprising 10+ images, all well lit. And then there are those times when it is necessary to take several shots in a row, pause for a split-second, do it again. And repeat. Performance in real-life situations like these is difficult to measure and convey in easy statistics like guide number. I can just tell you, the HF-1 works.

The second situation might be somewhat counterintuitive. The HF-1 has proven useful in circumstances where there is little-to-no action, or where movement is super-duper slow.

A good example is the following photo showing developing embryos of Japanese pygmy squids (Idiosepius paradoxus). The eggs are tiny. They are arranged on a blade of seagrass. 

My equipment was a Sony a1, 90mm macro lens, and an SMC-2. 

If you’ve used a similar set-up, you’ll know how frustrating it can be. Every movement is magnified. Depth of field is razor-thin.

On top of that, the ocean is always moving.

The substrate shifted. The seagrass swayed. I was moving. The camera was moving. All of this motion was subtle, barely perceptible, but more than enough to make photography difficult (such an absurd understatement).

Using the HF-1 gave me the slight edge I needed to even have a hope of success. Once again, at such close proximity, the power required was not high. Recycle speed was rapid. This allowed me to shoot multiple continuous frames whenever I thought I had achieved correct focus. (As an aside, I used one HF-1 as a trigger, the other as a remote. This increased the odds of producing consistent lighting, since the remote flash never moved.)

My eyes hurt. My body ached. My success rate was so low as to round to zero. 

But I eventually succeeded, and I am now a certified expert in deleting useless RAW files.

Above and below are a couple more examples of when the HF-1 made the shot. More accurately, my HF-1 flashes made it possible for me to shoot sequences comprising dozens of sequential frames, with every frame well-lit, then immediately do it again, and again, and again. Until I was able to capture the precise millisecond that matters.

I have now been using my HF-1 strobes since mid-2024. I know the flash well.

The strobe literally helped me take an award-winning image, plus many more photos that capture critical moments of behaviour. It has provided me with both the power and the speed needed to photograph events that would have been much more difficult (likely impossible) to capture with older lighting gear.

Let me wrap-up by considering the question: "What makes a strobe good?”

This is, after all, probably what you want to know.

The most accurate and honest answer is something along the lines of, “Whatever best suits your needs.”

Since I started devoting a lot of time to researching and pursuing difficult-to-document behaviours, power and speed have become increasingly important. The more power at my disposal, the better the chances I have of applying sufficient light. The more speed I have, the better the chances I have of capturing the decisive and critical split-second with that light. 

In other words, greater power + speed stacks the odds for success in my favour.

If you are hoping to take behavioural images involving rapid movement, you can’t go wrong with the HF-1.

The flip-side is to ask whether the HF-1 (or other similar strobe) is right for someone who is not pursuing such subjects.

Yes and no.

The HF-1 is undoubtedly a great choice if you’re photographing wide scenes in clear tropical conditions, say lush soft corals covering a reef or wall. The flash produces lots of even light, 160º of coverage with the dome diffusers, 140º with the flat diffusers. The same probably holds true for wide scenes in cold green water, as the selection of diffusers for the HF-1 includes 4500ºK for this exact situation. Diffusers also come in 6500ºK, 5500ºK, and ambient. To date, I’ve only used the 6500ºK and 5500ºK, because those are the ones that have best suited the conditions I’ve been working in. I always have the others with me though, just in case. 

For other situations, strobe choice can be more nuanced. Say you love photographing nudibranchs that don't move much. One could argue that hauling big, powerful strobes on a long overseas trip might be overkill. But what if you get word of a pair of plump orange frogfish lounging atop a gorgeous sponge? Or maybe a purple lacy Rhinopias posed to perfection in crystal-clear blue water? You’d probably be happy to have powerful strobes.

Cost is always a consideration. Larger, more capable strobes are more expensive than smaller ones.

And finally, there is the pain-in-the-rear factor. Bigger means heavier and bulkier. Bigger can also mean difficulty photographing in restricted spaces. Bigger strobes that boast a wide angle of coverage can even be counterproductive in some situations, like when you want to apply selective lighting for smaller subjects. (Discussed in my previous Quality of Light post.)

This is why there is no single correct choice. No such thing as a best flash.

The optimal choice is always the flash or flashes that best meet your personal circumstances.

HF-1 strobes have become my go-to when I need power and speed above all else. Spawning moray eels—spawning anything actually—are the perfect example. 

When flexibilty and a desire to sculpt illumination are the primary considerations though, I use my MF-2 strobes. The same holds true when I know I will be working within tight, restricted spaces.

And then there are situations when I need both. Say for example, using diffuse light to mimic ambient or act as fill, while using directional, sculpted light to emphasise the main subject or behaviour. In such instances, I would use a combination of HF-1 and MF-2 flashes, refining as appropriate by using the diffusers and snoots made for these strobes.

My purpose in writing post this is not to be a salesperson. This post and my previous one about light quality are together intended to offer you a top-level view of what I consider to be the three foundational principles for lighting underwater—power, speed, and quality—without resorting to technical jargon.

The Backscatter HF-1 and MF-2 are the primary strobes that I use now.

But the concepts I've set out apply irrespective of which make or model of flash you choose.

I’ll leave you with two more photos made possible by the HF-1. The main animal depicted in both images is a decidedly non-charismatic black sea cucumber (Holothuria leucospilota). This species is not particularly popular among divers, because the animal usually looks like an elongated turd. A prickly one at that. Ouch.

This is a male engaged in broadcast spawning:

Spawning cucumbers broadcasting genetic material into the sea sway in a haphazard fashion at an irregular pace. The emissions, ahem, are also not predictable. It happens. Stops. Trickles. Stops. Gushes. Stops. Spurts again when you’ve given up. All while the cucumber swings around at random. Currents and swells wreak havoc on streams of gametes too. Photographing is a frustrating endeavour.

To close, one final image involving a male cucumber and split-second action.

I’ve titled the photo ménage à trois.

Please consult a knowledgable adult if you need this explained. And then ask them why/ how they know.

Note: For objective testing of a variety of strobes, see this article by Backscatter. I had no idea they were doing this. I came across it as I was proofreading this post. The article provides numbers and charts for comparison among many strobes, useful if you’re in the market for a new flash, or even if you just want to learn more.
 

Three years. Four actually, if you count the year of our initial sighting and head-scratching.

That’s how long three friends and I have devoted to figuring out and documenting the reproductive social behaviour and biology of moray eels.

I am proud and delighted to share the news that one of my photos resulting from this project is the winner of the underwater category in the Wildlife Photographer of the Year contest for 2026 (WPY62). 

At this point, I have been thinking about eel spawning for exactly twenty years. My obsession began in October 2006 when I saw my first dragon moray eel (Enchelycore pardalis, not the species pictured above). I researched, soon learned that basically nothing was known about spawning eels. Ever since, I’ve asked anyone and everyone I’ve met who might have some idea of how these fish reproduce for clues. Nada.

This project, this subject, was the most difficult and challenging photographic endeavor that I have ever undertaken. 

It was probably a good thing that the lucky break did not come until 2023, when we first stumbled upon spawning.

First of all, eel spawning takes place at night. It has to be dark, meaning you can’t use light. Not to see. Not to photograph. Eels seem to be relatively less sensitive to the red end of the visible light spectrum. They can tolerate weak, red light. But if you use strong red light, i.e., enough to accommodate normal human vision, it affects them. And if you turn on white light, fuhgeddaboudit. You’d be disrupting the eels’ behaviour, so that is an absolute no go.

No light = no autofocus.

Next, to say that the eels are lightning-fast is an understatement. They go up, they spawn, they go back. Around 1.5 seconds door-to-door in the case of my winning image. If you are not looking straight at them, you’ll never know that anything transpired. This in fact happened to me early on. While squinting to observe one pair of eels, another spawned directly behind me, almost on top of my head. I would have never known had one of my friends not been looking at me, gesticulating wildly. I spun around. There was nothing to see. Eels 1. Tony 0.

And even if you are staring at the eels when they spawn, it is impossible for our eyes and brains to process such rapid movement. 

Let’s say you are in the right place, at the right time, aimed in the right direction, and you also manage to hit the shutter button. Capturing a coherent image with all the vital elements visible—male, female, gametes—means a fraction of a fraction of a split-second. Did I mention they go in unpredictable directions for unpredictable distances?

Also, remember that it’s dark. So the only light available is that which you apply, i.e., via flashes. 

So there you have it. A summary of the photographic challenge. No light. No autofocus. The decisive moment being measured in milliseconds. Not to mention the usual challenges of being in the sea, at night, with limited air supply.

Easy peasy.

This is why I say that it was probably for the best that my chance to document this came now. 

My friends Koji, Mei and Oyama-san were the ideal people to work with. Each of us has specific skills, experiences, and things we are good at. None of us alone could have pulled this project off. In fact, it was the exact combination of our abilities and temperaments that made it possible. Mei was the first among us to see spawning. She started all of this! Koji is a marine-behavior savant. Absolute world-class. Oyama-san is one of the most dedicated, diligent and insightful researchers I have ever come across.

Modern cameras can shoot many frames per second. The more fps, the better the odds of getting the decisive moment.

The flash I needed, the Backscatter HF-1, appeared exactly when I needed it, almost like magic, just weeks before I started. The flash can keep up with shooting at high frame rates. This was critical, because remember, the only light on the subject is the light one creates.

The lens that I ended up using the most was a modified Nikonos RS 13mm fisheye, courtesy of Isaac Szabo, certified genius and talented underwater photographer. Isaac had two(!) images among the Underwater category finalists in the contest this year.

National Geographic Society came into the picture with funding. I did not plan for this. I would never have thought to ask for it. But it happened. And thanks to NGS, I was able to transform this effort from me trying to get a photograph, to us researching and documenting the reproductive behaviour and biology of moray eels via direct observation in the eels' natural environment—the first time this has ever been done.

I won’t go into detail here about our research. I will just make the point that figuring out the social structure and behaviour of morays during the reproductive season was not just fun (and hard, hard work), but also a prerequisite for even having a hope of capturing this image. Our first academic paper, describing the reproductive behaviour of Gymnothorax eurostus, was recently accepted by the journal Marine Biology. I expect it will be published soon. 

Lastly, I will highlight the fact that among the four of us, only one is an academic, a newly minted PhD. We had no academic institution behind us. Three out of four of us are not qualified to research anything, at least not on paper. We had no official anything, as a matter of fact. We are proof of what you can accomplish when you’re not educated enough to be convinced that you cannot.

The award ceremony was wonderful, as always. It was nice to see familiar faces, as well as to make new friends. The atmosphere of comraderie is palpable. I was particularly pleased to see many underwater photographers among the attendees. Especially the younger ones. I look to them to carry on the mission of figuring out and highlighting the beauty of lesser-known, non-charismatic subjects.

The event is held each year in Hintze Hall, the main atrium of the Natural History Museum London. The museum is of course jam-packed with people during the day. Upon closing at 17:50, the museum needs to prepare for the WPY evening. I don’t know exactly how things go in the hour+ prior to the event, but I imagine there is a considerable measure of chaos and consternation. It is no small feat to prepare the area beneath Hope the blue whale to host a dinner and show for hundreds.

Category winners each received this blue whale, which I assume represents Hope as she would have looked in life.

It is particularly meaningful, given how much time I've spent with blues, including swimming along several times with individuals within arm’s reach, accepting the gift of a spat-out krill from one, and finding myself two blue-whale lengths or more deep while freediving (more accurately, sprinting underwater at max effort), wondering how in the heck I’d ever get back to the surface alive (nearly didn't). They are…in case it needs to be said…big. And gorgeous. The experience of having one stare straight at you, follow you with its eye, stays with you for life.

The museum live-streamed the entire award ceremony. If you’d like to watch it, the link is here. My part starts around 2:01:00.

There is a meet-and-greet the night before the award ceremony. Photographers and friends who’ve already arrived in London have an opportunity to get together for a chat in a cozy venue on museum grounds. It is an opportunity to say hello and catch up. The award event the next evening goes quickly. There isn’t much time for conversation.

A feature of this first evening is a welcome speech from Gemma. She manages the competition, has done so for years. She says hello, tells us important things we should already know and need to remember, then chides us for inevitably forgetting. It’s a tradition. Especially the forgetting part.

There are two things you need to know about Gemma. She hates giving speeches. She hates having photos taken.

Naturally, I took photos of her while she was giving her speech. What are "friends" for?

Always on the lookout for critical behaviour, I managed to catch the moment Gemma gave a shout-out to her adoring fans. That’s just the kind of person she is. Magnanimous.

The official WPY exhibition launch took place on the final night, with hundreds of invited guests. This year featured two large puppets(?) that ambled through the crowd. One was something with two horns. I was too far back to see. I assumed it was a bovine of some sort. There was a giraffe as well, which—being tall—was something I could discern.

“Huh, there may never be another occasion when a blue whale and a giraffe are together like this,” I thought. Hence, photo.

Here is a view of Hintze Hall that same evening, looking straight in from the museum entrance area:

This year was the year of bloopers, at least for me.

When I got to the airport in Japan, I found out that I need a visa to go to the UK, officially called an Electronic Travel Authorisation (ETA). I have traveled to the UK dozens of times over decades. This was news to me. Fortunately, I was several hours early, so I had time to fumble through the application procedure. I accidentally applied for a full-on immigration visa. Doh. Then managed—with help from concerned airline staff—to find the correct application for the ETA. ETA approval in hand, I got to the UK. While in-country, I was informed by relevant authorities that my application to immigrate was stupid. Not the word they used, but I got the message. And yes, I concede the point.

About 30 minutes prior to the award ceremony, I found myself half-dressed. There are three button holes at the top half of my tuxedo shirt. There are nice pretty button/ clasps that go into these three holes to prevent the shirt from flying open. Under normal circumstances, this poses no issue. Insert buttons, shirt secured. There was one minor problem though. The buttons were in Japan.

There I stood, facing the mirror, shirt askew. “This will not do,” I thought as I struggled with the implications.

Mental gears cranked. Creaking sounds and puffs of smoke ensued. The answer revealed itself.

I had a second pair of cuff links. Don’t ask why I had four cuff links but no shirt buttons. I used two of the cuff links to secure two of the button holes. They looked not entirely out of place. The third hole, however, did what buttonless button holes are wont to do. As long as I stood completely straight and still, the shirt sat pretty. One whiff of movement and it opened right up, introducing my mid-torso to a rather refreshing autumn breeze.

More turning of jet-lagged mental gears.

I had surgical tape. Don’t ask why I packed surgical tape but no shirt buttons. I used the surgical tape to tape the remaining buttonhole shut. I had to tape the inside of the shirt of course. The process involved creative articulation of fingers and thumbs. Eventually I got it all to work. Most surprising is that no one noticed and it all held together for the evening.

Take that, MacGuyver.

When I eventually got back to the hotel room, it was around 02:00. I wanted to shower and sleep, but I made time to post a short announcement/ thank you note in Japanese on Facebook, then crashed. I did not have time to go online for a day and a half or so. When I did, I noticed several messages, not a one that I understood. The messages were from people who do not speak Japanese. They hinted at something gone horribly wrong.

Friends in Thailand cleared it up.

Facebook’s AI had decided that when I wrote the Japanese word for Gymnothorax eurostus moray eels, what I actually meant to write was sea cucumber. A sea cucumber that lays eggs, no less. Presumably sits on them until they hatch.

Silly me. Where did I go wrong?

Later, the Guardian decided that moray eels (or sea cucumbers as the case may be) are mammals:

To be fair to the Guardian, WPY itself mis-labeled the category as Urban Wildlife during the award night (See photo above of me on stage).

This is all just proof that editors are necessary.

It is not the first time something like this has happened. Back in 2022, when my spawning starfish photo won the Underwater category, National Geographic Thailand decided that I had photographed mating electric eels:

The only thing I was upset about was that I hadn't thought of that myself!

And finally, I saw this parked in front of the main gate of the museum:

It was an advertisement for Yumove digestive supplements for pets.

"Cheeky," I thought.

I was, of course, obliged to wait for a representative of the target audience to show up before taking a photo.

Maybe Yumove will sponsor next year’s contest? I sense a new category waiting to happen.

Speaking of which, I will be one of the judges for the upcoming WPY63. 

I did this for WPY60, not that long ago. It is a lotta work. This year there were more than 64,000 images. All judges have to look at every image. Say you take 10 seconds per image on average. That’s > 640,000 seconds. As basic algebra teaches, x = !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! collapse.

The upside is that judges get to see the best collection of entries in any nature photography contest in the world.

The process culminates with all of us coming together in a cold, dark room next year for a week. Long days, minor breaks, little to no sunshine. The process can be exhausting, draining, frustrating. I can say from my previous experience though, seeing the final result makes the toil worthwhile.

As a bonus, I get to take more photos of Gemma.

That's like 1400 years ago in Internet time.

So much has happened.

I'm twenty years older, for a start. I've had incredible experiences, made lots of friends, and somehow managed to stay reasonably even-keeled(?) in the face of all manner of social, economic and political turmoil.

Count my blessings, I do.

I figured I should mark this date somehow, commemorate the fact that I've been writing and posting images on various iterations of this site for two decades.

I spent a big part of that time with humpback whales (Megaptera novaeangliae) and sperm whales (Physeter macrocephalus), so I looked through archives for images of these two species, which resulted in (way too) many hours flipping through photos and reminiscing. 

In the end, I picked a few to re-process. I've shared most of the images before, but I thought it worth trying again with modern software (and more experience/ knowledge on my part).

First is a photo that I took almost exactly two months after starting this blog.

It was sunny, the ocean calm, whales chill. 

Next is a male humpback whale calf playing in front of his mother:

There is no mistaking the joie de vivre.

This is a young male blowing bubbles:

This calf was attacked early on, most likely by marine mammals (judging by the scars). In spite of the trauma, he healed, became strong and confident, and was a wonderful friend during the couple of months we had together.

This is a closest I ever got to seeing mating:

The pair descended, making it impossible to see what might have taken place. Then again, maybe nothing happened. Who knows?

I recalled the following moment with great fondness, when the juvenile sperm whale flipped upside-down for a wee squiggly play:

Adult females in a given sperm whale social unit raise young in a communal manner, so it is not possible to know if the big whale here is the mommy or an auntie. Whatever the case, the little one was clearly happy.

This is another adult female, one that had just come up from foraging in the abyss. See the bit of squid stuck to her upper jaw?

There is a chance that the squid part is from an Architeuthis dux giant squid. That's a popular dish among the sperm whales that frequent this area.

How do I know?

A year prior, I met this female:

Swimming under and past my friends and me, this female turned out to be the matriarch of the social unit foraging in the area. She buzzed and scanned us several times, getting to know us in a manner of speaking.

When she brought up a mouthful of giant squid a few days later, she swam directly beneath us, giving us a perfect view.

"Now why," you might think, "would a sperm whale bring giant squid to the surface?" Seems awfully inefficient, doesn't it?

The reason is probably the calf on the left of the photo. It was pretty big. Big enough perhaps, to be learning about deep-dining. Our working theory is that she brought the squid up to educate the calf, part of the weaning process.

I'll wrap-up with a couple of images that I did not edit/ process at the time I took them for some reason (probably because I got sick of staring at a computer screen).

A classic humpback whale image of a mother with calf...tough to be beat in terms of tugging at heartstrings:

And finally, a social unit of sperm whales enjoying some quality time with one another:

Twenty years is a long time to be doing anything.

But I can't think of anything that I would have rather been doing for those twenty years.

FWIW: For photographers, I took these images with Canon1DsMkII, 5DMkII, 7D and 5DMkIII cameras—all museum technology at this point. Revisiting the photos with recent software was a pain, but the resulting files are better in every way than what I was able to output originally, especially the high-resolution versions in wider colour spaces.

Take these anemone hermit crabs (Dardanus pedunculatus) for instance.

The one in front is a fetching female.

The one behind is an amorous male. You can tell by that look in his eyes.

As the female ambled, the male followed. I trailed the lovebirds (lovecrabs? lovehermits?), as anxious for consummation (or more perhaps) as the impassioned male crustacean.

We traversed the seafloor in this manner for nearly an hour.

They came together. The romantic tension crescendoed. "This is it!" I thought.

Then the male stepped away. Something had caught his eye. He didn't go too far, maybe 30cm or so (Imperial units people: inches =  cm/ 2.54).

That was enough.

Sensing opportunity, the female bolted. Making full use of her six running legs, she pressed the pedal to the metal. The female was more than a meter away before the male regained focus. He turned, became perplexed, and undoubtedly thought, "Doh!"

A mad dash ensued.

The male set off at high speed. In a completely different direction. 

Freed from her suitor, the female relaxed, began to forage...

...as the male faded into darkness.

A life lesson worth pondering.

It happens to be a colony of females, so those long strings oozing out from the ball of corrugated coral (Pavona varians) comprise eggs, tens of thousands—hundreds of thousands perhaps. And that happy little fish with a huge smile is an oriental butterflyfish (Chaetodon auripes) eyeing the buffet line.

This is what it looks like when a butterflyfish partakes of a coral-egg Slurpee:

Corals in the genus Pavona live throughout the Indo-Pacific region.

The 20 or so species in this genus are not particulary eye-catching, They tend to take the form of leafy cabbages or encrusting rocks. As far I have seen, their colours are best described as yaaaaawn. They are often overlooked.

Spawning is when they shine, visually at least.

There is a catch though. Coordinated release of gametes across a reef can take the visibility from good to zero in minutes, the ocean turning an opaque milky-white. It is perhaps not so much the eggs that cause this, but sperm.

It is more difficult to photograph male corals than females. Male colonies tend to send out thin, wispy strings, barely discernable to the naked eye. Not what you'd describe as photogenic. The colony above was an exception.

It doesn't take much imagination to picture what happens when large aggregations of coral fill the sea with gametes like this. Each colony might send out what seems to be a small amount, but it adds up. Quickly.

In practical terms, time is not your friend if you're hoping to photograph this spectacle.

The following photo, from my first experience several years ago, is a good example:

Being unfamiliar with Pavona spawning at the time, I needed time to figure out what was happening. There is a slow release in the beginning, a few corals here and there. Some corals then go for it, sending out lots of gametes. Others prefer to chill. A bit here; a bit there. Then go back to sleep. Patches of coral seem to take turns. You can be among dozens of inactive coral heads, while those a few metres away—just beyond visual range—can be partying like its 1999.

I missed almost every opportunity. I was unable to judge which coral heads might be active vs. those that might peter out. I could not discern female vs. male. I got horribly lost the in murk of genetic fog.

The only moment I managed to catch is the male colony in the photo above. Through sheer dumb luck. I happened to be in the right place when the corals decided "Go, Go, Go!"

Those are streams of sperm. You can see that visibility was already limited. It dropped to zero within minutes. I was fortunate to have come out of that virgin experience with one photo, but I knew I could better.

In the following years, high water temperatures led to bleaching. Twice.

I did manage to get a close-up of a male colony weak-spawning:

But in general, spawning either did not take place or was subdued. Corals are animals. They need time to recover from trauma.

And recover they did.

This is a large colony of female Pavona decussata sending out strands of eggs:

By "large", I mean bigger than me, lengthwise at least.

Here is a closer look at the spawning, same colony:

And closer still:

I was fortunate enough to witness spawning of a third Pavona species recently.

Pictured here is a colony of female Pavona cactus corals engaged in broadcast spawning:

There were male colonies as well, but as I alluded to above, the release of gametes from the male colonies I came across were less than visually inspiring.

I'll leave you with this photo of another female P. cactus colony, close-up and intimate so you can see the eggs:

Even the most drab of animals have their moments of glory.

Note: Contrast Pavona spawning with Acropora spawning

Ron's daughter painted it, based upon a photograph that our mutual friend Patrik took of us in 2013, when Ron guided us on a beautiful trip around the islands and inner waterways of Palau via kayak.

We were camping for the night. Sunset looked to be gorgeous. 

Ron went feral. I had to do something about it.

Twelve years later, Ron's daughter expressed her appreciation for seeing her dad spanked for bad behaviour. 

What can I say? I am a good influence on kids.

You'll note that the young artist refrained from signing her artwork...in order to avoid any association with her dad no doubt. 

Excellent judgement.

PS: Ron sent me this almost a year ago. It slipped my mind. Communication from Ron induces trauma.

There is a zero, which means Oogway didn't eat any turtle-pellets that day.

Follow the line to the note above: "Angry turtle pee and escape."

I am not fond of heading into Tokyo. It is a terrific city, but many areas are jam-packed; trains can be miserable if you hit peak travel times; concrete and asphalt are not my scene. 

So when I must go into the city, I pack my schedule. Get as much done as possible. Take my medicine and get it over with, so to speak.

On that day, my itinerary involved hooking up with two people at opposite ends of the metropolis, one in the morning, one in the afternoon. That might not sound ambitious, but Tokyo is huge. Budget three hours total travel time, two hours with each person. Add an hour to grab a meal and for delays. Eight hours door to door.

Which meant Oogway was alone for that long (actually a bit longer) after our customary morning greeting.

I said hello. She looked upset. 

I made small talk. She looked upset.

I offered her food. She looked upset.

I picked her up. She glared. Then released a torrent of pee. Turns out, she really was upset. Pissed off, one might say.

The thing you need to know about cute little pond turtles is that—in defiance of all known laws of physics—the quantity of pee they are capable of discharging can substantially exceed the volume of their entire body. I once described it as peeing "like Niagara Falls to express irritation." That is only a mild exaggeration.

So it was that on 17 March I found myself drenched, sopping wet. The floor was soaked. I made things worse by turning quickly in panic. Picture a firehose of pee forming a magnificent arc in the air, propelled by the centrifugal force I had inadvertently engendered.

To any impartial observer, the scene must have resembled a skit from I Love Lucy or The Benny Hill Show. Complete with audience laugh track. Those few seconds probably would have made for terrific slo-mo video footage, guaranteed to go viral.

It took some time to clean everything. I placed Oogway back in her terrarium. She scaled the wall and escaped.

I was both impressed and dismayed. She had climbed up and over a tall, smooth, slippery wall. Still not sure how she managed that. But she also peed again, creating an archipelago of not-unsubstantial puddles. She peed once more when I approached, giving me her best reptilian stink eye.

As my additional calendar notes document, Oogway's displeasure persisted for some time. It took nearly a week for her to settle down, longer to forgive me.

The conclusion was inescapable.

Oogway was now a teenager.

Unrelated to the Great Pee Incident of 2026, Oogway moved into her outdoor house—a large rectangular flower pot filled with dirt, equipped with an on/ off ramp, a removable bamboo stick roof and a bathing pool under the ramp—on 22 March.

This is where she spends most days during the warm months. She comes in at night, sometimes during the day as well if the mood strikes her. She also has an indoor pool for relaxation and contemplation. Every civilised turtle does.

The photo above shows her on top of the slotted bamboo roof. 

It's a mystery how she gets up there. There are no obvious foot/claw-holds. The bamboo roof is not attached. It slips off easily. But she's always been a climber, and she is crafty. It doesn't surprise me (much) when I see her on the roof.

The beauty of the summer house though is the shade.

It gets really hot. Days exceeding 30ºC are normal. (Fahrenheit people: F = C*9/5 + 32)

That would cook an exposed turtle.

As the temperature rises, Oogway retreats to the climate-controlled comfort inside her shelter.

I position the bamboo covering so she can choose to look outside. She can also hide completely under the faux grass area when she's not feeling sociable. 

This is all the proof you need to know that she is happy in her summer home:

If you're wondering about the other notes in the calendar and why there were so many days in March when Oogway did not eat, this is the reason:

Mature female Mauremys reevesii pond turtles lay eggs in the spring, irrespective of whether there is a male around or not. Eggs that are not fertilised won't produce babies of course. 

During egg-laying time, females lose their appetite. That's the reason for all the zeroes.

Oogway has been big enough to lay eggs for a few years now, but she's never actually done so.

The note "Egg stuff start" in the calendar is a reference to white stuff Oogway leaves in the water. It's probably material that would be have been used for eggs, but is expelled instead. She's done this for several years, so we're accustomed to it.

We worried in the beginning. She's been healthy and happy throughout (except for on 17 March), so we don't worry as much now. 

The photo above is from the morning of 16 April, when Oogway dug a hole. For the first time ever. 

"Giddy" is perhaps a good word to describe the babbling idiot I became. It seemed as if our little Oogway would finally lay eggs.

She spent over an hour making the perfect hole. Just the right width, perfect depth.

I watched. Waited. Camera in hand.

Then Oogway covered the hole. Flattened the dirt so there was no hint of earlier excavation.

No eggs. Bummer.

On the positive side, she's got the whole dig-hole-fill-hole thing mastered now.

Baby steps.

Winter is actually when we spend the most time together.

When Oogway first came to live with us, I happened to meet one of Japan's top turtle doctors. Yeah, I didn't know there was such a thing either.

I learned that pond turtles like Oogway can hibernate, but that they don't have to. He said that some young turtles that hibernate never wake up. The smaller they are, the greater the risk. I wasn't willing to take that risk. 

Oogway is big enough now that she has enough energy packed away to make it through hibernation, but we've spent every winter together. It's a thing. She has an indoor play area. I let her roam around when I can keep an eye on her. She knows the floor layout and has her favourite places. She talks a lot. I talk back. We chat.

More than anything though, she like to hang out with me. Or rather, to make use of me as a combination jungle-gym and heated recreational centre.

That's her this past winter. The oversized orange fleece pullover is big enough to give her space to sleep in the front pocket of my grey hoodie (which I have on underneath the fleece pullover), then emerge to look around when she feels like it.

She climbs up my body, using the material of the grey hoodie for traction, the orange fleece above her for comfort and warmth. She pops out under my chin or at my shoulder. It's like the juvenile xenomorph in the movie Alien bursting out of its host's chest, except Oogway is cute and friendly.

She also helps me work.

Helping me work = giving me an excuse to do ridiculous things as a means of not actually doing any work. It is hard work being ridiculous. Which is why I need Oogway's help.

To wrap-up this commemoration of eight years having passed since Oogway became part of the family, I dug up a series of photos to illustrate her growth.

When she was almost three, we discovered that Oogway likes to embed herself in soft, fluffy pockets. 

I can't remember how she got into that fleece pocket, but there she was, snug and happy. I am not sure if all turtles of her species enjoy and appreciate such creature comforts, or if it's an acquired taste. She may have developed her fondness for such spaces from spending her younger years riding around in my pockets (cargo pants pockets in warm weather, sweatshirt pockets in colder weather).

This is Oogway a few months later in the same pocket:

The following winter, she had outgrown that soft space, so I got her an upgrade—a fluffy slipper:

She eventualy got too big for the slipper. Next was a foot warmer (a cute one of course, this being Japan):

It takes some time for Oogway to accept new things. Perhaps turtles are cautious by nature?

When she did finally decide to make use of the foot-warming pocket, Oogway entered head first. And went to sleep. 

She eventually worked out how to turn around to face outward, but I like this photo the most, because...well...it's so cute.

I had to find an even bigger space for her this past winter. It's always a bit of a challenge, because you can't really walk into a store and ask someone to show you a selection of snuggly pockets for homebody turtles with a penchant for fluffiness.

While shopping one day (i.e., standing around looking absurdly bored while holding shopping bags and doing my best to smile) I saw a holder for a warm-water bottle—the kind you use to heat your belly in the winter—and thought, "Hmmm, I wonder if Oogway would fit in that?" Not the intended use for the product, but as it turned out, perfect for the purpose:

Oogway took to the pocket within a few days. There's enough space for her to fit inside with room to move around. It's lined with plush, soft material. She can peek out when she wants. She can retreat to the back and lower the flap for privacy when she wants alone-time.

Happy Birthday Oogway!

Related Posts:

• Oogway Turns Seven
• Oogway is Six
• Five and a Half Years
• Oogway Visits the Doctor
• Oogway is Five
• Oogway’s Third Anniversary
• Oogway Update December 2020
• Oogway Is Two Years Old Today
• Oogway Update
• Oogway's One Year Anniversary
• Mornings With Oogway
• The Dream of the Brown Turtle
• A Christmas Tail 2
• Turtles Are Fast
• Oogway’s Progress
• Oogway’s Outing
• Adopting Oogway

The large individual in the foreground is the matriarch. The trio in the middle were juveniles at the time. It took a long time for the whales to warm up to me, but eventually the young ones' curiosity got the best of them. One swam over, mouth agape, biosonar pinging. I passed inspection and became a playmate.

Good times.

Note the bone structure in the pectoral fin of the matriarch. Those are analogous to the bones in our hands. Different, but the same.

The pretty pink balls are bundles of gametes, i.e., sperm and eggs, released by polyps—individual corals that comprise coral colonies. As the bundles float up to the surface, they split open to release their contents, the goal being mixing of gametes to make cute little coral babies, called planulae (planula = singular). Planulae then saunter off to find a suitable place to settle, with the hope of establishing a new colony.

This reproductive strategy is called broadcast spawning. Once settled, corals can't move, so instead of getting together like more mobile animals do, they cast their genetic material out into the water, all at the same time.

Sheer quantity ensures many opportunities for success, in spite of high loss due to factors like predation and stranding.

Fish love a free dinner as much as anyone else. Corals like this tend to be in shallow water near land. Currents can nudge bundles and planulae onto shore and into other dead-ends like tide pools.

Coral spawning is a reasonably well-documented thing. In many places, researchers and divers have figured out when spawning takes place, down to the pertinent day or days, as well as time. People travel from all over the world to areas like the Great Barrier Reef to witness this spectacle. In Japan, there are popular spots in Okinawa and other areas.

I've always wanted to see this happen, but have never been able to find the time to go to well-known spots on the appointed days. Such areas also tend to be crowded, which would make photography a frustrating endeavour.

Surfacing after a dive one night, a friend said, "I think the coral is going to spawn tonight." We were in a location we'd collectively dived thousands of times. Although we were aware that it was the correct season for coral spawning, figuring out the timing was not the focus of our efforts. We were occupied with other things.

My friend had seen polyps preparing bundles though, the telltale sign of impending reproductive activity. He described the location. I knew it immediately.

We went back in after a while. Just three of us.

Soon thereafter, little pink packets appeared. A few at first. Tentative, wobbly bundles that seemed unsure of themselves. They jiggled and swayed on their way to the surface some eight meters above (25ft give or take). The upward flow became a steady trickle. Dozens turned into thousands. Tens of thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Until the sea became a blizzard of pretty pink pellets.

I picked the spot that I did for a couple of reasons. First, my two friends were not in my line of sight. This is important when photographing with a wide perspective. Second, there was an ever-so-subtle current, just barely perceptible. 

You see how the coral colonies extend far into the background?

The current flowed from the background directly toward me.

"When the bundles rise," I reasoned, "the current should bring everything toward me." No matter where I positioned myself and where I looked, the frame would be filled with gametes. But with coral formations stretching back in a row and ocean current herding bundles in my direction, the result would be visual depth—pink balls near me appearing large; ones in the background looking smaller and smaller with distance, fading into darkness just like the colonies of coral.

As Hannibal from the A-Team was fond of saying, "I love it when a plan comes together."